#Whiskey Decanter Set | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

noonecareslol · 5 months ago

Text

࣪˖ ִ ೀ 𝐀 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

Hwang In-ho x Fem! Reader

Summary: When the games aren’t in session, and In-ho is lonely, he finds himself in the first row at the ballet. Watching you. Suddenly he's falling in love.

TW: Channeling my love for older men. Injury. Reader lowkey gets sad for a sec. Age gap (reader is 25 In-ho is 49). Just FLUFF! In-ho learning how to love someone again. Quite literally head over heels for you. Allusions to masturbation. Size kink if you squint.

WC! 5k Part 2! -> here!

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It is quite obvious that In-ho is an old soul.

He enjoys old films, old clothing, old theatre, and old music. The little jazz set that plays, “Fly Me To The Moon” is a cherished possession of his, along with his vintage whiskey decanter.

He wears a musky cologne he’d been gifted by his late wife, and his closet is lined with leather dress shoes and perfectly pressed slacks. His dimly lit room on the island is vastly similar to the one in his Seoul apartment, everything perfectly neat and clean.

Yes, In-ho is an old soul.

And in between the games, when he would return to Seoul, he’d find himself bored. Especially during the night. He’d miss his wife, the whispered hope of a promised future.

Often he would distract himself by putting his whiskey decanter to good use, pouring the aged whiskey into his glass over and over again. He would linger by his shelf full of movies he’d seen hundreds of times, tracing his fingers along the cases until he landed on a title. A small smile would play on his lips before popping it into the DVD player and taking a seat next to his beloved cat.

He would find himself mumbling the lines as the actors spoke them on screen, his hand absentmindedly petting his cat. When the movie is over, and the quiet resumes, he’d move to his bedroom.

He’d ensure his cat followed before changing into his expensive pajamas and climbing into the king-sized bed. His cat would join him and he would drift to sleep, dreaming of, well, nothing.

He would close his eyes and wake up without any dream having occupied his mind.

This routine became comfortable. Each night he would get home from whatever he’d been doing before, drink, watch a movie, play with his cat, and sleep without any dreams.

But this night, this night was different.

It was a cold night. And all In-ho wanted to do was drown in glasses of whiskey and watch “Dial ‘M’ For Murder” with his cat.

But as he walked past a line of people waiting to enter a theatre, a poster caught his attention. He blinked once, twice, before walking toward the lit-up frame.

A strikingly beautiful ballerina caught his attention first. She held her arms elegantly above her head, her leg pointed behind her, her other leg resting on pointe as she looked to the side. She was breathtaking.

The Seoul Ballet Company Presents: Swan Lake

Opening Night November 1st

Suddenly the thought of whiskey and Alfred Hitchcock left his mind as he joined the line. I mean, who would miss out on opening night?

Especially when the lead was so pretty.

“We have one ticket left in the front row.” The woman behind the ticket booth clicked her pen unenthusiastically as she watched In-ho pull his leather vintage wallet out of his coat pocket.

A grin rested plainly on his lips as he fiddled with his cash, “That’s perfect. How much?”

The woman slowly turned and punched a few numbers into her register before turning back to him, “80,000 won.” She clicked her pen again.

“Do you have change for 100,000?” He held the two 50,000 won in front of him, watching as she stared at him blankly.

She blinked once before snatching the bills from his hands, “Nope!” In-ho sighed. For someone so slow she took those bills awfully fast.

In-ho drew his lips into a thin line before taking the ticket and placing it in his wallet, “Thanks.”

“Yeah enjoy the show or, like, whatever.” The woman took out her phone and began to text as he walked away, obviously not giving a shit about her job.

But as In-ho walked through the double doors, his breath caught in his throat. The theatre certainly did not disappoint his love for old architecture.

The large barrel vaulted ceilings were beautifully ornamented and adorned with intricately painted designs. Gorgeous crown molding edged the ceiling and stretched to the floor. And a large crystal chandelier rested as the centerpiece, warmly lit and inviting.

In-ho took his seat, a smile evident on his lips as he sighed contently. However, he hoped his cat wasn’t too worried about his whereabouts. Maybe she could come along next time? She is a very sophisticated cat, after all.

As the chandelier and house lights began to dim, the crowd became quiet with anticipation and excitement. And it would be dishonest to say that In-ho wasn’t a little excited as well.

He looked to his left at the woman sitting next to him. She was a small elderly lady with a pair of glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Her eyes were filled with excitement as she scanned through the pamphlet, a wide smile plastered on her face.

She wore a vintage necklace around her neck, layered with pearls. In-ho smiled, it was nice to see someone who also had a knack for old taste.

The soft notes of Swan Lake began to play, and In-ho watched as the curtains opened, revealing the beautifully decorated stage. Large trees with hanging vines arched over the set, greenery and flowers blending into the painted backdrop.

A foggy mist flooded the stage as dancers began to move elegantly across. But the lead had yet to make an appearance.

In-ho watched rather impatiently, and failed to notice the woman next to him lean in, “Right now, the prince is going hunting with his crossbow. But he will find that the white swan has turned into a beautiful woman, and has fallen under a curse.” The old woman pointed slightly to the prince, her voice whispering just loud enough for him to hear.

His eyes trained on the prince as he danced with his crossbow, “Thank you. I must look confused.”

The old lady gave a small laugh, “I used to dance for this company, i’ll never miss an opportunity to explain the ballet.”

In-ho watches as she subtly mimics the prince's moves, her hands moving elegantly in front of her. Her eyes were closed, the sound of the music bringing emotion to her face.

Her eyes flick open as the music changes softly, “Look.” Her eyes lighting up as she nods slightly to the stage.

In-ho watches as you finally take the stage, fluttering your feet as you move elegantly toward the prince. Your hands held high above your head, moving gracefully as you bourrée.

He watched as your back muscles contracted, moving as if you had wings. His eyes trained down to your legs and to your pointe shoes, watching as you danced with ease.

Your white feathered skirt moved along with you, the bodice elegantly framing you perfectly. The feathered piece in your hair catches In-ho’s attention, causing him to study your face.

That poster was nothing compared to your beauty.

You held a soft look, but In-ho didn’t fail to notice the focus that caused your eyebrows to furrow slightly. Your movements were soft and graceful, your demeanor innocent and melancholic.

You were perfect as the white swan.

You were perfect.

He wondered if you were just as innocent as you portray yourself to be, “God, she’s beautiful.”

The elderly woman hummed in agreement as she watched In-ho’s gaze remain sharp on the white swan, an all-knowing smile spread across her lips.

As the ballet continued it seemed that the rest of the audience had disappeared. In-ho felt as if you were only dancing for him. No one else.

He swore you looked at him a few times, him being the focus point of your graceful turns.

And when you transitioned into the black swan, all thoughts in In-ho’s head became dark.

Oh, how he liked this side of you.

Your movements were sharp, determined, and seductive. And he found himself adjusting in his seat as his slacks became increasingly tight. You were so close to him. Just a few feet from his touch as you danced on stage. He could take you right now. He could fuck you, make you feel things you’ve never felt before.

And as you leaped on the stage, the white swan jumping to her death, In-ho felt a tear slip from his eye. You were magnificent.

The audience filed out of the theatre, fanning themselves with their pamphlets and discussing the ballet. You had received a standing ovation, and In-ho took pride in being the first one to stand and clap.

He had finally caught your attention. And when you locked eyes with him as you bowed, you felt your brain turn to mush.

He was handsome. Like, extremely handsome.

His face was perfectly chiseled. His eyes crinkled as he flashed a perfect smile, his hair slightly falling in front of his face and covering his dark eyes.

You didn’t blink once as you remained under his gaze, and it wasn’t until another dancer pulled you up that you realized you were bowing for far too long.

You avoided his eye contact as you walked off, embarrassed he had made you turn into putty just by his stare.

And as In-ho exited the theatre, he took his time lingering by the lamp post. He’d secretly hoped to see you leave.

He doesn’t know what he would say if he did see you. Maybe he would compliment you, or ask you a meaningless question. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d push you against the lamppost, and let his desire consume you.

He’d just wait a little bit longer.

10 minutes.

15 minutes.

30 minutes.

The woman from behind the ticket booth locked the door as she brought down the metal gate, “Excuse me, did the woman who danced as the white swan leave yet?”

She turned around smacking her gum, “Yeah. Why?” She sized him up, placing a hand on her hip as she cocked an eyebrow.

In-ho felt his face flush, “I was just going to compliment her.” He put his cold hands in the pockets of his coat, shifting his weight onto his other foot.

“Yeah well,” The woman smacks her gum as she walks up towards In-ho, handing him a flier, “They have open practice every Friday. Tickets are only 10,000 won.”

He took the flier from her hand, folding it and sliding it into his pocket, “Thanks.” She nodded her head and walked past him, slipping into her jacket.

In-ho turned and started his walk to his apartment only a block away. When he arrived, he heard the familiar sound of meowing by his front door.

And as he opened the door, he came face to face with his cat waiting on the couch, “I’m sorry Elisabeth, but I’m too tired for a movie tonight.”

She gave an annoyed meow before reluctantly following him into his room, hopping onto the pillow beside his. In-ho got dressed in his pajamas, ready for another dreamless night as he slipped into the sheets next to Elisabeth.

But this time, it wasn't dreamless.

In fact, he had dreamed a very vivid dream.

He had dreamt of you.

And as In-ho woke up the next morning, his hand immediately went to his nightstand, picking up the flier.

It seems that the pretty ballerina has stolen his heart.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"Plié! Ron de jambe, retiré! Good!" You held your arms in front of you, your right leg coming up at a bend, "Pas de chat, écarté! Don't rush it, Fiona!"

Your ballet teacher weaved between you and the other students, her tight bun sitting perfectly on her pointed head, "Développé, demi-pointe! No! Not pointe, demi pointe!"

Her thick French accent bellowed throughout the theatre, "Good y/n! Très bien!" A wide smile painted your lips as you continued your dance, your friend Fiona rolling her eyes at your praise. You giggled as you went into second, your arms outstretched to the side.

"Well done! Take a water break and stretch, we'll take five." You brought your hands to your knees, leaning over slightly as you caught your breath.

Fiona dramatically flopped on her back, a hand coming to her forehead as she breathed heavily, "I've died, she's killed me." You tossed her water bottle into her hand with a laugh as you sat next to her, your eyes scanning the theatre.

Familiar faces met your eyes. Elderly couples, former dancers, and little kids with their moms. Oh! And the man who you haven't stopped thinking about.

Wait.

You hit Fiona's shoulder hard, not taking your eyes off him, "Fiona. Fiona, look." She sat up, holding her shoulder as her eyes trailed to where you were subtly pointing.

"Oh, it's the hot dilf." Fiona took a drink from her bottle, watching as In-ho looked around while taking in the architecture.

You slapped her shoulder again, "Shut up! What if he hears you?" You get up from the ground, pulling Fiona up with you and tossing your water bottle back into your bag.

She followed suit, taking one last drink before tossing it in her own, "First off, stop hitting me. It's abuse." You rolled your eyes as you both took your spot by the barre, "Second, he's in the back corner of the theatre, he's not hearing shit. Except for our teacher's constant yelling."

You didn't respond, instead, you continued looking at him. His black turtle neck sweater hugged his biceps perfectly, and you didn't fail to notice his empty finger where a ring would sit.

"Okay! Lets continue! Tendu, plié! Ron de jambe, plié!"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It had been two months since In-ho first started spending his Fridays pining over you.

Each Friday, he would come home, change into an outfit he had dry-cleaned and pressed, feed Elisabeth, and head to the Theatre. He would take his spot in the far left corner, and watch as you danced and laughed with your friends.

He found himself looking forward to Fridays. Which is strange, because he's never looked forward to anything before. Well, besides the games. But he had been so focused on you, that he had fallen behind on his work. Something he'd never done before.

You plagued his mind.

He dreams of you. When he's asleep and awake. He'd find himself walking by the Theatre on other days when you were practicing, hoping to see a glimpse of you.

He found himself listening to Etta James and Nat King Cole more often than not. 'A Sunday Kind Of Love' and 'Unforgettable' filing his apartment as he cooked his dinners. 'My Fair Lady' and 'Gone With The Wind' replacing his classic mystery movies.

He even found himself stopping by flower boutiques, smelling the tulips and Orchids. He wonders what your favorite flower is. Perhaps it is Lilies, the flower that represents innocence and purity.

He wondered a lot if you were a virgin. Often imagining the feeling of your body under his large one late at night when he can't sleep, and when his hand finds itself under his pants.

You had him wrapped around your pretty little finger and you didn't even know it.

Vice Versa, you found yourself looking forward to Fridays as well.

It was the only day you could see the stranger who you had been thinking about constantly.

You liked his style, the way he carried himself with a confidence that intimidated you. His large frame towered over everyone, and he stood out from the crowd. He was perfect. It was as if god himself sculpted him with his own hands.

And oh my god.

You were down bad.

Fiona constantly teased you about it. Making fun of how you stopped wearing your loose cover-up, "Im just hot, that's all Fiona. It's warm in here." You lied. And Fiona was obviously aware of that.

You started offering to stay late with your teacher and help clean up, hoping to catch the stranger before he left. But your teacher always insisted you should go home and rest, and who were you to disobey her.

You've always been perfect. At school, at dance, at everything. When auditions came for Swan Lake, there was no question in anyone's mind about who would get the lead.

But since opening night, things have been slightly different. You often got distracted during practice, your eyes always finding the man in the back corner. You started falling out of your turns, forgetting to bring your pointe shoes, and, worse of all, you had been forgetting to point your toes.

And here you were. Walking to the center of the stage, ready to run through your variation in front of everyone. It was an easy variation, but the end was complicated. You had to do several pirouettes, which you have always been good at. But today you decided to test yourself.

You knew your teacher was becoming increasingly disappointed in you, it plagued your every thought. So, as you spun perfectly, you decided to see how many pirouettes you could perform.

17, 18, 19, 20.

Your leg is wobbling, but you choose to ignore it.

21, 22, 23-

You hear Fiona call your name as your foot slips out of pointe, twisting as you fall on top of it, "Oh my god!" The sickening sound of your ankle cracking causes your heart to drop. The stinging feeling of tears replaced by the overwhelming pain that was now shooting up your leg.

Everyone huddles around you as the teacher runs to call an ambulance, but Fiona kneels at your side, "I know this isn't the right time but, the dilf is running over here right now."

You close your eyes, trying to control your rapid breathing. You wished the stage would open around you and swallow you whole, just put you out of your misery.

In-ho jumps with ease onto the stage, his sweater sleeves rolled up to his elbow, "Move." He pushes past the dancers huddling over you and grabs your face.

Your eyes flick open at the feeling of warm hands pressed against your cheeks. Oh my god, he was holding your face. Your heart fluttered but you didn't notice, you were too worried about the fact that your ankle was bent the wrong way.

In-ho's hand softly brushes over your ankle, causing you to wince. At first, he's skeptical about touching you. Was it too fast? Too sudden? Too bold?

But he didn't have time to think it over as he put his strong arms under you, lifting you gently as he stood. Fiona watched with a smirk on her face as she saw shock fill your eyes, his biceps flexing as he pulled you close to his chest.

Without a word, In-ho steps down from the stage and carries you through the exit, "I have an ambulance coming!" Your teacher ran after him yelling, her typically neat bun somewhat loose and frizzy now.

In-ho motions to his pocket and Fiona responds, grabbing his car key and unlocking his Mercedez-benz, "It will take too long. I'll drive her."

For a split second, you catch his eye, and you could've sworn to god your pain disappeared for a moment. And if it were a different circumstance, In-ho would kiss you. He would kiss you right here with you in his arms.

But the shared look was short-lived as he very carefully sets you in the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt gently. Your ballet teacher leans down to the window, "Don't worry! Fiona can dance for you!"

Your heart shattered.

And tears began to flood. You ignored In-ho's words of reassurance as he took off, speeding to the hospital. The drive was quiet except for your soft cries. And In-ho wanted nothing more than to cradle you and whisper sweet nothings into your ear.

"Im sorry im getting your car dirty." You looked at the tear-stained headrest you laid against, wiping your sore eyes with the back of your hand.

In-ho cuts a car off as he turns, ignoring the beeps from the angry driver, "It's okay. I have another one." The subtle money brag wasn't missed by you. In-ho just wanted to impress you.

"What are you? Like a CEO or something?" You turned to face him, giving a pitiful sniffle as he gave another sharp turn.

He chuckled, and you felt your heart beat faster. Was it because of the adrenaline? Or was it because the man whom you've become obsessed with is quite literally acting like your night in shining armor, "Im... Im a game show host."

You nodded, an impressive smile growing on your face, "That's cool. Im y/n by the way."

He flashes a smile, the same smile from the night you first saw him, and a blush creeps up on your tear-stained cheeks, "You're sitting there, with a fucked up ankle, and you're making small talk?"

You suddenly feel embarrassed. He's just some random guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time, nothing more. "Sorry. Just trying to distract myself."

In-ho frowns. Did he say the wrong thing? His grip tightens on the steering wheel, "No! Don't be sorry. If I'm being honest, I've been dying to know your name."

His eyes flick to you before looking back in front of him, "Im Hwang In-ho." A small smile creeps onto his lips as he pulls to a stop in front of the ER.

"Well, Mr. Hwang, it's nice to meet you."

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"Well, it looks like you have a fracture." You give a long exasperated sigh as the Doctor holds up the X-rays, "The fibula is fractured below the level of the syndesmosis, which is the joint between the tibia and fibula."

You look at In-ho, who, for some reason, seems more stressed than you do, "What's the healing process like? Will she need surgery?" Your head snapped to the doctor at the mention of surgery. Surgery for dancers is like a death sentence.

No. More. Dancing.

"Fractures like these are considered stable, meaning that they are unlikely to worsen with correct treatment and management. You'll just need to wear a boot for a while." The doctor noticed how your concerned look didn't falter, and gave a sigh before placing a hand on your shoulder, "You can still dance."

The breath you were holding escapes your lips as you feel a heavy weight fall off your shoulders, "Thank you so much." The doctor rubs your shoulder before leaving, instructing the nurse to fit you for a boot.

In-ho watches as you close your eyes, a smile resting on your face. He cocked his head, how could you be so beautiful in a moment like this? His eyes take a minute to trail down your body, taking you in, something he's grown fond of doing.

Your hair is a mess, your cheeks are red and tear-stained, your ankle looks like a snapped twig, and you're picking at your cuticles. But god.

You are perfect.

Just as beautiful now as you were months ago.

An unfamiliar feeling has taken over his chest ever since he saw you. A tightening, warm feeling that he hasn't felt in years. At first, he ignored it. Maybe it was just heartburn? But as it progressed, he got worried. The next thing you know a doctor is laughing in his face.

Calling it 'love'.

In-ho immediately left after he heard that, making sure to write a very passive-aggressive review on Yelp. What doctor diagnosed a patient with 'being in love'?

In-ho was not in love.

...

Right?

It wasn't until he watched 'Funny Face' that he realized the estranged doctor was correct. The moment Fred Astaire saw Aubrey Hepburn and was immediately captivated by her beauty, he knew it was true.

He didn't care that he was more than twenty years older than you, or that he had bigger things to worry about, all he cared about was you.

And that made him so confused.

You had managed to captivate his heart, soul, and body. And he felt like a teenager with his first crush all over again. So as he saw you look up at him with those big doe eyes of yours, he couldn't help what happened next.

He stood from his chair, taking large steps towards your frame. You furrowed your eyebrows as you watched him stand between your legs, careful not to hit your ankle.

His big hands reach down and grab your face, slamming your lips into his own. Your eyes grow wide, confusion flashing across your face before slowly giving in, pulling his head down lower.

His touch was gentle, the opposite of his kiss. His hands softly caressed your red cheeks, while his lips hungrily chased after your own.

You tugged at the baby hairs that rested on the back of his neck, desire and hunger feeding off you as he slipped his tongue into your pretty mouth. A low growl escaped his swollen lips, and you felt arousal begin to pool between your thighs.

You whine as he removes his hand from your face and steps back, crossing his arms. His gaze has always been intimidating. But now that he's seen you fall on your ass, cry, and melt under his touch all in one day, it is much more intimidating.

You've been vulnerable in front of him. Something you could never do before. But you didn't care if he saw your flaws, you were perfect to him.

He saw a future when he looked at you. He saw a family, something he had longed for many years ago. He saw hope, love, and promise.

He saw you.

Beautiful, perfect, irresistible you.

And as he looked at you, only one question entered his mind.

"Do you want to meet my cat?"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

a/n: chat. its 2 am. but i am DETERMINED to post this. i just love you guys sm mwah mwah. also, wasn't in a smut mood. still getting used to writing smut LMAO.

also random disclaimer: i have never done ballet. so if any terms are wrong or if my spelling is trash PLS LMK!

@bohemiandelilah @menabuser16 @verouys @speedymagazinewhispers @metalbaby2 @nellabear @marymun @orihime188 @nanascupid @fnl9zer @chasinghxran @crystalizia @auspicious-lilana @machipyun @cdej6 @namelesslosers

#hwang inho x reader #hwang in ho #in ho x reader #squid game #squid game x reader #hwang in ho x reader #in ho #squid games #lee byung hun x reader #lee byung hun #001 x reader #young il x reader #young il #front man #front man x reader

2K notes · View notes

leuxau · 2 years ago

Text

Decanter Whiskey Set

Discover the epitome of refined taste with Leux Australia's Whiskey Decanter Sets. Carefully curated to enhance your whiskey experience, each set exudes sophistication and luxury. Impeccably designed decanters, accompanied by meticulously crafted glasses, create a harmonious ensemble that elevates the ambiance of any setting. Whether you're a seasoned connoisseur or a casual enthusiast, these sets offer a flawless blend of style and functionality, making them an ideal addition to your collection or a thoughtful gift. Elevate your whiskey appreciation to new heights with Leux Australia's Whiskey Decanter Sets, where every pour becomes a moment of indulgence.

#Decanter Whiskey Set #gifts

1 note · View note

daylighted · 6 months ago

Text

dean winchester x angel!reader — take a shot or six.

or, dean's feeling it five in, but he's not going to let you win. or, dove beats dean at his own game.

cw, drinking, alcohol, tipsy dean sjkefdh, sexual tension SORRY

word count:

notes, by @depressionbarbie2023's suggestion... except i make it more tension riddled because i like my cute stuff with a dash of spice hehehe HOPE U LIKE IT STILL

★ ˚⋆

how were you supposed to know that the glass decanter on the accent table next to dean's chair was whiskey? he's staring at you now, like you just killed his entire family with your bare hands, as you hold a crystal glass full of it in between your nimble fingers.

you blink. his eye twitches.

"do you know how long that whiskey aged before it got to me?" he asks you slowly, like any of those words or processes are meant to ring any sort of bell in your head.

you shake your head. "why... do you let a drink age?"

another eye twitch. "enrichens the flavor." he nods toward the glass in your hand, nearly spilling over the brim. quickly, you raise the glass to try and alleviate the problem, sipping on the overflowing top loudly. "tastes good, doesn't it?"

your shoulders lift in a mindless shrug. it burns in your throat for a split second, but other than that, it tastes like caramelized oak, like wind through a nighttime forest, as sweet and secretive.

"what do you mean by—" his shoulders lift now, in a mockery of your shrug, which does nothing but make your head tilt in confusion. dean's quirks were something you were used to, at this point, but never before had you not been able to clue together why he was behaving like he was. "that's a 15-year old whiskey you're drinking like water. gimme that."

his boots echo on the solid floor as he stomps up to you, snatching the crystal glass from your fingers, letting the liquid slosh over the top and onto the both of your hands. dean gestures with his head again, his lips pursed in that look that you think, honestly, is reserved solely for you. "c'mon. lick it up. no wasting this shit."

being bossed around, and being bossed around by dean, is something you don't often let fly. his eyes stay on you as he lifts the glass to his lips, taking his own mindful sip, slow and deliberate like he's working it around his tongue before he swallows. much to the opposite of how you'd been throwing back the entirety of the decanter.

"oh, jesus christ," he grumbles when you actually do start to lick it off of your skin, the salt and the sweet burn making a surprisingly decent flavor, to his clear chagrin.

like always, it seems you do the wrong thing. since he'd shown you how to drive baby, arms around your body as he held you steady, dean had been pulling back. he was already a bit distant, but now? it felt like you were strangers all over again, and he wouldn't tell you what you'd done wrong.

it didn't stop you from coming around, though; your duty was to help the winchesters, and unfortunately for dean, helping him through his disdain for you was a part of that.

his lips stay pushed together in that signature irritated dean look, wrinkles embedded in the corners of his mouth, eyes betraying nothing of the thoughts in his head.

"i'm sorr—"

"don't even start," dean shoots back sternly, turning to weave out of the pillars of the living space and toward the kitchen area. naturally, you're inclined to follow him, your lips already downturned into a frown that could only be described as insistent. why couldn't he see or accept that you were sorry? "don't even know what you're apologizin' for."

he's opening cabinets too tall for you to reach with his free hand, eyes narrowing as he searches for something. "yes i do," you say fiercely, hurt flashing across your face at the accusation. "i upset you, and for that i'm sorry."

"oh, no, dove," he says with a little laugh, setting the crystal decanter on the countertop, using that hand to hold his weight as he reached deep into the cluttered cabinet. "you did not upset me. well," another tip of his lips into that unreadable expression, "i was, but not genuinely."

you blink at him, confusion melting into the hurt look on your face. "that does not make any sense."

"you see everything in black and white, dove," he says, a bottle of deep caramel liquid in his grip. his free hand goes to the crystal tumbler, a frown gracing his pretty expression, "two things can be true at once. i can be upset and not upset at the same time."

your mouth opens to answer him, but closes. his eyebrows flick up in amusement. "you should know that, with how often you give me that look. confused but not confused." he lets out a deep sigh through his nostrils. "christ, this is like, minimum five fingers of whiskey. whole damn hand's worth."

"there are no fingers in that." you watch as he lifts the glass to his mouth, his eyes locked and intense on yours the entire time. he downs half of it at once. "and it is inappropriate to say that."

"oh, piss off," he murmurs into the open mouth of the glass, though his eyes glimmer now, while they stay locked on yours.

your deep frown becomes a hesitant smile. no, maybe he is not-not mad anymore, actually.

he finishes the glass off with a groan that is entirely too sinful to be able to be created by one human man, albeit one that's been to hell and back. "see, this is why m'not pissed at you," dean says, voice thick and raspy as he tips the glass in your direction. "because i've got a helluva tolerance, and that burns. you... you drank that entire decanter like it was fuckin' kool-aid."

a pause and a blink. "juice. like juice. m'not explainin' kool-aid to you today. not in the mood."

his nails tap lightly on the countertop, drawing your attention there. "m'gonna guinea pig the shit outta you real quick."

"guinea pig?" your voice is a soft mutter of confusion. "you cannot—"

the sound of something popping open makes you blink in surprise, caught off guard by the sound of the cork popping free from the bottle on the countertop. "we're gonna play a game, dove. s'all you need to worry that pretty, confused little head about."

"oh."

dean pours a sip's worth into the crystal glass, before he pauses with the bottle in the air, and pours another of the same amount in. then, he passes the glass to you. "bottoms up."

"you are not getting me to show you my bottom, dean," you say sternly, with so much more authority than anyone could expect from an angel with a glass of whiskey in your fingers.

dean actually laughs. it's such a nice sound, hearty and rare these days. you wish you could bottle it up and cork it instead of what's already in there. surely, whatever it was wasn't as good as the sound of cackling. "means drink up, dove."

if only he'd actually just said that. you fluster, but you attempt to hide it behind the glass as you raise it to your mouth and sip it down in one gulp.

he tips his head in a small nod, eyebrows to his hairline, watching you with a look you can't explain in his eyes. impress? shock? affection? they're all things he rarely shows you, especially anymore. "what?"

dean raises his hands in mock surrender. "you just tossed back at least an eight hundred dollar double shot like juice, dove. let a man be impressed."

you choke belatedly. that little amount was eight hundred dollars? no wonder he'd been so angry, when he'd stumbled into you finishing off the bottle in the living space.

"nuh uh, pretty thing," he wags his finger, before the motion becomes a snap until you hand him back the glass, "no gettin' shy now. i wanna see you off your ass."

you bristle at that. "you have an obsession with my... my ass."

dean's grin becomes downright wicked. "yeah, i do."

the words take a second to register, and by the time they do, he's turned back and pouring another two shots worth into the glass. thankfully, too, because the last thing you want is for him to see the flush of pink on your cheeks.

"c'mon. one more." dean turns, holding the glass out for you. his eyes are a little glazed, and he seems lighter on his feet. not so tense around you as he'd been for weeks. you suck your lip between your teeth as you debate it, a little nervous, admittedly, to know what it's like to be off your ass. "nope. none of that."

his free hand cups your cheek suddenly, thumb dragging your bottom lip out of your mouth. "what?" you say, blinking your confusion. "none of what?"

"that," he answers, waving his hand in a broad gesture in front of your face. "m'feelin' too warm and buzzy to watch you bite your lip like a little temptress right now."

temptress. you? just because you'd— "oh." you feel your heart skip in your chest, and the feel of it nearly makes you jump. too close. he's too close. did you always feel like this when he was near, or was this one of those new feelings you stumbled across sometimes, that left you a bit breathless in your confusion?

the glass in his hand presses to your puffed bottom lip, the coolness of it dragging it open further, until it's in a little open o-shape. dean is close enough that you can hear the shudder in his inhale. you wonder, for a second, if it's because his heart, too, is stumbling over itself in his chest.

he begins to tip it back, pouring it in a slow stream between your parted lips. "yeah, that's a good girl," he mumbles, his voice rougher than you've heard it before. the praises always make you feel headier than usual, warm all over like the whiskey felt in your throat. "little more, c'mon. i know you can take it. yeah, just like that."

your eyes are locked on his the entire time, and you watch in real time as his pupils double in size, the green of his irises disappearing into a thin ring. once the glass is empty, he holds it to your lips a blink longer than necessary, his own mouth parted with words he didn't yet say.

another blink, and the glass is away from your mouth, and he's at the sink, back turned to you. "feel it yet?"

your hands do feel warm, like static runs through your veins, like each of your movements is more fluid. "i feel... something."

dean turns on the stream of the faucet, rinsing the glass out in silence. but softer than a breath, you hear him say, "yeah. so am i, dove."

tags,

@figthoughts, @jasvtsc, @titsout4nicholas, @deanswidow, @whyyouegg,

@bombarda-babe, @whisperingwillowxox, @underground-secret,

@bitchykittenconnoisseur, @jensenacklesantidote,

@keira-kaz2y5

#dahlia's ☆ journal #dean winchester x angel!reader #jensen ackles #dean winchester #angel!reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester one shot #spn #supernatural #supernatural one shot #spn one shot

499 notes · View notes

lina-unchained · 4 months ago

Text

A Game, A Drink And Something Extra (18+)

Pairing: Front Man x Reader

Summary: It was time for the first game to begin and In-ho had his two favourite things beside him - a drink and your hungry mouth.

Release date: 28/01/25

Words count: 1.1K

Warnings: daddy kink, oral sex (m recieving), mention of people dying

Notes: I’m not a native English speaker, so there might be spelling or grammatical mistakes.

Masterlist

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

You were kneeling beside the chair like a good girl. You were almost drooling just thinking of his taste. What was taking him so long?

In-ho was at the management room setting the final preparations for the Green Light, Red Light game. You knew that any moment he’d be back, then he’d sit comfortably in his chair, pour a glass of whiskey and unzip his pants, so that you could feast on his delicious dick while he watched the poor wretches die on the big screen. This was turning into your little tradition and you were getting more and more impatient.

Finally, the door opened and he walked in. If you were an actual dog your tail would have been on the verge of getting ripped off of your body. Instead your mouth filled with saliva and your hole trembled with excitement. You bit your lower lip and whimpered impatiently.

In-ho scoffed. He knew how much you wanted his dick, so he took his sweet time teasing you for as long as possible. You were growling quietly but he knew you loved this game even though it drove you crazy to your core.

He walked as slowly as he could and stopped by the side table. He took off his gloves, then slid his fingers down the decanter the way he fondled your inner thighs when he wanted to tease you.

A quiet moan exited your lips. Or how you wished that decanter was you.

“Shhh”, he muttered softly.

You whimpered again and bit your lips.

In-ho took his time in pouring whiskey into his glass. You felt like you were about to start crying. His slow game was just too much.

He walked behind you and stroked your hair with such gentleness that shivers ran through your spine. You abruptly turned around and shoved your face into his groin with lust.

In-ho grabbed your hair and pulled your head backwards. You thought your neck would snap but he knew just how much strength to use so not to hurt you. You gasped looking up at him.

He waved his finger at you. “Not yet, baby girl.”

“Please”, you whispered desperately.

“Soon”, he let go of your hair and gently stroked your cheek.

His fingers touched your lips and just like that his middle finger was deep into your mouth as you sucked it with such vigor that In-ho’s dick jumped inside his pants. You knew just what to do to turn him on.

Now he growled and wished it wasn’t his finger you were sucking on.

In-ho pulled his middle finger from your mouth and hastily sat in his chair. You smirked and your mouth got filled with even more saliva.

Your eyes were following his every move as he slowly took off the mask. He put it on the side table and rested his arms on the sides of the chair.

You both heard the doors on the field open as the masked guards took the players out. The game was going to begin soon. You were stroking your head onto his knee like a cat.

In-ho took a sip of his whiskey and pet your head while studying the players on the screen. You whimpered once again begging. You were getting too impatient and he was being too cruel to you.

The announcer joined the fuss among the players by explaining the rules of the game. In-ho‘s eyes moved from the screen and stopped on you. He smiled with such lust that you thought your pussy would explode.

This was the sign. You slowly slid your hands from his knees up his thighs. They met at the top of his pants, and then once again you shoved your face in his groin. You could feel his hard cock begging to be set free from his prison. You unzipped his pants slowly as the head emerged. You kissed it gently and played with it with the tip of your tongue. He tasted so good that you quietly gasped. In-ho softly sighed with approval. He loved your little teases.

Your hands joined the fun as you took his whole dick out and licked it from the bottom to the tip. In-ho sighed again and bit his lips. You shoved his dick deep down your throat. It often made you sick but you had learned to take it.

“That’s it, baby girl”, In-ho gently encouraged you. “Eat him up whole.”

The game began and so did your movements up and down. Slowly, just like the way the tagger said “Green Light, Red Light”.

In-ho quietly moaned and his left hand grabbed your hair. You were going with your own pace sucking and licking and squeezing with your hand as he sighed louder and louder.

“That’s it, baby girl, daddy loves it just like that”, In-ho kept encouraging you as you sucked his head while going up and down with your hand.

A rainstorm of bullets exploded on the screen. People screaming, falling and dying. In-ho squeezed your hair even harder. This moment always turned him on to the point of madness.

“Oh yes, baby girl, yes”, he shouted and started pushing your head down and then pulling it up.

You submitted like the good girl that you were. Now he was in charge of your pace.

In-ho’s moans got louder, his breathing irregular. His dick was filling your mouth deep down to your throat. You grabbed his thighs for support. The game was approaching its end and so was he.

In-ho moaned loudly and squeezed your hair even tighter. Your eyes filled with tears from the hair pulling. You were suffocating and choking on his dick.

“Yes, baby girl, yes”, he shouted again as the last bullets were flying on the screen killing all the poor bastards that didn’t make it to the finish line on time.

A loud moan of ecstasy and relief exited his throat while yours got filled up with his warm cum. You choked a little but you took it like a champ.

After a few seconds In-ho finally let go off your hair. His cock now reducing slipped out of your mouth, cum dripping down your chin. You licked your lips collecting as much as you could before swallowing everything. His taste was exceptional.

“That’s my good girl”, In-ho gently said as he stroked your hair. “You did fantastically, baby girl.”

His face was soft, his breathing now normalizing. He was all relaxed and deflating, completely satisfied with the extra service. You were pleased and a little dizzy, completely satisfied with your delicious dinner.

“Now go wash up, baby girl”, In-ho softly ordered you. His cum was now dripping down your neck and chest.

You obediently got up and went to the bathroom as the circle guards entered the field to collect the dead bodies.

#in ho x reader #in ho x you #front man x reader #front man x you #001 x reader #001 x you #front man #hwang in ho #squid game #squid game 2 #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my post

269 notes · View notes

hobivore · 2 months ago

Text

Transient | LMH

— Lee Minho x reader (f)

Growing up in the casino business, you—now standing at the head of your family’s imperium—know all the tricks of the trade. Rule number one: don’t gamble. It would be such an easy rule to follow if it weren’t for your company’s most trusted lawyer, Minho Lee, who loves nothing more than to raise the stakes.

AU/Trope: lawyer!au, smut (minors DNI)

Warnings: sub!minho, rope bondage, sensory deprivation (blindfolding), impact play (face slapping), wax play, knife play, one small drop of blood, choking, spitting, light cockstepping, no aftercare, power dynamics, complicated ‘relationship’ (two people using each other because they’re bad at feelings)

WC: 4.8k

A/N: This piece was originally uploaded to my old sideblog linoguistics and written for the s! week sub!skz event by @skzseasons, check them out for more. Many thanks to the wonderful @hesperantha for beta reading. ILY!

— SKZ masterlist | Ask box

“Will that be all, boss?”

Boss. The word ricochets against his teeth and rolls off his tongue like a caged bird set free. Only Minho Lee could make a title sound like that: like a prayer, a taunt, a pet name, a challenge.

The tilt of his head tells you he already knows this isn’t all. Of course he knows; it’s nearing 1 a.m. on a Tuesday, and you wouldn’t have him come over to your apartment only to deliver you the most recent news on the acquisition of Full House Entertainment. Sure, it’s an important step for your company, but acting the herald is way below his pay grade.

No—Minho is here for something else entirely, and his feigned innocence is all part of this cat and mouse game the two of you have been playing for years now.

He waits for your answer, shoulders straight, something subversive to the set of his mouth. You let your gaze travel down his figure, stretching out the silence until it thickens the air with tension. Your fingers play with the silver necklace around your neck, lingering on the edge of your collarbone, and he swallows.

You suppress a chuckle at the familiar, telltale sign betraying him. In a way, you and Minho have grown into your roles in the company alongside each other. It had been your father who had hired him—although he probably wouldn’t have, had he known the man would end up in his daughter’s bed—when Minho was fresh out of law school, stiff-collared, hungry, ready to take on the world.

To Minho’s credit, he remains still, and when your eyes meet his again you see a hint of that same fervour behind them. But rather than a spark of wildfire, it’s the burning of a furnace; calculated and controlled, white-hot.

“Drink?” you inquire, more command than question, walking towards the cabinet and opening a whiskey decanter. He follows your movements, watching closely. Even when you turn around to pick up a glass you know his gaze never travels below your shoulders. His self-restraint is admirable.

“Tell me,” you hand him his drink and he takes it, clinking the edge of the glass against yours. “What do you think of Nick Blake?”

Minho narrows his eyes. “He’s a fool.”

Nick Blake is the current chief financial officer of Full House Entertainment. You’ve been told that although he may be new to the position, he shows promise, so you tilt your head in interest at Minho’s response.

“I’ve heard other things.”

Minho swirls the liquor around in his glass and shrugs. “Whoever you heard that from is wrong. You should’ve asked me.”

You raise an eyebrow at his brusque tone. Few men would have the guts to say something like that to your face—or behind your back, for that matter. But Minho has never been anything but forthright with you, quickly becoming one of your most trusted employees. And he knows it; knows he can get away with a lot more than the average member of your staff.

You decide to challenge him, to push back a little and see if he stands his ground. “Last time I checked, this was my company. I’m perfectly capable of deciding who to seek out for counsel.”

“It is. You are. But none of us benefit from mistakes. I don’t trust him.”

You sigh. Ever since you took over from your father the company has grown explosively. The profits are great, but with diverse lines of business comes an increased difficulty in oversight. You find yourself needing to rely on others more and more—something you don’t particularly like.

“So you think I should fire him?”

Minho takes a swig of his whiskey, eyes meeting yours. “I don’t know, aren’t you the boss?” he retorts, defiant, one brow raised.

You snort—an ungraceful sound—and he grins. You put your glass down on the cabinet and give him a small nod. “Thank you for your honesty. I will reconsider Blake’s position.”

A silence falls between the two of you, not unwelcome, some of the earlier tension permeating the air again as your eyes fix on the curve of his cupid’s bow. The anticipation feels familiar in a way that puts you at ease, makes you relax.

Minho is not the type for small talk and useless chatter. It's one of the things you like about him; he's astute and straight to the point. He doesn't waste your time.

And unlike most others he doesn't try to flatter you. It's a welcome change from the sycophants that come with your position. Instead, Minho has always relied on his wits and his sharp tongue. Navigated his way through the muddy water of rules and regulations until he knew them like the back of his hand. Knew how to bend them and how to break them.

There was a certain softness to him at first, back then; but much like you, he’s always been quick to adapt, quick to change.

You don’t pry into his personal life. You don’t ask and you don’t care. Just like you don’t care how he gets things done as long as he does them—because you know he always delivers, one way or another. He doesn’t keep to his luxurious office, preferring the grimy underbellies of your casinos instead, not afraid of getting his hands dirty.

Still, it’s all too easy to picture him as a deer-eyed, grubby-kneed kid, growing up watching the same programs on TV as you did. Fast-paced animations, colourful heroes saving people and serving justice. And then, later, the hours spent behind stacks of books, in courtrooms, for a good cause, only to end up here—

But Minho isn’t innocent. Every move and every choice he makes is deliberate. He, like no other, knows the world isn’t black and white. He wades through the grey fog, always mindful of the lines he should not cross.

It seems you are his only exception.

There’s an irony to it, its taste bittersweet on his tongue every time you kiss. An acidity to the both of you circling each other as you take his glass, your fingertips brushing against his skin.

“What do you want?” you ask, putting his drink down next to yours. You wait for him to say the word, confirming that he wants this as much as you do.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and it’s out of line, teetering on the edge of mockery if it wasn’t for the honesty in his eyes. His long lashes caress his cheeks when he blinks, twice. “Venom.”

There’s a beat of silence as the word hangs in the air between you, followed by his look of surprise when the flat of your hand connects with his cheek. The expression lasts only a second, quickly overtaken by something darker as his skin flushes pink.

“I asked you a question.” You step closer, grabbing his jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh of his cheeks, distorting his grin. “Answer me.”

It’s a deflection, an attempt to steer away from his admission, and it works: the immediate effect it has on him, how it makes his pupils dilate and his breath hitch in his throat.

“Please,” he says, barely audible, mouth forced into a pout by your hold on him, “make it hurt.”

His words trickle down your skin like molasses and settle deep in your belly. You press your lips against his, tasting the rich, smoky flavour of the alcohol you’ve been raised on, coupled with that sweet taste that’s so unmistakably him—

Minho lets out a sudden moan as you sink your teeth into his bottom lip and you swallow the sound, letting go of his face, not missing the way he sways into you as you lean back and tap one finger on his suit jacket. “Follow me.”

There’s a shift in the air as you enter your bedroom, a place he’s seen countless of times—a privilege reserved to only a handful of your lovers. You can feel his presence behind you, heat radiating off him in waves, feeding your own excitement.

“Take off your clothes,” you instruct, walking towards a large wooden chest beside the bed, “and get on your knees.”

When you turn back around, a long piece of red rope in your hands, you’re surprised to see him kneeling on the thick rug already. His eyes are trained on the floor and his clothes lay next to him, neatly folded.

“Someone’s eager tonight,” you smile and grab a fistful of his dark hair, tilting his face upwards.

“Just making it easy for you,” he grins, “for now.”

You tighten your grip and he shivers at the pinpricks of pain tickling his scalp. “You’ve always liked to play with fire.”

He tilts his head, as much as your hand allows. “A man can hope.”

You crouch down in front of him, noses almost touching, catching his half-lidded stare. “Show me you deserve it.”

Rising to your feet again, you instruct: “Arms in position.” He puts them behind his back, forearms parallel to each other, fingers grazing his elbows.

You carefully wrap the rope around his forearms, then twice around his chest, right above the pectoral muscle. Putting your hand in his, you ask him to squeeze it. “Good?”

He confirms, voice low, and you bring the rope together at the back to tie it to the loop on his wrists, locking the box tie with a sturdy knot so his upper arms are confined against his body. Your fingers adjust the hemp where needed, your own body remembering the familiar motions. You wrap the leftover rope around his torso, this time just below his pectorals, across the sternum, and fasten it at the back.

You check his range of motion one more time before stepping in front of him, admiring your handiwork. His arms are pulled back, chest rising and falling steadily, pushed forward by the rope. The red hemp forms a striking contrast to his skin and when your fingers skim the side of his shoulder he shivers, the muscles in his thighs tensing.

With a pleased hum you notice his responsiveness to your touch. Your gaze drops down to where his cock hangs between his legs, already half-hard. The sight of him on his knees, wrapped up and presented to you like an offering, sends a lick of heat down your spine and you fight the urge to reach out and touch him again—there’s a time and place for your own desire, and it will have to wait for now.

You walk back to the chest and take out a bottle of massage oil and a silk sash, sifting through the chest’s contents until you find a small white box holding a collection of candles: massage candles, coloured soy flakes, and plain white paraffin candles. You know Minho prefers the latter, their heat more intense, the hot wax contrasting the colder air in the room. For a moment you consider starting with the massage candles just to rile him up, to have him writhing in his restraints and begging for more—but tonight’s not a night for such patience.

You take the necessary precautions for his safety and return with the items, displaying them on the carpet in front of him.

He watches you pour some of the oil on your hands and tilts his chin towards the candles. “Looks like it’s my lucky day today.”

“Don’t be so sure of that.” You kneel down in front of him and smooth one hand over his chest. “I haven’t started yet.”

Expertly, you massage the liquid into his skin, enjoying the warmth of his body underneath your fingers. When his chest and stomach glisten in the muted lighting you move behind him, lathering his shoulders with copious amounts of oil. Minho’s silent except for the occasional sharp inhale when you graze your nails over his skin, the subtle scent of sandalwood filling the air.

“You’re sensitive today,” you murmur as you trail your fingertips down his nape, gooseflesh erupting in their wake.

“It’s—it’s been a while,” he groans, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip when you press your front against his back, reaching around to rake your nails over his chest. “I’ve been away for a long time.”

You ignore the implications of his words—you know he could have anyone he wants, anytime, anywhere—before they can unravel the frayed edges of your chest, forcing yourself to focus on the sharp press of your nails.

“Good,” your breath ghosts the shell of his ear as he shifts under your rough touch, “more fun for me.”

You stand up and move to face him again, tutting when you notice he’s closed his legs a little, looking for some friction on his aching cock. You nudge one thigh with the toe of your shoe. “Keep them spread.”

He obliges, albeit reluctantly, and you bend down to adjust the ropes around his torso a bit, making sure to linger in front of his face. His eyelids flutter, gaze briefly flicking up to your chest, and you chuckle.

“Like what you see?”

“Always,” he says, amused, despite his impuissance. “I told you I’ve missed you.”

You smile at his words, their intent unmistakeable this time. And it’d be a lie to say you didn’t enjoy this, this back-and-forth between the two of you, even though you know he doesn’t mean half of what he says; weaponises his words and uses them to try and get a rise out of you. He’s a lawyer, after all. A good one.

And all good lawyers lie.

“Don’t make me hit you again.” You give the ropes a last tug, straightening your back.

“Now that—” Minho shakes the hair out of his eyes, looking up at you, ��—that would be a real shame.”

“Absolutely,” you confirm, picking up the black sash, mirroring his smirk. “You’d like that way too much. Besides,” you tie the fabric around his head, “you haven’t earned the right to look at me just yet.”

Minho opens his mouth, witty response dying on his tongue as your oil-slick palm, unseen, wraps around his cock. “Fuck—” he curses, and you squeeze him, once, before removing your hand again. He groans. “That’s not fair.”

You bring your face next to his, lips brushing his cheekbone. “Nothing in this world is fair, Minho. You of all people ought to know that.”

Crossing the room, you grab the dressing table chair and put it down in front of him. His shoulders tense at the sudden sound; it’s the only reaction he shows, putting on a false display of nonchalance as you sit down and light a candle.

At first glance he does appear at ease, but you notice the small signs of tension: the quickening rise and fall of his chest, the tautness in his shoulders, the tremble that runs down his body at the soft click of the lighter. His head is slightly cocked, turned towards you, trying to catch any sounds you might make when you dribble some wax on your own arm to test the heat.

When the first drop hits his skin he hisses sharply, wax trickling down his chest. You know it doesn’t hurt when drizzled from this height, not really, a mild sting at most—but being blindfolded and unable to anticipate your next move is enough to have him on edge.

You pour the hot wax on his shoulders, his chest, his arms. The room is quiet as you work in silence, adjusting the heat and intensity by moving the candle closer or farther away from his skin. He bites back a whimper as some of it drips on a nipple, trying to stay focused, trying to predict your next move.

But when you press the sole of your shoe against his neglected cock he whines—loudly—and you laugh. You keep it there, the pressure not enough to satisfy him, and he shifts uneasily under your touch.

“What do you want?” You feign innocence, voice flat and uninterested.

“Please—” he begs, hoarse, “—more.”

“Go on then. Move.” You dribble the hot wax on his upper thigh, close to your foot. He groans in response and rocks his hips, reluctant at first, almost shy, giving in with a choked-off sound. He’s more frantic now: previous restraint gone, the rope spanning taut across his chest, his knees digging into the carpet.

Minho tends to be quiet, holds back his moans as if he’s afraid they’d escape the room. But you know his cursing is only a preamble so you aim to draw out every sound. To coax them from his lips until he can’t keep them caged behind his teeth any longer.

“Look at you,” you muse, in awe of the vision of him, “such a desperate mess.”

It’s a sight few people get to see: Minho Lee bound and covered in wax, quickly cooling, hardening into white strands of pearls on his skin. Your foot is pressing his cock against his lower abdomen, precum wetting the red sole, his thighs trembling with exertion as he ruts against it.

You squeeze your own thighs together in an attempt to find some relief and when his tongue darts out to wet his lips you can’t help but lean in, blowing out the candle and crashing your mouth against his, taking him by surprise. The kiss is messy, feverish; all tongue and teeth as you nip at his lips, a hand tangling in his hair.

He objects, a faint whine, when you pull back and take your foot off his cock. “You did so well,” your voice sounds breathy as you untie the sash, steadying your wobbly, eager fingers, “you deserve a reward.”

Minho blinks, letting his eyes adjust to the light, pupils still blown wide and unfocussed.

“But you’ll have to get it yourself.”

You hike your dress up, spreading your legs, inviting, and he sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of your soaked panties.

“What are you waiting for?” you bait, enjoying the brief, rare glimpse of bewilderment flickering across his face before he collects his bearings and shuffles closer on his knees, until he is mere inches away from your clothed core.

Minho closes his eyes, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing as he leans forward. His skin is still covered in dried wax, which has started to flake, but he doesn’t seem to care—too preoccupied with pushing his face into the black lace at the apex of your thighs.

When he flattens his tongue against the fabric it’s you who has to suppress a moan, nerves set alight with every nudge of his nose.

“Ugh—this—” as expected, it doesn’t take long for him to get frustrated with the barrier keeping him from tasting you properly, “—is supposed to be a reward?”

You grab his hair, tugging at it sharply, noticing the way he hisses in response. “Don’t get greedy now, Minho.” Your index traces the edge of his jaw before giving him a gentle smack on the cheek. It’s nowhere near firm enough to be satisfying, only serving to fuel his impatience. “I can leave you here and go back to my other employees, if that’s what you prefer. Or we can continue like this.”

He narrows his eyes. It’s nothing to him if it isn’t a competition, a dispute, always and everywhere—in the courthouse, at the office, in your bed. You know he would’ve lost interest long ago if you hadn’t met him with the same fervour.

His jaw ticks, determined, and he sits up, taking the hem of your panties between his teeth. You lift your hips so he can pull them down your legs, clumsily yet insistent, until they gather around your ankles. You lift one foot out of the fabric but before you can move the other leg Minho is already back, his face between your thighs.

When his mouth connects with your core he exhales, mumbling, “Fucking finally,” cutting off your reply with the plush of his lips wrapped around your clit. You can feel them curl against your skin at your jumbled words, warning him, a hand tangled into his hair as you hold him impossibly closer.

It’s a little embarrassing how fast the knot in your stomach tightens, only to be unravelled again by the expert teasing of his tongue. “Fuck—Minho—” you gasp, and he pulls back slightly, slowing down his motions until you can feel your high ebb away, just out of reach.

You groan. “Stop teasing.”

He chuckles, the sound reverberating through your body, and you shiver. “Am I not good enough?” He leans back and looks up at you, eyes glinting. “Maybe you should go back to your other employees instead, then.”

His smile is a little crooked, and he tongues the inside of his cheek, as if he’s waiting for you to make a move. Expecting you to lash out or press your heel against his cock, anything—

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you bend down until your face is in front of his. “Miller is more than capable.”

His expression falters for a second, morphing into something unreadable before he puts his carefully crafted mask back into place. “M—”

You cut him off with the press of your fingers against his lips. “Open.”

He obliges, eyes falling shut as you grab his tongue between your thumb and index and spit on it, coating your fingers in the mixture of saliva and arousal and spreading it over his already saturated face.

“Go on, Minho Lee,” you tap his bottom lip, ignoring his protest as your fingers leave his mouth, “show me that tongue is good for anything other than fucking the law over.”

This time he doesn’t have to be told twice, working a steady rhythm, paying close attention to the sound of your moans and the involuntary shaking of your legs.

He revels in it: on his knees, restrained, driving you to the edge and turning you into a whimpering mess. It’s a small price to pay for the pleasure that crests over you in waves, the soft strokes of his tongue bringing you down from your high.

Through the distorted blur, stars behind your eyelids, you see his face, still covered in a mixture of arousal and spit. A pleased smile pulls at the corners of his lips and you suddenly feel exposed despite his state of undress.

Rising to your feet, you pull your dress down and flatten the fabric with your hands, eyeing the way he tries to adjust his arms within his confines. “Let me clean you up and get these ropes off.”

You retrieve a stainless steel knife from the chest, kneeling down in front of him and carefully chipping away at the dried wax on his shoulders. It peels right off, the scent of sandalwood filling your nose once more now you’re in such close proximity to him. It’s mixed with something sharper, something you’ve come to associate with him—intimately familiar, a scent you could pick out in any room.

The blade drags across his collarbone and he shifts on his knees. “Don’t move,” you warn, enthralled by the gooseflesh erupting in the wake of the cold metal. A few inches higher, there’s the steady beat of his pulse, pressing against the steel.

“I could kill you.”

The laugh he lets out is soft but complacent, a low rumble deep in his chest. “You won’t. I’m too good at my job.”

There’s a sharp pang behind your breastbone. Does this count as work for him, too? When you call him late at night, is there ever a part of him that doesn’t want you?

“Men can be replaced.”

He turns his face towards you, the curl of his lips turning treacherous. “You like me too much.”

It’s cocky, smug, and you hate it—hate how it’s the truth. In moments like these you wonder if he knows how much power he holds over you, and not for the first time tonight you’re thankful for the pokerface you were taught to wear.

You press the tip of the knife into the hollow above his clavicle, a red drop blooming underneath the steel. “For a man so meticulous you’re pretty reckless sometimes.”

If he felt the small cut he doesn’t show it, tilting his head towards the floor instead, angling it away from the sharp metal. “If it isn’t for me, it’s for this ridiculous pristine rug. I know it was a gift from your father. I’ll live.”

It’s there, as always, woven between the threads of light-hearted banter and off-handed sarcastic remarks; something that shouldn’t exist between the two of you, something that has no place in your world: trust. Even if it exists only in these rare moments—fleeting, transient, a gossamer thread.

You shake your head and straighten your back, stepping behind him, worried he’d be able to hear your heart hammering against your ribs. Sometimes it feels as if he can see right through you—it makes you nervous, kept on tenterhooks, your intricate house of cards threatening to collapse.

Busying yourself with prying the last bits of wax off his skin instead, your other hand traverses over his chest and shoulders, feeling the ridges and dips of sinewy muscle underneath. He leans into your touch and heat courses through your body as your own desire flares up again. You untie him and help him to his feet, his fingertips leaving scorching marks on your skin as you realise it’s the first time they’ve touched you tonight, a promise for more.

You swallow thickly. “Get on the bed.” There’s an urgency to your voice that wasn’t there before, and you’re thankful he holds his snarky retort and clambers onto the bed without a word, back against the soft mattress.

When you finally sink down on his cock it takes you all your effort not to moan loudly, hissing through clenched teeth. He’s right—it has been long, too long, and the slight burn as he bottoms out only fuels your arousal.

The tips of his fingers caress your knees, but you allow him, too preoccupied with rolling your hips just right so his cock brushes against that sensitive spot every time you push yourself back on his thighs.

His half-lidded gaze travels over your body and you put your hands on his shoulders, steadying yourself as you set an unrelenting pace. His jaw slackens at a particular motion of your hips so you repeat it, bending down to capture his mouth with your own, the faint taste of your own arousal still lingering on his tongue.

“Ah—please,” his brow furrows as if he’s in pain, pleasure overwhelming his senses. “Please let me fuck you.” His hands hover above your thighs, waiting, desperation lacing his voice at the thought of your refusal.

Your fingers graze the edge of his jaw, almost tender—wandering down to his throat, wrapping around it, as you squeeze and tell him, “Then fuck me.”

Minho plants his feet on the bed and grabs ahold of your waist, nearly toppling you over if it wasn’t for the hand around his neck holding you up. You let yourself collapse against his shoulder, his pulse quickening underneath your fingertips as his thrusts become frantic, chasing the high you’ve been withholding from him all night.

He mutters your name into your skin, a Judas kiss, and you feel your body react, disloyal—clenching around his cock, limbs leaden and heavy. Your fingers slip into his mouth, mind buzzing, a half-hearted attempt to stop his perjury.

It’s sanctimonious, though, when you fall apart around him with his name on your lips. He follows suit when you tell him to, hips stuttering before stilling underneath you. There’s a drawn-out silence, only filled by your laboured breaths. Your dress is a welcome barrier between your bodies as his hands fall away from your waist, reluctant, and you resist the urge to hold him, moving off the bed.

You watch him go through the motions you know by heart: bending down to retrieve his pants from the pile of clothes on the floor first, faint imprints of rope still lingering on his skin.

“Stay,” you say, and this time you hope it doesn’t sound like an order, “finish your drink first. You have a long trip back to Oklahoma ahead of you.”

He turns around, wearing that smile he’s mastered for your clients in court, and you already know the answer before it has left his mouth. The familiar words erode all the nights spent together until they slip through your fingers like sand.

“Whatever you want, boss.”

Thank you for reading! If you liked this story please reblog, leave a comment, tell a friend, send me a pigeon, launch a mars rover. Your encouragement fuels my inner writer cryptid 👾

#stray kids smut #stray kids hard hours #lee know smut #lee know hard hours #lee minho smut #lee know x reader #sub!skz #sub!idol #sub!kpop #skz smut #skz hard hours #stray kids imagines #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic

189 notes · View notes

ubellestore · 5 months ago

Text

Create a Luxurious Home Bar with Exquisite Glassware and Decanter Sets

Introduction:

When it comes to curating a sophisticated and functional home bar, quality glassware and decanter sets are key elements that enhance the experience. These pieces not only add an elegant touch to your space but also enhance the flavor and aroma of your favorite beverages. A Whiskey Decanter Set is perfect for showcasing your finest spirits, allowing them to breathe and reach their full flavor potential.

Whether you're serving whiskey, wine, or cocktails, a Carafe With Glass adds an element of luxury to every pour, creating an inviting atmosphere for guests.

For wine enthusiasts, Crystalline Wine Glasses offer unparalleled clarity and precision, allowing the wine to unfold its true aromas and flavors. Whether you're hosting a formal gathering or enjoying a quiet evening, pairing premium glassware with stylish decanters like these makes every drink feel special and adds a touch of elegance to your home bar.

Why a Decanter Set is Essential for Every Home Bar

A well-crafted decanter set is an investment in both style and substance.

Elegant Design: Decanter sets are often crafted with intricate designs that enhance the aesthetic appeal of your bar area.

Perfect for Display: A beautiful decanter set can become a focal point in your home, displayed proudly on a bar cart or counter.

Ideal for Entertaining: Impress your guests by serving spirits in style. A decanter brings an air of luxury to any gathering.

Durable & Functional: Quality decanters are made from lead-free crystal or glass, ensuring longevity while maintaining their stunning appearance.

A Whiskey Decanter Set offers both form and function, making it a must-have for connoisseurs and home entertainers alike.

The Role of Elegant Glassware in Serving Spirits

Glassware isn't just for drinking; it transforms ordinary moments into extraordinary ones. A stylish carafe and accompanying glasses transform your drinking experience, whether you're savoring a fine whiskey or wine.

Elegant Design: The sleek, modern design of a Carafe With Glass Radiates sophistication, perfect for dinner parties or intimate gatherings.

Versatility: While traditionally used for wine, a carafe can also be used for whiskey, cocktails, and even water, making it a versatile addition to your bar.

Improved Serving: The shape of a carafe allows for easy pouring and Flow of your spirits, making it ideal for those who appreciate the finer details in drink preparation.

Perfect for Entertaining: Your guests will appreciate the added elegance when drinks are served from a Carafe With Glass rather than a bottle.

A Carafe With Glass brings undeniable sophistication, making serving drinks feel like an art form.

The Importance of Choosing the Right Glassware for Wine

When it comes to enjoying wine, the glassware you choose can significantly impact the taste and experience. Crystalline Wine Glasses are the ideal choice for those who understand the nuances of fine wine.

Enhanced Clarity: Made from lead-free crystal, these glasses offer unparalleled clarity, allowing you to appreciate the rich color and texture of your wine.

Precision Shape: The elegant shape of these glasses is designed to enhance the aromas and flavors of your wine, making each sip a sensory experience.

Durable Construction: Unlike standard glassware, crystalline wine glasses are crafted to last and maintain their brilliance over time.

Perfect for Any Occasion: Whether it's a casual dinner or a special celebration, these glasses are versatile enough for any occasion.

Luxury Feel: The delicate yet sturdy feel of these glasses adds an extra layer of luxury to your drinking experience.

Crystalline Wine Glasses are designed not only for wine but for an enhanced drinking experience, enhancing any beverage with their refined look and superior quality.

How to Style Your Home Bar with Luxurious Glassware

Incorporating elegant glassware and decanter sets into your home bar is a simple way to upgrade your space and create an inviting atmosphere for both entertaining and relaxation.

Create a Focal Point: Place a Whiskey Decanter Set at the center of your bar or counter to draw attention. Surround it with complementary Crystalline Wine Glasses for a polished look.

Mix and Match: Pair your Carafe With Glass with other elegant accessories, such as coasters or a cocktail shaker, to create a cohesive look.

Showcase Your Style: Whether your decor is modern, vintage, or traditional, these pieces can be styled to match the overall vibe of your space. Choose glassware that complements your bar’s aesthetic and elevates the entire setting.

Display with Pride: These luxurious items are more than functional; they are pieces of art. Make them visible as part of your home’s decor for added elegance.

With the right styling, your home bar can become a luxurious and inviting space that impresses guests and enhances your own drinking experience.

Conclusion:

Adding a carefully selected decanter set or exquisite glassware to your home bar not only enhances your beverage experience but also improves the style and sophistication of your space. A Whiskey Decanter Set creates a statement, allowing your favorite spirits to breathe and reveal their full flavor while serving them in style. For those who enjoy both elegance and practicality, a Carafe With Glass is perfect for serving wine, whiskey, or cocktails, bringing an element of luxury to every pour. Meanwhile, Crystalline Wine Glasses elevate your wine-drinking experience with their clarity and shape, allowing the aroma and taste to fully unfold.

Beyond glassware, we offer a wide range of products designed to improve your home. Our collection includes beautiful home decor pieces that add sophistication and functionality to any space. Whether you're upgrading your living room, bedroom, or any other area, our products bring elegance and a touch of luxury to your home.

Explore the stunning collection at the Ubelle Store and enhance your home bar today!

#Whiskey Decanter Set #Carafe With Glass #Crystalline Wine Glasses

0 notes

readychilledwine · 9 months ago

Text

Reading with Eris Vanserra Handcanons

Warnings - mentions of smut, mentions of alcohol

A/n - my brain is prepping for finishing @erisweekofficial drafts, and this happened 💕

🍁Eris Week Masterlist🍁Eris Masterlist🍁Master Masterlist🍁

Reading is one of Eris's favorite pastimes, so he was so grateful it was one of yours as well.

You two have a specific spot you read in at the Forest House - your bed chambers, in a pile of blankets and pillows, in front of the huge fireplace.

Eris likes a glass of wine or whiskey when he reads. You always make sure he has a crystal decanter filled with the one or the other. You love hot chocolates and teas. Eris makes sure he brings it to you, then he keeps it warm for you.

No snacks in the blanket nest. Ever. Eris has a sensory issue with crumbs in his comfort spots. If you two decide to snack, you go to the balcony in your chambers where he's set a table for you two

Eris is a man of taste. He isn't above reading anything, but you've noticed romance is his favorite. He says they are quick, easy reads. You know it's secretly because this male is a drama whore.

You are a little pickier. You love historical fiction and poetry. You like how they both romanticize everyday things in life and provide you with a safe escape

Eris is a touchy male in private, so expect to cuddle while reading. His head on your lap, you between his legs, you sitting with your legs across his and leaning into his chest. He just wants to feel you when you two are reading

Eris will DNF poorly done novels. You will torture yourself through it due to morbid curiosity.

You both keep reading journals and talk about your books with each other once they're finished. Eris once rated a romance novel 5 stars, a rating he never gives, leading to you reading it. He was generous. It was 4 stars at best with some of the best smut you think Helion has ever written under his pen name.

You two have a massive bookmark collection, and it only grows. Eris tries to collect a new novel and bookmark for you every time he leaves Autumn. And, since you are stuck in Autumn per Beron's orders, you will find and press beautiful flowers and leaves for Eris, enchanting and sealing them for him to use and think of you.

Eris's 100-year anniversary gift to you was a room renovated for a personal library for you two and his mother. You three made it a goal to fill every shelf, no matter how high, and ensured the library could only be accessed through your chambers, creating a safe place for his Mother.

Eris will let you fall asleep when you two have reading dates. He will carefully close your book, keeping your place with whatever book mark he can reach, then he will lay there and finish his chapter or book.

You both know reading time is one of the most important things you share. It's silence filled with comfort and love. It's easy. It's release. Even when you two end up becoming parents, silent reading time is something you get your little ones into the routine of.

Just one big family of readers, curled up in front of mommy and daddy's fireplace in a cuddle puddle.

#elizabeths.updates #send asks #send anons #acotar #acotar x reader #eris headcanons #pro eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #eris vandaddy #eris acotar #eris x reader

335 notes · View notes

bebocreations12 · 1 year ago

Text

Decanter Set by Bebo Creations

The Electric Measuring Wine Whiskey Pourer & Peg Measurer by BEBO CREATIONS is a game-changer in the world of wine and whiskey service. With its innovative features, including precision measurement, universal bottle compatibility, and rechargeable convenience, this pourer offers a sophisticated pouring experience like no other. Elevate your drinking moments with this stylish and functional device.

#fancy drinks #decanter set #peg measurer #whiskey pourer #wine pourer

0 notes

uhohdad · 1 year ago

Text

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

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

18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, First Time, Smut, Fluff, Angst

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE TRIBUTES II

If you’re being honest, the worst part is not knowing why it hurts so much. How could you be stupid enough to give Konig this much control over you? Why do you feel so churned up inside over a boy you’ve known for a mere few days and only exchanged a handful of words? And why, even after recognizing that your anger isn’t rightfully pointed at Konig, are you still so mad at him?

You have to put your face in your pillow and scream to let it all out. All of it, the feelings about Konig, the feelings of inadequacy, the feelings about the games.

Price gives you five minutes, five minutes of stewing in the anger, chewing and splitting and dissecting every contradicting emotion before he knocks on your door.

You ignore the first few knocks, and after a second round of rapping he calls your name through the door.

“Go away!” You yell.

He gives a softer knock, maybe with just a knuckle or two. His voice drops low and persuading, a hint of a playful tease, “C’mon Plucky.”

You let out an overtly-dramatic groan, “I don’t want to talk about it! Just leave me alone!”

“Who said anything about talking?” His gruff voice carries through the door, “Let me pour you a drink.”

That… actually doesn’t sound too bad.

Even after the incident on the train you’re itching to relax, to get that feeling of easiness again. You let out a huff into the sheets, begrudgingly standing and dragging your feet to the door, by no means gently swinging it open.

“There’s my ray of sunshine.”

You try to shut the door in his face, but his shoe shoots out to catch it.

“I’m sorry,” He says, not entirely genuine. He then nudges in the direction of the dining room with his shoulder, “C’mon.”

You let out a heavy sigh and step into the hall.

“‘Atta girl,” He says, leading you into the dining table.

You plop yourself down on the chair, and Price stays true to his word. He fills up a crystal glass with the decanter, and he doesn’t get too close when he sets it next to you, scraping the glass across the table and into your reach.

He takes his place at the head of the table. For a while you both nurse your whiskey in silence. You take in as much as your body allows, eagerly anticipating the warmth that blooms in your chest as it goes down. You stand to get another drink to wash down the offensive taste, and Price has the sense to not make fun of you for it.

When your cheeks are flushed with heat, when you don’t feel quite yourself anymore, your mouth opens to speak and the words slip out without your permission, voice low and fixated on the tabletop.

“I don’t want to die.”

Price presses his lips together, and taps the tabletop with a few fingernails.

“Then don’t.”

You shoot him a glare, “Everyone knows I don’t stand a chance.”

“I don’t know that,” he says.

You face warps in a look that’s begging for him to drop the act.

He rolls his eyes, almost annoyed, and lets out a huff.

“I don’t care for quitters much.”

“Can we be realistic for a second?” You say exasperatedly, “I have nothing. Not the strength, not the skill, and no chance of getting help in that arena. I am not the smart bet.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” He says.

Your words flip from hot to ice cold, eyes narrowing at him, “It means everything.”

“Look, kid, tributes scrappier than you have won the games before. Stop counting yourself out and get your head in the fucking game.”

The harsh tone he ends with makes your lower lip bunch and your eye twitch.

He sighs with a long blink, a slight shake of his head, and when he speaks his voice is much softer.

”I get it. Yeah? I get the disdain. But it’s happening and I need you to get it together.”

It hits you all over again.

Your reality, the mere fact that you are going into that arena. You will have to survive, you will have to defend yourself, and you will most likely have to kill.

The booze seems to amplify the emotion, doubling the weight of the anvil that drops on your chest and steals every last wisp of air from your lungs. A sore lump forms in your throat and your mouth goes dry, tears welling in your eyes.

Price looks almost shocked, and then his forehead wrinkles and his arms cross as he leans in.

The tears are rolling now, big droplets that fall before catching on the height of your cheek, streaking down your face and your neck.

His hand reaches out to give a pat on your forearm before resting there, “Oh, c’mon now, Plucky.”

He sighs again, his voice gentle but persuasive, “I know a feisty girl when I see one. Before you even spoke I knew that you had a fire in ya’.”

You look at him with eyes red and glossed, your sight warped through tears.

He removes the hand on your forearm before giving a point in your direction, “You’re angry and I need you to use that. I need you to be a fighter. This is going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done but I believe you can do this. I’ve seen a lot of kids come and go but there’s something about you.”

You scoff, voice slightly nasal, “I wouldn’t stand a chance against Konig, let alone any of the other tributes.”

“I know you’re smarter than that,” Price kicks back.

“Smarter than Konig?” You ask with a sniff, wiping your nose.

“No,” he gives a tilt of his head and perks his eyebrows, as if negating the ‘no’ before he continues, “I meant smart enough to realize that everyone else is going to overlook you. You don’t think that boy is going to have a giant target on his back? He’s a huge threat to the others and they know it.”

You hadn’t considered that, actually.

He sighs, “I’m not saying the kid doesn’t have a chance, but you are gonna find some sense, hunker down, and wait it out. They will underestimate you.”

Your eyes flick around his features, trying to decipher if his encouragement is genuine. The tears have stopped flowing, and you give a sniff.

“You’re going to put that fury, that fire, and you are going to channel it into survival. Even if you have to do it out of spite. Just don’t let anyone use it against you, okay?”

You give a shaky nod and take another sip of your whiskey with a wince.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

There’s another pause, Price tapping on the glass table as you both nurse your drinks.

The words come tumbling out one after another without thought.

“The careers want to ally with Konig and he didn’t say no.”

Price raises his brows again and gives one slow nod.

“Ah,” He says in understanding.

You can tell he’s pin-pointed the actual reason for your outburst, not the underlying one.

“He said yes?”

“Well, no,” Your eyes dart away, “He said he wanted to talk to you first.”

He nods again. “I’m not saying that wasn’t the right move, but I can see why you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” You say, your face still puffy from crying.

“Of course,” He says.

You shoot him another look with narrowed eyes.

“I’ll talk to him,” Price says, raising his palm off the table, “But you need to promise me you’ll go back down to training and give it your all. Forget what I said before, learn whatever you want for the rest of the day. And Konig doesn’t have to babysit.”

You nod again.

“Let the whiskey settle first,” He says as he stands, wagging a finger in your direction, “And drink some water, Plucky.”

Price saunters off with his drink, and you follow his advice without pushback. You let your face filter out the evidence of crying, hydrate, and wait until your cheeks drains of the tipsy heat before making your way back to the training center.

Konig’s eyes find you immediately. An instructor is speaking to him, but his head turns and locks on you. You catch a frown before you turn away. You can’t stand to look at him, he’s making all the complex and knotted feelings resurface.

You head to the opposite side of the training area, and find you’re not as intimidated by the weapons anymore. You pick up a handful of knives, following Price’s advice about channeling the anger. Whipping your arm with a grunt as you practice throwing at some dummy’s across the line of fire. Your aim is not great, but for the most part they are sticking into the dummy with satisfying thuds.

Everytime you get lucky and manage to hit the target, you take a step back to throw a few more from a farther distance.

Archery takes you a while to get accustomed to. You’d never used a bow before, you’re not sure how to hold it, and your positioning is all off.

The trainer does step in to help you out, and while initially overbearing he does prove to be quite helpful, guiding your positions and showing you where to pull the string.

You miss more times than not, but the trainer gives his best effort.

The spears are a bit heavy, and you don’t seem to be doing great at long distance throwing, but the short range throws are hard to mess up.

You curiously poke over swords, what remains of the booze in your system giving you the confidence to draw closer to the careers. You follow Price’s instructions on ignoring them. Pretending they’re not even there. The dirt beneath your feet.

“Done with your temper tantrum?”

A career, no doubt, each word knotted with arrogance.

You have to bite your tongue so hard it almost breaks flesh. Your expression goes sour, but you don’t whip around right away.

You so badly want to explode on them, let out your anger on the owner of the voice.

Instead you lick your lips, plaster a face drenched in curiosity, and turn on your heels.

As innocently as possible you ask, “Which of you three do you think is going to die in the arena?”

Their faces immediately fall, the boy from one’s eye twitches and the girl from two gives you a wicked scowl.

“Well, only one of you can win. Have you talked it over?” You shoot back a sweet smile and a shrug.

Titan lets out a maniacal, cackling laugh, actually grabbing his knees and doubling at the core.

His demeanor is enough to shake you, your face falling.

The other careers, with their loathing and hatred, are expected. That you can handle.

It’s clear Titan’s a wildcard, completely unhinged. That laugh is not one of someone who is entirely sane, hysterical enough to trigger the instinctual urge to run, dread knotting up your insides.

“I like you, Nine!” He says with a gulp for air. He lets out a final sigh through his wicked smile, “I think I get it now!”

He claps his hands together with a crack like thunder, and takes a step forward. You don’t have the courage to refrain from taking a step back.

“Funny girl,” Titan coos, his voice suddenly low and silky, eyelids fluttering in your direction, “You want to join the winners?”

Your face immediately twists. You go to speak, but your tongue is frozen.

Are they asking you to ally with them?

No.

“What is this?” You ask, a lot quieter and broken than you would have liked.

When Titan explodes into another fit of laughter, small droplets of his spit fly from his mouth and splatter onto your face. Your eyes close in a flinch, face pinching in a grimace.

“Don’t play shy, Nine!” He says after his fit. He drops his voice again, to an almost sultry tone, as if he was trying to flirt his way into an alliance with you, “We want you on our team.”

“Right,” you say when he confirms your suspicion, wiping his spit off your face. The notion is ridiculous enough for you to regain some of your confidence, “Fuck off, then.”

Titan explodes into laughter once more, and the boy from one sweeps him back with a push of his arm, clearly over the display.

“We can protect you in the arena, Nine,” One says gruffly.

“From who?” You ask, making a show of checking your nails, still dotted with wheat florettes, “From you?”

The girl from one perks up, “You won’t go hungry with us.”

“If you want my opinion,” you start, ignoring their offer as your finger points at the girl from one, “You.”

You point at the girl from District Two.

“You.”

The boy from one.

“And you.”

You hold his stare when you finish, voice taught as you jam your thumb in the direction of a hysterical Titan, “A weeks worth of bread says Hoo-Hah over here stabs you all in the throat while you’re sleeping.”

Titan finds this hilarious, his cackling escalating as his hands clap together.

The boy from one looks over your shoulder, cranes his head, and takes a step backwards.

“Keep your dog on a shorter leash,” He growls.

Your eyes roll and a long breath escapes you. Not at the insult, but at the realization that Konig is standing right behind you, still adhering to Price’s instructions.

Keeping you out of trouble.

Successfully.

The careers’ pointed stares bore into you as they walk away. Titan’s still laughing, and he calls out one final, “I’ll be seeing you, Funny Girl!”

His words send a shudder down your spine, stifling the twitch as you finish picking out a sword. You only turn to face Konig once they’re out of earshot, jaw cocked and head craned to meet his stare, “I talked to Price, and he said you didn’t have to chaperone me anymore.”

You inspect the sword casually in your hand, as if disinterested in his presence, “So, feel free to do your own thing.”

He swallows, eyes darting around your face, “Did- Did I?”

You drop your voice to an icy whisper, running a finger along the flat of the sword’s steel, “I’m not really interested in someone who fraternizes with careers. So.”

As awful as it is, you want to be mad at him. To make him feel how you feel.

His brows pinch and his head lowers, “I didn’t, I’m not!”

His eyes dart around, and he lowers his voice.

“It was on the spot and- I didn’t want to get on their bad side.”

He gives you just about the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen.

“Bitte-”

He cuts himself off, his arms at his sides and slightly lifted, begging for your forgiveness.

You give an annoyed huff, but not at him, at yourself, for immediately being tempted to forgive him. You’re aching to curl up in the arms of his comfort again, you don’t want to finish training all by yourself.

“I won’t do it, I won’t even mention it to Price. It was never-” He cuts himself off with a deep breath.

“It’s okay,” You whisper as you lower the sword and run your thumb over the handle’s crest. A drawn out sigh leaves you, “I’m sorry, it’s me. It’s just been hard.”

“I know,” He says. There’s a pause, and he looks down to the sword in your hand.

“Want to spar?” He asks.

“Uh,” You follow his gaze as you think, “Okay.”

He takes his time looking over the swords, keeping his eye trained carefully on the weapons as he asks under his breath, “What was that about?”

You look over your shoulder and eye the pack that convenes in a huddle, speaking to each other in hushed voices.

You step closer to him in an effort to keep your conversation unheard, “They asked me to ally with them, I think?” You shake your head, “I think they’re just asking everyone. Trying to lure in anyone they can for an easy kill? I have no clue.”

He gives a hum, giving a glance over his shoulder that was probably more discreet in his head than it was in real life, “What’d you say?”

“A lot. The gist was ‘Fuck that and fuck you.’”

Konig draws a sword and holds it at his side. It seems much lighter in Konig’s hand than it does your own.

“Must have been funny,” he says, his eyes lingering on the careers.

You blow out a huff of air, “Easy crowd.”

You make a gesture with your index finger that suggests Titan’s not right in the head, swirling it next to your temple to mimic scrambled brains.

He nods carefully, and ceases his line of questioning.

Sword training is more enjoyable than you thought it would be. The sword is heavy in your hands, and by time you finish your wrists and forearms are more than sore, but it is satisfying to swing and thrust the blade at targets.

You round out the day without disturbance, and you both make your way back to the suite.

Price is less lenient about his questioning. At dinner, he coaxes every word of your interactions with the careers from you and Konig.

He’s less pleased with your responses, “Taunting them? Are you nuts?”

“Not as nutty as the boy from two,” your tone is curved and paired with a flare of your eyelids as your teeth slide a perfectly cooked piece of steak from your fork.

“Even more of a reason to steer clear of them!”

“Hey!” You say, mouth still full of half-chewed steak, “They provoked me.”

“I don’t care, that’s not how you handle it.”

“What happened to being fiesty?” You say, throwing your arms up.

“The last thing you need is attention drawn to you,” Price shoots back.

You roll your eyes, “Whatever, it’s too late for me to fix it. Not like I’m gonna see them again anyway.”

“You’ll see them in the arena,” He says gruffly.

“John’s right,” Ruby interjects.

You blow a dismissive puff of air, but underneath it you wonder if he’s right. Your stomach turns at the thought you made a life-threatening decision by running your big mouth. If even Ruby agrees with Price, maybe he truly does have a point.

“She stood up for herself,” Konig blurts out on your behalf, “She did the right thing.”

Your eyebrows pinch, lips pulling back.

Price wears a matching expression, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening as he looks at Konig with shock and confusion torn through his features.

Konig’s briefly confident façade fades as he takes turns shifting his gaze between you and Price, his posture deflating.

“Well,” Price says, his brows perking for a moment as he returns his attention to his plate, “That’s that then.”

You continue holding Konig’s stare, trying to figure out why he would say that. What he stood to gain for getting Price off your back.

For making you feel better.

Encouraging you to pick fights with the careers to ensure they hunt you down and pick you off in the arena?

You don’t have an answer.

“Tomorrow they’ll be doing individual training,” Price starts, “Now’s the time to pull out all the stops, got it?”

“Aye aye,” You mutter, not at all genuine.

Price points his fork in your direction, “Be good, Plucky.”

“Not likely,” You say.

You’re certain you’ll be unremarkable. Wedged in the tail end in the middle of the pack, destined to be overshadowed by those that come before and after you. There’s nothing notable about you. No size or strength or skill to draw anyone’s attention.

After dinner, Price dismisses you and Konig so he, Ruby, and the stylists can go over strategy.

As you turn to your respective doors, you utter a weak, “Thanks.”

Konig pauses for a moment before nodding his head slowly.

“Of course.”

Ruby lets you sleep in until late morning, and by time you wander in for breakfast, everyone’s nearly completed their meal.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Price says.

You grunt in response, loading your plate and taking a seat.

Training starts at noon, so you have a few hours of free time after you down a hearty breakfast.

You spend it out on the balcony, soaking in the sun and watching the clouds roll by. You nurse a glass of orange juice as you take in the noisy city below.

Just before noon, Ruby collects you, has you change into your training outfit, and leads you and Konig down to the gymnasium.

You and Konig share a look as Ruby shoots back up in the elevator. A Capitol attendant leads you to a sterile, concrete sitting room with rows of benches, half full of tributes waiting to be evaluated. You sit towards the back, Konig following and sitting down next to you. He leaves a generous amount of space between you so he can spread his legs.

The room is quiet aside from the careers, sitting together and rowdily chatting. Every so often you hear Titan’s maniacal laughter, his cackle knotting your insides.

It doesn’t last long. They pull you in order of district, so the careers are drained from the room one by one, and they don’t return. The room goes quiet shortly after Titan is pulled from the room.

It’s a heavy air you all breathe, in a room full of people who will be trying to kill each other in a matter of days.

As the number of tributes dwindle, the air is easier to draw, but the lack of stimulation has your thoughts racing.

So you do what you've been when you find yourself spiraling.

“Did you bring a token?” You ask Konig, voice as low as you can manage in this stiff room.

“No,” He says at a whisper, “I forgot.”

“Y’know, it’s stupid, but I kind of wish I brought one. Something to touch in the arena. I can’t help but feel like a reminder of home will help me keep some sanity in there.”

He nods slow, and you worry you’ve overshared.

“I don’t want to think of home,” he mumbles, scraping his shoe along the concrete floor.

Your brows pinch as you find him.

His elbows are planted on his knees, leaning his weight on them. The pads of his fingers rub together slowly, mesmerizingly, as he fixates on a spot on the floor.

You realize, and it took you longer than it should have, that District Nine is two different places for you and Konig.

District Nine had its glaring problems. The majority of the population poor, overworked and starving. Unjust laws and cruel punishment. A society run primarily on fear.

But to you, it was still home.

Your friends, family, and every good thing that has ever happened you have resides in District Nine.

You knew it was not a place that was kind to him - it is a place that rejects anyone that is different, that does not fit the mold of district expectation.

But did Konig have anything waiting for him back home?

Did District Nine offer Konig any distraction, any love, any shred of light in the dark dismal place it was?

You don’t ask.

When it is your turn, you stand, legs made of jelly and a slight tremor in your body.

“Wait,” Konig blurts, and you turn on your heels. He fumbles through his words, “Be- Be good.”

You blink, not sure what to make of Konig reinforcing Price’s demand. You nod slow, lips parted to release terrified breaths.

Standing in front of the gamemakers with no crowd to hide behind is beyond intimidating.

You announce your name, your district, and they let you begin.

You take an edible plants and bug test, make a makeshift splint, throw short-range tosses with a spear, swing a sword, and throw knives around with about 35 percent accuracy. It’s subpar all around.

Once again, you find yourself in front of Price, grilling you about every detail.

You already know you’re getting a low score, but you’re sure it’s still going to be a blow to your ego.

You all settle in the sitting room for the announcement of the scores.

The careers do well, obviously. Scoring in the 8-10 range.

Everyone else settles on an average of 5-7.

As the boy from eight’s score of ‘7’ fades on the screen, the room draws a collective breath.

You see your solemn headshot, and after a painful few seconds, the number ‘5’ flashes on the screen.

“Others have certainly done worse!” Ruby chimes.

Price gives a light, encouraging bump on your shoulder, “Not bad, kid.”

You rub out your shoulder, which doesn’t actually hurt at all, and stare at the floor with wide eyes. You realize in this moment that Price’s opinion of you might actually mean something to you, because you can tell his compliment is only half genuine, and it stings. You wanted to do better for him. To be a tribute he could be proud of.

Not a five.

Below average.

Your score fades, and Konig’s intimidating headshot flashes on the screen, those hooded eyes staring menacingly at the camera.

“From District Nine we have Konig,” There’s a pause, everyone in the room holding a collective breath, “With a score of ten.”

For a moment, the room is silent, faces made of stone as you all process his score.

Ruby lets out a squeal in excitement, and Price actually lets out a pleased laugh. His pride for Konig twists your gut.

Your lower lip clamps between your teeth with a roll as your thumb rubs circles in your palm.

“Atta’ boy,” Price says, his fist stiffly pumping in the air.

This praise is genuine.

When Konig finally takes his eyes off the screen, he lets out a breathy laugh of relief, his body untensing.

Ruby is behind him, squeezing his shoulders and giving him an excited shake.

You’re happy for him, really.

You are.

You’re also jealous, disheartened, and nauseous.

You have both been evaluated by professionals, and he blew you out of the water. He did twice as well. Ranked superior in every way. You knew he was, but it didn’t ease the blow of seeing the undeniable data.

You hate not excelling. You crave to be above-average, to get a perfect score, to be on the end of the room’s, the country’s, adoration.

Your score was broadcasted to all of Panem, and now everyone knows how average you are. How weak you are compared to all these worthy tributes.

Your confidence has surely taken a hit.

He will be the better bet, he will get the sponsors, and he will get Price’s affection.

It’s fine.

“Congratulations,” You mutter as you meet Konig’s stare.

You can tell he’s noticed your lack of enthusiasm, and for a moment his face wavers, his eyes showing a glint of that unsure look before he looks away with another nervous, relieved laugh.

“We should celebrate!” Ruby says in her high pitched squeal.

Konig nods absentmindedly, staring at the television but not retaining what’s on the screen, wearing the widest grin you’ve ever seen stretched on his face. He’s riding the high of the praise, the joy of receiving the highest score, of being a winner.

It’s pissing you off.

Taking pride in scoring highly in a test designed for a fight to the death.

He should be ashamed.

While everyone’s busy gushing over Konig’s score, you quietly slip out of the room and isolate yourself in your quarters. Face down on the bed and groaning into the soft duvet.

An oblivious Ruby grabs you for dinner. You’re not hungry, and you don’t want to be subjected to Konig’s celebration, but you’d do good to put on a few pounds for the arena.

Konig’s score is all anyone is talking about at dinner, and his accomplishment makes it easy to be disregarded. The only input you offer is the sound of a fork scraping around your plate as you inspect some roasted greens.

You don’t say much of anything, keeping your focus to your meal and doing your best to tune out the team’s adoration for Konig.

You can feel the burn of his stare every so often. You don’t have the ability to decipher the expression he wears from just your peripheral, probably pity, maybe annoyance for the lack of praise.

Now is probably a better time than any to sever this tie. You know the feeling of inadequacy, the jealousy, the anger inside of you - it’s all misdirected. Konig, once again, is just doing what he’s supposed to. A victim of the games and these unfair conditions just as much as you. But the feelings are there, and your introspection does nothing to quell them. Might as well make use of them and take your opportunity to shed the security he blankets over you.

You are officially done with him.

No more reassurance, no more babysitting, no more Konig.

He is the male tribute from your district.

Your opponent.

That’s it.

You excuse yourself before dessert is served, retiring to your room for the night. You take a long shower, steaming yourself under the intense pressure as you stare blankly at the glittery gold swirls in the marble walls.

From outside the bathroom, you can hear someone knocking on your bedroom door, but you make no action to answer it. Eventually the attempted visitor goes away, and after a thorough soaping you let the heated dryers dry you off. You get dressed, climb into bed, and drift off.

Ruby’s voice rouses you early in the morning and instructs you to report for breakfast to go over today’s plan.

You’re slow in doing so, and when you take your place, everyone’s already sat. You avoid meeting anyone’s eyes as you load your plate and dig in.

Ruby claps her hands together, “Tonight is the big interview!” She lets out a squeal, “Very exciting!”

“Very,” Price says sarcastically.

Ruby either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, pushing on, “We’ll each have four hours with you, I’ll be training you on stage presence, and John will be working with you both on content. Konig, you’ll start with me, and then we’ll switch. Your stylists will collect you at the end to get you dressed, and then we’ll head to stage. Sound good?”

There’s a pause before Konig clears his throat, speaking for the both of you when Ruby’s words go ignored, “Yes. Thank you, Ruby.”

She gives him a proud smile, and swirls a glass in her hands, “Such a polite young man you are. It’s surprising someone with as much decorum as you is district.”

You roll your eyes at your plate when you feel her stare.

Ruby’s unsubtle dig at you, casting a light on Konig to make you stand further in his shadow, the way she speaks of the districts as if you’re all just ravenous animals in the jungle - it all sparks a simmering heat under your skin, your eye twitching and lips warping into a snarl.

It makes you want to prove her right. Show her just how ravenous the districts can be.

Your grip on your fork is tight, white knuckles shaking around pure silver.

The mood at the table shifts when Price gives a hearty snort, amused by the snide remark and particularly, your rage.

You don’t contribute to the conversation, angrily stabbing into roasted potatoes, the metal of the fork roughly grating along your teeth with each furious bite.

You get it, okay? Konig is superior in every way. You can’t even beat him at being nice.

You know your place.

He’s their golden boy, their favorite, their victor.

And you are the rude little brat from District Nine who will be dead and forgotten in less than a week.

You don’t speak for the rest of the meal, ignoring the small talk and Konig’s periodic stares in your direction.

Once breakfast is cleared away, the group splits up, Ruby disappearing with her golden boy while Price leads you to the sitting room.

Price sits with a grunt and begins to wordlessly study you.

“What?” You ask, already defensive.

“I’m trying to figure out how to put this,” He sighs, “So far in the competition, you have flown under the radar. And I advise that during this interview, you do the same.”

“Be forgettable,” You say dryly, slicing through to the point he was dancing around with a roll of your eyes, “Got it.”

He sighs again, looking to the ceiling, “You didn’t make an impression at the reaping, the opening ceremony, or with your score. It helps that Konig has been taking the heat off your back.”

“Oh, it helps that I’m overshadowed and forgettable in every way?”

“Yes, it does,” He shoots back impatiently. He rubs his temple before he speaks again, forcing himself to lower his voice, “I want them to underestimate you.”

“I have not been underestimated,” You say with an exasperating swing of your arm, “I have been estimated! I have nothing to offer!”

“Kid, I need you to trust me on this one.”

“So what do you expect me to do, go out there and flop?”

“No,” he says, “You don’t flop, you don’t shine. You will answer the questions honestly, nicely, and humbly.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, “That’s not going to get me sponsors.”

“Neither will the attitude you’re currently peddling,” He stands with a grunt, “I’m not going to bother going over the interview questions with you. In this case - the less preparation the better.”

You raise a brow and suck in an air of superiority, “You really think that’s a good idea?”

You’re met with a shrug, “Probably not.”

“Fine. I’ll wing it. But don’t come crying to me if you don’t like my spontaneous answers.”

He sighs in defeat, “Just be good, will you?”

You narrow your eyes at him, “I’ll be better than good. I’ll be forgettable.”

“Atta girl,” He says, and heads for his quarters, “Enjoy the next three hours and fifty-five minutes of free time.”

“Wait,” You say, too eagerly.

He stops and turns to you, and you immediately shrink in on yourself, eyes darting to the side.

“How’s Konig going to play it?”

The corner of his lip perks up ever so slightly, “Does it matter?”

You look to the floor.

No, it doesn’t.

Konig could spit in Caesar's face and condemn the Capitol entirely and still have sponsors lining up to send him gifts.

Price saunters off, and you stare into the intricate pattern of the carpet long after his door clicks shut.

You wish you hadn’t asked.

You take the opportunity to try and nap, but you can’t. You’re too nervous about the interview. Even more nervous that you have no answers prepared, no idea what the interviewer, Caesar Flickerman, is going to throw at you. You wish you could have pushed back on Price’s lack of preparation, too flared up by his suggestion that you’re forgettable to get your priorities straight at the time. You linger on the thought that maybe Price didn’t prep you for your benefit, but for his own. Spare him the trouble of dealing with his insolent, weak, pitiful tribute.

You’re still embarrassed about him seeing you cry. Bleeding where you shouldn’t, once again.

Ruby comes to collect you once she’s done with Konig, ready to train you for stage manners.

It mostly consists of Ruby having you practice walking in heels and a gown, shredding you on every one of your imperfections.

“Smile - oh, not like that!”

“They’re just high heels, dear, everyone wears them!”

“Shoulders back!”

“Don’t scratch yourself in front of the audience.”

“Don’t sit like that! You look like a shrimp.”

“Keep your legs crossed! It’s unladylike.”

“Stop fidgeting so much.”

“You’re slouching again!”

It’s grueling work, and she’s not as lenient with the free time as Price. You’re suddenly thankful he dismissed you early.

Your lack of stage manners only doubles the weights of inadequacy strapped to your ankles, which is making it difficult to have a confident posture and be agreeable, but you grit your teeth and get through it.

You wonder how Konig’s session with Ruby went.

Probably better than yours.

Once she’s done with you, clearly not happy with the final result, you find yourself face down on your bed again.

Ruby collects you once more to usher you to Mauve and her prep team, who will be completely transforming you for the interview.

Mauve offers little reassurance as she gets you dressed, does your makeup, and styles your hair. She doesn’t look as bored today, much more attentive as she puts on any final touches. You have the feeling her silence is derived from focus more than it is indifference.

Your stomach is bubbling, your insides knotted up and underarms pouring buckets of sweat.

When she pulls away from you, she has you stand, only a slight wobble as you move to the mirror.

Once again, Mauve has transformed you into an entirely new person.

The dress is stunning. A baby blue a-line that brushes against the bottom of your thigh. Layers of tulle gently puff out at the skirt like rolling blue clouds. The bust is decorated with intricate patterns of sparkling silver lace that resemble leaves climbing up your ribcage. Matching baby blue flowers bloom along the dress, each with their own perfect blue pearl stitched directly in the center. The petals sit in patches of the shimmering lace, mostly on the bust of the dress and up the see-through straps that rest delicately on your shoulders, but a few sprout in rare patches along the tulle skirt and on your matching shoes.

Mauve has attached matching jewels to your body, and smaller, daintier flowers that appear to have climbed from the dress and propagated onto your skin. One side of your face is dotted with the blue blossoms in the shape of a crescent, starting just above the end of your brow and curving around your eye, the flowers stopping just below the height of your cheek. They sit in a cloud of sparkling silver glitter that reflect like early morning dew in the moonlight.

A string of blue pearls adorns your neck. Your hair is simple and girlish, but still elegant. Soft curls with more flowers pinned into stands of your hair. Heavy, fluttering eyelashes that partially obscure your vision, accented with a soft peach lip and sparkling silver eyelids.

You look beautiful, no doubt about it. But it’s so soft, so gentle. It seems almost too innocent and pure for you to be wearing it.

While the sensation of jewels and flowers glued to your skin is unusual, it’s a big step up from the wheat dress in terms of comfort.

Mauve arranges your curls, repositioning some of the flowers as she sees fit.

“Thank you, Mauve,” you say, still staring into your own reflection.

She sucks in an audible breath, meeting your eyes in the mirror. This might actually be the first time she’s made eye contact with you other than to evaluate her makeup.

She gives you a shaky nod, and then returns her attention to arranging the tulle on the skirt of your dress.

You’re led backstage, where you’re met with the tributes, waiting impatiently in their refined dresses and sharp suits. Your stomach does somersaults at the sound of the audience, already boisterous before the interviews have even started.

It’s all too real, all too fast, having to be interviewed with every last citizen of Panem hanging on your every word.

You want to run, run and run far but there’s nowhere to go. You shift anxiously on your high heels instead, sweaty hands fidgeting at your sides, trying to quell the nausea.

And then you see him.

Konig was already staring at you when you met his eyes. In his baby blue suit, a silver tie with steel-colored glitter sparkling in the pattern of leaves. Pinned on the lapel of his suit is a boutonniere, perfect blue pearls stitched into the center of each baby blue flower. They’re arranged in a bundle that sits in a tuft of smaller, soft white flowers.

You’re both stunned, lips parted and eyes blown as you soak each other in.

You are the only two tributes dawning matching outfits.

What were they thinking?

Are you supposed to be continuing this act that you and Konig are going to be allies in the arena?

Because that would have been nice to know before, instead of having this strategy sprung on you at the last minute before going live in front of the entire country.

Konig blinks his wide eyes a few times in rapid succession and then looks away to find his dress shoes.

You look away from him quickly, eyes darting around the ceiling as you take a dry swallow.

The rock that’s been sitting in your stomach since you woke up this morning has seemed to double in weight. You’re sweating under layers of makeup and tulle, rubbing the moisture on your dress.

Ruby corrals you both together, giving last minute pointers. You can barely hear her, your heartbeat pumping loudly in your ears. She tells you to stop chewing on your fresh set of nails, which Mauve transformed with strokes of baby blue, accented silver swirls and flower designs.

You’re shaking with fear, your breath catching on each exhale.

A stage crew member claps his hands and announces that the show will be starting soon. He has you line up in order of district, so you’re standing in between the terrifying boy from eight and Konig, both doing little to make you feel better.

You try not to acknowledge him, but his presence is a burning heat behind you. He’s impossible to ignore, towering over you only a few inches behind.

You want to look at him, to share this moment of terror with him, to talk to him.

But you are done with the boy from your district.

You pinch your exaggerated eyelashes shut, thoughts swirling. The frustration of yearning for his comfort but denying yourself the satisfaction, the frustration of even yearning for his comfort in the first place, it makes your cheeks burn and your fists clench.

Caesar Flickerman warms up the crowd, and each cheer that vibrates beneath your feet threatens to make you gag.

The districts tick by one by one.

The girl from one, Sapphire, with District One’s standard blonde hair and eyes that pair with her name. She’s more than charming, but there’s a hint of intensity to her words, a sense of determination.

The words coming from a perfect smile and dimpled cheeks turns your stomach. She is not a competitor to mess with.

The boy from two, Titan, seems to match her charm and determination, but there’s a layer of humor, of thick, chaotic irreverence that projects from him. He punctuates his sick jokes with his killer smile, showing off those canines as he laughs through his own brutality. He’s huge, no doubt one of the monsters in the competition.

The boy from three is awkward, the girl from four a wild card, the boy from six stoic, the girl from seven high-spirited.

The girl from eight is afraid. Terrified.

Not even Caesar’s impressive skill of putting his tributes at ease could relax her, she looked like she was about to throw up during the entirety of her interview.

The boy from eight does not answer any of Caesar's questions, a painful three minutes that offers little to distract you as you shuffle nervously on deck.

You take a deep swallow, looking to your shoes.

“Up next,” Caesar starts, “We have a lovely young lady from District Nine!”

He announces your presence, your name, and the audience screams in anticipation.

A stagehand ushers you onto the stage in front of the crowd.

Dizzy, blinded and sweating, you stumble forward, your own breathy pants deafening you with each step.

Caesar grabs your wet hand once you’re in his range, cupping it in both of his. You’re back to reaping day, standing in front of the crowd with a blank mind, shaking with fear.

“Wow, don’t you look just stunning!” Caesar says, using both his hands to make a dramatic gesture in your direction. “Like a princess!” He adds, eyeing your intricate dress.

You give a shaky laugh with a sheepish, “Thank you, Caesar.”

You blindly reach behind you, not so gracefully sitting on the ornate chair as you eye the crowd, but you do remember to cross your legs.

“So, tell me, are you enjoying your stay at the Capitol?”

You take a deep breath, voice choppy and hitched, barely over a whisper, “It’s certainly extravagant.”

The audience gives a far too generous laugh.

“My dear, I’ve been meaning to ask you, are there any special skills you’re hiding from us that might give you an edge in the arena?”

You look over to the crowd again.

“Um,” You swallow, your mouth dry as you look to Price, “Well, my mentor thinks I’m feisty?”

“Feisty! I love it!” He looks out to the crowd, “Don’t you just love that?”

The crowd gives a cheer, and Caesar continues, “We love a passionate tribute, don’t we folks?”

You give a small smile at his reassurance, eyes genuinely lightening and shoulders relaxing as he works his magic. You know it’s just for show, but Caesar is skilled at instilling confidence in his guests and putting them at ease.

He crosses his legs, using his cue cards to loosely point in your direction, “Speaking of your mentor, I was actually chatting with him backstage earlier, and he shared with me some very eye-opening things about you.”

You don’t even have the sense to hide your blatant confusion and worry at what he’s going to say next.

“You did? Oh no,” Both Caesar and the audience seem to find this funny, though.

“That’s right!” He says with a knowing, cheeky grin. Caesar leans forward in his chair, and his voice goes serious, as if he’s sharing a secret with you.

“He says that you’re a very bright young lady,”

You let out a breath of relief as Caesar continues,

“-and he also shared with me your nickname.”

You let out a laugh, looking down at your lap.

“Would you tell us about that?”

You nod, an embarrassed smile on your face.

“Price calls me Plucky,” Your eyes find Caesar again, who’s listening very intently, “He probably told you it’s because I’m determined, but I think it’s just his way of saying I’m a huge pain in his ass.”

The room explodes into laughter. Caesar’s arm darts out to grab your shoulder when he leans forward, as if you’ve made him nearly fall out of his seat from laughter and he needs you to help him up.

You can’t help the smile that spreads on your face, bunching your cheeks at the audience you’ve put in stitches. The camera cuts to Price, who gives a long, drawn out nod to confirm your statement.

“Language! Language!” Caesar tuts when he’s caught his breath, but it’s clear he’s not the slightest bit serious, “All of Panem is watching, my dear!”

Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, eyes wide and looking around like you’ve been busted. You’re both still giggling like school children, though.

“It’ll be our secret folks,” He says with a wink, “But it’s certainly a nickname you’ve earned, I see.”

He gives you a sly side-eye, and before you can respond he softly hits his cue cards against your arm, “Oh you know I’m just teasing, I’m just teasing.”

“Price isn’t,” You say dryly, and the crowd loses it again.

When they finally lull, Caesar’s shaking his head, pleased, “Very funny! He was right about you being a bright young lady.”

You shrug modestly, “And a pain in the ass.”

He thwaps you with his cue cards again, shaking his head as he joins the chorus of laughter, “You are bad, you are bad!”

You give him a wave of your hand, a cheeky smile on your face, “I hear that a lot, actually.”

“I’m sure!” He gives a quick laugh before his next question, “Do you think your wit will translate well in the arena?”

You think on this a moment, your voice not exactly conveying confidence, “I hope so. Maybe if I make the other tribute’s laugh they’ll be distracted long enough for me to get away.”

The audience responds well to this, another hearty laugh filling the room.

Soft crowd.

He settles the rambunctious crowd with his palms, “Alright, alright we’ve got time for one more question folks.”

He leans close to you, his face serious as he cups both of your sweaty palms in his, “Do you think you’re feisty enough to have what it takes to win this thing?”

You don’t.

You absolutely don’t think you have what it takes to win this thing. You’re not even sure you want to win this thing, let alone have the means to actually do it.

Your stare finds Price, who gives you one more nod, this one nearly indistinguishable.

You find Caesar again, gnawing slightly at your bottom lip. When you speak, your voice is low, serious.

“I do, Caesar.”

He gives the top of your hand a firm pat.

“I think so too,” He says, and gives a slow nod.

He stands, guiding you from your seat. He drops one of your hands and lifts the other up for the crowd, “Give it up for District Nine!”

The crowd goes crazy at the second announcement of your name, whooping and hollering and clapping in a thunderous applause that goes on long after you’ve left the stage.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding after you’ve disappeared behind the curtain. You put a palm to your forehead as you laugh in disbelief. Not only that it was finally over with, but it actually went sort of well.

You hear Ruby before you see her, presence announced by a squeal fit to break glass. “That. Was. Amazing!”

She unclips your mic from your dress, “They loved you, dear, they absolutely loved you. You were fantastic!”

“Thank you,” You’re practically heaving breaths of relief, hands shaking out what remains of your nerves, “Thank you.”

Caesar finishes his segue and announces, “We have another very fierce tribute up next, a young man from District Nine, Konig!”

As the audience erupts, your head swivels over your shoulder to get a look at him. He’s shooting you one last nervous glance before he steps off the stage. You find a screen backstage showing the broadcast and Ruby pokes her nose over your shoulder.

“Woah-ha-ho! You’re even taller in person!” Caesar’s starts with a laugh.

He makes Konig stand back to back so the audience can compare their size, which they adore. Konig gives a polite smile, but he is clearly nervous.

“Haha, alright,” Caesar says when he’s had his fix, prompting them both to settle onto the chairs.

“Tall, handsome guy like you. The girls must throw themselves at you in your district!”

Konig shakes his head, a one-note breathy laugh leaving him, “My district doesn’t care for me much.”

You frown, and you hear the audience give an ‘Awhhh.’

“And why ever not?” Caesar asks with a tightness in his brow, suggesting the very notion is ridiculous.

“They don’t seem to care for my size,” He answers with a shrug.

“Well, it’s a good thing we love that here in the Capitol!” Caesar’s voice gets louder to fight the escalating cheer of the crowd, “A big, strong tribute like him? Isn’t that right? We love it!”

The crowd erupts, and Konig gives a smile, noticeably untensing. Caesar really does try to help the tributes out, he knows how to defuse your anxiety like no other.

“You go out there, you win this thing, and your district will have to change their minds!”

The audience clearly agrees, their shrieks overlapping.

Konig offers a humble smile and a coy nod, and Caesar gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

“I think we’re all very eager to talk about this ten you got in training,” Caesar starts as the crowd settles, “A score that high is uncommon for someone in an outlying district. Can you give us some idea of what helped you earn a ten?”

Konig’s arm crosses over his chest to rub out his opposing shoulder, “I guess the gamemakers like a big strong tribute, too.”

Big laugh from the audience, from Caesar as well.

“District Nine seems to have given us a pair of comedians this year!” Caesar says to the audience with a big smile, “C’mon, give us a flex, would you? Let’s see it!”

Konig’s face turns pink, and after a moment he hesitantly obliges, lifting his arms to flex his biceps to the crowd.

He gets more confident as the crowd roars in approval, whooping and blowing kisses in his direction.

You find yourself smiling at the screen, amused huffs of air blowing from your nose.

“Stand up! Stand up!” Caesar hollers.

Konig laughs as he stands, switching up his poses for the crowd. Every time he moves the audience goes nuts. He’s picking up an air of confidence, arrogance almost.

It’s a good look on him.

“Careful now! Careful now! Wouldn’t want that suit to tear at the seams!” Caesar exclaims.

The crowd roars at the very idea. Konig bows his head to the crowd and graciously takes his seat, but he still carries a proud smile.

“Alright, alright,” Caesar says, swinging one of his legs over the other, “I know you’re much more than a nice hunk of meat.”

This brings on another round of cheering and whistles from the audience, and Konig plasters a genuine, cheesy smile on his face.

Caesar waits for the crowd to settle, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the opening ceremony.”

You such in a sharp inhale through parted lips, eyes wide as your stare locks on to the screen.

He continues, “I think we were all very touched to see you comforting your fellow tribute.”

Your face immediately drops, and suddenly you’re too aware of your breathing. Your stomach triples in weight, its demanding presence dropping low in your abdomen.

They are talking about you.

“I think that speaks to your character, wouldn’t you say?”

The question, directed at the audience, earns overlapping landslide approval.

“Tell us, is there a teddy bear under that grizzly bear exterior?” Caesar asks him, brow raised, his head tilted slightly to the side, and a cheeky smile plastered on his face.

Konig looks as panicked as you, frozen in his chair and muscles stiff.

“I- Well,” He gives a nervous laugh pointed at his lap, “I do what I can.”

“And you do it well! Were you two friends in the districts?” He asks casually.

Your teeth are grit in unease, fists clenched as you swallow each word. Why is Caesar using Konig’s time to talk about you?

Konig’s palms rest on his knees, his fingers tightening around his dress pants. He stumbles through the start of a few sentences, turning pink.

He seems just as caught off guard as you are.

Did Price not prepare either of you for the interview?

Did Price think that’s what was best for you both or did he just want to drink alone in his room, away from the two brats he’s forced to mentor?!

Did he not even bother to know what questions you were going to be asked?!

Konig doesn’t know what to say. The silence has stretched on far too long, your nails are digging into your palms so tight it’s leaving behind crescent-shaped indents on your skin.

“It's okay,” Caesar says with a laugh, “Even I get nervous from time to time.”

He gives a shaky nod, “Äh, no, we weren’t. I knew of her, though.”

You blink in rapid succession as you try to make sense of what’s unfolding before you. You can’t help but feel stunned. It must be a joke, a prank, a dream, because none of this seems real.

“There’s been buzz in the Capitol about a possible alliance,” Caesar says, enunciating carefully, “Are you planning on going at the competition alone, or will we be seeing some teamwork from you?”

“Äh,” His eyes linger backstage before he returns his gaze to Caesar, “It’s up in the air.”

Konig’s fingers are searching for a loose thread to pull, but his suit is brand new and too high in quality to have loose threads.

“I see,” Caesar says, moving on.

“Do you think you’re ready for this competition?”

You look to your shoes and let out a breath of relief that the subject has passed.

He asks a few more questions about his skill, about his strategy to stay alive.

Konig keeps it surface, with minimal fumbling through his answers, but his cheeks remain noticeably flushed, and unease stitches into each sentence.

The crowd doesn’t seem to notice, showering him with adoration.

You’re less jealous. Maybe because you’re still riding the high of doing well enough on your interview.

Caesar has him give one last parting flex to the crowd before he leaves the stage. The moment he’s off screen his hand finds his head, letting out deep exhales through parted lips.

For a moment his wide eyes find you before they flit down to his dress shoes.

Your hands stop shaking somewhere around District Eleven’s tributes, and you’re all dismissed once Caesar closes out the show.

When the elevator deposits the tributes from District Six, you and Konig are left alone in the elevator.

“What the fuck was that?!” You ask, more panicked than angry. He knows it’s not directed at him.

“I- I- I don’t even know,” His hands raise, “Price didn’t tell me they were going to ask that.”

He seems just as frantic as you, but his is swirled with nervousness while yours is engulfed with anger.

“He made us look stupid!” You hiss.

“I froze,” He says, using his palm to rub his face, “I looked weak.”

“Wha-“

You cut yourself off, brows furrowing.

Konig is worried about looking weak? He’s the biggest, strongest tribute out of all twenty-four of you. Looking weak should be the least of his concerns.

Does he regret offering you his comfort on the chariot, now that a spotlight has been placed on it?

You don’t ask.

“You didn’t look weak,” You say, low and quiet to the floor.

You can see him tense from the corner of your eye. After a moment his shoulders relax.

“You didn’t look stupid,” He says, matching your cadence.

Your eyes find him, and for a moment you stare at each other. Caught in this awkward moment as you try to dissect what the other would stand to gain from complimenting an opponent.

The elevator doors parting breaks the stare, and you both make your way into the suite, finding it empty.

You grunt upon the absence of the people who hold the answers you’re looking for.

“Why did they match us?!”

He shrugs when your eyes meet his, palms raised.

You let out another frustrated noise, stepping over to the decanter and helping yourself to a glass.

After the day you’ve had, you’ve earned it.

The metal tray clunks unhappily as you replace the bottle, taking a hearty, painful sip.

Konig hesitantly steps closer, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting at the dining table.

You let out a noise of disgust at the repulsive taste, and then your eyes find Konig. His forearms rest on the table, his fingers stitched together and thumbs circling around each other, watching you intently.

“You want some?” You ask, gesturing the glass in his direction.

He shakes his head, and you go in for another sip. You pace for a while, fuming and dissecting as you nurse your drink.

When the elevator doors open, you don’t hesitate.

“What the hell was that?! What happened to being forgettable?!”

“I could ask you the same thing. You did a little too well, if you ask me,” Price says evenly, unfazed by your outburst.

“Maybe I could have done what you wanted if I’d actually gotten some coaching.”

“It went perfect. You both acted how you needed to,” Price says evenly.

“You call that perfect? Why would Caesar bring attention to me when the whole point was to keep me under the radar?! And why didn’t you tell either of us about it?! We looked stupid!”

“Kid!” Price finally bursts, “I’ve been doing this my whole life, will you just trust me?”

You scoff.

“Oh yeah, how many victors have you mentored again? Because last I checked every last tribute you’ve coached is six feet under!”

It is clear immediately that you went too far.

The room draws a collective sharp inhale, the air gone ice cold.

You can see it, the pain he usually hides behind a generous amount of whiskey and a gruff exterior flooding his features. For a moment he is stunned, his constant squint loosening as he combs through every tribute he’s mentored, all of their faces flashing in front of those sad blue eyes.

He gives a heavy sigh.

His voice is low when he speaks, solemn, pained even, a bit of a crack to it.

“Kid, I did you a favor. If you can’t see that, then, well, I’m sorry.”

Your heart immediately sinks, and you wish you could stuff the words back into your big mouth.

You realize in this moment you have been seeking out a fight. Ever since you got here, all you have wanted to do is let out your anger. To not have your energy matched, to have hurt instead of riled, it wracks you with guilt. It weighs on your shoulders, in your stomach, in the sore ache of your chest.

You pinch your eyes shut, fists clenching at your sides.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

You meant the apology, but the words feel foreign in your mouth, having to coax them up with force.

His eyes lower back into his signature squint, and he nods slow.

After a beat, a small, sad smile appears on his face, and he offers a wink.

“It’s okay, Plucky.”

You huff through your nose, a faint smile on your face.

A pain in his ass.

Dinner is stiff and awkward, but the room has relaxed by the time you settle in to watch the interview replay.

You have to block it out, you can’t stand to watch yourself being interviewed. It’s too embarrassing, your body folding in on itself at the sound of your own voice.

You’re relieved when your interview is over, and shortly after Konig is announced.

He seems to be having the same problem you did, unable to watch his own interview, staring at the floor as he slips further into the couch’s cushions.

You find yourself pinching back another smile at Caesar and Konig’s bit at the start.

When Konig is asked about you, your face drops when the shot cuts to you. You hadn’t realized there had been a camera trained on you. On screen you can see your genuine stunned reaction, face slack. Your wide eyes glued to the stationary shot of Caesar and Konig, hanging on to every word.

You can feel Price’s stare out of the corner of your eyes, dawning that sly, knowing grin.

The camera cuts back to Konig, flustered and stained pink.

The whole interaction, it just feels off. Uncomfortable, awkward, tripping Konig up on tough questions instead of building on his confidence.

“You both did so well!” Ruby chimes as Konig is dismissed from the stage and Caesar introduces the next tribute.

Neither you nor Konig bother to respond, eyes fixated on the screen but not paying it a lick of attention.

You’re still lingering on Konig’s interview. It’s bothering you, like the interview is implying there’s something between you and Konig. His response, his lack of definitive answer, the shocked features, the lack of preparation, the cut to you.

There’s something so slimy about it all, and your stomach can’t seem to digest it.

When Caesar closes out the show, Price switches the TV off and Ruby skips off to check in with the stylists.

“Tomorrow,” Price starts, “They’ll wake you early. We can’t accompany you to the arena, it’ll just be the stylists.”

You almost managed to make it the entire day without thinking about tomorrow. The interview was a huge distraction, but now there is nothing to worry about except for the games.

“Listen closely,” He snaps his fingers, demanding eye contact from you both, “Do not step off your pedestal until the sixty seconds are up. Do not even think about going into the cornucopia. Turn and run, you understand?”

You press your lips together, pinching your eyes shut, trying to block out his words.

You don’t want to think about this.

After a pause, he drops the stern voice, rubbing the back of his neck, “Look, uh, kids. I’ll be with the other mentors. I’ll still be there for you, every step of the way.”

Your stomach twists in knots. You hate this, you hate how Price is dropping his tough guy act, letting his pity pour out and slosh against your shoes.

“I, uh,” He trails off, clearing his throat, “I know you can do this.”

He goes to say more, but the inhale saved for his words gets freed with a heavy sigh.

“Just-“ He cuts himself off, sitting back from his lean and ripping his hands apart. His feet squirm against the rug, “Be good, kids.”

There’s a million snarky things you think of to say, but you have the sense to hold them back, because it’s not his fault, and he is trying.

You nod, stiff but genuine.

Price stands with a grunt, and points his finger back at you, “I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast. Go to bed.”

He heads back for his room, but stops without turning around.

“Now.”

He’s trying to execute his authority with a stern tone, but his voice breaks on the word. He waits, back still turned to you both, until he hears you and Konig rise from the couch and move to follow his instruction. Price disappears to his room without looking over his shoulder.

Before Konig and you open your doors, hands lingering on the doorknobs, you share a worried, unsure look.

You give him a forced, assured nod, and you both part.

Being alone in your room, alone with your own thoughts the night before the games, it’s torture.

It’s swallowing you again - the fear, the anger. The thoughts tearing over one another, a hurricane of anxiety meeting a tornado of rage that only strengthen and enable each other.

Mumbling unintelligibly to yourself, trying to deflate the anger, to expel some of the racing thoughts so that they’re not clouding your mind. It’s useless, shoveling out buckets of water from a ship that’s already half submerged.

You pace your room, fists clenched at your sides, fuming to the air. Your hands press to your ears to stop the overwhelming and overlapped trains of thought that barrel at you from any direction.

The tears flow mercilessly and without warning.

Price must be punishing you for your nasty comment by sending you to bed early, because this is unbearable. He had to have known you wouldn’t have been able to sleep tonight regardless.

Long after the tears have stopped, you find yourself sprawled on the bed, the back of your hand supporting your head as you stare at the wall. A knuckle lightly sheened with your spit absentmindedly plays with your lips. You’ve boiled yourself out, exhausted from crying and working yourself into a frenzy.

Numb.

Your eye catches on the line of light shining from underneath your door, interrupted by two evenly sized streaks of darkness.

You instinctively roll your eyes, a movement that makes the space behind your sore eyes ache, waiting for Ruby or Price to call out.

You anticipate the knock, the shout through the thick wood of your door, but it doesn’t come.

The shoes make a light shuffle outside your door, and after the pause goes from awkward to uncomfortable you stand, wiping your spit on your shirt and stepping towards the door.

When you pull the door open, hand still clasped on the doorknob, it’s not Ruby or Price on the other side.

It’s Konig, half-turned like he was just about to leave without making his presence known. At the sight of you his hands pull up with a slight stumble, clearly startled by you.

You raise your brow at him.

“Ach, I-” He looks away, his fingertips rubbing together at his side. He takes a breath, closing his eyes tightly before finding your stare. His mouth is open, primed to say something, but the words won’t come out.

“It’s okay,” You say, giving him permission to relax. Konig doesn’t need to explain himself. It’s the night before the games, and that is the golden excuse for any unusual behavior.

For not wanting to be alone.

You open the door so it’s fully gaped, turning your back to him and crawling into your spot on the bed.

He lingers in the doorway, a slight sway as he watches you.

“You coming in?”

He finally accepts the invitation, stepping a few paces into your room and softly clicking the door shut behind him. He doesn’t dare move closer, standing stiff in his spot a few paces from the door.

The corner of your lip perks up ever so slightly.

“You can sit,” You say, voice both nasally from crying, and somehow still bordering on patronizing. You give a pat toward the other end of the massive bed.

His hand pulls up to his chest again, flicking his gaze between you and the empty space of mattress. It’s the same look he had given you when Price gave him the whiskey on reaping day. As if you were setting a trap for him.

You give him a nod and a roll of your eyes, your ghost of a smirk blooming into a half grin at his coy reservations.

You don’t even feel the bed shift under his weight when he sits down on the Capitol’s extravagant mattress.

You both sit in solemn but comfortable silence, each of you staking your claim on a point in the room to unfocus your eyes, mulling over what tomorrow will look like.

“I wanted to thank you,” He says after a long pause, breaking through the silence with his blurted words to admit the reason for his visit.

“For?” You ask evenly.

“That day,” His eyes quickly shift to the side, “In District Nine.”

You immediately cringe at the memory, “Oh, don’t- I was having a really bad day that day. It was - I’m not usually like that. I can be mean but, not- Not like that

“I needed to say that,” He blurts out over top of your words, “Before tomorrow.”

Your gaze flicks down to the bed.

He continues, his words coming out smushed together, like one long word, “I think about that everyday. You were the only person back home that ever stood up for me.”

You look to him, face soaked in confusion, almost horrified. He thinks of that memory you’re ashamed of everyday? And he thinks fondly of it?

“I’m sorry,” You say with a dry mouth, “For how they treated you. You didn’t deserve it,”

You pause, swallowing hard as you pick at a loose thread on the pulled back covers, “And I’m sorry for now. You don’t deserve this either.”

“Neither do you,” he says.

Another round of silence follows before he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat, “I also, äh,”

He pauses for a moment, and you stare at him expectantly.

He gives a shaky laugh, “It’s dumb, sorry.”

“Go on,” You goad with a flick of your hand.

He’s gone pink, features flushed and eyes averted as he retrieves something from the pocket of his lounge pants and shoves it into your hand.

“A token,” He mumbles, “For your sanity.”

You sit up from your sprawled position on the bed, hand sliding along the sheets as you rise.

He’s purposefully avoiding your gaze, worry plastered on his features as he looks to the covers.

Your brows relax as you inspect his gift. It’s a golden locket, a shiny clasped rectangle, about the size of the nail on your thumb. You rub your thumb over the front as you inspect it. It reminds you of a small, thin book. The metal is slightly warmed from living in Konig’s pocket. Your nails pry open the locket, and inside reveals a dried wheat florette, cut from his opening ceremony suit, curled up and sloppily pressed inside.

For a moment you stare blankly into the locket’s insides, even breaths as you process the gift, the intentions behind it, and the cozy warmth that’s blooming throughout your chest.

When you look to him, lips parted in shock and stars in your eyes, he’s shifted his gaze to his fidgeting hands.

“Ruby helped me,” He mumbles, “She let me borrow it.”

You blink at him, looking down to the gift that sits so delicately in your palm.

“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Your words come out a lot breathier than you intended.

He finally meets your eyes, both of you wearing matching, stunned expressions.

There’s a tense pause before you utter, “Thank you.”

He scans your face and nods, looking away.

You stare down at the golden token in your hands, trying to figure out why. Why Konig would go out of his way to bring you comfort in the arena. Why Konig would give you such an extravagant and thoughtful gift.

This game you’re playing, it’s killing you. Trying to dissect the underlying strategy in every interaction you have. The bittersweet taste of getting the comfort you crave, while knowing you’re being lured further and further into his trap.

You want to accept it. You want to believe everything. You want to take him at face value, because the act he’s playing is uniquely tailored to your needs, and never in your life have you ever needed so badly.

He knows exactly where to apply pressure, rooting for weak spots and pressing generously. He knows where to slice you to get you bleeding freely, to get you to stop resisting the temptation.

“We could stick together,” Konig says, “In the arena.”

Your head shakes, in the same way it did when you heard his voice for the first time. Taken aback and with an almost horrified look on your face.

“What?”

“We could look out for each other,” He says, a little more sure, a little less lost.

This.

This is why.

He thinks he can buy your trust so that he can trick you with the promise of allyship, only to stab you in the back the moment you turn around.

“I would just hold you back,” you say carefully.

“No. Not at all.”

“What could you possibly gain from teaming up with me?” You gesture at yourself, top to bottom, clearly referencing the lack of athleticism and survival skills.

“We can keep watch for each other, share supplies. You- you’ve always been smarter than me. Braver than me. You can make the plans, and I can be the muscle.”

“I am not brave! You-“ When he recoils, you realize you’re speaking too aggressively, and cut yourself off with a breath before continuing with a softer volume, “You don’t know anything about me.”

He primes to say something but stops himself.

He lets the moment pass, and after another round of mutual brooding he tries again, his words whispered and unsure, “We could still help each other.”

A faint yet dangerous scoff leaves you.

“You- You understand why I can’t do that, right?”

He looks confused, so you continue, one hand moving to emphasize your words.

“Imagine you’re in my shoes. How could you trust someone so much stronger than you, so much bigger than you? As soon as you decide the truce is up you could snap my spine like a twig. I wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”

His face sinks, his body deflates on itself, and instantly you understand your fuck up. That you were counting him out for the exact same reason everyone at home did.

Your fist clenches, and you let out a grunt at yourself, “No, Konig, I didn’t mean- It’s just-” You trail off, searching for the right words but coming up empty, another frustrated grunt leaving you instead.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” He says, in his harsh voice that’s spread thin and quiet, as fragile as glass.

You start over with a hard blink, repositioning yourself so you’re facing him with your legs crossed in front of you, “Okay, try this- What’s the best case scenario, Konig? We manage to protect each other until the end - until it’s just us? And then w

He stays silent, shoulders slumped and gaze finding the stretch of mattress that sits between you.

You press forward, “Have you ever thought about what happens? After the win?”

He doesn’t say anything, but he looks at you with pessimistic expectance.

“The guilt? The memories of gruesome death? Knowing twenty-three have sacrificed themselves so that you could live?”

You sigh again, your voice dropping to a sharp, cold whisper.

“The best case scenario would be for me to die in that bloodbath. Quick and done.”

His muscles tense at your words that fill the room with a chill, but he remains silent.

There’s another long pause, and then you whisper again, your voice devoid of its edge.

“I don’t think I can do it,” You swallow, looking up from the inch of bed you had fixated on, “Kill someone, I mean. I don’t think I’d be able to live with it.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to.”

“Yeah,” You say breathily.

You don’t push back. You don’t remind him that no one wins the games without killing. That refraining from killing ensures your death.

“I could do it for you,” He offers, another bid to get you to be his ally.

You shake your head slowly, eyes weakly half-lidded. Your voice drops to a strained whisper.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t push, just gives a disappointed nod towards the sheets. You hope that means he understands. Understands that teaming up with someone so powerful is a risk a weakling couldn’t afford. Understands that being allies is an agreement that can only ever be temporary.

There’s another long pause. Your thoughts feel so loud you’re sure Konig could hear them.

“Should I go?” He asks, voice low and broken.

“No,” You say, too quickly.

That ‘No’ is heavy with the weight of many things unsaid.

Please don’t leave me.

I can’t be alone right now.

I am terrified, I am lost, and I am going to die.

I need someone by my side tonight.

Someone just as unsure and just as lost.

He rubs the pads of his fingers together.

You look to him, eyes swelled in a pathetic, desperate plea.

“Would you stay here tonight?”

His brows raise, a sharp inhale as his posture straightens out. He looks surprised, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear from you.

“Of course.”

You wonder if his words are held down by the weight of things unsaid, too.

You slowly lay back down on your side, letting your head rest on the pillow this time.

Konig very gently lays himself down in your wake. He keeps himself right up to the edge of the bed, leaving as much space between you two as possible. He nestles into a pillow, lying with his back flush to the mattress, hands folded over his waist.

You’re not sure how long you lay like that for. Hours maybe, Konig staring up at the ceiling while you switch between the wall on the other side of Konig and the back of your eyelids.

“Do you think you could kill someone? And live with it?” You ask softly.

He thinks on this a moment.

“I’m not sure about living with it, but I would kill if I need to.”

You don’t see the point in telling him he will need to. You’re sure he knows.

“You could win,” You whisper into your pillow.

He doesn’t say anything. Just shakes his head.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s Konig’s broken eyes, maybe it’s the imminent death - but you find your arm dragging across silk, fingers inching over the sheets and towards Konig. Your eyes flutter shut again, and after a long painful pause, a large hand tentatively cups yours.

A spark ignites at your fingertips and shoots up your arm at once, a dizzy heat blooming in your chest and making its way to your cheeks. You don’t dare open your eyes, hoping Konig is oblivious to the warmth.

You’re both still, neither of you daring to move in fear of scaring the other away.

His hand is so warm, his palms and fingers fully encompassing yours. It makes you feel dainty, his hands being nearly twice the size. You don’t pull away when you start to reflect each other’s body heat, a thin layer of sweat forming on laced fingers and palms.

It‘s like he’s grounding you, that if he were to let go you might float away or slip into a dark oblivion.

When you finally dare to open your eyes, you see Konig staring up at the ceiling with blown eyes. You lift your head a couple inches from the pillow and give his hand a light, reassuring squeeze.

Konig tilts his head to you, meeting your gaze as his cheek nestles into his pillow. He looks nervous, more nervous than usual on this night before the games. You’re sure it read on your face, too.

He squeezes back, and even though his strength is unmatched you can tell he’s trying to be as gentle as he can.

Your eyes flutter shut again, a ghost of a smile on your face.

It’s a dizzy warmth. Cozy, but also electric? Exciting but relaxing.

It’s weird, how a simple gesture can feel so contradicting, so extreme.

Maybe it’s because you’re chasing the feeling, or maybe because it’s the night before the games, or maybe it’s because you‘re already in too deep, but without thinking, you slowly pull your intertwined hands closer to you, and give the slightest tug on his arm.

You hear him suck in a taught breath.

He hesitates, and you’re worried you’ve pushed it too far. That you’ve hit the boundary of the level of comfort he was willing to offer, and he was going to withdraw it entirely.

You don’t dare open your eyes, you can’t bear to see his expression.

And then he inches closer. His hand squeezing yours a little tighter as he scoots across the mattress, arm tensing as he slowly makes his way to you.

He stops when there’s only six inches of mattress between you.

The silence in this room is loud, the only thing cutting through is uneasy breaths, the rise and fall of chests on otherwise still bodies.

Minutes pass and you work up the courage to slink closer, resting your head on a strong shoulder. He sucks in another shallow breath but doesn’t object. If he gives you a look, you can’t see it through shut eyes.

Your mouth goes dry, nervous about being so close to a boy like this. His body is radiating an intoxicating heat, you can smell his scent, the remnant of his shower, the laundry detergent used to clean his shirt.

Your head nuzzles into his shoulder, finding a comfortable groove in hard muscles to lay your cheek. Your nose presses right against him, inhaling his scent with each breath. It’s rousing and soothing all in the same, a wave of drowsy euphoria washing over you.

When his shoulder flexes and shifts underneath you and his fingers slip away from yours, you spring up, instantly sobering. Your eyes immediately search Konig’s expression, worried you’ve sufficiently made him uncomfortable.

His face stays even, only a slight plea in his brows as his arm raises and presses against the pillows, inviting you to nuzzle into his side.

You hesitantly accept, closing what little gap remained between you, carefully resting your head on his chest. You don’t put weight on him right away, worried he might pull back and tell you you’ve misunderstood his gestur

When he doesn’t, you let yourself melt into him, let his breaths gently rock you. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear, rapid with nerves this night before the games.

The rest of your body follows shortly after, shifting closer to him and curling up into his side.

When he accepts this, and enough time has passed, a limp, closed fist moves from the tangle of your own limbs, resting on his side. It follows the billows of his ribcage on each breath.

You’re pushing it, you know that, but your arm still snakes over his torso, tentatively resting a forearm over his firm waist.

You gnaw on your bottom lip, waiting for him to scoot away to the other side of the bed. After a careful pause he responds by intertwining his fingers with yours.

His arm brushes against the height of your shoulder before you feel the ghost of fingers, and then a light hand tentatively rests on the middle of your back.

An hour must have passed, from the initial hand holding to now, each of you taking turns deepening the embrace, pressing your bodies closer and closer together.

Long after your eyes have fluttered shut and breathing evened, the hand on your back slowly trails upwards, between your shoulder blades, the pads of his fingers just barely grazing you over your shirt. It sends electricity up your spine and raises goosebumps on your arms, and you have to suppress a shiver.

You can’t help the content hum that leaves you at the light, imperfect but mesmerizing circles he traces over the back of your shirt.

Konig’s scent, his heartbeat, his steady breathing, his gentle touches, it all lulls you into the purgatory between sleep and wake, disconnected from the world but still aware enough to feel him slink his fingers higher, soft touches getting lost in your hair. Combing through the locks, letting strands slide through the gaps in his fingers and sending tingles up your scalp.

You’re already in over your head. Might as well squeeze him for all the comfort he’s worth tonight.

Because tomorrow, all bets are off.

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

#call of duty #konig #konig cod #konig call of duty #könig #könig cod #x reader #konig fic #konig x reader #john price #captain price #uhohwriting #tgwcm #tgwctm

415 notes · View notes