˙ʞunɹpǝʌol

The Kravinoff's estate in Volgograd is bigger than your own. You feel like it could swallow you whole the moment you walk into the foyer. An array of renaissance paintings and animal busts line the walls and the dim yellow lights of the room causes a shiver to run up your spine. You grip your purse, looking around. It's unusually quiet. 

"Y/n Y/l/n?" A man calls your name as he struts over. He is dressed in a crisp suit and he snaps his fingers and a maid's rush in and take your coat and purse. You let her. The man doesn't tell you his name as he ushers you into a larger room. It looks like someone's bureau. You pause, realizing you're not alone in this room. A line of four woman stand in front of the desk and you suddenly feel violently ill. 

"Miss Y/l/n, Sir," The man introduces you and bows his head slightly as if the man behind the desk truly is royalty. You walk closer, the light from the dimming sun shinning onto the older man's face as he sits in the leather chair, hands folded on the expensive mahogany wood. 

You don't know what Sergei Kravinoff is supposed to look like, but this man looks around sixty. He stands and you feel stuck in place as he practically glares at you. "You're late," he snarls, his Russian accent thick. He gestures to the line of women with a huff, "Go." 

Your legs move before your mind catches up and you go to stand beside a pretty brunette. You straighten up, keeping your hands in front of you. The women doesn't even look your way and whatever this is feels more and more like a competition. 

"You all think you're worthy of my son, hm," the man clears his throat and walks out from behind his desk like a predator stalking its pray. The women don't answer but none of them look afraid.

You definitely feel afraid.  

He stops in front of the first women, a gorgeous blond. All these women are stunning. Your hands tremble so you press them against your jeans. "Too skinny," Who you now assume is Nikolai Kravinoff, says dismissively. He moves on to the next women, snorting. He swipes his thumb across her cheek, smudging her foundation. "This shit won't make you any prettier, darlin'."

You feel anger course through you and you turn your head, forcing your head forward. Who does he think he is judging her? Has he looked in the mirror recently? He isn't exactly handsome. Your thoughts are interrupt by someone's hand gripping your hips. Your eyes snap up and lock with Nikolai's as he grins and says, "Sturdy hips. Good for having strong children."

You blink, a jolt of warmth and embarrassment rushing through you. Without thinking, you shove Nikolai away from you. He's surprised by your outburst so he stumbles. It doesn't take long for you to realize the gravity of your error as Nikolai's calloused palm is raised in anger. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for the strike but it never comes. 

You hear the other women gasp and murmurs fill the room. You open your eyes slowly and find another man, slightly taller than Nikolai, is holding his wrist so he can't slap you. The man's sharp blue eyes are glaring and when he tightens his grip, his arm muscles flex. Your entranced by his beauty and you let out a small squeak, a delayed response to the fear of the slap. 

The man eyes snap towards you and you think you see a flicker of gold in his irises before it disappears. Time feels like it's frozen as you stare at the man. It isn't until Nikolai wrenches his arm away that you snap out of the haze and step back instinctively. 

You expect an argument to break out but nothing comes. Instead, Nikolai simply smiles grimly. "Sergei," he says, a hint of distain in his voice. He turns towards the women, glaring at you as he motions towards the women. "You're just in time to meet your potential bride," he chuckles darkly. Nikolai walks by you without a word and your shoulders relax as you let out a breath. 

You lower your head, hands clenching against your jeans again. You sneak a glance at Sergei. He is every bit as handsome as the rumors you'd heard. His hair falls to his neck in messy curls and his jaw is clenched in concentration as he watches his father move. He's beautiful. You know you have no chance of becoming his wife after what you just did, but you can't help staring anyways. 

"I want her," Sergei says calmly, interrupting his father as Nikolai was introducing one of the brunettes. 

You don't register that he's looking at you until Nikolai barks a laugh. You freeze in place. "Her? Sergei, my boy, nonsense. Isn't she a bit mousy?" The don't even care about the insult as it dawns on you that Sergei had just chosen you. 

Sergei walks up to you slowly, taking in your appearance with consideration. You lock eyes with him and your heart pounds rapidly in your chest. There is no way he'd just chosen you. There must be a mistake. 

"You forced me to chose a bride," Sergei starts gruffly, looking back at his father, "and I have chosen." Without another word, he turns on his heels and walks out the room. The women all look shocked and confused by the speed at which you'd been chosen and you can feel their hatred as they stare. 

Nikolai is silent for a moment until he laughs again. He looks at you, taking in your appearance with a sneer. He chuckles more menacingly now but waves his hand dismissively. "Alright. Ivan, show the girl to her room," he says and you feel the first man you'd met grab your arm. 

You startle, turning around as you're guided out of the room. You can't believe this is actually happening. What about your things? Your family? Your friends? Your head is spinning and the last thing you hear is the sound of a door slamming and the feel of expensive duvet as you crumble onto your new bed.

* * *

Your father was ecstatic to hear you'd been chosen by the Kravinoff's. However, you and your mother wept at the thought of you leaving home. It was all happening so quickly. You'd been forbidden from wandering the estate and you spent most of your days in your new room, waiting for your future husband to show the slightest interest in you. 

He never did. 

Your father had sent over some of your things, including your grandmother's wedding dress. The dress made everything feel more real, and still when the day finally came, the tightness of the dress was suffocating. 

The wedding is small and private, and still there are no expenses missed. The room looks lavish and grand, but even the glitters and the glam can't distract you from the thorns you feel peeking out from the bouquet of roses you’re holding. As you walk down the aisle, this is the first time you're seeing Sergei since that day and he doesn't look your way until your standing in front of him. 

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you look at the man you're marrying. He's just as beautiful as the day you saw him, but behind the beauty he seems cold and distant. It scares you.

There is no exchange of vows, just the mutual 'I do' and the feel of Sergei's hand on the small of your back as he pulls you in for a kiss. 

He pauses mid-way, sensing how you’re trembling and he looks into your eyes as he silently asks for something. Your eyes flicker over his features, confused, and you hold your breath in anticipation. His hand moves upwards to cup your cheek and he turns your head to the side, treating you more gently than you'd expected. You realize as he kisses your cheek right near your mouth that he's blocking the guests from seeing the insincerity of the kiss. 

When he pulls away and smiles the fakest smile you've ever seen, your heart shatters. 

He didn't even want to kiss you. 

The crowd applauses and you feel like throwing up.

During the reception, your father is beaming alongside Nikolai Kravinoff as they seem to be discussing future business now that your families have merged. You’re sitting alone at your table since Sergei has gone off somewhere and you feel numb. Tears fill your eyes as you realize in horror there is no escape from him. You're trapped in this loveless marriage until the day you die.

You dress suddenly feels like it's tightening around you and you feel faint. You stand on shaky legs, grasping for the side of the table as the fancy lace feels like it's binding into your ribs, drawing all the blood you have to offer. No one seems to notice your distress as you stumble towards the hall outside the room. You gasp for breath, hands clutching at the walls. 

 He hadn't even kiss you.

Tears spill down your face as the pain becomes excruciating. You feel all the strength in your body leave you as the world around you turns dark. 

* * *

When you wake, the room you're in is dark as the moonlight shines in through the window. You're laying in a bed, soft furs and blankets are sprawled across the covers. You blink, watching the ceiling fan spin slowly as you regain your bearings. The wedding, you remember with a jolt as you sit up. You feel the straps of your dress slap gently against your shoulders and you reach behind, feeling the skin of your back. Someone had unbuttoned all the little buttons on your dress. 

"Careful," you hear a familiar gruff voice and you jump in your skin, letting out a small squeak. 

You see the shadow of a man sitting on the armchair in the middle of the room, his eyes barely visible in the darkness but you swear you see another flicker of gold before he pulls the string of the lamp beside him. You wince at the sudden light but adjust quickly as you stare at your husband. He stays silent as he simply watches you.

"Where am I?" You ask, your voice hoarse. You touch your cheeks, hoping the tears you'd shed hadn't ruined your mascara and foundation. 

"Our suite," Sergei answers, his tone even. 

"What happened?" You ask another question, glancing at the window. It's clearly late. 

"You passed out. You couldn't breathe in your dress." Once again his answer is unemotional. You clench your hands tightly in the furs that are spread out on his bed, swallowing the embarrassment and tears that threatened to fall again as the reality of your situation settles in.

You're his wife now. He practically owns you and your family now. 

Sergei stands up, his suit creasing as he flexes his arms. You freeze, keeping your gaze averted from his as you feel him stalk closer to where you sit. His frame blocks the moonlight from the window and hesitantly, you lift your head to catch your gaze. 

His jaw ticks as he narrows his eyes. You quickly wipe your eyes, not wanting him to see your tears. You know he's seen it anyway because he grips your jaw and gently lifts your head to meet his eyes. Your stomach twists and more tears pool in your eyes. You want to ask him so many questions: why he'd chosen you? Why he needed a wife when his empire was large enough? And why he didn't kiss you during the ceremony. 

"Why didn't I kiss you?" Sergei repeats, his voice low and husky, and your blood runs cold. Had you asked him that aloud? Your lip trembles but you can't tear your eyes from him. 

You nod slowly, curiosity winning over the preservation of your dignity. 

"Did you want me to kiss you?" He asks as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

You blink at him, unsure how to answer. You nod again. 

Sergei doesn't respond, but then he removes his hand from your jaw. "I didn't know." Is all he answers, still gazing at you with a look hardened by years of wounds and suffering. You flinch a little when you leans down, his nose almost touch yours as his hand finds it's way behind your back, brushing your bare skin as it travels towards your head, calloused palm spreading across your nape. When he speaks again, his warm breath fawns your face. "Do you still want me to kiss you?" 

You blink once more, wet tears still brimming on your eyelids. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up to his words. You do want him to kiss you. How could you not what the kiss when it symbolizes that perhaps this marriage isn't hopeless after all? 

"Yes," you whisper without hesitation, shutting your eyes.

Sergei's lips find yours and it's softer than you'd imagined it be. He doesn't tighten his hold or deepen the kiss. Instead, he tilts his head and captures your upper lip in his, moving gently as if you're something easily broken. You lift your hands, clutching at his chemise as you straighten your back to kiss him better. 

When he finally pulls away, his hand lingers on your nape. You open your eyes as he straightens himself and clears his throat. You feel the absence of his touch as he backs away. "Rest," he says and it sounds like a plea rather than a demand. "I'll deal with our families."

Sergei's hand twitches at his side as if he wants to touch you again but he restrains. You watch him leave. He'd turns off the lamp on his way out so you're plunged back into darkness. But as you lay back against the pillows, you realize that the darkness that made you feel so lonely all these weeks before doesn't seem so daunting anymore. 

* * *

Being Sergei’s bride is less difficult than you'd imagined. Thankfully you've left Nikolai Kravinoff's Russian estate and the slimy gazes he'd send your way. Mostly, your new role is to be a pretty accessory. You aren't allowed to know about his 'jobs' or involve yourself, so most of your days are spent alone in his apartment in London. 

Sergei makes sure you're well cared for. He sends money and gifts from wherever he is that week. Still, he rarely calls and he never texts so that excruciating feeling of loneliness is ever present. 

It's almost midnight now and the warm water from your shower has shriveled your fingers. Still, you stand under the water, staring at the pristine tiles as soap threads through your toes. Sergei hasn't come home in three weeks. He hasn't even called. You sigh deeply and turn to rinse out the suds before turning off the water. Grabbing your towel, you walk out of the bathroom. Steam fills the room and you push hair out from your eyes. 

You don't bother changing. No one is home anyway. You slide the bathroom door open and step out in the hall. You don't mind how your still dripping water droplets. The apartment is eerily silent. Or you think it isn't you approach the kitchen. The sound of glasses clinking and hushed male voices can be heard and you pause. You tighten your grip on your towel and hug the wall as you freeze near the door, holding your breath. 

You recognize Sergei's voice immediately. He must have come home when you were in the shower. "Dima. Don't," your husband cautions. He sounds tired. You hear a younger voice laugh as Sergei's little brother dismisses his warning. 

"Sergei, Papa is worried," Dima says, still sounding lighthearted. You hold your breath. 

"He doesn't need to meddle in my affairs." 

"He knows you haven't laid with her," Dima continues and your heart pounds. They're talking about you and the lack of intimacy in your marriage. You and Sergei haven't even slept in the same bed with how much he's been away, much less done anything more than that one kiss. 

"And?" Sergei asks, sounding annoyed now. 

"And he just wants her to fulfill her role."

"Dima," Sergei's voice becomes louder and you cover your mouth the stay quiet.

"That is what he said, Sergei. That is why you married, remember? I am just telling you what he said." 

"Well don't. She is not my breeding cow, черт возьми." 

Your heart is beating rapidly at his words and the towel slips from your hand in shock. Flustered, you scramble to pick it up and cover yourself. The men in the kitchen go silent and you realize you must have made too much noise. Shit, you curse in your head and hurry back to your bedroom. You shut the door behind you, abandoning any secrecy. You reach for your pajamas, which embarrassingly consists of one of Sergei's shirts, and throw it on. 

The door behind you opens just as the towel pools at your feet and you squeak, jumping back in surprise. You spin around, hands still covering your chest as if you're still naked. Your husband stands in the doorway, a look of confusion on his face. He looks tired. His looks sunken in and his beard is a bit longer than when you last saw him. Still, he looks gorgeous. 

"You aren't asleep," he states.

You shake your head, backing closer to the large windows. Your eyes are wide and nervous.

"It is late." 

You nod. Sergei gently closes the door behind him. "I sent Dima away. I apologize for inviting someone over without your permission." 

You nod again, clearing your throat. "It's alright."

"Did you hear our conversation?" Sergei asks as if he already knows the answer and walks further into the room. He sends a glance your way, registering that you're wearing one of his shirts but he doesn't mention it. Instead, he sighs and rubs his temples as if he's in pain. "You don't need to be afraid. I won't touch you. Sit," he gestures towards the bed. You obey, sinking into the mattress and clasping your hands together. 

I won't touch you. His words sting more than they should. 

"Why?" You find yourself asking. 

Sergei pauses. "Why what?"

Why did you choose me? Why are you always away? Why won't you touch me?

"Um, why me? That day—" you begin, sounding unsure. Sergei raises his eyebrow. He walks to the opposite side of the bed, sitting down as well. The city lights shine in from the windows, illuminating the room. 

"You want to know now?" He asks. 

"Yes," you say immediately. "Please." 

Silent fills the room for a bit until Sergei speaks. "You were different. You looked just as scared as you looked combative. You didn't just stand there, shinny and fake, like all the others." You listen with bated breath. "I wasn't planning on accepting any marriage when I walked into that room—" 

That takes you by surprise. So, he choose you despite his reservations? You don't quite know what to think. 

"Perhaps I made a mistake."

You breathe hitches and you turn to face him. Your body is half on the bed and you can't help the hurt in your voice as you ask, "Because you don't want me? Because you don't want to touch me? Because I'm not desirable? Is that the mistake?" 

Sergei turns around slowly, facing you as well now. He looks taken aback by your words. "Excuse me?" he asks in a breathless whisper. 

"Is that the mistake?" You desperately want an explanation. 

"You think you aren't desirable?"

You turn fully, kneeling on the mattress now so you're closer to him. "You told your brother you don't want to be intimate with your wife! How am I supposed to live like that?!"

Sergei's eyes widen for a fraction of a second and then his frown deepens. In a swift motion, he grabs your cheek and kisses you. You wrap your arms around his neck instantly, forcing yourself even closer to him as you kiss him back. 

Every inch of your lonely soul yearns for him. 

Sergei climbs over you, his hand now pressed down against the mattress by your head as he kisses you with hunger. It's nothing like the gentle kiss he gave you the day you married him. This time, he feels almost feral. He pulls away, glancing down at you sprawled over bed you're supposed to share, your hands gripping his shirt. "You are so beautiful," he says earnestly. "How am I supposed to ruin you?"

You lean up, trying to kiss him again. "I'm not a—"

"You are," Sergei interrupts and cups your cheek, gently stroking his thumb across your soft skin. "It was in the contract my father made."

Your cheeks heat up. He knew you weren't experienced. It was a condition for the marriage? "Why?" You ask breathlessly. 

Sergei begins to gently kiss your neck as he continues to sooth you. "He is old-fashioned," he explains as his kisses you again. He lifts his head and looks into your eyes. "It doesn't matter to me. I'd want you any way," he pauses and adds, "I'll be gentle. I promise."

I'd want you any way. His words send a shock to your core and you tense up involuntarily. Your head is spinning. He wants you? He's never even hinted at wanting you until now. Still, you crave his touch and warmth. 

When he kisses you again, this time you wrap your arms around his shoulders, using him as an anchor. You feel his knee slide between your thighs, lifting the hem of his shirt as if pools around your stomach. Your eyes widen when you remember you're not wearing any underwear and you drop your arms, tugging at the shirt to cover yourself. 

Sergei pulls away from the kiss once again, a little confused into he looks at your face and the downwards. His lips curl into a smirk. "It's okay," he says reassuringly. He strokes your damp hair, kissing your forehead. "Do you want this?" 

You can only nod as you're still too embarrassed to speak. Your husband just kisses you again. This time, he easily leans his weight on one arm as he reaches down with the other to rest his hand on top of your pussy. Even with the shirt still covering you, you can feel the warmth of his hand and your breathing becomes deeper. 

Sergei just stays like this for a moment, kissing you. 

"M-more?" You whisper against his lips, wiggling your hips a little. 

You feel him grin against your lips as his hand dips lower, finding your naked pussy. His fingers feels really big so you jump a little in surprise. When you do, Sergei moves his arm so that his hand is under your head, gently caressing your hair. "Shh, it's okay. You're so wet for me already, little dove."

He begins to touch you fully and your mind goes blank. This isn't the same feeling as your hands. This is something new. His thumb swirls around your clit, gently stimulating you. You clutch your hand in his shirt again, tugging at the material. 

"Patience," Sergei whispers hoarsely, one finger now pressing against your entrance. You inhale, squirming again. He goes slow, looking into your eyes for any sign of pain. Anytime he sees that flicker in your eyes, he stops and gives you time to adjust. After a while, one finger becomes two, and two becomes three, and now you're breathlessly whining under him. 

"Gotta open you up," he says, gently pumping his fingers in and out as he watches you fall apart. 

You arch your back, gripping the sheets now. "I-I think I’m g-gonna—"

"Go ahead. Cum for me." 

You squeeze your eyes shut and come, clenching around his fingers as you let out a soft moan. Your mind is hazy for a moment and you don't register his hand pulling away until you hear the sound of a belt buckle unbuckling. You open your eyes, taking him in: Sergei has removed his shirt and he's in the process of removing his trousers. Your gaze travels along his torso.

Holy shit.

You reach for him, wanting to count the abs on his stomach. You hear him chuckle and it snaps you back into reality as he takes your hand and hovers over you once again. Sergei smiles and slides his shirt off you, mussing your hair and leaving you completely bare. You're very aware that you're now both naked and you feel extremely vulnerable. 

Sergei sees your expression so he takes the time to kiss you softly, all over your face, your neck, and your chest, so that he can reassure you that he's not leaving you. His sharp teeth glide over your skin, leaving markings. You lost in the intimacy of his touch that you barely register him parting your thighs. His hand slides up and down, caressing you as you throw your head back into the pillow. 

"So beautiful," Sergei murmurs, pressing himself closer to you. Your eyes open when you feel something big pressing against your pussy. You flinch and grasp at his shoulders. "It's okay. You want this hm, little dove?" 

You nod, staring into his eyes. Sergei stills, waiting for more. "Yes," you admit in a small voice. 

"Good girl," he whispers as he kisses the side of your face, nuzzling into you so that his warmth envelops you. You can feel the pressure in between your bodies and you gasp, hands clenching harder against Sergei's bare shoulders. You feel his dick slip inside as he goes ever so slowly. He keeps kissing your face and you squeeze your eyes shut as pain shoots through you. 

"It hurts," you say, holding him closer.

Sergei pauses and gives you time to adjust. He whispers Russian words in your ear. Words you don't understand, but by his voice you can tell they're loving. After a moment, he rocks forwards gently and you realize the pain has lessened. You bury your face in your husband's chest, letting yourself feel. 

A thrust. Then another. And another after that until finally that pained look on your face morphs into pleasure. "S-Sergei," you say, feeling him groan above you. He shifts and places on hand on the headboard, anchoring himself. 

"Yes?" His voice sounds strains as he mutters a curse under his breath. The bed creeks under his thrusts. 

"It feels good," you say breathlessly, stilling holding on to him. 

"Hm? It feels good? Is that right?" You can hear the smile in his voice this time and you're so embarrassed. You nod, trying to keep the sounds you want to make quiet. You feel so full and your pussy keeps tingling. 

"I want to hear you," Sergei groans from above and you hear the wood from the headboard start to crack. You lift your head, overwhelmed now as a moan slips past your lips. Sergei is staring at you, his eyes dark and golden as he watches you from above. Strand of curly hair fall over his forehead, dangling with each thrust. 

You can't look away from his eyes as your moans become louder. 

Sergei's other hand tightens around your thigh, gently lifting it so that he can push himself even deeper inside you. Your eyes roll back as he reaches a part inside you that you didn't even know existed. "I- I'm—" You can't even string out the words as your stomach fills with butterflies. 

"Hm? You feel close again?" Sergei teases. 

You nod, all sensations feel unreal and you're overwhelmed by what you're experiencing. You lose track of time as he continues to fuck into you until you're no longer able to string any sentences along. When you come, your legs shake and you groan at the feeling of him coming inside you. You can't even open your eyes when you feel Sergei's body weight sink down against yours. He's breathing heavily, his lips kissing your neck as he strokes his hand in your hair. 

"You did good for me," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

You chase his touch, wrapping your arms around him as if you're afraid he'll leave you. Sergei groans against your skin as he hugs you back, shifting you so you're laying on his chest. You nuzzle into him, still feeling raw and exposed even as you both pull the covers over you. 

"Does it hurt?" 

You shake your head. Your legs are still shaking but other than that, the pain has subsided. 

"Good girl," he whispers and pets your hair with his large hand. 

"Don't leave?" The question comes after a moment of silence and Sergei doesn't answer immediately. Your stomach sinks but you press yourself closer to him as the reality sinks in. He can't stay forever. His lifestyle, now your lifestyle, doesn't allow him that freedom. 

"I can't," Sergei says, his voice stern. You look up at him and watch him stare blankly into the darkness of the room. The light from the windows only illuminate his profile. "But I'll stay for now," he finishes after another moment of pause. He turns to look at you, his blue eyes sharp. "And I promise I won't leave for long. I'll come back to you." 

Your husband says it with such conviction that you know he truly means it. You let out a breath, wrapping your arm around his chest. "I'll miss you," you whisper, unsure if he'll say it back. 

"Hm. So will I," Sergei assures you and you smile, your eyes fluttering shut from exhaustion. "How could I not miss you, Моя любовь" 

A chorus of laughter echoes through the room, James’s arrogant cackle booming above them all as if he lives to be the center of attention. It makes your blood boil as you stomp into the steamy locker room, still adorned in your heavy Quidditch robes, a flash of green in the sea of red. Your presence goes unnoticed until you’re face-to-face with the golden boy himself.

“What the fuck was that, Potter?!” you shout in his face, shoving his shoulder harshly.

The Gryffindor team grumbles in protest at your intrusion. James’s mouth curls into that smug smirk, and you’d like nothing more than to smack it off.

Your last name slips from his lips far too warmly to be that of his biggest rival. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” he asks, squaring his shoulders, recovering so quickly from your shove that it’s like you never laid a hand on him.

You hate James Potter. It pisses you off to no end how he has this school wrapped around his little finger. Professors favor him, and your peers adore him. But to you, he’s just an arrogant prick with a charming smile that you see right through.

The rivalry started early in your academic career. He’s your match in the classroom, and you’ve been competing for top student since the start. But the day he spilled pumpkin juice on your Transfiguration notes before a big exam, it took a turn for the worse. You swear he did it on purpose. To his credit, he let you borrow his notes to copy down all that was lost in the sticky mess. But the extra time spent on that dug into the time you should have been completing your practice essays. You weren’t going to let that go, which is why you didn’t return his notes until five minutes before the exam. The academic sabotage only escalated from there.

How each of you manages to stay on top of the rigorous coursework while scheming against one another is a mystery to many. Especially since you each continue to be the students with the highest marks in the class.

When you joined Quidditch, it was no different. It doesn’t help that your two teams have a long-standing rivalry—one far bigger than just you and James. The Gryffindor and Slytherin teams are already in fierce competition on the field. But it goes much deeper than that for you and James. You compete for the best stats, the best technique, the fastest maneuvers. Your dedication to outshining one another even landed each of you the role of captain of your respective teams, which only added fuel to the fire.

“You are a dirty cheater!” you shout, sticking your finger in his face.

The tips of James’s ears redden, a surge of anger coursing through him at the accusation. He bites the inside of his cheek to maintain his cool.

“Come on. Don’t throw around accusations like that just because you’re a sore loser.”

The game was in your favor right up until the end. Slytherin had such a far lead that even catching the snitch wouldn’t save Gryffindor from defeat. Not unless their chasers could score and their offense could keep Regulus Black from the little golden ball. And Regulus was closing in, his fingertips were grazing the wing of the snitch, when a bludger whizzed by his head. A warning shot. He had to dive sharply to escape the two that followed, allowing the Gryffindor seeker to surge forward and take his place tailing the snitch. None of this was illegal, but the broom maneuver James pulled off to get his quaffle through the hoop just before his seeker caught the snitch was far too similar to an illegal move that lost the Holyhead Harpies the cup fifteen years ago. Not similar enough for it to get flagged, and only a true fan of Quidditch would recognize the similarity to begin with. So of course you recognized it. And it made you see red.

You scoff. “That move was borderline illegal!”

A laugh rumbles in James’s chest. “Borderline being the operative word, sweetheart. Come on, if you really believed I actually made an illegal move, you wouldn’t be in here. You’d be talking to an official.”

“Maybe it’s not about the rules, Potter. Maybe I thought you wanted to win fairly, not by making cheap shots. It’s shameful. Your team should be embarrassed.”

Some of his teammates step forward, ready to come to their captain’s defense, but James stops their advances with a simple raise of his hand. Without breaking eye contact with you, he juts his chin towards the door. His team clears out without a word of protest.

“Sending them away so they can’t hear another word of the truth?” you bite.

Something a mix between a scoff and a laugh slips past his lips. He gazes down at you for a long while before he speaks.

“You know, you’re cute when you’re mad.”

You blink. It feels like your brain short-circuits. You were expecting outrage at the accusation, maybe some cheap name-calling. Not that. He’s never said anything like that to you before.

“What?” you ask when you finally get over your initial shock.

“Your nose. Scrunches up like an adorable little bunny,” he muses, eyes trained on your nose as you instantly smooth out your features.

The comment feels condescending, but he sounds so genuinely taken by you that you don’t know what to think.

“Did I miss you taking a bludger to the head?” you ask, bewildered. “Because I will be seriously disappointed if I missed something like that.”

“Come on, lighten up. Why don’t you let me help you blow off some steam?”

“What the fuck has gotten into you?”

What’s gotten into James is that he’s tired of pretending he’s not stupidly attracted to you. He’s tired of pretending he doesn’t want you. And he’s tired of all the foreplay—the arguments, the sabotage. Of getting all worked up after a screaming match, and jacking off in his dorm to the thought of you screaming his name in another context.

But don’t get it twisted. He’s not secretly in love with you or anything. This isn’t one of those “he’s mean because he likes you” cliches. He really does hate you. He just also happens to think you’re hot as fuck.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t at least thought about it,” he says in a low, velvety voice as he steps closer.

You take a step back. Your expression says that you find that notion ridiculous, but there’s something in your eyes. A certain flicker that betrays you. So James keeps going, walking you back until you’re wedged between him and the lockers.

“I have,” he murmurs. “I think about it all the time. What you’d look like under me, what you’d sound like… what you’d feel like around me.”

“You’re disgusting,” you gasp, ignoring the way his words ignite a certain heat deep in your gut.

James shrugs. “Maybe. But I think if you didn’t like it, you’d have hexed me half to death by now.”

You swallow hard, trying and failing to convince yourself that he’s not at least on the right track. You’re not blind, after all. You know James is attractive. Really attractive. Especially when he’s angry, and his sharp features are hardened into a scowl as he argues with you. But regardless, if someone asked you earlier today if you’d ever hook up with him, you’d surely have either laughed your head off or been sick at the thought. But now? With him looking at you like that, standing so close, towering over you. All broad shoulders and tousled hair… Now, your mind is going other places.

Still, he finds a way to remind you how much you hate him.

James presses a hand against the cool metal beside your head, halfway to boxing you in. “Listen, I’m on a high from winning, and I wanna bet you’re feeling pretty low from that loss. Let’s face it—that was brutal. What d’you say we find some way to channel all this emotion?”

His tone is dripping with that arrogance you hate so much, almost like he expects you to fall at his feet instantly.

“Come on, don’t act like you’re not dying for the chance, anyway. You’re lucky I’m even offering.”

Your anger is back, but this time it’s a blinding rage. How dare he speak to you like that? He’s so bloody full of himself, and you have an intense urge to put him back in his place. Without a second thought, you raise your hand and slap him hard across the face.

James is taken aback by the sudden blow. His hand comes up to his cheek, rubbing at the stinging skin, hot to the touch and already blooming pink. His narrowed eyes fall back on you as he rolls his jaw.

For a moment, you both stare each other down, hot breaths mingling in the small space between you.

Then, you both surge forward at the same time, lips smashing together in a heated kiss, hands flying out to grab at each other anywhere you can reach. The kiss messy. Mostly teeth and tongue as you scramble to get each other out of your robes.

You forget all about how he sickens you as his large hands push under your shirt and his lips trail down to your jaw. Hot and heavy breaths fall from his lips as he mouths at your skin. James bites down on your jaw, and the moan that falls from your lips is less than dignified.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you say, your voice coming out breathier than you wanted it to as James trails his lips down to your chest as soon as he gets your top half bare.

“Obviously,” he grunts, taking you by the hips and spinning you around. You gasp when he presses you firmly against the cold metal of the lockers. He continues nipping at your neck as he grinds against your ass. The press of his bulge has you biting down on your lower lip. You’re mildly annoyed at how big he feels against you, knowing it’s just another thing he lets get to his head, but you’re more distracted by how good it feels than anything else.

James hooks his fingers in your waistband, pulling your panties down with your trousers in one go. You’ve barely stepped out of them before his hand is between your thighs, running his fingers through your soaked folds.

You feel his smug smirk against your neck as he plunges two fingers into your pussy.

“Should’ve known you’d be this fucking wet. What happened to hating m—”

“Shut the fuck up and fuck me already before I turn around and slap you again,” you interrupt sharply. If you’re really doing this—stooping this low—you’re not letting him get a complex about it.

James scoffs, but he removes his fingers from inside of you to push his trousers down, freeing his aching cock. He pumps it with his hand a few times, spreading your slick from his fingers down his length, before he lines up with your entrance.

To his dismay, James is skipping a few steps. Namely, he wants to taste you—worse, he’d already be on his knees if it wouldn’t be so terribly pathetic of him. And if you hadn’t sounded so hot when you told him to fuck you. Like you needed it. Still, he hopes he gets the chance some other time as he sinks into you.

“Fuck,” he groans into your neck. You’re so tight around him that it makes him feel lightheaded.

You were right about him being big, definitely bigger than you’ve ever had. The stretch has you gasping, and you can’t quite catch your breath, especially when he starts pounding into you with no remorse mere seconds after he bottoms out for the first time.

His big arms snake around your body. One hand travels up, closing around your neck tight enough to give you a head rush. The other dips between your legs, quickly finding your clit to rub fast circles against.

You try to muffle your moans, pressing your lips firmly together, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing you fall apart on his cock. But he’s not having it. He moves his hand from your neck to your face, squishing your cheeks until your mouth falls wide open.

“Come on, let me hear how good I’m making you feel,” he pants into your ear. “You’re making me feel amazing,” he adds, because he knows you won’t be the first to give in, and he’s just about willing to do anything to hear the sounds you can make.

His actions are rewarded with a long, whiny moan that nearly makes him cum right then and there. He curses under his breath, slowing his thrusts to regain some semblance of control. Even so, neither of you lasts very long. Maybe the arguing and competing really is a good form of foreplay, because you both are clearly pent up.

James turns your head, capturing your lips in a kiss as your orgasm crashes over you. He moans into your mouth as your walls clench around him. Fuck, he wants to cum inside you—he almost does at the idea. But you’d probably do worse than kill him if he did.

He curses as he pulls out of you, finishing himself off with a few pumps with a shaky hand, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your ass, a chorus of groans spilling from his throat.

When you both come down from your highs, he has the decency to hand you a towel, but after that, he goes right back to being the dickhead you know and hate.

“Mind getting the fuck out of our locker room? I need a shower.”

“You’re a fucking asshole, Potter,” you mutter, hurrying to pull your clothes back on once you’ve wiped yourself clean. Part of you can’t believe you just did that. But you can’t say you regret it either.

As you head for the exit, James stops you with a call of your name.

“Hey, wait.”

“What?” you ask in a bored tone, ready to get into a shower of your own.

He flashes you a toothy grin, “Same time next week?”

You flip him off and leave without another word, swearing to yourself that it won’t happen again, no matter how much you might’ve enjoyed it.

Spoiler alert: it happens again.

You start to realize you’re in trouble when James starts calling it your “post-game tradition,” and instead of rolling your eyes, you actually quirk a smile.

every reblog and comment means the world <3 i’d love to hear your thoughts

A minute passes when you hear another laugh and feel someone's eyes on you. You look up, accidentally staring directly at the culprit. His big brown doe-eyes capture yours, pulling you into their depth, and James's entire face lightens up when he sees you become visibly flustered. He's teasing you. You know he is. You huff and lift your book, putting it up as a barrier. You duck down, your cheeks feel like they're on fire and your heart is pounding. It's not fair. 

Another minute passes and then you hear a tap against the book cover. You squeeze your eyes shut, turning your head to rest on the table. The tap becomes louder and more insistent and you reluctantly lower the book. You lift your eyes and catch James's gaze again which makes your stomach do a summersault. He's leaning forward against the table you're at, one arm extended as he taps on the book, his chin resting on his arm. 

James's smirk widens when he sees the cute expression you're wearing. "Hiya, love," he sing-songs. "Whatcha doing?" 

"Studying, James, studying," you say, keeping your voice steady so as to not completely break into a smile. Afterall, you're upset with him. James pouts and watches as you prop the book up once more. He drums his fingers on the table impatiently. If there is anything that James Potter hates, it's being deliberately ignored. 

"Love?"

He receives no answer. 

James's cheeks puff out as blows some air out in frustration. "Lovie?"

Still no answer. 

"Lovie!" James's large hand pushes the book down and you gasp. You stare at him and James can instantly tell how fucked he is by your expression because he drops the book and leans away. "Sorry," he says, "I didn't–"

"Fine," you groan, standing up and packing up your bookbag, "you want my attention so badly?" 

James can hear the annoyance in your tone but he can also see that special look in your eyes. He nods slowly, his voice dry. His friends have gone quiet as they watch James follow you out of the library like a lost puppy. Sirius sneers, a disgusted look on his face as he sees the look on his best friend's face. Peter's cheek turns a little paler and he looks at Remus. "What's happened?" He sounds worried.

"She's gonna shag him, Wormy. Ow!" Sirius yelps as Remus gently wacks the book he'd been reading against Sirius's head. Remus doesn't speak as he lowers the book and opens it once more, flipping through the pages. "Fine, I think she's gonna shag him," Sirius groans, rubbing the back of his head. 

Remus lowers the book, an annoyed look on his face. Peter nervously looks between them both as Remus continues, "That is not what I meant,"

"What?! They are totally gonna fuck! You're both bli— OW!"

* * *

Back in the Gryffindor Common Room, James is still awkwardly walking behind you as you enter the room. You turn around. "Let's go to your dorm," you say, eyes narrowed. James can't tell if you're horny or angry at him for disturbing you, but he likes it. He nods, rushing up the stairs with you behind him. Once he opens the door and you both enter, you waste no time shutting the door behind him and dropping the bag. In mere seconds, you're pressing your lips against his. James responds instantly and kisses you back, his hands finding home in your hair. 

You bite his lip, surprising him. "Ouch, lovie," he says, pulling away. You grab his collar and pull him back into the kiss. James's voice is muffled but he melts against your mouth again.

"Weren't you just desperate for my attention, hm?" You scold, slowly forcing him to back up until he stumbles onto his bed. James is breathless. He's done this to you what feels like a thousand times: gently pushing or even throwing you onto his bed, but when he's on the receiving end, he doesn't quite know how to react. James stares at you, his eyes wide. You smile and gingerly climb onto his lap.

You lean over him, kissing him again as James's hands find your hips. "Isn't this what you wanted?" you tease, sliding your lips down to his throat. James's hands tighten on your hips.

"Baby, t-this is–" he moans, turning his head to the side. He's not used to being the one in control.

"Is this not what you wanted? So you being a brat wasn't to have me on top of you like this?" You ask, sliding your hand down his shirt. You fumble with the buttons of his chemise and his tie but when James senses that you're having trouble with them, he takes over and shimmies out of his shirt and tie. When he looks back up, he sees that you've done the same. You smile sweetly at him, watching his eyes rove over you in just your lacy, black, bra. 

"Fuck me. Yes, yes this is what I wanted. I wanted your attention," he admits, his hands trembling with need as they slide up your sides. 

  "Oh, you did? So what does that make you, Jamie?" You grin and grab his hands. You lean down until you're pinning his hands near his head on the mattress, lips by his ear. 

James looks wrecked already but he manages to whimper, "A brat?" 

You grin. You know he's not used to being the submissive one, but perhaps this will teach him a lesson on bothering you while you're studying. You nod and arch your back so your ass is slightly in the air, your bra skimming James's bare chest. You gently kiss at his neck, leaving small love-bites across his skin. James doesn't bother concealing his moans as he throws his head back, squirming a little.

"Can I touch you? I want to touch you, baby?" He whines, hands flexing. You smile and drag your teeth over the sensitive spot on his throat. You smile. You and James know he could over power you if he wanted, but he seems determined to play along.

"What's the magic word?" You ask him, pushing his hands higher as you lower your hips, pressing down against his slacks. You can feel how hard he is beneath you. 

"Please, please," he pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. 

You lick a strip up his throat and bite on his ear. "If you're so desperate, apologize for bothering me when I was trying to study. Apologize for being an attention seeking slut, Jamie." You feel him shiver and his hips lift up against yours on instinct. You squeeze your hands around his wrists as a warning. 

"I'm sorry I was bothering you when you were studying," James breathes out, his poor cock is throbbing in the confines of his cotton prison. 

"And?"

"And I'm s-sorry for being an attention seeking slut," he adds, shivering again. He's so turned on. You grin and happily hop off his lap. James sits up, crossing his legs, as he watches you lay with your head near the end of the bed, your knees bent by his ankles. You stare up at the ceiling, smiling. When James doesn't move, you sit up on your elbows and exaggerate your frown. 

"Well? Apologize properly." You punctuate your words by steadily spreading your legs. Hearing this, James's eyes light up and he wastes no time sitting on his knees. He leans in, his hands touching the fabric of your skirt. Gently, he flips your skirt up and presses a kiss over the sheer fabric of your tights.

You're already worked up from all the dirty talk that just the kiss makes your pussy clench needily. You throw your arm over your mouth, gently biting down as you feel James's hand slide down your tights. You lift your ass for him. "Don't tear them," you mumble, sounding stern but you're still smiling behind your forearm. 

James shakes his head as an answer, his eyes glued to the lacy pair of panties you have on. Once he finishes with your tights, he hooks his fingers in the waistbands and looks at you for approval. You turn your head, watching him, and nod. 

James carefully pulls your panties off your leg, lifting them up in the process and gently resting them on his shoulders. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks at how hot he looks like this. His eyes are half-lidded from arousal, his curls fall messily across his eyes, and his muscles flex because of how gentle he's being. 

Fuck me, you think. 

You try to keep up your dominance as you observe his movements. He kisses your thighs, moving closer and closer to your bare pussy. With his breath against your clit, you're losing just a little more authority over him and James knows it. And once his lips attach to your lips, sucking and gently licking, it's game over. 

You fall apart, letting a moan escape your lips as you tense your legs, squirming. James tightens his hold on your thigh, sucking with more precision now as his other hand gently caresses your calf. He smirks, nose nuzzling into your clit. He knows he's won. "Ya shouldn't have asked me to do this if you couldn't handle it," he taunts, watching you fall apart. 

Your head is fuzzy and all you can think of is how good he is at this. You lift your hips, encouraging him some more. "James," you whine, already feeling that familiar tension in your stomach. James grins and pulls away for a moment, kneading your thigh.

"Baby, you were soaked through even before I started," he chuckles, "are you gonna cum now?"

"Fuck," you groan, the absence of his lips causing a shock to your core. You lift your head, hands grasping the sheets. "James!" You exclaim, sounding so desperate.  

James doesn't want to be mean this time so he happily gives you what you want. He lowers himself and kisses your clit again, applying pressure as he sucks. He licks you with the flat of his tongue, his hand sliding up and presses against your hole, causing a small inhale to fall from your lips. You squirm and James knows you want more.

He presses his index inside you, licking and sucking on your sensitive nub. Just when he knows you're ready, he adds another finger, curling them both, and you arch your back, cumming with a broken moan. 

When James feels your body relax, he pulls out his fingers and licks them clean. You watch him with hazy eyes, chest lifting and falling rapidly from your orgasm. Your gaze drifts to his slacks, where you can see how hard he is and you sit up. You wrap your arms around James's shoulders and pull him in for a kiss. 

You don't care that you can taste your juices in his mouth, all you care about now is being as close to him as possible. You shift on his lap, your bare cunt pressing against his bulge and James hisses. "Stop teasing me," he groans in between kisses, his hand caressing your hair. 

You smile and unclip your bra, allowing it to fall from your shoulders and arms. James's arms move to tighten around your back as he captures your nipples in his mouth without hesitation. He kisses and licks them, enjoying how you'll pull at his hair if you like something. 

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, kissing the curve of your breasts. 

"I know," you giggle and reach down between your bodies to unzip his trousers. "Look at me," you say, voice light from your arousal. James lifts his head and you watch as his features contort with pleasure as you pull him from his trousers and boxers, stroking his hard length. Your gaze flickers down and your lips water. You aren't sure you'll ever get used to his size. 

You lift your hips and guide the tip of his cock against your pussy. James looks flustered as he holds onto you, his hands trailing down your sides in a soothing motion. You kiss him again, tongue slipping past his lips at the same time you sink onto his cock. James tenses at the feeling, doing his best not to cum immediately. You feel so slick and warm.

Your hands find his curls as you gently bounce up and down, taking your time. James's hands tighten around your hips as you do so. He disconnections your lips and rests his head against your shoulder. "You feel so good," he groans.

You concentrate, focusing on your movements and the pleasure coursing through you. Your pussy flutters against James's cock and he swears again, his fingers digging deeper into your skin. The sounds of your moans fill the room and the air is thick with the smell of sex. You've lost count of how many times you've bounced as you kiss your boyfriend again. 

James can feel you begin to tire and without a word, he grips your thigh, keeping it secure to his side and he sits up, shifting you so that you're now laying on your back with him hovering over you. His dick slips out for a moment, but you don't have time to whine from the loss because he's sinking into you again, thrusting harder this time. You gasp, clutching his shoulders. "James–"

"Shh, let me take care of you," James says, kissing your neck as his hips snap against yours. He keeps one of your legs up and around his hip as he does so and from this angle, James is hitting that spot inside you. It's almost too much.

"James, I'm really gonna–"

"Wait a bit longer, lovie, okay?" James asks, kissing the side of your face. You whimper, not wanting to. "Wanna come together, okay? M' close. Just a bit longer." He groans and fucks you harder. You pull him down closer, needing to feel his warmth. 

You do your best to hold it in, the pressure only building up, until when James finally whispers in your ear that you can cum, your body goes numb as you finish. "Bloody hell," James moans, pulling out quickly and spilling his cum all over your stomach. Spent, he flops beside you, catching his breath. You do the same, panting. Your pussy feels all tingly in the best way and you shift, snuggling closer to James. 

James doesn't even bother putting his dick back in his slacks yet as he pulls you into his chest. He kisses your head. "I love you," he whispers. 

"I love you more," you say, tracing little hearts on his bare chest and then you pause. "Just, don't bother me when I'm working, okay?"

James smirks. "If this is the consequence, I may just have to make bothering you a habit," he jokes. You don't find it funny as you lift your head, glaring at him. James's smirk only widens and he laughs. He swings his legs off his bed, tucking himself back into his pants, and gingerly scoops you up his arms. You gasp. You're always surprised by his strength. "I'm joking. I won't bother you, my love. Now c'mon, let's shower." 

All frustration leaves your body as you hold onto his neck and laugh. James beams as he walks across the dorm suite to the bathroom. "And no funny business, Missy."

You laugh harder, kissing James's cheek. "I wouldn't dream of it, Mister." 

Meanwhile, Remus, Peter, and Sirius are sitting on some beanbags in the corner of the library. All three of them are sitting in silence. Not even assignments and library books can distract them now. The sky outside has fully turned dark and Sirius impatiently taps his finger against his thigh as he glances at Peter, who looks just as bored. 

Remus, who is pretending to read a book while in reality, he's been re-reading the same paragraph over and over again, finally concedes. He drops the book to his lap and turns to his friends. "I say ten more minutes and then we go back."

Sirius throws himself back against the bean bag. "Five. James probably doesn't even last this long," he chuckles but reels his arm back as Remus attempts to swat it gently. "Ow! Bullocks stop that, Moony! I know you hate when I'm right, but you don't need to resort to violence!"

"Let's say twenty! I really don't wanna walk in on them," Peter squeaks, embarrassed. 

Finnick's always been in awe of you. You've slipped through the gaps he'd never been able to even peep through. Finnick's got about a billion words he would use to describe you — all of which slip his conscious right now — but he thinks that the tabloid titles are enough.

Unabashedly District.

This could've gone wrong for you, this whole strategy. You're beautiful, sure, you've got that going for you, but besides that, you're not as endearing as that Peeta Mellark kid is, not intriguing like Katniss Everdeen, you're not unfairly likeable like Finnick is, and you're definitely not as iconic as the Gloss-And-Cashmere-sibling-duo that's had the Capitol in a chokehold ever since the 63rd and 64th Games, that's for sure. You've got no star-crossed-lover-backstory, you don't appear in adverts and host parties, and you sure as hell aren't a counterpart in a dynamic duo. Hell, you've never even participated in the Games. That should have Snow reeling, that should have matches be lit after dousing your house in oil.

Yet... there's an invisible struggle between the two of you for the darling title. You'd first been spotted with Johanna Mason, as a little promo to show Panem what awaited a Victor of the Games, and what the Victor of the 71st was up to right after the Victory Tour. Well, with Johanna was a stretch. You'd been in a still of the town square, playing guitar with a couple other delinquent District 7 teens, and as Johanna passed by, you'd high-fived her. That was it. Thirty seconds of footage, thirty weeks of discussion, and thirty months of obsession. Although Snow seemed mildly opposed to putting a music group under the Panem spotlight, for whatever reasons he had, eventually you and your band were all the Capitol craved.

And boy, did you deliver.

So, yes, your paths had crossed at many a Capitol party, and Finnick had tried to figure you out. He likes to think he's the only one who's actually kept your interest long enough to have a proper conversation with you. No wonder Plutarch had deigned him with the impossible task of keeping you with him until he could come back from District 13 and properly speak to you about the Second Rebellion. How the fuck was he going to go about doing that, when he didn't even actually know you? The offhanded dating rumour aside, all you've shared was whiskey, a conversation, and a trauma bond.

He's been spiraling, Finnick has, and it's showing in his work. Every time he's in front of a camera, he's storming off, needing an entire hour of a break and a vodka, as well. He's grateful the directors do not get tired of him, that they all think he can do no wrong because he's Finnick Odair, because if they weren't like that, he'd have been fired ages ago. Or, at the very least, killed off. He hasn't been allowed to go home for nearly half a year, now, and it's probably the main cause of said spiral.

Thankfully, this spiral leads him to you, in this twisted bonding opportunity you two apparently shared — daydrinking.

"Long time, no see. You had a gig today, yeah?"

It's deafening in the silence of the desolate bar, and he nearly cringes, but he powers through, because you've just looked up at him.

"Yes."

"I thought you guys were awesome. Props.", he offers, his hand out in expectation. You shake it.

"Nice to see you again.", he tries.

You nod in return. "And you."

You seem distracted, so he follows your line of sight to the screen fastened precariously loosely to the back wall of the bar. Ah. The Victory Tour recap. You must've missed it, what with your performance here at the Capitol, so you're watching.

He leaves you be until District 7 comes, because he knows the nerve-wracking experience it is to watch the new Victor (in this case, Victors) rub it in your own District's face that their child is dead.

Finnick notices things, as always. He notices the layers of silences that permeate through the bar. He notices the disgusting taste of the beer he's just ordered. He notices the way you stiffen when one of the Victors mentions the male tribute from District 7. He notices how his instinct tells him not to speak, to allow you to feel this. He notices how his own lips part in direct disobedience to his gut. "Stele Mason. Is he related to Johanna Mason?"

You blink, seemingly snapping out of whatever horrific visions flashed past your eyes just then. "Wh— uh, no. There are lots of Masons back in 7."

"Oh. Did— do you... know him?"

You nod, turning to grab your drink, downing it. "Yeah." It's clipped.

Got it, he'll shut up now.

He stretches, inconspicuously leaning over and emptying the contents of his little pouch — courtesy of Plutarch — into your drink, before going back to normal and shrinking his attention back to his own.

He watches you drink it.

But then you order another. And another. And, oh, look at that, another. And soon enough, a spectacle that Finnick's been expecting — through mindfully quiet, restricted sips of his own drink — occurs. You're drunk.

And he doesn't know if this is because he's from District 4, or simply because he's Finnick, but he's drawn to shipwrecks like this, where the outside is perfectly preserved, all the pieces look put in place, but he knows that the inside of the ship's damaged. Floorboards have been sprung out of their places, the helm is cracked in two, and the engines are crashing in on themselves.

There ain't nothing he's ever been gravitated to that didn't require him to donate his own barely-functional parts to in order to get it started again, but he'll still do it, if to ease his own conscience and qualms about being a good person. He is, he hopes. He's always only ever wanted to be.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

You don't — can't — respond, and so he asks the bartender where your band is right now. He tries to find any sort of clues on you as to where your friends might be, or if you've been given a lodging to perform more. None. Nada. He's got a gnawing feeling all of this is thanks to Plutarch.

"Okay, up you get.", he mutters, hauling you up onto your feet, gripping onto the bar stool to support both of you as you suddenly dip down. "There we go, c'mon. I've got you."

He's got to get this bartender fired, he notes, internally. He'd just watched some girl get scooped up by a guy she clearly didn't know, and did fuck-all about it.

The walk to his flat's not far, by any means, but it is difficult, with a drunk girl — and her guitar case — in tow.

He flops you down on the bed, keeping his eye on you as he shoots across the room to his drawer, fishing out the white band Plutarch had given him, before gently fastening it around your wrist. He doesn't know what it does, — he'd just assumed it would be some form of tracking device.

Okay.

Finnick can breathe now that he's got the wristband on you. He's done his part, and he'll actively — to the best of his abilities — try to stop you from leaving before Plutarch says all he needs to say. But if you manage to lock him in a door and gnaw or saw the wristband off and leave? Well, then he'll be helpless and impressed.

He pads around his kitchen, grabbing a glass, opening the fridge, grabbing his juice, pouring it out. He doesn't drink it yet, though. A thought. The least he could do is play the gracious host. He's sure when you wake up, he'll look like the bad guy. And that's not him. Not who he wants to be. He takes out another glass. Pours some juice out for you.

Some time passes. He's eaten half his leftover pizza — saved the rest for you like the kind soul he is — and is currently nursing a glass of wine as he stares idly at the TV. God, for such a huge apartment, he perpetually feels like the walls are closing in on him. Today's no different, especially since he's day-drinking again. It's about eight, and he'd brought you home at about six-thirty. He's getting worried. You haven't woken up. Did the sketchy bartender also put something in your drink? Who would he be if he didn't go check?

He sets the glass down, stretches, and walks to the guest bedroom door. Tilts his head. He doesn't remember leaving it open. He'd closed it specifically so that he'd hear you coming. He knocks. "You decent?"

He'd hoped you'd have changed into the clothes he'd left out on the armchair if you'd woken up. But you don't respond. Meaning you haven't. Which is even more alarming.

Finnick presses his hand down on the handle, swinging it inwards to open it— fuck! That object — whatever the everloving fuck it was — just hit his stomach like a mother! Fuck!

Okay. So you're up.

He looks down. He did not know an alarm clock could pack that much pain, for being so compact.

He looks up. Yeah, no, they could, if thrown from a distance, and you're still next to the bed. Odd strategy, but it's okay, because you lower the hand holding your next launch-object — a fucking nightlamp — down when you see his face.

"Finnick?"

"Yeah. Nice to see you again."

"You spiked me?!"

"No, no! You just... kept going, with the liquor, I—"

"You spiked me!"

"I did not!" Little white lies, Finnick's learned, are better than teary eyes.

"What did you do to me?! Where's my coat?!"

"Nothing! And it's probably back at the bar!"

Not really. He'd accidentally torn it. The long sleeves had been fucking with his ability to get the wristband on you, so in a fit of rage, he'd grabbed a pair of scissors and got it off.

"So how am I here?! What did you do to me?! DON'T— Don't come near me!"

"I didn't fucking take advantage of you or anything, okay? That's not me! You passed out. I asked around, but no one knew where your band was, where you guys were staying! What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?!", he tries to explain, still needing to pause every two seconds and soothe his fucking abdomen, because of the alarm clock injury. God, he'd never live this down, if anyone found out.

You seem to believe him, and fully set the lamp back down, eyes still on him. "I don't believe you."

"You don't have to. This is just a misunderstanding."

"A misunderst— you abducted me!"

"I helped you! I—", he cuts himself off, running his hands over his face. "You don't need to trust me. Here.", he declares, tossing you the keys to the guest bedroom, as a last fucking resort. "You've had a long night. I think you should freshen up, and I'll get you food so you can get rid of the hangover. You probably have lots of gigs lined up at all the Hunger Games rewatch-parties, huh?", he suggests, voice softer, duplicitously so, but you don't need to know that. "My sister left some clothes here. Uh, so.", he adds, gesturing at the clothes he'd laid out on the armchair. "If you wanna get out of those."

He doesn't have a sister. These were left over from a Capitol afterparty that just had to — had to — be kept here, because what Snow wants, Snow gets.

You catch the keys mid-air, still glaring at him like he's done the things you're accusing him of. He knows what you're thinking. There's no guarantee he doesn't have another set. But he doesn't, and the fact that he's even given you these is a big deal. "I'll be out there making lunch-slash-dinner. Fuckin'.... linner. If you wanna join me when you're done.", he mumbles, gently closing the door behind him.

Fuck's sake, that was surreal. Though, he needs to applaud your survival skills. Soon as he gave you the keys, you held them between your fingers like claws. If he'd have come closer, even to set the alarm clock back on the bedside, he'd have had very nasty lacerations painting his body.

He should probably get to work on this linner thing, huh? Offering you heated-up-leftover-pizza was absolutely a kidnapper thing to do.

Pasta. Safest bet. He hasn't met anyone who didn't like it, and it was easy to make. Great. He's got some sauce leftover from a week ago in the fridge, and he'd heard it was 5-7 days, that was the accepted time to do so. Brilliant. Okay. Off to a good start.

He hears you before he sees you. He focuses on the pasta, because he's suddenly afraid that if he makes eye contact, your fight-or-flight will kick in again and he'll get the glass jar of pasta sauce that he's left out to cool thrown at him.

"I, uh..."

That'd better be a fucking apology.

"I need to go."

Or a statement that he can't allow to come true.

"Please. I feel really bad, for scaring you. Just... eat and then do whatever."

He's careful not to say 'and then leave', because he can't let you do that.

You're about to protest, but then you probably see the sheer desperation, mixed with fatigue pooling in his eyes, and then you nod, gingerly sitting at his dining table.

"What's this?"

"What's what?", he asks, though he already knows what. He deflects. "Oh. Yeah, bit of an alcoholic, I've become. But help yourself. It's really good stuff. I don't know what year it's from, but it's delicious. Here's a wine gl—"

"Not the wine, Finnick. This thing."

Yeah, the wristband. He turns, his face demonstrating tame confusion. "I dunno, thought it was some weird chic style-thing you had."

"Wasn't on before."

"Really? I remember it being on when I brought you home from the bar.", he says, with faux thoughtfulness. "You don't remember it? You were pretty out of it."

"I've never seen this thing before in my life. It— huh.", you grit, and he can tell it's through a clenched jaw, because you say his name with some effort. You're trying to get it off. "It won't come off."

"What? Hold on.", he mutters, turning the stove off before stalking over to you, at his dining table. "I'll help you."

He trusts Plutarch, so he genuinely does use all his might, all of yours, and even a spoon, to help pry it off, but it doesn't budge. "Is it hurting you?"

"No, it's just... I don't like it. It's mysterious and tacky."

"Killer combo, yeah.", he muses, rubbing his hand across the nape of his neck. "You'll need to have that surgically removed, I guess."

You groan, resting your palms onto the dining table, before looking up at him, slightly weirded out by his guilty lingering. "I'll live. Pasta's burning."

"Oh, fuck—" Finnick rushes back, slowing down when he sees the stove. Wait, he just turned it off. He hears the hurried footsteps, and pieces together that you're trying to run.

Then comes the scream. It's terrifying. If he had neighbours, they'd think he was killing someone in here. He dashes over to where you are — the door, and is met with the horrifying sight of you laying there, spasming and twitching.

And then he sees it. Your wristband. It's lit up.

Great, Plutarch Heavensbee had convinced him to put the equivalent of a shock collar on a human.

The pasta's steaming and forgotten.

The wristband's beeping and Finnick wishes it'd be forgotten.

You're fuming, and will probably be trying to remember details you have forgotten.

"Eat—", he begins, cut off by you throwing yet another plate full of pasta at the wall in a fit of rage. He closes his eyes, attempting to conjure up some strength. "Starving isn't going to help your state, honey. You're hungover and triggered."

"And fucking kidnapped! I'm not fucking eating your food!"

He fights the urge to say 'fine, do whatever the fuck you want then' because technically, he can't let you fucking die. He stands, not bothering to clean up what is the third bowl of pasta you have hurled across his living room, before scooping more pasta up from the pot and transferring it into a new bowl.

"This will stay right here.", he declares, placing the bowl at a safe distance from you on the kitchen island. "You can eat it when you want."

"What do you want from me?!"

"I told you, it's only until Plutarch comes back."

"You realize I don't know who the FUCK that is?! I have no way of knowing if this 'Plutarch' — stupid fucking name, by the way — character is even real! For all I know, there is no 'Plutarch from the Capitol who only wants a word'!"

Oh. Oh, fuck. Yeah, he hadn't realised that. You probably couldn't know he was real, because it's not like Finnick had framed photos of him around the apartment or tapes of him on his TV or anything.

"He's a Gamemaker?", he offers, gently. "Heavensbee?"

"I don't follow the fucking Games!"

He wishes you'd stop screaming, but it's not like he has neighbours who'd complain, and technically, you're well-within your rights to go apeshit on him. Still, he's got to match your energy if he's going to tire you out enough that he can gently explain that the fate of Panem depends on you chilling the fuck out until Plutarch gets here. "You were watching at the bar!"

"I knew Stele, so I paid my respects! What am I, not supposed to honour kids of my District who died because of a rebellion they weren't even around for?!"

There's a silence that he allows to slowly settle onto the apartment like a feather steadily falling from miles high. The rage was good. It meant you might be open to what Plutarch had to say.

"No.", he replies, evenly. "No, you can. But... for what it's worth, I didn't know the wristband would do that."

"Great comfort, Finnick!", you yell, clapping sarcastically and loudly. It's clear this is just a response to whatever imminent danger you think you're in, and probably stupid, considering that if he were a kidnapper, he'd have shut you up much more painfully.

"Okay, no need to be fucking annoying about it, okay? If I wanted to hurt you, I would've, but I haven't because I don't, alright?", he tries, for the last time. Honestly, if you don't start complying, he'll just leave the house and let you rot in there, until Plutarch comes . He's definitely not above that, and you know him enough to know that, too. Anything but you making him feel guilty for something he didn't even do.

"How about you j—"

The phone rings, and he narrows his eyes at you for one moment, before you sprint across the living room to it, picking it up and pleading into it, so much so that Finnick kind of feels bad for being pissed off at you. You're just panicked and trying to keep your life. He might feel a sickeningly embarrassing parasocial, delusional closeness to you because he's probably — maybe ; jury's still out — got a crush on you, but to you, he's just this guy you've spoken to a couple of times, some Victor-sellout. This is like the Games to you, except in a mildly claustrophobic apartment with only one other person who you don't actually know is going to kill you.

He stays where he is, picking up the cordless he has on the kitchen island, pressing a button with a tiny beep before the line's on speaker. Plutarch's voice comes steady from the other end. "Ma'am, you can calm down, I know, it must be scary for you—yes, but he won't hurt you, neither of us will. Trust me. I'm Plutarch Heavensbee, gamemaker, at your serv— can I speak to Finnick, please?"

He almost feels guilty, with how your face falls once you realise you're not getting rescued.

Finnick shakes his head, eyes still on you as he clears his throat. "Yeah, go ahead."

"I'll be there at dawn."

"Alright."

"Why is she so—"

"Give her a break, alright? It's a lot. Put yourself in her shoes."

"Take care of her."

"I will."

Beep. Finnick sets the phone back into place before he sighs, fingers drumming on the counter. "And he means actually take care of you. Like feed you, not eliminate you.", he tells you, eyes slowly travelling from the floor up to yours.

You look like hell.

"Plutarch is real, and I— I'm really not supposed to say anything, but if you want to know why we need your cooperation, I'll tell you. Over a nice bowl of sort-of-hot-pasta."

"You okay?"

"No, Finnick, no, I am not okay.", you mumble, before stuffing your mouth with pasta. He sighs, continuing his aggressive brooming to get even the most minute shards of broken bowl from your hurling-escapade off his beautiful hardwood floors. "You won't tell me anything concrete."

"I told you as much as I can."

"Oh, yeah — 'We need your help in something of national importance' is very—", you scoff, setting the pasta down, but fixing your gaze onto the muted TV, now playing static Reaping reruns like your own personal looping torture chamber. "That could be anything from a new gig to overthrowing the President."

Hey, he'll give it to you, you're smart. If this had been a game show like Tribute Trivia, you'd have gone home with the gold for how on-point your guess was. He pathetically tries wetting another washcloth and scrubbing his nail at the sauce on his walls, which, unfortunately, hadn't even remotely come off once in the past hour. Fine. Can't say he didn't try.

"Yeah."

"What do you mean, 'yeah', which one is it?"

"Which one do you think it is?"

"Well, you brought my guitar, so it could be the first.", you spit, sitting up on his couch, setting the pasta down. "But you also somehow hacked the phone lines so it's only incoming calls — from Plutarch — so it could also be the second."

Finnick stands at that, tossing the cloth into the washing before stalking over to the sink. "Who do you think I am?"

"A kidnapper."

"Yeah, I got that. I mean me. Who do you see in your mind when someone says 'Finnick Odair'?", he asks, running his hand under the faucet for a second before drying it.

You watch him make his way to the living room, watch the couch indent where he settles down onto it, opposite you. "I don't know."

"There's no right or wrong answer to this, honey."

"I don't know. You, I guess."

"Me, the person or me the concept?"

"You the concept."

"Right. But you know who 'me the person' is? It's a boy from District 4 that desperately misses the sea, and can't go a single day without a drink because he knows his District thinks he's a sellout. I hate the Capitol. That's who me-the-person is."

You bite the inside of your cheek, watching his face carefully for anything new. "Who from the District doesn't hate the Capitol?"

"I hate Snow."

"Again, you're not special, sweetheart. Everyone and their mother hates him. They just can't do anything about it because he's the President and he'll burn your house down or something."

He's not sure why this is turning into a competition. Maybe he needs it to feel like one, just so he can prove to you that he's not a sellout. That his being here, in this borderline kitschy apartment, has nothing to do with him. But to do that, to prove that he was deserving of your time, your trust, he'd have to tell you everything. And, uh, that's a bit above his pay grade.

So, new approach. He licks his lips, frowning down at you as he formulates his next sentence. "You know what I see when I see you?"

A subtle shake of your head.

"I see a promising young girl who refuses to give up her District identity for the Capitol. I see defiance. I see—"

"Oh, my god, you're trying to start a second rebellion." It's a whisper of surprise, a gasp of realisation, a musing of horror. "No, no, no, I'm taking NO part in this!", you yell, and he's standing up suddenly, trying to chase you away from the window, which may not be burdened by the same electrical field the door was.

Okay, he knew you were smart, but come on !

"Listen— hey! Listen before you refuse!"

"No, are you fucking insane?! I'm not putting my family on the line because some Capitol-bred Gamemaker wants to play god!"

"Plutarch is good! He's g— he's a good man, Y/N, alright? And we have the entire plan figured out. Entirely— hey, hey!", he grits, holding your arms over your chest so you couldn't flail about.

"I won't let you get more people killed! I won't do it!"

"We're making sure no one else gets killed, okay? We're not—"

"No! No, Haymitch warned me, he said Heavensbee tried this before, and—!" You're hyperventilating and he can feel tears on his sleeve.

"No, shh-shh. No. He failed, last time, but this time, we have something else, we have a Mockingjay, a poster, alright?"

"Who?!"

"Katniss Everdeen!"

"NO! She's a KID! You can't do that to her, no! I'll tell Haymitch!"

"He's IN ON IT! He knows! Everyone knows, and it's happening, everyone even JOHANNA is in on it, it's happening whether you like it or not! Okay?! Will you calm the FUCK down?!"

He doesn't like that you break down in his arms when he can't see your face and kiss your tears off.

He doesn't like that he genuinely doesn't know what to do anymore now that the lid is now blown off and you're less than impressed.

You're opposed.

Fuck.

Finnick thinks the lights of his apartment make you look younger. He thinks the stage lights that the Capitol sets up for all of your gigs and performances wash you out, age you up. He thinks his apartment's perfect for highlighting someone's actual age. The gold beams off your eyes and frames your face, like illuminating your youth.

It's been two hours. The sun's closer to rising , which is annoying, considering it was just about setting when he'd brought you home. Your silence does a very good job at illustrating the devastatingly consistent passage of time. Who cares if your world's crumbling around you? The sun will set. It will rise.

But he also thinks your silence is heavy, like you're holding back your words — no matter how sharp, how brazen — for someone more worth it. And all Finnick's wanted since he first laid eyes on you was to be worthy of your words, because you seem to have only valuable things to say.

"Hey."

"You're going to get that kid and her entire family killed. For some deluded dream of a free Panem."

Okay, whoa. You're not even giving him a minute to breathe.

"Hey. No. It's not like that. There were two Victors in the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, do you know how insane that is?", he asks, with a sort of fascinated hiss to his tone, as he wipes tears and probably fears off your cheek. "It's crazy, okay? You know that. But she managed it. She's a symbol of hope."

"She's a child!"

"So was I. So was Johanna. So was Stele."

"Hey!"

"I'm—", he states, moving back with his hands up defensively. "I'm just saying. It's children they're taking from us, so what if it's our children who take from them? Him?"

"Children.", you scoff, shaking your head as you pull away from the subtle proximate comfort you'd both created by being knee-to-knee on his couch. "So I suppose this Heavensbee character has hidden shit from you, too."

Huh?

"What? No."

"Next year's the Quarter Quell. What is it exactly that you think's 'special ' about the Seventy-Fifth Games, Finnick?", you ask, and he's suddenly mentally backpedalling because yeah, actually. Good question. Heavensbee hadn't even mentioned it. He had no clue.

"What do you know and how do you know it?"

"If you think Heavensbee is just talking about making Katniss continue this marriage facade in order to get the rebellion going, then you're an even bigger idiot than you are sellout.", you scoff. He clenches his jaw. Fine, you're hurt and scared and you can't really beat him up, can you? So, you're doing the next best thing, he supposes.

"I'm not a sellout."

"Yeah? Then why are you here blindly holding me captive for a man that's constructing a deathly Arena that he plans on throwing already-reaped Victors into?"

It's like the wind just stops, you know? A moment, that's all it takes, and all the air particles freeze. The pulse in Finnick's vessels dulls into a mild throb, the breaths he'd been sharply letting out now still and cease. Because he's... he's got to go back in. Into the Arena. Again. After a decade. He'll have to go in.

"Oh, this Heavensbee character didn't tell you that? How sad. Now you know how I feel. Hurts, doesn't it? When someone you trust fucks you over and traps you where you can't escape?"

"You trust me?"

It's silent, this question, and did nothing to demonstrate the internal turmoil he was undergoing at that very moment, what with the re-exposure to traumatic events and all, but it's potent, it's salient, to him.

"Well... yeah."

"Why?"

"You're real. I thought I told you this."

"No, actually, you told me I was a sellout, that you only saw me as a concept!", he snaps, shoving you to sit back down onto the couch. "So tell me, how do I know this isn't just manipulation to get me to turn on Plutarch?!"

"I don't give a fuck whether you turn on Plutarch, Finnick! But you better fucking know that it's that kid's blood on your hands if this deranged plan fails. It's hers, that kid Peeta's, Haymitch's, Johanna's, every other Victor in that arena, as well as every single person in Panem who'll be punished for your treason! That blood's on your hands!"

"You think you're the epitome of a clean conscience? Well, news-flash, honey, every time you pluck at that stupid fucking guitar for a Capitol asshole, or every time you take a countdown cue for the Capitol cameras, your hands are fucking painted with red! Alright?", he spits, kneeling before you to be eye-level to glare at you better as he holds your hands down onto his couch. "You think wearing your District 7 garb is some form of silent sticking-it-to-the-man? Ha. The man's loving this little show you're putting on, because it's making him fucking money, sweetheart. You're only helping the system!"

"FUCK off!"

"You're as culpable as we are, honey, but at least we are trying to do something. You're just drinking and performing. You're the worst parts of both Abernathy and Trinket. And I'm the sellout.", he scoffs, softly, his fingers playing delicately with some of your hair before he puts it over your ear.

Truth is, Finnick doesn't believe a word coming out of his mouth, but it's better to yell and insult and tear into someone else's psyche than confront the fact that he's supposed to go right back into the Arena once again. Sure, he'll know the layout because Plutarch will tell him, but how many times can he lose himself? If it's not the Arena, it's the booze. If it's not the booze, it's darkened, sickening rooms with the Patrons, and if it's not that, it's... it's the Arena again, now. He no longer recognizes himself in the mirror, and chances are, he may never live to even see one again.

So he gently leans back against the coffee table a short distance away from you, and you're in the subtle proximate comfort of the knee-to-knee again, except he's on ground-level with his knees propped up to tether himself to yours. And the two of you just sit there. In the chaos of the promise of the whim of the possibility of an impending rebellion, an upcoming Games, and a potential mass murder that costs thousands of innocents their lives.

"I hate you."

"The feeling's mutual."

Another silence.

Then : "Do you actually think I'm real?"

"I don't talk to people I don't think are real."

"I'm not a sellout?"

"You're not a Capitol sellout. You're a Plutarch sellout."

Finnick's eyes snap up to yours, running between them like his salvation was stored in the salt of your tears. Then, a small crook of the corners of his lips. A snort. Then a laugh. "I can live with that."

It's funny because he won't. He won't live with that. He won't live at all.

"How did you know Stele?"

"I only became frontman after he died."

Whoa. Ouch.

"What was he? To you?"

"Everything. Who did you lose?"

"My District partner. She was everything to me, too."

This is rich. This is funny. This is ridiculous. This is devastating. Two minutes ago, you were at each other's throats, threatening each other's conscience, sanity, morality and integrity, and yet, here you are. Reminiscing over loss like you've lived through each other's worst phases.

"Are you still hungover?", he asks, after a moment, tired, spent, breathless, tame.

His spiral's come to an end. It's a cavernous pit of despair and he's got no rocks to throw to see how deep it is.

"Yeah."

"Oh, we can't have that, can we?", he asks, scrambling up and making his way to the liquor cabinet to fish out something to drink.

"At least we're not day drinking anymore. Cheers, us.", you mutter, running your hands across your face until it reaches into your hair.

He squints up at the clock. "Hey, look at that.", he remarks, sitting down next to you on the couch as he pours some out for you. "You okay?"

"No, Finnick, no, I am not okay. You just told me something far too concrete."

"Yeah, well, so did you. But I trust you.", he declares, holding his glass up to you. "Sellout or otherwise. You're District. And that's something. To selling out."

He waits. It'll kill him swiftly and painfully if you don't accept this olive branch. Your eyes — fatigued, sorrowful and oh-so-fragile — meet his as you clink your glass with his.

"To selling out."

The door opens, at nearly exactly that moment.