#Destroy him Prim

[sk1llz-heeler]

Ripping and tearing I need more cannibal content

[godsofhumanity]

in keeping with the theme of the Norse gods and Greek gods having a swap, what about a marriage? Been fantasizing off and on about Loki x Hecate pairing ever since you did that dialogue about Loki needing a skull and Hecate having like 8 of them. What do you think that would be like? Esp since Hecate is technically an Anatolian goddess adopted by the Greeks???

hee hee that loki x hecate post is SO old,, ur a real one anon for remembering it. honestly, when i made that post i was just putting random people together in a chat post.

but, i sort of always thought that marital relationships between different pantheons would be forbidden? so like, you can't marry someone from a pantheon different to yours. but just for the shits and giggles, i think Loki x Hecate would be insane. im actually not sure that they would get along as husband and wife-- Hecate strikes me as very proper and orderly, and Loki is chaos personified. also, Loki is self-serving, so i feel like it would be a love-hate relationship, very much what i imagine Loki x Angrboda to be like.

the only Norse x Greek pairing i ever considered in my life was Freyja x Apollo. idk, i just like the aesthetics of it?

u say you've been fantasizing about Loki x Hecate so i'd love to hear ur thoughts? i don't really have any myself 😭

[agentmilayawithshield]

The moment Tigris tells Snow he looks like his father, my heart broke.

That's her Prim.

That's the child she took care of while being a child herself, stuck with an adult who couldn't care for them all that well. She tried so hard and sacrificed so much for the boy that despite all her love still turns into a monster.

Katniss's Prim dies, but Tigris' Prim destroys every part of the boy she raised, to the point she wants him dead and has nothing in her heart for him except absolute loathing.

[sw4tch]

My ideal optimus characterization is "the most depressed mech you've ever known, the only reason he still fights is because of the idealized dream of a world without war is the one which promises him a future in which he finally gets to rest and rebuild and/or to not exist anymore. he carries a deep sadness within but that's what ironically makes him the most hopeful. he is the most melancholic atlas you've ever known and he's deeply aware of it. born to be a dad in a hawaiian shirt, cursed to be an ideal to legions. he has the customer service voice and smile curse because he has to be Perfect at all times. He cannot crack underneath it all when so many depend on him. He is no longer an individual, he is a symbol, and he takes that responsibility so seriously."

[space-invading-pigeon]

Hellfire Adopts Steve Pt. 2

Pt 1

Eddie may be repeating his senior year, but he's no idiot. He's intuitive, a quick thinker, and generally, he's an excellent judge of character. Which is exactly why he protested Gareth's decision to drag Steve Harrington, the former King of Hawkins High and current King of Don't Fuck With Me, to lunch with Hellfire.

Jeff and Freak are both genuinely terrified to have His Royal Highness picking at subpar mashed potatoes in the uncomfortable plastic chair across from them; to his credit, Steve Harrington seemed unbothered by the situation, even as Princess Nancy Wheeler and her own little pet outcast Jonathan pass him on the way to their own table. Eddie watches with growing interest as Steve boredly ignores Nancy's attempt to catch his eye (it's almost hilarious- he'd been at the Halloween party last month where Nancy got absolutely shitfaced and then screamed at Steve in front of the entire student body, and yet here they are, Nancy trying awkwardly to speak to Steve and Steve resolutely going about his business).

Gareth stammers through a story about their latest DnD campaign, his round face practically glowing with excitement as he uses the peas on his tray to illustrate what their party had been up against. Eddie fully expects Steve to say something rude, dousing Gareth's smile and deserving every bit of ire Eddie can muster, but Steve just smiles at Gareth and ruffles his hand through the unkempt curls Eddie's been trying to get Gareth to take care of.

From there it only gets weirder. Steve seems to have taken a real shine to Gareth and is nothing short of a perfect gentleman to Jeff and Freak, but he loves to bicker with Eddie. Honestly, Eddie's impressed at just how much Steve seems to like bitching at people.

Steve is also surprisingly responsible? After that first lunch, Steve is around all the time; he shows up to Hellfire meetings with his backpack full of homework and a Tupperware full of something delicious (Eddie had nearly cried the first time he took a bite of Steve's macaroni), only to completely ignore their entire session to study. Occasionally, the walkie Steve carries with him whenever they aren't in school will crackle to life, and Steve will make himself scarce pretty quickly.

Overall, Steve is awesome. Eddie hates to admit it, but watching such a prim and proper guy emotionally destroy someone for commenting on Freak's size, and Eddie just knows that the damage done to Tommy Hagan's car after Gareth showed up to Hellfire with a busted lip and glassy eyes was Steve's fault.

========

Steve is actually really enjoying his time in Hellfire. He doesn't really mention it to the kids, and both Nancy and Jonathan are still avoiding him, so Steve sees it as a win: he gets to make friends who haven't seen him get his ass beat by interdimensional horrorterrors that have ruined dogs and flowers for him forever, he gets to learn more about the game his new little brother is obsessed with, and innocent kids don't have to bear the brunt of King Billy's reign of terror.

Gareth decides almost instantly that he likes Steve; not only because he saved Gareth from bullies or brings them food better even than Wayne Munson's, but because Steve always listens to his DnD stories. Jeff and Freak (who Steve will only refer to by his Government Name, Melvin) grow to like him as well, not at all encouraged by the food Steve brings or (on one memorable occasion) the incredibly realistic melee weapon, straight out of a flick like Red Dawn, that they found under his seat one day.

[norsevvy]

i can't stop thinking about all the parallels and similarities between the three district 12 victors (four with peeta ofc i love that guy don't get me wrong BAHAHA). suzanne collins this is miserable

- lucy gray, haymitch, and katniss were all sixteen at the time of their reaping

- haymitch and katniss both tried to save district 11 girls and failed. both had some kind of mention of willows after death (rue's song, haymitch physically carrying lou lou's body into a patch of willows). you could argue movies-lucy gray had a tie to dill by accidentally killing her (which you could argue happened to haymitch and katniss too)

- all three of them having (mostly) illegal jobs. lucy gray and singing (restricted to the hob), haymitch with his bootlegging, katniss with her hunting. all instinctively rebellious just by nature

- haymitch and katniss both offered some kind of support to their career enemies. haymitch dropped down chocolate to silka after hearing her cry, katniss shot and killed cato to spare him from being (further) tormented by the mutts

- haymitch and katniss have the same family structure; dead father, living mother + sibling (haymitch's brother sid, prim for katniss)

- all of their reapings were never meant to happen. lucy gray's name was intentionally drawn, haymitch's was straight up illegal, katniss volunteered. none of them had their name drawn (save for lucy gray, but that wasn't fair)

- all close with their district partner / partners. admittedly not that surprising, but it's also fully possible to Not be close with them. all three of them risked their lives continuously for their partner(s)

- all related to the covey in some kind of way; lucy gray is just flat-out covey, haymitch is in love with a covey member, katniss has Vague tie-backs to the covey, since burdock had a handful of covey cousins. if anything, katniss is likely to be very distantly related to lucy gray through either maude ivory or barb azure

- all of them were INCREDIBLY popular tributes. lucy gray won most of the capitol over immediately, haymitch's stunt with louella's body + his score of ONE + his interview made him popular incredibly fast, and katniss had the entire world hooked from the moment she volunteered + cinna's outfits + peeta's confession

- all targeted to be more important than their district partner. lucy gray was heavily favoured, jessup went mostly ignored. haymitch was the district 12 victor most people were rooting for, AND beetee asked him specifically to destroy the arena. katniss was immediately favoured, and while peeta was important, katniss had always been "the mockingjay" and was needed more than him

- mockingjays! lucy gray's connection to them is obvious; they loved her and she loved them. haymitch's is more obscure, and is both through lenore dove (who loved them, understandably since she's covey) and maysilee (the original owner of the mockingjay pin). katniss...is the mockingjay BAHAHA but she also has that connection through her father (the birds loved him), and the pin, which is technically relating her back to lucy gray, because tam amber made it for maysilee. the pin dates back all the way to og covey times, albeit it was made after lucy gray's disappearance - also they're all just blatantly mockingjays. in snow's eyes, all of them are birds, which stems from lucy gray and just continues until katniss is outright named the mockingjay (i'm sure haymitch took "all birds i've met are vicious" and ran with it after meeting katniss)

- all three were purposefully hounded and targeted by snow in Terrible ways. lucy gray was the first to deal with his straight up fucking Wrath. snow IMMEDIATELY hated haymitch and told him that he was going to kill him. katniss never had a chance when it came to snow, because he recognised both lucy gray And haymitch in her, and needed to make her life a special kind of hell (and did!)

- likely all knew everdeens, honestly. lucy gray's relation to the everdeens is unknown, but it's clear that the everdeens at least somewhat had covey origins. haymitch was good friends with burdock (katniss's dad), and obviously katniss is an everdeen herself. the everdeens might have originally been bairds prior to marriage

- all had a relation to the mayor / mayor's children. mayfair fucking HAAATED lucy gray, haymitch and maysilee had a found family relationship, katniss was gifted the mockingjay pin by madge - all knew about the forest / meadow. i mean to be fair it isn't like it was exactly Hidden, but all of them have a strong connection to it, which is ALSO covey-related - not even related to lucy gray or haymitch, but katniss saving peeta's life, just like burdock saved otho's life. :( - additionally, lucy gray, haymitch, and peeta were all intent on staying themselves in the arena, not letting the capitol use them or their tears

I'M SICK

[ditzydoe444]

Knight!Jason railing Princess!Puppy!User on her queen sized bed while the King is in the next room over

-🌟

MDNI 18+

knight! jason todd x princess puppy! reader

—ㅤ꒰ྀིㅤ jason todd x reader ಿৎ

mentions of: vaginal sex, soft jason

──────���───•~❉✿❉~•──────────

you were jason’s to protect, cherish and fuck. during the day he treated you like the princess you were, holding your hand as you walked down a flight of stairs, opening the carriage’s doors for you and having a strong protective hand on your back as you walked around the village, ready to defend you if necessary. but late at night when the castle’s doors were closed and you were inside your bedroom he treated you like a whore.

he was balls deep in you, his strong hand clasped over your mouth as he continued fucking you, drilling you into the mattress. “keep quiet princess, you don’t want the king to know what you are doing with your knight do we?” he groaned as he felt your gummy walls clench around him. it was ironic, as a princess you were told to act modest, trained to became the perfect queen and wife and here you are getting your cunt destroyed by a man who was only meant to protect you.

“so deep,” you moaned against his hand, your tears falling down your cheeks as your head was shoved against the soft mattress of your bed.

oh the state of your bedroom was a mess.

the many many pillows you owned tossed on the floor with half the blanket falling off, the bed was scratching against the wooden floorboard as your headboard continued to hit the wall. “m-mmph!” you whined, this isn’t the prim and proper princess you were raised as, no you were getting fucked like a whore.

“shh, keep quiet princess,” jason grunted as his grip tightened, your cunt was always so welcoming to him, your tight walls clenching around him. it was always the same routine, jason sneaking through your window before the two of you ended up bare and intertwined on your bed. “always so good for me,” he murmured, brushing your hair out of your face, “need to reward the princess for today don’t i?” hot sloppy kisses abused your neck as you sank into the mattress. jason loved seeing this side of you, so raw with your hair all messed up and your face scrunched up in ecstasy, it was different from the way you presented yourself during the day, all poise and elegant with small lingering touches that were only reserved for him. but he was the only person who was allowed to see you like this, shaking and moaning on your giant bed, god did he use the size of your bed to his advantage, bending you in half all night making use of the surface area.

jason made sure no one knew about him and the princess he was guarding.

[pleasantboatpress]

Tarnished Gold by @primtheamazing / prim_the_amazing

Becoming emperor of the cultivation world will start with a first step as small and basic as becoming Head Disciple of Huan Hua Palace. For that, he must steal the position away from the current Head Disciple. Luo Binghe will sabotage, upstage, and completely and utterly best him. The road to destroying everything and everyone who has ever wronged him, to becoming the highest ruler so that no one will ever have the right to control him ever again - it will start as simply as ruining Gongyi Xiao’s life. Compared to everything else he’s already done, this should be easy. - Luo Binghe brings all his skills of cunning and brutality to bear on Gongyi Xiao, Head Disciple of Huan Hua Palace Sect. It… doesn’t go too well for him.

title/chapter numbers/drop caps: Almendra body text/page numbers/headers: Ibarra Real Nova

118,837 words | 342 pages

First of all I really want to say thank you to the author for such a wonderful fic, it was both my first big fic I read in the fandom, AND it is the reason that I have been absolutely CONSUMED for the last 9 months or so reading SVSSS fic. I enjoyed this fic so much when I first read it that I reread it not even a month later, and bc of that I really wanted to do it justice ❣️ it is suchhh a good Luo Binghe character study!

For the design I really wanted to try out some things, so I used my foil quill pen to foil the chapter heads. For the edge decoration, I tried out painting the edges using this Glenn Malkin youtube video which while very satisfying with the finished product, it is also quite disheartening if you don't sand enough. I went up to 1500 grit to get the edges looking good. I would really like to thank @copticcowgirl a whole bunch for all the hand-holding and cheerleading she did, along with all the tips she so readily gave. I really appreciated it. I made my cameo do the hard work for me by cutting out the lotus design on the back cover and the little goldfish on the front using some gold paper and marbled paper, respectively. The front is representative of the important scenes in the fic that take place near the goldfish pond, and the back is for the golden medallion one of the key players in the fic wears.

I had fun designing it! And then after designing it, I procrastinated 5 months on making it and despite the fact that literally every step was a struggle I am very proud of this book ahh! This copy was gifted to the author, and I am very keen to make my own copy. Probably in a couple months time haha. Thank you so much for the fic, prim!!!!

[contact-guy]

lol THIS ENDED UP BEING SO LONG but it's such a cute story opening that I had to draw Watson roasting Holmes's messiness for the newspaper and Holmes skillfully maneuvering his way out of having to do chores. It's all canon, even the indoor sharpshooting, except for the bit about the cold bath.

canon text under the cut:

An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated, until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by their owner. One winter’s night, as we sat together by the fire, I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts into his common-place book, he might employ the next two hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor and, squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red tape into separate packages.

“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me with mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had in this box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in.”

“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I have often wished that I had notes of those cases.”

“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my biographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender, caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes, Watson,” said he. “But there are some pretty little problems among them. Here’s the record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife. And here—ah, now, this really is something a little recherchè.”

He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children’s toys are kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper, and old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

“Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?” he asked, smiling at my expression.

“It is a curious collection.”

“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as being more curious still.”

“These relics have a history then?”

“So much so that they are history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along the edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“These,” said he, “are all that I have left to remind me of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”

I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had never been able to gather the details. “I should be so glad,” said I, “if you would give me an account of it.”

“And leave the litter as it is?” he cried, mischievously. “Your tidiness won’t bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling achievements would certainly be incomplete which contained no account of this very singular business.

-The Memories of Sherlock Holmes: The Musgrave Ritual

[nyxanarchy]

SOTR SPOILERS

more things I noticed/thought about

-drusilla saying to maysilee that she doesn't know what awaits for her. She really would have gone the Gloss route (or maybe Johanna, but I think she would have had to play their rules if she wanted to save her family) Also. The implications on Merrilee. We know there was the possibility of selling Katniss and Peeta as a package. Do you really think someone who looks just like a victor would have been safe from that fate?

-Plutarch asking "why didn't you?". Listen. Listen. I know Plutarch is trying to do the greater good here. But also. If I catch you Plutarch. Don't let me catch you Plutarch. I know. I know, he is an ally. He tried to be good to Haymitch. But nonetheless.

-Maysilee and Haymitch talking in the katniss bush

-the fact that it takes one hit to Asterid for Burdock to back off. He really loved her. I'm convinced that if Haymitch hit him, he would have kept going to him

-Haymitch developing an addiction because of the fact Asterid keeps bringing him the syrup (it's not her fault tho!! It's just very unfortunate. I think it would have happened anyway, but maybe slower)

-The whole snake and loulou thing. Do you think maybe she was accustomed to snakes because there are a lot of them in the labs? Maybe she was housed with one.

-Loulou screaming "you are killing us, you are killing us!" My god. My shayla. Poor baby, stolen from her parents. She lost everything, even her own name. Can you imagine some relative looking at her without knowing who she is? Maybe someone could recognize something in the way she moves. I also think her parents could have been alive till her death. It feels like it's a worst punishment than death watching your own baby girl transformed in someone else get sent to her death.

-Also confirmation that the seam residents are melungeons. We already knew that, but this is your reminder katniss is not white.

-maysilee and merrilee godbye "and for a moment the donner twins become one, arms locked around eachother's neck, foreheads, noses pressed together. A mirror image that the peacekeepers tear in two." They became one. Oh, Merrilee. How could you ever cope seeing her in your mirror everyday? Thinking about Merrilee seeing herself dying on the tv.

-also "in the girls' pen Maysilee is gripping Asterid hand while a weeping Merrilee embrace her, their three blond heads pressed in a tight knot" I don't know why but the wording is just so touching, maybe because it's such a clear image. A knot. It destroyed me, it still does.

-haymitch coming back home with the coffins. In the first reapings they really didn't care at ALL about the appearances eh

-so now that we know the reapings are rigged a lot (i mean we had our doubts but now it's confirmed), what are we thinking about prim's reaping? Not in the sense that she was reaped to punish katniss or something like that, more in the sense "in the games there must be a percentage of really young children because it makes for a compelling narrative". We know it's a "tv show" for the capitol and i feel like they have to have a diversified cast. Don't know if i'm making sense.

-Lenore Dove screaming in the wind instead of crying in front of the camera "the moment our hearts shattered? It belongs to us" I literally can see her. I literally can see them.

-Maysilee's "I'll be your sister". And Haymitch calling her sis? My god.

-The cistern being empty because Haymitch went to see Lenore Dove. It was inevitable anyway. They would have died either way, they were always gonna kill them.

-Haymitch sweetheart being a little girl he saw as a sister. It was never a mockery for katniss

[disgurrr]

The symbolism of Katniss and Peeta’s children is one of the most beautiful and profound parts of these books. First, the gender of their children. The Everdeen family had all girls and the Mellark family, all boys. But together, Katniss and Peeta had one girl and one boy. Combining, or perhaps breaking the Mellark and Everdeen cycle. Bridging the two families together in a way that was unthinkable before.

Second, the birth order. When Katniss tells us that she gave birth first to a daughter, it reminds me of Katniss as a first child (or first daughter), who is protective of her younger sibling, Prim. And throughout Peeta’s childhood, he was missing a protector. His older brothers, who probably suffer the same abuse, did not quite protect him or shelter him the same way Katniss did for Prim. And while this is no one’s fault but their parents, it breaks my heart to know Peeta was beaten and abused, and none of his brothers protected him the way I know Katniss would have. But now, a Mellark boy is being protected by their older sibling, a sister like Katniss. Maybe something young Peeta yearned to have, but beautifully his son does have now.

And lastly, the physical descriptions of their children. Merchant and Seam were divided, there was a division in D12, and their physical descriptions are proof of that. Seam typically had olive skin, gray eyes, and black hair. Merchant had pale skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. Katniss’s parents tried to bridge that division but failed—shown by Katniss only having that Seam look and Prim, the Merchant look. But Peeta and Katniss successfully brought together D12, destroying the division. With the girl having black hair and blue eyes, and the boy with blonde hair and gray eyes. There no longer is Merchant or Seam, there is only D12 with its beautiful meadow of love, joy, hope, and safety, all for the next generations to enjoy and flourish in.

[lazarusrisingx]

nsfw concept

tw: intox? both of them are high, OOC caleb?, stoner!caleb,

thinking about caleb being a secret stoner tbh. while yall grew up you knew his friends smoked weed and one night in college he invites you over and casually packs a bong and takes rips off it.

hes surprised you didnt know, hes high for his morning classes and smokes once hes off work. hes called and texted and even hung out with you after a fresh hit.

his eyes are heavy looking, the bright energy behind them muted and his lilac eyes are trained on your lips. hes no longer standing as prim and proper as he usually does. letting his shoulders slouch a bit and lazily lounging on the couch beside you. his voice gets a bit raspy and a little deeper, his smile is more of a lazy grin and the look in his eyes. mmm its like an animal looking ag a delectable treat.

you however have only smoked a few times and even then its been years. he teases you and asks if you want to try some. so you do. but it makes you couch so badly caleb gets worried, pulling you so you standup and putting your arms over your head and murmuring softly to you .

“just focus on breathing okay? its normal to cough its okay pips…. ‘nother deep breath for me… good good… good girl”

his gentle praise further turns your brain into a mushy mess and soon your sitting across from him, your face is held in one of his hands his thumb gently stroking over your cheek.

“wanna try somethin’?

eventually you two are shotgunning hits because your lungs cant handle the bong and then caleb kisses you while smoke still curls from his lips. the taste of weed and his spit muddling your brain even further and soon youre grinding on his lap

even better if caleb keeps insidting yoj take hits and starts feeling you up just to hear what pretty noises youll make.

it all devolves into nasty kinky breeding sex where caleb is just absolutely destroying you hole. your so high you can only take it.

and of course calebs a gentlman even when hes stoned. after having the best sex of your life he carries you to the bathroom and draws you a bath and tells you how much hes wanted you and for how long.

and then you guys start dating the end

mmmm yes now im thinking about stoner zayne and sylus mmmm very interesting yesyes

[mahboimahboi]

reader getting absolutely destroyed by gojo, toji, getou, and nanami😇

A SEX FEST x M!Reader (featuring Getou, Gojo, Toji)

Smut

As the phone rang that was seated on top of the table, Gojo whistles to a tune he created on the spot as he picked up the phone and placed the it near his ear. "Hello~ This is Gojo speaking." He spoke in a singy-song voice as a light chuckle moves past his lips.

"Oh, Mr. Gojo, good morning. I would like to ask if Y/N is with you? He told me that he would be there at your house for a very important tutor lesson." A boy's voice spoke from the other end of the line as Gojo begins to play with the telephone's cable, twirling it around his finger.

One side of Gojo's lips move upward upon hearing your name, as he kept his composure and spoke as poised as he can, being known as one of the most prim and proper teacher in their school. "Yes, he is." He replied, eyeing the scene unfolding on his bed through the side of his eyes.

"Oh, can I have him over the phone please? I would just like to talk to him about something." The male spoke, Gojo's smirk just growing wider, if possible.

Gojo pops his tongue and replies with sinister laced in his voice. "Of course, give me a minute."

He passes the phone over to you, whilst you covered your mouth trying to restrict any sound of sex satisfied noise from ever coming out of your mouth as Toji holds you down in place like you are some kind of sex toy or fleshlight, drilling his cock in you roughly. "R-Ryuuji? What is it?" You tried to answer the phone with all the strength left in you, but you accidentally drop the phone as Toji pulls your body back towards him, Gojo getting the phone from where it fell and ends the call after telling your brother that you are busy. "F-Fuck, yes, sir. Fuck me, fuck me good!" You moaned out, rolling your eyes to the back of your head, your eyes hanging out of your mouth in pure bliss.

"Huu, yes, kiddo. I'll fucking give you what you want." Toji groans out, gritting his teeth as he fastened his pace, his strong arms holding you in place, your own strengh nothing compared to his, letting yourself just melt into lust and left your body to be used at his own advantage. "That's what I love about you, kid. You're a really good cum dumpster." He degrades you, the word enough to drive you crazy as you felt a very familiar coil in your stomach.

"S-Sir! AH, FUCK! NNGGH! I'M CUMMING!!" You let out, holding onto the adult male's biceps, but your pleasure is not long lived when you feel something wrap around the base of your cock, making you whimper as your climax got rejected. "N-No! NNYAH!" You moan in pleasure, but the noises was too much for Getou that he pulls your head by your hair and inserts his fat dick in your mouth to cover the irritating sounds coming out of your mouth.

"Didn't actually perceive you as a person who likes noisy bitches like this slut, Toji." Getou comments as the male starts to fuck your mouth without even giving you a proper warning, holding onto your throat with one hand. "Hm, fuck. Well, I say this one's a little different. Bitch knows how to use his mouth." He said, howling in pleasure when you start twirling your tongue around his thick rod. Getou pushes his head back, letting Toji's thrusts be a moderator to your head sucking his cock.

"Careful boys. I still haven't had my turn yet." Gojo stated, pushing down the glasses he had on a little as he smirks, finding your fucked up state a total turn on. It is as though you are purposely seducing him, which you are. You tap on Getou's thigh to signal him that you wanted to say something, the male groaning in annoyance as he pulled out.

"S-Sir Gojo, my ass still feels empty even w-with sir Toji's cock in me." You said, which made Toji stop his movements, his pride being stepped on at your words. He lets out a dark chuckle, dropping his head low. "Please, fill me up, sir Go—AAH!" You're cut through your words when Toji suddenly starts fucking you roughly, practically just vibrating in your place.

"You fucking slut! You could have just asked Gojo, not say shitty words and hurt my ego." Toji grunted in anger, using you to let his frustration out. I mean you are the reason he is angry right now, so you basically deserved getting your brain completely fucked out.

Gojo stifles a laugh before he joins you, Getou, and Toji in bed. "Don't worry, hon. We'll have our own little fun time once they're done with you." Gojo smirks, before he got out of the bed and moves towards his own room, leaving you to be a mess with his co-teachers.

[spicynectarines]

actually i just finished rereading the books and i can conclude that if team peeta is not somehow in your answer idk what to tell you

this is so important team gale or team peeta

[ltash]

Rabid

He was feral, rabid, a bringer of death. Now the queen was down, he was the one who snatched your crown until you came crawling back to him.

Simon'Ghost'Rileyxfemalereader wc- 9k approx

Warning: 18+, mdni, dark, angst, mentions of murder, sex.

It all started when he was sent to Dubai, tasked by Price to provide security for a business tycoon, an assignment he had little interest in, another rich bastard who needed protection from threats they'd never see coming.

He hated the damn place. Too garish and ostentacious. The opulent excess of the golden city was enough to make anyone lose their damn mind, him included, and god was it loud. Even in the quiet of the meeting room with the heavy oak doors shut, he could feel the damn music from next door thrum in his bones.

But a job is a job, and when Price asked you to guard a spoiled little rich kid with 'Daddy's money, he didn't hesitate, even if he wanted to.

He never had a soft spot for the rich. The world was cruel, and there was no shortage of wicked men out there, but he had to admit that for spoiled little brats, they were some of the worst. Never knowing any hardship, thinking that everything was owed to them. They were just as bad as crooked politicians, only less discreet at keeping their skeletons in the closet. Still, business was business, and he had a job to do. It was all about keeping up appearances, after all.

It was like that now, as he stood by the door, eyes lazily trailing over the room, and your bare legs tucked away into your leather chair. The white silk shirt you wore was tight around your form, and as his eyes followed the way you shifted, he caught a glimpse of a thin, lacy number underneath.

His gaze lingered a little longer and a little darker than it should, mind spinning with fantasies that he had no right to have.

The itch inside him was telling him to turn away, run as fast as he could, never to turn around and look at you, but the dark, twisted part, the beast which lurks beneath him, the one who comes out only when he has a bullet to fit between an enemy's eyes or an itch to scratch told him to strip you off bearing, to bring you to a verge that you had nowhere to run but to him.

It was all just so... wrong. Everything about it. But no matter how much he hated it, the thoughts were there, and the images in his head were not ones a man like him should be having. But he could no longer look away and pretend that they weren't there, not when he knew what he wanted.

And it was a goddamn shame he was a dog on a leash, because if he were a free man, he'd have you on the conference table in seconds.

And then you turn to face him. All pretty, prim, proper and perfect. Beautiful so much like the heavens have sent you down on earth with skin gleaming like gold. Like the innocent doe who never flew, but was ready to be caged, wings clipped.

He hates it, hates how pretty you are, how goddamn perfect that skin of yours is. And he's a damn bastard because all he wants is to ruin that perfection, spoil the innocence. But it was your eyes that really set him off, wide and clear, completely guileless to the animal he was.

That beautiful doe didn't even know the wolf was watching. He watched from the shadows as you smiled at him, friendly and cordial.

And boy oh boy, at that moment he decided, that he will possess you, destroy your facade until it crumbles the foundation of your existance, make you so weak for him that you will forget everything, just remember him. Make you only want him. The dark twisted side of him ate all the sense of marolity, he wanted you at his feet, at his mercy at somepoint of his pathetic life.

He was so tired, so sick and tired of always doing the 'right thing', of always going by the damn book. He was sick of playing the good damn dog, of leashing his desires, of keeping that darkness that prowled underneath from surfacing.

And then you were there like something straight out of heaven, an angel of destruction who had come down to Earth just for him. You were so goddamn perfect, but you didn't even know it, and that only made the hunger inside him grow all the more. He wanted to have you. He had to have you.

He was fucked.

Completely and utterly.

For one night with you, he'd damn his soul to hell and back.

He'd kill for you, he'd do every disgusting, depraved thing you wanted, just to hold you in his arms.

It didn't even matter that you were a spoiled brat who had never known a day of hardship in your life.

What right did he have?

He was a damn guard dog, and you were a pampered little princess who had no idea what was coming. But the thing about dogs was that they could be trained. Trained to do things they would never do.

He was completely, utterly, and unashamably, utterly and wholly, absolutely, completely, and undeniably, 100% beyond any shred of doubt, so very, very, and perfectly,

Fucked.

"So you've been here all this time, standing there silently, colour me surprised." You put your arm on the table, a pen rolling between your fingers.

His eyes trail after your fingers, gaze sharp and focused, before meeting your eyes.

One of his thick, broad shoulders rose in a lazy shrug. He had a voice like sandpaper, rough and gritty, and he was more wolf than he was man. "Just doing my job," he said, voice casual but words laden with a dark, prowling promise.

"What, who are you again if you don't mind me asking?"

You asked so casually, your tone so insulting like the man standing infront of you held no regard.

One of his eyebrows rose at your tone, gaze sharpening as he leaned back against the wall. He was an imposing figure, his stance relaxed but coiled tight as a wire.

"Ghost," he said shortly, words clipped as he crossed his burly arms over his chest. The muscles of his arms flexed, straining against the fabric of his shirt, and a dark glint of mockery crept into his eyes. "Simon Ghost Riley, at your service."

"Another guard dog." You muttured under your breath. Your whole demeanor spoke of arrogance and privilege.

Your tone didn't escape his notice, and his dark gaze hardened, eyes narrowing as he studied you, taking in how perfectly you fit the stereotype he had of you. The princess sitting on her throne, safe from all the dangers.

His tongue clicked in his mouth, words sharp and edged with sarcasm. "Watch it, rich girl," he said, lips curled into an ugly sneer. "Or this dog might just give you a damn good bite."

"You are forgetting that I don't let dogs bite me, I keep lions, break their canins and declaw them." You stood up slowly.

A sharp, mocking bark of laughter left his lips at that, eyes darkening at your words. He pushed off the wall, taking a slow step towards you, gaze roaming over your form before stopping before you.

"Is that right, rich girl?" he said, a smirk toying at his lips. "You like playing with lions, huh? Well, let me break it to you, sweetheart, I'm not some tame beast that you can keep on a leash."

"But you are on a leash, Riley, aren't you? So behave like a good dog. Rabid dogs are euthanized."

The words, so casually spoken, hit him like a shot to the gut. He went still, the dark glint in his eyes hardening into something dangerous, like the gaze of a prowling wolf. He could already picture it, his big, strong hands wrapped around your delicate throat.

But he reined it back, words cold and clipped as he bit out, "Just because you have a silver spoon in your mouth doesn't mean you own everyone around you."

A spark gleamed into your eyes, your delucate throat bobbed as you swallowed. "Relax, I was just testing your self control."

"My self-control," he repeated, a hard edge creeping into his voice as he took another step forward until he was so close to you he could pick up on the light scent of that sweet perfume you wore.

"You're testing my control," he said again, words low and rough, a dark promise. "You know what's going to happen if that leash breaks?"

You smiled, a cruel, mocking smile.

Your smile didn't suit you at all. It was cold and calculating, but his gaze was caught on your full, red lips, and how they curled into that cruel smirk. The beast inside him howled, a dark hunger rearing it's head.

He took another step forward, invading your personal space and bringing his face down to yours, so close that you could feel the hard, coiled strength of him, like a predator ready to pounce.

"I'm gonna tear you apart, sweetheart," he said quietly, gaze locking onto your every minute movement, taking in every little detail, every little flutter of your eyelashes, every subtle change in your expression. "Shred you open until all that pretty gold of yours is gone, until you're nothing but a bare little pup. Then you'll know how it feels to be on the leash."

He was right in your face, so close that you could feel his warm breath ghost over your cheeks, and his big, broad form loomed over you, making you feel helpless, cornered.

But instead of being scared, all you could feel was something dark and twisted crawling under your skin.

God, he was so damn feral, so dark and dangerous and utterly feral and a part of you *wanted* it. How messed up was that?

"Right now, your job is not to bark or rip me apart but to guard, do your job Riley, I don't have to say it again." You snarled.

His jaw clenched, the desire to rebel warring with the need to obey. Goddamn. It was like someone had lit fire under him.

He took a slow, deep breath in through his nose and then out, his gaze never leaving yours. "Yes, ma'am," he said, his tone clipped and cold as he took a sharp step back.

He'd do his job, that was what a good dog did.

"Good boy!" You said, malice dripping from your tone.

The words sent a jolt through his body, a cold shiver running down his spine. He hated how they made him feel, how they made him feel like he should bare his throat in a submissive gesture.

He could picture it, the image clear in his head, on all fours, kneeling at your feet, his head in your lap, being a good boy.

What the hell was this power you had over him?

But he was a rabid dog more like a wolf who had a habit of tearing throats apart, he couldn't be tamed.

He was a damn wild thing, untamed and unchained. He was all rough edges and barbed-wire tongue. And that was why he hated this, this pull he felt towards you, this need deep within him to be tamed.

He was the wolf; he should be the one to bite, to mark, to *ruin*. It was the prey who should be trembling at his feet, not him, the goddamn predator.

The door opened and the board of directors started to pour in. You went back to your seat, posture straight, alert and commanding.

Ghost took his place by the door, every muscle in his body on high alert, as if waiting for a command. He couldn't stop his eyes from taking every little detail of you, damn, you were just so *proper*, sitting with your legs tucked into your chair, so damn proper and poised.

He wanted to see you ruined.

He wanted to see that cold, calculating mask of yours shatter, see it break into a thousand pieces and crumble into dust. And he would be the one to rip it off, to tear away your composure until all that perfect, golden facade was gone, leaving you bare and exposed.

He was a wildfire that had you in his sights, and he was going to burn you to the ground. He was going to set fire to everything you had, all those things that you so carefully protected: your company, your privilege, your damn innocence.

He was going to destroy it all and watch the flames burn it to nothing. And then, when all was in ashes, he'd lift you up, pull that pretty neck of yours against his chest, and take what was left, everything that made you **you** and claim it as his own.

You were the phoenix, all rising and glory. You were the goddamn daughter of Apollo, so pure and perfect, but he was the goddamn Grim Reaper. You were life; he was death.

And he was determined to show you what a little bit of death could do to the most beautiful things.

He was already making plans.

He'd make your company suffer, and all of it would be his doing.

And he would watch you suffer.

He would watch you struggle, he would relish in it, every moment of your pain would be his delight.

And then, when you were down on your knees, gasping like a fish out of water, he'd be the one to pull you in, to wrap you in his steel arms, and hold you, and make you his.

Because he was a twisted bastard like that, he couldn't help himself, he just saw a pretty little toy that he wanted, and he was sure damn going to have it.

The nights he spent in your apartment as usual, guarding the premises like a good 'ol guard dog.

Watching you sleep everynight was one of his new habits, the rise and fall of your chest, the soft melody of your breaths. And when you slept he would sneak into your dresser, fingers carressing on a beautiful set of lingerie.

He knew he shouldn't be doing it , he was supposed to be a goddamn professional, after all , but he couldn't help himself.

Every night, he'd creep into your room, like a thief in the night, and let his fingers linger on the soft fabric of your lingerie.

He'd touch them, caress them, imagine you in them, and he could barely keep himself from tearing them off of you. He was a depraved bastard, yes, but he wanted you so desperately that his thoughts were clouded, his judgement blurred.

It was like an addiction, one he couldn't shake, one that he didn't even want to shake. He'd let himself linger, imagine, fantasize. He had every part of your body memorized , the curve of your hip, the slope of your waist, the softness of your thighs.

He was beyond reason, deep into the pit of carnal hunger. Every thought, every moment was just about you, and how he desired you, and how badly he wanted, no, needed to have you.

He was your goddamn shadow, always there in the background, watching, listening, observing.

And you were so very good at pretending he didn't exist. You'd go out for dinner with your fancy little friends, laughing and talking and having fun, never once sparing a glance or a thought for the dog at your feet.

He hated it, how you treated him, like he was nothing but a mere accessory, disposable and worthless.

He hated it, hated how you just saw him as an ornament, a piece of furniture. He was more than that, so much more, but you just didn't see it, didn't notice how he burned hot beneath his cold exterior.

He wanted to grab you, to drag you away, to make you damn look at him, to make you acknowledge his presence.

He was a damn special force soldier, a highly trained assassin, a master of combat and stealth, but instead he was here, pretending to be a bodyguard, playing a role.

The fact that he'd allowed himself to be in this situation was a damn embarrassment. He was a warrior, not a bloody babysitter.

Underneath the surface, a tempest was brewing. His calm exterior was just a cover, concealing the storm that raged beneath.

The more he watched you, the more he wanted to tear down your arrogance, to show you just how much power he held in his hands.

He was plotting, he was planning, and he was damn determined to bring you to your knees.

And his time had just begun.

Your father was the first obstacle-the immovable force standing between Ghost and what he wanted. A man of power, wealth, and unshakable authority, used to controlling everything, including you. But Ghost had spent his life eliminating men like him.

The downfall began in whispers-deals collapsing, allies withdrawing, wealth slipping through his fingers like sand. The empire he had built with blood and steel crumbled, piece by piece, until he was left exposed. Vulnerable.

And then, Ghost finished the job.

The shot came from over a thousand meters away. Precise. Silent. A .338 Lapua round that tore through your father's skull before his guards could react. No struggle. No warning. Just death, swift and absolute.

And the sniper? It was him. It had always been him.

But you would never know.

To you, he was just your silent shadow, the ever-present bodyguard watching from the sidelines. The man who stood in the background when the news shattered your world, when you clutched at grief and uncertainty.

He was there to protect you now. To keep you safe.

And you would never realize that the greatest threat had never been outside those walls.

It had been beside you all along.

It was a damn perfect shot, smooth and clean, his fingers steady as he fired into the head of your father.

He'd done it, he'd brought down the king, and now all that was left was the princess.

He was a predator, a creature of the shadows, the deadliest hunter, and he'd just claimed his prize.

And now he was guarding that prize, and the only person that could stop him was in his arms.

"Daddy's gone 'n' left you, huh sweetheart?" He asked, his tone hard.

He stood silently behind you, his gaze trained on your grief-stricken figure, as you clutched at the news of your father's death.

His fingers twitched, itching to reach out, to touch you, to provide some comfort, but he held back.

He was your bodyguard, your loyal shadow, the one who was supposed to shield you from harm.

But he was also the one who'd orchestrated it all, the one who'd brought ruin upon your father, and by extension, upon you.

He was the wolf in sheep's clothing, standing guard while you were unaware of the true cheess player.

The days that followed were a blur, as the world outside the protective walls of your home descended into chaos. People talked, whispered about a power struggle in the empire, about the loss and uncertainty. But within the shelter of your home, Ghost, he kept you oblivious.

Every day he watched you, broken, shattered by the loss, but he also saw something else. Something he didn't expect.

Resilience.

With your father gone, the empire was left in your hands, vulnerable, exposed, ripe for dismantling. And Ghost? He played his cards with precision, pulling strings from the shadows, setting fire to everything you had ever known.

It started small. Lawsuits, regulatory fines, whispers of corruption spreading like rot through the heart of your pharmaceutical empire. Investors lost confidence, shares plummeted, board members turned on each other like starving wolves. You fought, desperately, brilliantly, but the war had been lost before you ever realized you were fighting.

Because Ghost wasn't just watching from the sidelines. He was inside.

Your closest advisors, your most trusted allies, they weren't yours. They were his. Feeding him information, sabotaging deals, ensuring every move you made led you deeper into the trap he had set.

And when the walls finally crumbled, when the empire your father had built lay in ruins, there was only one person left standing at your side.

Him.

The protector. The shadow. The man who had orchestrated your downfall with his own hands.

And now, there was nowhere left to run. Now, you belonged to him.

He watched you fight, the fire in your eyes burning bright as you did everything in your power to salvage the crumbling empire that used to be your everything.

But it was all vain effort, a pathetic display of desperation, like trying to stop a sinking ship with nothing but a holey bucket.

The final blow was all that remained before checkmate.

Ghost had been meticulous in his destruction, patient in his execution. Every move calculated, every step precise. But this, this would be the killing stroke.

The latest batch of medication, once a beacon of hope in the medical world, had been tainted. A subtle, undetectable alteration in its formula, so slight that even the most rigorous quality checks wouldn't catch it until it was too late. A drug meant to save lives would now take them instead, slowly, cruelly, inevitably.

The first reports trickled in like a quiet storm on the horizon. Patients reacting violently. Unexplained deaths. Doctors questioning. Panic spreading.

Then came the headlines, Pharmaceutical Giant's New Drug Linked to Fatalities!

The lawsuits followed, swift and merciless. Government agencies intervened, forcing immediate recalls. Entire shelves emptied overnight, stocks crashed to nothing, and the name your family had built over generations was poisoned beyond repair.

And you? You stood at the center of it all, watching helplessly as everything collapsed, as the world you had fought to hold onto was ripped from your grasp.

And when the dust settled, when there was nothing left but ruin, Ghost was there. Unshaken. Unmoved.

The only one left standing.

He had won.

He watched every minute of it, watched as the headlines screamed of ruin and catastrophe, watched as your eyes widened in disbelief as the weight of it all truly sank in.

When it was over, when you were left with nothing but rubble, he was the only one left standing. He had torn down everything, ruined you completely.

A twisted sense of satisfaction washed over him, a dark pleasure at seeing you standing amidst the wreckage of your former glory.

This was what he had wanted all along, to watch you crash and burn, to see you on your knees, and now, he had finally achieved it.

He was the winner in this game, the master of your downfall.

Your world had crumbled to dust, and now, so had your last sanctuary. The lavish Dubai penthouse-your gilded cage, your final refuge-had been seized, just another casualty in the long, calculated war against you.

The silence inside was deafening as you packed what little remained. Once, this place had been filled with luxury, with opulence. Now, it was just hollow, stripped of its grandeur, as empty as the life Ghost had methodically torn apart.

And then, like a shadow slipping through the cracks, he was there.

"Leaving so soon?"

The voice sent a cold shiver down your spine, smooth yet laced with something dangerous. Mock sympathy dripped from every word, his tone carrying just enough amusement to make your blood boil.

You didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him. You just kept moving, folding the last of your designer clothes into a battered suitcase that looked almost pathetic compared to the life you once had.

A slow, deliberate set of footsteps approached, stopping just behind you. Close enough for his presence to suffocate.

"Tough break," he murmured. "One day, you're untouchable. The next? Just another nobody in a city that won't even remember your name."

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms. Don't react. Don't give him the satisfaction.

"You should've been smarter," he continued, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Should've known the moment your father dropped that you were next. But you didn't, did you?"

A sharp exhale left you, rage coiling tight in your chest. "What do you want, Ghost?" you bit out, finally turning to face him.

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. What did he want?

"Nothing," he said easily, watching you like a predator who already knew his prey was trapped. "Just wanted to see how the mighty heiress looks when she finally hits rock bottom."

You swallowed the lump of fury and humiliation in your throat. "Enjoying yourself?"

He exhaled a quiet chuckle. "More than you know."

The words burned, but you refused to break, meeting his gaze with a defiance that made something dark flicker in his eyes.

Ghost took a slow step back, as if he'd had his fill of the moment. "I'll leave you to it, then. Can't imagine it's easy going from penthouses to, what now? Cheap hotel rooms? Or are we thinking hostels?"

Your jaw clenched. You hated him. Hated that he was right.

He turned, walking toward the door, but paused just before crossing the threshold. His voice came softer this time, almost a whisper.

"You'll come back to me," he said. Not a threat. Not even a promise. A fact.

And then he was gone.

Leaving you alone in the ruins of the life he had destroyed, knowing full well that when you had nowhere left to turn, when the world finally crushed you under its weight...

You would come crawling back.

He left you there, standing alone in the wreckage of your former life, watching as you seethed with anger and humiliation.

He knew he had gotten under your skin, had struck a nerve.

And he couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction at the thought of you, broken and humbled, coming back to him, begging for his help.

You were a fallen queen now, and he was the one who had yanked the crown from your head.

The world was indeed a cruel place. One moment, you had everything, the power, the wealth, the name that made people stand in line just to breathe the same air as you. The next, you were nothing.

Your name was a stain, spoken in hushed whispers, cursed by the families who had lost their loved ones to the medicine that had once been your legacy. Headlines screamed your downfall, reporters hounded you like vultures picking at a carcass, and every door that had once been wide open was now bolted shut.

And the money? It was slipping through your fingers like sand, running out far too fast. No accounts to fall back on, no investments left to salvage, Ghost had made sure of that. What little you had left was barely enough to keep you afloat.

Your phone was silent. No friends, no allies, no one willing to be seen with you, let alone offer help. The very people who once groveled at your feet now pretended you didn't exist.

For the first time in your life, you were helpless.

And somewhere, watching from the shadows, he knew it.

Knew that soon, when there was nothing left, not pride, not hope, not even the illusion of control, you would have no choice but to crawl back to him.

He watched as your world crumbled around you, as you stumbled and fell, stripped of every last bit of power and authority.

He watched as you struggled, as hope drained out of you like water from a broken vessel.

And he waited. Patiently. Silently. For the day when you would break, when you would admit defeat and come to him, begging for his help.

Just as he had planned.

Because in the end, he was the puppet master, pulling the strings, manipulating every part of your life.

And you were his marionette.

You stood in the dimly lit hallway of a rundown Manchester apartment complex, your once-perfect world reduced to this moment. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and damp concrete, a stark contrast to the scent of fresh-cut roses and expensive perfume that had once filled your penthouse.

Your suitcase-the last remnant of your past life-stood by your side, scuffed wheels scraping against the cracked floor.

Your hand hovered, fingers curled in a knocking gesture, hesitation thick in your throat.

This was it.

You had resisted, had tried to claw your way back from the ruins he had left you in, but the world had been merciless. Now, you had nowhere else to go.

And he knew it.

Taking a slow breath, you knocked.

Once

Twice.

A moment of silence. Then, the sound of heavy, measured footsteps approaching from the other side.

The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Ghost.

He leaned against the doorframe, clad in nothing but sweatpants, his bare chest scarred and toned, shadows cast across his sharp, unreadable face. His mask was gone. No barriers. No pretense. Just the man who had burned your world to the ground standing before you, looking utterly unsurprised.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His gaze dragged over you, taking in the exhaustion lining your face, the defeat in your eyes, the sheer helplessness of your presence here.

Then, he exhaled a slow, amused breath, tilting his head.

"Knew you'd come back."

He stepped aside, holding the door open just wide enough for you to step inside.

Your pride screamed at you to turn around. To walk away. But there was no other choice.

So, with the weight of your ruined past on your shoulders, you took a step forward.

And walked straight into the lion's den.

His gaze followed you as you hesitantly crossed the threshold of his apartment, your face a mask of defeat.

There was no surprise in his eyes, no shock or even the hint of guilt. He had known this moment was coming. He had planned for it. He had orchestrated it.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, and you were trapped.

Trapped in this dimly lit space, surrounded by the remnants of his life, the remnants that spoke volumes about who he was.

A man of violence. A man of darkness. A monster.

He watched as you stood in his apartment, your body tense, your eyes conflicted.

You were broken. Defeated. Desperate.

He almost pitied you.

Almost.

Your pride, your dignity, your life, everything you once held dear was held in his hands.

As you stood there, frozen in place, the reality of your new situation sank in.

You were at his mercy. Completely and utterly.

Each day was the same, a never-ending cycle of degradation and submission. Gone was the world of luxury, of power, of control. Now, you scrubbed floors until your fingers were raw, cooked meals you weren't allowed to sit down and eat, cleaned up after the very man who had torn your life apart.

And all the while, he watched you. Judging. Amused. Relishing in every moment of your downfall.

The apartment, small and suffocating, had become your prison. Your existence had been reduced to this, picking up after him, following his orders without question. And he made sure you knew it.

"Missed a spot," he'd murmur from his chair, voice lazy, mocking. You'd glance up to find him lounging, legs spread, a cigarette between his fingers, watching as you scrubbed the floor beneath his feet.

Sometimes, he would flick the ashes onto the surface you had just cleaned.

Other times, he'd drop the entire cigarette butt, waiting for you to bend down and pick it up.

And you did. Because you had no choice.

The worst part wasn't the work, the pain in your knees from hours of kneeling, or the humiliation of being at his mercy.

It was his gaze.

The way he looked at you, like you were some broken thing, something conquered. His eyes traced your every movement, dark and unreadable, and no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, it burned into you.

You hated it.

You loathed it.

But you endured. Because you had to.

And each night, lying in the cold, tiny room he had given you, your mind raced. You thought of what you had lost. What you had once been. And what you had been reduced to.

The spark of defiance still burned within you, deep and buried.

But for now, you swallowed it down.

You worked. You obeyed. You waited.

Because one day, this would end.

The world tilted beneath your feet.

One day you barely had the strength to stand, your vision swimming as fever burned through your veins. The wooden spoon trembled in your grip, the rich scent of simmering gravy filling the air as you tried to stir through the haze clouding your mind.

But your body betrayed you.

The pan slipped from your weakening grasp, tilting dangerously, the scalding liquid about to spill-

And then, he was there.

A strong arm wrapped around your waist, steadying you as your body sagged against him. The warmth of his chest pressed into your side as he grabbed the pan with his other hand, setting it back onto the stove with a controlled ease. His fingers turned the burner off in one swift motion, cutting off the heat before disaster could strike.

"Bloody hell," Ghost muttered, his grip tightening around you. "You tryna burn yourself alive?"

You couldn't respond. The fever had drained every ounce of strength from your body. Your breath was shallow, your forehead damp with sweat.

"You're burning up," he said, his voice lower now, scrutinizing.

You wanted to push away from him, to reclaim some semblance of dignity, but your body refused to obey.

A sigh left him, one of frustration rather than concern. "You need a doctor."

You barely remembered the ride to the clinic. The fever had blurred everything into a fog, your head lolling against the window, every muscle in your body aching. The only thing grounding you was the steady presence beside you, his calloused hand firm against your wrist as if making sure you wouldn't slump over completely.

And then, you were in a sterile white room, the fluorescent lights burning into your eyes as the doctor examined you.

She was a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes, flipping through her clipboard as she asked a few routine questions.

"How long have you been feeling unwell?"

You tried to recall, blinking dizzily. "Since yesterday. Maybe longer."

The doctor hummed, writing something down before glancing between you and Ghost, who stood with his arms crossed, impassive as ever.

"Are you two married?" she asked.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"What?" you blurted, cheeks flushing. "No, we're-"

"I only ask because fever, nausea, and dizziness are common early pregnancy symptoms," the doctor continued, unfazed. "Have you two been trying?"

Your face burned hotter than the fever coursing through you. "N-no! I mean-there's nothing like that between us."

The doctor arched a brow but said nothing, simply jotting something else down.

You risked a glance at Ghost.

He stood there, silent, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his mask. He didn't react, not a twitch, not a shift, not a single damn thing.

Like he didn't care. Like the question hadn't meant anything at all.

Something twisted in your chest, but you swallowed it down.

"It's just a viral infection, then?" you asked, trying to change the subject.

The doctor nodded. "Most likely. You need rest, fluids, and proper meals. I'll prescribe something to help with the fever."

Ghost exhaled sharply, like the whole thing was a nuisance, before turning to you.

"You heard her," he said. "No more collapsing in my damn kitchen."

And just like that, the moment passed.

But as you lay in bed later that night, staring at the ceiling, you couldn't shake the memory of the doctor's assumption.

And worse, you couldn't shake the fact that Ghost had said nothing at all.

The night was heavy, the silence almost oppressive as you lay in bed.

The fever had subsided for now, but your mind was still feverish, racing with thoughts and feelings that you couldn't push away.

And all of it was centered on him.

He hadn't said a word since the clinic. Hadn't even looked at you with anything other than his usual indifference.

The doctor's words echoed in your mind, the image of Ghost's stoic face burned into your memory.

Pregnant.

The very idea was absurd. Ridiculous. Impossible.

You were his prisoner, his toy, his plaything to use and discard at his leisure. Nothing more.

Yet, the thought of carrying his child, of creating something so vulnerable, so innocent, with a man as cold and unfeeling as him, sent a shiver of dread down your spine.

The very thought made you nauseous. Not because the idea of being pregnant was repulsive, but because of who would be the father.

You shut your eyes, trying to push the thought away. But it was like trying to push back the tide.

The darkness seemed to press in around you, the walls of the apartment feeling suddenly claustrophobic.

You tried to slow your racing heart, to force your mind to think of something-anything, else. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw his face.

His dark gaze, the sharp lines of his jaw beneath the mask, the cold indifference in his eyes.

You hated it. Hated the fact that he had any kind of effect on you at all.

But even more so, you hated how your body betrayed you at the thought of him.

Next morning you stood near the kitchen sink, your hands inside the soapy water as you scrubed dishes, you wore denim shorts and a tshirt, you were braless. Your hairs in a messy bun and you were trying to push the lose strands of hair with the back of your hand.

Ghost was at the dining table, going over some paperwork. His gaze flicked up from the stack of papers as he heard you moving around, his eyes instinctively drawn to your figure.

He watched silently, his gaze tracing over your form. The way your shorts hugged your curves, the way your tshirt clung to your body, the way your bare skin peaked out between the layers of fabric.

The sight was... Distracting.

Ghost shifted in his seat, forcibly redirecting his gaze back to the papers.

He tried to concentrate on the words in front of him, but his mind kept wandering, drifting back to your figure in the kitchen.

He'd seen you in less before, of course-this was hardly anything new. But there was something about the domesticity of the situation, the casual way you moved around in your comfortable clothes, that made it... Different.

Ghost gritted his teeth, silently scolding himself for this sudden weakness.

He couldn't let you get to him like this. Not again.

He forced himself to focus on the paperwork, his eyes glazing over the words without really seeing them.

But his thoughts kept returning to the memory of your body, of how it had felt beneath his touch. The smooth softness of your skin, the way you'd responded to him...

No.

He clenched his fist around the pen, his knuckles turning white.

He needed to control himself.

But he couldn't deny that he always wanted you, and this time he couldn't stop himself.

So he stood and silently approached you, stealth was his game.

You were so focused on the dishes that you didn't hear him come up behind you. It wasn't until you felt the heat of his body pressed against your back that you realized he was there.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensing. You could feel his breath on your neck, the faint scent of his aftershave filling your nostrils.

"Keep scrubbing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

His hands settled on your hips, large and warm and possessive.His grip was firm, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he pressed against you. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of your shirt, making it impossible to ignore the sheer size of him, the way he dwarfed you, caged you in with nothing but his presence.

Your breath hitched.

The soapy water swirled around your fingers, forgotten, as his voice rumbled against your ear. "I said, keep scrubbing."

Your hands trembled as you forced yourself to continue, the dishes clinking together under your unsteady grip. But how could you focus on anything when he was right there-when every inch of your back was flush against the solid wall of his chest?

His thumbs brushed over the curve of your waist, slow, almost lazy. Like he was savoring the feel of you. Like he owned you.

You swallowed hard. "G-Ghost-"

"Shh."

His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, not quite a kiss, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"You know what I think?" he murmured, his voice dark, rough, laced with something dangerous. His fingers trailed higher, tracing the hem of your shirt, just skimming over the bare skin beneath. "I think you like this."

You clenched your jaw, refusing to answer.

But your silence only seemed to amuse him.

"You walk around here, dressed like this..." His hands slid lower again, over the swell of your thighs, gripping just enough to make you inhale sharply. "And expect me to just sit back and watch?"

You felt his breath against your neck, his chest rising and falling in steady, controlled movements.

This wasn't about tenderness.

This was about control. About reminding you exactly where you stood.

And the worst part?

He was right. You did like it.

The way he was touching you, the way he was talking, it was all so wrong, so wrong. And yet...

You couldn't deny the way it made you feel. The way your body responded to his touch, the flutter in your stomach at the sound of his voice.

"I..." you started, your voice barely above a whisper. But before you could continue, his hands moved again, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt.

His fingers were rough, calloused, and the feeling of them against your skin made your breath hitch.

His hands found their way into the soap water, slowly encircling your wrists. Then he took the sponge from your hand.

You felt the warmth of his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, teasing, taunting.

He squeezed the sponge over your t-shirt.

The soapy water trickled down your torso, tracing slow, tantalizing paths along your skin, and the wet fabric clung to you like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination.

His hands, rough and unyielding, kneaded your breasts through the drenched fabric, his fingers pressing into the softness of your flesh with an intimacy that left you breathless. His palms, calloused from years of experience, contrasted starkly against the slickness of the soap and the silkiness of your skin. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as he tightened his grip, a mix of pleasure and something dangerously close to surrender pooling in your stomach.

"You know..." he whispered, his voice dripping with amusement as he nipped at the edge of your ear, "I was reconsidering the words of the doctor."

A delicious tension coiled in your core, tightening with each passing second. The implication in his words sent your thoughts spiraling, your mind hazy from the sheer heat of his touch. Your hands, submerged in the warm water, clenched involuntarily as another wave of sensation coursed through you.

"What... what do you mean?" you managed to breathe out, though your voice trembled, betraying the war waging inside you.

He chuckled darkly, his fingers rolling over your stiffened peaks through the sodden material of your shirt, making you arch slightly against him. His grip firmed just enough to remind you of the power he held in this moment, over you, over your body's reactions, over every shaky breath you took.

"That you need to rest," he murmured, his tongue flicking against the pulse point on your neck. "That you should take it easy."

A sharp contrast to his words, his hands moved with a sinful intent, kneading, teasing, making a mockery of the so-called 'rest' the doctor prescribed. You could feel the smirk against your skin when he spoke again, his voice a low, knowing drawl.

"But looking at you now... I think you're doing just fine."

His Calloused palms moved with slow, deliberate purpose, sliding beneath the damp fabric of your shirt, tracing the shape of your waist, your ribs, before grasping the hem. He peeled the shirt from your body in one fluid motion, the cool air kissing your exposed skin in contrast to the heat of his touch. A shiver ran through you, though you couldn't tell if it was from the temperature or the way he was looking at you, eyes dark, heavy-lidded, burning with something raw and possessive.

Without a word, he turned you to face him, his grip firm but unhurried. You barely had time to take a breath before his lips found your jaw, warm and insistent, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. He trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your neck, pausing just long enough to suck lightly, leaving ghost-like marks in his wake. His lips continued their descent, dragging lower, mapping the delicate line of your collarbone before reaching your sternum, where he lingered, exhaling softly against your skin.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his mouth traveled lower, his tongue flicking out to taste you, teasing, testing your resolve. Then, with a calculated slowness, he took one of your nipples between his teeth, a feather-light graze before his lips closed around it, sucking with aching softness.

A sharp gasp left your lips as his mouth closed around you, the heat of it sending a rush of sensation through your body. His tongue flicked over your nipple before his teeth grazed it, a teasing, maddening pressure that had you trembling in his grasp.

Pregnancy.

The word echoed in your mind, drowning beneath the wave of pleasure he was drawing from you. It was too much, too sudden, too real. You should have pushed him away, should have protested, should have demanded an explanation for why he was saying this now, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

But his hands were steady, moving with purpose as they gripped your waist, thumbs stroking over your ribs, his touch both possessive and reverent. His mouth trailed from your breast to the valley between, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your sternum, as if savoring every inch of you.

"You'd look beautiful carrying my child," he murmured against your skin, the words laced with something deeper, something that made your heart stutter. He kissed the underside of your breast, his fingers kneading the flesh he had just abandoned. "So delicate... so full with me."

A shiver rolled through you, not just from his touch, but from the weight of his words. It wasn't just desire in his voice, it was intent.

You swallowed hard, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders, as if grounding yourself. "You can't just decide something like that," you managed, though your voice was weak, breathless.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and unreadable. "Can't I?" His tongue traced slow, teasing circles around your other nipple before he took it between his lips, sucking lightly.

Your body betrayed you, arching into him, fingers tightening against his bare skin. He felt it, your surrender, no matter how reluctant.

"We'll talk about it," he murmured, dragging his mouth up the column of your throat, his breath hot against your ear. "Later."

But the way he was touching you told you exactly how he intended this conversation to end.

And after he is done with you.

His body shudders against yours, his forehead pressing into your shoulder as you both come down from the high, breathless, wrecked, utterly consumed by one another.

And even as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through you, you know, this isn't the last time he'll have you like this.

Not even close.

Your vision explodes into white-hot oblivion, your body trembling violently as pleasure sears through every nerve, stealing the breath from your lungs. It's too much, too intense, so all-consuming that for a moment, you feel weightless, adrift in a universe made of nothing but sensation. Every star in the galaxy bursts behind your eyelids as you convulse around him, pulling him deeper into your euphoria.

You barely register the way he groans out your name, his voice wrecked, desperate, before he stills inside you. His broad shoulders shudder as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling every last drop of his release deep inside you. He ruts against you in slow, deliberate movements, dragging out the last waves of his ecstasy, ensuring you take everything he has to give.

The exhaustion that follows is suffocating, a heavy, inescapable fog wrapping around your limbs. You're barely conscious of the way Simon moves, his body still flush against yours, refusing to part from you. His softened length stays buried inside your overstimulated core as he shifts the both of you beneath the covers, settling you into the warmth of his embrace.

Strong hands smooth over your back, tracing soft, lazy circles against your bare skin. His lips pepper your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, each kiss a stark contrast to the primal, devastating way he just took you. His mouth lingers on yours, slow and deep, as if sealing a silent promise between you.

"You did so good," he murmurs against your skin, voice laced with quiet reverence. "So fuckin' good for me."

And though your body is too spent, too satisfied to listen, somewhere, deep down, you know.

This was just the beginning.

[courtneysmovieblog]

I’m not Suzanne Collins, but I think too many people overlook the fact Gale’s arc in Mockingjay is a warning against radikewl politics.

Gale wants to make the Capitol and the Career Districts suffer the way the other Districts have. Never mind that there are civilians that didn’t deserve to die for their ignorance, or didn’t have a say in what their government does. Even Haymitch was able to recognize this in Sunrise on the Reaping, and he had twice as much to be angry and vengeful about.

Not Gale, In his eyes, they’re all complicit, and if they got caught in the crossfire, it was karma. Fight fire with fire, and all that.

Until it blows up in his face.

But in the book, by this time he’s so emotionally dead that he can’t even bring himself to try to apologize, let alone acknowledge Prim, who had practically been his little sister. All that seems to matter to him was that her death destroyed whatever chance he had with Katniss. (In the movie, he’s at least more horrified and remorseful about it.)

Katniss herself later acknowledges her own guilt into this mentality, since she has her own list of war crimes/civilian deaths (which the movie also cut, unfortunately). Maybe she wonders if Prim’s death was her own personal karma for all that. More on that in a minute,

Anyway, the Rebellion gets what they want. Snow falls and the Capitol is under their control. Innocent people are dead, but the good guys still win. Yay.

Now what? What happens to the Capitol people?

Coin proposes a new Hunger Games with Capitol children. Which completely defeats the point of everything they were fighting for in the first place.

We never know what Gale would think of this. Heck, we aren’t even sure he’s really sorry about his bombs being on Capitol children, or if he was only sorry because Prim got killed. Maybe it’s better that we don’t know…it was horrifying enough that other characters like Johanna were okay with it.

Yet Katniss, unlike Gale, ultimately realizes what Gale couldn’t: that the Rebellion under Coin was becoming another Capitol. Snow and Coin were mirrors to each other. The only difference was that even Snow of all people thought it was overkill to bomb the kids right when he was about to surrender.

And that’s why Katniss kills Coin. By then, she’s so sick of the war in general. It didn’t matter to her who was good or bad anymore. She was done with everyone willing to murder people for whatever justification.

Even at the end, Plutarch isn’t sure of all this suffering will lead to a better world, or if the Districts will just wind up repeating their own mistakes and/or turn into another Capitol. All he can do is hope.

This the point that people miss about the series in general. It doesn’t matter what side you’re on. Nobody is immune from the dangers of propaganda. An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind, and the road to hell is paved with good intentions. The ends never truly justify their means.

That is Gale’s tragedy. And too many people are failing to learn from that.