#i apologize if his nickname for her seems odd

[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, 80k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, First Time, Smut, Fluff, Angst

· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR ·

➤ THE TRIBUTES I

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

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

With a throat made of cotton you fight a dry swallow.

The only thing that offers a sliver of an opportunity to ground you was 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 creaks under legs made of lead. You’d fully collapsed into yourself once the escort extends her hand to guide you to center stage, entirely sucked into a fever of denial and shock. 

The escort rambles on, but her words are lost to your ears.

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 a blackhole of dread and horror. Your doubled vision flits to catch the gaze of the male tribute, swallowing hard when you find half-lidded eyes. Immediately your heart sinks, stomach twisted 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 either 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 eyes 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 sinks, 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 entirely 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 were 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 his 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 still 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 at you both, “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 it 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 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 slowed, 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, checks 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 was 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 the screech of metal across his plate echoes through 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, remember?  

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 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 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, one of her arms folded, holding her hand near her head with a folded palm.  

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 shower in your private bathroom, enjoy 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 practically 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 like you were 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 she doesn’t respond, “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 apart 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 stand 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 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 closer to the city, 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 lead 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.  

Your thoughts drift to The Mountain.  

You wonder if he’s 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 have 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 her familiar face, even if she has a tendency to be incredibly ignorant. 

“Oh!” She gasps, “Don’t you just 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 at his 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 are 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 daintier than yours.

“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 filled 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 dry.

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. How the several extra feet 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 inbetween 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 an 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 think 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 have 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 being 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 a 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 lead to the training center when you realize that your arm is folded 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 on 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 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 fourty 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 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 of the water. Yours were average, at best. Somehow it seems even worse than the awful outfits, which are at the very least rememberable.

“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 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.  

It’s 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 gut. 

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 disgust.

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, 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 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 there to remind 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,” His cadence matches 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 get sleep, 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. Flicking 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, pulling your knees to your chest as you lean back into the cushion’s hold.

You hear Konig carefully sliding the glass door closed. He only makes it two steps into the 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. 

You nod slow, hesitantly grabbing it and slipping your arms in.

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. Your arm comes up to prop under your head, crown pointed in Konig’s direction.

You let the hood fall over your face, blocking out the wind and enjoying the sense of privacy it gives you.

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. He bites back a smug grin, and a scowl plasters on your face in response.  

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 still 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.  

You and Konig don’t 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 avoiding 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 have 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 Price’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, 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 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,” you do a quick scan of the room. “Edible plants?” You say with a slight crackle in your voice, 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 tinging with each clash of metal makes your stomach turn, 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 didn’t have a plan, but your brain was 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 unredeemably 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 seemed 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 wonder 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 for a moment. His eyes that were narrowed in focus relax when he meets your eyes, 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 their faces.

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

Your stomach tightens, brows sloping 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 muscles chickened out,” he says as your footsteps catch up to his.

“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 says, his lips pressed into a smile, crossing his arms over his 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 qualm 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 wave 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 guard priming to intervene. You can feel the stare of a few tributes looking in your direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’d’ya doing here kid?”

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

“What’s wrong?” His voice calls.

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

· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR ·

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!

#i don’t even have an excuse for this one i’m sorry suzanne collins #what year is it #i kept caeser flickerman bc no one else could ever fill his cunty little shoes #call of duty #cod #konig #konig cod #konig fic #konig call of duty #könig #könig cod #könig call of duty #x reader #konig modern warfare #modern warefare ii #the hunger games #uhohwriting #konig x reader #konig x you #john price #captain price #john price cod

[thiefxking]

@topaz-adorned sent: “there’s nothing wrong with asking for help.”

Dragmire sighed as he heard her words. They were so similar to ones spoken to him by his childhood friend before she'd vanished that though he wanted to agree he instead turned away from her.

"Help often comes at a price and that price is not often one that I am willing to pay. To have the familiarity to ask for aid and not be taken advantage of is not a luxury that all can have." Too many times had events turned against him. He sighed and shook his head. "I will not ask you to help me, little blossom."

#a cloud from the desert || ganondorf threads #topazadorned || bussaba #i apologize if his nickname for her seems odd #he just did it in my head #and it seemed fitting #so i included it

[lvrxly]

ִ ࣪𖤐- An Odd Feeling

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

summary: your neighbor, Simon, is a single dad. and you frequently babysit his son, Oliver. You've grown to love Oliver, buying toys for him, planning play dates, and even offering to babysit him while his dad goes on a date..wait what? You really thought after all of this Simon would choose you, but maybe he will..?

cw: simon is somewhat oblivious at the beginning >:((, mdni - smut, slight age difference (Simon is in his mid-30s while the reader is in her mid-20s), unprotected sex, breeding kink on Simon's part, oral sex (f receiving), Simon can't help but want another kid after seeing how you treat his :((

a/n: sorry this took so long to get posted! and i apologize for any grammar mistakes, i don't have the energy to edit this right now ;( (it's almost 4am).

hope you enjoy lovies ;)

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"Thanks again for this love, I should be back around 9pm, please try and get him to bed before then," Ghost says frantically as he passes his son over to you along with his diaper bag and favorite blanket.

There was that damned nickname again. 'Love'. Simon always seemed to call you love, it was almost infuriating how that little pet name could make your heart race and your cheeks heat.

Simon had a date with someone a friend of his set up for him, Soap, you think was the guys name. From a photo Simon showed you, she was pretty, gorgeous even. Slim and tall, long blonde hair, and seemingly put together.

"Yeah no problem. Have fun, try and get laid. You definitely need it," You say with a dry laugh, bouncing his son, Oliver, over to your other hip. Why the fuck would you say that? 'Get laid?' Why would you even suggest such a fucking thing knowing you can barely stomach watching him go out on this date in the first place.

He cleans up nice, a fitted pair of dark grey khaki pants with a white button up shirt, the sleeves rolled, revealing his tattooed forearms, and his sandy blonde hair slicked back out of his face, making him less shaggy looking than you were used to.

Simon laughs and waves goodbye as he turns on the heels of his dress shoes and hops down the steps of your front porch. You wave at his back, shutting the door with a heavy sigh. You turn around and set Oliver down, watching as he bolts toward the little corner of your living room which you had designated as his play area for when he comes over.

Your heart feels heavy as you walk over towards your couch, tossing Oliver's diaper bag and blanket onto one of the cushions. You flop down onto the other cushion, kicking your feet up on the coffee table that is placed in front of your couch.

Oliver looks just like his father, from what you could see anyways. Dirty blonde hair, gunmetal blue eyes, and a small dimple on his left cheek. He was an adorable kid, an easy one to babysit too.

Oliver runs up to you, a toy tractor in his hand as he holds it up to you, his other hand rested on your knee as if to help him balance better. "Tac-tar!" He exclaims.

You smile at him, taking the toy he was offering you, and touching your fingertip on his nose, causing the little boy to giggle. Enough about Simon. Oliver was your date tonight. Your own play date buddy.

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It was a little after 9pm, maybe just about 9:47, when Simon got back. He had knocked on your door for a good 5 minutes before he gave up and decided to let himself in.

He used the key that you would poorly hide under your doormat. The two of you would get into arguments about the placement of the key.

"It's the most obvious spot, love, you're gonna end up getting robbed on of these days." Simon had said the day you told him where it was, he was always worrying about your safety. You knew he was an ex-military Lieutenant, but then again that might just be the dad in him talking.

After unlocking your front door and pushing it open he begins to speak, "Sorry I was a little later than I thou-" But he cuts himself off after his eyes land on your couch.

There you laid on your back, an arm falling off the couch and a leg propped up on the back cushion, snoring lightly. That position couldn't have been that comfortable. But that's not what made him freeze. It was how his son was laying on your chest, fast asleep with his favorite blanket draped over his back. You looked as if his son was your own.

His breathe is caught in his throat as he stares at the two of you, slowly shutting the door behind him as he makes his way over to the couch.

A small smile paints his face as he stands behind the small and slightly sad turquoise couch, bending down so his forearms rested in the back cushion. He watches you sleep, his eyes dragging up and down your frame. After a moment he uses a single finger to brush a stray piece of hair off of your face, tucking it behind your ear.

His smile never falters as he pets the back of his sons head, his long blonde hair slightly sweaty from how hot it probably was being all nuzzled up to you.

You stir in your sleep, your eyes fluttering, only for them to end up shooting wide open in shock. You gasp and clutch the back of Oliver, sighing after realizing who was really watching you sleep.

You sit up, cradling Oliver in your arms, careful not to wake him. "Do you normally watch people sleep?" You say with an annoyed look on your face as you rub your eyes, sleep still attempting to pull you back in.

After regaining most of your consciousness, you stand from the couch, your clothes wrinkled and Oliver's little head on your shoulder as you hold him in your arms.

"Eh, define normally," Simon says, a joking tone noticeable in his voice. Was he trying to make a joke? Since when did Simon Riley ever makes jokes? What the hell happened at the date?

"Your in a good mood. You didn't really end up getting laid right? You know what..? I don't think I wanna know." Your words are frantic and slightly irritated. Why did you feel so...odd right now? Simon is a single man. He has the right to go on dates with beautiful women. Unfortunately.

You bounce around your kitchen, rocking your hips side to side to keep Oliver asleep for as long as possible. You can't help but notice how Simons eyes follow your hips as they move. And..what was that? Did he just groan? No no, that would be crazy.

"No I didn't get laid," He finally replies. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. Almost like a breath of relief.

"If I was getting laid I would have gotten back a lot later..It takes more than 30 minutes with me, love.." Simon was suddenly behind you, his breath hot on your neck as his hands hover above your hips, heat radiating off of his tatted skin, almost scorching the flesh of your thighs through your pants.

You stop bouncing his son, glancing over your shoulder at Simon and..holy shit he was close, almost too close. Those damned eyes were pulling you under and you didn't know if you wanted to be saved.

Oliver shifts in your arms, waking up slowly. His tiny hands rub his eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them. Once he's awake and spots his dad he immediately makes grabby hands towards him.

You gladly hand him over to Simon, anything to get away from the man that was way way wayyyy to close for comfort. You give Oliver to his father and take a large step away from Simon. You see his smile falter but he quickly regains his composure when his son calls his name, his tiny hands on Simons cheeks.

"You have fun while I was away buddy?" He asks his son, to which Oliver responds with a vigorous nod. He then begins to blabble on about his trucks and snacks he ate, but you space out, your eyes still locked on the two of them.

Simon looked so good with a kid, he was a good dad. You can't help but imagine how good he must have been to his wife while she was pregnant. Her lose for leaving him. He's a great guy. Unfortunately, that means women probably throw themselves at him. Hot, ex-military, AND good with kids??? Yeah, they definitely do. And you would to, if you were so full of self doubt.

"Love?" You hear Simon say, his eyes now focused on you as Oliver was seemingly put down to go play for a little longer.

"I asked if you're free this weekend? Oliver is going over to his grandparents for a few days and I was wondering if you'd like to do something?" His voice was shy...that was weird. It's almost like-

"Are you asking me on a date?" You say, a teasing smirk playing across your lips.

"No no, well- no it's not like that. Just as friends, you know- without the ruckus of that one running around." When he says "that one" he points towards Oliver, who was currently crashing two tractors together and making a crash sound with his mouth.

"You know what? Sure Simon. I'll see you then."

He smiles, nodding softly as he runs his hands through his hair, the gelled effect must have worn off because it was back to its shaggy state, almost getting to the point it reached his eyes. He needed a haircut, but it's not like you didn't like the shaggy look. It was unexpectedly sexy.

Maybe it was just your hormones talking but everything about this man was unexpectedly sexy. His tired eyes from sleepless nights and early mornings, his tatted arms, a few of the tattoos colored in with what seemed like marker from Oliver, and his tall frame, almost towering over you to the point you had to look up to see his face.

You did suggest that he should get laid, but maybe you're the one who really needed the action. It's been who knows how long, and your getting so desperate that you literally can't look at him without butterflies fluttering in your stomach as well as..further south.

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After sending Simon and his son home, you immediately ran to your bedroom, quickly stripping out of your clothes and hopping into the warm water of your shower. With your back to the water and your hands in your hair, you can't help but let your mind wander back to your neighbor.

What was he doing right now? Was he helping Oliver brush his teeth? Was he just getting into the shower too? Was his shower water warm or cool? Did he have tattoos elsewhere? What did the soap look like running down his chest and down his legs..?

Okay, you need to go to bed. Sleep would do the trick. Right?

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Wrong. Sleep 100% didn't do the trick. Two full days of almost nothing but sleep and this man has been filling your head with thought of him, some more naughty than other. He had crawled into your dreams, your thoughts, and your daily life in general. You cant even pour creamer into your coffee without seeing his smug ass face in your mug.

It was now the weekend, around 7pm on a Saturday. The sun had already gone down and you were sitting in your living room, a random cheesy rom com on the television as you scrolled on your phone. You scrolled through your feed, seeing videos of your college friends out partying, drinking, and having fun. Then there was you, sitting at home with day old mascara on your lashes and sleep evident on your face.

There was a heavy knock on your door, with a raised brow you hop up from your couch and make your way over to the door, peaking through the peep hole to see who it was. And to your surprise, it was exactly who you were thinking of.

There Simon stood, a bottle of champagne and a single red rose in his hands as he bounces on his heels, he was back to his regular shaggy look, unkempt hair, white t-shirt, blue jeans, and his silver dog tag hanging from his neck.

Quickly, you open the door with a smile and invite the man in. As he walks in towards your kitchen counter you quickly become aware of your appearance. Old makeup on your face, and crinkled clothes that you couldn't be bothered to iron.

However, at this point the two of you have seen each other at your worst, hell you've seen Simon running off of two hours of sleep with a sick little Oliver who wouldn't stop crying and coughing.

"Champagne and a rose? This feels like a date to me.." You tease running a hand across his shoulder as you pass him, earning a shiver from the man. you stand on the opposite side of the kitchen island as he takes a seat on one of the barstool chairs you have, sliding the bottle towards you.

"Take it however you want love." He laughs, running his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face, his bicep flexing in the process, and holy fuck.

You shake your head and pop open the bottle of champagne. "I'm glad I know you and Oliver, he's a good kid."

"You're such a big help with the little guy, I honestly don't know what I'd do without you. He loves you a lot." Simon is more soft spoken than usual as he twirls the rose between his fingertips.

You're frantically searching your cabinets for those champagne glasses you got all those years ago but have never used. You swear you still had them.

"It's no biggy. He's a joy to have around and probably one of my only friends!" You laugh, sighing after you cant find those dumbass champagne glasses and grabbing two mugs out of the cabinet instead. Not quite what you'd normally drink something like champagne out of, but it would have to work.

"So I'm not considered a friend? I see how it is," Simon fakes a hurt expression as he takes a mug from you with a raised brow. His shoulders shake in silent laughter after he looks at the mug to which it read "Male Tears" in big black lettering.

You laugh along with him, "Eh, I kinda like your son more than you, he's less broody," You tease, pouring the champagne into each of your mugs. Your mug saying "Reading is Sexy" with blue lettering.

There the two of you sat, at your kitchen island drinking cheap champagne out of coffee mugs with a single red rose placed between the two of you.

-

After a few hours and an entire bottle of champagne, the two of you sat on your couch together, a movie on your tv.

You sat with your legs draped across Simons lap, his hand resting on your knee as his fingers gently rubbed circles into your skin. It tickled, but in a good way.

You fought sleep, your eyelids slowly shutting and reopening. Your breath was calm and slow, a comfortable silence had fallen between the two of you.

"Gettin' sleepy love?" Simon asks with a chuckle, his deep blue eyes lingering on you as he rubs up and down the length of your leg.

You don't bother answering verbally, you don't have the energy. You shake your head in a quiet and small 'no', your hand coming up to rub your eyes. What time was it? It couldn't be that late.

With a groan, you sit up and grab your phone off of the coffee table, tapping your screen a few times for it to turn on. Your screen nearly blinds you, a curse falling from you lips as Simon merely chuckles next to you. 11:57. Almost midnight already? You thought, there's no way.

Simon peaks over your shoulder and shakes his head, running his hands over his face with a yawn. "Surely I haven't been here all that long, it's definitely past our bedtimes," he teases as he moves your legs off of his, standing from the couch with a stretch, his shirt lifting, showing off a fucking happy trail. This man was too hot for his own good. It had to be a crime at this point.

You stand next to him, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you yawn, making your way lazily towards the direction of your bedroom.

"I better get ta' goin'-" Simon begins, before you cut him off.

"Oh please, theres no way in hell you came over here just to hang out as friends, Simon." Your voice is low as you stand before him, your bodies mere inches apart as you stare up at him. Messy hair, sleepy eyes, and those god damn dimples shining through as he smirks down at you. You fuckin' knew it.

His arms wrap around your waist, his face nearing yours as he walks you backwards into your kitchen, your hips hitting the kitchen island. "I've been caught."

His breath smelling of cheap champagne and cigarettes as his lips grazed yours. His lips are soft as he finally kisses you, fitting perfectly against yours.

Simons hands remove themselves from your waist, landing on the kitchen island, trapping you between him and the counter. You deepen the kiss, standing on your tippy toes to match his force, earning an audible groan from the blonde man in front of you.

When the kiss ends, nothing but heavy panting and quiet curses fill the air. "Fuckin' hell love.." he whispers against your neck, his lips leaving a trail of kisses up and down your warm skin.

Quiet whimpers leave your lips as his lips work their way up to your ear, where he whispers a phrase that makes your knees want to buckle. "Get on the fuckin' counter doll, I've waited far to long for this and my tongue is tingling for your taste.."

Obviously, you do as he says, hopping up onto the cool granite. "Atta girl," he says, his voice raspy as he tugs the waistband of your pants down, pulling them off your legs as if he's been craving you for years. Maybe he has been..

In a swift motion he pushed you onto your back, earning a quiet yelp from you as your back touched the cold surface. With his eyes glued on your panties and his hands on your plush thighs you can't help but whimper, letting your head fall back onto the counter top.

"Fuckin hell lovie, you're already so wet..." Simon says through gritted teeth, the pad of this thumb rubbing slow circles against your clit, the feeling of the pressure over the fabric of your panties was enough for you to clench around nothing.

"Simon please-" you whimper, your hips rolling against his touch, eager for more. This draws a chuckle from the man in front of you, he pulls his hand away with a smug smirk on his lips.

Not another word is shared between the two of you before Simon is kneeled on the tile flooring and he has your legs over his shoulders, his face at perfect height with your core. He pulls your panties to the side, groaning at the sight before him. He was so fucking hard right now, straining against the zipper of his pants.

He blows a cool puff of air against your cunt, watching as it flutters before it, his smirk never falters as he runs his thumb over your cunt, coving his finger in your juices.

"Riley I swear to the gods, if you don't stop playing with your food-" you begin, getting cut off with his tongue against your slit and his thumb rubbing circles against your sensitive bundle of nerves. His tongue works in and out of you, flicking and sucking, the noises that fill the kitchen are positively hypnotic. Your whimpers and moans mixed with the wet noises of Simons tongue between your legs. And to top it off, every time you buck your hips against his face he moans, a low growl like noise that makes you absolutely drip.

Simon is only using one hand to hold open your legs, his right hand has traveled down to his pants, unzipping his jeans and finally giving himself that oh so needed friction that he's been deprived of. His tongue goes flat against your cunt, his head shaking side to side, flicking his tongue every so often, just enough to catch the tip of your clit.

He palms himself through his boxers, rutting into the palm of his hand. "You like that baby? You're gettin' louder.." he teases as he sucks on your clit, causing your back to arch off of the counter top and your hands to fly to his hair, tugging on the blonde strands, pressing his face into your greedy little cunt even more.

"Simon! Right fucking there, please please please..." You moan, your thighs threatening to close around his head as your legs shake with pleasure. Your breath is quick and your moans are loud as Simon god damn Riley holds your legs open, sucking and licking your clit, you were about to fall apart right then and there, but after he shoves two fingers into your cunt you absolutely crumble.

The orgasm rushes throughout your body, your grip on his hair tight. He doesn't stop though, his tongue stays glued to your clit, his fingers moving at a pace that makes your writhe, drawing out this heavenly orgasm as long as he can.

You're already fucked out as he pulls his fingers out of you, kissing your fluttering cunt, kissing up your torso and tugging your shirt over your head to kiss all the way up your lips. This kiss was everything passionate, the taste of you still lingering on his lips.

Your eyelids are heavy and your chest rises with a quick pace, still trying to come down from your high. Sweat glitters your skin, your panties hanging from your ankle and your mascara running down your cheeks. "So beautiful, so fucking gorgeous baby.." Simon whispers as he kissed you on the forehead, running his hands over your cheeks. "But we're not done yet, no no no, this night isn't over until I fill you up so full that Oliver will have a fucking sibling by tomorrow.." His voice is deep and sultry, pulling you up off the counter by your wrists and tossing you over his shoulder like a damn sack of potatoes.

With a yelp from you, Simon gives a little smacks to your ass. His quick strides make it to your bedroom in no time at all. He tossed you on the bed, you landing on your back, your toes bouncing along with the mattress, earning a low curse from the man in front of you. He stands at the end of your bed, quickly pulling his pants and boxers off of himself. He can't go another fucking second without being inside of you.

The image of this man crawling on top of you, his ink covered arms on either side of your head and your legs on either side of your hips as he pressed against you. It was all so much, your cunt was dripping, and from what you could see so was the tip of his cock.

Holy shit his cock, it was huge, veins running up and down the length of it. You figured he was from the start, but now that it's in front of you, how the hell will it all fit?

His hands reach for your thighs, pushing them up so your knees neared your ears, the tip of his cock teases the entrance of your cunt, the bead of pre-cum smearing all over your clit. You wiggle your hips, eager for something, anything but this fucking torturous teasing that this man seems so obsessed with.

"Simon.." You moan, earning a groan from the man. His eyes have not left you this entire time, his gaze wandering up and down your figure with a look of biting desire.

"Moaning my name like that..fuck," He groans through gritted teeth, pressing the tip of his cock inside, fucking finally.

You suck in a breath through your teeth, biting down on your bottom lip as you grip the sheets.

Simons eyes shut with pleasure as he pushes into you. Only to open once again to watch your face, watching for any looks of displeasure, he makes it about half way when your eyebrows furrow and your hand flies to his torso, pressing against his abdomen as a way to tell him to stop for a second.

"It's okay lovie, breath, you're taking me so well.." He whispers, leaning down to kiss your cheek, kissing away a single stray tear that had seemingly rolled down your cheek. Slowly, he continues to push into you, the two of you share a mutual moan as he finally bottoms out, his stomach pressed flush against your clit.

"Good girl, my good girl baby, yes.." He moans, his hands under your knees as he holds one leg over his shoulder and the other off the the side.

Your whimpers, his groans, and the smell of sex fills the bedroom. You rock your hips, indicating the need for friction. With pleasure, Simon gives you what you needs, rolling his hips and pulling out about half way before slamming back inside you. Your loud moans and pleases for more, more, more fill the room, causing Simon to let out a guttural groan, hai cock twitching inside of you.

Simon shifted his hips, dragging his cock out of you. It glistened with your arousal, and it made his face grow hot. He bit back a whimper when he pushed inside you once more. You gasped, and he did it again. Again and again until he had a set a rhythm that had your entire body on fire, writhing against the mattress.

"Yes yes, fuck Simon, makin' m' feel so good, I-" You whimper, your legs shaking and your eyes squeezed shut out of pure pleasure.

Simon had reached a hand down and was now rubbing circles on your clit. Your words had his brain swimming, his thrusts deepening and pace quickening. The tight ball of pleasure was drawing tighter and tighter in the base of your tummy, your cunt fluttering around his cock.

"Fuck baby, you feel so good..wanna put a fuckin baby in you lovie..." His voice is low, his groans turning into whimpers as his thrusts become sloppy, he's nearing his own climax. Your own peak is nearing, your cunt fluttering around his cock, clenching and squeezing as he moves at a pace that is absolutely intoxicating.

"Come for me, baby," he whispered. "Come on my cock. That's it, baby, yeah– good fuckin' girl."

His finger moves quickly against your clit, rubbing as his cock bullies in and out of your greedy little cunt. The force of his thrusts make your tits bounce, earning deep and needy groans from the back of Simons throat.

You came around his cock with a sob of his name, your cunt squeezing him tight as the ball of pressure snapped in your tummy. Your orgasm was hard, slamming over you and rendering you breathless, your head floating. Your clit pulsed beneath the movements of his fingers.

The tightness of your cunt earned a fucked out moan from Simon as he slams in and out of you, reaching even deeper than before. You wanted to scream. He was so deep. You were so full.

"Such a good girl, suck a greedy little cunt— so tight I don't think I'll be able to pull out-, yes baby.." He blabbered helplessly as he becomes utterly pussydrunk, his head lolling back and his eyes closing with pleasure.

"M'gonna come in this tight cunt," Si whispered, almost too quiet for you to hear. He spoke louder when he continued his sentence. "You want my cum, baby? You want me to come inside you? Want me to fill you up, fill this pretty tummy?"

"Yes! Please—!" You practically scream.

"I will— I'll fill you up with all of my fuckin' cum.." He moans, his thrusts sloppy and his grip on your thighs bruising. "Take it all like a good girl," he moaned. "Get you–fuck —get you pregnant. Fill you up with my kids. I'd look after you, baby."

You were basically screaming.

And with that Simon cums, your name falling from his lips as the white hot liquid spills from his cock into you. He doesn't pull out, tugging you up so that you straddled his hips, his hands on your as as he holds you up, him leaning back against the heels of his feet. The two of you share a tender kiss, his lips softly kissing your lips, cheeks, and neck.

"Fuckin' hell love.." He laughs, his voice raspy. He finally pulls out, a deep groan slipping from his lips as he watches his cum drip out of that sweet little cunt. Carefully, he lays you back down on the mattress, staring down at you with low eyes and a small smile on his lips.

"You were so good just now, you know that? So beautiful, so fuckin' hot-" He moves so he's laid beside you, his chest pressed against your back as he rubs small circles on your hip with his finger. "-I loved your moans, and the feeling of your pussy..just stay like this with me for a second, yeah?" His hand runs up and down your side, the two of you falling into a comfortable silence as his breath tickles the back of your neck.

What an odd feeling. It all felt as if everything had always been like this. As if the two of you were meant to be, and this was all just natural.

⋆｡‧˚ʚɞ˚‧｡⋆

Simon and You sit in your living room together, his hand on your thigh and Oliver running back and forth with a superman action figure in hand making a 'swooshhh' sound with his mouth.

The promise ring on your finger sparkles as you look down at it, you can't take your eyes off the damn thing. It's been a week since he's given it to you, but every time you eye catches the little piece of jewelry you can't help but stare.

Three years of crushing and helping him raise his kid. One night of his name being moaned and orgasm after orgasm. Two weeks form that night he asked you out. It's been four months since he asked you to be his girlfriend. Everything seemed to be moving so quickly. But not, at the same time. It feels like you've know each other forever so it was natural. Nothing odd about falling in love so quickly.

Or maybe the love has always been there, it was the commitment and the confessions and the confusing mixed signals that were messing with the process.

But in the end everything had fallen in place. Simon still lives next door, but that is gonna change soon. He spends more and more time over at your place than his own. Both his and Oliver's clothes litter your laundry, and instead of one lonely toothbrush in the bathroom, there's now three.

Pink, Blue, and a tiny red one for Oliver.

This was how it was meant to be. Simon, Oliver, and you. And possibly another one. Simon is pretty eager for that addition. Now that was a little fast even for you.

⋆｡‧˚ʚɞ˚‧｡⋆

a/n: not to singledad!simon anymore. <33

p.s.- i tagged everyone who i saw asked to be, sorry if i missed ya! and thank you all so so much for all the love. i love all of ya so so much! <33

#hot dad alert #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley #cod x reader #ghost x female reader #fanfic #romance #simon riley smut #he loves you #he has a chokehold on me #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #singledad!simon #taglist #juneonhoth #kenqki #fxngsfxgxrty #sleepyoriana #diasnnohibng #takeyour-pants-off

[crymyeyesout1]

Set in their sights

poly!marauders 

Summary: The marauders are all in a poly relationship with each other and Lily when they all individually become interested in a shy hufflepuff in their year. What about this little hufflepuff makes them all feel complete? Will she return their affections?

Warnings: Poly relationship, mentions of smut, lots of fluff, very shy oc, mentions of child abuse. let me know if there are any more

PSA: this is my first time writing on tumblr so please be kind, I'm trying my best. And there is absolutely no peter in this story so sorry not sorry. Please let me know if you like it and if I should write more.

✩₊˚.⋆✩⋆⁺₊✩

James and Sirius were hurriedly making their way through the train; their lovers were already in the marauders designated compartment and they were running late. It would seem as if the two hadn’t seen them since their fifth  year ended just three months ago, but in reality it had been only five days since their shared boyfriend and girlfriend had departed from James’ home where they had spent almost the entire summer doing whatever they pleased. 

“Pads slow down you are going to run someone over” James pleaded with his boyfriend

“ Prongs please we are late and I’m not going to-” he was cut off by a body colliding with him square in the chest and falling over. He peered down to see a small girl and became almost immediately enamored with in his eyes she was the most adorable girl he’d ever seen to others she was almost odd looking her hair was mostly pitch black but around her face and peeking out a bit from the underneath was bright blonde and all of it was naturally curly. The girl was wearing a hufflepuff jumper that looked at least one size too big with a black skirt and sheer tights that had some kind of pattern to them, stars, Sirius recognized and on her feet lay black worn out combat boots. Sirius reached out his hand to help the poor girl up and for a few seconds she hesitated almost as if she was scared of what would happen if she did take his hand, which reluctantly she did. He carefully pulled her to her feet and as he did so he took quick notice of her eyes: they were a dark gray and dull like there was no life behind them, they were slightly sunken and were surrounded by deep dark blueish purple eye bags. Just by looking into them Sirius could tell she was sad and it broke his heart a part of him wanted to take this girl and hide her away from all the evils of the world that she had already seen. He wanted to be the reason the light returned to those eyes. His thoughts were going a million miles a minute when someone clears their throat dragging him back to reality. It was James, his boyfriend, how could he be so stupid as to be so caught up with this random girl that he completely blanked on his relationship. He had two boyfriends and a girlfriend already. What was he doing ogling this poor girl? 

“Hello there, sorry about this brute, he can’t pay attention to anything even if it's right in front of him” James quickly apologized to the poor girl on Sirius’ behalf.

“It's quite alright” a soft and dreamy voice came from the girl in front of them, James instantly took more notice of the girl completely understanding he boyfriends staring now. In just three words you had encapsulated him and he needed more.

“Well little love, I’m James Potter and can I tell you how much of a pleasure it is to run into you. Please you must tell me your name, little love.” The girl blushed furiously at the nickname and softly responded.

“Abigail Gaunt '' Her last name caused Sirius to freeze, flashes of his mothers teachings came flooding into his brain. The Gaunts were the last known descendant of Salazar Slytherin, but the last living Gaunt was put in azkaban for murder by means of the killing curse, an unforgivable. How was one standing in front of him, and how was she a hufflepuff, oh how he would love to see the look on his mothers face the last known heir of slytherin sorted into hufflepuff. Surely she couldn’t be in his year, his own sorting into gryffindor had caused uproar but this, this was a whole new level. James had seemed to notice the shock on Sirius’ face and had elbowed his arm, snapping him out of whatever trance he was in.

“Oh I’m Sirius Black, but of course you already know that doll” he winked at her and if her face could have gotten any redder it would.

“Um well yes but um I-It's nice to m-m-meet you” she stuttered out trying with all her might to act normal but in her mind no she wasn’t normal not even in the slightest bit. But two fourths of the infamous marauders stood in front of her and were they? Merlin forbid they were flirting with her? 

Impossible, flirt with her? What were they thinking?

She tried to reason with herself when a beautiful voice filled the hall

“There you boys are Remus and I were starting to worry oh! Who is this?” The voice belonged to the one and only Lily Evans, every aspect of her was beautiful, it was no wonder she had the three most sought after boys in the school on her leash. And what was that last part, she had noticed the small hufflepuff standing with her boys. Abigail might as well have been on fire with how hot and red her cheeks were.

“Lily Pads! We were just on our way when Padfoot decided to tackle Abby here” he looked down at her and cocked his head to the right “ I can call you Abby right? Good because that what I’m calling you, Abby is so much cuter sounding than stuffy Abigail” The girl now newly nicknamed Abby gave a small squeak as the larger and very muscular boy wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close to him and gave a small “sure”  when she noticed his expecting gaze. If someone could die from embarrassment Abby definitely would be long dead. 

“Oh it's so nice to me you Abby what year are you?” Lily gushed at the girl in her boyfriend's arms, she was just too cute and her deeply reddened cheeks only made her more so. Lily wanted nothing more than to kiss them but that would need to be discussed with her boys.

“Come on boys, let's leave Abby here to go find her compartment, I’m sure her friends are waiting, just as Remus is waiting on us.” She leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Abby’s cheek then turned and walked back to their compartment. Abby didn’t have a chance to even think about how she definitely didn’t have any friends waiting on her, in fact the past five minutes have been the most interaction she’s had with someone her age ever she thought. Each of the boys had followed lily’s lead and each kissed one of your cheeks and moved to their compartment. Leaving Abby a flustered mess in the middle of the train.

#poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #lily evans x reader #sirius black x reader #james potter x reader #remus lupin x reader #poly!marauders

[hobiebrownbrowser]

Constant Arguments

I know there is a lot of angst like this going on but for some odd reason it just feels right to make. I feel as if 42 Miles won't be as affectionate then others make him appear to be. NO HATE ON THEM. I love reading them.

I feel like he'll still have a somewhat cold demeanor. I haven't seen many where Y/N doesn't really care that Miles is The Prowler. Just needing him by her side more than anything was a blessing in her honor.

Earth 42 Miles Morales x FEM!Reader

Context: Angst, fluff, sadness, Mild cussing, happy ending

Translations: 'blame google if they aren't correct' 💀

"¿Por qué no puedes decírmelo? = "Why can't you tell me?"

Necesitamos hablar mami. = We need to talk mommy.

"Quítate de mi camino Miles." = Get out of my way Miles.

summary: Y/N doesn't give a shit if Miles is The Prowler.

"¿Por qué no puedes decírmelo? You avoid my calls, my texts, everytime I try to talk to you! You act like I'm not even 'ere!" It felt like a train hit her when Miles didn't respond, Breaking the eye contact they held for so long. Y/N just rolled her eyes, fed up with a relationship that clearly wasn't working.

"When you wanna talk, hit me up Hombre, other than that you can leave." Y/N shook her head, grabbing her book bag off the floor and walking towards their shared room.

She was acting like this because he wanted to disappear for more than a whole ass week. Ignoring her, leaving his own girlfriend on read when she was worried sick for him. Only think he had to say was "he was busy." Apparently it was more important than she'll ever be.

Slamming the door once she got inside just to feel tears swell in her eyes. Everything was frustrating her, constant arguments, school. The girl was overstimulated to say the least. Her back pushed up against the wall as she attempts to calm herself down with shallow deep breaths.

It felt like everything she worked for was against her. The man she loves not giving her the care she needs to pull through with all of this shit. Her family pressuring her to do a good job in school.

She just wanted to settle down on a peaceful path, but that seemed to redeem to much in her life. Having to work two jobs day and night was a struggle and Miles knew that. Yet he still did what he said he wasn't going to do.

Leaving her when she was the most vulnerable. She felt as if she wasn't valuable in his life at all. Wanting to cut off the one thing that used to make her life better.

But oh how she loves Miles. At the same time she wanted to apologize, pull him in a strong embrace. But she knew in the end he'd do the same thing. Disappear on her for decades on end.

The last string she held onto snapping just from his cold words. The silence was preposterous yet it kept her in a safe haven, able to run away from her problems just like now.

Taking a few more deep breaths and finally getting up off the dirty floor. She needed something to occupy her mind with, scrolling through her phone just to look at good memories.

She needed to wind down, Wanting to just drop out of school and cut off anyone she thought she knew well. She needed to breathe in this already suffocating air. The man on the other side probably long gone and out the door.

She was right, his figure not on the couch any longer than it should be. She wiped her face before stepping out. Going into the kitchen and grabbing a tub of ice cream before heading back into her confined space.

"Princesa." She cursed under her breath. Hearing his soft genuine sweet voice call her by her nickname. The real question was why was he still here. Turning around to be met with dead eyes. It was funny. They'd been together for a year, yet he looks at her the same way he looked at others.

She simply ignored him. Grabbing a spoon from a drawer and trying to push past the firm man.

"quítate de mi camino Miles." He didn't budge, doing the complete opposite infact. Blocking the exit with his body, She threatened to climb over the table if he didn't.

"Necesitamos hablar mami." He simply just tilted his head, A serious look plastered on his face.

"Oh now you wanna talk, ain't your job more important than me?" She got him right there. Miles eyes avoiding her's before looking back up, his chest withhelding big sigh. He wasn't gonna lie because he knew it was. She wasn't in his shoes. She wasn't constantly having to kill people for money.

No. He wanted her to sit still and be the most cherishing thing he had left besides his madre and his uncle. He was in a stressful predicament. How the hell was he supposed to tell his future wife that he was 'The Prowler'?

Miles was stomped, Looking the love of his life in her eyes before wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close. The look of confusion on her face as he told her.

Miles watched as she rubbed her temples, her eyes narrowing down to nothing but disappointment. It all made sense now. Why she'd wake up to an empty bed in the middle of the night. The window sometimes left open on countless nights.

He'd even shown her the exact suit he'd killed in, leading her to a small hidden room she didn't even know they had in the first place. She poked her head in which Miles found a bit cute, Taking it out and putting it on like it was nothing but clothing.

You let out a deep sigh before saying what was on your own mind.

"Miles I don't give a shit that you're The Prowler. I just wanted you to tell me." A sigh of relief left Mile's throat. Apologizing to his chica before pulling her into a tight hug and kissing her soft plump lips.

"I'm sorry for not tellin' you sooner Hermosa."

Part 2 here 💜

#earth 42 miles fluff #prowler miles fanfic #astv fanart #into the spider verse #the prowler #miles morales x you #earth 42 miles #miles morales 42 #Spotify #spiderverse fluff #atsv prowler #prowler miles #miles morales prowler #prowler #prowler miles morales #42 miles morales #earth 42 miles morales x reader #miles 42 #earth 42 miles morales #earth 42

[tarjapearce]

Crimson Crown (Pt. 5)

Royal AU! Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Special thanks to @pinkiemme for this amazing cover ❤️✨

WARNINGS: Mentions of poisoning, awkward flirting, privacy invasion, mentions of character's death. Unresolved sexual tension, Unrequited sexual tension.

Summary: As danger looms in the horizon, a new objective is set in mind.

A/N: Didn't feel that well, so poured myself into this thingy ~ Hope your like ✨

Prince Gabriel approached today, I must say, there was something odd about his apology. Not in the disingenuous way but rather a more sudden and brazen one. The kind of way that leaves you confused.

He apologized, yet I wouldn't like to encounter his drunken self ever again.

Miguel blinked to read the next paragraph.

Odd things keep happening. The king has requested my presence today, Unexpected as it was, he is awaiting for me. I won't deny I dread this little encounter, hopefully this meeting brings me a little peace.

Everything seems to be happening at such speed is quite absurd.

He flipped the page with a sigh.

I've met the king where he instructed. And once more he manages to surprise me in such way I am... aghast. I'm still debating if it's a good thing or more of his political side taking over.

He said I was no stranger. He acknowledged me! I know this might sound preposterous even, but I'm glad we can settle for something more than strangers that occasionally have lunch together.

His words convinced me that he cares deeply for his people. Never in my life I've met someone that shares my vision for my future kingdom. It pleases me deeply. He is wise and I'm glad I am able to have such visionary on my side.

Oh...

He blinked as his mouth gave a shaky and surprised breath. His heart stirred in a pleasant feeling. It was odd and that terrified him. His heart was trying to settle a beat according to an specific emotion, but all of them mutinied and sent his brain into a brief override.

"Are you done invading her privacy?"

Miguel glared at a mirthful Jessica.

"This is the only way I can get some direct information."

"About yourself?" Her brow quirked with a little deadpan.

"The kingdom."

"Oh yes, the kingdom, of course."

Miguel rolled his eyes with a shake of his head and resumed his reading.

I was awaken today by the clashing of swords. The king was practicing some sword fighting with his brother. And now I can understand why he is called The Red King, or The Dragon's Claws in Onerim.

That was definitely a new nickname.

He wielded a sword in each hand. His technique is unique, precise and so deadly if one would be a tyro in the arts of combat. Even though it was a practice he didn't held back.

I cannot describe the feeling he... stirred  within me. May God forgive me for such volatile imagination.

His lips curved in a smirk.

"Flip the page."

Jessica's voice made his eyes snap up at her. She was away in her spot.

"You'll get extra patrol."

"Ohh, what did you read?"

"Si si, ya. Cállate, me interrumpes." (Shut up, you're interrupting me)

The power the king holds in his garden is... beyond me. How could he just accept things without looking into it? A bit reckless considering mostly of the plants he owes are either poisonous or quite medicinal. There is no in between.

Peter seemed concerned for the safety of the people that take care of the gardens, must admit his reaction was laughable.

But to my horror, tragedy attacked. There were many injured, but the king concerned me the most. I know his men are dear to him, but he shouldn't neglect himself. Not when he had a deep wound that could end up in a serious infection.

He allowed me to help him. He gave me a chance to prove him how worthy I could be. Hope my efforts didn't go unnoticed.

They didn't. How could he forget about your doting fingers working on him with such expertise, he barely felt any pain. He flipped the page.

Was I too straightforward when I said I admired him? He seemed uncomfortable even told me to see someone else as a role model. He's quite hard to read sometimes.

He's always frowning or scowling. Should I stop trying to approach? Even if we know our duties, I wouldn't want to be at odds with him.

But right now, my mind wanders to my father. He is ill, and I must visit him. Hopefully the king will understand.

Miguel exhaled. His shoulders slumped, and he rubbed his face. Once again the questions assaulted his mind, yet wandered towards your family.

So far they seemed good and they were keeping the promise. The economy kept thriving and so far none had complained of any trouble in the West Passage.

He put the diary back in it's place and left your room. The lovely smell of rich violets had been long gone. You had left a day ago. Nothing had changed except his inner turmoil regarding your safety.

Not that he didn't trust his men. Peter was more than efficient, Gwen was capable despite being young, just like Hobie. And Webslinger was more than seasoned. You'd be alright. You had to.

He left your room with Jessica tailing behind him.

"One day you'd have to tell her that you've been reading her diary."

"Probably she'd end up poisoning me."

"And you'd die a happy man."

Jessica chuckled as he was about to protest.

"Do you miss her already?"

His shoulders tensed and slicked his hair back. 

"How is the east frontier gateway doing?"

"Holding up as it should"

He nodded, "Any complains?"

"Negative. The mutinies have been controlled and the leader has been arrested." Jessica rolled her shoulders to ease some tension, "It's the second mutiny regarding a rebellion we've encountered this month."

"Do you think it's a pattern?"

"It better not. Rebellions although used for higher causes, always bring second hand intentions. With enough fire and ignorant people, it can be dangerous."

His nose flared, frustration simmering in his heart.

"Sometimes I do wonder if I'm doing a good job as a king."

"You can't keep everyone happy, Miguel."

"I know. Still I'm doing everything I can yet it's never enough it seems."

"It won't be for those who aren't satisfied. You're a good ruler. And if this keeps happening, we'll handle it. Like we always do."

"Thanks."

"Besides, you have the Princess now. You said she shared your ideals, hold onto that."

"Might as well invite her for a hearing in a council."

"Don't listen to those old people, they are nothing but square thinkers."

"As long as their interests aren't threatened, the princess will be alright."

"We gotta see her temper as well. Oh! can you imagine her being like you? The scandal!"

"You're enjoying this too much."

"Of course I am. You're worried about something else that isn't the kingdom for once."

"She said we're acquaintances."

"Better than strangers or people that see eachother as something convenient. Does it bothers you being only that with her?"

"It's not that. Wouldn't want to be on her bad side either. You know I don't trust easily."

"You're still seeing if you can trust her?"

"Of course. That's why I read her diary. Her thoughts are truthful."

"Whatever works out for you, I guess. As long as you remain truthful."

----

Your carriage stopped in the outside of the castle. Your mother and Lucille already awaiting. Peter opened the door for you as you stepped out.

Lucille rushed to hug you.

"I've missed you so much!"

The queen joined in a heartfelt reunion. Peter and the rest followed you inside.

"My dear. You have... no idea how much I missed you."

The queen gave you a kiss on the forehead and a hug.

"How is father?"

"Stable. Come."

Peter stood behind you, paying a keen ear to the conversation.

"What happened?"

"A poisoning attempt."

Your hands covered your mouth and the queen squeezed your shoulders.

"And by none other than his beloved mistress. That wretched whore poisoned him once he refused her whims."

Your jaw tightened upon hearing the things that came out her mouth. Another reason to abhorre them. Not only they had meddled with your parent's marriage, but now one had tried to kill him.

Peter saw you tense, now having a wider perspective on why you were so upset regarding them. Understandably so.

"Tell me she is dead."

Peter blinked at your words.

"I assure you this ain't the first attempt she tries. Remember when he suddenly fell ill by an everlasting raving? The whore had diluted datura and henbane on his drink."

"As much as I'd love to handle her treatment personally, I shall go to see the king. Lucille, Peter please come with me."

Peter gave the rest a sign call to remain put as he followed. You were on your element, and it showed as you gave turns around the castle, like muscle memory.

Lucille separated to go to a lab-like room as you walked to the king's chambers.

Guards saluted you as you entered. Heart sinking at the sight. Your father laid on bed, pale due sickness, lips devoid of color, eyebags dark and sagging thanks to the little sleep.

"Oh no. no. Please leave!" You dad whined but you held his hand soothingly

"How could you ask such thing when you're fighting for your life?"

"Who is this man?"

"Commander Peter B. Parker. From Arachne."

"You've already gotten married?"

"No. Not yet."

You soaked a rag on the water next to him as the damage was assessed.

"From all the things you could've done, was to anger a woman that is power-hungry."

"Please, child-"

"You know how that... Sarina is."

"She's just angered, but she will come to me. I know so. This is just a quarrel -"

"Father."

Your voice was stern, laced with anger, yet you kept wiping his sweat.

"I'll have her executed for murder attempt."

The king groaned and sobbed.

"In my time, none went above me. And look how things have changed, ser!" Your dad looked at Peter, trying to get him to reason with you. He just gave an awkward smile.

"It's beyond me how can you keep defending such... woman after everything she has done to you. You might tolerate it. But I do not."

You stood and went to the little medical station that was left either by Lucille or another doctor. Hands ground some herbs as Lucille brought a pot of boiling water.

" You don't know her like I do."

"Oh, my apologies dear father, but anyone that attempt to kill me in the name of love must surely be a lovely person"

Peter just remained watching, until you called him while stirring a goblet with a steamy green concoction.

"Hold the king." You instructed as he blinked stupidly.

"Beg... your pardon, your majesty?"

"Please hold the king's hands. I will give him his medicine."

"If you dare to touch me, I will have-!"

"You barely can keep your own head up, father. Stop it."

Peter sighed and held the king's hands firmly. His skin cold, clammy and waxy. Your father whined like a child as you made him swallow the potion, green and thick drops of the brew rolled down his chin. His face contorted in a repulsed one at the strong and sour taste.

"Thanks, Peter."

The Commander stepped away and let you work. You seemed used to your father's antics at this point, and so was Lucille.

"Now, if you excuse me, I must talk to the queen."

"Your mother refuses to talk to me, child."

You rolled your eyes.

"Understandably so. You can't expect  people that love you be happy for such repetitive behavior. Much less with someone that brings suffering. You're lucky if she doesn't makes you watch that woman's execution."

"Sarina has done nothing but to bring joy to my life!"

Sighing you shook your head.

"My God... why men must think with their groin?! How can you so blind, father? You've hurt my mother with your little childish affairs." You took a deep breath, "You're a king. An old one, mind you. Behave like one."

Your voice laced with anger. A warning tone.

-----

As day passed, Miguel poured himself into work. The reports of Rhino sure had decreased, the villain so far knew to keep a low profile, which was odd. It was against the rouge's nature to be so quiet and cunning, unless someone else was with him. And that meant trouble.

Sighing for the millionth time, Miguel plopped on his chair. One that had to be custom made for him, and then, slicked his hair back. Sometimes he wanted to pull his hair out due the strain he was constantly facing, and other times he really wanted to just punch something or someone.

He was sure that if that desperation would be a human or something tangible, he'd not only punch it, but would try to make it through the same  suffering it was making him endure. His heart beat faster and he clutched at his chest. A few deep breaths was enough to ease his irregular beatings.

He closed his eyes and relaxed his body. His fingers rubbed on his aching eyes. He had been sleeping less and less, to the point of having random yet unwilling naps and waking up tired and sore.

His neck popped as his spine cracked back into place and grunted like a rusty machine. His mind tried to empty itself, gravitating towards your soft and warm fingers on his aching skin. It was the closest someone has ever been touching him in a non threatening way.

Your fingers felt like silk sliding down his upper body, A gentle caress from the wind, a soothing touch in aching bones. Balm to his bleeding body.

Soft caresses on his face and hair turned real, palpable even. Like if his thoughts were taking shape and were now massaging his scalp with such softness it made him groan. He was surely losing his mind, but the touch was so soothing and slumber inducing that he remained still, slowly melting into the caresses. They reminded of yours.

Had you returned already?

His nose was filled in with a scent he wished to have long forgotten eons ago. His eyes frowned as the too real dream now delivered fluttering kisses up and down his neck. His scent strong in myrrh and herbs.

"Hello there." The feminine voice snapped his eyes open and sigh.

"Leave."

"But you seemed to be enjoying it, Miggy."

Dana's voice purred into his ear which he quickly shook off with a disgruntled sigh.

"I said leave." He nearly growled and that made her stop, only to kneel before him, spreading his legs, her hands roaming over his clothed inner thighs.

"I've seen your new toy. Even though she is quite the looker, it makes me wonder. For how long you'll play until you break her?"

Miguel's eyes darted to her as she placed little kisses on his hands. He quickly removed them off her lips, annoyed, earning him a giggle.

" I know you. You like playing rough until your toys can no longer amuse you. But I'm still here, Miguel."

Her fingers roamed his injured arm gently, but even so, Miguel winced. Her touch felt soiling yours.

"Did she heal you, my love? How sweet of her to keep you in good shape for me." Her hand hovered over his groin but he quickly grabbed her by the wrist. "How long has it been since we had some pillow talk?"

"How brave of you to prowl when she is gone."

"I am generous to spare her a bad time, by seeing me coming out of your chambers. Isn't that nice of me?"

"¿A poco si?" (Are you?) His face went blank

"Oh, Miguel. You mockery has turned soft. Just like you. I wonder if it's by that little witch influence."

"Witch?"

"I'd be careful around her. She knows too much." She sat on his lap.

He quirked an eyebrow without amusement. Stoic as ever.

"Follow your own advices, querida."

Dana widened her eyes slightly as she seized him with an undignified stare.

"You wouldn't allow her to do so such thing."

He shrugged and pushed her off his body gently, a cue for her to move but completely missed it.

"Who knows? I might feel bored and in dire need of amusement one day if you keep testing my patience. I said leave."

Dana stood with anger as he growled.

"We are on the verge of war and you suddenly start being all moronic and stupid over a pair of pretty eyes. She has been washing your brain! "

"The prettiest I've seen, indeed." He taunted.

"You are mine. And I do not share. Much less with a witch! For all I know she could've already poisoned your drinks!"

Miguel gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes and approached her.

"Is that so?" Her lips smirked as she bit her lips. Miguel took her by the chin.

"You don't like sharing?"

Dana shook her head and gasped as Miguel cornered her to wall, hand still gripping her chin. A grip that turned borderline painful as he kept squeezing.

"Tell me, dear Dana." The octave lower tone he pronounced dear made her gulp, "Do you see a ring on your finger?"

"She doesn't have one either."

"Yet. The difference between you and her is that she will. You won't." He spat. His smile long gone as he scrutinized her face. "We share a vision. You and I? A bed many months ago."

Dana growled but yelped as Miguel patted her cheek a bit too roughly.

"You don't love her" She taunted with a smirk, trying to swallow the painful stabs his words provoked her.

"What makes you think I love you instead?"

Something dern slithered in Dana's eyes.

"I am not in the mood for your stupid games and hysterics. Not now, not today, nor ever. Entiendes? Stay away from her and my affairs." (Understand?)

Dana stole a kiss, leaving a little wound in his lips in the process, a desperate way to mark him. Miguel snarled and took her by her arm then shoved her out of his chambers, slamming the door in her face. Rejecting her completely.

Little did Miguel know on taking Jessica's warning words at heart.

A scorned woman holds such wrath even you must learn to be wary of.

Dana left, her thinking gears turning and moving. Miguel would learn, whether he liked it or not. He was hers. She licked his blood off her tongue.

-----

"I apologize you had to witness that. My father... Is like a child once he gets bedridden.

"Do not fret over it, your highness. I've seen and done worse than that."

You chuckled as you walked through the gardens, checking on your roses and herbs.

"I always forget to ask you, ser Peter... Has the king been always this serious?"

"Even as a kid, yeah. His father trained us together."

Nodding your fetched a basket and then asked for boiling water to one of the nearby servants.

"Was he as ruthless and bloodthirsty as people say?"

"Ruthless, yes. He is when it comes to protect the kingdom and people he holds dear."

"But?"

"There is no buts, Princess. It is as it is."

"He loved the slaughter then?"

"Not to that point, but he wouldn't hesitate in ending someone's life if it was a threat. As little as it seemed to be."

You nodded and pulled two black roses along some berries to then put it on a kettle.

"What has changed?"

"He got tired of the bloodshed. And so Arachne. So we strive for the peace, wars leave nothing but destruction and broken families in their wake. "

"But?"

"We won't hesitate to wield our swords again if we are called for duty."

Nodding, you poured a cup for yourself and another for Peter.

"Sit." You instructed as you added honey to your tea, "We grow these for our women. In Theleria, fertility rites are quite sacred."

Peter eyed the simmering flower, the hot blend slowly turning into a subtle red-ish hue.

"But for men, it's just another drink for energy boosting" You smiled, "Thelerians are avid tea drinkers."

"Not my business to prey in, but... You're to kill that woman?"

"The Queen is. Can't pry away that from my mother. My people found out she is mingled with King Fisk's men. And thanks to her influence on my father, my kingdom just lost a couple more lands to him."

The tea's flavor blooming so sweetly in your mouth. A stark contrast in the sourness of your words.

"I don't like mistresses for that exact motive. Sure, love can be displayed with them, since royals get together to secure territory, legacies and the like, nothing more nothing less."

A sigh.

"I truly wouldn't want for the king of Arachne to fall under the same curse we have."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Some of our past kings have had a fair share of mistresses. And all of them have had a favorite that for some reason, turn out to be calamities."

Another sip of your tea, "I'm aware that such position influences greatly in a king's judgement. Sadly our past kings thought with their groin." Your eyes stared off at your drink, "And little by little they engaged in wars that costed our kingdom greatly."

"King Miguel is wise enough to not fall under such things."

"Not to underestimate his reasoning, but these women are cunning. You don't see them coming until is too late."

"Princess. I promise you, it's not the case with the king. Please, don't waver your faith in him."

"I will trust your word, ser."

Peter nodded with a solemn nod.

"How... -"

"Will the Queen dispose of her?"

Shrugging you finished your tea

"That is up to her. One would think that my mother would enjoy this, be satisfied even, but little do people know is that she is in pain."

"Pain?"

"Indeed. She never managed to get my father's love entirely, as it was an arranged marriage as well. And after my brother's passing it turned worst. My father's behavior I mean."

Peter sipped his now warm tea, for his surprise it was mellow and sweet tasting.

"He shut himself off from everyone. My mother specially. But with that woman, he seemed a different man. Even I was a fool to believe their supposed romance."

You ate a little candied flower before speaking again, trying to sweeten your mouth after the acrid words.

"It's not easy for her to get rid of my father's source of... twisted joy. But her treason to this kingdom weighs more than a heartache."

"If you were in this position-"

"I am, somehow, ser. And I hope I never meet them."

Peter's lips pursed and nodded

"Would you proceed like your mother?"

"No. I'd step away. There is no business for me to do in that situation. Can't get in between two people that seek eachother."

"I see"

"Why?"

"Just thinking. What if it's a one sided thing?"

"I'd need you to be more specific on that, ser."

"What if the king doesn't partake anymore in such activities, but the other... part, seeks him?"

"Still. Why would he keep them around to begin with, if he has no intention of such activities?"

You sighed once more, "It's more complicated than that, ser. I know that King Miguel has had concubines or mistresses before. But it's confusing."

"Confusing?"

"I'm not one to be authoritarian, and I know it's tradition for you and the rest of the continent. But in my kingdom, mistresses are... heavily frowned upon."

"May I ask why?"

"We value, respect and cherish those whom we decide to share our lives with. Adding someone else in the picture would not only make our partner feel unworthy."

You wet your lips after much talking, "But rejected even, a clear 'I do not need you nor want you'. My father was the fourth king in following such wretched customs."

"Do you feel disrespected, your highness?" Peter tried carefully, and your eyes casted down.

"I'd be a liar if I say I don't, even though prince Gabriel apologized. But customs are customs, I suppose."

Peter could only sigh, disheartened. Naturally he'd had to inform back to Miguel, however your words had opened a new perspective to him. He could now understand why you were so upset about how everything displayed.

Still, the drunk habits of prince Gabriel weren't appreciated.

"Wander the city, have some fun while you're here. I am to remain whitin the castle anyways. Must prepare my father's medical dosage and then I'll have some tea with Lucille."

You stood and left, cutting him short before he could reply.

-----

In the end, the execution of Sarina was a quick beheading, once the king had enough color on his cheeks, you were set to go. With a heavy heart you said your goodbyes to Lucille and your mother, who you had shared the past events.

"If he keeps causing you pain, return. We'll find a better solution. I will not tolerate you to end up like me."

She had said, comforting you at her best. Gwen, Hobie and Webslinger had toured the city with the help of Lucille. They carried some souvenirs back at work. You on the other hand, had been keeping your attention at your needlework all your way back to Arachne.

It took you two days to arrive, three and a half to stay and another one and half day to arrive. A whole week.

The scenery had changed, the might and grandeur welcomed you with open arms once more. Calling you, demanding your presence at the castle as red eyes settled on the window, watching from the horizon at the door, expecting; preying.

His eyes lit up with keen interest as your carriage stopped within the porch. Peter helped you out, Gwen and Hobie followed you as Webslinger returned to his post.

Peter arrived minutes later, a turgid expression painted in his face. Miguel didn't know if to feel worried or even more distressed.

"Report."

"Hello to you too, pal. Glad to see your sour face again."

Miguel exhaled deeply, begging for patience to heavens.

"Hello, please report."

"What happened to your lip?"

Miguel's jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed.

"Then I am not speaking."

"Ah que la chin-... Mira, Parker no estoy para juegos." (Fuckin sh... Look, I'm not in the mood.)

"Neither am I. So you better speak up. What happened?"

"Dana happened. Alright? Now fucking speak."

"You absolute cheater"

Miguel's eyes widened in anger at his words.

"Whatch your fucking tone, Parker."

"I give two flying ducks who you are right now. You slept with your mistress again? While the princess was gone?"

"Funny for you to think I have the time for that. I didn't. She barged in my chambers, told her to fuck off and she bit me instead."

It was Peter's turn for his eyes to widen as Miguel spat his words angrily, nearly seething.

"You should definitely put that rabid dog down. Why do you keep her around if you aren't engaging?"

"Because..." Miguel sighed, " Because I know what that...pinche zorra is capable of." (Fucking whore)

"Kill her then."

"No."

Peter deadpanned, "You've killed for less. You've killed other mistresses before!"

"No. Still, is not easy to get rid of someone like her. You think I don't want her out of this place?"

Peter sighed and removed his gauntlets.

"Everyone warned you about her."

"You act as if you weren't young and stupid."

"I told you, Jessica told you, even your mother that didn't like anyone warned you about her."

"I was nineteen! I had just been crowned."

"And now you see the consequences of spoiling a pet too much."

Sighing, both friend's fumes dissipated, Peter face grew somber as Miguel pinched the bridge of her nose.

"She feels disrespected."

"Who?"

"My hen."

Miguel quirked an eyebrow to him, confused.

"The princess! She explained a bit of her customs and yeah, it makes sense for her to be upset about Gabriel calling her a concubine."

"She's still upset about it?"

"Rightfully so."

Peter explained the conversation he had with you. The king's health, the motive of said illness, the execution; Lucille and your customs. As Peter spoke Miguel's face changed into many emotions. Confusion, anger, discomfit and a hint of sadness.

"That's pretty much about it."

Miguel chewed at the insides of his cheek and gave an exhausted groan.

"No puedo más. I... No puedo."

Miguel wanted to rip his hair out, or scream until his voice was raw. Instead he stood.

"I'll be right back. Tell Jessica to bring in a new dose."

The king left his office, he'd receive the reports later, his steps guided him to your chambers. he entered albeit unannounced.

"My goodness!" You squealed and quickly secured the robe that laid loosely on your shoulders and legs, around your body. Cheeks flaring.

Miguel turned around to give you some privacy while picking his palm with his nails.

"My apologies, Princesa."

Smooth and supple skin was engraved into his mind. He cleared his throat.

"It's... It's fine. Didn't expect your visit. I am dressed."

A shame.

A little part of his brain screamed as he glared at none in particular for such thought. He turned around and you were fumbling with some things inside a little wooden box.

Your face lit up, when pulling out a piece of fabric with an intricate embroidery design. It was Arachne's and Theleria's emblem, woven together in the richest threads colors he had imported.

You stepped closer and offered it to him.

"A gift for you. I cannot express my gratitude enough for allowing me to see my family again, my lord."

"You did this?"

The fabric felt soft on his calloused ones, he was marveled. He'd never had enough time to indulge his own desires and hobbies as they were long gone forgotten and replaced by countless hours of work.

"In my spare time. Been planning on making this for quite a while. And now that I've finally finished it, it's yours."

You placed the thing on his hand and smiled

"Do you like it?"

"I do" He smiled gently, "Thanks. You're quite skilled in this."

"Thank you, ser."

A pregnant pause fell upon you both. Eyes squinting at the broken flesh of his bottom lip. Your fingers examinated it gently. It was a bold move considering you had only touched him once before, but he didn't seem to mind.

"Are you alright?"

A sudden adrenaline rush came to him. His mouth went dry at the sudden proximity you had created between the both. You couldn't help it, the healer in you always took over whenever seeing a wound.

"I injured myself." He lied and his mouth felt dirty, his heart gave a doleful beat as you frowned in concern.

"If stressed, lavender will relax you. Would you like me to prepare some for you?"

"It's alright. Just a stupid injury."

"I differ, but this one isn't that bad."

"Is the king better?" He quickly segued between topics and nodded with a smile at his question.

"He is. My mother and Lucille took a great care of him. I just added the finishing touches to his health."

"What about the Queen?"

"Oh? She is alright. Thanks for asking."

"Do you miss them?"

"Dearly. But my duties remain here. They will be fine."

"I'm glad you made it back. Unscathed I mean."

"Thank you."

Again, he cleared his throat at the uncomfortable silence.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, your highness?"

"I'd like to introduce you to the council soon, we'll have a meeting someday this week. I'd like for you to attend."

"Oh? Sounds like I should prepare myself."

"You'll do just fine."

"Even though I am scared, I will be there. I'll take it as another chance to learn from your kingdom."

Your eagerness about something new always made his eyes soften.

"I will let you rest, Princesa."

He took your hand and kissed the back of your palm. Your cheeks burned again.

"Have a good night."

"You too, my lord."

As Miguel left, his hands caressed and scrutinized the fabric. Your dedication shown in the pristine weave. A red skull spider like symbol surrounded by a wreath of roses.

A symbol of your future union. And now it was all his. He was glad you were home unscathed, that you saw your family and friends. But Peter's words had caused such effect on him that humbled him right away.

He wasn't aware of your customs, never really took the time to take a look on it. Which costed him a big time of his trust. He had disrespected you without knowing, and it was all up to him to fix it properly.

The thought of Dana touching him made him feel greatly repulsed. Touches that he once got lost in, were now selfish yanks and pulls that suffocated and irked him. Contrary to yours, that not only healed, but treated him with respect.

You didn't pressured him into things. You understood his motives, and how his time was used. But still, after reading your diary, he knew he also had to make an effort to keep you included and not sought after just when the conditions demanded your presence.

Exhaustion finally took a grip on him, he just removed his armoring and clothes, too quanked to even remove his shoes, limbs too heavy to keep moving. The bed under him creaked by his weight and for once in a long while, Miguel followed Jessica's advice and went to sleep early. No bad dreams nor ill heartbeats hunted him.

-------

Taglist:

@tayleighuh @obi-mom-kenobi @allysunny @nxrdamp @a--dedicated--fangirl @rin0r1na @queenofroses22 @sofi786 @murnsondock @okayiamkassandra @kimmis-stuff @ceoofmiguel @meeom @handsomeprettytoes @ladymoztaza @chiikasevennn @mxtokko @gabrielarose29 @oooof-ifellforyou @minalovesyoubabes @kikisstrawberrie @know-that-its-delicate @aikoiya @st0r-fruit @ittybxttykxttytxtty @local-mr-frog @liidiaaag @berlinswifey @eepybunny0805 @vonev @cheerrioeoz @solesurvivorjen @zaunsin @ange-grayson @peachsteven @kdrosebme @geraskier-thots @rjasmin2021 @yehet-moi-ohorat

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #royal au #king miguel #Crimson Crown #dana d'angelo #jessica drew #peter b parker #t writes✨

[dyns33]

Obvious

Most of the time I see him as the cool silly big bro, but I love Deadpool, so here's a long Deadpool x female reader.

Normally nothing destined Y/N to meet Wade Wilson.

A normal life, without enemies, without superpowers, without contracts on her head. She didn't fight, respected the law (at least for the most serious and important things) and she considered herself to be a good person.

The first time she had passed Saint Agnes Orphanage, she hadn't really paid it much attention. The second time, she found it a little strange that an orphanage was in this part of the city, which was not really made for children.

Then one evening, when she had had a bad day, she realized that it was a bar and she decided to go in for a drink.

Since she thought an orphanage was strange in that place, she might have thought it was odd for a bar to have such a name. She could also have been scared when she saw the other customers, who all turned towards her, indicating that she might not be welcome.

But Y/N was tired, and she just wanted a drink before going home, so she smiled politely as she sat down at the counter.

The waiter frowned, but he agreed to serve her with a shrug, muttering that as long as she was an adult, it wasn't his problem.

A tall, bald, tattooed guy then approached her, putting a hand on her arm without worrying about her private space, asking her if she wanted to follow him home.

"… No thanks."

“Come on, don’t be a slut.”

"Please."

“Come with me, you stupid bitch.”

"Now, that's really not very nice. The lady said no, a gentleman should know it's time to leave. But no Hector, not only are you insisting, but you're being rude."

"Fuck you, Wade, don't get involved in this !"

The waiter continued to mumble about cleaning, while this Wade guy smashed Hector's head against the counter. A tooth even flew close to Y/N’s face.

That might have been enough to scare her completely. In addition to the surge of violence that was happening right next to her, there was the red suit, the katanas and other guns, which could make you want to flee as quickly as possible.

But when he finished kicking Hector's ass, Wade turned to her, and despite the mask, it was obvious that he was smiling, extending a hand towards her.

"Miss, my apologies for that boor. He knows nothing of good manners."

"… Thank you."

"You're very welcome, lovely angel ! Wade Wilson, Deadpool, Merc with a mouth, at your service ! Oh, he spilled your drink… Bad Hector ! Or was it me ? Maybe it was me. Weasel, the same for the little lady, on my note !”

“You already owe me a fortune.”

“I will kill whoever you want for free !”

“I thought you didn’t kill anymore.”

"Ah yes… I'll suck you for free !"

“Here you go, two drinks, just shup up Wade.”

In the end, Wade was a bit special, but not evil. He stayed with her, partly because he loved having someone to talk to, but also to make sure no one else was going to bother her again.

And he talked a lot. Everything he said didn't always make sense, he even seemed to be talking to himself sometimes, but he was funny. It seemed to please him that Y/N laughed at his jokes. Behind the counter, Weasel was still muttering that she was doing something silly.

Among the long tirade he delivered that evening, she understood that Wade had not had an easy life. That he had done some things that could make him a criminal, but he had been trying to improve for some time.

"Colossus already wanted me to become an X-men but it wasn't for me. Wait, there are X-men in this universe ? I do not know anymore. Anyway, there's Spidey and Devy. No, he's right, this nickname isn't great, Devil. Like Daredevil. They want us to be Team Red, but only if I stop unliving people. It's not fair because they're friends with Frank, and Frank keeps unliving people, but he lost his wife and his kids, so I guess he has more sympathy points than me."

"I don't understand everything, but I guess Spidey is Spiderman ?"

"Yes ! He's super cool ! And his ass ! People confuse us sometimes, it annoys me, but it's a bit of a compliment. He's my role model."

Like a true superhero, Deadpool insisted on taking her home. He was terribly honest, saying that he could leave her a few blocks away, but that was useless, because as a former mercenary, he was very good at stalking people and he could find her address without difficulty, even if he only had her name.

"Which I wouldn't do ! Normally. I might want to see you again, and ask Weasel to find your number, but I know myself, I'll put it in my phone, and I'll hesitate for weeks, then I'll send a lousy message, you'll be scared, you'll block me, I'll be ashamed and I'll shoot myself in the head because I'm a moron."

“I can give you my number.”

"And I… Huh ? Huh ?! For real ?!" exclaimed Wade, jumping like a child on Christmas Day.

Wade called her right away, specifying that it was not to verify that she was giving him a false number but a little. Despite the mask, his face showed surprise when he saw that she hadn't lied.

"I should put a bullet in my head to make sure I'm not dreaming."

“You wouldn’t wake up.”

“Baby girl, we only just met, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

When Deadpool talked about shooting himself, he meant it literally. It often happened that he died, either because of an enemy, an accident, or by his own hand. But he always came back. A gift like a curse.

They became friends. It was obvious, and quite sad, that Wade didn't have many friends.

Most people around him couldn't stand him or were afraid of him. It was true that he could be quite unpredictable, especially when he got lost in his discussions with the boxes, or an imaginary audience. But he was never mean.

Weasel was more of a collaborator, Al was forced to accommodate him, and the other heroes, unable to get rid of him, tried to make him a nice guy.

And he was really nice. Crazy but adorable, funny and wanting to do well.

Very quickly, Y/N started to have a crush, and even more. Even after seeing him without a mask. He never took it off completely to eat, repeating that he didn't want her to lose her appetite or feel like throwing up.

But after landing in a trash can after a fight, and forgetting that he had invited her to watch Princess Bride, Y/N had seen him. Yes, his scars were a bit impressive, but they weren't that bad.

With an embarrassed smile, he waved his hand while remaining frozen near the entrance.

"… I can move if you want to run away. I won't follow you. I may look like Frankenstein's monster, but I only pursue young girls who ask me to. Or who deserve it. Because criminals have no gender, I don't discriminate."

“I brought popcorn.” was her only reaction.

"... Oh. Sweet ? Salty ? Caramel ? Al must have beer somewhere, hidden with the cocaine."

After that, he was a little less afraid to show his face, even though it was obvious he wasn't comfortable. It wasn't easy to reassure him, repeating that she didn't care about his appearance.

Y/N didn’t remember how they ended up having this conversation. The only thing she knew was that she was pressed against him, laughing, when she had innocently said it would be fun if they went out together.

This made Wade laugh, but a very serious laugh, leaving no chance and hitting where it hurt.

"You and me ? Ah ! No chance."

"Why ?"

"It's obvious."

A simple little sentence could sometimes do a lot of damage. Too busy making fun of the characters on the screen, Wade didn't see Y/N's look of sadness, just as he didn't feel her body stiffen.

Still, she should have expected this response. Of course it was obvious that they had nothing to do together. Deadpool was a super hero (in training), he was tall, muscular, funny, rich.

She had seen photos of his deceased ex, Vanessa. She had observed him flirting with beautiful women and men before. It was already fortunate that she was only friends with him.

So Y/N swallowed her pride, accepting the obvious, and not talking about the subject again.

But it was hard, because the more time passed, the stronger the feelings became.

It was even harder when Wade entered his depressive phases. He kept putting himself down, insulting himself and accepting insults from the boxes in his head. It took a lot of patience and perseverance to get him to put down his gun.

"Anyway, I'll come back later. Bad luck for the world. People would be happier if I wasn't here anymore. Maybe they'll miss me a little, for a few minutes."

“I would miss you, Wade.”

"Yeah… You say that because you're adorable, baby girl. But you'd be better off without me too. I'm a real drag."

“You saved me the first time we met.”

"And since then you think you owe me a debt. You know, every time we're in the street, the others look at me and they're afraid. If I wasn't there, you could be with them. You could have lots of friends.”

"I don't want lots of friends, Wade." Y/N sighed, taking him into her arms. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Oh, sweetie pie, me too !”

It was rarer for them to find themselves in the opposite situation. Not because Deadpool wasn't capable of empathy, but because she didn't like talking about her problems, preferring to keep everything to herself and cry out of sight.

Unfortunately, she had made the decision to become friends with a former mercenary who loved to jump from roof to roof, only to come visit without warning by tapping on the window.

Y/N had no time to hide her tears, holding back a sob as her eyes met those of Wade, who had stopped mid-movement, fist raised against his window.

He didn't hesitate before entering, terribly serious.

"Who ? Who did this ?"

“Wade…”

"Who made my baby girl cry ? I want a name. Spidey and Dev will understand. Yellow wants decapitation, White wants emasculation. Tell me who."

"It's really not necessary. It's not important."

“It’s important if you cry.” Deadpool growled as he looked around the apartment for clues.

Once he had an idea in his head, it was almost impossible to divert his attention. If it wasn't so important, it was possible with food or talking about Spiderman's butt. But this time he considered it very important.

Tired, Y/N thought that all she had to do was say that it was just a ridiculous heartbreak for him to calm down. He had no reason to kill someone just because they didn't love her back.

This actually seemed to calm him down a bit, as he patted his cheeks with his hands in a dramatic gesture.

"What ?! Someone doesn't love you ?! Someone doesn't like my sweet little angel ? Are they crazy or stupid. You deserve the best !"

"Actually… He's the one who's too good for me."

"Bullshit ! The important thing is love ! If a woman can marry a space duck, then everyone can be together, as long as it's legal and consensual !"

"… What ? No, wait, it doesn't matter. Wade, please forget it."

"A name. Let me prove to you that this fool doesn't deserve you, and not the other way around !"

"No."

"A name !"

"You ! It's you !"

For the first time since they met, Wade was silent for more than a minute, staring at her like he wasn't sure she was real. He often had hallucinations, so this happened to him.

Then he muttered incomprehensible things, probably speaking with his boxes to check that he had heard what she had just said.

"… Me ? As in, me ?"

“I know what you’re going to say.” Y/N sighed, wanting to disappear. "You've already said it, it's obvious that we're not meant to be together. You're charismatic, and strong, and funny, with powers. You save people, you have an extraordinary life, while I… I am me."

"… Baby girl. Do you have a fever ? Did you lose a bet ? Because… You saw me without a mask. You know I'm crazy and dangerous. There are several bounties on my head, I've unlived more people than the population of New York, and my favorite movie is Zoolander 2. When I said it was obvious… I meant that you were too good for me."

There had been a misunderstanding, each being convinced that the other could never want the other, because they were too different. But even though he was special, with skin problems and an inability to concentrate for more than ten minutes, Wade was much better than a space duck.

However, while she was sure of what she wanted, he hadn't clearly said what he expected next.

"I mean, if you just want to be friends, I'll understand."

"You can't tease me like that and then break my heart. Don't play with me, woman !"

“Wade…” Y/N sneered, as he gesticulated like a degenerate, declaiming his great love for her and her smile, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Taking advantage of his inattention, she approached him, until he froze when he felt her hands on his mask.

With a look, she asked him if she could take it off, and as he didn't move to stop her, she took it off first up to his nose, before hesitating.

Y/N didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but she also didn’t want him to think that she didn’t want to see him if she didn’t go further. So she took out the whole mask, she observed Wade, smiling before kissing him.

"… Don't take what comes next as a bad thing." he whispered as their lips parted.

"What ?"

"I'm going to have a heart attack…"

As always, Y/N thought he was joking at first, until he collapsed in front of her, looking delighted even though his heart had stopped beating. Fortunately she was used to seeing him die, even if it was still a little traumatic.

It took almost an hour for him to wake up. Y/N had time to take a shower and make herself some tea, sitting on the couch to wait.

"Shit !" he shouted as he opened his eyes, looking around the apartment before looking at her. “Did we kiss ?”

“Yes and you died.”

"It's weird. Normally you go to heaven after you die, not before. But I probably don't have enough superhero points for heaven yet, so the other option is that I became totally crazy."

“Wade…”

"I know, White and Yellow would have told me. They're already saying that all the time, but they would have insisted, especially for me to escape from the asylum. It's no fun fighting with fake people and hippos. Was I dead long ?"

“No, a little over half an hour.”

"And you stayed with me, it's so cute. Nurse Y/N. No, Doctor Y/N, and I'll be Nurse Wilson. Oh, Doctor Y/N, I made a mistake in the dosage of a patient, I'm a bad nurse, punish me."

"… Let's see Nurse Wilson, we're in the middle of an intervention, calm down."

"Uh oh ! You're playing along !" Wade exclaimed, pouting from the ground. "I didn't expect that ! Wait, I need a blonde wig, and a white dress. You'll see, I look super sexy in a dress. Wait, we do this now or it's quick and we should have a date first ?'

“I wouldn’t say no to a date.”

"I see the genre, like in novellas. Doctor Y/N takes me to the restaurant to talk about my future promotion, but in fact, you are going to admit to me that I am pregnant with you, before I even enter your bed !"

“As long as you’re in my bed before the hundredth episode.”

“UH !”

The small, high-pitched cry of pleasure preceded a second cardiac arrest, Deadpool's mind imagining Y/N and him in a bed, with a stetoscope.

When she asked him if he was going to have a heart attack every time, he told her that he would probably die for good the day he saw her naked, or that they made love for the first time.

But Wade was a gentleman, he ate lots of vegetables, exercised, and begged Daredevil to teach him meditation techniques.

So he had the courtesy of having the next heart attack only after they were finished, and in the toilet. And every time after that they were together, Wade would go out of his way to just get a nosebleed.

Especially on Weasel's counter, telling him everything they had done or almost everything, which annoyed the poor waiter a lot, even if he knew that it would happened from the start, the moment he saw Deadpool with Y/N.

#deadpool #wade wilson #wade wilson x reader #deadpool x reader #deadpool fanfiction #deadpool imagine #wade wilson fanfiction #wade wilson imagine

[ghostofthemost141]

Street Spirit

Pairing: Ghost x GN! Reader, First POV, no use of (Y/N)

Word Count: 1,457

Themes: Little Angst, Little Fluff, Hints at Emotional Abuse, Both Ghost and You opening up to each other

About: During a stakeout during a mission on a cold evening, you and your little miss sunshine attitude, manage to break down Ghost's walls he has built up.

Notes: I based this one off of the song Street Spirit (Fade Out) by Radiohead. Super great song! Nickname for this fic is Robin, meaning shining and bright. I aimed for this to be gender neutral but if it doesn't seem that way then please let me know! I'd rather be told so it can be correct for future works. Enjoy!

It may be chilly out here, but I was comfortable. I love winter time, it is my favorite season in the entire year. The snow, the animals being dusted with snow frolicking through the knee deep snow, ice skating, it is truly the best season of the year. 

“You payin’ attention, Robin?” Ghost’s sudden voice made me jump. 

“Oh uh yes, yes sir Lieutenant.” I said, bringing my focus back to where we were looking. 

“Just sir is fine.” Ghost reminded me. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Ghost made a quiet sigh when he heard me. I try not to annoy him really, but I look up to Ghost in an odd way. He is very strong, very brave, and can turn his emotions off. I am learning so much from him the more I do missions with him and he always insists that I do missions with him, so he can’t hate me that much, right? 

“I’m sorry.” I mumbled, but he heard me. 

“You don’t need to apologize every single time, alright? You’re fine.” Ghost reassured me, despite his tone remaining the same. 

I didn’t say anything back as I regained my focus at the building we were scoping. I could hear Ghost mumbling something to himself. 

Makes me wonder how you got into this field in the first place. 

Oh. 

“I want to make my parents proud.” I said out loud, letting him know that I heard him. 

He didn’t say anything back but his eyes were on me. 

“They never really said they were proud of me. Ever. Not when I got my first school award, not when I graduated high school, not when I graduated college, not ever. But my younger sister, she could make a B on a test and they would praise the ground she walked on. It’s not fair, you know?” I poured out, not caring whether or not he was listening. 

It was silent for a moment and through the blistering cold winds I could barely feel the small tears that were falling down my face. 

“Why do ‘ou want their approval so badly?” Ghost asked, surprised he was even asking. 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“Cause they are my parents, I guess? I don’t know.” 

I honestly wasn’t even sure how to answer that. 

“Why do you keep seeking validation from ‘hem when you know it’s not going to change?” 

Now he was asking the real questions. 

“You got me there, L.T.” I say, seeing a white rabbit hopping around through the snow. 

The white rabbit dug through the snow every so few feet, looking for some food. Oh to be a white rabbit in the winter just hopping through the snow, not having a care in the world. The only thing I’d miss is being around L.T. Even though it is quite forbidden, I feel like I have begun to develop feelings for my Lieutenant.  Everytime I am near him or close to him, my heart starts pounding out of my chest as if I was one of those silly cartoon characters from the 70s that was in love. Their faces turning bright red with blush and their hearts pounding out of their chests in a very cartoony and exaggerated way. That’s how I felt every time I was around Lieutenant. I most definitely looked up to Lieutenant Ghost and I wish to be like him the longer I am down the road, but I didn’t see myself developing feelings for him. I leaned my head down, in almost shame, feeling more of my tears run down my face. 

Why can’t you be more like your sister? 

She has better grades than you. 

You’ve grown pudgy, you need to be fit like your sister. 

She is picture perfect, why can’t you be like her? 

Why can’t you be like her? 

Why can’t you be like her? 

Why can’t you be like her? 

Why can’t you be like her? 

Why can’t you be like her? 

Why 

Can’t 

You

Be 

Like- 

“You’ll freeze if you keep this up, love.” 

I felt a soft felt get pushed up on my face by Ghost as he essentially wiped my cold tears off of my face. He is not wrong about that. I was kind of surprised he was looking out for me and he was leaning in close to me- Wait, did he just call me love? 

“Thanks, L.T.” I thanked him as my face dried up from my tears. 

“Just..Simon is alright.” 

I turned to see if he was serious and I could just see from his eyes that he was indeed serious. 

“Are you sure?” I asked. 

“Only if it's just the ‘too’ of us.” He reiterated. 

I had to hold in my chuckle hearing how he said two, and luckily I managed to keep it together. 

“Yes, sir.” I said, nearly letting a chuckle out. 

We were now in a comfortable silence, still waiting for our target to show up to the building that we were staking out right now. Price, Soap, Gaz, and Laswell were on the other side of the building doing what Ghost and I were doing basically. It’s just that Ghost insisted I came with him. 

“Simon?” 

“Hm?” He grumbled. 

“Why did you insist I come with you for this and not anyone else?” I ask. 

Ghost did a deep sigh, as if he was preparing the right words to say. 

“Despite your, little miss sunshine attitude, I see great potential in you.” Simon confessed. 

Lieutenant sees potential in me? Pinch me, I must be dreaming. 

“Oh, really?” 

“Yeah.” Ghost said, “I want to train you to be better than I am.” 

“Why? You’re great, Simon. A great leader and person.” I told him. 

Ghost did another one of those sighs, except this time the silence between us was longer than it had been. Did I say something bad? 

“Well, I actually went through what you went through. Sort of.” Simon started. 

And now he is opening up to me? This is kind of crazy cause I have no idea what kind of person Simon is nor who or what he was before he came to the Task Force. 

“My father shouldn’t have been a father. He was a real piece of shiet. Always taunted me, made fun of me, commented everythin’ I did, it was as if my existence was just wrong in his eyes.” Simon explained to me. 

I felt my heart sink as Simon told me that. I had no idea he went through something like that but I guess it explains the way that he is. 

“I decided to join the military, to get away from it all. Only to come across the wrong enemy and..” Simon paused, collecting his words, “my mother, brother, and father were all murdered by the enemy. I was also tortured for hours on end. Bloody fuckers trying to break me, but they never did. I eventually blew the wanker’s brains out. But it all sticks with me.” Simon finished. 

I felt a frog enter my throat, in shock from what Simon just told me. I didn’t know what to say. I can tell this has affected him greatly and it sticks with him. He has to live with something like that every single day. I couldn’t imagine. Simon was still close up next to me that our shoulders were nearly touching. Without putting too much thought into it, I raised my hand up and rested it on Simon’s shoulder. I can tell he felt it, but he didn’t turn nor acknowledge me. 

“I am sorry about that, Simon. This may seem kind of silly, but if you are ever having one of those days, you know, when it is hurting you more than it should on any given day, you can come to me.” I offered. 

“Thank you, Robin. You can do the same for me.” Simon offered as well. 

“It will be our little secret.” I teased. 

“Don’t push it, bird.” 

“Hey, it's Robin to you! Price declared that as my name after all.” I taunted, earning an eye roll from Simon. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He mumbled. 

As much as I liked our little moment together, it felt good to be back to our normal basis. From a far distance, I could see Soap’s light signal. 

“That’s us.” I said as Simon quickly got up on his feet. 

As I was starting to get up, Simon reached his hand down to me. I grabbed it and he lifted me up to my feet. Damn he was strong. 

“On the run, Robin.” 

“Yes, sir Lieutenant Simon.” 

Simon sighed as we began our run to the rendezvous meeting spot for our mission. Things shall be more interesting from now on. 

END

#simon ghost riley #cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #call of duty #callofduty #cod modern warfare #ghost x reader #cod ghost #cod x reader #modern warfare x reader #call of duty modern warfare #modern warfare 2

[stayinzencity]

heroine’s manual S1 E3

GENRE: Romcom, Drama | love triangles, childhood friends, high school au | INSPIRED BY: Heroine Shikkaku (shoujo manga) | LENGTH: ~1.4K | RATING: Teen | WARNINGS: mentions of food, eating | PAIRINGS: Minho x MC (Reader), Minho x OC (Heather) | TAGLIST: @linoscence @elizabeth11moreno  (ask to be added) | A/N: this chapter finally came out of the drafts after years thanks to @jisungsdaydreamer (and me accidentally posting part 5 first oops)

♡ previous episode 

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THREE. Even if he rejects me, I won't give up so easily and allow someone else to steal my spot.

Inviting Heather to hang out is a mistake. Having your friends around doesn't make you feel any less of a third wheel. It’s Heather who’s supposed to be the odd one out amongst your group, yet somehow it feels like the rest of you are the ones intruding. You can't bear to witness the shy glances and gentle smiles Minho and Heather exchange.

You're trying to come up with an excuse to break them apart without being the bad guy, when a crash comes to your rescue.

"Ah. My bad," Jisung apologizes, looking down at the glass he'd accidently knocked over. He'd been sitting next to Heather, and while the glass was fortunately intact, water had spilled onto Heather's lap. 

"Looks like you’re the victim of Jisung's idiocy today." Hyunjin hands her napkins, attempting to ease her through the awkwardness with his charming smile. He shoots Jisung a withering glare, getting a sheepish look and shrug in reply.  

"I guess I should get going," Heather says. She rises from her seat in a hurry, but a hand over hers gives her a reason to wait. 

Hyunjin.

Minho's expression is closer to amusement than jealousy, watching as his friend calls his girlfriend - by her actual name, not the nickname you've given her.

Maybe Hyunjin's crush hasn't disappeared yet. If he and Heather get together, then Minho would be yours again. Everything would fall perfectly in place.

"We don't live that far from each other. I'll take you home." Hyunjin pauses, turning to Minho who's sneaking cake onto Jisung's plate. "If that's fine with your boyfriend?"

"Whatever she wants," Minho says with a shrug. He doesn't seem to be worried about Hyunjin stealing away his girlfriend, which boosts your confidence in your own chances with him. 

"Yeah," you enthusiastically agree, nodding your head. "Hyunjin's a nice guy. Have a wonderful evening!"

Hyunjin narrows his eyes, scowling at you, instead of being grateful that you're helping him out. One day, he'll figure it out, and thank you.

You lean close to her so that only she - and Hyunjin, perhaps - can hear. "You might even fall for him instead of Minho."

Hyunjin scoffs at your words with an exaggerated eyeroll and drags Heather out the door before you can say anything else.

Seungmin leaves soon after them, muttering something about an assignment that you don't really bother paying attention to.

And then it's just Minho, Jisung and you.

"We should head home too," Minho says. He gets up from the table and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. "It's movie night."

"Ah, right." Jisung sends you a wink, starting the next phase of your plan to set your story on track. "I've got some stuff I need to work on, so I'll have to trust you two to keep our tradition alive even if it’s not the same without me."

And then it was just Minho and you.

It's usually easy to forget Minho's girlfriends exist when they're not around. Often they fade into the background even when they are around.

Yet you find yourself alone with Minho, head in his lap, too distracted to actually watch the show that's playing on the TV. Too much on your mind to even enjoy this moment.

Minho's texting someone, wearing a smile as soft as the one he usually gives you before he wraps you in a hug. 

The someone in question must be Heather. After all, who else could it be? The only real rival you've ever had when it came to Minho's affection and attention is Heather, right?

If there's no struggle, then it won't feel as special when you finally end up together. Heather isn't the heroine. That title belongs to you. You're the one that's always been with Minho. No one else knows him like you do- well, maybe Jisung does. That's a different story though.

If you're the heroine, then why do you feel like you're in second place? Are you falling into a background role in your own story? Could it be you're simply a side character in this tale?

Minho's fingers run through your hair, breaking you out of your thoughts. 

You're the one here with him, not Heather. You're the heroine, not her. There's still hope. 

“I like you,” you blurt. It's far from the confession you had planned, especially since you weren't even the one who was supposed to be saying the words first. Sometimes you need to improvise to get the perfect scenes, so it's ok. “I like you so much.”

Minho’s hand stops stroking your hair. He doesn’t take it away, so you don’t attempt to sit up. You want to be close to him, for as long as you can. 

Any moment now, he'll admit his feelings for you and you'll be the one beside him instead of Heather. 

You know that, but if somehow these are the last moments you’ll have with him, you want to remember them being pleasant. Besides, you don’t exactly want to look at his face right now. The aftermath of a confession is more mortifying than you imagined, especially when you haven't gotten an answer in return. 

“I know,” he says. 

And that’s it. He doesn't say anything else. And you don't have the courage to ask what your words meant to him. 

The couple on screen breaks up and eventually makes up, but you don't even remember their names anymore. Tears fall from your eyes and you wipe them away. 

"I can't watch this anymore," you manage to whisper. It's not the drama that has you crying. You know it, and you know Minho probably does too. "I'll head home."

Minho doesn't try to stop you as you leave. As tempting as it is to turn back, you're too afraid that Minho's eyes won't be watching you.

Seungmin once explained some physics cat theory. Put a cat in a box with poison, and it could be both alive or dead as long you don't open it. If you don't check, the cat might still be alive. Something like that.

In your imagination, Minho is woefully watching as you walk away.

After the confession, it's a little hard. Minho isn't actively avoiding you, except he kind of is. He has the perfect excuses, plus the universe seems to be on his side. It's natural for the hero of the story to have exceptional luck. 

As the heroine, you don't seem to have the same advantage. If anything, there's just been obstacles to your perfect ending. The biggest one turning out to be Minho himself.

You thought you didn't have to do anything and everything would fall into place by itself. Then when you took a chance and confessed, you were turned down. But even if he doesn't feel the same way now, you can't give up yet. It hurt when you realized you weren't on the same page as him, but there's still time for him to catch up, right? 

You run into him after class, and he has to catch you before you stumble to the floor. It's a scene straight out of the kind of anime you love to watch. A sign for you to take another chance, except Minho speaks before you can. 

"No."

You haven't even said a word, and you’ve already been shot down. An arrow through your heart, but it seems cupid isn't on your side.

Are you that obvious? Could Minho read minds? Does he really not like you?

"What? I didn't even ask-"

"I won't go out with you."

Ah. Well. Minho hasn't told you that he doesn't like you, though you aren't sure if you could handle hearing those words straight from him. 

"That wasn't what I was going to say," you lie. Your voice is strained, and you can't meet his eyes, so maybe it's not believable. But you can't admit the truth, can you? "I wanted to ask if you had any movie recommendations." 

Minho raises an eyebrow. He's not fooled. Still he goes along with it and makes some suggestions. Not that you’re really paying attention to his words as much as how his voice sounds. 

Minho. It's always been Minho. 

And you were the constant in his life, at least until Heather showed up.

It's hard to admit that she might have stolen the role that was meant for you, but you can't move ahead without accepting that. 

Turns out Minho isn't just on a different page. The title of the book doesn't match either.

You are lost, clueless of what lies ahead. There's one thing you're certain of though.

Even if you’re disqualified as a heroine, your only hero is Minho. 

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© 2024, stayinzencity

#skz fic #stray kids ff #skz fanfic #skz x reader #stray kids fiction #stray kids fluff #lee know drabble #lee know fluff #lee know imagines #lee know scenarios #lee know series #stray kids series #skz series #stray kids fic #stray kids fanfic #skz ff

[tpotr]

Hello my author, I came to leave a message to remind you when I have time and of course make a one-shot of your characters from your fanfic with all of Rhaenyra's children, all born girls HAHAHA I feel sorry for our boy, having to deal with his sisters and the strong girls!!!

I ended up finishing this right before a plane ride, thankfully! Thank you dear for always being so supportive <3 This is a little plus for all the readers. This is an AU tweak where not only the green children are genderbent, but also Rhaenyra's children. Meaning M!Hel (Rhaegal) is the only boy. You know the green girls names if you are here, so for Rhaenyra's children: F!Jace - still Jace as nickname, Jacaera F!Luke - Liliana (after another Velaryon girl) F!Joffrey - Josephine (not mentioned here tho) F!Aegon 3 - Alyssa F!Viserys 2 - Viserra

Aerea sits disinterested on the high table, sipping on her Arbor red. It is a holy day, and the Red Keep has turned into an odd mix of a tavern and a sept. The frigid brick of a High Septon is sitting by her uncle Daemon, still as if he’s about to piss himself. Aerea has the inclination to cringe at that, but actually does when she notices the poor singers who had been utterly ignored as they sang their hymns. It is the Feast Day of our Father Above, a day for tables of roasts and toasts, as well as a day to lay judgement, for the Father watches over and makes one’s judgement auspicious.

It can be argued that the most auspicious judgement of the day had been by the seating planners. While their father is sitting between their mother and half-sister on the elder side of the table, Rhaegal sits parallel to him, a human divider between her and Rhaenyra’s eldest daughter, Jaecaera. Effectively, he split the table between silver-haired sisters and brown-haired nieces. 

The seating choices had been deliberate. ‘The girls do not get along, therefore we must stick the boy in the middle.’ 

She does not find this decision astute, to say the least.

Aerea used to get along with her eldest niece, back when she looked like a little boy. She even gave her the nickname Jace. However, then she grew to own the same audacity and unfailing entitlement her mother is known for, learning how to speak well without knowing how to apologize. The girl used to be a cute, pugly thing; now she just knows how to bark and worse, be charmingly coy. 

Aerea will admit, she does not take it well when her husband has to play peacemaker. He’s an approachable sort of man, whose looks are graceful enough to be inviting and is of gentle enough character to be mannerly. Meaning, he is susceptible to being taken advantage of by girls who are bold enough, and very easily used by girls who want to annoy her.

“When I passed by the gardens, I remembered how we used to play hide and seek,” Jace reminisces fondly. Aerea brings her hand over her husband’s. Lest he thinks I’m not attentive, she thinks to herself. He glances at her nervously, squeezing her fingers between his for some assurance. Jace looks at her sister, chuckling. “Well, Liliana’s sobs came to mind first, really. When she couldn’t find us on that tree, if you recall.” 

“Can you let that go?” Liliana exclaims, and for once, Aerea agrees with that twerp. As if it has any relevance now.

“Never,” Jace smiles, affectionately patting at the top of her sister’s head. “It is a shame we don’t have as much of a thriving garden in Dragonstone. It is barren, rocky land for the most part. I wanted to play similarly with Alyssa and Viserra. These are sweet memories to have.”

Aerea’s fingers move slowly over Rhaegal's fingers. She’d consider it an affectionate warning, but it seemed more a hostage situation. 

Rhaegal swallows, offering a timid smile. “You can still play with them there during this visit,” he suggests.

Jace perks up. “I should, I suppose. Will you come? I think they’d enjoy your presence. You’ve always been good with children.” 

Aerea’s finger squashes down on her husband's index. I’ll smash your pug nose flatter than it already is. 

She moves herself to look beyond her husband and stare down her offending niece. “We will come. Our twins need more companions to play with. You’d think Maelor would be enough, but they still ask for more siblings.”

She expects it to shut Jace up, but the girl's chocolate brown eyes crinkle. “That would certainly do,” half a dimple comes upon her face as grins at Aerea.  She represses any giggles, and pats Rhaegal’s shoulder. “Seems like you have some work cut out for you, though.”

What does that mean—

She very nearly stood up. She would’ve, hadn’t it been for Rhaegal promptly grabbing on her hand and squeezing on it as if to contain her. His face is entirely flushed red, and that frustrates her too, until he lifts himself from his seat and dragged her alongside him. “We should dance,” he says abruptly, whisking her away. He doesn’t wait for any confirmation, taking her towards the dance floor.

Jace watches them as they leave the table, full grin on. “And I after!” she announces with roaring laughter.

Aerea would have gone back to chew her out if it hadn’t been for the fact Rhaegal already turned to glare at their niece. Clearly flustered, but deliberately glaring. She finds him handsome when he glares. She supposes it is the conviction that appears in a usually carefree gaze. She similarly does not resent the grip of steel he has on her, but that better not be because he must separate her from Jace.

“She flusters you?” Aerea accuses, not asks. Her hand reaches for his shoulder, as the dance’s form calls for, but her nails dig deep at the shirt and skin. She doesn’t care if it makes her easily irritable, the next she sees a strong hand on his shoulder she’d cut it off. If they can take eyes, why couldn’t she take hands? That brazen bitch deserves it.  

Rhaegal gathers her close to him. His hands are supposed to go on her waist, but they sit lower than the small of her back. It is a pleasing enough feeling, and she feels a surge of heat rushing through her— No. Focus. She must keep the frown. He needs to answer! 

“No,” he says, and he sounds awfully riled as he says so. “It is only that she inserts herself to where she shouldn’t.”

Aerea grabs at his nape to look at her. “You think me blind to not see that? I had the entire day to see. Oh, I know she dreams of insertions, that—”

His grip on her becomes more forceful in a split second. It makes her take a deep inhale within. “Hardly,” he says, and cranes his head closer to her ears. “She thinks it amusing, to make you frustrated. Just as she thinks she helps me by making you frustrated.”

“You don’t—” Aerea starts, but  then takes a moment to digest that statement. She feels her ears grow hot, embarrassment and anger smoking at each flushed lobe. For a moment she feels stupid, and then she feels rage. That girl played her like a fiddle? On purpose? She hates that. More than anything. “I’m not jealous,” she says, trying to ignore the waves of envy that ran through her before and now. 

It is just no funny thought to her, having him tempted by Jace. Those bastard girls could do anything and be acquitted from any fault by their mother. As if she doesn’t hear Father talk of how easier it would’ve been had her husband just married her instead. It started with Rhaenyra and continued with Jace and gods be good even if the lot of them die she may just hear the same with baby Viserra.

She knows she had been stupid at times, but she gave him three children and all the love she has left to give. She hates, loathes, abhors how easily they make her feel replaceable. 

Rhaegal puts his forehead against hers. “You needn’t be,” he soothes, as he knows to do. He knows she yearns that quelling, and that makes her scared by itself. She has made so many mistakes, but he holds her heart tender. He nuzzles against her and it is all reassurance, until she opens her eyes and meets his gaze.“But I’d like the flush on your face to be all for me, as well.” 

She considers stomping his foot, if only for the mere suggestion that any redness could come to her cheeks if it wasn’t for him. Jace couldn’t have embarrassed her for years to come if she hadn’t used him. If it wasn’t for him, she would’ve found a reason to smash Jace’s face into her plate of cake and she would’ve been as pale as the moon doing it. 

“As if it could be for anyone else,” she says quietly, and licks her lips. She knows this isn’t quite how he likes that phrased. Between her cynical and his lyrical their words never match unless they make the effort to make them as such, and it is an effort worth making. “I love you.”

He is not one to reach out to her when they are among the masses. His intimacy is a separate section of him, belonging fully to her when they share a lone room. A secret only she knows.

Regardless, he kisses her this time, full on the lips. 

He knows how she likes his love expressed, too.

Aerea sighs as the kiss breaks off. She expects bulging eyes at the two of them. To imagine the prince will disrupt an entire dance routine only to kiss his wife; an event worth the stares for once, if you ask her. She hopes Jace had looked and blushed at a site that required none of her incitement.

And yet, the choice to kiss her has not seemed to have compromised their secret at all. The eyes of their guests are all on the high table, where seemingly, a yelling match between Aemma and Jace is taking place. Or more like, Jace is barking, and Aemma is smirking.

Hah! She should’ve known Aemma wouldn’t have let her get away with things. Sometimes little sisters are good to have.

Aerea almost steps in to come aid her, but Rhaegal holds her arm.“Don’t,” he whispers to her ear, and she blinks at him. Mother and Rhaenyra stand to calm the yelling girls, and he continues, his hand sliding down to hers. “They will be alright. Let’s go.”

“Go?”

He weaves his fingers in hers. “Before everyone can notice.”

Aerea smiles widely. A day for fine judgement indeed; her husband has his wits about him. She squeezes on his hand, dragging him with her instead of slipping away any sort of gracefully. His pearly whites show as he stifles a laugh.

The lords and ladies, and all their family can look as they rush away together. Because his very smile is mine.

#hotd fanfic #i'm not going to even tag it the normal tags this feels too indulgent LOL #*rhaegal #*aerea #*aereagal #*aemma #*reqs #*answered

[olinblogin]

SPIDER NOIR X GN!READER

CW: angst to fluff/comfort, brief mentions of death, the Great Depression, mentions of WW2 and n@zis

It was 1933, a constitutional amendment had recently passed; the Repeal of Prohibition. Now all of the world was falling into the Great Depression; often hard to even buy foods in most places… it left only the people with the money and status to live; even then they struggled.

It wasn’t uncommon that you’d see the dead body of someone unfortunate to succumb to themselves or having died from lack of food, water, or even sleep.

You sit back in the pub, watching the flappers have the time of their lives on stage as if there wasn’t an issue in the world.

Puffing from your cigar, out of the corner of your eye did you see someone outside the glass panes that was threatening a woman of color with a handgun.

Mashing your cigar into an ashtray you were about to get up from your barstool; only to watch the threatening man get knocked out by another man in a dark Trenchcoat, wearing a fedora. The woman who was being threatened thanked him repeatedly before scurrying off, clutching a rag of canned foods to her chest.

Sitting back in your barstool, you watched the dark-clad man walk into the pub, sitting one seat away from you. “Pass me a Maiden’s Prayer,” he spoke coolly, resting his elbows on the bar counter.

The bartender slid one his way quick, to which he lifted his odd mask just above his lips to sip at the top. “It’s rude to stare, darl.” You could see his lips pull to a smirk… you just knew behind those odd and large white eyes on his mask that he was looking at you. Feeling a heat creep up your neck you averted your eyes and mumbled a quick apology,

Yet to your surprise, the man scooted one barstool over next to you.

“The name’s Peter. You didn’t hear that from me, though.” He took another sip of his Maiden’s Prayer and looked at you. “How about you, hm?”

“That’s none of your concern.” You huffed back, taking a sip of your own drink as he snickered… “mysterious. Just what I like in a person.” That made you choke on your drink, spinning around in your barstool to grab the counter and let out a series of coughs. Your face was red and eyes stingy… now your throat hurts. “Are you trying to flirt with me..?” You squinted at Peter, to which he shrugged. “Maybe I am, Darl. What’s a looker like you doing in a place like this, if you don’t mind my intrusion.”

Cocking a brow, you leaned against the counter. “Just trying to get away from it all; y’know… the war, the nazis, the dead bodies. Everything at the moment.” Peter hummed in agreement to your words, propping his head on his hand. “That makes two of us. ‘m doin’ my best out there to get rid of those nazis… but damn are there lotta them.” Taking one last swig if his Maiden’s Prayer, he set the empty glass down for the bartender to take.

“But, hey. At least you and I are two like-minds that can stick together through all this. Yeah?” You crossed a leg over the other and thought for a bit. “Yeah. I suppose that’s true.” Peter opened his mouth to say something, but you already knew what he was going to ask. “I’m still not telling you my name.” He seemed to deflate at your words and pout.

“I wanna see how many nicknames you can come up with me. Maybe then I’d give you my first name. And maybe my last,” your flirtatious tease immediately made him a spluttering mess, red-faced and using his fedora to cover his face.

“Awh- damn..- that was a good one. Wish I said my line first because now I’m going to look like an idiot,” Peter snorted before placing his hat back on his head.

“Shoot your shot, tomato.” You leaned back, ready to hear whatever he was gonna throw at you.

Peter cleared his throat and adjusted his Trenchcoat before looking at you slyly. “We’re going to know each other eventually, why not now?” There was a silence shared between the two of you before you both erupted into snickers. “You’re right, that was terrible.” You chastised playfully, nudging his foot with yours.

“But don’t you turn ordinary on me now, I get tired of ordinary men. And I don’t want to get tired of you.” Your teasing made his ears go hot, hiding his face in his hand and looking away from you. “You’re good, good looking. Not even a fair battle at this point… you’re wiping the floor with me here.”

You sneakily grab his hand in yours, your fingers wrapping around his gloved ones. “It’s [Y/N].” You mumbled quietly, to which his head snapped to look at you. “What?”

“My name. It’s [Y/N].” You smiled sweetly at him, to which he lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles politely. “Well… ain’t it a damn pleasure to meet a looked like you, [Y/N].”

“You’re right. Let’s get to know each other now.”

#spider noir #spider noir x reader #x reader

[knightprincess]

Scars (Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader) Part 5

Warning: Brotherly teasing, denial, drunken jokes Words: 2.2k Pronouns Used: She/Her - Use of Y/N A/N - I apologize for the long wait. I've been dealing with some mental health issues lately.

“What’s got your blaster in a twist?” commented Fox, his words directed to Wolffe across the booth from him. The gathering at 79’s was supposed to offer time to unwind and relax away from the responsibilities so many have thrust upon their shoulders. Yet still Wolffe had been distracted more than normal, so much so the commander of the 104th had zoned out several times, each time a blank look had appeared across his scarred face as he stared aimlessly off into space.

Fox’s words only served to draw attention to Wolffe. Those in the booth with them seemingly forgot their previous conversation and laughter, only to become curious about Wolffe and where his mind had wandered off to. Perhaps it was another flashback haunting him again, or maybe one of the many patrons of the club had gained his attention.

“Huh?” replied Wolffe, his mind allowing him to return to the present, only to be greeted with expressions of concern and curiosity. Rex and Gregor, on either side of him, had a mixture of both, while Fox seemed to be trying to hold back in amusement despite the smile that betrayed him. Thorn and Howzer appeared far more curious than anything as if they silently questioned what had gotten to Wolffe. After all, it wasn’t every day the battle-tested commander got distracted. Cody seemed concerned but knew eventually Wolffe would open up. After all, Wolffe wasn’t the type to keep quiet when something bothered him.

“Oh, I get it,” chuckled Fox, recalling the recent rants the Commander of the 104th had put him through. All of them centered around the Night Sister, who had risked her life to save his. “She’s really got under your skin hasn’t she,” added the Marshall Commander, recalling the few times Wolffe had allowed the nickname he’d bestowed her with to slip through. “(Y/N) Black.”

“The Night Sister?” questioned Cody, raising an eyebrow as he displayed his curiosity and shock. Wolffe hadn’t been quiet when it came to his almost hatred of the Night Sister clans, especially Ventress. So it had come as a shock to learn the battle-tested Commander would become so distracted by another, all be it one far kinder.

“Aye, she’s not so bad. Kept us Commandoes on our toes as of late. The new ones seemed to like her,” commented Gregor, a ring of laughter following his words. Her reputation of disregarding orders had proceeded her, as had her care for those under her command. Whereas the Commandoes had opted to ignore the Jedi Council and Senate before, they seemed more than happy to fall into line when it came to (Y/N). Maybe it was her effort to know them each as individuals that had done it, or perhaps her history with Jango Fett, the man who’d personally trained the majority of Commandoes.

“For what it’s worth, Wolffie, I hear she gets under the skin of others too,” voiced Howzer, recalling hearing Windu complain about her before. Wolffe’s only response was to growl, more than likely over the take on his name. Howzer responded by holding up his hands as if to surrender at least before reaching to grab his neon-colored drink from the sticky booth table.

“General Skywalker talks about her rather fondly; he mentioned the battle droids reminded him of her the other day,” spoke Rex, a chuckle escaping him as he remembered the comment and his subsequent confusion. Ahsoka had prodded her master to explain mere seconds later. To which Anakin had responded the sassiness of the B1 battle droids reminded him of (Y/N) growing up.

“That’s an odd comparison,” began Thorn, his brows sowing together as he tried to imagine what the Jedi Knight was like. There were so many Jedi coming and going it was difficult to tell them apart sometimes—especially the masters who all seemed to blend together with the emotionless beliefs and often lack of compassion for those outside the order. “But also one that sparks so much interest. Please do tell us more,” he added, reaching for his own blueberry drink and sipping it as he waited for more detail.

“Sarcastic and cleverly disguised insults,” called Wolffe before Rex had a chance to respond. Again, he was met with inquisitive expressions, as if those surrounding him were surprised he knew anything about the Jedi even when she’d been a constant figure on his mind since the cavern incident. “General Plo said her lack of subtlety was one of his greatest failures.”

“Ah, so that’s how you know so much about her,” laughed Cody, as if it suddenly hit him. Wolffe knew so much about the mysterious Night Sister because Plo had been her Jedi Master. The same way Cody himself knew so much about General Skywalker. “Wait, What are you doing?” questioned the Commander of the 212th, noticing Gregor pull out his communicator, a wicked grin of mischief spreading across his lips.

“Sending a message to my Commanding Jedi, of course,” chuckled Gregor, seeing the horror pass over Wolffe’s features before being replaced with a neutral expression. “I’m curious if she knows the effect she has on Commander Growls here,” he added, quickly pulling away when Wolffe reached to snatch the communication away. The two soon ended up in a scuffle for the device. Cody ended it by taking hold of it and throwing it somewhere behind him, a satisfied grin appearing seconds later.

“Quit it, you two, before I have to arrest you,” warned Fox, sighing at the thought of the paperwork that would go along with it. Not to mention the continued dispute between the pair as they spent the night in a shared detention cell.

“Honestly, I would pay to see that,” worded Howzer, if only to see the chaos that would cause, especially with the latest revelations. “At least Wolffe would get to see his Night Sister again,” he laughed, knowing the arrest would result in (Y/N) having to retrieve Gregor from detention now.

“She’s not my Night Sister,” growled Wolffe as he questioned why the comment seemed to repeat—First Warthog, now Howzer. There was nothing between him and said Jedi Knight; there couldn’t be; it was forbidden from both sides. She was a Jedi, a Knight of the Order, and he was a clone who had no rights as a living being; he was created for one purpose: war. Outside of that, he was just another clone, a product for someone else to decide the future of.

“You sure about that?” asked Thorn, noticing how agitated Wolffe got when it came to her. “Your actions a few days back say otherwise,” he replied, recalling the cryptographer who’d been rather crude with his comments towards several women apart of the Jedi Order. Many Clones had told him to shut up, and others had been tempted to do something, but it had been Wolffe who had roughly grabbed the civvi by the collar of his shirt. The words he spoke had been indecipherable.

“Would you have acted any differently?” replied Wolffe, seemingly calmer now. Sure, the comment about the Night Sister had broken the camel’s back, but all the crude comments about the women had got to him. “We clones are treated like products. We know how it feels to be objectified. I’d rather not listen to a brainless nerf herder objectifies women like their kriffing sex toys.”

“Honestly, I would have thrown the guy from the tallest skyscraper and classified it as an accident,” replied Fox, “Or an accidental weapon discharge,” he added, knowing there were more creative ways but also commending Wolffe on holding back as he’d done even more so when anyone else would have taken the opportunity to “teach” the civvi a lesson in respect.

“You’d do that for a certain senator too,” commented Thorn, knowing the not-so-secret secret love affair Fox had found himself in. Despite clones being forbidden, the basics most got the chance to experience didn’t stop many from wanting and desiring those very experiences. “You both have a rare opportunity. Grab it with both hands, and don’t let go. If you don’t, then you’ll live to regret it,” the Commander of the Coruscant Guard said. Opting to encourage his brothers to take a leap into the unknown, to grab the chance at something even if it was technically forbidden.

“Its forbid..” started Cody

“General Kenobi,” replied Fox just as quickly. Being greeted with Cody paling slightly and Rex’s loud bout of laughter.

“Told you it was obvious,” commented Rex, not failing to take the opportunity to say I told you so.

“I’ll be damned, Commander Cody, lost for words,” began Gregor in a teasing manner, his bronze eyes alight with mischief once more. “Has the galaxy gone mad, or is it just me?”

“Just you, old friend,” replied Wolffe, smacking a hand across the back of Gregor’s armored shoulder as both broke down into a round of chuckles. Chuckles and amusement were soon silenced by the appearance of (Y/N) Black, the Night Sister who’d been a previous subject of conversation.

“General,” greeted Howzer, the closest to the booth edge.

“Awkward,” commented Gregor, realizing his playful teasing had led to the visit. “The com must have connected,” he added, seeing the horror once again pass over the features of Wolffe and now Cody, who’d mindlessly thrown the communicator away.

“Sorry to interrupt, but it sounded like Gregor got into a scuffle when he called. Just wanted to ensure he was alright,” explained (Y/N), concern alight in her eyes, although relief soon flooded them upon realizing the captain in question was drunk but otherwise unharmed.

“Ha, I’m fine, General, just a brotherly dispute,” nervously responded Gregor, rubbing the back of his neck as the heat began to rise from the collar of his armor. “Cody ended it by throwing the communicator somewhere,” added the Commando, trying to explain without throwing Wolffe under the bus, even when the odds were against said Commander. (Y/N) likely already sensed his conflicted feelings and the tension he so often had when around her.

With a small nod (Y/N) accepted the answer, using her ability with the force to retrieve the lost communicator before returning it to his own. After a polite goodbye and a comment to have fun, the group of men were left to their own business again. Although it appeared now the fun had left with (Y/N).

“General Kenobi, huh,” started Howzer, turning his attention to Cody with an eyebrow raised and a smirk painting across his lips. “Here, I thought you would want a challenge. Perhaps Quinlan Vos,” he added with a chuckle passing his lips. Fox almost spat out his drink as he tried his hardest to hold back the comment threatening to slip.

“Nah, Quinlan Vos is more or less in the same boat as Wolffe; he prefers the Night Sisters,” laughter Thorn as if he could read Fox’s mind. The comment only served to draw laughter out of the others, with the exception of Wolffe and Cody. One merely rolled their golden eyes, and the other tried to hide their reddened cheeks.

“While we’re on the subject of wishful thinking. Rexy, who’s your mystery companion?” asked Howzer, ignoring the confusion to paint on Rex’s features, as if the captain was silently conveying he had no idea what Howzer referred to.

“Forget that. Cody has competition. The Dutchess of Mandalore,” spoke Thorn, recalling being on escort duty for the politician in question. The unmistakable affection flooding her voice when General Kenobi was mentioned at least gave hints there was a long history between the two. “She seems quite fond of him. Maybe the OG member of the Obi-Wan fan club.”

“Yeah, but that’s like saying Wolffe has competition,” stated Rex, ignoring the growls emanating from his left.

“He does,” worded Gregor from the opposite side of Wolffe, noticing the table go silent and feeling the heat of Wolffe’s glare burn into the side of his head. “The sergeant of the new unit. Hunter, I think his name is. He acts like Bly does with General Secura,” he added, “Close enough to be attached.”

“There’s no competition,” hissed Wolffe, once again denying there was anything there and reaffirming his stance. (Y/N) although beautiful was a Night Sister, a child of Dathomir, and a Jedi. There couldn’t be anything between them, not only was it forbidden, he refused to allow himself to fall for the enemy.

“Denial is more than just a river, brother,” spoke Cody, as if suggesting he, too, was floating down the otherworldly river. “We’re all floating down it at some point, even if it’s just wishful thinking.”

“I’m not in denial,” snapped Wolffe as anger began to take hold. “She’s a Child of Dathomir. Her kindness doesn’t change the fact she’s my enemy. Nothing will. Atop of that, I’m just a clone, a commander she took pity on,” ranted the commander of the 104th, reaching his limit with the teasing for the night. However, his words sounded more like he was scolding himself, rather than those in his company. Despite his denial, he couldn’t help but notice his own change in stance since she saved him, risked her own life to do so, and never asked for anything in return. Since then, she hadn’t pushed him or done anything to aggravate him further.

In fact, they’d only spoken once when Wolffe had confronted her about saving his life. Her words still rang through his mind, often sparking prangs of guilt, even more so after he’d practically scolded her as if she was a misbehaving child. I’m fine with you hating me, Commander. At least you're alive to do it.

Series Masterlist

#star wars #reader insert #reader interactive #star wars fanfiction #the clone wars #commander wolffe #commander cody #commander fox #commander thorn #captain howzer #captain rex #captain gregor #commander wolffe x you #commander wolffe x jedi reader #commander wolffe x reader #scars commander wolffe x jedi reader #cross posted on novlr #cross posted on quotev #cross posted on ao3 #cross posted on wattpad #knightprincess writes #part 5 #cross posted on inkitt #cross posted on neobook

[bonny-kookoo]

KTH/JJK: Dreamer 3

In which both Taehyung and Jungkook decide that there's enough love for three.

Tags/Warnings: poly, strangers to lovers au, hybrid reader, personal trainer kook, high end clothing label owner&designer tae, mild angst, mentions of (past) homelessness

Additional Chapter Warnings: more cute fluff, little angst

Length: short/mid

<- Previous | Next ->

"You like soft fabrics?" Taehyung asks, having noticed that over the course of the past few months of getting ti know you, you've been mostly wearing the colorful fluffy socks Jungkook had bought randomly while coming home from work one day. You nod at the question of the designer sitting next to you, and he nods. "It suits you." He hums more or less in thought, before Jungkook walks in, climbing over the back of the couch to sit on your other side, though he does lean over to give Taehyung a kiss as a hello.

"What's up, kitty." He greets you after that, flicking one of your ears before he relaxes. "God I'm beat today. I honestly just wanna sleep!" He laughs, rubbing his biceps which might still hurt from working out today.

"How about you nap with her while I go sketch out some stuff? I'll order food later." Taehyung suggests, slowly getting up.

"If that's okay with you?" Jungkook asks, before looking at you. "I'll never pass an opportunity to nap with the cuddlebug." He teases, a nickname given due to your growing clinginess with both of them. It's not surprising- they're both lovely people to be around, very kind and caring, both to each other but also with you.

Though it does confuse you a lot.

You know that Taehyung and Jungkook are partners, both platonically and romantically. Still, both of them seem very open about their attraction to you, in their own ways- something that makes you wonder what they reay want. They've been nothing but nice to you until now. Surely they must want something back from you.

To you're here for pleasure? Then why does no one ask you about it?

It's odd.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" Jungkook asks, pointing a finger at your forehead before tracing it down over the bridge of your nose, staying at the tip before bringing his hand back down away from you and into his lap. "You're more quiet than usual." He mumbles.

"I'm.. still not sure what you want from me." You say, looking at him. "Surely it can't just be.. platonic company and occasionally playing doll for Taehyung." You question, and Jungkooks eyes widen for a split second. "I'm unsure what you want me to do. Is sleeping with me an.. innuendo for sex, and I'm not getting it?" You ask, and he shakes his head.

"Absolutely not- I'm sorry if it ever felt that way." He apologizes turning towards you. "You're not really here for anything, really."

"But then why have me here?" You ask, frustrated.

"Do you not want to be here?" Taehyung asks, walking back into the living room having heard the discussion. "If you don't want to be here, you're free to leave."

"Taehyung.." Jungkook asks softly, unsure if his partner is actually serious. They can't just throw you back out like that.

"Its not.. I'm just confused." You sigh, pulling your legs close before wrapping your arms around them. "You act.. sometimes you act towards me like you do towards each other." You mumble, and that's when it clicks.

"Oh.." Jungkook laughs, heart lighter now that he knows it's 'just' that.

"Well, that's because we like you similar to how we like each other. You could even call it a crush, if you want." The oldest shrugs with no shame, leaving Jungkooks to his his face in his palm, unable to hide his shyness compared to his boyfriend.

"I- uh.." you stutter, ears pinned back as your cheeks flush red at those bold words.

"Of course, if you don't feel the same or it makes you uncomfortable, we can easily stop and leave it at that. We won't kick you out just because you don't like us that way." Taehyung makes sure to emphasize, folding a blanket before he places it on one side of the couch.

"What if I'm.. breaking you two apart?" You quietly worry, and its Jungkooks hand now on your back that tries to reassure you.

"You won't. We're not that easy to pull apart, trust me." He smiles, and at that, you sigh.

"What now?" Taehyung chuckles at your frustrated face, watching you.

"Nothing." You huff, before letting yourself fall onto the couch, face first into the neatly folded blanket.

"Well.. that's one way to give an answer." Jungkoom laughs, swatting at your tail that's been swaying in his face.

"I'd say give her some time to think about it." Taehyung shrugs, though he seems optimistic about it all.

Jungkook ends up following Taehyung for a nap into the bedroom- and all seems done and over with, until a quiet cat hybrid sneaks between them bothtail curling around Jungkooks wrist while your hands hold Taehyungs.

And with your eyes closed and quiet purrs, you don't notice the lovestruck smiles on the guys faces as they watch you sleep-

Your silent answer very much loud and clear.

[lablim64]

Another of that I made base of people I met in irl

This crusty dusty divot MOTHERFUCKING DEMON LIKE F@G-

I won't even gonna made a name I will tell what she did to me in irl for no damn reason after the story-

Name:kanya/karma (her nickname was karma)

Age: idk (can be 16-15 by now, she were like 14 when I met her)

Gender: a total bitch (ehem female-)

Ok now the story, and keep reading after the story because I'm not afraid to expose what she did that destroyed me for years-

Warning: mention of suicide

Story:

A bitch, by the name calling you probably guess how she were, she used to be lim's best friend at the time when he were adopted by dragon (his missing step dad) and behind lim's death happened, they were met on the playground, she were crying and he were so kind to help, kanya were had a horrible household, her parents were not believing her and her brother were abusive, there was the point where she wanted to commit suicide but luckily lim saved her from it, he always met her there and help her, telling her one day everything will be ok and always gave her spare food and heals her bruises till one day her life became better, her brother left the house and her parents got divorced and now she's living in a good family, lim were happy to help her and keep on helping her, bit something start to felt off, kanya start becoming so odd, she start getting too personal and jealous when lim mentions someone else as a friend, start to ignore and being narcissistic to lim's vents and always blaming herself for everything to get his attention, lim being too young and not so educated enough though maybe it was because of her past until one day lim got into an accident and had to stay in the hospital for weeks, he were almost died on that accident but there were no words from anyone about it, after lim got out from the hospital and met up with kanya, she tolded him that he missed her birthday and that made lim sad, he apologize and explain the situation he was as on, and that mf start arguing with lim, calling him a pick-me, an egoist, a liar, she literally yelled at him and call him names for being in the hospital during her birthday, that broke lim a lot, they were friends for way way long, he saved her life, helped her and this is the thank he gets? No way..after that day they never seen each other again, lim become so indoors and depressed about what happened, keep on blaming himself for helping her and saving her life, and the worst part is he never able to forget about that memory, keep on saying "I wish I let you committed.." Everytime he remembers her words, tbh he's right tho, what an asshole, and you know a worst part, that girl is now knowing where lim currently is and doesn't seem to have any regrets from the past.

That's all

now you might be wondering "but hey, boy, what did that girl did to you in the past that you hate her that much?" Well here's what he did:

WARNING: mention of suicide and life baiting

Almostly same with the story, she we're nicknamed karma, we met and I helped her the most, she were my best friend, save her from suicide multiple times, yet me being an idiot and a human pleaser stuck with her narcissistic ass for 3 years, and one day at the covid times I got my second flu shot and it side effected, I were burning and so dizzy that my parents take me to the hospital even the doctors told me that if I were not make it there, I might die, anyway when I get back home that asshole texted me saying that I forgot her birthday and I apologize for it and explain what happened, like I thought she would care ugh..she called me names and stuff I still cannot forgot, literally make me wanna commit suicide for stopping her from committing suicide, she ruined my life that I didn't get myself together and still are, she were my everything, I saved her life and this is the thanks I get? I wish she were committed, don't even come to me saying "but boy, life baiting is horrible!" I KNOW BUT DUDE! she really were a waste of life...you know how much I wanted to commit after what she did? I also don't like life baiting but this feeling won't leaving me alone!

Important note: don't life bait people, I also don't wanted to but I'm just so angry at her..

Anyway see you on another post,sorry for what you had to hear-

#incredibox #orin ayo #breakthrough #tragibox #incredibox breakthrough #incredibox e.v.a.c.u.a.t.e #incredibox orin ayo #incredibox fanart #incredibox oc #wekiddy

[littlenighttales]

Spoilers for The Sounds of Nightmares (E3).

Okay

Spoiler warning over

The Theater of the Mind

(Live typing as I listen here, will keep later edits in parenthesis)

The nightmares are a reality.

Guys. Fellas. Friends. Amigos.

The very first few seconds basically says we are all right. The nightmares are both real and nightmares. Noone just straight up gets vanquished into the shadow realm as she sleeps.

Seems that the Signal Tower’s corruption has tunneled across time and space into the real world, growing strong enough to teleport kids into it. Maybe adults are doomed to become residents?

This means Six, Mono, everyone else probably had a happy life, and that unholy abomination took it from them. But then, what are the odds that this would happen to siblings? We see siblings in the LN comics.

Also Noone thinks Otto is her friend ;w;

Oh. The innocence….

It’s going to be really bad if (when) Otto turns out to be a baddie.

Noone’s dreams are… kind of depressing. Imagine that. Nightmares. Depressing.

The idea of growing up makes her sad (this comes up more than once) after she plays with one of those potty training dolls. She got bored fast. Fear of growing up is a bit common in kids that are traumatized. Noone is under 10, I figured most likely around 6-8.

Speaking of dolls, I’m pretty sure that doll is a demon.

Noone’s seemingly interested in jewelry. She kind of abandoned the doll in favor of jewelry and it up and dipped while she was gone.

Sounding like the dolls are kids, kind of like the Nest. (This part was wrong, which is good considering the one Noone played with started leaking what sounded like blood from the audio.)

She goes to see a movie in her dream. One with unicorns. She seems to like those, meaning Noone would get along with my Frisk for sure!

The audience in this theater, she realizes, aren’t people, but mannequins. (Might be worth mentioning the hospital mannequins and the old LN2 cut concept art of Mono and Six sneaking by an army of distracted ones?)

Then the Ferryman appears with the scent of the sea.

Noone doesn’t really remember much more about the Ferryman, so Otto just flips the heck out- definitely a bad therapist at a minimum. They’ve got to pause for a second, I think a break happens here. After that break, Otto apologizes and Noone continues.

Also demonic PA and an Eye. So a theater/mall version of the Eye Tower, sounding like?

Noone- which is pronounced Noon- is nicknamed “No One” which is how I first pronounced it when I first saw it written.

The Theater seems lonely? That’s kind of sad. But it seems a bit concerned for Noone? Forgot to mention, the theater is in a mall. So it’s really an Eye Mall. It’s lonely. Kind of reminds me of Mono… maybe the Signal Tower is lonely, too? (Oh… oh no. Guys, what if this WAS Mono talking? Somehow controlling the eyes in the Mall as an extension of himself? Could explain the arguing that it did with itself. Excuse me while I go cry all of the tears at this idea regardless.)

The Mall seems to want to protect Noone from the Ferryman.

Noone’s not a fan of the fame from being cured, which I mentioned before (I think in my E2 review.)

At the end, Noone asks “do I have to go back to my room?”

So, she’s still in a hospital maybe? Mental institute? If this is the case, could all the kids in LN have some mental health/nightmare issues?

(Otto does seem to have some personal motives. Like… he wants to protect Noone (“This time I will protect you”), maybe he sees her as a daughter figure? Projecting CiCi onto her? But it also feels like he’s using her to find his own daughter- which is entirely understandable! Knowing your child was kidnapped by a lovecraftian horror would be devastating emotionally and mentally.)

(I’ve also begun to wonder, could Six be CiCi? Could Six be sharing these “nightmares” with other kids? Maybe the Maw, the Nest, and the City, etc aren’t her dreams, but Mono’s, RK’s, and Rain’s? If Six is CiCi, then perhaps six was just her patient number? All she remembered being called? Mono could be a similar case. That is, assuming they were all put into a similar ward.)

#little nightmares au #little nightmares spoilers #spoilers #the sounds of nightmares #episode 3 #the theater of the mind

[authorluvgxbby]

The Delinquent Next Door - Part 4: It’s A Date!

Genre: Fluff

Synopsis: With your world turning upside down, you begin to slowly connect the dots of who your neighbor really is. It seems that no matter where you are or what situation you’re in, it all relates back to Hanma Shuji. Things are moving a bit too fast for you...so, how will you manage?

Pairing: Hanma Shuji x Neighbor! Reader

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of violence/violent behavior, slight trauma mentions/suggestions

A/N: *gasp* THANK YOU SO MUCH! 😭  Honestly, I was about to abandon the whole thing, but since I've been getting a lot of questions about it, I'll be posting the rest of it every week or so. This part was kinda short, so I apologize in advance. Enjoy!

Part 1      Part 2      Part 3     Part 4  

Two days have passed since your near death experience with Hanma. 

Guess you could basically check off almost being murdered off your bucket list.

What a wonderful world we live in. 

After the experience of the unsavory adventure, you began to contemplate the events of that night, while trying to piece together the…interesting background of your neighbor. 

His infamous reputation as the most feared gangster in Kabukicho was very odd, seeing as how a normal individual, such as yourself, wouldn’t have a clue about him, yet those small fry gangsters knew him like he was some historical figure out of a history book. 

I mean, since when do gangsters do homework on other gangsters? Maybe there’s some sort of class specifically for delinquents or something?

You shook your head. 

This is crazy.

To be honest, you had to give him some credit.  Despite the ridiculous and underlying comical nickname as a “Grim Reaper,'' you understood why people–delinquents–feared him so much.

That night when witnessing the fight between him and those thugs was something you certainly would never forget. Not because of the shock or the adrenaline pumping through your body due to the obvious danger that was present in the situation but because of the fact that Hanma, at the time, wasn’t the same person you met. Or, in your eyes, wasn’t just the average asshole next door neighbor that you had bumped into. 

That night, you saw a completely different side of him aside from his crude and playfully cocky behavior. 

He wasn’t the idiot you saw trying to bulldoze his door because he was lazy. No, he was a guy who would have beaten the crap out of anyone that looked at him wrong without hesitation and a really, really, really scary delinquent. 

Certainly someone you wouldn’t want to piss off. At least, not too much. 

Just gathering that much pretty much made it clear that Hanma wasn’t exactly normal.

As a matter of fact, it’s almost impossible to consider him ‘normal’ after witnessing how he basically took life as a joke with little to no care for his own safety and well-being. Which makes him ten times as weird as you thought he was.

What kind of neighbor knows how to beat the literal shit out of people? No–what kind of person takes pleasure in violence? 

None of which you or anyone else knew, that’s for sure.

Nonetheless it seems that everywhere you go, trouble follows behind you, and so does Hanma Shuji. 

I should move….and get out of the neighborhood while I’m still in one piece.

“Hey…”

But that wouldn’t really benefit me much. It was hard enough finding somewhere cheap to live.

“y/n!”

You snap out of your thoughts, turning your full attention towards your concerned best friend.

She frowns. “Are you alright? Are you still in shock from what happened?”

You blink owlishly, waiting for her words to process.

Oh right, she still feels guilty.

You glare at her, landing a gentle smack to her shoulder, “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m fine! Quit beating yourself up already”

She frowns,“How can I not blame myself after you almost got hurt? All because of a stupid date!” she pouts, eyes watery as she takes your hand into her own, squeezing gently.

 “You’ve been so distant lately, and you’ve been on edge ever since that night,” she mumbles, once again squeezing your hand apologetically, “how can I not worry about you…” 

Ok, sure, it kinda was her fault. 

No, wait, scratch that–it definitely was her fault. But, hey, it could have been worse. If it weren’t for your crazy neighbor, you would’ve ended up in a body bag, yet here you are now, alive and breathing, and still working minimum wage at a run-down diner for a living.

“You say that as if I’m dead already,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes as you turn back to the register you were posted at, “and besides, as far as I’m concerned I’m still sucking air for the most part, so you shouldn’t be so worried. I’m fine.”

Bzzz!

Great timing universe!

Quickly fishing out your phone from your jeans pocket, you quickly glance at the new notification on your screen.

Jerk-Face Reaper: Meet me on the roof at 11 P.M.

Gee, my day was great, thanks for asking!

You: Why? 

He doesn’t respond, only having read the message as indicated underneath your text.

You huff, slightly gripping your phone as you curse him through the tiny device.

You: I’m not gonna come if you don’t tell me why. I have to study for exams tonight, so I don’t have time for you rn. 

“Who’s that? Is he a friend?” f/n asked, now leaning over your shoulder while scanning over your recent messages.

“I’m still trying to figure that out.” you sigh, placing your phone down on the counter.

She raises a brow. “Hmmm, why is he asking you out?”

Warmth creeps at the back of your neck. “He never said anything about a date!” you blurt out, clearing your throat as you set your phone down as you try to busy yourself at the empty register.

“Besides, we don’t know each other like that.”

She shrugs, “Maybe he wants to get to know you.”

Trust me, it’s the other way around. And not in the romantic perspective either.

“And what’s with the weird contact name? Something face reaper? Sounds like something straight out of a comic book.”

What is this? An interrogation?

Intentional or not, those were some damn good questions, none of which you wanted to answer. 

Bzzz!

You snatch your phone from the countertop, looking over to see your best friend caught up in a conversation with the cook.

Jerk-Face Reaper: Just come. 

You: …

You: You can reach me at my apartment, I’ll be studying. Goodbye :)

Jerk-Face Reaper: …

Jerk-Face Reaper: …Please?

You grinned.

You: Aww, such a sweetheart! I’ll take it. See you at 11!

“Aw, so it is a date!” f/n coos from behind you.

So she’s just spawning out of thin air now?!

“I-its not! I swear!” you groaned, hiding your face in your arms.

I hate it here.

#tr hanma #hanma x reader #hanma imagine #tokyo revengers hanma #hanma shuji #hanma fluff #hanma x you #tokyorev imagines #tokyo rev #tokyorev #tokyorev hanma #tokyo rev hanma #Tokyo Revengers #tokyo revengers hanma shuji #tokyo revengers imagines #tokyo revengers fanfiction #tokyo rev fluff #tokyo revengers fluff #tokyo rev imagine #tokyorev imagine #tokyo revengers imagine #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyorev x reader #hanma shuji x reader #hanma shuji fluff #hanma x neighbor! reader #hanma shuji x you #tokyo revengers x you