#that i grinded them to each other’s top supports

[stxrslutrestored]

SMOKIN' HOT BODY

pairing; jj maybank x cupcake reader

summary; you and jj love to spend time together, relishing in each other’s bodies. and it’s definitely safe to say you both have some favourite parts 

content; ab riding, slight nipple play?

authors note; top tip.. if you have no writing motivation pick a random letter from the nsfw alphabet and write that. this is F!

you and jj love each other’s bodies, there are so many features that each of you adore, that said, you both have some favourites. 

your favourite part of jj is his muscles, specifically his abdominal ones, so toned and perfect and amazing. you love the way they squirm when he feels pleasure, and the way that they flex when he’s doing handiwork outside, shirtless of course, because why wear unnecessary clothes.

his favourite part of you is your tits, obviously. in his words, there’s no part of a body that god crafted better than tits. he just loves them. he loves looking at them and feeling them and moving them and watching them move. he gravitates towards tits, if you need to make sure he’s gonna stay with you, follow you like a lost puppy, you’ll wear a low cut neckline.

naturally, these favourites play a prominent part in your sex life, sometimes more than other times. this time, you have both decided that they’re going to play the biggest part. 

you giggle as jj pulls you to straddle his crotch, you stay there for a moment, grinding down once before you take his shoulders for support and pull yourself further up, pushing his shirt away with your hips until your bare pussy is splayed out across his sweaty torso. 

the immediate stimulation feels good and you happily begin to move, rolling your hips, keeping your arms on his chest for support. he smirks up at you, “can’t get enough, can ya baby?” 

you smile, half moaning at the same time as you throw your head back. it’s such a charged moment, one of those where you feel so sexy, this could be straight out of a piece of pornographic literature. 

as you continue to move and pleasure yourself on him his hands slide up the sides of your bare body, soon reaching your chest and beginning to cup and palm at your peaked tits. 

he explores them like he’s never felt them before, like theyre a whole new concept to him, fingers rolling over your nipples, squeezing and kneading the flesh with just enough pressure for it to hurt a tiny bit. the good kind of hurt. 

he smirks, breaths heavy and rushed, “fuckin’ love that don’t ya baby.” you look down, god you love his face, that mess of hair and those piercing eyes. the way his pointy canines show in that joyful smile. 

you nod, moaning breathlessly, “course I do! love that so much. ugh!” you throw your head back. you feel that knot forming in your stomach, that great, amazing, perfect feeling that means the ultimate form of pleasure is upon you. your eyes screw shut as you ready yourself for the feeling. jj must sense you’re near too, his hands support your weakening body and you’re sure he pushes his torso upwards, flexing the muscles to create a new stimulus.

you last only a few more seconds before you’re crying out, a deep, guttural, blissful groan that leaves you as your orgasm washes right over you. a moment of white heat and deep sensation before you begin to ride it out. 

you become grateful for the support that jj’s arms provide as you go almost limp and he brings you down to lay against his chest, your stomach flush with his that is now all covered in your fluids. 

god, you think to yourself, jj maybank really does have a smoking hot body. 

[faradaykay]

i feel like we didn’t spend enough time talking about this. (except me i’ve spent all day talking about this) lysithea literally has the power to make felix normal with cakes 🍰🧁🎂 this is AWESOME. if i am the only truther that these two are do not separate then so be it

[krosiefics]

would you like that? • bang chan

M D N I 18+

WC: 1.4k

Summary: Bang Chan is having too much fun teasing Stays on Bubble while he’s supposed to be working, he suddenly starts teasing you as well and that escalates to well…

A/N: lmfao I honestly called us (stays) out for writing shit on the internet but I like to think of it as ‘creative writing’ Also this isn’t proof read so, sorry abt any typos or mistakes :P

Tags: afab!reader, softdom!bangchan, piv, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), grinding, overstimulation, ass grabbing(?)-not ass play), teasing, pet names (babe, baby, good girl, pretty, etc), breeding kink, I’m prob forgetting some so sorry

Chan giggled at his phone as he saw the flow of flustered responses to his latest Bubble message. “You’re teasing them too much.” You shake your head, peeking over his shoulder reading all of Stay’s responses. “No I'm not.” He scoffs, “They’re far worse than you could ever imagine.” It’s true and you know it, Stay’s write all sorts of things about the members online.

(a/n ;-;)

As one of Stray Kids’ managers, your job is to handle their social and music media, so you’ve seen things…things you probably shouldn’t have. Chan knows this and so he uses all these teases towards Stay as an advantage. “Let’s see, what should I say next?” Chan ponders to himself as you sit down on the sofa that sat behind his desk, you open your computer and as you’re about to start working on a new draft a loud giggle startles you.

Chan is curled up in his chair, kicking his feet giddily while looking at his phone. Growing annoyed at the man who is supposed to be working with you on new lyric drafts, you get up from your spot and snatch his phone gently from his hands. “Hey!” Chan pouts as you read the screen. Your face immediately heats up as you read the highly suggestive comment he left on someone’s post about pudding. “Chan, that's highly inappropriate!”

Chan was going to snap back but then noticed your face’s sudden change of color and he smirked. “Would you like that?” He teased, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite tell. It’s not abnormal for you two to playfully tease or flirt with each other, it helps ease the awkward moments of silence that sometimes fall between you. But this…this was different, it was as if he was testing you, to see if you’d give in to all of your playful remarks you’ve made over the past few years of knowing each other.

“What?” You breathe out shakily. Chan licks his lips, his eyes flickering down to your soft plump lips. Oh what he would do to feel them against his. Chan knows he shouldn’t think like this, especially since you’re one of his managers…yet he still craved you, there was just something about you. Chan’s hands crept up the sides of your legs, gripping at your hips and tugging you closer to him.

Due to the sudden tug, you almost topple on top of him, you hold yourself above his head on the headrest of his chair. Your face felt so hot, you could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the way your stomach fluttered, the way your breathing became hitched…all because of this man’s sudden change of teasing. “I’m not kidding.” Chan sighs, leaning his face into your neck. You could feel his breath fanning across your skin, it sent chills down your spine.

The sudden touch of his lips to your skin instantly made you jolt, but he held you in your place not wanting to let go of this moment. “Please.” Chan whispered as he continued to pepper your neck with wet kisses.

You didn’t know what was happening anymore, it all went so quick. His teeth grazed over your collarbone and you gasped in response, your hands flying to his hair. Now with the loss of support from the headrest, Chan easily sits you in his lap, having you straddle his lap. Your breathing fastens as you feel him nibble at your skin, biting your lip not to let any sounds come out.

Chan’s hands snake around towards your ass and grab it, massaging the flesh. You let out an accidental moan at his action, you bury your face into his neck out of embarrassment. “It’s okay baby, it’s just us here right now, it's too late for anyone else to be here. So you can be as loud as you want, yeah.” Chan starts leaving kisses on the top of your head.

You whimper at his noises and he chuckles, as he adjusts his seating position you feel something hard poke at you. You pull away from his neck to look down at what it was, your face turns even redder. The outline of his hardened cock bulging from his jeans.

Your mind filled with the possible outcomes on what could happen if you stop this or if you let this continue. There were too many risks, but so many benefits. You wanted the man underneath you, you always have. Chan’s overall personality is what attracted you to him initially, but the more spent time with him the more you realized that this guy is insanely hot, handsome, talented, caring, and a billion other positive things. You knew you couldn’t have him though, it was wrong.

But right now, you didn’t care. You didn’t care how wrong this was. You let your lust and desire take over you.

You experimentally rolled your hips against his, Chan responded with a low groan, his grip on your hips tightening. “Fuck that feel good babe, don’t stop.” And you didn’t. You rubbed against him until his breathing was fast like yours, his eyes screwed shut from the pleasure, and his face red and hot. Then you stopped.

Chan whined softly, his eyes fluttered open as he stared up at you. You carefully removed yourself from his lap. “Wait.” Chan simpered, lifting his body to get up after you. You simply placed a hand on his chest to keep him seated there. You walked over to the door and locked it, even though there shouldn’t be anyone here at this hour, it still didn’t hurt to be careful. Chan was about to beg you to stay when he saw you walking away, but he stopped as soon as he saw you lock the door, excitement flooding through his body.

“One time.” You pointed with your finger as if to make a statement, “This is only happening one time.” You quickly slide your shorts and underwear off which reveal a wet patch on the pantie liner from your arousal. Chan stared at you in awe as he saw your glistening cunt, he was quick to follow suit in taking off his jeans and sliding his boxers down as well.

You swing your leg over his lap sitting hovering above his hard cock. “Pretty girl I’ve gotta stretch you out first or it’ll hurt.”

“You’re not that big Bang.” You poke, it was a lie he was big, not super massive but definitely above average to the point where it probably might burn.

You grab his cock which makes the messy haired boy hiss, aligning up to your entrance before sinking on to it. It did burn, but it was tolerable, you just focused on the fact that it’ll feel better soon. To distract you from the pain Chan started rubbing soothing circles on your hips with his thumbs, he shushed as you started moving your hips in circles.

“Oh fuck.” Chan moaned after you finally adjusted, your hips letting up before smacking back down. “I’m gonna fill this pussy up so much right baby. You’re gonna be a good girl and let me fill you up.” You throw your head back as Chan helps you with lifting your hips. You hum, nonsensically agreeing to whatever it is that Chan wants at that moment.

“Yeah, you’ll fill me up so good.” You moan.

Chan suddenly starts forcefully thrusting up into you, directly hitting your g-spot. “Oh fuck!” You almost scream, you quickly catch yourself by biting down onto Chan’s shoulder. He groaned as your teeth sunk into his skin, but he wasn’t complaining, cause now he’s gonna have a mark that reminds him of right now.

“C’mon babe, I’m almost there…shit,” Chan pushed your hips down as he rutted into your leaking cunt. You held onto him as the feeling of that familiar knot in your stomach started tightening, “Me too.” You shut your eyes as you allowed your orgasm to come putting down over you, you slumped against Chan’s chest as he continued plummeting into you.

You cried at the overstimulation, “I know baby, I’m sorry- I’m cumming.” Chan buried his face in your neck as he spilt inside of you.

The warmth of him filling up your insides. Chan carefully pulled out and cleaned you up with the small box of tissues that was at the corner of his desk. . And as if nothing, the two of you both went back to working on the lyrics. Occasionally sparing lustful glances at one another. Chan realized he’s not gonna be able to tease Stay again without thinking of you.

[cheyisagirlkisser]

vi sucking on your tits while you grind against her abs🤤

nsfw. a bit ooc maybe but i think vi would be a bit needy and whiney while topping if she is horny enough.

“That feel good, baby?”

It absolutely does. It’s probably the most filthy thing you’ve ever done, grinding your wet, needy cunt on your girlfriend’s abdomen, feeling each firm ridge and how her stomach rises and caves with each breath. Vi looks so blissed out, eyes fluttering open and shut as she tried to keep focus and help you grind against her.

You don’t answer her, far too gone, but she is no longer focused on dirty talk. Not when your pretty tits are moving with every movement, pressed together by your elbows as your hands grasp her shoulders for support. She doesn’t even try to hold back from maneuvering you a little so that her greedy mouth can reach them.

She doesn’t even try to tease you, much too impatient for that. Vi wraps her lips around one of your nipples, her muffled moans creating vibrations through your chest.

“Don’t stop please, that feels-“ You whine when she uses teeth on the soft bud and soothes it with her warm tongue, always quick to pacify your little whines and jolts when she gets too rough, “feels so good..”

Is she even listening anymore? Vi’s head is spinning as you grind further against her, getting closer and closer to your orgasm. Your scent is making her dizzy. You smell so sweet and yet the arousal is thick, driving her crazy. One of her hands leaves your hips to palm your tit that she just lavished attention to so that she can suck on the other.

Just one enthusiastic flick of her tongue over your nipple sends you over. Your legs tremble, threatening to give out, but Vi is strong and helps you ride out the high as she sucks hickeys all over your chest now. When you come down, she doesn’t let up, her mouth latching onto a nipple once more.

“V-Vi?” No response except for a muffled moan. “Vi, I came already, you can stop-“

She lets go of your tit in her mouth with a soft, wet pop. “Can’t I just do this for a little longer? You don’t have to cum again if you don’t want to, baby..”

She has heart in her eyes, trying to plead with you while struggling to gaze back down to your tits. It makes you weak to imagine the next hour of just having Vi on top of you, blissed out with one of your nipples in between her lips. It’s not a scenario you’re unfamiliar with, either.

“Yeah, but I think I’m too tired for another round.”

She smiles triumphantly and flips you onto your back, wrapping her arms around your torso and switching from sensual, rough attention on your chest to soft pecks and use of her soothing tongue. It’s something many people would find sexual even on its own, but you view it almost as a source of aftercare (which she will provide much more of if needed).

[gladiatorcunt]

Art seems like such a sub, like he’d be so down pathetic when he sits between your legs, back to your chest while you give him an hj. He whimpers while you whisper dirty things in his ear and shakes more with each pump OOH I NEED HOLY WATER 😭

he gives switch vibes with a sub lean for suuuuuuure 😮‍💨

cw: 18+ mdni, handjob, sub!art, set more in the college era, reader’s a switch too btw but art makes them feral, very loving tho, taking care of him after a tough practice, afab reader

“That’s it, just lie back on me. You must be feeling so sore.” You coo, caressing his biceps and getting into position on his bed.

You recline against the wall and open your legs. Art can’t hide the way his eyes light up as he eases onto the bed and swiftly turns around, resting his back against your chest with a soft sigh. You pick up on the groan he attempts to stifle in his palm, knowing how his muscles be absolutely aching right now.

It’s a big deal for you to show that you support him by showing up to his games and practices, so that’s what you doing earlier. You’ve always admired his determination when it comes to tennis, so you don’t mention that losing a college game isn’t the end of the world. Still, you won’t deprive yourself of the eye candy that comes in the form of your boyfriend sweating and grunting as he practices his drills.

Once it was over, he bounded over to you with a tired grin and jokingly pushed your face away when you tried to kiss him. “Angel, i’m all gross now.” He’d laugh, and you’d shut him up by licking some of the sweat of his cheek.

“Did I do good today?” He asks and looks up at you with his big eyes.

You’ll never not be grateful that he seeks out your approval like a dog with a bone, because you’ve never been so proud of someone in your entire life.

“You always do the best, babe.”

Art blushes and tilts his head back onto your shoulder. And for a cliché moment time stand still, the sunset outside casts an orange glow over the room and the two of you. Your boyfriend looks beautiful like this, eyes shut in exhaustion and nestled in your arms.

But you have other plans for the evening than just admiring your boyfriend, there will be plenty of that later during pillow talk.

Art cracks his eyes to see your hands trail down his arms to end up at his crotch. He’s so relaxed that he doesn’t squirm as much as he usually does, but he turns his head to nuzzle your shoulder.

You soothingly murmur to him, “My boy worked so hard today, i think he deserves a reward, don’t you?”

“I want whatever you have to give me.” He genuinely smiles into your skin, shifting his hips to push up against you palming his bulge.

And it’s true, he’d throw his head back like a whore and moan unabashedly no matter if you were edging him with a vibrator of if you were gently grinding your fat ass against his dripping cock.

You teasingly squeeze his clothed bulge and then dip your fingers under the waistband of his white boxer briefs. Thank god for the fact that Art likes to strip down as he soon as he gets back to his room after practice.

“Lift your hips for me, baby boy.” You tell him with a nip to his earlobe.

He sighs again as he gives you the suitable free space to push his underwear down enough to free his cock. It’s so long and pretty, such a good size too. Flushed blush pink at the tip and veiny, your mouth waters but giving your boyfriend head is a reward for a different day.

Art whines when you get your hands on his bare cock, “You know ‘m sensitive, feels so good already.”

“But your tears are so pretty when you’re overstimulated.” You peck his temple and lean your head on top of his, curling your hand around the base of his dick and steadily beginning to pump him. “You should be happy to cum as much as you want, sweets.”

He whimpers and spreads his legs over yours. You hook your feet around his and keep them there.

Pearls of precum bead to the tip of his cock, making the slide easier. You grip him tighter and move your wrist in quick circles as you speed up your thrusting.

“Oh- F-fuck!” He keens, latching onto your hips and arching his back against you.

“Shh, if you can’t handle this how are you supposed to handle my pussy? It’s so much tighter than my hand, baby, you’ve felt how warm and wet it is.”

He cums embarraingly quick when he gets like this, all doped up on how you make him melt. It’s adorable and a huge ego boost, but he can only cum inside you so much before he’s out like a light.

Art gasps at the mention of his treat, and awkwardly twists his torso around to face you, “I can handle it, can i have it now? Please please please please.”

“I don’t know…” You hum, pretending to consider his begging.

You clasp your fingers around his leaking dick and thumb the tip, spreading the precum. You fuck his length with your fist and you’re going so fast, you’re making a ‘thwop! thwop! thwop!’ sound.

“I think I want you to cum just like this, love.”

Art keens as you furiously jack him off. You rile him up by whispering in his ear.

“Got me so hot watching you today. Seeing the sweat on your body when you pulled up your shirt to wipe your face, i wanted to ride you into the ground.”

Art gapes, trying to kick his legs out on reflex but your ankles over his keep him right where you want him. He screws his eyes shut tightly and moans in between his babbling.

“Unh- unh- ‘s so good, gonna cum, can i cum? Please say i can cum, ‘m gonna burst- FUCK!”

You don’t know who’s crying more, Art or his cock. He’s leaking so much that you had to concentrate or you’ll lose your grip.

You don’t let up until he’s heaving a strangled cry and shooting his hips up, spilling on and over your hand like a fountain. He gets so sloppy with it, fucking himself with your fist through the aftershocks.

“That’s it, such a big load for me. I bet you were aching holding all that in, baby.”

And he’s so gorgeous, mouth open wide and tugging on his hair in random intervals. You grab his face with your free head and rub your thumb over his cheek. You let him come down at his own pace, and when he focuses his pretty eyes back on you, you bring your sticky hand to his mouth.

Art cleans his own mess, maintaining eye contact with you. The fierce tomato red blush he’s sporting deepens. You wink at him and slurp up an equal amount of his cum, like a couple sharing a milkshake in an old fashion diner.

[dollarbils]

on top of me | b.e.

billie eilish x fem!reader

context. early on into your relationship, billie voices an idea that’s been consuming your mind for weeks.

warnings. smut, grinding, kissing, praising

request masterlist

billie dominated your mind through her presence. she caused your every shaky breath and scattered thought. she was infectious in a way that made you feel like you were floating whenever her fingers drew your last vestiges of warmth. and she had no idea. it was infuriating; the visions of your entangled bodies colliding in ways you could only dream, never voice.

she however, couldn’t get enough of you either. keeping her sinful mind silent when she caressed your skin. yearning for more, unaware that you too, craved the fire she tried desperately to keep out.

your minds were a mess, both of you. these prospects littering each other’s subconscious while you lips felt like they were crashing together in passion. tingling the skin of your face and the inside of your stomach. giddy, was how you’d describe it.

“billie.” you gasped on her lips, breathing in each other’s pants as your lips touched but were still. mouths open catching your breath. she was on top of you. her eyes lost in the curves of your body. she leaning in again, her tongue harsher and desperate. her hands around your neck as she pulled you closer. her hips were squirming, jeans causing friction against yours. your deep moans we’re muffled by her penetrating mouth.

“fuck, you’d look so good on top of me babe.” she whined into your mouth. images of you straddling her invading your mind. she was quick to take your jeans off before guiding your hips onto her lap.

"Is this alright?" she whispered, uncertain in the sudden shift. You nodded, too focused on the slow unraveling of her clothes. She let out a soft moan as your hips met hers, your lips finding their way back to her own. Her kiss deepened, mirroring the rhythm of your body. Her hands traced your waist, exploring the space between you, as if learning the language of your skin.

“bils.” the whisper was faint, a plea for more. or for guidance on what she wanted from you.

“hm?” she was so lost in the sweet flavour of your lips she barely heard you call her name. your mind grew hazy as she hung onto the string of moans leaving you every-time she’d move her hips slightly.

“i..i need more.” she gazed up at you, catching her breath once again as she bit her lip. the sight of your swollen ones, and pleading eyes almost too much for her.

“then take more.” her hands squeezed your hips, signalling what she meant as she gestured with a tilt of her chin for you to bring your lips back to hers. her arms embraced you when you did. pulling you impossibly close as she waited for you to take your own pleasure. the slow movement of your hips onto hers hers caused her to break away from the kiss, mouth agape and eyes squeezed shut. your grinding against her exposed heat fluttering to her core, pleasure consuming her. you kissed her neck, when you could, your cries matching hers at your slow pace.

she opened her eyes, biting the skin of her lip harshly, preventing further noises from escaping. she watched as you arched into her, moaning when she’d buck her hips. she went feral at the sight, devouring your ass with her firm grip as your movements became more desperate.

“harder, angel.” she spoke and you complied immediately. you gripped her shoulders for more support as her hands aided your movements. her head fell back, moans flying out of her as you whimpered at the feeling of your breasts against hers.

“fuck, baby.” her voice was strained, hoarse from her moans. but she pulled your chin towards her, kissing you. it was sloppy, but you drowned in it. when the knot in your stomach burst and you came, she guzzled your cries, swallowing them whole as she muffled her own; occasionally breaking apart, unable to keep her lips attached when she released.

“oh my god.” you huffed when you fell onto her, breathing heavily. you were both so fucked out, unable to move from this position, and your pussys too sensitive to handle much movement.

“babe, you should get on top of me more often.” her voice was groggy in the shared exhaustion. but you mumbled in agreement.

[loveyjelly]

Love and Deepspace Boys and their kinks ♡

CW: SMUT, fingering, cunnilingus, piv, thigh job, creampie, clothed sex. (kinks involving clothes specifically) MDNI pls

Rafayel - Uniform Kink

He would insist that you keep your uniform on during sex. He would push you face first against the wall and eat you out from behind, your pants just barely below your ass. His cock would twitch and throb at the sight of you trying so hard to hold yourself up when you're so close to cumming from just his tongue and fingers.

One of his arm would find it's way near the side of your head to support him and the other would reach down and rub gentle circles on your clit. His cock rubs against your folds, using your soaking wet pussy to lube him up. "Cum as much as you want, I need to see your uniform soaked and messy."

He loves gripping your waist and feeling the leather corset that wrapped around your blouse and pulling on the buckle that rested at your collar. After reaching your limit, making you cum multiple times, only then would he allow himself pull out and shoots his load at the fabric resting at your lower back.

Xavier - Nylon Fetish

"Let me just rip it, please" He moves to the edge of the bed and kneeled between your legs, kissing your inner thighs. You tried to protest, you still had a date to go to after all. "Forget about the date. Please, let's just stay home tonight. I'll replace it, I promise" His pleading worked every time. You nodded, and he immediately rips it out to give himself a way to your pussy.

He was eating you out like it was going to be his last meal. His tongue going up and down, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit, and his free hand jerking himself off. Your heartbeat and the slurping sounds Xavier was making were the only thing you can hear right now. You try to push his head away, cuming made you sensitive.

Xavier finally got up, grabbing your ankles and putting them against his shoulders. He pressed your thighs against each other and positioned the tip of his cock in between. He starts thrusting, using your thighs like it was a pussy until he shoots his hot sticky load on your stomach.

Zayne - Wearing his shirt

"Come here" Zayne pats his lap, gesturing for you to sit on it. You do as you're told and wrapped your arms around him. He hooked his finger on the hem of the shirt and lifted it up. "Wearing just panties, huh. Were you expecting something to happen tonight?" He moved your legs so you were straddling his thigh, grabbing your hips and guiding them back and forth. "Don't take your shirt off" He places your hands on his shoulder to prevent you from taking it off.

Your hips started grinding on his thigh by themselves so Zayne moved his hand away from your hips and reached under you shirt to cup your breasts. Every inch he touched left a cold sensation to your skin. It soothed your needy aching body. "Take out my cock and ride it like it's yours." He knew what you wanted from the moment you stepped foot into his apartment today and he is more than willing to let you take it from him. He wanted the same thing too, walking around with just his shirt and panties on, who wouldn't go insane after seeing that? Your hips slapped against his, you wrapped your arms tighter against his shoulders and bury your face on it.

"Fuck, you're clenching around me so tight." He hissed. The sensation of your walls gripping his cock is enough to send him over the edge. You shudder and arch as you take it to the base and cum all over his cock, his orgasm followed not long after. He slowly pumped in and out to see his cum slowly drip out, while enjoying the sound of your heavy breathing and the weight of your body resting on top of his.

[spidey-webz]

giving peter his first blowjob

warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, peter is 18+ here of course, oral (m receiving), inexperienced peter, hair pulling, tiny bit of dirty talk (soft), swearing, cum swallowing

pairing: tom!peter parker x reader

a/n: this is just peter brain rot because the image of him coming from a blowjob lives in my head rent free

masterlist

Peter and you had been dating for a few months now. You had taken it all fairly slow, not wanting to rush each other through any part of the relationship. And it was working well.

Your time together was always cherished by the both of you. Whenever you were alone, you did spend a considerable amount of your time kissing each other and exchanging innocent touches.

But you never went the whole way.

However, you loved the feeling of Peter growing hard between your legs while you had him on top of you. His soft kisses against your neck spurred you on as you were grinding your hips up into his. The low groans escaping him reverberated through your body and you knew you wanted more.

“Peter,” you mumbled between kisses one day, your boyfriend looking down at you with wide eyes. His hair was a mess, a few stray curls hanging down onto his forehead and his biceps was straining against his shirt as he supported himself with his arms. Your fingers softly wandered over his cheek, then down to his chest. "I want to touch you," you whispered, hands slipping under his shirt. His skin was soft, but the muscles beneath were strong and hard and you wanted to explore them with your tongue.

Peter's cheeks turned a soft red before he pressed a small kiss to your forehead, lying down on the bed beside you. You were quick to settle on his lap as his hardened cock already pressed against his pants, eager to be touched. To be honest, you were just as eager to finally get your hands on him.

His hair was tousled as he spread out on the pillow, letting you take the reins now. You pushed his shirt up further, exposing his happy trail and the tight abs he sported. Kissing over his stomach and then further down while Peter was starting to breathe faster. His hips pushed up to meet your kisses.

You opened his jeans with ease and pulled them down his legs, revealing a few scars on his upper thighs and the visible boner in his boxers. Heartrate rapidly increasing, you took your time pulling his underwear down inch by inch and eventually, his cock sprang free.

His tip was already red and leaking pre-cum as you admired the sight before you. Your boyfriend’s cheeks had grown a deep red as his chest was rapidly rising and falling, your own hands putting his underwear away before you took the time to squeeze his thighs. Peter's thighs were strong and you loved sitting on them, but not today. Today would be all about him and getting a taste of him.

Your hand delicately wrapped around his cock. He wasn't too big, probably just the right size. Prominent veins ran up the sides of his length and you knew you wanted to get your mouth on it as soon as possible. Judging by Peter's fast breathing and the way his hands clung to the sheets, you had to take it slow – drag out the moment, enjoy it.

A soft groan escaped your boyfriend's lips when you stroked him for the first time. Peter had touched himself to the thoughts of you countless times, but it was a better feeling with your hand wrapped around him. His eyes had closed in the process and you were eager to make the man underneath you squirm and moan.

A few more tugs followed, Peter's lips parting as more sounds escaped his throat. The sight was heavenly. His curls were even more of a mess now and his face was filled with pure bliss. His biceps flexed as he tugged on the sheets below him, eyes fluttering open to find your gaze as you continued your work.

You could feel your own arousal rising within you. A tight coil in your stomach, a heat that was slowly spreading throughout your entire body. But this was about Peter now.

"Feel good?" You asked. "Do you like it when I touch you like this?"

It sent a shiver straight down your spine when Peter replied with a raspy voice, nodding quickly.

"Yes. Keep going. Please..."

You didn't have to be told twice.

For the first time, you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, tasting his salty pre-cum. A small touch from your mouth alone was enough to make Peter buck his hips up. He was desperate for more and he hoped you'd give it to him.

Your right hand still stayed wrapped around his length, but you were circling your tongue around the tip of his cock, enjoying the taste and the feeling to the fullest. When you were sure that Peter had enough of the teasing touches, you decided to take him into your mouth completely.

His cock quickly hit the back of your throat and Peter let out another soft moan. It sounded like music in your ears, so you started to move your head up and down once you got used to the feeling of his length in your mouth.

"Shit," he groaned and pressed his head further into the pillows, while his hips moved up to meet your touch. Your hands held onto his strong thighs, nails digging into his skin as you swirled your tongue around him and took him into your mouth over and over again.

The sweet taste of him remained on your tongue, a firm reminder that he was getting close and Peter grew more desperate by the second.

"Fuck, I'm going to come." His voice broke halfway, knuckles turning white before he removed them from the sheets to bury them in your hair instead.

His hands gently pressed you down further on his cock as he started to thrust up into you instinctively and you couldn't help but moan around him as he did so. A few more thrusts, a few more pants and he was spasming inside you, warm seed filling your mouth.

You swallowed it down without a second thought, pressing a few more kisses to the head of his cock before you let go of him. A swipe of your tongue across your lips and you looked back up to your boyfriend.

Beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead, but there was a smile on his lips and Peter didn't waste any time to pull you back into his arms. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, not bothering to put his pants back on.

Cuddling you and then touching you in return was way more important now.

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

➤ 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.

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.

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

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

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

𝘿𝘼𝙔 𝙏𝙃𝙍𝙀𝙀: Threesome w/ Spencer Reid [ft. Elle Greenaway]

a/n: OKAYYY this is my first time writing for elle so please have mercy on me!! this fic is unbelievably dirty and i disappeared into my hole a time or two before finishing it, so enjoy!

masterlist | kinktober masterlist | AO3

She’s watching, she’s always watching.

Spencer’s eating you out with abandon with his eyes squeezed shut, though his naked lower half is grinding desperately against the hotel bed sheets below him.

You can’t find it within yourself to warn him, to tell him that Elle hadn’t given him permission to get himself off just yet.

You were only supposed to be exchanging ideas about the case together in her hotel room, but this… this is just something that the three of you do sometimes, but never, ever during a case.

You can tell that she was frustrated as she looked between you and the boy genius that screamed the need for control, because she didn’t like being clueless, didn’t like not being able to step in when she wanted. So, why not control the two people who are more than willing to have sex with each other?

One of Spencer’s long, veiny hands were intertwined with yours, the other two fingers deep and scraping against your g-spot.

“Mmf – gah!” You cried out, back arching.

“Spencer.” Elle says in warning, her eyes locked on where his hips are gyrating on the bed. 

Spencer’s mouth disconnects from you, and he rests his cheek on the inside of your full thigh, huffing and desperately trying to take in air. His fingers don’t stop moving, but he squeezes his eyes closed in an attempt to stop him.

“‘M sorry, ‘m sorry. ‘M just so hard…” His words trail off into a whine and you take pity on him, threading your fingers through his hair in support.

Elle watches for a moment before it looks like she makes a decision.

“Get up. She’s gonna ride you.”

Your body heats up at the fact that she’s talking about you like you aren’t there, but Spencer is quick to slip out of your hold, the man being sweet enough to grip you by your hands to help rearrange both of your bodies until you’re sat on top of him.

You grip his cock, eager to sit down on him before Elle goes, “Stop.”

You freeze and throw a desperate eye over your shoulder.

She’s stripping herself out of her t-shirt and jeans, leaving behind her matching black lace set. If you didn’t know her any better, you would think that she planned this. That’s the thing about your dom, she was always such a wild card.

“I’m gonna guide you and set the pace, and if you go any faster than I told you two, you both aren’t cumming at all.”

Your eyes quickly find Spencer’s and the look that you send him is pleading, because you know how needy he gets when he’s wired up, and the both of you have been edged for the past hour; you were to be eaten out without orgasming, and that went the same for him.

“Yes, Mistress.” Was Spence’s breathless reply, and you sent him a small, thankful smile.

She clambers onto the bed, a beautifully manicured hand landing on your hand, the other gripping Spencer’s dick cruelly. 

A loud whimper resonates around the room, and you trail your hands down his soft yet lean chest, a soothing gesture. She slowly lowers your body down onto him, his hardness breaching your entrance. 

You can feel every pulsing vein and ridge as he finally bottoms out, a long moan forces its way from your throat. Elle trails her lips up the side of your neck, and her other hand holds your free hip now, both of them settled on you.

“How does it feel?” She murmurs into the shell of your ear, and you shiver. “Good…” You mewl, back arching, “So good.”

“You hear that, Spence? She thinks you feel good. What do you say?”

“Th…” He gulps. “Thank you.”

She hums. “Good boy.”

Elle lifts your hips up once more and you follow her, the drag slow and merciful and you cry out on when you’re dropped back down, the tip of Spencer’s cock jabbing at your g-spot.

Spencer’s strained moan resounds from below you, his teeth clenched and hands gripping at the fat of your waist, right above hers.

“Move your hips to meet me.” She commands, and he follows.

The pace is wonky at first before a steady rhythm is established. She’s basically making you ride him, and all you could do is take it, head falling forward.

“Mistress, can I kiss him please?” You whine, eyes locked and his.

“Mm.” She hums, teasing for a moment. “Sure.” When she says so, she pushes you down by your shoulder, so you and Spencer are chest-to-chest.

You lock lips, but she sets harder thrusts that steal your breath away, practically punching sounds out of the both of you as you whimper into each other's mouths.

“Are any of you close?” She questions.

You feel Spencer nod, dislodging your kissing. “Yes, yes! ‘M close.”

She calls your name, and you crane your neck the best as you can to look at her. “Are you close?” 

“Yeah.” The words are small and meek but they’re there, and you’re falling so quickly into subspace that all you can do is trust her to get you where you need to be. “Rub her clit, Spence, and when she cums, then you can.”

He’s quick to move, reaching between your squished bodies to rub at your lower half, the woman never stopping the movement between the two of you. 

With every jab at your g-spot mixed with his bony fingers rubbing at you, you feel that familiar tightening of your gut before you call out, “Cumming!” As your warning. 

You rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder as Elle assists the genius with reaching his end with your pussy. You hear a loud, pornographic moan resound throughout the room combined with the sound of wet slapping, before your insides feel warm with his release.

You all stop and pause, both of your chests rising and falling with exertion.

“You guys did so well.” Elle praises, dragging her hand down your spine. “Are you okay?” She asks. “Mhm.” The two of you hum. 

“What about you?” Spencer rumbles from below you. “I’m fine.” She waves away his question.

“This was enough.”

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[leah-lover]

Comfort. Mapi x Ingrid x reader.

Smut 18+

You loved your job. Being a surgeon brought you glory, validation, the opportunity to help others, and make your environment proud of you. However, it introduced a great amount of fatigue, grief, and mental overstimulation.

Today was especially hard, you had lost 2 patients in the span of 3 hours. Once your shift was done, you hurried home to find any sort of comfort.

When you got home, you showered and curled up in bed immediately. Your girlfriend wasn't home yet, they still had a few hours of training. You didn't realize you had fallen asleep, you woke up gently after you felt a dip in the bed. You felt mapi’s soft touches on your hair before you opened your eyes to look into hers.

As soon as you saw her you moved closer, persuading her to open her arms for you and hold you. You situated yourself on her chest, and she positioned herself on the head board.

“ Rough day amor?” She whispered softly.

“ 2 died.” You respond.

“ Nena, it's not your fault, okay. You did your best.” She reassured you by giving small kisses to your temple.

“ Need Ingrid too please.” You ask .

“ She will come up any second now.” She responds.

She didn't lie, it only took Ingrid a couple minutes to come to your bedroom. When she enters the room you feel mapi mouth something to her. She then comes to the other side of the bed and lays next to you.

“ I am so proud of you for pushing through the baby.” She says before she too kisses your temple.

You needed more than they were giving you, but you were too shy to ask for it. Ingrid noticed you open your mouth and close it a couple of times.

“ Baby what is it?’ she asks while looking you in the eyes.

“ Nothing. It's nothing.” You say trying to shut her down.

“ You know I don't like lying.” She claps back with a stern look.

“ I don't want to be too much. I already bought this gloomy mood on you and I didn't ask you how you were doing it.” You say hesitantly.

“ Baby I won't repeat it again, what did you want to say?” She asks again without losing her serious expression.

“ I need more of you. I want more from you.” You say looking in her eyes.

“ Maria, I think our love doesn't know how much we love her.” Said Ingrid to Maria.

“ Yeah the hesitation to ask us for attention isn't something that should happen again I don't think.” Answered Maria from behind you.

“ I think she deserved to be taught a lesson about how much we love her, no?”

You see the world flying between them without any of them opening their mouths.

You then feel mapi slide from behind you leaving only the pillows to support your body. You reposition yourself only for Ingrid to hover on top of you.

“ Hi.” She whispers before giving you small sweet kisses. She knew that when you were in this state it was easy to overwhelm you. She wanted to move as slow as possible at first.

She gradually moved faster, more dominant, and hungrier for you. You moved at her pace tugging her body more on top of yours needing something to grind on as your core becomes more greedy.

Ingrid then moves to your neck leaving bruises and pink spots all over it. She helps you strip off your shirt and bra before moving to care for your breasts, giving each one as much care as you wanted. She doesn't leave any part of your body unmarked, or kissed, or touched. Your mouth hadn't been closed since she started, allowing for the smallest moans and whimpers to escape your lips.

Ingrid noticed your back starting to arch so she asked you her usual question.

“ What do you want, baby.” She asked looking up at you.

“ You.” You whisper breathlessly.

“ More words Nena.”

“ I want your mouth on me and your fingers inside me.” You whisper shily.

Inggrid didn't wait any longer doing exactly as you say.

She put her mother on your clit and pumped 3 fingers inside of you. With both being on the same rhythm you were quick to become a mess. Your moans were getting louder by the minute. “ Can I come please please please?” You ask Ingrid.

“ Don't ask me “ she responds before resuming her actions.

You look over the room trying to find maria. You find her on the couch adjacent to your bed. She was naked, her hand massaging her breasts, her legs wide open, and her core dripping. She was laser focused on Ingrid who was between your legs while touching herself.

“ Mapi, please can I come please.” You beg her.

“ Only if you moan my name while coming.” She demands.

After hearing that Ingrid sped up her pace. You start to uncontrollably moan Maria's name louder and louder before you come.

You were blissful when you came back down from your high. When you opened your eyes you found Ingrid making out with Maria. Maria wants to be as loud as you. She quietly.

You noticed mapi putting her strap on after she was done and started to look at her with worried looks.

“ I know you are sensitive today baby. This is for the princess.” She resured you.

Feeling cold you put on Ingrid's shirt which was tall because she was.

You moved to the side allowing for more space to the couple.

They start making out again In Front of you, Maria playing with Ingrid's hair after releasing it from the ponytail it was on.

They were both standing on their knees, whispering words to each other you couldn't hear. You loved seeing them act like the couple they were before you came. They have a deep sense of understanding of one another without letting you feel left out.

Maria then flips Ingrid so that her strap lines with Ingrid's ass. Ingrid throws her head on Maria's shoulder when she starts inserting her strap in her. Ingrid went loud either she just moved her mouth without making any sound as mTia worked her way inside of her. Your eyes never left them as Maria worked her way harder and faster inside Ingrid soliciting a few moans from her.

“ Enjoying the show amor.” Asks maria.

“Uhmm.” You respond, your mouth open.

“ I want to come mapi '' Ingrid didn't bed Maria but when she demanded to come the former allowed her.

“ Look at our baby while you do.” She said,

Ingrid looked eye contact with you as she fell forward after her orgasm hit her.

Maria them disposed of her strap and next to you. She opened her arms for both you and Ingrid. You both simultaneously lay on her chest.

“ Are you okay?” Ask you, Ingrid.

“ Yeah.” You respond.

“ I love you “

“I love you too “ they both say at the same time.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

hii this is not a request (unless u want it to be *wink wink*) just a horny thot i had that i needed to share lol but imagine frank’s girl having a rough day or being super down and frank saying “use me” to her while she’s on top and just passionate times ensue

a/n: okay but this turned out so mind-meltingly domestic and hot uuurrggghhhh

word count: 1647

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

Switching the light off, you stepped out of the small bathroom. Glancing over at Frank as he plugged his phone into the charger at the bedside table, he asked quietly, “do you wanna talk about it?”

Crossing the room, you shook your head, “no,” and he reached for you, tenderly pulling your frame towards him. Curling your arms around his head, you hugged his seated figure back, “I don’t wanna talk tonight because if I do then I’ll just cry a bunch and get a massive headache…” you ran your fingers through his short hair, scratching his scalp soothingly as you exhaled heavily, “I just wanna feel better.” 

As he tilted his head up to look at you, you only gazed at his gentle expression a moment before you leaned down and pressed your lips to his. 

The soft goodnight kiss soon grew and morphed into something more as your arms tangled around his neck and he instinctively pulled you into his lap. As his frame slowly began to sink down against the mattress, taking you with him for the ride, his warmth felt so good that you couldn’t help but melt down against him completely. 

When his fingers found the muscles along your spine and soothingly pressed down, a low groan escaped your lips and vibrated against the kiss as he continued to massage your back.   

Sighing moans seeped from your lungs as your hips instinctively rolled down against his. 

You knew each other so well at this point, that words weren’t always necessary in situations like this. He knew what the shiver down your spine meant, just as you knew what meaning lied behind his tongue when it lavishly danced against your own. 

When the flame had sparked into such a fierce fire that you were only moments away from ripping each other’s sleepwear off, a breathy prayer escaped Frank’s lips.

“Use me.”

You didn’t pull back, only hazily lingered in his warmth as you hummed, “huh?” your nose ghosting against his own. 

“I wanna help you, make you feel better,” his hands swooped up to the sides of your face and drew you back enough for his gaze to catch yours, “so, use me,” his words caused your eyes to flicker back at him, “what do you want, huh? Because you just say the word and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for you.”

A soft sigh flowed from your lips as you gazed down at him in adoration, “can you make me forget about everything? Turn my brain off… even just for a little while…”

“And how would you like me to do that, sweetheart?”

Offering him another roll of your hips, you breathed, “I think you already know,” and seized his lips once more. 

Your nightgown fluttered and rode up with his movements as his broad palms brushed up and down the curve of your frame, occasionally curling around your bottom and grazing his light touch over your underwear.  

Though suddenly, a breathy yelp tumbled out of you as Frank yanked you further up the bed, sculpting you till your thighs were planted on either side of his face. Curling his arms around your hovering hips, he firmly pulled them down. 

“O-oh…” a shaky sigh escaped your lips as his sloppy kisses soddened your covered core.

You reached out to the headboard for support as Frank’s sturdy nose nudged against your clit. Tightening his grasp on your hips, he gently began to move them down against his hot mouth till you slowly began to take over and grind down against his efforts. 

“Oh, fuck,” he soon groaned when he lifted you slightly off of him. His puffs of breath only fanned across your saliva-soaked underwear a moment before he yanked you off completely, “come here,” and flipped you around, readjusting himself so that he sat up against the headboard and had you slotted in between his thighs, your spine pressed up against his chest as he moulded you against him. Reaching down, he adjusted your legs, cracking you open and planting either one of your feet on the outer side of his knees. Casting his glance down over your shoulder, “ahh, look at that,” his warm touch travelled up your inner thigh before it found your panties, briefly tugging the clinging cotton up till the gusset dug deliciously into you. 

As he let the fabric spring back, all of his fingertips on that faintly balled-up fist swooped down to tickle you over the cotton, drawing feather-light circles that caused your frame to squirm from how good it felt. His lips nipped at the pulse thrumming on the side of your neck, even as he eventually ceased his caress with a playful tap against your puff. 

“Take them off,” he whispered in your ear as you felt him shift lightly behind you, craning over to the bedside table as you wiggled the pour panties down your legs. Fishing a bottle of lube out of the drawer, he then squeezed a dollop onto the pads of his fingers.

It wasn’t like you really needed it after all of his wonderful caresses, but a little added slickness never hurt no matter how ready you were, the only thing it ever managed to accomplish was increase your pleasure, and that was never something to deny yourself off, especially when it was just within arm’s reach.  

Your head tilted and your cheek smooshed against Frank’s chest as his fingers curled inside of you. His other curled around you as well, squeezing the softness of your tits through the thin material of your nightgown and nearly cradling you in the process as he slowly pumped two thick digits inside of you. 

“Oh, you’re so warm…” Frank’s deep voice rumbled softly behind you as his thumb stretched up to roll your clit. 

Tilting your chin, your lips parted as you gazed up at him. Curling your fingers around the nape of his neck, you drew him down enough to steal a kiss, his hot tongue swiftly sneaked out to join the party as you slowly turned your frame. 

Slipping his fingers out of your cunt, his touch stayed near your centre as he then lifted you up into his lap. Clawing needily at his dark boxers to free his cock, in a heartbeat you found yourself slowly sinking down upon it, his firm grip around you doing all of the work. 

“O-oh my god,” your eyes fluttered as he slowly eased you down, “I always kinda forget how fucking big it actually is until you put it in.”

Your grasp slid further up till you cupped each one of his scruffy cheeks, lowering your forehead to his as you trembly blew out short breaths of adjustment. 

“Well, I never forget just how incredible you feel,” one of his thumbs swirled over your skin as the rest of his digits dug into your flesh, leaving Frank-shaped imprints in the plush of your ass, “fucking amazing…”

You didn’t have to do a thing except let yourself sink into the sensation as Frank began to move you. His arms flexed around you as he slowly lifted you up, dragging your pussy over every little detail of him before he brought your back down, his brawny embrace practically cradled you as he gently bounced you in his lap. 

After your cunt had creamed all over his cock and he’d held you there in his arms a moment, just littering your face with his kisses, he then lowered you down to lay on the bed.

Propping both a pillow beneath your head as well as one beneath your hips, your legs curled over his bent ones as he dragged the bulbous tip of his dick through your puffy petals, “you are so beautiful,” parting them lavishly as he uttered, “my Y/n…” before he slowly slid back inside, “my love…” sinking down on top of you so that he became your entire reality, “I love you so much, you know that right?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, your legs curling up to hook around his back, “I love you too,” you felt your thighs begin to tremble on either side of him as he buried himself completely, “I love–, oh fuck…” as the length of him nuzzled impossibly deep within you, coherent words became awfully difficult to get out. 

He was so deep, you could feel him everywhere. And from the way that the tip of him kissed the deepest part of you with every euphoric roll of his hips, you were sure that if his comforting weight hadn’t been pressed so snugly against you, that you’d be able to glance down and spot a dull bulge form in your lower stomach with every single mind-melting thrust. 

But suddenly his intense and intoxicating movements eased and froze as he asked in a soft tone, “wow, wow, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, why did you stop?”

“Baby, you’re crying,” his thumb swiped over your misty cheek. 

“I am?” your brows furrowed fuzzily as you sniffled, “I didn’t realise, I’m sorry. I’m alright, I swear, you just feel so fucking good, I love you so much,” the words bubbled out of you like the tears that sprung from your eyes. 

“Oh, Y/n,” he gazed down at you as a gentle smile warmed his features, “you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, please just don’t stop, keep going, you’re so fucking deep.”

His face scrunched up in a heavenly expression as he rocked back into you, “I love you,” hovering right above you as he fucked you into oblivion, “I love you so much… I’m right here… you’re right here, with me… the day’s all done… just focus on this… focus on me… on how I feel… how you make me feel… nothing, and I mean nothing’s, gonna hurt you… I’ve got you… I’ll keep you safe… I’ll always keep you safe…” 

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[ryiju-muunie]

Cake! Cake! Cake! (Drabble)

18+ viewer discretion

Fem!reader/Toji Fushiguro Warnings: This is not coherant, established relationship, Toji is an ass man, thigh fetish, reader has very thick thighs, thigh job, Toji is whipped Word count: 752 DESC: Toji just loves your lower half

Ah don't we love ass? And thighs?

Link to my Ko-fi to support me!

Requests and ASKS are open!!!

ALL EYES ON RAFAH

Toji Zenin is an ass guy- well sort of. He’s always enjoyed your body, from the way it curved and from the way it bounced. He enjoyed your breasts even if you didn’t think they were too big. Mr. Zenin liked being able to hold either in both of his hands as you rode him to completion. But there was something else he liked much more than your breasts or ass. 

Your thighs. He loved how your cellulite made small indents in your skin, hanging off the bone in a way that made him twitch. When you two got near each other; Toji’s hands were on your thighs. You didn’t notice his fetish at first, thinking he just liked the feeling of you in shorts. But soon every time he’d massage your thighs you’d end up on top of him. 

His big hands squeezed your flesh, palming the plump skin. With every massage, his cock grew harder. The tip of Toji’s dick rubbed against his pants as he suppressed a faint noise. “Hey,” he murmured, pressing his face against the skin between your shoulder and your neck. 

You looked down at your boyfriend and lazily ran a hand through his hair, “What?” He let out a groan and bit down onto your neck, before sitting up and staring at you. His eyes were filled with a certain kind of lust you knew all too well. 

“Gimme me a thigh job,” Toji commanded in his signature gruff voice. 

You blinked a few times, “...What.” 

“Gimme me a thigh job … please?” He raised an eyebrow, “I saw it on PornHub. I wanna try it,” he shrugged and motioned to the hard-on brewing in his jeans. You glanced down to see the bulge and bit your bottom lip. You weren’t too entirely sure what a thigh job was, but if Toji wanted it. Hey, you’d try it. 

Before you knew it, you found yourself completely naked with Toji Zenin’s perfectly throbbing member placed between your supple thighs. You placed two hands on either side of his shoulders, gripping them as he adjusted himself. You knew from this placement you wouldn’t exactly get off, but you didn’t want to spoil your boyfriend’s fun. 

“Fuck… you look... Mm~ this is gonna be hot,” he leaned his head back and grinned at your pouted lips. Without letting you speak, the Zenin thrust in between your thighs. He put his hands along your hips and ass, cradling in one hand and squeezing with the other. Fuck, you felt so good. His body was practically on fire and he hadn’t even begun yet. Just being able to touch you was enough to send him over the edge. Your beautiful body was perfect within his hands, all he could do was run his thumbs in small circles against your skin. 

Toji leaned his head forward and pulled you closer, fucking into your thighs. At first, he started a bit slow to adjust himself, but then he couldn’t help himself. He just had to cum all on your skin. He just had to feel you grind against his length. Even if you couldn’t really feel it, you wanted him to feel good. He let out a faint groan, pulling you against him. He needed this skin-to-skin contact more than he needed to breathe. One of his hands squeezed your ass cheek before slapping it, just to see how you’d react. Of course, it hurt. So you whimpered and bit down on the skin of Toji’s shoulder. 

“F-fuck baby … mm- m I’m gonna.. F-mm fuck..” Toji moaned, pressing his forehead against your neck. He needed to be inside of you. Not in the sexual sense but in the sense he needed to live inside you. He needed to feel your soul intertwine with his to the point where it hurt. He needed you so bad he was on the verge of whimpering and crying. 

“Cum, c’mon… Cum for me,” you murmured against his own skin, running your hands up from his shoulders to his hair. That was enough to send him cumming against your chubby thighs. Spurt after spurt came shooting out from his swollen tip as he thrust against your skin. He let out a loud whimper-esc groan at the feeling. Every hair was on its end and my god did he feel as though he had just gone to hell and back. 

But fuck he’d do it again just to feel your thick thighs fuck him again and again.

[lanawinterscigarettes]

straddling jen check (female r) for kinktober maybe? love ur writing btw 🫶

you're so sweet, thank you sm! and thanks for the kinktober request too <3

Kinktober 2024 Day 9: Jennifer Check being straddled by a fem reader

Warnings: smut/nsfw content, straddling, grinding/partially clothed sex, heavy makeout session, swearing, dom Jen, sub reader, some possessiveness from Jen, could be seen as dubcon in some places but everything was consented to beforehand, mentioned edgin/overstimulation, Jen is a little bit mean in this one I'm not gonna lie (I have no regrets)

You loved being around Jennifer. Her mere presence was like a hard drug to you, and you were nothing more than an addict who couldn't help but want more and more.

It was difficult for you to keep your hands off her in public, and even more so when the two of you were alone. Not that she minded, of course. It fact, she encouraged it.

She was currently pressed close to you on the small bed in your room, her arms wrapped tightly around your neck while you tangled your fingers through her hair. "God, you taste so fucking good," she purred against your mouth before capturing your lips in yet another hungry kiss.

That was actually relatively tame compared to what she usually said. Most of the things she whispered to you when you were all over each other like this would cause a nun to clutch her rosary and faint.

You didn't say anything in response, simply unable due to just how much you found yourself caught up in the moment. It was always so easy for you to forget about everything else when you were with her. She was the most important thing in your life, after all.

"Get on top of me," she suddenly demanded, starting to tug you down on top of her. Never one to say no to her, you obliged, only breaking the kiss for a moment as you got in her lap, your thighs straddling hers.

Jennifer could feel the heat coming from between your legs, and it only made her cunt pulse in anticipation. It didn't help that the both of you were currently stripped down to your underwear.

She placed her hands on your hips, pulling you even closer before meeting your mouth with hers again. "No one else gets to ever touch you like this, do you understand me?"

You felt a shiver of delight going down your spine at her words. Of course you understood her. You'd be crazy to even think about being close to someone who wasn't her like this.

"I never want to see you hanging around with people other than me, got it?" She gave your bottom lip a sharp bite to help put emphasis on her point. "Never."

If you hadn't loved her before, you definitely did now. You hardly even notice that your bottom lip had started to bleed from her bite. "Never," you agreed as you gave her another kiss. She could taste the coppery tang from the little drops of blood on your lip, and you could taste the fruity flavor of her lipgloss.

It was all becoming too much for Jennifer to be able to control herself for much longer. She needed you, and she needed you now.

Gripping onto your hips tightly, she forced you to move them against her, instantly moaning into the kiss when she felt the heat from your core getting closer to hers. Your hands moved to hold onto her shoulders for support, breaking the kiss for the time being so you could catch your breath.

"Tell me that you're mine. Tell me just how much I mean to you." Her near-perfect nails dug into your skin as she spoke, causing you to let out a gasp.

"I- I'm yours," you breathed out, desperately rocking your hips into hers as you tried to gain some friction for your throbbing clit. "You- You mean the absolute world to me. I'm nothing without you."

It was true, and you both knew it. There was no way you could live without Jennifer, not when it was already so difficult for you to breathe whenever she was gone.

Between the two of you, it wasn't long before both of your underwear was almost completely soaked, dampened by your growing arousal. The bed began to creak as you moved against each other, soft pants and moans breaking the silence.

Burying your face into the side of her neck, you peppered the area with needy kisses as you continued to grasp onto her shoulders. She roughly guided your hips' movements, jolts of pleasure wracking your body as your clit brushed against where your underwear was clinging to your wet pussy.

"J- Jen- can't- too much-" You whimpered out, pressing your face further into her neck as you felt your stomach begin to fill with that familiar feeling of warmth that usually came when you were getting close.

She smirked and kept going, starting to move her hips up into yours so the vibrations that were hitting your core would be a lot more prevalent to you. If there was one thing she was good at, it was putting you right on the edge and keeping you there.

It took a lot of begging and pleading from you for her to finally let you finish. When she did, she only gave you a couple minutes break before starting back up again.

Your hands gripped tightly onto her arms as you tried to help ground yourself. "It- it's too much- Jen-"

She merely let out a scoff before leaning down to speak directly into your ear in that low, sultry tone of hers. "What, you didn't think we were done yet, did you? I haven't finished yet, and if I'm not done, then you're not. Now quit squriming."

You could only nod in agreement at her words, unable to protest any further. After all, you were a hopeless addict, and she was your precious drug. And when has an addict ever been known to say no when they hear their vices calling out to them?

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[maxislvt]

Sink Your Teeth In

pairing(s): vampire!natasha romanoff x werewolf!reader

summary: Vampires and werewolves were known enemies, but Natasha is more than willing to change that. Even if it's just for one night.

warning: amab!reader, blowjobs, sub!reader, slight dubcon

a/n: ummm nat gives the best head case closed

Event Masterlist

Werewolves and vampires were always at odds with each other. Not a thousand years could go by without vampires attacking werewolves or werewolves attacking vampires. It was all the same bloodline ending bullshit. 'Your father killed mine and now I must kill you!' over and over again. Some of those fathers weren't even worth killing anyone over. It was truly a shame that no one could see how compatible the two factions were. Vampires were strict, organized people that valued loyalty above all else. Werewolves were nothing short of loyal and obedient, you just had to train them. Natasha was so close to finding the perfect werewolf for her to prove that. 

Natasha had tried many times to tame a werewolf, but she'd run into a number of problems. They could be taught, but not many of them were willing to learn— especially not from a vampire. As disappointing as it was, it wasn't exactly a shock. A millennium long feuds were rarely ever one sided. Her previous attempts were also foiled by pride, shame, and simply being too boring to have any real fun.

So, Natasha spent another Friday night on the prowl.

Club Sonar was a rather interesting place. A tall building in the middle of nowhere buzzing with all forms of life. Monsters from all over the globe came together under the moon just to party. It was a messy place. The music was loud, bodies grinded against each other without a care, and secrets of all kinds were shared over the strongest alcohol. Though cultures mixed, money did not. 

Each floor of the bar was more expensive than the last. The alcohol got smoother, the music got slower, and the floors actually got cleaned. Upper floors were for people who supported the cause but had no interest in getting dirty. Natasha had more than enough money to sit at the top floor, but that wasn't any fun. She'd never find what she was looking for if she stayed up there. 

Werewolves were just as wealthy as vampires, but they were rowdy. They liked to play rough and get dirty. Big fancy houses just didn't appeal to them as much. Fancy clubs appealed to them even less. Natasha wasn't looking to tame someone — not to say her hand couldn't be forced — she was looking for someone soft and easy to mold. 

You weren't the easiest to find. Despite your size, the people on the dancefloor had no trouble pushing you around. You kept your head down no matter where you went. Natasha could tell you weren't there on your own, which made it harder to take you home. Not too hard though.

"This really isn't your scene," she said when she took the bar stool next to you. It was hard to keep her eyes in the right place. Your shyness was adorable, but there was no denying what she was really feeling. 

You looked around to make sure she was actually talking to you.  Though you weren't opposed to the conversation, it was hard to believe such a pretty woman had approached you. "Um, no. My friends wanted to come here. I mean it's cool just…couldn't we have a library or something? There's no point in intermingling if you're too drunk to remember what you're kissing."

Natasha laughed and scooted closer to you. "I guess you're right, but there's no shame in being curious. Right?" She looked at the glass in front of you. "Oh, that just won't do." Before you could interject, she tapped the countertop twice and brought over the bartender. It was a quick exchange, you didn't even see Natasha pull out any cash. Despite your confusion, you didn't put up a fight. You were exactly what Natasha was looking for. 

Guilt filled your eyes when you looked down at the fresh cocktail in front of you. Was it more rude to let it go to waste or ask the bartender for a refund? "Oh, you really didn't have to do that." Your hands hesitantly wrapped around the glass before taking a sip of the alcohol. The burn hit you immediately, but you tried to play it off. You tensed up to hold in the coughing fit building up in your chest. "It's…great, thanks," you forced out through a tight chest. 

Natasha gave you a firm pat on the back to force you to cough. She took away the glass and slid this towards you. "I would expect a werewolf to have a stronger alcohol tolerance," she said teasingly. Her hand stayed on your back even after your coughing had subsided. 

You shook your head. "A lot of us have sensitive pallets. I can taste whatever crappy oak barrel they made this in." There was an unexpected comfort in the way she touched you. "I should have asked this earlier, but what's your name?" You sat up straight as her hand moved down your back. You never really paid attention to your posture, but you had the strange urge to be better around her. 

"My name's Natasha, but you can call me Nat if you want. What's yours?"

"My name is Y/N. I don't really have a nickname, but whatever you come up with is fine." 

The conversation continued without trouble. Natasha seemed so enamored with how strong your pallet was. At the expense of Natasha's wallet and your sobriety, you had tasted just about every drink the bar had to offer. Eventually, you settled on just drinking strawberry daiquiris while you two talked. 

Natasha pulled your seat closer to her and she leaned down to whisper in your ear. "So how many more of those little smoothies do I have to buy to take you home with me?" Her hand slid up your thigh and gave it a firm squeeze. She could feel your dick twitching already. "I promise I'll only bite where it feels good."

You practically jumped out of your skin when Natasha kissed your neck. It was quick, but you could feel the pointed tips of her fangs brush against your skin. "Um..Can I finish this one first?" Before Natasha could say anything else you pulled out your phone and texted your friends. 'Leaving with a hot lady, ttyl!' was all you sent before cutting off your phone and downing the last of your drink. 

Natasha adored your enthusiasm. "I promise I'll get you home safe in the morning." She kissed your neck one last time before dragging you outside to her car. It was a good thing she brought her chauffeur along because there was no way she'd be able to keep her hands off you the entire ride home. 

You stumbled behind Natasha as best you could. Vampires were usually weaker than werewolves, but you were a little too tipsy to show your strength. You let Wanda push you into the backseat of her car. One sniff of the air and you could tell someone else was in the car. "You have a chauffeur?" Natasha covered your mouth and pushed you further into the backseat. 

"Home," was all she told the driver before closing the partition and focusing her attention on you. "Yes, but I promise the back of the car is soundproof." It certainly wasn't, but she needed to hear how whiny you could get. Natasha practically pounced on you after she closed the door. The kiss was hot and passionate. Your fangs bumped against hers every time your lips collided. "Can you taste what I drank earlier?" She asked with a giggle. 

A whine escaped your lips when Natasha pulled away. "Um…a lot of vodka and cooper..?" Your answer earned you another kiss. Natasha's lips felt like heaven against yours. She overwhelmed all your senses in the most delicious way possible. You didn't even notice how hard you'd gotten. "You smell…really good." You mumbled in the handful of seconds between kisses. 

She chuckled but didn't respond. You were too cute. "I'm going to make you feel so good tonight." Natasha's kisses moved down the side of your jaw until she reached the base of your neck. Her hands wasted no time undoing your belt and tossing it on the car's floor. One of her fingers circled around the tip of the tent in your pants while she watched you squirm. "You're so sensitive."

You opened your mouth to speak only to be interrupted by a string of cursing and desperate whimpering. "Sorry, I'm just new to all of this," you confessed. It was a little hard to imagine your first time going to a bar would take such a turn. 

"Don't tell me someone as cute as you is still a virgin." Your silence was enough. It was as arousing as it was disappointing. Natasha didn't want to go slow by any means, but the thought of getting to corrupt that innocent little mind of yours was exhilarating. "I promise I'll be extra gentle with your little friend." 

The car parked before Natasha could pull down your boxers. Natasha's lust-driven craze left you in quite an awkward position while waiting for her to unlock the door. Holding your pants up only made your bulge stand out more and there was an obscene amount of lipstick covering your neck. You hoped Natasha wasn't secretly vampire famous or else you'd be in real trouble. 

Natasha pulled you into her home and wasted no time undressing you. Your shoes, shorts, sweater, and T-shirt littered the soft carpet. Natasha had you completely naked by the time she pushed you onto the bed. "You're making a mess already," she whispered seductively as she crawled onto the bed. Her eyes focused on the way your member throbbed and leaked precum. 

Your eyes followed Natasha's as she began stroking your member. It was tortuously slow, but it felt good. A near-pornographic moan fell from your lips as your head tilted back. "Your hands are so soft," you whimpered pathetically. All your willpower went into staying still. You didn't know what to do with yourself. "C-can I touch you too?" You blindly reached out and grabbed the first thing you could feel. Mindlessly, you groped the soft flesh in hopes that it would make Natasha feel good too. Your face burned bright red as she moved your hand to where her breast actually was. “Sorry…I wasn’t looking,” you mumbled. 

Natasha kissed up the underside of your cock before licking all the way down to the base. “A good pup would pay attention to someone making them feel this good.” She waited until you looked down at her. Once she was sure you wouldn’t look away, she swallowed you down to the base. Her cheeks hallowed out as she began sucking you off.

Your hips twitched and your eyelids fluttered, but you tried your best to keep your eyes open. As your orgasm got closer, you found it harder to control yourself. An animalistic growl ripped through your throat as you tried to control yourself. Your fangs forced themselves out of your mouth and your claws had nearly ripped Natasha’s sheets. “W-wait, slow down,” were the only words you could get out before it happened. 

Hot white cum painted the inside of Natasha’s throat as she swallowed down everything you gave her. Natasha didn’t give you a break and continued until you pushed her away. “Is that all you have left?” She blew on your bulbous tip before giving it a kiss.

“N-no, I just…I need a second. That’s all.”

[twoidiotwriters1]

Actions they unintentionally do that turn on Ace... literally (Portgas D. Ace x GN!Reader)

Words: 1,188

Warnings: Cursing, suggesting smut. Hot, hot, hot Ace

A/N: If you have One Piece Requests... please send them! -Val

It’s been a while since they joined the Whitebeard’s crew. The good thing is that Y/N adapted very well with everyone on board, the downside was the extreme comfort they seemed to feel with certain member.

Ace knew immediately that they were innocent and naïve, Y/N’s face gave them away, and as time went on and he interacted with them, it only confirmed his theory. 

There is nothing wrong with this; on the contrary, Ace finds them a breath of fresh air. They’re always excited for adventures, Y/N‘s a dreamer, a caring pure soul. The real problem is him.

He’s very proud that Y/n’s regained the confidence taken away, and he feels warm to know they feel safe by his side. But that doesn't stop his mind from thinking things... that he shouldn't be thinking, not about Y/N.

For example: when they sit on his lap.

Part of the crew is in a bar, drinking and laughing while they tell funny stories. At some point, Y/N arrives and finds the group. When they get closer, everybody greets them and offers them alcohol. As their drink arrives, Ace’s crewmate looks for a place to sit. Although Marco and Sachi offer their chairs, Y/N’s already have their preferred spot in sight. The pirate goes straight to Ace and sits on his lap with a hand around his shoulders for support. 

It's not the first time they've done this, Ace has no problem with this, but he wasn't expecting it at that moment, let alone in front of the others.

Y/N rests their body against Ace's bare chest as they follow the conversation and swing their legs. All the while, Ace keeps his arms at his sides, itching to touch Y/N’s legs or grab them by the waist. He tries to keep his mind occupied with the conversation instead of the warm body on him. The very idea of getting hard seems terrible to Ace. All this happening under the curious gazes of the crew.

Sleeping with him:

At first, Ace heard about Y/N’s sleeping problems because of the constant nightmares, so he offered to sleep on the same bed to reassure them. Now his body tenses up when he hears the door to his room being opened, footsteps approaching and the movement of the mattress. 

“Are you awake?” Y/N whispers. He wants to act asleep but... “I know you’re awake,” they giggle. 

He turns to Y/N, ignoring the need to caress their cheek, to hug them and run his lips and tongue all over their body, to tell them things he shouldn't, to slowly remove each garment and—

“Ace!” 

He blinks out of his daydream. “What?”

“Your fire!”

He frowns and the smoke reaches his nose, he turns and notices the flames peeking into his room. “Shit!”

 Ace manages to put out the fire and returns to bed.

Y/N chuckles. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t see look up. “Uh, yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Noup.”

“You wanna talk about it?” He shakes his head. “You wanna go back to sleep?”

“Yes, please.”

Y/N snuggles closer. “Good night, Ace”.

And his ultimate downfall: caressing or pulling his hair.

Is it a kink? He’s not sure, but it did affect him. The worst part? Y/N does it all the fucking time!

One morning, he’s dreaming that he’s fucking Y/N like he’s always wanted. It feels so real, the touches, their moans, the heat... That’s why he doesn't notice that he’s grinding against their ass in the real world.

Y/N wakes up thanks to the movements and the feeling of something hard against them. They open their eyes and try to figure out what’s going on.

“Ace?” despite the strong grip on their waist, Y/N manages to turn around. “Ace!” Y/N shakes him by the shoulders, but he keeps moaning. They try their best but it’s always difficult to wake him up.

Then, they move Ace's body face up and sit above him. “Ace, wake up!” Y/N shakes him harder.

“W-What?” He opens his eyes startled, and he slowly comes to his senses. Y/N is on top of him, his hard cock, his body dripping in sweat. “What!?” He hears his heart pound in his ears.

“Are you okay?” Y/N asks him with concern.

“I’m…” His eyes travel all over their body. “I—”

“Were you having a nightmare?”

‘Holy shit’, he thinks. His body screams for sex and they think that he is having a nightmare. He can’t take it anymore. He doesn't know what to do.

Ace sits abruptly and Y/N yelps, feeling his boner. They frown and think that maybe they’re wrong, but…

“Ace, what’s going on?”

“You’re so naïve,” he says without thinking.

“Sorry?”

“No!” He grabs them by their waist. “I mean… I—” he sighs.

“Just tell me,” Y/N whispers.

Ace looks into their eyes. “You’re innocent and naïve and… there’s nothing wrong with it! But I… I can’t take it anymore!”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re killing me!” He laughs nervously. “Just think about it— you’re on my lap and I’m sure you can feel my cock.” They blush at his vulgar words. “Shit, now you’re uncomfortable— I… I’m sorry, Y/N,” he sighs, dropping his head on Y/N's shoulder.

“W-Why do you say that?”

“You must think I’m a pervert for thinking like that about you,” he explains.

“What do you think about me?” Ace frowns and comes out of his hiding place. “I-I mean, like what things? What kind?”

At that moment, Ace realizes that Y/N’s body’s telling him something too. They’re tense, skin flush, eyes on his lips and their hands… are caressing the back of his neck, dangerously close to his hair.

“I want you,” he answers. “I want… all of you. I want to be beside you, near you… inside you,” Y/N squirms at the last word, and he grunts. “You have no idea how much I’m starving for you and how I can't control myself when you sit on my lap, when we’re in bed— fuck, when you play with my hair...” he feels lighter telling the truth.

“Like this?” Y/N asks caressing the hair at the back of his head. 

He tenses again and his length twitches.

“Y-yeah,” he almost moans. “When you pull it...” they do it and he grabs them harder. “Wait,” he stops, going back to reality. “You want this.” It’s not a question. 

They look down. “I’m sorry for doing those things… it wasn’t my, I-I’ve never...” he grabs their chin gently to make them look at him.

“It wasn't your actions that frustrated me, Y/N,” he caresses their cheek. “It was the fact that I couldn’t do anything about it. Touch you like I wanted and needed, not without your permission.”

“Y-you have it.”

He smirks. “Are you sure?” They nod. “Use your words, I need you to say it. That this is what you want,” he leans closer, his nose tracing Y/N’s jawline.

“I want you, Ace. I want all of you too,” Y/N moans quietly when he kisses their neck.

“You won’t regret it,” he promises.