A Fantasy with Nice Shoulders
MDNI
Katsuki Bakugo helps you after you're hit with a sex quirk, based on the same idea as the Shigaraki one here
Katsuki Bakugo x gn/afab reader
All characters in 3rd year, over 18 and you should be too if you're reading this
Warnings/Content/etc: soft but slightly possessive Bakugo, swearing, very light violence, oral (m/f receiving), slightly public/people listening, sex (various positions), walk of shame.
*the start’s a little angsty but idk how to write anything that doesn’t turn into mushy fluffy smut
**a lot of feelings of not consenting to being hit by the quirk, but the actual physical interactions are very much consensual/have been wanted for a while
***this one’s long, it got a bit out of hand [4.9k words]
“They thought it would be funny” you hear someone say. A black cloud of dust had just dissipated, leaving a shocked Monoma and Mineta in the middle. “I don’t think they actually realized how dangerous what they did is” added another voice.
You had all heard of the sex quirk villain terrorizing the city. Every news station had been talking about it all week.
While on patrol for his internship this morning, Monoma picked the villain’s quirk up attempting to apprehend him to no avail. After some brief convincing from Mineta, they assumed it would be a fun prank to make all of the fem-bodied 3rd years a little horny. What they didn’t realize is this quirk doesn’t just make people a little turned on, it drives them to insanity if not dealt with.
“A new article was posted on this today, the effects are worse than previously assumed.” you hear Iida’s nearly robotic voice over the crowd “It can cause permanent damage to quirks and mental stability if intercourse isn’t acted upon promptly!”
Oh, I could fucking kill them you think before launching yourself across the room. Monoma dodges and yells that he’s so sorry and will make it right before running out the door to get help. Mineta on the other hand, is still in shock.
You make quick work of him, leaving him tied to a chair in the common area covered in bruises. The teachers will arrive soon with Monoma and they can deal with it. Turning away and walking to your dorm room, you hear him hurling some insult at you but can’t be bothered to listen.
Most of your classmates are trickling out of the area. Fortunately, the others in your class affected by the quirk all seem to be taken care of. Your best friend Shoto is even leaving with his crush. You’re happy for him but can’t say it doesn’t hurt a bit that he didn’t bother to check on you. It’s not a big deal though, Momo needs help.
And you’ll be fine.
You think.
Or maybe you won’t be.
The happiness for your friends using this as a catalyst to confess to their crushes feels sharply in contrast with the overwhelming loneliness and dread you feel walking back to your room alone. Sure, you have a crush on someone too but he left earlier this morning and you didn’t expect him to be back until tomorrow night. Bakugo frequently leaves on the weekends to visit his parents.
You consider texting Denki or Kiri for his number but they just left with their crushes as well and you’d rather not interrupt them.
Besides, even if Bakugo was here, you don’t think that would make much of a difference. To put it lightly, he doesn’t seem to be into you. When you and Shoto hang out in the common area like you always do, his red eyes glare at you from across the room. Just seeing you seems to put him in a bad mood. He doesn’t even yell at you like everyone else, seeming to ignore your mistakes as if they aren’t worth his time to correct. He did argue with you once, the first day of school but when you threw it back at him he just stared at you. After that, he always seemed indifferent. It was disappointing, his sass seems like it could be fun sometimes.
You’d since written it off as a lost cause and tried to move on. Still, there’s something that draws you to him that you can’t quite place. Something in his eyes that hints things could be different.
You close the door to your dorm, comforted by the familiar space. Iida’s words ring out in your head again “...permanent damage...”
That’s just one article, maybe this won’t be as bad as they say you think before a dizzy spell makes you double over.
Flopping face first into your bed, you scream into your pillow.
Katsuki Bakugo just got back from the gym, walking into an uncharacteristically deserted common room. It is Saturday, right? His eyes light up when he sees Mineta still bound to the chair you left him in.
You didn’t fucking ask for this.
Someone finally snapped, good for them. He’s a little sad to have missed it.
“What happened?”
Mineta stammers at the looming figure above him before blurting out random bits of the story. “t-the villain. Sex quirk. And Monoma- we thought it was harmless but then-”
Of course he’d heard all about this quirk, who hadn’t. Clearly Mineta.
“Are you that fucking stupid?”
“N-no we just thought-”
Bakugo was losing interest, having put the dots together by now. At this point, Mineta was rambling how it would be okay, listing the names of their classmates who had left together.
“Jiro and Kaminari, Ochaco and Midor-”
“Raccoon eyes and Red, [y/n] and Icy Hot, yeah yeah”
“What? No. Todoroki didn’t leave with [y/n], he left with Momo.”
“Huh?” Curiosity replacing the disappointment in his voice. “Who’s with [y/n] then?”
“No one, they left alone. Serves them right. That delinquent’s the one who did this to me!”
“Glad someone finally did,” Bakugo mutters under his breath, smacking Mineta with a small blast while walking past him to the stairs.
Back in your room: you’re losing it. Every article says the same thing: you’re fucked. You’d read as many as you could before the overwhelming desire became too much to handle and you couldn’t keep track of the sentences anymore. You tried to fix it yourself too, but no matter how hard you tried your touch only seemed to amplify the problem. Leaving you feeling overheated, your panties desperately drenched. It’s only been fifteen minutes, this will get even worse.
“Oh come on, you can’t just leave me here - wait!”
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
It’s probably one of your friends, you think, wondering who would bang so loudly on your door (also who finished that quickly????) In the heat of the quirk, you’d taken off your hoodie - leaving you in a nearly see through white tank top and the tiny athletic shorts you’d been wearing all day. Your friend’s wouldn’t care though.
KNOCK KNOCK.
You make your way to the door, thighs clenching around your aching groin as you walk. Swinging it open, you find yourself face to face with a black skull hoodie. Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest before remembering, he doesn’t like you. And he’s not even supposed to be here this weekend. Why’s he here?
“Bakugo, why are you here?” you grumble, sounding much more gruff than intended.
“Uh, nice to see you too?” his fingers tap impatiently on the door frame next to your shoulder.
“Any other day, I’d love to word spar with you but today I just can’t.” you turn to close the door.
“Why? Are you mad your crush left with someone else?”
“What?” you rub your eyes in confusion before getting distracted. Bakugo is hot in workout clothes on a normal day. This quirk was rendering it nearly impossible to concentrate on his words. Not with the way every muscle in his thighs appears to be sculpted into his pants, leading up to his-
“Icy Hot.” he repeats himself, “He left with pony tail. ‘s why you’re pissed, right?”
Oh, that. You’d forgotten about that.
“What? No. Shoto and I are just friends. Besides, he’s had a crush on her forever and she needed his help.” you say blankly.
“You needed help too though,” that one stung. He continues, “sounds like a shitty friend if you ask me.”
“Look. If you’re just here to criticize my friendships, I can’t deal with it right now. Are you done?“ your voice breaks. You step back slightly, hoping to hide in the dimness of your room. He’s not wrong, but you really don’t want him to see you cry.
“I-” he notices the tear in the corner of your eye and knows that one hit too close. He’s off to a bad start. If he keeps talking like that, you’ll definitely slam the door in his face.
Much more quietly he tries again. “Look. I didn’t mean to- fuck, I’m so bad this.” Biting his lip, he wipes his hands on his pants before shoving them in the front of his hoodie. His cheeks flush, making the scar under his eye look pale in comparison. Is he nervous? That can’t be it.
Regaining his composure, he looks back at you. “I came to see if you’re okay, if you n-need anything.”
It’s the most quiet you’d ever seen him. He can’t look you in the eyes. Glancing down, he notices how see-through your shirt is before quickly looking away. He focuses hard on the walls of your room, hands still deep in his pocket.
Of course you’d always wanted Katsuki Bakugo in your dorm room, but assumed it would be different. You imagined that one day he’d start fighting with you like everyone else and fighting would turn into play fighting which would turn into him being nice every once in a while. You always assumed, under his prickly exterior, he’d be soft and sweet inside. You’d never seen it though. Not even when the prettiest girls in your school threw themselves at him, only to be on the receiving end of an explosion. Still, you hoped maybe one day you’d be the one who could break through that, finding something loving underneath. Your crush was all built on a fantasy, but it was a nice fantasy. A nice fantasy, with nice shoulders.
Back to reality.
He at least thought to be here now, which is better than the apathy you were used to. It’s a start.
Closing the door behind him, you turn to walk back to your bed when the world shifts. The dizziness had been coming in waves, this is just another one. You could expect it now. Tensing to hit the ground, you’re engulfed by his athletic arms instead.
“Come in,” you whisper “I really don’t want to be alone right now.”
“Holy shit [y/n], you okay?” he holds you in his arms, looking down at your face.
“Oh, yeah. This has just been happening,” you trail off, hardly aware of what you’re saying. You’re trying to find up from down, only to find every direction your body leads you to is him.
“This has been happening the whole time??” his clenched jaw could easily be mistaken for anger but the waver in his voice gives away his concern. He doesn’t seem to mind you grasping his sweatshirt to right yourself. His body feels warm against you, much warmer than you - making you wonder how he’s managing to be so overdressed right now. Pulling closer, he feels firm under his soft worn hoodie. He smells like laundry detergent and deodorant, with a subtle sweetness. The throbbing in your tight shorts worsens, the quirk-induced ache leaves you feeling empty. You need more of this. More of him.
The dizziness passes and you’re back on your feet. He lets go of you but keeps his arms near as you steady yourself against the wall.
Deep breath. If your friends managed to confess to their crushes today, you can too. Your situation might be a bit different, but he’s not stupid. He knew very well what he was walking into when he showed up. He has to expect this.
Here it goes.
“Bakugo?”
“Yeah? D’ya need somethin?”
“I need your help.”
“Whaddya need?”
“You.”
He nods, understanding. “Yeah. I can do that.”
“Really?” That’s all it took? Holy shit.
“Pshh. What kind of a damned hero would I be if I can’t even fuck a sex quirk out of ya?” the mock confidence would normally make you cringe but he stepped closer and your face is now inches from his. His hands move to the wall behind you, caging you between his arms. Looking down at you, he pauses.
He wants to throw you on the bed. To shove you face first into the mattress and make you scream his name all day for every other girl in the dorms to hear while they’re being awkwardly fumbled by amateurs. He wants to fuck you as hard as he can, so good it’ll ruin anyone else for you. He wants to make everyone jealous of you.
But when he’s right here with you.
When he leans in closer.
His lips barely brush against yours.
Bringing his arms down from the wall, he cups your cheeks. Holding you softly, pulling you in closer but just as sweet. It isn’t the rough boldness you would expect from him, but it was explosive in its own way. Every subtle move of his lips drags up wishful feelings you’d been burying deep inside you for the past three years.
He pulls back for air, his heavy eyelids opening to see you confused at him.
“Oh.” you breathe.
“Did I do somethin wrong?”
“No, I just didn't expect that.”
He rolls his eyes.
“You’re just being… nicer than I expected,” you clarify. Understatement of the fucking year.
“’m never mean to you” he mumbles. Even in the low lighting you can see how hard he’s blushing. To hide his embarrassment, he closes the gap between your lips again - this time with more confidence. Mouthes pressing together, his tongue dancing with yours.
Taking this as an invitation to move forward, your hands embrace his body. Exploring every inch you’d only dreamed of. The soft skin of his neck you’d grown accustomed to staring at sitting behind him in class. The ridges of his back you watch flex under his suit when he’s training. You take off his sweatshirt to run your hands over his arms, his black tank top giving you a better view of the muscles and scars that cover them. Fingers lingering on every curve. You pull your hands from the top of his chest down to his thighs. Your touch veers up his inner leg when his hand grabs your wrist, stopping you.
Grimacing at himself for the pause, he bites his lip to collect his words.
He definitely can’t say he hasn’t thought about doing this with you. He has. Constantly. To a point, he maybe wondered if it was unhealthy. It’s actually the reason he went to the gym this morning, he needed to think of anything else but your ass in the tiny little shorts you were wearing while casually making a cup of coffee. The ones you’re wearing now, pressed up against him.
But having you now? Like this?
“Wait.” His voice is gritty but softer than you’d expect.“What?”
“Things ain’t gonna be weird with us, right?”
“No weirder than ever. Why?”
He looks away momentarily. Not wanting to say it if you hadn’t been thinking the same thing. For his own sake though, he can’t bring himself to leave this unaddressed.
“Cuz I skipped a few steps, I was supposta take you out and stuff first.”
“Well, I’ll let you know to ask me out in advance next time I plan to get hit with a sex quirk.”
“‘m serious. ‘m not fucking this up.”
“You can take me out later.” you smile, his eyes soften looking into yours. Something in his stare makes you melt like ice cream on a summer day. Is this the sweetness you’d always dreamed of?
Feeling too hot, you take off your tank top, throwing it on the ground nearby. His eyes drop and the corner of his mouth creeps into a smile. His hands move to your waist before gliding up to trace the shape of you. He follows your lead - pulling his shirt off and exposing the scars scattered over his toned body.
Granting your own wish, your hands trail down the V along his hips and into his pants. Closer, you need to be closer.
Without thinking you drop to your knees. The pants don’t leave much to the imagination, his outline appearing rock hard already (and he didn’t even get hit with that quirk). Peeling back the fabric, his cock bounces out heavily. It’s massive in a way that would usually scare you but with the audaciousness of a sex quirk taking over your inhibitions, you only want it more. Grasping the soft skin with both hands, you bring the dripping pink tip to your mouth. You have to. It’s so beautiful and you need it. He gasps as your tongue lolls out and you bob your head forward.
One of his hands finds your neck, thumb gently caressing the back of your head; the other planted on his own face leaning over you with his elbow into the wall to steady himself. You watch his abs flex with every heavy breath before your eyes find his.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking good” he groans. You moan at the sound of his voice, sending vibrations through him.
He doesn’t last long. To be honest, he’s a little embarrassed by this but he really had been thinking about you in these shorts all day and didn’t expect this to happen. Less than a minute later, his hips are sputtering while he whimpers “wait, [y/n] gonna cum.”
Perfect.
Even in your throat, you can’t take him all the way in at this angle. Increasing the speed of your hands, you pull your mouth back enough to look up at his face again while still working his sensitive tip. His brows furrow and he bites his lip, exhaling hard while gripping your hair tighter.
“Fuck… cumming” he whines through clenched teeth. His dick gushing in your mouth.
You stare up into his crimson eyes, licking him while letting his load drip through your lips down your chest. The astounded look on his face says he’s into it.
Milking out the last drop, you let him gaze at you while catching his breath. You grab your tank top to wipe your chest and face off but he’s already pulling you up before you can finish. Pressing you back into the wall. His lips find yours as he cups his hand around your cheek.
“So fucking pretty,” he mumbles between kisses, “now it’s my turn.”
Suddenly, his strong hands grip the backs of your thighs. Not removing his lips from yours, he carries you across the room to your bed. Laying you across his lap, he takes the shirt still in your hands and finishes cleaning his cum off of you. Still worked up, every touch he gives is met with your moans. Noticing this, he works his hands around your body. Lightly grazing and squeezing where he pleases. Taking off the shorts he’d been daydreaming about removing all day. You’re soaked through your panties, pressing hard into him as his fingers gently pass over you.
“Wanna sit on my face?” he asks, knowing you’re dying to grind into him any way you can.
Absolutely, you do.
A little too eagerly, you shove him back onto your bed - he doesn’t mind. First, you peel the wet fabric from between your legs. Climbing over him, you position yourself above his face. Your ankles slide under his shoulders, fingers tangling with his above his head to steady yourself. You slam into him, dropping harder than intended (okay, you really want this.) A bit rough, but you know Dynamite can take it. Slightly overwhelmed at your enthusiasm, he groans into you before his wet tongue laps at your folds. Sucking and biting at your clit as you ride his face. His hand follows over yours as you move to grip his blonde hair.
You’re almost there.
KNOCK KNOCK.
“Hey, [y/n] are you okay in there?” Mina’s distinct voice sounds through your door, “we’re worried about you.”
“Yeah, I’m.. uhm. I’m good.” you yell back, trying (and slightly failing) to control your breath.
Glancing down, Bakugo’s eyes light up. Without warning, he shoves his tongue into you. Your world spins.
“Fuckkk” you moan under your breath, gripping his hair harder. He’s enjoying this.
Of course the other hero students would immediately jump back into helping people, but now? There’s no way you’re answering the door right now.
Shoto inquires next, “are you sure, we read more and-”
“Yeah, I’m- I’m fine!” you manage to get out before throwing your face down and exhaling hard into a pillow. You feel your pussy throb as you cream on his tongue. He’s still not slowing down, determined to make you break. His hands now squeezing hard around your thighs, pressing you into him.
“I think someone’s in there,” Mina giggles.
“We should probably give them space, it’s the manly thing to do right?” Kirishima adds.
“Wait, I wanna know who it is!” Sero’s voice chimes in.
How many people are out there??
“In that case,” Momo adds, “[y/n], I made these for you. I’ll leave them out here, okay? Hope you’re being safe!” Something slides under your door but you can’t make out what it is.
You continue to hold your breath, clenching around his relentless tongue.
Finally, their voices trail off down the hallway. Bakugo (you should probably call him Katsuki after that) lessens his grip allowing you to roll onto your bed. Pulling your face away from the drool and bite mark covered pillow, you start to catch your breath. He presses himself up, rubbing his messier than usual hair and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. After a quick kiss on your forehead, his heavy footsteps make their way to your door and back before throwing a few condoms on your bedside table.
Useful. Thanks Creati.
He decides it’s his turn to be on top. With your legs wrapped around his hips, he slowly presses forward. His tip slides into your wetness and you feel yourself stretch around him. Bringing his lips to yours, he kisses you like earlier - soft, passionate. He’s being so sweet you wonder how this is the same person who was just tongue fucking you, trying to get you to scream while all of your friends listened. The same person who grumbled and rushed past you this morning without a hello.
“Ready now?” he grins at you.
Considering his glacial pace, you weren’t really sure when it happened: he bottoms out in you before pausing. You wrap your hands around the back of his neck, scratching them through his soft hair. Thoughts of who he was earlier blur away, taking in the feeling of him in you now. He slowly resumes movement.
His tongue inside you felt amazing earlier, but his dick is even better. Hitting every sensitive spot you didn’t even know you had. He sucks your bottom lip into his, gently nipping as he picks up the pace. You’re panting hard, kisses becoming sloppier. He thrusts into you, harder and deeper.
“Fuck Katsuki,” you moan, “gonna cum.”
“Do it. Cum on my dick,” he growls back, slamming harder into you.
Your throbbing cunt pulses around him while you scream in his ear (you'd feel bad but it's not like he can hear that well anyways.) Hands dragging down his back, pulling him in closer to you.
A jolt of pain amplifies your pleasure as his teeth connect with your throat. Biting down while he whimpers into your neck. You feel him pump into you, exploding white into you while you ride out the waves of your own orgasm.
As you both come down, you run your hands over his scared face. Wanting to cling to any moment of softness you can get from him. He closes his eyes, melting into your touch.
“Thanks for your help,” you whisper in his ear.
“Help? Oh. Yeah,” his gravelly voice is soft against your cheek, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, you don’t have to thank me.” He pulls out, leaving you feeling empty again.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks, tying a knot in the condom before tossing it.
You stand up. No dizziness yet. You test your quirk. Almost back to normal.
He picks up another condom from the table, giving himself a few strokes before putting it on.
“Again?” you ask.
“You’re not through the quirk yet, are you?” His red eyes pierce through you and you know there’s no use trying to hide anything from him.
“Almost.”
“I can do better than almost,” he smiles and find yourself pressed into the wall again. His calloused hands running over you in contrast to his smooth lips leaving a trail of small pecks over your neck.
In one fluid motion, he grips the back of your legs, pulling you up while sliding you back onto his dick - this time faster with more ease. You gasp, clutching his shoulders while he roughly thrusts into you.
“ya feel so good on my cock, you’re doing so fucking good,” he chokes out between heavy breaths, "you look so fucking pretty taking me like that."
The pressure in your gut rises every time he pounds into you before spilling out, sending pulses of satisfaction through your whole body. You shove your head into his shoulder, crying his name while he fucks you harder. Toes curling as your heels dig into his back.
Before you can catch your breath, he throws you back on your bed.
Strong hands pull you onto your knees, your back arched, and face finding your pillow again. Grabbing your ass to bring you closer, he penetrates you again. His fast pace resuming, making you whimper into your pillow.
His hands find yours, bringing his elbows to either side of your shoulders. Groaning in your ear “ya sound so fucking pretty, louder for me,” as he plows into you. You scream, feeling yourself pulse around him as your pleasure cascades through you.
“Ka-katsuki” you whine, the sound of his name in your voice sending him over the edge.
With another hard thrust, he stutters his hips into you, exhaling hard. For the third time today, you feel him flex in you, filling the condom. You stop biting your pillowcase to look at him. His bright eyes staring back at you through heavy lids.
He thinks you look so fucked out and pretty on your tear-stained pillow.
“You did so good,” he breathes, “you feel better now?”
“Definitely”
Definitely better but
So.
Fucking.
Exhausted.
A sliver of light slices through your room. Your hands move across the bed but it’s empty. Yesterday feels like a hazy dream. The ache between your legs reminds you it was definitely real. Your neck and hips are sore too, must have fallen asleep at a weird angle. Blinking your eyes open wearily, there’s a note on the pillow next to you.
You know you should clean up more, go to the bathroom down the hallway but you’re so tired you can’t manage to do more than melt into your sheets. The last thing you remember before drifting off to sleep is Katsuki helping you get dressed for bed and wrapping himself around you.
Had to leave early this morning for extra training but let me buy you coffee. Text me when you wake-up and we can meet at that place on the edge of campus.
Katsuki xxx-xxx-xxxx
You check your phone.
[you have 57 new messages and 14 missed calls]
The latest few, from Mina, asking who’s in your room. Quickly, you swipe them away. That’s a long story and you’re not sure how you’ll tell it. You can deal with it later. You text Katsuki.
You [heading out now, meet at the coffee shop?]
Katsuki [see you soon]
Getting ready in a rush, you quickly throw some pants on before brushing your teeth, pulling your hair out of your face, and heading down the stairs.
Walk normal you remind yourself on the way into the common room, trying to look like Katsuki hadn’t spent half of yesterday pounding his massive dick into you. The rest of the class doesn’t know that yet and considering that it’s new, you aren’t really sure if he wants them to know. That probably wouldn’t be the best way for them to find out, anyways.
Ochoco’s voice beams behind you “Hey [y/n], you’re alive! We were so worried about you!”
“Hey Ochoco! Yeah, I’m okay!” you yell back.
Hearing you’re awake, Mina runs from the couch to hug you. “Hey!!!” Her eyes widen. “You had a good night!” she says before giggling “I’ll text you!”
Mineta scoffs at the sight of you before getting far out of your way. Good.
Tsuyu, Iida, and Jiro all stare from the couch, they wave back politely but avoid eye contact.
Denki high-fives you.
Sero also high-fives you before running to the couch and handing Jiro money. Is this about beating up Mineta? They can’t possibly know about anything else.
Deku looks mortified. “Uhm.” He grabs at the collar of his shirt.
Is there something on your sweatshirt? Using the window by the exit as a mirror, you check.
Oh, shit. There’s more than something on your sweatshirt.
Tiredly, you assumed the hoodie you woke up in was yours; this one has a big white skull on the front. Peaking out above that, a massive bite mark covers half your neck. You pull the hood up but it still doesn’t cover it.
You [just looked in the mirror]
You [why didn’t you warn me???]
Katsuki [now everyone knows ur mine 🧡]
[you have 8 new messages]
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THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN
KÖNIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]
You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.
18+, NSFW, 144k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, Protective!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Abuse, Slow Burn, Konig Pines Hard, Sexual Content, Porn with Too Much Plot, First Time, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Smut, Fluff, Angst
CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION
➤ THE WARNING I
While you haven’t let go of him, you and Konig still haven’t shared a word since the dressing room. Savoring the short break on the ride to The President’s mansion, letting Ruby do all the talking as she coaches you on party etiquette.
Neither of you are listening.
You’re both worn out, fixated on your shoes, eyes hollow and thoughts a million miles away. Your headache is pounding, every last muscle in your body aches, and with each blink you have to fight to reopen your heavy eyelids.
It’s when you try to take the crown off your head that Ruby cuts through.
“No, no! What are you doing? Leave that on.”
“But-“
“Oh, no, young lady! The victors wear their crowns - You earned it!”
You release a weighty sigh, too tired to argue, and let your crowned head lull back on the luxurious leather seats.
Once you arrive at the mansion gates, Ruby stops you when you move to open the door, insisting you wait for an attendant to do it. You and Konig step from the limo linked at the elbows, and are immediately blinded in all directions by flashing, white lights.
What must be a hundred cameras snapping photos, Capitol elite overlapping in grating shouts.
You and Konig turn in on each other, raising your hands to block out the harsh flashes from all directions. Ruby skips over and gives you both a gentle shove on your backs.
“Well, go on you two!”
She lightly swats your bicep.
“And don’t cover your face! They’re taking pictures. You’re going to look ridiculous!”
You can hardly hear her over the buzz of the crowd, too busy trying to keep your heels planted on the red carpet and not on your tribute pedestal, deafened by the sound of Eleven’s snapping neck at each shutter of a camera lens.
You cling to Konig’s arm with both hands as you wobble on your heels through the golden gates of The President’s mansion, heart pounding in your chest, wide eyes catching a hundred cheering, smiling faces. You both flinch and draw in a sharp breath at the sound of an explosion, only to look up and see candy-colored fireworks sparkling in the shape of your names.
The President’s garden is so off-puttingly perfect, neatly sculpted hedges and bushes of roses, not a single leaf or petal wilted or brown. A large fountain sits in the center of the garden, the flow of water glowing with a rainbow of colors as they cascade to the shimmering pool below. Soft, twinkling lights seemingly float and bob in the air, casting a dim, ever-changing glow onto the guests. Paths designed with patterns of colorful river stones sidewind around the garden, and a stage hosts musicians, playing a triumphant song on your debut.
Konig’s eyes meet yours, both of you exchanging a look of hesitance as you’re led to the stairs up to the mansion, swarms of people lined up on either side of the riverstone path.
Every eye at this party is trained in your direction. You feel like you’re on display, a prey with hundreds of hungry eyes on you just waiting for their opportunity to pounce. As they clap and cheer loud enough to be heard miles away, Ruby guides you to the mansion’s marble stairs where she gives you a gentle shove and struts off.
Maybe you’d know what the hell is going on if you’d bothered to listen to Ruby in the limo, but you’re guessing you’re both to make your way to the balcony and meet The President, standing tall and towering over the party from his perch.
You cling to Konig’s bicep, keeping careful watch of your shaky heels with each step.
You give The President a weak smile with sloped brows as you near the top of the stairs, a shaky peace offering. The eyes that meet yours are unforgiving and entirely cancel out his perfect smile. You’re too weak to hold his gaze for long, watching yourself kick up your sparkly dress hem with every step instead.
You can still feel it, his stare. It’s burning your skin, piercing straight through to your core and melting your insides to a heavy sludge.
By the time you both make it to the top of the stairs, your legs have turned to gelatin and your muscles are trying to vibrate their way out of your skin.
A Capitol attendant extends an intricately-rimmed silver platter to you both, two long stem wine glasses filled with a yellowish, bubbling drink placed neatly in the center.
“Is this alcohol?” You whisper to the attendant, who gives a curt nod in response.
You and Konig gently pluck your glasses off the tray. You go to take a sip, but stop when the attendant widens his eyes and shakes his head at you.
The crowd laughs from down in the garden. Your head snaps to meet them, brows tight in confusion and cheeks flushing with heat.
Your eyes nervously flick to The President. His smile says amusement, but those dangerous eyes are flickering with a flame of pure hatred.
You swallow and look down to the floor as Konig’s arm sneaks around your waist with a tug into his side.
The music ends in a grandiose flourish, and in its absence you can hear a few straggling chatters and hushes from the guests down in the garden.
You flinch as The President’s slow but powerful words broadcast over the speakers.
“A toast. To a truly inspiring year of the Hunger Games.”
The crowd has their glasses raised, and you follow their lead as discreetly as possible, hoping anyone won’t notice you’re late to your cue or the shake in your fingers.
“And to two victors who beat all the odds, and overcame great adversity.”
The President’s stare flits in your direction without warning.
It reminds you of the snake from Price’s games, like you had thrown a fruit square into his neck, those sharp eyes narrowed and slicing straight through you. You’re worried he might just slither over and swallow you whole.
“May your dedication to each other remain unwavering.”
The crowd gives a one-note cheer, playing a symphony with their glasses, exchanging hundreds of clinks and tinks before collectively drinking. You follow their lead, the drink sloshing and bubbling furiously against the glass in your jittering hands.
The President’s eyes are still trained carefully on yours when he tilts his glass and sips his drink with his wrinkled lips.
His stare seems to paralyze you, you’re unable to look away, in shock from the gashes he left behind with his cutting eyes, your guts spilling out and filthying his pristine balcony.
You finally break the stare when the crowd laughs again, taking a strong gulp of air as you pull away your empty glass to wipe your lips with the back of your hand, smearing lipstick on your skin.
“What? What’d I do?” You ask.
Konig leans into you and speaks from the side of his lips, trying to keep his words discreet.
“I think you were just supposed to take a sip.”
You look down to the empty glass in your hands, and then to everyone else’s glasses, still bubbling with the yellowish drink.
You close your eyes and force a deep breath through your nose, fighting the urge to cover your burning face as you wish for this balcony to swallow you whole.
You can’t bring yourself to check in with The President, afraid you’ll once again be frozen under his surely displeased, no - loathsome stare.
The Capitol attendant has sensed you and Konig have absolutely no idea what’s going on, and wordlessly guides you both to make your way down to the garden once again.
So many stairs, such unsuitable shoes and dress hem. The only thing you can focus on is how terrified you are that you might fall face first down these elegant stairs in front of the entire country.
Oh, and of course, the eyes burning holes in the back of your head.
You take it out on Konig’s arm, your grip on him so tight your knuckles are shaking. It takes you both far too long to descend the marble stairs, but the crowd waits patiently with brilliant smiles and clapping hands.
As soon as your second heel makes contact with the garden’s riverstones, you’re surrounded.
Trapped by a blur of chests and pushing arms and touchy hands, the open air robbed from you and replaced with suffocating drunken breath. They’re ruthless, elbowing each other out of the way to get pictures with you both where you will surely look horrified and confused. There must be ten hands on you, hundreds of voices speaking to you at once.
Grabbing around your arms, your free hand, someone puts their hands on your hip and squeezes.
“Hey!”
You whip around, keeping your grip on Konig as you try to wiggle and shove your way from their hands, but as soon as you swat a pair away, another comes to replace it.
You catch sight of Konig, flinching at your side, trying to get away from much too adventurous touches and insistent questions. He’s trying to shake away the women clinging to his bicep and feeling up his chest.
The rage that engulfs you is instantaneous and red hot.
You bare grit teeth, elbowing to put yourself in front of him and shove away the outstretched hands reaching for him.
Konig’s arms close in on you, though, and with a stiff yank he pulls your front into his in an useless effort to hide you. You gasp and flinch into Konig’s chest when someone’s hand melds far too low on your back.
Before you can swivel to find the culprit, Konig’s arm whizzes over your shoulder, and Titan’s pulpy, caved-in face blinds you when he makes impact. You and the flock collectively gasp, followed by the sound of a body lifelessly collapsing onto the river stones.
Your eyes are screwed shut, trembling fingers clawing into Konig’s suit as Sapphire rips her own spear from your hands with her dead weight.
You snap.
Each flash of a camera, each grabbing hand, every grating voice a build-up of pressure in your skull until it explodes. There is no time for thought, your body moves without permission.
You snatch a long-stemmed wine glass from a guest’s hand, and duck to a squat to smash it against the river stones. As soon as the shards burst in all directions, the drink foaming and lapping up your dress, you’re on your feet to bring what remains of the jagged crystal to Titan’s throat - jabbing Sapphire’s bloody spear at him in threat. With heavy breath you hold your ground, swiveling on your feet and thrusting her spear at anyone who dares to near you.
The circle of heels and dress shoes finally begins to make room, gasps and shouts of horror from all directions. You think a few people have actually fainted.
You can make out Ruby’s shrills somewhere in the crowd.
“What on earth?! What happened?!”
You can see her hair bobbing as she excuses her way through the crowd, skidding on her heels to a stop when she breaks the growing clearing.
Her hand shoots up to her mouth as she eyes up the mess - shattered glass and an unconscious body lying in foaming drink.
“What did you do?!”
As soon as you lock on to her face, you suck in a sharp breath, your face transitioning from rage to horror.
You are not in the arena.
You are at the fanciest party in the country, being broadcasted live to all of Panem, attacking Capitol elite at The President’s mansion.
You choke on a squeak as you meet the silent crowd, staring on with gaped mouths and wide eyes. The wine glass stem is tossed from your hands as if it was burning you, a violent shake in your fingers and tears in your eyes.
You’ve been angry before, but nothing like this. Ever since you left the arena you feel like an rabid animal, teeth bared and relying purely on instinct.
Ruby sees your face, drained of color and mortified, and she forces herself to rid her shocked expression as she smooths two hands over the front of her dress.
Her glossy heels side step the puddle of drink and broken glass before she puts a gentle hand on both your shoulders, guiding you both to turn and walk.
“Excuse us, excuse us for a moment. Yes, yes, you’ll all get your photos, dears!” She says with her charming, bright white grin, ignoring the shocked faces and the humiliation you just know is burning her skin.
Every eye is trained on you, the guest’s murmurs to each other drowned out by the upbeat music.
Your entire body is shaking, face simmering with a nauseating heat as Ruby leads you along the pathways out of the garden, paraded in front of every last guest until you’re out of sight.
She’s trying to stuff it down, but the hysteria in Ruby’s hushed voice is certain.
“What is going on?!”
“They were - they were touching us,” You stammer.
“Of course they were! They want photos with you!”
Konig’s bicep hardens under your clammy palms when he crosses his arms over his chest.
“No touching,” He says, “Or we leave.”
“You can’t leave!” Ruby chirps, “This party is for you! Do you know how rude that would be?”
“As rude as grabbing her ass?” Konig grits.
Ruby’s pacing now, her heels clicking on the ground and her hands rubbing out her temples.
“As rude as downing your glass of champagne during The President’s toast?! As rude as attacking Capitol officials?!”
She shakes her head at you both in disbelief, her eyes wide with bewilderment.
“What has gotten into you two?!”
You sputter, your brows pinching and hands flinging out at your sides.
“We died, Ruby! That’s what happened! We died! And we killed! And you can’t just-”
You cut yourself off with a growl before continuing.
“You can’t just expect us to go back to normal!”
Ruby sticks a ring-adorned finger in the air, and the thick superiority in her voice immediately triggers your eyes to roll.
“May I remind you, the people at this party spent large sums of money to send you gifts, which kept you both alive in that arena.”
“I didn’t get anything from them,” You spit.
“Well, if it weren’t for them, Konig would not be alive - and I seem to recall him saving your life quite a few times.”
“I didn’t realize that meant we were giving them a pass to grope us,” Konig says.
“They’re just being friendly,” Ruby says with a dismissive wave, “You two are victors! The whole country wants a photo with you! And you two are acting like animals!”
Ouch.
“I guess that’s what happens when you’re treated like one,” You mumble, scraping pebbles under your heels.
Ruby sighs.
“Can you play nice for one evening? I told you you’re on strict orders! You’re going to give John a heart attack!”
Your brows immediately pinch, the hostility drained from your voice and replaced with confusion.
“Where is Price?”
You can’t help but feel a little abandoned. You’re certain if he was here this whole mess wouldn’t have happened.
“Oh, who knows,” Ruby dismisses with a roll of her eyes and a smack of her lips, “That brute is probably off drinking.”
Ruby launches into a rant about Price’s lack of respect, and you and Konig both take your opportunity to relish in another breather, prying the feeling of wandering, drunken Capitol hands from your unwilling bodies.
The open air is nice, a moment of respite, even. The air in the theatre was so stuffy, cycled through thousands of lungs and fried by stage lights. The air at the party, while open, is suffocating. Distorted and tight with grating voices and hundreds of prying eyes.
This air, the air outside the gates, - it’s resetting, crisp and begging for your attention. The breeze is soothing on your face and arms, almost painful as it passes through your nostrils with each crisp breath.
“Now can you please show an ounce of decorum?”
“We’ll show them as much decorum as they show us,” Konig says flatly.
You tilt your head up at him, and give his bicep a squeeze. He’s wearing those bored eyes, standing tall with his chest puffed out.
“You’re victors now,” Ruby tutts, “You have a standard to uphold! Please do not embarrass me any further!”
You just sigh.
Tired.
When the three of you return to the party, stiff and so clearly uncomfortable, your crown hangs low. You stare only at your dress hem dragging along the walkways.
The silver lining is everyone keeps their distance, whispering to each other and sneaking glances in your direction instead of crowding you both.
It’s humiliating, and you feel like there’s a spotlight on you, but at least you have free rein of the buffet.
And you are starving.
The food may just be the best thing that’s happened to you all day.
Wait, no - second best thing.
It smells so good.
There are too many dishes, there’s no possible way you’ll be able to taste them all, but it’s not going to stop you from trying. Creamy soups and meats draped in flavored, savory sauces, potatoes cooked in just about any way you can imagine, an entire table lined with only desserts, all of which look more like art to be admired than food to be devoured.
Oh, and the drinks.
You truly thought all booze tasted terrible, so the drinks they serve, fruity and sweet and barely tastes of alcohol, only makes you wonder why Price drinks whiskey.
You and Konig take your assigned seats just in front of The President’s mansion, giving him a perfect view of his aberrant victors.
There’s hundreds of circular tables, each one draped with a pristine, pure-white table cloth. A flame sits in the center of perfect centerpieces, and it must be a fake, because it’s ringed by flowers and a nest of twigs that sit far too close to the realistic flame.
It feels weird to be eating.
Too normal, too routine, so out of place after the nightmare you woke up from. You can’t help but feel like you’re not worthy of it. Like there’s twenty-two tributes sitting with you at this table, watching as you gorge yourself with their lifeless eyes and empty plates.
You push through it.
It helps that the food tastes too tempting for you to convince yourself to put your fork down.
The silence has continued between you and Konig as you eat, too tired, too guilty, too raw to talk. Your chairs could not be closer, though, your thighs flush together and arms bumping as you eat.
You sneak glances at him from your peripheral throughout your meal, and it hurts. Everytime you look at him, it is a new reminder of the horrors - gruesome kills and sacrificial deaths.
It doesn’t hurt to rest your head on his bicep once your stomach is bursting at the seams, though.
Mauve joins you three at some point, and aside from Mauve’s gushing paired with plenty of cheek kisses, and Ruby’s pointers on table etiquette paired with light swats, you couldn’t repeat a single thing either of them said if you tried.
The booze is making you sleepy, drowsy eyelids fluttering shut as you embrace the cozy warmth the alcohol brings to your skin. You give in to its whim, using Konig’s arm as a pillow and forcing yourself to only think of the music and the scents of extravagant dishes.
The atmosphere of the party has lightened by time you’ve both finished eating, the drinks coursing through the guest’s veins and rowdy conversation lending you both a hand.
As the guests get drunker, the more courage they have to near, and one of them finally breaks the barrier and asks for a photo with you both.
When not greeted with punches and shards of glass, the others steadily trickle over with caution, until you’re both swarmed once again.
With every snap of a photo, you have to stifle the image of the boy from eleven. His lifeless eyes stare back at you from the center of each bright white flash, every shutter of the camera lens slurred into the sound of a broken neck.
Your already forced, uncomfortable smile becomes more warped with each photo, and you’re sure you’re yawning in at least ten percent of them.
Konig doesn’t make any effort to keep up appearances. He stares forward, features hardening as the night drags on. He can’t seem to hide his rightful disdain, eyes projecting hatred and superiority. Like everyone at this party is beneath him.
The first person that dared to put their hand on your shoulder made you flinch and instinctively pull away under their hand, launching back into Konig’s instinctive brace as you face the culprit.
And of course, it’s just about the oldest woman you’ve ever seen, hunched at the back and walking on a cane. Capitol elite or no, she immediately evokes pity, and then guilt. It was surely an innocent and functional touch, and the look of embarrassment on the little old lady’s face burns your face with a matching shame.
“No, no,” You assure her, “I’m sorry, just scared me.”
She gives a laugh, showing her perfect, pearly white teeth. Not a single one of her teeth is rotted, missing, or even the slightest bit brown. You can’t help the way your head shakes in confusion, because you’ve never seen an old person with perfect teeth before. Not a whole lot in District Nine can even live long enough to reach the definition of elderly, let alone do so while maintaining perfect teeth.
The old woman puts her fingertips just under her collarbones.
“Oh, my, can you imagine? A little thing like me?”
You can’t find it in you to laugh with her, only able to conjure a weak smile and faint nod.
These people are so out of touch.
After what you just went through, you’d be startled by the blow of the wind. They’re not treating you like someone who lived the past week as prey, entirely glossing over the fact that your two hands have ended lives, that you’ve just woken up from being dead.
And it coming from just the seemingly innocent, tiny, crippled old lady just makes it all the more eerie.
You’re not supposed to be wiser than someone four times your age, but you can’t help but feel as if you are.
Once everyone sees the little old lady get away with touching the victors without getting knocked unconscious or threatened with broken glass, it’s free reign, and the drunker the guests get, the touchier they get.
They don’t seem to notice your discomfort or annoyance, and the only thing keeping you both from wigging out is Ruby, smiling proudly as she sips her drinks and accepts her congratulations a few feet away. And of course, The President, who you can’t see, but know is watching.
You can’t help but feel like you owe it to Ruby, too. Her very first victors. She’s probably been dreaming of this moment her entire career, and year after year of watching her kids die, maybe she should get to enjoy her moment without dealing with insolence and embarrassment. Especially after she gave you her fancy locket.
So you suck it up.
For hours you deal with the hands on your shoulders, on your back, smoothing over your arms and grabbing your hands.
The hardest part is watching Konig get the same treatment.
In most every photo since the little old lady, your stares are focused on each other, faces twisted as you watch each other get felt up.
It’s when someone other than Mauve or Ruby finds it appropriate to kiss you on the cheek that Konig’s fingernails start to dig into your skin hard enough to make you hiss, your interlocked fists trembling with his rage.
He’s about to lose it again.
“Ruby?! Breather!”
Ruby’s brows pinch, a slight confused jerk of her head as she rips her focus from her conversation.
After a moment you add a stiff, “Please.”
It takes her a moment for it to click.
”Oh, oh! Yes!”
She excuses herself from her conversation, sets down her drink, and waves the crowd away in her standard pushy-but-polite fashion, assuring them they will get their photos, just not now, dears!
When it’s just the three of you, Ruby gives you a proud smile and a nod. Maybe for asking instead of exploding, maybe because you actually used the word, ‘please’ for once, or maybe it’s just because you made her the escort of a victor.
“Oh, my victors,” She hums.
You actually smile a little when you notice it.
Ruby’s drunk.
She’s got a slight sway in her upper half, her cheeks are flushed rosen, and her smile is wider than ever.
It’s incredibly endearing, but Konig does not find it so.
His stance is wide, arms crossed over his chest, and the bicep you cling to is entirely tensed. You give him a squeeze, but he can’t seem to meet your gaze, his half-lidded eyes staring off into the distance. His hand does shift on his own arm to graze a finger over your knuckles, but it only soothes the sting a little.
You know your face is a reminder of the horrors he just went through, and the thought makes your throat swell and ache. As you look down and attempt to swallow the thought away, tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
He’s right here, you’re clinging to him, you went through it together, you are together.
But you feel so alone.
Konig’s head tilts towards the ground, and he speaks through grit teeth as he scrapes the sole of his glossy dress shoes on the river rocks.
“Did you see them?”
You perk up, an instantaneous wave of relief washing over you.
Even better that it’s trash talk.
“They’re awful, I wish they’d just stop-“
”No,” He cuts, “On their wrists.”
Your brows furrow as you wait for explanation, but he gives none, continuing to avoid your stare.
You carefully look to the guests, and once you notice one, the others practically scream for your attention. More people are wearing them than not.
Your ribbon.
For a solid five seconds, you stare blankly, bouncing around from wrist to wrist. A momentary calm as you process what the fuck you’re seeing.
That is your ribbon.
You earned that ribbon.
It was your gift.
It was your token to the love of your life.
Turning your gruesome kill, Willow’s suffering, and your parting suicide token into a fashion statement!
You are literally shaking with rage, tears of frustration well in your eyes and threaten to spill over your exaggerated lashes.
When you realize you’ve been holding your breath for far too long, you push a long exhale through parted lips.
You wonder if maybe it’s a good thing. If the ribbons spread far and wide mean that Willow’s pain will not go forgotten. Maybe her suffering is acknowledged through these ribbons.
You know that’s not what it means to them.
But you’re too tired to be angry.
“You have the original anyway,” You croak with a shrug, “That’s all that matters.”
While Konig doesn’t turn his head, he does look at you from the corner of his eye.
After a beat, he lets go of a heavy breath, his arms untensing under your touch.
“You know,” Ruby sings, leaning forward a little too far before she whispers her secret, “If you don’t dance at these things, people will talk.”
Without really meaning to, you adopt a patronizing but soft tone while speaking with her. That of a parent trying to gently let down a child who wants to play outside in the dead of winter.
“We’re not really in the mood for dancing, Ruby.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be good dancing!”
She smiles mischievously and gives a sloppy wink.
You wear a weary smile, another scoff behind your closed grin.
“I don’t think we’re in the mood for bad dancing, either.”
“No, no! Can’t have that! The victors always dance! I’ll show you!”
”Maybe later,” You say.
”Definitely later!” She beams.
She then raises her brows at you both.
“Don’t tell anyone I told you this-“
She looks over her shoulder to make sure no one’s listening in on her scandalous advice.
“But the drinks help!”
She bursts into laughter, and when you look at Konig, he looks back.
You didn’t realize how cold your chest was until it floods with a sickeningly sweet warmth. He gives a soft roll of those comforting blue eyes, but your favorite is the grin he bites back.
You’re actually eager to follow Ruby’s advice for once.
You hardly have to move, as soon as you lock eyes with a Capitol attendant they step over to you, a tray of drinks in hand. It’s one of the sweet drinks you tried earlier, and as you take a glass you can’t help but ask - hoping you’ll never have to deal with the repulsive taste of whiskey ever again.
“Hey, what is this stuff?”
The attendant's brows raise, and she transfers her tray to one hand to bring a finger to her lips.
“Secret?” You ask.
Konig gently nudges you with his elbow.
“What?”
His lips are twisted when you meet his face, and after studying the woman for a few moments longer, the realization hits with a heatwave of embarrassment.
“Oh. Oh!” You give a nervous laugh at yourself, “I’m so- I’m sorry, I’m a little-”
You cut yourself off, the hand raised to your forehead begging her for grace. The attendant gives a polite curtsy before scurrying off.
You lean into Konig’s, quieting your voice as your eyes pick out the various attendants in their white and black uniforms, doting on guests.
“Are all of them-?”
Your question trails off.
“I think so,” He says.
“This place is fucking insane. It’s insane. I feel like I’m in- I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
“They’re despicable,” he says.
As your eyes dart around, you can’t help but wonder if one of the attendants is the girlfriend of the boy from eight.
You shake away the thought as quickly as you can, but she lingers.
Does she hate you?
She must.
You’re the girl who foiled her boyfriend’s revenge plan, the girl that led a pack of bloodthirsty careers straight to the love of her life.
You try to imagine what it must be like for her - forced to serve the Capitol elite day in and day out, knowing her boyfriend’s back home, but having no way to reach him.
If it had been you - taken away for speaking out about the Capitol, knowing Konig is back in District Nine, but having no way to check on him.
And then to see him for the first time, the boy you broke by leaving, so clearly unwell, lurching forward to volunteer in the games and hellbent on getting gory revenge against the girl that ratted you out.
You have to stop the thought there, it’s making you sick to your stomach, and you find your grip around Konig has turned deathly.
That girl, wherever she is, wins the suffering game.
The drink goes down quickly, and as soon as your glass is empty, an attendant rushes over to take your glass and offer a replacement.
It’s welcomed.
Between sips, you rest your weary head on Konig’s bicep and close your tired eyes.
“I want to go home,” You whine into his arm.
“It’ll be over soon.”
He says this with a reassuring kiss on the forehead, but his hoarse tone betrays him.
“I wish we could be alone,” You whisper.
After a few moments of consideration, his grip tightens on you.
“Want to sneak away?” He asks.
You whip around to face him, looking up to find a goading raised brow and a faint, sly grin.
“Yeah?” You ask.
“Ja,” He says.
Those pretty blue eyes are sparkling with a glint of determined mischief that you couldn’t resist if you tried.
“Okay,” You say.
It’s an incredibly arduous task to sneak away.
Every few feet must be earned by a new wave of introductions, photos, and grabbing hands.
One woman pinches your cheeks, and you’re just thankful it’s the ones on your face.
“Oh, you really are just the cutest thing! I don’t usually, well, you know, but I’d make an exception for you!”
“Hey,” A nervous laugh crosses your lips, “What?”
She just laughs, the pungent smell of alcohol on his breath.
“Such a feisty little thing,” She chimes with a wink, her form swallowed by the crowd before you can get an explanation.
“Did she just make a pass at me?”
You shoot a look at Konig, but he’s too busy trying to placate a gaggle of elite gushing over his size. Hands reaching out to touch his chest, arms, shoulders.
What’d you like to do is start dishing out black eyes, but the booze, and of course, Ruby’s pride, make it easier to be semi-agreeable.
“Alright,” You say with a playful wave, “Step back, he’s already spoken for.”
This is a somewhat effective approach, because the guests seem to adore your ‘joke,’ and plently oblige with their rowdy laughter.
It doesn’t seem to discourage whoever is taking their turn with a picture, though. As if taking a photo gives them a pass to grope you.
When you both finally manage to shuffle your way over to a maid’s closet, you have to wait patiently to cycle through more photos, congratulations, and drunken introductions before there’s a lull.
You’re just about to throw in the towel on the whole thing before the perfect moment arrives for you to both awkwardly slip into the maid’s closet.
When the door shuts behind you, the music and rowdy party chatter muffled the moment it clicks shut, you find you’re nervous to be alone with him. Butterflies in your stomach and a shaky laugh on your lips. Your hands fidget in front of your core, and it’s difficult to make eye contact with him.
He nears with slow, daunting steps, each one making your heart beat a little faster. His hands caress down the sides of your abrasive, sparkly dress to find their home on your waist.
For a moment he studies you with a look in his eyes that you can hardly decipher, an intense stare that pulls a glow to your cheeks and turns your thoughts obsolete. His fingers tighten on your sides as he leans down to press his lips to yours in a long, lingering kiss. Your heart is both pounding furiously in your chest and ablaze with a cozy warmth that blooms throughout your torso and trickles down your limbs.
And suddenly you’re not thinking about the horrors. You’re only thinking about the prick of his stubble on your skin, the strong hands on your waist holding you close, the hint of alcohol on his breath, the vibration of his low hum on your lips.
With little warning, his hands slide down the curve of your hips to the back of your thighs. He scoops you up without so much a grunt of resistance, awkwardly bunching your dress in the front and resting your inner thighs on his waist.
He doesn’t break the kiss even when you gasp into his mouth. He deepens it instead, keeping you firmly on his front with one hand and another pressed to the back of your neck to keep you from losing focus.
He rests your back against the wall, and with a tilt of his head, his eager tongue intertwines with yours. The grip on your thighs is assured, his fingers indenting the soft flesh beneath the scratchy dress.
He pulls away for a moment, his lips inches away and pretty blue eyes staring straight into yours.
“All mine,” He says, low and breathy.
“All yours.”
The front of Konig’s suit pants rock against your front through the layers of your bunched dress, forcing a hitched, breathy sputter from you. You find your nails are digging into the lapel of his suit and tugging him close without thought.
There is little time to react between the jiggle of the doorknob and the door opening, looking over Konig’s shoulder to find Price slinking into the gap just big enough for him to sidestep into the storage closet, wasting no time as steps over to you both.
Konig immediately lets go of the back of your thighs and raises his palms in surrender, backing away from you the moment your heels find the floor with a huff.
You and Konig speak at the same time.
“I didn’t - ”
“Can we have five minutes of privacy?”
“No,” Price says sharply, seemingly not fazed at the display of canoodling he walked in on.
“Where have you been? These people-“
Price ignores you, boring into Konig with stern eyes and pinched brows.
“Did you really knock out a Capitol official?”
Konig shrugs.
“Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you have any idea the amount of work you just gave me?”
Price’s voice is rising, but Konig doesn’t buckle.
“He grabbed her ass,” He says flatly.
Price winces, and for a moment you can see his face go through a range of emotions as he tosses a thought around. He groans, grumbling something at the ceiling before he turns to you, his voice urgent.
“They’re already not happy with you. And you being disrespectful at the interview, at this party - is not helping!”
You go to speak, but Price raises a finger to silence you. His words pour out quickly but as clear as crystal. Intense, careful eyes take turns between holding either of your stares.
“You didn’t play their game, you didn’t follow their rules, and you used their arena like it was a fucking playground.”
“So what?”
Price grumbles again, his shoulders tossing in annoyance.
“You took what was supposed to be a punishment for rebellion - and had fun instead. Get me? Your deaths meant something more than just losing a bet to these people. People aren’t supposed to root for breaking the rules, but they saw you as more than tributes.You were way too human, and Capitol folk are starting to see you for what you are.”
Price shrugs, his voice going soft for just a moment.
“As kids.”
He draws a long sigh and rubs out his beard.
“It probably would have been fine if Romeo took the hit, but you,” Price points his finger at you, “Of course you always have to have the last fucking word. The way they see it, you might as well have spit on the games themselves by opting out of victorhood.”
“You're saying it would have been better if Konig died?”
“No!”
Price grunts in exasperation, his muscles tensing, literally fighting back his annoyance.
“What I’m saying is - the rule is that there is one victor. And two outer district kids finding the loophole, breaking that one rule by rejecting their offer, and getting away with it? Well, how do you think they feel about it?”
“You know what?” You start, “If they didn’t want human, maybe they should have fought roosters instead. And I’m tired of everyone pretending like winning the games is some - “
Price barks your name, and it stuns you in the form of a choke, catching in the back of your throat and fighting you when you try to swallow it.
“This is serious,” He hisses, “Two outer district kids aren’t supposed to be above the rules. You think they wanted to pull you both out of there?”
Price snaps his fingers three times in rapid succession.
“They wanted to let you both die, hear me? You both are a spitting distance away from being rebels as it is - and you telling Caesar to go fuck himself, knocking out officials - “
Price cuts himself off with another frustrated grunt.
“This would have been nice to know sooner,” You mumble, rubbing out your bicep in hopes to relieve the nauseating unease creeping over you.
“This is the first time we’ve been alone and off tape since you both entered that arena. Do you have any idea what this week has been like for me? And you two-”
“For you?!” You snap, “We died!”
“And who do you think brought you back to life?!” Price hisses at you.
“I didn’t ask for that!”
“I remember someone asking me to save Romeo.”
Price jams his thumb in Konig’s direction, and while you blow a huff of air in dismissal, you both know he’s right.
“Isn’t this a good thing?” Konig asks, “If people are seeing the tributes differently?”
“Yes,” Price answers.
Your brows furrow, and Price gives a forced, mocking grin.
“That’s the problem. So do me a favor-“
His tone suggests it’s not a favor, but a demand, and with each sentence his frustration thickens.
“You go out there. You play their game. And you behave!”
You can’t pin why, but the hissed ‘behave’ makes you flinch. Your shoulders tense, your fingers adopt a sudden shake, and blood rushes to your ears in one instantaneous whoosh.
Price sighs, and his eyes find the floor. A hand comes up to his forehead before smoothing over his hair, rubbing out the back of his head.
When he speaks again, his voice is soft.
“One more thing,” He says, “I don’t want to worry you both, but the - ”
Price sucks in a breath, his next word riding a heavy exhale, “Tape.”
“Tape?”
“The tape,” He repeats, “Of you two, uh-“
Price clears his throat and looks away.
“Got it,” You say.
“Well, it-“
He lets out an exasperated grunt.
“It’s popular.”
Both you and Konig share a hesitant glance.
“The, uhm-“
Price can’t make eye contact, can hardly get the words out.
“Look, it’s been passed around.”
“What?” You sputter, “But that- that’s-“
“It’s not like these people have ever been moral.”
Price clears his throat again, and he can’t seem to stand still in his spot, restless in the way you’ve only ever seen him the night before the games.
“So everyone at this party has seen us fuck?!”
“Well, not everyone,” Price mutters.
Your burning face warps under the forceful pinch of your own hand.
“I don’t need this, I really don’t need this right now.”
“There’s a lot that you kids don’t know. And- and I’m hoping they’ll cut you some slack, considering the circumstances.”
Price gestures between you and Konig.
He sees both of your blatant confusion, and another sigh leaves his lips. He looks over his shoulder at the door before finding you both.
“The victors have always been,” He pauses, his eyebrows raising, “Desired.”
“Desired?”
“Desired,” He repeats.
“They want to fuck us?”
Price smacks his lips, his voice lowering.
“They don’t want to fuck us, they do fuck us, you understand?”
You really don’t.
“It’s not like you have much of a choice. The payment is just,” He thinks for a moment, “A bonus, get me?”
It takes you a moment to digest this.
As it dawns on you, you squeeze Konig’s arm a little tighter, and make a baby sidestep to close what little distance there is between you.
“And that tape only got them - More excited.”
The thought of someone forcing prostitution on Konig, the thought of Konig fucking some rich Capitol -
You are at risk of throwing up again.
“So it is crucial that you do - Exactly. What. I. Say. You understand? If we play our cards right, I think I can get you both off the hook.”
His loose wrist swirls in front of you, gesturing between you and Konig.
“The whole - romance thing.”
You nod, and shift on your feet as your eyes find the floor.
Price sighs, a palm covering his forehead.
“I’m sorry, kids, I really am. It’s all bullshit, I know it. But I am trying my best.”
Your brows furrow, and the strain in his voice seems to be contagious.
“I know. Thank you.”
He nods slow, face more than weary, his eyes pinching closed for a moment.
“Now, please - I am begging you both to be good. Don’t make this any harder on me than it already is. Please?”
Price is throwing all sorts of curve balls at you today. Price does not call you by your name. Price does not beg. Price orders.
You give a shaky nod, and find you’re digging into Konig’s arm so tight your knuckles are turning white.
“You’ve got two minutes. Make ‘em count.”
Price turns on his feet, heading for the door. Without looking back, he waves a hand at you both over his shoulder.
“And don’t make me come back in here and drag you both back out. I got enough of a show last time.”
As soon as the door closes behind Price, you and Konig face each other.
His hands find your biceps, sliding down your arms until he tightens his hold around your forearms.
“I won’t let them,” He says, “I won’t let them.”
You nod, quick and assured, your hands gripping his forearms in return.
“I know. I know. I won’t let them either.”
You pull each other into a deathly tight embrace that you’re sure would have lasted the entire two minutes, but it’s interrupted by the door opening again, this time much less gentle. The doorknob crashes into the wall hard enough you both jump, holding each other tight at your sides.
At once you’re both blinded by flashing, white lights, ears assaulted with the sound of camera lenses shuttering and the rowdy chatter of the Capitol folk, squeals and shouts overlapping in a nauseating chorus. You have to pinch your eyes shut, teeth grit, arms raised to shield your eyes.
Blinding sun.
Pure white snow at your feet.
The sound of a broken neck in your ears and Eleven’s lifeless eyes staring at nothing and right at you all at once.
You cling to Konig’s suit, fingers shaking as you bury your face into his chest.
A sharp whistle commands attention, Price’s sturdy arms forcing his way through the crowd, extended at his sides and forcing them away from the door.
“Alright, alright, back it up! Nothing to see.”
He whistles again, and you know that’s your cue to wriggle through the part in the crowd. Both you and Konig hold each other tight as you run, run like you’re ripping through the trees of the fall forest, branches tearing into your skin to escape the gory slaughter, to escape from the boy you love after he killed for you.
Your face is burning, flushed with humiliation and fear, breaths heaving and your pulse pounding against your temples.
“How much longer? How much longer?” You ask Konig, as if he knows the answer.
“I know, I know,” He says, “It’s okay.”
It’s starting to feel like this party will never end.
It’s your hell, your punishment for killing and dying and stealing someone else’s victory. Trapped in this shameless extravagant world with people who don’t get it.
Konig positions himself behind you once you’re steady on your feet, and drapes his arms around your collarbones. He hunches over to rest his chin on your head, and puts a bit of his weight on you.
Just a little.
It’s weirdly soothing. Grounding, something to focus on. After a few minutes you begin to trace little hearts on his suit jacket sleeves as you cling to his forearm.
Throughout the embrace he leaves periodic kisses on the top of your head, and you both ignore the guests not-so-sneaky sneaky photos.
“All mine,” He whispers.
“All yours,” You whisper back.
You stand like this for a while, mostly thinking about how bad your feet hurt, the ache starting to travel up your ankles in an all too familiar fashion.
You’re seriously considering ditching your heels.
Your dress is so long, they surely won’t notice if you walk around barefoot.
“Time to dance!” Ruby chimes from behind you.
You groan as Konig stands straight, his hands finding your shoulders instead.
Ruby gives you both little choice, pushy-but-politely ushering you both to the space in front of the live band, which is unfortunate, because what you crave most right now is some peace and quiet. To her credit, though, she keeps you at the edge of the crowd on the dance floor. The last thing you want right now is to be surrounded.
“It’s easy!”
Ruby is touchy with her demonstration, but you don’t mind it as much as you do the rest of the guests and their touching. You know it’s innocent, and it’s hard to say no to her in this state. Coming from her specifically - her acting like everything is fine is making it a bit easier to pretend like it is, which is weird, because usually her ignorance is nothing but grating.
She takes your hand and practically slaps it on Konig’s shoulder, and guides him by the wrist to put his hand on your waist. She circles you, and on the other side, she prompts you to intertwine your fingers.
“And now you sway.”
“No, no, don't bend, stand straight and use your whole body!”
“I thought it was allowed to be bad dancing,” Konig mumbles.
“Graceful bad dancing,” She corrects.
And so you sway, rolling your eyes and shaking your heads at each other, because this is ridiculous. Dancing after what you just went through just to appease these abhorrent people.
You’re glad he’s connecting with you again, at least. Sharing in the hatred.
And it’s not the worst.
Getting to look at him and not think of what has happened, soaking him in and feeling his touch under your fingers.
At one point you close the distance, resting your head on his chest instead, his silken tie on your cheek. You wrap your arms around him in an embrace, and in return he holds you tight.
You close your eyes and take another break, here in his chest. Breathing him in to ease your nerves, putting a little weight on him to relieve your poor ankles, melting into his strong arms.
“Would you mind if I had the next dance?”
The spine-chilling, unfortunately familiar voice comes from behind you, and immediately twists your intenstines in knots.
You both perk up, and you watch as Konig’s brows raise.
“Ach, of course.”
Konig lets go of you, palms displayed as he takes a few steps back. You beg him with your eyes to come back, but you both know that’s not an option, so he offers a wince of apology.
You don’t have the sense to hide your horror as The President steps in and offers his hands.
A sneaky, stealthy, slithering man he is.
His hand feels dead in yours, cold and sagged, like if you’re not gentle enough the meat might just slip off his bones.
“Congratulations, my dear,” He says.
The President gives a polite nod of his head. Those icy eyes are piercing, staring straight into yours and not so much as blinking. You’re convinced he can see your very soul, every thought and fear and secret binded into a book for him to skim over at his leisure.
“Thank you, sir.”
He gives a hearty laugh that makes your skin crawl, your stomach threatening to send bile to lap at the back of your throat.
“None of that ‘sir’ nonsense.”
His head tilts up, and he looks to the evening sky as he speaks. Slowly. Carefully.
“I can’t help but feel as if I know you personally. As well as I know a friend.”
You have to stifle the sharp inhale you instinctively draw when his eyes meet yours again. The hint of a cruel, cautious smile tugs on the corners of his lips.
“Quite a show you put on for us all.”
Your throat is so tight, if you could find the words, they would surely have come out wavered. You nod instead.
“I have to say I admire that young man’s dedication to you.”
His eyes crinkle.
“Do you think he would still be as infatuated with you if he knew you wouldn’t repay the favor?”
A choke catches in your throat. Your eyes dart to Konig, standing just out of earshot to keep an eye on you. His face is twisted, brows scrunched, asking you with just a look what’s going on.
“I- I’m sorry?”
The President’s smile doesn’t falter. He speaks as if he’s clarifying a step on a recipe, and not drilling you with the most bone-chilling, unhinged questioning you’ve ever had the displeasure of being on the end of.
“If he knew that his dedication was not returned.”
You don’t have the sense to hide your nervous, confused laugh.
The President’s eyes remain locked onto yours. They’re just a little too open, his smile a little too wide.
Inhuman.
“I- I- gave up my life for him. I don’t-”
“Did you?” He cuts with a curious perk of a brow.
You blink twice, your awkward sways coming to a halt.
“I beg your pardon?” You stutter.
“Did you give your life up for him?”
The President lowers his chin, his brow raising.
“Or did you do it for you?”
He leans in closer, his voice just a frosted whisper. While his words are terrifying, his face upholds appearances. Refined and cheerful, as if he were recounting a lighthearted story around his surely exotic dinner table.
“Death is easy, my dear. There is no pain. There is no consequence. There is no ‘aftermath,’ as you like to put it.”
You try to work up saliva into your dry mouth, but it’s no use.
“I don’t understand.”
The President gives a low, calculated chuckle that tapers into a hum.
“Nothing to understand,” He says through a smile, “It’s notional.”
You have to coax the words out, each one spiked and slicing your throat on its ascent.
“Forgive me, for being blunt - “
Your unsure voice takes on an unnaturally high pitch when you find the courage to make eye contact with him.
“Is- Is this blackmail? I - What do I have to do?”
For the first time, the President’s face falls, and his expression finally matches those loathsome eyes.
“It’s notional,” He repeats, “And if you’d like to keep it that way, then I’d suggest you listen to that mentor of yours.”
You look down to your shoes before giving a shaky nod.
He reinstates that perfect smile, and you can tell, even in his perpetually loathsome eyes, that he takes great pleasure at the way you cower.
He hums and finally looks away, watching the evening sky as he slips back into his act.
“That John-“
He chuckles with a shake of his head.
“He certainly is a sentimental man, isn’t he?”
The air being pulled into your lungs is useless, you can’t breathe, bordering on hyperventilating.
“It’s clear he cares quite a lot about you both.”
The President’s face drops suddenly again, and his annoyance is clear.
“A thorn in my side.”
“He’s a good man,” He continues with a resetting breath, “But that big heart of his is going to get him in trouble one of these days.”
The President might as well have Price under his thumb, and he’s deciding whether or not to smush him like a bug or go get lunch.
When the song ends, his eyes narrow dangerously at you.
“I hope you enjoy your evening,” He says.
The President leaves you frozen in your spot, stepping over to him and reaching up to give him a hearty pat on the shoulder.
“She’s all yours, my boy. Not a scratch on her.”
Yet.
The President gives a hearty laugh as he walks away.
Konig all but runs over to you, wrapping his hands around your biceps.
“What was that all about?”
Konig’s brows furrow when you shrug unconvincingly.
“Just wanted to congratulate me, I guess.”
Konig nods slow, a concerned pinch of his face and lips weighed down, but he doesn’t push.
When you go to dance again, you rest your head on his chest. You close your eyes and let him lead, the hands on your back guiding you into a loose sway. Your entire body has gone limp to his, bones made of jelly and a stomach made of lead as you try and make sense of The President’s ominous words and not-so-subtle- subtle threats.
You can’t, and to be honest, you’re so exhausted you’ve turned numb. Once the shake in your fingers goes away, you’ve decided - in the simplest of terms, you’re not going to give a fuck until morning.
“My feet are killing me,” You mumble into Konig’s tie, “And I just want to go home.”
“Want to sit?”
You nod into his chest, and are subjected to another round of photos and touching hands, which is even more unnerving after learning that these people know what your naked bodies look like, have seen you be intimate, and are eager to force you both into their bedrooms to get a live version of the show.
After you quell this round of eager elite, you take a seat next to Konig on the cluster of patio couches along the mansion gates. His arm slings over the back of the couch to invite you to nuzzle into his side, and you happily take his offer, closing your eyes as you cozy up to him. You hope you can sneak in a break, here in the safety of his chest.
Your attempted break is interrupted, though, when Konig squeezes your shoulder to alert you that someone’s approaching.
A sole woman, mid-thirties, you think. A plump build and wavy brown hair.
“Hi there,” She says.
She’s lacking in the Capitol effectuations, and she leaves moderate distance between you as she extends her hand in your direction.
“I’m sure you’re both, uh,” She gives a weak laugh, “Sick of people by now.”
You give a polite but tired hum as you carefully accept her handshake.
“I’ll make it fast, promise,” She says with a quick wave of two palms.
“My name’s Mabel. Just - wanted to thank you, I suppose.”
You eye her with a crease in your brow, brain already scrambling to figure out her intentions. She sees your confusion, and jumps to explain herself.
“I’m - I’m one of the District Eight mentors.”
Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping open.
Mabel gives a solemn nod at your horrified recognition, before she carefully looks over both her shoulders. Her gaze flits to the ground, and her lips barely move when she speaks again.
“I wanted to tell you that it’s never easy to do the dirty work. And we thank you for making that sacrifice.”
You exchange a glance with Konig before giving her a hesitant nod.
“Yeah, uhm-”
You’re really not sure what to say to that one, and your brain is too foggy from the drinks and too scrambled with exhaustion to find an elegant response.
“Yeah.”
Mabel smiles at you, and takes a few steps closer. Her core creases when she leans over and sets a rectangular card on the drink table in front of you, and her voice returns to a normal volume.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate.”
She gives the card two taps before she turns and leaves you both be.
You and Konig share another look before you carefully pry the card from the table with your nails.
You flip the card over in your hands, expecting to see contact information, but the sloppily printed capital letters makes your blood run cold.
DISTRICT EIGHT UNREST
Your head shoots up to find Mabel, but she’s disappeared among the party goers.
The world has fallen upon deaf ears, unfocused eyes blur the vibrant colors that surround you into a gross, brown swirl, the music and drunken chatter suddenly a million miles away.
Because of you?
Is it because of you?
If it has nothing to do with you, why would she go out of her way to pass on a message of treason?
She could be executed for spreading district intel, and for her to give it to a strange victor so brazenly, when you are surrounded by elite at The President’s mansion and being broadcasted to the entire country -
Because of you?
It can’t be.
Why is she warning you about it?
If what’s on this card is true - then you know why there’s unrest in District Eight, and it’s not because of you.
But you are the only player left standing from a very recent incident heinous enough to potentially make an already discontent district reach its boiling point.
Because of you.
The flinch that tears through you when Konig nudges your shoulder snaps you back to reality, the music and chattering flooding your ears once more.
“What is it?” He asks.
You just shake your head, an unconvincing croak in your voice as you stuff the card into your bust, right next to his token.
“A contact card,” You say.
Konig’s stare lingers for a moment before he nods slow.
You move to a stand, rushing over to the nearest Capitol attendant, and snatch two drinks from the tray with a quick thank you.
When you turn, you bump into Konig’s chest, apparently at your heels. The bubbling drink sloshes up the side of the glass, splattering and foaming onto the hem of your dress and the river rock path below.
He steadies you by your shoulders with a worried look in his eyes.
You just nod at him as you bring the glass to your lips and down the entire thing, stifling a burp when you finish the glass.
“Oh, phew, sorry.”
You bring the other glass to your lips and begin to down it as well, but stop when you catch Konig’s pinched frown.
“Oh, sorry,” You say, gesturing what remains in the second glass in his direction, “Want some?”
He shakes his head.
You finish out the second glass and take a sharp gulp of air when you pull away.
“Ja?” Konig asks.
“Yeah,” You croak.
“Okay,” He says.
And so you get fucked up.
Everytime feel the prick of Mabel’s card on your chest, everytime you think of The President’s threats, everytime Price’s voice echoes through your thoughts, everytime you wonder if one of these attendants is Eight’s girlfriend, everytime you think of a suicide, of a gory kill, of the injustice of it all -
You take a drink.
It’s not long before your unpleasant thoughts are beyond fuzzy and your cheeks are pooled with warmth.
The drinks make the photos and the touching easier to bear, but it doubles the weight of your already heavy eyelids and drapes your body with a cozy blanket that’s hard to resist.
Finally - finally, the party ends. So late into the night the sun must be close to rising. It takes you an unbearable amount of time for you and the rest of your team to make way to the golden mansion gates.
More photos and grabbing hands and drunken breath.
When you finally make it to the limo, you slip your shoes and your crown off almost immediately, and curl up into Konig’s arm on the leather seats. You even doze off on the ride back to the tribute suites.
You don’t bother putting your shoes back on before climbing from the limo, holding them at your sides as you stumble to the elevators.
Ruby’s in a similar state, and she seems to have gotten over the whole kissing situation, or at least is too drunk to care at the moment, because she has no trouble linking her elbows with Price to keep herself steady while she gushes over the party and all the praise she received.
Price is off.
You can feel it, even through your intoxication. He’s radiating a tense, stiff aura, his features tired and expressionless. He doesn’t even tease Ruby about her particularly rowdy behavior. Just guides her along, silently.
You’re more than relieved to see the sickeningly extravagant suite, knowing you’re mere yards from a comfortable bed and having Konig all to yourself.
Price lets out a heavy sigh behind you as you breach the entrance of the hall.
“Kids?”
He clears his throat.
“A word?”
Konig and you slow, already uneased and hesitantly turning to face him.
“You’re not gonna like this, but ah-“
Price sighs again.
“You’re sleeping in your own rooms.”
NEXT CHAPTER
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