#And two fucking snow days? In a row??

[cartoonghosts]

pacing emotionally like a caged dog over here. Im spending too much time inside and im kind of losing it again

[sunbloomdew]

he's not fooling anyone

the og meme

[littencloud9]

sad face i wish i could experience the seasons

[bizlybebo]

where the hell is the snow it’s been two years of this

[wereh0gz]

Genuinely starting to regret going to that hiring event and getting this job. My boss literally Does Not Communicate Ever

[deathbecomesthem]

Blizzard

Eddie Munson x a Blizzard treat

MINORS DNI - +18 ONLY

For @jo-harrington. This was meant for your birthday, but we know that didn't happen. I love you forever.

Summary: Eddie works at the DQ and gets weird with some ice cream.

CW: Male masturbation, food play, brief discussion of vomit.

--

Eddie is torn between two paths of thought - needing cash in his pocket, therefore needing to go to work - and wondering what is the point of selling ice cream in the winter. The defroster in the van quit working in early spring, and Eddie had done what Eddie does - put it off. Well, now it’s cold again, and he’s wiping off as much of the frost accumulated on his windshield as he can with the crumbled Burger King napkins he found on the floor of the passenger’s seat.

He’s thinking about simply turning around and heading back into the trailer where he can at least crawl under the comforter in his bedroom to keep warm, and then he remembers that he can’t fix the defroster in the van without some form of income. Goddamn Rick for getting pinched again so soon after the last time. Eddie’s more than a little concerned that the next time he gets picked up it’s going to be for longer than the usual 90 days in lock up. How many strikes has it been? Surely more than three. Eventually Magistrate Johnson won’t be able to turn him loose on the good people of Roann County, even if that means facing the wrath of Rick’s favorite second cousin who also happens to be his wife. 

It could be worse, he could be working at the arcade still. It was 4 blissful hours behind the cash register before that red headed kid, Brant?, puked all over Donkey Kong. Eddie had a fleeting thought that he might be able to handle the situation, and then the smell hit him square in the face. He was out the door before Keith could get the mop from the back room, reaching back in to leave his name tag on Pac-Man as an afterthought.

Of course he knows that vomit can happen anywhere, but Eddie is fully prepared to immediately quit any job that requires him to get up close and personal with someone else’s bodily fluids. Technically, it’s a part of his side work to clean the bathrooms at the DQ after close, but technically, no one ever fucking checks, so technically, it’s the problem of whoever opens the next day. It doesn’t matter, this job is just a placeholder. Well, that’s what he tells himself, anyway.

Eddie climbs up into the cab and turns the key. The old girl coughs back, but ultimately turns over. He kisses the ends of his fingers and pats the dash. Good girl. He cranks the defroster while saying a little prayer that maybe it fixed itself overnight. Regardless, he needs that air to keep the windshield from fogging up while he makes his 15 minute commute to the edge of town. It’s a blizzard out there, and the irony isn’t lost on him. Driving in a blizzard to serve blizzards for $3 an hour.

—

“There he is,” Eddie can hear Lynn before he can see her. He’s late again. 

“Sorry,” Eddie calls as he shakes the snow off his jacket. He grabs an apron that’s just clean enough to not give him the heebie jeebies, and heads towards the front of the store. “The roads suck, maybe we should just shut it down for the night…”

Lynn is standing at the cash register, but she’s not alone. A customer is standing in front of her, and not just any customer. It’s you. Eddie slows his steps and lowers his head, as if he could disappear behind the curtain of his curls. 

“Eddie, can you please get your ass over here and take over the register? I need to get home before the babysitter decides to take off. Three days in a row, Munson.” Lynn doesn’t wait for Eddie to acknowledge her words, she’s pushing her way through the kitchen to the back door while he’s still tying his apron strings.

Eddie takes in a breath and looks up to meet your eyes. He’s pleased to see you still looking at the menu above his head so he can scan your face unobserved. You got your hair cut since he last saw you; it’s sitting on your shoulders under your blue knit hat. 

“Can I get a small Oreo blizzard -” you bring your gaze down to the person standing at the cash register and “- Oh, Eddie. I didn’t know you work here.”

It’s a blur, the next 10 minutes. As soon as it’s over, he couldn’t tell you what he said. The only thing he knows is that there’s heat in his cheeks even after he watches your back go through the front door of the store holding the paper cup of ice cream. If you had asked him before this interaction tonight, he would have pegged you as an M&M blizzard person. 

Eddie remembers that you liked M&Ms. You sometimes ate them secretly in Algebra class when Mrs. Harrison wasn’t watching. He would watch you reach into the front pocket of your backpack to get a piece of candy, and place it on the end of your red tongue. Just the memory is making the front of Eddie’s jeans uncomfortably tight. 

He sighs to himself, you’re not a goddamned teenager, Eddie. He’s looking out into the empty parking lot as your red brake lights disappear in the swirling snow. It really is stupid to be selling ice cream in this weather. The dining room is empty. Hell, the roads are empty. And you’re as hard as a rock, Munson.

Logic is out the window now, his erection is running the show while he prepares the ice cream treat. Not Oreo, but M&M. He tries not to consider that the smell of vanilla soft serve is making him even harder as the vibrations of the blizzard machine travel up his arms. He’s not thinking about where this is inevitably going to end.

Eddie locks the doors - front, side, and back - all with the blizzard clutched in his hand. Vanilla ice cream is melting down the palm of his hand. He scans the street again, only to continue to see no signs of life. He sighs in relief that there are no witnesses to what he’s about to do.

He allows himself to have a brief feeling of regret about not cleaning the bathroom thoroughly before pushing the thought out of his mind. It’s not that bad. Not really. Besides, his back is staying firmly against the door. It’s locked. He lets himself envision your open mouth, tongue peeking between lips. With his free hand, he feels the outline of his erection and moans.

Ice cream is dripping on the floor as he unzips his jeans and frees himself. He brings the ice cream to his mouth and his tongue laps at it. He strokes himself. He licks at the cold, sugary treat. He squeezes and bites the lip of the paper cup. Sticky melted ice cream runs down his chin while he runs his thumb over his slit. 

He doesn’t think about it. It’s instinct. His erection shrinks at that initial shock of cold, and then he gets his rhythm. The cup is too small to accommodate his entire length, but Eddie doesn’t even notice. He’s thrusting as hard as he can, his cock threatening to break through the bottom of the paper cup. 

Oh, Eddie! I didn’t know you worked here. You look so good. Eddie’s eyes are closed tight. He sees you with that blue knit hat on your knees in front of him. Mmmm, M&Ms, my favorite. It’s embarrassing how quickly he can come just at the image of your open mouth. Your tongue.

Eddie’s hips thrust into vanilla ice cream with crushed candy bits while his jeans are dropped around his ankles until he unloads his need into the back of that paper cup. He’s left with an M&M and jizz blizzard dripping down his thighs at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday evening in a fairly disgusting DQ bathroom. 

“Fuck it,” Eddie says, pulling up his jeans over his sticky legs. He wipes up most of the ice cream and M&M pieces from the tile floor, it would be wrong to make Lynn clean that up tomorrow. He leaves his apron and name tag on the counter before walking out the back door. 

Maybe Johnny over at the Shell is looking for a clerk.

[brujahinaskirt]

Throwback to when I accidentally wrote the Suchdol Smooch TM two whole wretched years before KCD2 released...

(No real spoilers under the cut and no warnings necessary. This is KCD1-era fic drafted a long time ago and rotting in my WIP folder. Still, thought you Hansry fanatics might enjoy it now, so am letting it see the light of day. Maybe the rest of the fic will see the light of day too, but it is not this day!)

Hans lunges up and slams the door shut again—hard—ripping the ring handle out of Henry’s fingers, stopping him. He leaves the heel of his palm stamped on the heavy wood and his long arm is locked like a lance.

He looks sternly at him, bright-eyed and unhappy, impossible to lie to.

He says, “Are you still my man?”

Henry knows his answer—what it is and what it should be. He wishes often he had more to offer the world than who he is and what he loves.

But he doesn’t. Henry scrapes all his little parts and his chicken guts and his dreams of every color together and hammers them into something like a smile.

“Still your blacksmith, at least,” he says.

Hans kisses him. Just so and Henry forgets he’s not supposed to. He forgets everything. The only thing he knows is Hans’s fingernails fishhooked under his jaw until he is snagged and he’ll never get out. The kiss tastes like a sore throat, sticky with pink wine and some kind of sweet bread; it reminds him of coming inside from the snow.

They are apart. Hans tears in a ragged breath, eyes wet with hunger for air; Henry kisses him again. He seeks out the shape of Hans’s teeth, the sharp ones in the front and the one that’s twisted at a funny angle in the back, as Hans’s fingers dig uncomfortably deep into the fleshy tenderness below his ears. And he can’t tell if it’s that damned perfume or the eye medicine or something else, but Henry thinks of flowers now. He thinks of a rose he accidentally stepped on in the High Castle garden, of a warm night when they were crouched together inside a snarled bush row, hiding from Father Milosh, who had come to pray over the poppies. The sweet smell of its dying was undercut by Hans’s thin sweat after a long day chasing roebucks in the summer sun, and it smelled like all the happiness Henry had left in the world.

For a few fraught seconds, they are each other’s. Until a bell clangs outside, shuddering down the cliff and over the millhouse, and Henry all of a sudden remembers the other things, too. His fists sink into the back of the fine brocade and he pulls Hans away, unsealing them with a loud and embarrassing noise.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he stammers. Hans looks blindsided by the loss.

“No, no. Don’t.” He paws for Henry’s arms, throat tight, frantic to think of a way to convince him not to leave. “Don’t say anything. Come back.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“No,” Hans insists, chasing the thread unravelling between them. He pulls Henry closer and replaces his hands and tries to kiss him again, but each time, Henry seems to melt away. “It’s all right. Come here. Like you were. Come back, please.”

“It’s not. You’re wild now, that’s why, but it won’t be all right. You don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, fuck you, then. Fucking go on and—I don’t know. Break your own damned head open. Never speak to me again, I don’t care. I’ll hate you if you talk to me like that.”

“Hanush told me—”

“I don’t care, I DON’T care, I don’t fucking care.”

Hans doesn’t explain what he doesn’t care about or what he does. And Henry supposes that, after it all—after God or Sigismund or Holy Whomever put fire to the whole storybook of his life and broke him—he cannot do anything else but let himself be broken.

He grabs for his beloved—who is still, no matter the way they are told things must be, his beloved, at least so long as he loves him. He crashes upon Hans as if he has caught a jagged rock in a very cold and brackish sea, and he cannot let slip, not if he wants to live.

And perhaps Henry has never really had a say in whether he lives or dies. He still does not understand how swiftly everything in a good life can spoil; or how happiness tends to tumble over a ledge and smash before you even know to call it happiness; or how it is possible to be as completely battered as he has been, body and soul, and survive. Hans holds him so tight he can't feel anything else, even though his eye’s still black and his leg’s still twisted and his heart is still hurt by how long no one’s loved it.

And Henry really oughtn’t let him. But no one has held him in so long, he can’t help it. He hides his face in Hans’s shoulder and guiltily lets himself be comforted and hopes he doesn’t cry.

And he thinks that perhaps Radzig is right about the world, in his own stifled way. Perhaps they—and Hans, and Sir Peter, and everyone—are nothing more than carven dice meant to be shaken and tossed out by God, to see who will land and who won’t. Perhaps the Lord did not really set Hans Capon upon Henry to kick his soul back to life and save it. Maybe God’s design is chaos. Maybe none of it means a thing.

But if that’s so—if divinity is just joy and disaster scattered wildly about—then no one is righter about life than Hans is. No one knows better that fortune is just courage, unshackled by whatever future some God or uncle wants for you. No one knows better that sometimes, you just have to do something bold.

And there is no one left in God’s creation Henry loves more.

[bonesashesglass]

God, I’m just so mad and upset and I need to rant for a minute:

I live in Wisconsin, where the last several years winters here have been scarily mild. It’s not uncommon for us to have a mild winter every few years or so, but we’ve been having milder and milder winters for the past several years in a row. Winters here are supposed to be long and snowy. It’s supposed to start snowing in November, sometimes October, and the snow doesn’t melt all the way till April, sometimes early May.

Last year, I felt like we barely even had a winter. There was snow on the ground for maybe two months total, it kept melting and then coming back, which isn’t supposed to happen. The snow will maybe melt after the first couple times, but once you get to December, it’s supposed to stay on the ground until Spring.

Same thing is happening this year. It’ll snow for like two days, stick for maybe one day, and melt. It’ll stay that way for a couple of weeks. It’s January now. The fact that there’s no snow on the ground, in fucking Wisconsin, is alarming. The fact that this has been happening several years in a row now is alarming. I’m seeing it happen right in front of me. We’re all seeing the effects of climate change now, and we’re seeing how it’s directly destroying and harming the planet. We can see it with our own eyes.

I’m thinking about the fires in LA right now. I saw someone talk about how they were alarmed they were getting these kinds of winds in January. (I’m not familiar with LA climate but this person talked about how abnormal it is).

Everything the scientists have been saying about climate change is coming true. It’s happening right in front of us, for the whole world to see. And still, the people responsible, the right-wing politicians and businesspeople that profit off of this just deny deny deny. How can you deny what’s happening right in front of everyone? They are destroying our planet, and they still think they can deny it happening. It just makes me so angry. That a handful of people have the power to destroy our planet and refuse to even acknowledge it. They act like the words “climate change” is liberal propaganda. As if it’s not something we can see happening right before our eyes. They pretend it’s political, they pretend it’s a conspiracy, because they have no other way to justify being against protecting the planet.

One thing that angers me most is that the only thing people seem to do about this is complain on social media. (I know, that’s exactly what I’m doing, but hear me out). LA is burning to the ground because of climate change, and what’s anybody going to do about it? Make a post on Twitter? Maybe write an article about it?

That doesn’t change anything. We need change. We need direct action. It’s only going to get worse if we keep letting companies and governments continue as they are. They cannot continue as they are.

If you haven’t heard of the book How to Blow Up a Pipeline, go look it up. The author talks about a lot of the stuff I want to get at here, but he puts it a lot better.

My hope is that these LA fires will start a movement for stopping climate change. Not just a general shift of opinion like we’ve seen the past few years, but a real movement where people show up in person to do something. We exist in a time where Luigi Mangione is seen as a hero for his actions, I hope people will get inspired to take more direct action in regards to climate change. (That doesn’t mean shooting more people, I’m not advocating for murder, but we need to start taking action beyond just complaining on social media).

I’m going to start researching resources to help myself and others to get more involved with preventing climate change. I hope one day, we’ll have an actual winter in Wisconsin again. To everyone in LA, please please stay safe❤️

[charliemwrites]

Chapter 1

Content: Violence, Murder, Horror Elements, Masturbation, Kidnapping, Threats, Mild Pet Play, the One (1) use of an ableist slur

It’s the middle of October when Soap convinces you to go camping.

Autumn has sunk its teeth deep into the countryside, bleeding green from the trees and leeching warmth from the days. Deep shadows and lengthening nights are cold enough to condense breaths into pillows of steam. All of the little critters are fattening up and bedding down for a frigid winter, prepared to be snowed into burrows and dens until spring pries away the ice.

Your hip already aches through the first half of your morning exercises. The ghosts of splintered shrapnel prick beneath tender scar tissue until the rust of sleep flakes away. Lying on hard, cold ground sounds like a one-way ticket to agony. You’d much rather be one of those fluffy bastards curling up to hibernate. You tell Soap this on Monday when he initially proposes the idea.

Besides, you add, trying not to chug your coffee, Soap’s in no condition to be fucking about in half-frozen woods either. Not with his finicky nerve pain.

On Wednesday, when you meet up again, he takes a different route. It’s been too long since you two last dipped into a civilian-appropriate but military-adjacent activity. Paintball, knife-throwing, base-jumping…

Your bed is starting to feel too soft and too big again. The city is loud but not the right way. The tedium of self-imposed routines is starting to grate on nerves still tuned for combat. If you don’t get out before the trap of winter snaps closed, you might go mad. You can see it in Soap’s eyes too, a manic glint behind glass blue.

But still. Camping feels too much like what you’ve just left – the shrinks probably wouldn’t approve. Not that you’d ask them.

On Friday, Soap offers a compromise. His grandfather (“Seanair”) left him an old hunting cabin out in the countryside. Nothing luxurious, but it’s got a fireplace, cots, kitchenette, bathroom. It’ll be more like holing up in a safehouse than roughing it for a mission. More importantly, it’ll be gentler on your battle-worn bodies.

That next Monday, you meet him at the café with supplies packed and an honest anticipation for a week off the grid.

*

“Yoohoo! Any murderers about?” Soap calls. “Any armed psychos? An angry raccoon, perhaps?”

You scowl, caught behind him in the doorway. “I thought you checked it out already?”

“Aye, but ye ne’er ken,” he reasons, shrugging. He shuffles in as you nudge him. “We’ve the luck o’ the devil, you an’ I.”

You snort as you start kicking off your shoes. “True enough, I s’pose.”

“Course, I like our odds against any weirdo wi’ a knife, don’ you?”

You shrug. “Maybe. Not so sure about a raccoon though. Think we’d be fucked.”

“Och, tha’s right. I remember your lectures about rabies.”

“Good.”

You snicker at his grimace, likely feeling the phantom sting of vaccines.

The cabin is cute, honestly. There are only three rooms – the living room/kitchenette, the bedroom, and the bathroom. The bathroom is small enough that you could stretch your arms across the width of it and touch both walls, but it’s got a working shower so you’ve no complaints. The bedroom has a dresser and a nightstand, plenty for you and Soap.

While you set to work putting the groceries away, Soap putters about opening windows and making up the beds. The two of you don’t immediately have much to talk about, considering how often you see each other and the long drive out. It’s alright, though, you’ve long grown comfortable in stretches of silence together.

Once settled in, you suggest a walk to explore the area. Part of it is genuine interest in appreciating nature before the sun sets early. But there’s also a large, paranoid part of you (sounding like your old captain) that demands you get your bearings. Just in case.

There’s a loch about a mile from the cabin, a beautiful sheet of dark glass big enough for decent fishing. You’re able to see the row of holiday homes on the other side but wouldn’t be able to see any people on their docks out there. You and Soap follow a deer trail for a way, exchanging stories of your respective childhoods.

No surprise that John MacTavish was a wild child with a rebellious streak that got him in trouble more often than not. He gets you laughing bright and easy before long, and for once it doesn’t feel like playacting as a Normal Functioning Person.

When the sun starts to skim the evergreens, you return to the cabin. You start up a pot of cheesy mac while Soap gets the fire going, pyromaniac that he is. Once it’s burning nicely, he starts closing up the windows. Not too soon either – the temperature is starting to dip and twinging at your hip, unhappy from sitting in the car so long.

The two of you hum over empty carbs and excess dairy by the fire, a glass of scotch for each of you. When you’ve had your fill, he washes the dishes, you pour another round, and the two of you settle together on the old sofa.

“Almost been a year,” Soap says after a while.

You sigh through your nose, stare into the dwindling pool of amber in your hand. “Three more weeks.”

“You miss it too.”

Against your will, your eyes slide sideways, to the hand he’s clenching and unclenching on his thigh. There’s a wicked line of scar tissue beneath the sleeve of his shirt where the surgeons salvaged what they could. Mostly successful too, apart from the damaged radial nerve that ruined his career.

“So much, Soap, fuck.”

You didn’t mean to say that. You’re supposed to be the healthy one here, encouraging this necessary and healthful change to your lives.

As if reading your mind, Soap hums, bumps his elbow into your ribs. “No shame in it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t even know what I miss.”

“Feeling useful, I reckon. Feeling… necessary,” he muses, subdued.

It’s insightful but too accurate. Too selfish. You rub your thumb over the lip of your glass.

“I hate that I can’t keep an eye on Price and Gaz,” you say. “Feels like I’m always waiting to hear the worst, ya know?”

“Yeah,” he whispers roughly. “I ken.”

*

The two of you end up falling asleep on the couch. Soap, sitting up with his sketchbook, and you folded into the corner against the arm, book pages fluttering between lax fingers. At some point, the cramped position aches enough to wake you. Your eyes flutter open, low fire throwing long, deep shadows across the wooden wall.

Something is watching from the window.

You jolt up, hand reaching for the gun you no longer carry on your thigh. The movement jostles Soap awake as well. It involuntarily draws your eye, just a fraction of a second. But the haunting shadow is gone by the time you turn back.

That’s not enough for you. You roll to your feet, hiss as your knee threatens to give. But you manage to get your balance and snatch your combat knife from your boot as you storm towards the door.

“Kit? Kit! The fuck is going on?!” Soap calls.

“Saw something!” you reply.

There’s a flashlight hanging by a hook next to the door. You grab it as you burst out into the chilly air, tensed for a fight. A quick sweep of the front yard and immediate tree line reveals nothing. Steps soft and careful, you approach the side of the house, expertly gripping your knife.

“On your six,” Soap breathes behind you.

“Copy.”

You round the corner, eyes scanning the trees, the brush. There’s no movement, no suspiciously rustling branches. You tilt your head, listening for anything past the normal sounds of the night. But there isn’t even an unusual silence in the dark world around you.

“Just a dream, then,” you sigh.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Unusual, though. Your nightmare-induced hallucinations usually conjure guns in your face or teammates bleeding out on the floor. Not strange figures at the windows. Still, you can hear the explanation of your shrink trying to soothe you. Middle of the night after drinking, in a new and atmospheric environment. Plus, there’s been all that fuss on the news about a serial killer; nowhere near you and Soap, mind, but still. Subconscious or some shite.

“Let’s do a sweep anyway,” Soap says.

Your chest warms. “Alright.”

Naturally, there’s nothing. Soap only gives you a one-armed hug as you return to the cabin. One final check of the interior – since you did leave the door open when you rushed out – and then the two of you turn in for bed.

*

The next day starts lazy and slow. A strange reprieve from your body’s military-trained urge to wake early. It’s nice, though, to snuggle beneath the covers with Soap’s soft snores only a few meters away. You play pre-downloaded games on your phone while you wait for him to wake, enjoying the lie in.

Breakfast is enjoyed on the little porch out front; you bundled up in a woolen throw while you sip coffee. It’s shaping up to be an unusually sunny day, and you agree to a longer hike around the loch before lunch. When you return, you settle on the porch again to read while Soap chops wood.

Which, well.

You don’t mind a bit of entertainment between pages… or paragraphs… or…

Soap hasn’t neglected his physique at all since the discharge. All corded muscles, broad shoulders, and tapered waist. Watching the bunch and release of his arms has always been a guilty pleasure of yours, and so blessedly indulged during training sessions in the 141.

You try not to sigh and drool over it (him) like a repressed Victorian.

“Ach, fer fucks…”

You snap to attention, book set aside. “Is your arm acting up?”

He’s set the hatchet down, grabbing at his elbow with a pinched expression.

“Aye,” he grumbles.

You trot to his side, pleased that he still instantly submits to your care. He lets you manipulate his arm, prod along the nerve pathways and bunched muscles that are spasming in pain. His groan has no business being that low or rough or close to your ear. But you ignore it like you always have, focus on getting him right. Barely even register when he sets his jaw on top of your head.

A few minutes pass in silence while you try to massage away the worst of the flare up. When he finally sighs, slumping into you a little, you gently squeeze his forearm.

“Bampot,” you huff.

“Aye, I ken,” he mumbles.  “’S why I have you.”

You click your tongue. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive. Next time let me help.”

“Not on yer life.”

You pinch his side, grinning wickedly when he yelps and jerks away. Little shit. Your favorite little shit, damn him.

He allows you to help carry the firewood to the rack next to the tiny shed. It’s round back of the cabin, covered by an old blue tarp. Soap is in the lead and sees it first.

“Oh, well isn’t that pure dead brilliant,” he huffs.

“Hm?”

You peak around him and blink at the rust-colored splatters decorating the side of the shed. There’s a dark patch in the scraggly grass as well and drag marks into the trees. Clearly, some prey fell victim to the circle of life here. Recently, too, from the color of the blood.

“What do you think it was?” you ask. “There aren’t wolves here.”

“Nah, but coulda been a fox.”

You scrunch up your nose. “This close to us? Usually foxes steer clear of humans.”

“Feral dog, then, maybe.”

Maybe.

It’s a lot of blood for anything a dog or fox would risk taking down, though. Even a feral one.

“C’mon, let’s get inside. Need a coupla pills ‘fore mah arm starts taking the piss again.”

You help him stack the firewood and then follow him back to the cabin. And if you linger on the blood, your random dream, and the lingering sensation of eyes on you… well, nothing new for you.

*

It pours all of the next day. Soap says it’s good timing, that he won’t have to wash the shed himself. Both of your injuries are acting up, though, and you spend the day trying to find different positions to appease the ache in your hip. At one point, he has to help you to the shower, your leg feeling too weak to support your weight. It’s frustrating, but you’ve had nearly a year to learn to cope.

Soap lifts your spirits, though, like always. Convinces you to play Scrabble and keeps insisting that he’s just using Scottish words. It ends the way it usually does – you and him wrestling like children, trying to trap the other to determine the winner. You only just manage to get a hold of him, though he puts up a good fight. He eventually admits that “daylich” isn’t actually a word and he didn’t deserve the triple word score.

Then he breaks out a pack of biscuits as a peace offering and all is forgiven. The two of you nibble on those while watching a movie on your laptop and then shuffle off to bed.

Long after Soap has fallen asleep, you’re awake. The memory of his body against yours always leaves you feeling branded. Like the heat of him burns right through your clothes. It’s been… probably too long since you last got off. Way too long since someone else got you off. And yeah, you had a couple of shameful secret wanks around teammates back in the day, but things are different now. You’re not high on adrenaline in the military anymore. No excuse for shoving a hand down your pants.

Still, your thoughts spiral as you finally start to doze. Rough hands on your hips, your thighs, your throat. Gentle but teasing at the true strength they possess. A hot tongue along your cheek, treating you like something to savor… or to devour. A shadow looming over you, dwarfing you. Phantom sensations that you crave as much as you shy away, wanting it but knowing you shouldn’t.

The throbbing between your thighs rouses you. Sleep-addled, you give in. You’d be embarrassed of how wet you are if anyone else were to know. And of the soft, needy noise you make when your brush your fingertips between your thighs. But Soap is still snoring steadily, and the pounding of the ongoing rain makes you brave.

You stroke slowly and gently over the bundle of nerves at first, mimicking those dreamt touches. It’s almost as maddening even when it’s your own hand. Sleep is half-dragging at you, though, and you speed up, drawing tight little circles at the top, teasing lower to stoke the heat burning in your gut. Your breathing picks up, little breaths past an open mouth.

It’s really not going to take much. Not with how long it’s been, how much you want it, vague thoughts of your darkest fantasies flickering through your hazy mind. You tilt your hips down, get the pressure of your heel against your empty, aching hole. You rock a couple times, high-pitched noises caught at the top of your throat.

You come imagining a big hand around your neck choking off those sounds. Have to slap your free hand over your mouth as you shake and writhe through it. Drag your nails up your bare thigh just to balance out the unbearable pleasure. And then you go limp against the pillows, panting and shuddering through aftershocks.

When you extract your hand from beneath the blankets, you blink at the wetness coating your fingertips for a moment. If someone asked, the excuse you’d give is not touching anything with your wet hand. But truthfully, you’re just indulging in impulsive hedonism as you suck your own fingers.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the shadows.

Then you climb out of bed for a proper cleanup, ready to finally fall asleep and definitely not think about how much quicker you came knowing that Soap was right there the entire time.

*

It’s raining on and off the next day. You and Soap take a little walk during one of the dry patches, though it’s cut short with how sore your hip still is. Soap collects more firewood from the shed, keeps the flames well fed while you putter about. Nap for an hour, start rereading one of your favorite books, watch a scary movie with him, make American flapjacks just for the sake of it.

Even though you should be feeling stir crazy, Soap has always made for good company. The day passes pleasantly into an early night, the sun standing little chance against the thick cloud cover.

You and Soap are settling in with scotch when frantic knocking interrupts the peaceful quiet.

“Help!” a ragged voice screams. “Someone please help me!”

You hardly exchange glances before the two of you are up. Soap goes for the door, gun in hand. You scramble for the ever-present medical kit that earned your call-sign, left out on the counter.

Soap yanks the door open; a man tumbles in. Middle aged, lanky build, bleeding from a long cut on his forehead. His ankle is twisted at a damning angle. You scan him for obvious weapons, but his t-shirt and muddy boxers reveal nothing but bruising and scraped skin. His hands are empty as they scrabble at the floor, trying to drag himself inside. Soap slams the door closed and locks it.

“Please!” the man cries again. “You have to help me!”

You drop to your knees beside him, already popping your kit open.

“We’re going to help you, sir,” you say evenly, “but you need to calm down.”

“You don’t understand,” the man gasps as you help him sit up. “H-He… he’s out there.”

“Who?” Soap asks, grip shifting on the gun.

“S-some psycho,” the man answers. You work easily past his shaking, getting a look at his swelling ankle. Definitely broken… with force. “In a mask.”

You blink, shoot Soap a look. Have the two of you fallen into some weird horror movie by accident?

“What did he do?” Soap asks.

“H-he attacked us with a big bloody knife.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” you ask. “Who else was with you?”

“The lads – my friends – my brother. Oh, god…” He pales further. You brace him, eyeing the packaged shock blanket peeking from your kit. “Danny is dead. There was so much blood.”

“How many?” Soap asks, voice hard. “How many of you are still alive?”

“I-I don’t know. I barely got-got away. Oh, god—”

He dissolves into tears and whimpers. You rip open the blanket and drape it around the man, then scoot down to his ruined ankle. Over his head, you frown at Soap. Something is missing here. This man was with at least three other people, but one man attacked them? There’s something to be said for shock and surprise and fear, but still…

“Soap?”

“Gonnae see if I can find survivors,” he says. “I’ll send ‘em your way if I find any. You stay here, take care of this ‘un.”

“That’s stupid,” you argue. “You can’t go by yourself!”

“No different than recon, aye? Not gonnae engage, but we cannae leave anyone bleedin’ out there.”

Your mouth twists. No, no you can’t leave civilians potentially wounded with a killer out for blood. Discharged or not (war criminals or not… and you both are, technically) you’re both too dutybound for that.

“RV here in ten and I’ll have the car ready for exfil.”

“Affirmative.”

He crosses to you, knocks your foreheads together – a pre-mission gesture you never thought you’d receive again. You close your eyes for a second, squeeze the back of his neck. Then send him off with a firm nod.

You lock the door after him, then return to the man.

“Are you two military or something?” he asks.

“We were,” you answer, “medical discharge.”

“Oh brilliant! You’re telling me that my only hope is a couple cripples?!”

You level him a flat, unimpressed look. “I’m a medic with more kills than you’ve got chest hairs, understand? Shut up and brace. I need to wrap your ankle.”

He whimpers and whines and curses while you set and compress it. Nothing you haven’t heard before, vehement as it may be. Ungrateful, though, you think vaguely. Save a guy’s life and he’s calling you all sorts of derogatory names while you try to salvage his ability to walk.

“You done?” you ask, interrupting his latest stream of expletives. “I need to hear if someone is coming.”

That only shuts him up for a moment before he’s piping up again. “Do you have a weapon?”

You tug your pant leg up to show the knife strapped to your calf.

“Do you even know how to use that?!”

“Look, I know this is a lot for you, so maybe you should stop talking for a while.”

His face twists, brain turning to anger as he tries to cope with his own fear and new trauma. You don’t pay him any heed, wiping off his head and closing the still-weeping cut with butterflies. All you can hear over his wheezing is the rain outside. No footsteps or screams or, most importantly, gunshots.

With the worst two of the man’s wounds seen to, you take stock. You’re not dressed for any sort of confrontation in lounge pants and socks.

“Here. Start treating your legs and arms,” you say, pressing gauze and wound wash into the man’s hands.

“Where are you going?!” he protests.

“Need to prep to leave,” you explain. “Shout if you hear anything.”

He doesn’t look thrilled, but you’re already up and hurrying to the bedroom. You climb into a thick pair of cargos – relieved that your fashion sense hasn’t improved since the army – and a thermal shirt. Your pistol is waiting in the side pocket of your duffel, loaded and holstered. The weight of it is comforting against your thigh; you’ve missed it.

You grab the bags and carry them back to the door, check your watch. It’s only been four minutes. If Soap isn’t back in another six, you’re going out to get him yourself, injured civilian be damned. Everything you’ve gone through together; you’re not going to lose your best friend to some overdramatic wanker with a knife.

“What are you doing now?!” the man asks.

You give him another once over. He’s done a decent job prioritizing the worst scrapes and cuts, they look clean enough. Most importantly, he seems less faint than when you left. Giving him something to focus on must have helped.

“Checking the car. We’re leaving as soon as Soap gets back,” you answer.

“A-at least give me something to protect myself with!”

You try not to sigh in annoyance. What good would he even be, unable to walk and shaky on adrenaline? Still, you take pity and tug the knife from your boot, offer it to him handle first.

“Not the gun?” he complains.

“No.”

You jog out to the car, gun in one hand and duffels in the other. It’s raining again, getting harder by the moment. There’s a steady, sharp pain radiating throughout your leg, threatening to knock it out from under you. You grit your teeth as you toss the bags in the backseat and move to the ignition.

And the car doesn’t start.

“Shit.”

You don’t waste time trying it again. It should be in perfect condition; it must have been tampered with.

When you approach the house again, you hear shouting from inside. You pick up the pace, nearly skid across the wooden floor when you get there. The man is huddling up by the couch, white knuckling the knife.

“I-I heard something!”

“Where?” you demand, scanning the immediate area. Thank fuck that Soap’s seanair believed in minimalism.

“In the back.”

You frown. “The only way in is through windows back there, and those are locked.”

Right?

“I know what I heard!”

“Stay here, then.”

You click the safety off and pad the short hallway to the bedroom. Don’t bother announcing yourself, or any idiotic “who’s there”. You kick the unlatched door open and sweep through the room just like you would for a raid. The tiny lamp on the nightstand is still on, illuminating the sparse space.

You check under the first bed, then sidestep and tilt your head to check the other. Nothing.

“There isn’t—”

The window is open. The window is fucking open. How?!

You spin on your heel, just in time to see a hauntingly familiar mask bent over the gurgling body of the man. There’s no hesitation as you raise the gun and fire twice, but the killer has already rolled out of the way. Well fuck that.

You rush from the bedroom, fire another two into the couch as you round the corner. He’s a fast fucker, waiting by the wall adjacent to the hall as you exit. And he’s fucking big. Slams into your side – your bad side – like a tank. It fucks your balance, and you go down with a snarled curse, winded as all his weight lands on your much smaller frame.

On training and instinct, you slam your elbow back. There’s a crunch, a grunt of pain. But damn him, he doesn’t let up. A big hand finds yours on the gun. You yelp as he squeezes hard enough to feel the bones bend. The gun fires – bang, bang, bang. His head is right by yours, the hard edge of his mask pressing into your temple, panting in your ear.

You lash out with your other arm, though your aim is off. Instead of hitting his throat, you get his jaw instead. You plant your boot on the floor and push, trying to get out from under him. Instead, he rolls with your back against his chest. The gun clatters as he snakes a thick arm around your throat. You grab at his forearm, but you know you have no hope of matching him in strength.

You scrabble for the knife in your boot, but it’s gone.

Fuck, you gave it to—

The cabin ceiling is getting spotty.

Your fingers brush the killer’s leg, find a familiar shape tucked at the side of his boot. You snatch up the knife and drive it into his calf. He growls, but the arm on your throat blessedly disappears. You suck air, blinking past dark edges. Twist onto your front and blindly fumble for your gun.

Manage two shots right to his chest. He falls limp. You wait a beat, two. He doesn’t move again.

You click the safety on and holster the gun. And then, out of morbid curiosity, crawl closer to the body.

“Holy hell,” you breathe as you get a good look at the mask.

He’s wearing a skull over a black balaclava. Not just a prop either you realize when you tap at it. It’s real. Human. Thin cracks spiderweb along the front orbital bone, the corner of the eye socket – from where you elbowed him, you think. Beyond them, his eyes are closed and still, the skin painted black.

“Big scary fucker,” you murmur. And if you’re a bit admiring… well, it between you and a dead body. A couple dead bodies. Can’t forget about the other guy. “That was almost fun.”

“Kit!”

You jolt, barely able to hear Soap’s voice over the pounding rain, but relieved to hear it. A hiss escapes between your teeth as you get to your feet, hip protesting. You have to grab at the couch to catch your balance. Then brace yourself and walk carefully towards the door.

Your fingers are just centimeters from the doorknob when an arm wraps around your neck again. You flail, try to kick off the door, but it hardly even makes him stumble. Then there’s a sharp pinch in your arm, sibilant shushing by your ear, and the world goes dark.

*

The world comes to you in bits and pieces.

Something soft under you. A slight ache in your hip. Fabric around your bare legs. Voices? You think you recognize the rumble of Soap’s brogue, but not whoever he’s speaking to.

Soft golden light creeps past your fluttering eyelashes. Soap is sitting across the room on… a big floor cushion? You blink a couple times, adjusting your slightly blurred vision. But yep, that’s him, sitting on a gigantic pillow. And… is that his throat mic?

“Mm… John?” you call, rubbing at your eyes.

“Aye, Kit. Nice ‘n slow now. We’re alright.”

You hum and push yourself up, limbs heavy. Once you’re sitting, Soap speaks again. Gentle and calm.

“You remember what happened?”

You pause, frown. It comes to you in a slow trickle. The trip, the forest, the cabin… and then it floods back. The injured man at the door, the killer, the struggle. The ambush as you were going to meet Soap at the door.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

“Aye.”

You give him another once over. That’s not a throat mic; it’s a collar. A thick black leather thing, complete with a silver chain that trails off somewhere behind him. You stare for a second, bewildered.

“Don’t be jealous. You match.”

Your head whips around to the hulking figure in a doorway to your right. He’s just as imposing as you remember, tall and fucking built, dressed in all black and mask still on. The soft lighting casts spooky shadows across the eye sockets.

The words process a moment later and your hand darts up to your neck. Sure enough, there’s a wide leather band around your neck. You’ll give it this, though – you didn’t even notice it until he said something. Not too tight, comfortable even. Clearly made with long-term wear against skin in mind. There’s a chain attached to yours too and you follow it to an anchor in the wall.

“If it’s any consolation, ye look right bonnie,” Soap calls.

You snort. “’Course I do.”

The killer shrugs off the wall. You watch as he saunters closer in long, heavy strides. No point in scrambling away or trying to run – you’d have a limited radius of escape if he didn’t grab you first. Besides, you’re not about to cower to some spooky bastard with a couple dirty tricks up his sleeve.

He crouches down well within your reach, clearly not concerned about you lashing out. You tilt your head in defiance, meeting his eyes for a moment before he flicks his gaze down. He reaches out, gloved fingers catching your chin. Not hard, but firm enough that there’s no arguing when he tilts your chin up.

Fabric brushes the sensitive skin of your neck, above and below the collar.

“Pretty kitty,” he purrs. “Glad I didn’t bruise this lovely neck.”

Two fingers press against one side a little harder, edging beneath the leather. You recognize the gesture as you swallow. He’s checking your pulse. You’re proud that it’s still steady and unhurried.

“Not scared?” He doesn’t say it like it’s a question.

You arch your eyebrows. “Should I be?”

His eyes flicker. “Not if you behave.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, resisting a sneer. Past his shoulder, Soap is watching with a smirk. Unharmed, you note again. He’s fine. You’re fine, despite slight soreness from the brief struggle. If there was something to be concerned about (apart from the obvious) he would have let you know right off the bat. So, you take a calculated risk.

“Yeah? And what do you consider behaving?” you ask.

The corners of the killer’s eyes crinkle. You knew enough masked men back in the military to recognize a hidden smile. He’s amused by your snarky question. Another good sign.

“Good pets obey their masters.”

You blink, breath leaving you in a soft rush. It… makes sense. Just not the answer you expected. Stupid, maybe, given the collars, leashes, and dog beds. You’ll have to blame the lingering drugs.

“There are so many shelters, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you blurt, bewildered.

The man snorts, hooks a finger under your collar and gives an almost playful tug. An entirely instinctive part of you catches its breath. You’re glad he’s not measuring your pulse anymore.

“Those can’t talk back,” he answers simply, shrugging.

Soap barks a laugh. “Well, you’ll get what you asked for with us then.”

You grin crookedly, showing all your teeth. “And then some,” you agree, reaching up to tug the hand from your collar.

He jerks harder this time, unbalancing you towards him. You catch yourself on both hands, feel a blaze of heat across your nose and glare up at him through your lashes.

“No touching, kitten,” he says. “You’ll have to earn that.”

You try not to roll your eyes, not quite willing to push your luck too far yet. But it’s a near thing.

“Sure, let me get right on that,” you scoff dryly anyway.

He clicks his tongue, but no further retribution comes save for one last warning tug. Then he’s standing, towering over you again.

“I need a shower. You two settle in.”

And he just walks off. Like he didn’t just take two former SAS operatives as human pets. You wait until you hear distant water before turning to Soap.

“What happened?”

“Ambushed me,” he grumbles, sitting back against the wall. “Snuck up as I was trying to get you untied. Bastard is trained.”

Soap’s pouting, even though there’s an entire police case of victims who weren’t as lucky as him.

“Trained like us, you mean?”

“Aye.” Soap pauses, looking at the floor pensively, brows furrowing. “Means he had every reason and way to hurt us.”

You nod. “He had me in a hold and his knife hand free. Could have done anything with it. Let me stab him instead.”

Soap hums. “And, well, there’s a basement. Could have brought us there too, I reckon.”

He glances at the doorway the killer was lingering in when you woke. You get what he’s saying – or not saying, as it were. The two of you are hale and whole only because the killer decided to make it so. Because, as all evidence seems to suggest, he wants pets.

“You figure he means it? About… us?” you wonder.

Soap shrugs. “He’s no reason ta lie.”

That’s what you’re worried about.

“News says he’s a sadist,” you point out. “His idea of a pet might be...”

“Aye, but then why do all this?” He gestures to the big soft beds, which you know must have been a bit expensive for their size and comfortability, and the well-made leather collars. You’ve even got a blanket at your feet for the cool air. “Nae, I think even sadists miss a bit ‘o companionship now n’ then.”

You hum. Makes sense, in the part of you that’s seen the worst humanity has to offer and risen up to greet it. You’ve seen plenty of shit, plenty of people, and the things they’re capable of. But even “monsters” go home to family, to hobbies, to entirely wholesome things that they enjoy just because.

That’s the hard part about war. Seeing the most depraved and evil examples of humanity and reconciling that they have qualities one can recognize in themselves.

“The plan, then?”

“Say we go along with it for now,” Soap says, shrugging. “Not like we could get free as we are anyway.”

You hum in agreement. The chain is clipped to the wall anchor by a thick padlock, and feeling at the collar earlier, you know it’s the same on the other side. The collar itself is too high-quality to come apart without something sharp. So you’re stuck. Even if you did will a lockpick into existence, you’ve no intel on the rest of the house or even where you’d go from the house.

“But listen, Kit, I’m no’ gonnae let anything happen to you. If this gets violent, I’ll tear the walls apart with my hands if I hafta.”

You smile, wish suddenly and fiercely that you could hug him. He looks like he could use it; god knows you could.

“I know, John,” you soothe. “I will too.”

He nods, jaw twitching, then sighs and sits back again. The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, digesting the plan. You take an actual look at the room you’re in – a den, it seems like. A fireplace in one corner, a decent sized couch to your left. Beyond it, you can see a clean and modern kitchen. There’s a coffee table, end tables, lamps, a goddamn rug. It’s downright cozy; like something out of a magazine.

“Nice voice, though, aye?” Soap chirps suddenly, snapping your gaze back to him.

“Soap.”

“Och, don’t ‘Soap’ me,” he grumbles. “You look me in the eye and tell me tha’s no’ a voice made fer sex.”

And damn him, you can’t.

“Can’t say I was thinking about his voice when he was waving a big knife at me.”

“He can wave his big knife at—”

“I’m gonna kill you myself—” You snarl, balling up your blanket and chucking at his stupid, wiggling eyebrows.

“Oi, you two,” aforementioned sexy voice chastises from the hallway.

You wrinkle your nose as Soap grins at you, a shadow in the corner of your vision as the killer comes into the room again. He brings a cloud of clean water and bergamot. He smells good.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you hiss, dismayed.

“Problem?” the killer asks.

He’s got the mask on again (or still? You hope he doesn’t shower with it on, that’s unsanitary) but you can hear him arching an eyebrow. Stubbornly, you turn away to glare at Soap some more. It’s obvious he realizes what you’re referring to from the way he smothers a snicker, though.

Shithead.

You don’t get away with it for long before a hand is pulling your jaw up. Rough only because you resist for the briefest fraction. Once he’s got your face where he wants it, though, your captor’s grip isn’t painfully tight.

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer, kitten. Understood?”

Your hand twitches to grab at the hold but remember what he said about touching without permission. Stubborn as you may be, you’re not actively trying to incite violence against you or Soap. The plan is to go along with… whatever this is. So you swallow a bit of your pride.

“Understood.”

He hums like that’s not quite the answer he wanted, but it’s acceptable for now.

“Now, is there a problem?” he asks again.

“Apart from the kidnapping?” you snip. “Everything is right as rain.”

He snorts, smooths his thumb over your chin, slow and dangerous. You go still, refuse to falter but careful not to provoke further.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” he muses almost to himself.

“Must have expected it,” you reason honestly, “know you watched us for a few days.”

He tilts his head, eyes eerily unblinking within the unholy shadows of the skull. “Longer’n that, pretty thing.”

You open your mouth but don’t know what to say. Longer than the days at the cabin? How long? And how did you and Soap not notice?

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by fabric gliding over your bottom lip. His thumb threatening to slip past. You snap your jaw closed, nearly catch the tip of his finger in your teeth. He chuckles and finally releases you, making for the nearby couch.

He settles in with sigh and flicks on the TV. There on the screen is a flashing headline:

Another Ghost Victim Found.

Next

Masterlist

[wileys-russo]

elf on a shelf II a.russo & l.williamson x reader

lil christmas fic number two! psa; just because i write this does not mean i ship them irl elf on a shelf II a.russo & l.williamson x reader

"woah! someone's speedy today, what's wrong then? where's the missus's?" katie was quick to snag you as you stormed into the dressing room, throwing your bag down with a scowl.

"if they've half a brain between them as far away from me as they can get!" you warned, shrugging off your friends arm and dropping down by your cubby to change into your boots.

having driven yourself this morning after a particularly nasty row with the blondes who shared your heart you'd stormed out of the house without a single look back, shocked you'd not copped a speeding ticket with how heavy your foot fell on the accelerator, determined to get as far away from the two girls as possible.

"oi! none of that pissy little attitude with me thanks. tell us what happened then." katie warned lightly, sitting down beside you and knocking her knee against yours as you sighed and dragged your hands down your face, starting to recount where it had all started.

if you were to know just how far things were going to go, you'd have never ever even considered getting that stupid little elf.

everything had been laid into motion last week when you'd seen a few tiktoks of adorable elf on the shelf ideas. never having really given them much consideration before you had thought it might be an opportunity for some cute christmas cheer around the house.

not that it needed much more. between you, alessia and leah all three of you had decorated your shared home extensively for the holiday season.

as you had prepared for there was the usual arguments around the tree, the worst of them being who got to choose the theme and who got to place the angel of the north of course, on top.

"what on earth is that babe?" leah had scoffed as you'd dropped it happily on the coffee table with a grin. "oo one of those elf things!" alessia had gasped happily, grabbing your hips and tugging you down onto the sofa with her.

"well its not a fucking reindeer less." leah chuckled earning herself a filthy look from the striker as you kissed her cheek with an amused smile.

"you're supposed to move them around the house and pose them to look like they're doing weird and funny stuff. it's mostly parents who do them for kids but i thought it could be cute for the three of us to take turns." you tossed your phone to leah who scrolled through a few videos with a hum.

"i think it's a great idea baby." alessia agreed, squeezing you tightly in approval. "guess it's not the worst idea you've had." leah shrugged as you kicked her ankle gently.

"sorry, it's a cute idea love. you start tonight, then less, then me." leah smiled apologetically, scooting closer and handing you back your phone, the three of you getting comfortable.

how naive you were not to know just how far things would go.

your first turn started off harmlessly, once your girlfriends had gone up to bed you spread some flour out on the counter, creating a snow angel and leaving the elf spread out in the middle, snapping a picture with a happy grin.

"oh that's so cute baby!" alessia was the first to notice it the next morning, snapping a picture and uploading it to her instagram story with a smile.

it took leah a little longer, never the most observant woman in the mornings but once she'd had a coffee she'd chuckled at the elf, wiping down the flour before the three of you needed to leave for training.

your suspicions should have peaked when you noticed kyra and vic hanging around alessia all day, seemingly always in her ear as she would nod and note something down in her phone with a grin.

her first turn the next night again was harmless, you waking up to find the elf in the fridge sat on top of a carton of eggs with a sharpie in its arms. the eggs with funny faces drawn all over them you let out a laugh which warmed the blonde's heart as she hugged you from behind.

"naughty naughty elf." she'd tutted in your ear, kissing your cheek and reaching past you to grab out a carton of juice. "really?" was leah's response once she'd spotted it, raising an eyebrow at the younger girl who shrugged.

"he must have gotten bored." alessia grinned sipping at her coffee. "yeah babe, maybe he just wanted the eggs to look their very best on their death day!" you added on, chopping up some peppers to make omelettes.

"death day? touch dark there gorgeous." alessia laughed, rinsing her mug in the sink and tapping your bum as she passed you with a wink. "the two of you are something else, why do i put up with it?" leah sighed dramatically, closing the fridge.

"think you mean why do we put up with you!" you teased, her body pressing against yours and nipping at your bottom lip before she placed a tender kiss against them. "hilarious my girl, hilarious."

for leah's turn she was a little more stumped than the two of you had been, having to do some extensive research to try and find some ideas she felt were achievable.

you'd woken up the next morning to find the elf sat on the bathroom counter with a tube of toothpaste in his hands, UTA spelled out in toothpaste on the marble top.

taking a photo and sending it in the teams group chat you rolled your eyes with an amused smile and hopped into the shower, leaving it for one of your girlfriends to clean up considering both of them were refusing to get up.

your next turn meant you'd filled up the kitchen sink with water, dropping in a bunch of goldfish crackers and propping the elf on the tap with a straw to look like he'd gone fishing.

that had gone over well with both your girls and ended up on leahs story, though having to fish out the soggy crackers from the sink had left you gagging and reconsidering the idea all together.

for alessia's she'd poked holes in a piece of toast, sticking the elf's arms and legs through and leaving it sat by the toaster with a little note stating 'it's cold outside...but i am toasty in here ;) '.

you'd found it adorable, leah less so. which had meant you'd spent the entire morning of your day off fussing over the striker who was grumpy with leah for her response, and then in turn you'd spent the afternoon placating a moody leah who'd felt ignored all day.

by dinner time they'd settled down and made up again and the three of you were curled up on the lounge eating pizza, seemingly a normal evening. until leah had to of course open her mouth and set forth the ball rolling which would eventually lead to a series of unfortunate events.

"why don't we make this elf business a bit more interesting?" the eldest between the three of you had challenged with a smug smile. "how so?" alessia raised an eyebrow, your legs draped across her lap as your top half was tucked into leah's side.

"no more posting photos. end of each rotation we show the girls and they choose whose was the best? most successful choices by the end of the month wins." leah challenged with a smirk.

"no! come on it's just supposed to be something cute for the three of us." you'd protested but it was no use. "you're on." alessia agreed with a smirk that matched leah's causing you to exhale deeply.

"why does everything have to be a competition with the two of you?"

things escalated after that to say the least. with you not wanting to compete you'd been cut from the roster all together, leah and alessia now just going night for night, too absorbed in their competitive natures to notice that it had upset you to see it turn into this.

throughout the week though the elf seemed to take on a little more of a personal vendetta against your girlfriends, the pranks going from harmless and cute to targeted.

alessia had started it by wrapping all of leah's trainers in foil and leaving the elf on top of them with a sign that said 'free shoe shining service'.

leah had countered by tying all of alessia's hoodies together tightly and stringing them from upstairs down to the christmas tree, sitting the elf on top with a candy cane as if he was sliding down them.

still alessia had won that round which leah was not impressed with. you on the other hand barely even paid their turns much attention, refusing to give them any sort of praise of acknowledgement beyond a hum or a nod, not that your vote counted for anything anyway.

it was taken up a notch when alessia had frozen leah's house keys in a block of ice overnight, sitting the elf on top with a makeshift scarf wrapped around him and a pair of tweezers in hand like a small ice pick.

that earned her an entire day of stony silence from the defender, meaning you were instead pulled back and forth between them both after your attention since they weren't receiving any from one another.

leah had once again stepped it up, laying out a bunch of alessia's makeup on the counter, smashing up an eyeshadow pallete and highlighter stick, and writing 'elf was here 2023' on the mirror in her favourite shade of lipstick. the elf in question was sprawled out on the counter with an empty bottle of wine and smeared makeup all over his face.

"leah catherine williamson!"

you'd shot up awake hearing alessia yell, rubbing your eyes and reaching around you, frowning when both sides of the bed were cold and empty. "oh what now." you mumbled tiredly at the noise of the bickering carrying from the bathroom.

"leah most of this stuff is fucking expensive you stupid idiot!" alessia seethed, gesturing wildly to the remnants of what was once her makeup on the counter. "babe i'll just buy you more, you're overreacting." leah rolled her eyes dismissively.

"no you've taken it too far! you fucking ignorant selfish moronic-" alessia struggled to think of her next words as you entered the room. "hey, lessi baby breathe." you gripped her bicep with a concerned frown, steam practically pouring out of the blondes ears.

"oh of course you take her side!" leah scoffed with a roll of her eyes as you fixed her with a stern look. "why wouldn't she? you're the one in the wrong!" alessia spat, wrapping you in a bone crushing hug and pulling your shorter body into hers possessively.

"it's a joke less! lighten up and grow a funny bone would you?" leah laughed, only fueling alessia's anger further as you quickly grabbed her face before she could explode, murmuring it wasn't worth it as the striker huffed and let go of you, storming out of the room.

"leah." you started with a disappointed sigh, crossing your arms over your chest and staring her down. "what?" the older girl rolled her eyes sitting on the edge of the bath.

"she's right lee that's too far. none of these have damaged anything." you reminded her. "she froze my keys!" leah whined with a glare. "your house keys babe, we have two extra sets. what would you do if instead of wrapping your trainers in foil she cut them up?" you challenged with a sigh, standing in between her spread legs.

"that's different! trainers are-" "expensive? but can't less just buy you more." "yeah alright you might have a point."

"clean this up and go and say sorry, sincerely. and if she doesn't want to talk to you then give her some space and apologize later." you grabbed the blondes chin, pecking her lips before leaving her behind to clean up her mess.

indeed alessia hadn't wanted to speak with leah but after a few hours of sweet words and grovelling, all seemed to be forgiven.

key emphasis on; seemed to be.

that next morning you'd woken up to yelling again, only this time the roles were reversed.

"alessia mia teresa russo you come here right now!"

"what did you do?" you shot up awake again same as yesterday, thsi time staring down at the smug looking blonde who was laid in bed beside you.

"i didn't do anything, maybe the elf was feeling naughty again." she'd mumbled with a smirk as you pinched the bridge of your nose and inhaled sharply. "alessia. what. did. you. do?" you asked firmly, poking her chest with each word.

but you didn't have a chance to hear her answer as footsteps pounded upstairs and leah flew into the room, not another word said as she grabbed your hands hauling you up and out of bed.

"leah! put me down!" you yelled in shock as suddenly you were flung over her shoulder, watching alessia sit up in bed as you were carried out of the room and downstairs, dumped suddenly on the sofa.

"look what she's done!" leah spat, pointing to a pile of clothing on the coffee table, the elf sat on a tissue box with a pair of scissors. "lee. baby i just woke up, please stop yelling at me." you sighed, closing your eyes and massaging your temples.

"look!" leah huffed, ignoring you completely as she held up shirt after shirt, all with sporadic holes cut throughout them. "oh for fuck sakes. alessia!" you called upstairs, leah continuing on her angry rant without even pausing to take a breath.

"good morning!" the younger blonde smiled happily, slinking downstairs as leah fell silent. "you've ruined half my wardrobe alessia!" she spat, lunging for the blonde as you hastily leapt up and grabbed the back of her hoodie.

"i didn't do anything, the culprits got the scissors right there." alessia shrugged pointing to the elf. "i will stab you with those scissors!" leah spat angrily as you shoved her to sit down in your previous position. "you! kitchen, now." you warned alessia pointing in the other direction as she rolled her eyes but left anyway.

"my love. deep breaths with me please, in for five and out." you started, sitting down on the blondes lap who did as you asked, calming down a little.

"i will take you both shopping this afternoon and less will buy you some new tops, and you'll replace less's makeup." you gave her a firm look as she opened her mouth to protest, eyebrows furrowing together angrily.

"fine. but i'm not sitting in a fucking car with her this morning and i'm not talking to her until she apologizes. just like i had to yesterday!" leah warned as you nodded in understanding, pecking her lips and standing up allowing her to storm off upstairs.

"alessia." you started with a sigh as you appeared in the kitchen, your other girlfriend leaning against the counter looking through her phone. "what?" she mumbled sourly, lips forming a pout.

"don't give me that, you know you went too far." you warned, pulling yourself to sit up on the island. "she started it!" the blonde moved to wiggle inbetween your legs, wrapping her arms around your torso and resting her head on your chest.

"you both started it when you agreed to make what was supposed to be a cute new tradition, into a competition!" you carded a hand through her hair with a deep sigh.

"we're going shopping after training love. you're going to buy leah new shirts and she's going to replace your makeup." you stated, a stern glare silencing the strikers protests as she nodded. both of you winced as suddenly the front door slammed close, leah's car starting in the driveway.

"you can start with an apology though lessi."

things once again seemed to calm after that, both girls ignoring the small elf for a further three days and you breathed a little easier enjoying the extra attention it meant you got from them instead.

but of course one kyra cooney cross had to open her mouth complaining about the lack of elf content with several of the girls backing her up, and you could have wrung their necks then and there, leah and alessia sharing a look across the dressing room which made your stomach lurch.

your warning them against it fell on deaf ears, their anger at one another for the mistakes of the past evaporating as they spent the afternoon teasing one another for who would win, leah having borrowed an elf off beth without your knowledge.

"thats it! i am over this. both of you leave me alone until you go to bed and i can get some peace and quiet!" you snapped as they started to go back and forth over the top of your head, shoving both of them off of you and storming to the spare bedroom.

you busied yourself with your studies for the rest of the evening, having taken a break over the holiday period considering your course was self paced.

but needing something to keep your mind off things you sprawled across the bed reading your text books, ignoring both your girlfriends attempts to coax you back out to spend time with them, the door firmly locked with the key in your pocket.

eventually having to give into how much you missed them, you snapped your books shut and padded to the bedroom. "baby!" alessia perked up at the sight of you, opening her arms expectantly as leah gave you a tired smile.

"you're both so annoying sometimes." you mumbled as you crawled into bed between them, settling into alessia's arms as leahs face tucked into your neck. "we're sorry gorgeous, we love you very very much." alessia whispered, kissing your cheek gently as leahs hand snaked up your top.

your breath hitched feeling her cold fingers trace shapes on your bare chest as alessia caught on, her lips settling on your neck as leah pushed herself up and hovered over you with a wolfish grin, suddenly wide awake.

"how about we make it up to you then baby girl?"

waking up that next morning you smiled seeing finally both of your girlfriends were in bed with you. no yelling, no arguing, no naughty little elf related disasters.

oh how wrong you were.

ignoring their half asleep grumbles for you to stay you wrenched yourself out of leah's tight hold, kissing both of their foreheads and slipping out of bed to make all three of you breakfast before training.

except you didn't make it to the kitchen.

this time it was leah and alessia who woke up to yelling, though this time when it was a cry of pain they both scrambled out of bed, tripping over one another in their haste to get to you.

"baby?" "love?"

you groaned in pain at the bottom of the stairs, leah hastily grabbing the back of alessia's shirt to stop her following in your footsteps.

"leah!" the striker gasped with wide eyes, the stairs covered with mountains of toilet paper supposed to look like snow which is what had caused you to slip down them.

"alessia!" leah echoed in the same tone, eyes falling to the kitchen where a thin layer of flour covered the entire room head to toe. but hearing you groan both of them snapped out of it, carefully making their way down as fast as they could toward you.

"do not touch me!" you warned as they reached you, the scarily calm tone of your voice causing them both to recoil as you gradually got to your feet. "baby we didn't-" alessia's words fell short as you held up a hand.

"not a word, from either of you." you whispered, anger on the brink of boiling point as you turned on your heel, slightly limping as you headed for the kitchen, none the wiser of what was to greet you as all you wanted was an ice pack for where you'd landed right on your ass.

"oh this is going to be ugly." leah mumbled, grabbing alessia's hand as you rounded the corner and your eyes landed on the kitchen.

"my love we-" again their words fell short as you held up a hand, back faced toward them as you leant forward, sagging against the counter as your hands gripped the marble with white knuckles.

a thick uncomfortable silence formed, both alessia and leah sharing a terrified look as you slowly turned, a murderous look in your eyes.

it was safe to say the words that followed were not PG13, both of your lovers remaining deadly silent as you ranted and raged at them, storming upstairs and changing in the blink of an eye, door slamming after you as they both cringed and hurried off to clean up and get themselves ready.

which is what brought you back to present time, sat beside katie as you finished recounting the mornings events to her. "fuck, well that explains it. incoming!" the irishwoman nodded toward the door where your girlfriends had entered.

alessia tried to approach you first as katie mumbled her a good luck and darted away after caitlin, however the piercing glare and stony silence she received were enough to send her right back to leah.

the older blonde was next, taking a much bolder approach as you felt her sit down beside you as you were hunched over tying up your laces. "baby girl." she started sweetly, wincing as your head shot up and your eyes slit into a glare, the name which normally had you swooning having no effect whatsover.

"both of you need to stay away from me. do not talk to me, look at me, breathe near me for the entire day." you warned the defender before stomping out of the change rooms, a few of the other girls gravitating toward her to question what had happened.

true to your wishes both girls steered clear of you, though that didn't stop you feeling their eyes on you throughout the day. they'd hoped to catch you maybe in a better mood once training was done but you'd already left, not bothering to shower but rather leaving as soon as you could, the first one gone for the day.

when they came home it was to no surprise you were once again locked in the spare room, a stony silence meeting them as they knocked gently, leaving you be for a few hours and hoping with time you might come to them.

when that didn't happen, they knocked heads together to come up with an alternative plan.

which is what lead to yet another round of knocks on the door, your head turning to look at it with a roll of your eyes, tucked up and watching a movie quite comfortably. but thats not to say you wouldn't be more comfortable with your blondes either side of you.

"baby. please open the door and let us apologize face to face." alessia begged softly. "please love, we really miss you and we want to make things right." lead added on quietly, a soft thump sounding as her forehead rested against the door.

with a sigh you paused your movie, getting up to unlock the door, not opening it as you settled back into bed and your girlfriends took that as a green light as they pushed it open slowly and stepped inside.

you refused to look either one of them in the eye as they sat on the edge of the bed, giving you a healthy amount of space not wanting to overstep your boundaries. "we are so incredibly sorry gorgeous." alessia started softly. "very very very sorry." leah nodded enthusiastically.

"for?" you questioned, still not meeting their eyes. you didn't miss the way alessia elbowed leah, the girl clearing her throat for a moment.

"for turning something that was supposed to be fun and light hearted into a competition, and getting carried away with that competition and being immature, selfish numpties." leah recounted, the tone in which she used making it clear it had been rehearsed as you tried to keep the smile off your face.

"if you come downstairs with us please babe we have a surprise." alessia asked hopefully. "please." leah added on as you finally met their eyes and nodded, still remaining quiet but standing up to follow them regardless.

"what-" you started as leahs hands came to cover over your eyes and alessia steadied you, grabbing your hands and guiding you downstairs. "just go with it." leah encouraged as you sighed but nodded none the less allowing them to guide you.

"ta-da!" you blinked a few times as your eyes adjusted to the light, but once you did your hand moved to cover your mouth.

before you was a pillow fort they'd both clearly put some time and effort into building, spare duvets and cushions littering the tee-pee like space. one of the elves was sat on top of a pile of pizza boxes and snacks, holding a sign that said he was very sorry for misbehaving.

the other was taped to a spoon which was dunked into a mug of hot chocolate, next to him was a sign that read 'it was all his fault but i took care of him' and an arrow pointing toward him.

"they wanted to say they were sorry as well." alessia grinned, leah taking her chances and wrapping her arms round your waist, her chin settling on your shoulder and body relaxing when you didn't pull away or push her off.

"we are also very sorry baby, very very sorry." leah murmured as alessia hugged you, effectively sandwiching your body between them as you sighed. "you're both forgiven. but those elves are finding new homes and they are not welcome back!" you warned, all three of you pausing before laughter broke out.

"we've got christmas movies, lots of pillows and blankets, snacks, pizza, cuddles, kisses and even got a pint of your favourite ice cream from that little place down the road." leah recounted as alessia took your hand and guided you down into the little fort.

"the peanut butter choc chip one?" you perked up at that as the strikers face paled. "you told me her favorite was the rocky road!" leah groaned glaring at alessia who shrank into herself with a sheepish smile.

"less that's your favourite flavor!" you cracked a grin, smacking her thigh playfully as leah shoved her head to the side. "you still like it though, you always steal mine when we go babe." the striker pouted, pulling your body to sit between her legs as she leaned into leah's side.

"merry almost christmas, my pretty girls." leah smiled lovingly, hand resting on the back of alessia's neck and pulling her into a kiss, leaning down to press her lips against yours next, alessia following suit, pulling away and kissing your nose causing you to scrunch it up adorably.

"i love you both very much, even if you drive me to the brink of insanity sometimes." you craned your head up to look at them, tapping your lips again with a cheeky smile as both of them took turns giving you what you wanted.

it was safe to say after that you were not surprised to see the next day both elves on katie's instagram story, wasting no time texting caitlin a firm warning about their misbehavior.

as well as a strict reminder they were not welcome back into your home, not even for a visit.

[daenysthedreamersblog]

NOTHING MATTERS

And you can hold me like he held her

And I will fuck you like nothing matters

little AU!!! of my strangers fic inspired by link & link

summary: president snow takes reproductive matters into his own hands

pairings: president!snow x district6! reader

warnings: MDNI!! BLOOD!, smut, p in v sex, infertility, lil period sex (saltburn possessed me for a sec), breeding kink, lil breastfeeding kink (who made me do that??), pregnancy kink, murder

notes: WHO MADE ME WRITE THIS!! i hate pregnancy tropes 🫢 ... anywho enjoy tho. 'nothing matters' - the last dinner party

President Snow had your cycles down to a tee. With whatever birth control he shoved in your arm it had somewhere along the way regulated them to be able to track, to predict, to control.

You didn't mind; you enjoyed the formalization he had established for your life. You stopped worrying about them coming sporadically and without warning because he always knew. He would have supplies dropped off with a vase of white roses and it would come soon after like the floral scent triggered it to start.

It didn't stop him from fucking you.

No, of course not.

He would feast on you, blood coating his chin and chest before sliding inside of you savoring the extra lubrication. You yearned for it.

Time had gone by and your life was easy. He took care of everything, you, your body, sucked the rot right out of you, as long as you were good, you were safe.

Livia was still there, somewhere deep in the house, sometimes listening. She stopped having dinner with the two of you and you chalked it up to maybe he had finally gotten her pregnant; her purpose served.

But you never heard a baby cry.

You would wait and listen to hear something of that sort, but the house was still so quiet. He must have moved her, moved them away, somewhere else where they couldn't find you. He could keep up his public image and you would live out your days here in a routine.

Then one day, while pruning roses in his garden, you heard the door open. You heart skidded, wetness seeped out of you, so you knew it was him. He was home earlier than usual. You waited, waited for him to come for you and soon enough his hands trailed down your arms. He brushed your hair to the side kissing up your neck, "My good little bluebell," He murmured into your skin. "I need you to do something for me." You blinked upward staring at the rows of pretty white flowers some rock forming in your chest. "You can do that can't you?" You found yourself nodding, not even knowing what you were agreeing to, but that's how things were between the two of you; blind obedience. "That's my good girl." He reached down, pulled something from his pocket. "Open." You obeyed feeling him pour a liquid into your mouth. Before you could even turn blackness engulfed you.

It was blurry, and painful as someone scratched at your skin. There was blood and voices, and he was there staring down at you, you felt yourself reaching for him. Then you felt him between your legs that blissful pleasure ricocheting through you. It was all that mattered.

You woke up next to him naked and sore.

You curled into his warm skin feeling his fingers twitch against you and you closed your eyes, safe and normal once more. Life was easy, he made sure of that, as long as nothing changed.

Months went by and he seemed more aggressive than ever fucking into you wildly. He even began to come home mid day to fuck you and then go back to work. You didn't mind as his tongue lapped you up, as he pushed into you, cumming hard and deep never letting a single drop spill out of you. He would sit there for a while between your legs staring at his cum oozing from you and then he would shove it all back in and leave.

You didn't think anything of it until one day supplies showed up for your impending cycle, the sweet scent of roses filled your nose, but blood never leaked out of you.

Maybe it was the wrong day, he seemed distracted, frustrated with work no doubt. You did often hear him yelling at someone far off in the house some days. You ran your fingers across the soft petals and took the supplies in the bathroom to leave there.

But another week had passed and nothing came.

Unopened boxes sat in your hands as panic erupted in your chest. The implant must be malfunctioning or expired to cause the tardiness of your cycle, but the feeling dragged in your bones. You glanced up in the mirror, blurry eyes going to your stomach. It wasn't possible, it wasn't right. Your body had betrayed you again. He would be so angry with you, this wasn't supposed to happen, you had done something wrong. You fought the urge to dig your claws into yourself to tear it out, rip it from your stomach. It was an abomination, an antichrist that would butcher you.

Instead you stood there and cried.

You flinched when he opened the door, "You're late."

Your eyes quivered as you looked at him through the mirror, "I'm sorry." Don't stutter. "Mr. President, sir."

He shook his head a satisfied smile in his face where you expected cold rage, "Such a good girl." He walked forward, "I knew you could do it." You watched him, his eyes trained on your womb and you wanted to ask him to get rid of it so you could return to your never changing routine, but that thought nagged at you, clamping your lips shut. Your mind had betrayed you as well. His hand was pulling up the dress you wore slowly turning your body as his hand laid across your stomach.

He kissed your shoulder before bending you over the bathroom sink to plunge his cock into you. Your unused supplies got knocked to the floor with each brutal thrust of him and you gripped the cold counter moaning his name like you always would. You watched him in the mirror, watched that little stray curl fall into his face as his hands reached around to cup your sore breast. And even knowing the consequences it had caused you, you still loved his cum inside you.

"This shouldn't..." You chewed on your tongue as he walked you to bed. "I did something wrong. Won't people be mad at me?"

He stroked a hand down your head, "Nobody will know."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No." He shook his head tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, "You've been so good to me."

You blinked up at him. "Your wife..."

His eyes narrowed in anger and you looked down. "No longer a concern."

But wasn't she? This wasn't supposed to happen with you. Livia was his wife, Livia had to give him children, Livia...

Livia was infertile.

You learned that when he brought the doctor to confirm what beast was growing inside you. They had tried for two years, and never were able to conceive. So, he drugged you, ripped the implant out of your arm, and now you sat staring at the small gestational sac flickering on the screen. You had agreed to let him do this, remembered nodding your head without question because that was what was expected of you. You belonged to him, your mind and body, it wouldn't have matter if you had willingly agreed or not, the choice was an illusion. Tears welled in your eyes, bile rising in your throat and you flew forward reaching for the trash can to throw up into.

A hand rubbed your back. You threw up again.

"Are you happy?" He asked while the two of you sat in that empty room the sound of its vicious strong heart beat echoing in your head.

You didn't know what to feel. You felt ashamed, you felt wrong. You had been content fucking him, hating him, being fed and watered like a pretty flower in his greenhouse. You wanted to beg him to take it out, it made your insides roil and burn, it changed what you had been comfortable knowing. But you had always wanted Coriolanus Snow to live inside you, and now it always would be, growing within you, altering your DNA.

"Yes Mr. President, sir." Was the only answer you knew he would take.

He kissed your shoulder, "I knew you would be." A hand splayed on your belly, "My darling bluebell."

So, a few months later you found yourself once again pruning the roses half-way through an uneventful pregnancy. President Snow doted on you more than usual, bringing you flowers everyday, supplying you with more food once you were able to keep it down. He changed your wardrobe to accommodate your growing womb, he loved seeing how big you were getting each passing week, loved fucking you even more. Sometimes he would make you stand there naked just so he could look at you and you round stomach.

It would be over soon, you looked forward to that day, when they would take the baby from you and you would never have to see what tore its way out of you. You could return to normalcy, relishing in the predictably of your life with him.

The greenhouse door opened, shut and locked. Something was off, you knew by the way your body failed to react. "He finally did it." Her cold voice stilled your corrupted heart.

You turned slowly to see her, her red eyes going to your bump. She looked unwell, gaunt, exhausted and sad. "Mrs. Snow." You responded. You thought she was dead, maybe she was.

"I kept telling him if we could just try I would be able to give him children." She took a step closer and the hair stood up on your arm. "But he insisted on artificial insemination." Livia sneered, "Because of you. He wouldn't fuck me because of you." Your eyes darted around the room looking for an escape. "He married me, he chose me."

"Mrs. Snow..."

She slapped you across the face, "Don't even dare. You think you're so special, winning the games, letting him fuck you like the whore you are. You disgust me." She was seething your eyes finally catching on the long steak knife in her pale hands. "That's my baby." She pushed you back, your back hitting the table holding your tender flowers.

You braced for the pain, braced for the sharp edge cutting through you.

But all you felt was a kick.

Time stilled, your mind narrowing in on the feeling of it rolling and twisting inside of you, clawing at your organs, punching your ribs. It's small little foot kicked you again, your heart stuttered with the abuse adoration refilling disgust. It wasn't an abomination at all, it was everything you had ever idolized, once hated, once loved. It was just like it's father, stealing your body, blood, and bone; your heart beat for it.

You were a victor, you were his victor.

Warmth spilled down your hand and you met Livia's wide eyes. You both looked down at the shears you buried deep in her stomach.

Then you were running for the door yanking at the locked handle as her hand wrapped into your hair pulling you back. Your back slammed into the table once more glass shattering around you as red oozed out of her.

"If I can't have it neither can you."

Another reassuring kick in tandem with your heart beat and you were moving as you picked up the nearest potted plant to throw at her watching her stumble forward, a rage driving her movements.

She tackled you to the ground hands ripping out the shears to hold over your head.

"You're nothing but a savage." She was crying her tears and blood dripping onto you.

The greenhouse door flew open. "Livia." He was coming to save you once more and the little thing inside you somersaulted.

She looked back at him, "Coryo! This isn't fair! If we could just try! I can give you children please! We can be happy...I know it."

"Get off of her. Now." He gritted out.

She shook her head, "We can grow to love each other too...if you just try...with me, not her."

You wanted to tell her, explain, there was no love between the two of you. It was raw possession and starvation and hatred that kept you glued beside him. It was insanity and corruption that burned through your souls intwining them together in a pretty blood stained ribbon.

He glared, "Enough."

"No! No!" She screamed as you lie stagnant under her. "I'll tell everyone! Leak it to the news what you keep here, who your children really belong to. You'll be ruined." Her rage melted into sadness. "It's supposed to be me." She looked back down at you, "Why would he want you."

You heard the click of guns, but your hand had wrapped around the knife's handle your lips pulling back to bare your teeth, a snake poised to strike.

"Because I'm his good girl."

You slashed the knife across her throat a warm red river spurting over you from the open wound. Her body collapsing on top of you instantly, blood soaking into you, and this time you didn't wait for him to move it, you shoved her to the side hands going to caress your stomach as that little life rolled within you.

He came forward staring down at you covered in his dead wife's blood. He bent down holding your chin with two fingers, "You are." A stroke of his thumb, "My darling girl."

You surged forward to kiss him feeling him pull your drenched body to him, wrapping your legs around him as he went to the nearest table. In one swift swipe of his hand plants clattered to the floor as he laid your body down in a bed of ruined white roses. He was ripping down the middle of your dress to tear the fabric off your body as you did the same to his feeling him climb onto the table above you.

His hand went between your thighs, fingers shoving into you, stretching you open, palm pressed against your clit, hips bucking to meet his thrust. You stare at him as he watches his hand disappear inside your needy cunt. His mouth goes to your breast, sucking and nipping at the swollen flesh watching as milk slowly starts to leak from the tips.

He stares down at it for a moment, blood and milk covering your chest, before running his tongue along it again. His mouth wraps around it sucking harshly and you moan fingers running through his hair. His hand moves faster pressing down on your clit more and soon enough your clenching down around his fingers as he throws you over your peak.

You tilt your hips up to let him slide in deeper whining out when he's fully seated inside you clawing at him as he thrust in and out of you viciously. His teeth graze against your jaw as he rolls his body along you, hands sliding down to rest against his side. You nip at his ear feeling his pants growing louder near your face. You feel conjoined, connected between bodies and soul and you find yourself running a soft hand down the back of his head.

"Do you still hate me?" He breaths out grinding his body hard into yours.

You can't answer.

He smirks, "I want you to give me more," He hooks an arm under you thrusting into you faster. "I want a little litter, breed that good little obedience into them hmm?" Your toes curl against him, "You want to give me that right? Give me however many I want?"

"Please," You whine against his throat.

He slides his hand between your bodies, skin slick with drying blood, running circles around your clit as his dick hits every good spot within you. Your body alights with pleasure as he brings your closer to the edge. "That's my good girl."

You squeeze your eyes and cum, pussy clamping down around him. His fingers grip your scalp as his thrust quicken, his grunts getting faster until he finally spills inside of you.

He stays within you as you whisper into his skin, "Coriolanus." He goes stiller above you, "It's a boy."

"A boy." His lips twitched against you, it almost feels involuntary.

He glances down at you a certain lightness to his blue eyes. He's everything. Him. This consumption, this primal need and obsession, this hatred and worship. He's everything. He's given you everything, even a darling baby boy.

He's got your eyes and Coriolanus's curly blond hair. He's precious and all you ever needed, but you still wanted more, craved more. You watched him play with a toy train set as you bobbed your daughter against your knee.

"Dada," She cooed watching as he stepped into the room two white roses in his hand.

He bent down to hand one to her the small little smile on his face as the sweet scent filled the room. Then he tucks the other behind your ear, "One for each of my favorite girls." He asked a hand reaching out to splay against your ever-growing womb. "How are you?"

"Hungry." Your eyes darkened as you meet his.

You set your daughter down sending the nanny in to watch over them as Coriolanus pressed a hand to your back leading you back to your room.

You can barely keep your clothes on before the door closes, greedily pressing your self against him, mouths heavy and hot with teeth and tongues.

This is everything. He's everything. He's all consuming. Nothing else matters.

Even when the cold comes crashing through

I'm putting all my bets on you

I hope they never understand us

I put my heart inside your palms

My home in your arms

Now we know nothing matters

notes: hope you enjoyed! im not super thrilled with this snow ended up being WAY too nice lmaoo but i remembered him being rly sweet (well his version of it) to his granddaughter in THG and i was like ya know what hes a psycho but he would adore his kids lmao

but yea this is such an AU snow and reader would never have children in my OG story :)

[divineidolatry]

CONSTANTLY IN THE DARKNESS — CHAPTER 1

— written by june.

pairing: coriolanus snow x reader*

rating: explicit (18+) — mind the tags, see masterlist for disclaimers

summary: against your wishes, you call the curtain on your relationship with coriolanus snow and walk out of his life for good. against your wishes, he waltzes back in like nothing's changed.

tags: exes to lovers, it's complicated, slow burn but they're constantly fucking, manipulation, toxic relationship, power play, unprotected sex, bdsm, dom!coriolanus, sub!reader, edging, overstimulation, orgasm denial, spit kink, bondage, pearl play, choking, shoe riding, degradation, dirty talk, brat taming, penetrative sex (piv), aftercare

taglist: comment on the masterlist to be added to the taglist.

wordcount: 4,352

just before our love got lost you said "i am as constant as a northern star" and i said "constantly in the darkness, where's that at? if you want me i'll be in the bar."

“Coriolanus…” You drop the silver cutlery on the fine porcelain, the sound sharp enough that he winces. Good. This should hurt him as much as it hurts you. “What are we even doing anymore?”

His face holds that cold expression you can’t read, beautiful and impossible, a question you saw the first day you met him and you knew you wanted to crack him open.

You always knew he had ambition, and you possessed plenty to match. Power called to you from an early age, you’d just gotten smarter about you grabbed it. Still, he made you better. He made you sharper. And in turn, you could make him look soft enough to please.

But the parts of you that slotted together like perfect gears before had grown jagged and mismatched now. His ambitions mean more than you. They come before you. A part of you thinks it would be okay if he still made room for you at the end of the night, but it’s all perfunctory and dutiful.

“We need to talk. Actually talk.”

It’s not for a lack of trying to understand him, but there’s walls in Coryo that shift position, closing him off when you’re not careful enough. Talking with him turns into talking to him. He never did share much, even when you made it clear that you supported his ambitions, never troubling him with your own. You’re big girl, after all, independent and capable, you can hold your own value and underscore his. You know how to charm the worst of them and flatter the best of them, you are an asset beyond compare and yet he’s losing interest. Galling.

“I’ve been loyal, beyond a shadow of a doubt. I’ve kept clean in public so you can defile me in private. I play your game so well, and yet…” You flick your finger against the crystal wine glass, lipstick stains rimming the edge. You dressed to the nines tonight, giving him a last chance to look at you, at everything you offered him as a partner in every sense of the word. “You make me feel like I’m doing something wrong.”

His silence hangs heavy and painful in the air between you two. There’s something so pristine and perfect about the room that itches in your gut, that sometimes makes you want to take the knife and stab him through the back of his hand just to see if he’d even flinch.

“Am I not good enough for you anymore?”

Oh, how icy his gaze is. It cuts right through you, past all your defenses.

These dinners, once bubbling with conversation and excited plans about the next chance you’d have to shift the board, have turned to quiet and perfunctory affairs now. He meets your eyes less and less on the university campus. You spend hours waiting for him in the quiet hallways on the top floor no one goes to, doing your seminar readings in the same hidden alcove where he once liked to make you moan so high a rumor had spread of a ghost haunting.

It doesn’t matter to you that he is busy, it mattered that he stopped including you, that he didn’t even try. And you can’t get through to him. It’s getting sad — worse, stale. On top of that, people are talking. Gossip loud enough that you could hear it from the back rows in lecture halls, of discord between Panem’s golden future and his leading lady. Bad metrics for both of you… and it fucking stings too.

His heart isn’t in your mouth anymore, and you are beginning to starve. And he’d let you.

You fold up the napkin, dropping it on top of the half-finished meal, knowing the waste will irk him. Whatever hook you still have in him you will pull on. You must. You refuse to go down without damages.

“This is what you want, isn’t it? It’s easier this way, me deciding to leave you, that way you won’t have to clean up the mess. That’s why you’ve been so cold, right?”

He doesn’t speak. Pushing the chair out, you get up and walk the length of the table, your heels clicking loud against the marble. You move close to him, press your body against his and feel the heat of his breath on your skin… but his expression does not shift, and you shake your head with a pained noise catching in your throat.

“I don’t think you are this cold,” you whisper, slipping your hand in under his shirt, pressing your fingers against his chest. His heart beats hard and strong. “I hope you realize when I’m gone…” You trail off, struggling with the words.

Silence. Again. He’s leaning back in the chair, watching you try to reconcile this… and he is letting you flounder. Has he allowed you to ask for his time with the intention to give you nothing? The cruelty in that hurts even worse.

“Goodbye, Coriolanus.” You press a soft kiss to his cheek, scraping your nails over his skin, hoping it stings as much as his icy silence does. You gather your bag and coat, and leave his penthouse quietly.

In the elevator, you wipe at an errant tear. The air around you feels crushing but you cannot give in under pressure. You won’t.

For a few days, you don’t cry. You had foreseen this outcome to the conversation after all, made your preparations to leave as little behind as possible, and fortified yourself to understand that no matter how perfect a match you seemingly were for each other, you still actively had to choose one another. Whatever had consumed him also kept him from letting you in as he used to, and it meant he was no longer choosing you.

The barb still lodged itself deep in your chest, leaking poison all the same.

You go through the motions, brushing your hair, washing your face, studying. It’s in one of the lectures, the professor slipping through the lackluster material, that it hits like a fist between the ribs, and you clutch at your side remembering how Coryo would have made this make sense to you. It hits all at once how he’s not there, won’t be, he’s not going to make even the dullest media history class shine bright anymore.

When the tears come, it is Clemensia who wipes them away, lets your head rest in her lap, and offers to fetch the rest of your things. She was his friend first; you’d been a year under them in the Academy. When she comes back she doesn’t say if he reacted, though you doubt he was even at home. She strokes your hair, assuring you she won’t pick a side. Through all her care of you in the weeks to come, she proves her words, not letting you flinch away in public.

“Just because he plays a good game,” she reminds you, “doesn’t mean you can’t make a better move.”

You slowly get back on your feet, keeping her words in mind. She helps with applying your makeup on days when your hands are too shaky, keeping your perfectly crafted mask in place. She glues herself to your side as you attend classes, keeping it cordial with Coriolanus while your gaze slips past him. You forgot how good it felt to be someone’s priority.

“Why are you being so nice about this?” you ask one night, exasperated as she’s getting you ready for a party, squirming in your seat. You don’t feel ready for re-emerging into society, but what choice do you have? Crawl into a hole and vanish? You’d never give him the pleasure.

She rolls her eyes and gets up off the floor to fetch a dusty bottle of posca from the shelves.

“It’s not that different,” she says, handing a glass over to you. “I was in his corner too, and it bit me. Hard.” She grimaces, scratching at her wrist before rolling down the sleeve over her hands.

“Did you two…” You have wondered, after all, jealousy flickering at times like a dangerous question mark.

“Not like that! I just needed him to show up for me, to do this one thing, and he was busy chasing his own greatness.”

It's a relief to hear, mostly because you have an easier time believing her than him. “But you got over it.”

“I can’t fault him. If you’re here, it means something, and it’s not always flattering.” She wrinkles her nose at the posca even as she drinks it down. “When you want something so bad because you need to make sense of the world, to bring some sense of order to the chaos of life… I know you get it. He’s always been this way, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.” Her words are just a whisper as she pins curls in place on your head, her hand lingering to trace your chin as she examines your face.

Clemensia had taken a liking to doing these little things for you, drawing from a deep well of knowledge she’d amassed. It had become an outlet for her, creativity to couple with her own ambition. She liked to practice different looks on you before paring them down to a more fitting style suitable to current trends, but each flourish of her brush warmed your skin.

You knew that duality well — of wanting to create and struggling to find the time and place. Ever since you were small, your parents had clung to the idea that singing lessons and dance classes were of utmost importance, even keeping them going during the war. They wanted you to excel, rise in standing, and it had honed you.  

Unbidden, one of his old comments floats up in your mind, making your breath stutter. ‘You have the prettiest voice of all the girls in Panem, do you know that?’ And while you scoffed then, your ego bloomed under his praise. ‘Tell me more about how much you love my voice, Coryo…’

“Hey… come back to me, you better not ruin the hard work I’ve just done, I don’t do hard work for just anyone, you know?” Clemmie teases, but you can see a stern look in her eyes. You don’t have a lot of time, and she isn’t keen to waste it. “We have somewhere to be soon, okay?”

You nod. She’s right. The Capitol’s numerous galas and grand events throughout the year had kept going despite your broken heart, and tonight is the Rose Ball, an extravagant gala held in the grand conservatory with an orchestra playing and the guest list consisting of only the names of the highest esteem in the Capitol. And your name was still on it. Tonight, you intend to make sure it isn’t the last invite sent your way, no matter what.

Clemensia finishes with a lipstick red as wine, smiling as she puts her hands on your shoulders and turns you to the mirror.

“Look at you,” she says, tilting your chin up so the light catches the pearlescent shimmer dusted on your skin. “Everyone will be falling for you. And he will have no choice but to watch what he lost.”

You shiver in excitement.

You share the ride with some people Clemensia knows, and while they gossip away, you sit alone with your thoughts, the mask wavering for a moment. This is the first formal gathering you’re attending since the split… Several months of picking up the pieces to pretend like everything’s fine, to recoup as much of your image as possible, while still doing him the courtesy to not hurt his. You have been so good, and still people look at you as if you made a mistake and not him.

Tonight would be harder to find a bathroom to tuck away into, an empty study room to make your safe haven. No cover to hide behind, so you needed to don the appropriate armor, to appear unaffected. To tell a tale to outdo his. After all, Clemensia’s right, everyone can be made to want you. You will move on, and you will make him regret it while you do. You will remind him that your heart isn’t a delicate plaything, but a fire furious enough to match his.

You play with the pearls around your neck, the matching gold and pearl earrings bouncing against your cheek as the car passes over cobblestoned streets. They are the very same Coriolanus gifted you on your first anniversary, and weighted with memories. You thought about throwing them away immediately after the break-up, but that would have said something about him winning, and you can’t stand that.

Clemensia, hawk-eyed as ever, notices your nervous fiddling and nudges your foot with hers right as the car pulls up to the entrance. “Shall we then?” Clemensia offers you her arm and you take it gratefully. You revel in the sync of your heels clicking as you ascend the hard steps to your most important battlefield yet.

Past the heavy gilded doors, the gala’s milling crowd slows down as you enter, eyes drawn to you. You hold your head high, gripping Clemensia’s arm tight. No one here will get the pleasure of seeing you flinch. They announce your names, and you smile, brilliant and beautiful. The corset underneath your rose-red dress keeps your back straight, reminiscent of old elegances that has the old garde softening for you.

You think you spot him on the far end of the room, but the shadows are long and the lights dimmed. His gaze feels a certain way though, and there’s a wicked warmth in your chest that only he has ever made you feel.

“I’m going to do reconnaissance,” Clemensia says as she gives your hand a squeeze. “Let me get the lay of the land.”

“Go, go.” You wave her off, confidently stepping into a circle that parts to let you in amongst them, laughing at the right time. If there is one dance you know better than any other, it is this: the social graces and manners expected of you in these cutthroat places, where the marble runs red with lies and blood. Your heels know where to step even when sleepwalking.

While your mask does not waver, you sure feel bare under all the scrutiny, hungry gazes roving over every bared slip of skin on your arms. After what feels like hours of compliments, cruelties and layered comments, you find a brief escape in an alcove on the second floor, rubbing at your sore ankles as you catch your breath, head spinning. Roses weigh in on all sides of you, enchanting and heady. If you had to say something nice, it’s that Coriolanus knows how to work with the best event planners the Capitol has to offer.

You rip off a handful of petals, crushing them until the fragrant oils spill forth, and press them down the front of your dress before you get up to continue mingling.

The night is long: a dance with the Featherpillow boy a year your junior who easily dances circles around most of the men here; a glass of champagne with the Fairweather twins as you chat about the latest fashion trends and they enviously compliment your pearls; Clemensia whisking you away to a polite and stiff conversation with the Ravenstills. The night goes on for some time in this manner, gliding between dances, advances, and gossip. No one can seem to keep you in one place.

And everywhere you go, you feel the constant, unrelenting pierce of eyes on you. Not just the masses… his.

You are showing him up. Everyone knows it. Coming to his event with seemingly no hard feelings, dressed like a classical painting, fielding every conversation with natural ease and charisma. Everyone wants to see you, talk to you, be seen with you. It’s a move that will have lesser men folding their hands.

Coryo isn’t.

There’s no shortage of attention in his corner, the constant requests for a word from important political seats and fellow society greats, and invitations to dance which he only takes when you do. The undertow between you is palpable. He is an inevitability, you can feel it when you draw close during dances, gazes brushing past each other.

He is throwing you off, little by little, his smile blistering bright and dangerous across the room, and he catches you looking. Just once. And once is all he needs.

You swipe a glass of posca from a passing waiter, knocking it back in one go. This wasn’t part of your plan.

It definitely isn’t a part of the plan that Coriolanus appears in front of you, taking the empty glass away from you with a cool smile.

“May I have the next dance?” he asks, voice perfectly warm and polite. Every single eye watches the two of you with rapt attention as he offers his hand out to you.

He knows you can’t turn him down now, and he is relishing in it. His eyes are lit up, a fire in them you have not seen in months. You put your hand in his, beaming up at him.

“It would be my pleasure,” you say, dragging out the last word until it drips like daggers from your lips.

The two of you assume the starting position, you with one hand in his, the other on his shoulder, and you can’t help but notice that it is all too comfortable a role to slip back into: the perfect pair, polished and primed for the show. A lone pianist begins to play, and you recognize the tune as one of your very favorites… one you played for Coriolanus more than once on the grand piano in his penthouse.

Maintaining a polite expression, you shoot him a look. “Did you request this piece?”

“It’s your favorite, is it not?” He keeps it civil. More than civil, he keeps it warm, saccharine sweet even as he continues to lead you without a single misstep while giving the audience a perfect dance.

“I thought you’d forget about me,” you say, testing the waters. “Like you do to everyone who no longer interests you.”

“You think I’d be that cruel?”

“I know you would be.”

A hum rumbles in his chest and you feel it against your body, heating your cheeks. The dance goes on, gliding and spinning, the room growing dizzying either from the drinks or the way he won’t drop eye contact with you.

This much attention from him was not the plan, definitely not the goal, and as the tempo slows for the twinkling end of the piece, you think you might fall over if not for the sheer adrenaline coursing through you… and the firmness of his grip, fingers digging into the back of your corset.

As the music falls quiet, there’s a brief moment where you could hear a pin drop, the tension in the air releasing as the audience applauds. You blush, bowing to him, simmering with the dual-edged feeling of having been made a spectacle of — and a part of you enjoyed it because it was him doing it.

He offers his arm to you and you hesitate, wanting to search out Clemensia in the crowd, but with the expectant eyes still on you, it’s hardly the time to turn him down.

Shit.

You take his arm with trepidation, chewing the inside of your cheek as he leads you to the upper level of the conservatory. As you pass by Clemensia you shoot her a pleading glance, but she cannot save you, and you both know it.

He knows the place like the back of his hand and leads you to a tucked-away alcove crowned with rose arches. The plush settee is comfortable but small, and you wind up pressed against his side when you sit down. Worse still, it’s like he delights in tormenting you as he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you in.

“Did you enjoy doing that?” With a gentle huff, you finally speak your mind, voice hushed. He’s close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath, of his entire body, and yours never forgot how good he could make you feel, aching for him like a traitor. “Did you want to make a fool of me?”

He does nothing to assuage the pained curiosity of your words, tutting as he reaches up to finger one of your earrings. “No need. You and I can both agree you made plenty spectacle of yourself all on your own tonight, darling.”

You hold back from chewing him out, refusing to align his glance to his. It always frustrated him back then and it still does, as he moves his hand to your chin and tilts your face towards his.

“Hard time letting go?”

He knows just how to stoke the fire in you. “Of you? Never.”

“As you say.” He rubs the fabric of your skirt between his fingers. “You seemed all too comfortable letting everyone reach out to pull you around tonight, truly playing the belle of the ball, hm?”

“That’s how the Capitol landscape is and you know it. I was not trying to upstage you.”

He tuts at that. “You think that is why I’m upset?”

You furrow your brow. “What else would it be?”

“Because for all your flitting about tonight…” He lowers his voice, and you lean in instinctively. “You wouldn’t have deigned to give me the time had I not put you on the spot.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your mental game board in disarray. “You’re jealous?”

You’ve learned to not cry over him anymore. Even when it hurts, when the three years down the drain remind themself like a splinter under your nail, you’ve learned better control than that. But this time, you feel the hot prick of tears in your eyes. When one slides down your cheek, he wipes it with his thumb.

Damn it, damn him, damn it all. You swallow.

“After everything, you are jealous? I didn’t even come here with someone else.”

“You came here with Clemensia.”

“Yes, a friend.”

“She was my friend first.”

“Oh, don’t be a child.”

You roll your eyes, slapping his chest. He holds your hand there, and when the first feeling that runs through your heart is a sliver of hope, you know you’re done for.

“I’ve missed you.”

Check mate.

He wins again.

You try to pull away, but he resists, pressing you closer into him. For all that hurt, all the frustration, when you look into his eyes, when your gaze flits down to his lips, you still want to crush his lips with yours, to slot right into his life like you never left, and that thought gnaws at you. You hate yourself for it. And your mask is not that strong…

“You really could have thought about that earlier, Coriolanus. You had every opportunity.”

He seems content with not elaborating on why he froze you out, left you in the dark, and it frustrates you. His only response, in fact, is to act on the heat of the moment, pulling you into a kiss.

It’s greedy and hungry and he bites at your lower lip, causing you to whine. His lips are soft and taste of sugary pastries and finely aged wines and oh, it would be so easy to fall head first into how good it feels, how much you missed this, to climb on his lap right here…

You lick into his mouth, wanting all you can take before you part from him, unable to forget where you are, that there is no privacy in this place, and that you can’t risk everything for him — however badly you want to. When you pull away, you see the mess you’ve made of him, lipstick on the corners of his mouth, and it thrills to know he’s made one of you too.

“Not here,” you say. But it isn’t a no. It’s hardly a stop. It’s a challenge and you desperately want him to rise to it.

He waves over one of his attendants to assist in making you both presentable, leaving you in the seat once he is taken care of. You hold back a protest, ready to settle back into the shadows of his ambition, but then overhear him whispering about “ready the car” and “make sure they have a good time” before he turns back to you. There’s the fire that could burn the whole of the Capitol down if he wanted it. There’s the hunger that could have you willing to offer him of yourself just to sate him. It leaves you speechless. It leaves you burning.

He whisks you away out the back entrance to the waiting car and once seated in the back, partitions pulled up, you spare no time climbing on top of him, arms wrapping around his neck.

He fingers your earrings again, hand trailing down to your necklace. “Our first anniversary, hmm? Do you remember why I had the rose engraved in the gold?”

You aren’t interested in reminiscing anymore, you want the present moment, you want to burn your mouth on his. You kiss him again, rocking against him as you do, relishing in the way he tightly grabs your hips, helps you keep grinding down as he lifts up the skirt higher, skimming the top of your thigh-high stockings.

“Missed you too.” Your breath is hot and ragged against his skin.

You look over his face, bodies still slowly rocking together, and when your semi-glazed eyes meet his, you see nothing but fire, dangerous and warming, everything you have ever wanted from him. In a craze, you find yourself begging.

“Please… make me yours again.” It’s a romantic notion, and it will haunt you come morning, but now you are nothing but a bundle of nerves and want, all ripe for his picking.

“Patience,” he breathes against your neck, his lips on the pearls. “We’re almost there.”

[headcanonforthought]

Teen Wolf headcanon thing?

Derek is a college professor and Stiles is a highschool Senior taking early classes at the university. He's loud and abrasive, always falling out of his seat, and screaming nonsense down the halls after his bff Scott.

Chasing a stuck up girl who doesn't like him back. Who dosnt even notice his existence. Who treats him like he's not alive. Who would never think of going out with Stiles.

Stiles is always asking people of he seems gay. Does he walk gay? Does he talk gay? Would people think he's gay? Would a gay guy kiss him? Should he go to a gay club?

Derek's only solace is knowing Stiles isn't in his classes.

That is untill the fall semester. Smack dab in the front row is Stiles, already halfway out of his desk to whisper to Scott a seat away. Derek tenses and sighs. Fuck.

He resolves himself to ignore Stiles. Get through the semester, grade the kid we'll no matter what, and get him out the door. The first semester is easy. Stiles is a fool, always chatting with friends and getting into messes, but leaves Derek alone.

Derek walks into class the following semester only to find Stiles in the front once again. Fuck. He checks Stiles student portal and finds he's on the major path Derek teaches... He'll be stuck with Stiles for all four years. Derek nearly cries at his desk at the thought of this knuckle head invading his life for four whole years.

Derek ties to avoid Stiles but it soon proves impossible. Stiles thinks there freinds and is constantly coming up to Derek before and after class. Derek nearly spits out his coffee the day he walks into his office and finds Stiles sitting atop his desk. Derek slogs though another semester with Stiles nipping at his heels every step of the way.

Somewhere in year two Derek resigns himself to his fate. He's a 30yrold man with an energetic 21yrold yapping in his ear 24/7.

So, Derek isn't surprised when Stiles is waiting for him outside the building one night. It's been a long day of grading papers and Derek is worn down by the upcoming finals prep.

"Hello Stiles" Derek says with an eye roll he knows Stiles can't see in the darkness surrounding them.

"Are you gay"

Derek stops in his tracks. The cold winter air blows through his jacket and causes an uncomfortable shiver.

"I... Stiles... What is...I"

Derek can't even answer the question before Stiles walks forward, gripping the collar of Derek's leather jacket tight in his fists.

"I'm gay"

Derek can't process the news before Stiles uses all the strength he built up from Lacrosse to pull Derek down towards his face. Stiles hesitates...

Stiles kisses Derek as snow begins to fall around them. Though it was quick, Derek felt like they'd stood there for hours. Stiles let go of the jacket, biting his now moist lips softly.

"I'll, I'm gonna, I'll go. I'll see you, um, tomorrow Derek."

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

I have just had three wisdom teeth taken out this morning, do you have any food advice? If not can I get a chronic pain!reader?

I haven't been to a dentist since I was 6... so. Not really. Just try to stick to soft foods and avoid straws at all costs!

You watched the snow fall outside and tested your weight on your feet, wincing. Mentally taking stock of the aches and pains, rolling through the catalog for anything new or worse. Anything that will get better when you get moving. Anything that you're going to have to baby.

It seems like every day the list gets a little longer. The checklist takes longer. And you tamp down the terror that one day you're not going to be able to do things for yourself anymore. It doesn't help.

Today the pool. Tomorrow physical Therapy... It's a grind. It's a fucking slog. And you hate it. But, it's all you can do right now. You've had too many falls the last couple weeks. On ice, over your own feet, hell- once just standing still in the kitchen.

It's getting ridiculous.

And humiliating.

Not to mention the urgent care probably thinks the boys are beating you because you're covered in bruises all the fucking time. Which couldn't be further from the truth... they played rough with each other, they treated you like spun glass.

"You ready to go?" Wade asked, snorkel and flippers in one hand, grinning.

You look up, pushing hair out of your face and force a smile, "You don't have to go I'm just going to swim laps."

"I'm bored," he said, "And besides. Why would I pass up a front row seat to the hottest show in town?"

"I thought that was Logan working out."

"Either of you working out-"

"I'm taking you to therapy tomorrow," Logan added from the other room.

You sigh and heft yourself to your feet as you reach for your sweats. "So you're both afraid I just won't go."

"No," Wade said nodding yes.

"And," Logan said coming to stand on Wade's other side, "you hate it. And we want to make it less shitty."

"I don't know if having two literally perfect people watching me struggle will make it suck less," you snort, pulling on sweats.

"You swim like a fish," Logan pointed out. "I don't-"

"You have metal bones."

"And I look like-"

"Shut up," you and Logan chorus.

"If you say you're ugly, I swear to god Wade," you threaten, "I won't make you tacos this week."

"Pulling out the big guns before 9am?" he whistled. "Damn."

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Febuwhump Day 15: "Who did this to you?"

Content warning: drunk Whumpee, noncon kissing, kidnapping, intimate whumper

By the time Whumpee stumbled out of the bar, reeking of cheap booze and cigarette smoke, it was already pitch black outside. The air was frigid, snow an ugly slurry of refrozen water and dirt beneath their feet.

It was absolutely miserable out, and if the bartender hadn’t cut them off, they would’ve stumbled back in for another drink.

Whumpee sighed, half spoken curses leaving their lips. They squinted into the dark, looking for a sign, a landmark, anything that would help them remember the way back home. Or to another bar.

“It’s a beautiful night out, isn’t it?” a voice asked, suddenly beside them.

Whumpee turned towards the noise, squinting as a lanky figure had moved to stand beside them. Their face was turned up towards the night sky, though their gaze flicked downward to glance as Whumpee.

Whumpee hadn’t even heard them approach.

“Who the hell are you?” They slurred, drunken indignance on their face.

The figure smiled, cheeks painted red from the cold. They gave a theoretical half bow. “Whumper. Consider me a…friend.”

Whumee didn’t want a friend right now. “Fuck off.”

Whumper only laughed in response, and there was something so light, so unbothered in the noise that Whumpee felt their anger slipping away. They watched as Whumper dug into their pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. They elegantly lifted one from the package, offering it to Whumpee like a peace offering.

The cigarette was from their brand, back before they’d quit a few months ago. Distantly, they knew they should refuse. But it was late, and they were tired, and it wasn’t as if they’d gone out to get blackout drunk for their health.

Whumpee took the cigarette from Whumper’s hand, fingers brushing against theirs. Whumper’s fingers were boney and thin, almost delicate.

Whumper gave a pleased hum, stuffing the pack back into their pocket. A moment later, they were offering Whumpee a light. Whumpee accepted it without a word.

They took a deep inhale, warmth filling their lungs. The smoke tasted like chemicals on their tongue, unfamiliar in a way that caught them off guard. They must’ve forgotten how horrible they tasted.

The smoke left their mouth in a cloud, floating into the air.

And then the two of them were walking.

They were the only two on the street. The pair walked side-by-side beside empty roads, passing rows of shops long closed for the night. The only sound was the crunch of snow.

Whumpee’s footsteps were uncoordinated and wobbly, like a child still learning to walk. Each footfall threatened to send them stumbling to the ground, ice and snow working diligently against what little balance they had left.

Each time the ice got the better of them and they began to fall, a firm hand would set them on their feet again, lingering only long enough to ensure they’d remain upright.

Whumper effortlessly glided through the snow beside them, footsteps sure. There was a smile on their face, perfectly content, almost giddy. As if stopping a drunk from bashing their face on the cement was their favorite pastime.

Distantly, Whumpee wondered if they’d overdone it with the drinks. They took another inhale of the cigarette, smoke still foul in their mouth.

“Who did this to you?”

It took their mind a long moment to realize the silence had been broken.They turned, meeting Whumper’s eyes. “What?”

“This,darling,” they gestured to Whumpee’s disheveled state, a frown coming to their face. “A pretty thing like you, all twisted up with anger and grief, drowning your sorrows late at night. Who sent you there?”

“I…”

They’d done it to themselves, they knew. Like always. Because they always messed things up. Because they never saw things breaking apart until they were cutting their feet on the shards.

Because there was something wrong with them. They were stupid. so, so damn stupid. Because Caretaker–

Look I can’t–I can’t do this anymore. Whumpee, I can’t–

Because Caretaker deserved someone better than them.

The truth felt like a slap in the face. They took another drag, burning it until heat danced across their fingers, deep and choking, and prayed it would chase it away.

“It was Caretaker, wasn’t it?”

Whumpee could only nod, tears stinging their eyes. Had they mentioned Caretaker? They didn’t remember. “H-how do you–”

“They’re a idiot. An absolute moron, to not see how special you are,” Whumper interrupted them, voice sharpening. The change in tone was so dramatic, for a moment, Whumpee had to turn to confirm that the same stranger stood beside them.

Whumper’s gaze turned to them. Sharp, bright, so intense it stopped Whumpee in their place. “They looked at you and didn’t realize it was a honor to have your attention. They were blind, Whumpee. I would never do something so stupid. If I had something as valuable, as perfect to myself as you, I would never let go.”

“N-no I– fuck, it was my fault–,” The words fell out of them, unorganized snippets of half formed thoughts. They didn’t even know what they were trying to say.

Was this normal? The tension in Whumper’s words, the anger, all for a stranger they’d only just met? They didn’t know. Something was whispering in Whumpee’s head, anxious and frantic underneath the layers of haze. A warning alarm in the far distance, barely audible.

They didn’t want to think about it. They wanted to take any comfort they could, wrap themselves in the stranger’s anger and forget their hurt.

And yet there was that alarm, distant and full of warning. They could barely hear it, but they couldn’t ignore it either.

Hazy eyes glanced at their surroundings, and for the first time that night, Whumpee realized that they didn’t recognize the direction their feet had taken them. This wasn’t their street, it wasn’t even near their street. They didn’t recognize a single thing around them.

How had they gotten there? Had Whumper been following them as they walked aimlessly, or was Whumpee letting themselves be led to nowhere? They didn’t know.

They blinked, shaking their head in hopes of regaining any semblance of sobriety. Instead their vision smeared, a wave of dizziness hitting with such force that their legs gave out beneath them.

A pair of boney hands grabbed them.

“I’ve got you. Shh, I won’t let you fall, I promise.” The words were whispered against the shell of their ear. Whumper pulled them to their feet, moving one of Whumpee’s arms to rest over their shoulder. Their hand found a spot on Whumpee’s waist and didn’t let go.

And then they were moving again, Whumper guiding them Whumpee could barely get their legs to work. They could only stumble along, The ground shifting unnaturally beneath them as they were all but carried along. They found their eyes slipping shut without their permission.

Whumpee’s head felt light on their shoulders, like it would separate from their body and float away. Their body felt so, so heavy. They didn’t know how Whumper was managing to carry them.

They weren’t a lightweight. They knew they’d drunk too much, but it shouldn’t have been this hard to stand. It shouldn’t be so hard to pull a thought together.

They blinked their eyes back open at the sound of a car door opening. Before they could speak, they were being rearranged, boneless body being all but carried into the passenger seat.

They wanted to say something, but the words turned to smoke in their mouth. The door was closed shut behind them.

A moment later, they heard Whumper slide into the driver’s seat. The car came to life beneath them.

Whumpee felt a hand run through their hair, the touch nearly revenant.

“I love you. I adore you; from the moment I saw you, I knew we were destined to be together,” their words were barely a whisper, but it filled the small space. They felt Whumper’s breath brushing against their face.

Whumpee tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited, how much it hurt to watch someone else touch what was mine. But we’re together now, finally. I’ll never hurt you like they did,”

Whumper leaned close, and the only resistance Whumpee could muster was a feeble hand against Whumper’s chest.

When a mouth pressed against their own, insistent and bruising, Whumpee couldn’t couldn’t move. They simply sat limply, mouth ajar as Whumper’s tongue moved.

When Whumper finally pulled away, they were panting, the smile so wide on their face it looked painful. Whumpee was barely awake anymore.

“I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

[bakugotrashpanda]

Touya x Reader Word Count: 1.4k

!!: angst

A/N: this started out when I realized I didn’t write anything for Dabi’s birthday and then saw /tartaufraiz’s art on twitter and my brain took off with it. It wasn’t supposed to be this much angst, but I started listening to Logical (Olivia Rodrigo) and uh. Here we are. Just kind of wrote with this one, hopefully everything's in order and makes sense.

Your ex shows up the day after his birthday.

Punching in the code to your apartment, the front door to the building swings open with a creak. You pull your scarf down from your cheeks and let the semi-warm air heat them up. Giving your boots a good couple stomps to get rid of the snow and ice built up underneath, you head over to the elevator. 

You shuffle your grocery bags around and hit the button, sighing as you regain feeling in your face and fingers from the cold.

“You’re late,” a voice you had hoped to never hear again rings out to your right. Closing your eyes you pray that when you turn no one will be there. Deep breath in. Hold. And out.

Ding.

Metal doors in front of you slide open. You should get on – spam the door close button. Ignore what should be a voice in your head. Ignore the way your heart beat a little faster. 

But you can’t.

The elevator closes.

You turn to the stairs. Slow down. The little voice in your head warns you that you’re not ready to see him; you need to prepare yourself – put your walls up again. Turn faster, idiot. An even louder voice in your head screams at you. Consequences be damned, you need to see him.

When your eyes land on him, built up exhilaration clashes with years of pent up and pushed down sadness. White hair partially covers eyes that stole your heart and years of your life. His dark blue windbreaker won’t do much to keep the cold out, but then again, he always ran warm when you dated. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette before standing.

Your words are automatic. How many times had the two of you fought about lost security deposits because of smoke damage? “You can’t smoke in here.”

He arches an eyebrow but stubs the cigarette out on the stairs. “That’s the first thing you say to me?”

You sigh. “Touya, what’re you doing here?”

He shrugs and meanders over to you. Standing side by side he hits the elevator call button. “You didn’t wish me a happy birthday.”

“And?”

“Wanted to make sure you weren’t dead or something.”

“Could’ve been a text.”

He scoffs. “You’d’ve answered?”

Ding.

You get in the elevator and Touya follows. He pushes your floor before you can. It takes off with a slight jolt. Mechanical whirring fills an ever-growing tense silence. Questions and arguments you’ve wanted to have with him swirl around your mind.

In a desperate attempt to break the unbearable tension, you blurt the first thing that comes to your mind. “I thought you’d be busy in some other woman’s bed right now.”

Smooth. 

So fucking smooth.

He lets out a short bark of a laugh. “That was yesterday. Ya know, on my actual birthday.”

The elevator shudders to a stop and you leave first. Touya trails behind you silently like a shadow.

You finally ask what he’s doing here when your keys are in the door.

“Guess I missed hearing from you,” he says and leans against the wall.

“We broke up years ago.” The tang of bitterness in your voice betrays the calm demeanor you hope you’ve been projecting.

“And?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He nods at your almost unlocked door. “Are you going to invite me in? Or do your neighbors get a front row seat to whatever you got to say to me?”

You bite your tongue but turn the key, opening the door for him. With a grand sweep of your arm, you wave him in. The subtle scent of his cologne washes over you as he passes. 

Still the same scent he wore when we were together.

You plop the grocery bags on the counter and shuck your winter coat and scarf. When you return from hanging them up near the front door, you see him quietly unpacking your bags.

It’s a domesticity you rarely got from him before. When you were together you would’ve asked him for help unloading the groceries and gotten into an argument about it which would lead to another fight about splitting chores evenly as well as how money was spent. 

But here he is, your ex, in your kitchen putting food he’s not going to eat away without being asked and without complaint.

Folding the bags neatly, he opens the fridge and stops. From the entrance to the kitchen you can see something in his eyes. A myriad of emotions pass over his face – his brows pushing together. A question on the tip of his tongue. Lids lowering as he thinks. A slight frown. An unhappy sigh.

You know what he saw. And you have no excuse for it.

Should’ve kicked him out when I had the chance. 

Touya pulls out a small cake. It could fit in the palm of his hand. Pearly white frosting adorned with a single glazed strawberry. 

A habit you never cared to break. 

An accidental annual purchase.

A birthday cake. 

A secret now out in the open. 

“It’s-

“A habit,” you interrupt. “A bad one.”

“So you do think of me.”

The Touya you dated your first year of college would’ve been pleased — strutted around like a peacock and teased you a little. Not enough for you to get mad, but enough to start riling you up. But this one, the man in front of you now… you can’t quite put your finger on it. Is it a spark of hope in his eye? Maybe a quiet determination as he figures out where you stand? Or is it sorrow as he reminisces about the past?

Regardless, you can’t lie. Not to him. “Of course I do.”

“You miss me.” It’s not a question but rather a statement, and it pierces through the shoddy walls you surround yourself with. “Say it.”

You jerk your head up to find his eyes locked on you. “What?”

“You heard me. Say it. That you miss me.” His voice is rough, and the cake… that stupid little cake still sits in the palm of his hand. 

“I do. I miss you.” If he looked closely, he’d find traces of himself hidden in plain sight. A coat in your closet. A book on your nightstand. A lighter next to your candles. “And what about you?”

It’s the first time all night you’ve seen him hesitate. “We could try again.”

“We didn’t work Touya,” you smile sadly. “Maybe in another life we could’ve been happy, but not this one. It’s too late.”

Too much was said and we can’t take it back.

He sets the cake on the counter amidst your forgotten groceries and opens cupboards until he finds what he’s looking for. Taking a single candle, he gently places it next to the strawberry and lights it. 

“Make a wish,” you murmur.

A smirk ghosts across his lips. “I always wish for the same thing.” He bends so he’s level with the candle. The warm flame illuminates the contours of his face and reflects off the piercings he’s accumulated over the years. With a quick gust, the candle goes out leaving a wispy trail of smoke behind. You both stare at it. 

In the past, you would’ve hugged him and peppered him with kisses – asked him what he wished for and then told him not to tell you or it wouldn’t come true. He would’ve kissed your forehead and told you that superstition was stupid. But that was then and this is now.  

Uncomfortable familiarity settles around you like a wet blanket. You cross your arms over your chest. 

“You should go,” you whisper. Or else one of us will do something we both regret. You take a risk and flick your eyes up to his. Your pain is reflected in his gaze.

“Answer your damn texts next time.”

“Maybe,” you shrug. That would require unblocking his number.

He mimics your shrug. “Then maybe I’ll be around again.”

“Goodbye, Touya,” you roll your eyes and let out a little laugh.

He approaches you like you would a wounded animal. Carefully. Tenderly. Reaching out slowly so that it can run away if it wants to. But you stay there and let his hand find your waist, a familiar warmth spreading under his contact. His other hand cups your cheek, and ever so slowly, he leans in. 

You meet him halfway for a chaste kiss. He doesn’t push for more, knowing he’s pressing his luck as it is.

And as soon as it starts, it’s over. His thumb brushes your cheek one last time before he pulls away.

“Until next time.”

“Goodbye, Touya.” 

Picture in banner by takuya_n on unsplash