#uhohwriting

Biowarefare has made incredible strides in the last few decades, unbeknownst to the public. Experimental creatures of nightmarish horrors engineered to inflict both psychological and physical damage to enemies live in the darker shadows of war. You’d been sworn to secrecy, but remain haunted by these creatures. You’d rather not get close to them - you were just a biologist. A consultant really, meant to answer questions about organic matter and DNA. You were to assist in the designing process, but this was not a part of the job description.

“It still needs to eat in the meantime,” Your supervisor had delivered around a cheeky smile, as if he was telling a joke. Your face, however, had not shown amusement.

“Just don’t step over the tape, don’t talk to it, and try not to spend too much time in there. Oh, and don’t forget the bucket.”

With only two hours to prepare yourself before dinnertime, you weren’t able to accomplish much work. Nerves escape through bouncing legs and fidgeting fingers.

The fridge smelled putrid. A cesspool of meats and seafood, all untreated and unprocessed, some on the brink of expiration, others completely rotten. You try not to breathe as you remove the top of a crate of fish, your fingers surviving any splinters and unpleasant scents with the protection of thick rubber gloves. The mackerel are large, four to five pounds, you’d guess, just shorter than the length of your arm. You grab two, placing them in the large yellow bucket your supervisor reminded you about. Seawater and fish guts drip from your rubber gloves as you step through the empty sterile hallways.

The involuntary shake of your hands causes the handle of the bucket to rattle against the plastic as you step up to the creature’s holding cell. In front of the large metal door you take a moment to steady yourself with a few deep breaths, but the stench of dead mackerel does little to ease your nerves.

You reach to the lanyard around your neck that secured your badge, trembling fingers hesitant to place it against the reader. The usually stagnant red light flicks green, and a grating alarm sounds followed by the sturdy clunk of the lock. You’re forced to use both hands, setting the bucket down before you grip the heavy metal door. You’re lean your entire weight against it, teeth grit as your heels dig into the tile. Your foot holds the door in place as you reach for the bucket. Once in the containment unit, the big metal door slams closed behind you with a mechanical clunk. The alarm buzzes again, making you flinch, shifting hesitantly in your spot by the door as you take in the sight before you.

It’s huge, bigger than any man you’ve ever seen. It looked like a man. Seven feet tall, you think. Muscles engineered for the purpose of destroying, the purpose of killing. Its arms are bent at the elbows and positioned behind its head, restrained by ropes. The restraints looped thoroughly around massive biceps and forearms, secured to the walls on either of his sides. Another rope had suspended from a mount on the ceiling, securing his wrists in place.

Glowing eyes stare menacingly at you from under a hood that cover its face. The black hood spilled from under a tactical helmet and down his chest, hem brushing up against exposed collarbones.

Slick black tentacles protrude from underneath the hood that hangs over its face, each slithering and curling in their own direction.

Eight larger tentacles resembled that of an octopus. As thick as tree trunks at the bases and gradually thinning towards the ends, four on each side of his spine and spread from its back like wings. Each one moves independently, spread and primed as they writhe in the air.

Mesmerized by the creature before you, you find yourself frozen under its gaze. Taking in such a miraculous sight. Sure, you assist in the design, but you’ve never seen one in person before. Pondering its capabilities, knowing full well without the restraints in place you wouldn’t stand a chance against such a well engineered design. Wondering what horror the hood hides, something so awful it had to be covered. Or perhaps the creature was designed that way, the hood itself intended to further off put its victims.

When you finally break eye contact with it, your eyes find the floor. A red line of tape separates you from the creature, signifying its reach within the cell. Its got a large radius, you’re surprised by how much distance he’s capable of covering even while restrained in place.

You swallow hesitantly, taking a couple steps closer, still leaving a healthy distance between you and the glossy red tape.

“Fresh meat?” It asks, in a harsh and gravely voice that sends a chill up your spine. You weren’t sure if he had been referring to you or the fish.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you.” Your voice is broken and hesitant as you eye the tentacles writhing and twisting alluringly in the air.

You carefully get down on one knee and set the bucket on the ground, your hands shaking. With a calculated push you slide the bucket across the concrete floor and into the creature’s reach. The bucket slides over the boundary a few feet before it skids and tips over, rolling in a semi circle on its side as the fish spill out of the rim one after another.

The creature laughs, a loud and wicked laugh that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Your expression is seeped in worry as you stand, watching it eye the mess before it, cruel laugh still echoing in your ears.

“The new ones always forget the bucket.” It says, low and sinful with eyes half-lidded in menace. It coils a larger tentacle around the middle of the container and whips it back in your direction without warning.

You let out a yelp and dive to the floor, just barely missing the bucket that crashed into the cell door behind you. It bounces back, pieces of the plastic rim snapping off and scattering to the ground.

You scramble for the container, your other hand desperately clawing for your badge before slamming it against the receiver and exiting the cell in a panicked scramble.

The creature’s depraved laugh could be heard up until the door slammed shut behind you, the lock securing into place with the grating alarm. Your breaths are shallow, fishy rubber gloves pressed to your beating heart as you quickly distance yourself from the cell.

———————————————————

You had tried to convince your supervisor to give the task to someone else, anyone else, but to no avail.

“It’s your fault for forgetting the bucket!”

You mocked your supervisor’s inflection once out of earshot before burying your face into your palms with a groan.

You thought about putting in your two weeks. No! No two weeks. You’ll just leave and never look back.

You remember that the government doesn’t look very kindly upon disgruntled ex-employees holding classified information, and opt to run a hand through your hair with a huff instead.

You’ll be quick today, in and out, and then it’s done. Once a day for thirty seconds, until they find a replacement. That’s not so bad.

The second time was easier. You knew what to expect, and the spite against your supervisor, against the creature, only fueled your confidence. Features stone cold as you open the door, the grating alarm having stirred the creature. You step into the room assuredly, returning the creature’s harsh stare with one of your own.

You close more of the gap between you and the tape this time, holding the handle of the bucket with one hand and securing the bottom with your other. You wind it up behind you before using your arms to propel it forward with a huff, grip still steady on the bucket as the fish fly. The creature’s eyes follow the trajectory of the fish until they land at its feet. You had wasted no time turning on your heels and leaving, bucket still in hand.

“Someone learned their lesson.” You hear, and you grit your teeth as you let the door slam harshly behind you.

The creature left a lasting impression in your memory. Its taunts echo in your mind, and you can tell he was designed to get under the victim’s skin. To haunt them, inflicting emotional warfare in addition to physical, torturing them without even being in the same room as them.

You dreamt of it last night. You wondered if that was something that it had done to you. If he had the ability to inflict nightmares, or if he was just intimidating enough to let your subconscious run wild after only a few seconds of exposure.

In the dream, you had been caught in a sea of black tentacles, suffocating you as they wrapped around your mouth, robbing you of air while restraining your limbs from fighting back. The tentacles had wriggled until they transformed into the shape of the creature’s hood, glowing eyes staring tauntingly, but your dream had equipped him with a horrific mouth that laid over its hood, filled with sharp carnivorous teeth spread into a sickening smile. With his wicked laugh, blood spilled from the gaps of his endless rows of teeth.

You had woke up covered in sweat, gasping for air as you kicked free from the hold of your blankets.

The dream had stuck with you, the residual unease not allowing you to fall back asleep. You decided to start research on the creature although you weren’t instructed to - your way of controlling the fear of the unknown by making it known.

Detailed sketches and logs of your encounters with him quickly buried your work assignments. You were recording every detail from the number of visual abdominal muscles to his bluff behavior when encountering a threat, branching its tentacles out just like animals to in the wild do to appear bigger.

You couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on it during feedings. To gather data, you told yourself, to understand the creature’s physiology. You’re a biologist, after all. Research is the foundation of your beliefs.

You had been able to refrain from speaking with it, even if he was rather chatty. Arrogant, he loved to push your buttons.

You didn’t let him get to you, at least as far as he was concerned. You never let your irritation show when under his watchful gaze, but grit your teeth once you turned your back.

It’s about a week and a half into your new duty when he finally makes you falter.

“You’re starving me, you know.”

Your stride stills, not yet turning towards him as your hand grips your badge. You consider his words, shed of his usually cocky tone.

He could be lying, who knows what his true intentions actually are. On the other hand, you’ve only been feeding him what you’ve been tasked to.

You slowly turn towards him, your eyes squinted as you stare at him. You’re trying to deduce his weight, but it’s hard since you’re not used to estimating in terms of seven foot creatures with tentacles. He looks like he’s made of pure muscle, and those tentacles look heavy. 300 pounds? 400? You’re trying to decide if you should be feeding him in terms of his body weight percentage in regards to a human, an octopus, or a monster.

You should have kept walking, you think. He has your attention now, and not only that, you’ve revealed from hesitation alone that you possess a moral standard to uphold a basic level of decency for a prisoner of war. Now he knows you’re soft.

He can tell you’re trying to figure out if he’s deceiving you.

“If I had food to spare, I’d have used it as a weapon by now.” His low voice drips off arrogance again, and a tentacle reaches down to grab a mackerel, curling as he brings it to the appendages pouring from beneath his hood. You watch carefully as the fish disappears, and wonder if your dream was accurate about the mouth he hides under his hood.

You take a deep breath and turn from him, gripping your badge tighter and exiting the cell as you latch the door shut with a loud clunk.

The next time you’re in that awful fridge that reeks of postmortem and cheap seafood, you add two extra mackerel into the yellow bucket with the jagged broken edges.

When he counts the fish that land at his feet during your next feeding, his tone is still gruff, but softer, “Thank you.”

He leaves it without a witty remark. He caught you off guard again, shown by the slowing in your steps. You didn’t turn back to him this time, but you wanted to believe that he was genuinely appreciative of your kindness. Even if it was just enough not to make an attempt to get under your skin this time.

Your dreams have only become more vivid. You can hear the clunk of the lock on the heavy metal door, the alarm that blares identical to reality. You’ll be having a typical day at work, fully immersed in dry research and black tentacles will emerge from every entrance, every crevice. Holding you still and swallowing you up.

It’s getting difficult to differentiate the events in the dreams to those in real life. It takes hours to reorient yourself enough to fall back asleep.

Circles develop around your eyes from the lack of rest. Your productivity had come to a halt, your thoughts and research now surrounding the creature you feed.

He refrains from making comments at you, now that you’re feeding him enough. The next few visits he doesn’t say anything, the two of you sharing the silence. You’re not sure, but you think you have come to an understanding. You feed him a little extra, and in return he doesn’t say anything about the long stares. Not even a snide remark as you leave.

“What are you?” You finally ask during a feeding, curiously eyeing the tentacles delivering a fish to his obscured mouth.

He takes a moment to consider it, or maybe he takes a moment to swallow the mackerel.

“I am what I am, same as you.”

You look down, a little ashamed at your question. Maybe you have been too judgmental. He’s displayed his intelligence from the start, he’s obviously much more than just an it or a creature.

He was just a being who never asked to be created, same as you. His potential locked away in enemy care, his conscious trapped between these four walls, restricted from moving.

“I’m sorry.” You say, standing tall with your brows pinched and eyes looking up to meet his intimidating gaze.

“For what?” He asks after considering it for a moment, voice holding a slight edge.

“That you’re here.”

You pause before continuing, “That you were made for what you were made for. That you never got a chance to just be.”

His eyes watch you carefully, narrowing underneath his hood. A tentacle curls in your direction while your eyes are trained carefully on him, and you can’t help the shake of your hands as you get a closer look at his slick tentacle.

“I’m sorry you’re here too.” He says, and you’re not sure how to take it. You nod your head anyway, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Me too.” Your voice is strained with remorse, as if you’re personally responsible for holding him hostage. “I’m not like them.” You say, desperate for him to believe you, “I’m just a biologist, I’m meant to answer questions about DNA and nature. I didn’t- it just got out of hand.”

He studies you carefully, his muscles tensing underneath his restraints. “But you help them.” He says, dangerously and definitive.

“No! I- well, yes.” You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you did, “This is just a job.”

You look back to him. Could you even say it’s just a job anymore? When you’re assisting and encouraging the creation of beings like him? Forced into this world without regard of their wants, made for a purpose to kill and destroy and equipped with consciousness, without given the chance to discover themselves. Destined to a fate of being slain, captured, terrorized, experimented on, or worse.

You close your eyes again, “No, I didn’t mean-“ Your moral compass is spinning now, and you don’t feel capable enough to articulate your feelings on the matter. So instead you just look at him, eyes begging for him to give you a little grace.

He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but watch his chest rise and fall, tentacles wriggling idly behind him. He doesn’t speak, just studies you, those intense eyes boring into you.

“Do you have a name?” You ask gently.

The tentacles on his back curl, his menacing frame shrinking a bit.

He hesitates before speaking.

“Konig.”

“Konig,” You repeat. You give him your name before asking, “Do you need anything?”

He looks down his hood at you, tentacles itching with curiosity. “Water.”

You give a slow nod and gesture to the cell door behind you, “Yeah, I can, yeah.”

You go through the process of opening his cell door, sneaking the bucket into the nearest bathroom and filling it as high as you can with water, but it’s awkward with the sink’s base in the way. The bucket is a lot heavier when it’s filled and you have to waddle on your way back.

Back in the cell, water sloshes out of the bucket as you use your body to hold open the heavy cell door. You hover the bucket a few inches from the ground, the handle straining under the weight as you waddle it up just before the red tape and set it down. You look at him, slightly out of breath with your hands on your hips.

“Now - you can have this, but-“ You take a hand off your hip to point at him, pausing to take a tired breath, “You have to promise me you won’t throw it at me.”

His tentacles curl again, his hood tilting down. “I promise.”

You look hesitantly down at the red tape, kneeling behind the bucket and using your weight to slide it across the floor and over the boundary. He watches you carefully, studying the way your body moved as you kneel before him. As you work for him.

Once the bucket is over the barrier you stand and hesitantly take a step back, bracing yourself in case he launches this one at your head.

Instead he wraps a large tentacle around the jagged edge of the bucket, dragging it closer in order to get a better grip. You watch as two appendages work to bring it to his feet with ease. He takes turns eagerly soaking his tentacles in the water.

You’re not sure if he’s cleaning, drinking, or moisturizing, but you don’t ask. You watch as his tentacles smoothly work, picking up what remains in the bucket and dumping it over himself, letting it drip over his front and staining his pants a shade darker. He heaves a sigh of relief, his eyes closing and his glistening muscles relaxing against the restraints.

“Thank you.” He says, low and quiet. A tentacle grips the empty bucket and extends to its full reach, placing it carefully at the boundary.

After his tentacle retracts you reach for the jagged rim, scraping the bottom of the bucket along the concrete as you pull it back into the safe zone with two fingers. “Thank you.” You give a weak smile and gesture to the empty container in your hands. “I can keep bringing you water, if you continue to refrain from throwing?”

He nods, voice bordering on patronizing as his tentacles curl, “I promise.”

When you return the next day, you’ve got a new bucket and a small hose curled up and hanging off your shoulder.

You figured if he was being held prisoner, he at least deserved a full bucket of water and one that didn’t reek of dead mackerel. Konig watched as your struggle to manage to drag in both buckets while holding the heavy door open. When the door closes behind you with its noisy thud and grating alarm, you toss the fish over first, doubling back to haul the water closer. After getting it near the tape, you have to use your back and dig the heels of your feet against the concrete to slide it the rest of the way across the tape. The water sloshes onto your hair and down the back of your shirt as the bucket slides out from under your weight. You nearly fall back into his radius, but catch yourself with a nervous laugh.

You turn to get a glimpse of his tentacle as it pulls the water bucket closer. From here you get a peek at the suckers on his tentacles, each working independently as it grips around the rim and drags the bucket closer with ease. Just one of his larger appendages was stronger than your whole body. It gave you an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, but you continued to sit on the ground inches from the boundary, your legs crossed as you watch him eat and bathe.

“Thank you.” He says, and you’re unable to decipher his tone over his harsh voice.

“It’s uh, it’s no problem.” You’re memorized by the way his tentacles move, each working independently. It’s a lot of multi-tasking, you think, but it looks like it’s second nature for him, as natural to you as walking and talking at the same time.

“I’m sorry.” He says, in between bites.

“For what?” You ask, head tilting to the side.

“For throwing the bucket at you.” He keeps his gaze to his meal, “Your first day.”

You’re caught off guard by his apology. You hadn’t expected to see self-reflection and regret from him.

You shrug, “I get it. I mean, imprisoned by enemies of war? Restrained against your will? I think everyone has a right to be a little feisty in that situation.” You give another weak smile, fingers absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on your lab coat.

He huffs, wrapping around another mackerel and letting it disappear under his hood.

He lets the silence sit, but the biologist in you can’t help but analyze his diet, “You gettin’ tired of eating the same thing everyday?”

A tentacle reaches up to pick a fish bone from his teeth before flicking it casually to the floor. He considers your question carefully, a habit of his you’ve already logged.

“I’m tired of everything,” he says, and the exhaustion in his voice makes you look to the floor in shame.

Your arm crosses over your chest, thumb anxiously running over your opposing bicep, “How long have you been here?”

“I’ve lost count.” He says.

You wonder if he actually wants to be in conversation with you, or if any stimulation is a better alternative to staring at these four walls, alone with nothing but his own thoughts.

You take another deep breath, accustomed to the overwhelming smell of fish by now.

You’re not sure what to say to him. No words could offer someone in his situation comfort. Instead you watch as he finishes his meal and simultaneously bathes his appendages. It’s oddly alluring, how he moves. You wonder just how many things he’s capable of doing at once. Such a being must be very efficient.

He doesn’t seem to mind your company or curious stares. If he does, he certainly doesn’t voice them. You think he must be used to staring by now, and you wonder if you’re no better than the rest.

When you return the next day, you’ve brought a door jam. You’ve got too many things in your arms to carry in to be able to manage the door all at once. Konig watches from his restrained position as your cluttered silhouette stumbled into the cell. You set the buckets down with a thud, letting the extra bags roll off your shoulders. You have to huff, the trek down the hall weighed down supplies stealing your breath from you. Once you’ve removed the door jammer, silencing the annoying alarm and leaving you both with privacy, you return to his meal.

“I brought you some stuff.” You say as you shake the food bucket before tossing the contents in his direction. Various seafoods you could scrounge up in the fridge scatter to the floor. Shrimp, clams, oysters, a few different species of fish. Whatever seafood hadn’t turned rotten in the walk-in fridge.

His tentacles wriggle and reach out, suckers gripping to the food before him as he brings it to his mouth.

You’re not sure, but by the way his tentacles are wiggling you think you’ve won at least a few brownie points.

You turn from him to walk the bucket of water to the boundary, letting it dangle between your legs in an awkward waddle.

“I brought something else, too.” You say with a hint of hesitance, straining a bit as you set the bucket on the concrete.

His tentacles curl in… anticipation? Curiosity? Hatred? You’re not sure, but you’ve been trying to piece together his body language back in your lab for quite some time.

He doesn’t say anything, so once you’ve got the water bucket over the boundary, you cross back to the discarded bag and rummage through it.

You reveal a small black box, setting your bag down as you extend the antennae.

“A radio.” You say with a sheepish smile. He doesn’t say anything and you look to your gift with uncertainty, “I just thought - well y’know, I wouldn’t want to be trapped with my own thoughts. Everyone deserves some sort of distraction, yeah?” You say, kneeling on the floor as you set the it into his radius.

His glowing eyes stare down the present, and you’re not sure what he’s thinking. “Not a music guy?” You ask tentatively, a hand finding the back of your neck.

A tentacle slowly extends in your direction, carefully wrapping the radio in its grip. He brings it to his face, examining it with his glowing eyes. He sets it down carefully, and while he doesn’t say anything, you’ll take it as a win that he didn’t immediately fling it into the wall, shattering it to a thousand pieces.

You stare down at the floor for awhile, the only sound filling the room is his slick tentacles tending to his meal and bath, clam shells clattering to the ground as he quickly works the meat from them.

“Thank you.” He says, in between bites. It comes out low and vulnerable, as if the words were foreign to him, or possibly held down by the weight of things unsaid. Maybe it’s because he’s having to be kind to a captor, forced to be cordial to someone holding him prisoner here - and for what? Meeting his basic nutritional requirements?

He could be playing the long con, hiding his deep hatred for you so he can lure you into trusting him. You’ll end up like the ones before you, destined to the fate of a sudden and unfortunate accident.

Your stomach turns at your predicament. You could be educating the future about the miracle that is the powerhouse of the cell, but no, you just had to take the government research job, flashy paycheck and hopes of changing the world.

He tenses for a moment, tentacles stilling except for one that loops up underneath his hood, picking something from his teeth. He holds it in front of his eyes to get a better look at his find.

His gaze flicks to you, another undecipherable stare that sends a chill up your spine. You watch with bated breath as his gaze returns to the item in his grip, tentacle moving in your direction before carefully placing it at the boundary. You watch as his appendage curls like a snake to gently nudge it in your direction. Like a marble it rolls to you, over the red tape and bouncing off your shoe. Shaking hands stop its slowing roll before you pick it up between your fingers.

A pearl, from one of the oysters you’d given him. It’s uneven, not a perfect sphere, but its texture is still smooth in your fingers. You wipe the spit and oyster remains on your lab coat before letting the pearl rest in your palm, tilting it in the light to get a better look at it. It’s a purplish gray, iridescent colors shifting as you move it.

“How neat.” You say, tone that of an interested biologist, “Poor guy must of had a splinter.”

Once you get a good look at it, you set the small treasure back across the tape to return it to him, but he stops you.

“For you.” He says, definitively enough that you can’t argue.

You lips part as you look to him, stunned and wide-eyed at his gesture.

Maybe he hadn’t hated you.

You wrap your hands carefully around the pearl, bringing it close to your chest.

“Thank you,” You say, voice breathy in awe.

You unwrap your hand to study it carefully in your hands, your little pearl. Cradling it as if it’s a fragile being if it’s own, not a resilient clump of calcium carbonate that survived both a life in an oyster at the bottom of the ocean and engineered predator teeth capable of cleaning the meat off a skeleton in seconds.

He watches you study your gift, the same way you had studied him with eyes wide in amazement and curiously. You don’t see his muscles relax against his restraints. He continues to eat, slowing his pace as his stare stays on you.

You hadn’t exchanged any other words during that interaction, but you think the silence that encompassed the cell was comfortable. At least on your end, you’re not sure about Konig.

He passes the empty water bucket back you, and before you gather all of your things, you tuck your precious pearl away in a pocket of your lab coat.

Back in the lab, you rolled the pearl in your fingers, wondering if Konig’s gesture had meant the same to you as it had to him.

Humans regard pearls as highly as a precious gem, but maybe to him it was no different than discarding trash, just as he had flung the fish bones that got stuck in his teeth. He may have even been demonstrating his annoyance with you.

How dare you not clean his oysters before you serve him, do you want him to choke?

Does he know the rarity of a pearl? How we string them into necklaces? Adorn ourselves with them to elevate our look? How we gift them to our loved ones?

There was so much you didn’t know about him. His mystique kept you up at night and your mind wondered with the possibilities. You were a researcher at heart, aching to get an understanding of him from the inside out. Endless analyses filled your days and black tentacles swarmed your dreams. In the hours between night and dusk you considered your own morality. You’d never met one of the biowarfare creations up close before. You didn’t realize they were capable of sentient thought. That they are truly beings of their own freewill instead of a programmed organic weapon.

You think you’ve already crossed too far over the line, that there was nothing you could do to make it right.

The next time you visit Konig, the sound of the radio floods the cell between the calls of the grating alarm. Once the door secures behind you, you can make out a talk show. The news or perhaps something educational, judging by the dry voices and even tones you hear before he turns the dial off with a tentacle, his glowing eyes giving you his full attention. You don’t say anything, but it does make your chest fill with a slight warmth to know he’s using your gift.

“I took a trip to the dock this morning,” You start as you drag the bucket of seafood to the tape, “I don’t think I’ll be able to get the smell out of my car, but it’s crab season, so, I got some. Got a tuna, too. Oh, and scallops, you eat those?”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes narrow and his tentacles twitch and curl behind him.

“Lobster was a bit steep, but I can keep my eye out.” You say, setting the entire bucket just over the boundary. He had earned his trust with the bucket, and it was too demeaning to force him to eat his food off the filthy concrete floors.

His eager tentacles pull the bucket to his feet, digging into it to uncover your gifts. He wastes no time getting them underneath his hood, you can see his arms tense and steady beneath his restraints as his teeth sink into his meal.

You slide him the bucket of water and then stand back to observe as his slick tentacles take it from you. Simultaneously he’s able to clean multiple crabs at once, expertly working the meat out of its complex exoskeleton and leaving nothing but shell. Much faster than you’ve ever seen any octopus feed.

You think briefly to the feeders before you, wondering if their sudden and unfortunate accidents were just Konig cleaning the meat off a skeleton. You wonder if he was designed to feast on his enemies, if his diet had held space for human.

Another meal.

You look down to the space between you and the red tape. Three paces away. You casually make it four, just for good measure.

“Thank you.” He says, and it’s slowly becoming your language. The words thank you uttered a thousand different ways, each with a different meaning, weight, and inflection, neither of you fluent or able to decipher the other.

You don’t feel comfortable prodding, instead you steady your feet and watch him mesmerizingly tear apart his meal, body restrained but tentacles still fully dexterous. You wondered if he minds you watching him eat, or if he felt like a zoo animal under your watch. Your hand creeps into your pocket to nervously play with the pearl, fingers running over the smooth surface.

After he clears a few more crabs, he looks up from his meal to eye you carefully. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, how disheveled you look.

“Tired?” He asks.

One hand stays with the pearl while the other rubs the back of your neck. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep last night, uh, so I went to the docks early this morning.”

He flicks another shell into his pile, studying you carefully. After a few moments his tentacles outstretch welcomely, some resting against the concrete floor, “You can rest here.”

You tense under his stare, your eyes shifting hesitantly to his tentacles. “Oh, no - I just have a lot of work to do.” You eye his core for a moment before returning to his gaze, “I can sit for a little, though.”

He gives a pleased hum as you do, eyes narrowing as he watches you prop yourself against a wall on his side, leaving about three feet between you and the red tape. His gaze turns back to the seafood as he works. You observe him, resting your head against the cool concrete and staring down your nose. You can’t help but close your heavily eyelids, listening to the sound of shells snapping and being tossed to the floor.

Your fingers continue to smooth over the pearl in your pocket. It became a habit of yours, fingers finding the pearl absentmindedly, rolling it between your touch to soothe yourself.

You’re thinking about all the things you want to ask him. About his physiology, his full capabilities. About how he feels, what thoughts and emotions exist in a brain engineered for warfare. About his opinion of you, if he’s disgusted with you or if he understands that you’re both just products of a horrific environment.

Is he capable of empathy?

You couldn’t ask. Your relationship seemed so fragile and delicate as it was, so you both opt for silence.

You’re not sure how much time has passed when you open your eyes again, but he’s done his feeding and bathing, both buckets emptied and placed at the boundary in the center of the room. He’d tidied his cell, the floor cleared and the food bucket now holding his cleaned crabs, various shells, and fish bones.

His tentacles stir when your eyes meet his, and you take a sharp inhale as you rouse. You touch a hand to your heart, the other feeling for the pearl through your pocket. Your eyes find the red tape, and you’re still in your spot, propped up on the wall three feet from the boundary.

“Did I fall asleep?” You say, touching your forehead. If you had, you don’t remember having a nightmare.

His hood tilts up and he shrugs.

“How long’s it been?”

After a moment he shrugs again, tentacles working in rhythm to his movements.

Right, he wouldn’t know. You give a small nervous laugh at your foolish question, leaning forward and resting your arms on your knees.

“I should probably get going.” You say, but you don’t move from your spot, and he doesn’t wish you goodbye.

You stare at the floor on your side of the red tape. You can see his larger tentacles wriggling in the corner of your eyes, along with the glow of his stare.

Your back ached from sitting on concrete for an extended period. It made you wonder how sore Konig was, his arms having been restrained to their position bent behind his head for ages, forced into a standing position every hour of the day.

“I’ve made a huge mistake.” You say with a laugh, one in disbelief of yourself. You lay your palm flat on your forehead again. “I don’t know how it got this far, really.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing at you. He doesn’t say anything, and you continue.

“I’m just in too deep, right?” You huff, throwing your hand back down to your thigh. “I’m all torn up about this. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I’m just thinking about this nightmare of a job I’ve got myself in. You get so caught up in the paperwork and day-to-day, you forget what the end result is. I didn’t realize you were so sentient.” You give another nervous laugh, exasperated.

“Now I don’t know what to do.” A hand moves to your pocket and pulls out your pearl, holding it tightly in a closed palm by your side. “I’d try to make it right, but I don’t know how, okay? I really don’t know what the right thing to do is. I don’t know if there is a right thing to do, I think that ship has sailed.”

The right thing would have been never getting involved in this line of work, to never have learned of or aided in the creation of beings like him in the first place. But you’re both here, together, and there’s no way out.

You gnaw on your lip, looking to the ground. His eyes don’t leave you. Silence drapes over the cell as your words echo through both of you.

After the long pause he speaks, harsh voice layered with a hint of optimism, and his tentacles twitch and curl with his words.

“It’s not too late.”

You’re not able to meet his gaze, so you solemnly shake your head at the floor. You already know what he’s suggesting.

“You understand why I can’t do that, right?” You ask, soft and defeated.

He tenses under his restraints. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push. You hope that means he understands. That he understands the risks he’s asking you to take. The threat of your employers, the threat of him, fully realized and unrestrained. That you wouldn’t stand a chance against a powerful being like him. That no matter how many gifts and thank yous are exchanged, your actions will always layered with a high probability of deceit. That trust is inherently not possible in a relationship between a prisoner and the keeper. Between a being made for killing and the target he’s designed to kill.

The silence falls over you both again.

When you finally stand to retrieve the buckets, his gaze follows you.

“Perhaps in another life, we’ll get it right.”

Your shoulders tense at his words, your pace slowing. You don’t meet his eyes as you leave to discard his scraps, the harsh alarm and clunk of the door concealing your exhausted sigh.

The next few visits, you wordlessly hand over his meals and water before sitting on your spot against the wall, resting as you wait for him to return the buckets. It feels so nice to close your eyes, and it’s hard for him to haunt your thoughts when you know exactly what he’s doing. Your subconscious has a difficult time running wild when presented face to face with reality. It’s the best rest you’ve gotten in weeks, even if the concrete hurts your back and leaves your neck stiff. You feel oddly comforted being in the presence of the only other being who understands your struggle, even if he was the heart of your conflict.

Konig doesn’t seem to mind when you doze off, at least he doesn’t complain. He may just not want to bite the hand that feeds him anything other than mackerel on the brink of decomposition. Sometimes you’re out for a few minutes, sometimes hours, not waking up until well into the evening, long after you should have left the building.

He never disturbs you, letting you rest as long as you need. Listening to the light snores you make, his gaze fixed on the rise and fall of your chest.

He can tell you’re still afraid of him, when the first thing you do as you stir is search with wide eyes for the red tape to ensure you’re still safely outside his radius. You always relax when you meet his stare, though, watching his tentacles curl as you rouse.

You always run your hand over your left coat pocket, usually at the same time you’re searching for the red tape in a panic.

He wonders if you’ve brought something to defend yourself if things go wrong for you. If your hand reaches for the outline of a weapon in your pocket, some feeble defense to soothe your fears of him.

You usually offer an embarrassed laugh or coy smile as you adjust, usually while rubbing out a knot on your back.

Sometimes, especially if you haven’t gotten a lick of sleep the night prior, you’ll readjust from your spot against the wall to the floor, curling up on the concrete and positioning your arm underneath you as a pillow. You’ll rub the sleep from your eyes when you wake, propping yourself up on your elbow to look for a watch that doesn’t exist.

Little words are exchanged. What words could be shared to offer either of you comfort? Anything he says could just be a ploy to gain your trust. Anything you say does little to aid his position as prisoner.

There’s one visit, when you stir, where your back is fully flush to the concrete and you get a view of the ceiling of his cell. Your eyes widen, always with a sharp inhale, as you turn over and prop yourself up to search for the red tape. It takes you too long to find it, having to press your chin to your chest to get it in your view.

You had rolled over in your sleep, bust having crossed over the boundary, forearms propping yourself up in Konig’s radius.

You freeze, eyes wide as you look to him, wondering if he was aware of the easy prey ready for the taking.

He stares at you, tentacles still wriggling, but not outstretched. He keeps them pulled close to him, unlike his usual intimidating posture.

You’re still frozen in your spot, eyes wide and locked onto him as you process.

He could have easily wrapped a tentacle around your neck and ended your life before you had even woken up. Or worse, he could have restrained you, tortured you, and held you hostage as a mean to earn his freedom.

But he didn’t.

He’d left you undisturbed while you rested, as he always does.

Your heartbeat has made its way to your ears, muffling the sounds of hitched breaths escaping your parted lips. You two haven’t broken eye contact as you lay paralyzed on the floor.

He had spared your life, that was clear to you. He had resisted the urge to effortlessly snap your neck or get revenge on you for assisting in holding him prisoner.

You slowly sit up, locked on to his gaze.

Another trick to gain for your trust, you wonder. Spare your life now and stab you in the back later.

You slowly scoot outside his radius, not turning your back on him as you hesitantly stand and clear your throat.

Once you’re outside of his reach, you feel for the pearl through your pocket, but you can’t find the telling bump through the fabric of your lab coat. You reach into your pocket, finally taking your eyes off Konig’s glowing stare. Your fingers come up empty and you look to the floor where you had fallen asleep, and your eyes find it a few paces from the boundary.

When Konig sees what you had been hiding in your pocket all this time, and your hesitance to step back over the red tape, a tentacle carefully reaches to pick up your pearl. Instead of nudging the pearl back over to the tape and letting it roll to you as he did the first time, he flips his tentacles over so it’s sucker-up, unfurling it to his maximum length to present the pearl to you at waist height.

You can’t help the way your brows retract and your mouth parts as you study his slick appendage. You’ve never gotten this close of a look at his tentacles before. Each sucker wriggles independently, just as his tentacles did. You wonder if it’s autonomous to him, or if he has control over each one. Your shoes scrape the concrete as you shuffle nervously to the boundary, toes pressed up on the red tape to take the pearl from him. He could easily wrap his appendage around your wrist and pull you fully into his reach, just as he does with the buckets. Your fingers tremble as you reach for your possession, the involuntary shaking causes you to brush against his tentacle, leaving behind a clear slick on both you and your pearl.

His appendage retracts once you’ve taken it from him. A heat creeps up your cheeks, embarrassed that you’ve been caught hanging onto his gift like this. Carrying it around with you and visibly worried when you lose it.

If he had been simply discarding his trash instead of giving you a gift, unaware of the value of such an item, he probably thinks it’s strange of you to continue carrying it around.

He doesn’t voice his thoughts if he has any, just watched quietly as you tuck the pearl back into your pocket, smoothing over it once it’s secured.

“Thank you.” You say sheepishly, your eyes still wide as you digest his actions and lack there of. You’re not sure if you’re thanking him for returning your belonging or for refraining from killing you.

You have trouble making eye contact with him, eyes glued to the floor.

You’re thinking that maybe there might be some trust between you two after all. You’re thinking about the new details you noticed on his tentacles from your close view that you’ll surely record later. About gifts and thank yous and curious states and defined muscles engineered to kill. About how you can only get rest when you sleep under his watch. About what’s hidden under that hood. About how he didn’t kill you when given the opportunity like you had suspected he would.

You think about what he’s thinking.

Then you look to the buckets, still at his feet and not emptied and placed back at the boundary like your usual routine follows. Your brows furrow as you meet his glowing eyes.

Your chest rises and falls as you study him.

“I should probably get going.” You say, nodding to the buckets in an attempt to get him to pass them back over to you.

His tentacles curl and writhe at your statement, and his head tilts upwards. He lets your words hang in the air before he responds.

“Not finished.” He says evenly.

Your brow quirks at the unusual occurrence. It’s not like him to leave a meal unfinished, to stray from the routine.

You give him the benefit of the doubt, choosing to remain optimistic about your new step in trust, “I’ll come by for it later, then.”

You turn on your feet to leave, hands reaching for the lanyard of your badge like muscle memory. You swipe for it a few times, fingers coming up empty. Your chin meets sternum as you look down to confirm its absence, patting pockets and swiveling on your feet to look to the floor where you had lost your pearl.

You don’t see it, so you eye Konig, stare narrowed.

Time slowed as a tentacle, previously obscured behind his back, unfurls and stretches far above his head. The end of his appendage loops around your lanyard, light reflecting off the lamination of your ID as it rotates in the air. He dangles it above you both tauntingly.

Your gaze switches between Konig’s stare and the badge. It feels as if the air has been sucked out of the room. You don’t want to believe it - you’re in denial waiting for him to pass it back to you just as he did the pearl. He doesn’t, keeping your badge far on his side of the boundary a few feet above his head, playing keep-away with your freedom.

You shift in your spot and swallow.

“Yeah?” You ask, voice breathy but with an edge. You need him to verbally confirm he was stabbing you in the back, hoping he says anything to clear up the misunderstanding.

The tentacle holding the badge shakes, and the rest of his appendages outstretch, just as he had when you approached his cell the first time.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He says definitively, a few of his tentacles curling inwards with his words.

You rub your lips together and nod your head, digesting your predicament. He must have worked the badge off your neck when you rolled into his reach, delicately enough not to wake you.

You’re not scared, surprisingly, not afraid that you’re locked in here with him, most likely on a path to a sudden and unfortunate accident.

You’re more shocked at his betrayal, though you understand you probably shouldn’t have been. You’d been predicting this outcome from the beginning, that he was just hedging his bets and getting on your good side until you let your guard down. It appears your heart still bleeds regardless of your logical analysis, and you can’t help the lump that forms in your throat. You really had wanted to believe you two had an unspoken friendship, that regardless of the circumstances, you had his trust. You felt naive that some part of you had fallen for it. That you had invested enough of yourself to him to be hurt by his betrayal.

Your face burns as tears well in your eyes. You shift in your spot, sure the pain is obvious on your features.

“Don’t do that.” He pleads, tone a lot softer than his words. A few empty tentacles reach in your direction to offer comfort.

You don’t take it, your hand covering your mouth as you screw your eyes shut, tears escaping down your cheeks. You sink to your knees in defeat, almost perfectly between the middle of the cell door and your side of the red tape. All of the worry and ache and exhaustion you’ve experienced in the last few weeks involuntarily floods out of you in broken sobs.

Konig’s tentacles writhe as he watches you cry.

After a few moments, you sniff, wiping snot and tears from your nose with your coat sleeve, “Just give it back, please.” You plead at a whisper, stare desperate, “We can pretend this never happened, it can go back to how it was before.” You look up at him, face red and eyes brimmed with tears, “Please.”

It takes him a moment to consider your proposition. He lowered the tentacle holding your badge, but keeps it close to him. His words come out strained.

“You understand why I can’t do that, right?”

A loud sob escapes you at having your words thrown back at you. Without much other choice, you bury your face into your knees.

You cry for the better part of an hour, muffling your sobs into your thighs, curled up in a ball on the concrete.

When you’ve finally regained some composure, you wipe your face for the final time with a sniff.

When you speak again, your voice is forceful but nasally from the congestion of crying. Your head cocks back and you put your palm flush to the concrete, leaning back almost casually to support yourself.

“So what’s the plan?”

He tilts his head at you, and you don’t wait for him to answer before you continue.

“I don’t get the badge until I let you out, right? We both wait, you waiting for me to give in to starvation, and me waiting for someone to come to my rescue before it gets to that point - is that it?” It’s obvious you’re angry with him, words dripping with malice.

He huffs, muscles tensing against his restraints. His eyes narrow at you, tentacles outstretching to fill the space of his cell. You’ve grown accustomed to his bluffing behavioral response and it does little to intimidate you now.

“It doesn’t have to be this way.” He says, appendages curling inwards. “We can work together.”

You give your own huff, breaking eye contact with him. “It’s a little late for that.”

“I tried.” He said firmly, “I tried to do it the right way.”

You think back to your rebuff of his first proposal and groan.

“What choice did I have?” He asks, leaning against his restraints, ropes digging into his arms as the badge lowered to his side, “You wouldn’t have done the same if you were me?”

Your lips purse as you mull it over. Your eyes are still locked on to the floor and another frustrated groan leaves you. You didn’t want to put yourself in his shoes, you just wanted to be mad.

You do what you can to be spiteful with your limited resources, lying to the floor with your back facing him. Your arm is propped under you and your legs curled up. You stare at the cell door, brows pinched as you fume.

Rationally, you know you won’t last long. That you just cried all the hydration out of your body and haven’t been feeding yourself well in the past few weeks, including today. Meanwhile Konig’s been consistently eating full meals with your help and kept his buckets of food and water unemptied and close for him to ration over the coming days. You’re not in the best shape mentally, either, compared to Konig who has absolutely nothing to lose in his position. Even if soldiers bust down the cell door and filled him with lead, would it really be a worse fate than locked and bound in these four concrete walls?

Regardless of your long lists of disadvantages, you’re too upset with him to even consider giving into his demands at the moment.

You stew for hours.

You’ll occasionally adjust in your spot, sitting up to stretch the ache in your muscles before switching to lay on your other side, never facing Konig or even so much as sneaking a glance in his direction. You’re too upset with him to look at him.

Your mind is swirling, thoughts interject thoughts, throwing you new details to fuss over. You’re angry that he stole from you, that he took advantage of your vulnerability, the restlessness he was responsible for. You’re angry that he trapped you in here, imprisoned you even though he knows how awful it feels to be a prisoner. You’re angry that he can stomach sitting back and watching you starve and dehydrate yourself out of spite. You’re angry that he had plotted against you, made you out to be the fool, even if you’d suspected he had been doing so this whole time.

Mostly you’re just upset that you got your hopes up.

Instead of thank yous, your new shared language becomes silence.

You wonder if he can tell the difference. Between the solemn silence, the seething silence, the desolate silence. The thoughtless silences that come after running your mind in circles enough to physically exhaust yourself. The silence that falls on you when you finally shut your eyes, slipping into the comforting arms of unconsciousness.

You wake with a sharp inhale, desperately searching for your precious red tape. It takes you a moment, when you stir, to remember the events of yesterday. Or today, you’re not sure how long you were asleep and you have no way to tell the time.

You had already locked eyes with Konig. His tentacles wriggled and stretched when you looked at him for the first time since his betrayal, but when you see your damned badge on his side of the boundary it comes flooding back to you. An audible groan leaves you as you roll back over to face the wall.

You try to fall back asleep, desperate to escape from reality, but the dryness in your mouth is impossible to ignore.

Your mouth is begging for moisture and your joints are stiff. A dehydration headache had settled behind your eyebrows.

You need water.

You have two options.

Beg Konig to share his water bucket, or let Konig free and you’re free to get your own.

You decide you’ll just rot on the floor, instead.

You close your eyes and try to ignore the sandpaper feeling in your mouth enough to lull yourself back to sleep. You’re mulling over your options for water, and a detail you can’t believe you’d missed makes you sit up to look at Konig for the first time intentionally. Your head had swiveled around quickly, brows lowered in offense, “How do you expect me to get you out of here without giving me my badge back?”

He lets your question hang as his glowing eyes meet yours. His stare is intense, but yours doesn’t falter.

“I asked you a question, Konig. I don’t have anything to free you with. I know you don’t have anything to free yourself with.”

Your words are sharp and dangerous.

“So what’s the plan? You’ll have to give me my badge back to get something to cut you free.”

He looks to the pocket that held your pearl. His plan had one flaw - that he had not accounted for the outline in your pocket you’d reached for whenever you stirred being anything other than a weapon. He was sure you had brought something to defend yourself with if he had attacked you. Something that you could use to cut his restraints once you gave in to your starvation. He miscalculated the amount of trust you’d placed in him and it should have become obvious to him the moment you had looked to the pearl after finding your pockets empty.

He eyes the mounts that hold his restraints, two on the floor to his left and right and one in the ceiling directly above his head, all out of his reach.

“You’ll untie it at the base.” He says definitively.

Your teeth grit as you look to the ceiling, “How do you expect me to get-“ You cut yourself off when you realize what he’s suggesting, “No! No.”

His head tilts down but his stare says on you.

“No. Too far.”

A few of his tentacles curl, “I don’t want to watch you starve.”

“Then give me my badge back, Konig!”

His body tenses at the way you say his name. Coated in wrath and following a harsh demand. Your aggressive volume and fists clenching by your sides trigger his bluff behavior, tentacles stretching to fill the space of his cell.

He says nothing, and your eyes dart around his features before you let out a huff, turning away from him again.

You regretted saying anything to him. You’d wished you’d just swallowed your realization a little longer to mull it over before your compulsive outburst.

You hadn’t had a chance to consider that he would offer to give you a lift. You had been so focused on avoiding his reach that the thought of him wrapping around you and lifting you up in a tentacle was foreign to you. You’re not sure you would have thought of it even if you had taken time to consider it. The idea of getting close to him once he was cut free from his restraints was nerve wracking enough, let alone trusting him enough to hold you steady a story in the air as you free him.

You manage to sit with your spite and dehydration for a few more hours, even sneaking in short nap before you break.

You sit up slowly, head pounding as you prop yourself up with a palm flush to the concrete. You look at him, eyes pleading.

“Konig,” You say, so much softer than the last time you said his name, “I need water.”

His tentacles twitch, but he says nothing, glowing eyes staring you down.

“Please, Konig.” You say, voice broken.

He doesn’t respond, and you can’t help but sob, no tears escaping your dry tear ducts.

Your voice raises in desperation.

“Konig, don’t do this to me!”

He closes his eyes, the glow of his stare disappearing behind black eyelids. A tentacle reaches down to turn on his radio, and he dials the volume up to drown out your pleads.

A heartbroken expression spreads on your features. How could he do this to you? How could he put you in this position, after everything?

Your eye catches the water bucket by his side.

He doesn’t want to give it to you?

He thinks he can make you beg and plead for your lifeblood?

Fine.

You’ll just get the damn water yourself.

Your brows pinch as you check on Konig, who still has his eyes closed to rid the visual of your crying.

Your palms have already sprung yourself forward before your feet catch up to you, having to straighten your upper half as your shoes scrambled for concrete. After light fumbling you quickly pass over the red tape, beelining for the water bucket. You’re running so fast you overshoot, having to extend your leg to skid the sole of your shoe on the floor to slow yourself. Your body lowers to the ground with your extended leg as fingers wrap around the handle of the bucket. You’d looked to Konig, whose glowing eyes had snapped open and darted straight to you at the sound of your shoe skidding and plastic scraping against the concrete as you struggled with the bucket.

You catch a glimpse of his tentacles writhing furiously before starting your dash back to safety. You’re reminded of the heavy weight of the water bucket, stumbling over yourself as you struggle to manage both its heft and your panic at the same time. You’re inches from safety when a tentacle shoots out and loops around your ankle, pulling your leg out from under you when you go to take your final leap over the red tape. Your palms extend to brace the concrete, and while you manage to narrowly avoid hitting your head, you hear an internal rip that makes your stomach turn and a blinding hot pain bracelets around your wrist, stunning you. The bucket had crashed to the ground on its side, water spilling to the floor and soaking your clothes.

“No!” You grit, but you don’t have time to think about the water or your wrist because Konig starts to drag you backwards through the puddle and into the air with the tentacle wrapped firmly around your ankle.

A gasp escapes you and fingers desperately scratch at wet concrete until you’re fully airborne, hanging upside down and clawing for the ground.

You curl up in an attempt to rip his firm grip off your ankle, but your core isn’t strong enough to reach, so you end up just wriggling in his grasp like a fish out of water.

Another meal.

You hear the radio turn off, and your eyes find the ground, partially curtained by the tail of your lab coat. Your soaked shirt has slipped down, revealing your core. Water drips from your soaked clothes and splash onto the concrete. You can tell the ground is a long fall away and when you give up reaching for your ankle, your hands stretch out towards the ground and preemptively brace your fall, injured wrist pulsing as you follow your instincts. Involuntarily squeals are leaving your parted lips as he stills, dangling you so your body is above both of your heads and you’re eye to eye with him as you hang.

You look at him with fear swelling in your eyes. You’ve never seen him up close before like this, even if upside down. You’re inches from the hood that covers his face, glowing eyes reflecting off yours. You still, free limbs falling in line with gravity as you stare into his narrowed gaze with wide eyes. Your headache is severely exacerbated by hanging upside down, feeling your own pulse in your head as the blood drains to it.

When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous, and he gives you a slight shake with his tentacle for emphasis.

“I think it’s time for you to let me out.”

His growled yet arrogant words send a chill up your spine. Reminded you the being you’ve come to feel so much for was still a monster.

He’s left no room for argument. He’s given you plenty of chances to let you make the choice yourself, and yet you resisted. You had opted for the hard way, and you had left him no choice.

Release him, or suffer a sudden and unfortunate accident.

“Okay! Okay!” You squeak out with a slight flail, hoping it pleases him enough to prevent him from slamming you as hard as he can into the concrete.

You still again, slowly holding your hands up, palms showing. You calmly let out one more, “Okay.”

His head tilts backwards slightly, silently keeping your stare.

“Can I at least be upside-right? Please?” You squeak out, heart racing intensely enough you can hear it in your ears.

He lets you dangle for a few more moments before a tentacle curls around your waist. Instead of using the end of his tentacle like the one around your ankle, he had secured around your bare waist with the middle part of another appendage, the thicker grip giving him a sturdier hold on you. You think this must what it be like to be in the hold of a boa constrictor, trapping you and reminding you of its strength but not yet squeezing the breath from you.

He slowly flips you upside right, but keeps your flushed face inches from his. Your feet are only a few feet from the floor now, but you don’t bother trying to remove the tentacle on your waist. You’re well aware of his strength and you can feel his grip threatening to tighten around you. You won’t stand a chance against even one of his appendages, let alone all the others at attention behind him.

He takes his time looking you over, watching your eyes flick nervously between him, the tentacle firmly coiled around your waist, and the floor beneath you. Your mouth was stretched in fear and unease, breath hitched. You weren’t flailing anymore, but your feet did still mindlessly search for foundation and your hands had gripped on to his slick tentacle in an attempt to steady yourself.

He gives a huff before moving you through the air again. He goes slow, extending you out to the wall to his right. He has to pass you off to the end of another tentacle in order to use his full reach. You can’t help but feel felt up as he wraps and curls around you to keep you steady in the air.

He has to lay you almost diagonally with your head tilted towards the floor to get you close enough to the mount that tied off his binds. He uses some extra appendages to secure around your lower thighs and hips.

You let out a few breathy expletives as he adjusts you, grabbing and moving you against your will through the air.

You had to reach your arms out in a full extend, and even then the cool metal of the mount is just barely grazing your fingertips.

You wriggle in his grip, swiping at the post, grunting as you do so. He does his best to use the very end of his appendages to hold you in order to get you closer.

“Got it.” You say breathily as your hand grabs the mount. You give a light huff as you try and pull yourself closer, but Konig is extended his full range and instead you yank against his tentacles.

The knot of his ropes are tight around the loops of the metal post. You’re not sure if you’ll even be able to untie them with just your fingernails, but you don’t think Konig will accept an excuse.

He’s not hurting you, but his grip is definitively still tight, putting an uncomfortable pressure on your ribs. Had your clothes not already been soaked with water he would have left stains on your lab coat from the slick of his tentacles.

Your hands shake violently as you fuss with the knot. You’re forced to stretch, already sore muscles aching as you overextend them. Involuntary grunts escape through your gritted teeth as you dig at the knot, feet kicking as if you’re trying to swim closer to it. You try for minutes, but the knot is way too tight for you to even get a fingernail into. It doesn’t help that you’re being suspended, squished, and held at an angle, and your hands are soaked with water and Konig’s slick. You think your wrist is most definitely sprained, possibly broken, judging by the sharp decline in dexterity and searing pain that’s impossible to ignore as you fidget with the ropes.

The panic bubbles quickly, fingers scratching desperately at all of the loops of rope. You’re pleading under your breath for one of them to loosen, loosen just enough you can slip a finger in - but it doesn’t budge. One of your nails snap as you force it against a crease in the taught knot.

You’re guessing every time Konig has ever pulled against or leaned on the restraints it only forced the knot tighter, and with how long he’s been in this cell the rope has fused together with friction and time.

The panic isn’t on your side, causing you to thrash at the ropes and undo whatever insignificant progress you had made. Your whines would be matched with tears of irritation and fear if you had any water left in you.

“Konig?” You sob, “I can’t do it! I’m trying, really - the knot’s too tight!” You give the knot another frustrated claw with your broken nail, “I need a knife, scissors, something!”

You sigh and go limp, arms and top half dangling as his tentacles support you.

“Just kill me,” You whisper through your dry throat, eyes screwed shut and voice cracking.

You pause, and when you speak again your voice is quiet in defeat, but still holds an edge of malice, “Just do it and get it over with, hopefully the next feeder will be smart enough to bring a weapon.”

You’re still facing the wall, but you can feel his tentacles tense around your middle and lower limbs.

You both still, aside from the involuntarily and uneven heaving of your chest as you sob and wait for death.

All the appendages wrapped around you pull you closer to him. Two additional tentacles move to coil around your upper arms, and he tilts you so you’re upright instead of diagonal. You stay limp, feet and sprained wrist dangling. You let him move your body like a marionette, with your head tilted all the way forward and hair obscuring parts of your face.

He stops when you’re right in front of him again, you would be eye to eye if your chin hadn’t been pressed to your chest, feet only a few feet from the ground.

He holds you steady.

Considering how he wants to kill you, probably. Drag it out a little perhaps? Get a little torture in before he does it maybe?

Maybe your kindness will have not been for nothing, maybe he’s thinking about all the food and gifts and thank yous and he’ll repay you by making it quick. One swift snap of the neck or extra hard hit to the concrete, maybe.

He doesn’t do either.

He slowly lowers you to the ground. When your feet touch the floor and they don’t move to support your weight, he lifts you up an inch and comes in a second time at an angle, gently lying you on the ground so you’re flush with the concrete. His tentacles gently release from you and retract to his sides. Your badge gets placed gently on your stomach, and then all of his tentacles are off of you.

You don’t rush for the badge or the exit. You had already given up, and you weren’t about to give up on giving up, too. Your ass backwards way of maintaining some scrap of dignity.

You continue to lay limp on the floor, ignoring the badge he’d returned to you and keeping your eyes closed, tearlessly crying.

You’re not sure how long you lay on the floor, waiting for him to change his mind and kill you.

You think maybe he wants a challenge, maybe he likes a hunt. Or maybe he just wants to look you in the eyes while he does it.

So once your sobs subside you slowly sit up, your red and puffy eyes staring into his glowing eyes. His whole body is tensed, but he keeps all of his appendages close to him as they curl and twist alluringly.

You’re slouched as you stand, arms hung in front of you before you shift sloppily on your shoes, badge hitting the floor as it falls from your stomach.

You cock your head back to look at him and lick your chapped lips before giving a broken hum. You hold your arms out on either of your sides, as if inviting him to a fight, but you’re weak from dehydration, starvation, and your injury, so your movements are slowed.

You don’t speak, but your face reads Come on, kill me! What are you waiting for?!

He just stares at you, a look you’re unable to decipher from under his hood. His tentacles are writhing, but he keeps them close to his body, even if your stance is aggressive.

You let out a huff and roll your eyes, breaking the stare off. You walk over to his food bucket and empty out its contents onto the floor before stepping over to water bucket, shoes splashing in the puddle it sat in. You stack both buckets so you can carry them with one hand, before doubling back and swiping your badge off the floor with your broken nail, not so much as looking at Konig before you exit the cell.

Your first stop is to the bathroom, where you shed your lab coat, its thick fabric still wet.

You bend your aching muscles to awkwardly crane your head underneath the faucet, gulping down the streaming water. The sweet, precious water. Bathroom sink tap water has never tasted so good.

You’re drinking so fast you don’t even stop for breath. When you pull away, chin dripping and face puffy, you’re gasping for air. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror behind the sink you had drank from.

Your hair was disheveled from being dragged and hung in the air, face puffy and swollen from crying, and skin showing your dehydration. Clothes soaked from the water bucket and Konig’s slick, face still dripping as you breathe deep.

You take a few more sips from the sink for good measure before turning the faucet off with force. You drape your coat over your injured arm and grab the buckets with the other before you march out of the bathroom and straight to your supervisor’s office.

Oh, the speech you were going to give him was going to be therapeutic. You are planning on letting him have it, telling him to post your position because you’re done, and then you’re going to tell him where he can shove his buckets.

You open his door hard enough the doorknob slams into the wall and bounces back with a shake, but his office is empty, and you let out another groan at the discovery through gritted teeth.

You go back to the lab, gather your things and leave, regardless of the time. You’re caught off guard when you get to the nearest window and see the dark sky. Nighttime.

You cry the entire ride home, not yet ready to process the events but stuck with an overwhelming feeling of dread and exhaustion in the pit of your stomach.

Your wrist was red and swollen and the movements of your steering wheel turned the pain to a cruel pulsing throb.

Once back in your home, you think about a list of things to do to take care of yourself, but opt for wrapping your wrist and popping a few over-the-counter pain relief pills while finishing a bottle of water at the same time. You crawl into bed and pass out without even getting under the covers.

—————————————————————-

You hadn’t set an alarm, so you wake to a tentacle-ridden nightmare with a sharp gasp. You jolt to a sit, wincing when you feel the searing hot pain that bracelets around the sprained wrist you’d used to support yourself.

You get your weight off of it, holding your wrapped arm in front of your face. It triggers the memories of Konig tripping you and your wrist hitting the concrete. Of him dragging you across the concrete floor by your ankle. Holding you prisoner. Starving you. Making you cry. Betraying you.

Threatening your life and then sparing it.

Had it all just been another one of his bluffs? Had he known from the beginning he wouldn’t be able to follow through with his plan, or did he change his mind about killing you once you’d pathetically given up, going limp in his tentacles?

When had he changed his mind?

Somewhere between the first day when he threw that bucket at your head and the moment he’d laid your limp body down on the ground he had changed his mind about killing you, that you knew.

He wasn’t just a mindless programmed weapon, he was capable of some amount mercy. Control.

Unless he knew that if he had killed you, he wouldn’t have been able to get his varied meals and water buckets. Maybe he had kept you alive as just another means to an end.

But he had kept you alive, that was understood.

You close your eyes, falling back onto your mattress. You’d been thinking about Konig non-stop these past few weeks. Obsessing, even. It was exhausting, him and you and both of your mortalities and the constant threat haunting you in and out of your dreams.

You decided you weren’t going to think about him now, that for the sake of your own sanity you needed to focus on yourself.

You treat yourself to a full breakfast for the first time in awhile, topping it off with more pain reliever and water. A long shower eases your aching muscles, but the one-handedness makes it awkward to bathe yourself.

You put on loungewear after you towel off and reapply your wrist wrap, in need of the extra comfort. You leave your dirty lab coat at home before you head back to the office, still in your lounge clothes. You won’t be there long, you decide. You’re going to tell your supervisor what happened, chew him out a little bit, and then let him know he’ll need someone to feed Konig while you take time off to heal and process.

You stop by the lab to pick up your buckets before heading straight to your supervisors office.

You open his office door without knocking and when his eyes meet yours his brows furrow as he gives your clothes a scan.

“I’m going to need some time off,” You say firmly, gesturing to your wrapped arm.

“What happened?” He says, brow quirking.

You laugh, “What happened? What happened?” You use your uninjured hand to shove the buckets to the ground forcefully, your tone dangerous, “Is that I accepted this shitty job offer in the first place. What were you thinking?”

He’s sweating now, eyes wide with shock as you raise your voice to him.

You continue, “You saddled me with feeding him. You gambled with my life.” Your tone goes from angry to quiet and stern, “He almost killed me.” Your gaze flicks to between each of his nervous eyes.

He sputters, “What- What do you mean? What happened?”

“He stole my badge and trapped me in that cell with him! He starved me! NONE of you came for me, NONE of you checked on me.” Your animated tone lowers to one of cold malice, “You saddled me with a deadly job and then left me to die. Not a single reinforcement.”

“How did he steal your badge?” He asks, face stretched in confusion.

You hesitate, “I-“ You cut yourself off. You can’t tell him you fell asleep in there. Because then you’d have to tell him about how you had fallen asleep waiting for him to empty his bucket. The bucket he wasn’t supposed to have. The loitering you were instructed not to do. The conversations you were forbidden from having. The unauthorized tape crossing.

“It doesn’t matter! I’m-“ You’re frazzled now, face reddening, “I’m leaving! Just make sure someone feeds him!” You fumble for the doorknob, leaving him with a bewildered expression and two colorful buckets.

“Are you quitting?!” He yells out after you’re already down the hall.

“Yes! No! I mean - maybe! I’ll let you know!”

You take three days off to take it easy, catch up on sleep, and ice your injuries. It’s been awhile since you’ve been able to relax, just getting lost in a mindless TV show and forgetting your worries for awhile. You didn’t want to think about Konig, it was too painful, but your thoughts kept leading you to him and you had to often remind yourself that you were supposed to be taking a break from him.

After three days, you’ve managed to steady yourself enough to get back to your research. The work had piled up during your stint as a feeder and you thought your normal work would be a good distraction.

The first time your supervisor catches a glimpse of you, he does a double take through the circular glass pane of the lab’s swinging doors before he enters.

He says your name, surprised but still cheerful, “It’s good to see you! Lab coat and all.” He lowers his voice, “I, uh, I didn’t think you’d be back.”

You don’t say anything, attention still to your work.

He clears his throat before continuing, “How’s your wrist?”

“Still sprained,” You say dryly, still not turning to him.

He sputters a bit, “Hope you feel better soon, uh.” He clears his throat again, “You’ll be happy to hear that,” he trails off for a moment before continuing, “It’s being put down.”

Your eyes finally find him, darting over quickly as you set down your notes.

“What’s being put down?”

“The creature.” He says with a smile, as if he’s offering his saving grace.

“No!” Leaves you involuntarily. The wrist with the bandage finds your heart as you stand, shaking your head at your supervisor, “You can’t do that!”

His brows pinch, “What do you mean? I thought you’d be happy about this. He tried to kill you.”

“No, if he tried to kill me I’d be dead, he almost killed me, he spared me!”

Your supervisor steps closer you, holding his palms up in a weak attempt to calm you. You back away from him with each step he takes, still shaking your head.

“He hurt you!”

“That was an accident!” You say, angrily. The edge in your tone causes him to still his stride. You don’t usually speak to him like this.

He says your name again, voice soft and eyes full of pity, “He put your replacement in the hospital.”

Your face goes slack as you look at him with wide eyes, shaking your head slowly, “No!”

He says your name again, “Yes. Listen, I see this has left you on edge. Maybe you should take some more time off, no problem. We can even get you in touch with a counselor specialized in war trauma.”

“No, listen to me, you can’t kill him!”

“How many more sudden and unfortunate accidents do you think we can continue reporting before the wrong person starts asking questions?!” His voice has lost his pity, obviously frustrated with your disapproval.

“You can’t be mad at a wasp for stinging when you whack its nest, can you?! He was made for that purpose!”

He raises his voice, stern enough it stuns you, “And what do you expect us to do with a monster made for the purpose of killing? Let it out into the public? Let it rot in a jail cell while we keep feeding him our employees?!”

“He didn’t kill me!” You say exasperatedly, “He didn’t kill me because you guys are starving him! You’re not feeding him enough. That’s enough to make any man kill.”

“Why are you sympathizing with it? It’s a monster!”

You look at him with squinted eyes and mouth parted in disgust, “He’s not a monster! He’s-“ You cut yourself off.

Your supervisor lowers his head in your direction and crosses his arms over his chest. “Go on.” He says.

You put your palms together gently in front of you, careful not to bend your injured wrist. A sigh leaves you.

“Look, I’ve been doing research on him, okay? He’s rather remarkable and he’s surprised me more time than I can count.”

He scoffs, “I’m sure it has.”

Your eyes screw shut for a moment as you groan in frustration, “No! I mean, sure, he is a miraculous biowarfare weapon equipped with superior predator features, that’s a given, but in addition to that he’s an intelligent creature capable of independent thought! He is capable of being kind and showing mercy. You don’t understand!”

He cocks a brow at you and sighs, “I guess I don’t.” He reaches out, as if he’s going to put a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, but stops himself. “Look, it’s been a rough week for everyone here, okay? Why don’t you take some more time off and we’ll take care of things here.”

You realized there was going to be no getting through to him. That there would be no way to get him to see that Konig was an intelligent being capable of restraint, that he had no say in his creation as a weapon, that he was misunderstood due to the weight of being a prisoner, and that even the worst behaving prisoner deserved not to starve.

“You’re still going to kill him, aren’t you?” You say, more of a statement than a question.

He doesn’t say a word, pity still flooding his stare. He turns slowly, stopping once he’s got the lab door ajar at his finger tips,“I’ll see you when you’re feeling better.” He slips out, and you watch the lab door swing to a still as you swallow his words.

It doesn’t matter how you feel about Konig right now, all of your complex feelings have been pushed to the side. They can’t kill him, he doesn’t deserve that fate, that’s for sure. You can’t hold a being prisoner, underfeed him, and then expect him not to act on his primal urges. Not even a human would pass that test.

That and the idea of him disappearing from your life permanently is enough to make your heart pound and your head spin, having to press your uninjured hand to your forehead to wipe away your sweat.

This is your fault, you’re thinking. That if you hadn’t let a substitute go in there after you left things so messy with him maybe this fate would have been spared.

No, no. You can’t afford to think like that. You can’t afford to blame yourself for his actions.

But your actions could save his life.

“Yes,” you say, out loud frantically to yourself at your own idea, “Yes!”

You’re searching the lab, pulling open cabinets hard enough they slam against their holds, leaving their doors open as you dig out their contents and leave them scattered on the floor.

You find what you’re looking for, the sharpest object you could think of in the lab, a scalpel.

You had grabbed the entire dissecting kit with the firm grip of your uninjured hand, finding a sprint as soon as it’s in your grasp. As you run you lay your injured arm across your chest, setting the pouch on top of it like a makeshift table as you pry the zipper open and dig for the scalpel. Your feet are hitting the tile hard and each step jostles your injured wrist but you’re not sure how much time you have.

You have the horrible thought that it might be too late, that when you get there you’ll find an empty cell and you’ll never have the chance to say goodbye, I’m sorry, or thank you again. The lump in your throat and the prick of tears in your eyes makes you stumble, and you use the opportunity to slow to find the scalpel, pulling it from the hold of the pouch through blurry vision. You let the pouch slide off your bandaged arm and crash to the hall floor, returning to your quick pace, damned be lab rules of running with sharp instruments.

You slam your badge into the receiver in a panic, the tears already threatening to spill over at the thought of never seeing Konig again. The scalpel scratches against your badge and when the alarm sounds, you’re looking frantically down the halls to see if anyone is going to try and stop you. When you pry open the heavy metal door enough you stumble into his cell.

He’s still in there, alive, and your tears quickly turn to that of relief.

You’re don’t hesitate, crossing the red tape and closing the distance between you, scalpel in hand.

His tentacles are at a bluff, writhing and fully extended as you dash at him. You realize that sprinting at him full speed with a weapon after the way you left things was probably not the best way to approach the situation.

“Konig!” You say, out of breath and slowing to turn your direction towards the ropes instead of him. You waste no time scraping the scalpel against the taught restraint with your uninjured hand, “We got'ta get you out of here - they’re going to kill you!” The tears are flowing down your cheeks again. You’re not sure if it’s the panic, your upset feelings of him bubbling up at seeing him, or the thought of him being killed.

“We gotta get out of here, we have to go!”

You struggle through the first rope, handicapped by your injury and fraying it in multiple spots as your hand shakes. The scalpel slices all the way through, and the rope snaps back, the loops around Konig’s bicep releasing in large coils.

You make a dash for the rope restraining his other arm, out of breath and tears blurring your vision. Your hands shake as your uninjured hand slices the ropes, unable to grip the restraint with your other hand. You fumble it for moment, panic slowing you down. Something grazes your hand and you flinch, but relax when you see Konig’s tentacle gently tapping your palm. He flips it sucker up, offering to take the scalpel from you.

“Oh, yeah.” You say, a dizzy heat creeping up your cheeks. You hand him the scalpel, blade facing your chest so the end of his appendage can safely coil around it.

He takes slices precisely through one of the indents you started in the rope with ease.

You can’t help the awe as you watch him, mouth slightly part as your eyes follow the tentacle slice through the rope securing his wrists to the ceiling. You take a step back, hands slightly braced at your sides.

His free tentacles are curling and writhing in excitement as he gets the final swipe through his restraints, the slack releasing and dropping to the ground in loops. Once fully unrestrained, he takes his time stretching his muscles, eyes closed and small grunts leaving his lips as his tentacles move in synchronization with his movements. He rubs out the red and irritated lines the ropes left behind on his arms.

You’re still in awe as you watch him, eyes wide and slack jawed. You hadn’t given yourself time to prepare for being in a the same room as a fully unrestrained superbeing designed for killing.

Had he just been being nice to you for his own benefit, you’re thinking this would be the time for him to kill you.

Once he’s done working out his muscles, he steps over to you slowly, eyes not leaving you as his boots make their commanding presence known on the concrete.

“Oh, I-“ You cut yourself off, looking to the side as you take a few steps back. Your palms are out, and you’re thinking maybe you should have thought this through a bit more.

He says nothing, his glowing gaze boring into you as he closes the gap, leaving only inches between you two.

The nerves are apparent on your face as you stare up at him, having to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. He frame towered over you and his tentacles curled behind him alluringly. You flinched when the end of a tentacle came up to brush your cheek, leaving behind a small line of clear slick.

“Thank you.” He says, and for once you know what he means.

“Thank you.” You respond with a shaky voice, eyes flicking around his features nervously.

“Are you ready?” He says, nodding to your badge.

You’d forgotten he’s being hunted. Your unease of him is overtaken by the panic to save him.

“Yes, yes! We should hurry.” You say, starting a sprint for the door, but a tentacle loops firmly around your waist and lifts you up, your feet still searching for floor. Another tentacles comes underneath you like a swing, allowing you to place to weight on it. You can’t help but let out a few nervous squeaks as you’re adjusted in the air. Once you get your bearings you he puts you close to his back, letting your head sit next to his so you’re looking over his shoulder. You’re in a nest of slick tentacles, securing around you to keep you steady, and you’re reminded of the nightmares you’d experienced with a sea of tentacles swallowing you whole.

One appendage is offered to your injured wrist so you could rest it. He does all of this without looking at you, his focus on carrying your through the cell.

He stills and a tentacle reaches out, sucker up, and it takes you a moment to understand he’s asking for your badge. You give a nervous laugh when you realize, pulling it from your neck and ruffling your hair with the lanyard as you do. His tentacle curls around the badge and it disappears from your view.

You hear the grating alarm and the clunk of the lock. Two tentacles return instead of one, opening the lanyard of the badge to place it gently around your neck so you don’t have to. He simultaneously gets the door you struggled so much with opened with ease, and he’s careful as he gets both of you through the doorway.

“Which way?” He whispers through his harsh voice.

You point over his shoulder so he can see your arm from behind him. “That way, I need to grab my keys.”

As soon as he’s starts moving you realize why he didn’t let you run. He’s scarily fast, moving efficiently through the hallways as his tentacles allow him lengthier strides. You’re mesmerized by the way they shoot out, using the walls, floor, and ceiling to support himself as he moves. It’s like something from a horror movie, you think, and you can’t help imagine the fear a victim would feel being charged at like this.

“In here!” You point to the swinging doors of the lab. He’s got you smoothly inside, careful to make sure the doors don’t hit you on the recoil. His tentacles place you down gently, ensuring your feet are steady on the tile before removing his support.

You’re quick once on your feet, running to one of the undisturbed cabinets and shoving your stuff into your lab coat pockets with your good hand before dashing back to him.

“Okay, let’s go!”

But he doesn’t move, because some papers strewn on the lab table had caught his attention. He picks up a piece of paper with his hands and holds it up. The light shining through the page lets you see ink of a sketch you did of him during your obsessive research.

“Oh, that- yeah, that’s, uhm.” You purse your lips together and squint, trying to find an ending to the sentence you hastily started, “Hard to explain.”

He sets it down gently, using his hands to sift through a few more sketches of himself, anatomy labeled and fully detailed. Separate sketches of just the close details of his tentacles. Theories to what’s under his hood and his skeletal structure. His eyes scan over more pages and he find logs of your interactions, his diet, body language.

You laugh nervously, flush creeping up your neck as your eyes dart to the side.

“We should go.” You say, less urgent and more breathy than you meant it to.

He looks at you, glowing eyes piercing into you and you’re not sure how to decipher his stare.

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, stacking the papers together and rolling them up in a way not to crease them. He tucks them into the waist band of his pants as he wordlessly returns you to your spot on his shoulder as he takes you from the lab.

“Which way?” He says once you’re both in the hallway, but a screams echoes from behind you, and you both whip around to look.

“Go, go, go!” Your hands frantically tap his shoulders to emphasize your words after meeting the horrified stare of a coworker, who had turned quickly on her heels to flee from you two.

He starts to sprint towards the person running from him and you tap his shoulders more forcefully, “No, the other way! Away from people!”

He gives a single nod, grunting in response as he turns on his heels and heads the opposite direction.

There were workers at the end of this hall, too. Three of them, and you can see your supervisor as he rips his attention away from the conversation he was having and turns to the mass in the corner of his eye.

He stumbled backwards, and the others turn to gawk too, screaming and fleeing from you both in a panic. You supervisor had froze, pressing his body against the wall as his shock and horror melds with confusion when he made eye contact with you, perched on Konig’s shoulder.

He shouts your name in panic, eyes searching frantically for aid.

As you Konig tentacles reach out to the halls to quickly pass him, you put one finger up on your good hand. “Don’t forget this!” You say cheerfully.

The dumbfounded and offended look on his face leaves you with an overjoyed smile as you turn back around to rest your arms back on Konig’s shoulder, lower half still supported by his tentacles.

“The stairs are through that door.” You say, leaning forward on his bare shoulder to point.

You both stop in your tracks at the sound of a blaring alarm, much more shrill than the one of his cell. It’s deafening, shrilling through the entire building. There’s bright emergency lights that reflect off the walls from the lockdown sirens.

He looks to you, and instead of yelling over the loud alarm you just point to the doors to the stairs and tap his shoulder frantically again, hoping your urgency translates.

It does, and he continues through the halls, tentacles clearing his strides and pushing open the door to the stairs. The alarm can still be heard, but you’re farther away from the speakers and it’s easier to hear the chorus of heavy footsteps echoing up the stairwell. You grip tightens on Konig’s shoulder, a nervous squeak escapes you.

You both lean over hand rail to see the commotion below, and you can make out flashes of tactical gear and weapons of dozens of soldiers moving in a group up the stairs.

Your eyes widen and you look to him nervously, unsure of your next move.

You really did not think this through.

It’s hard to tell with his hood, but he seems unnerved. He watches carefully over the stairs, and you’re tapping him quickly, silently pleading with him to keep moving to search for another way out.

A free tentacle reaches out to rest on your palm, leaving behind a slick and letting you know that he’s got this. You swallow and let your hand lay on his shoulder. You can’t help the way your fingers dig in to his firm shoulder.

The soldiers are close enough you can hear their voices below you. You screw your eyes shut, trying to search for your trust in Konig and hoping this hasn’t just turned into a suicide mission.

The soldiers are almost in your view when Konig’s tentacles moves you both to the gap in the middle of the stairwell that drops all the way to the ground floor. He’s got you both suspended in the air, his grip on you tight, with tentacles laced onto either side of the handrails of the floor you’re on.

He releases the rails he had held in his tentacles for support, letting you both free fall past the soldiers and down to the ground floor in a blur, catching you both with his tentacles against the bottom floor hand rails.

Expletives leave you without thought, and he turns his head to you to check on you as he exits the stairwell, now on the ground floor.

The alarm is defeating again, so you resort back to using the taps and points to direct him out of the building.

He freezes when the sun hits him, having to hold a tentacle up to shade his eyes.

Does he even remember the last time he saw the sun?

It takes him a moment to steady himself.

“My car’s over there!” You point once he’s steady.

You can hear yelling from the building behind you, the lockdown drill still blaring.

Once you’re at your car he sets you down, and you race to fling the driver door open, fingers fumbling as you start the engine.

He opts for the backseat, and you think it’s a bit odd before you consider the need for him to have room on both sides of him. He’s forced to hunch over in the middle seat, his head is pressed up against the ceiling. His tentacles had spread to the trunk, the front seats, pressed against the windows and coiled up on the seats next to him to get them all to fit. He’s blocking your view of the rear windshield window but you can make it work, you think.

You throw your car in reverse, using just the side mirrors to guide yourself out of your parking spot. You can see the building doors burst open, soldiers pouring from the building. One points to your car.

“Shit, shit, shit!” You say, pressing on the gas, tires squealing as you exit the parking lot.

You hang a skidding right and shoot for twenty over the speed limit, but get slowed by traffic.

“C’mon…” You say to the car preventing you from speeding as you nervously eye your rear view, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. You drive with just one hand, your bandaged arm resting in your lap.

You get a glimpse of a familiar military vehicle in your sideview and you squeal, “OhfuckOhfuckOhfuck.”

The gas pedal slips out from under you and you slide your knees over to glance down in a panic before your eyes return to the road.

You weren’t going fast enough for Konig’s liking, apparently, because his tentacle had stole the pedal from you, pressing it to its full extend against the floor mats. The engine roars as it struggles to keep up, and you have to used your injured hand to steady the steering wheel as you swerve off the road to desperately navigate the other cars.

Your foot desperatly searches for the break, but another tentacle shoots out from your left, coiling around the metal that held the brake pedal and holds it firmly in place. You tried to push it down with all your might, but you were no match for his strength, as if you were trying to crack a boulder with just one foot.

He doesn’t let you use your arm for long, two tentacles coming in to take the steering wheel from you. Your engine is roaring and your eyes find the odometer, you’re going 40 over and climbing.

He coils a few tentacles around you and your seat for good measure, bracing your head and core in the event of a crash.

The expletives are falling from your lips without thought. You’re going well over 100mph now, never having gone this fast in your car before.

“Konig, slow down!”

He’s navigating with ease but too many close calls makes you screw your eyes shut to brace yourself.

He finally lets up once you two are out sight of the soldiers tailing you, letting off the pedal and offering you back control of the wheel.

It takes a few deep breaths and expletives before you take the wheel from him, leaning forward once his tentacles release you.

“Don’t!” Sharp inhale, “Ever do that again!” You say, heart pounding in your chest as you nervously eye the sideview mirrors for signs of trouble.

“I didn’t want them to catch us.” He says evenly. There’s a pause, and you catch each other’s eyes in the rearview mirror in between checks of the road.

“I’m sorry if I scared you.” He says with a flick of his tentacle.

You take a few more deep breaths, wiping away the clear stick Konig had left behind on your forehead, “Well, we didn’t crash.” You’ve regained the wheel and find your groove going twenty over.

“I don’t know where to take us.”

“You don’t have a home?” He asks.

“I do, but they have my address in my employee files. It won’t take long for my place to be flooded with soldiers looking for you.” You say, briefly holding the wheel with your bandaged hand so you can put on your indicator to change lanes, sprained wrist returning to your lap.

Silence falls on you both mull it over. You keep driving, wanting to put as much distance between his capturers as possible.

The tentacle stretched in the passenger seat moves close to your bandages, “What happened?” He asks, voice low.

“Oh, uh,” You keep your eyes on the road. You had assumed he would have been aware of what he did to you. It made sense he didn’t realize it happened when it did, his attention elsewhere at the time.

You debate telling him in your head, but decide it’s best to be honest with him, “My wrist sprained when it hit the concrete. When I uh, tripped.”

You swallow hard, glancing at him in the rearview. He’s leaning forward between the two seats, his head close to yours.

“I did that to you?” He asks with a tense frame.

You look at him again briefly before your eyes find the road. “It happened so fast. Neither of us were thinking properly.”

He leans back in his seat, still having to hunch over to fit under the car’s roof. The tentacle outstretched to you retracts to the back seat with him.

Another silence falls over you both as he digests the new information.

“I’m sorry.” He says, voice strained, “I never wanted to hurt you.”

You glance at him in the mirror again, his eyes are turned to his boots. “It’s okay.” You offer a weak smile, even if he can’t see it. “I would have done the same, remember?”

He doesn’t say anything, but he gives a slow shake of the head, and in between checks of the road you can see the fabric of his hood rippling with his movements.

You continue down the highway in silence, keeping your eyes on the stretch of road ahead of you. You drive until the sun sets, making stops for gas only when the station is empty, quickly filling your tank in fear someone will spot the ultimate creation of biowarfare resting in your back seat.

You see a sign for a motel and you decide you’ve covered enough ground today.

“Ready to stop? We can rest for the night here. Give you a chance to stretch out in privacy.”

He hums, but ignores the question, attention directed out the window and over the horizon, “I forgot how beautiful the sunset is.”

It catches you off guard, the sweet words whispered in awe from his intimidating frame.

Your eyes find the clouds reflecting the orange of the sun’s warmth. The bright colors gradually shift to the calm blue of dusk as the sky stretches on. Some of the brighter stars of the night sky are already making an appearance on the other end of the sky.

“It is beautiful tonight.” You say.

A small smile creeps on your features, finally feeling anything other than regret and worry about your impulsive decision to free him. Maybe the hasty ruining of your life and being forced to live on the run was all worth it, because now Konig gets to see the sunset again.

You pull into the parking lot of the motel, pulling out your wallet as you speak, “Stay out here and try to lay low. I’ll get us a room.”

You leave the engine running for him as you handle things at the front desk. The motel was as shady as it looked, not requiring your ID and accepting cash for payment.

Perfect. Untraceable, that’s what you needed. The man in the white stained undershirt doesn’t even give you a second look when he hands over the room key.

You turn your head both ways to scan the parking lot before preemptively unlocking the door to your room. You return to the car with an awkward jog, opening the driver side door to gather anything you’d need.

“We should be good. Just move quick.” You say, closing the driver door behind you.

You watch as he gets out, tentacles pouring out of the car one after another.

He doesn’t seem to be in as much of a rush as you, taking a moment to stretch out his back with a pop.

You’d gotten a head start to the motel room, but he still catches up before you reach the door, opening it for him so he can get all of his appendages inside. You nervously peek out to the parking lot one last time to make sure no one saw you two, closing and locking the door behind you before securing the blinds shut.

“Okay, we should be safe.” You say as you move to pull the sheets up on the mattresses to check for bed bugs.

The room is as dingy as you expected it to be. Peeling wallpaper stained with years of cigarette smoke. Outdated decor and furniture. Stained and faded carpets. An old box television perched on a dresser facing the two queen beds.

“No bugs.” You announce once you’ve thoroughly checked both mattresses. You look to Konig, who’s standing in the doorway of the tiny bathroom, eyeing up what you assume is the shower. You hear the water turn on in a spray against the shower’s porcelain followed by the sound of a belt jiggling.

Your brow quirks as you kick off your shoes and shed your lab coat, stretching your sore back as you settle in on one of the mattresses.

He starts a shower and you can’t help but picture him soaking his tentacles and sore body through the wall of the motel room. He left the door open, and some sinful part of you thinks about peeking.

You don’t, forcing your attention to the TV. You mindlessly flipped through channels with the remote, thoughts lingering on Konig showering. You settle on reruns of a lighthearted show.

You hear the shower turn off with a hearty thud of its noisy pipes. Some more time passes, and you can see flicks of corners of a white motel towel from the doorway.

The jingle of his belt makes an encore, and after a few more moments he reappears, turning the light off for the bathroom with a free tentacle. Another continues to works the towel, dabbing off stray water beads from his skin.

Your cheeks flush, and you catch his wet muscles flexing from the corner of your eye as he makes his way to the other mattress, laying down on his front with a relieved huff. His tentacles relax as well, draping themselves on the duvet and hanging off the sides, the ends lazily flicking and curling as they dangle.

You both sit silently for awhile, forcing your attention towards the TV set while you watch his tentacles curl alluringly in your peripherals. You’ve settled into your spots on your respective beds, trying to find some respite after such a stressful day.

He breaks the silence first.

“I will never forget your kindness.”

“Oh,” You start, heat still flushing your features but keeping your stare towards the television, “It’s nothing.”

“You sacrificed everything to save my life.” He says definitively, “Even after what I did to you.” His eyes linger on your bandages.

“It just seemed like the right thing to do.” You shrug, your eyes finally meeting his. “I was really only at that job for the paycheck.” You pause again, fingers fidgeting with the TV remote, “The guilt was starting to weigh on me anyway. Better to live honestly and on the run than settled-in but trapped, right?”

His glowing eyes stare into yours as he considers your words.

He nods slowly, tentacles twitching and curling.

You give him a cheeky smile and a point, “But no more killing people, okay? I’m responsible for your actions from here on out.”

He huffs in amusement, lifting up one tentacle in the air as if giving an oath, “I promise.”

He stirs suddenly, as if he had remembered something.

“I have something for you,” he says as he sits up, reaching into his pants pocket. You quirk your brow as he stands, closing the gap between your beds and as he presents his fist to you. He towers over you, even more so from your spot sitting slouched on the bed.

You look at him with intrigue, cupping your hand underneath his, “It’s not a bug, is it?”

He laughs, and it’s the first laugh you’ve heard from him aside from the wicked laugh from that first day you met him, the laugh that raised the hairs on your neck and haunted your dreams. This one’s different, softer and playful. It makes your chest warm and you can’t help the goofy smile you give in return.

“No, it’s not a bug.”

He lets the small item drop into your palm and your brows scrunch as you study it.

Your pearl!

You let out a quiet gasp, eyes darting to him once you understand. It must have slipped from your pockets when he had held you upside down during your altercation in his cell. You hadn’t even thought about it, didn’t realize that you had lost your precious pearl. You had been avoiding thinking about Konig up until you heard about his pending execution, and at that point you had bigger things to worry about.

You pick up the uneven pearl with two fingers, moving it in the light, “You had it all this time?”

“I’ve been keeping it safe for you. I was worried I’d never be able to return it to you.”

You purse your lips at the way you had left things. Leaving him without closure in that sterile cell, forcing him to sit with his unresolved feelings and thoughts without an explanation. Never knowing if you’d be back.

“I’m ashamed, at how I treated you. I thought I had ruined the one good thing I had in there.”

Your cheeks flush at his words and you wrap your fist around the pearl. You’re forced to break eye contact with him, hoping he can’t see the heat beneath your skin.

“I’m sorry I left you alone.” You say, eyeing the floor by his feet. “I just needed time.”

He considers your words carefully. “I can’t blame you for that.”

His eyes flick down to the hand that held the pearl and both of you bask in the silence for a moment.

“Maybe tomorrow we can get you a necklace for it, so it doesn’t get lost again.”

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, mouth parted and eyes wide. A tentacle brushes the apple of your cheek, and he looks at you like he had eyed the sunset, in awe and stunned with its beauty.

He had understood the significance of the pearl this whole time, and he returned it to you post-freedom, meaning there was no chance of him attempting to gain your trust for his benefit.

“Konig,” You whisper, voice breathy.

“Yes, meine perle?”

“Thank you.” You hold the pearl in a fist placed over your heart and keep your eyes fixed up at him.

His hand reaches down to your face, tracing a finger on the underside your jaw. Your breath hitches at the chill that shoots down your spine.

“I’ve been watching you.” He says, finger resting just under your chin, keeping your gaze on him. Your eyes flick nervously to his tentacles curling alluringly over his shoulder before returning to his stare.

You’re not sure what he means, but you’re too stunned by his words and the light touch of strong fingers, breath still hitched and heartbeat pulsing in your ears.

He pulls out the rolled up stack of papers he took from the lab and held close. All of the sketches and logs and theories you’d made during your obsessive research, “Looks like you’ve been watching me, too.”

He gestures to the papers in his hand before placing them on the nightstand to his side.

The tentacle that brushed your cheek moves to your hair, curling strands gently between the slick end of his appendage. Another gently takes the pearl from you, setting it down with the papers.

“Am I wrong, meine perle?”

Your jaw slacks open a little further as you stutter out the beginning of a few sentences, each quickly abandoned one after another.

You settle for a shake of your head accompanied by a full flush of your features.

He gives a hum of satisfaction as he leans down close enough that his hood almost brushes up against your skin. His glowing eyes are inches from yours.

“I want to repay you, meine perle.”

His thumb continue to soothingly stroke your jaw, His voice drops, soaked in a sultry tone as his gaze maps your features.

“You worked so hard for me. Went through so much, didn’t you? So good for me.”

You give a sharp inhale at the praise, a warmth suddenly pooling in your lower abdomen. You’re hypnotized by his large frame, his gentle touch, the inflection of his words. You can only stare up at him in anticipation, caught off guard by his change in demeanor.

A tentacle rests on your knee and begins to creep up your thigh. You try to look down but his hand under your chin keeps you steady.

“I want to make you feel so good, meine perle. Will you let me do that?” His voice dropped to a low whisper, and another tentacle creeps up behind you, making you flinch as it slithers down your shoulder and curls around your collarbones, “Will you let me reward your hard work?”

Your thighs spread obediently at the touch of his tentacle and Konig takes the opportunity to stand between your thighs, keeping them open. When you go to answer the only thing that comes out is a nervous squeak, so you opt for nodding your head.

The grip on your face tightens, a few of his fingers indent the soft flesh of your cheeks, “Ah, ah.” He gives a slight shake of his head. “You have to say it, meine perle.”

It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Yes, Konig.” You whisper through shallow breath, eyes wide as you look up at him. “Please.”

He gives another pleased hum, a tentacle eagerly coiling around your waist and picking you up from your spot on the edge of the bed.

A gasp leaves your parted lips, hands finding the slick coiled appendage at your center for leverage. Your socks scraped the duvet as he repositioned you to the middle of the bed.

Two tentacles work the button of your pants, a sharp inhale leaves you as they yank your zipper down and slide the waistband to your thighs. His eyes trace every inch of newly revealed skin as his tentacle placed you down on the bed, removing the appendage looped around your middle. By the time he gets your jeans off and discarded to the floor, two more tentacles have already begun sneaking up the hem of your shirt, slithering up your stomach and lifting your slick stained shirt with it. You obediently, albeit hesitantly, put your hands over your head to let him take your shirt and bra off in one swipe, ruffling your hair as he does.

You’ve got your upper half propped on your good arm, palm sunk in to the mattress. He corrects this by looping a tentacle around your good wrist, giving it a careful but firm yank as another presses to your sternum and guides your back flush with the mattress. Another simultaneously wraps around the forearm above your injured wrist, gently pinning it to the bed and forcing it to rest on the mattress above you. The two tentacles that removed your shirt trace down your exposed core and down each leg, giving you goosebumps behind the trail of slick they leave behind. The tentacles stop at your ankles, wrapping around them and up your calves like a snake coils its prey.

In quick movements your ankles are forced to in the air, extended and spread. He kneels onto the bed at your feet, positioning himself so he’s kneeling in the new space between your thighs.

He stills, tentacles holding you firmly but comfortably. You can feel his suckers against your bare flesh, each having their own independent wriggling grip on you. Your chest rises and falls, trying to swallow your nerves of being undressed and fully restrained at the hands of the powerful being you’d freed.

His eyes are tracing all of the newly exposed flesh, and you can’t help but squirm against his appendages as you fight the urge to cover yourself. He holds you steady, all your limbs extended as he takes his time committing the curves and dips of your delicate body to memory.

His eyes find your panties, already stained with arousal at the way he spoke to you, manhandled you.

“Such a delicate thing you are, meine perle.“ He says, eyes half-lidded as they admire you.

“You knew you wouldn’t stand a chance against me, didn’t you little one?” His voice is low but gentle, and you’re stunned by his words, his forwardness. You can’t help but be intimidated pinned beneath him.

“You knew the risk you were taking. You knew I was deadly.”

One of his tentacles come up to gently smooth the hair he had disheveled when removing your shirt. You flinch at his touch, and he gives a pleased hum once he successfully fixes your hair.

“And yet you couldn’t help but throw yourself at me.” His eyes briefly widen before returning to their half-lidded boring stare, “Time and time again,” He shrugs in casual disbelief of you, “I’ve never seen anything like it, your carelessness.”

A free tentacle sneaks up your leg again, curling to stroke your spread inner thighs.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re self-destructive. Suicidal, even.”

The tentacle at your thigh creeps up, teasing the waist band of your underwear, and you suck in a breath through your teeth.

“But I do know better, though, don’t I?”

The tentacle lets your panties snap back to your hips, and the appendages holding you as restraints tighten on your limbs threateningly, excluding your injured arm.

His eyes narrow and his voice drips of arrogance.

“You’re just a little masochist.”

The tentacle drags down your front, teasing your slit over the fabric of your panties.

“Aren’t you meine perle?”

Your thoughts are clouded with a haze as you cling to his words, hypnotized by his chilling voice, domineering tone, and arousing touches.

He lets you get away with not responding this time, studying your responses to his teases before he continues. He gives another hum, a tentacle tracing down your neck and core, leaving behind a cool trail of his slick.

The tentacles tracing your cunt curls around your waistband again, while the two appendages securing your ankles maneuver your legs as they slide your panties down.

“Do you like that I have so much power over you?”

He has to unravel the appendages on your ankles to remove your underwear, discarding them over his shoulder. The cool breeze on your dripping cunt makes you shiver, tensing your core and arms in his restraint.

“That I’m a predator and you’re just a sweet defenseless little thing?”

His tentacles quickly rewrap around your ankles, but this time he secures the thick middles around you, covering the tops of your feet in his slick suckers as he forces your legs spread. His tentacles slither all the way up your legs from foot to upper thigh like thick black vines, and he leaves the ends of his tentacles with extra slack so the tips can tease the lips of your dripping cunt.

“Does the danger turn you on, meine perle?”

He gives a hum as he eyes your exposed and spread cunt, thoroughly slicked with your own arousal.

“I can see it does.”

You flush under his stare, still mesmerized by his words and the heat pooling in your lower abdomen.

He leans forward, his hands finding the mattress on either side of your core. You shrink under him as he leans down. He presses the front of his pants against your cunt, spread open by the tentacles looped around your legs.

“You were afraid of me.” He says, and you let out a broken sigh as he grazes your clit, your hips giving small involuntary grinds against him, “Yet you still gave yourself to me, so willingly.”

He hovers his face inches from yours, glowing eyes reflecting off your wide eyes. His voice drops low, and the hem of his hood drags across the curve of your breasts. The smaller tentacles that pour from under his hood curl around your tits, and you flinch under his touch when the ends of slick appendages start to tease your nipples to attention.

“I think someone that brave deserves to be thoroughly rewarded.”

He keeps his face close to you, leaving the equivalent of kisses through his hood down your middle as his smaller tentacles trace your skin.

He kisses all the way down to your cunt, spread open by the larger appendages coiled around your legs. You lift your head to watch him, and he keeps his half-lidded stare on you as the tip of a smaller tentacle swirls slowly around your clit. Another traces your dripping entrance.

A breathy sigh leaves you, your thighs tensing under his tentacles, but he holds firm.

“I am curious,” He starts, eyes locked on yours as he lays his chest flush to the mattress between your wrapped legs. He props himself up on his elbows, and brings a hand up to his hood to slowly pull it up halfway. His smaller tentacles part like curtains to reveal his mouth, and your eyes widen at the sight.

Your dreams had been scarily accurate, a taunting smile made up of rows of predator teeth. Razor sharp and killer. Concern and awe melded on your features, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide.

“Are you still afraid?”

He sticks out his tongue, and your face twitches as you watch it extend unnervingly far from his pointed teeth. The length and curl reminded you of another tentacle, but made of the flesh of tongue.

He dives his tongue up the slit of your cunt, a long deep stripe from hole to clit.

You let out a pathetic whine, your thighs begging to clench around him but tentacles forcing you spread. He hums, tongue sending the vibration straight to your pulsing clit.

He starts slow, tracing circles around you with his precise tongue.

Your hips grind into the pleasure, and he huffs in amusement at your eagerness. He lets his tongue unfurl, completely smothering your cunt with his slick tongue. He loosens his grip on your thighs just enough to allow you to get a better range to thrust into his face.

You give another whine when he stops teasing you, but continue to grind your clit against him in a desperate search for pleasure.

You give him a pleading look, mouth slightly parted for breathy exhales. He lets you grind long enough to embarrass you, waiting for the telling flush of your cheeks.

He finally pulls away with a long swipe along your cunt as you let out a sinful moan. The tip of his tongue returns to your aching clit, flicking side to side. He starts teasingly slow but hungrily picks up once he hears the hitched breaths you take.

You have to lay your head back to the mattress, closing your eyes as you give in to the pleasure.

He presses the tip of his tongue to your clit head on, pushing his tongue forward and letting it slither down your cunt. It curls around like a ribbon, the wide part of his tongue rolling down your clit as the tip curls back to your entrance, rimming your dripping hole. He teases you for a few moments before diving the tip of his tongue into your warmth, keeping the middle of his tongue pressed against your clit.

You let out a gasp as he enters you, and he gives a low pleased hum into your dripping cunt in return. His tongue slithers further into your warmth, the thick of his tongue continuing to graze your clit.

You start to grind down on him again but the tentacles around your legs climb further up your thighs, securing your hips as the ends continue spreading your cunt open for him. You give a whine, and he complies by pushing his tongue in and out of you, fucking you while stimulating your clit.

Your toes curl under his suckers and the moans are falling from your lips without thought as he tastes you.

When you tilt your head up to meet his eyes, cheeks flushed and breaths shallow, he’s eyeing you the same way he had eyed the meals you brought him. Free tentacles twitch in excitement as his hungry gaze follows his prey.

The corners of his mouth curl into a smile as he quickens the movement of his tongue, causing you to pull against the tentacles restraining your limbs, desperate moans leaving your parted lips.

He retracts his tongue, an arrogant laugh leaving him as he leaves your dripping cunt rutting into the air.

He licks another deep stripe against your entire cunt one more time, letting his nose swipe against your slit as he drags up. His eyes roll once he retracts his tongue again, a sinful moan leaving him.

“You taste so sweet, meine perle.”

You let out a whimper, rutting your hips in desperation at the sudden lack of touch. He gives another pleased hum as he sits up on the bed, eyeing you from above.

A free tentacle creeps between the mattress and your middle, and when you obediently arch your back he coils an additional appendage around your waist. He hauls you into the air with ease, the four tentacles on your limbs still spreading and supporting you. The tentacle on your injured hand, still less taut than his restraints, slithers up further to keep your wrist in-line with the rest of your arm in absence of the support of the mattress.

He puts you above his head, cunt resting just above his head. He tilts his neck back before burying his tongue back into your cunt while keeping you in the air above him.

A squeak leaves you as you tense against him, unnerved by the sensation of being suspended in the air. Your worry melts to pleasure as he fucks his tongue into you, his tentacle restraints bouncing you up and down in rhythm with his slick tongue.

The jostling and the tentacle coiled firmly around your ribs allows the moans and squeaks to leave you with ease, and he hums in satisfaction at the cute little noises you’re making for him.

He retracts his tongue again, letting his hood drop, and you look to him with pinched brows - as if offended he revoked your pleasure.

“I could eat this cunt everyday and not get tired of it.” He says, and even though you can’t see his mouth you can tell he’s wearing a cocky grin.

You let out a pathetic little whine, giving a weak tug against his restraint.

“Don’t worry,” He says, almost mockingly, before you feel a thick tentacle slither up to tease your cunt, a relieved whimper escaping you.

He uses his thick appendage to swirl around in the slippery mixture of your own arousal, his slick, and spit. He uses the smooth side of his tentacle, curling it against your slit as he moves your restraints, forcing you to grind your dripping cunt on his tentacle. Two more free tentacles slither up your chest, cupping your tits and teasing your nipples with the ends of his slick appendages. He continues grinding you against him as he lays the two tentacles over your tits, a sucker on each covering your nipple and applying suction. The stimulation makes you gasp and pull against his restraints, overwhelmed with him sucking both your nipples and forcing your clit to grind on his thick appendage at the same time. Your squeaky and broken moans echo throughout the motel room.

“I’m just getting started with you.” He says, low and dangerous, “Make sure to save some of those pathetic whines.”

The thick tentacle swirling your cunt teases your entrance before impatiently slipping into you.

You let out a pornographic moan as he plunges into you. You’re sure it was loud enough for the neighboring rooms to hear but being filled up by Konig’s tentacle felt too incredible for you to care. His slick tentacle was thicker than anything a human could offer, and his suckers allowed for a ribbed sensation as he fucked his appendage in and on of you. His dexterity allowed him to find your g-spot with ease, the end of his tentacle massaging it as he fucks in and out of you.

Your eyes close at the overwhelming pleasure, weak and limp as he puppets you up and down on his tentacle.

He’s using all of his tentacles on you now, and you’re helpless to stop him as he removes the appendage that secured your waist and coiled it around your neck, close enough to graze your flesh but not yet applying pressure. Your eyes open at the touch, half-lidded in pleasure as you find his glowing stare. Even through the overwhelming stimulation, it’s an unnerving feeling having him wrap around your neck, reminding you of his power. He could end your life, easily, and there would be nothing you could do to stop him.

He slithers further around your neck, and you can help but shiver under his threatening touch. He sees your brows pinch in worry and his eyes squint. While his hood obscures his mouth you’re guessing it’s twisted into a smile, as if he knows what you’re thinking and had planted the idea on purpose, reigniting your fears before you get too lost in the pleasure.

There’s a sinful glint in his eye, “Do you trust me, meine perle?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, his tentacle tightens around your neck, cutting off your moans with a harsh gasp.

Your eyes widen in fear, your fingers scratching the air instinctively as you wiggle in his grasp.

The tentacle fucking your tight cunt doesn’t let up. You’re left with your mouth open as you ride him, the moans that would be coming out silenced by his tight grip on your airway. The lack of oxygen allows a fuzzy haze to cloud your brain, and suddenly you’re not even thinking about the danger or the tentacles restraining and choking you. All you can think about is the sensation of your cunt being teased and fucked as your nipples are milked by his suckers. You let your body go limp in his grasp, no longer anxious for release. You’re still looking at him, but he’s getting farther and farther away, your vision blurring his bold silhouette.

He waits for your eyelids to unevenly flutter shut before he loosens his grip, keeping his tentacle looped around your neck like a scarf.

Your first sharp inhale is involuntary, followed by desperate sharp gasps for air. He continues pounding your cunt, his tentacle diving further into you, stretching you open as you return from your haze.

His smug snicker progresses to a deep hum of satisfaction.

He gives no warning before he cuts off your air again, watching as you fight against his restraints while managing the overstimulating pleasure.

“I like watching you struggle, meine perle.”

He takes a moment to look you over, watching you tense and feebly wriggle against his strong grip. He soaks in the look of concern and arousal on your features. You fade away quicker this time, eyes going cross as you zero in on the tentacle fucking your soaked cunt, suckers clinging to your walls as he massages your g-spot.

“I’d feel bad about it, but I know you like it too.”

He releases his grip on your neck, tentacle unfurling and leaving behind a necklace of clear slick and imprints of his suckers. You’re sputtering and coughing as he allows you breath, struggling to steady yourself as you’re bounced up and down on his thick tentacle.

Once you catch your breath you’re giving him breathy moans again, tensing beneath the tentacles on your limbs.

“Look how aroused you get when I threaten your life. This tight little cunt is so wet.”

One of the smaller tentacles that extends from under his hood runs circles on your pulsing clit. The tentacle that had retracted from your neck traces a line down your spine, stopping to rim your ass.

Your eyes widen at him as he slicks up the entrance of your hole. You’re nervous about anal, but you don’t find your voice to stop him. He slips a slick tip in, allowing you time to relaxing on just a few inches as he continues working the rest of you.

You were right about him being good at multitasking. It’s a lot to handle a once, your clit being teased, cunt pounded, nipples being sucked, and ass being stretched around the end of his appendage, all while being restrained and unable to relieve the tension building inside your body.

You’re lost to the stimulation, moans and expletives and sweet nothings pouring from your mouth in jumbles.

Konig’s enjoying the show, reveling that he’s made you come undone under his power. The mess he was making over you, covering you in his slick and getting you drunk off his touch.

A white heat steadily builds underneath your skin, pooling to your lower abdomen.

“Konig! It’s too much- it’s too much I’m gonna -"

“Come for me meine perle.”

The waves of pleasure rip through you, convulsing in his grip as you come. Konig doesn’t let up as he fucks you through orgasm. Mercilessly pounding your cunt with his thick tentacle while you clench at the intense euphoria.

“There you go, so good for me.”

You let out a strangled moan, hands searching for something to grab onto for stability but they come up empty, straining against his restraints while powerless to the pleasure.

“Konig - please.” You manage out between your broken moans and meaningless stuttering.

He gives another low hum of approval and he still doesn’t let up, the tentacles still working all your sensitivities.

“Not done with you yet, meine perle.” He warns, and you let out a whine in response.

You’re quivering in his touch now, futilely arching away from him, your pleasure turning to over-sensitivity.

“‘s too much.” You mutter out, shaking in his grip and too weak to escape his touch.

“I know, but you’re going to take it for me, aren’t you meine perle?”

You let out another whine in response, twitching at the stimulation that was turning nearly painful.

He offers some relief by removing the smaller tentacle from your clit, but he keeps the rhythm of both tentacles inside you, filling you up and forcing you to bounce on him. He continues teasing your nipples with his suckers, enjoying watching your back arch desperately as you squirm under the sensitivity.

You keep his gaze, teeth still grit at the overstimulation, eyes pleading.

He removes the tentacle from your cunt as he holds you steady, no longer bouncing you but still teasing your ass as he undoes his belt. He pulls it free with one firm tug, discarding it with the rest of your clothes.

His hands ease his zipper down and he takes his time, amused by your expression seeped in curiosity, desperation, and awe. He inches his pants down enough to expose his genitalia.

A fleshy appendage, a few inches longer than what a standard human male would have, springs to attention from the waistband of his clothes. The entire appendage was a uniform deep pink with no head. The shape reminded you of another tentacle, larger at the base and ending in a slick tip. Slight indents that ran up the sides of his shaft.

He lets you admire him for a few moments before he lines your used cunt with his appendage, plunging into you without mercy.

You let out a loud moan at being filled again, and he rock his hips, letting his appendage grind in you as you sit on his full length.

“Shh,” he whispers teasingly, “Don’t want anyone finding out how much of a desperate slut you are for me, hm?”

He brings the tentacle that had occupied your cunt up to your lips, and you obediently open your mouth to let his tentacle slip in, silencing you as you suck on the end, tasting the mixture of your arousal and his slick.

Your moans and whines are muffled by his tentacle as he pounds into you, his restraints moving you up and down in rhythm with his hips, meeting your hips in the middle as he fills you up.

He lets out a low growl that shoots a tingle of excitement down your spine.

“This pussy feels even better than I thought. So fucking tight, meine perle.” His pace quickens, now pounding ruthlessly into your soaked cunt.

His hands find your hips, fingers pressing into your skin as he guides you on his appendage. The tentacles supporting you allow you to lift almost all the way off him before forcing you down his entire length over and over again.

The moans are pouring from you again, but gagged by the appendage fucking your mouth - slick, arousal, and spit dripping down your chin.

When he pulls his appendage away from your cunt, the rest of thick tentacles still work your ass and nipples as he works to flip you over. He forces you into an all-fours position in front of him, letting you rest your forearms and knees on the duvet, his restraints staying firm on your limbs as he bends them into position as if you’re his doll.

You obediently arch your back and lower you head down on the mattress, sticking your ass into the air. He can see you spread open from behind, and he watches the tentacle work your tight little ass as he shifts to his knees behind you.

He gives you a firm smack on the ass with his hand, huffing in amusement at your shocked gasp around his tentacle gag. He gives you a few more, alternating cheeks as the sound of flesh on flesh echoes throughout the motel room.

He hums in amusement at the squeaks that come from your gagged mouth.

“Such a naughty perle,” He teases in his arrogant tone, “Always putting yourself in danger, hm?”

You whine, fingers clawing at the duvet as you brace yourself, flushing at the idea someone might hear your punishment.

He stops not long after, leaving behind his handprints on your flushed cheeks. He’s getting impatient, so when he lines his appendage back up with you he slides in without warning, hands finding your hips for grip as he slides in and out of you.

He’s too excited, he can’t refrain from letting his hips flush with your pink sore ass.

The tip of his appendage curls forward inside of you, massaging your g-spot as he fills you.

He doesn’t let up, keeping a steady rhythm with his hips and all of the tentacles working you. Your tits groped, nipples sucked by his tentacles, mouth and both holes filled and fucked - it’s overwhelming enough to make you go limp in his hold, not a single thought occupying you as you mindlessly work your tongue around the tentacle gagging your mouth. You’re too focused on the pleasure, how good it feels to be at his mercy.

“Watching you got me so excited, meine perle.” He says though heavy breaths, his grip tightening on your hips, “I’m already getting close.”

His thrusts get more intense, and you think you’d be yelling if you hadn’t been gagged. You probably wouldn’t have been able to warn him about your second finish even if you hadn’t been silenced, too cockdrunk off the overstimulation to properly string together a coherent sentence.

Your cunt clenches around him as another orgasm rips through you, causing your muscles to tense in his restraint.

He lets out a hearty moan, his thrusts becoming slightly uneven as he struggles to keep his composure in your tight walls.

He comes everywhere, his finish not only marking his claim deep in your cunt, but also from each of his tentacles, tips releasing his come into your ass and mouth while coating your tits and spread cunt.

He twitches inside you throughout his finish, fingers digging into your hips as he gives a few light thrusts, milking every drop of his finish into your filled cunt.

You’re still limp when he finally pulls away with a strained moan, his tentacles placing you down gentle on the mattress. You’re on cloud nine, too high from your finishes to be able to support yourself. You let the mattress support you, basking in the warmth of the afterglow, bliss settling over you as you recover.

He gives another hum of satisfaction at the sight, having completely unraveled you and marked you with his seed. He leans down to plant a kiss through his hood on your back, his hands giving a light squeeze on your hips as he props himself up next to you. He runs his fingers up and down your back, swirling through the clear slick his tentacles had left behind.

He lets you rest for a few moments, waiting for your breathing to settle before a tentacle gently drapes across you.

“How about we get you cleaned up, meine perle?”

You let out a dazed hum of approval, letting his tentacles coil around you to carry you to the shower. He presses you to his chest, your head resting against him as he cradles your back and the crease of your knees.

When your eyes flutter open, and you meet his glowing stare, your face stretches into a warm sleepy smile. He unwraps your bandages carefully, and he doesn’t let you lift a finger once you’re both in the cramped bathroom, standing outside of the tub as he scrubs you down. You exchange little words, both of you still basking in the afterglow.

He takes his time wiping the slick and come off your skin, easing around the flushed marks his suckers had left behind on you.

It’s soothing - the warm water embracing you, and Konig smoothing a washcloth over your skin. Intimate, even, how he’s washing your upper arms as he holds your hand with his free hand, watching you while you relax into the water. He’s extra gentle with your injured wrist as he cleans you.

He’s in no hurry as he cleans your middle and legs, enjoying the glisten of the water on your plush breasts and thighs. He thumbs the bubbles on your skin under his soft grip.

He even washes your hair, his large hands massaging your scalp as he runs the suds through. He’s careful not to get soap in your eyes when he rinses the bubbles from your hair, using a tentacle to shield your forehead as he guides your head back under the stream of the shower, disregarding the water spraying all off the motel bathroom floor.

He’s being so careful with you, so sweet and soft, it was a jarring contrast to the Konig that had been ruthlessly pounding you moments before or the Konig you’d come to know trapped in his cell.

Once you were all clean, he shut off the showers with its noisy clunk of old pipes, he was quick to wrap one of the motel towels around your dripping body before he carried you back to the beds. When he stilled you meet his eyes, resting your hand on his chest.

“Guess we’ll have to share a bed.” He says in his cocky tone as you follow his gaze to the mattress, thoroughly soiled and stained from your session.

You roll your eyes at him, giving a soft tap on his chest in your disapproval of his corny flirting, but the smile on your face betrays any hope of hiding your enamor.

His eyes squint from under his hood with a smile, you assume, as he carries you to the bed with his strong arms.

It’s not easy for a being with tentacles shooting from his spine to cuddle. He wasn’t designed for cozy naps and soft embraces, but he does what he can. He presses against the pillows sitting up, at an angle to leave space between the headboard and his back for his tentacles to settle. He nestles you at his side, keeping your head on his chest as your arm rests against over his core. Your leg props up on his as you rest the side of your body on the mattress.

His arm wraps snuggly around your back, fingers making soft circles at your curve.

You’re already halfway to sleeps clutches when you mumble into his chest.

“Thank you, Konig.”

“Thank you, meine perle.”

———————————————————-

If you enjoyed this fic, you may enjoy…

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN - Loser!Konig x Reader - Konig & Reader must compete in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death. (122k word slow burn)

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

The stairs to the temporary stage creak under legs made of lead. You’ve fully collapsed into yourself by time the escort extends her hand to guide you to center stage, sucked into a fever of denial and shock. The escort rambles on, but her words are lost before you can retain them.

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

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

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

What are the odds?

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

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

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

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

The Mountain.

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

The district’s outcast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that you could blame him.

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

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

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

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

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

It felt like a trick.

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

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

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

That you could get on board with.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stopped caring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————————-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keeping your mouth rinsed from vomit, bettering your coffee.

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

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

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

Maybe too casually.

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

“You’re late,” Ruby says strictly.

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

You raise a brow.

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

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

“We were talking about the opening ceremony tonight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought we should go together.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——————

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

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

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

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

Not yet anyway.

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

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

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

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

“Farmers?” You ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s itchy,” You object.

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

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

You’re surprised by how much it stings.

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

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly as dry as cotton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is a disgusting display of extravagance.

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

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

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

You don’t trust this closet.

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

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

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

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

“And your waving? Perfect!”

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

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

His smirk is unmistakable.

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

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

An alliance?

You hadn’t considered that before.

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The replay of the reapings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To your surprise, the boy had volunteered.

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

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

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

And then there’s you.

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

Surely the other tributes will see you as easy pickings.

And then you learn his name.

Konig.

The Mountain’s name is Konig.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He really does tower over you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate before giving a small nod in agreement.

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

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

“Nothin’?”

You shrug at him.

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

So he does remember.

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

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

“I’ve seen it,” He says with a nod.

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

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

“He?” Price perks up.

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

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

“If you say so, Plucky.”

Your brows furrow at the nickname.

Price nods his head at Konig, “You?”

Konig gives him a shrug.

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

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

The room goes silent again.

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

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

You look to the floor.

“Ignore them. They don’t even exist.”

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

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

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

He waits for another nod.

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

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

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

“I want you to keep an eye on her.”

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

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

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

“Don’t push it, Plucky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s impossible not to feel his presence.

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

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

“What?” You ask with a sneer.

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

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

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

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

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

You huff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Konig actually made you feel better.

Again.

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

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

He shifts against the back of the sofa.

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

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

“Sorry if I-“ he starts quietly.

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

You omit the real reason you pulled away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does your presence do the same for him?

You don’t ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About tomorrow?”

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

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

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

He nods again.

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

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

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

“Thanks,” you say breathlessly.

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

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

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

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

To be all by yourself.

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

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

“Are we allowed to?”

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

He looks at you with those unsure eyes.

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

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

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

The view is breathtaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About fifteen minutes pass before Konig wordlessly slips back inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————————

You wake to the sound of Ruby yelling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ruby lets out an exasperated inarticulate noise of disapproval.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Price lets out a heavy sigh before he speaks.

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

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

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

It’s not convincing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ruby smiles brightly before she saunters off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You jump when Konig says your name.

“Huh? What?”

“What first?” He asks.

“Oh, uh-”

You do a quick scan of the room.

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

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

You follow Price’s instructions.

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

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

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

It’s too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you find trouble?”

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

“Because that was impressively fast,” He adds.

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

You hate him for it.

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

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

He doesn’t say anything more.

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

“It’s okay,” He says.

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

“Do you ever just want to disappear?”

He answers without hesitation.

“All the time.”

Your eyes find the floor.

Once again, you find yourself benefiting from his comfort.

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

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

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

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

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

Konig doesn’t seem fazed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Avoiding Konig is harder on the second day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course he wouldn’t hurt you here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Weightlifting?”

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

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

“I’m sure.”

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

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

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

“Let’s see it, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very,” He says, “What next, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hand-to-hand?” He offers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To your surprise, your body immediately ignites with jealousy.

You can’t pin why.

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

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

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

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

Maybe all the above.

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

Your expression immediately twists.

He is considering it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anything but a harsh no is unacceptable to you.

Traitorous, even.

You can’t believe he’s considering it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You huff, turning on your feet.

“Wha - where are you going?” He asks.

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

“But, Price-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’d’ya doing here kid?”

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

“What’s wrong?” His voice calls.

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

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

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

At the mention of District Eight, your mouth turns to cotton. Your wide eyes dart around the floor of the glittery stage, heels turning inward.

You don’t want to do this.

You give up and pinch your eyes shut, a slight shake of your head, trying to take yourself somewhere you’re not, even going so far as to redirect your focus to remembering the lyrics to an old tune you sing in your thoughts.

Konig senses something’s up and gently guides you into the crook of his arm and his chest, giving your shoulder a squeeze. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, and you respond by raising your hand to rest in the space between his firm stomach and chest.

You can’t block out their words, the commentary from the people of District Eight. Your heart doesn’t want to hear it but your ears can’t help but listen and your eyes have to peek open.

The recap of the interview clearly cut out a majority of their words, and starts with the conflict between the boy from eight and Willow. The interviewee tries to begin, but she abandons her first few attempts to recount the story.

“Uh-” The interviewee’s eyes dart to the side, “Yeah, they uh- there was-“

She clears her throat, “Willow, uh-“

She trails off, staring off into the distance with a pause before she continues.

“He had this girlfriend, right? And they were - I mean, they were the perfect pair. You could tell, uh, you could tell he really loved her, you know? And the same goes for her.”

The interviewee pauses, and she has to look away.

“I was actually- I remember being jealous of them, wishing I had what they had. Love like that.”

You can hear her scraping gravel under her shoe.

“And I guess, I guess his girl wasn’t crazy about the uhm, The Capitol, and she uh- well, I think she broke a few laws, or something. Real rebellious type.”

She looks to her shoes, nodding slowly.

“And uh,” She clears her throat again before meeting eyes with the person behind the camera, “Willow blabbed about it. And his girlfriend got taken away.”

The interviewee nods slow, her sad, squint eyes staring off at the cameraman.

“They cut out his girl’s tongue, and now she- she serves The Capitol.”

She shakes her head, “He snapped. Just, a different person entirely.”

There’s a pause, and your eyes pinch shut, squeezing Konig as hard as your arms will allow. His hand slides down your back, tracing soothing circles with his fingertips between your shoulder blades.

“Please, no! It was an accident!”

The desperation in her voice is unmistakable. You find the screen, and there she is.

Willow.

As pretty as her name - rich bronze skin and golden brown eyes. Full, curly hair that seems to have a mind of its own and reminds you of the elegant draped tresses of the tree for which she was named.

The boy from eight has her on the ground, towering over her with his blade raised. Her upper half is propped up by her elbows, her feet kicking away from him.

“You knew what you were doing!” He yells, in that same booming, terrifying voice he used on you.

His blade lowers as his fists tense at his sides, “She served us! You hear me? She served us in our suite!”

A hand comes up to his head, and he grabs a fistful of his own hair with white knuckles. There’s tears springing in his eyes, and that daunting shout cracks.

“I couldn’t even talk to her!”

Your brows are pinched as you watch, shallow breaths through parted lips.

The tears crest Eight’s eyeline, and his hands drop limply to his sides.

His voice lowers to a broken whisper, a whiny strain in his words. It makes your brows pinch - you’ve never heard him speak in a way that wasn’t harsh and booming, never seen his eyes swelled with any emotion other than anger.

“I couldn’t even talk to her.”

Willow shakes her head, her words choppy through her stuttered breaths and hiccups.

“I know- I know! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, I didn’t- I never wanted this to happen, I didn’t mean for it to happen! Please-“

His voice shoots back up when he interrupts her, his shouted words ripping his throat to shreds.

“She’s gone, Willow! I lost her!”

He pinches his eyes for a moment, sending more tears down his cheeks, his chin lowering with a tilt of his head.

A snarl creases his face, brows tight when he finds Willow again. He jams his blade at her, his voice just a growl in her direction.

“And there is nothing you can say to change that.”

Willow just stares up at him with wide eyes, her entire body trembling. Her mouth is gaped to speak, but she knows she doesn’t have a defense.

“I am nothing without her.”

He steps closer to her, his boots planted on either side of her ribs. Just as he did with you, he grabs her by the front of her jacket and pulls her from the dirt, inches from his face.

“I am suffering! She is suffering! Everyday!”

He gives her that look, the same gut-churning look he had on reaping day when he threw himself on stage to volunteer.

“Now it’s your turn to suffer.”

The shot lingers on their faces for a few more moments, Willow’s golden brown eyes darting around his gut-churning rage, her breath caught in her throat.

They don’t show it.

You are so thankful they don’t show it.

They cut to you, walking through the forest. You have to close your eyes again, burying your face in Konig’s chest.

Your stomach boils and your heart constricts beyond comfort at each of her moaned wails. You’re clawing at Konig’s suit, a handful of the fabric shaking between your tensed fist.

Konig’s free hand comes up to swallow yours, a gentle reassurance from hardened hands.

Each of her maimed breaths violate you. The stage lights are searing your skin, sweat building up on your scalp and under your dress. The layer forming under your thick makeup is suffocating, aching for the touch of fresh air instead of the roasted stage air you breathe now.

Your eyes are screwed shut, but you can still see her, her exposed, bloody muscle rising and falling with her chest. The whitish yellow pockets of fat, the bones of her fingers, her blood-pooled eye sockets.

There’s a nauseating heat simmering just under your skin, and your breaths turn almost as guttural as hers.

Against every instinct, you have to rip away from Konig, not at all gracefully stumbling in your heels offstage.

“Oh, uh- technical difficulties, folks. Bear with us,” Caesar says cheekily, the audience’s collective chuckle laugh following.

You weren’t aiming for him, but Price catches you once offstage, sturdy arms pulling you into an embrace.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, kid,” He whispers softly, “It’s alright.”

Your palms find his chest with a firm shove, freeing yourself from his hold. You swivel on your feet simultaneously, doubling over to vomit all over the floor, your bile splattering over Price’s shoes.

He doesn’t seem to mind, standing at your side and pulling your hair back from the line of fire as you heave in rhythmic convulses, struggling to work up what little is in your stomach.

“It’s alright,” Price soothes, holding your hair with one hand and rubbing your trembling back with the other, “It’s alright. Get it all out.”

You feel a second hand on your back, and you already know it’s Konig, standing tall on your other side.

A stage hand rolls over an industrial size trash can, and you grip the rim with white knuckles as you gag into it.

When you’re done spitting out the bitter, offensive taste, Konig has a cloth waiting for you to wipe your face. Exhausted breaths leave you, droplets of sweat trailing down your back and tears streaming over your cheeks.

Your arm stretches over the rim of the trash can as you lean over it, pinching your eyes shut to try to quell the nausea. Konig offers you a bottle of water, and shaking hands reach to take it gratefully.

They wait for you to collect yourself, someone gets you a toothbrush to clean out your mouth - apparently this kind of thing happens enough to warrant keeping toothbrushes on hand, - your prep team touches up your makeup, and Konig holds you wordlessly in his strong arms while you breathe him in, his silken tie brushing against your cheek.

When you’re ready, your fingers wrap around Konig’s bicep, his arm bent at the elbow to keep you steady as he escorts you back on stage, putting himself between you and the crowd to block you from the audience.

The crowd explodes at your return, a standing ovation that echoes with whistles and claps.

“Welcome back, welcome back!” Caesar chimes, dipping each syllable with flare.

The crowd keeps the applause going long after you’re sat, and once settled, Caesar segues back into the show.

You don’t watch, hiding your face in Konig’s chest as he holds you tight, gently stroking your back.

The feed resumes, and you hear your squeak through the speakers, your stumble and trip into the dirt. Your dash through the woods, your dry heaves towards the dirt.

Your desperate plea.

Luring Eight into the fall forest, almost killing him but bailing at the last second. Weakly running for Willow as you cry out to her in the tune of a desperate sorry, spoken exactly like her pleas to the boy who knew no bounds to his spite. Piercing a dart through her exposed muscle, her final three breaths, your sobbing as her cannon fires.

Konig’s grip on you loosens as he watches your mercy kill, his soothing rubs ceasing. He starts back up again when the footage pauses, but you can’t bring yourself to leave Konig’s chest.

The crowd erupts in a truly enthusiastic applause, shouting adorations in your direction as Konig squeezes you tight.

“Wow,” Caesar shouts over the crowd, “That was something!”

The audience ignores his attempt to settle them, showering you with praise for what must be a full minute while Konig rubs your back.

“That was really something,” Caesar says, “Wow, I have to say, that was really admirable.”

You say nothing, trying to block out Caesar and his stupid commentary.

“I must ask, have your feelings about your actions changed after learning of their history?”

Your brows pinch as your head lifts from Konig’s chest to find Caesar, your arms snug around Konig’s core.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Knowing what you know now, would you have still lended her a hand?”

The end of Caesar’s question perks up so innocently, as if he didn’t just ask the most insane question in the world.

Your face twists, “Of course I would have - what kind of question is that?”

You glare at him, voice taught and sharp.

“You think that I think that there’s anything in the world that justifies that?”

You shake your head.

“No, you’re out of your mind. I wouldn’t even wish that fate on someone sick enough to ask a question like that in the first place.”

Konig gives you a squeeze and a little shake to show you he’s on your side, sitting tall with his chest puffed out. The audience is on your side too, apparently, clapping along in approval.

Caesar breaks character for a moment as he flits his gaze between you and Konig, the latter surely dawning a just as loathsome stare. You hold Caesar’s eyes in challenge until he looks away.

You understand the boy from eight’s anger. If someone got Konig taken away to serve the Capitol, surely you’d be just as furious and hellbent on vengeance.

But Eight’s anger was misdirected.

While Willow blabbed, his anger was provoked by the Capitol, not by Willow.

The Capitol is the one who took his girlfriend away, cut out her tongue, and forced her to dote on her boyfriend, unable to speak with him - surely a calculated move to instigate more tension between the District Eight tributes. Willow was just the one who let it slip, intentional or not.

As fucked up as it sounds, though, you get it.

You get where Eight is coming from. There was no way for him to seek vengeance against a government that has the entire country under its strict thumb, so he took out his anger on the next best thing.

Nowhere near to the same extreme - but you’ve been in a similar position countless times before.

That day in District Nine was one of those days. A bad day riling you up, looking for a victim to boil over on. You’re not even sure if you stood up for Konig because it was the right thing to do, or because you were just looking for an outlet for anger you couldn’t direct elsewhere without severe consequence.

Deep down you know the answer, but you’re too cowardly to share it with anyone, especially Konig. He has you on a pedestal. He thinks of you as a true, selfless angel that protected him for no other reason than to do the right thing.

You really don’t want to ruin his perception of you.

But you know who you are.

“Well, more exciting things to come,” Caesar weakly chimes, looking to the floor as he clears his throat.

An arm comes up to gesture to the large screen.

“You bravely risked your life to end this girl’s suffering, my dear, and we have the footage to prove it.”

The replay resumes - cutting to a shot of the three remaining careers gliding over the snow as they make way towards the cornucopia.

“In and out,” Sapphire says to the group, “I don’t want to leave the woods for too long.”

“Not like she can leave,” Titan mumbles.

“If she got her hands on some supplies, she could.”

“Where would Funny Girl find supplies? We got ‘em all.”

“Gotten them off someone else.”

Titan scoffs, “You think Funny Girl’s killing?”

“She’s made it this far. Who knows.”

Titan laughs, “Funny Girl can’t fight. She’s just playing shy.”

“Lover Boy’s got his backpack,” Sapphire says, “If he found her, those two could go anywhere.”

“Well if he found her, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Sapphire just sighs, rolling her eyes. She doesn’t look good. Her face is puffy, bags under her eyes. You know a girl who’s too exhausted to argue when you see it. Clearly Titan’s attempt to get her to rest was unsuccessful.

“I’m sorry!”

The careers immediately perk up at your distant cry.

Titan’s mouth curls into a sickening grin, flashing his razor sharp canines, a giddy laugh threatening to spill from his lips.

Even in Sapphire’s exhaustion, her lips stretch in a smile, those brilliant blue eyes flickering with a spark of gut-churning determination.

“I’m sorry!”

Even from the distance, the desperation in your voice is unmistakable.

The career pack is in a full sprint to the direction of your broken, cried apology, hollering in celebration that their arduous hunt is coming to a conclusion.

As they burst through the trees, the shot cuts to you, running on weak ankles to the spring quadrant.

“There she is!”

Konig shoots forward in his chair, taking your arms with him and forcing you to leave his chest. His brows tighten as he plants his elbow on his knee, the pads of his fingers reaching up to gnaw on his nails.

Eight breaks into the clearing, making a beeline for the careers.

“What did you do?!” Eight shouts at them, barreling right for them with his blade raised. It’s clear now he thinks the careers killed Willow, not you.

The three prime their weapons and when Eight catches up, he’s already swinging.

“Titan - get the brat!” Sapphire shouts, her tone leaving no room for argument as she blocks one of Eight’s swings.

It’s as if Titan was a dog growling on the end of Sapphire’s taut leash, itching to be released so he can maul his target - and Sapphire just unclasped his collar. There is no transition between his stand to a full sprint, both his pace and his strides at least three times as quick as yours.

Konig’s fingers are digging into his knees hard enough to turn his knuckles white, on the edge of his seat and glued to the screen, not so much as blinking.

Titan catches up, powerful hold wrapping around your waist and slamming you into the sand hard enough to steal your breath.

Konig flinches in his seat, his lips parting and pulling to the side to reveal grit teeth. As he watches Titan toy with you, pinning you to the ground and reveling in the power he holds, Konig’s fists are clenched so tight they’re shaking. Resting a gentle hand on his forearm does nothing to placate him - he’s locked on the screen.

“Why don’t you yell for him?”

“Fuck you!”

Really not your best comeback, but to be fair to you, you were running on steam and also thought you were about to die.

When Titan’s hand shoots out to choke you, Konig springs up from his seat and rips away from your hold on him.

He can’t watch anymore, turning to face the couch, his face pinched and a hand threading his hair with a tight grip.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” You whisper, reaching out to grab the rigid hand at his side.

“No,” He grits through strained breath.

He can’t look at you, the sounds of your desperate chokes for air blaring from the speakers and suffocating him second hand.

“It is, it’s okay,” You say with sloped brows, “I’m fine. I’m okay, it’s okay. He’s dead.”

It’s almost funny, Konig is so concerned with your fight with Titan - when it pales in comparison to the rest of your arena experiences.

Even the cold of the freezing nights in the forest were worse than this.

A gory bloodbath, the snap of a neck, a first hand lesson on the anatomy of the human muscular system, blinding and skewering Sapphire, Konig beating Titan to death with his own two hands - these are the moments that truly haunt you.

You give Konig’s trembling hand a squeeze. He doesn’t speak, he just shakes his head.

“Call for him!”

On screen you’re gasping for air, Titan forcing his demands through his clenched teeth.

The feed pauses, the crowd silent as Caesar starts.

“Konig, it’s clear this is upsetting for you to watch, mind sharing your thoughts?”

Konig’s eyes crease when he closes them, his free fist tight at his side. He doesn’t turn around, his shoulders raised.

“Hey, Caesar,” he grits.

Konig takes a breath.

“Shut the fuck up.”

You jump to your feet as the crowd erupts, both your arms shooting up in the air and taking one of Konig’s hands with you.

“Yes! Yes!”

You practically order the crowd to shower him in praise, waving your hands to beckon them to keep it up. You let go of Konig’s hand to grab his tensed arm and give him an excited, proud shake. He rolls his eyes, a half grin blooming on his face as he turns pliant to your jostling.

“Right,” Caesar says, clearing his throat and looking down.

They resume the feed, and you give Konig’s suit a tug, beckoning him to sit with you.

“Watch this part,” You whisper.

He finally looks to you, giving a swallow as he follows your wish.

“Call for him or I’ll make you!”

On screen - your spit-stained face pinches, and you send two fistfuls of sand directly into Titan’s face.

The audience explodes at your escape maneuver, and Konig hums at Titan’s cries of pain, giving that soft inaudible laugh that raises his shoulders. He looks to you, eyes crinkled with a pressed grin. He grabs a shoulder and rests his other hand on the crook of your neck, leaning down to press a long, messy kiss on your lips.

You hum into him, the crowd still cheering when he pulls you into him with an arm slung over your shoulder, squeezing your bicep.

“Wow, wow, wow!” Caesar says after the audience has settled, “Escaping the hands of such a powerful career - I think you managed to surprise every citizen of Panem!”

The audience gives a hearty applause in approval. Caesar leans in, voice suddenly serious.

“And I think we were all very, very touched to see you risk your life to keep Konig out of danger.”

Your brows crease as you turn to the audience, clapping in approval.

It takes you a moment to realize that Panem thinks you refrained from calling Konig’s name for his benefit, to keep him safe from Titan, which isn’t true at all.

You just didn’t want to submit to Titan’s demands, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of fulfilling his plan, didn’t want to give him whatever scrap of dignity you had left. It was a move of spite against Titan, not of care for Konig.

Guilt.

You have to look down at your lap as you try to swallow it - because saving Konig from Titan was not a thought that even crossed your mind.

You couldn’t even think of Konig when you knew Titan wanted to kill him. Konig, the boy who killed Titan with his two hands for even daring to lay a hand on you.

Konig squeezes you tight and plants a kiss on your forehead, the audience cooing at his adoration for you.

Guilt.

When your unearned praise dies down, Caesar continues.

“It’s truly beautiful what you two have.”

You don’t care, Caesar.

You don’t care what anyone in the Capitol thinks of you and Konig. You wish your relationship wasn’t able to be perceived at all, actually - not out of shame, but because you hate how everyone in Panem has their grubby little hands all over your romance, something so personal and intimate and fresh to you.

The people of Panem have had more time to process your new relationship than you have.

The feed shows you collapsing into the grass, cutting to the part where District Eight sent you the bread, eventually showing you picking up the ribbon, tying it around your wrist.

“I have to ask, my dear,” Caesar says, “You’ve mentioned that the ribbon means a lot to you, can you share with us the significance of this ribbon?”

To be honest, you really don’t have a reason for why you kept the ribbon, or why it means so much to you. You just know it does.

You know it’s symbolic, but for what?

Is it a reminder of Willow, the girl you feel an immense connection to, even though you just assigned her name to her less than an hour ago and never shared a word with?

Is it the unification of two districts forced to be pit against each other?

Is it because it is a token of the district who went against all the standards to thank a girl who treated their tribute with human decency - the opposite of what the games are about?

Why does this ribbon mean so much to you?

You really don’t know. But you do know you can’t be snarky here - this moment is important, and you need to get this right.

Your mouth has gone dry again, and you look to your lap.

“I- uh-“

You clear your throat, and Konig gives you a squeeze.

“It just does,” You say, not harshly, but genuinely.

You turn your head to find a camera and speak into it. You’re talking to District Eight now, not the audience, not to Caesar.

“I don’t know why it means so much to me, but I know that I am grateful for the gifts. I am grateful that you helped me put an end to her suffering.”

Your voice cracks.

“And I am sorry for your loss.”

The audience gives a soft applause, and you have to look down at your lap again.

“Wow,” Caesar says, his voice gentle, “Beautifully spoken.”

He’s so full of shit, it actually makes you scoff.

You know your words aren’t striking the proper emotion, because you haven’t even had the opportunity to digest them yourself. To assign words to the attachment you have to your ribbon, to your feelings about Willow, Eight, his girlfriend, about his unwavering dedication and her brutal end and a district who thanked you for making a life-threatening sacrifice.

“Enough about you, my dear, let’s take a look at what Konig was up to in the meantime.”

Eight’s cannon woke him up with a start, a cloud of sand wafting up with him as he shoots to a sit. A hand comes up to his hood, and he lets out a long sigh.

Just by looking at his eyes through his hood, you can tell it’s all catching up with him. The restless nights, his aching body, the instinctual fear.

The jump the sun makes when the feed cuts suggests he laid unmoving in the sand for hours. Price caves once again, sending him food and water.

When he finally gets to his feet, he makes slow, unsteady steps through the desert. To see him so weakened makes your heart throb in your chest, because it reminds you of the last time you saw him stumble, the last time you saw him drained of life.

You swallow, looking down to your fidgeting fingers, smoothing along the pleats of your dress.

It’s your turn to wish you could have been there for him. You get it now, how hard it is knowing the one you love struggled and you were useless to help.

Konig’s eyes are drowsy, his steps sluggish, even with One’s shoe attachments.

Next to you on the couch, all of Panem watching him in this state, Konig’s head is hung, looking to his shoes in shame, the pads of fingers swirling together.

You nuzzle your head into his shoulder and give him a squeeze.

I’m here now.

The effects of the spiky plants in the desert, cacti as Caesar calls them, were severely downplayed by Konig.

Konig trips over his own boot and falls forward, weak hands shooting out to brace himself, his palm catching a handful of needles. He winces, a strangled grunt leaving him as he rips his hand back to his chest.

He rolls over in the sand, propping himself up on his backpack to inspect his palm. Tiny beads of blood smear between his skin and the perforated temperature suit.

He lets out a grunt of defeat and throws his arm to the sand. His breaths are heaved, his chest struggling to work in breaths, eyes pinching shut behind his hood.

When he brings his hand to his face again, it’s swollen and as black as the ooze that dripped from the ginkgo petals and swallowed you whole during your hallucinations. The color soaks into his veins and up his forearm in inky streaks.

He lets out a strained whine, his other hand trembling as he goes in to touch the source of the wound. The gentlest touch has him wailing out in pain, his cries tighten your chest and wring your heart out.

He lies on the desert sand, his infection getting worse by the second. It spreads up his bicep, swallowing his entire arm until he can’t even move it. He’s crying, but the tears that spill from his eyes are not normal tears. Whatever is dripping from his eyes is bleaching his hood, streaks of color pulling up on the black fabric.

The infection creeps up his shoulders, his collarbones, sucking what little strength he has left from him.

He’s given up.

You can see it, in his eyes. He knows he’s about to die.

“Just tell her I love her,” He whispers to the arid desert air, his voice hoarse and barely loud enough to carry, “Just make sure she knows I love her.”

A shaky finger comes up to swipe away the tears threatening to spill from your eyeline, but you are powerless against the squeak that leaves the back of your throat.

You can practically hear Price’s eye roll from the mentor’s suite, and before the infection can spread to his other arm, a parachute comes down from the sky and lands inches from him.

He’s so weak he can hardly get the canister open. Grunting and hitting it against the sand in frustration. His shaking fingers pop it open to reveal a small syringe filled with a clear liquid, a tiny needle at the end.

Konig lets out another grunt as he jams the needle into his dead bicep, and shortly after succumbs to either exhaustion or the pain, maybe both, and passes out propped up on his backpack.

“That looked pretty painful,” Caesar says, “How do you feel after overcoming such adversity?”

Konig shrugs his shoulders at him, a slight shake in his head and lips bunched in annoyance.

Caesar directs the question to you, and you can’t bite your tongue.

“How do I feel after watching Konig nearly die from a cacti?”

“Cactus.”

You pause, narrowing your eyes at Caesar and offering an obnoxious suck of your teeth.

“Cact-you,” You say.

You and Caesar stay locked on each other for a moment before you shrug.

“Feels great, Caesar.”

The audience seems to find your annoyance and sarcasm amusing.

“Well, the fun doesn’t stop there,” Caesar says, “Looks like you woke up to some trouble too.”

Konig’s eyes roll, and the feed resumes.

You had not encountered any mutts in the arena, but Konig was not as lucky.

He wakes long after the sun has gone down to find himself surrounded.

Genetically modified scorpions, ten to twenty of them, the size of large dogs and equipped with bulbous tails that taper into razor sharp hooks. Exoskeletons designed to be nearly impenetrable, serrated claws itching to tear apart flesh.

Konig’s mumbling curses under his breath, springing to weak legs, stumbling through the sand. The scorpions hiss at him, curling their wicked tails, as if beckoning him to come closer.

Konig’s head is ducked, body low as he swivels on his feet, the handle of Eleven’s scythe in a tight grip at his side.

His mind has drawn a blank - he’s panicking.

They close in on him, their spider-like legs dancing over the sand as they hiss at him, snapping their claws and curling their tails.

His darting eyes stop on the cactus, and he’s got it.

There’s no hesitation, his arm winds back entirely, using all of his strength to cut clean through the base. Ten feet of poisonous spikes comes crashing down, a flood of pulpy water pouring at Konig’s feet. It lands on one of the scorpions, giving him a break in the circle of mutts to make his escape.

When one of the scorpions cries out, both you and Konig freeze, shoulders tensed on the couch.

It’s your voice.

Your haunting wails recorded during your nightmares, crying out Konig’s name.

On screen, Konig whips his head around, stumbling on the sand as he looks in the direction of your cry. He trips, his hands springing up to brace himself before he hits the ground.

The nearest scorpion closes in on him, and shortly after Konig’s back on his feet and working up to a sprint, the mutt’s serrated claws snap at and tear through the flesh of his calf. Your brows slope at Konig’s cry of pain, your hand coming up to your racing heart.

He’s limping through the desert now, blood gushing down the back of his leg and splattering on the grains of sand.

The scorpions are following him, not struggling to keep up now that he’s injured.

All of them, crying out in your voice, crying out his name, scared and pleading, desperate and helpless. Both on screen and now, Konig’s hands shoot up to his ears to block out the overlapping wails.

He’s curled up next to you on the couch as you rub your palm over his button down and tie.

“Hey, hey it’s okay. It’s okay, I’m fine, it was just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare.”

“No,” He objects through a grit, his eyes pinching shut.

“Don’t listen to it, just listen to me. I’m fine, it was just a nightmare. I’m okay, I’m right here.”

He throws himself into your arms, wrapping around you and squeezing hard enough to steal your breath, his stubble scraping against you as he buries his face into your neck.

You rub his back, looking over his head to watch the screen over his shoulder.

He straggles through the desert, his leg threatening to give out under the pain of each stride, but he doesn’t stop. He’s scrambling to get away from your cries.

This is when he finds the oasis. The scorpions stop at what appears to be an invisible circle of safety looping the ring of trees. Konig doesn’t look back until he’s in the middle of the pool of water, until the waterfall drowns out the scorpion’s cries. He’s heaving and struggling to stay afloat with his injury and the weight of his soaked backpack. He rips off his hood, pulling in deep breaths of air as he flails.

Once the scorpions lose interest, he swims to where his toes can touch, taking a moment to catch his breath.

He lets out a cry, loud and unrestrained - not from pain, no, this is a cry of pure frustration, the cry of a boy pushed to his limit. He shakes his head, his hair sending water droplets flinging in all directions, fists splashing in the water as he tries to work out the emotions suffocating him.

Konig is still in your arms and avoiding the screen, sunk in on himself, a hand coming up to cover his red face.

You’re not judging him. You get it. In fact, you just threw a nationwide temper tantrum in front of all of Panem. Basically challenged the whole country with a one-girl rebellion because you thought he was dead.

Oh, shit.

He thought you were dead.

Neither of you watched the faces of the fallen, you because you didn’t want to see Willow’s face and him because he’d passed out after the cactus. Surely he thought those screams were recorded not during a nightmare, but during your brutal end. A brutal end where you screamed and cried and pleaded for Konig’s help, and he failed to save you.

When enough time has passed and he deems it safe, Konig drags himself to shore and lies defeated in the wet sand, deep, brilliant red oozing generously from his calf. Tears stream down his puffy, pale face, his breaths choppy and his chest stuttering.

The sight is enough to bring tears in your eyes, your lower lip pulling between your teeth.

You squeeze Konig tight, the hand you rest on his back raising to scratch his scalp and simultaneously shield him from the world.

On screen, Konig digs into One’s soaked backpack, and retrieves the canister of medicine to tend to his wound.

The feed pauses, and you give Caesar a look that would have made a king’s knees buckle.

‘Try it, Caesar. If you even dare utter a word in his direction, I will grab you by your ponytail and beat your ass in front of all of Panem.’

He receives the message loud and clear, and speaks into the audience while you scratch Konig’s hair, cooing reassurance into his ear in between soft kisses on his head.

Caesar rambles on about Konig’s escape maneuver, praising the design of the scorpions, going on about how your screams were just such a heart wrenching thing for Konig to endure.

When the feed resumes, Konig’s wound is tended to, his face no longer pained, but hollow. He just lies face up in the sand, bags under his eyes and gaze fixed to the night sky. Numb, motionless.

Tired.

Tears stream down his temples, and he has no motivation to wipe them away. He gets no rest the night before the finale.

Just lies in the sand, unmoving.

Price caves and sends him more food, hoping that he’ll eat without the arduous task of fishing or scavenging, but he doesn’t eat.

The feed cuts, skipping to when he finally finds the will to move.

You know it well.

The rage, he’s using his anger to push through, to survive. It shows in every movement he makes, too forceful and aggressive. Yanking and slamming and grunting through grit teeth at everything he comes in contact with. It’s a stark contrast to his usually reserved demeanor.

Weirdly, it’s working for you.

Which does make you feel bad, since he’s clearly in distress, both on screen and now, but you can’t help it. Those seething hormones that don’t know their place.

The feed pauses, and Caesar makes his stupid little commentary.

“Now, this next part here, we really get to see some action from Konig.”

The feed resumes, having cut to morning. Konig has left the oasis, heading back to the heart of the arena with forceful steps.

“Please don’t watch,” Konig mutters into your neck, his words just a low vibration against your skin.

Your brows pinch and your lips part, pausing your soothing rubs.

“Okay,” You whisper. You rest your cheek on his head and close your eyes, starting up the back rubs again. He squeezes you a little tighter, nestling into you, his shaky breaths tickling the skin of your neck.

You have to watch.

Your eyes instinctually open at the sound of Konig in conflict, and once they’re on screen you can’t bring yourself to rip them away.

The boy from Four, one of the particularly bigger volunteer tributes, holds out his arms, inviting Konig to a confrontation. He eggs him on with some taunts, and Konig doesn’t so much break his pace.

You already know the ending, not just because Konig is sitting right next to you, a victor, but because the boy from four is decked head to toe in the gear Konig wore at the finale.

It does not deter Konig. He doesn’t evade. In fact, he seems almost eager to fight, picking up into a run.

Konig rams his shoulder square into his front, entirely ignoring the knife that slashes into his bicep. Four is knocked back into the sand, the impact stealing the breath from him.

With each hit Konig lands to Four’s face, Titan’s caved-in head pulses in front of your eyes.

Konig pulls away from your embrace to look up at you, his brows sloped, a glint of betrayal in those worried eyes. Your lips part to give him an apology for watching, but you can get the words out. Between flashes of Titan steadily turned to pulp, choking the breath from you beyond the grave, it takes you right back to the last time Konig looked at you in betrayal, pale and almost entirely drained of life.

The nausea is bubbling up again, and you have to pinch your eyes shut. You blindly nudge into him, burying your face in his shoulder while you try to block everything out.

You don’t watch, but you know Four didn’t die. His cannon doesn’t go off, only knocked unconscious and injured at Konig’s hand.

When you find the screen again, Konig’s wearing Four’s gear back at the oasis, his bicep fully healed. He’s propped up against a tree, his knees pulled to his chest, head in his hands, staring blankly at the sand.

The feed pauses, and Caesar starts up.

“I have to know, Konig, what were you feeling in this moment?”

Konig loosens the embrace and finds Caesar. He shrugs, and says nothing.

“Well then. Let’s take a break from the intense stuff, and let’s see what our lovely lady was doing in the meantime.”

You roll your eyes, and the audience gushes over your crown of petals, your tiny snow-family.

Konig seems to find it endearing, too. He relaxes a bit in your hold, a soft hum vibrating your skin as you scratch his hair.

“Now,” Caesar says, “Before we get into a truly spectacular finale, I’d like to bring someone on stage for a chat.”

As you and Konig sit straight, the crowd whispers to themselves as they try and guess who it is.

“The man who pulled off the impossible, the mastermind behind it all, Mentor - John - Price!”

The crowd explodes into applause, and you turn your head to watch Price walk out on stage, waving a hand loosely at the crowd.

You’re incredibly relieved to see him, actually. It’s clear that you and Konig are entirely lost on this couch, and Price’s experience and his ever-sturdy nature will surely be a crutch for you both. You’re hoping he’ll take the spotlight off of you and Konig for a while.

Before Price sits, he leans down and simultaneously ruffles both you and Konig’s hair with a chuckle.

“How’s my poker face?” He asks with a laugh.

You and Konig sputter, rolling your eyes at him, but you can’t help the half-grin that peeks through.

Price takes a seat on the sofa next to you, giving you a hearty pat on the back before he slings his arms over either side of the back of the couch.

“Wow, wow, wow!” Caesar exclaims, “What an honor it is to have you with us today. You truly pulled off the strategy of the century!”

Price gives a single nod, a raise of his brows that hardens the lines on his forehead.

“Tell us, how did you come up with such a plan?”

Price scratches his temple and gives a light grunt before he gestures to Konig.

“Boy liked the girl. Practically did the work for me.”

The audience laughs as Konig’s hand comes up to rub the back of his neck.

Caesar crosses his legs and leans in, “And at what point did you realize Konig was in love with her?”

Price snorts, a small sly smile on his face.

“Took me about an hour.”

The audience laughs as Konig turns pink at your side. Your cheeks flush with heat as well, once again embarrassed it took you so long to notice the obvious.

You were under a lot of pressure, okay?

“For those of us who don’t know, I’d like to take the opportunity to revisit your victory.”

Price just grunts, and you and Konig look to each other with furrowed brows.

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind - what Price’s games looked like. How he pulled off a feat that no one from District Nine but you and Konig have been able to recreate since.

Judging by the look on Konig’s face, this is the first time he’s considered it too.

Instantly you’re aching to know.

They start with the reaping of the girl tribute from District Nine, a girl named Summer. She’s average in stature, a headful of wavy, miskept hair frames her face.

For a moment, she is stunned, jaw tight and a slight sway in her feet. Round, deep brown eyes are fully blown, staring straight ahead.

She blinks twice, and her face relaxes, a scoff from lips that pull into a devilish smile. Her eyes roll as she elbows her way through the crowd, striding up to stage before the peacekeepers can even get their hands on her.

Summer hauls herself up on stage and rips the microphone from the escort’s hands. Her arm extends, swatting away the escort’s attempts to take back the microphone by alternating planting her palm into her face and chest. Their mild altercation broadcasts over the speakers - grunts, hissed demands, and almost comical shrieks of mic feedback.

Eventually the escort gives up with a grunt of annoyance.

Summer’s laugh echoes throughout the speakers, and she takes a few slow, bouncing strides across the stage, her back sloped in an irreverent lean, strolling leisurely in front of the crowd. She throws her free arm into the air and lets out a sharp ‘Wooo!’

“I just want to say, I mean - what an honor it is to be the tribute of District Nine.”

Her sarcasm slips from her tongue like it’s her native language, her body slack and dipping a shoulder towards the crowd.

“Truly!” She laughs again, spinning on light feet, projecting faux verve, “It is such an honor to sacrifice the wonderful life the Capitol has graciously offered me so far.”

The escort approaches and tries to swipe for the microphone again, but Summer’s shin catches across the escort’s ankles mid-stride, causing her to trip and crash to the ground with a ridiculously dramatic cry.

The crowd actually laughs at this, which is jarring, because no one ever laughs at a reaping.

Summer ignores the escort's aggravated chirping as she continues with a wide smile.

“A life of harvesting grain on an empty stomach, I mean, I really am giving up something special, aren’t I folks?”

Summer laughs again, but it’s interrupted by a shout in the crowd.

“I volunteer!”

Summer’s face falls at once, her jaw tightening. Her lighthearted, sarcastic tone sheds the moment she hears the voice.

“No!” She objects, shaking her head and pointing into the crowd, “No he doesn’t!”

The camera finds the source of the disruption, shoving his way through the crowd with familiar sturdy arms.

Price volunteered.

Your brows furrow, your head turning to find Price on the couch next to you.

He doesn’t look at you. He keeps his eyes on the screen, but you know he can feel your stare. His jaw cocks, his lips fold in, and he gives a nearly indistinguishable nod.

“Johnny!” Summer grits, her tone that of a parent pushed to her limit as they scold a misbehaving child, “Get back in the crowd, you fucking moron!”

Price trips over himself as he makes his way to her. He tries to crawl up the middle of the stage, but Summer sticks her foot out, pressing the sole of her shoe to his chest to keep him from pulling himself up.

“Stop it! Get back!” She grunts, but his sturdy arms pull themselves up to stage regardless of her shoves and objections.

Summer drops the microphone, the entire audience jumping at the ear-piercing thud that echoes through the speakers. She puts her hands on his shoulders, and for a moment the two wrestle as she froths at him.

“Take it back! Take it back!”

The peacekeepers intervene and rip the two apart, dragging them back with tight grips on the crook of their elbows.

Price isn’t fighting the peacekeeper’s hold, but Summer’s kicking her feet, thrashing ruthlessly against the restraint. Her words are slathered with fury, loud enough for the back of the crowd to hear even without the microphone.

“You fucking idiot, Johnny! What did you do?! What did you do?! You killed yourself, Johnny! You killed yourself!”

Price is panting, chest heaving as his bright blue eyes soak in her rage.

When the escort finally restores order, she has the two shake hands. Summer doesn’t take her glare off Price the entire time. She practically smacks his hand, squeezing him with a deathly grip, a twist in her lips as she grumbles under her breath. Price just swallows, staring at her with sad eyes as he lets her assault his hand.

You hate to admit it, the thought itself making your stomach turn, but Price was kind of good-looking at your age.

While his blue eyes are still hooded, they’re not narrowed into his constant squint. Distressed in this moment, but overall his eyes are brighter, wider, full of life. His face isn’t harshened with fine lines, and instead of the intense facial hair he wears now, he only has faint stubble along his jaw. Price is strong as you know him, but his younger self seems to be entirely fit, a young man primed with youth and strengthened from a life of fieldwork.

The year Price competed in the games, the arena was truly foreign, you don’t recognize a single plant or tree that makes up the lush jungle. The trees fork in odd places, their leaves awkwardly fanned. A few are reminiscent of the trees you saw at the oasis, puffs of leaves only at the very top of their branches, but even that comparison is a stretch. Some of the flora carry leaves bigger than your entire body. Plants that you’d describe as large ferns swallow the jungle floor, camouflaging only a few feet into the tree line. Massive bones scatter the jungle, bones much larger than any animal you’ve ever seen. In many places the jungle drops off into truly stunning valleys teeming with huge, thick-stemmed flowers. Rivers carve out the land, sidewinding through the valleys.

A Jurassic landscape, they call it.

Price and Summer are locked onto each other the entirety of the countdown. When the gong sounds, they don’t hesitate to dart for each other, each of them working up to a full sprint the moment their boots leave the pedestals. They link hands at the center of the brutal bloodbath, blind to the gory altercations surrounding them. As soon as their hands are locked they make a run for the jungle, quickly disappearing into thick foliage.

They skip a lot of the games, and show the particularly exciting moments Price and Summer went through.

For the circumstances, the tone between them is light, smiling and joking as they dredge through the jungle. They’re playing a game to see who can catch the insides of a jungle nut in their mouth from the highest toss straight up in the air.

Price, leading the way, gets stuck mid-stride, as if his boot had been glued to the jungle floor. He looks down, and immediately his palms shoot out to shove Summer back in the dirt.

“What-”

Summer’s eyes widen when she sees the pit of thick sand swallowing Price’s boots.

Price panics, jerking his legs to free himself, but it’s only making it worse. The more he thrashes, the quicker the pool of sand climbs up his legs. Summer curses, kicking to her feet and stepping to the edge of the pit.

“Stop!” She yells, her fingers a blur as she shakes her palms at him, “Stop moving, Johnny! Grab my hand!”

He stills as he looks at her, heavy breaths leaving parted lips and wide eyes pooled with fear. His knuckles turn white the moment he latches to her wrists.

Summer grunts through clenched, bared teeth and leans back, every muscle shaking as her entire body weight pulls on his arms. The heels of her boots dig into the jungle floor, but Price doesn’t budge.

“Ow, ow!” He yells, “Gonna break my arms!”

“Oh, is that a worse alternative to dying?!” Summer spits.

“Save now, fight later!” He grunts.

“Just- stay still!” She says, eyes frantically darting around.

She locks onto one of the trees, a nearly matured sapling with a long, skinny, branchless trunk that stretches well above Summer’s head.

“Got it, I fucking got it, Johnny!” She shouts with excited revelation, giving herself a running start before she jumps up to grab the trunk as high as she can. Her legs fold around the tree, climbing hand over hand to shimmy herself up. When the sapling begins to curl, she jerks her body weight in the direction of Price, unwrapping her legs and dangling off the trunk until the tip of her toes touch the ground.

“Grab it!” Summer hisses, a grunt caught in the back of her throat as she holds down the spring-loaded tree.

Price, now submerged to his diaphragm, scrambles for the sapling, his arms getting lost in the sprouts of leaves at the very top of the odd tree.

“Got it!”

“Hang on tight!” She hisses before releasing the tree, falling backwards into the dirt.

The tree springs up a few feet in the absence of her weight and yanks Price from the sand to his mid-thigh. Summer’s already on her feet, scrambling to the edge of the pit to wrap her arms around Price’s core, yanking to help work him free as he climbs up the sapling with shaking arms.

Once the sand spits out the tops of his boots, he pops free, the tree slingshotting back into place and almost taking him with it. He’s dragged into Summer, both of them crashing to the ground with a thud.

Summer’s eyes pinch shut and she lets out a drawn-out, low groan under his weight.

Price heaves a breathless, relieved laugh, planting his palms in the dirt to prop himself up, smiling down at Summer.

“So,” Price says in between heavy breaths, “Want to finish that fight?”

Summer gives an amused hum behind a grin, her eyelids fluttering. She snatches him by the collar of his shirt with two fingers and pulls him in until his face is inches from hers. A sly grin spreads thick on her face, voice low and as smooth as silk.

“Kiss first, fight later.”

“Deal.”

When Summer closes the gap and plants a long kiss on his lips, you have to look down at your lap, swallowing around the lump in your throat.

Because you already know how this one ends.

The feed cuts to a shot of Summer and Price at the border of the jungle, a rock ledge next to a fifty-foot cliff overlooking a truly gorgeous valley. They’re both inspecting bushes of fruit, none of which you recognize.

“I don’t know, if I had to place my bets, I’m going with this weird one,” Summer says as she pats a fruit the size of her head, its skin a deep purple and knotted with bumps.

“Really?” Price asks, tucking his walking stick into his armpit, “Betting your life on the weird one?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Summer digs with a teasing, but slightly pointed tongue.

Price huffs, lacking defense.

He inspects a curved, green fruit the size of his hand, running his thumb along its grains.

“I like this one,” He says, “Got a good feel to it.”

Summer narrows her eyes at him, that sly grin making a reappearance.

“I’ll test yours if you test mine,” She goads.

Price lets out a huff, “Alright, fine. Loser dies.”

“Deal.”

They switch fruits, and dig in.

“Oh, that’s it,” Summer says with a groan, “Good pick, Johnny.”

Price speaks through a mouthful, juice dripping down his chin and staining his chin maroon.

“Can’t say, I’m hungry enough to think dirt tastes good.”

He takes another bite, sucking out the fruit’s insides.

“Johnny,” Summer says carefully.

“No, no, it’s good,” He reassures her, one of his palms blindly gesturing in her direction.

“Johnny,” Summer repeats, her voice low with a slight waver stitched in.

“Yeah?”

Price licks his fingers, and turns to Summer when he doesn’t get an answer.

“Oh, f-!” Price springs to his feet, stumbling backwards with a flail.

“Sh, sh, sh!” Summer hushes with a soft wince, “Just be calm - Don’t freak out.”

A massive snake with a head the size of a loaf of bread, a body as thick as a tree trunk, has crept from a tree above the fruit bushes. Its scales slide around the back of Summer’s neck, slithering leisurely down her shoulder and her front.

“What do I do?!” Price whispers frantically.

“Relax,” The word rides one of Summer’s exhales as she closes her eyes.

You’re not sure if she’s talking to herself or Price.

“Just let me think,” She says quietly.

The python moves slow, snaking around her core like a sash, wrinkling the fabric of her shirt as it curiously explores her.

Summer’s face pinches - she’s trying to come up with a plan but her focus is split between steadying the rise and fall of her chest and keeping herself from panicking.

“So cold,” Summer whispers under her breath as she suppresses a shiver, “Feels so fucking weird.”

Price takes a few slow steps forward, arms puffed out at his sides and his back hunched over.

“Johnny,” Summer warns.

Price lowers himself to a squat, picking up the purple fruit with careful hands.

“Johnny,” Summer tries again with a draw, but with concern to angering the snake coiling around her, her voice isn’t as forceful as she would have liked it to be.

His brows furrow, and a hand comes up with a wave of annoyance.

“I got it, Trouble.”

Price gets his boots in front of her crossed legs, leaning down and carefully extending the fruit in the direction of the snake’s face.

“What are you doing?” Summer grits.

Price ignores her, cooing to the snake.

“Oh, what’s this?” He says softly, animated and affectionate, the way one would speak to a beloved pet.

The snake’s tongue flicks out, it’s head perking up from Summer’s thigh.

“Yeah, buddy, check this out,” Price coos, “You don’t want her, you want this thing.”

“Run, Johnny,” Summer hisses through clenched teeth.

“Smells good, don’t it?” Price says to the snake, ignoring Summer’s demands.

The snake’s tongue flicks from its mouth furiously, hunting down the fresh, pungent scent of the purple fruit, juice still dripping from the taken bite.

The snake double back on itself, peeling back from Summer’s stomach, and Price gives a drawn out, low, “Yeah-heh-heah.”

Price takes careful steps, shifting to Summer’s side, delicately guiding the snake to unwrap from her core.

Price chuckles, “That’s it.”

When the snake is only draped over her shoulders, Price grits to Summer.

“Run, Trouble, Run!”

With a grunt, Summer shoves the snake from her shoulders to get away from its slimy scales.

The snake did not like this maneuver one bit.

With a deafening hiss, another fifteen feet of tail whips from the jungle, the end coiling around Summer’s ankle in less than a second, pulling her foot out from under her. Summer slams face first into the ground, busting her chin open on the rock ledge.

At the same time, the snake’s jaw unhinges, its lips peeling open well below where the corner of its mouth should be, parting down the sides of its body to reveal an opening large enough to effortlessly swallow a full grown man whole with one bite. Its razor sharp fangs start at a size you’d expect at the front of its mouth, and increase in size down its unfurled body until they’re as big as Price’s forearm.

Price screams as he stares into the snake’s gaped innards displayed in clear threat while Summer desperately claws at plants on the jungle floor. Her shirt bunching up her torso as she’s dragged on her front by the snake’s tail. Price flings himself back when the snake’s uncanny mouth closes with a snap like a whip in his direction. Summer flips over on her front, folding her core to peel the tail from her ankle, but she’s no match for its deadly grip.

As Price moves away, Summer is effortlessly lifted from the ground, flailing her limbs once airborne. The snake fully unfurls its mouth towards the sky, its tail curling to hover Summer over its gaped throat. She screams and kicks suspended in the air, dangling helplessly as she stares into the snake’s mouth.

“Hey!” Price yells from off screen.

The purple fruit smacks the snake’s neck with an almost comedic wet slap.

The snake’s mouth snaps shut beneath Summer, its head whipping to the side, venomous eyes locking onto Price. Summer is slammed against the rock ledge, expelling all of the air from her lungs with a guttural wheeze as the snake slithers with unnatural speed towards Price. A choppy groan leaves Summer, dragged across the rock ledge in the snake’s wake as Price trembles, taking uneasy steps backward as he points his meager walking stick in the direction of the snake.

The snake’s already unfurled its terrifying mouth again, priming to swallow him with a gut-churning hiss, but it does not deter Price from launching himself into the snake’s mouth, jamming the thick branch vertically between the bottom and the roof of its mouth.

The snake lets out a cry as it tries to snap its jaw around Price, but instead pierces the walking stick through the roof of its mouth.

The snake wails, ripping away from Price and releasing Summer as it desperately shakes its head to rid the wedge propping its jaw open. Price boots fumble along the rock as he makes a run for Summer, moaning in pain on the ground.

Price skids to a stop before leaning over and pulling her up with sturdy arms and a grunt. Her wobbly legs come to a stand while Price slings her arms over his shoulders, half-dragging her as they stumble through the jungle.

When the two finally give out, Summer collapses to her knees and Price doubles over, his hands on his thighs and spitting his exhaustion into the dirt.

As they catch their heaving breaths, Price lets out a huff.

“Betting on the weird one worked for ya, did it?”

Summer puts two shaky palms to the jungle floor and lowers herself onto her side with a wince.

“You tell me,” She says after a long breath, resting her cheek on her bicep, smearing her arm with the blood of her split chin.

Price laughs again, lying down next to her.

A tightly pressed smile blooms on Summer’s face. Her eyes close, cheeks bunching with a glow that can be seen even under the blood and dirt. Her voice is soft when she speaks to the jungle floor.

“You’re the biggest idiot I know.”

Price hums.

“Well, I can’t help that.”

He touches the pad of his finger to the tip of her nose, a cheeky, goofy grin on his face.

“You’re the one who picked the biggest idiot you know.”

She scoffs, loosely swatting at him, but her hand lingers on his chest, her fingers toying with the slack fabric on the front of his shirt.

“Tell me about it,” She says with a wistful sigh.

You carefully turn your head to get a discreet glimpse of Price on the couch next to you. His elbows are propped up on his knees, leaning forward in his spot. His eyes are relaxed, lost in the rerun. Wearing the outline of a smile that matches Summer’s and the side of his index finger absentmindedly stroking his beard.

Your heart is heavy in your chest and your throat has gone sore and dry, you have to look away from him.

Because you know how this one ends.

When the footage cuts, they show Price and Summer setting up camp in a dilapidated skull the size of a modest room, a snug but cozy fit for two. Whatever animal it came from must have been massive, and had a powerful, flesh-eating jaw. The entrance to their hideout, the mouth of the once creature, is lined with rows of teeth, each tooth the length of Summer’s palm. The skull has been partially overtaken by time and foliage, dirt filthying the yellowish white bone, moss and vines climbing up the holes along the roof of the skull.

Inside the mouth, Summer’s resting on her back on a hand-gathered bed of moss, her elbows bent to cradle her head in her palms. Price is curled up at her side, a sturdy arm slung over her waist, nestled into her shoulder. He snores lightly into her neck as she keeps watch, staring through a hole in the roof of their skull, watching the stars through the leaves of the nearby trees.

Something shakes the jungle, every last tree and leaf on the foliage disturbed as the world rumbles for just a second.

“What’s’it?” Price slurs as he opens his eyes, a deep inhale of morning as he lifts his head to find Summer’s worried face.

It happens again, something shakes the ground beneath them, the both of them jostled for a brief stint.

“The fuck is that?” Summer whispers to him, her brows pinched.

“Don’ know, jus’ woke up,” He mumbles with a slur, voice low with annoyance and sleep.

They flinch and cling to each other when it happens again, their heads swiveling as they try to piece together what’s happening.

“Earthquake?” Summer asks.

Something gives a deafening, screeching roar, booming in the distant forest, ripping a gasp from both of them. Their fingernails are digging into each other, huddled in a ball of tense limbs as they wait for threat.

The thuds turn rhythmic, the entire jungle vibrating with tremendous force.

A shallow breath leaves Price when a tribute screams in the distance.

Both of their mouths are parted, locked onto each other before they peer out of the skull, unable to see beyond the foliage.

The speed increases, the spaced out jostles quickly becoming one continuous rumble. It’s getting closer, intensifying with each beat.

“What do we do?!” Price shouts.

Summer just shakes her head, face slack with fear. The rumbling stops, and the tribute screams pick up in its absence.

The truly harrowing, bone-chilling roar cuts through the jungle again, both Summer and Price jumping from their skin, arms tensing around each other.

A cannon fires.

For minutes the jungle settles, but the two don’t dare break away from each other, holding each other close.

They both flinch when the thuds start up again, one after another, the entire jungle quaking. It’s getting closer, the two have to lower themselves on their hands and knees to keep from being tossed around.

It is a truly terrifying beast, the ultimate predator.

The beast is well over the size of a building, with flesh like a lizard’s. Two powerful, bird-like legs support a body that must be four stories wide, its feet lined with killer claws. A thick neck supports a head the size of a car and two useless arms hang from its front. Half of its body is just a massive tail balancing out the weight of its huge head, thick near its body and thinning out to a point twenty feet away.

When the beast gives a powerful roar, its screeched breath rustles nearby leaves, displaying its powerful jaws far and wide.

Summer blinks, and her gaze flits to the row of teeth at the entrance of their hideout, and she’s coming to the haunting realization that her and Price would be a snug, but cozy fit inside the mouth of the beast. It cross the jungle what must be only fifty yards from Price and Summer, their entire world becoming a nauseating blur.

The two flinch when the extreme force causes the jaws of their hideout to snap shut, trapping them in the skull.

The two watch through the nostril openings until the beast is long lost to the jungle.

“Okay,” Summer draws out a long sigh, closing her eyes, “Hated that.”

“Not a holiday for me, either.”

“Let’s make a deal,” Summer’s fist jams a thumb in the direction of the beast, “We stay far away from that thing.”

“No?” Price asks with a tilt of his head and a raised brow, “I was thinking we put a collar on ‘em and keep ‘em as a pet.”

Summer snorts.

“Fine, but I’m not going to get stuck taking care of it. You have to clean up after it.”

Price’s eyes crinkle when he smiles at her.

“Deal.”

When the feed cuts again, it’s clear a good chunk of time has passed. The hideout is camouflaged, they’ve rigged the skull’s jaw open with a pulley, and the two managed to get their hands on some modest supplies - some rope and knives.

Price and Summer are digging into a nice bounty of fruit and the meat of a jungle creature, cooked over some now extinguished embers. They’re eating in a comfortable silence, resting their backs against the skull with their legs stretched out. It’s clear they’re both exhausted.

Heavy eyelids shoot open when voices in the jungle near.

“I can smell it, it was definitely over here.”

“Well, it’s not anymore. They’re long gone.”

Two careers, slicing their weapons through vines and overgrown plants, hunting for the smoke from Summer and Price’s campfire.

“Lower district rats prol’ly too stupid to clear out.”

Summer’s face twists, a snarl tugging on her lips. Price shakes his head at her, his eyes wide and lips folded in.

“We can look around for a little.”

“Or we can look until we get to spill some rat blood.”

With pointed brows and a growl threatening to leave her, Summer makes a ring with her index finger and her thumb. She goes to place it in her mouth, but Price snatches her wrist and slaps a hand over her mouth, prompting Summer to muffle objections into his palm.

Summer starts swinging at him as she tries to shake away her muzzle, but Price positions himself behind her, pressing her back to his chest and keeping her secure between his legs as she trashes in his hold until the careers move on.

When Price loosens his grip, she shoves him away.

“What is wrong with you?” He hisses, “Are you nuts?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?! How can you just sit by after hearing their bullshit all week?”

“Because I’m not trying to get myself killed!”

“Well then you shouldn’t have volunteered, should ya’ve, Johnny?!”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that one.

The pain wells in his eyes for just a moment before he huffs, pinching his brows and looking away.

Summer grumbles under her breath before crawling out of the skull, getting much needed space from him.

The feed cuts, and it appears as if the two have resolved the fight, or at least have repaired things enough to tolerate being next to each other. They walk silently through the jungle, both of their steps sluggish, but are stopped in their tracks as the world gets brighter. It takes only a few seconds for the entire arena to be engulfed in a blinding white light.

The sound of the impact blares over the speakers loud enough you feel the vibration in your ribcage. It makes you jump. A flinch and a sharp draw of breath that drives Konig to tighten his hold on you.

The ground shakes beneath Price and Summer, tenfold more intense than the beast’s footsteps. It knocks them both to the ground instantly, and they have to scramble to narrowly miss getting crushed by weakened trees, uprooted and crashing to the ground.

A cloud of white dust barrels like a wave in their direction, and even though Price wasted no time to grab Summer’s arm and make a run from it, they are swallowed by a thick cloud of smoke, coughing and hacking as they stumble blindly through the jungle.

Half of the arena has been entirely destroyed, now only a burning, fiery wasteland ringing an enormous crater, a meteor wedged deep into the earth at the center. What remains of the arena is so foggy with debris they can’t see a foot in front of their faces.

The impact killed a handful of tributes instantly, including half the career pack, and wiped out all of the beasts that roamed the land.

The feed cuts again, and your stomach twists when Price licks his lips and looks to the floor.

You know what that means.

You follow his gaze for a moment, trying to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

The meteor strike has driven what remains of the tributes together, the pool slimmed. The dust has mostly cleared the arena, now only a slight fog weaving through the foliage.

Where the jungle breaks into the cornucopia, Price and Summer lock eyes with what remains of the career pack.

Summer’s fists clench at her sides and Price’s hand immediately shoots to Summer’s shoulder.

The careers don’t even lunge for them.

They stand in front of the cornucopia, arms crossed over their chests and smug grins on their faces.

Price gives Summer a tug, guiding her to turn and run, but her feet stay planted firmly on the dirt.

“Trouble,” Price hisses, “Let’s go.”

“C’mon rat!” One of the careers calls from across the field, his arms uncrossing and held out at his sides, inviting them to a fight.

Summer’s knuckles have gone white around the handle of her blade, shallow breaths leave her parted lips. She’s caught in a trance as she stares down the careers.

“Summer! Let’s go!” He says sternly, giving a harsh tug on her arm and taking a step to backtrack into the forest.

“You all talk?!” One of the careers calls, “Put your bread where your mouth is, Rat!”

Summer jaw clenches before she rips from Price’s grip, breaking into a sprint towards the careers.

“Summer, no!”

Price runs after her, but stops in his tracks when Summer’s ankle snags against something.

It happens so fast.

A nearly invisible tripwire hidden within the fern-like plants sends an axe into the side of her stomach in an instant. For a moment she is paralyzed, only a slight sway on her feet before she turns to face Price.

It takes a moment for Price to understand what just happened, in stunned disbelief as his hands find his head.

“No!” Price cries when his thoughts catch up, “No, no!”

His boots take off, slamming against the dirt and tearing through the ferns as he runs for her.

“Summer! Summer!”

A heavy wall of tears rims his eyeline, a shake in his hands as he locks on to her wide eyes. Summer collapses face first into the foliage, and when Price catches up he forcefully flips her onto her front.

Summer groans as Price’s panicked eyes dart over the wound, muttering to himself while the blood oozes generously around the blade of the axe.

“You’re going to be okay!” He says, but he convinces absolutely no one, then and now.

“‘S make a deal, okay?” Summer grits, her words chopped with each twitch of her body, “You win this thing-”

Summer coughs, blood splattering on her lips and chin.

“And I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

He nods, tears slipping down his face.

Price’s voice is just a choked breath.

“Deal.”

She closes her eyes and hums.

“Love you, Johnny.”

“Love you, Summertime.”

“Go,” She says hoarsely, “Make sure you didn’t do it for nuthin’.”

Price nods, his brows pinching. He looks up to the careers, both of them making the dash across the clearing to finish Price off.

He looks back to Summer, his face falling and swelled with worry.

Her eyes roll ever so slightly, her words wet and gurgled through her blood.

“Go, idiot.”

Price nods with a swallow and rises to his feet, breaking into a run further into the jungle as soon as he musters up the courage to take his eyes off her. He doesn’t look back, his boots slamming against the jungle floor with each step, the leaves of the flora wavering in his wake.

Tears streak his face, his lips parted to push out sharp breaths, but otherwise his face is expressionless, stone-cold. He only breaks for a moment when the cannon fires, a wince that creases his eyes, but his boots don’t slow.

The careers are closing in on him, and you find your nails are digging into Konig’s thigh, threatening to tear a chunk of fabric from his dress pants.

Price must have run miles without slowing before he sidesteps the familiar pool of quicksand and returns to his previous trajectory. One of the careers gets sucked right into his trap, his body is thrown when his boot gets caught in the pit, planting his palms right into the quicksand.

By time the other career catches up, the sand has swallowed the boy to his wrists and ankles. He’s tugging futilely against its hold on him, only burying himself further into the sand’s clutches. The other career ignores him entirely, doesn’t even look in the direction of the desperate pleas for help.

When Price finds his and Summer’s hideout, he makes a beeline for it.

Both your teeth and fists are clenched, resisting the urge to scold Price for cornering himself by crawling into the skull.

Price turns on his feet, hunched over to fit as he steps to the back of the hideout, his knife primed above his head.

“Let’s go, Rat!” The career calls before lowering himself to follow Price into the hideout.

Price swings his knife, but not at the career, no.

As the career is halfway into the mouth of the skull, Price slices clean through the rope of the pulley. The skull’s powerful jaw clamps shut with tremendous force, massive teeth piercing through the career’s torso with a snap, pinning him in the mouth of the once beast.

The career sputters his breath, eyes blown and blood shooting from his mouth at once. His hands instinctively press the back of the beast’s teeth to pointlessly try to work himself free.

Price carefully nears as the boy struggles, keeping eye contact with him. Price’s face is eerily even as he squats down in the bed of moss soaking up the blood that drains down the massive, bone white teeth.

He raises his knife to his own forearm, and slices clean through his skin without so much as wincing.

Price inspects the wound with furrowed brows for a moment before he slowly extends his forearm to the boy, droplets of Price’s blood streaking from the cut and down his arm.

“You see that?” He says, his voice low and dangerous.

Price huffs.

“Looks like you bleed the same colors as the rats.”

The boy can’t respond, too busy choking on his blood, but what life remains in his eyes sparks with rage, his brows creasing ever so slightly as he glares at Price.

Price’s eyes narrow into a deep squint.

“You tell Summer who sent you.”

Price’s knife pierces through the career’s windpipe without warning.

You flinch in your seat, eyes pinching shut to rid the sight of Sapphire being skewered at your hand, your nails nearly drawing blood from the flesh of your knee as you try to shake the reverb of the staff in your grip and silence the sound of her choking on her own blood.

“Wow,” Caesar starts, “Let’s give John a hand, huh?”

The audience complies, but it’s muffled by the sound of your own shallow breaths in your ears. Behind the cover of your eyelids, your irises dart furiously.

So much new information you’re learning about your fellow victors today, and not at all the proper space to digest it.

Your nausea is making a reappearance and your heels scrape across the stage in a futile attempt to expel the heat bubbling from your pores.

“It must be really special to you, that after all this time, you managed to pull off getting these two star-crossed lovers out together.”

Price gives a curt nod.

“That’s right,” He says evenly.

Your hand crosses over your bicep, and your lower lips catches between your teeth. That sickening guilt is coiling in your intestines again, the heavy weight that’s impossible to ignore.

What makes you worthy of getting out of the arena, when Summer couldn’t?

Why do you and Konig get to have each other at your sides - when Price didn’t get the same?

You don’t feel deserving of it.

Not just in comparison to Price - but even in relation to your games.

Why do you get to sit here on this stage, alive and unharmed, while there are twenty-two other tributes - many of them much more deserving of the victor title - who’ve long since been packed up in wooden boxes and shipped back to their districts?

Because you are alive today, someone else is dead.

And it’s only worse that a selfish little brat like you got gifted something that an honorable man like Price couldn’t have.

Guilt.

“Tell us,” Caesar says to you and Konig, “Have you seen this footage before?”

You swallow hard enough you can feel it tug on your ears. You can’t bring yourself to speak, or even open your eyes, so you just shake your head.

“And how do you feel after seeing John’s win for the first time?”

You shake your head again, and when you speak, your words are choked and barely audible.

“Not good.”

Price gives you a squeeze on the shoulder before rubbing it out. You think he’s trying to tell you it’s okay, that you shouldn’t feel bad, but it does nothing to relieve the sickening guilt swelling in your gut and swallowing you whole.

Caesar receives little cooperation from Konig.

“Well, John, I have to say, your tributes weren’t the only ones stirring excitement in the arena.”

Price scoffs, a smile tugging on his lips.

”We have some never-before seen footage I can’t wait to share with you all! Let’s take a look, shall we?”

The mentor’s suite is just a sterile white, curved room, lined with screens and chairs. One large screen shows the audience’s perspective, and each mentor’s seat has multiple screens to keep an eye on their own tributes at all times.

You’d think Price bet the farm on you and Konig.

Price is consistently the loudest of all the mentors. It’s easy to see from one look that everyone else is annoyed with him.

Ruby isn’t nearly as loud, but she’s just as obnoxious, looking over Price’s shoulder and squealing every word.

Oh, how you have missed that shrill Capitol accent.

They only show the particularly interesting moments.

When you escaped the snare, Price threw his chair across the room, making everyone in the room flinch.

“That’s my fucking girl!”

“Well, she has always been stubborn!” Ruby chimes.

It actually makes you blow an amused huff of air out of your nose, a grin creeping on your lips.

And of course, they show Price pulling Ruby into an excited kiss when you escaped Titan. She turns bright red and grunts when he lets go of her, smoothing out her shirt.

”Well, I never!”

The audience loves it, a hearty applause for Price’s antics.

Caesar asks Price a few more questions, but you do your best to tune them out, taking your opportunity to shut off your brain for a minute as you bury yourself into Konig’s chest.

When Caesar prompts Price off the stage, he practically strongholds you into standing with him, Konig in turn following.

He pulls you in for a hug and digs his nails into your back hard enough you hiss into his ear. He doesn’t let you wriggle away, holding you for a few more sharp seconds before he finally lets you free, ignoring your face pinched in defense.

His jaw clenches, and the message his eyes are drilling into you is clear.

Be. Good.

The look, the first implementation of physical correction - it’s enough to dry out your mouth and clench your muscles. An ominous feeling pools from your center and infects your limbs, ultimately putting a shake in your fingers and a wobble in your knees.

There it is, that feeling again. The unpinnable, chest-wrenching, breath-stealing feeling.

Something is wrong.

How badly did you fuck up? What specifically was he correcting?

Konig doesn’t get the same treatment. Price plasters his crowd-worthy grin on his face and pulls Konig into a short side-hug, giving him two gentle but firm pats on the back before he struts off, waving at the crowd.

With stitched brows you follow him with your gaze as Price walks off stage, carefully taking your seat once he’s out of sight. Your fingers fidget at your side as you try to heed off the urge to throw up all over the glittery stage.

Caesar hypes up the crowd for the finale before digging into the highlights.

You’re not looking forward to this part.

The oasis does not grant Konig refuge from the dust storm, a light breeze turning to a gusting wind that turns to a full on twister of sand.

They cut to the boy from four, still lying on the sand exactly where Konig left him, skin fried from the desert sun.

Konig paralyzed him.

And judging by the way Konig’s eyes widen and his lips part, he had no idea. He looks to his hands, horrified.

The dust storm steadily suffocates Four, his weak cries more muffled with each passing second before his cannon fires.

Konig’s horrified expression lingers the entirety of the arena being destroyed.

You give him a squeeze that he doesn’t return, motionless when you rest your cheek on his shoulder.

They feature the boy from six and the boy from seven, the boys who ran into the snow quadrant at the bloodbath. They took refuge in the center of the snow quadrant, in the large, complex system of caves. They were out hunting for food before the avalanche chased them out of the woods and swallowed them whole.

Even though you only knew of them as ‘The boys who ran into the snow quadrant’ - there’s some level of unpinnable familiarity there that makes your heart sink. Maybe because you witnessed their death happen in person, or maybe because you got too close of a look at them at the bloodbath, or maybe it was that moment where the boy from seven was smiling in his chariot with his district companion. You don’t know. This interview is so exhausting, and has left you with more than enough emotional homework you care to handle, and you’re still not finished yet.

You still have to relive Sapphire’s death, you still have to watch Konig beat Titan into a bloody pulp, and you still have to see Konig die.

What you wouldn’t give for a breather.

For five minutes with Konig in private.

You just want to be done, done with this interview, done with The Capitol, done with the Hunger Games.

But you won’t ever be, will you? Every year they’ll drag you and Konig back with Price, forced to mentor a pair of kids destined to die, and you won’t be able to keep your distance. Every year they will break your heart, and every year they’ll broadcast your romance far and wide, both in recaps and in new footage.

They start with Sapphire.

As soon as her cry blares over the speakers, your eyes are screwed shut.

Konig’s nearly squeezing the life from you, surely watching Sapphire close in as you bleed generously from your hedge-inflicted wounds.

“He killed him! He killed him!”

Konig’s grip on you loosens as soon as he realizes it.

Realizes that you took the brunt of her vengeance against him for killing her district companion. A boy she surely trained with for years, preparing for this moment.

You give his arm a squeeze. Konig doesn’t know it, but that same vengeance is what saved you.

The exhaustion from mourning her companion made Sapphire’s spear toss sloppy, her hatred for Konig left her defenses wide open, and her spite drove her own spear square into her abdomen.

How many times does a boy have to save a girl’s life before she gets the fucking picture?

Konig is so skilled at protecting you - he managed to pull it off without even being by your side - all while you fought with everything you had to die.

It feels as if these games have revolved around you and Konig since the beginning. Tethered together by a rope that stretched across the arena, ensnaring any tributes that neared in its indestructible, suffocating web.

You can’t help but wonder - if you had never been, if you were never a soul on this earth, what would the outcome have been?

Who would have had a fair chance if you and Konig had not been unintentional allies, if it weren’t for you two being an unstoppable force that pulled tributes under without even trying?

How many deaths fall back on you, simply for breathing, for existing?

Konig’s grip has turned crushing since Sapphire whipped her spear in your direction, and it almost grounds you as you’re suffocated by the replay of her froths.

The squelch of Sapphire’s eye and her haunting wail makes you gag, bile sloshing up the back of your throat and bringing tears to your eyes.

Konig’s clutch on you is so tight he’s shaking. As you and Sapphire attack simultaneously, he sucks in a sharp breath, flinching in his seat. He almost takes your hand with him to find his head, but corrects himself and rests your intertwined hands where your thighs meld together.

Your eyes are closed, but you can see her - on her knees, ripping out her own eye, the tear of her shredded optic nerve. You can feel it - the spear jamming into your stomach, the weight of Sapphire’s body scraping the spear against your flayed hands, the ground jostling you about as her limp body bounces lifelessly on the ground.

“What a moment, what a moment!” Caesar chimes once the footage pauses, a chorus of claps echoing throughout the theatre.

“Wow, I have to say, it’s not every games we get to see a tribute drive another to end their own life,” Caesar’s lips pull to the side, and he speaks in a lowered, cheeky tone, “And I hate to spoil it for you folks, but that won’t be the last time it happens.”

As the audience laughs, your face pinches, crushing Konig’s hand in yours. Your lips part to run your mouth - but you stop yourself, forcing out a deep breath.

Be. Good.

So instead your lips press into a tightly pursed smile, your neck jerking to the side.

Konig finds you, those icy blue eyes just as annoyed as yours.

He lifts your locked hands with a gentle shake and a squeeze.

“And here I thought I was being original,” He mutters with a slight roll of his eyes.

For a moment your brows tighten, and then you scoff, finding yourself actually smiling during this grueling, painful interview.

“Eh,” You shrug, “She may have gotten there first, but you perfected it.”

His chest puffs out with an amused huff, his fingers raising to rub out his temple. He shakes his head and looks at you, and you share a weak, but genuine smile.

It doesn’t last long.

Konig’s next.

Really, you should have connected the dots considering you saw the two dead tributes at the other end of the maze, but it hadn’t crossed your mind to think of the fights that were taking place as you fought Sapphire.

His assigned opponent is the girl from two, Sage as Sapphire called her.

Sage wastes no time once the ground settles, in a run straight for him. Konig’s not fazed by her speed. He roughly tosses his pack to the side, and stands tall with Four’s blade primed.

There’s little to see of his expression under his hood, but his eyes are fearless, slightly narrowed as he waits for her approach.

Sage wields a sword of her own, and once Konig is in motion, it’s impossible to look away. The footage isn’t altered, but it feels as if time has slowed for them. You catch every movement, the way Konig’s leg dips and his arm straightens behind him, winding up to deflect her hit with the perfect clinks of metal on metal. They way her feet shuffle in perfect positioning, alternating between offensive and defensive maneuvers.

It’s violent, aggressive, - but also graceful.

Their fight is a mesmerizing dance. They meet in the middle like it has been rehearsed, perfect timing of the commanding clashes to form a grated song of their swords embracing.

Sage’s face is pinched in determination and focus, grunts behind her grit teeth with each swing.

They exchange no words.

It’s a transaction, professional. The two are there to complete their task and nothing more.

Their swords clash between their chests and hold there, hands trembling as they push against the other. Their eyes are locked and crinkled in focus.

Konig closes in and gives a forceful shove, sending her tumbling back onto the grass.

When she’s on her elbows, her legs bending in a scramble, the very end of Konig’s blade finds her neck, resting an inch under her chin. He looms over her in all his glory, blocking out the sun and casting his shadow over her.

Sage stills at once, her lips twitching as she looks up at him. It’s not quite anger in her eyes, more frustration at herself. Bested even with her training.

She doesn’t beg. She holds his taut stare, and waits. Accepting her defeat in good sportsmanship.

Konig’s sword lingers for a few moments before it slowly retreats, pulling away from her neck.

Sage breaks the stare to follow Konig’s sword until it’s back at his side.

“Up, Girl.”

Her chest heaves with her shallow breaths, irises shifting back and forth as she flits between both of his unreadable eyes.

There’s a pause, lingering their stares on each other before she comes to a slow stand.

Konig takes a few steps back, his sword relaxed at his side. For a moment she eyes him in unease, but he waits patiently. She fixes her shirt, tugging down the hem that bunched up when she fell, and tilts her head to the side to pop a joint in her neck. A long exhale leaves her, she rolls her shoulders, and repositions her feet.

Her face pinches in determination, and they begin round two.

They’re not holding back. Sage is back in the game, catching every swing. She almost gets him, twisting her wrist with a jerk of her arm to leave his core undefended, but he saves it with a quick deflect by putting the sword vertically just in front of his middle. She would have cut him when she forced her sword further into his, but the supplies in his vest spares him from being nicked with his own sword.

Sage retreats her blade and risks opening herself up while Konig’s busy winding regaining his grip on his swords. She returns with all her might, a grunt that borders on a shout leaving her. Konig blocks her from the inside and pushes outwards, and for a moment she loses balance, stumbling at Konig’s side. His upper half quickly leans back as he swivels to keep face to face with her, a few steps back to keep his distance.

He flinches when she cries out. Sage learns the hard way about the hedge’s blades, slicing deep gashes on the undersides of her forearms and through the meat of her palms.

Konig’s eyes widen as he tries to figure out what just happened, taking a few uneasy steps back as she collects herself.

Sage shakes out her arm, flicking blood in all directions. She winces, but it does little to stop her from wrapping her palms around the handle of her sword and finishing their fight.

They sidestep each other for a moment, swords at the ready.

Sage advances quickly and with little warning, frustration laced into her flurry of offensive strikes. Her blade is just a blur, each collision announced with the clash of steel and a splatter of her blood. Konig follows her lead, blocking each strike, both of them slipping right back into their perfected routine. She’s clearly got the upper hand when it comes to skill, her sword techniques much more advanced. But Konig’s holding his ground even with his base level understanding.

Sapphire’s cannon fires, and the girl from two loses her rhythm when she flinches and whips her head to the side.

That’s all Konig needs. He gives a forceful shove to the blades, knocking her off balance. He has no problem dismounting her sword. She’s back on the ground again, unarmed and dwarfed under Konig’s full stature.

She doesn’t scramble for her sword or to a stand, calmly propping up on her elbows and watching as Konig leisurely returns the sword to her neck.

They lock eyes again, her chest rising and falling with her heavy breaths as they stare at each other.

Sage licks her lips and nods.

“Do me a favor,” She says through shallow breath.

She looks to the blade, and then back to him.

“Make sure that loon doesn’t win.”

Konig pauses, his eyes relaxing.

“Okay,” He says.

She gives him a faint nod, and Konig takes a long, deep breath, closing his eyes on the exhale. With one motion he pierces the sword into her neck until it imbeds through the ground beneath her.

As the audience claps for Konig, your eyes are pinched shut, trying to free your hands of Sapphire’s spear.

When you do look to him, your brows pinched and gnawing on your lower lip, he doesn’t meet your stare. His eyes point low and to the side, a solemn look weighing down his pale features.

“Wow,” Caesar starts as the audience settles, “Konig, I have to say, that was a truly thrilling fight.”

You have to agree with Caesar on that one. Your heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your ribcage, and you wouldn’t be surprised if your lips have turned blue from holding your breath.

“I have to ask, what were your motivations in granting Sage a second chance?”

You’d like to know the answer to that one, too.

Konig is silent and still, sunken eyes taking their time to find Caesar. He swallows hard enough you can see it, and he gives an unsteady, slow shrug. This one’s different, it’s not disrespectful. Defeated and sluggish, you can tell he genuinely cannot find the words.

They’re used to careers sitting on this couch, wearing proud with each replay of their kills, cheering along with the crowd.

If The Capitol wanted meaningful commentary from you both, they should have given you more time to think on everything, because right now it is so painful. You feel like you’ve been sliced from chest to core, your guts spilling all over the glittery stage, and Caesar might as well be squishing your intestines under his dress shoes with every question he asks.

Caesar sees he’s not going to get the answers the country is desperate for, and moves on.

Titan’s turn.

His fight is much less fair.

He’s up against a male tribute who’s clearly out of his depth, unarmed and no match for Titan.

If you had to guess, his strategy for the games was the same as yours. To evade until he had no choice, and he’s realizing that this is his reckoning.

A prey trapped with its predator, the instinctual fear of an animal taking control as he tries to put as much space between him and Titan as possible.

Titan’s maniacal cackle as he watches the boy tremble and flee sends a shiver down your spine. He stands so casually, laughing at him as if the boy wasn’t rightfully treating Titan like the killer he is.

It’s a jarring contrast, they’re not even playing the same game.

For Titan, it’s like a game of tag. Toying with the boy as he chases him around their pen, teasing calls in a sing-song tune, smiling and laughing all the while. He purposely slows up a few times to drag the fun out a little longer.

It’s so unnerving, an unsettling twist in your lower core that begs for attention.

Titan.

If you never see those teeth again, if you never hear that laugh again - it’ll be too soon.

It’s clear that both you and Konig have checked out. Shut down on yourselves, staring blankly at the stage and trying your hardest not to retain any of it. Your limp body leans into him, lulling your head on his bicep.

He gives you a weak squeeze on your locked, sweaty hands, but is otherwise motionless at your side.

The Capitol forcing you to falsely grieve his death has worn yourself down emotionally before you even stepped onto this stage, and every highlight chips away at what little of you remains.

You find your mind wandering to that night before the games. Longing for a soft bed and Konig’s chest as a pillow, leeching his cozy warmth, his heartbeat a lullaby to ease you into a much needed break from consciousness.

Your eyes are still closed when Titan finishes the excruciatingly drawn-out hunt, but you can hear it.

Titan chose to break his neck.

Every muscle in you and Konig’s bodies have clenched with such speed and intensity it’s painful. You lurch forward involuntarily, folding your core in preparation to keep from throwing up over yourself.

Titan’s cackle is the accompanying song to the vivid image of Eleven’s limp bounce off the platform, his lifeless eyes a searing, white hot flash behind your eyelids.

You shake your head to try and rid the visual, taking deep breaths in a futile effort to settle your boiling stomach.

You can’t take much more of this. The only thing keeping you on this couch is Price’s fingernails sinking into your back.

It was a warning.

A warning without explanation of consequence or instruction on how to proceed. A blaring alarm, not sure if you’re dealing with a tornado or a wildfire, unsure if you’re meant to hunker down or evacuate.

All you have to work with is - Be. Good.

You barely manage to stay on the couch, squirming and shaking into Konig’s side.

Once Caesar is done analyzing the footage of Titan and his victim, the rest of the hedge walls descend, and it’s on to the three-way standoff.

You have to open your eyes to watch, because other than Konig’s hand nearly crushing the bones in your hand to dust - the glittery stage, Caesar Flickerman, and this godforsaken audience is the only thing reminding you that you’re not in the arena.

The wide aerial shot they use makes the six of you look like insects as Titan and Konig close in.

They pause on you, coated and dripping in blood, brows pinched and eyes pointed, Sapphire’s colorful spear trained at Konig’s chest.

The image makes your face warp, knotting your insides with shame and guilt. You look like a heartless killer, aiming your spear at the boy who loves you so much he sacrificed himself for you.

“Konig, I have to say, it must have been tough watching a friend, your crush, displaying such apparent distrust.”

Caesar’s words are like a knife to the chest. Slicing deep and exposing your heart to the entire country.

And you would know.

Konig swallows, his eyes flitting to his fidgeting dress shoes. He gives a grave nod that twists the knife sticking out of your chest.

“My dear,” Caesar says, “What was going on in your head at this moment?”

It takes you a few moments to coax the words from your dry, raw throat.

“I-”

You take a deep breath, smoothing out your dress skirt. You sound like a child when you speak.

“Nothing. Nothing was going through my head. I was just scared.”

Caesar nods.

“Scared of a friend?”

He might as well have taken the knife from your heart and plunged it right back in.

You swallow, your words consisting of only breath.

“Yeah.”

“And why’s that?”

For fucks sake, Caesar.

Be. Good.

“Because it was the end,” You croak, the audience hanging onto every word.

“I think we understand dear,” Caesar says, “Afterall, you’re not a mind reader.”

You give a shaky nod, and Caesar finally gives it a rest.

Titan’s taunts blaring over the speakers are unable to be ignored.

Titan.

That sardonic laugh, that mocking voice, those killer teeth.

It’s somehow worse the second time.

Your skewered heart is racing, your entire body pulsing in rhythm and blurring your vision with each beat.

At your side, Konig’s jaw is clicking as he grinds his teeth, his hand shaking in your hold.

Sapphire’s ribs snapping under Titan’s boot fold your body in a cringe, Eleven’s lifeless eyes stealing your breath.

When Titan’s gotten his hands on you, Konig lets go of your hand and slings his arms around your waist instead, possessively tugging you flush against him, quick and just forceful enough to pull a gasp from you. As Konig gives your hand a break to squeeze your side instead, your stare follows your touch as you rub out the ache in your palm.

You can feel the vibration of Titan’s chest against your back, his breath in your ear, his massive arm snaked around your neck.

Next to you, Konig’s leg is bouncing furiously, a hand lost in his hair in a useless attempt to placate his rage.

You give his leg a gentle squeeze, trying to get him to look at you, to remind him that you’re right here, that it’s okay. He doesn’t meet your gaze, staring daggers at Titan through the screen as he coos and purrs and growls and yells and taunts.

Every insufferable moment of this standoff is a grating ringing in your ears. Listening to yourself yell at Konig in a demand to kill you is making you feel dumb, Titan’s voice rips a shudder from you with every sentence, and Konig’s rage is a burning heat on your skin.

The worst is yet to come, of course. The encore of Konig beating Titan to a bloody pulp.

Konig’s arm turns to lead over your shoulders, working against each flinch you make. He’s entirely still at your side as you shake in his hold, pinching your eyes shut but not at all able to rid the visual of Titan's smashed face and the waterfall of blood behind him, his lifeless body collapsing to the grass and razor sharp blades shredding his flesh.

As you beg and plead with Konig for your life, you’re both deathly still on the couch, only the rise and fall of your chest to heave breaths towards your lap.

You can’t bring yourself to sit up or to open your eyes. The sound of your own voice, pleading for your life with the boy who killed himself for you, it’s making you sink in on yourself.

To your relief, they skip your breakdown. You find it strange they also skip Konig tending to your wounds and his detail of that day in District Nine.

They do show a few bits of conversation from your picnic, but most of it is cut. They leave out the trip to the oasis entirely.

At first, it’s a relief. The more they skip the quicker this interview is over with, and to be honest, you weren’t crazy about the idea of all of Panem watching you and Konig having careless fun in your underwear. You’re especially thankful that Konig won’t be finding out about the lingering stares anytime soon.

There’s something about it that’s not sitting right with you, though. Yours and Konig’s romance was the star of this year’s games, and it seems odd they’re cutting out the particularly lighthearted, but intimate moments.

The audience does get a chance to gush over Konig carrying you through the desert, and laugh over you asking Konig about having a crush back home, but again, they skip most of yours and Konig’s conversations.

And there it is again. The dread that sloshes around your core, lapping up your insides, a dark cloud drifting into your thoughts but entirely unidentifiable.

Something is wrong.

Konig rests his cheek on the crowd of your head, his finger tracing gentle swirls into your sides instead of squeezing. You find yourself melting into him, your finger absentmindedly stroking his silken tie as you let your eyes flutter shut.

“You’ve really never had a boyfriend?”

You’ve seen this one already.

Might as well try and sneak in a break, here in his chest.

Konig’s hand finds your hair, running his fingers through your Capitol-Standard silken locks, sending electric tingles up your scalp. He manages to draw a soft, content hum from you.

It’s like the eye of the storm, a moment of calm before you’re thrown right back into the hurricane.

Caesar leaves you both alone. He doesn’t need to ask you how you feel, or what was going through your mind, because the versions of you and Konig on screen are doing the work for you.

Caesar does occasionally stop the footage to make commentary that would normally make your teeth drive straight through the flesh of your tongue, but you truly can't find it in you to care. The only thing you care about in this moment is the billow of Konig’s ribcage with each breath, the feeling of his chest from beneath his suit, the soothing fingers sliding through your hair.

“I have to say, it’s the first time we’ve ever seen two tributes fight to the death quite like this!”

And yeah, you’d prefer if all of Panem wasn’t watching you be so raw and vulnerable, but you can’t bring yourself to even be embarrassed about your fits and fight.

Aside from the obscenities and insults thrown at Konig, you stand by everything you said, everything you did, and you’d do it again if you have to.

The kissing doesn’t even faze you.

You’d do it again and again and again.

They obviously skip your intimacy.

You expected at the very least some teasing from Caesar, innocuous jokes and cheeky, knowing stares until you and Konig’s cheeks turn warm, but they don’t even mention it.

And unusually, they skip your preparations for death. You do remember making the faintest slight against the Capitol, but they skip all of it. Your plea to die, the exchange of the ribbon, the final hug.

Come on. That’s the height of television to these people. The drama and the tragedy.

You and Konig put on a show. In more ways than one, and it’s hard to stomach why The Capitol didn’t include any of it in the highlights.

And while you’re relieved you don’t have to relive such a painful, bittersweet moment - you know that there is a reason it was not included.

A reason The Capitol did not like.

And it’s starting to sink in that maybe you don’t have the upper hand anymore.

Because with Konig at your side - they finally have the leverage they need. It is no longer you as the sacrificial lamb. If The Capitol is upset with you, they will not use your tongue against you.

They will use his.

Konig’s chest does little to quell this thought.

The sound of a blade slicing flesh, screams and desperate pleas, weak reassurances also does little to help.

And of course, the audience cheers for your double suicide. It doesn’t even surprise you.

What does surprise you, though, is the footage of you in your hospital room.

Immediately your head rips from Konig’s chest, your face falling, scrambling to comb over everything you said in your fits to figure out what could possibly be exposed to all of Panem in moments you thought were private.

They show you attacking Price in the hospital room, which the crowd finds funny, but you scratch behind your ear, not sure how to feel about it. It is kind of funny, considering Konig was alive the entire time, but you find being forced to believe he was dead, the grief that otherwise was not necessary, not so funny.

And they show Konig. Restrained to his hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling, his temples red and raw from the never-ending stream of tears trailing down the side of his face to contribute to the growing stain on his pillow.

He refused to do anything.

Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t listen to the nurses, wouldn’t even speak to Price.

Just stares at the ceiling, unmoving.

When you try to meet his stare, he refuses, his eyes fixated on his lap, sitting low on the couch.

You rest your head back on his chest, your arms creeping around his waist and squeezing tight.

I’m here now.

After a pause, the arm around your waist gives a gentle squeeze back.

You tune out Caesar’s closing commentary, trying to focus on breathing Konig in, the feeling of his firm chest billowing against your ear. His hand creeps behind you, fingertips tracing over the back of your dress in soothing, abstract patterns.

The crowd gives another roaring round of applause before the anthem plays, and out steps The President.

The sight of him, stepping onto the stage with his stark black suit and precise smile, floods you with a wave of dread from head to toe. You don’t even have the sense to hide the intimidation pulling at your features as you and Konig rise from the couch, your sweaty hands interlocking once again.

Behind him stands a Capitol attendant, carrying your crowns onto stage.

Konig actually has to bend at the knee to keep The President from standing on his tiptoes.

The President gives a soft, calculated laugh.

“Thank you, boy.”

With delicate hands he places a thick and ornate golden crown onto Konig’s head before he steps to you.

Inches from you, he wears a perfect smile as he places your crown on your head. His eyes are cruel and piercing, he doesn’t so much as blink. His icy stare lingers long after he’s dawned you with the dainty golden crown.

You swallow once when he finally turns away, looking to your heels, crushing Konig’s hand with your own.

The standing ovation, bowing, and waving goes on for far too long. You’re starting to think Caesar is dragging it out on purpose just to torture you when you finally get the cue to leave the stage.

You don’t even get a moment to take a breath before the prep teams and stylists swallow you both whole, showering you with praise and squeals overlapping each other, you can’t make out a single thing any one of them are saying.

Their group moves in a pack, forcing you and Konig to shuffle forward, locked at the hands to keep the other from getting lost.

Mauve manages to push her way through, grabbing your free hand.

“Just wait until you see the dress for the party!”

“What do you mean?” You ask, looking down at your dress, “I can’t just wear this?”

“Of course not, babe! It’s a ball.”

No much-needed elaboration is received.

Mauve and the woman you saw whispering frantically with her before the interview try to seperate you both to get you ready.

“No!”

As you object, Konig tugs you closer to his side, the hardened hand engulfing yours doubling its grip.

The group goes silent, all of them looking to you.

Mauve and the woman share an uneasy stare and nod.

“Yeah, babe,” Mauve says with a waver in her unusually high-pitched voice, her hand raising to twirl the charm in her necklace between her fingers, “We can- yeah, we can get you both ready together.”

You give a shaky nod, your other arm reaching across your front to grab his tense bicep.

They take you to your fitting room, and you both are once again transformed.

So sparkly.

Tonight’s color is champagne. A weird mixture of a golden beige and rose. Shimmering rays of gold reflect from the glittery dress with the slightest movements. It almost hurts your eyes.

Another sweetheart bust that comes in at your waist, and you already know the way the hem of your dress drags against the ground is going to be annoying. Two straps only as thick as twine reach over each of your shoulder blades to criss-cross in the middle of your back.

And you find your inner biceps will once again be tortured by the rough texture of the glitter.

Konig’s suit is a matching color, but no glitter. The elegant paisley patterns and the lapels of his suit are the slightest bit reflective, the designs appearing to change color depending on how the light hits him.

“You look beautiful,” Konig says.

His voice is soft, his eyebrows the slightest bit pinched.

“You too,” You whisper.

Unsure eyes linger on each other, a sad smile on both of your faces as the prep team gushes over your compliments.

You don’t want to talk about what happened, but it feels wrong to talk about anything else. Every word feels like it is overheard by twenty-two dead tributes, like every sentence must justify a double suicide.

The air between you is more than heavy, awkward even.

Because how do you look at each other and not immediately think of the nightmare you both just woke up from?

The click of her heels announces her presence before that unmistakable voice does.

“Oh! There’s my tributes!”

Ruby pulls you both into a hug at the same time, smushing yours and Konig’s arms together.

“Oh, you did it! You did it!” She squeals, actually jumping up and down in your group hug, her brilliant white smile flashing far and wide, “I am just so proud of you!”

She doesn’t even let either of you get a word in, which usually is annoying, but at the moment a huge relief. Not just because you’re incredibly relieved to see her, but you’re really not up for talking right now. You feel like a lifeless husk, your insides shriveled up and flaked away to dust.

She reaches out to scoop up yours and Konig’s free hands, the three of you now linked in a triangle of hand holding.

“Not one, but two of my tributes! My stars! Oh, I’m sorry dears, I’m sorry I didn’t come see you before. I just wouldn’t have been able to keep the secret! They wouldn’t let us tell you, I’d have had my tongue cut out!”

Ruby rambles on, gushing and singing praises at you and Konig, both of you hardly having the energy to listen to the words being thrown at you.

“Oh,” You say quietly, interrupting her mid-sentence what must be twenty minutes into a monologue, “I forgot.”

You fish into the bust of your dress and retrieve her token, staring at the small trinket in your palm before extending it to her.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” You whisper.

Ruby’s lips fold in, a soft hand resting on her collarbones.

Tears brim in her eyeline as she gently closes your fingers over the token and clasps her hands around yours.

“It’s yours, dear. It’s yours.”

Her words prick the back of your throat, mouth suddenly dry as you try to choke back tears. You go to thank her, but you can’t find your voice. Instead you give her a deep nod, finishing out on an involuntary, choked sob.

“Oh, dear,” She pulls you into her arms, and while you don’t return the embrace, you do bury your cheek into her shoulder, squeezing Konig’s token at your side.

“Thank you,” You whisper, the tears escaping down your cheeks, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says, stroking your upper back, “Of course.”

She gives you a gentle swat on your forearm.

“And don’t you cry young lady! Your makeup hasn’t even had time to dry!’

You let out a nasally laugh, giving a sniff.

”You got it, Ruby,” You mumble.

You give a long sigh as your smile fades, closing your eyes on the exhale. You’re exhausted, mentally and physically. It’s weighing you down, eyelids heavy and each movement slowed.

How badly you want to take a break, to turn off your brain and fall asleep on Konig’s chest in the privacy of your own room, to have even a moment to process the nightmare you just went through.

But now is not the time for respite, privacy, or reflection

Now is the time for a party.

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

Dividers @saradika-graphics

There’s a tense pause as you wait for an explanation. He has nothing, frozen in place with eyes as full as moons.

Your eyes flit down to the knife resting on one of the jacket’s sleeves and the tense pause continues.

You must have had the same thought at the same time, because you both make a lunge for it. You’ve gotten your hand to the handle first, but it doesn’t matter, because Konig’s right behind and more than strong enough to yank it in his direction. He uses the dead weight of his upper half and leans back to support himself solely on the end of the handle. Your body follows in suit, every muscle in your body tensing to keep your clutch on the handle as he pulls you onto his lap. His other hand pries at your trembling, white knuckles, fingers attempting to wedge a gap between your deadly grip and the knife it holds.

You don’t let go - you can’t let go.

“You don’t get to decide this!” You grit in between obscenities, throwing every foul word that comes to mind at him.

He’s got your arms fully extended, heaving sputtered breaths and dawning blown eyes as he claws desperately at your fingers to free it from your grasp.

You suddenly cease your pulling, and with everything you have, grit teeth and a hiss, you launch your body towards him - a technique you picked up from One. Your full weight is thrown right at his vest, knocking him from his lean and back onto the grass, expelling a full breath from him. Every limb scrambles to straddle him at his waist, using your closer proximity to jerk the knife.

“You can’t do it! I won’t let you!” The words tear from the back of your throat while you grapple for the blade, your arms just a blur as you thrash desperately to free it from his powerful hold.

He successfully pries one of your hands off the knife and replaces it with his own. Your hand immediately returns to wrap around his knuckles, but you stop before you can with a better idea. With your now free hand you swing at him, miss, and follow it up by pressing your palm into his face. His eyes pinch shut and he swivels his head to shake from your push with harsh grunts.

You give a stiff yank to the blade, hoping you’ve stunned him, but his hold stays firm even when he bats your hand away. You’ve only managed to pull the knife closer to yourself, forcing his arm and upper half into a stretch as you lean away from him. An unskilled, loose fist swings at his guarded forearms in an attempt to break his grip.

He shoots out to grab your wrist, stopping your blows, and you respond by viciously jerking your entire upper body back to both free yourself from his hold and yank the knife away from him.

Instead of continuing to pull away from him, you aim to catch him off guard with another sudden fling of your body weight square into him. The fist that restrains your wrist comes crashing down, smacking himself in the face with the back of his hand as he’s pushed down and flush with the grass. He finally loses his hold of the blade, and without missing a beat he grabs you by the waist and rolls you off him. He might as well have spit in your face when one hand shoots up to the back of your head, a cushion to prevent you from slamming your head on the dirt. This movement is accompanied by a swing of his leg, pinning you to the ground with powerful thighs on your hips.

You’re pretty useless to do anything about it, no chance of freeing yourself from Konig’s weight on you. You can tell he’s not even using his full strength. You’ve seen him lift weights heavier than you, seen him pick up a boy that was much bigger and much stronger than you, and throw him on the ground with such force he broke his neck. Konig making every effort not to hurt you while you’re fighting him with everything you have ignites a searing heat that boils under the surface of your skin. Your growls are foaming, words engulfed in feral rage.

“You don’t get to have the final say just because you’re bigger than me! Stronger than me!”

Your arms are a blur, one flailing the knife above your head and deflecting his grabbing hands, the other swinging wildly at him. You thrash violently, an accompanying feral grunt with each jerk, spitting out objections and obscenities at him while he carefully times his swipes to avoid cutting himself.

You briefly consider spitefully driving the blade into your chest just to get the last word.

Rationalization returns with a better idea before you can commit, and you give one last whip of your arm. The knife launches over your head, far out of either you or Konig’s reach, just in time for him to restrain your wrists to the grass.

Neither of you are sure of your next move. You pant, swallowing with dry mouths and sharing a stare unlike any other you’ve had. Your brows pinched in rage, teeth bared, nostrils flared. He wears an expression that’s a cocktail of concerned, bewildered, and utterly panicked. Both of you are desperate to out-think the other, but it’s easy to judge by the lack of action that you’ve both drawn blanks.

His wide eyes are frantically flitting over your rage, chest heaving with each of his panting breaths.

“So what?!” You spit at him, ceasing your thrashing and instead projecting your rage at him through a fiery, pointed stare, “You die and I go home? I have to live with the guilt? The memories?! Price’s ‘I told you so?!’”

You’re frothing, animalistic grunts with words stitched into them.

“I have to mentor a pair of kids that I watch die every year?! I have to be haunted by your face every night?!”

At the tail-end of your rant, his eyes pinch closed and all of his muscles tense.

“I have nothing!”

It’s rare for him to raise his voice above a mumble, and he has never, ever yelled at you before.

He notices your wide eyes, the flinch that ends with you freezing. He sucks in a breath, lowering his voice with a stammer before he continues.

“I- I have nothing waiting for me at home. No one cares about me. District Nine doesn’t want me as their victor. I-“

He cuts himself off, and you wait with lowered brows for him to continue.

His eyes pinch shut as the grip on your wrists squeezes you tighter. Not uncomfortably, but enough for you to notice.

“You’re all I have.”

His voice is soft and broken - a plead more than it is a statement.

“I just got you, I can’t go home without you.”

His eyes stay closed, tight shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths as he looms over top of you, blocking out the desert sun and casting a shadow on you.

For a moment your voice is as soft as his.

“So I have to? I have to go home without you?”

Those swollen, hooded blue eyes meet yours again, and he swallows.

He doesn’t have anything to say.

Your brows pinch, the anger creeping back into your voice.

“You’re okay with me living with the aftermath?”

His irises tremble as his gaze switches between either of your eyes.

“I’m okay with you living,” He says gently, a croak in his voice and not a hint of ill will.

For a moment you’re still, your jaw clenching with a nod.

He’s happy to let you deal with the aftermath.

To let you live the rest of your life in District Nine while you’re mentally stuck in this arena.

To let you be haunted by the faces of twenty-three tributes who fell so that you could live.

To let you cry out his name after every nightmare just for your pleas to go unanswered.

Your voice turns raw around the lump forming in your throat, around the tears springing in your eyeline. You begin to thrash again, kicking your legs underneath him as you grunt through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t earn the win and you know it! Everyone knows it! I should have died in that bloodbath - Eleven should have killed me! Titan should have killed me! You should have killed me!”

He keeps his hold on you firm as he frantically searches for the knife. Not with enough force to hurt you, but with just enough to overpower you. This pisses you off even more, so you push up on his hands in rhythmic flails, spitting obscenities at him. He responds by putting a little more weight on you, never enough to cause discomfort or leave evidence of an altercation.

By the look of it the knife has landed somewhere in the fall quadrant, and you can tell he’s deciding if he should make a run for it.

“Don’t you dare,” You order with a tone that carries warning, low and out of breath as you still once more.

It’s an empty threat, because you know that if he took off for the knife he’d make the clearing before you could even stand.

His eyes meet yours again.

You force yourself to be calm, to filter out your rage through the hot air leaving your nose in fear that if you continue to thrash and yell, he will seize his opportunity.

You don’t dare look away, don’t dare give him what little of a lead he might think he needs to make the dash. As if staring into his eyes is the only thing tethering him to you. Like a wild animal, you will remind him that you know of his presence, that he cannot go in for the attack when he thinks you’re vulnerable.

You’re locked onto each other, frozen in this restrained straddle. Glaring at him while he tries to work out his next move.

He’s got nothing, only panicked static for thoughts.

The rise and fall of your chests slow as you both catch your breaths.

Minutes pass, and your brows ease from their pointed position. Your jaw relaxes, and your legs untense as they straighten out in the grass.

Your hostility has fizzled out, and his eyes make a slow transition, each passing moment draining a bit more worry.

As his breaths ease, so do his muscles. He readjusts himself, his legs sliding down in the plush grass so he can rest his forearms as he holds your wrists down. His grip has loosened, no longer concerned about you fighting him, but his hands stay wrapped around you just in case. His face and chest drift closer to you as he relaxes in his position, soft blue eyes studying you in return.

For a moment, though, his face pinches in arrogance, and he takes on a digging and low tone.

“And you don’t think you’re brave.”

“Fuck you,” You say, but it’s clear you don’t mean it.

It comes out breathy, so soft and sweet, as if you’ve just given him a tender compliment. You’re too distracted by features you hadn’t noticed from a distance. You’re lost in colorful, hooded eyes. In jaw stubble and slight creases and freckles that have pulled up in the sun. In painting your memory of his body underneath the canvas of his gear.

Your feelings on the way Konig has always towered over you has seemed to take a shift. No longer do you feel intimidated or feeble in his commanding, superior presence.

You still feel small, but in a good way?

Dainty.

You lift your head from the grass, your eyes trained carefully on his, and his worry returns. That familiar unsure stare that you’ve come to know.

You give him the faintest nod, and he presses his lips to yours so quick you knock your faces together.

Neither of you know what you’re doing.

It shows.

Your noses bump, he misjudges how big his mouth is compared to yours, and you both slobber all over each other.

When a soft laugh slips out of you, he sits up with a start, his hands leaving your wrists with a sheepish, “Sorry.”

You both wipe the spit from your faces with your forearms. He shifts to stand, but your hands shoot down to his outer thighs. You wouldn’t be strong enough to hold him down, but he gives in to your silent plea, planting his knees back into the dirt on either side of you.

“I’ve never done this before,” He reminds you with those unsure eyes.

“Me neither,” you say, through a smile.

His shoulders relax, and he gives a small laugh that’s somehow nervous and relieved at the same time.

“Here,” you say, reaching up to rest your palm on his rough jaw. You guide his face slowly towards yours, staring longingly into those pretty blue eyes on his dissent.

You give him a few closed-mouth kisses.

They’re curious, light, and you can feel the texture of his chapped lips and coarse stubble. It’s not as soft as you thought a kiss with a boy would be.

You begin to part your lips, not yet sticking out your tongue, but kissing him with less reserve.

Your smile returns, eyes fluttering open when your teeth show before you pull away with a start.

“Have you had your eyes open this whole time?!”

He sits up again with a start, his hand pulling to his chest, “I- yeah?”

“That’s weird! Don’t do that,” You say through a laugh.

He smiles back at you, his hand coming up to brush a strand of your hair that was displaced by the tussle, “But I want to look at you.”

You give him what’s supposed to be an annoyed roll of your eyes, but your stupid grin and bunched cheeks are betraying you.

“C’mere,” You say, slipping two fingers in his vest and tugging on his gear.

He leans down and positions himself in front of your face. You start again with a few light pecks before you carefully open your mouth, tilting your head to the side. You flick your tongue out for just a second before it’s met with his. He’s eager at first, slipping into your mouth too fast, but he catches himself, slowing down to follow your pace. One hand supports himself in the dirt, the other cupping the side of your face.

You break for just a moment, leaving only inches between you.

“I’ve waited so long to do that,” He whispers through heavy breath.

“How long?” You ask, eyeing his flushed lips before returning his stare.

“Ich-” He looks away, “When you-“

Your brow quirks at his hesitance.

“Since you stood up for me,” he gets out at an embarrassed mumble, turning a shade pinker than he already was.

You nod slow. You don’t say anything, don’t bother feeling stupid for not noticing the obvious, and you tug him closer by his vest.

You plant a long, slow kiss on his lips, your other hand finding the back of his neck to hold him close, fingers threading in his hair as you hum against each other. His head gently rocks back and forth as he deepens the kiss, hungrily tasting you. He tastes like citrus, the orange you shared earlier still lingering on your tongues.

You can feel him on your waist.

It’s strange, how boys work.

How suddenly there is something where normally there is nothing.

It’s impossible to ignore, and you find yourself curiously pressing your hips into it.

He can tell you’ve noticed, and he springs up again so he’s no longer pressing against you. His hands move in front of him, fingers fidgeting and face flushed with embarrassment.

You give a small, reassuring laugh, “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about all of Panem watching?”

Of course they wouldn’t actually display the deed. Brutal slaughter? No problem. Sexual content? Absolutely not.

They’ll cut away. The announcers will make several innocuous jokes to ease the awkward-ness of it all. They’ll replay and analyze either the finale showdown or the intimate words shared at your picnic.

You do refrain from reminding him that at least one gamemaker is going to have to watch to know once you’re decent.

Konig makes a noise that’s a mixture of a scoff and a needy groan, and you can tell by the look on his face you’ve won him over.

“How am I supposed to say no to that face?”

A sly grin creeps on that very same face, “You don’t.”

You kiss again, bumping foreheads before your lips meet, smacking obnoxiously as you taste each other. This is another sloppy, fervorous, wet kiss - but it feels right. His stubble sands against you as his tongue intertwines with yours. The speed quickens, and your hands claw at the front of his gear as you desperately pull him closer.

He presses against you as far as the vest allows, legs straightening to meet you. His free hand finds your hair, pressing it to the side of your head as his thumb strokes the soft flesh of your cheek.

You don’t notice that you’ve been steadily grinding into him throughout the kiss until you pull away, desperate for air.

“Take it off, take it off,” Your voice is more huff than words, but the urgency of them translate with the pulling at his vest.

He’s fumbles for it, unclipping the strap before shedding the vest like it was on fire. His fingers claw for his shirt before he remembers the pads pinning his sleeves to his forearms. He blindly swipes at the straps, eyes glued on your needy eyes and parted lips, watching your back arch off the ground to make steady grinds against him. He swipes at his pads a few times before he takes them off with a swift jerk and the harsh rip of velcro. He doesn’t take care in tossing them, already scrambling to rip his shirt off.

Your hands move from his outer thighs to the hem of your shirt, lifting yourself up so you can free yourself from the cling of fabric, disrupting your hair as you do so.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to his uncovered chest, memorizing each dip in his sculpted torso. Your hands reach out to touch, to press his chest to yours without the barrier of the clunky vest, but you pull away at the last moment.

“No, wait,” He says as he stands, grabbing his jacket, “Here.”

A light hand on your shoulder guides you up from the grass. When you sit up, you watch over your shoulder as Konig delicately spreads out his jacket, smoothing it over it before you lay down on its outstretched fabric.

When he moves to get on top of you, he puts his legs in between yours instead of in a straddle. His hands climb up the grass, and once he’s hovering over you again, he stops to scan all the new skin revealed to him. Following the curves of your shoulders, upper arms. Down your collarbones and lingering on your clothed chest. One hand moves to touch your waist, but he stops himself, planting his hand back on the grass as he thoroughly examines you.

He’s not exactly discreet about his awe, slack-jawed and eyes wide as he drools over you.

A sense of sly confidence wafts over you as you leave him mesmerized with your body, but you’d be lying if you’d said you weren’t guilty of doing the exact same thing. Admiring defined muscles yet too afraid to touch them. It was as if you were both masterwork statutes guarded by velvet rope - to be looked at from afar but never touched by unworthy hands.

He lets out a breathy laugh at himself, closes his mouth, and leans until he’s face to face with you, pressing his lips to yours at his return.

While you kiss, your hands hesitantly find broad, strong shoulders. A light touch with the pads of your fingers followed by the flat of your hand conforming to him. He’s warm and smooth to the touch, his muscles tight and tensed.

Your fingers slide down to his collar bones, palms flush with his chest. You want him closer, though, and your hands snake back around to his shoulder blades, guiding him with a suggestive nudge. He does, happily pressing his skin flush with yours, only separated by the thin fabric of your sports bra. Your other hand finds the crook of his neck and shoulder, feeling the tendons move underneath his skin as he tilts his head for the kiss.

“You’re beautiful,” He whispers on an exhale, pulling away to catch his breath while he further examines you, “I really like kissing you.”

“I really like kissing you, too.”

“You’re so soft,” He says, and then his eyes widen, “Your skin, I mean, äh, your lips.”

His face warps, and you can tell he knows he’s fumbling it.

You laugh at him, one that comes from deep in your chest and blossoms with a silky warmth.

“Sorry,” He says, rubbing the back of his neck, the crook of his elbow pressed to his chest.

“C’mere.”

His eyes linger on you before he leans down again, planting a peck on your lips. He pulls away, just a bit, and brushes his lips against your cheek. His kisses are so gentle, as if the very weight of them would cause you to crumble to dust at the slightest provocation.

“Can I?” He asks softly, brushing your hair away from your neck and tucking it behind your ear.

You give him a hum in approval, and he begins to pepper kisses along your jawline, working his way down to your neck, where you tilt your head to give him room to nestle. It feels different than the lip or cheek kisses. His lips and stubble tickles the sensitive skin of your neck and his warm breath rolling along your flesh raises goosebumps and elicits a shudder.

He quickly pulls himself off you at the slight movement that may suggest discomfort.

“No, no. It felt good,” You reassure him with a squeeze, “Just tickles.”

He relaxes with a nod and lowers himself again. The feeling of him on your neck sends a warmth deep in your gut that has your hip jutting into him without thought. He’s pressed against you now, not just on the front of your hips. An addicting electricity flashes through you with each unintentional grind against him.

You don’t expect the sound that leaves you. It’s an exhale, but laced with something of a relaxing sigh, a pleasurable one even. One you’d might make as you lower yourself into a warm bath after a long day.

A horrified look spreads on your face at the noise, the push of your hips coming to a halt. Konig seems encouraged by it, though. You can feel his smile on your skin before he nuzzles himself further into your neck, the tip of his nose brushing against you while he returns to leave teasing kisses.

His kisses trail lower, carefully down the crook of your neck, veering off to pepper over the healed scars on your shoulder blades, much softer than the others. He moves on to your collarbones, the front of your neck. He nudges your head back with his nose so he can plant three long, lingering kisses where Titan nicked you.

His lips move down to the crest of your chest, where he tilts his head upwards, not interrupting his gentle pecks as he meets your stare.

You know what he’s asking for with those puppy dog eyes.

You prop yourself up on your elbows while he gives you room to pull your sports bra over your head, disrupting your hair as you free it with a half-hearted toss to the side.

When you find his face again, he looks almost scared. The same look he gave the whiskey on reaping day, the same look he wore when you offered him to sit on your bed. Like you were tricking him, like it was too good to be true.

He’s enamored with your chest. His lips part ever so slightly, eyebrows perking up. The only thing that moves is his irises darting around to devour you, the rise and fall of his chest with each heavy breath.

Your hands find strong, warm shoulders, tracing your fingers down biceps and forearms made of lead, slowing to cup his hands. You carefully guide him to your breasts, and he sucks in a hitched breath on contact, his eyes nervously finding yours.

“It’s okay,” You whisper.

After a moment, he accepts your invitation to relax. His warm hands meld to your skin, letting fingers delicately explore your chest. He’s holding you like you’re made of glass. Gentle hands and nervous breaths.

His hands find your ribcage, his thumb brushing curiously over your nipples.

You bite your lip at this. It’s a completely different sensation to touching your own nipples. Unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. It makes you twitch underneath him, and he pulls away.

“No,” you object, finding his knuckles to place his palms back on your chest. With his eyes trained on your face, he gives another singular brush across the bud.

You offer him another nod, eyes softening as he begins to massage them delicately.

You give another sharp gasp, and he understands that this is a good thing. He gets a little too excited, rubbing his fingers faster.

“No,” You say with a slight arch into his jacket and a squeeze on his forearms, “Slower, like before.”

He gives a nod, meeting your eyes to make sure you know he understands before he starts his gentle brushes over your nipple again.

You let out another sigh, eyes giving the slightest roll. You arch into his touch again, hips giving a particularly drawn-out grind against him.

He starts to speed up again, but quickly corrects himself.

“Rougher, please.”

He nods eagerly, and tentatively gives your nipple a squeeze.

Another breathy, high-pitched gasp leaves you.

“Konig - It feels so good.”

You whisper this in a tone that suggests he’s missing out, arching into his touch. You can feel the wet warmth of your arousal as it floods the fabric of your underwear.

He lets out a choke from the back of his throat. Your eyes flutter shut and another soft moan leaves you at his squeezes.

“Konig?” You ask with a breathless whine, unclipping the holster on his thigh, “I need you.”

For a moment he locks up, but as soon as it registers what you’re asking for his hands scramble to his belt. His fingers fumble it multiple times, having to rip his stare away from you to watch what he’s doing. You’re not making it easy on him either, grinding against the strain in his pants while he pushes into you. After a frustrated tug, he manages to free his belt and stands to slide his pants off. He fumbles this as well, shaking his ankles free from the bunched fabric and awkwardly hopping to free himself from its hold.

You take the opportunity to slide your pants down, lifting from the grass to strip them off much more gracefully, kicking them to the side.

He lets out another choke at the sight of your thighs, panties on display for him to eye. He meets your stare again, wearing that look that suggests you’re setting out a trap for him.

You slide your feet up on the grass until your knees are bent, spreading your legs with an smug, teasing smile. A hand comes up from the grass to curl your finger in a way that orders him to your presence.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and at once he’s hovering over top of you, descending to meet you in another messy kiss.

One of his hands props himself up, half on the sleeve of his jacket, half on the grass, his other squeezing on your upper shoulder to hold you in place as your tongues intertwine once again.

When he grinds into you, only separated by the two thin fabrics of your underwear, you both simultaneously let out a moan of relief. Half your irises disappear with a light roll of your eyes.

He digs further into you, pressing the fabric of your panties inward as he nestles between your lips. He rocks his hips, the tip of him brushing against your clit, sending a jolt of euphoria down your middle that finishes with a pool of warmth in your lower abdomen. When you let out a breath laced with your pleasure into his mouth, he breaks away from the kiss to get a better look at you, letting his hands rest on your knees.

He towers over your like this, blocking out the sun and casting a shadow over you while he looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, soaking in the way you twitch at each of his rocks against you. His huffs to catch his breath cut short with each slide across your panties. Yours aren’t much different as you lean into the touch, choking on breaths with each jolt of pleasure as Konig slides across your clit.

“You’re wet,” He says, as if he’s just made an impossible discovery, sharing his find with you in a tone full of disbelief and wide eyes to match.

A laugh that’s more breath than air leaves you, a glowing warmth on cheeks that bunch when a smile blooms on your face.

Your hands swipe loosely in the air, wordlessly begging for him to come closer. You watch his muscles flex to lower himself down until you can feel the heat of his chest on yours.

Your voice drops to a whisper, dawning a teasing, soothing tone while you look up at him with eyes sparkling with adoration and mischief. Your lashes flutter as you stare him down, drawing out each purred syllable in a decrescendo as you swirl your finger down his chest, your other hand disappearing into the nape of his hair.

“It’s all your fault.”

His breath hitches and his eyes lull with a drawn out a rut against you, a low groan leaving his parted lips. It’s addicting, the sound of his pleasure. His harsh voice and intimidating stature unraveling and melting to your body that moves to conform to his long, steady grinds.

Konig eagerly presses his lips to yours, his hum deep and low, tingling your jaw as he pushes his tongue into yours with ill-advised confidence. You happily let him lead, swinging one leg over his waist to nudge him closer into steady grinds. As you thread your fingers through the base of his hair, your other leg hooks around the back of his thigh to pin him firmly to your front.

He breaks away for air, neither of you bothering to wipe away the generous layer of mixed spit.

Your eyes lock, clouded with drowsy arousal.

Through parted lips, intoxicated off your taste and touch, he mutters three words.

Slurred but unmistakable.

“I love you.”

You suck in a sharp breath, brows raising and eyes sobering. Your hand slowly snakes from the back of his neck to his chest, firm and warm as you stare up at him.

He doesn’t stop at your change in pace, continuing his steady ruts and not displaying a lick of regret for his words. He just stares down at you through those half-lidded eyes, watching your reaction to each movement of his hips.

Your hands slide up to squeeze his biceps, your face relaxing when you say, “I love you too.”

The corners of his lips perk up around his heaving breaths, stifling a mixture of a relieved laugh with a groan that threatens to spill with each brush against your inviting, stained panties.

His eyes devour you as the smile grows on his face, ducking his head to plant a long closed-mouth kiss on your lips. When he pulls away, he nuzzles his head into your neck, showering the skin with kisses. He trails down again, much quicker and eager than last time as he leaves pecks along your neck, your collarbones, and folds his back awkwardly so he can kiss the top of your plush chest while he continues to rock against you.

He shifts himself, sliding his legs further into the grass below you and removing himself from the front of your underwear. He kisses down your chest until he’s bordering your nipple, tilting his head up to look at you, those pretty eyes begging so nicely.

You give him a nod, and lay your head back as he gives the bud of your nipple gentle kisses.

It’s teasing, almost, the way his lips are barely grazing you. They’re wet with spit, cooling in the spring breeze and sending another shiver down your spine.

He trains his eyes carefully on you as he gives a gentle, curious lap with his tongue.

You let out a breathy squeak that makes his face perk up. He goes in again, circling his tongue around your nipple, flicking back and forth over it. Konig’s not pressed against you anymore, but you find yourself still grinding absentmindedly on his core.

While keeping his gaze on you, he draws your nipple into his mouth with a suck.

The gasp that leaves you is nothing short of erotic. Konig’s eyes lull at the noise and he even lets out a small moan that turns to a rousing vibration. He tilts his head down, buries his nose into your chest and eagerly nurses on you.

His tongue strokes the bud curiously as he sucks. Your back arching off the ground does not go ignored as you thread your fingers into his hair and tighten your grip.

His breath hitches, and his free hand comes up to swirl around your other breast as he greedily devours you, honing in on your nipple and giving it a gentle squeezes.

The soft moans and sighs are flowing freely as you squirm underneath him, fingers clinging to him for dear life.

He pulls off your nipple with a pop, the spit cooling in the open air and bringing your nipples to attention. You whine at his absence as he continues to kiss down your stomach.

His tweaking fingers follow shortly after, his hands finding your hips while he makes his descent. When he shifts further down, flat on his front, he loops his strong arms under your legs, placing his hands hesitantly on your outer thighs.

He tilts his head, closing his eyes as he gives gentle pecks on your inner thigh. The tip of his nose brushing against you, his coarse stubble, his kisses - the sensations send another jolt of electricity straight to your lower abdomen.

“So beautiful,” He mumbles in between kisses, the vibration of his voice tickling the sensitive flesh.

His head turns, and he begins to give equal love and care to your other thigh.

His lips trail higher, overlapping his generous kisses up the soft flesh.

He lifts his head to give one gentle kiss at the top of your panties, those begging eyes making an encore.

You give an eager nod, taut breaths escaping parted lips.

He kisses down the fabric of your panties, concentrating his full attention on your flushed face. He stops when he gets to the stain of arousal, his fingers threading through the waistband on either side of your panties.

He asks for permission with a look.

“Yes,” You whisper, “Please.”

He sits up quickly, using his hand to guide your legs up so he can pull your panties off.

He freezes again, eyes fixated on you, already coated in a shiny layer of arousal.

You can’t help but feel a little embarrassed, him examining you like this. He looks shocked, eyes wide and brows raised, mouth slightly parted.

“Okay?” You ask with a quiet voice.

“Yeah,” His reassurance comes out breathy with awe, accompanied by an excited nod, “I’ve just never,” he trails off.

“It’s okay.”

“Okay,” he says with a swallow.

“Can I see you?”

His face perks again, this time with a hint of hesitance. Caught off guard, like he never expected the request.

He sits back with a deep exhale before he slides his underwear down, shifting to peel them from his ankles. He sets them to the side as he returns to his kneel between your legs, his hands resting on your bent knees. He can’t look you in the eye, his face already bracing for rejection.

“I guess uh, I guess they don’t call you The Mountain for no reason,” You say with a nervous laugh.

His face sinks, maybe at the nickname, maybe at the fear that he’s not adequate enough for you. You had just laughed at him, nervous laugh or not, which is something you imagine wouldn’t play over well with any boy who’s just exposed himself to someone for the first time ever.

“No, no, it’s nice. Sorry, I’m just-”

You cut yourself off with another nervous laugh.

You find yourself tilting your head as you stare at it. Boys are strange. Such a silly thing it is, and other than his size, much less intimidating than you thought it would be.

It stands on its own, enraged in color, swaying with his movements. A long, girthy shaft that ends with a flushed tip, accompanied by dangling bits underneath. There’s an alluring glint of arousal leaking from the tip. You almost want to laugh at it - not at Konig’s in particular - but at all of them. All of the appendages out there attached to half the population, swinging freely in their pants.

Your inquisitive stare must burn, because he moves his hands to sheepishly cover himself, looking to the sky that splits in four.

“Sorry,” you say, “I’ve just never, uh,” You trail off, exactly as he did. After a moment you extend your hand, nudging his inner forearm away.

“Can I touch it?” You ask, looking up at him with sloped brows.

He makes a noise like he’s thinking on it while he processes your question, followed by a blurted out, “Ja!”

He quickly realizes his answer came out way too fast and way too eager. He clears his throat, and forces himself to a nonchalant tone that wouldn’t fool anyone, “Yeah.”

Your hands reach out slowly, carefully. You actually hold your breath, both of you do, you think, until your fingertips brush along his tip, your hand trailing down the sides of his shaft.

His whole body, every defined muscle, contracts at your touch. Now you understand how Konig must have felt, pulling those breathy sighs out of you. It’s addicting to make someone feel this way using only your own body.

You notice the skin is thinner and softer than the rest of him as your hand smooths slowly along the shaft, loosely and carefully wrapping your fingers around the base. You just barely graze him as you move your hand up and down his length, letting him slide through your loose grip.

He lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders pulling up and his head lulling forward. His hand squeeze your bent knees, strong, tensed thighs pressed to yours as he kneels between them.

He shudders as you keep your steady pace, and when he whispers your name, so soft and needy, a show of his gratitude and a plead for more, it sends another wave of your arousal to your panties.

You respond by speeding up, your hands almost blur as you generously glide around him.

“Hah- ah,” His eyes roll back before he pinches his eyes shut, sucking in breaths through grit teeth.

You keep your pace, trying to simulate what you can only assume is the feeling of sex with your fingers.

“Your hands,” he whispers through heavy breath, “So pretty and small around me.”

Your face relaxes as you look up to him, awe in your eyes.

His words did something to you, feeding the flame that flickers in your lower abdomen.

You slow for a moment as you process this newfound feeling before speeding up to elicit more from him.

“Feels s’good,” he slurs.

Your hand glides up to brush against his tip with each pump, making him twitch around you. He lets out a few more sinful moans, his eyes lidded in pleasure as he stares down at your amazed blown eyes, parted lips. His eyes hungrily scour your breasts, bouncing hypnotically with each stroke.

“Bitte,” he whimpers, “Hhn-”

His muscles tighten and he squeezes the grip on your knees a little tighter.

He shudders, his whole body folding forward with a choked groan. He puts his weight on one of your knees, his other hand shooting down to rip your hold off him.

“What? What’s wrong?!” You ask frantically, quickly retracting your hands to your chest.

“No, no,” he reassures. He gives a breathless, embarrassed laugh, his muscles tight and body still experiencing tremors, “I didn’t want to- I was-“

He gives another sheepish laugh, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to end.”

Your brow lifts in confusion.

His gaze briefly averts, still fighting off twitches.

“I was going to,” he hesitates, “Finish.”

“Oh,” You say.

“I’m sorry.”

A flattered and pleased grin crosses your face.

“No, it’s okay.”

“I’ll do you?” He asks, staring at your spread lips, drenched in your own arousal.

You let out a nervous, one note hum of approval, and gnaw on your lower lip with a nod.

He lowers himself to sit on his folded legs, a soft tentative grip on your thighs. You feel exposed while he studies you, as he works out a plan.

“I don’t know how,” He says, voice still breathy as his unsure eyes meets yours.

“It’s okay,” You whisper, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, guiding him to you.

You swirl his pliant fingers around your rim, lubing them up with your own slick before you pinch the sides of his index finger and place it on your swollen clit.

“Just be gentle,” you say.

He nods, breaths shallow as he rocks the pad of his finger up and down on your clit.

You suck in a breath, squirming at his touch.

He gets excited by this, his finger rubbing you quicker. Your head throws back in the grass, a breathy, hitched strain leaving you.

“Slower,” You say with an overstimulated twitch, “And do circles, I think.”

He retracts his hand quickly, before giving a hesitant nod. He uses his thumb this time, gently rubbing around the sensitive bud.

You let out a soft moan, and he gets excited again, but quickly corrects himself. He watches you carefully as you squirm underneath him. Mesmerized by your hips pushing into his touch, back arching into him.

“Breathe,” You remind him, and he lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He nods, red in the face as he continues to swirl the pad of his finger around you, chasing the sound of your addicting huffed moans. Your head lulls to the ground, closing your eyes as you focus on his touch.

He’s using your hitched breaths to navigate your pleasure, learning the difference between a twitch of overstimulation and a shudder of satisfaction. He repeats the movements and swipes that elicit your wisps of moans, studying your face carefully with drowsy halflidded eyes.

Your hips grind without thought into his touch, needy whimpers escaping your lips as your back arches off the jacket, eyes rolling until your lids pinch shut.

“Konig?” You whine, “Please.”

He gives you a shaky nod, returning his focus to his fingers.

He slowly pushes his finger into you, and flits his gaze to look at your face, searching for discomfort.

He stops at the first knuckle, his brows sloped with uncertainty.

You let out a deep breath, concentrating on relaxing yourself. It feels strange. Intrusive, almost uncomfortable. Clinical instead of sexual. But you are determined to do this.

You give a sure nod, and he continues to slide deeper inside of you.

You let out a small strained moan, not necessarily in pleasure. You tense around him and he stops at once.

“Should I stop?” He asks.

“No, no,” You say, “I want to do this.”

He nods slow.

“More?” He asks with soft eyes.

You nod, clenching your teeth as his thick finger explores deeper.

You take a few more, somewhat awkward, breaks, and eventually you manage to get his entire finger inside of you. He stills for a while, letting you get used to the feeling.

Your body relaxes, forcing deep breaths as you concentrate on breathing. You feel exposed, spread open like this with him inside you.

“Sorry,” You mutter with closed eyes.

“No,” He reassures softly, “It’s okay. I don’t want to hurt you.”

You nod, resting an arm over your eyes.

“Should I try to-?” He ends his sentence by swirling his finger as gently as one can, small circles massaging into tight walls.

You let out a hefty sigh, closing your eyes as you focus on his touch. You nuzzle your face into the crook of your own elbow, begging your body to catch up to your excitement.

“Let me know if it hurts,” he says, and you nod assent.

“Move?” You ask, not too sure of yourself.

He takes his time as he slides his finger out of you about an inch before gently gliding back in.

A breathy exhale leaves you, and Konig’s eyebrows pinch as he tries to decipher if it’s in pain or pleasure.

“Is this okay?” He asks, using your arousal to seamlessly, but carefully, slip in and out of you.

You meet his eyes and nod, face flushed and audible breaths falling from your lips.

“Yeah,” you huff, light and warm.

He nods, his gaze falling down to his finger slipping in and out of you. He’s extra careful, not daring to let himself become too eager this time.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, “So wet for me.”

Your brows perk up, a sharp inhale as you clench around him. Konig’s words miss your ears, heading straight for your core where they twist your insides and drain around his finger.

Every breath is threatening to spill from your lips in a moan, the muscles in your core tightening and unraveling with each push.

He eyes you carefully and asks, “Do you see? Come undone with just my index finger?”

Rarely do you find yourself unable to come up with a witty remark, but his words have left you speechless. Stealing the last word you normally stake your claim in.

He notices - he notices the way you respond to his harsh voice, spinning dirty talk in a low, almost patronizing voice. Robbed of your words and wit and reduced to a whimpering mess sitting in a puddle of arousal - he’s got physical proof that he’s turning you on, that he has you literally wrapped around his finger.

It sparks something in him, you can see it, hear it in his tone. An air of superiority, confidence,

No -

Arrogance.

“Imagine what you’ll sound like once I’m inside you,” He says, his face even beside a faint smirk.

His grip on your plush thigh briefly tightens, indenting the soft flesh.

“Don’t worry, mein sieger, I’ll take my time stretching you out.”

“So tight,” he adds, “Such a little girl will have trouble taking such a big cock, ja?”

You choke on a hitched breath, eyes widening not just at his words, but at the tightening in your lower half, the warmth that floods you. Stunned and aroused by his words, a searing heat of excitement flushing your skin - this no longer feels clinical.

“It’s a good thing you’re dripping, I’m sure I’ll slip right in to you.”

“Faster,” you choke out, “Meaner.”

An eyebrow raises, and his stare darts to the side. A moment of uncertainty before he digests his assignment, fumbling his pace before he pumps in and out of you quicker.

“You just needed someone to take you down a peg, hm?”

A hint of worry peeks through, those unsure eyes returning as he gauges whether he’s gone too far. Your moans and pitiful whines encourage him, though, and his chest puffs out as his eyes relax.

“You always act so tough but I know you’re just begging for someone to put you in your place, ja?”

He doesn’t break his quickened pace as the hand on your upper thigh trails upwards, running over the curve of your hips and up your ribcage. His grip on you is rougher, assured - he’s handling you like you’re something he owned.

“Not so tough now,” He punctuates his sentence with a harsh tweak of your nipple, and he lets out a smug hum at your sprung eyes and sharp breath.

“You love to talk such a big game, don’t you? If I knew this is all it took to quiet you up maybe I would have done this a long time ago.”

He flicks your nipple with a bored expression on his face, but for just a moment you catch a wrinkle in his brow - still trying to figure out where the boundary lies.

Your whole body tenses, tightening around his finger as you claw at tufts of grass for leverage.

He face pulls back into a half scowl, “Look at you. Desperate, pathetic little lamb.”

Your face twists, absentmindedly grinding down on his finger.

“Greedy girl,” He purrs, “You want more?”

You nod, looking to his figure, blurred through your own haze of arousal.

“You have to ask nicely,” He tutts, that smug grin making a reappearance.

Your brows pinch in betrayal, in fury - no man belittles you this way.

He takes great pleasure in washing away your scowl with particularly powerful and swift plunges into your sopping cunt. Strings of moans leave you, each one cut off with each bottom out to his knuckle, coated in a sheen of your own arousal.

“Nothing to say, little one?”

You let out a frustrated grunt with grit teeth as you take his thick finger. You’re torn between fighting back or leaning into his whim - it’s hard to ignore how good he’s making you feel, and even harder to think through the fog of your own pleasure.

“Giving you too good of a fucking? Can’t even talk?”

You let out a whine, screwing your eyes shut as you focus on his fingers massaging your walls.

“More, please,” you get out through grit teeth.

“What was that, little one?” He asks, turning his head with a squeeze of your nipple.

You know he heard you.

He’s humiliating you, forcing you to beg and plead for him to continue teasing you, to continue leaving you breathless with his hands and his insolent tongue.

You let out another defeated groan, “More, please! Please, I-“

The second finger slips into you carefully, pausing on each wince you make. On its bottom out, he curiously surveys you again, his thumb pressing into your clit. He rocks the pad of his finger as he patiently waits for you to stretch around him, while his other hand continues to tease your nipple, giving it gentle flicks and massages.

He relishes in your whines as you adjust to feeling full.

“That’s a good girl.”

His praise steals the breath from you, blown eyes and parted lips. A white heat flashes deep in your core, intense enough to stun you, but it doesn’t stop you from arching your hips in his direction, grinding down on his knuckles.

When your grinds turn to needy bounces paired with truly pathetic whines, he starts up at your pace, thrusting his fingers into you.

“Just needed to be put in your place, ja?”

You hate being spoken to this way, but you’re too addicted to the way it’s making you feel. His forceful plunges into your slicked cunt, his firm, careful swirls around your clit, the sickeningly sweet warmth in your core - it's impossible to resist his degrading condescension.

“Look at you,” He tilts his head curiously and sticks out his bottom lip in a display of mockery, “So pouty.”

His curled, unused fingers slam into the crook of your trembling thighs, the sound of your own arousal obscenely wet with each pump into you.

“Are you upset that it feels too good for you to fight? Hm?”

Without breaking his pace, he leans in closer, his face inches from yours.

His eyes darken and narrow, and his voice drops to a dangerous tone.

“You’re no match for me anyway.”

A glint of worry reappears in his eyes as he watches your face soften, your wide, full irises staring up at him with billowing lashes. There’s a hint of fear in your expression - a thrilling, jolt of surprise that shoots down your spine and forces a sharp inhale. You hadn’t realized just how safe you’d felt around him.

No - you had. You knew what his presence did for you. A security blanket to pull up to your neck. There was a sense of protection you’d felt around him, even from the beginning. Just standing next to him, the intimidating figure that towers over you, you felt guarded more than threatened.

Even if he was your opponent the entire time.

Even after you thought he was trying to kill you.

You still took comfort in the distant memory of his protection.

On some level you must have known that he would have never been able to bring himself to hurt you during your fight. If he wanted to, he could have killed you with the same amount of effort it takes to kill a ladybug.

It’s the reminder coming from his mouth that’s so jarring. To be reminded of how powerless you are around him - to reimagine him as an enemy once again, to have him towered over you.

It’s a threat.

It says, ‘It does not matter what you want. If you try and fight, I will get my way, because I am bigger. I am stronger.’

It’s exhilarating, exploring the implications and possibilities as you stare helplessly into eyes that seemingly lack empathy. It makes your heart beat furiously against your ribcage.

You know he’s still in there. Your Konig, the sweetheart who’d never dare hurt you. The boy who cares so much about the girl he’d rather sacrifice himself than live without her. It’s proven in the way his fingers strive for pleasure, not punishment. How he slows at any twitch that shows discomfort. That unsure stare making a reappearance at every step towards the boundary.

But his words, his tone, those hollow, uninterested eyes - it was almost believable. Shocking enough to fill you with just enough unease, just enough doubt. The tightening in your gut makes it easy to play pretend.

When you begin to resume your bounce on his fingers, he slips back into his role.

“The fight you put up earlier was cute, but we both know-” He cuts himself off with a breathy, dangerous laugh, “Ach, what was it you said? At any moment I could snap your spine like a twig?”

Your face falls and you swallow at having your words thrown back at you. Had he been ruminating on that? The way his smile had dropped by the time he finished the sentence made it easy to believe.

His eyes narrow at you.

“Do you like feeling weak? Do you like knowing that you’re helpless against me?”

You manage to answer with a whimper, closing your eyes as you commit to giving yourself to him. Letting him fuck you with his fingers as he degrades you like the pitiful thing you are.

He snickers at you, keeping his pace, “Did you like it when I pinned you down, little one?”

Each word that pours from his mouth makes your insides tighten, that rough voice mocking you and reducing you to a plaything.

His brow quirks, and a sly smile creeps on his face, “I bet that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You wanted to feel my strength?”

You let out a choked moan, your eyes lulling at the reminder of how powerless you are against him.

His lip juts to the side in a cocky smirk.

“If you wanted me to overpower you, all you had to do was ask.”

You shoot him a glare with a snarl, but he quickly unravels your pointed expression with rushed, ruthless plunges into you. He leans in so he’s face to face with you as his free hand pins both of your wrists down in one smooth motion.

He shushes you like you’re a fussy baby, “It’s okay little one, I’m here now. I’ll take care of you.”

You let out a grit moan at a particularly demanding pound into your cunt.

“You look cute when you’re mad, you know that?” His half-lidded eyes are flooded with egotism.

He scoffs at your clenched teeth and pinched brows before his hand turns to a blur. His fingers glide in and out of you without mercy, knuckles slamming into your sore cunt, unraveling your irate expression with trembling sighs and moans that were louder and needier than you wanted them to be.

His voice drops dangerously low, a deep hum pulling down each word.

“But you look cuter getting fucked.”

You let out a cry of pleasure, pinching your eyes shut and lulling your head back in defeat, embarrassing moans falling from your lips as you squirm in his hold.

He silently watches you take him, a smug look plastered on his face that you’d love to wipe off - a wish you can’t afford at the expense of your pleasure.

“You want more, little one?”

Your affirmation is a hiss through grit teeth, but he accepts this.

A third digit slips carefully inside you and waits for your cue to move.

“Such big, thick fingers. You’ve held my hands - Did you ever fantasize about these fingers inside you?”

You let out a breathy, broken sigh. His words are making you feel even smaller than the menacing figure towering over you.

“You wanted to feel my strength, did you?” He puts more pressure on your wrists and closes the gap between your faces, your lips nearly touching as he bores into you with those half-lidded eyes. He doesn’t break his rhythmic thrusts into your cunt, straddling one of your thighs to keep you spread for him. His chest radiates a cozy heat on yours, the plump of your breast brushing against him.

“Do you feel it?”

You look up at him with blown doe eyes, cheeks glowing as you suck in a hitched breath.

When he stares at you expectantly, raising a brow at your silence, you nod.

“Yes,” You hiccup, forced and raw as you take your fucking.

He gives a satisfied hum, nudging your head to the side with his nose before he dives into your neck, slobbering over the sensitive skin. He hungrily licks stripes across your flesh, occasionally sucking strawberry kisses to the surface.

Your lips brush the crest of his ear, pathetic choked whines like whispered secrets as he keeps his pace.

Your eyes go cross, twisting into the position that forces his fingers to pound against the spot that makes your vision blur and your muscles tighten. Arching off his jacket, pushing up against his hold, pressing into his chest as you squirm underneath him. He’s grinding steadily against your thigh, the rim of his tip brushing against your stomach, commanding attention with its silky warmth.

“You want to feel me inside you, hm? You want to really feel my strength?”

Your breath hitches, eyes widening. For a moment you are frozen, flitting your gaze between each of his eyes, and then you give an embarrassingly excited nod.

He doesn’t make you beg this time, not bothering to hide his eagerness as he repositions himself between your knees. He carefully slips his fingers from you, and you can’t help but whine at the absence.

One of his hands rests on your knee, the other lining himself up to your slick rim.

He doesn’t hold back his sigh, his eyes rolling as his sensitive tip swirls around your rimmed entrance. He bites his lip for a moment, his arrogant façade fading.

“So wet,” he says, more amazed than it is condescending.

His gaze flicks to your face, studying you with soft blue eyes, watching your bated breath as your fingers brace on clumps of grass.

He slowly pushes his tip in and immediately shudders, his head lulling forward on his neck.

You wince, and he stops at once. His breath is shaky, hands trembling on your knees.

“You feel so good,” he says, a low hum weighing his voice down.

You nod, features pinched as you focus on adjusting to him.

He’s being patient, but you can tell he’s fighting the urge to rock his hips into you, sputtered breaths and clenched muscles.

“I’m sorry,” You say again, one of your forearms draped over your closed eyes as you focus on taking him.

“It’s okay,” he says reassuringly.

There’s a beat, and his voice drops again, low and taunting.

“Too big for such a little girl?”

Your arm lifts, your bright eyes finding his with a sharp inhale. That feeling returns, the feeling of your lower core dropping, your insides contracting at his words.

His voice is still a bit strained from holding himself back, but his breathy words still convey superiority.

His eyes narrow, “Looks like someone is too weak. Is that right, little one?”

You let out an annoyed grunt, and he scoffs.

“For someone who talks such big game, you’re not very good at handling me, are you?”

The corner of his lip perks up at the way your face relaxes, the nervous swallow bobbing in your throat.

“It’s okay. I know how badly you want to be good for me, made it all this way for me.”

He can’t help but sway his hips the slightest bit, his tip barely lapping at your entrance.

“Do you want to be good for me?” He asks, his lids lowered, lips flushed and teased with each of his shallow breaths.

You let out a twisted noise, somewhere between a squeak and a groan. Briefly you are distracted by the mesmerizing push of his hips, each roll filling you up ever so slightly.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you give a weak nod.

“Yes, Konig.”

“My good girl.”

A sob leaves you, eyes pinching shut as you nod against the hood of his jacket.

“Thank you,” You whisper, the words leaving your lips broken.

He hums contently, boring those half-lidded eyes at you.

When you grind down on him, Konig’s muscles contract, and he lets out a huffy breath, followed by a faint laugh.

You begin to rock steadily underneath him, bouncing just enough to fuck yourself with his tip.

His lower lip catches between his teeth, his exhales cut short on each breath. His fingers dig into your knees as his core doubles over, biceps tight and trembling.

“Ffh-” His hissed mumbles are intelligible, but music to your ears. That deep, harsh voice nothing but whines and audible huffs through clenched teeth.

A light sheen of sweat is steadily building on his forehead, you can tell it’s taking all of his strength to keep from unleashing himself and tearing you in half.

Your hands find his white, trembling knuckles as you rock on him, teasingly, cruelly even, reveling in the pleasure you’re eliciting. You give his hands a soft tug, and he follows your whim, his hands crashing onto the grass on either side of your shoulders, his chest inches from yours. He meets you in a desperate, sloppy kiss, soft moans whispered between your lips.

When he pulls away, both of you short on breath, he keeps his flushed lips close, staring deeply into your eyes as you rhythmically grind underneath him.

“It’s not fair,” He says, “How beautiful you are.”

A hand snakes up his back and finds his hairline. You look up at him with big doe eyes and parted lips, and while your words are harsh, they come out spoken so gentle and sweet. Tender, intimate words between lovers.

“Shut up and fuck me.”

“H-ah,” His head lulls, his sweaty forehead pressing to yours for just a moment before he raises to study you.

His arms shake as he uses your slick arousal to push past the tip. When you let out a choked noise, he stops, his lips twisted into worry.

It takes a while, it does. He’s so big, and both lack of experience and his size makes it more than a tight fit around him. It’s not exactly the most arousing thing ever to wait while you adjust to him, but watching him get worked up from just your body is more than enough to keep you flooding around him.

“So - guh, so warm.”

He’s overriding every instinct with grit teeth and a trembling muscles, but he forces himself to be patient, every reassurance spoken through strained breath. He nuzzles himself into the crook of your neck, planting uneven, messy kisses on the sensitive skin. For a moment, once you’ve successfully managed to take half of him, he gets briefly distracted. A gentle, absentminded grind before he stops himself with a whine.

Your hands wrap around his tense, warm biceps, giving him small squeezes as you give him what he desperately needs, what you can manage, by moving your hips again, just barely bobbing up and down on his shaft.

He sputters when you do this, completely unraveled and succumbed to the feeling of your wet, tight warmth.

“Sh,” You coo, giving his shaking biceps another squeeze, “Being so good for me.”

“Ach, f-”

“Waiting so patiently. It’s hard, isn’t it?” You tease, draping your words in arrogance.

Your turn.

“Yes,” His voice wavers and his head lulls, speaking his weak words towards your chest, “You’re worth the wait.”

“Such a good boy,” you say, working him as fast as you comfortably can.

His voice pinches and his shoulders pull up with a nod, “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Mhm,” You hum with a particularly drawn out grind. You’re trying to sound low and sultry, but your own pleasure is throwing a wrench in your confident dirty talk, “Doing so well for me.”

“Thank you, thank you,” The words are pouring from him, quick and desperate, twitching inside you at your praise.

“Fuck me.”

He nods, and as you cease your bouncing he picks up, forcing himself to maintain your gentle pace.

You both let out a pleased sigh, your head resting back on the hood of his jacket as you tighten around his biceps.

“S’okay?” He slurs.

Your eyes are pinched, teeth clenched, and you’re unintentionally digging your fingernails into his flesh - but you nod.

“So big,” You say, and he gives a breathy, one-note laugh.

“Too big for a little girl,” He says, tightening his grip on the grass while he holds back the powerful fucking he wants to give you, instead making soft, gentle rocks into you.

His words miss your ears again, knotting up your insides at once. Your hips wriggle with his, forcing more of him to leave and re-enter you with every grind.

“So small,” he punctuates, his voice strained and his drowsy eyes lulling.

He’s nailing his cues, with every quickening of your hips he jumps to meet your pace, eager to fuck you as much as you’ll allow.

His irises get lost behind his eyelids as he gets up to a pace that scratches his itch. He sits up briefly, his arms picking up from the grass to hook around the back of your knees, lifting your feet into the air and forcing you to spread for him when he plants his weight back on the dirt.

He doesn’t dare push deeper than you’ve managed so far, but his thrusts are unrestrained, and you’ve swallowed enough of him to have him hit that spot that draws squeaky moans from you.

“Breathe,” You remind him through a strain when his face paints red.

He obeys, letting out his held breath, sputtering out consonants that will never get flushed out with vowels in between inhales.

His moans are low, broken grunts leaving parted lips in between short, audible breaths. It’s music to your ears.

“Oh, Konig,” your hands find his tensed, warm shoulders, clawing into him in response to the overwhelming pleasure.

Konig’s drooling over the way your chest bounces against your ribcage with each of his powerful thrusts. He’s still only half inside you, but you feel full to the brim, brute strength brutally robbing you for your delicate sensitivity.

The moans leaving you are nothing less than embarrassing, unrestrained and echoing throughout the four quadrants. Breathy and high-pitched and truly pathetic. You haven’t the mind to stop them, Konig seems to be fucking the very thoughts from your brain, because all you can focus on is him inside you, filling you up and massaging the spot that makes your muscles pinch and your moans cut short - and even that’s hard to wrap your mind around. Konig’s breathy, needy groans intertwine, both of you sounding nothing short of erotic.

Your white knuckles shake around his shoulders, gripping him as if the very act of letting go would stop the fireworks exploding in your core.

“I’m not going anywhere,” He reassures, his words strained and choppy.

You nod furiously, pinching your eyes shut, words warping with every thrust, “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

His forehead presses to yours, your chests flush together.

Every sway of his hips forces a breath into a moan, your entire body forced to jolt against his jacket as you take the brunt of his power, your legs rebounding with each movement.

His sighs steadily turn to truly obscene, husky grunts that seem to intensify your own pleasure.

“Feels - so good,” Your praise comes out squeaky and spiked with each of his fervorous thrusts into your tight warmth.

“I can tell,” He says through a strained purrs, his words stitched with a deep, gritty hum, “You look sinful, mein sieger.”

He punctuates his statement with a particularly obscene grunt. The sound alone is enough to make your eyes flutter.

He’s fucking you with such instensity your vision is blurring, the world shaking once more as he crashes into the plush bottoms of your thighs at the perfect angle to keep himself from going deeper than you can handle.

His breaths are getting heavier, a sheen of sweat building on his skin.

The words begin to pour out of him, riding hefty breaths as his eyes roll.

“Ich liebe dich, Ich liebe dich,” He whispers over and over.

“Ffh-” Every one of his muscles contract, his eyes pinching closed and mouth gaping. His pace slows, uneven, sloppy thrusts into you. Choppy breaths cut themselves off just to be followed by another. He stays buried inside you, his entire body twitching in the aftermath of his pleasure. You can feel him pulsing with each beat of his heart.

His hold wobbles, nearly collapsing on you before he catches himself with weak arms.

He buries his flushed face into your neck, his words made of solely breath, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I couldn’t-”

“Sh,” You coo into his ear, tracing the pads on your fingers lightly down the curve of his back, glistened with sweat, “It’s okay.”

Your hand glides up to the back of his neck, letting your fingernails soothingly massage the back of his head.

He lets out a heavy exhale, his chest heaving against yours as he catches his breath.

“I love you.”

Your fingers stop playing with his hair for just a moment before you continue your gentle scratches. You nod, mouth dry, both at the confession and having all of the moisture in your body drained from you.

“I love you too.”

He gives you that small laugh of relief again, pulling away from your neck to plant a sloppy kiss on your lips. You can feel him smiling into the kiss that you contently hum into.

He winces as he pulls out of you, a few twitches of oversensitivity.

He can’t seem to hold himself up anymore, leaving his position between your legs to roll over next to you on the grass.

You’re both sweaty and warm, leaving a few inches between your flushed bodies as you wind down. Only your shoulders touch as you both catch your breath.

He brings a hand to his head and lets out a light laugh.

You find his eyes, nestling into the hood of his jacket as he rests his cheek in the grass.

“That was amazing,” He says, a sparkle in his eyes as his face flits around your features in disbelief, “I’ve never-“

He cuts himself off with another laugh and presses his lips to yours in a lingering, closed-mouth kiss.

He pulls away with an obnoxious smack, giggling to himself.

His hand finds this side of his head again, chest heaving with each heavy breath as he looks to the sky that splits in four with stars in his eyes.

You nuzzle your cheek on the hood of his jacket, watching his muscles and ribcage billow as he catches his breath.

“You’re hot,” you say, without much thought and only a sliver of regret.

“Thank you,” He gives a soft laugh, “You too.”

You hum, briefly closing your eyes before you find him again. Watching him ride out his euphoric high, his eyes darting around the sky in disbelief as he smiles around his heavy pants.

“I meant it,” He says.

“I know.”

“I do love you,” he turns his head to meet your eyes, his fingers stroking the grass.

You know he’s not lying. He’s loved you from the start.

And haven’t you done the same? Desperately aching for the boy you thought was playing an act, but refusing to let yourself cave. Rejecting the idea that someone as kind, as gentle, as perfect as him would ever love you without an ulterior motive. He’s better than you, in every way. Not just physically, but as a person - Thoughtful, sweet, respectful, nice, supportive, agreeable. The kind of person you can’t help but fall in love with. The kind of person you can fall in love with without even realizing it, because loving him was as easy as breathing.

“I know,” you say with a nod, “I love you too.”

Once he’s cooled off, breath evened and muscles relaxed, gracefully easing from his high.

“Can I-“ He pauses with a huff, his tone lacking confidence, “Can I try to make you finish?”

“Oh, uh,” your eyes dart away as you think on it, “Sure.”

He gives a breathy laugh, springing forward to plant a kiss on your lips. He’s smiling through it, his afterglow practically radiating onto your skin.

He lingers after he pulls away with a smack, staring into your eyes. His eyes are swelled with awe, looking at you like you’re a goddess who had just descended from the heavens right in front of him. He grabs your jacket and spreads it out on the space under your legs before limbs sling to settle his chest flush with its fabric when he settles between your legs, his arms looping underneath your legs to hook around your thighs.

“Oh,” You say with an air of perky surprise. You weren’t expecting him to offer to go down on you.

“Oh,” he says, suddenly unsure of himself. His gaze flits his between you and your spread cunt, “Do you want me to?”

“No, no, I just wasn’t-,” you abandon your sentence.

“Are you sure?” You ask, as if worried you’re putting him out.

He nods eagerly with a raise of his brows.

You give a shrug and a single nod.

He starts with a long, drawn-out swipe with the flat of his tongue from the bottom of your slit to the top, shooting a shudder up your spine at once. He’s not shy in plunging his face into you, his nose brushing along you on his ascent. A slick mixture of your arousal and his finish coats his tongue as he ends on a flick. His eyes roll with a groan at your taste, immediately diving back in for seconds.

It becomes apparent very quickly that Konig devours pussy like its a gourmet Capitol dish.

The grip on the tops of your thighs harshens, not daring to let you squirm away from him before he’s satisfied. He’s moaning into your spread cunt, this flat of his tongue sloppily lapping up your arousal with long stripes.

The sight alone is enough to put a shake in your knees, your head falling back onto the hood of his jacket. Your hand finds his shoulders, the muscles underneath tensing and untensing as he greedily devours you.

When you find him again, he looks drunk off your taste, pussy-drunk pretty blue eyes lulling and cheeks flushed. He’s still groaning into you, each one a rousing vibration.

A breath twists as it leaves you, fingers tightening around him. His head is passionately rolling up and down, side to side, lapping up every inch of your cunt. He’s practically suffocating himself with you, his breaths quickening with each plunge. There’s little skill displayed, but he’s eating you out with more than enough fervor to make up for it.

He’s drawing pitiful squeaks and moans from you, his fingers further indenting your plush thighs as he keeps you from reflexively closing your legs on him. His grip is more than suggestive, forcefully keeping your legs spread for him.

The sound of his tongue savoring you is truly impure, his spit swirling with your drenched, cum-filled cunt, his finish dripping from you only to be gluttonously devoured. His stubble is tough against your sensitive skin, a jarring contrast to his smooth, slick tongue. He’s still moaning into you, each one echoing a vibration through you.

Your breaths are becoming uneven, choking on your own pleasure as your legs squirm and thighs in his hold. He’s staring at the way your core is contracting to his touch, breasts billowing and muscles tightening, but you’re not even sure if he can see what he’s looking at, those eyes so hazed and intoxicated off your taste.

You let out a whine, your head falling back into the grass in defeat. Fully succumb to his ravenous appetite.

The sparks of euphoria are building up in your lower core, forming an intoxicating star of pleasure threatening to collapse in on itself in glorious explosion. Your moans and squeaks are becoming more strained, eyes disappearing behind eyelids. You’re instinctively clenching your legs together, but Konig won’t let you, keeping you spread on the grass while he laps you up.

You shout his name when the star collapses, shooting in spectacular bursts of pleasure throughout your limbs, tightening every muscle in your body, fingers trembling and legs shaking under Konig’s tight hold. You’re practically seeing white, back arching off the ground as you spasm on his tongue.

When your voice returns, husky and raw, Konig’s still ravaging your cunt with his tongue. He’s eager, hands locked onto your thighs in restraint and not letting up in the slightest. Torturing you with the twitch of overstimulation.

You actually have to thread your fingers through his hair and peel him off you with significant force for him to stop.

When he pulls away, his jaw is slick with your arousal, his finish, and spit. His tongue still hangs out of his mouth as he pants into the air, eyes intoxicatingly crossed.

Small strained hums leave you at the bursts of aftershock in response to your pulsing clit.

When you release Konig, he rests his head on the top of your thigh, the coarse stubble pressed against you. His chest is rising and falling in steady, heavy breaths. He begins to shower your thighs in messy, wet kisses.

“You taste so good.”

You give a soft laugh, “Thank you.”

He hums into your thigh, nestling his cheek into you.

Your head sinks to the grass, basking in your high, body suddenly incredibly relaxed as you catch your breaths.

“That felt really good,” you whisper.

He smiles, you can feel the bunch of his cheek on the sensitive flesh of your thigh.

Your fingers reach down to thread into his hair again, soothingly massaging his scalp.

He hums again, giving your thigh a squeeze.

“I love you,” He mumbles.

You give a light laugh and give him a particularly quick stint of scratches, “I know. I love you too.”

You both lay like this for a while, resting your eyes as he cuddles up to your thigh, lightly massaging his hair.

“Better put our clothes on,” You say with a small grin, “Before they get mad.”

He gives something of a whine, and after another round of kisses, he moves to oblige.

He hands you your clothes and you both get dressed before he slides your jacket up the grass so he can lie at your side.

You both intertwine hands as you lay, basking in the blissful quiet as you descend from cloud nine.

It’s about twenty minutes later when you finally break the silence.

“You know I can’t let you do it, right?” You say, forehead wrinkling when your brows raise inquisitively.

His lips pull to the side.

“You know I can’t let you,” He says, that harsh voice soft and delicate.

You heave a heavy sigh, and look back to the sky with a squint, “Then we’re at a stalemate.”

He hums in agreement.

You meet his eyes again, the jacket swooshing into your ear when you tilt your head to face him.

“We could let them decide,” You offer.

“The gamemakers?” He asks.

“Yeah,” You say, “Just wait it out until it gets boring, and then - well, I don’t know. They’ll sick mutts on us, or, I don’t know. Spray us with a gas that makes us rage and go feral on each other, or something.”

He snorts, “Well don’t give them ideas.”

“Just a suggestion,” You shrug with a grin.

“I think I’d rather it be on my own terms,” He says.

“Suicide pact?” You ask, only half joking.

He hums low as he considers it, “We can’t.”

Your brow raises.

“No?”

“The twenty-three,” he reminds you.

“The twenty-three,” you repeat, sucking on your teeth.

You let out a hefty exhale.

“Okay, Twenty-three. What’s to say they even want either of us to win? I have a feeling Eleven, One, and Titan would be alright seeing both of us die.”

“Yes,” He says, “But hate can’t be reasoned with.”

“Neither can love, apparently.”

“Ja,” He agrees through heavy breath.

You let out another sigh, as if all of these preparations for death are just really tuckering you out.

“I think that settles it then,” You say.

“What?”

“I’m willing to bend on the twenty-three front and you’re not. You believe there must be a victor, right?”

It’s not funny, but you still find a smile creeping onto your face.

“So come on, dude, put those muscles where your mouth is.”

He laughs as you nudge his shoulder.

His smile fades, and he asks, “What was it for if neither of us go home?”

Your smile drops, features going stone cold for a moment. Your tone lowers octaves when you speak.

“You know what it was for.”

It’s the closest either of you dare to step to criticism of the Capitol. It’s draped in plausible deniability, but the hatred that points your tongue has a clear target.

There’s a pause before you pick it back up.

“It’ll be different, y’know,” You say.

“Hm?”

“District Nine. You won’t have nothing anymore.”

His chest stills on a particularly heavy breath before he releases it.

“I don’t- I don’t want people to like me just because I won the games. It’s all- it’ll all be fake.”

He’s having trouble putting it into words, but you know what he means. That after years of being treated like an outcast, like you're worth nothing - the sudden praise, adoration, riches - will all be incredibly hollow. He doesn’t want love for being fit and strong and for surviving this nightmare.

For killing.

He wants love because of who he is, not for the heinous things he’s done.

Isn’t the same true for you?

If you go home, only the relationships you already have standing will ever truly be authentic. Every connection you’d make for the rest of your life would be for the wrong reasons.

“I won’t go home unless I can take you with me,” He says.

You sigh again.

“Stalemate,” You say, almost wistfully.

He hums, and there’s a drawn-out pause as you watch his fingers soothingly stroke the grass.

“Konig?”

“Yes?”

He meets your eyes, and you ask him a question you already know the answer to.

“Do you really love me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you need to do this for me. I can’t - I don’t want it, Konig,” You stare deeply into those blue eyes and shake your head, “If you really love me, you’ll let me go.”

Konig swallows, and he has to look away. His eyes dart around the four contrasting skies.

He can’t bring himself to speak, you can practically see the aching lump in his throat.

Tears begin to spring at your eyeline. Your voice is just a choppy whisper.

“You can come with me, if you want. But I can’t leave this arena, Konig. I’m sorry.”

He swallows, his eyes darting around.

He gives a slow, solemn nod.

“Thank you,” You say, more breath than voice.

He nods again, his lips pressing together and rolling between his teeth as he bites back any tears that threaten to spill.

You give his hand a squeeze, and he returns the gesture.

You lay for a while, watching the perfect white clouds in the spring quadrant billow overhead in a peaceful, yet sorrowful silence.

As the sun begins to set behind the desert, you turn your head to him.

“Guess we should, uh,” Your eyes briefly dart away, “Get it over with.”

He lets out a long, slow breath.

“Are you sure?” He asks.

You nod, “Yeah. Better do it now before me and my fearsome biceps chicken out.”

He gives you a sad smile that quickly fades.

“It’ll be easier,” you say, voice cracking from a dry mouth, “In the sunlight.”

You know how it is at night. The world draped in its eerie sadness. The time of day where the hard thoughts and feelings slink from the darkness and suffocate you with their ruthlessness.

Sunset, you want to die at sunset.

“Hey, uhm,” You trail off for a moment before picking your sentence back up, “I wanted to repay you, for the uh, token.”

You clear your throat as you watch his brows lower.

“Uhm, since I won’t be - well, y’know. I thought I’d uh, give you something. To remember me by.”

He blinks a few times, and when he doesn’t speak you add, “If you want it.”

He nods quickly, staring at you expectantly.

You fidget with your ribbon bracelet, swirling it around your wrist before you untie the knot.

You smooth out the length of ribbon and hold an end in each hand.

He stares at the slack in the ribbon between your hold with even features, his eyes only slightly widened.

“It’s, uh, well it’s not much. But it means-“ You let out a two-note nervous laugh before meeting his eyes. A hand comes up to rub the back of your neck, “It means a lot to me.”

There’s a beat, him staring into your eyes before he gently takes the ribbon in his hands.

“Are you sure?” He asks, eyeing it like the priceless treasure you see it as.

He lets the textile slide through his fingers as he studies the intricate pattern. He holds it so gently in those big, strong hands.

“I’ll keep it safe,” He says, “Forever.”

It hits all at once, the sore lump in the back of your throat, the hiccup that leaves you, the tears that well in your eyeline.

It surprises even you, just how fast he ripped these emotions from you.

You let out a sob, a whine, your eyes pinching shut and thrusting tears from your water line.

“Hey, hey,” He says soothingly, moving to your side so he can wrap an arm around your shoulder, “It’s going to be okay, mein sieger.”

You sniff, and give a nod, but the tears don’t stop falling.

“Thank you,” You say, with an unnervingly high pitch. You hiccup, voice resetting to a low whisper, “For the best day.”

He sucks in a sharp inhale. There’s a shake in his fingers, and he opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a choke. His irises flit quickly around your face, tears welling in his eyes.

“Thank you for the best day,” He repeats, and a single tear crests his waterline, trailing slowly down his cheek and catching along the crease of his mouth.

You turn so that you’re facing each him, flinging yourself into his arms. He does not hesitate to wrap those strong arms around you in a tight embrace, letting you sob into his chest and stain his shirt with tears.

He holds you until you’re ready, keeping you steady in his embrace, light fingers tracing up and down your back.

You pull away with a deep inhale, and nod. Your lips fold and your eyes close, tears thrust from your water line.

The sun is halfway set.

“Okay,” You say with a sniff, still nodding, “Okay.”

He nods too, and you both look at each other. Soaking in each other’s red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

An unsure look between two tributes who are just as unsure, just as lost, and just as afraid.

You let out a hefty breath, and stand to retrieve the knife, but unsteady legs fumble, and Konig steadies you by the waist and guides you back to the grass.

“No, no. It’s okay. Rest.”

You go to speak, but it comes out a choke, so you give a nod.

You lay back in the lush grass and close your eyes, moving more tears from your waterline, streaking down your temple as you thread your fingers over your waist.

He leans down and plants a long, soft, closed mouth kiss on your lips. His hand presses to the side of your face and carefully slides down the dip of your neck and lands on your shoulder. You breathe him in deeply, soaking in the sensation of his lips and his coarse stubble.

He pulls away, and while you don’t open your puffy eyes, you can feel him lingering overtop you. His shadow blocking out the light of sunset as he breathes you in, in your last moments alive.

You can hear the swish of his clothes as he rises slowly. He pauses when he’s stood, and you hear him make slow, unsteady steps to the fall quadrant.

There’s another long pause filled by the sound of the spring breeze.

Twisted into a question, he calls your name.

When you open your eyes, lifting up from the grass to find him.

You lock on to each other. His arms are extended, the knife in his clasped hands pointed to the ground in outstretched arms.

He gives you one last look, one last look that’s unsure.

You’re frozen, staring at him with parted lips and puffy, wide eyes.

“I love you,” He sucks in a broken breath, “And I’m sorry.”

His brows pinch in determination, his eyes screwed shut. His muscles relax with a long exhale. He turns his back to you, and you watch from behind as he lifts his arms.

“Konig - No!”

Your feet break into a run, but it’s too late. His shoulder blades pinch as his arms swing down.

He doubles over and his feet stumble on the dirt. His empty hands fall to his side, and a cry leaves you, so broken and raw you don’t even register it as your own voice.

“No!”

He crashes to his knees, lingering there for a moment before collapsing onto his side.

Your shins scrape across dirt, disrupting ginkgo petals as you slide to his side, nudging him until he’s flat on his back. Your first instinct is to pull the blade from the wound but you have the sense to stop yourself, your hands flailing in the space just inches above him, helpless and afraid to exacerbate the injury.

“Konig, no, no, no, what did you do?!”

Your words come out frantic as you look over the wound the knife is buried in, driven fully into his stomach and oozing deep red blood. It soaks into his clothes, down his sides, soaking the ginkgo leaves with a deep crimson.

“Oh, you idiot!”

Your head snaps to the sky, “Help him! Help him!”

He calls out your name, so soft and fragile you almost don’t hear it, “It’s okay.”

His weak hand manages to catch one of your shaking arms, and you still, letting his fingers slowly lace with yours.

“It’s okay,” He whispers again, his words broken with a guttural strain.

You choke on a sob, flicking around his features that slowly drain of color, tears spilling over and landing in droplets on his shirt.

“How could you do this?! How could you?!” You ask in a tone that’s not fit for use for a man on death’s doorstep, “We had a deal!”

“It’s yours.”

It takes all of his strength to muster up the power to speak, to give your hand a faint squeeze, and when you think of all the times he’s had to tone his strength down to hold you it makes you let out another broken sob.

“It was always for you, mein seiger.”

He stares into you with his final breaths, his expression forces a choked noise in the back of your throat.

“No!” You object, but his blood doesn’t stop creeping up his clothes and pooling onto yours.

“I love you,” He says, so quiet, his chapped, ghostly lips barely moving, “Always have. Since that day.”

A sharp inhale gets caught on the lump in your throat, choking on a squeak.

Your tears are spilling relentlessly now, his pale, ghastly face blurry through tears. You hold onto his hand so tight, as if you were the very thing keeping his heart beating.

“I love you too, Konig,” You lay your other hand gently on his twitching chest and give an impossible plead, “Don’t leave me.”

“It’s okay,” He says with another squeeze and the faintest nod, “We’ll be okay.”

As the life drains steadily from his eyes, he gives you one final look.

One final look that’s sure.

Once final look that’s found.

And it hits you.

You know how you can save him.

The Capitol can put any tribute back together, no matter how close to death they are.

But they’ll only do it if you are their victor.

The last one alive.

Without a moment of hesitation, you yank the blade from Konig’s wound with your free hand, your other still intertwined with his. You pinch your entire face and your heart twists at the moan that leaves him - even his cries of unimaginable pain are weak and muted.

When you open your swollen eyes, you can see the horrified look on his face. You’re not sure if it’s because you just hurt him, or because he knows what you’re about to do.

He is powerless to stop you, no longer strong enough to get the final say.

You can only hope that your heart stops beating first.

We’ll see who wakes up tomorrow, Konig.

As soon as you see his wound through his shredded shirt, now oozing blood twice as fast, you grit your teeth and drive the blade through your chest with a grunt. The tip catches on bone before sliding through a gap in your ribcage, stopping only when the handle is flush with your skin and the blade has skewered straight through your heart.

Immediately every muscle in your body contracts painfully, your hand squeezing Konig’s with a shaking, deathly grip. A harrowing, guttural groan escapes from the back of your throat and out of a slack jaw.

In the last few moments before your heart peters out, you share one final stare with Konig. His eyes are almost entirely drained of life, but there is still no mistaking the fleck of betrayal, of horror that could easily be overlooked by the untrained eye.

You lose his gaze as you collapse to the grass next to him, no longer able to support yourself. Wheezing gasps for breath leave your gaped lips as you crush Konig’s feeble hands.

Your vision is fading away, splotches of gray exploding like stars in front of your eyes as you’re dragged away from your body. You can’t fight the instinct to scratch and claw your way back to his side, but it is futile.

The world slips through your fingers as Konig’s hand goes limp in your hold.

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

Special Thank You to @melancholic-thing for always leaving lovely encouraging comments on my silly stories. Your support and feedback means the world to me and motivates me to keep writing <3 <3 You should absolutely check out her Konig fics if you haven’t she’s a very talented writer and her works are truly beautiful. OBSESSED with her interpretations of Konig. *chef kiss*

A sharp inhale tightens every muscle in your body. Bloody, wounded hands shoot out in front of you in a brace of pure instinct, chin tilting down and pinning to your chest. You’re hoping he’ll make it quick and as painless as possible. Maybe it’ll be a snap of a neck, just as he did with the boy from District Eleven. Dead before you even know what hit you.

Your brace tightens, teeth clenching when the heavy boot steps are only a few feet away, not breaking their strides. Strong, powerful arms wrap around your core and yank you off your feet with ease. You hold your tense for only a moment before relaxing into his restraint.

You don’t fight it.

You’re giving yourself to him, letting him do what needs to be done to get his win.

He stills, a moment passes, and you must be in shock. The knife he pierced through your gut must be too sharp or maybe your adrenaline is coursing so effectively you can’t yet feel the stab in the back. You’re just waiting to feel the impact, waiting for the unimaginable pain to tear through you, waiting for death.

After a moment you open your eyes, met with his chunky, coarse vest loaded with supplies scraping against your cheek.

You give a frantic brush with trembling hands over your front and back, blindly searching for the embedded blade.

He pulls away, keeping his hands on your upper shoulders as he looks you over with wide eyes brimmed with tears. You take the opportunity to examine your body, smoothing over your core to search for his puncture wound, but you come up empty, only managing to smear blood all over your clothes.

Scratchy gloves take your wrist and gently extends it to examine your flayed arm, soaking his gloves with your blood. You wince as he moves the shredded fabric of your jacket out of the way to get a good look at the evidence of your fight with District One. You watch with pinched eyes as he stares down the inflamed, deep gash she left on you, still oozing steadily.

“What happened?” He says, voice too soft for a man with a harsh voice who’s just killed a boy with his fists.

You look to him, confusion and fear stitched into every feature. When he sees your bewildered expression he quickly retracts his hands.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” He brings his hand to his hooded head and lets out a deep sigh that ends on a breathy croak, “I’m just glad you’re alive. I thought I lost you.”

You blink hard, pushing your jaw forward.

“What?” You say sharply, demanding explanation.

“Every time the cannon went off ich- I thought it was you,” He lets out another heavy, relieved sigh.

“You wanted to be the one to kill me?”

His eyes pinch, “Wh- No! I- I-”

“Spit it out.”

His eyes widen from their confused position, he fumbles his words as he sputters out an answer, “I- I just didn’t want you to die.”

You swallow, and look to your boots. Your forehead wrinkles, your head shaking.

“No,” You say in complete invalidation of his statements. You don’t believe his words, you don’t believe that he hasn’t killed you yet.

“You ran away from me,” He lets out another sigh, “At the beginning.”

You take a step back, throwing out your blood-soaked arms, flicking droplets of blood on the grass, “You tried to kill me!”

He eyes scrunch in a way that suggests you’ve just said the most offensive statement in the world.

“I was trying to get you out of there!” He shoots back.

“You-“

That pulls you up short.

You make a quarter turn, staring to the stained grass as you run over the events of the bloodbath, “You killed that boy, and then-“

“He was going to kill you,” He says with an urgent tone that steals your attention.

“You-“

Your eyes narrow at him, brows pinched and teeth bared, “You said you would only kill if you needed to!”

His eyes crinkle at your spit accusatory words, his muscles tensing for a moment before his shoulders relax, his voice taking on a gentle but insistent tone.

“I did need to.”

You watch him carefully, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth by staring into the only exposed part of him. His eyes are too soft, too pained to be dismissed.

“You don’t need to trick me. You’ve already won.”

Your voice doesn’t exactly convey confidence.

“I’m not tricking you,” He takes a careful step towards you, palms up, “That boy was going to kill you.”

He finishes on your name, spoken so soft and sweet it makes you want to believe his words.

You mull over it for a moment, chewing on his words, the look in his eye, and still you are convinced he’s hiding something, manipulating you. His actions don’t make sense.

The questions come out rapid fire, finding yourself as frustrated as you normally do when the answer doesn't come easy to you, “Why? Why did you kill Eleven? Why didn’t you kill me with Titan? Why aren’t you killing me now?!” Your urgent questions are pointed, offensive more than curious.

His hand pulls up to his chest, and he freezes.

You throw out your arms again, “Why, Konig?!”

“This is what you wanted,” He whispers after another pause, his voice unsteady.

“It’s what everyone wants! What is this?!” You gesture aggressively in the space between you both, splattering his shirt with your own blood, “What was Two talking about?!”

His horrified eyes flick between either of yours, stammering through various unintelligible syllables before cutting himself off with a close of his eyes and a deep breath.

He finds your face again and lands on a response. When he speaks, he sounds like a child, even through that scratchy, intense voice.

“You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

The muscles in your face relax as you process his sentence.

You swallow and stare down at the lush grass, ashamed, because the first thought that comes to mind is -

‘We’re friends?’

Friends.

That -

You hadn’t considered.

This entire time you’ve been so caught up in trying to decipher Konig’s strategy, the intentions and manipulations motivating his actions, but you never stopped to consider that the two of you actually had something. Well, no - you knew there was something, but all of the actions could have been explained away simply because you were two tributes who were terrified in their final days of life - a bond formed in mutual trauma, or perhaps a strategy to lure you in with his comfort.

Friends.

When did this happen?

Had he thought of you as one this whole time?

How stupid can you be?

The glass of water, the coffee, the handholding, the token, the pleas for allyship, keeping each other warm, and making each other feel better after a hard day.

How stupid can he be?

Making friends with someone only for it to end a week later in this arena, becoming attached to someone destined to die.

You look up to him again, brows pinched and forehead wrinkled as you reframe everything. When you speak, your voice is a broken wisp of air in his direction.

“How did we let this happen?”

You know he understands, the way he looks at you without words, nothing but pain and uncertainty in his sloped eyes. He understands that making friends with someone who is destined to die was a recipe for heartbreak, and he understands that the bittersweet final meal has been served.

As slim as the odds, you two ending up face-to-face at the end was always a possibility.

You were sure you were going to die before you’d have to face him.

Now here you both are, two tributes, two friends, and only one of you can leave this arena alive.

Maybe this wasn’t the way. Maybe it would have been best if he’d gutted you as soon as he was finished with Two.

The laugh starts small, just a scoff. It turns to a snicker, then a chuckle, which snowballs into a fit of hysterical cackling.

It’s not the poison gas this time.

This is raw, genuine laughter. Billowing from deep inside you and echoing boisterously through the four quadrants.

It’s not funny.

But you have to laugh - because of course.

Of course you would do this. Let your emotions bleed where they shouldn’t.

It’s your signature move.

Of course you both were going to make it to the finale.

Of course you now have to be killed by Konig, by a friend.

Wasn’t this the ending all along?

Konig looks alarmed, and then his eyes relax, and he gives a soft, three-note laugh, and shortly after he succumbs fully to the contagion. A song you’ve never heard, it’s hearty and warm, intertwining with yours to make a chorus of snorts and guffaws.

Your core doubles over your crossed arms, still generously bleeding and painting the blades of grass by your feet a deep crimson.

Tears well in your eyes and quickly trail down your cheeks as you gasp for air.

This is a full detox.

An expelling of every pent up, overwhelming emotion you’ve felt the past two weeks. The mistrust, the jealousy, the anger, the fear, the pain. Subjected to the heinous, brutal slaughters of children. It’s all flowing from you, and soon you’re not sure if you’re laughing or sobbing. Konig’s laughter dies down before yours, worried when he notices the hysterical tears streaming down your cheeks.

A hand extends in your direction, but he quickly withdraws it, helplessly staring on as you break down.

You can’t stop it, the dam has bursted. The whirlpool of thoughts that have been steadily rising since the reaping have spilled over and is pouring from you uncontrollably.

You have reached your absolute limit.

A genuine, broken wail leaves you, fully transitioned from a laughing fit to cries of pain.

When you pinch off your vision, heavy tears thrusted from your waterline, you’re met with the bounce of Eleven off his platform, narrowing in on his lifeless eyes.

His neck is already broken but the echoes of bones snapping against metal still rattle in your ears.

It’s followed immediately by the horrific image of the girl from District Eight. Her maimed wails and flooded eyes and exposed, moving muscle. The squelch of One’s eye, the haunting rip of her optic nerve, the feeling of her plunging herself on the spear - reverberating through the staff of the spear and up your slashed arms. The sound of Titan’s face being caved in, repeated blows that crack bones, countless razors tearing through his flesh on his dissent.

It’s on replay, the crunching of bone deafening you with its escalating grinds, the moans of the maimed, the rip of an eye from its socket, the sound of a thousands razors ripping through a faceless, limp body.

Your fists race to cover your ears, to stave off Eight’s moans of unimaginable pain, your eyes pinched tighter to rid the sight of Eleven’s brutal death, digging your nails into flayed palms to rid the feeling of an eye being gouged by your hand.

All of them cycle, ripping through you one after another.

You drop to your knees in the grass, core doubling over. Konig follows you down on one knee, one of his gentle hands finding your uninjured shoulder. When you raise your face again, it’s streaked with tears.

“I keep hearing it! I can’t stop hearing it!” You yell through a sob, followed by broken gasps as you curl toward your lap again.

“I know, I know,” He whispers.

“It won’t stop!” The tears are flowing relentlessly now, and you don’t even have the mind to wipe them away.

“Mein sieger, look at me,” His other hand lets a finger under your chin, gently guiding your jaw up.

Through the blur of welled tears you find him, those eyes peeking through the holes in his hood.

“It’s okay, it’s- it’s going to be okay,” He doesn’t seem too sure of this himself, his eyes darting around for a solution that doesn’t exist, but he pushes on, “I’m going to fix your cuts.”

You sniff, arms too soaked in blood to wipe away your snot.

“Just listen to me. Don’t listen to it. Just listen to my voice.”

He swallows, searching frantically on the spot for his next words.

His eyes widen in the presence of an idea, “Do you remember that day? In District Nine?”

You groan at the memory, an involuntary hiccup following.

“That boy,” He takes a breath while he pulls out a water bottle and a cloth from his pack, setting them on the grass,

“Spewing names at me. Blocking my path.”

His eyes find yours again, brows pinched as if he’s worried that he’s somehow making it worse, “And you, you just came out of nowhere. You let out the,” He looks to the grass again, and gives a quick, breathy laugh, “You let out the angriest noise I’ve ever heard.”

Konig helps you peel off your jacket as gently as he can, patiently sliding it off as he works around your wincing. He pulls the sleeves away from your gash so the fabric doesn’t swipe against it.

“You couldn’t see it, I’m sure, but the look on his face when you grabbed him by the back of the shirt-“ He cuts himself off, “I had never seen anything like it.”

He uses the water bottle to wash the blood away, letting you squeeze his hand with your good palm as you endure the pain brought forward by the water.

“For a second it looked like you were trying to dance with him, spinning him around.”

You remember it clearly, using your weight and pivoting on your heels to jerk him in a near complete circle, grip tight on the back of his shirt before you let go to slam him into the wall of the dingy hall.

“You got him against the wall - I thought for sure you broke his collar bones.”

The boy had looked genuinely afraid, entirely taken by surprise. Your forearm had dug into him, pinning him to the wall with enough force to portray threat. He had the look of a boy who had never expected any consequences to his behavior.

Konig moves down your arm, washing away the blood from shoulder to hand.

“I still remember what you said, word for word. You said,” He lifts his voice in a faint imitation of your spitting words, “‘I am so sick of you all picking on him. It’s more than obvious you do it because you’re ashamed of yourselves. If I catch you doing it again I’m going to show you what it’s like to pick on someone your own size!’”

He shakes his head and looks to the sky, “He had six inches and at least 40 pounds on you.”

You laugh with him this time, yours nasal from crying, following with a sniffle.

“And then you threw him away,” His hand lifts to briefly imitate the movement, “Shoved his back. He almost tripped flat on his face.”

He retrieves a second water bottle from his pack and a small tin canister he sits in the grass before he uses his teeth to remove his glove.

He continues, “He never did mess with me again. I think a few of his friends stopped too.”

“He’s scurried off at the sight of me ever since,” You sniff and your lips warp, “I always felt bad about that. Like I went too hard on the poor guy.”

When the boy had ran off, you met Konig’s eyes, your chest heaving as huffs left your parted lips, fists tight at your side. Pointed features softened when you saw his face, his wide eyes, sprung brows, and a slack jaw. You sucked in a sharp inhale and froze for just a moment before you got out of there, running from the shame that had begun to burn your skin as soon as you saw his expression.

He uses his gloveless fingertips to scoop up some sort of clear gel from the tin.

“He certainly got the message.”

He uses his free hand and a bit more water to wash out the wounds on your shoulder, gently pats the mutilated flesh with a washcloth, and then smears the gel on your skin.

Immediately you feel relief. The burning pain of the hedge’s slices completely dissipates, and you can’t help but sigh in content.

He gently rubs the medicine across your wounds, turning pink as the clear gel mixes with the blood rushing to replace what Konig wiped away.

“Sorry I freaked out,” You say quietly, a little embarrassed of your breakdown.

His brows lower, “It’s okay. I hear it too.”

“Why are you helping me?” You ask softly, “Why go through the trouble of nursing my wounds if you’re just going to kill me anyway?”

You wince as another stream of water splashes against the deep gash One left behind.

“Sorry,” he whispers, ignoring your question and dabbing the cloth against the deep wound. He quickly scoops up more medicine and slides it over the surface of the inflamed skin before too much more blood can flow out.

“Ever since that day I wanted to thank you. To talk to you. I just,” He cuts himself off, eyes darting around for a moment, “I didn’t know how.”

He gently wraps his gloved hand around your good forearm, bringing forward the slashes on your palm.

“I thought I scared you off.”

He laughs, “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

He pours water over your palm, another dab of the cloth, and a generous smearing of medicine.

All of your pain is gone. The medicine has completely numbed your wounds, cooling the unrelenting burn of the slashes and almost immediately staunches the flow of blood.

“It feels so much better,” you say with a sigh.

“Good,” he says.

Your voice drops softer, a curious hint to it, “Why didn’t you ever, y’know,” You pause, shoulders pulling up, “Defend yourself? You could have scared them off easy.”

He swallows, a gentle hand reaching for the bandages. He’s quiet for a moment, avoiding your eyes.

When he speaks his words are strained, “I’ve misjudged my strength before.”

Your brows shoot up at the implication. You so desperately want to probe further, but it’s clear from his tone this is a sore spot for him. You stay quiet instead, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve never gotten physical since, until,” He trails off again, abandoning his sentence.

“Yeah,” You say on a breathy exhale, letting him know he didn’t need to say it.

Lifeless eyes, crunching bones.

He unrolls the bandage and begins to loop it around the gash on your arm. He makes sure the bandages are firm on your wounds, slices it from the roll, and tucks the end into itself.

You get out a sheepish, “Thank you,”

He nods, his voice low, “Of course.”

He guides your arm out again, starting a new loop around with the bandage around your palm.

When he’s done, he packs the supplies into his backpack as you look down to your wrapped hand, rubbing over the nude-colored bandage with your thumb.

Konig grabs a clean cloth and pours a little water on it, extending it carefully towards your face.

“Here,” He says, his gloved fingertip just barely grazing you as he tilts your chin up. You obediently close your eyes, letting him run small circles with the wet cloth to wash away a mixture of dirt, One’s blood, and your own.

“Why are you doing this?” You whisper, low and gentle, but he doesn’t respond. When you open your eyes to meet his stare, his masked face reveals nothing to you, other than his unwavering focus on cleaning your face. Carefully massaging the damp cloth in circles over your skin, taking care not to apply too much pressure. He even wipes away your snot.

“Thank you,” You whisper, “For saving my life.”

There’s a pause before you add, “And for letting me come to terms with my death.”

He nods, looking down, “I guess we’re even now.”

You laugh, your voice regaining some of its strength, “I think yours might blow mine out of the water.”

He shrugs, “Well, I have to repay with interest. Took me long enough.”

He pauses for a beat, “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

He starts to dig in his pack, but stops when the ground begins to shake. His arms dart out of the pack to wrap around you and in return your hands claw at the collar of his vest to pull him close. You cling to each other to keep steady on your knees, sharing a wide-eyed, worried look through the vibration that shakes your bodies and blurs your vision.

The gamemakers must be angry at you both, not giving them the showdown they were owed. You can see the hedge walls parting, its previous entrances reappearing in their normal spot.

When the ground stops shaking, neither of you let go, clinging to each other as you stare frozen at the entrance. Shallow breaths leave parted lips as you tighten your grip on each other, waiting for the threat that’s soon to be released.

It doesn’t come.

Minutes pass before you turn to him.

“They might just want us to leave so they can take the bodies,” you whisper.

He gives a shaky nod, but you still stay frozen in your spot, holding onto each other and staring deeply at the entrance.

When both of your hearts slow, when fearful breaths ease, you decide to do what the gamemakers want you to do.

What choice do you have?

He stands first, his hand extended to help you up. When you get to your feet, though, you linger on his gloved hand and give him a squeeze before you let go.

He leads as you both creep towards the exit, still wary of the possibility of a cruel trap.

Konig wordlessly insists you wait for him to make sure the coast is clear using the same gesture he did when the careers approached you both in training, an arm shooting out in front of you as if to hold you back. He pokes his head out, careful not to make contact with the walls as he swivels his head to scan for threat.

“It looks safe,” He says, but you both stand for a bit longer before inching outside of the maze.

You’re surprised to find the arena entirely restored. The fall quadrant has reappeared, its trees as brilliant and colorful as ever. There’s no evidence of the avalanche, the snow returned to its original height and perfect pine trees retain their snow-dusted caps. The desert’s sandstorm has settled, the dunes not disturbed in the slightest.

Nothing attacks you as you leave the maze, careful steps in the direction of the cornucopia.

The gamemakers must have simply wanted to collect the bodies, because you both standby as the hovercraft appears.

When the claw descends, you turn away together. You can’t bear to watch the corpses of the girl from one and the boy from two be lifted into the air.

Without thinking, your hand reaches up to take a hand that sits much higher than yours. He accepts immediately, intertwining his large, calloused hand with yours. He gives you a gentle squeeze, and you know what it means. That he shares the pain you feel, that he is just as unsure, and just as lost as you.

You keep your fingers laced with his until you near the spot where the four quadrants meet, stopping about twenty feet away.

He sets his bag down, and you follow his lead when he sits in the plush grass.

The food just keeps coming.

Bread, cheese, apples, dried meat, stew, an orange, a weird, large brown nut of some kind?

With wide eyes and mouth already watering you ask, “Where did you get all this?”

He hesitates for a moment, “Some came with the backpack - the apples, the bread and the meat. The rest I got from sponsors.”

Your brows furrow, “You got sponsors?”

Of course he did. If you were a sponsor you’d pick him too.

“Yeah, what did you get?” He asks, picking up the apple and handing it to you.

“Well-“

Guttural moans, exposed muscle.

“District Eight sent me some things,” You say with a wince.

His head tilts, “They did?”

“Uh, yeah, I-” You clear your throat, the echoes of her pain on your ears, “I helped them- with something.”

He tilts his head again, and looks at you expectantly.

“The girl,” You start, “She- I helped her.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and his voice is soft when he speaks, “You allied with her?”

You shake your head and pull your knees to your chest. You touch your ribbon bracelet, soaked with blood.

“It was mercy. I - I - didn’t-“

“Sorry,” He says, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Price didn’t, though,” You say after a moment, almost embarrassed, “Send me anything, I mean.”

It hurts to know Price showered Konig with gifts while you got nothing.

You look to the sky and make a vague gesture that reads as annoyed. As if you were saying to the sponsors, to Price, ‘What, I wasn’t good enough? Well look, I made it this far!’

You don’t show it, but it stings. Logically you knew Konig was the smart bet. That if you were District Nine’s mentor, that if you were a Capitol better, you would have prioritized Konig’s survival over yours any day.

It still hurts having it confirmed, knowing that you were not good enough for Price’s attention.

Konig laughs as you raise the apple to your lips, “They just knew you were smart enough to make it without their help.”

You roll your eyes as your teeth pierce through the apple’s skin, sucking out its tart insides.

“I don’t know about that,” You say under your breath, but you appreciate him trying to ease the blow.

“It’s true,” He insists with an accompanying point, “Look, you’re here. You did it without anyone’s help. I surely would have died without it.”

“Plucky got lucky,” You say definitively, “And everyone knows it.”

Underneath it, though, you wonder if he’s right. The truth is, you really didn’t need help in the arena. You didn’t have to put that girl out of her misery - well, you did, but if your plea had gone unanswered you would have made it work regardless. Other than that, you haven’t really needed anything.

He shrugs, his voice a bit gruff as he puts his attention to spreading cheese on bread with his knife, “I don’t.”

You roll your eyes again, “You sound like Price. Even you were surprised to see me at the end.”

He shrugs, “I was just worried about you, is all.”

“Because you knew that I was probably going to die.”

“Because the arena is dangerous.”

“Exactly! It’s all,” You huff, “There’s a big luck element.”

He cuts you off with a nudge, offering a handful of cheese smothered bread, “Even your arguments are too smart for me.”

Your laugh makes your fingers brush against his when you take the bread from him.

You’re eager to sink your teeth into its crust, creamy cheese over soft perfect Capitol bread, you can’t help but groan into it.

“So good,” You say with a mouthful, not bothering to swallow, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

When you finish your slice of bread, he starts on another for you at once.

“Where have you been?” He asks, smearing the soft cheese over the golden brown crust, “I tried to look for you.”

You stare into the brightly colored leaves of the fall landscape before gesturing in the direction of the red maple and yellow ginkgo trees, “Over there.”

Konig nods, “That’s where I thought you went at the beginning. I tried to follow but I lost you, and when I went searching you were too clever for me to find.”

Your eyes are starting to ache from rolling at his compliments.

Just then, a silver parachute floats down to the sky.

You both look to each other with raised brows. When it lands on the grass a few feet from you, he stands to retrieve the canister before handing it over to you.

You struggle to pop it open, and inside you reveal a bundle of blackberries, a tin of juice, and a cookie.

“There’s a lot.”

“Price is making it up to you,” Judging solely by the crinkle in his eye, he grins as he sits in the soft grass, “With interest.”

You look to the sky again, squinting from the sun and giving a wave of thanks. You share the smile before you spread the food out with the others.

“Where have you been?” You ask, popping a berry into your mouth.

“The desert.”

“The desert?” You ask with an almost disgusted inflection, snapping your head in his direction, “How did you survive in the heat?”

Konig lifts his chin, pulling up his hood as he swipes along his neck, nails catching on a clear, razor thin mesh fabric that appears out of nowhere.

He stands to strip it from the outside of his clothes, handing you a long crumbled fabric of transparent mesh.

“Woah,” You get out, thinking back to his embrace, pushed right up to the snake-skin like fabric but never feeling it or noticing it. You roll the fabric between your fingers, “I didn’t even see it before. What is it?”

You stick a hand in one of the sleeves as he answers, and immediately your arm is hit with a cool breeze that chills your skin and raises goosebumps.

“I couldn’t even feel the heat,” he says, “And I figured it would be safest, since no one else should have been able to survive there without a pair.”

“What’s out there?” You ask with a tilt of your head, letting the body suit rest in your lap.

“Mostly sand and spiky plants,” He starts to peel the orange. “You probably would have figured out there was water in them long before I did.”

He flicks away part of the peel.

You find the fabric of the suit again. “Can I try it?”

He nods, and you stand, slipping into the mesh suit. It melds instantly to your clothes, disappearing into the fabric as you pull it over your body.

“This is so weird,” You say with a laugh at the breeze that hits your skin, “I’m gonna try the desert.”

He stands to follow in your wake, and you practically run to test it out, ignoring your sore ankles.

When your boots hobble unsteadily on sand, Konig stops close to the border, arms crossed as he watches you run around, “You’re right! I can’t even feel it.”

You stop and even do a few weak jumping jacks to work up a sweat, but your feet can’t make it far off the ground with the sand swallowing your feet.

“Try these,” He says, popping off a thin, undetectable shoe attachment from his boots and leaning forward to hand the pair to you.

You lift up one foot, brushing off grains of sand from the soles before you snap on the attachment. It shrinks from Konig’s incredibly large shoe size to yours, and when you put your foot down, instead of sinking into the sand, your boots conform to the uneven dips and grooves.

“Feels like I’m on solid ground,” You say before snapping the other attachment on. You test them out by jogging in circles.

You come to a stop once you’ve had enough, walking with ease back into the spring quadrant.

“No wonder you did well in the desert,” You pop off the attachments to return them to him, but he waves like he doesn’t need them, and you just toss them to the side.

You peel off the skin tight suit as well, the cool breeze now chilling you beyond comfort in the spring air.

“Oh!” Your face lights up, “There was another thing I wanted to try.”

You move to the spot where the four quadrants meet, in the mouth of the cornucopia, and look for just a moment before stepping on it.

You can feel all four temperatures at once, the heat of the desert, the freeze of the snow, a light spring and chill fall air. Overstimulating and causing your body to fire contradicting temperature responses.

You step back into the grass, “Weird.”

You turn to Konig, just steps behind, and he gives it a try too.

He gives a soft laugh once he’s had his turn.

“Very,” He says.

You return and settle on the grass near his pack, already eyeing up the food waiting for you.

You take a sip of juice and pass it to Konig, and he takes your offer and sets it down on the grass before continuing to peel the orange. You actually close your eyes to breathe in the scent of fresh citrus, sighing on your exhale.

“I missed food. I’ve been living on corn and seeds.”

“I’m sorry,” He says, voice soft and full of regret as he looks up from the half-peeled orange, “I wish I could have been there for you. I would have shared it all.”

“It’s my own fault,” You say, shifting as you settle on the grass, “I didn’t want to hold you back.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

You stare off into the fall forest until Konig extends some orange slices to you. When you bite down, it bursts in your mouth and coats your tongue in its delicious insides. It actually sends a shudder down your spine at the overwhelming refreshment.

You both eat silently for a while, and your eyes eventually find the weird large brown seed he had set to the side.

You stick a hand out to feel it, its outside coated in thick coarse hairs, “What is this?”

Konig shrugs, “Not sure, it’s good though. Found it on a tree in the desert. He takes a spoonful of stew and speaks around a mouthful, “There’s this place I found. I think you’d like it.”

“You ate it without knowing what it was?”

He shrugs again, “I’m still alive.”

You snort, and he asks, “Do you want to see it? It’s very pretty.”

“The nut?” You ask.

“No,” he says with a breathy laugh, “The desert.”

“I thought it was just sand?”

“Mostly,” He picks up the large nut and holds it out, “There’s a place out there, though. There’s this big pool of water with a waterfall, you can see all the way to the bottom. It wasn’t hot there. Ach, and there’s these tall trees out there too.”

You give him a look like he’s speaking gibberish, your voice taught with disbelief to match, “In the desert?”

“Yes!” He says, ending on a laugh, “I’m not lying. It’s perfect there. We can wash off, too.”

He digs into his pack, pulling out a second temperature controlled suit, “I kept this just in case,” he trails off for a moment, abandoning the rest of his sentence, “It didn’t take up much room, anyway.”

He extends the wrinkled fabric out to you and gives it a little shake when you don’t take it, “Trust me.”

You look into those eyes that have shared so many unsure glances with you, and you can’t help but fold at how sure they look now.

“Okay,” you say, taking the suit from him. He grabs the discarded suit before tucking the food away in his pack.

At the border you both put them on, watching with fascination as they melt into your clothes and skin. He leads you through the sand, and while he doesn’t have an extra pair of shoe attachments, he insists you be the one who wears them.

“To help you keep balance,” You say, offering your unbandaged hand.

He graciously takes it in yours, and you both move through the sand side by side. He doesn’t seem to take your offer to support himself with you, but he keeps your hand in his. The mesh of the suit doesn’t interfere with the feeling of his hand pressed against yours, you can still feel the softness of his palm, the callouses just below the start of his fingers, the gentle squeezes as he navigates the dips in the sand.

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch for a little bit?”

“You have shorter strides anyway,” He says.

You walk in silence for a bit more, locked by the hands and aside from tired ankles, perfectly comfortable in the desert conditions.

“What do you think everyone thinks of this?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“The final two not,” You pause for a moment, “Fighting.”

“I don’t know.” He says, “Probably a little disappointed.”

“You think? I thought maybe it’s interesting, at the very least. It’s never happened before as far as I know of.”

He shrugs, “Not sure they need help making it interesting.”

“I guess you’re right.”

A few more paces and another silver parachute floats down from the sky.

You both still as it comes to a graceful stop in the sand just in front of your shoes.

You look at Konig, and he gestures to it, suggesting it’s yours. You carefully pick it up and pop open the canister to unsheathe a second pair of shoe attachments.

You give him a sly smile and hand them over, “Maybe they don’t mind after all.”

He waves a thanks into the sky and lets you steady him as he snaps them onto his shoes. You travel much quicker as you both glide over the sand that’s eager to swallow your feet.

“There’s those plants,” He says as he points to tall, cylindrical looking plants, some of them stretching ten feet in the air. It almost looks like they have arms, thick dusty green branches of itself splitting at the middles and reaching for the sky.

“Don’t touch them,” He warns.

“No?” You ask.

“Covered in spikes,” He says.

“Learn that the hard way?” You ask.

He huffs air out of his nose, rolling his eyes slightly, “It’s possible.”

You give a laugh, and he gives a glare at you from the corner of his half-lidded eyes. He follows it up with a soft squeeze of your hand, just to make sure you know he’s teasing.

There’s a roar in the distance, the sound of a steady, consistent rumble.

“What is that noise?” You ask, a bit frantic.

“No, no,” He reassures, “It’s okay. It’s the waterfall.”

You raise a brow, still skeptical.

As you approach, your face falls as you take in the oasis before you, “You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you,” He says with a squeeze.

Wedged in the height of a large sand dune are large, slick slabs of rock that water spews over, a cascade of thousands of gallons pouring down into a crystal blue lake of water. The pool is ringed by tall, slender trees that shoot straight up into the sky, leaves only in a puff at the very top, those large brown seeds clustered together under the leaves. It doesn’t look like any tree you’ve ever seen in District Nine.

The roar of the waterfall is so loud, you have to raise your voices to talk to each other.

“Is it safe?” You ask. You don’t trust something that’s this pretty in the arena, the same way you didn’t trust the trees or the vegetables in the fall quadrant.

He nods, “I spent a lot of time here. It’s safe.”

You near the edge of the lake, where you break your hold on each other so he can kneel in the sand and dig in his pack. He pulls out both of your jackets, heavily stained with a tapestry of various tributes’ blood.

He begins to wash them in the pool as you scrutinize the water, hesitantly poking your finger in.

It’s clear all the way down, easily seeing the sea plants at the bottom that dance under the warp of the water. There’s a few fish swimming in the pool, enjoying a spot of splotchy shade the leaves of a tall tree casts. They don’t look like any fish you’ve ever seen, brilliant colors and striped designs.

“Thank you,” You say, shaking away your wet hand, “For bringing me here.”

“Of course,” He doesn’t look up from his scrubbing.

You sit back from your squat, and you try to unlace your boots before you’re stopped.

“Oh, right,” You say, remembering the mesh bodysuit.

“You can take it off now,” He says, “It’s comfortable here.”

You hesitate before stripping off your suit, tucking it into Konig’s backpack to avoid sand. You unlace your shoes, peel off your socks and stash them neatly in the mouths of your boots. After, you roll your pant legs up and dip a foot in carefully.

“What happened to your ankles?” Konig says, horrified when he sees the deep pink bruises you’ve revealed.

“Ugh,” You groan as you step both your feet in the water, “So embarrassing. I got caught in someone’s snare.”

“A snare?”

“Yeah,” You nod, watching your toes wiggle into the sand, “I figured it out though. They had me strung up by my feet upside down.

“How did you get out?” He says, amazed.

“Used my belt to hoist me up to my boots. It hurt so bad.”

“Did they find you?”

You shake your head, “Well, I don’t know if it was his trap but the boy from District Eight heard me.”

He goes silent, staring at you with wide eyes.

You shrug, “He didn’t hurt me, he just kept asking about the girl from his district.”

You swallow hard, and look down to the wrist dawning your bracelet.

Your voice is strained when you speak, “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“What he did to her?”

His expression drops, taking on a sudden serious tone at the haunted look on your face.

“What?”

He studies your face intensely, and your eyes pinch in a hard blink.

“What happened?” He asks.

“I think he volunteered just so he could be the one to,” you hesitate, “Kill her.”

You were way off. About the boy from District Eight and his companion.

About Konig.

You hate being wrong.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” You say, “I don’t understand why he would risk his life just to end someone’s else’s, when she was probably going to die anyway?”

“Hate can’t be reasoned with,” He says without much thought, and you pause your wading, digesting his words.

He’s right. It reminds you of what Price said, about spite getting the best of you.

You couldn’t imagine hating someone so much you’d volunteer just to get the chance to be the one who gets to end someone’s life.

One of your feet wiggles into the sand, the other swirling in the water.

You watch as Konig wrings out the jackets, walking over to a nearby tree to tie the sleeves around its trunk to dry.

When he returns, sitting himself down at the edge of the water, he starts to scrub the mixture of yours and Titan’s blood from his thick gloves.

“Your bandages should be good now,” He says.

“What do you mean?”

“Your cuts. They should be good now.”

You wade back out of the shallow pool, brows furrowed as you unwrap the bandages on your palm.

In just a short time, the medicine has reduced the inflamed jagged slashes on your palm to thin, faint pink lines.

You mutter under your breath, your awe drowned out by the waterfall.

You peel the other bandages off, finding all of your cuts to be in the last stages of the healing process. You hadn’t been able to feel their sting since Konig applied the medicine. Even the deep gash on your forearm has sealed, only a baby pink, decently sized scar in its place.

“Okay?” He asks, looking up at you with a squint.

“Perfect,” You say, rubbing over the cuts on your shoulder that has reduced to scars the size of papercuts, “Did you get that from a sponsor? It must have been expensive.”

“No, actually,” He hangs onto an ‘äh,’ for a moment, hesitating before he responds, “Found it with some other supplies.”

You give a slow nod, not quite believing his answer.

He’s a bad liar.

He rests his gloves on his pack, and fills both of your water containers. While he does this, you tuck Konig’s token into a pocket of his pack, strip off your shirt and kick off your pants, careful not to get sand caught in the wrinkles of the cloth. Now down to your sports bra and underwear, you drape your clothes over his pack.