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dollwrites · 1 month ago

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ʀᴜᴍ ʀᴜɴɴᴇʀ ! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ɢᴀʟʟᴀɢʜᴇʀ

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!waitress!reader, innocent!reader, dub con, suggested age gap, size kink, thighjob, public play, scent marking. all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶��𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰 ∣ act nine [ thigh fucking ]

“Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“One more rum runner, please.”

“My pleasure, I’ll have that right out.”

Dreamjolt Holstery was abuzz, tables full, a slow and sultry jazz melody practically drifting through the air as a pretty Halovian woman in a sparkling dress tickled the ivories with expert and slender fingers. the atmosphere smelled of spices and mixing cologne. cherry-flavored fog curls up from a boulder-shaped man’s cigar in a corner booth by himself. and you traipse the maze of customers needing tending with the grace and elegance befitting your status as Penacony-born. after all, the Dreamscape was like your second home, and you’d learned how to traverse it with ease. the tourists you pass by, table after table full of awed looks and hushed whispers of wonder at the whimsical land they’re vacationing in, never fail to make you smile. happy that they’re enjoying themselves here.

your dress flutters like wings as you pass the empty service bar. usually, that would be your stop. the bartender would make each order you ask for with care, and when it was done, you’d arrange them neatly upon a tray and distribute them throughout the lounge. a familiar twirling, light-footed dance around tables and through aisles of booths. tonight, however, the service bar was darkened. the tender was not there, and that was because it was closed. all through your shift, you’ve had to squish yourself into the packed crowd waiting for drinks at the main bar.

where Gallagher worked, of course.

your cheeks seem to take on a heat at the simple mention of his name in your thoughts. you thought about the scruffy, smirking bartender. how his baritone rumbles, a hound’s growl in his throat, and the syllables of your name drip from his tongue. it makes you weak in the knees, which is why you much prefer when the service bar is open so you can avoid swooning from one, little smolder.

approaching the bar to find not a stool vacant, and not an inch of space without someone taking it up, you sigh softly, attempting to get Gallagher’s attention from the furthest corner, nearest the employee entrance, by waving your hand, though at first he’s immersed in conversation with his patrons. as much as you hated to interrupt, you had your own customers to take care of. “Gallagher!” you call out, waving your hand again, though you were unsure if you were as dwarfed by the crowd as you felt.

thankfully, however, a sleepy-looking moonstone gaze falls upon you, and he makes his way down to you, picking up an order or two on the way. “Gotta get that service bar up and runnin’,” he says in a lazy drawl, reaching to grab two bottles by the necks off the display rack, “what do you need, girlie?” but he didn’t sound annoyed, or rude. in fact, it was difficult not to focus on the little smirk that inched his lips up.

“One more rum runner,” you reply with a sheepish and apologetic bat of your eyelashes. “Then I promise to leave you alone.”

Gallagher chuckles at that, shaking his head as he plucks the run up with the same hand. “Now, that, I wouldn’t even dream of.” he answers, dumping the ingredients into a cocktail shaker. he seems not to notice the way you shy away from him as he works, afraid to look at the way his muscles bulge against the tight confines of his shirt along his biceps as he shakes up the drink, lest you embarrass yourself by staring. if he did, then he didn’t say anything, already giving his attention to the customer ordering right in front of him.

nervously, you drum your fingers on the bartop, trying to look anywhere else. even as his rough, yet light-hearted chuckle warms the aura. your eyes flit downward, to your own fingers, before they follow a little puddle of translucent, glowing liquid that had probably been spilt as he made a drink earlier, but had yet to be wiped up. then, your eyeline, as if pulled by gravity, jumps to to cocktail glass in front of him, and the reddish orange drink that flooded into it. following the arc of his pour, your gaze crests along the thickness of his knuckles, faint scars you can see peeking out from beneath the leather of his fingerless glove, and the sheer size of his hand. up, up, up your stare crawled. along his tan forearm, branded with more criss-cross scarring and thick, dark hair, to the folds in his shirt, rolled up at the elbow whilst he worked. the sloping mountains of his bicep, and along the broad expanse of his shoulder, before you found yourself doing exactly what you had been trying not to— staring at his handsome face. thankfully, he was preoccupied, and didn’t feel you looking. it gave you more time to admire the little details. the fine lines in the corner of his tired eyes, a testament to his age. the sparsely scattered hair above his lip and on his chin, the deep plunge of his nose from the profile view you were given.

“Gall… agher…” you weren’t even certain you’d said it out loud, but your lips most certainly formed the syllables as you admired him. that was, until you realized the rum runner was finished. instead of handing it to you like he had been doing all night, though, he’d set it on the back counter, where the racks of booze were. had he gotten too distracted by conversation? “Gallagher, the drink—“

but he was already busy, making another. his back was to you as he swaggered down to the opposite end of the bar to fulfill another order.

well, that’s no big deal— he’s super busy, and anyway, you can take a couple more steps to grab a drink. pulling on the divider, the staff entrance opens, and you scurry behind the bar. it takes three steps into Gallagher’s domain to reach your order, but you’ve no time to wrap your fingers around the stem of the glass before you feel his imposing, warm figure at your back.

“Finally,” he murmurs, and you shudder at just how close his mouth is to your ear. he must be leaning down to allow his lips to just brush against the shell of it, his breath hot and heavy against the side of your cheek. it raises goosebumps on your arms, and your hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. his arm stretches out, to place a bottle back into it’s home of the shelf in front of you, but it feels more like a maneuver to box you in against the bar. “Been tryin’ to get you back here all night long, girlie.”

“W—why?” you ask, your eyes flickering down to the other side of the bar. one, powerful hand rests upon it, truly caging you in place. “I should really get this out to my table—“ you’d reached for the drink again, the sensation of him at your back like a thick, sturdy wall that radiates heat making you dizzy.

“In a minute,” he stops you, nuzzling his face against your hair. it takes a moment of burrowing before he reaches your neck, sniffing wildly like a beast who’s taken with the aroma of a fresh kill, before he snorts, allowing his lips to dance along the tender column of your neck. “You wanna know something? I’ve kept my eye on you, and let me tell you… That little dress a’yers been driving me wild all night.” his heavy boots crunches of spilled ice as he plants his feet on either side of yours, pressing his body right up against your back. it was then that you felt a bulge, thick and hard, rubbing against your butt through his trousers. you can’t help the embarrassing half-whine that leaves your lips, or the humiliation that follows when he hears it. “You feel it, don’t you, little girl?” he purrs against your skin, the dull edges of his teeth grazing your flawless skin. “How hard you make me, just by skipping around in that skimpy skirt. Your soft, warm thighs on perfect display for me.” one hand slides off the bar to grip your thigh, and you practically melt into his groping. he can nearly close his large fist around your thigh, his fingers brushing up against your panties. a low, guttural sound rumbles in his throat when he feels how warm your core is, and you can’t help the damp patch that is subsequently formed. “Been wanting to get my hands on ya. Feel you just like this. Make you feel me, too.” his other hand disappears now, too, between his body and yours. moments later, you hear the unbuckling of his belt, the undoing of his fly.

“Gallagher—“ it was hard to think, what with the air around you and him thick with lust, and his heavy breath on your neck, but you still managed to stammer out, “th—the drink will get— watery—“

“I’ll make ya a hundred of ‘em after this if it does, so long as you just hush up for a minute, little girl.” he mutters, and frees his aching cock from it’s confines. slipping it under your skirt, he teased the back of your panties with the tip for moment, trailing hot pecks up your neck and along your jaw bone. “Stay just like this, and let me feel those plush thighs squeeze my cock.” pushing the head of his dick along the curve of your panty line, it’s only a matter of moments before it worms it’s way between your thighs, perching your clothed core atop his length. pushing up on to your toes in order to keep your balance, you gasp and grab the edge of the bartop with both hands, but Gallagher has snaked his hands around you, pressing them both flat against your belly to push your body back against him. “That’s a good girl,” he praises gruffly, his hips rolling forward against you. there’s a little resistance at first, before your arousal and his own precum mingle between your thighs and create a sticky, slick cavity for him to fuck. you glance down, breathless, and watch the way his cock jabs against the ruffles in your skirt when he thrusts, and how the bulge disappears when he recoils. the wet cotton of your panties is harsh on your sensitive cunt as it sits flush against the veiny tool pumping between your thighs. “So soft,” he murmurs, before taking your earlobe between his teeth, tugging ever so slightly. “But you’re soaking wet, girlie. You’re making a mess on yourself. That greedy pussy of yours already wants a turn?”

“A—ah, d-don’t…” you feel your humiliation growing with each word, your cheeks on fire and your body trembling. you weren’t asking him to stop, you couldn’t imagine forming those words. “D—don’t say that, it’s dirty…!”

Gallagher chuckles, but it’s hoarse and forced from his lips. “So shy.” he scoffs, taking the flare of your hip against his palm to move your body back and forth, and match his eager rhythm. “For a little thing pinned to the bar, riding my cock. Clenching her pretty, little thighs while I use ‘em just like a sweet. Little. Pussy.” each word is emphasized by a snap of his hips, ramming his girth forward. every throbbing vein on his cock creates a ridge that you feel as it scrapes against your swollen clit, and you mewl with your lips pursed, your imagination running wild with what it would feel like if he’d decided, instead, to push your panties aside and fuck you properly.

“You already feel too good,” Gallagher growls against your cheek, giving it a tender, little kiss. it was a stark juxtaposition to the way his girth pounded the tight gap between your thighs, but it still made you crumble back into his arms, swooning. “Gonna make me cum quick.”

“W—what?” you blinked, suddenly hyper aware. you try to push yourself back up, but the hold he has on your hip and belly keeps you firmly against his heaving chest as he roughly chases his high. “Wh—where are you—“

“Heh.”

it was a half a chuckle, but it was all Gallagher could form before he was grinding his teeth. hips erratically bucking forward, he changes the angle by taking a half a step forward, nearly pushing you over the bar in the process, and his tip jams itself repeatedly and angrily against your panties, each time shooting a rope of his release that clings to the fabric and threatens to tear them open with the force applied. somehow, the soiled, wet fabric holds some of its integrity, even as he empties his balls on to it, allowing his smell to really seep into the fibers and mix with yours. “Even a mutt knows to mark his territory so others don’t claim it.” he hisses after a long moment of listening to his huffing and puffing as he came on your panties.

“Y—your territory?” you repeat, dumbfounded.

with a few more shakes, using his fist to grip his cock and squeeze the last couple of beads from the softening cock, he takes a step back, giving enough space to be able to tuck it back into his pants without a single patron realizing what was going on. you stumble, once you drop down from your sore toes flat on your feet. the warm, wet feeling of Gallagher’s cum deep in the threads of your panties making your legs feel like jelly.

“Mhm, those warm thighs. Your needy, little cunt. Mine now, ain’t they?” he grins down at you, placing a hand against your lower back to keep you steady so you don’t fall. he doesn’t wait for an answer before he uses his free hand to push the rum runner into yours, and he gives you a little nudge to send you stumbling, blinking and dazed after what just happened, out from behind the bar with a playful taunt. “Now, hurry up. Drink’s gettin’ watery.”

#gallagher #hsr gallagher #gallagher x reader #gallagher x you #gallagher smut #hsr #hsr smut #hsr x you #hsr x reader #honkai smut #honkai x reader #honkai star rail

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uhohdad · 2 months ago

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THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KÖNIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & König have been chosen as unwilling participants in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

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

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE WARNING II

First Part of This Chapter Here

You blink to get your blurry vision to focus, studying Price’s face to try to figure out if he’s serious.

His expression stays even, and the moisture is sucked from your mouth at once.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Price crosses his arms over his chest, his stare unwavering. The stone look he gives you makes your heartbeat twice as fast, your stomach already twisted into knots.

“I think you know that’s not going to happen.”

You’re trying to sound tough, but the words ride a nervous laugh and your nails are digging into Konig’s arm hard enough it’s surely painful.

“It’s not up to me,” Price says.

Konig makes a few slow steps forward, taking your hands and subsequently your body with him. The sound of Konig’s dress shoes fill the spaces between tense beats until he’s nearly chest to chest with Price, forcing him to crane his neck to hold Konig’s stare.

The air in this hallway squeezes around your ribcage, seemingly impossible to pull air into your lungs.

Price holds his ground, refusing to take a step back and not so much as blinking at Konig through his squint.

“Boy, I suggest you don’t do anything stupid.”

Konig is silent, dawning that half-lidded, icy stare, and the seconds stretch into what feels like hours. You tug Konig’s arm, urging him to pull away before this gets ugly, but he ignores you.

“You both told me you’d do exactly as I say. You promised me you wouldn’t make this any harder on me,” Price warns.

“I didn’t realize that meant I was agreeing to leave her side,” Konig shoots back, his tone just as cautionary.

Your stomach is already bubbling at both the thought of being separated from Konig and his threat of confrontation. Your breath is stuck in your throat, suffocating on the idea of two men you love -

Oh, ew. You love Price?

Gross.

“Okay, okay,” You say, aiming for a casual tone to wave away the tension, but the panic in your slurred, drunken voice rings true. You sidestep to wedge between them both, but neither of them fold, so you just end up smushed between their chests.

“Why do we have to sleep in our own rooms?” You ask.

You’re forcing yourself to not jump to the defensive for once, forcing your fear out through your nostrils in short puffs of breath. Testing out the taste of being the voice of reason for once.

“Capitol orders,” Price says sternly, his fingers tightening around his biceps, not taking his eyes off Konig.

“But why?” You try, your back still pressed firmly to Konig’s chest with a consistent, but ultimately useless nudge. You might as well be trying to push a boulder uphill.

“Doesn’t matter,” Price says, “What I say goes.”

You get the feeling if Konig wasn’t sizing him up, he’d be more willing to tell you why.

After a few more agonizingly slow beats, Price huffs, finally taking his eyes off Konig to meet your stare. Your sloped brows and lopsided lips softens both Price’s features and his tone, and he finally takes a step back.

“Have I ever led you astray?” He asks.

You swallow, your eyes darting to the side.

“Do you trust me?” He adds.

“I can’t do it,” You squeak with a shake of your head, “I can’t do it, I’m sorry.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, got it?”

His eyes harden again when he looks to Konig, still standing tall and proud behind you. Price tilts his head, with a raise of a brow.

“I won’t let anything happen to either of you.”

His gaze bores into Konig for a few more seconds before he looks back to you.

“Oh, kid,” He tutts, and shoos away his stare for a moment, “Don’t look at me like that.”

His request has the opposite intended effect, your lips pinching further together and your eyes swelling a little more.

Price sighs, and closes his eyes, a slight contemplative sway in his feet.

“You think I like doing this?” Price huffs, “It’s not up to me. But you both need to trust me when I say doing what you’re told will keep you out of trouble.”

The final word is paired with a raise of his brow and a slow nod of his head.

You’re still trying to figure out why.

To make sure you and Konig don’t stay up all night?

To make sure you and Konig don’t put on another show for the suite that’s definitely being taped?

… To keep you from planning a rebellion?

“Just suck it up for a little longer, and then we’ll be home, and you’ll be free to handcuff yourselves together.”

Price rolls his eyes and waves his hand.

“Now get to bed.”

“No.”

A sharp breath is sucked through your teeth, head whipping to Konig as you give a tug on his arm.

“It’s not up to you,” Price says, his voice icy once again.

“Yes, it is.”

When Konig takes another step towards Price, you try to hold him back, but Konig’s arm shoots out in front of you in a familiar fashion.

“If you want us to be apart, you’ll have to make us.”

Price licks his lips, his forehead creasing when he raises a brow and gives a set of slow nods.

“That what you want?”

Konig doesn’t say anything, his jaw tightening and his fists clenching at his sides.

“Alright,” Price says.

Price stares at Konig for a little longer until he turns on his heels and walks off.

Konig closes his eyes and lets out a long exhale once Price is out of earshot. He faces you, his strong hands squeezing your shoulders. They slide down your arms before clasping both your hands tightly in his.

“I won’t let them,” He says insistently, “I won’t let them.”

All you have for him is a shaky nod before gently prompting an embrace. Your body is limp in his tight hold, breathing in his scent in remedy to the heart slamming against your ribcage.

You’re truly torn.

Every instinct and ounce of fear in your weak body wants to dig your claws into Konig and never let go. What’s left of your rationality wants to listen to Price, because he had a point, he’s never once steered you wrong and you know that you and Konig are on more than thin ice as it is.

Leaning into your instinct is making you feel dirty, like you’re an addict fighting to keep the morphling flowing through your veins. Going against Price feels wrong, but anything other than keeping Konig at your side is heart-wrenching. Every instinct in your body begs you to keep a minimum one hand on him at all times, and the idea of letting him out of your sight seems entirely impossible. Just the thought oozes dread that swallows your body head to toe, condensing into a powerful sickening feeling in your stomach.

When Konig pulls away, he keeps a hand intertwined with yours, and wordlessly leads you to your bedroom, clicking the lock behind him. He faces you, meeting your stare with those soft blue eyes, a faint relieved laugh leaves his lips. He pulls you snug into his front, strong arms wrapping around your shoulders and holding you tight against this core.

Your limbs still feel as sturdy as jam, your grip on his waist light. It feels so wrong to be out of his sight, but for some reason being alone with him is making you nervous again.

When he pulls away, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, the skin underneath his touch inflamed.

He moves a gentle palm to your jaw, his fingers sliding up the side of your face and getting lost in your hair. He gives you a smile, a grin with crinkled, shimmering eyes, and you can‘t help but smile back, suddenly relieved he chose to defy Price.

He presses his lips to yours, and bends at his knees to meet your level, picking you up by your sides, carrying you to the bed without breaking the kiss. He plants his legs on either side of you when he sets you down on the silken covers.

He’s looming inches from you, you’re attached to him, but you still feel miles away.

Out of it.

In your head.

“Konig?”

“Ja?”

His breaths are shallow when he pulls away, dreamy eyes trained carefully on yours.

Your lips twist, brows pinching.

You have something to tell him, but you don’t know what it is. Your brain is trying to come up with the thing you’re supposed to say in a situation like this, but you’ve got nothing. There’s never been a situation like this.

What do you say to the boy who has killed for you, what do you say about the suffering you both have wrought and endured, about the twenty-two dead tributes and the star-crossed lovers that killed themselves to be together?

And now you are together, finally. Together and alone, and you can’t find the words.

You do your best.

“I’m… not okay.”

His smile fades, and he nods, looking away with a harsh swallow.

“Me neither.”

“Okay.”

He leans down and presses his lips to yours. A single, tender, lingering kiss before he lays at your side with a sigh. A heavy forearm drapes over your waist, his firm chest pressed to your shoulder.

“I love you,” He mumbles.

“I love you, too,” You whisper, so soft it almost gets lost to the air.

He gives you a few kisses on the top of your hair before he rests his chin on the crown of your head, a content hum behind his lips.

There is no knock, there is no bang, only the quiet ting of metal on metal before the door is swung open and slams into the wall. Both you and Konig shoot to a sit to see a band of peacekeepers, dressed head to toe in their standard white uniforms, pouring into your room and rushing straight for you.

You’re already pleading, but it does little to stop their gloved hands from reaching out to swallow you both.

“No, no!”

You cling to Konig, your arms locked around his waist with a deathly grip as you bury your head into his stomach. He jostles you with each swing of his arm, a grunt tearing from him with his powerful shoves.

Your voice is nothing short of desperate, wails and pleas to keep him at your side.

“No, no, no, please! Please!”

A peacekeeper wraps their arms just under your stomach, tugging on you as they try to peel you off him. You’re fighting with everything you have to keep yourself locked around Konig’s waist, your feet kicking blindly at your opponent and colliding with the durable plastic of their uniforms.

“Stop! Stop it!”

Konig is yanked to his feet and you go with him, the peacekeeper’s grabbing, cruel hands on your waist keeping you from finding a stand. Tears are already streaming down your face, the panic a white heat that engulfs your entire being.

“No, stop, please!”

When they finally tear you from him, you take shreds of Konig’s shirt with you.

The peacekeepers part, a majority forcing Konig towards the door while fending off his blows. Two hang back to hold you, their harsh grip indenting the soft flesh of your arms as you uselessly thrash in their hold.

Konig manages to knock down four of them, but more peacekeepers are pouring into the room until he’s truly outmatched, restraining hands and a blur of white.

“Konig! Konig!”

“I won’t let them!” He grunts in between calls of your name, flashes of his thrown limbs peek through the gaps of peacekeeper uniforms.

“No! No!” Your objections tear your raw throat, tugging as far as your restraint will allow, “Where are you taking him?!”

You kick and scream as Konig is dragged out of sight and down the hall, but you’re useless to do anything about it. You feel so weak - you have since you died, your body sluggish and your mind exhausted.

The peacekeepers don’t acknowledge your demands or objections, keeping your arms held firmly behind your back with harsh grips on your elbows.

A door slams shut down the hall and Konig’s shouts are muffled at once.

You let out a cry of pure frustration, and if you weren’t being held up you’d have collapsed to your knees in a heap. Instead your head lulls limp on your neck, your hair falling in front of your face and clinging to trails of tears and snot, heaving in the peacekeeper’s hold.

Your muttered objections are unintelligible, warbled through sobs and whines.

Price’s shoes announce his presence before he does, his voice gentle and low.

“Hey, hey, s’okay. He’s gonna be fine.”

He must have given the peacekeepers some look or gesture, because they release you. You make no effort to steady yourself, falling face first into his chest, sturdy arms catching you. Your tears and snot smear over his shirt when you shake your head, hiccuping on each hitched breath.

“I can’t do it! I can’t do it anymore!”

“Sh, sh, s’okay,” He says, his words more a vibration against your cheek then they are a coo in your ear.

“No! I can’t do it anymore! I can’t do this!”

He guides your limp body to sit side-by-side on the edge of the bed, his arm slung over your shoulders.

“Yeah you can, yeah you can,” Price says, his reassurances firm but gentle.

His hand strokes your bicep, your shoulders stuttering against his forearm with each hiccuped breath.

“I can’t! I can’t! I didn’t want this! I never wanted this!”

“S’okay, s’okay.”

“I should have died in that arena!”

Your sentence bleeds into a high-pitched whine that tapers out in a fit of sobs.

“No, no,” Price coos.

He loosens his grip, trying to get you to look at him, but you refuse, keeping your face planted in his chest as if to hide from the world, to hide from him.

“I can’t do it anymore!”

“Hey,” He says, “You made it so far.”

Your sniff is muffled by his shirt.

“This is the worst part.”

You can feel his chest expand with the deep inhale he prepared for a heavy sigh.

“You’ll feel better after you get some sleep,” He says with a squeeze, “I promise.”

When you don’t respond, he adds, “It was a big day. One of the toughest. It gets easier.”

Your voice is just a low whine, barely audible.

“Please don’t make me sleep alone.”

He gives a long sigh, his body shifting on the edge mattress.

“Okay, kid. How ‘bout I stay with you ‘til you fall asleep?”

You take a few breaths before you nod, the fabric of his shirt scratching in your ear.

“Why don’t you go get cleaned up, yeah? A shower will do you good.”

You give another nod.

“I’ll wait in the sitting room, okay? Come get me when you’re done.”

He gives a few more strokes over your hair until you pull away, wiping your face with your forearm.

“Hey,” He says, “Everything is going to be okay.”

You want to believe him, but you don’t.

It’s hard to believe him when you watched him tell Summer that she was going to be okay with an axe to her side and her blood oozing from a fatal wound.

You understand the sentiment. He’s just trying to quell you, to keep the emotions from bubbling up and taking over.

You don’t refute the statement. You give a nod instead.

“Atta girl,” He says.

He waits patiently for you to get your bearings, until you rise from the bed and move with slow steps toward the bathroom before he leaves you be.

You’re hasty to peel the dress off. You forget about Konig’s token, the little golden locket flinging from your bust and skirting across the heated tile. When you look down, you catch the tail end of Mabel’s card fluttering to the floor.

You close your eyes with a deep breath before you pick up your things.

Mabel’s card is torn into tiny shreds at your hand before being flushed down the toilet.

Just in case.

Most people take baths in Nine. Showers are a luxury almost none could afford, so the shower you take is quite literally the longest shower you’ve ever taken in your life.

Even if you were a shower regular, you’re sure it would still take the record.

There’s not a thought that runs through your mind while you soak, staring at the glittery gold shower walls through the steam of the hot water with blown, unfocused eyes.

It feels like you’re on autopilot. Your mind has entirely checked out, your movements slow and mechanical as you dry off, brush your teeth, and get dressed. You can hardly lift your feet off the ground as you make your way to the sitting room.

The sight of two peacekeepers guarding Konig’s door makes you start with a sharp inhale and a flinch.

As intimidating as they are, there’s a tiny part of you that’s relieved.

You can’t hear him, but the peacekeeper’s presence is at least a confirmation that he’s in there, that he’s well enough to need to be guarded.

They say nothing as you pass them as carefully as you would a pack of wild dogs, no sudden movements and smushing yourself against the wall to keep as far away from them as possible.

Price sits on the end of the couch, his elbow propped up on the arm. He’s not doing anything but staring off at a wall, absentmindedly stroking his facial hair with one hand and swirling a glass of whiskey with the other.

You don’t approach right away, lingering at the end of the dim hall and trying to decide whether or not you should even bother to announce your presence.

You feel like a child, looking for the comfort of their parent’s arms after waking up from a bad dream.

It’s not too late to go to bed.

It’s the silver tray resting next to him on the end table that keeps you. The decanter, and more specifically, the second glass already topped off and surely meant for you.

“Hey, kid.”

“Hey.”

You shuffle over and curl up on the other end of the couch, using the arm as a pillow, and Price silently hands you your glass.

The whiskey seems much more bearable, somehow. Maybe you’re getting used to alcohol, or maybe the whiskey just tastes that much sweeter after the longest day of your life.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” You ask.

You sound like a child, too.

Price sighs and smushes his cheeks a little tighter on one of the strokes on his beard.

He can’t seem to look at you.

“It’s not for you to worry about,” He says evenly.

He raises his glass back to his lips, his other hand releasing his jaw and dropping to his lap.

You don’t have it in you to push.

You fall back into another silence, nursing your drinks and staring off at nothing.

You do find yourself sneaking glances at his face, though.

Trying to find the young Price underneath the facial hair, the hardened eyes, the wrinkles in his forehead. Trying to imagine the man before you as just a kid, participating in his games and losing the girl he loved.

You know how life-altering these games are, and yet you haven’t once stopped to consider what Price went through or the heavy baggage that have hung off his shoulders since, all while dumping your own misdirected anger and frustration onto him. Making it harder than it needed to be, as per usual.

Price just always seems so stoic. Rational and sturdy and always has the answer. It’s hard to imagine him buckling under the pressure, to imagine what it must be like for him to go on after his victory.

He volunteered with the intention of keeping her alive, and he failed. And now he is strapped with the life of a mentor, watching his kids die year after year, without her, knowing that he chose this life.

“Would you quit looking at me like that?”

Your fingers curl tighter around your glass.

“I just- I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, but-“

You cut yourself off, looking down at the carpet.

“I just didn’t want to bring up any bad memories for you.”

Liar.

“I’m sorry,” You finish, brows sloped and a frown tugging the corner of your lips down.

You’re not sure if you’re apologizing for Summer, or for making it so hard on him all this time. Every interaction you’ve had with him has been recontextualized, and your heart is heavy with guilt.

Price shrugs, “Was a long time ago.”

“She seemed, uhm-”

Your eyes dart to the side.

“I like her,” you finish after a stiff pause.

Price grins at his drink.

“I do too.”

There’s a pause, and you catch the fondness softening his features as he thinks something over.

“We, uh,” He gives a small chuckle, swirling his drink, “A friend of mine took me to one of the old card-dealing rings in Nine way been when.”

He flicks his wrist to the side, as if to say, ‘You had to be there to understand.’

“I hated it,” he says, his brows furrowing, “I was always the more straight-laced type, and I hated the people there. Everyone at home looks worn, yeah? But the Ringers-“

He trails off with a nod, and licks his lips before a scoff leaves him.

“And we’re just two kids as fresh as daisies, obviously not where we’re suppos’d to be. I hated how I always felt like we stuck out.”

He clears his throat, and leans back against the couch.

“But I worried about him. I knew he was going to go either way, and if I didn’t go with him, he’d get himself into more trouble than he would if I didn’t.”

A brow raises mischievously, and the corners of his lips pull back as he stares at the carpet.

“If I'm being honest?”

He scoffs.

“Some part of me craved it.”

He sucks on his teeth, and nods before continuing.

“My parents were as straight as arrows, yeah? They expected what they expected, and everything else was out of the question. So it was thrilling for me, being somewhere and someone I wasn’t supposed to be. Doing something that wasn’t expected.”

You wonder if he forgot you were even here.

It doesn’t even seem as if he’s talking to you. He still hasn’t made eye contact with you, and the gestures that go along with his story, the shrugs of his shoulders, the tilts of his head, the finger tracing circles into the side of his glass - Price isn’t talking to you. He can’t be, he’s talking to himself, the room, he’s just retelling old stories to himself that’ve been sitting on his tongue and circling his mind for decades.

You feel like you’ve walked in on something private.

And while it all feels… off, uncharted territory, his story is soothing. You feel like you’re melting into this couch, your swollen, heavy eyelids can’t help but flutter shut as you listen.

“On every off-harvest Sunday, we’d tell our parents we were going down to the stream to catch rock-dwellers, but we’d really be at the ring.”

“I got pretty good at it, too. Ringers got to know me pretty fast. Either by name or ‘That-No-Good-Cheatin’-Johnny.’”

“All in good fun, though,” He says after a mindful pause, “I never had it in me to cheat. Just played as good as one.”

“Anyway,” He says with a wave of his hand, dismissing his own ramblings.

“I won a big hand, and Timber bet more than was in his pockets. Told me to come by Wednesday to pick up what I earned.”

“So after school on Wednesday I swing by the ring. Timb’s not there yet, so I have a seat, and there she was.”

He hums.

“Slinging her daddy’s moonshine. She didn’t look like much. Disheveled, but as fresh as I was, looked just as out of place in that ragged hole.”

“Now I knew how the Ringer’s must have felt, looking at her face and thinking, ‘Oh, kid, you don’t belong here.’”

Price chuckles.

“‘Til she opened her mouth. Could put a grown man in his place with just her tongue.”

“She walked up to me like we’d been friends for a lifetime. I’d never met her before, but she knew me by name, knew what I was there for. Sat on my table, looked down at me, and said -

‘Let’s make a deal, Johnny. Full deck Trust, I win, and you let me have what Timb owes you.’

‘And if I win?’

‘Two jars moonshine. But I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that.’”

Price snorts.

“I hated moonshine. And I’d never played Trust, the Ringers mostly played Seven Card. It was an old game, a bluffing game, more complicated than it needed to be. Played with two decks.”

He lazily throws up two fingers, and nods.

“But I knew just by looking at her that she was everything she wasn’t expected to be.”

‘Deal.’

“She beat me, of course. N’ by the end of the game, the two decks are all shuffled together. So I go to sort ‘em, but she stood up before I could.”

‘Well, Johnny, it’s been fun. I’ll see you next Wednesday. Don’t forget my deck.’

He hums.

“Stuck a two of hearts between my teeth before she packed up my money and left.”

His eyes flick down, and he smiles.

“I got in trouble that night, for coming home late. But you better bet I was at the ring every Wednesday night. Making foolish deals with a girl that knew how to hustle.”

There’s a long silence, his grin fading away. His voice is low and gruff when he speaks again.

“You remind me of her.”

You can’t seem to bring yourself to speak, not nearly in the right mind to think of the right thing to say. You try to lift your head from the arm of the couch, but find it weighs a thousand pounds.

His words linger in the heavy air during another long pause.

“Y’know,” He says, his head lifting, but still avoiding eye contact, “I always wanted kids, but uh- well, y’know.”

Half his face pinches, and his glass flicks to the side, as if to suggest he’s not going to get into the never-ending list of tragic reasons he will never have kids.

He clears his throat, but his words end there.

You barely manage to keep your eyes open. Drowsy doesn’t even begin to cover it, the world is so fuzzy, you can’t get your eyes to focus no matter how hard you try. You have no choice but to succumb to your droopy eyelids.

The half-drained glass in your hand is weighing down your wrist, the whiskey threatening to slosh over the rim and onto the couch.

Price reaches over and gently plucks the glass from your hand, as if he had known your arm was just about to roll limply on the cushion.

There’s one last thought, barely coherent, foggy beyond the haze.

Your words are a slur, no differential between the end of one word and the beginning of the next.

“P’ Some’ in m’drin’?”

Price gives a long, heavy sigh.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

————————

You most certainly do not sleep tight.

You sleep in the hedge maze.

Trapped by both barbed hedge walls, and more pressingly, Titan’s brute arms.

Pinned in his harsh hold, his chest pressed to your back, holding your jaw in place. The echoes of his laughter in your ears as he starts from the top. Forcing the vivid image and harrowing sound of a sword piercing through a neck into your line of sight. A series of punctures through the soft flesh of a gut, of a girl in shock, repeatedly forced to stab herself in her own stomach. The start of a canvas of stains on a spear that end with the blood of its owner’s life.

You can’t move, you can’t even scream, paralyzed in Titan’s hold and unable to look away from the gory slaughter and the corpses that pile up in the plush grass.

Titan lifts your arm, his hand cupped around yours and threatening to crush your bones to dust.

He winds your arm back, and by time he forces it forward, a dart lies in the center of your tightly clasped hands and Willow’s body hangs limply in front of you, her exposed, bloody muscles and fat inches from your face. Her pained moans linger in your ears long after she takes her final three breaths.

Titan puppets you, your limp arms entirely at his mercy as he gouges out Sapphire’s eye and puts her stained spear straight through her middle.

Titan’s sardonic laugh pushes his chest further into you with each hitch of his breath. His fingers find your jaw, his nails digging into the flesh of your cheeks to keep you from looking away.

There he is, in all his glory.

The love of your life, sweeping Eleven off his feet and throwing him at the ground. Breaking his neck against the platform settled in the lush grass.

Smashing One’s skull against a ginkgo tree suddenly sprouted in the center of the plush grass, and discarding him heartlessly on the ground.

Beating Four unconscious, paralyzing him and stealing the clothes off his back, leaving him to dry up in the heat of a brutal desert sun in a patch of boiling sand.

Slicing Sage’s neck while promising her he’ll add to his already lengthy kill count.

Titan’s fingernails are digging into your cheeks hard enough to draw blood, pressing his lips to your ear, his laughs deafening you.

Konig’s eyes lock onto you from beneath his hood, ravenous and devoid of any emotion other than hatred. He breaks into a full sprint, his menacing stare never leaving you. The impact steals your breath, and forces a thousand blades through the flesh of your back.

You can’t even beg for mercy, on the receiving end of his full strength behind every punch as he beats you to a pulp. The deafening shatter of your cheek bone reverberates through your entire body, momentarily interrupting the howl of Titan’s cackle behind you. Impossibly, Konig’s figure morphs into Titan’s face with each strike, becoming more swollen and pulpy with each hit he lands.

Konig doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, rhythmic punches breaking your nose, knocking your teeth loose, blinding you with your own blood.

The final strike shoots you up from the mattress, screaming before you have even opened your eyes.

Immediately your head snaps to your door. The heavy thuds echoing throughout your bedroom makes you jump out of your skin, each one a hammer to your chest. The sheets ensnare your limbs as you frantically scramble away from threat.

Your door splinters into a thousand shards, rubble falling on Konig’s shoulders and crunching under his feet as he smashes through your door.

“No, please no, Konig, no!”

“Was ist los?! Was ist los?!”

You’re still transitioning back to reality, thrashing to break free from the blankets as you struggle backwards.

Your wide eyes dart over him, his chest heaving and brows pinched as he approaches.

It’s the hurt in those sad, tear-welled blue eyes and the slump of his shoulders that snaps you out of it. A crushing guilt that drops on your ribcage and steals all the breath from your lungs.

“Are you okay?” He asks through huffed breaths, his palms still displayed in surrender.

You try to swallow the dryness in your mouth, looking down to the mattress.

“Yeah,” You croak, “Just a nightmare.”

He takes a baby step forward, his question hesitant.

“Can I lay with you?” He asks.

Your eyes flit to the limp, uniformed arm splayed out in the hall, the splintered door, the torn, thick restraints cuffing his wrists and ankles before finding the mattress again.

You nod.

The tangled blankets warp under his weight when he crawls onto the bed with you. Carefully, gently, trying to befriend a trembling fawn.

He lays himself down on the edge of the bed, and tentatively offers his side with a raise of his arm.

After a pause, you take his offer. Crawling over to him, nuzzling your cheek into his chest and curling your body into his warm side. He lets you get settled before his arm wraps snug around you.

Your gaze lingers on his knuckles, freshly split and smeared with blood.

You lay a loose fist on his chest, running the nail of your thumb along your bottom lip.

“I think Price drugged me,” You mumble.

“They gave me something too,” He says.

There’s a brief pause, the sound of Konig’s heartbeat in your ear as your fingers trace a wrinkle in his shirt.

“Is it just me, or is this the worst?”

Konig scoffs, an amused hum following.

“Yes, it is the worst.”

Your smile quickly fades.

“Do you think it would have been better if we both died?”

Your head follows the billow of his chest on a slow, deep breath.

The silence that follows his exhale speaks volumes.

He catches this, and goes to remedy it, but the hitch in his voice betrays him.

“It’ll get easier.”

You sigh, closing your eyes as his chest rocks you, breathing in a deep breath of his soothing scent.

“You were right,” You say.

“Hm?”

“About death. About it - being like sleeping.”

He hums again, his fingers lost in your hair, absentmindedly playing with the locks.

“It wasn’t too bad,” He says, letting a strand of your hair slide through the gaps in his fingers, “I missed you, though.”

You give a soft laugh, and rub his chest.

“I missed you too.”

You sigh.

“I want to go home.”

Konig gives you a kiss on the top of your head, a few strokes over your hair.

“I know,” He says, “Soon.”

He rests his cheek on your head.

“You are my home,” He mumbles, “You always were.”

You roll your eyes with a huff.

“Would it kill you not to be so disgustingly in love with me for two minutes?”

“Oof,” You add with a wince, “Don’t answer that.”

You can feel the vibration of his amused hum on your cheek, another kiss on the top of your head.

There’s another lull as he plays with your hair, the tingle on your scalp drawing a content hum from you in return.

Your question is asked through a cozy grin.

“You know we’re fucked, right?”

“I had my suspicions.”

“What are we going to do?”

Konig kisses the crown of your head again.

“If you don’t know, I certainly don’t.”

Your lips rub together as you think on it.

“Suicide pact?”

Konig’s chest lifts your head when he scoffs.

He kisses your head again.

“I would miss you too much,” He says.

“What the hell happened?!”

You and Konig both suck in a breath through your teeth.

Busted.

Konig’s strong arms snake around you and tighten, as if he knows you’re about to be taken away again, and he vowed to never let it happen twice.

“Are you two out of your fucking minds?!”

Price’s rage is unlike anything you've ever seen from him.

You’ve never heard him raise his voice this loud before, so unrestrained. Normally his anger is filtered through grumbles and grit teeth and slick comments, but he’s got actual veins bulging out of his forehead, his voice booming throughout the suite.

“Why is it always so difficult with you two?! How many times do I have to say it?!”

“You drugged me! Trying to cop a feel, pervert?!”

The redirective accusation stuns him, his face twisting into a grimace and his rage dissolving into disgusted confusion at once.

“What? No!”

“I’ll guess I’ll have to take your word for it!” You say with a flare in your voice, “How convenient I don’t have memory of it!”

“It was just,” Price rolls his wrist and tosses his words nonchalantly, “Look, I knew you were going to have trouble getting to rest after everything, so-”

“Bullshit, pervert!”

“Alright!”

He grunts and lowers his voice to a grit.

“I did it because the only time you two don’t cause trouble for me is when you’re tied up or unconscious - I can hardly clean up one of your messes without you making another one for me! And to be honest with you, I wasn’t crazy about being forced to listen to you both cry and scream because you lost your fucking teddy bear.”

He shrugs with a smug squint.

“So I drugged you.”

His eyes crinkle and his lips pinch in a challenging smile.

There’s a tense beat, your lips folding in.

You could cut him so fucking deep right now.

It’s on the tip of your tongue, sharp, serrated, dangerously intoxicating, just begging to be spit in his direction.

If you can’t handle that, maybe it’s best you never got the chance to be a father.

But you swallow it.

With clenched teeth, snarled lips, and narrowed eyes, you swallow it, and settle on the next best thing.

“You old fuck.”

“I’m not even that -“

Price’s head tilts to the side, cutting himself off with a deep breath and a close of his eyes. When he speaks, his tone is reset - urgent, but not harsh.

“Do you have any idea what’s at stake?”

Yeah, actually, you do. You know exactly what’s at stake, and he’s standing tall and annoyed at your side.

But you’re both still in the arena, and it’s a bit hard to worry about behaving when your bodies are still coursing with adrenaline, when you’re still fighting and killing and dying, every decision based on animalistic instinct without room for thought.

And you know deep down it’s already too far gone. You don’t inspire the rebels and get away scot-free. You don’t get to make the Capitol look foolish and get granted leniency.

Price must know this on some level too.

But of course he’s not going to throw in the towel. He’s just doing what he’s supposed to be doing, what he needs to do for himself, because he’d never be able to forgive himself if he didn’t do everything he could.

Maintaining some semblance of control in a world where he has none.

But frankly, it’s getting fucking annoying, because if the shitstorm is approaching, what could any of you do to stop it, and what use is stifling yourself if it’s all going to go sideways anyway?

“I know about District Eight.”

Price studies you. He swallows through a slow nod, his words picked deliberately and his voice suddenly grave.

“So you know how serious this is.”

“District Eight?” Konig asks.

His question goes ignored.

“I know how fucked I am. And I know there’s not much you can do to change my fate.”

Price takes a step closer, and jams his forefinger towards the floor.

“I’ve pulled miracles this past week, sweetheart. And all you two have done is make it harder on me.”

Price’s brows raise, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening and his finger jabbing in your direction.

“Your actions do not just affect you. Do you understand me? This isn’t self-destruction anymore, Juliet. The potential casualties lie in the thousands.”

Your mouth has gone dry, and your confidence is draining through your shoes at an alarming speed.

“And there is still a chance to fix it - but I can only do that if you behave. So if you two could play by the rules for a couple more days, that’d be fucking fantastic. And at this point, I’m one smart-ass comment away from drugging you both until we’re back in District Nine. So, go on, what do you have to say?”

You click your tongue, jaw cocked and glaring at the ceiling with such intensity you wouldn’t be surprised if it spontaneously combusted under the heat of your stare.

“That’s what I thought.”

Price snaps his fingers.

“I want both of you cleaned up and sat for breakfast in ten minutes. Ruby’s going over the agenda - you will listen to her and you will be respectful.”

He waves over his shoulder before brushing away loose rubble from the doorframe, stepping over sprawled limbs and disappearing down the hall.

You and Konig share a look.

He doesn’t look as nervous as you’d expected him to be.

His lips are warped, and his brow creased, but he looks more concerned about you than he does about himself.

You snatch an outfit for yourself from the complicated closet, both of you moving to Konig’s room to get ready, side-stepping limp and groggy peacekeepers. The weight of your scolding hangs heavy, following you both wherever you go.

After Konig spits out his toothpaste, he mumbles to the sink.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

The bristles on your teeth stop their scrubs as you meet eyes.

When you go to garble the words through a mouthful of toothpaste, you can’t seem to get them out.

How do you confess to the love of your life that his head is on the chopping block because of you?

He huffs before he looks away, cleaning his toothbrush under the faucet stream. He wipes his mouth off with a towel, and tosses it just a little too roughly back on the counter.

“I’m sorry,” You gurgle.

You spit your mouthful into the sink.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

All of it.

He sighs at the following silence.

“I’m not as stupid as you both think I am,” He mumbles.

“I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“I can’t protect you unless I know what’s going on.”

Your voice picks up a hopeful waver, a cautious smile on your lips.

“I - I don’t know. I think it’s your strong suit.”

He huffs, and you know you won him over when the corner of his lip twitches up, but it fades quickly.

He looks to you again.

He’s giving you another chance.

You don’t take it, and he doesn’t push.

The energy is off at breakfast, the air as heavy and as cold as steel, even though Price is radiating a wordless, frustrated heat that sears your skin.

Cheerful as always, Ruby doesn’t seem to notice or care. She also doesn’t look like she’s hungover in the slightest, either she’s incredibly resilient when it comes to her liquor, or incredibly skilled at hiding her hangovers.

You consider shortly after that maybe you and Konig have been unconscious for longer than one night. You stifle this thought as soon as you can, but it doesn’t stop the unease that’s lapping up the walls of your guts.

Ruby waits for plates to be loaded and for Konig to finish dragging his chair next to yours before she chimes today’s schedule.

“Victory Tour! Busy, busy few days! Not a moment to waste!”

You and Konig do as you're told, listening respectfully as Ruby outlines the Victory Tour, silently picking over your breakfasts.

This is going to be like pulling teeth.

For the next few days, you’ll be living on the train. Shipped from district to district, standing in front of every last citizen, forced to look the families and friends of the tributes you killed in the eye as you accept your ingenuine praises and distasteful plaques from people who secretly despise you.

They’ll start with District Twelve, and you’ll work your way through all the way to District One. They’ll skip District Nine, where The Capitol will spring for a huge party upon your eventual arrival back home.

Twelve is an okay start, you think.

You don’t even remember what the kids from Twelve looked like, not even their names, and you and Konig had absolutely no part in their deaths.

Eleven will not be as bearable.

The trip to Twelve will be more than a day’s journey, it’s one of the farthest districts from The Capitol. It’s somewhat relieving, since you’d really like to put this off as long as you can.

There isn’t even time to digest, almost as soon as breakfast is cleared Ruby pushes the three of you to the elevator.

Little words are exchanged as the team makes their way to the train station, herded onto the extravagant train once more.

It’s weird, but you almost feel nostalgic for the train ride you took before the games. Your heart aches and longs to be the girl you once were, before games and kills and suicides and threats and unrest.

You and Konig still aren’t allowed to be alone in your rooms, so you both opt for the lounge car instead. You spend most of the ride with your head in Konig’s chest, his arm slung around your shoulders and keeping you flush to his side.

Basking in silence or listening to Ruby as she chatters on while you both offer little input.

You switch between having your eyes closed and staring blankly out the window, watching the landscape whiz by.

You’re not sure, but you think you even doze off a few times. It never lasts long, your eyes snapping open at every intrusive, vivid sound that tears through you. The snap of a neck, the moans of the maimed, the squelch of an eye, the pierce of an abdomen, the shatter of a cheekbone.

There’s still a weird, stale air between you and Konig that won’t go away. You refuse to let each other out of your sight, but you can’t seem to find anything to say to him, and he doesn’t have much to say to you.

It doesn’t feel necessarily malicious - at least it’s hard to interpret it that way when his arm is locked around you and pressing you flush to his side with such strength you’re afraid he might leave bruises on your hips. He always squeezes you a little tighter when you flinch in his strong arms.

You wonder if he sees the twenty-two extra passengers, too. If he feels their lifeless eyes and knows of their listening ears.

Meals are eaten, more interrupted naps take place, and eventually the sun sets.

It hasn’t been explicitly said, and you’re still having trouble pin-pointing why, but it’s obvious Ruby and Price are taking shifts babysitting, switching off to make sure you and Konig aren’t left to your own devices.

“You know, you two are going to have to get some rest eventually. We can’t have you exhausted during the tour debut!”

Ruby sings her gentle nudge with a cheeky grin, entirely oblivious to the fact that the mere suggestion of separating yourself from Konig makes your heart beat at triple its normal speed, forces sweat to bubble up from your pores, and fills your insides with dread.

“Soon, Ruby,” You mumble.

Liar.

Konig gives you an extra tight squeeze with a kiss on your head, and you bury your face back into his chest with the full intention of sleeping here tonight.

As bedtime creeps up on you both, Konig turns on the bench so his back is to the train wall, and repositions his legs so you’re nestled between them. You rest your head on his shoulder, your side flush to the front of his torso. His strong arms wrap around your waist, his clasped hands resting on your hips and keeping you close.

Protected by his strong arms, soothed by his scent and the rise and fall of his chest - you actually manage to get a few hours of sleep in.

It’s still not enough, and your muscles aren’t crazy about the whole ‘not sleeping entirely horizontally’ of it all, so when breakfast rolls around, you’re both exhausted and sore.

Your movements are slow as you pick at your meal, taking plenty of breaks to bump your arms against Konig when you stretch out your sore limbs.

“First stop today!” Ruby says, “After breakfast we’ll get the prep team on you and get you to the Justice Building. The speech will take place on the verandah, super simple, the Mayor will read a speech in your honor, and you’ll give a speech in return! Oh, yes, and don’t forget to thank them when they hand over your plaques, too!”

The speech you’ll read is scripted by The Capitol, some flimsy thank you to the districts for giving up their children in sacrifice and thanks to The Capitol for the honor and valor and blah blah blah.

It’s all bullshit, and everyone knows it.

It’s just a way to rub the salt further into the gaping wound the games leave behind, to parade around The Capitol’s fresh set of lap dogs to the overworked and underfed. Incentivizing division and tension in the districts while also reminding everyone of The Capitol’s unwavering grip.

They might as well hang banners that say, ‘Your Children Died So These Two Ungrateful Idiots Could Survive!’

“Romeo’s reading the cards,” Price says once plates are nearly cleared, jamming a fork in Konig’s direction.

You’re next up to be held at fork-point.

“And you will not say a word. Understand me?”

“What? Why?”

Price’s face pinches and his fork clatters across his plate when his arms throw down.

“Does everything I say have to be questioned? Just do it.”

He huffs, picking up his fork and stabbing into his ham.

“Well!” Ruby says, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning!”

“The bench,” Price corrects gruffly.

He shoots an annoyed glance at you and Konig.

You roll your eyes, but you do feel bad. It’s embarrassing that you can’t seem to handle a night alone without Konig, and that Price has to sacrifice a good night’s rest just to keep you from throwing a tantrum.

The ungrateful brat from District Nine.

Making it harder than it needs to be, as per usual.

The prep team collects you once you and Konig have had time to digest. You both are dressed in modest black outfits, as is customary for the Victory Tour, before being handed back off to Price.

For whatever surely malicious reason, The Capitol doesn’t want the districts to know much about each other. So you and Konig can’t help but near the windows to get a good look at the outer-most district as the train begins its smooth stop.

You get quick glimpses of the run-down houses, the people making their way to the district square.

District Twelve is somehow more drab and dreary than District Nine. Everything is gray.

Gray and dilapidated, and all of the people look even more worn down than the people back home. Everyone has an empty look in their eyes, fixated on a point in the distance and shuffling along with little life in their weak steps.

When you look away from the window, you find your brows creased and lips warped in something of pity, sitting back in your spot with a slump in your shoulders.

Maybe Nine doesn’t have it as bad as you thought.

You and Konig share a look, and his face projects nothing but anger. His knee bounces and his fists tight.

You’d think you’d be used to being in front of so many people by now, having spent so much time broadcasted to all of Panem, but knowing so many loathing district eyes will soon be staring at you folds your stomach with dread.

Ruby wastes little time once the train docks in its station, herding you both to the old, deteriorated Justice Building with her well-meaning shoves and guiding hands.

You have nothing much to do as you wait for the ceremony to begin, little to distract you from the crowd waiting behind the massive doors to the verandah. You can’t help but shuffle from foot to foot. Your fingers are already trembling, the bouquet of white roses you’ve been given jitters in their perfect arrangement.

Minutes before you’re to go on stage, you flinch when Price grabs you by the shoulder with a tight squeeze.

His head tilts down, his brows raise, and a strict, pointed finger is held inches from your face.

“Listen to me. You don’t say anything. You keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me?”

Your eyes dart around his stony, intense expression before you offer a shaky nod.

He holds your stare for a few more seconds before he huffs, and lets go of you.

Konig gives your locked hands a squeeze.

“Ignore him,” He grits.

It’s clear he’s not talking about Price’s directions so much as he is talking about his tone.

As the doors to the Justice Building open, your breath catches in your throat.

Even though there’s thousands of people gathered before you, it is eerily silent. You can hear your own footsteps.

You stare down at your shaking flowers, trying to rid the audience from your view, but it’s useless. They’re impossible to ignore, your entire body aflame with thousands of hollow stares. You’re crushing Konig’s hand with yours, a pool of sweat between your laced hands.

They’ve set up two pillars in the crowd. Each has a screen displaying the faces of the fallen tributes from Twelve, and on a platform below stands their loved ones.

You try so hard not to look at them as the Mayor begins his speech.

But your eyes can’t help it.

The two tributes from Twelve both have ashen skin, hollow cheeks, and the same weary stares as the thousands of eyes before you.

You find the family of the girl tribute beneath her giant headshot. A grandparent, a father, a sister and a brother, all of their faces puffy and wearing fresh sorrow. The father and the sister shed tears, and the grandfather dawns that same vacant, beaten-down look the rest of the crowd wears, fixated on a point in the distance but not at all focused on it.

The brother stares at you, though. His fists clenched at his sides and his stance wide. You meet his eyes, and his chin lifts, staring down his nose at you.

You have to look away when you feel the prick of tears in your eyes, because you know what he’s thinking.

You stand where she could have.

Breathing and alive and not at all grateful.

The brat from District Nine who didn’t even want the victory in the first place.

Konig is prompted to read his speech, and you’re surprised about how well he’s handling this. He stands tall, proud, and intermittently looks up from his cards to meet the crowd that you can’t bear to see. His harsh voice broadcasted over the speakers doesn’t waver.

You find yourself looking up at him, watching him with something of awe in your eyes.

Maybe Price was right, because you certainly wouldn’t be able to get through this without a shake in your voice, and you’d be lucky to do it without bursting into tears.

He wraps up his speech, and you don’t look up from your flowers as the crowd gives the most unenthusiastic round of applause you’ve ever been witness to.

Konig accepts the victor plaque as you splinter rose stems under your unforgiving grip, and then it’s over. The moment the massive doors to the Justice Building close behind you, you let out a huge, shaky breath.

“Good job,” Price says, so stiff you’re not even sure if he’s being genuine.

The Mayor of District Twelve stops by to give pleasantries, and shortly after you’re ushered back to the train, on your way to the next stop.

You’ll have little time to prepare, the journey to District Eleven will only take until the late afternoon.

District Eleven.

The blood of the boy from Eleven is smeared on both yours and Konig’s hands, and you will have to stand before his family as the Capitol’s puppets you are.

You feel as if you should make some sort of acknowledgement. But what would you even say? There is nothing you can say that will bring him back, nothing you can say that will unsnap his neck and return life to his eyes.

Their son is gone.

And it is your fault.

Best to keep your mouth shut.

Your stomach is full of lead the entire trip, not even Konig’s chest can quell you.

And it is as brutal as you expect it to be.

As soon as you catch Eleven’s giant headshot, his eyes angry and scared and devastated and full of life, you burst into tears. You spend the entire duration of the speeches with your back towards the crowd, both your shoulders and the bouquet of flowers at your side stuttering as you sob into your tightly pressed fingers. You try to stop the tears, to hold yourself together, but trying to force it down is only making it worse.

The entire nation watches you cry, cry over a death that was your fault.

District Eleven must hate you. Disgusted with you for mourning a death that you were responsible for, a desperate bid for their pity.

You wish for the cracked cement beneath your feet to swallow you whole.

While you are in shambles, Konig doesn’t seem to be affected standing before the family of the boy he killed without a second thought. His hand rests on your convulsing shoulders, giving you soothing strokes while he reads from his cards. And while you can’t see him, his voice doesn’t falter.

When Konig’s speech ends, it takes everything in your power to keep from shouting your useless, nasally apologies to the crowd. To tell them how sorry you are. Instead you bury your puffy, tear-stained face in your hands until you’re back in the Justice Building.

As soon as you’re out of sight, Konig pulls you into a tight embrace, smushing your cheek against his chest and smearing your snot on his suit.

“I can’t do this.”

You shake your head in his chest, incoherently babbling as you gasp and choke on your own sobs and whines.

Konig gently rocks you in his arms, a light sway and a hand rising to stroke over your hair.

He doesn’t bother to lie or coo at you, he just holds you close until you’re ushered back to the train station, and he holds you close all the way to District Ten.

You arrive the next day numb and exhausted, and spend the entire ceremony staring at your shoes and clinging to Konig’s arm, trying to keep the girl from Ten out of your eyeline, trying not to think of her shocked face as she was stabbed mercilessly, repeatedly, until her stomach was torn to shreds. Trying not to look at the families of the tributes that follow you wherever you go with their listening ears and lifeless eyes.

Trying not to cry.

You seem to be on autopilot on the ride District Eight, disconnected from the world around you, slumped in on yourself with your head on Konig’s lap, forcing yourself only to focus on the tingle on your scalp as he plays with your hair.

You don’t snap out of your trance until breakfast when Price makes you. He reaches over the table and snaps in front of your face until your eyes return to focus.

“Listen to me. Under no circumstances will you speak on that stage today. Got it?”

It’s on him, really.

He was the one who woke you up, who dragged you back to reality, who returned thoughts to a brain that was previously broadcasting only static.

And while you nod in blank agreement, you’re thinking about Willow and the boy from eight and his girlfriend.

About poison darts and bread and tresses of curly hair.

Ribbons and unrest and girls with big fat mouths.

You’re thinking about a district who was so disgusted by a display The Capitol endorsed they encouraged a tribute from another district to eliminate their own.

It is customary for the victors to give a few personal words to any tributes you allied with, and while you didn’t ally with Willow technically - it feels as if you allied with the entirety of her district, and it feels so, so wrong to stay quiet about it.

Surely Price would be okay with just a thank you.

You can only assume he wants to keep you from inspiring them further, but you don’t see how a quick thank you could hurt.

So when it’s Ruby’s turn to babysit, you excuse yourself to the restroom before wandering to Price’s quarters.

You have to work up the courage to knock, and your stomach reaches a boil by the time Price swings his door open. He lets out a sigh and stares down at you without even tilting his head. He crosses his arms over his chest, raises a brow, and waits for you to ask what he already knows you’re going to ask.

You open your mouth to speak, but the words don’t come out right away, your lower lip stammering as you coax the words up. When you find them, they sound much meeker than you intended them to be.

“Maybe I should say something.”

It’s like he was spring-loaded, because as soon as you finish your sentence he’s already bordering on a shout.

“This will not be a discussion. It’s out of the question. You will not say anything.”

“But you didn’t even-“

“I said no! Romeo reads the cards, and nothing more. End of story!”

He points a finger over your shoulder in the direction of the lounge car.

“Now go! I don’t want to hear another word from either of you for the rest of the trip!”

You swallow and nod at your shoes, heading back to the lounge car with a slump in your shoulders.

You all but collapse into Konig’s lap in a pathetic little heap.

And that is where you stay.

You don’t have the sense to hide your bewilderment at the round of applause you receive upon your debut on District Eight’s verandah.

They’re cheering. Cheering and whistling and waving and shouting.

This does not feel like a crowd forced to celebrate, like the other district’s with their weary clapping and their heads hung low. It’s like a Capitol applause, not a district applause.

District Eight is genuinely happy to see you.

The distressed, flustered mayor has trouble settling the crowd to begin the ceremony, the start of his speech interrupted by their excitement and their chants.

You catch a few members of the crowd’s stares, confusion plastered on your features as you dart around from face to face, some shouting, some waving, some smiling.

When it’s Konig's turn to read from his cards, you notice on your brief glances around the crowd that they’re not looking at him.

Every eye in the crowd is trained on you.

After Konig wraps up the speech, it becomes clear that they are expecting you to say something, and their faces fall a little more with each passing second you don’t speak up.

They’re expecting you to speak on what happened, to thank them for the gifts.

The ungrateful brat from District Nine.

Your face doesn’t soften until you catch sight of Willow’s mom.

She meets your eyes, and time seems to slow. Her mouth is parted to release sobbed hiccups and her palm presses to her stuttering chest.

And her tear-stained cheeks are framed with tresses of curly hair that remind you of the tree for which her daughter was named.

You do not think before you do what you do next.

You don’t think of Price’s explicit instructions, The President’s threats, or Mabel’s dire warning.

A grating feedback blares over the speakers when you lurch for the microphone.

“Wait, wait! Really quick, I just-“

You take a deep breath.

“I wanted to express my thanks. Again. I- I know it’s not, uhm, customary for districts to - to send gifts to anyone but their own tributes. So - thank you for going, uhm, against the standard to- to help me. And Willow. And- and thank you. For the bread. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You give a weird, awkward curtsy at the crowd upon the end of your shaky, impromptu speech, and take a few steps backward from the mic.

There’s a pause as your eyes dart around the crowd, trying to figure out if your words appeased them.

And something happens.

A gesture that fills you with a spark of hope, stomach-dropping dread, humble honor, and deep, desperate regret all at the same time.

Almost perfectly in unison, the crowd lifts their arms into the air, their open palms pointed toward the sky, wrists angled back to give you a clear view of Willow’s ribbon.

Thousands of them.

And you know that the ribbons on these wrists mean something different to these people than the people in The Capitol.

It is not a fashion statement.

It is a symbol of rebellion.

And you are their martyr.

——————————————-

“What did I say?! What did I say?!”

Price is yelling, his fist tight at his sides as he paces in front of you.

“I - I didn’t - I didn’t think I was saying anything wrong - I had to say something!”

“No, you didn’t! I told you - I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut!”

“What did I do wrong?!”

Price lets out an exasperated noise, his arms throwing out to suggest it’s obvious.

“You were yourself! What did I say, kid?! You play their fucking game, and you shut the fuck up for a few days!”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Konig cuts with a pinch in his brow, “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Price stops his pacing to point in Konig’s direction.

“This doesn’t concern you, boy,” He grits.

“When it concerns her, it concerns me.”

“What should concern you - “

Price starts with a cautionary tone and his head cocked to the side, taking a few slow, commanding steps in Konig’s direction. Konig holds his ground, though, and Price’s advance triggers something of a defensive behavior from him. Konig's shoulders set back, his arms just slightly extended at his sides and his chest puffed out.

“ - Is both of you being executed for treason, entire districts being leveled, and thousands of corpses at your doorstep.”

“And you really think that her giving a thank you speech is going to be the difference between a rebellion or not?”

“She’s the reason there’s unrest in the first place.”

Konig crosses his arms over his chest.

“No, she’s not. And you know it.”

Price blows out a huff of air, looking away from Konig to mutter something under his breath. Price turns on his heels and throws one last statement over his shoulder before he marches out of the car.

“Tell it to The President.”

The car goes uncomfortably silent after the doors zip closed behind Price.

Konig is the first to speak.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” You stammer, “Thanks.”

Konig hums low.

“What did I do?”

Your question is rhetorical, because you know very well what you’ve done, and you know your words will have catastrophic consequences.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” He says.

“But I fucked us.”

Konig takes a deep breath.

He closes the distance between you, and places two gentle palms on your arms.

“No,” He says, “You did the right thing. You always do.”

You just barely manage to stifle the groan and eye roll, because his reassurance is absolutely useless. The pedestal you stand on in his mind warping his perception of just how incompetent and selfish and destructive you are.

You don’t get into it with him.

Instead, you step into his arms and put your head on his chest.

And that is where you stay.

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