#freight exchange

[jackawful]

hopping trains is so cool and good like...a little bit of patience and respect, a little willingness to break the rules & good sense enough to do so safely and be quiet when it counts, and you can just fuckin GO anywhere for free? it's like a really long mostly-flat rollercoaster. it's like being a flea on the back of a dragon. you ride a great loud mechanical beast that has been a tool of genocide and capitalist cruelty since its invention and you parasitize it for your own ends and in doing so you join a lineage of poor people taking agency over their lives dating back over a century. the brake dust I saw sparkling in the air has seeped into my pores and made me a new person.

[queenlua]

tonight’s the first time i’ve sitten down to write in.  whew.  a while, peeps.  please send your Strength & Good Vibes TM

[uhohdad]

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, 144k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Konig Pines Hard, Sexual Content, Porn with Too Much Plot, First Time, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Smut, Fluff, Angst

· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR I · THE VICTOR II · THE AFTERMATH I · THE AFTERMATH I · THE WARNING I · THE WARNING II

➤ THE TRIBUTES I

It’s as if someone dropped an anvil on your chest. Every wisp of air has been stolen from your lungs, too stunned to even pull in a breath. Frozen in your spot, knees locked, and racing thoughts having come to a grinding halt. A rumbling fit for a freight train escalates in your ears until you’ve been fully deafened, your nerves replaced with nausea that drains your face of color.

Even with the mic’s piercing feedback through the speakers, the blare of your name was unmistakable.

The only thing that offers a sliver of an opportunity to ground you is the peacekeepers’ harsh, demanding grip on your upper arms. They support your full weight, practically dragging you along as you fumble the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other.

The stairs to the temporary stage creak under legs made of lead. You’ve fully collapsed into yourself by time the escort extends her hand to guide you to center stage, sucked into a fever of denial and shock.

The escort rambles on, but her words are lost before you can retain them.

The adrenaline already courses through your veins, blood audibly pumping in your ears and eyes sprung open. You are wide awake, but you can’t shake the feeling that this must be a dream, that there must be some mistake. It doesn’t feel real.

You never thought it’d be you. It was always a ‘what if,’ but it never seemed likely. There are thousands of slips in that big glass bowl and only a handful read your name.

Your lips part as you struggle to work in heavy, wheezing breaths, staring out over the densely packed crowd - an ocean of drab colors and hollow silhouettes. Just moments ago you were lost in this crowd, one head in a sea of thousands.

What are the odds?

You start when the back of the escort’s hand nudges your shoulder, ripping you from your haze.

“It’s customary for the tributes to shake hands, dear,” she whispers to you out of the mic’s range.

It takes you a moment to register her words, to understand what she was even trying to communicate.

You didn’t hear her call the male tribute, too engulfed in your blackhole of dread, deafened by the sound of your own heartbeat. Your doubled vision flits to catch the gaze of the male tribute, swallowing hard when you find half-lidded eyes. Immediately your heart sinks, intestines tied into knots as you stare at the menacing figure before you.

The Mountain.

You didn’t know him. You didn’t even know his name, and you had missed your opportunity when the Capitol’s escort read his slip of paper from the big glass bowl. You knew his nickname, though. Or at least - the name he was taunted with. He’d been relentlessly teased for his size, nearing seven feet tall with an intimidating frame to match. Always looming above the crowd, commanding attention whether he wants it or not. The particularly unruly kids torment him, the rest are afraid of him.

The district’s outcast.

You’d had an encounter with him once before, for just a moment. You hadn’t even exchanged words, but you’d thoroughly embarrassed yourself.

Through vision that warps with each beat of your heart, you find his arm, extended and waiting patiently to shake hands.

You try to find a response to the escort’s instructions and also give The Mountain an apology for making him wait, but your words come out mumbled and on top of each other. You shuffle unsteadily towards him, having to reach your arm up to press your shaking palms to hands that sit much higher than yours. His calloused, monstrous hand swallows yours with a sturdy grip. He’s carrying the work, your arm gone completely limp to his as he shakes your hand. You meet his eyes, devoid of expression and staring down at you, half-lidded and unreadable. You’re not sure if the moisture is coming from you, him, or both, but you have the sense to refrain from wiping off the sweat on your nice reaping day clothes in front of the crowd.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the tributes from District Nine!”

The escort raises each of your arms as the crowd looks on, yours by your wrist, his by the crook of his elbow, as far as she can reach when his arm is fully extended. There’s no applause, but people do break into overlapping, indecipherable shouts.

Judging by the way the escort’s face drops, it wasn’t a positive reception.

You’d already sunk into yourself again, wrist limp against her hold and arm dropping loosely to your side when she releases it. You get a brief second to glance to your feet, a moment to pretend you were slipping through the stage and out of existence before you’re roughly ushered away, tripping over yourself as the peacekeepers push you and The Mountain into the district’s hall.

Your loved ones were more emotional than you were. You couldn’t bring yourself to be in the moment to give them a genuine goodbye, clouded by a numb fog, completely dissociated from your body and thoughts. You wish you could remember their heartfelt parting words, but you’re not sure if it would make it easier or harder to leave, most likely never to return.

When your time is up, the guards swoop in to take you both to the train station, where you’re escorted through a swarming crowd with a hundred cameras trained square on your face. You catch a glimpse of yourself on one of their screens, long enough to see your face has drained its color.

Thirty minutes pass on the train ride to the Capitol when you finally regain control of your body, the racing thoughts returning.

The escort is rambling about something, you can hear her voice but you’re too exhausted to tune in to her words.

Your eyes flick up from the floor of the train to find crystal chandeliers, upholstered furniture, golden decor. Extravagance you’ve only ever seen through the static of a television. The colors are vibrant. Dyed a rainbow of saturated and bright colors you weren’t used to seeing in your district. You follow the path of intricate etchings into the sturdy wood, mesmerized by the swirled designs.

As your eyes scan the room you feel the stare of The Mountain, arms crossed and legs fully extended to support his deep slouch on the opposing bench. He quickly glances away when you meet his stare, giving his attention back to your district’s escort.

You take the opportunity to close your parted lips and make a futile attempt to keep your emotions off your sleeve.

The Mountain had you beat in that department - unreadable in every sense of the word. That’s the smart move, keep your opponents guessing. You’re sure you read as pathetic, smelling of weakness and as helpless as a fawn.

He’s got you beat in every department, actually. The Mountain looks like he was engineered for this. Height designed for intimidation, built like an ox, muscles that protrude even from under his clothes.

You wouldn’t stand a chance in a one-on-one with him, let alone him in the company of twenty-two other tributes.

You’re dead.

After soaking in the escort’s ridiculous outfit, busy with deep red ruffles and gems, you finally tune into her words. She’s going on about what the upcoming days will look like, her misguided optimism and excitement a grated ringing your ears. You don’t bother to stifle the way your cheek bunches with a snarl.

The train car’s doors part with a smooth zip, your irritation briefly distracted by a burly man making his entrance.

John Price - a winner of a game that took place around twenty years ago. You’d never met him, but you knew of him well. A man that’s straight to the point, doesn’t take bullshit, and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. The kind of man you can deduce with a onceover that he’s been hardened by life’s cruel nature. Harsh lines around his eyes and forehead, always dawning a furrowed brow and an everlasting squint, appearing as if he both dislikes and distrusts just about anything he looks at. He’s spent his life as victor mostly in his own isolation, dulling the pain with whiskey and the occasional prostitute. Aside from a plush stomach, courtesy of indulging in his winnings, it’s clear he’s retained most of his strength over the years.

Price crosses his sturdy arms and interrupts the escort mid-sentence, “Ruby, give the kids a minute to breathe, would’ya?” His voice gruff and tone shaming, giving the escort, Ruby, a look that conveys the room’s annoyance with her.

She’s taken aback by his interruption, nose crinkled and mouth pulled back in disbelief. She mumbles under her breath as she exits the compartment, leaving you and The Mountain alone with your mentor.

Your gaze finds the floor again, staring in the space just in front of The Mountain’s boots, his ankles crossed and heels dug into the train’s floor. If the circumstances were different, you would have thanked Price for silencing the escort, but you’re in no mood for courtesy.

From your peripheral you watch Price uncross his arms, digging his palms into his hips as he looks you both over. He takes his time eyeing up The Mountain, just like most do. You already know what he’s thinking - that District Nine might actually have a chance. That someone that fit, that strong, that big would have the best odds of leaving with the crown.

The burn of Price’s stare is brief. He doesn’t linger on you as much. You know what he’s thinking - that a weakling such as yourself was destined to die in that arena, that you don’t stand a chance to even last a day. Giving up on you before you even started.

Not that you could blame him.

Price says nothing, turning his back to you both. You turn your focus out the window, watching the trees whiz by faster than you can get a good look at them, a green and blue blur of foliage and sky. You’ve never gone this fast before.

There’s the sound of clinking glass, the pour of liquid.

Price wordlessly moves in front of The Mountain before stepping to you. He nudges you when you refuse to return his stare, extending a short glass half-full with an amber drink.

“You’ve earned it,” He says when you hesitate, his offering outstretched for an awkward few seconds before you reach out, carefully wrapping your fingers around the crystal.

You inspect it closely before looking over to The Mountain. You meet eyes again, both of you checking to see if the other will accept the offer. You raise an eyebrow at him, acknowledging the shared hesitance.

It felt like a trick.

Alcohol was a luxury you wouldn’t have been able to afford in your district - even if the merchants were unethical enough to sell to the underaged.

You bring the glass just under your nose, wincing at the pungent smell that singes your nostrils.

“Don’t be shy,” Price says, “It’ll ease the nerves.”

That you could get on board with.

You ignore The Mountain’s stare boring into you as you bring the glass to your lips, taking a meager sip. An audible gag leaves you when you swallow, face contorted in a wince at the fire that laps against the back of your throat. You can follow the warmth as it makes its way down, finishing with a bloom throughout your chest.

Price gives a chuckle at your struggle to take the whiskey down.

You narrow your eyes at him, the heat under your skin turning to that of spite. You hold his stare while you bring the glass back to your lips, impulsively downing the whiskey. Your body fights each swallow, forced to override the clear signals from your body that strongly suggest you don’t let it go down. Stinging tears well at your eyeline and threaten to spill, but you don’t break your glare even after you slam the empty glass on the bench next to you with an obnoxious thud of crystal. You hope he can’t tell you’re fighting back the overwhelming urge to vomit, the warmth crawling up your throat instead of down this time.

“Atta’ girl,” Price says with an amused huff. He draws closer to top off your glass while you force down a coughing fit.

You’re good, you think, but you’re too busy choking on your stomach’s threat of retching to object to his pour. You catch The Mountain swirling his glass before taking his first sip, eased by your bold display.

Price lets out an exhausted grunt when he sits, hands on his thighs as he drops onto the same velvet covered bench you perched on. If he’s noticed your clear discomfort as you fight to hold in the burn of the whiskey, he doesn’t comment on it, thankfully. You surely would not be able to handle another round of spite-chugging.

The three of you brood in silence for at least twenty minutes. It’s not an awkward silence, more of a solemn one. The silence that blankets a burial as you watch a loved one being lowered into their grave. There was nothing any of you could say to dull the harsh reality unfolding before you.

You can feel the loosening effect of the alcohol. Price wasn’t kidding. The world felt fuzzy, but easier. Your thoughts slow, inhibition lowering. You change your mind on the refill after all, returning to small yet confident sips.

Once Ruby returns, you’re well past tipsy, cheeks flushed and a noticeable dip in coordination. Your steps feel uneven as the four of you make your way to the dining car, putting an unusual amount of focus on your strides.

Ruby continues to break the silence with her casual conversation, sitting across from you and going on like half the table wasn’t being sent to their death.

The Mountain’s legs brush against yours under the cover of the table’s exotic wood, but the spirits have given slack to prior reservations. You’re not bothered to point your knees towards Price. You can feel The Mountain’s stare out of the corner of his eye, annoyed you weren’t making room for him.

You stopped caring.

Your entire life you’ve been so focused on pleasing others, making yourself smaller to conform as you were expected to fit the order of the districts. You most certainly were going to die - what could you gain for continuing the charade?

The Mountain can deal with your outer thigh, you decide.

Dinner is more lavish than the train’s fixtures. Enough food to feed your family for a month spread out on the table in front of you for just one meal. Golden brown and fluffy rolls in a neat stack, perfectly roasted and seasoned greens, tender beef and potatoes stewed in rich broth.

You didn’t think you would have much of an appetite, but the smell is so enticing you can’t help but sample. Hesitant bites quickly turn to greedy scarfing - you’d never tasted anything so extravagant.

You’d feel bad, but the booze has dulled your worries and The Mountain seems to be putting it away faster than you were. Through the fog settled over your mind, you briefly wonder how much food it takes to sustain one of his size. The financial strain he must have put on his family. How many times was he forced to put his name in that big glass bowl in exchange for extra rations?

After nursing your second glass of whiskey to completion, cheeks flushed with warmth and thoughts beyond muddled, Price doesn’t hesitate to pour you another.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate, John.”

You watch as Ruby’s lips purse, Price not even giving her a glance as he tips the decanter, silently defying her suggestion.

“It’s unbecoming of a mentor to get his tributes intoxicated,” Ruby scolds.

“It’s unbecoming to send these kids to their death for no good reason,” Price shoots back, voice gruff as he sets the decanter down. He returns to his fork, the screech of metal across his plate echoing throughout the car as he gathers some greens.

“You know very well it’s because of the rebellion.”

You and The Mountain share another unsure glance before you offer him a lazy shrug and a soft roll of your eyes. Something to remind him that nothing mattered anymore, remembe

The combination of what remains of your nerves, whiskey, and rich food does not bode well, your stomach churning as it catches up with your appetite. Beads of sweat seep from your pores and underarms, your clothes suddenly twice as constricting.

You slide your chair out from the table with a drawn-out, obnoxious scrape. You’re followed by all three sets of eyes as you wordlessly rush out of the dining car with clenched fists, the train’s doors opening for you automatically.

You make it to the bathroom, thankfully, but miss your opportunity to lean closer to the toilet - a mixture of the rich stew, whiskey, and bile spraying over the porcelain. You drop to your knees, another twist and heave of your gut launching into the bowl. The whiskey burns just as bad up as it does going down, if not more, and this time it takes its opportunity to scorch your nose for good measure.

When you’re finished coughing out the final bits of half-digested food that threaten to lodge in your windpipe, you lay back with a groan, back flush to the cool tile.

You’ve never been in a bathroom so extravagant. Sinks made of marble, golden fixtures, embroidered towels. Not a single fleck of dirt or grime. The bathmats are made of an elegant, plush fabric encompassing stuffing that substitutes a pillow for your spinning head. You felt bad for defiling a bathroom so lavish, but shelved the feeling when you think maybe it could be a form of revenge.

This is what you get for sending me to a fight to the death, Capitol. Puke on your fancy toilets.

You lift your arm to wipe vomit from the corner of your mouth before letting it fall back onto the tile with a thud, eyes pinching shut in a desperate attempt to rid the dizzy spin.

You sneer at the sound of heavy shoes approaching, not bothering to sit up to greet your visitor.

“I don’t want to hear it, okay? Just-”

You peek with one eye when the footsteps stop, bailing on your sentence when you see The Mountain filling the doorway with his massive frame.

“Oh,” You sit up slowly, knees folding in front of you, resting your head on the bathroom wall. You close your eyes again with a soft wince, “Thought you were Price.”

“They, äh,” You noticeably flinch at the sound of his voice, enough to snap your eyes open with a shake of your head. You’d never heard him speak before. It was intense - grating almost. Not like Ruby’s voice. His was deeper, harsher, as if he was forcing each word with a hiss through a filter of crunching gravel, “Wanted me to tell you that dessert was being served.”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes looking to the ceiling to avoid your stare.

You appreciate the gesture - partially because you didn’t need your opponent to see you even more pathetic than he already has - tears and snot staining puffy cheeks, curled up in a ball next to a vomit-stained toilet. Mostly because the thought of a rich Capitol dessert makes you gag, and you’d rather he didn’t watch as your limbs scramble for the toilet before making another splash in the water. It’s followed by desperate spitting in an attempt to remove the bitter taste from your mouth, and when you pull away to sit on your knees, you’re relieved to see the doorway empty.

You return to leaning against the bathroom wall, taking deep, exhausted breaths as you wish away the nausea.

The footsteps near again, and you pull a face at the second disruption. You don’t look, but you can hear the footsteps approach, pause, and then peter out again. You raise an eyebrow at the lack of mocking, opening your eyes to find only a glass of water sitting on the marble countertop.

“Hey,” You call out with a slight slur, rubbing your brow unsurely. You continue when you hear the footsteps stop in acknowledgment, a shameful plead layering words exclaimed to the next room, “Don’t tell Price?”

You didn’t want him to know your spite-chugging had blown up in (out of?) your face. You’d already embarrassed yourself in front of The Mountain, you didn’t need to ruin whatever scrap of dignity Price might hold for you.

“I won’t,” The harsh voice echoes back.

You don’t form words, but you do hum him a single note in the tune of ‘thank you’ before he leaves you be.

You’re not sure how long you rest on the ground, soothed by the cool tile. When you regain your strength, you stand on wobbly legs, and help yourself to a pure white towel embroidered with gold thread stitched into intricate patterns. You wipe your face before cleaning off the toilet to the best of your ability, ultimately deciding that whoever was responsible for cleaning the toilets most likely did not have any influence on the decision to send you to your death.

The Mountain’s offering of water was a saving grace. You give a thorough rinse of your mouth, stripping the repulsive taste from your tongue before making your way back to the dining car.

“Welcome back,” Price says dryly upon your return.

You give a light grunt in response, still embarrassed about failing to hold your liquor. You’re hoping he was oblivious to your defeat.

“Would you like to see your rooms?” Ruby asks with her posh Capitol accent, ending her question with a high pitch.

Ruby shows you to your rooms, each of you having your own private quarters.

“Help yourself! Anything in here is yours for the taking. If you need anything, just ring the bell and someone will be at your service,” She gives a bright white smile, “Goodnight you two!”

Ruby’s shoes clack obnoxiously as she walks off, a folded palm raised near her head and bouncing with each step.

You and The Mountain share another glance, a raise of an eyebrow at Ruby’s incongruous mannerisms.

Maybe you could blame it on the whiskey - but his presence, while intimidating at first, is starting to grow on you. As selfish as it is, you’re relieved you weren’t alone in this. Someone to check-in with, someone who was just as lost as you, just as unsure, and just as knee-deep in the same abysmal circumstances.

He served as a reminder of home, too. Maybe not incredibly familiar, but he was a pleasant contrast from the Capitol way of life, even in his nice reaping day clothes. A piece of District Nine to be at your side, at least until you get to the arena.

You don’t last long once you’re back in your room. You brush the awful taste from your mouth, have a warm soak in the extravagant shower in your private bathroom, enjoying the scents of fancy soaps. Once dried and underwear replaced, you crawl into the lush bed, only minutes passed before you’re drifting off.

———————————————————-

It’s the growl of your hollow stomach that wakes you. A cramp that tightens in your lower half, aching for food. It’s accompanied by a mild headache, a punishment for your dehydration and irresponsible drinking. The hangover had you feeling dirty, even though the shower’s water pressure and fancy soaps and scrubs had you cleaner than ever before. You groan at your abdominal muscles, sore from the arduous task of vomiting.

After a half-hearted attempt to pull yourself together, you meander to the dining car, hoping for food. The smell hits you as soon as you step through the automatic doors, eyes lulling and mouth watering at the inviting aroma of a generous breakfast spread.

Ruby and The Mountain are already sitting at the table, halfway through their meals.

“Good morning!” Ruby says in a pitch that makes your headache throb. You don’t let it show, “Sleep well?” She asks.

You hum at her in response, polite but reserved. Avoiding her gaze, you eye up the dishes spread on the table as you take your seat. Bacon, sausage, and ham spread neatly on a tray. Eggs, seasoned potatoes, ripe and brilliant fruits. Bagels, muffins, and toast paired with an assortment of jams. Never had you had so many choices for breakfast.

When you bump into The Mountain’s knee this time, you cross your leg over the other, giving him the space he needed. Maybe it’ll make up for the disgusting display you subjected him to last night. You avoid his gaze too, now inhibited without the confidence the booze gifted you.

You don’t hesitate to load your plate, rolling your eyes in satisfaction as you take your first bite. While you chew you pour yourself orange juice, following your swallow with half the glass to satisfy your overwhelming thirst.

“Today’s going to be very exciting,” Ruby starts with her cheery tone, “We’ll be arriving at the Capitol!”

You keep your attention to your plate, secretly wishing she’d give you time to wake up, time to pretend that what was happening wasn’t happening. You wonder if Price would have staved her off if he was here.

“The opening ceremony is tonight!” She squeals. Her hand goes limp on her wrist as she leans forward in her chair, dropping her voice as if she’s sharing a scandalous secret, “So, when we get there, you’ll both head straight to your stylists. They’ll prep you and make sure you both look perfect for the audience.”

You can feel the intimidating, half-lidded stare coming from the direction of The Mountain. You resist the urge to meet his gaze, the shame making it difficult to meet his eyes. You tilt your chin down to rid him from your peripheral in an attempt to focus on breakfast instead of the stylists, the ceremony, or The Mountain.

He was a reminder of home, a reminder that you were not alone in this nightmare, but he was also a reminder of the nightmare you were both trapped in. You wanted to at least have a belly full of food before you dug into reality.

“Coffee?” Ruby asks after she’s finished topping off her mug.

Coffee was another luxury you wouldn’t have been able to afford in your district. You flick between her gaze and the pot before you find a matching mug in front of The Mountain’s plate.

“Sure,” You mumble, careful not to brush your fingers against the heated glass while you take the coffee from her. You fill the empty mug next to your assigned dish, and warm your fingers around the mug. Your hesitant sip leads to a wince at the bitter taste.

Apparently having watched your reaction, The Mountain wordlessly slides a ceramic jar and matching pourer filled with sugar and cream respectively into your reach. He looks to Ruby, who gives him a proud nod, as if he correctly implemented something she had taught him.

You don’t say anything, don’t meet his gaze even when he pulls away his hands.

After a moment of hesitance you do take his suggestion, and find he’s right. With the sweetening of sugar and mixed with chilled cream it is much better, tasting more like a dessert than a drink you’d have with breakfast.

Keeping your mouth rinsed from vomit, bettering your coffee.

After you’ve downed your first sip, you have the thought that he might be trying to get you to ingest something. Maybe the hangover was not the only thing to blame for feeling lousy this morning. A poison, or even just something to make you sick before you get to the arena, mixed into the water and the cream.

You set the mug down on its saucer as if handling an explosive.

While The Mountain is busy clearing his plate, you survey him. His eyes are still half-lidded and unreadable, body relaxed casually.

Maybe too casually.

“Morning,” Price says on his entrance, stealing your attention.

“You’re late,” Ruby says strictly.

“You’re loud,” Price cuts back, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

You raise a brow.

At the very least, watching Price and Ruby bicker was entertaining. Something to distract you from your imminent death, drawing closer with each minute that ticks by.

Ruby’s face pinches, but otherwise she doesn’t acknowledge his insult.

“We were talking about the opening ceremony tonight.”

Price grunts, loading a scoop of potatoes onto his plate with a large silver serving spoon.

“This will be the first time you get to show off to your sponsors, so make sure you make a good impression!”

You and The Mountain have paused eating to give your stomachs a chance to stretch around your appetite. The sound of Price clinking dishware fills the silences in between Ruby’s excited words.

“Big smiles, head high, don’t forget to wave! Remember - you’re proud to be a part of such an important part of history!”

You slam your glass of orange juice down onto the table, the juice sloshing up the side of the crystal and launching droplets from the glass that splatter on the tablecloth. You command the table’s attention, but only meet Ruby’s eyes with a pointed, icy glare.

She looks back at you in bewilderment, as if you’ve not been provoked into your outburst. You don’t have words for her, just a stare full of daggers and flared nostrils. You’re not in the mood to play nice this morning.

“Well, you certainly have a lot to work on between now and the ceremony,” She says, taking a sip of her coffee as she holds her saucer underneath.

You roll your eyes, roughly smearing a glob of jam over a piece of toast. In your irritation you forget you didn’t want to acknowledge The Mountain yet, shooting him an annoyed glance. His brows lower, almost like he’s apologizing on her behalf.

You find it even more annoying that he’s not as bothered by the implication that the two of you should be proud you were chosen to be slaughtered. You look back down to your plate, tearing off a corner of your toast, too busy mulling over Ruby’s words to enjoy the sweet taste of jam coating your tongue.

A full stomach helps dull the rage and eases your hangover.

“She’s right, you know,” Price says, low and toward his meal after a long silence.

“That it’s an honor to be such an important part of history?” You ask, voice sharp with malice.

“No,” He starts, and Ruby’s mouth cocks back, “That you need to make a good impression on the sponsors.”

He slides a piece of ham off his fork, not bothering to swallow as he continues, “Play their game. Wear the corny costumes, be a beacon of positivity, act honored to be there.”

“Whatever,” You say, bumping your knee against The Mountain’s leg when you slide out of your chair to stand. You drop your cloth napkin over your plate, exiting the car without so much as a goodbye.

Back in your room, your pointed frustration boils down to reveal nothing but a heavy ache in your chest. An exhausted sob leaves you when you flop down on your bed, finally giving yourself the space to cry, to let out all of the overwhelming emotions you’ve been trying to heed off. The tears flow mercilessly, the droplets rolling off your nose before staining the silken sheets a shade darker. You don’t even try to stifle your cries, too occupied thinking about home, about your loved ones, about how you’ve only a few days left to live - and you can’t even live them how you want too. Forced to be a puppet to the Capitol, dolled up and pretending like you’re not the lowest you’ve even been, just to give them a good show. A desperate bid to have some rich schmuck buy you the difference between life and death in that arena.

When you awake for the second time, your eyes are puffy, mouth dry, and there’s a hearty knock flooding your room that only exacerbates the dehydration headache nestled just behind your eyebrows.

Ruby’s calling in a sing-song voice through the door, “We’re here!”

You give a small whine into the sheets, lifting your head to find your temples pulse with movement.

You rub your red eyes with a loose fist and rise to make a last minute attempt to look presentable. Walking around like you’ve just woken from a nap you cried yourself into surely doesn’t say, ‘I’m proud to be a part of such an important part of history,’ does it?

You do what you can, fixing your hair and brushing your teeth, but there’s nothing you can do to hide puffy cheeks and swollen eyelids.

When you open the door, you flinch when you see The Mountain, not expecting to see his daunting figure standing in the hallway between your doors.

His eye twitches when he sees your swollen face, a stare you had to tilt your head back to meet.

You let out a long exhale as you regain composure, one hand slowly returning from your instinctual brace to the doorknob.

You give him a raise of a brow in question at his lingering presence while you creep the door shut.

For a moment those hooded eyes widen, his hands pulling up to the space in front of his chest. He fumbles the start of his sentence, looking to the floor before he spits it out.

“I thought we should go together.”

You give him a small, slow nod, not sure what to make of it.

Your first thought is that he wanted a look at you, to see if his poisoning had any worthwhile effect.

You’re surprised he’s doing it by letting his nerves show, being so open about leaning on you. You didn’t think he would allow himself to be vulnerable in front of an opponent - he’s been nothing but unreadable so far.

Maybe he’s comfortable letting his guard down after he saw you such a mess yesterday, not worried about showing weakness to someone who’s more than truly pathetic.

Maybe he’s relieved to have someone just as lost and just as unsure at his side, too. His fidgeting hands drop to his side as you walk past him, his heavy boots following in your wake.

Maybe he’s just trying to lure you in so that you’ll be an easy kill in the arena. Trick you into thinking he’s not a threat so that the knife impales smoothly through your back.

You lead him to the car with the velvet benches, where Ruby and Price sit. Your attention is immediately pulled to the windows, a perfect view of the twinkling Capitol approaching in the distance. A massive city with skyscrapers and lights that dot the sky like stars. An infrastructure unlike anything you’ve ever seen, thousands of vehicles flooding the grid-like streets - streets made of concrete, not of dirt.

As you near the city, the train beginning its smooth stop, you can see crowds of Capitol citizens flooding the space near the tracks.

“What are they doing?’ You can’t help but ask, face warped in confusion.

“They want an early glimpse at the tributes!” Ruby answers enthusiastically.

“They’re here for us?” You ask, a mixture of genuine confusion and patronization in your voice.

They’re cheering, open mouth smiles, jumping up and down, waving handkerchiefs at the sight of you and The Mountain through the window.

You both stare dumbfounded at them, soaking in the rainbow of bright and busy outfits. They all looked like they were dressed up in costumes, dawning puffy gowns, huge wigs, and dramatic makeup. They’re gone in an instant as you pull into the train station.

The four of you are ushered quickly into the remake center, where you share one more panicked look with The Mountain before you’re led down different halls.

——————

In the remake center, there is no stone left unturned. You are roughly scrubbed, plucked, and slathered in a hundred different creams and elixirs. Teeth whitened, nails picked clean of dirt, filed down and oiled. Hair washed, combed, and styled.

You can’t help but feel violated, all of these hands on you, transforming you against your will. In an attempt to soothe yourself you close your eyes, trying to take yourself somewhere you’re not. It’s difficult to do so when every few seconds there’s a rip of a hair from its follicle, a yank on your scalp, or the gritty scrape of a hard sponge along your skin.

You wonder if The Mountain is having a similar experience, or if his prep team is taking it easier on him. Will they wax him? Or let him keep his body hair since he’s a boy? Are his nails getting filed? Is he being scrubbed head to toe with a rock that feels like it’s made of sandpaper?

Without his presence and to your dismay, you find yourself even more anxious without him by your side. You wish you could share another unsure glance with him, to remind yourself that you’re not alone in this.

Not yet anyway.

Once the prep team has measured every curve and inch of your much too exposed body, they decide you’re ready and haul you off to your stylist.

Your stylist is a tall, thin woman named Mauve that doesn’t seem to be too interested in you at all. She refuses to meet your eyes, attention glued to a tablet supported by her stomach and resting on her forearm. Her free arm pokes at the screen.

She lets out a sigh, and then speaks, not to you, but to the room, “District Nine. Grain. What am I supposed to do with that?”

It’s tradition for the opening ceremony outfits to reflect the main industry of the districts. In previous years, the District Nine tributes were usually dressed as farmers. Not particularly remarkable or fashionable.

“Farmers?” You ask.

She sighs again, this one drawn out, and then exits the room.

You are left in this room for hours, alone with your own thoughts. Your fingers tap on the bench you’re perched on, legs swaying anxiously a foot off the ground.

When Mauve returns, you’ve already managed to dive headfirst into a full spiral, nothing in the room to distract you from the impending games, and more pressingly, being put on display for thousands of Capitol citizens as if you’re cattle to be auctioned off.

She’s got a long, flowing beige dress in her hands. It’s covered in wheat, stems and wheat flowers arranged in intricate patterns along the upper half of the dress, swirling on the bust. The lower half of the dress is made up of what must be a thousand oversized wheat heads that fan out at the hem, giving the impression of feathers weightlessly bouncing at the bottom of the skirt. She fashions a matching crown on your head and pins it in place in a way that puts an unpleasant pull on your scalp.

In terms of opening ceremony costumes, it’s actually not the worst. It’s not particularly flashy or remarkable, but it’s certainly an improvement from overalls and straw hats.

“It’s pretty,” You say, running your fingers over the fabric.

“It’s the best I could do,” She scoffs again, “Grain. What a joke.”

If only the dress was as comfortable as it was pretty. You might as well be wearing a bale of hay, scratchy and poking you with each movement you make. You find yourself holding your arms up to avoid the prick of fake wheat on your inner bicep.

The shoes are the worst part. A beige high heel that squeezes your feet too tight and digs into the back of your ankles. You hope you won’t have to deal with fresh blisters in the arena.

She does your nails, a matching beige with a dotted design that give the appearance of wheat florettes. It lends your nails a glossy, bumpy texture that’s quite pleasant to run your fingers over.

Mauve applies your makeup in silence. After sitting in isolation for the last few hours, you’re happy to have her painting and poking your face, now able to focus on the smooth swipes of a brush or the smear of a heavy cream instead of… everything else.

When you look at yourself in the mirror, your breath is stolen, a gaped mouth and sprung eyes looking back at you.

You don’t look like yourself at all. The girl standing in front of you is a stranger. You’ve been completely rid of the evidence of your life in District Nine. You might as well be a Capitol citizen with your glowing skin, outlandish outfit, and hair silkier and fluffier than ever.

Mauve went heavy on the make-up, the flesh of your face already begging for the touch of fresh air, but you can’t help but admire the artistic nature of your eye shadow. A simple, classy even, light beige on your eyelids that transitions to a creamy rich brown on your eye sockets. The highs of your face shine with a radiant golden shimmer, the lows darkened to give your features a more striking appearance.

“Wow,” You say breathlessly, at a complete loss for words.

Mauve checks her nails, looking bored. She takes her time before she gives you one more gloss over and leaves without a word.

This time, instead of mulling over the games, the ceremony - you stare at yourself, mesmerized by your own appearance. You’re particularly interested in the way the wheat flowers on your hem dance and flutter when you sway.

You’re relieved to see Ruby when she comes to retrieve you with Mauve. You’re eased by the familiar face, even if she has a tendency to be incredibly ignorant.

“Oh!” She gasps, “Don’t you look just marvelous!”

“Thank you, Ruby,” You say, genuinely appreciative of her compliment.

You have to cling to Ruby’s folded arm, making slow, shaky steps as you get accustomed to the shoes.

When you meet up with Price and The Mountain down in the stables, it confuses you when another wave of relief hits in their presence. You were relieved to see Ruby, but you actually let out an audible sigh at the sight of The Mountain.

You lock eyes almost immediately, and you find yourself smiling at him. Actually smiling, you think for the first time since Reaping Day. You catch yourself quickly, stifling your expression with a fold of your lips as you look him up and down. The only thing that makes you feel better about your readable emotions is watching him dull his smile, too.

He’s wearing a matching beige suit, but his is not covered in wheat flowers. Instead he is accented with them, the florettes blooming along his tie, the seams of his suit, his jacket pocket. There’s a bundle of long stems fastened between his shoulder blades, giving him a collar made of florettes around the back of his neck. It resembles peacock feathers, the wheat blossoms fanned and fluttering behind him with the slightest movements, much like the skirt of your dress. A crown similar to yours is fashioned to his head, but his is thicker, less dainty.

“Well, don’t you two just look good enough to mill and grind,” Price says.

“How long did it take you to come up with that one?” You say, arms still raised awkwardly to avoid the stab of wheat stems.

Price just huffs, looking away. You follow his gaze, and your face immediately sinks in dread. This is the first time you’ve seen the other tributes, and even just standing in the same open room as them is enough to intimidate you. If it were not for the painted-on skin of your makeup, you’re sure everyone would be able to see the color drain from your face.

Price must have noticed, because he snaps his fingers with a quiet whistle to catch your attention. He points to the floor in between the group’s four pairs of shoes, wordlessly ordering you to focus on the task at hand.

You give him a weak nod, eyes still pooled with unease. Any other time you would have been miffed by the disrespectful gesture, one that reminds you of how one would treat a dog that has a habit of running too far from his owner, but you understand Price has your best interests in mind. You’re thankful, even, that he is there to ground you, to keep the fear from bubbling up and boiling over.

Ruby unintentionally helps distract you with her last minute coaching. She gives a light but firm smack to your upper arm, “Don’t hold your arms up like that! You look like a chicken.”

“It’s itchy,” You object.

“Good! All the more incentive to wave at the crowd. Remember - happy faces, chin high, big smiles!”

After a light roll of your eyes, you feel the burn of The Mountain’s stare again. When you look to him, he flicks his gaze to his dress shoes.

You’re surprised by how much it stings.

Maybe you were already becoming too dependent on him. This will only be a weakness in the arena. You cannot afford to get accustomed to his presence, to lean on him for support, because it will soon be ripped away from you. You may be in this together now, but the moment that gong sounds in the arena all bets are off.

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly as dry as cotton.

Shortly after they load you and The Mountain into a chariot rigged to two unattended, tan-colored horses. Ruby offers her hand for support as you pull yourself into the chariot.

Standing next to The Mountain this closely, you can’t help but soak in how he dwarfs you. His towering height and limbs like tree trunks remind you of just how puny and weak you are.

You don’t want to think about The Mountain anymore. About his unmatched size, unquestionable strength, mutual reassurance. About his stupid matching suit and collar of wheat flowers that compliments the flecks of gold in his eyes.

You pinch off your vision and let out a long breath through your nose. When you open them, your attention is immediately taken by the tributes in their chariots in front of you.

The boy and girl from District Eight stand as far apart from each other as the chariot allows. They’re dressed in colorful, busy outfits made of weaved ribbons with contrasting designs. Textiles is their district industry, you think. The girl is tall, but has a thin build and little muscle. The boy is average in stature, but you can tell he’s lean. You can’t help but imagine how you’d fare against a fight with each of them. The girl you might stand a sliver of a chance against, the boy not so much.

Through the gap between them, you can see District Seven’s tributes, chatting with each other. They’re actually smiling, going on like they’re not about to be paraded in front of thousands of people in a debut for their deaths. Lumber, you think. Your guess is confirmed by a look at their arms, toned and muscled by years of swinging an axe. You wouldn’t stand a chance against either of them.

The large metal doors open with a grind, and you can hear them - the Capitol citizens screaming in anticipation. A thunderous roar made from thousands of whooping cheers and clapping hands. It’s loud enough to vibrate the floor of the chariot. Your heart skips when the music blares over the speakers and the first chariot pulls out. The crowd triples in volume at the sight of District One, in their outfits that reflect like the sun and will surely leave a lasting impression on the sponsors.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until it’s too late, having to take several deep, shaky breaths through your mouth. Your pulse has made its way to your ears, sweat working its way through layers of thick make-up. The dress is not helping, its pricks and jabs a constant reminder of its presence. It seems tighter, somehow, as the cut of the waistband digs into your ribs and constricts the air from your lungs. You’re hyperventilating, squeezing heels clicking anxiously under the shuffle of your weight on each foot.

You desperately fight the urge to look to your left, to share this moment of stomach-churning apprehension with The Mountain. The only way you manage this feat is by pinching your eyes shut.

You’ve thought you managed to cut off the support The Mountain has been providing you so far, until the chariot lurches forward and rips the floor from your feet. With a gasp your eyes open, hands instinctively shooting out to steady your balance, already hindered by lifted shoes you’re not accustomed to.

Once steady on the floor that slipped from underneath you, you give something of a nervous laugh before you realize one hand is gripping the front of the chariot, and the other is firmly wrapped around The Mountain’s forearm. He has already braced in the space around you, primed to catch you if you fall.

Great, now you’re literally leaning on him for support.

You jerk your hands back to your sides as if you’d touched a blazing oven. Wheat stems stab into your inner arm as you meet the gaze you’ve been trying to avoid. You mumble out a sheepish apology to him, but he surely can’t hear it over the boom of the crowd, his hands retracting slowly to his sides.

You force your focus back to Ruby’s instructions, lifting your chin and plastering a big, toothy smile on your face. It feels too forced but you hope it doesn’t show. Your arms spring to wave quickly, having already been overextended to avoid the scratch of fake grain.

Once you catch sight of the packed stands, you black out. Your hands are still moving to follow orders, feet still planted unsteadily in your spot, but your nerves have pried your very soul from your core and dropped it right through the chariot and floor, sending it to an inky black void.

You return to your body and mind during the Capitol anthem, the muscles in your face burning from your forced, clenched teeth smile. You’d completely missed The President’s speech.

It’s not until all of the chariots have been led to the training center when you realize that your arm is bent at the elbow to meet a hand that sits much higher than yours.

Your fingers are intertwined with The Mountain’s, squeezing him with a grip strong enough to choke the life from a man.

————————————————————

It’s all you can think about - the hand holding. You wish you could remember who initiated it.

The worst part was the look on his face when you had jerked your sweaty palms back to your side. He looked as if you had just spit in his face and accused him of violating you. The rejection that spread across his features gave you a pang in your chest that still lingers with a heavy weight in your heart.

You wish you hadn’t pulled away like that. It was so fast, though, the jarring realization that you had been relying on him to ground you - once again.

As you look to your glossy, too-tight shoes, the only thing you can see is his horrified expression flashing in front of your eyes.

Suddenly you’re brought back to the first encounter you had with him, that day in District Nine. A nauseating heat of shame and regret washes over you.

On the elevator ride to your district’s assigned suite, you try to give him a look through the wheat collar that partially obscures his face. One that would hopefully convey an apology, but his gaze is fixated on the bottom of the elevator doors. His brows are sloped, the space between his eyebrows scrunched, and he’s gnawing slightly at his lower lip.

When the elevator doors part, you suck in with a sharp inhale.

Ruby gives an excited squeal, “Isn’t it so exquisite?!”

Her voice takes on an air of superiority, “I bet you’ve never seen anything like this back in District Nine.”

You’re too distracted to be annoyed with her, proving her point by taking in the room with open mouth awe.

The ceilings must be fourth feet high, large beautifully crafted marble columns stretching from floor to ceiling. The furniture here puts the furniture on the train to shame.

It is a disgusting display of extravagance.

Ruby gives you a tour that ends at your quarters, where she instructs you both to get changed and unwind until dinner in an hour.

You’re happy to follow her instructions, eager to get out of the wheat dress. Your door has barely closed when you kick your shoes off hard enough for them to fling into the frame of the massive bed with a thud. The dress peels off and you’re quick to shower, eager to rinse the stuffy layers of makeup off your face.

It takes you too long to figure out how the closet works. There are so many fancy appliances in this room, and the closet is controlled by a screen that you have to select your outfit on. You figure it out, finally, and an outfit whizzes out from behind a curved, frosted glass panel. You grab the clothes as if the glass was about to snap back into place and take your arm with it.

You don’t trust this closet.

For the first time since the morning of the reaping, you are able to dress in clothes that remind you of home - that remind you of you. You’d opted for something on the more comfortable side, desperate for a breathable, light outfit after that uncomfortable dress.

At dinner, you find yourself thankful for Ruby’s chatter. The energy was definitely off, the air just as stale and constricting as the dress. She filled the silences you would surely choke on if it were just you, Price, and The Mountain.

“Oh, you two did better than I could have hoped! And those outfits,” she gasps for emphasis, “Well, I have to say it’s the best thing that’s come from your district in a long time. I wouldn’t be surprised if you both have sponsors already lining up!”

You know she’s just humoring you. Many of the other districts blew your outfits out of the water. Yours were average, at best. Somehow it seems even worse than the awful outfits, which are at the very least memorable.

“And your waving? Perfect!”

“The hand holding was,” Price pauses, as if chewing on his thoughts while he actually chews his food, “Interesting.”

There’s a harsh scrape of dishware followed by a stark silence as you and The Mountain come to a grinding halt. You don’t dare look up from your plate, but your peripheral reveals Price’s sly, half-lidded stare that pierces through your flesh and draws heat to your cheeks.

His smirk is unmistakable.

Ruby - oh Ruby, you are so sorry for brushing her off before. She rescues you from the most painful three seconds of your life with her optimistic Capitol accent.

“It was perfect! It will surely play well with the audience, and if they think you two may be in the works of forming an alliance in the arena, the sponsors will see that as an advantage!”

An alliance?

You hadn’t considered that before.

The Mountain doesn’t need an ally. Especially not one so useless and will offer little help in the arena. You had no doubt that you would only hold him back.

You don’t look at him. You want to look at him. You so badly want to see what he thinks of Ruby’s implied proposal. If it’s his turn to reject you, to wear a realized scowl at the very thought.

Maybe his eyebrows would be raised in interest. A glint of consideration in his eyes at an idea he hadn’t given thought to before.

No.

Surely he would not want you as a partner in a fight to the death. He will have his pick of the litter when it comes to allies, and you will be nothing but dead weight.

The rest of the meal goes as smoothly as you could hope. Ruby rambles on, you keep your gaze to your meal. Once plates are cleared and drinks are emptied, Price leads you to the sitting area where he strongholds you and The Mountain to share a couch so comfortable and soft you could melt into it.

“Alright,” Price says with a push in his voice, “I’ve let you two wallow long enough. Let’s get down to it.”

Your eyes flick to the floor, hand stroking the soothing fabric of the upholstered sofa. You didn’t want to think about the games, but Price had given you plenty of time to digest your circumstances. He didn’t deserve the attitude you instinctively wanted to give him. He’s just as much a victim to these games as you and The Mountain are.

Price lets out a grunt that suggests his bones were fighting his squat to his chair.

With your head still angled to the floor, hair curtaining your view, you can see Price mashing buttons on the remote.

The replay of the reapings.

The careers are nothing short of cruel. Throwing themselves onto the stage to volunteer. All of the tributes from District One and Two are fit and muscular, wearing expressions that leak brutality and a disturbing amount of excitement.

By District Three’s contestants you’re already queasy, and can hardly focus on anything as your vision blurs. It’s like you’re already in the arena, imagining all the different ways the careers will end your life. The boy from District Two, Titan, who has canines that come to a point so sharp it makes his smile look twice as cruel, could easily knock you to the ground with one swing. The girl from District One, Sapphire, piercing you with weapons so sharp you can’t feel the punctures until it’s too late.

Without moving your head, you side-eye The Mountain, who the careers couldn’t hold a candle to. You can tell even over the television that he’s got them all beat in size, and surely strength if judged by pure muscle.

Maybe an alliance wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

The other tributes are a blur. You tune back in around District Seven. The District Seven tributes expressions do not match the ones you saw on the chariot. They look much more solemn as they climb onto the stage, staring hollowly out into the crowd.

Next is Eight, the tributes that had stood miles apart in their chariot.

To your surprise, the boy had volunteered.

He doesn’t look particularly equipped to fight, but there’s a look in his eyes you catch for a moment, a look of pure rage so powerful it radiates through the screen.

“Look out for this one,” Price says, “Something ain’t right with that boy.”

You quirk a brow, but you can’t help but agree. Even through the screen he’s tying your guts into a knot. The feeling is accompanied by an almost primal urge to run.

And then there’s you.

Frozen in shock, hauled up to the stage by peacekeepers. You look as weak and pathetic as you’d suspected. Clearly distraught, pale in the face, knees shaking. You know it’s bad when you feel Price’s pitied gaze out of the corner of your eyes, looking at you like a wounded fawn.

Surely the other tributes will see you as easy pickings.

And then you learn his name.

Konig.

The Mountain’s name is Konig.

When the camera’s find him in the crowd, there’s a brief moment of fear. That look of uncertainty welling over in his eyes before he wipes his expression clean and makes his way to stage.

Konig’s hand had waited outstretched for yours for an uncomfortable amount of time while you were staring blankly into the crowd.

It takes a lot for you not to look at him the moment your hands meet on screen.

You want to apologize for ripping away from him on the chariot so harshly.

The rest of the tributes aren’t particularly memorable. You’re too distracted and have already decided you had absolutely no chance of winning. Doesn’t matter who shows up on that screen, you are going to be slaughtered regardless. You didn’t think making note of the tributes would be particularly relevant.

You tune back in as you watch the replay of the opening ceremony. Ruby joins for this, letting out an excited squeal as she plops herself into an empty chair.

She makes commentary on the outfits, clearly downplaying the better costumes, and insulting the particularly worse ones for you and Konig’s benefit.

“There’s my tributes!” She announces proudly as you and Konig ride into frame.

He really does tower over you.

The camera has to take a wider angle than they did with the other chariots just to get you both into frame. Your smile is clearly forced, the corners of your lips barely perked up as you display your teeth unnervingly. Your eyes show your true emotions and your brows slope in worry.

There’s no mistaking your fear. You’re still waving to the crowd but you know that your soul was miles away in that moment.

Konig’s wheat collar flutters as he waves. He’s much more reserved, keeping his hand close to his body.

The camera zooms out so there’s four chariots in the frame, and the horses trot a few more yards. Still, you can very clearly see your hand reach up and frantically nudge the same forearm that you gripped onto when you lost your balance. You’re practically hitting him, the back of your open hand thwapping him in quick succession in a desperate blind plea for his comfort.

You watch as Konig, without even looking at you, slides his forearm back so that he can take your hand in his. For a moment he even lowers his waving hand so he could lay it on top of yours in a reassuring fashion.

Your fingers move to your temple in a futile attempt to rub out the sick feeling swirling in your guts.

It makes your heart sink twice as low, knowing that you had initiated the hand handholding. Used him for comfort that he was in no way obligated to give you, just so that you could thank him by ripping away from him with disg

You have to look to the floor for the rest of the opening ceremony replay, only Ruby’s gushing to distract yourself from the guilt.

Price switches off the TV when the anthem begins to play and shifts in his seat to face you both with a grunt.

“You have a decision to make. You want to be mentored separately or together?”

There’s a beat, and you resist the urge to look at Konig.

“We’d have more mentorship time if we trained together,” Konig says, quickly but quietly from behind you.

You hesitate before giving a small nod in agreement.

“Alright then. The next few days you kids will be doing group training. So,” He clears his throat, shifting in his spot, “What’d’ya got?”

Price looks at you both expectantly, raising his eyebrows when he’s met with silence. The remote swirls in his hand.

“Nothin’?”

You shrug at him.

“She can fight,” Konig quietly offers on your behalf.

So he does remember.

You whip your head around to him, pulling a face. Your voice comes off more defensive and pointed than you intend, “No I can’t!”

For a moment he shrinks into himself, his eyes flicking between each of yours before he leans forward to find Price.

“I’ve seen it,” He says with a nod.

Price quirks a brow at you, “That so?”

“It wasn’t even a fight!” You blurt out, “He didn’t even-“ You cut yourself off with a growl, face burning.

“He?” Price perks up.

“It doesn’t matter! Because it doesn’t count!”

You cross your arms over your chest, and Price gives something of an amused huff at your outburst.

“If you say so, Plucky.”

Your brows furrow at the nickname.

Price nods his head at Konig, “You?”

Konig gives him a shrug.

“Oh, you’re kidding, right?” You say with an eye roll, your open palm pointing at Konig, “I mean look at him!”

Konig flinches, but Price pushes forward, “Any experience with weapons?”

The room goes silent again.

Price lets out an exhausted sigh, “Not giving me much to work with, kids.”

He leans forward in his chair, hands knitted loosely together, “Tomorrow they’ll start group training. You’ll be with the other tributes,” a finger shoots up, “Don’t let them intimidate you.”

You look to the floor.

“Ignore them. They don’t even exist.”

He continues, “Maximize every minute you have in there. I want you to focus on food first. Purifying water. Snares, fishing, edible bugs and plants, starting fires. Dedicate the entire day to learning how to feed yourself in that arena. You understand? Food first.”

He waits until you both give confirmation before he moves forward.

“First aid next. Learn how to wrap and care for a wound with what natures gives ya’. Got it?”

He waits for another nod.

“Shelter next. Figure out how to keep warm. Learn to tie a good knot, camouflage techniques.”

“Defense last. Get used to handling some weapons. Throw some knives, learn hand-to-hand combat.”

Price takes a swig of his drink, and he takes a minute to survey you both. One of his eyes narrows slightly at you. He points at Konig, before flicking his finger in your direction.

“I want you to keep an eye on her.”

Your face warps into a wicked scowl, “What’s that supposed to mean? I need a chaperone?”

“It means,” Price starts, his stare boring into you, “I don’t want you getting into trouble.“

Your head shakes, “Wha- Trouble? What trouble?”

“Don’t push it, Plucky.”

You’re not sure if that was an answer to your question or a warning to not get on his bad side. You don’t shoot back, but your face clearly displays your displeasure.

“Alright,” Price pats his knee before standing, “Training’s at ten tomorrow. Be ready.”

He shakes his fingers at you once more before disappearing down the hall.

Your frustration wins out over guilt, and you shoot Konig an annoyed glare in disbelief. You were hoping for him to back you up, or at least be equally irritated, but he offers another apologetic stare.

“Well!” Ruby claps her hand together, “How productive. You two make sure to get to bed early and get a goodnight’s rest!”

Unfortunately Ruby does not hear your silent plea to not leave you alone with Konig, her shoes clicking obnoxiously as she leaves the sitting area.

Once she disappears down the hall, the room immediately goes silent, your own breath deafening you.

What did Price mean about you getting into trouble? Did he mean that the other tributes would pose too much of a threat? Does he think you’re too weak to handle yourself? Or did he hear Konig’s interjection and now thinks of you as someone who likes to pick fights?

Any way you slice it, it doesn’t sit right with you.

It’s impossible not to feel his presence.

Konig is frozen, he doesn’t even dare fidget in his spot, staring forward with slightly widened eyes. You can tell he’s afraid of setting you off, as if the slightest movement would provoke you.

This irritates you even more, like he was proving Price’s point about you being trouble.

“What?” You ask with a sneer.

He fumbles for his words, looking terrified of your questioning.

“Ich - äh,” He clears his throat, his voice just a mumble, “I’m sorry. About Price.”

This is an effective technique on his part, because it successfully redirects your anger.

“It’s demeaning!” You exclaim, “Do you not feel that way - forced to play babysitter?”

“I don’t mind,” He blurts out, and then he stops to choose his next words very carefully, “Maybe we could help each other with training.”

You huff.

When you speak again, your voice has relaxed, confused over defensive, “I don’t understand why he said that.”

There’s a pause, and then one corner of his lip perks up, his tone dawning a playful hum.

“Didn’t you hear?” He says, “You’ll find trouble.”

You roll your eyes and blow air out your nose, but the ghost of a smile does creep onto your face.

“Not sure if I’m the trouble or if the trouble is waiting for me in the training center.”

“Probably a little of both,” He says, still wearing a remnant of a sly smile. His body has visibly untensed, posture a bit slouched and fingers returning to their soothing fidget.

Konig actually made you feel better.

Again.

“Hey, um,” You trail off for a moment, avoiding his gaze, “Thank you. For keeping me steady today.”

After a pause you awkwardly add, “On the chariot,” just in case he’s not sure what you’re referencing.

He shifts against the back of the sofa.

“Ach, äh,” He clears his throat again, “Of course.”

There. Now you can be relieved of your guilt for yanking away from him and looking at him in disgust.

“Sorry if I-“ he starts quietly.

“No,” you cut him off, “You didn’t do anything wrong. All those people, the noise, it just- it freaked me out.”

You omit the real reason you pulled away.

“Me too,” He says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people at once, especially not with them all looking right at me.”

Another air of silence falls over you both. This air is less stale, easier to breathe. You’re feeling much better now that you’ve apologized for being so harsh about the handholding.

It is frustrating, though, how you find yourself leaning on him time and time again. Even now, you’re letting him make you feel better about the implications of Price’s request. About your own guilt of being harsh with him about the handholding.

You need to sever this tie, sooner rather than later. This is not a luxury you will be able to afford in the arena.

But you are so scared, and lost, and unsure, and angry about everything. Having Konig there, sharing in every emotion, his presence reminds you that at the very least you are not alone.

You don’t say it, but some part of you is actually relieved Price is making him your chaperone. Whatever the implication, it’s giving you an excuse to keep hanging around Konig, contrary to the brutal truth. You were not ready to let go of his reassurance, and you can’t shake the idea that the longer you lean in to him, the harder it will be to pull away.

As the cold world beckons for your attention, he is the warm blanket enveloping you, dangerously comfortable. His siren call pleads for you to stay wrapped up in him for just five more minutes. Ignore the cruel reality waiting for you. Forget about everything else. Slip back into the sweet embrace of sleep. With Price’s request that Konig keep an eye on you, he has just pulled that blanket to your neck, tucked you in, and gave you permission to put off the world just a little bit longer.

Does Konig even know what his presence is doing for you?

Does your presence do the same for him?

You don’t ask.

You both sit in silence, listening to the sound of chests rising and falling.

You can’t help but wonder if it’s all a ploy.

If Konig is purposefully drawing you in with the basis of his comfort. If this just another trick to make sure you end up on his kill list.

It is certainly possible, but the idea invokes such a gut-wrenching feeling you have to stifle it like an ember under your boot.

You take a deep breath, and the thought that’s waiting for you on the exhale is knowing you’ll have to see the tributes face-to-face for the first time. It ties your stomach in knots, heart pounding against your ribcage at the very thought.

“Are you nervous?” You ask under your breath.

“About tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you say, absentmindedly swirling your fingernails across the fabric of the sofa.

He doesn’t say anything, but he gives a shaky nod.

“I don’t want to do it,” You admit at a whisper.

He nods again.

After a tense beat he says, “We’ll do it together.”

It terrifies you, knowing the other tributes will be there, watching you fail to accomplish skills they’ve been experts at for years. Sizing you up. Planning how they’re going to slaughter you in the arena.

But at least Konig will be by your side. You will go through it together, and maybe they will not be as focused on you with such a fierce competitor towering next to you.

“Thanks,” you say breathlessly.

“Of course,” he says, his cadence matching yours.

Another cozy silence drapes over you both, sitting in each other’s company. You get lost in Konig’s fidgeting fingers, watching them mesmerizingly lace and unlace, swirling as the pads of his thumb runs over the side of his index finger.

When he notices you staring, he stops at once, setting his palms flat on the sofa.

You know you should try and get some rest, but there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep tonight, and you don’t want to go to your room.

To be all by yourself.

“Have you gone out on the balcony?” You ask.

He looks to the crystal sliding doors off the dining area before finding your eyes.

“Are we allowed to?”

You shrug, “They didn’t tell us not to.”

He looks at you with those unsure eyes.

“What are you afraid of?” You goad with a raise of a brow, “Afraid they’ll send you to your death?”

He’s clearly against the idea, but you can see he doesn’t have a defense. Flitting over your mischievous features with wide eyes and furrowed brows.

You grin as you stand from the couch, making a show of catching his stare as you slide the glass panel open, disappearing between the curtains that flutter now exposed to the wind.

The view is breathtaking.

You can see light pouring from windows in the neighboring skyscrapers. It reminds you of the night sky, stars dotting an industrial landscape. Shaky hands lay themselves on the guard rail, not daring to lean your weight on it as you peer down to the streets below.

You can hear them, the Capitol citizens, the honks of noisy cars and rowdy evening shouts below, their words lost to the unusually powerful wind. They look like ants from up here, walking the unnatural grid-like pattern of the streets.

The balcony is furnished, a huge wicker U-shaped couch with abstract patterned cushions. You nestle yourself into one of the corners, pull your knees to your chest and lean back into the cushion’s hold.

You hear Konig carefully sliding the glass door closed. He only makes it two steps into the open air before he stops.

You watch him marvel at the sight, just as you did, but he doesn’t dare near the edge.

He silently sits on the other corner of the couch, both of you looking ahead at the twinkling lights of the opposing buildings, listening to the Capitol night life below.

You find yourself peering into windows, glimpses into the world of a Capitol citizen. Nothing is muted, elegant furnishings and big screens as people settle in for the evening.

It’s cold out here on the balcony, the muscles in your face stiffening at the harsh chill of high winds, but it’s welcome.

It’s grounding, refreshing even, something to keep you in the moment and out of the grueling whirlpool of your thoughts waiting to pull you under at any lull.

About fifteen minutes pass before Konig wordlessly slips back inside.

You thought he was turning in for the night, so you’re surprised when the glass doors part again, returning wearing a black jacket, another in his hand.

He leaves generous distance as he sets a jacket on the cushion next you.

“It’s from my closet,” He says, just loud enough to be heard over the wind, “Sorry if it’s too big.”

He carefully retracts his arm and nestles back into his spot.

You stare at his offering with squint eyes, examining it to figure out his motive but failing to draw a conclusion.

You nod slow and hesitantly grab the jacket, slipping your arms into the sleeves.

You drowning in it. The sleeves hang well over your hands and the hem falls to your knees. You zip up and pull the hood up, having to position it on the crown of your head so the extra fabric doesn’t hang over your eyes.

It’s nice, the cozy warmth of the jacket to protect from the cold.

Unfortunately it’s also a reminder of how much bigger Konig is, how much stronger he is, how you would not fair well against him if the time comes in the arena.

You curl your legs in front of you and pull the jacket over your knees.

The steady white noise of the wind, the ambience of the city below, the night air, it has a soothing effect on you. You slink further and further into the couch, until you commit to laying on your side. Your socks worm their way into the crevice of the corner’s cushions as your body curls up on the middle of the couch and an arm raises to prop under your head, crown pointed in Konig’s direction.

You let the hood fall over your face, blocking out the wind as you listen to the bustling Capitol life below.

———————————————————

You wake to the sound of Ruby yelling.

“How do you lose a pair of tributes?!”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Price shoots back.

You squint at the bright sun, raising your palm to block out harsh rays from sensitive eyes.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble we’ll be in if they don’t turn up?”

“They’ll turn up,” He says definitively.

Price gives a hum as if he thought on it a little more, a retraction of his statement, “Well, if she got a bug in her brain she could have convinced him.”

Your brow quirks at that. You rub the sleep from your eyes, turning your head towards the glass doors, shimmering in the sunlight.

Ruby lets out an exasperated inarticulate noise of disapproval.

Your attention is stolen, though, by Konig. He’s curled up on the patio sofa too, his head next to yours, a strong arm resting over his eyes. His long legs are stretched out on the other side of the couch, his top half sharing the same bench as you.

The glass door of the balcony slides open, and Ruby drops an arm dramatically.

“What are you two doing out here?!” She scolds frantically, “Were you out here all night?!”

You prop yourself up on your hands, a deep inhale of morning as you transition to wake. Konig’s arm uncovers his eyes, raising his head and sitting up with stiff joints.

Price slips out to the patio, quirking his brow at the sight. A scowl plasters on your face as you watch him bite back a smug grin.

You look down and see yourself still wearing Konig’s jacket, and roll your eyes, averting your gaze when you’re finished. You’re hoping Price can’t see the faint glow that flushes your skin, because you know how this looks.

“It was freezing last night! And you don’t even have the heater on,” Ruby smacks her lips, “You two are going to catch a cold!”

“There’s a heater?” You ask, voice low with sleep.

She squeaks out an annoyed noise as she gestures to a switch on the wall.

“It’s not going to be very fun participating in the games with a cold, you know!”

You stretch your arms and speak through a yawn, “I don’t think it’s going to be very fun participating in the games at all.”

She cocks her jaw and squints at you, “You’re late for training!” She turns to Price and adds with a swing of her arm, “Deal with them!”

She then stomps off, heels clicking as she disappears in the suite.

Price crosses his arms, standing straight and pushing out his chest as he inspects you both. Neither of you look up, staring at your laps as you soak in your scolding and mentally prepare for training.

Price lets out a heavy sigh before he speaks.

“The stylists set out outfits for you both. Both of you - dressed and ready to go. You got five minutes.”

His voice is stern, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his exertion of authority.

When Price steps inside, you and Konig share a look, and it’s clear you’re both anxious about today. After a deep inhale in a failing attempt to steady yourself, you force an uninterested shrug.

It’s not convincing.

You avoid Ruby or Price’s stare as you make your way back to your room to get changed. The outfit waiting for you consists of a pair of black athletic pants made of a silky, sweat-wicking material and a shirt to match. The shirt’s sleeves are generously trimmed and the back has the number ‘9’ stitched on the back.

You clean your teeth, fix your hair, and change before you meet Ruby and Konig, the latter dawning an identical outfit, by the elevators.

“Really, it’s just irresponsible!” She fumes with crossed arms as you wait for the elevator.

You would normally let out an amused huff, because it’s hard to take the Capitol accent seriously, but you’re too distracted by the churning in your stomach.

Konig seems genuinely regretful on the otherhand, clearly disappointed with himself for letting down Ruby.

“Sorry, Ruby,” He mumbles sheepishly, and her face relaxes, head tilting slightly.

She nods, pleased, and says softly but proudly, “That’s alright, dear. You both just had us worried.”

His apology seems to quell her, and she returns to her normal cheery self by the time you’re deposited by the elevator.

“Okay you two, make sure you follow John’s instructions! Listen to the trainers and - Be. Good.”

Ruby smiles brightly before she saunters off.

You and Konig share a deep breath and an unsure glance before you enter the gymnasium, buried underground beneath the tower of district suites.

The trainer center is a massive gymnasium, uninviting concrete walls with training stations lining the room, each with their skill that contain anything from knot tying to sword fighting. Each station has an instructor, an expert in their craft, to teach the tributes last-minute survival skills. Obstacle courses fill the middle of the room along with pull up bars, sparing rings, weightlifting.

On an open balcony high above you, there’s a room of gamemakers, perched and observing like hawks in their nest. They’ll be watching you all train, and after an individual assessment you will be scored on a rating of one to twelve, the higher the score, the better the tribute’s potential.

With one look, you know you and Konig are the last ones to arrive. The entire room turns their attention to you as you both enter, and you have to stifle the instinctual urge to turn and run.

You don’t look up from your shoes as the head trainer gathers you all into a circle and gives the run down on the stations. She releases you all, and as the other tributes turn their backs you can’t help but size them up.

“What do you want to do first?” Konig asks.

You don’t answer, distracted by the career pack, quickly engaging the deadly weapons and handling them with ease.

You jump when Konig says your name.

“Huh? What?”

“What first?” He asks.

“Oh, uh-”

You do a quick scan of the room.

“Edible plants?” You say with a slight crackle in your voice, your mouth dry from nerves.

He nods, and you let him lead you to the station.

You follow Price’s instructions.

You pull your focus to the trainer, and try to ignore the ravenous grunts echoing from across the gymnasium as the careers skillfully drive weapons into dummies.

You also try to ignore how much taller Konig seems when you both stand right next to each other. He makes you feel like a child, having to crane your neck back to see his face.

Your thoughts are loud, stomach tossing, and limbs gelatinous. The fluorescent lights illuminating the gym are bright and harsh, the sounds of weapons clashing makes your heart pound against your ribcage, the overlapping voices of tributes and trainers are a grated ringing in your ears, and the observation by tributes and gamemakers that you will soon be at the mercy of - absolutely gut-wrenching.

It’s too much.

Your chest tightens and you give an involuntary gasp for air.

The trainer pauses her ongoing speech to quirk a brow at you, and Konig turns to look down at you.

“Oh-” You give a nervous laugh that turns into a wheezing coughing fit, distorting your face as you try and choke it back.

You manage to wheeze out, “Excuse me,” before you rush off. You don’t have a plan, but your brain is telling you to get away, to run and run far - away from prying, judgmental, predator eyes.

You duck behind the unused boxing ring, folding over once out of sight.

Your breathing is out of control, nearly hyperventilating as you slide against the ring and to the ground. You can feel the tears of anxiety welling at your eye line, the sore ache of a lump in your throat.

You don’t want to be here - you don’t want to do this!

You bury your face in your knees, trying to wish away the tears as you pray for the floor to swallow you whole. The last thing you need is for every last tribute to see you weak.

“Did you find trouble?”

You sit up with a flinch, shoulders relaxing when you find only Konig. He’s already seen you crying and irredeemably pathetic, so there’s not much concern for putting a show on for him.

“Because that was impressively fast,” He adds.

You give a scoff, and a hint of a smile breaks through.

You hate him for it.

“Yeah,” You say with heavy breath, a low vibration dragging your voice down. You use the inside of your wrist to wipe away any tears that threaten to spill.

He sits down next to you, letting his legs stretch out as he leans his back against the sparing ring. He lets out a sigh, his head lulling as he looks down his nose to a far wall in the gymnasium.

He doesn’t say anything more.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” You mumble at the floor, resting your chin on your knee.

“It’s okay,” He says.

A few minutes of silence pass before you speak again, your voice just a wisp.

“Do you ever just want to disappear?”

He answers without hesitation.

“All the time.”

Your eyes find the floor.

Once again, you find yourself benefiting from his comfort.

He waits, seemingly with patience, for you to get your bearings. He extends his hand in an offer to help you up, but you pretend you didn’t notice.

You spend the rest of the day moving from station to station, following Price’s instructions, listening intently to the expert’s instructions on survival.

You try to avoid making eye contact with Konig for the rest of the day. You want to prove to yourself that you can do this without his comfort. You keep the conversation strictly to the task at hand, and do your best to ignore the glares of the tributes and gamemakers from across the gym.

You hate to admit it, but having Konig by your side does make it easier. He seems to be a lightening rod for the attention of the other tributes. Even if a tribute wanted to look in your direction to get a scope on the girl from District Nine, it would be more than easy to get distracted by the behemoth standing next to her.

It’s hard to ignore the stares in your direction, but when you turn they’re usually fixated on Konig, not you, before they feel your stare and snap their heads away.

Konig doesn’t seem fazed.

At first you assume it’s because he’s too powerful, too confident in his strength and ability to be intimidated by opponents clearly weaker than him.

But then you consider - maybe he’s just used to this? The boring stares that come with someone of his unusual stature, the taunting from your particularly rowdy peers in District Nine - maybe it gifted him the ability to be unaffected by others.

But that doesn’t quite make sense either, because last night he seemed genuinely influenced by your annoyance, by your goading, and this morning, by Ruby’s disappointment.

You itch to understand your competitor, to figure out his motives, his strategy, the mind games he’s playing with you.

The rest of the day brings mediocracy, and little else is uncovered about your fiercest adversary.

You actually learn a lot about plants and knot tying, but your snares and fire starting skills leave something to be desired. At dinner, Price grills you both about what you learned, filling in any gaps in your memory.

Avoiding Konig is harder on the second day.

At the first aid station, the instructor is happy to have a duo join her. Aside from the career pack, who are too focused on playing with weapons, the other tributes wander around the gymnasium solitarily. It’s clear the attendant is tired of tributes touching her, so she has you practice on each other instead.

After fascinating you both with a type of moss that can be used as an antiseptic, she has you take turns using sticks to make splints on each other’s arms.

You both sit on the ground, and he holds his arm out for you so you can snap the twigs down to the appropriate size for his forearm. It’s hard to ignore how his massive bicep is bursting out of the pitiful, generously-trimmed sleeves of his shirt. Tanned and sculpted over countless days spent in the fields of District Nine, performing jobs only the biggest and strongest could handle.

The close proximity to him is making you nervous, and you can feel the burn of his stare as you work. You force yourself to keep your focus solely on wrapping strips of fabric scraps tightly around either end of the sticks, but you can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be for the arm you work around to hurt you. How quickly it could snap a bone, knock you unconscious, or choke the life from you, all with minimal effort. Your entire body would not measure up against this one arm, let alone the rest of him.

It’s hard to stop once you start on this train of thought, and now you’re trying to think your way out of an altercation that starts in this position, kneeling on the ground.

How far could you run before he managed to get hold of a scrambling limb? Could you kick him in the ribs hard enough to break away? If you landed a hit square to his nose, could you break it?

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when you sit back on your legs upon completion, wiping a sheen of sweat off your forehead.

When it’s his turn, you hold out your arm and turn your head away, staring at anything other than Konig. You have to push the impulse to pull away from hands that could crush you to dust at any moment.

It’s hard to ignore the brush of his fingers against your skin, the gentle hold on the underside of your arm as he steadies you to secure the strips of fabric.

It’s even harder to ignore the warm feeling that blossoms in your chest at the human contact.

This is nothing new for you. It means nothing, simply explained by ravenous, seething hormones that don’t know their place.

Once the trainer is satisfied, she gives you the advanced task of making the splint on yourselves.

You repeat this process as the trainer teaches you how to make a tourniquet. She instructs you not to tighten it as you would in an actual emergency, because it can cause injury anywhere from muscle damage to complete limb paralysis if placed incorrectly or for too long.

You suck in a breath, swallowing at the idea of being at Konig’s mercy. You’re don’t trust him enough to not jump on the opportunity for sabotage.

How long would he be able to hold you down before a guard could rip him off you? He’s strong, you’re sure he could easily take out at least a few while also fending you off - long enough to do some hefty damage to your arm.

You’re extra careful as you tie the tourniquet around Konig’s forearm, hoping that if you use gentle hands, he might return the favor.

It’s ridiculous, his proportions. You hope neither Konig nor the trainer can see the heat on your cheeks as you work around his arm as carefully as you would a deadly weapon.

When it’s your turn, you can’t bring yourself to look away. You watch his large hands work and wait with bated breath for him to go in for the kill.

As he twists the tourniquet in practice, your arm tenses in anticipation, priming your other arm discreetly in case you need to push him away.

He stops long before the fabric indents your flesh, meeting your stare. Eyes that were narrowed in focus relax, and before you can avert your gaze he turns to look over his shoulder, waiting for the instructor’s approval.

She nods assent, and immediately you feel flushed with an embarrassed heat as he undoes the knot around your bicep. You’re almost ashamed at your paranoia for suspecting he’d try and hurt you before the games.

Of course he wouldn’t hurt you here.

He was nervous just to step out on the balcony, he’s not going to break the clearly stated rule to not combat with other tributes before the arena.

He’s waiting until it’s fair game. Drawing you in with the basis of his trust until he’s granted permission to tear you limb from limb.

The instructor has you both practice on yourselves, and then wraps out the lesson by teaching you about more plants with medicinal uses, from bug bites to burns to infections.

Konig and you move from the first aid station to knot tying, to shelter building, to camouflaging.

To your credit, you really are giving it a fair effort, brows furrowed and tongue pressed to your teeth as you focus on retaining as much information as possible. The anxiety is making it hard to focus though, thoughts buzzing like insects gnawing at you from the inside out. It’s like you’re already in the arena, flinching at any noise and fighting the instinct to flee when any eyes glance in your direction.

On the final day of group training, as per Price’s instructions, you focus on the physical aspect of the competition, handling weapons, avoiding injury, and learning offensive maneuvers.

Weapons are illegal in District Nine, so besides the sickles and scythes loaned out in the wheat fields, you’ve never seen one in person before - let alone held one.

The sight of them are intimidating. You do not instinctually imagine yourself at the handle of the weapons, but on the brunt of their sharp blades and serated edges. Your eye twitches at the thought of each of them tearing through you.

It does not help that the career pack doesn’t stray far from the weapons, and so far you’ve been doing the best you can to avoid them.

You turn to Konig and pull a face contorted with displeasure.

“I know,” he whispers. He glances around the room, “We could start small?”

Your face remains unchanged, so his hand comes up to rub the side of his jaw as he continues to search the room on your behalf.

“Weightlifting?”

You actually let out a laugh at the suggestion, “Oh yeah?” Your chest still rattles with the aftermath of your own amusement, “Bet I can lift more than you.”

His eyebrows pinch for just a moment before he realizes you’re only kidding. A reserved smile creeps on his face.

“I’m sure.”

You flex your pathetic bicep at him and give it a hearty pat, “No, really.”

You swivel your wrist around for emphasis, a mischievous, cheeky grin on your face.

He gives you a warm smile, his shoulders lifting with each huff of a soft, inaudible laugh.

“Let’s see it, then.”

When you move toward the weights, you catch the stare of the careers, having paused their training to watch the two tributes who dared to near them.

You don’t have the forethought to hide your fear, and they don’t look away once you meet their gaze like the other tributes. They look at you like a pack of hyenas salivating over their next meal, challenging your stare, deadly eyes and smug smiles plastered on their faces.

You get the feeling it wasn’t because they were amused at your stupid joke.

Your stomach tightens, brows creased as you shake them from your sight.

Konig glances over his shoulder to check on you and you make an awkward little jog to catch up to him.

“Thought you and your fearsome biceps chickened out,” he says as your footsteps catch up to him.

“Pfft, never,” You say, voice lacking confidence as you resist the urge to look back at the careers.

You’re not sure what you can stand to gain from weightlifting other than showing off how weak you are, but you don’t object. Not only is it an excuse to put off weapons training, it is an opportunity to see what Konig is actually capable of. Maybe you could even find some sort of weakness to use against him if the time comes, a bad knee or a tricky shoulder.

You sit down on one of the benches, a slight kick in your feet, planting your palms firmly into the bench’s padding.

It becomes clear almost immediately that the monstrous boy from your district has no weaknesses.

For his warmup, he prepares weights that are significantly heavier than your entire body, lifting them into the air without so much as a grunt of resistance.

The nausea hits like a crashing wave, consuming you in an uncomfortable heat that brings sweat to your skin and threatens to boil your stomach over. You pull on the collar of your shirt as you watch the muscles in his arm bulge and tighten with each curl.

You’re dumbfounded, face scrunched in mixture of confusion and horror, but you can’t look away. You swallow with a dry mouth as he moves to stack more weights onto the barbells, eyes flitting around the sight before you in a panic.

If Konig wanted to, he could pick you up like he was scruffing a kitten.

As you watch him deadlift what must be twice his body weight, you can’t stand to watch anymore, face drained of its color as you imagine him using that strength against you.

It’s as you’re turning away that you realize the gym has gone silent. Not a clash of a weapon, not an instructor teaching, not even the murmur of a gamemaker.

Your breathing cuts off entirely as you catch every eye in the room staring in your direction. More specifically, in the direction of the boy who seems to defy human nature. The tributes, the instructors, the gamemakers high in their post, all stare on in a spectrum ranging from amazement to fear. Some of the tributes look just as nauseous as you, pale in the face and fists clenched at their sides, surely imagining facing his strength in the arena.

The careers look less smug. Not afraid, but annoyed. Angry, even. Looking down their nose with snarls on their lips.

The boy from two, Titan, is the exception. His pointed canines are displayed proudly, his hands rubbing together in giddiness because the game is actually getting interesting. He laughs, his laughter the only noise harmonizing with the metal clunks of Konig’s weights.

Your head snaps back into place, staring at the floor, mouth parted and face burning.

Konig sets his barbell gently on the ground, faces you with his hands on his hips, and says, “Alright, your turn.”

His face sinks when he meets your eyes, as full as moons and pooled with dread.

He looks around the gym, sees all of his competitors, his evaluators leering at him. His face relaxes but reveals nothing to you. He nods before meeting your stare again.

He lifts one of his hands, pointing all of his fingers at you, “Just to be clear, you are chickening out, then?”

You blink a few times, and then you let out the ugliest snort, a string of guffaws following.

He gives you a dopey smile with that silent, breathy laugh that makes his shoulders bounce. It’s the most of a laugh you’ll be able to pull from him, you think.

“No way,” you say, standing up from your bench.

You approach the barbell he placed on the floor, and stick your shoe out to give one end of the weights a shove. It barely rolls a centimeter under the weight of your foot.

“Y’know, I would,” You say, rubbing your fingers together to suggest grubbiness, “But I got butter all over my hands at breakfast, so I probably won’t be able to get a good grip on it.”

“Mhm,” He hums, his lips pressed into a smile as he crosses his arms over his puffed-out chest.

“Be pretty rude of me to dirty the weights for everyone else.”

“Very,” He says, “What next, then?”

When you glance around the room, most have resumed their activities, but the careers and a large percentage of the gamemakers seem to be lingering their stares on the District Nine tributes. You clear your throat and try to shake off their burning stares.

“What about that?” He offers after he sees you struggling to decide. He points over your shoulder to a large structure - two bars that stretch horizontal over a long fall to the mat below. Rings dangle from ropes in rows along the bars. It’s an exercise to see if a tribute can swing from ring to ring, using only their upper body strength to get from one end to the other without touching the ground.

“Nope,” You say definitely, “I’ll just fall and end up being thrown into the arena with a broken leg.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stand underneath and catch you if you fall.”

“What?” You ask through a thrown-off laugh.

“You’ll be okay,” Konig encourages, “Just see how far you can make it.”

For a minute you consider if this is a trick. If he would pretend as if he was going to catch you, but instead lets you plummet below, taking precaution to make it look like a genuine accident.

“Maybe later,” you say with a tent of your brow.

“Hand-to-hand?” He offers.

You nod at the suggestion. This is a skill you are certainly lacking and could stand to sharpen, and it doesn’t require using the intimidating weapons.

The instructor is not sure what to make of you both at first, eyeing you curiously before he digs into his lessons. He goes over the basics, encouraging you to avoid solely throwing punches and reminding you to use all the parts of the body that can do damage.

He does go over the proper way to land a blow with your fists, how to get out of a restraint, the vulnerable places to strike on an opponent.

You’re only listening halfheartedly. Four days of non-stop training is catching up with you, and you’ve still got one foot in the mentality that you don’t stand much of a chance anyway, so it’s hard to feel motivated to make an effort.

As soon as you wrap up the lesson, you catch the career pack huddled in a circle near the ring, far from their usual post at the weapons.

Immediately you know something’s up, keeping a careful watch on them from the corner of your eye as you and Konig exit the ring.

“Want to try the weapons again?” He asks you.

“I’m kind of over it,” You say quietly, still side-eyeing the careers, “I’ll just follow you around.”

“District Nine!” That laugh, Titan’s laugh, is truly sardonic. An almost squeaky, attention-grabbing cackle that somehow bears condescension, “You came to play this year, huh?”

Both you and Konig tense as the pack approaches. Konig’s arm shoots down in the air in front of you as he takes a few steps toward them, as if already holding you back from a confrontation.

You would normally be annoyed by this, but staring down a pack of trained killers is enough to keep you from arguing.

Konig says nothing, dawning those uninterested half-lidded eyes, chin raised as he stares down at the boy with fangs for canines.

Titan holds out his strong arms, that wicked smile spread thick as he meets Konig’s eyes, “How’d you like to play with the big boys?”

It takes you a moment to realize they’re asking Konig to ally with them.

To your surprise, your body immediately ignites with jealousy.

You can’t pin why.

Jealous that Konig is so superior he got the attention of the elite tributes, and you didn’t?

Jealous that the careers are worthy of Konig’s consideration, that they could benefit him in the arena in a way you could not?

Jealous that they were also trying to benefit from the comfort he provides with his presence?

A boy’s reassurance can only spread so thin, after all.

Maybe all the above.

“I’ll think about it,” Konig says evenly.

Your expression immediately twists.

He is considering it.

What a slap in the face, even entertaining the idea of allying with the careers. The tributes that, statistically speaking, are going to be the ones to end your life.

Your face is burning with betrayal, rage, and disgust.

You can’t believe this is the boy you find comfort in. They don’t take too kindly to those friendly with careers back in the districts. If he wins, he will be ridiculed twice as much back home.

The boy from two gives him a drawn-out full body once over, looking him up and down before he flits his eyes in your direction.

His eyebrow quirks and you swallow hard, but your face keeps your scowl.

Konig makes a casual sidestep to stand directly between you both, cutting off your view of Titan.

Maybe this was what Price was talking about. About you being trouble, and wanting Konig to keep you out of it. The boy from two was big, not as big as Konig, but enough to still tower over the majority of the tributes, physically superior in every way. This does nothing to relieve the urge to run your mouth and maybe even get a few good scratches in with your fingernails.

Your scowl thickens when you realize Price actually had reason to suspect you needed a chaperone.

You hear the boy huff, and without another word the careers leave you be.

Konig does a full turn, head tilted down to meet your stare. When he sees your clear displeasure his brows shoot up.

“I want to talk to Price before I turn them down,” he explains.

Anything but a harsh no is unacceptable to you.

Traitorous, even.

You can’t believe he’s considering it.

He sees that this does not quell you, and adds, “Maybe he has a strategy to use against them.”

“Whatever, Konig,” You say with a roll of your eyes, a tone that clearly suggests you’re not buying what he’s selling.

This would be a good time to sever the tie between you. The comfort of him being by your side has been tainted by his conspiring with the careers. Clearly Konig has moved on, if he had even been reaping the benefits of whatever it is you two have.

Maybe you were naive to think he was ever your partner in this.

Of course he’s not. He is your opponent, always has been. Only one can come out of that arena. He knows it. You know it.

He was just smart enough to keep his distance, to not let his emotions get tangled up in someone who will be dead in a week, whereas you have been foolish enough to let your heart bleed without caution.

He doesn’t need your comfort like you need his. He will be self-sustainable in that arena. He actually has a chance, and a good one at that. You know it. The careers know it.

What could Konig have possibly gained from a partnership with you?

Your blood is boiling, body perspiring in the brutal heat of humiliation. You can’t believe you’ve let yourself get this attached to him, that you looked farther into worried glances then you should have, that you’ve allowed yourself to become so reliant on him that the thought of him not being even a little reliant on you makes you feel this inadequate, this jealous, this stupid!

You knew this was coming, you could see it from a mile away, but it doesn’t soothe the searing sting. It’s only frustrating you more knowing this is your own fault.

Konig doesn’t owe you anything, he’s just doing what’s best for himself, which is what you should be doing.

He opens his mouth to say something else, choking out the start of a syllable before he stops himself.

At least he looks a little hurt at your displeasure. That makes you feel a little better.

You huff, turning on your feet.

“Wha - where are you going?” He asks.

“Anywhere,” You say with a wave of a hand over your shoulder.

“But, Price-“

“I don’t care what Price said!” You blurt out, whipping around to face him, hands springing up aggressively.

Konig’s shoes squeak to a stop, and you catch a couple Capitol guards priming to intervene. You can feel the stare of a few tributes looking in your direction.

You sigh, forcing your voice to a quiet yet harsh grit, “It’s not like you can look after me in that arena, so what’s the point of looking after me now?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you as he dawns those hurt eyes, the same eyes he wore when you ripped your hand away from him in the chariot.

Even in your rage, it makes your heart throb with guilt and regret at your outburst. It’s confusing, so confusing, how you can be so angry with someone and still care about not hurting them.

You can’t stand to look at him anymore, both in your rage and guilt, so you turn on your heels and leave him in his spot.

Training is technically optional, even if most tributes aren’t stupid enough to skip out on the life-saving advice, or in the career’s case, an excuse to throw weapons around, so no one stops you when you march right out of the gym. You fume the entire elevator ride up to your suite. If fury was steam, you’re sure you would have released a cloud of it when the elevator doors part.

Price is sitting at the raised table in the dining room, leaning back in his chair at your arrival.

“What’d’ya doing here kid?”

You don’t even answer him, marching down the hall without so much of a glance in his direction.

“What’s wrong?” His voice calls.

“Ask your victor,” You spit, slamming the door to your room behind you.

· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR I· THE VICTOR II · THE AFTERMATH I · THE AFTERMATH II · THE WARNING I · THE WARNING II

Dividers for this series courtesy of the very talented and generous @saradika-graphics who makes lovely dividers and masterlist headers for FREE! Huge thank you for your contributions to the writing community and helping make our fics stand out and look pretty!

Konig Photo Credit

[anarchopuppy]

I feel like we don't talk enough about how the whole "capitalism is a democracy! vote with your dollar!" myth falls apart once you're dealing with a company that doesn't sell directly to individual consumers

Like say you want to boycott Norfolk Southern after the East Palestine disaster. Presumably you're not in the situation where you personally do business directly with Norfolk Southern, so that's not an option. Products don't have stickers telling you what freight company shipped them, two of the same product sitting right next to each other on the same shelf may well have been handled by two different companies and there's no way for you to tell. And in some cases companies like that may have monopolies on transporting certain goods in certain areas, so you couldn't make a different choice even if you knew. How could you possibly say that such a situation is "democratic" and decided on by consumers?

Capitalism enjoyers love to pretend that the whole economy is Tommy trading his apples for Mary's flowers in a mutually beneficial exchange and ignore 99% of the nuance in the economic system they claim to believe in

[writers-potion]

I'm writing a sci-fi story about a space freight hauler with a heavy focus on the economy. Any tips for writing a complex fictional economy and all of it's intricacies and inner-workings?

Constructing a Fictional Economy

The economy is all about: How is the limited financial/natural/human resources distributed between various parties?

So, the most important question you should be able to answer are:

Who are the "have"s and "have-not"s?

What's "expensive" and what's "commonplace"?

What are the rules(laws, taxes, trade) of this game?

Building Blocks of the Economic System

Type of economic system. Even if your fictional economy is made up, it will need to be based on the existing systems: capitalism, socialism, mixed economies, feudalism, barter, etc.

Currency and monetary systems: the currency can be in various forms like gols, silver, digital, fiat, other commodity, etc. Estalish a central bank (or equivalent) responsible for monetary policy

Exchange rates

Inflation

Domestic and International trade: Trade policies and treaties. Transportation, communication infrastructure

Labour and employment: labor force trends, employment opportunities, workers rights. Consider the role of education, training and skill development in the labour market

The government's role: Fiscal policy(tax rate?), market regulation, social welfare, pension plans, etc.

Impact of Technology: Examine the role of tech in productivity, automation and job displacement. How does the digital economy and e-commerce shape the world?

Economic history: what are some historical events (like The Great Depresion and the 2008 Housing Crisis) that left lasting impacts on the psychologial workings of your economy?

For a comprehensive economic system, you'll need to consider ideally all of the above. However, depending on the characteristics of your country, you will need to concentrate on some more than others. i.e. a country heavily dependent on exports will care a lot more about the exchange rate and how to keep it stable.

For Fantasy Economies:

Social status: The haves and have-nots in fantasy world will be much more clear-cut, often with little room for movement up and down the socioeconoic ladder.

Scaricity. What is a resource that is hard to come by?

Geographical Characteristics: The setting will play a huge role in deciding what your country has and doesn't. Mountains and seas will determine time and cost of trade. Climatic conditions will determine shelf life of food items.

Impact of Magic: Magic can determine the cost of obtaining certain commodities. How does teleportation magic impact trade?

For Sci-Fi Economies Related to Space Exploration

Thankfully, space exploitation is slowly becoming a reality, we can now identify the factors we'll need to consider:

Economics of space waste: How large is the space waste problem? Is it recycled or resold? Any regulations about disposing of space wste?

New Energy: Is there any new clean energy? Is energy scarce?

Investors: Who/which country are the giants of space travel?

Ownership: Who "owns" space? How do you draw the borders between territories in space?

New class of workers: How are people working in space treated? Skilled or unskilled?

Relationship between space and Earth: Are resources mined in space and brought back to Earth, or is there a plan to live in space permanently?

What are some new professional niches?

What's the military implication of space exploitation? What new weapons, networks and spying techniques?

Also, consider:

Impact of space travel on food security, gender equality, racial equality

Impact of space travel on education.

Impact of space travel on the entertainment industry. Perhaps shooting monters in space isn't just a virtual thing anymore?

What are some indsutries that decline due to space travel?

I suggest reading up the Economic Impact Report from NASA, and futuristic reports from business consultants like McKinsey.

If space exploitation is a relatiely new technology that not everyone has access to, the workings of the economy will be skewed to benefit large investors and tech giants. As more regulations appear and prices go down, it will be further be integrated into the various industries, eventually becoming a new style of living.

[libingan]

i love having big strong men groveling at my feet. this was supposed to be about price getting pegged by his partner for the first time, but i literally stopped halfway thru writing just to start this bc it came into my mind

the base was alive with laughter and chatter as the evening settled in. soldiers were in high spirits, drinks flowing freely, and the camaraderie was palpable. you sat beside könig, feeling the warmth of the room and the comforting presence of his massive frame next to you.

“jesus, könig, i don’t know how you fit through doors, let alone fit in bed with someone,” one of the soldiers joked, nudging you with a grin. “you must be ruining him, huh?”

another soldier laughed, clapping könig on the back. “yeah, mate. must be like a goddamn freight train.”

you and könig exchanged a knowing glance, both of you chuckling at the insinuation. könig’s cheeks reddened slightly, but he played along, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“oh, you have no idea,” you replied with a smirk, causing the others to burst into laughter. könig’s hand found yours under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. the night continued with more jokes and stories, everyone enjoying the break from the usual tension of their missions.

as the evening wound down and the others began to disperse, you and könig made your way back to his quarters. the moment the door closed behind you, the atmosphere shifted. könig looked at you with a mix of anticipation and nervousness, his massive frame suddenly seeming almost vulnerable.

“they have no idea what really happens, do they?” you teased, stepping closer to him.

“nein,” he replied softly, his voice tinged with that familiar mix of excitement and apprehension. “they don’t know how weak i get for you.”

you smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek. “big, strong könig, brought to his knees by someone so much smaller,” you murmured, your hand trailing down his chest. “let’s show them how things really are, shall we?”

könig shivered at your touch, his breath hitching. “please,” he whispered, his eyes wide with desire.

you guided him to the bed, his towering frame dwarfing the furniture. with a firm push, you had him on all fours, his massive body trembling with anticipation. you took your time, preparing yourself and him, ensuring everything was just right.

“look at you,” you said, your voice dripping with teasing affection. “so big, yet so weak for me.”

könig whimpered, his head hanging low. “yes,” he gasped. “only for you.”

you retrieved a bottle of lube from the bedside table, applying a generous amount to your fingers. gently, you pressed a slick finger against his entrance, circling slowly before easing in. könig let out a low moan, his muscles tensing before relaxing under your touch.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” you groaned, adding a second finger and scissoring them to stretch him. könig’s moans grew louder, his body trembling with need. “so perfect.”

you continued to work him open, adding a third finger and moving in a steady rhythm. könig’s responses were a symphony of whimpers and moans, his body moving in rhythm with yours. you started slow, but it wasn’t long before you increased your pace, preparing him with a firm yet gentle touch.

“so big, but so fucking weak,” you teased, your hands roaming over his back, his shoulders. “look at you, könig. whimpering like a needy little thing.”

“please,” he begged, his voice breaking with the intensity of his need. “don’t stop.”

you didn’t. you continued to prep him until he was a quivering mess, then pulled your fingers out and slicked yourself up. positioning yourself behind him, you guided your cock to his entrance, pushing in slowly. könig’s breath hitched, and he let out a loud, needy moan as you filled him.

“fuck, könig,” you groaned, feeling his tight heat envelop you. “so fucking perfect.”

könig’s responses were a symphony of whimpers and moans, his body moving in rhythm with yours. you started slow, letting him adjust to the stretch, but it wasn’t long before you increased your pace, fucking into him with reckless abandon. each thrust elicited a new sound from him, his voice growing louder and more desperate.

“so big, but so fucking weak,” you teased, your hands gripping his hips firmly. “look at you, könig. whimpering like a needy little thing.”

“please,” he begged, his voice breaking with the intensity of his need. “don’t stop.”

“louder,” you demanded, thrusting harder. “i want everyone to know who’s really in charge here. let them hear who’s ruining who.”

könig’s moans grew even louder, his cries echoing through the room. “fuck, yes! please, more!” he wailed, his voice raw with need.

“that’s it,” you growled, pounding into him with unrelenting force. “let them know how much you need this.”

könig’s whines and cries filled the room, his body shaking with pleasure. you could feel him getting closer, his muscles tightening, his breathing erratic.

just as he seemed on the brink of release, you pulled out halfway, earning a desperate whimper from him. “w-what…?” he gasped, looking back at you with wide, pleading eyes.

“i’m not done with you yet,” you said with a smirk, grabbing his hips and flipping him onto his back. könig landed with a soft thud, his legs instinctively spreading as you positioned yourself between them. “let’s see how you handle this.”

you lifted his legs, pushing them up to his chest, exposing his entrance once more. könig’s breath hitched, his eyes full of anticipation and need. with a firm grip on his thighs, you lined yourself up and pushed back into him, earning a loud, guttural moan from the giant beneath you.

“fuck, könig,” you groaned, feeling his tightness envelop you again. “you’re so fucking hot like this.”

könig’s hands gripped the sheets, his knuckles white with tension. “please,” he begged, his voice high and desperate. “please, i need it.”

“need what?” you taunted, thrusting into him with a slow, deliberate motion. “tell me what you need, könig.”

“i need you,” he whined, his body arching towards you. “fuck me, please. harder.”

you complied, increasing your pace and pounding into him with renewed vigor. könig’s cries grew louder, his body trembling with each thrust. “so fucking big,” you growled, “but so fucking weak for me. look at you, könig. taking it like a good boy.”

“yes,” könig moaned, his voice breaking. “only for you. only you.”

you continued to thrust into him, your movements relentless and precise. könig’s whines and cries filled the room, a symphony of pure need and pleasure. you could feel him getting closer again, his body tensing, his breathing erratic.

“come for me, könig,” you ordered, your voice firm. “show me how much you need this.”

with a final, desperate cry, könig did just that, his release hitting him with the force of a tidal wave. his entire body convulsed, his moans loud and unrestrained. you continued to move, drawing out his pleasure until he was utterly spent, collapsing onto the bed in a trembling heap.

you leaned over him, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “such a good boy,” you whispered, your voice soft with affection. “always so good for me.”

könig turned his head to look at you, his eyes filled with a mix of exhaustion and adoration. “only for you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

you smiled, your heart swelling with love for the man before you. “only for me,” you agreed, wrapping your arms around him, holding him close as the intensity of the moment began to fade. together, you lay there, basking in the afterglow, the bond between you stronger than ever.

[fanaticsnail]

Red-Hair Masterlist

Navigation Masterlist Here

Art link

Red Haired Shanks:

Dancando Lambada (one-shot)

After your ship crashed just off the coast line of your hometown, your friend: the bride, is left without a Captain to perform her ceremony to unite her with her beau. Fortunately for you, you see a ship coming in off the coastline. Will their captain help you in exchange for a night of good food, fine drink and sensual dancing?

Remember Me (one-shot)

Ten years since the love of his life was claimed by the sea, Shanks finds himself celebrating her memory with many a drink in a fishing village. Spluttering over his amber ale, Benn Beckman pales in freight at the sight of a woman drinking merrily at the bar. But it couldn't be her, she was lost to him.

Where is my bride (Sapsorrow Spin Off Drabble)

Once lost, again found: Shanks has accidentally bcome lockd into a cruel plot to have him marry a woman he has never seen nor heart of. The timer is ticking, the claws of the spectre of a woman scorned tethered to him and awaiting to claim his soul should he fail. He has seven days to wed. But where are you?

Two More Times (one-shot NSFW)

A meet up with a beautiful Captain has you feeling unworthy of being by Shanks' side as his partner. Shanks does not like being ignored - he wants to showcase his pretty girl sat on his knee. He reminds you of your importance to him, while punishing you for behaving like a brat. His brat.

What do I do? (One-Shot) (Not 'x reader')

Uta is going through a leap week and Shanks is an overwhelmed teenager. He does his best to soothe her, but becomes overwhelmed by the wailing cry of his daughter. He calls the one person he knows has hands on experience with a situation exactly like the one he's found himself in.

Drabbles & Headcanons:

Shanks Likes to Dance HC Drabble

Benn Beckman:

When You Had The Chance (one-shot)

Serving as first mate to the Buggy-Pirates, it was your job to keep your captain grounded and uplifted. When tempers flared, he decided to confront his childhood rival once and for all - pulling out all the stops to finally lay their feud to rest. One of them would be leaving with their life, the other fallen at their feet. Instead of stifling his fury, you decided to elevate your captain’s wrath: seeking vengeance of your own against the man who once cast you aside after you confessed your feelings for him. Crew against crew, Captain against Captain, First-Mate against First-Mate - will you win, or lie at the mercy of the man you once loved.

"Mister Beckman" (one-shot)

The first mate of the Red-Hair pirates is attempting to relax and enjoy his evening with you, but is rudely interrupted by Shanks' tinkering and clanging within the Captain's quarters.

Kind And Gentle (One-Shot)

Your shoulders and back ached with a pain you had attempted to cast aside as you went about your duties. The ache turned excruciating, your focus now being taken hostage between the gripping pain. Fortunately, the grip of two firm hands found your body and eased you through the torment.

You shot a baby? (Dialogue)

Part 2 (one-shot)

Benn Beckman shot Eustass Kid's arm off. You are not happy about it.

Daughter of the Sea (5/5 series)

As a reformed spymistress working for the new title holder of "Worlds Greatest Swordsman," you are prepare for the worst, anticipating every possible outcome. What you did not prepare for was Mihawk's oldest rival presenting you with a sight that had the pair of you perplexed: his latest plunder.

After first meeting years ago, Beckman had longed for you from afar. All those feelings come flooding back to him once he sees the young baby in your arms.

He's in love with you (one-shot)

Benn Beckman can no longer ignore the way he feels about you, and it's eating him alive.

[toomuchracket]

falling for you (flatmate!matty x reader)

promptober day 10, and there was nobody else i could have written this for. a fluffy but slightly angsty pining lovesick moment, before the two of you are actually flatmates and you're just babies on nights out in manc. i hope you enjoy!

p.s. yeah, i know the pic is the wrong era for this, lol. but it's alllll about the vibes <3

matty's trying his damnedest not to stare at you right now.

he's failing miserably, though. the copious amount of alcohol in his body is rinsing all the sense out of his brain - well, what little you hadn't already stolen from him when you met him earlier outside your halls of residence, all made-up and glowing - and he really cannot tear his eyes away from you, saying bye to your friends at the door of the nightclub.

matty blinks, and self-awareness hits him like a freight train. nah. he's being weird. he needs to get a grip.

but then you turn towards him, waiting on behalf of both of you in the cloakroom queue, and you smile, and all thoughts about stopping looking at you fly out of matty's head. how can he be expected to focus on anything but that face of yours? the vodka's made your beautiful eyes softer, and a combination of marlboros and mac lipstick have made your lips pouty and kissable. well, more so than usual, matty thinks.

he's so distracted by your beauty that he almost doesn't hear the cloakroom attendant shout him up to the window. stumbling slightly - he'd say over his own feet, you'd say due to drunkenness (and you'd be right) - matty exchanges his two tickets for the jackets you and him had been all but forced to wear to prevent the freezing october air getting to you, and wanders over to you. wordlessly, in a well-rehearsed routine, he slings his own jacket over his shoulder as he helps you into yours.

you murmur a thank you. "you hungry?"

for you, yes. for a kebab, no, matty wishes he could say. but he can't, so he just shakes his head.

"neither am i," you say, helping him zip up his leather jacket. your dexterity has been diminished by your drinking, and one of the fringes on the sleeve of your own coat gets stuck between the metal teeth of his. clearly, your brain has also been affected by the alcohol; you frown at the zip, unable to see why it won't move. "huh?"

matty smiles, moving to help you. "got caught on your coat. sorry, darlin'."

"oh, s'fine. thanks," you reply, as you're unstuck once again. with a smile, you hold a hand out to matty. "shall we?"

like he'd ever say no to you. "we shall."

and the walk back to your uni begins.

if it had been raining, matty would have done the gentlemanly thing and sprung for a taxi. but it isn't, for once; actually, he thinks, it's kind of a perfect night. the sky is inky-black, devoid of any clouds, and the two of you are just drunk enough that the streetlights look just as pretty as the stars you can't see from so far into the city like this. he's more thankful for the cold air now than he was before the two of you went out - after the close heat of the nightclub, and the internal glow of the however many shots you did, the coolness is welcome. that, and it forces you to secure matty's hand in your own for warmth, which is maybe the most perfect aspect of the night, in his opinion.

naturally, then, a pang of heartbreak hits him when you break the hold to rifle through your handbag. when you procure a half-empty pack of cigs, though, it dissipates.

"want one?" you ask, holding the open end of the packet towards matty.

"no thanks, sweetheart," he says. he isn't lying: the thought of anything clouding his vision of you, even cigarette smoke, is unbearable. but then a spark of an idea crackles somewhere in his brain - whether it's in spite of or because of his tipsy state, matty isn't sure, but either way it tells him he shouldn't be so quick to refuse. so, tentatively, he continues speaking. "i'll gladly share one with you, though."

you take your time answering, slowly pulling a cig from the pack and shoving the rest back in your bag, then digging around for your lighter. matty chews his cheeks during this performance, terror that he's overstepped a friendship boundary of some sort beginning to creep up his spine. but then you shrug, and say "alright", and he's fine.

well, he's not fine, actually - the next words that leave your mouth are "need your help to light it, though, matty". 

fuck. his hands so close to your jaw, close enough that he could take hold of it and kiss you before his brain could convince him that it was too much of a risk to your friendship? that's dangerous.

god, he's so drunk. and so definitely in love with you.

what matty is first and foremost, though, is a good friend. shoving down any and all romantic and/or sexual thoughts about you and your lips as best he can (which is, admittedly, not very well), he turns to face you and takes the lighter from your hand. "c'mere then."

when you oblige, silently, and look up at him with your lips parted and those sparkly doe eyes of yours, matty bites the inside of his lip so hard he feels it bleed. christ. this was perhaps a bad idea.

but the cig is right there, waiting to be lit, so he takes a deep breath, cupping the lighter as he flicks the flame into existence and brings it to your mouth. the orange glow illuminates you quite beautifully, and suddenly matty's head is filled with thoughts of you across from him, like you are now, but sat at a candlelit, white-clothed table with a glass of wine and a fancy dinner before you. and, if he's being honest, also with thoughts of you underneath him, face blissful and softly lit by the candles dotted around the room as he fucks you slowly and tenderly.

for fuck's sake. you're his best friend. he can't be thinking of you like that. why can't he stop thinking about you like that tonight? maybe he's going insane. he has no idea. but whatever is compelling him seems to lessen as you step back and exhale the smoke. "thank you, babe."

babe? that's new. but not unwelcome, not at all. matty feels his heart flutter at the pet name.

"s'alright," he smiles. now it's his turn to hold out a hand. "shall we keep going?"

"mhmm," you quickly take another puff of the cig, before sliding it between matty's lips with a giggle and taking his hand; you have to tug him forward a few paces before he regains control of his brain, but he quickly manages it, and the walk home continues.

for the most part, it's uneventful, aside from the alien feeling of your hand constantly in matty's. that is, until he tries to be clever and inhale the cig mid-conversation, and ends up exhaling directly in your face when you turn to listen to him without him fully noticing.

you cough a little bit when the smoke hits you, and matty panics (and internally facepalms. what a fucking idiot he is) as he throws the cig on the ground and stamps it out. "shit! i'm so sorry, sweetheart, i didn't mean that! you alright?"

"s'ok, i'm ok, don't worry," you assure him, waving away both his fretting and the lingering smoke. when it clears from in front of your face, matty's heartbeat increases as he takes in your amused smile and your even-more-sparkly-than-earlier eyes. you're beautiful. you're fucking glowing. and you're tucking yourself under his arm and cosying into his side as you walk. jesus christ. "this is a lot better for us, don't you think?"

matty's cheeks lift into a smile. "definitely."

it really is better, matty thinks, walking towards the front door of your halls with you snuggled into his chest. much like every other aspect of matty's life, you fit seamlessly into his side - you just feel so right there, so natural, as if the two of you were biologically designed to be together. maybe someday, he hopes, you will be; not two best friends traipsing into uni accommodation for a post-night out sleepover, but a pair of lovers heading home after a date.

he doubts that'll actually happen, given that he'd have to go through the impossible task of telling you how he feels first, but still. it's a nice distant daydream, one he's still giddily thinking about when you unlock the front door and pull him through several more until you reach your bedroom.

you groan when you flick the light on and see the state of your bed, makeup palettes and hair products and failed outfit options strewn across it. matty immediately jumps into problem-solving mode; anything to stop you being unhappy, after all. "where do you want all this stuff, darlin'?"

"the fucking floor," you grumble.

"so… where i'm meant to sleep?"

your head snaps up, and you catch matty's eye in the mirror as you take your earrings out. "well," you turn to face him, your expression… nervous? "you could just, y'know, share the bed with me."

oh. matty can feel his heart pounding in his ears, diminishing the volume of your continuing (and frantic) monologue: "i mean, i know it'll be tight cos it's a single, and you've always insisted on sleeping on the floor even when i've offered to let you have the bed, but it's really cold tonight and i wouldn't mind the extra heat, and at least if we're sharing i know you won't be freezing and you'll be comfy, yeah?"

"ok," matty says, despite barely registering anything you said in his fugue state. he's drunk, and lovesick, but he's not an idiot. "yeah. we'll share."

your face breaks into a relieved smile. "ok. good. um, before that, would you…?"

"oh, of course," matty darts over to you as quickly as he can, while you turn to face the mirror again and lift your hair up. slowly, with fingers fumbling just as much from nerves as from alcohol consumption, he undoes the zip on the back of your dress. the perfume still lingering on the back of your neck clouds his brain with every breath he takes, and the organ threatens to completely shut down when matty pulls the zip down low enough to reveal a lack of bra clasps underneath your outfit. once he's finished undoing you, he steps back while he still has the ability to do so, turning away from you. "there you go."

"thank you," comes the reply from behind him, followed by the sounds of fabric rustling and drawers opening. matty busies himself with carefully clearing your bed, only turning back round when you tap his arm; he smiles when he sees you in a big t-shirt, hair shoved up messily and makeup half-removed, holding out a pair of sweatpants he recognises as his. "you left these here last time. i thought you might want them to sleep in. and i did wash them, before you ask."

you roll your eyes as matty presses the trousers to his nose anyway as a joke - when he registers that his clothes now smell like you and your washing powder, however, it stops being funny in favour of being lovelorn-inducing. but his smile quickly returns when he properly notices the design on the t-shirt you're wearing. "i cannot believe you're wearing a drive like i do shirt to bed. thought you were more proud of me, to be honest, darlin'."

"of course i am, but it's comfy," you protest, brow furrowing in the most adorable way as you frown. it softens wistfully as you continue. "and it reminds me of home."

weird, matty thinks. you're not from- oh. christ.

he's home, to you. 

what a fucking thought that is. matty's not quite sure how he's managing to stay sane, but he smiles, pulling you into a tight hug and stroking your back. "that's very lovely of you, sweetheart."

"s'just the truth," you reach up on tiptoe to pat matty on the head, before pulling away. he misses you immediately. "you wanna get ready for bed?"

does he ever. 

matty nods, kicking his shoes off and quickly undressing while you climb into bed. despite the fact you've seen him in shorts and nothing else before, he wonders if he should feel self-conscious as he strips to his underwear in front of you; something's definitely different with the two of you tonight, matty's sure of it, and he can't quite tell if that's a good or bad thing. probably good, although that might be wishful thinking on his part, just like the way he's convinced your eyes linger on his torso with interest in the mirror when he takes his shirt off.

anyway. clad in his sweatpants and no more, matty climbs into your single bed. he tries to get as comfy as he can, facing away from and without touching you - whether that's to ensure your space and comfort or to stop himself from agonising over how much he likes you, matty has no idea. he isn't comfortable in the slightest, but he'll endure it.

you, on the other hand, have other ideas. with a sigh of "daft boy", you move forward so your body is against matty's back, slinging an arm and leg over his front and spooning him. "is this alright? i figured it was the best way to keep us warm."

"it's perfect, sweetheart," matty replies, and he isn't lying. despite how much it hurts being so close to you and repressing how he really feels about you, matty's surprisingly chill about the way you're clinging to him. cautiously, but feeling compelled to do so, he brings his hand up to stroke your thigh; when you hum contentedly, matty rests it there. "goodnight."

"mmm, night," you yawn out, the blanket of sleep falling on you fast. "love you."

matty smiles, half sadly, half dreamily. "love you too, darlin'."

the next day, he writes a new song.

[tinydefector]

Okay. You've got me invested on the newest installation of Human Effects.

Now I can't stop imagine both Humans and Mechs alike having some sort of Google Form where they click on the Human/Mech they want to fuck and see which is the most desired amongst their respective species.

Now that I think about it, I think there'll be a lot of fighting. And chaos.

But then again, we live for the drama.

Human Effects Lost Records

Wordcount: 1.5k

Warnings: talk of sex, human/alien, pornhunting

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Lab logs

Did I take this as an opportunity to merge Human effects and laboratory logs together into a series yes I did. I'll be working on the human Effects timeline where human Effects 2 is spin-off pieces from the mainline.

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The Holo, cyber and inter webs had a strange beauty to them. It has given many the ability to communicate with different planets, species, to share culture, laughter, debates, videos And all sorts thanks to the many different satellites floating out in space. Everyone also enjoyed it for the use of downtime the most. Some had taken to enjoying Earth's entertainment platforms such as YouTube, Netflix and many other sights, others fell into more depraved sights such as Reddit, Twitter,Tumblr, Pornhub, interlink, Processed and other sights. 

Commlink: post Humans Aboard BLO freight.

BigBotNoStop: Alright mechs, I come bearing an inquiry. As you may have heard from some of my last posts, the newest additions to our crew are a thriving colony of soft, squishy humans. Word in the taproom is some have taken quite an interest in... extending cultural exchanges, if you catch my drift. Not really my field of experience and was hoping some of Xeno's here might have some input. 

Posted to Sublink: Human and cybertronian relationships?

But I'm curious, are interspecies acts even possible without harm? Their frames seem so fragile. One wrong motion and SPLAT! No more humans. quite a few members of our crew have shown interest in flirting... Thoughts? Suggestions for how to proceed with care- help a mech out!

Blazemech: Yo! You got fleshies on your ship! Fragging jealousy!. Your ship is looking for any dock workers?

TailOrTrails: Oh Primus, are we really having this discussion?? Look, I get the appeal of those soft little flesh bags. Really, I do - different wiring can be so freakin' hot. But there's no way a romp with one of those puny things ends well for them! Even accidentally bumping into a table puts them in the medbay. Think of the mess, One wrong thrust and you've got squish all over your plating.

ISOCLEAN: Just download some holofacing and use your imagination if you're that jonesing for an organic interface. Trust me, it's not worth the risk - or hassle of cleaning up after. sure you can find something from the Human sites on Mechanophilia, slutty Show and shine or Car Washes. Stay shiny and keep those servos to yourself, mechs! Some curiosities are better left to fantasies.

Flyboi69: Don't leave a mech hanging, I want deets!, has anybot here actually gotten friendly with a fleshie before? I'm talking about hands-on experience. We've all gotten curious watching, but has the real thing lived up to the fantasy? 

Pimptheride: Any tips for coaxing one into the berth, or does their tiny size mean you've got to take it slow and gentle? And most importantly... any videos out there of the deed? A mech's gotta do some, ah, research before taking the plunge. Hook a brother up if you've found any good amateur organic-on-mech action out there in the 'net. Gotta see it to believe it. 

ScienceSorcerer: For reasons. Does anyone know if humans have both Spikes and Valves? Or if they have any human anatomy holos or books and such from Earth they are willing to sell for some decent Shanix.  

T-Wrexz: Primus, you mechs are hungrier than fragging scraplets. As far as I know, relations between our kinds are still uncharted territory. Could be amazing, could end badly - who's to say until we try? Personally I'm keeping an optic out, just curious to see what new experiences those squishy aliens can offer us tough metal mechs. 

Bar-rizzla: Oho, look who's swapping tall tales. I've been keeping a close optic on our ships squishy company since they came aboard. And between you and me... I may have an in with their ambassador that could lead to some juicy first-hand intel. Just trying to track down the bot we think they are berthing with. Crews got bets out. Turns out they get just as curious about us big metal hunks as we are them!. The other night, their chat got particularly saucy after a few drinks. Lots of gossip and speculation about which lucky bot one of them might take for a private ride. 

WPHAS-Violation: I may have a certain special "human entertainment" vid I could share. Let's just say the organic in question got quite... friendly with an eager mini-con. You know where to find me if you're brave enough to watch! 

Tapemix54: Oho, mechs - think you've got it bad now? You should've seen some of the real deviants back before the war. When I was still stationed on Petrex, I knew this one smuggler - went by the name Rattler. Sneaky little scraplet, but Primus if he didn't have the wildest stories. Rattler used to run goods across time and space, dodging security at every turn. He'd pop up out of nowhere selling the rarest exotic "pets" to rich senators and other high caste mechs looking for a thrill. I'm talking aliens so bizarre even our data banks had never heard of their kind. But the highest bidder always walked away with a new "plaything" to break in, if you catch my drift. Word was Rattler even had a collection of sentient organics that he'd let special clients "test drive" between runs. Humans were apparently a favourite - their smaller frames could take all sorts of creative handling. Rattler had vids, too, of course, to entice buyers. I saw one once, let's just say "versatile" doesn't begin to cover it. Naturally the vids have all been scrubbed by now. But I bet if you knew where to dig in the deep web or some easily swayable Archivist, you might find traces of Rattler's stash still floating around out there.

 T-Wrexz: Whoa, whoa, slow your intake there tapemix! As much as I love a good far-fetched tale, I gotta call scrap on this one. Humans weren't even around back then, much less roaming the streets of Rodion as black market pets, I'm all for imagining exotic interface scenarios, but let's keep the stories at least somewhat rooted in known history, yeah?. Last I checked it was probably fabricated by Caminus cartels to make their actual goods seem tame. 

A few other mechs agree with T-Wrexz before a few kliks later a new post is put up. 

Post: 

"Old Iacon records saved of the Senator and his human Conjunx”

It's a file collection of holotapes and pictures: "Enjoy these are pre war photos of Senator Shockwave and his Human holding their sparkling" 

There are many holos and videos of the long gone senator smiling with his human perched on his shoulder, in the crystal garden with a young sparkling held in the human's arms. Videos of the sparkling playing with the two but the last The last holo looks like a family portrait with Shockwave’s frame in a lime green blue white paint with gold accessories,  his human lover is dressed in elegant robes and the small blue praxian sparkling held in their arms. Each holo is dated with the Iacon records seal of authentication. 

FlyBoi69: NO FREAKIN' WAY. Is this real?! *downloads files faster than Blurr* FRAG ME SIDEWAYS, I think I just popped a gasket! How in the PIT did you manage to dig up the holos of senator Shockwave, most of his speeches, debates and lectures were wiped. Where did you find this! 

Jackin0: of all mechs, with an actual human back in the Golden Age?!. I'm calling scrap on this being real. It's gotta be a flawless deepfake. By PRIMUS if true - to think ol' Shockers was living it up with a squishy. Maybe there's more to those Senatorial types than meets the optic...

T-Wrexz: Okay, I'll bite... but someone better explain to me RIGHT NOW how any of this computes! Last I checked, time travel and inter-species relationships were the stuff of erotic imagination, not legitimate pre-war archives. Tapemix, you better start talking. Where in the PIT did you source these files? How do we know they're authentic and not just an incredibly convincing parlour trick? Because if I'm gonna let these images ruin me, I wanna be ruined by the real deal! Spill it, mech. 

Iacon-Records: Tapemix54 could i please request where you discovered these as i work with Iacon records and this here is history that needs to be preserved. I'm willing to talk with you through a contractor if you would be willing for us to add these back into the new hall of records. Cybertron has lost so much and to find something like this I ask that we find a way to preserve it.  

BigBotNoStop: Pit take me now... I think I may have to reassess everything I thought I knew about interface and partnerships. That human is holding a sparkling curled around them - frag if it isn't the most beautiful thing I've ever seen! If anything could make me believe in miracles, it's this! Tapemix, you glorious glitch - how can I ever repay such an enlightening gift?

Tapemix54: These were filed only cycles after Shockwaves Emputra; they were added to the Iacon records by some Archivist under the title. 'I will Remember you for who you were'. This was right when the senate fell apart on the brink of the war. From my knowledge of information on Rattler he apparently had an outlier who he got to take them to different times since he was a shuttle made it easier to transport. That's from the  records that still exist at least. I'll take you up on that offer Iacon-records. 

________

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_____________

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[librababe99]

Moments Between Time: Part Three

CW: violence, emotional distress, angst, dystopian/apocalyptic imagery, Mutant!Reader, character death Word Count: 1948 Summary: Logan is pushed to his breaking point as he battles both enemies and haunting visions of a doomed future. The tension between young Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr only adds to the strain. Will this be the end of the Wolverine?

Authors note at the bottom <3

(Part four)

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The weight of the mission was slowly grinding Logan down. The relentless march of time, the pressure of knowing what was at stake, and the constant strain of working with younger, unpredictable versions of Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr—it was all taking its toll. Each day, the burden grew heavier, pressing down on him like an iron vice, threatening to crush him beneath its weight.

The Charles Xavier of this time was a shadow of the man Logan had known in the future. Broken by loss and drowning in despair, he was erratic, teetering on the edge of self-destruction. And Erik… Erik was a ticking time bomb, his ideals and anger clashing violently with Charles’s more pacifistic approach. Their constant bickering, their differing views on how to save mutantkind, only served to stoke the fires of Logan’s growing anxiety. Every decision, every word exchanged between them, felt like a knife edge, cutting deeper into the fragile hope that they could change the future.

As the day of the assassination approached, the tension became almost unbearable. Logan’s nights were restless, his sleep plagued by visions of a future he was desperate to escape. But the visions had started to bleed into his waking hours, haunting him when he least expected it. At first, they were just flashes—brief glimpses of the devastation that awaited if they failed. But as the day drew closer, the visions grew more vivid, more terrifying.

One evening, after a particularly heated argument between Charles and Erik, Logan found himself alone in a dingy motel room, trying to steady his racing heart. The small, flickering light above the bed cast long, distorted shadows on the walls, making the room feel claustrophobic. He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror, his face a mask of exhaustion and tension. The man staring back at him was barely recognizable—eyes hollow, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body taut with stress.

As he splashed cold water on his face, the vision hit him like a freight train. He was no longer in the motel room; he was in the middle of a battlefield, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning metal. The roar of Sentinels filled his ears, their mechanical voices cold and unyielding as they hunted down the last of the mutants.

And then he saw you.

You were fighting valiantly, your powers flaring with an intensity that took his breath away. But even as you fought, even as you took down one Sentinel after another, Logan could see the fatigue in your movements, the desperation in your eyes. You were outnumbered, overwhelmed, and the odds were stacked against you. The scene shifted, and Logan watched in horror as a Sentinel, larger and more menacing than the rest, bore down on you. He tried to move, tried to reach out to you, but he was frozen, helpless to do anything but watch.

The Sentinel’s massive hand swung down, and Logan screamed your name, his voice raw with anguish. But it was too late. The last thing he saw was your face, a mix of determination and fear, before the vision shattered, plunging him back into the dim light of the motel room.

Logan stumbled back, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the room spun around him. He clutched the edge of the sink, his knuckles white, his entire body shaking with the aftershocks of the vision. The image of your final stand was seared into his mind, a relentless loop that played over and over, driving him to the brink of madness.

“No,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “No… it can’t end like that.”

But the fear gnawed at him, a cold, insidious thing that wrapped around his heart and refused to let go. What if he couldn’t change the future? What if, despite everything, you were still doomed to fall? The thought was unbearable, a torment that threatened to break him.

Logan’s mind spiraled, memories of you flooding his senses. He remembered the way you had looked at him before he left, the silent plea in your eyes, the unspoken promise that had hung between you. He had sworn to protect you, to save you, and now that promise felt like a cruel joke, slipping through his fingers like sand.

But then, as if answering the turmoil in his heart, he heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible whisper, like the softest brush of a breeze against his skin.

“Logan…”

Your voice.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat as he strained to hear it again, his heart pounding so loudly he thought it might drown out everything else.

“Logan… I’m here…”

The sound of your voice was like a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of despair. It was soft, tinged with a warmth that cut through the darkness threatening to consume him. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound, clinging to it with everything he had.

“I know it’s hard… but you have to keep going.”

Logan’s chest tightened, a mix of relief and pain flooding through him. How were you reaching out to him? Was it a trick of his mind, a desperate hallucination conjured by his longing for you? Or had you somehow managed to connect with him across the vast chasm of time? It didn’t matter. In that moment, all that mattered was your voice, the sound of you, still with him, still fighting, still holding on.

“I believe in you,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly, as if you, too, were fighting back tears. “No matter what happens, no matter how dark it gets… remember why you’re doing this. Remember what we’re fighting for.”

Logan’s hand tightened around the sink, his resolve solidifying into something unbreakable. He couldn’t afford to lose himself, couldn’t afford to let the darkness win. You were still out there, still depending on him, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let you down.

“I love you, Logan… never forget that.”

The final words were like a knife to his heart, the truth of them cutting deep, but also giving him the strength to keep going. He swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

“I love you too,” he whispered, though he knew you couldn’t hear him. “And I’m going to save you. I swear it.”

The connection faded, leaving behind a bittersweet ache that settled deep in his chest. But the message had done its work. Logan was more determined than ever, his focus sharpened by the memory of your voice, your touch. He couldn’t afford to fail. Too much was at stake.

The days leading up to the assassination passed in a blur of tension and preparation. Charles and Erik continued to clash, their arguments growing more heated, more volatile, as the day approached. Logan played the role of mediator, trying to keep the fragile alliance from shattering, even as his own nerves were stretched to the breaking point.

And then, the day was upon them.

The air was thick with tension as Logan and his team approached the site where the assassination was set to occur. Every step felt like walking through quicksand, the weight of the future pressing down on him with each breath. His senses were on high alert, scanning every sound, every flicker of movement. This was it—the moment where everything would either be won or lost.

As they reached the courtyard, chaos erupted. The enemy was relentless, attacking with a ferocity that matched Logan’s own. Claws extended, he moved like a force of nature, cutting through the ranks with precision and fury. Every strike was fueled by the memory of you—your voice, your face, your final words. He had to stop Trask. He had to prevent the creation of the Sentinels.

But then, amidst the chaos, a familiar and dreaded presence made itself known. Erik Lehnsherr—Magneto—hovered above the battlefield, his eyes cold and determined. He raised his hands, and from the distance, the ominous clanking of metal footsteps echoed through the air. Logan’s heart sank as the Sentinels, massive and imposing, emerged from the shadows, their eyes glowing with a deadly intent.

Erik’s voice rang out, commanding the Sentinels with a flick of his wrist. They moved with terrifying precision, their metal limbs whirring as they turned their attention toward Logan. He barely had time to react before the first Sentinel lunged, its enormous hand sweeping down to crush him. Logan leaped out of the way, his claws slashing through the air as he fought to keep the mechanical giants at bay.

But for every Sentinel he struck down, two more took its place, their relentless assault wearing him down. Erik watched from above, his expression unreadable, his power thrumming through the battlefield as he manipulated the metal constructs with ease. The ground trembled as more debris was ripped from the earth, swirling around Erik like a deadly storm.

Logan fought with everything he had, his claws tearing through metal and circuitry, but the odds were overwhelming. The Sentinels closed in, their attacks growing more coordinated, more brutal. He could feel his strength waning, his healing factor struggling to keep up with the damage being inflicted on his body.

And then, Erik made his move. With a cold, calculated gesture, he ripped a massive chunk of concrete from the ground, laced with jagged metal shards, and sent it hurtling toward Logan. The impact was devastating. The concrete slab struck Logan with bone-crushing force, knocking him off his feet and sending him crashing into the ground.

Before Logan could recover, Erik raised his hand again, and the metal shards embedded in the concrete shot forward like spears, impaling Logan’s limbs and pinning him to the ground. He roared in pain, his claws digging into the concrete as he tried to free himself, but Erik’s power was too great. The Sentinels closed in, their cold, mechanical eyes fixed on him as they prepared to deliver the final blow.

But Erik wasn’t finished. With a final, forceful gesture, he lifted Logan off the ground, the metal and concrete holding him aloft like a ragdoll. Logan’s vision blurred, the world spinning around him as Erik sent him hurtling through the air. He slammed into the side of a building with a sickening crunch, the impact shattering the wall and sending debris raining down around him.

Logan’s body, broken and bleeding, was thrown through the air one last time, the force of Erik’s power propelling him toward the edge of the crumbling structure. For a moment, he teetered on the edge, his claws scraping against the concrete as he tried to hold on. But the weight of the metal and concrete was too much, and with a final, shuddering breath, Logan plunged into the water below.

The world above seemed to slow as Logan disappeared beneath the surface, the cold, dark water swallowing him whole. The shock of it stole the breath from his lungs, and the weight of the metal pulled him down, deeper and deeper into the abyss. He struggled against the pull, his lungs burning for air, his vision blurring as the darkness closed in.

Above, the battle continued, but without Logan’s ferocious presence, the tide began to turn. The enemy forces, seeing their chance, pushed forward, forcing the remaining X-Men to retreat. As they fell back, eyes scanned the water, desperate for any sign of Logan. But there was nothing—no movement, no bubbles, no sign that he had survived.

“Logan…” someone whispered, the name carried away in the wind.

 And somewhere, in the depths of that cold, dark water, Logan drifted, his body still and lifeless, the shadows of the past closing in around him.

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A/N: Hi loves! I'd like to apologize for the inactivity the past few days. I was finally able to get into the doctor yesterday and ended up having an in office procedure done😕 my biopsy results won't be available until sometime next week---but please take it from me to regularly check yourselves for breast lumps... - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

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[xthejazzdalorianx]

Chapter One ~ Fragile

Pairing(s): Logan (the Wolverine) Howlett x Non-Mutant!Female!Reader, Uncle!Wade (Deadpool) Wilson x Non-Mutant!Female!Reader

Warning(s): This story explores grief, personal trauma, and mature themes with strong language. It addresses loss, childbirth, and includes elements of chaos and irreverent humor, blending serious and unconventional situations.

Author’s Notes: Hello everyone, thanks for joining me on my first fan fiction. I hope you enjoy it! If you'd like more and want to support future updates, please like, follow, and share. Note: This story features a slow-burn romance with mature content in later chapters. Your feedback is appreciated! :)

Word Count: 4,079

When you first met Logan Howlett, it was at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. You were just starting to find your footing there, and he was the first person who reached out with genuine warmth. He was charming but with a temper that could flare up out of nowhere. Yet somehow, you always managed to be the calm in his storm.

Over the years, your friendship deepened, and you never imagined that anyone could balance you so perfectly. But there was that summer. That unforgettable summer when everything changed.

The memory of your first kiss is etched in your mind like a cherished, worn-out record that never seems to lose its magic. It was one of those moments that felt so right. It was almost like the universe was aligning just for the two of you.

It happened under a dark blue sky with stars twinkling above. You were heartbroken, having just lost both of your grandparents.

The grief was overwhelming, and you found solace in Logan’s arms. He held you close, his embrace a quiet sanctuary in that flower garden.

Time seemed to stretch on as he kept you safe and warm. When you finally looked up, your tear-streaked face met his gaze. His blue eyes were full of an unspoken understanding and a love that had always been there, just beneath the surface.

In that moment, you knew that he was more than your best friend—he was the one who had always been meant to be by your side. And even now, as you look back, you realize that he will be with you, come what may, until the end of time.

After that night under the stars, you and Logan fell into a passionate whirlwind. Every spare moment seemed to be an excuse for a touch, a kiss, or something more. It was intoxicating, and you couldn’t get enough of him. Whether it was infatuation or something deeper, you didn’t care. All that mattered was him.

But then, things started to change. The fiery passion that once brought you together now seemed to drive you apart. Arguments became more frequent, and what had been tender moments turned into heated exchanges. It was rough, and you tried to hold onto the love you once shared, hoping it would carry you through the storm.

Then came that final, shattering night. Logan's confession hit you like a freight train—he was in love with someone else, and to him, you were nothing more than a temporary distraction. He admitted that you were just a plaything until the other person was ready to have him back. Those words pierced your heart, leaving it in a thousand jagged pieces.

In the months that followed, you tried to pick up those pieces to mend your broken heart. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, it always seemed to lead back to him. The echoes of what you once had lingered, and despite the pain, a part of you remained irrevocably tied to him.

After that devastating night, you knew you needed to make a clean break. Packing up your bags and leaving Xavier’s school felt like the only way to escape the memories that were suffocating you.

Thankfully, there was a sliver of hope in the form of Wade Wilson. You’d met him a few times during your summer with Logan, and while Wade could be… well, let’s just say, interesting, he offered a glimmer of an escape.

Wade, ever the unconventional friend, extended an invitation to stay with him and his roommate, Blind Al. It wasn’t exactly a typical offer of refuge, but at that point, you were ready for anything that wasn’t a reminder of the life you’d left behind.

So, with a mix of uncertainty and relief, you packed up your life and headed to Wade’s place. It was a far cry from the familiar halls of the school, but maybe, just maybe, it was the fresh start you needed.

As autumn began to settle in, the days grew cooler, and the leaves started to drift from the trees. The heat that had once made you grumpy was replaced by a more manageable chill. You found a rhythm in your new life: cooking, cleaning, working a regular job, and occasionally joining Wade on one of his unpredictable missions.

It was a shift from the life you’d left behind, but it offered a sense of normalcy, or at least as much normalcy as Wade Wilson could provide. A few weeks into your new routine, though, you started feeling nauseous.

You chalked it up to the dust and the not-so-gourmet meals you’d been enduring. But one evening, as you were leaning over the bathroom sink, clutching the porcelain in an attempt to steady yourself, Wade burst through the door. He didn’t bother with subtlety.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Is this a new, avant-garde method of redecorating the bathroom? Because I gotta say, it’s not exactly my style,” he quipped, trying to lighten the mood despite the grim situation.

As you retched again, he gently held your hair back and yanked off his mask with an exaggerated flourish.

“Alright, buttercup, let’s not pretend this is just a case of the chimichangas playing hard to get. What’s going on?”

You could barely manage to speak through the waves of nausea, but you forced out, “Wade… I need you to get me a pregnancy test. Now.”

Wade’s usual bravado faltered for a moment. His eyes widened with genuine concern, and he gave you a tender, almost clumsy pat on the back.

“Pregnancy test? On it! And don’t you worry, I’ll be back faster than you can say ‘regret eating that last taco.’”

He carefully tucked your hair back, making sure it stayed out of your face, and darted out the door, leaving you alone in the bathroom. Within ten minutes, he returned, juggling a trio of pregnancy test boxes like they were prizes at a carnival.

“I wasn’t sure which brand to get, so I figured, why not all of them? It’s like a sampler platter of pee sticks!” he announced with his usual flair. You thanked him, feeling a mix of relief and embarrassment, as he settled down beside you on the bathroom floor.

He rubbed your back with a surprisingly gentle touch and asked, “So, do you really think it’s Logan’s kid? I mean, I don’t wanna be the bearer of bad news, but that guy’s as stable as a Jenga tower in an earthquake.”

He flashed you a concerned look, trying to add a touch of humor to lighten the mood. You managed a quiet laugh, finding a moment of solace in his attempt to distract you from the stress.

Once you felt a bit better, you asked Wade to step out of the restroom so you could take the pregnancy test.

“Hey, Wade, could you give me a moment alone?” you said, trying to sound as calm as possible. Wade’s face fell a little, but he nodded, rising to his feet.

“Sure thing, I’ll just be out here, nervously pacing and pretending I don’t need a drink,” he said with a forced grin.

He exited the bathroom, and you shut the door behind him, the click of the latch echoing in the stillness as you turned your attention back to the test.

You flushed the toilet and opened one of the pregnancy tests. The instructions seemed like they were written in a different language. Positive was a plus sign and a line, negative was a minus sign and a line. You sighed, taking a seat on the toilet, and mentally prepared yourself.

“I love Logan so much,” you whispered to yourself, “but you’re never really ready for something like this.”

Wade was pacing back and forth in the living room, his usual energy now tinged with worry.

“Hey, are you almost done there? I’d make a joke about pregnancy cravings, but I’m too nervous to be funny right now!” he called out, his voice a mix of anxiety and levity.

You called back, trying to keep calm, “Yeah, just give me a second, okay? It says to wait three minutes and leave it on the counter to make sure the results are accurate.”

Wade hummed in acknowledgment, continuing his restless pacing until Blind Al emerged from her room, rubbing her eyes and looking around with mild irritation.

“What’s all this racket? I don’t get enough sleep as it is,” she grumbled, clearly disturbed by the commotion.

He shot her a sheepish grin. “Oh, nothing much, Al. Just a little, uh, life-changing test-taking party. Don’t worry, it’s not a mutant emergency—just a personal one.”

Al sighed, shaking her head with a knowing look. “Well, whatever it is, just keep it down. Some of us still need to dream about better things than pee sticks and existential crises.”

You apologized to Althea, feeling a pang of guilt for the disturbance, and then finished peeing on the stick, carefully capping it before setting it on the flat counter.

“Three minutes and I will know. Three minutes,” you whispered to yourself, trying to steady your racing heart.

Tears threatened to spill, and you weren’t sure if they were from joy or sadness—or maybe a mix of both. You cleaned yourself up, flushed the toilet once more, and washed your hands.

As you gazed into the mirror, you turned to the side and placed a hand on your stomach, lost in thought. You tried to picture what life would be like with Logan by your side, but the fantasy felt painfully distant. You gave yourself a sad smile in the mirror, the reflection a stark reminder of the uncertainty and longing that had become a part of your reality.

Althea, clearly exasperated, went back to her shared bedroom. She tried to slam the door, but it only shut slowly with a soft thud.

“Okay, Wade, I don’t think I can handle looking at the test,” you called out from the bathroom. “Can you please do it for me?”

You opened the door so Wade could come in. “The instructions say if the first circle has a positive sign, even if it’s faint, I am pregnant. If it doesn’t, it’s negative. Got it?”

Wade nodded, his face a mixture of determination and curiosity. You stepped out of the bathroom and sank onto the living room couch, the nerves gnawing at you as you waited.

Wade Wilson, ever the showman, was practically vibrating with excitement as he examined the pregnancy test. The positive result was faint, but it was there, and it made his eyes widen with a mix of disbelief and joy.

He tried to keep his expression casual as he walked out of the bathroom, but the excitement was clear in the way he barely contained his grin. He plopped down next to you on the couch, his face a mask of controlled eagerness.

You turned to him, confusion etched across your features. “What’s going on?” you asked, searching his face for answers.

Wade’s grin broke wide open, his eyes dancing with happiness. “You’re pregnant,” he said, his voice almost trembling with emotion.

The words hung in the air between you, filled with a kind of awe that seemed to make the moment almost surreal.

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his excitement spilling over in the warmth of his hug. You wrapped your arms around him, letting the reality of the news settle in. A baby. In this chaotic little apartment. The thought was overwhelming, and you couldn’t help but think about all the adjustments that would need to be made.

As you pulled away, the tears you had been holding back finally broke free. The loss of Logan was still fresh, and the idea of having a piece of him in this new life was both comforting and heart-wrenching. You missed him so much. Was this baby a link to what you had lost or a new beginning?

Wade, noticing your tears, softened his expression. He gently cupped your face with his hands.

“Hey, I know this is a lot. I’m here for you, whatever you need. If you want to talk about Logan or anything else, just let me know.”

You nodded, letting his words sink in. The tears began to ebb, replaced by a tentative hope.

With Him and Althea beside you, maybe, just maybe, you could start to find your way through this whirlwind of emotions and begin to imagine a future that honored both the past and the new life that was unfolding.

The morning light filtered into the apartment as Wade Wilson darted around the kitchen, a whirlwind of energy. With the sun barely up, he was already hard at work, making pancakes, bacon, and eggs with a flair only he could muster.

Surprisingly, Althea accepted the news as she was seated at the table, sipping her coffee and watching him with a bemused expression. Wade, ever the showman, had even managed to stamp his logo onto the pancakes. He looked back over his shoulder, grinning like a kid with a new toy.

“Hey, you know my last three movies were huge hits. Maybe these pancakes will be too! Or at least not poison anyone.”

You tried to smile at his antics, but your mind was still tangled in the whirlwind of the news. The breakfast was surprisingly delicious—Wade’s enthusiasm translated well into his cooking. But the joy was fleeting. Just as you were about to enjoy your meal, a wave of nausea struck, and you hurried to the bathroom.

From the other room, Wade’s voice rang out, full of mock offense.

“Oh, come on, sweet cheeks! I know I’m not Martha Stewart, but my food wasn’t that bad!” He chuckled as if he’d just delivered a brilliant punchline.

Althea shot him a look and smacked him gently on the side of his bald head. “Really, Wade? I’d rather wrestle a chimichanga than listen to your cooking critiques,” she retorted, though her tone was softer. “Thanks for the breakfast, though.”

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, still feeling queasy but slightly better, you collapsed onto the couch.

Your mind churned with questions. “Why now? Why me? Why him? Why us?”

The doubts and uncertainties swirled around, mingling with the raw memory of that final night with Logan.

In a twisted way, it all made sense. That night had been a chaotic whirlwind of heated, passionate sex, driven by a mix of intense desire and unresolved anger. Now, his absence left a deep, aching void. You missed him fiercely and craved his presence, but he was out there with someone else, living a life that didn’t include you.

A few months into your pregnancy, your belly was undeniably prominent, and managing a job to cover rent was becoming increasingly difficult. Climbing the stairs to your apartment felt like an ordeal.

Wade had taken to buying you more clothes, each one carefully chosen to fit your growing belly and keep it discreet. The last thing you wanted was for news to leak and reach Logan. The thought of him finding out filled you with dread—what if he reacted violently? What if he hurt you or the baby? The uncertainty was overwhelming.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t even realize you’d arrived at the apartment until Wade’s concerned gaze pulled you back to the present. He was watching you with a mixture of worry and exasperation.

“Welcome back to Earth,” he said with a wry smile. “You doing okay? Don’t tell me this is about that guy with forks for hands.”

His hands were on his hips, his frown reminiscent of a parent scolding a child. You shook your head, too exhausted to engage in conversation. All you wanted was to rest.

Wade, ever the attentive friend, guided you to the couch. He gently massaged your feet, his touch soothing as you drifted into a much-needed sleep. The warmth of his care was a small comfort in the midst of the chaos and uncertainty that surrounded you.

The final stretch of your pregnancy was surprisingly smooth. Your cravings were manageable, and Wade and Althea did their best to make you comfortable. Althea had taken on the task of building a crib for the baby, but her attempt didn’t go as planned.

So, you ended up helping Wade by handing him tools as he wrestled with assembling it. Despite the small size of the apartment, their efforts were heartwarming. You often thanked them, and their response was always a warm hug.

It had been a long time since you felt so loved, surrounded by people who had become like family. You knew your grandparents would have adored this baby, and you felt their love in the support you were receiving now.

Then came the baby shower, thrown by Wade and his quirky X-Force crew. The news that you were expecting a little girl added an extra layer of excitement.

Wade was officially declared the baby’s “uncle,” while Althea was delighted to take on the role of “grandma.” The X-Force team gifted you a range of... interesting items. Colossus, ever the gentle giant, had gifted you an Easy-Bake Oven. Sweet gesture, but not exactly suitable for a newborn.

The baby shower was a lively affair. The room was filled with chatter, laughter, and a spread of desserts decorated with baby onesie designs. The atmosphere was warm and joyful, a testament to the love surrounding your baby.

As you moved through the apartment, chatting with everyone and keeping your hand gently on your belly, each conversation reminded you of the incredible support you had. Gratitude and hope for the future swelled within you, buoyed by the warmth of those around you.

Of course, this wouldn’t be a Deadpool experience without a little unexpected flair. Just as you were savoring the joy of the moment, the apartment lights dimmed, and the door burst open with a dramatic flourish. Wade, dressed in an elaborate superhero costume, complete with a cape and mask, strutted in with a grandiose entrance.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced with exaggerated flair, “prepare yourselves for the most epic surprise of the century!”

Behind him, Althea was maneuvering the custom-made, neon-lit baby carriage into the room. However, since she was blind, she was heading in the wrong direction, veering the carriage awkwardly toward a lamp and nearly colliding with a potted plant.

Wade, trying to hold back his laughter, rushed over and gently placed his hands on Althea’s shoulders.

“Whoa, there! Easy does it, Daredevil. Let’s steer clear of the furniture and save our baby from a potential apocalypse,” he said with a grin, guiding her back on course. “The last thing we need is a baby carriage with battle scars.”

As Althea corrected her path, she gave Wade a playful smack on the arm.

“You know, Wade, if you didn’t have so many grand ideas, I wouldn’t need you as my personal tour guide,” she quipped. “Maybe next time, let’s leave the surprise planning to someone who doesn’t make everything look like a circus.”

The carriage, now properly aligned, rolled into view with its LED lights flashing, a mini sound system playing baby-themed dance beats, and a built-in cooler for drinks. It was an over-the-top spectacle, straight out of a sci-fi movie—classic Deadpool.

The room burst into laughter and applause, and you couldn’t help but smile at the joyful chaos. Despite the unpredictability, it was clear that these moments of absurdity and love were what made being part of this unconventional family so special.

Summer had arrived, and you were nearing the finish line of your pregnancy. In the middle of the night, while you were attempting to sleep on the futon, your water broke. The pain was sharp and relentless, and despite your best efforts to stay calm with slow, steady breaths, you couldn’t help but scream.

Wade burst into the room, his appearance a bizarre mix of urgency and chaos. He was wearing nothing but his mask and boxers, and in his hand was his infamous baby knife. Why? At this moment, you couldn’t care less.

“My water just broke! I need to get to the hospital, NOW!” You shouted through the agony, feeling like you might pass out any second.

Wade’s eyes widened in panic. “Holy chimichangas, it’s go time!” He dashed off to change, calling his friend Dopinder to get a cab over as quickly as possible. “Dopinder, this is not a drill! Get here NOW!”

As Dopinder sped toward your location, Wade yelled to Althea, who was still in bed. “Althea, I’m taking her to the hospital! Don’t miss me!”

Althea merely scowled and mumbled something unintelligible before turning back to her pillow, clearly not up for the middle-of-the-night drama.

Wade hurried back to you, helping you off the futon and carefully sliding your slippers onto your feet. He draped your arm over his shoulder, supporting your weight as you both made your way down the stairs of the apartment building.

At the entrance, Dopinder was waiting, holding the door open with a look of concern. You were breathing heavily, each contraction making the outside air feel like it was blazing with heat.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road!” Wade exclaimed, trying to stay upbeat despite the urgency.

With Dopinder’s help, you climbed into the cab, ready to face the next chapter of your chaotic yet strangely comforting life.

“Dopinder, if you don’t hit that gas pedal, I swear I’ll make sure you’re never able to drive again!” You screamed, the pain making your grip on Wade’s hand tighter than a vice.

Wade was trying to breathe along with you, attempting to keep you calm, but his efforts weren’t exactly working.

Dopinder, clearly feeling the urgency, slammed on the gas pedal, and they arrived at the hospital in record time. He pulled up to the emergency room entrance, and Wade, in a flurry of action, leaped out of the cab and sprinted to find some nurses.

“Help! We need a wheelchair, like, yesterday!” Wade shouted, waving his arms frantically.

The nurses rushed over, assisting you out of the cab. Wade gave Dopinder a hurried thanks before he sped off.

“You’re the best, Dopinder! Try not to get into any more car chases!”

Wade pushed you into the hospital, maneuvering the wheelchair with all the speed he could muster. You were on the verge of meeting your beautiful baby girl, and the fact that you hadn’t picked a name yet felt like a huge oversight.

The pain was reaching new heights, and the baby was already crowning. The nurses and Wade helped you onto the hospital bed, with the staff scrambling to find a doctor and prep the room for delivery.

Wade flashed a goofy grin and said, “Alright, I’ll be right outside if you need me, okay? Just holler if you need a superhero!” But his playful demeanor was met with your intense look.

You grabbed his wrist with a desperate grip. “No, Wade, I need you here. Please? I’m freaking out.”

Wade’s expression turned serious as he nodded. “Okay, okay, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you, kiddo.” He settled into a chair next to your bed, his presence a comforting anchor in the chaos.

Within an hour, you welcomed your beautiful baby girl, Mara Howlett, into the world. The nurse gently placed the tiny bundle into your arms, and you couldn’t help but smile through your tears. It was the most painful yet incredibly beautiful moment of your life.

Wade, practically bursting with excitement, leaned in with his trademark grin and said, “Look at that! We’ve got ourselves a future superhero! And guess what? As her brand-new, totally cool uncle, I’m officially on diaper duty. I hope she’s ready for a lifetime of epic adventures and, of course, Uncle Wade’s questionable life lessons!”

You laughed softly, looking up at Wade with gratitude. “Thank you for being here,” you said, your voice filled with emotion.

At that moment, Mara, your beautiful baby girl, gave her first smile. It was a tiny, precious glimpse into her future, and it melted your heart.

As you looked at her, a thought crossed your mind: hopefully, things won’t get too crazy, and she won’t inherit Logan’s more intense abilities. But if she does, you reassured yourself that Wade would be right there, ready to help and teach her with his usual mix of humor and unconventional wisdom.

[deekaye]

You know what the best part of marrying your best friend is?

Well, it's the unconditional love and acceptance. Even when he knows you snore like a freight train, or remembers those awkward teenage days when you looked like a potato, or how you cried over a simple injection for an entire week. He embraces all of you - quirks, flaws, and all.

I roll my eyes at my best friend slash husband, Seungkwan. He's at it again, playfully teasing me while I'm trying to cook breakfast. Despite his occasional antics, I've grown accustomed to them.

But what truly makes it special is how he loves my family as his own.

"Hey, mother. Did you know when I first saw you, I really thought you and my wife were sisters?" Seungkwan's voice drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the aroma of breakfast cooking on the stove. I smiled at the playful exchange between him and my mom.

Her laughter echoed through the room as she lightly swatted his shoulder. "You moron,how can you remember when you were just 3 years old when your family met us."

"Well, mother, ever since then… you haven't changed even a bit," Seungkwan teased, their shared laughter filling the air.

As I observed their easy rapport, a sense of warmth washed over me. They had effortlessly become family to each other, blending seamlessly into the fabric of our lives.

"Hey, my favorite father!" my husband exclaimed, offering a high five that my dad eagerly reciprocated. Their camaraderie was palpable, a testament to the bond they shared.

"My favorite son!" my dad retorted, a grin playing at the corners of his lips.

Seungkwan chuckled, his expression turning nostalgic. "I'm always glad you became my father! I always envied that woman in the back—" he nodded in my direction "—that she had you as a father. Now, I still can't believe I became your son!"

"Of course, you will always be my son, even if you didn't marry that monkey over there," they laughed together, oblivious to my presence. "Now, hold this flashlight. Let's fix your car. I can't believe you're already grown but can't fix this."

My dad's laughter mingled with Seungkwan's, their banter a familiar melody that filled our home with joy. In that moment, I realized how lucky I was to be surrounded by such love and laughter.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, yet you were just there beside me," The memory of our wedding vows flooded back as I gazed at him, reminding me of the journey that led us to this moment.

Back in college, when we were both grappling with heartbreak and disillusionment, I uttered those words almost as a whimsical notion. "If we can't find someone who will love us forever, let's just marry each other instead." And in that moment of vulnerability and uncertainty, he didn't hesitate to agree.

Now, as I reflect on our journey together, I realize that marrying him was the best decision I ever made. Despite all the missteps and regrets of the past, he has been my constant source of love, support, and happiness.

With Seungkwan by my side, my life has changed in ways I never imagined. In moments of doubt or despair, he's always been there to lift me up. It's almost as if he was the answer to my prayers all along, and I was just too blind to see it.

In him, I found not just a partner, but my soulmate, my confidante, my rock. And as we stand here, enveloped in each other's arms, I know with unwavering certainty that our love will continue to light the path ahead, guiding us through whatever challenges may come our way.

[cosmolog]

Miguel's Secret

Miles and Gwen venture into a large storage room in the spider society, finding secrets long hidden from the rest of the society by Miguel.

Enjoy!

"We shouldn't be back here. I already made a bad first impression with Miguel back there and now he's gonna want to actually kill me. Who knows? Maybe he'll throw a chair at me next time instead of food-"

"Shh" Gwen silenced him, before glancing around and shining her phone light on the various boxes that had been discarded in the room.

Her light settled on the end of the room, where a curtain had been hung from the ceiling and drawn closed, as if to hide something. She started walking towards it, only for Miles to catch a grip of her wrist.

"Miles, let go" She huffed in annoyance at her friend's protectiveness.

"What if it's something you really don't want to see?" He said, looking concerned.

"It won't be. It'll probably just be some more boxes. I wanna check though." She replied. Miles' eyes flickered between the white curtain sheet and Gwen before he sighed deeply and let go of her. He remained close behind her as she advanced to the curtains.

Gwen took a deep breath, held it, then pulled the curtain back, revealing a woman lying down on an examination table. Upon further inspection, the two realised she wasn't a human but a very realistic-looking robot, judging by the red ring on the side of her head.

Miles let out a profanity while Gwen gasped in freight. "Okay, not a dead body but still just as creepy" He whispered.

Gwen stepped closer to the robot, pressing the red ring which changed to blue, and the robot woke up...

(Switch to first person)

My eyes gently opened at the sound of voices. Two young voices, one male, one female. Both sounded scared. I slowly moved my head in their direction. I looked between the two teens, not recognising their faces. I gently sat up, after not moving in so long, I felt stiff. By now, the teenagers were less scared and more defensive.

"And who are you supposed to be?" The boy asked.

I gave him a kind and gentle smile. "I am Y/n. And you?"

"Miles"

"Gwen" The girl added.

I got off the table and looked around the dark area. "Where...where am I?"

Gwen and Miles looked at each other to exchange looks only they understood. Gwen answered me.

"You're in the Spider Society's basement, or should I say the storage room"

I grew sad. Where was I locked inside the storage room. And then the last moments of my last encounter of seeing light came back to me. I could still remember every detail of his face, my creator, Miguel O'Hara. "Miguel..." I whispered to myself, but Gwen and Miles heard me.

"You know Miguel?" Gwen asked.

"Why, of course. I was his Ai after all" I smiled sadly.

"A second Ai of Miguel's?" Miles tilted his head.

"I was Miguel's first Ai assistant, just before he made Lyla. The only reason he never mentions me is because I had a defect. Or, at least, that's what he called it. Miguel had programmed me to do a number of things, which involved making him breakfast and helping him with his work. He had made me a physical body, which looked so human sometimes it even tricked him. I would end up having to remind him I wasn't a real person." I sighed and looked down at my hands as I continued.

"My defect seemed to be a certain emotion. The first time I had ever displayed it, was the last because Miguel immediately stopped me and told me to sit down in the examination chair so he could check everything was alright. He told me to close my eyes and now I'm here. It seems he had shut me down for a while. Ever since I've been shut down, I've been searching for a reason as to why he would shut me down but-"

"He thought you fell in love with him" Gwen stated.

I looked up at her surprised. "What?" I whispered.

"You loved him, didn't you?" Gwen pressed.

"Gwen, I don't think you should be nailing her with questions like this" Miles said, looking worried.

"No, we need to know"

"We really don't"

"You love him" Gwen ignored Miles, stepping closer to me causing me to step back.

"I.."

"Gwen, stop it"

"Your hesitation just confirms it. You fell in love and he killed you for it" Gwen stated.

"Gwen!" Miles scolded, not believing she had just said that.

I looked down solemnly. "Death is never our own decision" I said.

"You poor AI" Gwen sighed, turning to Miles. "Does Miguel know she's awake?"

"Let's hope not."

Part Two

[homelanderbutbig]

You're Just The Right Size (G/T Homelander x Reader)

2120 words. Hurt/comfort and fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

Homelander feels self-conscious about his height, and you make him feel better with expert big boy appreciation.

Homelander has a meeting today with Stan Edgar, the CEO of Vought. You personally have never met Mr. Edgar and barely know anything about him, but you have noticed Homelander's anxiety spike whenever they have their little 'discussions'. Somehow, this man not only shows no fear of Homelander, but managed to turn the tables and actually scare the giant supe. On days like these, whatever words he exchanges with Mr. Edgar tend to leave him a bit more gloomy than usual, so you have scheduled in to get off work early to spend more time making him feel better.

When you enter Homelander's penthouse, you call out for him but hear no response. Perplexed, you drop your belongings off at the entrance and start walking inside, expecting to see him moping in the living room. Instead, all you see is his large body huddled into a ball on the couch with his back facing you. You can hear him sniffling and trying to stifle his sobs in your presence; even in times like this he still wants to uphold his bravado and not be completely vulnerable in front of you.

"Oh, honey," you breathe. You've never seen him get this distressed before, and it pains you not knowing how long he has been up here by himself. You climb up onto the oversized couch, nestling yourself into the edge by the armrest. His head is buried in the corner, leaving you enough of a sliver to sit down without being knocked off by his massive back and shoulders.

When you try to console Homelander by placing your hand on his shoulder, you are disheartened when he jerks away from you. Usually he will do anything to get closer to your contact, but right now it appears like he doesn't want anything to do with you. However, you are not going to just leave him alone to collapse further into his sadness. He deserves better.

Again, you put your hand on his shoulder, refusing to back down when he attempts to shake you off. After a while, he huffs in an annoyed acceptance that you aren't going to give up on him, even if it's what he really wanted all along. Gingerly, you begin massaging him as you gauge where he is mentally.

"Mr. Edgar hurt you pretty bad?" you ask, trying to choose your words carefully, as the last thing you want is to trouble him further. When Homelander gives you a tentative nod, you move your hand from his shoulder up to pet the back of his head.

"I'm so sorry sweetie," you try to cheer him up, combing your fingers through his hair. "You know I'm not going anywhere. We're going to get through this together."

Seeming to appreciate your words, Homelander pushes himself back slightly to angle his head into your lap. You still aren't able to see his face as he has buried it into your chest, but you can feel from the wetness growing on your shirt how much he has been crying.

"Can you tell me what he said?" you inquire. You want him to open up and relieve the heaviness he's carrying in his heart, hoping your soothing can keep him grounded.

"H-he… h-he s-said…" Homelander stutters, tensing as he struggles to let his walls down. There is so much that he wants to tell you, to bare his soul about everything Edgar told him that's left him so insecure. But right now he finds it so difficult to talk, trapped in this mute headspace that's stopping his mouth from forming the sentences that are swirling around in his mind. Instead, he settles on getting out the simplest sentence, and what bothered him the most. "I-I… I-I-I'm a-a-a… m-m-monst-ter…" he manages to whisper before breaking down, the weight of those words hitting him like a freight train.

You are unsure of what you can say in this situation, powerless to stop this colossal mountain of a man from bawling and hyperventilating in your lap. He is desperate for any form of tactile comfort, but he still refuses to touch you with his gigantic, destructive hands. Despite knowing you have no fear of him, he is terrified that he will injure you if he attempts to hold you right now. Instead, he wraps his arms around himself in a pathetic simulation of a hug.

Regardless of your own feelings of helplessness, you decide to hug his head tightly while you let him work through his emotions. You bring your heartbeat closer to his ears while you breathe deeply in and out, doing your best to help him focus on you. Thankfully, after a few minutes of uncontrollable sobbing this seems to work as his shaky breaths begin to slow down and match your steady ones.

Once he has calmed down enough, or at least ran out of tears, you give him a light tap on his head to signal him to separate himself from his hiding place and look at you with his red, puffy eyes. As if he is completely in sync with you, he understands what you're after and slowly flips over onto his back and moves further up onto the couch to rest his head on the armrest. This allows you to prop yourself up on Homelander's abs, finally letting you get a clear look at him. He looks like he's been through the wringer, eyes saturated and face physically drained, with his hands clenched tight by his sides. The trauma of his childhood has broken through the armoured exterior he's tried to hard to maintain, and now its fragility is entirely exposed to you.

"You aren't a monster, baby," you reassure him, leaning closer to stroke his cheek. "You might be a little larger than most people, but that just means there's more of you for me to love. There's nothing about you that's scary."

"Can I show you?" you ask, smiling warmly as you sit back upright. Although he is apprehensive at how you could possibly make him feel better about being a giant freak, he cautiously nods. He doesn't want to disappoint you, especially if you already have this speech prepared.

"Well… for starters, you have these lovely big hands," you say, picking up one of Homelander's hands. You take your time to run your hand down his large fingers, each one longer than your entire hand. When you look up at him, he is thoroughly engrossed by your every movement, unable to tear his vision away for a split second.

"They're the perfect size to pick me up with," you continue, gesturing for him to turn his hand over so you can make the same motions along his palm. "They're so warm, soft… and gentle," you note, drawing little hearts along the creases.

"And then you have these big arms," you proceed, brushing your hand up from his wrist to his bicep, which is practically the same circumference as your head. "The right size for me to fit in so snugly," you comment, giving his bicep a firm squeeze. "For the world's best hugs."

"And your big pecs," you detail as you pat Homelander's chest, the length of which is wider across than your shoulders. "They're the best size for me to rest my head on," you remark as you feel along his pecs with your palms, pressing into the soft cushion from his suit's padding. "For first-rate cuddles."

"And your big shoulders," you tell him, moving your hands up to lightly knead his trapezius muscles. His shoulders are twice the length of your own, not even including his eagle pauldrons. "They're the proper size to wrap around when you hold me," you proclaim, lifting your hands up to his neck to caress his jawline with your thumbs.

"And then you have this big head," you say, continuing to raise your hands up from Homelander's jaw to his hair. "It's got a lot of great things about it."

"You have such beautiful hair, which I can't stop combing my fingers through," you explain as you run your nails through his undercut, causing him to whimper. He really can't stop himself from making such happy little noises when you scratch his head like that; you just have this power over him.

"Your big eyes," you add, moving your hands down to his temples. You feel Homelander stiffen slightly as you stop his favourite head scratches, but he quickly softens when you delicately wipe the remaining tears away from his eyes. "That never fail to make me smile, because they always look at me with such love that I can't help but feel happy."

"This big nose", you go on, lowering your hands down to his cheeks. When you rub your nose against his, you can feel him fighting not to use his full strength to push completely into you. "It never forgets to let me know that it appreciates my cooking… or my choice of shampoo", you giggle, kissing the tip of his nose.

"And finally, your big mouth," you state, at last resting your hands back down to Homelander's jaw. "Sometimes it says some really stupid stuff. And sometimes it can be really mean," you reflect, ghosting your fingers over his lip to feel them tremble at your featherlight touches. "But it also tells me how much you love me, and it always makes me feel like I'm the most important person in the world," you reveal, subsequently leaning in for a kiss.

Homelander closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose, letting go of the tension he was reluctantly holding onto as he becomes consumed by your affection. Absentmindedly, his hands shift from his sides up to your back, finally allowing himself to hold onto your tiny body.

It doesn't even register in his mind anymore that your frame is so much smaller than him, or how his lips are twice the size of yours. Right now, all he can observe is how easily you've silenced the negative voices in his head, just by being yourself. Truly, you are the guardian swaddling this lost little boy in your blanket of love, protecting him from the vicious beasts that want nothing more than to wound him more than he already has been.

When you eventually break from your kiss, Homelander's gaze flutters open to reveal how dilated his pupils have become from your heartfelt praises. At long last, his body feels like it's been released from the all of the internal torment he was holding onto from Edgar's words, melted into a malleable dough from your compassion.

"It doesn't matter what everyone else has to say," you declare, still cupping his face. His raw eyes are utterly fixated on you, soaking in every word of your admiration. "They're all wrong. They don't know how special you are."

"You're just the right size. My perfect, big boy," you promise him, giving him a gentle peck on his forehead. You leave one hand on his cheek while you gently stroke the top of his hair with the other. "Who are you, Homelander?"

"I… I-I'm your… b-big boy," he mumbles, desperate to hear more validation. He is doing his best not to blink, refusing to miss even a millisecond of your adoration.

"That's right", you hum, smiling at this sad child masquerading as an intimidating eight foot tall superhuman. "You are my big boy. And I think you deserve to know how good you are, right?"

Swallowing thickly, he nods at your honey-laced request, trying not to seem too enthusiastic. He wonders why he even had doubts that you would make him feel better about himself, you always know precisely what he needs.

"Mmmmph…" he sighs soundly when you resume scratching his scalp, purposefully giving him the most attention in his favourite spots. Chuckling, you feel your body vibrating from the deep purring emanating from Homelander's chest, a telltale sign that he has become putty in your hands. He grips onto you tightly, not enough to hurt you, but just to reassure himself that you aren't going anywhere.

When he's in this vulnerable state, you could ask him to do anything for you and he would do it without any hesitation. He would bring the moon down from space, steal the Eiffel Tower from France, rob the Crown Jewels from the Tower of London, or even wipe any city you desire off the map. And yet, he knows you never would. You aren't placating him for selfish reasons, it's purely because you love him and want him to be happy.

And one day, Homelander wishes he could find a way to show you how much he loves you too.

[firsttimewriter92]

I would love a sirius x reader fic set during OoTP where the reader works at the Ministry while being part of the Order like Arthur and Kingsley, and she's staying at Grimmauld Place with Sirius. She often comes home to find him drunk and touch-starved during the school year when the only other person in the house is Kreacher. thanks xx

Hello dear anon :) I know it´s been a while since you sent me this ask. I hope you´re still in the mood for it :P I kept it pretty tame but there´s a lot of angst and it developed into a huge slow burn. Hope that´s all right and everyone enjoyes it <3

Words: 7.536

Warnings: Angst, cursing, (f!) hufflepuff reader, mentions of Sirius being bisexual, kissing, slow burn, fluff

12 Years

“Oh, for fucks sake, not again” you whisper sighed as you entered the kitchen at Grimmauld Place number 12. “Third time this week” you grumbled as you looked at Sirius´ slumped over figure sitting on the polished wooden table. His arms cushioned his head that was laying on the surface, an almost empty bottle of fire whisky next to him. No glass.

Taking off your shawl and coat you walked over to him to assess the damage. It wasn´t as bad as it usually was. At least this time he was clothed.

Three months ago, your boss and mentor Kingsley Shacklebolt had brought you to your first order meeting. The moment he told you what the order was and what they did, you exploded on him. Why didn’t he tell you about this order sooner? Didn’t he trust you enough? Wasn’t he confident enough in your abilities? Kingsley had just stood there stoically, letting you spit fire at him. When you´d finished, Kingsley sighed deeply and started explaining his reluctance to you.

He knew. Of course, he did. He knew who you´d meet again, once you set foot into headquarters and he didn’t know how you´d react. He was right to do so actually. The first time your eyes had met those of Sirius Black, it had flared up again. That nauseating feeling that haunted you for 14 years. Guilt, sadness and loneliness were flooding your system with only a small glimmer of hope and relief.

It was so surreal to have him in your general vicinity again. Two years younger than him, your time at Hogwarts had been the happiest you´ve ever felt. When puberty hit you like a freight train and the mischief of James Potter and Sirius Black became legendary, your hormones betrayed you in the worst possible way. A major crush on the black-haired teenager formed itself inside your chest over the years. Clawing at your ribcage every time you saw him in the corridors, you hated the feeling. You hated his beautiful face, you hated that your body reacted the way it did.

As a Hufflepuff and general people pleaser you´d despised his arrogance and his devil may care attitude. Especially towards the swarms of girls hanging onto the seem of his cloak. You´d stolen glances from afar, never exchanging a word with him. You paid attention instead. You saw everything and liked only so much. His pranks amused you; his bullying infuriated you, his attentiveness to his friends and the younger students warmed you. 

Sometimes, especially after the holidays, you saw him sitting in the great hall amongst his friends, a dull and empty look in his eyes and your heart had squeezed so painfully that you had to look away. About a second later, when you dared to look again, he was grinning and joking like nothing had happened.

And then, one year into your Auror training, your world came crashing down on you. You arrived at the ministry and immediately felt the air buzzing with dread and excited relief all at once. Grabbing the daily prophet that was handed to you with shaking fingers, your knees gave out then and there. Sirius´ face, screaming and laughing manically, stared at you. Ice replaced your blood as you´d read the news.

James and Lily dead. The dark Lord gone; a little boy still alive. Sirius? A cold-blooded murderer and traitor; already in a cell in Azkaban. You refused to believe it. You refused! James was more than a friend to Sirius. There was no way he was a death eater. Sirius had never made a secret about his hatred towards his family or how much he loved his friends.

That´s when your letters had begun bombarding the ministry.

__________________________________________________________

Now, here at Grimmauld place, you had to watch Sirius fight every day just to try and keep his sanity. Between the usual order meetings and the children coming to visit for the holidays, he drank himself to sleep every night. And ever since you´d moved into one of the bedrooms upstairs, you helped him into bed or at least onto a couch every night. Dumbledor was the one who´d asked you if you wanted one of the rooms upstairs. “Less commute” he´d said, remembering your dislike of apparating quite vividly. When asked if he had any objections, Sirius had only grunted before disappearing into Buckbeak´s room.

He wasn´t always unpleasant, however. Sometimes you did have conversations when meeting in the library by chance, although they´d always turned out quite meaningless. You couldn’t figure out if he wanted you there or not.

Around the holidays when the house was full, so his heart seemed to be. He warmed up to you, brought you tea, filled your plate at dinner (much to the surprise of everyone at the table) and conversed with you a little more enthusiastically. At these rare occasions you began to see glimpses of the flamboyant teenager return into his grey eyes and his small grins. Your heart beginning to flutter in your chest yet again. Then the teenagers returned to Hogwarts and so did Sirius´ sour mood.

It was about two weeks after Christmas now and therefore the 14th day of you finding Sirius black out drunk early in the evening. You walked over to the cabinet in the corner of the kitchen and pulled out the last flask of potion you´d brewed for him. It usually woke him up enough for you to be able to manoeuvre him around and lessen his hangover the next day. You hadn’t quite figured out how to make it potent enough to get rid of his drunkenness completely. It was an immensely complicated brew.

Sighing, you uncorked the flask and moved Sirius into a sitting position. He mumbled something and flopped around in your arms like a rag doll. Leaning his head back you put the flask to his mouth and poured. Sirius tried to get out of your grip very weakly and some of the potion spilled from the side of his mouth. “Come on, Sirius, please” you said urgently. “Swallow, damn it.” He finally did. When the flask was empty you gently guided his head back onto the table and waited.

You knew he wouldn’t be sober when he woke up but at least he would be coherent enough to work with. Slowly he began to stir. His head lifted and with a deep groan he leaned back into his chair, holding the bridge of his nose. The long black mass of hair on his head was dishevelled but still wavy and bouncy as it had been all these years ago. The little streaks of grey on his temples and in his beard only contributed to his still very much intact attractiveness.

Sirius wiped at his mouth absentmindedly and opened his eyes. Grey orbs found yours sitting across from him immediately. Instantly you recognized the defiance in them. Great.

“I asked you to give me that shit in the mornings. Not when I´m trying to sleep” he croaked hoarsely in a cold voice. You rolled your eyes. “I´m not letting you sleep at the table, Sirius. Not when you own a bed upstairs. But I can´t lift your arse, so…” you shrugged and looked at him challengingly. You´d figured out quite quickly that trying to be compassionate and soft with him in these situations had no impact whatsoever. Sirius huffed and wiped at his face again to try and gain more control over his movements.

“Never asked you to do that” he slurred slowly. Hot annoyance burned your throat when you answered in a hiss. “´S better than you trying to climb some stairs, falling backwards and breaking your fucking neck.” Sirius laughed humourlessly and looked you straight in the face.

“Not so sure about that.” He had a weird glimmer in his slightly sunken eyes.

“For fucks sake, Sirius!” you yelled as your fist hit the table. Sirius flinched only slightly as you regarded him with a furious look. “Could you at least pretend that you care about your own life? I know you´re lonely and frustrated. I´m sorry I´m annoying you by staying here but the order still needs you! Harry needs you!” You knew you had him with that. His godson seemed to be his only lifeline sometimes. “I won´t pretend to know what you had to go through, Sirius. But you´ve been given a second chance at this, even though you didn’t even get a first one. And you´re drinking it away. Stop it!”

Sirius looked at you for a long time. Breathing heavily his eyes threw daggers at you and internally you just waited for him to cuss you out. That didn’t happen though. Sirius stood up from his chair without breaking eye contact with you. You didn’t like the way he started walking over to you, almost predatory. So, you stood as well and backed away against the table. Of course, you´d crossed a line.

Watching him step closer and closer you had no idea what he was trying to do. The moment he stood right in front of you, his breath hit your face. It reeked of alcohol, and you crunched your nose a little bit. Sirius grinned, showing off his sharp canines.

“You´re worried about me” he sang triumphantly but couldn’t quite remove the belittlement from his voice. Even though you were sure he could feel the heat emitting from your face, your stomach churned with rage instead of shame. “At least someone is” you hissed quietly. He ignored it and only raised a single black eyebrow. You hated how good he looked doing that.

“Don´t tell me,” He breathed and leaned down closer to you. Fuck, fuck! Too close! “You have a little crush on me.” Your head snapped up immediately and your face must have betrayed you because Sirius´ face lit up in sarcastic glee. He chuckled darkly as his eyes scanned your face quickly. “Is that why you wanted to live here? Aw, that´s nice. How old are you? You couldn’t have been in my year at Hogwarts. I´d sure as fuck remember you.” Again, there they were. The waves of nausea crashing over you. Your infatuation with him mixed with worry about his behaviour started to become a cocktail of resentment and pity. You didn’t want to feel this way about him.

“Get the fuck out of my face, Black” you growled and leaned further away from him. Something dangerous mixed itself into his swirling grey irises and your stomach sank.

“Come on now, birdy” he whispered, leaning over you and talking against your neck. Your breathing faltered and hitched, your hands gripping the side of the table hard. “You´re pretty enough. You´d be a delightful way to pass the time.” Shock almost made your body convulse. You knew he was still drunk but his words were so clear. You felt cold, useless and helpless. His lips ghosted across your pulse when he spoke again. “Don´t be a prude, now.”

WHACK!

Your arm pushed him away from you forcefully before your hand collided with his cheek with full force, knocking him back a couple of steps. Breathing heavily, you stood upright and glared at him. His head was still turned so you could see his pale cheek turn red by your smack. When he looked back at you, you didn’t see rage or confusion in his eyes. In fact, they looked almost apologetically, like he knew he´d fucked up but was too proud to admit it.

Your eyes were slits when you spoke next. “Have it your way, then. I can´t deal with a three-split persona. Either hate me, tolerate me or fucking ignore me completely. But one more disrespectful bullshit act like that and I swear, Black, you´ll have one less ally here.”

With those venom laced words you turned on your heel and stormed out the kitchen and upstairs to your room.

Sirius stood there alone in the kitchen for another few minutes. The alcohol was still thrumming in his veins, but he was all too aware of what he´d done. What he´d said, even as he said it.

Of course, he knew you were right with everything you´d said. And that infuriated him more than he cared to admit. Why were you even here? After a stressful day at the ministry, you came back to a horribly decorated, dirty, uncomfortable hellhole of a house, a house elf that insulted you whenever he got the chance to and a fucking drunk man child. Every night. Sometimes he´d wondered how he´d gotten onto the sofa in the library or into his own bed after drinking. He´d had an idea that it might have been you, but he couldn’t be sure. Now he was.

You´d always made him drink the hangover potion that was in the cabinet in the corner. Had he ever thought about how it got there? Who bought or made it? He couldn’t remember.

You didn’t deserve this. He actually came to appreciate your presence over the holidays. He found you witty and bright, a delight if he was honest with himself. And the fact that you were a special kind of beautiful in his eyes didn’t help at all. So why couldn’t he allow you to grow closer to him? You clearly made an effort to at least know him better.

Bitterly he walked over to the almost empty bottle of whisky, setting it to his mouth. Thinking better of it he stopped, turned and poured the remains down the sink. There was a horrible taste in his mouth. Either hate me; He didn’t hate you. Tolerate me; He wanted to do so much more than that. Or fucking ignore me completely; How the fuck was he supposed to do that when you just…existed?!

He really needed to get his head out of his arse. That was no way to talk to anyone. You just wanted to help. Why though? He´d never seen you before. At least he couldn’t remember but then again, he´d surely lost a lot of memories back in prison. You must have been at Hogwarts.

Oh fuck, were you an old flame?! His body went rigid when he thought about that. It would kind of explain your behaviour towards his advances. Or…OR, you dickhead, she just didn’t want a sorry drunk, smelling like a distillery all over her. Sirius shook his head. Why was either rage or excessive flirting always his default? Because he didn’t think you´d react like that. He was way out of line of course, so he really didn’t think his hunch about you having a crush on him would have this much of an impact. How the hell could you like him when he behaved so poorly in front of you; when he hadn’t paid you much attention since you´d moved in?

Maybe he should start doing that.

________________________________ 

You lay in your bed that evening, hot tears running down your face and sweat beading at your forehead. You felt so lost. Had you really been holding onto this teenage version of him so desperately that you couldn’t see how much he was suffering now as a man?

It´s true, he´d never asked for your help. Were your actions overstepping boundaries of his that you just couldn’t see? He´d made you feel so insignificant that evening with just a few words. You felt downright dirty and even though he didn’t really do anything more than graze his lips along your neck, you felt used.

You´re pretty enough…enough. Was your intuition really this bad? Had you read him all wrong for all these years? No. He was drunk, he was frustrated, he was alone. Maybe someday he´d let you help him with at least that. His loneliness.

__________________________

The next evening there was supposed to be an order meeting and you were dreading it like nothing else. You tip toed around the house the whole day, praying that you wouldn’t run into Sirius at least until the Meeting started. Unfortunately, you weren’t that lucky.

When you made your way downstairs to the kitchen, you crept along the corridor quietly as to not wake up the shrieking portrait of Sirius´ mother. Just as you were about to open the door to your left down into the kitchen another one further down the corridor opened and Sirius walked out. Both of you stopped immediately when your eyes met. Your whole body went rigid and hot acid bubbled up your throat. Sirius stood still. He looked at you with an unreadable expression. He sighed deeply and his eyes changed into something calmer and softer.

He opened the door to the room he´d just exited again and waved you over. When you couldn’t move from your spot, his face contorted into a pleading look and he mouthed a ´please´, waving you over once again. And even though your legs felt like jelly, you started moving. Your heart was beating out of your chest when you passed him. You noticed he smelled clean. Clean clothes, clean hair, no alcohol on his breath or his skin.

You walked into the little study and turned around just as Sirius closed the door timidly behind him.

He squared his shoulder and looked at you. You were sure he could see your shiver.

“I have to apologize” he rumbled. “I behaved…incredibly disrespectful towards you last night and you have every right to resent me after what I´ve said.”

You stared at him. That wasn’t exactly what you expected. But it was also very much welcome. You stayed quiet, noticing that he was still trying to talk, having difficulty finding the words. So, you gave him time, schooling your features into not looking at him like you wanted to be anywhere but in his presence.

Sirius started pacing and mumbling before he looked at you again. “´S been difficult” he whispered. “I´m sorry, truly.” He hung his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “I´m not really sure what else to tell you. I-I don’t know you. But…maybe that could change? I mean, you live here. Might as well be…house…mates? Urgh” he groaned loudly and only stopped when you started giggling. He whipped his head in your direction and raised an eyebrow.

You stood there and watched him fight tooth and nail to explain what he wanted and honestly, after his apology you found it kind of amusing. Sirius was anything but insincere, so you didn’t question his motives in wanting to get to know you better. You appreciated it immensely and slowly your body relaxed, the acid in your throat started to retreat.

“Listen,” he said with a lopsided smile, his eyes glued to your smirk. “You can´t laugh at me for having terrible interpersonal skills. I was incarcerated for 12 years.” Your giggle immediately stopped as you looked at him with guilt.

“Relax” he said gently. “Sometimes jokes are the only thing that help me coping.” You nodded hesitantly.

“Did I even introduce myself properly when we first met?” he curiously asked.

“Not exactly” you said with a small shrug and a smile. “You were half drunk and just grunted.”

“Merlin´s beard” he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He stood tall and walked over to you.

“Can we start over then? Can I salvage my reputation somehow?” He stood before you. Tall, handsome and kind. His hand was outstretched.

“I´m Sirius Black. Welcome to my lovely home” he said in a deep velvety and mildly sarcastic voice that made the hair in your neck stand up. “It´s nice to meet you, ___.” It was heartfelt, the way he said it. You reached out your hand and shook his. “Likewise, Mr. Black” you said.

He didn’t let your hand go for a moment, a grin spreading on his face. One that let him look years younger, one you wanted to see for all eternity. The little crinkles around his expressive grey eyes were the most adorable thing you´d ever seen.

Sirius looked like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders when he gently guided you out of the study and down into the kitchen. “By the way,” he said as you descended the stairs. “You´ll find that my humour is kind of fucked. I´ll stop the heavy drinking, promise. So, no need to walk on eggshells around me, ´k?” He turned his head up to you, giving you a beautiful angle of his neck and the tattoos that scattered down from his ear and disappeared into his collar.

“If you´re sure” you said with a grin of your own. His eyes blitzed amusedly as the both of you entered the kitchen. What you didn’t see was the curious look Arthur and Molly Weasley exchanged when they saw Sirius pulling out a chair for you before sitting down himself.

_______________________________

 The meeting progressed and plans were made. The debate was already heated enough before Snape decided to speak. The moment he opened his mouth, your eyes rolled to the side. You resented that man with every fibre of your being. Mostly because he seemed to have it out for Sirius. Taunting him whenever he could. It was unnecessary and just plain vile.

“It´s easy for you to say, Black. You´re just sitting comfortably in your home while everyone else is either being productive or helpful. At least not all of us have to deal with your bipolar character” Snape snarled and gave you a pity filled look. You were about ready to tell him to kiss you where the sun don´t shine when Sirius spoke up. He was relaxing into his chair, staring at Snape with a victorious grin.

“Congratulations, Sniffellus. At least you got the bi-part right.”

Snorting into your wine glass you coughed several times before trying to hold back a fit of giggles. You looked at Sirius´ smug face grinning at you. His eye twitched to look dangerously like a wink and you knew that the heat in your cheeks didn’t form because of the wine.

_______________________________________

The days after became more and more comfortable. Sirius kept his promise to you not to drink excessively anymore and greeted you sober every evening when you returned. You ate dinner together and talked a lot more. You actually began looking forward to coming back to Grimmauld place every night. The kitchen was cozy and warm, soft light from candles and gas lamps illuminated the space as you sat at the table, sharing stories from your time at Hogwarts and your Auror training.

Day after day Sirius seemed to hang onto your every word more and you slowly got to know his sense of humour and therefore gradually you stopped feeling guilty whenever he made a joke about his time in Azkaban. Of course, you knew that deep down, 12 years in that horrible place left its marks, but it seemed like he was done with showing them to you.

“So,” he said one evening, cheeks tinted a beautiful rosy colour from the wine he´d poured the both of you. “You were two years under me. A Hufflepuff and a brainiac.” His voice sounded impressed. “What I can´t believe though” he said and took a swig of his wine, “Is that you were a beater in the quidditch team, and we actually played against each other?!”

You grinned and nodded. “We did. I remember it vividly. I´d just gotten into the team and our first match was you guys. You were in your last year. I tried so hard to hit those bludgers in your or James´ direction, but my strategy was futile. James was too quick, and you were too wicked on a broom” you shook your head in mock disbelieve while Sirius´ eyes gleamed with excitement.

“I don’t get it” he said with an almost dreamy look on his face. His chin rested in his palm as he spoke. “Don’t get me wrong, I know you´ve got spark but I would have recognized that in school. You told me you were a closed off and private. But then you go joining the quidditch team as a beater no less. How?”

You smiled at him. “Well,” you said amusedly and took a sip of your glass. “I was closed off, that´s true. But that doesn’t mean that I had no personality. There was a certain potential of rage. I had to let that go somewhere.” You shrugged with a grin. Sirius looked at you impressed.

He topped off your wineglass and spoke. “I´m impressed. The closed off, timid girl, grew up to be a fearless auror.” You shook your head. “Fearless is not true” you said calmly. “Fighting death eaters fearless is a stupid idea. Makes you end up looking like Mad eye” you smirked and winked at him. Your palms encased your cheeks as you spoke in a high-pitched voice. “Compared to him and looking at all this” you turned your head prettily left and right, “I was scared shitless every time.”

Sirius threw his head back an bellowed a joyous laugh. It fitted him so well all you could do was stare at him in awe. He wiped at the corner of his eyes and gasped for air. “Merlin, I really regret being such an insufferable prick to you up until now.”

“Thank you” you said earnestly. “You´re not so bad yourself.”

He smiled at you sweetly. “And we never talked in Hogwarts?” he asked. “Are you sure?” he sounded almost hopeful. You huffed laugh and shook your head. “I´m sure” you said, feeling the wine coursing through your veins, making you bold. “I avoided you like the plague.”

Sirius´s face fell, and you were quick to answer. “It wasn’t because I thought you were a bad person.” Quite the opposite actually. “More like…you were…intimidating.” He raised an eyebrow at that. “Intimidating?” he asked. You nodded.

“Yes. You and your friends…you were legendary as it was. Everyone either knew you, hated your guts or was crushing on you” you could feel your face heat up once more. “I just didn’t see the point of being one of many, you know.” You smiled at him timidly, his expression somewhat empty. “I did pay attention, though.”

A little more light appeared in Sirius´ eyes at that. “You were?”

You took a deep breath and downed the rest of your wine. Fuck it!

Nodding you continued. “Yes. I mean, you were hard to miss. But I´d often see how you joked with your friends, how you comforted the younger students. It was nice to see that side of you. It always made me wonder why you decided to act on your ´attention whore´ attitude more. But then again, I didn’t know you privately, so I don’t even know if I´m right with that.” You rushed the last sentence and reached for the wine bottle. Sirius´ hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. His fingers were strong but gentle.

Goosebumps appeared immediately on your skin. The little hairs on your forearm standing up when you looked up and directly into his eyes. He regarded you with a look full of wonder, gratitude and something pleading. “What else did you see?” he whispered, leading your hand down onto the table, not letting go. Ok, this seemed to be a little too intimate, but you were damned if you broke eye contact for even just a second. It was time to come clean.

“I saw how you always seemed different when we all came back from holiday. At least for a few years. You were always…sad one minute and then chipper the next. It looked fake.” His eyes grew wide. “I saw how your eyes would not leave Remus´ plate that you packed with food until he was done eating. That always happened after he turned.” Sirius´ fingers tightened. “How do you know about that?” he asked in awe.

You raised both eyebrows. “As I said. I paid attention. Still do.” At your words and to your utter delight, Sirius began absentmindedly stroking his thumb across the soft skin of the underside of your wrist. There was no way in hell he didn’t feel the insistent and fast beating underneath.

“I saw a lot of things that made you more than just an attention seeker to me. What I didn’t like, at all, was the bullying. James and you. You were both better than that. Sure, Snape was a little git but…sometimes you overdid it.” Sirius hung his head for a moment and nodded silently before looking at you again. An ashamed look spread across his face. “I know. We could be quite…insufferable. At that age you don’t really think about these things” he said quietly. You nodded in understanding. “I know. And I also know that Snape wasn’t exactly innocent himself. But I guess it´s no wonder he hates your guts. He´s still a bloody git, though.” You grinned at him.

Sirius took a deep breath. “You saw all that without ever having spoken a word to me?”

“Yes”

Sirius looked impressed and incredibly moved.

“´S no wonder Kingsley bursts at the seams with pride for you. I guess death eaters have no chance when it comes to you.”

Blushing hard you grinned bashfully but shook your head. “I´m not that good in the field” you said, and Sirius raised an eyebrow in doubt. “But when it comes to interrogations, if they make it that far, I´m actually very successful. I either get a full confession or at least some names. Always.” You spoke the last part with as much confidence as you could muster, hoping you´d impress him at least a little bit.

“Wow” Sirius breathed. “And you think I´m intimidating?” You giggled. “No, not anymore, actually.” He seemed very pleased with that.

You sat there for a moment in silence. Your eyes trained on his tattooed fingers still gently wrapped around your wrist. Ever tiny movement they made sent waves of shivers over your body.

“Can I ask you a question?” Sirius asked quietly. “HmHm” you mumbled, still not looking up. “Please, look at me” Your head snapped up at his tone. His eyes were filled with something so soft it made your heart quake.

“I can´t stop thinking about it…The other night, you said I was drinking my second chance away.” You nodded. “Even though I didn’t really have a first one. What did you mean by that?”

“Oh” you said and looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I meant your trial.”

Sirius´ eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“M-My trial?” he stuttered out? “I didn’t-“

“-get one, I know. That´s what I mean.”

He looked at you with a shocked expression before his face relaxed. A grateful smile stretched onto his lips as he looked at you fondly. Slowly, his fingers that held your wrist moved to lift your hand up to his face. Not breaking eye contact he gently but firmly pressed his mouth to your knuckles, effectively knocking the wind out of your lungs. Times stilled. The edges of your vision blurred, and a loud beeping noise filled your ears. It felt like you were about to pass out from a fever when his lips left your skin, and an uncomfortable cold ran over your back.

Sirius set your hand back onto the table and seemed reluctant as he let it go.

_____________________________________________

The next days were a blur. A happy blur. You were walking on clouds, you were dreaming so much more vividly and to no surprise, Sirius´ face always ended up being the main character. Sirius seemed much happier as well. He went out of his way to make you comfortable. For the past week now, he´d cooked you dinner and scolded you whenever you tried to help him out. He´d point his finger at you, his eyes comically narrowed and told you to sit down at the table.

It also seemed like he tried to be closer to you whenever he could. He´d stand closer to you, he´d sit closer to you, he´d guide you through doors by the small of your back. It all wasn’t helping your situation at all. He changed his behaviour towards you so dramatically, you weren’t able to stop your old crush from coming back. Not when he looked at you so dreamily sometimes, not when you both dissolved into laughter about some silly story, not when you thought about his lips on your skin.

Every time you thought about that night, your whole body started to tingle. The little flirts just came naturally to the both of you. So much so, that it was in no time, that the whole order noticed something was going on. Most of them seemed very pleased by the fact that they didn’t have to deal with Sirius´ outbursts anymore. Especially Remus. He regarded the two of you often with mirth in his eyes while Tonks almost ripped out his arm when she noticed as well.

The only thing that dampened the sugar high you constantly seemed to be on, was the fact that even though Sirius and you started flirting heavily, nothing ever came of it. In the last minute, either him or you, would draw back and either laugh it off or deal with a few moments of awkwardness. There was a magnetic pull forming between the both of you, and both of you felt it. It got stronger with ever shared meal and laugh.

These days, it got so much harder to fall asleep. Your heart beating against your ribcage so insistently that it was a herculean task to calm down. Apparently, it started to show.

You came down into the kitchen one Saturday morning with Sirius working on the stove. Even though you felt knackered, there was no way you would ever not appreciate his broad shoulders and lean back, covered by some raggedy old band-shirt. You smiled fondly at his back. He heard you approach and turned halfway around. “Good morning, darlin´.” Again, goosebumps everywhere and your heart going ballistic. “G´ mornin´” you yawned.

Sirius turned the stove off and turned to you fully. The smile on his lips vanishing when he saw you. “Are you feeling ok, ___? You look tired.” He rounded the table quickly and came to a stop close in front of you. So close. It took everything in you not to take a deep, deep breath.

“Fine. Didn’t sleep well last night” you said. Lie. You haven’t been able to sleep properly for a couple of nights now.

Sirius looked around your face worriedly. “Do you need one of those pick me up potions you always gave me? I can give you some money to go get them.” That made you chuckle. You lifted your hand and very gently ruffled the soft, black locks on his head.

“Oh, Sirius” you said smiling. “I didn’t buy them. I made them.” It took him a moment to let your spoken words sink in. His eyes went impossibly wide, then slightly damp. You retracted your hand from his head. 

Sirius couldn’t hold on. In one gentle swoop he bent down slightly and pulled you into his chest by your waist. Your arms wound around his neck in an instant. Delirious with happiness you pressed your forehead against the side of his neck and felt the vibrato of his voice against it as he hummed contently. He smelled divine. A mixture of firewood, tobacco and something citrusy. It smelled like coming home and you felt your crush bloom into something much more valuable. It didn’t scare you at all. You were cradled in his arms, his cheek atop your head, his hands gently caressing the small of your back. You could´ve stayed like that forever.

“There´s nothing I could give you to make up for all the shit I´ve put you through” he whispered into your hair. “I don´t deserve the kindness you´ve given me or are still giving.” You shook your head against his neck and wanted to speak, but he was quicker. “You make it more than bearable to stay in this house, love. I don’t know where I would be if you hadn’t decided to move in.”

You stook on your toes to be able to hug him closer and he pulled you in with a desperate sigh against your ear. “I was such a fucking arsehole to you. I´m so sorry.” Hot tears formed in your eyes when you heard his tone. “You are lonely” you choked out. “And frustrated. I get it.”

“…was” he whispered and slowly withdrew just a little to look you in the face. His gorgeous, regal features were formed into a look of gratitude and longing.

“What?”

“I was lonely and frustrated” he emphasized. “Not anymore.”

His blazing silver eyes took in the entirety of your face before closing them and leaning his forehead gently against yours. “I´m glad you´re here with me” he said before kissing your forehead and almost sending you to the ground. The tears spilled over. Sirius noticed them and used his little finger to wipe them from your face.

“Why aren´t you able to sleep? What do you need?”

“I think it´ll be a little easier now” you said with a watery smile. Sirius nodded his head, for the time being, he was satisfied with your answer.

“Let´s eat breakfast before everyone shows up for the meeting. The moment I have to look at Snapes hair, I´ll not be able to eat for hours.”

_________________________________________

The meeting went quite well. Most of the time people were calm and the plans you´d made weeks before, finally came to fruition.

You were sitting beside Sirius who´s palm sat comfortably on your thigh underneath the table. It burned your skin and made you a bit drowsy with longing, but you paid attention still.

After the meeting, some of the members stayed for dinner and drinks after. Everyone had a great time. Sirius and you stood a little to the side, close together and smiling happily.

“Well, finally” came a booming voice from the table and your head swivelled towards Kingsley. He had a dopey grin on his face, wiggling his eyebrows as he regarded Sirius and you. It was evident that he was quite tipsy.

“I really thought it would never happen. You two” he pointed at the both of you and with a hiss you gestured for him to quit it. “Kingsley” you whisper yelled while Sirius next to you just tried to bite back a huge grin. “What?” Kingsley slurred. “You could at least thank me, you know. For bringing you here. ´S the last thing you deserved after all these dumb howlers. Haha!” You felt the colour drain from your face. Oh no. Oh no. “Kingsley, shut up!” You hissed at him again. Sirius looked very curiously between you and Kingsley.

“What howlers did you send him, darling?” he asked in an amused tone.

“SO MANY HOWLERS!!” Kingsley yelled and nearly fell of his chair. “You´re lucky I started intercepting them when I became your mentor. If the committee had found out that the one terrorising them with howlers was actually an auror trainee…I tell ya. You wouldn’t be an auror today.”

“Oh Merlin, help me” you sighed. “Kingsley, please just drop it.”

Sirius´ face was filled with question marks. “What in Merlin saggy left nut is he talking about?”

Kingsley explained. “You see, dear Sirius. This one,” he pointed at you with a shit eating grin. “This one wouldn’t take no for an answer. She tried to send them anonymously and for the most part it worked. Until they set me on it. I found out it was you,” he playfully glared at you. You wanted to sink into the floor and never emerge again. “At this point I was already training you and you had so much potential. So, I made it work.” He sounded so proud of himself.

Sirius had walked over to Kingsley, still smiling and trying to figure it out. “What howlers did she send Kingsley? Why would they be so dangerous for her career?”

“Oh” Kingsley said, and his eyes went big. “Oh, you don’t know.” Sirius looked taken aback.

“I don’t know?”

“Yeah, the howlers, the letters she sent. They were because of you.”

Sirius went still, staring at Kingsley intently. “What do you mean, they were because of me?”

“Kingsley…” you tried again but your voice was too quiet. You could only let it happen. You´d try to explain it to Sirius later. That was, if he didn’t throw you out the house.

“They were trial demands” Kingsley said matter of factly and the air was suddenly too think to breath. You felt like drowning.

“Trial demands” Sirius whispered as he put two and two together. He turned to you slowly. You couldn’t look him in the eyes, embarrassment making your skin feel like it was on fire.

“Kingsley?” he asked in a dry tone without looking away from you. You felt his eyes boring into you. “Kingsley, when did you intercept the last demand?”

Kingsley hummed. “Hmmm…. the last one I got was about four days before your escape from Azkaban was made public. Before that, they came in once a week like c-clockwork.”

You heard Sirius take in a sharp breath. When he spoke next, he was calm, quiet and somehow sounded unsure. As if he couldn’t believe what he´d just heard.

“You…you tried to get me a trial…for 12 years?”

Your shoulders pulled themselves upwards as if you were trying to sink into your own body before you nodded, looking at the floor.

You heard a sniffle from somewhere to your right. It sounded like Molly Weasley.

“___” you heard Sirius say. His tone was choked up and still unsure. “Please look at me” he pleaded.

You couldn’t. You couldn’t bare the look on his face. He already knew about the crush you´d had on him in school and now he´d found out that even as a grown woman you tried so hard to get with him. He must be so appalled.

You shook your head no.

“12 years?” you heard him ask again.

You nodded.

“Every week?” His voice was closer now.

You nodded. His shoes appeared directly in front of you and you cowered back against the counter even further. “Don´t do that” he whispered. “Don’t…please, look at me.” His voice cracked and at that your head snapped up to look at him. The sight broke and healed your heart all at once.

Silent tears were running down his tinted cheeks. His eyes were swimming with something you couldn’t pin point. With a wobbly voice he spoke.

“You didn’t believe it was me?”

“Of course not” you whispered, throat tight.

“Why not? Everybody else did”

“There was no fucking way you´d betray James” you shook your head defiantly. “No way. It all fit too well. They used your family name and the reputation behind it. But I knew you couldn’t have been a death eater. I saw you…in school…” Your own voice began to crack when you thought back to the day you learned what´d happened to him.

Sirius nodded slowly. “Yes. You saw me. You saw me. You always have” Gentle, warm hands lifted to your face and encased it. Sirius looked at you like you were the only other living being in the world. Another tear fell down. “Don’t you ever, ever, call your feelings for me a simple crush” he said and smiled at you. “I didn’t know I had such a loyal warrior out there.” Your face was also tear stained by this point. You sniffed and Sirius gently shook his head.

“No more tears, my love. I´ve got you now.” And with that, he pulled your head to his and pressed his lips to yours. It was like a rubber band snapped in your chest. As your hands tangled in his hair at the base of his neck, he hugged you ever closer, lifting you a little and moving his lips more insistently against yours. This was right, this was perfect.

Open mouthed kisses were pressed against your lips slowly, thoroughly. There was no sound except for his breathing and his heart. A throat cleared itself in the background and with a groan Sirius let go of your lips, looking at you. His grin seemed excited. You didn’t have a chance but to reciprocate it.

“You know that it´s not a simple crush you have on me, right?” Sirius winked at you. You nodded in defeat and leaned your forehead against his chest. You felt his chuckle. “Come on, dove” he taunted you good naturedly. “Call it by its name. Please?”

Your eyes met his and they twinkled with a juvenile excitement you hadn’t observed on him yet.

“I´m in love with you” you said and smiled.

Sirius closed his eyes to let your words really penetrate his mind and soul. The hands around your waist tightened before he nodded with an equal smile. Again his lips met yours. This time, shorter, sweeter.

“So am I” he whispered against them. “I love you. My beautiful fighter. You´ve saved me.”

___________________________________________________________

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