#THIS POEM SUCKS MORE THAN USUAL

[cr0ss1ng-thx-watxr]

i hate how you feel

do you feel real?

you say you’re bad at everything

i have no ability to do something

quitting the things you love

thinking you’re not good enough

my favorite poet

my best friend

trying to help in any way

trying to think of what to say

my dad screaming in the next room

but all my focus is on you

i’m too far away to help

i’m useless

i’m not good enough for you

i still love you

@shrxe 💜

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hey. Hi. Hello. Today I learned about the existence of 15th century Welsh poet Gwerful Mechain and that she apparently has a surviving work of erotic poems.

Please. For Christmas. For Yule. Please tell me more because I can't read Welsh.

Heh heh. Oh, Gwerful Mechain is the absolute best.

(Quick housekeeping to keep the post manageable - I previously wrote about things like cynghanedd and cywydds and englyns and such here, so check that if you need an explanation.)

What's fun is that we don't know a ton about her, because not a lot got written down about people in her time. Her surviving work covers a 40ish year span at the end of the 1400s to just into the 1500s, but we don't know when she was born or died or anything like that. We know her parents' names? And that she was from Mechain, hence the bardic name. And that she married a guy and had a daughter, something which actually does mark out her body of work as different from her contemporaries; being a wife and mother, she couldn't do the usual bardic role of travelling the country to spread news and play at courts. This means she doesn't have any of the praise poetry that a lot of male bards produced about the lords that hosted them.

But, there's stuff we can piece together about her. For one thing, she was not just literate (not a universal skill for anyone at that point, but especially for women), but she was astonishingly well-read and had what appears to be a classical education, given her poetic references and traditional Welsh meters. For another, her work often had recurring themes of religion, sex, and women's rights, sometimes all at the same time.

At the point Gwerful was active, Welsh bardic culture heavily featured ymrysonau. An ymryson is like... well, I hesitate to say "sort of like a rap battle" after the way everyone and their dog now thinks that's what the Mari Lwyd does, but they were like a cross between a rap battle and the publication war between two rival academics. A bard would write an englyn and publish it in the local parish newsletter. Another bard would see this, and write their own englyn about how stupid the first bard's englyn was, and publish it in the same newsletter. The first bard would see this and retaliate. The second bard would retaliate to that. And on and on it would go, like a printed tennis match for all the parishioners to enjoy, until someone wrote a conclusive verse OR until someone went "Lol, you got me good there" and bowed out with dignity. Sometimes, these things were fucking vicious; but other times, they were just banter between two bards who knew each other and were enjoying the chance to keep their poetic skills in tip top condition.

Now, Gwerful was an active and enthusiastic participant in ymrysonau. We have many examples of her work from these. There are two of particular note that I'll list here, each against a different bard:

Dafydd Llwyd o Fathafarn. Mathafarn and Mechain are not so distant from one another, so no real surprise that these two locked horns a lot, but the impression I always got from their ymrysonau is that they were good mates, actually. These fell into the 'banter' category more often than not. Dafydd was a Welsh Nationalist who was hoping for a Welshman to rise up and throw off the yoke of English oppression, and most of his work is about that, but he turned up the filthy erotic shit for any ymryson with Gwerful because BOY HOWDY was that her specialty. IIRC she did occasionally poke fun at his Welsh Nash leanings, especially his obsession with Mab Darogan (OLD Welsh idea that translates to the Son of Prophesy - the Arthur-style figure that will one day drive out the English overlords), but mostly their ymrysonau were incredibly beautifully-written odes that could be summed up as "Dafydd, my man, my good friend, I mean this sincerely: suck my entire clit".

She often won.

Ieuan Dyfi. God, what a fucking asshole. This one was not banter. Gwerful played for blood with this prick.

We actually would know nothing about Ieuan Dyfi if not for Gwerful Mechain, because it was her poetic response to him that meant his only surviving poems made it to the modern day; that, and the record of him being brought before a church court where he admitted adultery with Anni Goch, a married woman. Oh, and the record of him being brought before the law courts at Liverpool, accused of domestic abuse and gambling? If I remember right?

Two things to know that set the scene for what came next:

One of Gwerful Mechain's surviving poems is an englyn considered to be possibly the oldest extant poem about domestic violence written by a woman: I’w gŵr am ei churo (To the husband who beats her)

Dager drwy goler dy galon - ar osgo I asgwrn dy ddwyfron; Dy lin a dyr, dy law’n don, A’th gleddau i’th goluddion.

There are a lot of translations for this one to try to keep its poeticness, but this one is pretty good:

Through your heart’s lining let there be pressed, slanting down, A dagger to the bone in your chest. Your knee smashed, your hand crushed, may the rest Be gutted by the sword you possessed.

She has others, too, that deal with sexual assault, and something scholars often note about Gwerful is her remarkable knowledge of the law as it pertained to women's issues. So she was not, you see, a woman with a high view of a man accused of domestic violence anyway.

But then Ieuan Dyfi wrote five poems about Anni Goch, the married woman he'd fucked, each more "Wow dude, she said no" than the last, culminating in I Anni Goch; a full cywydd of misogynistic Medieval-incel bullshit about how false and evil women are, which listed all the false and evil women of history including classical and mythological figures.

And. Well. Gwerful had some views.

Her responding cywydd - I ateb Ieuan Dyfi am gywydd Anni Goch - basically blasted the guy back into his own impact crater and disintegrated him. What she did with it, essentially, was to mirror his cywydd. Where he'd gone "Isn't it so true how great men throughout history have always been brought low by women, amirite lads? Here's examples", Gwerful went "Isn't it so true how 'great men' throughout history have behaved appallingly and fucked up through their own actions and then somehow managed to blame women, amirite lads? Here's examples." Where his examples had been historical figures, so were hers. Where his had been classical, so were hers. Where he went Biblical, so did she.

And what's so interesting about that last one is how pointed she was with it - for some reason, in his big list of evil women, Ieuan Dyfi did not go for the most obvious and low-hanging of fruit (no pun intended) - he doesn't cite Eve. In response, Gwerful also sidesteps the most obvious and low hanging of fruit - she doesn't cite Mary. In so doing, she makes it clear that she doesn't even need to.

There is no record of him responding to her. IIRC, there is a record of him doing three years in prison.

But! Outside of all of that, the big thing Gwerful was known for was her erotic poetry. You'll be unsurprised to hear that it wasn't written for shits and giggles - much like today, women of the time were told that most of their value was in their looks, and they had plentiful insecurities about their bodies. Gwerful wrote her erotic stuff to confront those insecurities and shine a light on the issue. There are so many examples of this, but far and away the most famous is definitely Cywydd y Cedor - roughly translated, 'Ode to the Vulva'. Though I have also seen it titled Cywydd y Gont - Ode to the Cunt. It's such a shame that the English language is literally, physically not capable of cynghanedd, because it means unless you learn Welsh you will never understand the beauty and the lyricism of the piece, and how it elevates and undercuts the content at the same time; but it's a joyful, masterful, irreverent work that uses the fancy language male poets were forever dedicating to the rest of a woman's body and applies it squarely to the vulva. In fact it basically opens with "Men are cowards, describe more cunts or gtfo" before launching into its main subject matter. The last line is pro-pubic hair, too, like I really must stress how much Gwerful Mechain would have to offer Tumblr if you could speak Welsh. This is probably her most widely translated piece, though, you can definitely find English versions. Although you can tell how blushing and reticent the translator is - and therefore how sanitised their translation is - by whether they've called it Ode to the Vulva/Cunt, or Ode to the Pubic Hair.

Needless to say, the original is not sanitised.

(Actually, I should also say - this one is also a response piece, probably, but in this case to a bard who lived a century earlier - Dafydd ap Gwilym, the absolutely legendary and uncontested king of Welsh romance poetry. He wrote a poem called Cywydd y Gal - Ode to the Penis. I have only just put two and two together on that.)

As a final note, I should say that my personal favourite Gwerful Mechain poem on this subject, mind, is actually I'w morwyn wrth gachu - to the maiden who is shitting. It's an englyn written in Gwerful's customary high poetic form, but it is what it says - it describes a woman taking a shit, and farting as she does. Beautiful and magical and disgusting and banal, all in one go:

Crwciodd lle dihangodd ei dŵr - ’n grychiast O grochan ei llawdwr; Ei deudwll oedd yn dadwr’, Baw a ddaeth, a bwa o ddŵr

Funnily enough, it's hard to find a good translation for this one lol.

My attempt:

She crouched where her water escaped - creased From the cauldron of her heat; Her two holes were arguing, Shit came, and a bow of water

Eh. It's so bland in English. Honestly, if you could read Welsh...

Anyway, if anyone reading this can read Welsh and wants to read some of Gwerful Mechain's stuff - including some of the pieces she was responding to in the ymrysonau - you can find a load here. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed!

[certifiedwhore4slashers]

Manipulative

pairing: coriolanus snow x f!reader, past oc x f!reader.

summary: he’s fallen way too deep, and he knows that.

a/n: i am in no way romanticizing nor defending his actions, he sucks as a person, this is for funsies, keep that in mind. remember he’s literally responsible for mass murders of children. also this idea is cliche ik ik. but, if you want more I will do more with original ideas.

reader has somewhat long hair, BUT no other descriptions of the reader. and I don’t usually do that. just for this post:)

warnings: yandere themes, toxicity, manipulative behavior(manipulation) obsession, possessiveness, no fluff, implied/referenced murder, slight blood, narcissistic tendencies, delusion, unhealed trauma, implied stalking, mild violence.

The meadow was where you’d often go. Ever since the games, it was a stress reliever, humming some songs or even just listening to the birds chirp.

After Coriolanus was sent to be a peacekeeper, You were sent home. District 12 was your home. You sat down on the cold rock. You were more of an creative artist than musician. Sometimes you wrote songs, and sometimes you wrote poems or just stories.

But you didn’t feel like doing anything today, just admiring the breeze in front of you. You were fairly zoned out when you hear a twig snap, and turn around.

You sigh of relief.”Sorry. Still have those instincts from the games.” You rushed over, not doing much. Still in disbelief he really was there.

You didn’t expect him to be here. But here he was. “It leaves quite the impression, He chuckled. It was a long embrace, and you say,”You found me. Quite surprised.”

“You figured I would, He teased. “Not this fast, and really it was hope, You tease right back, lips on his, it was passionate and sweet, ideal for a reunion.

“The sun’s hot, come in the shade, You offer. He had some ice, now melted and offered it.”Here. For you.” “Thank you, You reply.

You were very thirsty. The moment the water hit your tongue you were in heaven. “This must be the only cold thing in November, he joked.

You laugh in response.”So, Coriolanus Snow, What are you doing in the Meadow?” You were half joking. You never were fully serious. At least until it came to your feelings for him.

“Spending some time with my girl, He replies. The word My, a possessive tone, You notice. But brush it off.

“It’s unbelievable, You admit.”Truly. But I was surprised they brought me back. I swore It was all me.” “But it wasn’t, he points out. You look at him.”Clearly they didn’t believe me.”

His lips were on yours again, long and passionate. You two hadn’t seen each other since the games ended.

“Well, It was hard to believe for me too, He admits.”Tell me what happened after.” It was difficult to recall everything. The games were a nightmare. Especially the Arena. And Mayfair.

As the two of you share the water, You couldn’t help but wonder as he told stories, exchanging them, if something was wrong.

“Poor Jessup, You say sympathetically.”He didn’t deserve that. It was you, though, wasn’t it? The one who killed Bobbin?”

“I had to, Coriolanus replied.”He tried to kill me.” “I’m not saying what you did was wrong, but I suppose killing is for survival in the Arena, You reply. Snow only nodded.

“I heard the others brag, You say.”So I know. I thought the worst happened. You know, that you were dead.”

Heading back up beside him, You still couldn’t believe he was here. Whatever relationship you had, seemed to grow.

“What have you been up to? He asks, curiously.”It’s been a while.” “It has, you laugh.”And truly, not much. A few performances here and then. At the Hob, Maude Ivory’s an amazing singer like Lucy Gray.”

For a mere moment, You were in complete bliss. And that night was a normal evening for the Covey. Your parents were killed, well, your adoptive parents. They took you in, then Maude Ivory came along, your younger sister.

You became a part of the Covey. Until of course, their murders. But you had her, at least. “You want one? A peacekeeper asks, referring to liquor.”You might need it for your performance.”

“Sure, You grin, taking a swig, not making a reaction to the bitterness of it.”You’re right. I might need it.” Lucy Gray was a beautiful singer, but tonight, let you perform.

“Are you sure? I’m not the songbird, You tease. “I’m sure, and Maude Ivory wanted you to, She sweetly says. Your cousin was always the songbird.

“Besides, I think he’d like to hear you sing, Lucy Gray smirked. You knew who she was referring to. Truly the one who knew of your relationship, but by accident.

You wore a yellow dress, not too short but not too long either, and sunflowers in your hair. You wanted to have a good impression.

You tease her,”I think he’d like to hear you.” But you went up there, guitar in hand. A talent that you and Lucy Gray both had. It was the genes, you swore.

But you amazed the crowd as you sang. You were no Songbird. But you had some talent. And the whole time your eyes were on him.

It made him feel more special, in a way. Like the only person could make you feel this happy was him. Him. You were his, at least in his eyes.

But you did a wonderful performance. You mostly did instruments and stood in the background. You didn’t sing much.

Even though you were aware he was there, you went on, even with butterflies in your stomach. It was later that evening that things went downhill.

You said goodbye, even to Coriolanus, saying,”I shouldn’t be out so late anyway. But I promise, straight tomorrow. I’m sure you have peacekeeper things to do, anyway.”

He smiles.”It’s alright. You must be tired from that performance.” You laugh, then nod, quickly kissing him, then moving along.

You didn’t notice that he followed you. He was quite literally, obsessed. Especially after hearing your sweet voice. Since finding your home in the Seam, it wasn’t hard to follow you, and pretend he was there for something else.

Sometimes, he’d meet you there. Other times, didn’t even know he was there watching. He’d call it protectiveness. But it was really a sense of possessiveness over you.

That’s what it really was.

He heard your voice in your room, you sang to yourself. You sang a love song. That wasn’t hard to understand.

He had a sense of jealousy. It was clear the lyrics wasn’t about him. A past one, maybe. It wasn’t Billy Taupe. He had Lucy Gray. So who could you mentioned?

He was bloodthirsty. Or at least, had a taste for violence. He’d never say it or admit it. It was like he was a rebel. And he hated rebels.

But that didn’t stop him from feeling this way. As you danced and sang a little. Coriolanus defended his behavior, he was being protective of you. That nobody would hurt you.

He had fallen way too deep. And he was aware. You might feel the same about him, just as equally obsessed as he was. But that night, he wasn’t looking for trouble. Not much, anyway.

Someone stood beside him, admiring your singing. “Peacekeeper, huh? The male laughed. Coriolanus turns.”Yeah. Punishment. Not a choice.”

“She’s always been a singer, the male explained.”didn’t have much faith.” He wanted to know how the male knew that.

“How do you know? Coriolanus asked, curiously. “She wrote that song about me, the male bragged and seemed proud.”One of these days she’ll get back together with me.”

You never mentioned your ex lover much. Only that he hurt you, and that he was still infatuated. You were right about that.

“She isn’t interested, Coriolanus says, coldly. His fists clenched, along with his jaw, both from the rage he was feeling.

Maybe it was his narcissistic tendencies that were showing. A feeling of shame. A feeling that, he was superior than the male standing in front of him. He’d do so much better.

And with that, he swung. He could’ve shot him. But it was the easy way. And he didn’t deserve the easy way. His blood thirst took over a little, and like Bobbin, didn’t know how far his strength would go.

He stands back, his knuckles bleeding and blood on his uniform he’d have to explain later. Maybe it was a mistake coming to visit you. Your singing had stopped.

He pants. What had he done? Standing over the body, Coriolanus realized what he truly had done. And what could he do? He didn’t want a career as a peacekeeper; but his future would be damaged even further. He had to do something.

The Lake.

It brought him good memories. Swimming alongside you and the covey. But he’d have to hide the body somewhere.

It took a lot of his strength; but didn’t wear him out to drag him to the lake. It wouldn’t be too hard hiding evidence. His body would eventually disappear and Coriolanus doubted anybody cared about him. You didn’t anymore.

And he just watched. After the blood washed off, He walked away. He left the Seam. He'd come back. But You'd be aware of it.

Morning came, and peacekeepers came knocking at your door. The whole morning was a mess. When you did eventually meet up with Coriolanus, you decided on telling him about it.

“Did you know? She asked.”I’m assuming every peacekeeper knew. The guy I used to go out with was murdered. Found in the lake.”

“We were informed today, but I wasn’t the one who found it, He lies. He did not like lying, but he had to. He held a tight grip on you.

And he wasn’t letting you go.

[cumironi]

Enemies to lovers toji x fem reader!!!!! Theyre both in college and reader is usually really smart and focused n stuff but toji likes to tease her and yeah!!!!

THUNDERSTORM : TOJI FUSHIGURO

oh just how much you hate toji fushiguro, and the feelings are mutual. you are a calm, intelligent and focused person, while he's in the other hands annoying, stupid, arrogant and many other things you hate— you hate how he always makes your heart beat like a thunderstorm.

content warning: college! toji, non-sorcerer jjk, fluff! toji

i wasn't doing my best with this one but i hope you like it

“stop that.”

“stop what?” your eyes narrowed.

“doing that thing with your face when you're happy, it's making me nauseous.” he's looking at you as he's making a disgusted face. his index finger makes a circle while pointing at your face. your smile dropped and an annoyance sounds left your lips. you slam the tray and sit yourself beside the white-haired boy, gojo satoru. and there's that boy, in front of you eating his lunch with a disgusted face as he eyed you, toji fushiguro.

“get your nasty finger off my face before I break it,” your hands move faster trying to catch his finger only for him to pull away faster. “always so slow,” he mocked you. “oh fuck you, toji,” you spit to him, getting more annoyed each second you look at him. while the other boy just laughed. seeing how your face turned red from anger amused him. toji fushiguro always showed a liking every time spat at him, getting nastier and sassier each second. hands gripping on something tightly or just clenched your fist he's afraid you're gonna make your nail bleeding from your nail.

he loves how your eyes always look at him like you're on fire, how your pretty mouth insults him in the most hilarious way he could ever imagine. he loves to have the power of having a calm, pretty, intelligent person like you going crazy because of a person like him. a girl with patience like a saint always growling in anger every time he open his mouth. it's like watching a soap opera, for free. you, on the other hand, despise him with all of your heart. you hate the way his green eyes glisten when the sun hits, you hate the way his personality is embedded in each word when you read a poem about love, you hate the way his voice shapes into a melody and echoes his entire being, scaring you.

“what are you doing here, anyway?” satoru asked as he shoved a macaron into his mouth. you look at the man in front of you, feeling confused also. toji never sits with you and your friends, always with his suicide squad— sukuna and weird ass choso, you swear that guy always looks like his soul just gets sucked out of his body. “yeah, toji? what the fuck are you doing here?” you parrot, this time sassier and you glare at him.

“what? I can't have lunch with friends now?”

you and satoru look at each other before you roll your eyes, “can you please go be annoying somewhere that's away from me?” you asked, nearly begging. you're too hungry to deal with toji's nonsense and he's too insufferable to be around. “but that wouldn't be nearly as much fun,” he pouts, pretending to be sulking as he put his palm under his cheeks and battling his eyelashes. but you don't budge, just keep glaring your eyes to him hoping suddenly your eyes let out a laser that could kill him on the place.

toji sighs in defeat before he gets up throwing you a glance of judgement, “boo, you whore.” and with that he swings his ass as he walks away with a tray in one hand and the other on his jeans pocket— leaving you with mouth hanging open.

“fucking asshole.”

you feel something was throwing at you— hitting your back of the head. you're in class right now, trying to focus on whatever your professor was talking about. you try to ignore whatever that was throwing at you but each time it's getting bigger and you become more annoyed. so with the last patience you had left, you snap your neck to look at whoever it is— of course it's other than toji fushiguro. “what?” you yelled whispered. “let me borrow your pen,” he said, looking like an idiot with his slay grin, makes you more annoyed.

“no, shut up!”

you back to your position again and this time you're insisting on not gonna pay toji any attention. for a moment things got quiet and you don't hear anything from toji. but of course, that man wasn't letting you sit there in class and try to study quietly. you hear something from your behind that makes you turn around only to find already sitting there, smiling at you. “what the fuck are you doing?” your voice rough while you shoot a glance at your professor.

“i miss you,” he pout.

you look at him in disgust, “shut the fuck up toji, i'm trying to learn something here,” you grumble. that's only amused him more as he put both hands under his chin and battling his eyelashes to you. “make me, y/n,” he whispered, trying to be seductive as he snout his lips to you and making a kiss noise. you winces in disgust before shoving his face away with your hand.

“what the fuck is wrong with you..”

he just laughed.

you were walking on the hallway of your campus alone. book on your left hands and the other holding a cup of your coffee. you spend a night working on your project until morning and you haven't got a single sleep, so you really need caffeine to keep you awake. when you turn around the corner something big suddenly come out of nowhere, startled you by surprise.

“AH!”

you were so shocked that you fell on the floor along with your books and coffee getting you wet in the process. you look up only to find toji fushiguro hovering you. hands in pocket as he looks down at you. “you scared me,” you shriek. his shoulder move up and down as he shrugged, looking unbothered. “well, i'm naturally terrifying,” he said obvious, like it's was something natural and common. you scoff while rolling your eyes.

“nobody finds you terrifying, fushiguro.”

he frowned after hearing what you were saying, “that's not true, everybody finds me terrifying,” he said in defense. you snicker and cover your mouth, “you're delusional because I'm not finding you terrifying,” you mocked him. and toji doesn't seem like he's agree with whatever you just yapping about. his green eyes bore at you and he was silent for a moment like there's a war inside his head.

“what?” you feel annoyed as he keeps on looking at you with an expression you can't figure out. something you never seen on his face before, something unfamiliar. but he keeps his mouth shut, refuses to speak and entertained you with his lame answer but no, he just stood there looking like he just found something he's longing for who knows how long. his eyes, you can't stand it— worse, you were afraid of it. it feels like his eyes can touch you more than his hands ever could, that's the only thing about him that terrifying to you.

a hard covered book kisses his face harshly to snap him out of whatever he was in. he grimaces in pain and rubs the red on his forehead— where the book landed. “the fuck is wrong with you?” he yells in pain. “stop being a baby,” you dryly said to him. before he gets to let out a bunch of insults, your high pitched scream stops him. your white shirt covered with coffee making your boobs and bra look visible.

“oops,” toji laugh.

you who's still on the floor sending a tall man in front of you a glare. toji swear he can see the steam coming out of your ears. “look at what you've done!” you growl in anger. toji rolled his eyes bored before scoffing, “stop being a baby,” he mocked you— purposely throwing you the same sentence you just said to him. you clicked your tongue as you tried your best to clean yourself with hope in your heart that it doesn't leave a stain. toji just standing there watching you.

he let out a sigh before throwing you his leather jacket making you stare at him in confusion. “cover yourself, idiot.” and just like that he walks away, leaving you all confused and dumbfounded.

your day is always filled with toji fushiguro. every corner you go, fate seems to find it amusing when he's making your blood boil and your face turns red like fresh tomatoes, that's why it always sends him around, find you every time. you started to get used to his presence. you started to find the scar on lips look more stunning than it used to— especially when he's smile. you no longer feel scared when his green eyes flashed to you. his smile become sweet, different from the rest, from everyone else. you started to notice everytime he touches you it suddenly felt as if the stars dancing across your skins.

“your hands,” he said, softly this time.

you don't say anything, too amused with how beautiful he becomes after all this time, after you start to notice. like it has its own thoughts, your hands just move to the man in front of you, letting him hold it like it's always belonged to him, and it fits perfectly also. and then there's it, the stars thing again. something you're unfamiliar with but knowing you're gonna become an addiction of it, of his touch.

he slipped something on your ring finger. you look down to your hand, hand that he was holding. a ring with white bunny, matching with him as he shows you his hand. your heart smiles, followed by your lips but then it's beating faster, knocking your chest as if it's begging the man to hear. you scared so you look at him and your heart beating faster than before when you realize he's already looking, like a thunderstorm. “it's promise ring,” his voice gentle.

toji fushiguro, a man who couldn't go on with his day without hearing your voice, he couldn't go on with his day without feeling your eyes on him, without your presence around him— it feels like an addiction he doesn't realize, getting too attached to each second. when you're not around he's always looking for you, purposely making you mad just because he knows you're the most expressive when you with him, knowing only him that can makes you feel something you try to denied. he too, try to denied.

the feeling he has for you wasn't something he is familiar with and he's unhappy with that. he wants to quit because every time you walk into that hallway beautifully his head feels fuzzy and the world faded into the background like on the movies show, it's lonely and cold. and standing there with you, in the middle of your campus festival, where people and times move faster— but not faster as his beating heart.

“i'll pick your thunder,” he said, nearly whispering.

you didn't like this boy, you didn't find him attractive in a romantic way, his face wasn't something you'd be thinking about next week. he spoke and he sounded just like the others, a voice you wouldn't recognize again, but now he seemed gentle, so do for toji, he didn't like you last year, but now he started to notice the way you filling the room, expanding like a butterfly breaking free from the cocoon, it was hard not to notice you glisten when all eyes darted like spotlights on you.

when you speak everyone has no choice but to listen and indulge in your smile. or when the room is empty and moonlights spills in through a creak in the door. he starts to love the way your eyes gleam. you changes, you're no longer just a gentle looking girl. he didn't care for the soft waves in your hair but now he started to notice each wave, and the clothes that you wears, and the way that you stands, and smiles, and walks.

you find yourself not just listening but losing touch of things when he talks. he was just another head in the crowd, he was just annoying classmates that always fuming you, you wouldn't recognize his voice when he speaks, but now it is echoing in your mind out loud. he hasn't changed a bit but how something both of you overlooked become something both of you desire?

he didn't like this girl

and you don't like this boy

but you and him now sure do

how'd you do it?' you thought.

how'd you do it?' he thought.

how'd you make me fall in love with you?

[facts-i-just-made-up]

what kind of music was around in the 80s

The 80s contained three distinct types of music:

New Wave

Glam Metal

Gothic Rock

New Wave was the most popular type of music, using synthesizers and incorporating cues from the post-punk world. Groups like The Talking Heads, The Flock of Seagulls, and The Gary Numan all made music that sold like pop music, but also maintained the limited creative diversity and inoffensive lack of risk of pop music.

Glam Metal took the pioneering darkness and toughness of Heavy Metal pioneered by Black Sabbath, Motörhead and Iron Maiden, then replaced it with long hair, expensive jackets, and songs about partying. The most metal thing about glam metal bands were their logos, which were airbrushed to look like they were made of metal. Sadly, the addiction of many such musicians to very tight pants rendered them all incapable of having children, so this genre didn't last beyond the 80s.

Gothic Rock by contrast ignored all pretense of popularity and embraced the pretense of unpopularity. The best gothic rock was the least popular, which made it the most popular, which in turn made it suck. Thus no gothic rock band lasted more than two albums before switching genres, failing and breaking up, and then going back to their origins with a reunion tour. Such bands embraced the dark aesthetic of the gothic revival and wrote lyrics resembling poems by Edgar Allan Poe and Edward Gorey. They were also fond of skulls, bats, and taking black and white photos in graveyards. You can easily recognize real gothic rock by the tendency of its singers to sound like they have tonsillitis and, paradoxically given their usual diet, not enough coffee.

The 80s also contained the video for "Never Gonna Give You Up," which is well known online yet rarely recognized as the breakthrough video by Simon West, future director of Con-Air. That part's real btw.

[til-all-are-loved]

{This Charming Man Part Two}

MTMTE Megatron x Reader

SFW

Part one Here

Part three Here

"Ambassador Y/N... Its Megatron. I would like to speak with you."

The knock at your door sent a jolt through your chest. Megatron. His voice was low and deliberate, as always, but there was something... different about it tonight. The faintest edge of uncertainty.

You hesitated, your hand hovering over the control panel. Not out of fear—no, you'd learned long ago that Megatron's presence was imposing but not dangerous to you. It was the weight of what this interaction might mean. He rarely sought you out, and never for idle conversation.

Finally, you pressed the panel, and the door slid open with a soft hiss. There he stood, towering in the doorway, the faint glow of his optics dimmed just enough to seem... almost approachable.

"Good evening," you managed, stepping aside to let him in. "What can I do for you, Captain?"

He paused before entering, his massive frame barely fitting within the confines of your hab-suite. It was the first time he'd crossed this threshold, and the way he glanced around was almost... curious. You caught the briefest flicker of a frown as his optics scanned the sparse furnishings, as though he disapproved of how little space you allowed yourself.

"I was hoping to discuss something with you," he began, his tone careful. "A matter of... cultural exchange."

You blinked, caught off-guard. "Cultural exchange?"

He nodded, his optics locking onto yours with the kind of intensity that made your stomach tighten. "The poem you quoted earlier today—Tennyson, was it? Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die. I confess I found it... intriguing. I attempted to locate the full text in our archives, but my search proved fruitless."

You couldn't help but smile a little at the image of Megatron poring over the Lost Light's limited library in search of a poem. "It's from The Charge of the Light Brigade," you offered. "I can recite it for you, if you'd like."

You gestured for him to take a seat, which he did with surprising care, lowering himself onto the reinforced bench you'd pushed against the far wall. It was the only thing in the room that looked like it could hold his weight. Sitting down brought him closer to your level, though his sheer presence still seemed to fill the room.

You recited the poem from memory, your voice steady despite the odd intimacy of the moment. Megatron listened intently, his optics never leaving you. When you finished, there was a long silence.

"Futility," he said finally, the word falling into the quiet like a misstep. He shifted slightly, his optics flickering, as though even he wasn’t sure why he’d said it.

"Uh... yeah," you replied, trying to latch onto something—anything—to keep the conversation from stalling completely. "I guess it’s... kind of about that?"

"Kind of," he echoed, his tone flat. He glanced at you, and for a second, you thought he might elaborate. He didn’t. Instead, he gave a slight tilt of his head, the closest approximation of a shrug you’d seen from him.

You tried again. "Or maybe it’s more about, you know, following through. Like... duty. Even when it’s hard."

His optics focused on you sharply, and you suddenly felt like you were under a microscope. "Duty," he repeated, his voice carrying an edge that made you wonder if you'd said something wrong.

"Yeah," you said quickly, shifting on your feet. "You know, that whole ‘doing the right thing even when it sucks’ kind of vibe." You winced internally—‘sucks’? Really?

To your surprise, he huffed—a short, sharp sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t coming from Megatron. "An... oversimplification," he said, his voice softer than usual.

You blinked, unsure if that was criticism or approval. "I mean, sure, but that’s kind of the point of poetry, right? You can read it a bunch of different ways."

His optics narrowed slightly, but it wasn’t the menacing look you’d seen in meetings. It was almost... curious. "Interesting," he murmured, though it sounded more like an observation than a response.

The silence stretched again, but this time it felt lighter, the earlier tension easing. You glanced at the floor, then back at him, half-expecting him to make an excuse and leave. Instead, he shifted his weight slightly, his massive frame settling in as though he wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere.

"So, uh, did you want to talk about anything else?" you asked, half-joking to fill the space.

He tilted his head, optics narrowing again. For a moment, you thought he might actually take you up on the offer, but then he stood abruptly, the motion smooth and deliberate. "No," he said, though his voice lacked its usual edge. "That will be all for tonight."

You nodded, your heart still pounding a little harder than it should. "Anytime, Captain."

He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. "Goodnight, Ambassador."

"Goodnight, Megatron."

The door hissed shut, and the quiet returned. You exhaled, realizing only then how tense you’d been. The conversation might have been awkward, but there was something oddly... satisfying about it. Like you’d just taken a small step into uncharted territory.

And judging by the way Megatron lingered, you weren’t the only one who felt it.

--

Oh god this got so long and it accidentally turned into a full on fic. Let's see where this goes guys, I think this could go in a really awesome direction. I haven't written fan fiction in like 10 years bear with me.

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Kinktober Day 24 - Sub/Dom dynamics

A/N: This one has been kicking about in my drafts for ages, ever since I realised I could see Little Elvis in the photo below.

Pairing: Sub!Elvis x Dom!Reader

Word count: 1.8K

TWs: Elvis calls reader Mama, reader calls Elvis a kinda demeaning pet name, oral (both receiving), edging/orgasm denial, teasing, praise kink, little tiny bit of degredation kink.

Kinktober masterlist

Elvis is reading fan mail, sprawled out on the sofa with a pile of envelopes next to him. Each letter is sprayed with perfume and it seems like great clouds of it come out when he tears them open. He reads the contents and then rips them into tiny pieces so no-one else gets a chance to read them. As far as he’s concerned, they’re for his eyes only.

He’s a couple of letters in when the door opens and he looks up to see you standing there.

“Oh hi, honey.”

You look over at him, lying on his side on the leather couch, black trousers and a black shirt, his hair beautifully combed, his blue eyes looking at you steadily. There’s a letter in his hand, but as you step nearer you notice something else. The outline of his dick through his pants.

“Is it good?” You ask, nodding at the letter.

He frowns a little. “It’s just a fan letter honey, nothin’ special.”

You glance down at his crotch deliberately. “Nothin’ special,” you repeat.

He follows your eyes, and he immediately realises what’s happened, sitting up and tossing the letter onto the seat next to him. He rearranges himself quickly and looks back at you.

“Nothin’ at all, Mama.”

“You won’t mind if I read it then?”

His eyes go like saucers. “Uh…w-well I… I don’t usually let… I mean… no need for you to read it Mama.” He’s flushed and stuttering, just the way you like him.

“Let me sit down,” you instruct.

He stands up quickly and moves to the side so you can occupy the space on the sofa he was just sitting in. The serious look on your face makes him drop to his knees in front of you, obediently, and he looks up with those big puppy dog eyes.

“Mama, I didn’t mean to get excited. I jus’… it jus’ happened. Little Elvis, y’know, sometimes he jus’ does that and I don’t even know why…”

You fix him with a serious look and then slowly and deliberately slide your panties off under your skirt. He watches you like a hawk, waiting to see what your next move will be, inadvertently licking his lips. You pick up the letter he dropped and smooth it flat so you can read it, opening your legs wide and beckoning him closer.

“Why don’t you lick Mama whilst she reads this letter?”

He can’t say no so he doesn’t even try, leaning forward and eagerly setting to work licking your pussy as you start to read. The letter isn’t very inspiring. Declarations of undying love, mentions of measurements, some kind of poem at the end. You shrug and let it drop from your hand. He looks up, his face buried in your pussy.

“Mama’s going to look through the ones you’ve already read, whilst you make her cum.”

He nods and moans against you, setting to work with more determination now there is a clear goal set for him. He only read four or five and he knows you’ll want to cum before you finish them. Using his thumbs to spread your pussy, he pushes his tongue flat against you, making you cry out. You normally manage to hold yourself together but something about this situation is making you a little less inhibited than usual. Something about the way he is eating you like you’re his last meal. You don’t pay that much attention to the contents of the letters as his tongue darts in and out of you, and then thrusts in as far as it can go, the rest of his mouth latching on to you and sucking like his life depends on it. You toss the letter in your hand and grab his head with both hands, riding his face as you get closer and closer to achieving your high. He moans against you, sending shockwaves through your body as he sets off your orgasm, and you grip him tighter as you ride his face through it. 

Finally you let him go and he sits there, gasping for air. You flop back on the sofa, waiting to get your own breath back as pleasure buzzes through your veins. 

After a while you feel him against you, and look down to see his thighs around your delicate ankle, his dick outlined even more clearly in his pants now. He whimpers, and his big eyes look at you as your arousal shines on his chin. 

“Mama?” He shuffles against you, just short of humping your ankle. 

You look down at him and can’t help but be reminded of something. 

“What is it, puppy?”

His eyes get even bigger, if that’s possible, and he tries to think about what you just said. Puppy. Like a cute, pathetic, baby dog. If anything, it’s making him harder. 

“‘S really sore, Mama.”

“Oh, is it?” 

“Mmmm. P-please.”

“Please what, puppy?”

“Please can I cum?”

You stroke his cheek gently. He’s so cute it seems mean to torture him. But then again, when you walked in earlier he was reading letters from other girls and getting himself all excited. So he probably needs a little torture. 

“I don’t think so, puppy.”

You watch the hope on his face turn to frustration as he screws his eyes up and bites his lip, hard. 

“Pleeeeeeease? I’ll do anythin’.”

The three magic words: I’ll do anything. 

“Anything?” You ask, one eyebrow raised.

He nods solemnly. “Anythin’, Mama.”

“Fine. I’m tired of reading. Why don’t you get up here and read those letters out loud to me. If you like the letter more than what I’m doing to you, then you don’t get to cum. Understand, puppy?”

Elvis nods quickly and gets up on the couch next to you.

“Take it out.”

He fumbles with the buttons on his pants, desperately trying to get them undone as his hands shake. Eventually he manages to release his dick and it stands to attention, hard and shiny with precum. It’s hard for him not to touch himself, he wants to so much, but he tries to resist. You wrap your hand around him without moving it and tilt your head towards the pile of letters. 

“Go on.”

His trembling hands go through the same frustrating fumbling with one of the envelopes. Part of you wants to laugh and the other part wants to help him, so you settle for just giving his dick a bit of a squeeze instead. He groans. 

“D-dearest Elvis dear…” he begins, eyes flicking down the letter, trying to read it in his head before he reads it out loud. “H-how can one man be so gorgeous as you? You’re perfect.” He pauses, looking up at you awkwardly and then breathing out hard as you move your hand on him. One stroke, gathering the precum at the top and smearing it down the shaft.

“Keep going.”

“Each part of your beautiful face and your m-magnificent body is a s-sight to behold.” He glances down at your hand wrapped around his dick. “I-If you were not perfect you would still be King, the one only E-Elvis Presley.” Pausing again to groan as you stroke him twice and then stop. “There never has been a man as perfect as you before you and there never will be a man as perfect as you after you. L-l-love forever, Lucia L. Italy.” He looks up. “It’s finished, Mama. T-that’s the end.”

You grin and slowly pump him up and down, watching his face as you do it. You could let him cum now, but you’re having too much fun. You can’t stop at just one letter. 

“Read me another.”

He whines and whimpers, staring down at your hand again as it stops moving. He’s so close he can almost taste his orgasm. Fuck. He struggles to open another envelope and pulls out the next letter, full of rose petals and stinking of perfume. He glances at the contents. It’s long. 

“Mama,” he whines, eyes pleading. “‘S really sore. Don’t know if I can read another.”

You tilt your head to the side. “You said you’d do anything to cum.”

He nods, slowly, his bottom lip captured between his teeth. 

“Read it to me. You get to the end of it and I’ll let you.”

He screws his eyes shut for a moment, trying to gather courage. It’s only one side of paper. How hard can it be? Taking a deep breath, he decides to try and read it out as quickly as possible.

“D-dear Elvis. Do you believe in love at first sight? I hope you do because I fell in love with you the first time I saw you on television on the Ed Sullivan Show, when I was just a kid. I knew the first time I saw you that you were the only one for me. There was something about your eyes and the way you walked that sent chills d-down m-m-my s-spine.” He stutters as you slip your mouth over the end of his dick, his eyes rolling back in his head and his breath coming out in harsh pants, feeling your tongue lick the underside. He has to keep going. 

“I-I-I have seen lots of stars on television since I first saw you on the Ed Sullivan S-show,” he gulps, watching you slowly take more and more of him into your mouth. “B-but nobody had sent chills down my spine except for you. I guess that is the way it always will be because I doubt if I ever will again see anyone like the Elvis Presley I first saw on the Ed Sullivan Show. Frankly…ah… fuck…” he stops again, feeling the tip of his dick hit the back of your throat. 

You look up at him, eyes flashing a warning, and he clears his throat and continues, “I, uh… I haven’t seen you on t-television since I saw you on the Ed Sullivan Show. Have you changed? I h-hope not. I guess I have changed. I’m not a kid anymore. Love, Denis L., Brooklyn. Oh shit.”

His head falls back against the sofa and he moans loudly as you start to bob up and down on him. Fingers clawing at the leather sofa cushions, he screws his eyes shut as he feels his balls heavy with his release. 

“Oh fuck… mama… I’m gonna… ohhh.”

You hold his hips down to stop him bucking them and pushing himself too far down your throat as he cums messily in your mouth. Slowly moving off him, you look at his pretty, flushed face, eyes closed in post-orgasmic bliss, and smile. 

“You’re a good little puppy, aren’t you?” You tease, running a finger up his still semi-hard length and making him jolt. 

He stares at you through hooded eyes. “I hope so mama. I try to be.”

Pressing your lips against his, you stroke his cheek. “You’re my good little puppy,” you mumble against his lips. “Think you should read all your letters like this in future, hm?”

He squeaks, but he can feel his dick betraying him again already, starting to get hard. “Y-yes, Mama.”

“Good boy.”

***

Taglist:

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@vintagepresley @arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @another-identityofmine @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @cattcb @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @ccab @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978

[izzabela]

hiiiii can you write something about Sektor with a fem reader? Maybe Sektor in a secret relationship with a concubine

Breaking Tradition - Sektor (MK2023) x fem!reader

in which Sektor is in love with a dream

a/n: school sucks

ship[s]: sektor x fem!concubine!reader

warning(s): shorter fic than usual, uhhh bi han has many wives???, LESBIANS, semi-angst??, idek anymore...

- concubine!reader, who's but a lowly concubine for the Lin Kuei and the grandmaster. who doesn't get much recognition because she is the fifth wife already

- concubine!reader, who often spends her days alone, only with her few servants. who reads to pass the time, who embroiders and does anything to make her busy and forget how lonely she is

- concubine!reader, who meets Sektor during an off-chance you came out of your room to speak with the grandmaster, who sees the red-armored ninja assassin's mask up and smiling, and you fell in love

- Sektor, who sees the rare, fifth wife of her grandmaster out and about, not cooped up in her room. Sektor, who wonders why you hide yourself away when you shine radiantly like gold in the sun

- Sektor, who is out everyday to try and see you, concubine!reader, and speak with you. Sektor, who's infatuated with you, yet you hadn't spoken a word to her

- concubine!reader, who asks Grandmaster Bi Han the schedule of all the assassins training. when asked why, concubine!reader says its to be more involved (Bi Han is skeptical, but gives it to you anyways)

- concubine!reader, who comes out of her room at the scheduled times to watch Sektor train. And Sektor, who now sees you during her training hours in the corner of her peripheral vision as she spars and practices her moves

- Sektor, who flies up to the second floor of the palace to talk to you when done sparring. Sektor, who introduces herself to you with her confident smile and confident attitude

- Sektor, who talks to you during her breaks so she can get to know you. Sektor, who walks with you when you are about to retire for the night

- concubine!reader, who writes Sektor anonymous poems about her using the color red as a synonym to her. concubine!reader, who carefully slips these notes to her carrier bird to deliver to the window of her room

- concubine!reader, who receives notes from Sektor as well, poems that talk of stars and their eternal radiance. concubine!reader, who realizes it's about her

- Sektor, who eats with you now that you've begun to wake up earlier to catch her even before training. Sektor, who begins to touch you during these quiet moments where no one is around

- Sektor, who is spoken to by Bi Han about personal space within the clan, and knowing one's place. Sektor, who begins to put a distance on you just when she began to close it

- concubine!reader, who is confused when Sektor does not talk to you as much. concubine!reader, who only gets short and cordial answers from the iron-clad ninja

- concubine!reader, who still receives love poems from Sektor, though they are more daring and a bit raunchy. concubine!reader, who reads more poems about Sektor wanting to do more than talk and hug you

- Sektor, who's dying inside due to the wall she's put up to protect you and herself. Sektor, who dreams of a world where you and her can live freely and as yourselves and together

- Sektor, who realizes she needs to extinguish this fire before it burns her completely. Sektor, who also wants the flames of your love to eat her alive

- Sektor, who sticks to reality and puts out this fleeting love of hers. Sektor, who ceases all forms of contact with you and lets you return to your wealthy, yet solitary life within the Lin Kuei palace

- concubine!reader, who's devastated that the only love and happiness you ever got had left you like autumn leaves blown in the wind

- concubine!reader, who moves on with life and returns to her solitary ways of self-confinement and loneliness

- concubine!reader, who occasionally reads the poems and declarations of love that she once received

- concubine!reader and Sektor, who realize they were in love with a dream

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

something something something sektor is a closeted lez

something something something have some sad lesbians

aight, see yall in the next fic!

[elfieafterdark]

Gideon busting her ass to paint the kitchen, Harrow sipping black coffee and doing her usual part in home renos, that is to say, keeping her fiance company.

It's early, the sun hasn't even risen yet. The trees surrounding their property seem extra tall today. Their greens seem extra dark and secretive. It's going to be a beautiful fall day, perfect for spending time with her jock girl.

They don't have to worry about work today, or any day if they don't desire it. Harrow supposes she'll have to thank John for that someday.

Maybe the day after she stops hating his guts. But they do send him Christmas cards every year. And he's slightly more tolerable than when they were in high school.

"Man, this lil shit is tough." Gideon grunts, wearing an off-black tank top, little burger logo on the front. She's trying to paint a corner, it's a deep cupboard and she can't quite get at it.

Her fresh haircut is all messy on the top, shaved to half an inch on the sides.

She's gorgeous. Even with sleep still lingering in her eyes. Even with those stupid skull pajamas, ratty to the point of absurdity. She's had the damn things since high school.

Harrow leans on the new granite countertops, replaced last week, she's sitting at the breakfast bar, also created last week. Gideon is amazing.

It took Harrow a few years of being around Gideon to figure her out. To figure out that there was more to her than just a gymnut sport gal with no thoughts save for tits and ass up in her beautiful head.

She's clever, she's relentless, she has a fantastic brain; probably the most attractive thing about her to be honest. She just has an eye for creating things, and almost anything she tries, she can succeed at.

That ought to be eye-meltingly frustrating for Harrowhark Nonagesmius, sickly young girl who could do nothing right. Who constantly fell ill, who missed school, who often had to ask her teachers to repeat themselves 4 or 5 times.

When they met it drove her insane, seeing Gideon easily learn anything she wanted. But just like her impression of the person, her impression of the person's talents wasn't quite right.

If Gideon wasn't interested in a thing, then no amount of work could make her good at it.

She's TERRIBLE at remembering dates and time, she forgets Harrow's birthday a lot, and beats herself up over it. She's ass at math, she can't write a poem to save her life, and she often skips half the ingredients in a recipe just because she glazed over them when reading it.

Gideon is an ongoing journey, an investigation that Harrow will never close. She doesn't want to stop comprehending this person, the love of her life perhaps. If such a thing exists.

"Gideon?" Harrow finds her mouth saying before her brain had an appropriate amount of time to consider or calculate.

"Hmm? Sup babe? Need a top up?" Gideon's gold eyes always alarm her. Mystify her. Entrance her. Deep vats of molten gold that could suck Harrow's soul right out of her body.

But it isn't so hard these days, saying what she's thinking. So she does. Sickly little Harrowhark, ex-cult member who managed to get away through luck and circumstance, says it clearly, precisely, and directly.

"I love you."

[maple-the-awesome]

When Another Finds Out About His Crush Part 3/3

Part 1 || Part 2

Pairings: Warrior, Wild, & Wind x GN Reader

Overview: What happens when someone else in the Chain finds out about his feelings towards you?

Zelda Masterlist 💙Fandom Masterlist

This...is starting to get annoying.

As a captain who has overseen dozens of soldiers and fought in enough battles to last a lifetime (not that they’ll stop coming anytime soon), Warrior likes to believe he's developed tough skin over the years. While the occasional expression of irritation might slip through sometimes, he prides himself on his ability to usually roll with the punches by remaining both calm and patient, although there are certain...'situations' that truly test this inner strength.

"Quit being such a suck up."

"Hylia, is it possible for you to stop making goo-goo eyes for five seconds?"

"We all get it: you're completely whipped. Just shut up about it already."

"Oh, keep it in your pants, pretty boy.”

Ah yes. There is no situation that tests Warrior more than that annoying sour strawberry who's very keen on getting under his skin whenever possible, but lately it seems he really has no better hobbies to occupy his time.

If guessing, Warrior would say it only started a mere week ago when the two were patrolling around camp with you as an added member. There was nothing particularly strange about Legend's character that day, in fact he remained delightfully quiet (as third wheels should be) until a moment when your trio had to cross a small stream. Warrior, naturally, didn't think twice about putting his own life and dry clothes at risk by balancing on top of those slippery rocks himself where he could then help you across with a steady hand.

"What a gentleman!" You had awed, your smile making it completely worth that small leap his heart gave when he almost lost his footing seconds before, although Legend apparently thought there was a more fitting title to bestow upon the blonde which he did so with a roll of his eyes:

"...What a kiss ass…"

Warrior had rolled his eyes as well, figuring the insult was no different from all the others Legend tends to throw his way, but then they continued with an alarming pattern behind them, too. Always around you and always linked back to Warrior's very private feelings towards you.

How Legend came to discover them is anyone's guess. He could have noticed that your always Warrior's first choice in company or perhaps he's simply grown sick of the way you live entirely rent-free in Warrior's mind, your name somehow being woven into every conversation or the cause for that dreamy look in his eyes as his thoughts wander off...Actually, it might not be such a surprise that Legend found out after all, but Warrior really wishes it could've been literally anyone else (minus you, of course). There's no way Time or Twilight or even mischievous Wild would be as cruel as to wave his feelings in front of his face at every given chance the way Legend is hellbent on doing.

"Whatcha writing, Wars?" Finally a voice he loves to hear and a face his heart soars at seeing.

He's been on his own in the corner of camp for a while now, purposefully secluding himself in hopes of catching a break, however he doesn't mind your presence as you practically hang over his shoulder, a grin on your lips as you try to catch a peek at the paper in his hands.

He instantly smiles to himself and opens his mouth to answer that he's currently making a list of supplies, but another beats him to a far more smug response, "He's probably writing you a love poem."

Warrior snarls at Legend whose life is apparently so boring he can't not listen into any of your conversations even when relaxing by the campfire himself with his back turned to you both. Facing you or not, Warrior knows the idiot has a smirk playing at his face as he pats himself on the back for another ‘amazing’ jab.

"Legend just likes to tease. Don't take it to heart," You place a hand on Warrior's shoulder as soon as you notice his growing irritation which you haven't been blind to at all this week. You've long gotten used to Legend's nagging and teasing, not seeing it as anything personal, although you can understand why it might make others upset, "I'm sure deep down he's just jealous that you're my favorite."

Warrior is so busy being huffy that he almost misses your comment, but when it processes in his mind, he's quick to swallow the lump in his throat and mumble, "I'm your favorite, eh?"

You smile sweetly, "...Well, second favorite. First place goes to Wolfie, I'm afraid."

Warrior blinks, his brain almost malfunctioning now, although it manages to catch up with your words which snaps his head towards you with slight offense over your now teasing smirk, "Wait, how could I be robbed of first place by a dog -"

"- A wolf -"

"- An animal! Why him?" Warrior practically whines, yet you can spare him no sympathy, simply shrugging.

"cause he's cute."

"I'm not?"

"You are, but not like 'cuddly-cute'...Unless…" You lean closer, your whispered voice fanning Warrior's face as he licks his chapped lips nervously, "You're willingly to throw in some cuddles? That scarf of yours looks mighty comfy, Captain."

"...W-While I have no real objections, you are aware that Legend will never cut either of us a break then, right?”

You almost look innocent when gazing up at him through your eyelashes, however the way you play with his scarf is anything but, "It's just an offer. If you're too intimidated by little ol' me, simply say so. I must warn, though, if you can’t step up to the challenge, Wolfie might forever hold the spot of being my favorite...Can’t have that, can we?”

Warrior sucks in a breath before responding in an equal whisper, "Hmm. That would be less than ideal..."

"OH MY HYLIA! GET A ROOM!"

"You know, he's found a normal life - despite everything he's been through..."

"Sounds like that's what you want, too."

Wild becomes a bit bashful when Warrior hits the nail on the head, although he isn’t ashamed enough to avoid the topic, instead pursuing it in quiet wonder, “Well, I-I don’t really know, but I did buy a house. It’s in a nice area and I’ve done repairs to it recently…”

Cheek resting against his palm, he dares himself to glance across the wooden table to the person sitting directly in front of him. It’s unclear whether you’re listening or not since your eyes remain focused in awe on Malon and Time who’s relationship anyone could admire. Nevertheless, a part of Wild hopes you did hear him because his curiosity is itching to know your opinion. Does settling down somewhere sound pleasant to you or do you plan for a life on the road like Legend’s insistant on? Honestly, the latter might not be a terrible preference if you allow for the idea of someone special joining you on your journey. Wild isn’t picky.

Despite dying to know your outlook on the future, Wild doesn’t plan on asking you up front. He’s perfectly content relying on his imagination right now as he enjoys the peaceful fluttering in his chest which is often fueled by the mental image of the two of you in Hateno, cooking dinner together then eating outside under the sunset before retiring for the night, asleep in each other’s arms rested in a comfortable bed where everything just feels right with the world -

"- What about you, (Y/n)? I personally think Wild has a point. A life like this would be wonderful, don't you think? Living somewhere quiet, with someone special." 

The Champion is ripped away from his fictitious domestic bliss to rejoin reality with a slight jump to his heart rate after he hears Sky casually ask the very question he’s been too afraid to even whisper to himself. It’s as if the Skylofian has been reading his mind, although his attention is solely on you at this moment as he smiles sweetly while awaiting your answer.

Even you look a bit taken back, having finally turned away from the couple to face those you sit at the table with. Still, you give some actual thought over the topic before answering, proving that you have, in fact, been listening at least partly this entire time, “...Yeah, I guess something like this could be nice. Nothing busy, just peaceful livin’ compared to everything else we’ve all been through. It could be a good change of pace - with the right person, of course.”

Wild swears he can feel his heartbeat in his cheeks, tinting them in red heat he worries someone else might notice if he draws too much attention to himself, thus he adds no comment, merely bowing his head in silence. He does wear a rather dreamy smile, though. Does this mean that, in theory, his fantasies don’t have to necessarily stay just that? He wonders if you have a specific area in mind. Sure, Hateno’s great, but if you don’t care for the atmosphere and perhaps favor something a little more rural, he’d be happy to find a nice patch of land for that. Maybe even ask Twilight and Time for some pointers on how to get a ranch started. Honestly, that makes the image all the better. Living off the land, no close neighbors to judge, plenty of space for the kids to play -

“- Any idea who that would be to you?” Wild didn’t expect Sky to keep asking questions, and apparently you weren’t either. Unlike before where you were simply caught off guard for a second, you feel truly thrown off your feet now. Sky awaits your second answer eagerly, his eyes watching you in a way that almost makes you feel like he already knows the truth and is just waiting for you to admit it. Weird. 

Foolishly, Wild was stupid enough to believe even for a second that your eyes crossed his then, but just like that, they darted away as a blush coated your own face, “I, um…no i-idea. You know, not all of us are as lucky as to find our soulmate right off the bat. I, for one, have been a little too busy protecting my Hyrule than to worry about what guy I want to grow old with.”

“Well, I do consider myself very lucky to have Zelda,” Fortunately, Sky isn’t bothered by your defensive reply, merely shrugging and giving you a supportive smile, “Don’t worry, though, (Y/n). Love can find you at the strangest of times. I’m sure your own soulmate could be a lot closer than you think.”

“Uh, thanks?” This time, Wild knows he doesn’t imagine the way you look at him, giving a smile that pretty much translates to ‘what is he on about’. He shrugs in silent response, returning a similar grin that answers ‘no idea’.

The topic of future life fades into another conversation soon after that, allowing Wild’s poor heart a break as he becomes lost in the laughter he shares with you over dinner as everyone places their own bets on Time’s real age. Only once does he think back to earlier and that’s when he happens to glance towards Sky after making a joke that leaves you snorting for air.

The Skylofian watches with the same look you had when observing Time and Malon’s dynamic - a look of admiration and support. It’s then that Wild realizes just why Sky had specifically chosen you for those specific questions. Honestly, Wild doesn’t know if he should be mad or thankful…Maybe he’ll decide to let it pass so long as Sky doesn’t do anything else to put his feelings on the front line or starts trying to plan your marriage. Seriously, one step at a time, for Hylia's sake.

Wind's home is pretty relaxing compared to the creepy forests or standoffish villages the boys have passed through in recent days. The few inhabitants are very welcoming to their young pirate's friends, happy to allow them sanctuary until they can figure out a proper plan on how to continue onwards seeing as they're kinda stuck on a small island at the moment. Nevertheless, it's a peaceful place, as said. The air is fresh and the waves provide a calm melody that washes away one's stresses. 

Four is particularly keen on spending his time on shore, collecting tiny seashells he can find hidden in the sand which, at least in his opinion, is a far better pass time than drowning in the freezing ocean like some of the others (Sky) seem to be doing.

He's by his lonesome, that is, until Wind himself comes sauntering over. This wouldn't be strange nor would his championship be found annoying seeing as Four actually gets along fairly well with the younger boy, but there's something about his behavior that strikes the Smith as odd. 

He's fiddling with the edges of his tunic in a nervous, impatient fashion, stopping a few feet away in silence yet carrying a certain air to himself that practically screams that he's waiting to say something, however he keeps his mouth shut with pressed lips until Four decides to break the silence himself while standing straight out of the sand, asking for good measure, "Something wrong?"

"Umm…Do you have any good present ideas in mind?”

That wasn't exactly what Four expected the Pirate to say, although it does intrigue him. Confused, but hooked to find out more, "'Present ideas'?"

"Yeah!" In a second, Wind goes from nervous to excited, his face glowing in delight as if by merely echoing his own words, Four had somehow managed to give him exactly the answer he’s been desperately searching for, "You said that your Minish friends leave 'little gifts' in the grass for people, right? I was just curious what those gifts usually are."

Four gives Wind a skeptical look. Perhaps he shouldn’t give him the benefit of the doubt and instead question his motives further considering the trouble some of the Links on his trip tend to get into, yet he ultimately doesn’t think too much about the rather random topic choice. Young kids do typically have strange attention spans and interests, after all. Having been a young kid himself once, Four decides to humor Wind with a shrug as he begins to count the seashells he holds in hand, "Normally they leave hearts and rupees, although it isn't unheard of for them to leave rarer items or little trinkets."

"Trinkets, huh?" Wind gives it some thought, "...Do you think it's possible for them to leave something like this?"

Four looks up from his seashells, noticing that Wind is holding a butterfly necklace proudly in the air - one very similar to what he currently wears around his neck. Notably, it looks newer than his; less worn from years of use.

"I've found a lot of these hidden in different areas when I was traveling the seven seas," Wind explains boastfully, holding the glittery necklace to the light with a hand on his hip. Four shares his smile, reaching the conclusion that he must be asking to confirm where said necklaces had come from.

"It's entirely possible."

Wind's smile then fades into a softer look as he studies the necklace a bit closer. He scratches some of the dust off with his fingernail, making sure it looks good-as-new before glancing over to where the rest of their group hangs out across the beach, "...And do you think if a, um…Minish left something like this in the grass for (Y/n) to find, do you - do you think they'd like that?"

Four blinks...Ooh...Now Wind's random questioning begins to make a lot more sense. Sure, he's noticed the way you both get on well, which has never been a surprise seeing as you seem good with kids and all, but it's honestly really adorable to see the young pirate wanting to do a sweet gesture for you and to be so shy doing so. It reminds Four of a simpler time when he used to do something similar by leaving flowers around for Zelda to find. It didn't necessarily have anything to do with romance, he just liked seeing her smile when she found them. He assumes that feeling is about the same for Wind towards you.

"...Yeah, I'm sure (Y/n) would really like that actually - if 'a Minish' left them a necklace," Four agrees, biting back his smirk when Wind lights up again. Just like that, the Pirate is turning on his heel, his smile going from ear to ear as he grips said necklace in hand excitedly.

"I better go find a good place to hide it then - Uh, I-I mean…You know, for the Minish to find? S-So that they can hide it for (Y/n), of course!"

"Of course. If I see any Minish, I’ll tell them about the plan. Who knows, maybe they’ll hide it in that long grass across the bridge? I know (Y/n) was wanting to explore that area later,” Four has to turn around to hide his expression when Wind glances back at him in consideration. Just as predicted, his course is quick to change, hurrying across the island which gives Four time to go back to collecting his seashells in peace once more, a smirk still playing on his face. Ah, young love…

[starvonnie]

Our Pink Living Room

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Megatron/Rodimus Additional Tags: Sticky Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Artificial Intelligence, Angst, Androids, Post-Transformers: Lost Light 25

Also on AO3

He's not your Megatron.

Rodimus gasped as his spike met with aching ceiling nodes.

This is a lie.

Blue optics met red before shuttering closed for a vent-stealing kiss.

This isn't right.

Rodimus did everything he could to ground himself in the moment. For Primus’ sake, he was more than filled with spike—Megatron's spike—but it wasn't his. 

His Megatron. 

The condemned one. The dead one. The absolutely-not-alive one that couldn't be here. Couldn't be holding him.

And yet, he was.

“I love you,” the fake whispered against his lips.

Rodimus moaned before whispering back, “I love you, too.”

But what he loved was a program. AI. Just ones and zeros strung together in just the right way, with a one-to-one scale non-sentient (well… his sentience was debatable) robot. His only solace was that whatever this near-clone did, supposedly Megatron would have done, too. So maybe Rodimus had been too much of a coward to take that leap, but at least he knew his love was horribly requited.

Rodimus regretted. He regretted so much. He wished he had been braver. He wished he'd enjoyed Megatron while he'd had him. And he wished he had fought harder at his trial. Maybe if he had said the right things…

He mentally shook his helm. Interfacing. He was fucking. He shouldn't be getting sad, he should be getting railed.

Rodimus kissed him some more. He'd wanted to kiss Megatron more than anything. While Brainstorm had assured him that this Megatron would be as close to the real thing as could be, he knew deep in his spark that Megatron's lips wouldn't have been as soft and yielding. He imagined they'd be scarred and a little rough.

He couldn't really believe this wonderful lie. He talked like Megatron. Moved like him. Sounded like him. But they never bickered. Not like they used to. He was too damn agreeable. He wanted him to mock Rodimus’ garish colour choices or raise an optic ridge at the amount of sweetener he put in his morning cube. Instead, he awoke to Megatron—or this facsimile of him—having already made his morning cube. With the exact number of sweeteners he usually added.

He tried to test him. 

“I don't actually like it this sweet,” Rodimus lied.

“No? I apologize. Tomorrow I will make it how you like it.”

And the stupid programming remembered, leaving Rodimus to suck down less-sweet energon until he corrected Megatron again.

It was always how he liked it again.

“Can you write me a poem?” Rodimus asked.

Megatron cocked his helm. “What would you like it to be about?”

Rodimus frowned. “Me, obviously.”

Megatron had nodded, stood, then immediately got to work on a datapad. Within a few minutes he'd completed a whole-ass poem, and it was good. Definitely in Megatron’s voice, too, but it still felt off.

Rodimus glanced at that very poem, sitting on the nightstand. He wondered if Megatron, had he loved him, would have actually written him poetry. He burned to know.

“You love fucking my valve, don't you?” Rodimus said between breathy moans.

“I love fucking you,” that damn AI corrected.

It always said exactly what he wanted to hear. Like it was reading his damn processor. He hated it. 

But he couldn't live without it.

Rodimus returned home from work later that day, and Megatron was waiting. Same chair. Same energon blend. Same damn day. Over and over and over.

Frowning at the fake, Rodimus did something different. He ignored him. He walked straight to the washracks and scrubbed at his plating until it felt raw. He wanted to go back to the beginning where he was just so happy for the companionship that he didn't care that this wasn't real. That it would never be real.

Still simmering beneath the surface, Rodimus went back out to the kitchen where Megatron still waited, unmoved. It was like he was waiting to start some program.

Once again, Rodimus did something different. He grabbed some engex and took a swig straight from the bottle. 

“You're drinking again?” Not-Megatron sounded concerned.

“I'm having a drink,” Rodimus corrected. “What do you care?”

“You're my conjunx.”

A flare of anger burst from Rodimus’ field. Of course, this fake never understood him in that way. “Too complicated,” Brainstorm had said when Rodimus asked about his lack of a field.

“We're not conjunx,” Rodimus said quietly.

“What? Of course we are, I lo—”

“You are not real! How could we become conjunx if i didn't initiate, huh? What could possibly put you in a bad light? You have no substance for the Act of Disclosure!”

Megatron's optics dimmed and he lowered his gaze. “Perhaps because I am not real. But I am. I am Megatron.”

“Megatron never would've let me paint the living room pink! Much less with flames around the door!”

Not-Megatron looked around, his brow creased with worry. “We can paint it another colour.”

“That's not—AARGH!” Rodimus kicked the couch. “No! You're supposed to tell me this is a hideous colour and then suggest some bland shit that's an offense to colours everywhere!”

“Maybe… beige?”

“Maybe beige? Are you serious? I lied! You'd want to paint it purple! It's always purple with you!”

Megatron stood and closed the distance between them, and Rodimus stupidly let him. “Then we can paint it purple.”

“That's not the point!” Rodimus grabbed him by the collar faring and tugged him down until they were optic-to-optic. “Fight me on it. Argue with me. We always argued!”

“Will that make you happy?”

No.

“Yes!”

Megatron frowned. “It's a hideous colour.”

Rodimus should've been embarrassed, but his horniness hit him full-throttle and he smashed his mouth against Not-Megatron’s too-pillowy lips. It wasn't long before those strong arms had whisked him away to their berthroom and Megatron was deep inside of him again, fucking him like it was his Primus-given purpose.

Except Primus had no purpose for him. Primus didn't make him. Really, he was basically just a sex robot. Which, normally, Rodimus wouldn't have a problem with, but that wasn't why he had him made.

He needed more.

The next day, while at work, he did the bare minimum and spent most of the day just thinking. He weighed the pros and cons and did some deep soul-searching to figure out what he really wanted.

His processor hurt by the end of it.

Of course, he came to the same realization he always did: he wanted Megatron. He wanted to actual mech. The one with free will who wouldn't just let him do whatever he wanted without consequence. 

What finally pushed him to do it was the realization that Megatron wouldn't want this. The dead were dead and there was no way to emulate that.

Megatron didn't resist when Rodimus told him to open his chest. Where a spark should've been was nothing more than a computer compiling and spitting out data. All it took was a few snips from wire cutters for his not-conjunx to go dark and silent.

Rodimus still cried.

[cherrsnut]

Hostage - Chapter 4

Finnick Odair x Healer!Reader

Summary: Up until now, your life has been a solitary one. Being the sole owner of an herbal shop, and apothecary to many fishermen who have been injured. Just when your life seemed to follow the routine you were so used to, your life turns a 360 when you’re suddenly taken away for the 67th Annual Hunger Games. This turn of events forces you to accept the idea the Grim Reaper is stalking close behind you, faster than you had hoped for. 

Tags: Extremely Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Typical THG Violence, Forced Prostitution, Forced Lab Rat, Injury, Mental Health Deterioration, Psychological/Physical Torture, Death, Alcohol/Drug Consumption, Medical Malpractice, Fluff (bc they deserve it).

Word Count: 8.1 k

Previous // Next

Chapter 4

Breathe. Just breathe. Just like what Edna said. 

The palms of your hands kept your face hidden. You were completely still, were it not for the trembles running along your spinal chord. Just remember what Edna taught you. 

Almost as if your late mentor were in her flesh and bones standing in front of you, with her usual critical frown looking down at you, you tried to breathe. Mouth agape, you sucked in air, so much so, the oxygen filled your lungs. 

It shoudn’t have surprised you in the least when the air particles felt heavier than normal, not with the countless times you were in this very position. 

So hopeless, and so hurt. It was especially that, a thundering spark hit you straight in the chest and it felt like your heart had collapsed in surrender. You hiccuped more breaths, the unbearable pain swirling and expanding throughout your body as the air squeezed itself in the inflamed throat, a throat abused by what felt like multiples splinters penetrating the back of your tongue. 

Oh, Edna, how much you missed her. She was everything you had. She was your warm home after a freezing storm, she was your teacher and caregiver, and she was your saviour sent for you to have another chance in life. That last thought hurt more, how much she struggled to raise you in such an unforgiving world, only for her efforts to be spent in vain. All the efforts she put into the woman you were now, all your knowledge, all your ideals, all your empathy; none of it mattered now when you would die out into the battlefield. 

The Capitol were stripping away all of Edna's perseverance throughout her life. First it was the Peacekeepers trying to take down and dismantle Edna’s and your’s name, and now they were trying to kill all knowledge Edna curated through the only living and breathing version of her, you. Now, you were going to be gone soon. And when you’d be buried under the hard stones, so did everything Edna did to contribute to the world. 

You gulped down a whine. Edna’s death was still submerged in your mind, like a hungry shark after smelling the most endearing blood drops scattered aorund in the ample sea. You still missed her, you longed for her heartily touch, for the cruel words that deep down you knew came from a place of love, for her warm presence against her cold facade, and you absolutely missed the way she looked at you, those blue greyish eyes that whispered doting poems about you in her head, never to be revealed and to be otherwise kept hidden hidden within her soul even in her deathbed. 

You were squinting your eyes, just as another tear threatened to spill all over your burning face. “Oh, fuck” you cursed between slow breaths. You went to grab the only thing that gave you comfort in that moment, alcohol. The wine was resting by your feet, camouflaged by your dark room. 

It was dimly lit, only to be illuminated by a red lamp sitting by your night stand, whose light bulb also stemmed from the same crimson colour. 

It was then you remembered the stories Edna used to tell you when it was past your bed time, and you supposed even in the surviving light of the already dark room, it would still salvage you from the night terrors.

You took a sip from the mouth of the bottle, and let the fresh liquid relieving your burning ache. The bottle was around halfway through, and you supposed you had a good resistance to it. That or your helpless body felt too overpowered by the grieving memories you still wanted to cling to. 

Another gulp, you didn’t want to think of her, but how coudn’t you? Everything you built yourself up to be, every dream or moment of motivation was because of her. 

You still wanted to live. That was what caused you most pain. Your pathetic mental state still whispered to keep going, to never give up in the face of danger. You still wanted to cure people, you liked that, right? 

That was your role in the town, to heal anyone who needed it. The whole point of your little existence was to help anyone who neded some healing, no matter how insignificant it may be. And for what? Where did empathic heart of yours take you? Straight to your umbearable pain you’d have to endure in the arena, like a trident piercing straight to your unnerving heart. 

You were nothing but a puppet to play with, and the more gruesome your death, the better. You coudn’t help your thought to follow that tormenting path. How would you die? Would it be just like what you had seen on the screen? A rusty knife to your neck? An arrow to your head? Or would you decapitated? You’d seen this when you were younger. You’d been barely ten then, and that’s the first and only time you had been able to see any scene from the Hunger Games.

Two more corners and to the right, that was the direction you had to take to get to the Herbal Shop, which meant you’d pass by the town’s plaza. You could only remember bits and pieces of the leading up, afterall your brain dictated that to be insignificant, but you fairly recalled that you were filled with newly cut supplies of essential herbs. Edna was by your side, she always was when she went out to collect her ingredients to make up new medicinal oils; maybe she always tagged you along with her to teach you, or just simply because she never fully trusted you to do the job by yourself correctly.

Walking by the familial streets, you would have ignored the otherwise lively plaza, often switching on any type of distracting sounds, and passing it by simple white noise. But this time, a foreign sound you hadn’t internalized took you out immediately, stopping in your tracks and following your head to see the unexpected commotion you never remembered seeing.

It was a loud shriek, the one only a mother could do while witnessing the torture of their own child. 

She was many feet away, and you coudn’t quite see her face. All you had taken in was the how her lone sobs echoed in every corner and alleyway, just like a telltale from a ghost roaming the streets of your town in a hurry to find their already dead son. 

It was in that moment you looked up, a big screen showing the livestreaming of the Hunger Games. You hadn’t seen the fight play out, and by the time your eyes took in the glimpse of what was performing, the Executioner’s act was done. There were two males, one whose hand held the axe of what sealed the fate of the deceased one on the floor, its head ditached from the rest of his body. You didn’t know from which District they were both, and you could only assume the decapitated one represented District 4. The other male, released his grip of his weapon and fell down behind him, retorting his facial expression in self-disgust, as he had sunked in the sin he just committed, just as the eyes of the one he killed, slowly faded into nothing but a vacant lot. 

Edna pulled you by the sleeves of your soiled shirt, and muttered a “Let’s go” before the both of you left the mourning mother to be handled by a few passerbyers who seeked to give her comfort. 

You nodded to your mentor, but your eyes still stayed on the mother crying out in pain, begging for whatever holy spirit to bring back her child in one piece. 

That memory was connected to another one. It had been months since your first time ever seeing the cruelty of the games, and the memory was very much still in your mind, even more when you closed your eyes and tried to sleep. The first month was the worst, having to wake up from very real bloody images from nightmares and scared to even fall back as sleep in the terror you’d find them once again. 

But after months you slowly got back to your usual self, one that mixed very well your constant exhaustion and your love to sleep as many hours as you could,  without any type of night monster to invade your dreams. 

So one day you came back to the Herbal Shop after being ordered to go and buy ingredients that were going to fill your bellies for the week. You asked Edna something that the older Carriers said in passing. 

“If I were to be decapitated, would I live for a few seconds more before I died?” that was your question. “Sometimes” was what she answered. “In some scenarios, you could take up at thirty seconds whilst still being alive, even without having your head” she developed further her previous answer.

Did that mean that was a possibility for you? For you to still having to feel that uberable pain of a stranger sawing yout head off, in those slow and excruciatingly painful thirty seconds? You hated thinking about this.

And there went your third gulp of the wine, all so you’d drown yourself in misery. You appreciated the sparkling of the wine, popping bubbled bursts against your blocked off despairing throat.

You thought of her again. You stopped your movements, not even the beverage was keeping you from thinking about your dead mentor. You set it down back to its previous place, next to your feet. Your fingers traced up every cell of your face, and stopped to rest you palms on your forehead. Your fingers snaked to to find a comfortable place just by the front of your hairline. And you cried, you couldn't do anything but cry out in pain.

“Edna” you whined so high pitched you didn’t recognize your own voice. Your cries and breaths stayed in that unnatural tone you had imposed yourself. Breathing hesistantely and desperately, while trying to taking in as many puffs of air as possible, and yet it was never sufficient for you. Your humid lashes found themselves completely wet, as waves of tears swam across your hot cheeckbones. 

Your eyes we tired, but at the same time, not tired enough for your depressed form, and definetely not tired enough for your cries to bounce from every sharp corner of your room.

A hand clasped around your shoulder. You were so deep into your own wretched form, you hadn’t noticed someone just came in. A thorn of embarrassment prickled your skin at the thought of someone seeing you cry as uncontrollable as you. And even if that thorn hurt you, there were still a million more stuck in the pores of your back from each and every mistake, regret and mourn from your years lived in your short life, it was easy for your to quickly ignore that one. 

You had been told that the walls were soundproof, that no one would be able to hear a peep coming from inside. And after Scarlett’s big talk about the trust she had in the technology of the Capitol, about just how “Top notch” the privacy was. You willingly gave into her prideful mouth, without considering the little fact that the door may be easy to acces in. Naturally, you felt ripped off, privacy my ass.

Mags’s fingers snaked her way up your face, like a snake in the name of retribution, and changing their biting nature into something calming and sweet. She moved your face to hers, and the sweetest smile decorated her pretty wrinkled lips. 

“I’m fine” a hoarse breath left your mouth. Those words you kept repeating again and again, today. A lie that didn’t even convince your stammering mind, which was soon to be lost in the gray anyway.

“Really…” you tried to persuade Mags, although the undertone was still directed in reassuring yourself. Because you were the only one who could keep you in check, you were the only one that was able to comfort yourself. 

The elder simply looked at you for many seconds, an intense glare slowly finding the cracked pieces of your irises you had worked so hard to hide them to the rest of the world. And this truth, only hurt Mags more.

You realized the woman sitting beside you wasn’t just a person of a few words, but rather she never said anything. And even as silence prevailed your saddening room, she very much felt present in there. Her comforting stace eased the nauseating pain you were enduring all by yourself. 

Her fingertips drew a ticklish circle around your cheek, and pushed back a string of hair behind your ear. The action itself whispered sweet nothings, affectionate acts in the form of unspoken words, all because of her empathy towards you. 

She always was persistent with herself, if she were to be mentor of many fallen Tributes, she would still lift her head high and carry on her duty as effectively as she could. Especially considering Finnick returned from the arena, it was then, she was sure she wanted to learn about the people from her District, and wanted to see them grow as adults, no matter how slim their chances of their survival actually were. 

A wider smile. The wrinkles that stayed in her face, the lines of a visual representation of her old an frail body, and yet still peaceful and optimistic in the face of the cruel fate of this world. 

Another glint of hope came across her eyes as her hands moved down to your back, while the other stayed at the side of your face. The exhaustion from your long day finally crashing down, and you felt the weight of your head leaning against her smooth palm.

“Edna… She was my teacher…” You explained to Mags. It wasn’t like she had asked you personally, but you felt like you had to get it off your chest. Maybe it was from your tiredness, or perhaps you simply just moved another stage of vulnerability with Mags, but your fuzzy mind gave up on the idea of trying to switch topics, and for the first time, you had found yourself someone who was more stubborn than you. 

The elder was in a way familiar with the way she tried to comfort everyone she deemed necessary for her reassuring eyes, but she was nothing like Edna. Both of them were total polar opposites, but even being so different from each other, you found a piece of Edna inside of her, the sweet motherly care of helping the younger folks, to be present in their good, bad, and their dirt. Even being so different, they still fell under the same identical box, they showed them this delicate and vulnerable side, even to the people outside their family, to total strangers that were goners.

You coudn’t stop once you started. Mags never gave a  hint or indication she had asked for the identity of your passed mentor, or what it had meant for you for so many years. But a little voice whispered your brain to keep going, and let our your innermost feelings run wild instead of keeping it hidden for so many years like you had. 

“She found me when I was four. And she took me in” you cracked your voice. The spilling tears were dampening Mags palm, squeezing themselves between her fingers and flowing to her wrist and down her arm. God, this was painful. You felt absolutely naked right then, so see-through to her, so vulnerable you could be stomped in any minute. Like a little lost kitten scared of the wide world. You didn’t like that, it was foreign and it felt very much out of your own control. But the demanding sensation only kept resisting against your opposing thoughts. 

“She didn’t have to, but she did. And for that, I’ll be in forever debt with her.” you sobbed harder, trying to hide back a cough from your raging salty tears streaming to the corner of your mouth, following further into your inflamed throat. 

Mags only looked at you, a sad smile hanging from the rest of her melancholic expression. You scanned her features more, from her sypmtathetic eyes to her nose and mouth, tracing her face with your very red and traveling eyes. 

You looked back up at her eyes, just as if they were calling for yours. Begging you to look up at her calming ones. You almost skipped a beat, feeling like something with heavy weight crashed down your heart. Her eyes were filled so many different things that would drive you to the edge of a cliff, to submerge further into the depths of the salty foam you were growing used to. She showed a vulnerable side of her, or perhaps they were telling you, you were safe in her arms and gaze. 

But the thing that startled you most, was her dearing gaze to you, filled with the honey-love you grew distant since Edna’s death. Something you thought you forgot, and you never imagined Mags would be the next person to give that to you. It shocked you for a second, all because you had confused her for Edna for a moment.

“Oh, Mags” you cried lowly. You swung yourself to you new mentor, wrapping around your arms around her frail and much smaller body. You found stability by the back of her neck, leaning deeper into her touch. You didn’t want her seeing you so broken down and depressed. You didn’t want to have see her roaming eyes promising you a new home you could stay the night. You hated it, because everything Mags did, reminded you of Edna, and the hurt that came from her returning image clasped in your tumultuous mind. 

Mags just grabbed your scalp and drew lovely circles around it, keeping you closer to her. The helpless you, coudn’t help but sob harder against her shoulder, screaming out the pain you kept hidden and locked away from everyone else to see. 

Maybe tonight you’d stay by Mags warm house. In a way, it made you feel closer to Edna, or at least the presence she left on earth. The ghostly finger touches you had oh so missed trailed up your back, and it turned your hair on end by the vertical column, just as if the spirit of Edna was standing beside you, wanting to give you the touches she missed giving you. Yeah, you’d stay by Mag’s tonight. 

Mags was resurfacing nostalgic memories of Edna, the ones you missed the most about the time you had spent with your mentor together. And maybe for tonight, you’d stay by Mag’s to feel closer to the ghost of the person you loved the most. But only for tonight, because you knew too well it was not worth getting used to someone’s love too much, not when your days alive were numbered.

Your senses were completely numbed, aside from that disgusting taste in your tongue. You coughed up some more, while your eyes swelled up with tiny prickly tears. They didn’t come from sadness, but from an overexertion of your body. You felt like your face was stomped by giant feet, just as you tried to squeeze your throat to purge the remaining acidic vomit. 

And once your started, you coudn’t stop the little squirts exerting out your tongue. You coughed again, your hand gripping tight onto the toilet cover that was leaning up. Its not like it was dark, the automatic lights had found your clumsy movements the very moment you had walked into the bathroom, and in the sheer brightness of the room, the was lamp neatly placed on the middle of the ceiling. 

The shining light was betraying your vision by the sheer brightness in the middle of the dark night, and you thanked that your head was covering the main source, otherwise the lamp would burned right behind your pupils. And while you were only able to squint just slightly your eyes, you could very much take in the piece of art of your vomit right in front of you.

An escaped grunt hoarsed through every vocal chord you could muster, the sight of the shortcakes you had to expulse from your belly, as a means to get rid off the alcohol in your system. You lamented then, having to see the mushy lumps of a pale yellow colour that left you as equally revolting in both your mouth and sight.

You closed your eyes in exhaustion. You were in a horrible state. A line of saliva, slightly pigmented of that horrible color, travelled down to join what used to be the delicate food of the Capitol. You spat down into the toilet a few times more, desperately trying to take away the acidic taste that seemed to only grow stronger by the second.

Your hand traveled wobbly to get toilet paper. It clanged and banged everywhere before achieving the simple task of getting something to clean yourself up. You gripped onto the piece of paper and fastly brought it up to your mouth. 

The claustrophobia from the tiny compact space you locked yourself in was starting to eat your soul away, and you let another blasphemial word as another of the many waves of nausea hit you point blank.

A flashing light filled your sight for barely a second, knocking yourself to the side of the toilet. You recomposed yourself, at least tried to by using the wall to lean your back with. And all because of the rapid movement of snatching away the toilet paper so your fingers wouldn't get lost in the way back. You were in a horrible state. 

Your fingertips brushed past your lips against the thin layered paper, in hopes it would take away remains of the vomit scattered around the corners of your mouth, your mind was too fuzzy to even deal with the possibility that your clothes may be stained by the disgusting substance.  All the while, cursing at yourself for the moment you had the genius idea to drink as a means to ease your depressive state. 

Another spit joined the purged covered inside of the toilet bowl. More tired breaths ragged around in the air of the bathroom. Anyone would assume you had run away from an angry bear with the determination filled in her mind of protecting her cubs. And while you were trying to escape her grasp, the mother bear saw the opportunity for their next meal in you; of course, this would have been an interesting anecdote, if it weren't for the fact that you never came across a bear in your life, with the addition that you were in a slightly different situation, a story that had to do with decorating with putrid the inside of the toilet. 

You threw away the stained paper, and flushed it. Earning a mentally pat on your back, no matter how silly, you were proud you were able to do that much.

Next step, you needed to leave the bathroom. You managed to get on your feet by gripping your hand onto the sink. Somehow, by using your whole force of your nonexistat  tricep muscles, you got up in a stamering manner. Moaning after noticing your legs were trembling

Your feet had a big gap in between, and you once again cursed, this time outwardly at the sudden realization, your drunken legs refused to move accordingly. Just as if they had a brain on their own, and claiming they were to tired to do the task, and completely shut off. You coudn’t feel your knees, and that was good indicator, that your legs were going to be really difficult to handle for your mission, which consisted of making your way to your room.

You coudn’t believe your head was the most sober of all the your body parts, and now you had to manage your disoriented legs that didn’t seem to know from left to right. 

Another flash of nausea slapped you across the face, leaving your head hunged low. You were glad your hands were still holding onto dear life to the sink. Otherwise you were sure you would have fallen face down to the pretty white tiles of the floor. And you would have lost some teeth for sure, you drunkenly thought. 

This was a bad idea. You moved your head to see your own reflection, but you coudn’t. Everything was just jumbles of your eyes and mouth disorderly moved against each other. Even when you concentrated your glare to see yourself in the real you, what reflected back seemed the picture drawn by a small infant with no sense of direction or scale. You were absolutely wasted. 

You groaned at your clumsy eyesight, and the more you seemed to curse at yourself, it became more nervous, and the moving images became more agitated. You blinked slowly in the low hopes it would help your vision to become more stable. 

“Fuck…” you hoarsed out. The alcohol was still burning you in your veins. You had gotten to the bathroom to take out the uncontrollable depressant. But even when vomiting it out, you soon realized you had gotten worse, and you groaned at the idea that maybe pure alcohol filled your senses now that your only source of food was gone. 

“Shit, fuck” you continued on, you didn’t know what else to say but curse at everything, and especially at yourself. You just needed to get to your room, it would take twenty steps at most. You gulped down hard readying yourself to do what seemed the most difficult task known to mankind. 

“Just twenty steps” your words jumbled around in the thin air, the nonsense of what came out of your vocal chords were soon lost anyway. You sighed, and your eyes locked onto the door handle, or at least the best it could with your drunk eyes. With a mental slap on the back to fill you up in determination, you found your target for your next move.

You counted to three and jumped to your target to find stability from your lazy legs that didn't want to work. Everything seemed to go in slow motion, which was probably from the nausea disturbing all your six senses. A despairing emotion run along with the intoxicated drug in your veins; just as you brushed past the shining metal handle, so close you could feel the cold emanating from it, someone opened it before you could even touch it. And that was enough for your body to try and convince your stubborn mind to simply give up. 

You fell down, just by the feet of a person you coudn’t help but feel nothing but resentment. Your head was out the doorway, in full view of the dimly lit salon car. 

Your already migraine got worse from the impact, and now you had to deal with not only the internal pain from your head, but the external one as well when your forehead took the blow to the floor. And for once you thanked you were so out of your own control. Your banged forehead’s pain was already fading away, and you knew if you were completely conscient that would hurt like a rock throw straight to your body. 

But in good, there’s bad, and so another complication filled you up. Your head was spiraling and seeing a million stars that were already confusing your already messed up head. 

You simply stayed still, just as you mentally wove a white flag to give up on this impossible mission.There was no way you’d make it to your room in your condition, especially not when your body remained on the floor of the bathroom. Your body ceased all the strength your brain kept ordering, and even when pressuring them to do their job as your limbs, they were on a strike and refused to even want to move an inch by the nauseating exhaustion.

You heard a low chuckle, and you felt it was within your right to feel at the very least annoyed by whoever that was. Your brain was multitasking at this point, and was ready to retort something sarcastic back, but you coudn’t. You body was starting to get comfortable in the position it had taken in your fall, and to your head’s dismay, ready to slumber for the night. 

So you closed your eyes to rest, the thought of another person present already erased by your tiredness. Just as you drifted to sleep, the repeated words you wrote in your mind over and over again, as a means to make sure your remembered your lesson would cling to you. Never. Again.

That person though, didn’t mind your new sleeping bed, and got down to your eye level. A shit-eating grin among his pretty features. God he was so gorgeous even when you coudn’t see his face straight, all in crazy hazy motions swirling around your vision, you could only but daydream about his outstanding beauty.

“You alright there, love?” his raspy voice came in contact with your ears. He was like a beautiful god, one that anyone upon seeing him could agree was the definition of a sculptural piece of art, the type of god that could ask anyone to join him in his darkest desires and anyone would accept without hesitation.

He was any girl’s daydream man, but in that very moment his, awoken and overly energetic presence, frustrated your sleep deprived muscles. You groaned at him in response, too out of reality to even care. The mix of your drunk noises and the blocked sounds through the tiles of the floor, because you were still face down, only amused Finnick further. “What was that? Couldn’t quite understand you” he teased next to your limp form. 

“Wha do chu think?” you spit back at him with slow syllables. “If chu could felp, thad be gret” you struggled to say the words. And you were sure they sounded worse in the ears of a sober person who wasn’t going through a hell hole like you were. 

You tried to move your head on the side, all to give him the privilege of letting the man in front of you, hear you better. 

He could only chuckle more at that. Even in your drunken state you could still see the lines of his smile, and for a moment you thought you were in a some sort of dream. There was no way someone that beautiful could exist, and it became stranger to you when he was simpy talking to you normally. Another drunk thought passed by your mind, and you were sure if he wanted to, that smile could be the tide to end all catalystic world wars. You were in a trace, and rightfully so, it was impossible for anyone not to fantasize by a guy like him.

You wanted to touch his face, but your fingertips stubbornly stuck themselves to the floor. Then it dawned on you on a mortyfying fact, you were in the bathroom floor, face down after just vomiting, and very much ready to sleep in there, until morning shined bright throught the windows.

Well, that was embarrassing. And you had to slap yourself again within the depths of your consciousness.

“Here. Let me-” he cut himself, and you felt his creeping fingers walking over you waist, so light and ticklish, that even after being so numb you could feel this featherly touches. His built body may be seen to be hard, which probably was, but you found yourself learning he also could be as soft as the dry falling leaves of fall. 

His hand gripped onto he corner of your waist, and after placing your closest hand over his neck and hook it around the arch of his shoulder by the side of his face. Letting out a shaky breath, he helped you up after exercising his muscles with the weight of your corpse. 

But even so, you were fascinated just how he was able to lift you up in your silly body. This was most girls deepest desire, and you had to suppress a giggle from forming in your heart. All the while he was holding you in that hypnotic state. It was hard for your mind not to linger anywhere other than him. 

Your feet touched ground and you were extremely thankful to find the contact of the tiles at the flat of your feet. Your heavy head hunged low. You made a move to look up at him, and he was still holding onto your waist, untrustworthy of your senseless state.

You were sure he squeezed at your side playfully several times. It felt oddly affectionate, but for your hazy brain, it translated that and got even sleepier by those light tuches. 

“There you go” he whispered at the side of your face. Unknowing to him that he left a burning mark right on your flustered ears. An inflaming sensation traveled along your every bloody vein, making it a more vibrant red, more colourful than what’s supposed to be. The living corpse of your body felt very much ligher against his ticklish fingers, like a flowing feather through the wind. Both of your irises met his, and his close proximity left you in the silence of your shyness.

He let out a husky giggle out at your expression. “Don’t look at me like that. Might start thinking there’s something deeper you want to tell me” he mumbled with a cheeky grin along his lips. His teeth were out in the wild, white and as strong as his unfiltered words.

Oh, how it irritated you his smuggish intention; but how much you loved seeing his lovely face complexion just the same. You coudn’t deny it, and he wasn’t blind either, he knows just how everyone looks at him, Finnick was built like an ancient Greek god. 

You tilted your head to the side, this time careful not dragging yourself yet another nauseating impact from the sudden movement. You spoke some drunken mutter that was difficult to understand, so much you had confused yourself as well.

“You’re so pretty” you repeated those words that were incomprehensible for the English language. But Finnick had understood you the first time, and so when you confirmed for a second time, he was slightly taken aback from the boldness of you words. 

Your constant thought pattern whenever you thought of the man just beside you, never came from a place of infatuation, and he could feel it in the way the sclera of your eyes shone, and the way you mustered those words, it was from utter fascination, not so much from than seductive desire. 

A laughing huff escaped though his lips just as a giggle rang through his vocal chords in amusing disbelief. 

You eyes pierced his soul. The intention of his words came rather late to your consciousness, and you blamed the alcoholic drink for the slow pace of your current thought process. And you made yet another mental note, never listen to Scarlett’s recommendation of especially alcoholic drinks, in the off chance that the concentrated drink’s percentage would be through the roof. Really, never again.

An annoyed puff forced out of your mouth. His mocking laugh felt unnecessary to your ears, especially in this vulnerable position you just got in. You moved your legs, and you were glad they had properly woken from the sleepy illusion from a minute ago. You moved forward, at least tried to, and away from his presence.

You reprimanded the alcoholic you. The drunk you seemed to more jumpy, and let off harmless confessions. It was obvious the wine riled your sensitive senses up, especially when they learned from your little secret of your physical attraction of the the one and only, Finnick Odair. 

The drunken you had declared your concient mind’s sole enemy; as sneaky as a scorpion, camouflaging itself as to get unnoticed, only to strike you when you were in your most vulnerable, which meant targeting the very much good looking man close to you. Yeah, you were convinced the drunk you had something agasint the concient you. 

“Anyway. Tanks, an Goodnight-” You spoke best you could, and made your way ahead of you. 

You tried to walk away, before yet another disastrous fall. The drunk you had definitely had something against you. Your legs seemed to twist themselves into a senseless knot from your numb knees and before you could even recognize the problem, your vision fell apart instantly. Again another wave of nausea punched you straight in the jaw. Luckily your quick hand grabbed onto the wall next to you, refusing on having to deal the earlier’s ordeal. 

You cursed out again, followed by a groan in pain. Your hand crept to the side of your head to try and keep your vision still in vain. God, you absolutely hated this. 

Another low chuckle from the man behind you was present in the air both of you breathed in. And you turned around, a disapproving glare threatening him to keep going on his laughing spree, which only made him find you all the more amusing.

You sighed defeated. A pointed migraine was swirling in the sea of you mind, which in turn only made the grip of your hand stronger in your face. You scrunched up your nose in pain, crumpling your features. 

Just as you were losing yourself from the pain of your headache, you body got completely readjusted. Your burning head very much still present and screaming for your attention, and if it that wasn’t hard enough to deal that alone, your mind got once again disoriented. After tonight you knew, you would definitely quit alcohol altogether. 

All your blood crashed down to your head, leaving you with a pressured face, and it was starting to feel painful. God, your brain was suffering from all stages of Hell all at the same time. The pain was overtaking your body, and you ceased all your movement. In that very moment you welcomed the idea of dying if it meant stopping your outstanding headache.

With your head low and you arms flying over them, or better said below them as gravity did its work , you noticed the pointy bulk of muscle was just below your breast, and you figured Finnick had to be securing you with his arm over the back of your knees.

Finnick seemed to have the brilliant idea to throw you over his shoulder like a big heavy sack of dead fish ready to be sold off to the market. 

Your hands fell to whatever thing you could find, which happened to be his shirt. You had figured he had manhandled to be in that position, because of the way your nose and forehead kept making contact to a broad smooth surface, one that emanated sweet warmth, and you could drown in his natural thick scent. 

It had been barely half a minute, although for you it felt almost like an eternity from the succumbed curse of the ugly pain in your head, whoose fault was none other but the man holding you tight over him. It’s not like you put up a fight anyway, already too weak and defeated to even flinch at the scorching hurt. 

So you welcemed the sea of covers and pillows when you were plopped down all of a sudden. Your before hurting eyes that you could barely manage to even open them, felt confident enough to redo the task they weren’t able to do a few seconds ago, and you looked up at the ceiling. 

You were safe now, you were safer in here. Even in the amidst of your spiraling mind, you could that much, feel relaxed enough to ready yourself to soon sleep. You didn’t need to dance in utter misery of your drunken state like before, like a blind duck that also happened to have twisted his ankle. 

The new room also brought short nostalgic memories, which evaporated the little optimism you would have gathered before you died, and who knows, maybe it would be the last time you’d feel truly at peace. The new ambience still had that heavy sour mood from when you had talked to Mags, from when she had to comforted you. The suffocating air was still like a toxic gas, and you regretted that you still let the melancholy poison you. 

Finnick sat down beside you. A smirk creeping his beautiful facade just as he looked at your form, still in his playful mood after having you found on the floor almost passed out. It was amusing in a way, it had to do more about the way you responded to him that entertained him to go further in his banter.

He quickly took notice of your sudden somber expression, and with that the bits and cracks that you body spoke. The energy from before was all but gone now. Maybe you were emotional because you were drunk, but in that moment you were ready to cry off yourself to sleep in self pity, right then and there with or without Finnick.

You curled your arms around yourself, trying to imitate the warm hug that Mags had given you earlier, but to no avail. It was impossible for you to even recreate a feeling that felt soul crashing from such a simple act. Because afterall, it was something that had left you taken apart so easily. 

You bent your knees slightly up. You were lying on your side, and Finnick could feel the mournful look without the need to see your eyes. But when he did, he heard the breaking crack of his heart. That hurt had haunted him since the day the Reaping when it took him two years ago.

“Thank you” you muttered with the ringing of you vocal chords. And he answered in courtesy, his raspy tone still vabirating each words. “No problem”

Both of you let the spoken words be slowly evaporated through the air, with nothing else to add in. Finnick took the courage to look at you once again, and you had taken in his concerned expression feeling in every nerve cell. You also realized the presence of his scanning eyes watching over your still form like a creeper of the night. But you were too comfortable in your position, too tired and depressed to mind it, so you let him be. 

The silent particles the both of you shared swirlied around through the air like a little gust of wind between your breathing forms. You wanted to cry again, but you lost the capability to even do that, and as another amusing thought came across your senses, was still fully loaded with grief’s emptiness. I cried so much, I don’t have any more tears to spare. 

Finnick felt impotent there, unlike you, he had volunteered to be in Games. He considered that to be his greatest mistake, all because he thought it would be just fun and games, being brainwashed that it was more light hearted than what the actual suffocating reality really was, and oh boy did reality run him over. Just like a deer, and the unchanging decision of willingly walk in the arena a unmercyful fast truck. 

He got up whilst you were still submerged under powerlessness; like the little dry kisses brushing against your back, whispering in the most seductive way, a despairing and exhasuting prediction, one that had you convinced, you were simply just a dead girl walking. 

His head turned around to look at you once again, and it confused you as to why he was apologizing within the depths of his sea eyes. So he went and opened his mouth to say something, to ask you if you were alright. But he closed his lips momentarily after, knowing fully well that you weren’t. 

He had and internal debate between mixing opinions. Your ominous stance was begging him to ask about your own welfare, and maybe that was a signal he should stay for a while longer until he could hear the breaths of your sleeping form. But then again, he wasn’t sure your empty eyes longed for sympathetic eyes, the ones from a total stranger that as far as he knew, you probably thought of him as a calculated murderer, and maybe then his presence was nothing but a burden in your heavy shoulders. 

“Hey, Finnick?” your weak voice alerted his attention. He turned his head, he was grateful that you’d taken him out of his own thoughts. He locked his eyes on your very irises, studying them as a means to try and understand the question before you’d even formulated it. “You think I’m going to die?” 

He looked away. Although in normal circumstances your drunken accent might have been a delight to his ears, and he would be ready to tease you further with that. But right now, the drunken syllables that came out of your mouth were deafening, only wanting to take in and alaysze the question itself. 

You knew what you had asked him went straight to him like an unexpected bullet, and to his dismay, he wasn’t wearing any bulletproof gear to save him from you. He opened his mouth, and even in your swirling vision you could see the ugly truth hidden somwehere within him, and opting to say sweet lie with a cherry pop on top. “Please, be honest with me” you added in.

The past victor let out a stilled breath before speaking. “Yeah…” Finnick finally said.The words you didn’t want to hear, broke your jaw like an incoming brick to your face. And yet, although he was speaking his truth, he seemed conflicted with what he said.

You knew this would be his answer, so why did it hurt you so much? Perhaps it was his confirmation from the bitter words from your inner monsters, and finally you felt your reality crumbling down. And even in that emotional turmoil, you had to agree with Finnick, because deep down you knew that your betraying mind was right all along “I thought so too”.

Something gripped onto your throat again, a grieving pain of the knowledge you were most likely going to die. Your expression started to wrinkle in on itself, just as you felt like something had caught onto you leg and pulled you deeper in to the poisonous sea, making sure you’d drown yourself in further agony. Finnick was just standing there, and he felt your sea whirlwind like he was there with you, joining you in the mercifuless sea currents that started to leak from your room with dark muggy water. 

Finnick could only but feel your agonizing stare, and within his empathy, he wanted to say something to you. Because your dreadful pupils struck him all over his body like thin needles. 

“But something I learned through the Games is that, its supposed to be planned to be irregular. Even if you aren’t as strong as others, you could still have a chance to survive” he added to reassure you. Finnick hoped that would set you mind at ease, at least before you’d hit the arena. He wanted to drift away the consternation from your scraping mind, and let it become more level headed. 

Soon all of you would arrive at the Capitol, and for a chance for either Vito or you to survive, you’d need to be put away the insanity that was slowly licking your body, and to focus on a plan. To scheme up ways into getting sponsors, to anylyse the rest of the player coldy, but the most difficult one was to gather up ideas whilst in the fighting arena while pressuring your mind to stay sane throughout all of it. “Its intention is for anyone to be able to win this. Its not a competition, just pure entertainment”.

You stayed silent, taking in everything your mentor was telling you. In a way it helped you thinking of him that way. He may be just a year older than you, but he was still your mentor, and he was supposed to help you survive this afterall. 

“Thank you,” you were slowly surrendering yourself to the cage of sleep, one where you wished for your night terrors to leave for another night. A sleep deprived voice was all Finnick could hear, the raspy weak tones from your smnolent voice made Finnick content enough to set his mind at ease for the night. “For everything”

The energy you wasted in the last day was too much for your body to handle, and you felt optimistic enough to finally go to sleep without any negative energy swimming across your mind. 

Finnick chuckled, he repeated himself again. “No problem, Dove” he grinned at you. He found you so endearing, especially with the image of you closed eyes, and your mouth half opened, in a way so peaceful, like nothing lurking between the shadows could attack you.

“Good night” you lastly said slowly crawling to your sleeping chamber in the depths of you soul. 

Finnick grinned further and said a “Good night” back to you. 

The last images before you went to sleep were of him. The drawing of his face in your imaginary world, and you wished you could dream of him that night. The world made him almost untouchable, but it was surreal to you about his caring slip ups you had discovered that night; his soft face, feathery gentle hands, and his warm whispering voice brushing your ear like the slight breeze of the forest.

Yeah, you wanted to sleep with that in mind, with the ilusion of him. 

  

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NOW, this was a way longer chapter than I had intended, so you'll hopefully enjoy it cuz DAMN!

TagList:  @marvelescvpe @meri-soni-meri-tamanna

[lost-inthedream]

I.M from A to Z

NSFW alphabet

Pairing: Im Changkyun x female reader

Read under the cut

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Boy gets so lazy. All he wants is stay close to you, preferably wrapped around you, saying sweet nothing. He is so relaxed at these moments... You have the opportunity to trace his face features and say he is handsome, he appreciates that very much.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself it's his nose. He is often rubbing his nose against yours or smelling your neck. Also, it can give you shivers even when he is, hmm, eating you out.

when it comes to your body, he loves your hair. The way you put locks of hair behind your ear when you are on top of him, the way your hair gets messy so easily. It doesn't matter if your hair is short, because often holds you by the back of your head when he is inside and his hands are so hot.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Usually on your stomach, when you both are breathing so fast. And your beautiful belly keep making waves with seed adornments.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He wrote a poem after your first time. That was very dirty but somehow lovely too. Maybe one day he will let you read it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Pretty experienced, but he makes a secret about it. I mean, he acts as if he hasn't been with many people.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Either a classic missionary or you sitting on him when he's leaning back againt the headboard. He likes to see you making faces.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Changkyun takes sex quite seriously, for him it's almost like meditation. He likes to think that your souls are connecting through the sexual act.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Usually he is nearly bare down there, but he may let it grow a bit more from time to time. He doesn't have problems with some body hair on you as well.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

I let it obvious in the G entry but yet, Changkyun is an emotional man, he is intense when horny. Love is gonna be passionate with tons of kisses and caresses. He may ask for a kiss out of a sudden when you are leading the session.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Jacking off is very natural to him. He just starts touching himself whenever it seems right and he gets some privacy. That happens quite a lot when he is composing and his hands slip down on himself oops.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Top 3:

Voice kink

spit kink

Mommy kink

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Other than the bedroom, he loves getting nasty in the bathtub, especially mutual masturbation.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Dirty talking gets him soooo hard. He likes it when you let him know about your need, when you come closer to his ear and say your panties are soaking with your arousal.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He is absolutely agaisnt hard pain. Candles can be safe and all but he fears burning you or getting burnt all the same

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Changkyun frequently gets lost while giving oral, he likes it wet and drools so much. 100% will glide his hard member against your clit after he's done.

He offers you large freedom to do whatever you want with his cock, thogh the way he moans when you deepthroat him is a whole new level. In addition, His mouth may water quite a lot while you take him.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and sensual, with his sweat rolling down his chest and stomach.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Not the biggest fan, but he will convince you to follow him into a toilet and kiss while he fucks your pussy with his fingers. You better be nice and suck him off afterwards.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Risks are calcullated with Changkyun. He locks doors and close windows. You all don't need to be caught.

On the other hand, he is pretty curious about new sexual practices so you all make reserches together from time to time

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

2 times with pauses is enough to him. Exhaustion doesn't feel right, he prefers getting intimate in different ways, such as massages and long baths.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He loooves blindfolders and is open for other kind of toys that won't hurt anyone.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He takes a certain time until penatration so I'm gonna say he teases.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Low moans, airy whimpers, very sexy.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He often calls you drunk after midnight. "I'm so sorry but I can't stop thinking about tasting your pussy. Please touch yourself for me, I'm so sad"

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

It's a bit longer than average, smooth and tanned. Pretty head and leaks precum easily.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Honestly, I feel like it constantly changes. Like, some weeks he can go for it daily, next week he doens't want sex at all. Only kissing and making out.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He goes for pillowtalk so it take a 30-45 minutes.

---

Find more alphabets on the tags <3

Thanks for reading! You can leave a comment if you feel like it (the writer will love it hehhe)

[pom-seedss]

I can do all of my physio exercises without getting the hots! Mostly. A couple of like.... what feel to be "close calls" happen when I feel my temperature rising, but I fix my posture and it goes away in a few minutes.

I am not up to doing much else in a day, but I can do the full list of physio exercises every day!

But I can change Pebble's papers, food and water myself every day! I can scoop the cat litter a couple days a week! That's more than I could do a couple weeks ago, even if they feel small and simple and rote.

I am closer to feeling normal than I have since August! My left side, neck and shoulder are still extremely tight and often refuse to ease up, but like I said, they aren't causing as much of the hot symptoms as they were before. My right leg still has a tingly-numbish sensation along the side of the thigh too and a persistent click in my hip when I do my exercises... but I just started being able to do the leg exercises consistently so maybe that will start easing soon.

But holy fuck the pain is still really bad, I'd also forgotten how bad it was before the hot/cold/gallbladder blow out in August, but Bean reminded me that I was already trending downward in ability and upwards in pain before that point. SO technically, I am much closer to being my 'normal' even if my normal had been sucking hard prior to that and I'd just been so boiled-froggish about it I didn't notice how bad it had gotten.

Average daily pain is about a 5-6, spikes of pain usually stop around 8, but I have had a few 10ers in the mix (ahem hence the weird...update/poem on pain from the other week).

I am still extremely hesitant to try to start up old activities, including art, or typing a lot, because I don't want to relax into old habits (shrimping, over extending shoulder, over doing activity, etc) that got me to the place of blow-out to begin with.

I hope this isn't where I end up plateauing.... because it is still awful and depressing as fuck to be where I am....but I do have to say I am miles better than I was even a couple of weeks ago.

This has been your Pom-health-update. <3 Stay frosty friends.

[sunnyy3d]

All I Want for Christmas is You|

Thomas Thorne x Reader

A/N: I wrote this incredibly late (like I’m posting it at 12:30 Christmas morning) so I hope you enjoy it, and it doesn’t suck… I also had to try and post this at least three different times, so that’s great. Anyways, merry Christmas! Requests open!

"Wake up, it is Christmas!" Thomas gently shakes me awake. I open my eyes to see his bright smile above me. I love waking up beside him every morning, even if we are dead. "Oh, I cannot wait for you to see your gift," he states as he ushers me out of the bed. Thankfully, I am already fully dressed, so I can go straight to the family room where everyone will be waiting.

Usually, I dread the upcoming holidays. There's not much that you can do as a ghost. There's no Christmas dinner, gifts, Christmas crackers, or anything of the sort. The most you can do is participate in one of Pat's games or talks. But that all changed when Allison showed up. She helped us start to enjoy Christmas again. Before Allison, the ghosts and I would just hand out and play some of Pat's games. And then after, Thomas and I would do something special together.

Because of Allison, we've been able to do much more for Christmas. Allison can help with gifts, and we can do more traditions than just Pat's made-up games. I mean, no hate to Pat, but after so many years, you just yearn for more.

This year, I've asked Allison to hang up some mistletoe that I can go under with Thomas. It may seem small and insignificant, but Thomas has always loved the mistletoe tradition and has been begging Allison to put some up around the house.

Before we reach the family room, I let Thomas know I plan to give him his gift in private. His eyebrows raise in shock, and he lets out a tiny "oh." I laugh as he clearly interprets my words in his own way, but don't correct him as we've already reached the family room.

After everyone has exchanged their gifts, I finally get to open Thomas'. Well, Allison gets to. At this moment, Thomas tells me that he actually wrote a poem that he will recite to me.

Thomas starts his poem with great emotion, "I don't want a lot for Christmas. There is just one thing I need. I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree. I just want you for my own, more than you can ever know. Make my wish come true; all I want for Christmas is you."

My smile falters as I recognize his poem from somewhere else. This isn't the first time this has happened, and I know that Thomas will be devastated when he finds out that he has given me a plagiarized piece.

Luckily, I don't need to be the one to break it to him, as Allison has already started. "Thomas, that's 'All I Want for Christmas is You,' by Mariah Carrey..." Mike starts laughing but quickly stops when Allison glares at him. He can't see me, but I am also glaring at him. Thomas will already be upset; there is no need to make it worse.

Thomas is quick to break down. "Oh no! I have done it again. Please send my most sincere apologies to Mrs. Carrey. I did not mean to steal her beautiful work. My dear, I am so so sorry. I did not intentionally give you stolen work, I swear!" he sobs.

"Oh, Thomas, dear, it is okay! You did not mean to. I promise that I don't see you any differently now. You are still a great poet. It happens to the best." I pull him into my arms, shushing him and rubbing his back. "Here, why don't we go get your gift," I whisper.

I stand and dust my clothes off, even though I know nothing is on them. I hold out my hand as an offer to help Thomas up. He gladly takes in, and I pull him up. Now standing, I start to lead him to the mistletoe. I asked Allison to place the mistletoe at an arbor near the lake. Thomas and I love to sit and watch the waves together, so I thought it would be the perfect place to give him his gift.

When we finally reach the arbor, I lead him directly under it. I smile at him as I take both of his hands in mine. His eyebrows scrunch in confusion, and I only look up, prompting him to do the same. Noticing the mistletoe, he looks down at me with a huge smile.

I nod at him, encouraging him to follow the tradition. Quickly, he lets go of one of my hands, instead cupping my cheek with it. His lips crash onto mine. He passionately kisses me like he has been dying to.

He breaks from the kiss after a minute but still holds my face. "Thank you. You know that I have been begging Allison to put some up. And I truly am sorry about the poem. I shall write you another poem-original this time- in order to correctly express my love for you,” he promises with a tight lipped smile.

“It's okay, my love. It's the thought that counts. I would love anything you give me, especially if it is another kiss," I reassure him. His smile widens, but I don't get to look at it for long as he quickly pulls me back into a passionate kiss.

[darkwing-katy]

The Spider and the Fly Part VII

Pairing: Eventual Leland x Reader (sorta? You’ll see what I mean)

Word Count: 4,071

Summary: All you want to do is get through your online courses and keep your best friend from making bad choices in men. But there’s this creepy therapist who is absolutely insisting on you making an appointment with him. Who the hell is this Leland Townsend, and why won’t he leave you alone?!

Part seven of seven. Takes place sometime around/between/during season three.

The series is inspired heavily by my favorite poem, “The Spider and the Fly” (1829) by Mary Howitt. This poem is in the public domain.

Tagging: @primosflowergarden; @vi-er

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

—————————————————————————————

And now, dear little children, who may this story read

To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed

It’s been a long, long time since the incident with Leland. So long that you’ve almost forgotten about all of it.

Almost.

Your traitorous brain won’t let you forget it, not completely. Every now and then, you wake up with an ache between your legs and the memory of bright blue eyes peering at you through rectangular glasses. On those days, your hand hurts a little more than usual, though the cut has long since healed into a faint scar.

You pretend you hate those moments, but it’s a lie. One that you can live with, since Betty knows nothing about it. She asked you about your therapist appointments once after she returned, but you told her that it didn’t work out, and that was the last she’d mentioned it.

Life had moved on, summer turning to fall and fall to winter. Now it was the end of spring, summertime nearly back upon you. You’re walking to a job interview—your job at the bookstore simply wasn’t enough for the rising cost of rent, especially now that Betty had to reduce her own working hours. She still contributed to rent as best as she could considering her coursework, which was nonetheless frustrating for you. But you loved your friend, and you wanted to do your best to support her in this endeavor, so here you were.

You glance up at the stout building ahead of you, your eyes pausing for a second on the massive 320 that rests above the entrance, and suck in a deep breath. Okay, (Y/N). You got this. 

You stride into the building. Your interview with DF will be on the 12th floor, you see as you scan the list of companies residing in the building. You give a nod to the woman manning the front desk as you go to the elevators and press the button.

Nerves are starting to squirm in your belly again. Your hands are clammy, and you wipe them off on your black slacks. “I can do this,” you chant to yourself. “I’m good at this kinda thing.”

The ride to the twelfth floor is simultaneously too long and too short. When the doors open, you inhale another fortifying breath before stepping out. Let’s do this!

You walk past a couple of people chatting at what appears to be a lounge table and to the massive glass doors that lead to DF’s offices. There’s a woman manning what you assume is the reception desk. You go up to her. “Hi! I’m here for an interview with Sheryl?” you say.

“What’s the name?”

You give her your name. She glances at her computer, then picks up the phone on her left and dials a number. While you wait, you look at the massive flower picture that’s on the wall. There are two chairs in front of it, along with a round glass table. You nod your head at the scenery. Man, they really like glass a lot here, you think as you observe that the walls within the inner offices also seem to be made of glass.

A young woman comes out. She’s got short, dark hair and she’s wearing a green dress. “(Y/N)?” she calls, waving at you to get your attention. 

You nod.

“Follow me.”

You do so, passing by a coffee bar on your right and a bunch of young adults sitting at their computers, some of them talking on Bluetooth headsets, on your left. You’re too nervous to focus on what they’re saying, but suddenly you realize you don’t know where to go from there.

The woman leading you is smiling at you. “Sheryl mentioned that you’d be coming in today. Her office is right over there.” She points at a glass door past several computer desks. “You can just go in; she’s not busy at the moment.”

Alright. Let’s do this, you think again. “Thanks.” You give her an appreciative smile. She nods before turning and walking into what you think is a larger lounge area. You briefly wish you could order yourself a coffee, but if you get the job, there’ll be plenty of time for that later. “You got this, (Y/N),” you muster under your breath one last time before saunter to the door, tug it open, and poke your head in.

There’s an older woman sitting at a large desk. She’s got long blonde hair that falls in waves over her shoulders, and she glances up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Hi. Uhm. My name’s (Y/F/N). We, uhm, had an interview for today?” You offer her a winning smile. “I know I’m a little early, but someone, uh,” you nod your head in the direction the young woman had gone, “told me I could just come right in.”

“Who?” The woman frowns, her eyebrows dipping low over her eyes.

“Uh, she had short dark hair?”

“Green dress?”

You nod. “Yep.”

“Ah. Leslie.” The woman squints at you. “What’d you say your name was?”

“(Y/F/N) (Y/L/N),” you repeat.

“Oh, yes!” The woman rises to her feet with a smile. You notice she’s wearing a black dress with a scaled red jacket that looks to be made of crocodile skin. You’re genuinely not sure if it’s real or faux, but you don’t have too much time to wonder before she offers you a hand. You rush forward to take it. Her nails are a bright red, matching her jacket. “I’m Sheryl.”

You blink at her. “Oh, you’re Sheryl? The person I talked to over email?”

She smiles at you. “That’s me.”

You smile back. She seems friendly enough. “I wasn’t expecting DF to reach out directly to me like that.”

“What can I say?” Sheryl gives an exaggerated shrug. “We’re pretty hands-on here.”

You laugh at that. “Yeah, and when I read the job description and pay, I, uhm, I couldn’t say no.”

Sheryl chuckles. “It’s a loooot of money, isn’t it?” she whispers conspiratorially, and you snort as you nod back at her. She releases your hand and motions for you to take a seat. You do, and she leans against her desk. “Well, I don’t know what exactly you were told, but honestly, there’s no need for an interview. This is just a formality to introduce myself to you.”

“Really?” you ask, confused. “I was expecting to—,”

“To tell me about yourself and why you’re qualified?” Sheryl finishes.

You nod.

She grins. Even her lipstick matches her jacket. “Yeah, there’s no need for that. You came highly recommended for the position.”

There’s something odd about the way she’s said that, and it snags at the back of your brain, but you ignore it. “Recommended by who?”

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” she replies with a flippant wave of her hand, and there it is again, something odd about the way she’s saying that.

“Ooooo…kaaay,” you say instead. You clasp your hands in front of you. “So…I guess the question is what do you need from me, exactly?”

Sheryl gives you another smile, and it reminds you of something, but you can’t articulate what. “All we need is for you to fill out the paperwork,” she explains. 

“And you’re sure there’s no need to talk to me? What about a background check? What if I’m a serial killer or something?”

She chuckles again. “Believe me, that wouldn’t be an issue here,” she says, and good God, why does that feel so…off? “If anything, that’d only be more impressive on your resume.”

You laugh awkwardly, unsure of what else to do. She’s joking, right? Gotta be.

She is silent for a moment, her eyes tracing over you. “You do understand what this job is, right?”

You give her a hesitant nod, but she seems to come to a conclusion that you have no clue what you’ve signed up for, so you take it upon yourself to demonstrate that you do: “I would research risks and possible exposure for DF.”

Sheryl smirks. “So basically, you’re making sure DF doesn’t accidentally fuck itself?”

Her language jars you, but you crack a smile at it. “That’s how I understood it, yeah.”

“Well, you understood it correctly. Except you’ll basically be doing the opposite, and for them.” She waves her hand again, this time towards the window that looks down onto the city.

You blink. “Them?” you ask, confused.

“Competitors,” Sheryl explains. “And…others who may not want to work with us.” She moves her hand to gesture at herself. “And then you’ll report that information to me.”

You bite your lip, suddenly wary. This sounds different from what you’d expected, and it’s a little unsettling. “And what’ll be done with that information?”

She gives you a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll use that to convince them that they do want to work with us,” is all the explanation she gives you.

You’re not an idiot. You feel your eyes narrow as you say, “You mean blackmail?” You purse your lips at her.

Sheryl shrugs. “Is that a problem?”

You open your mouth to say yes, hell yes, that’s a major fucking problem, but then you remember just how much they want to pay you to do this. “No,” you mutter. “It’s not a problem, I guess.” Betty better appreciate this.

Sheryl chuckles again. “You’ll get used to it,” she says, and she sounds like she’s trying to be reassuring, but you feel like she only half-means it. 

The two of you have a moment of silence before she claps her hands together. The abrupt sound makes you jump in your seat. “So! Paperwork, and then you can start tomorrow. How does that sound?” She flashes you a smile that you return, though it feels fake, stretched awkwardly across your face.

“Sure,” you say as she walks around her desk and reaches for something. You hear a drawer open and close. “I-I mean, good. That’s, uh, tomorrow? That’s fast but…” you give her an exaggerated thumbs-up. “But alrighty then.”

Sheryl gives you an odd look, and you wonder if she’s regretting the decision to hire you already, but she sets down a thick packet of papers on the desk where you can reach them. “I’ve gotta go do something really fast, but here.” She hands you a red pen, which you accept. “I’ll be back soon.” With that, she exits, the glass door closing behind her with a soft ‘thud’.

You look at the pen she’s given you and have the strangest thought that you’re signing your soul away. But that’s ridiculous. There’s no such thing as demon contracts, no matter who likes to pretend it’s real. 

You haven’t spoken to Kristen for almost a year, but some of what she’d told you about people believing in demons and stuff must have lingered in the back of your mind for you to be thinking like this.

You glance around the office, studying it, but there’s not much to look at. You heave a sigh. “Alright. Let’s do this, I guess,” you mutter under your breath.

There’s so. Much. Reading.

Your eyes are glazing over, but you’re trying to read every word because dammit, you wanna know what exactly you’re getting into here. It had seemed like an offer that was too good to be true, and you’re starting to think it might actually be so, even if you’re planning on accepting it nonetheless. 

It doesn’t make you feel any better that Sheryl’s office has glass walls looking out to the other workers. You know they’re not watching you, but you feel like they are, like their eyes are staring at you, judging you for signing yourself away. Can they see your secrets? Do they know that you used to blackmail people like this for fun?

You sign your name for the sixth time.

Well, at least you know you’re gonna be really, really good at this job. You certainly have a lot of experience. It’ll be nice to get paid to do this rather than doing it on your own dime, even if it’s a little less personal.

You finish filling out the paperwork and set it back on Sheryl’s desk. It thumps onto the smooth wood, and you wonder just how many times you signed or initialed. Feels like sixty, even if it was probably only ten.

You lean back into the chair. There’s nothing more you can do now except wait for Sheryl to get back. You look at the office once more, but honestly? It’s minimalist and boring. It doesn’t seem like Sheryl’s bothered to decorate it in any way. Sure, there’s pictures on the walls, but they’re black and white landscapes. The most colorful thing in the room was Sheryl.

As you sit, you begin to drum your fingers against the sides of the chair. The stack of papers feels like it’s looking at you, judging you for being so willing to help sabotage other people. You scoff to yourself. Since when have you cared so much about this kinda thing? Even knowing what you did to Samantha hadn’t given you this much anxiety. You’re probably just overthinking it. 

Though to be fair, you probably weren’t gonna tell Betty the truth about what your job entitles. She’d definitely judge you for it, even if it meant she could pursue her degree without worrying about finding a new place to live.

With a sigh, you glance out the glass walls just in time to spot Sheryl returning. She opens the door and gives you another smile, the sole pop of color in this room. “You wanna see where you’ll be working from?”

You nod and make a mental note to bring some things to accessorize your own desk tomorrow. Maybe you could bring your Samara funko pop with its cute little well. It would only be appropriate, right?

She motions for you to follow her, so you do. She takes you to a desk with a fancy computer and fairly comfortable-looking rolling chair. There aren’t cubical walls per se, but each desk has raised edges to give the illusion of privacy. “Right here is where you’ll be, (Y/N).” She motions for you to take a seat, so you do. The chair is as comfortable as it looks, which is a nice little bonus to everything. You relax your arms onto the armrests and look up at Sheryl. “I’d have someone show you how it all works,” she indicates the computer, “but you’re not in the system yet. We’ll have you in there by the time you show up tomorrow.”

You nod in acknowledgement, but you see something moving in the reflection of one of the offices across from you. You don’t know why it’s caught your eye, but it has. It’s a silhouette of someone talking to someone. You squint at it—not that it’ll help, since it’s a reflection and it’s a bit blurred, but you squint anyways. Sheryl’s still talking, something about security or ID badges or something like that, so she hasn’t noticed that you’re tuning her out as you stare at the reflection.

Silhouettes don’t typically look familiar even when they’re not impeded by glass, but this one does. The person turns away from the other person to walk in what seems to be your direction. You still can’t make out the face, but you could swear you know it. 

There’s a knot tying in the pit of your stomach right now. The faint scar on your hand twinges. “Hey, Sheryl,” you blurt, cutting her off mid-sentence. 

Sheryl looks annoyed at being interrupted, but she looks at you. “Yeah?”

“You said I came highly recommended. Who recommended me?”

Sheryl’s eyes flash some unidentifiable emotion. “I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

Your eyes have not moved from that silhouette. You know it. You’ve seen it before, even if the last time was almost a whole year ago. “I know, but, like, I signed the paperwork. Surely you can tell me. Was it my old boss?”

She purses her lips together, forming a thin red line. “It wasn’t him,” she admits, and there’s that nagging feeling, that itch in your brain again.

“Then who?” you ask in a firm voice that teeters on the line between polite and demanding. You don’t wait for Sheryl’s response before you whip your head around. You need to see—need to confirm that this is who you think it is. Because what are the odds—what are the fucking odds that the man behind you talking to the woman who sent you into Sheryl’s office is—

Right at that moment, he turns to look in your direction, and the grin staring back at you is none other than Leland Townsend. Your heart plunges into your stomach. He looks exactly the same as he had the last time you’d seen him.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper.

Sheryl hears you and turns to see what the hell you’re staring at. “Hmm?” She sees Leland and huffs. “Sounds about right. You’ve met?”

You give her a dazed nod as Leland starts towards you, that ever-widening grin still plastered to his face. “Yeah.”

He’s behind you in what feels like an instant, grinning the whole damn time. “Sheryl!” he exclaims cheerfully. “You ready for our meeting?”

Sheryl makes a puzzled sound of confirmation but says nothing, and that’s when Leland turns his attention to you.

“Oh, and look who it is! (Y/N)!” he exclaims, practically dripping with feigned innocence. “Wow! I didn’t expect to see you here, of all places! Do you work here, too?”

Sheryl is looking back and forth between you two, no doubt clocking the casualness with which he’s treating you. “So you two already know each other?” she says to him.

His grin morphs into a smirk. “Ohhhh, yes. We’re quite well acquainted. Aren’t we, (Y/N)?” He tilts his head at you, but your words are gone, locked away somewhere deep inside of your throat. What the fuck would you even say, anyways?

You give a dull nod, and Leland’s smirk now looks more like a sneer, especially from this angle.

Something clicks in your brain. “It’s you, isn’t it?” you say, and Leland raises his eyebrows at you. “You’re the one who recommended me for this.”

He winks at you. “Guilty as charged. But we needed the best person for the job, and you’re it. She filled out the paperwork, right?” he asks Sheryl, though he’s not looking away from you. Sheryl makes a mm-hmm sound. “Good.” He stoops a little, bringing his face closer to yours, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Gotcha, he’s saying. 

The glint is triumphant, hungry, even. You lick your lips again, your heart thudding in your ears. You’re tempted to stand up and walk away—bolt like the hounds of Hades himself are chomping at your heels—but then how the hell would you explain this to Betty? Rent is coming, and unless you take this job, you’re both screwed. Sheryl’s email had found you at just the right moment to save both of your asses. You’d thought it was convenience, mere coincidence. But now?

Coincidence? Ha! You think the fuck not. This entire fucking thing was planned by him.

And now you’re stuck here, and Leland fucking knows it.

He straightens. “Well! I wouldn’t want to intrude on the tour,” he declares, finally looking away from you. “But it’ll be nice to catch up later, won’t it?”

You say nothing. You try to dig deep, try to summon the rage you used the last time you spoke to Leland, but it’s not there. What happened to it? Where’s all the determination? The ballsyness of not putting up with his shit?

It’s gone. There’s nothing there but despair. He’s won. He’s caught you at last.

He seems to take your silence as agreement, because he flashes you another winning smile. “I’ll be waiting for you in your office,” he tells Sheryl, who nods, though her eyes are rapidly flicking from you to Leland and back, over and over again. “Take your time. But not too much time. And I’ll see you tomorrow, (Y/N),” he adds.

Somehow you manage to summon enough emotion to glower at him as he saunters away, humming You’ll Be Back from Hamilton, of all fucking things. Sheryl tries to say something, but you can’t hear her. You can’t hear anything now. There’s a low buzzing sound in your ears that’s drowning her out, drowning out everything, really, everything except his footsteps as he walks away.

When Leland goes into her office and the door shuts behind him, his hold on you is suspended, if temporarily, and you can finally tear your eyes away from him. Sheryl’s giving you a worried look. “Are you okay?” she’s asking, probably for the third or fourth time.

You stare at her, mouth slightly agape, then you rise to your feet fast enough to send your chair rolling backwards. “I have to go,” you say numbly.

She blinks at you. “Okay. Well, uh. We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You swallow. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

With that, you leave your desk. You can feel Sheryl’s eyes on you as you walk out, but you don’t turn around. If you turn, you’ll end up walking straight to him, and you refuse to give him that satisfaction. So you put one foot in front of the other until you’re back at the elevator, and then until you’re back outside.

You’ll Be Back is stuck in your head the whole fucking time.

The sky is a bright blue, the sun shining down with nonconsensual warmth. You hate it. You want it to be grey and cloudy. You want it to mirror the turmoil that’s roiling in your soul right now.

“Fuck!” you hiss as you bring your hand to your face. It’s shaking. “Fuck fuck fuck!!!”

You’re breathing heavily as you walk, trying and failing to blink away hot tears. Where you’re going, you have no clue, but you’re getting the hell outta there for now. You walk until you can’t see the ground anymore through the thick haze of tears, and then you stagger to a small bench. Apparently there’s a park within walking distance of DF’s offices. “Fuuuuuuck.”

He caught me, you think. He fucking caught me. And now I have a whole fucking year of dealing with him all fucking over again.

You look up at the sky and seriously consider staring at the sun until your eyes burn out. But then you won’t be able to see anything else, and that seems a little extreme just to eradicate Leland Townsend from your life.

It takes a long, long time, but eventually, your breathing returns to normal. “Okay. It’s fine. It’s just a year. I can deal with him for a year.”

It’s a lie, but maybe if you repeat it enough times, you’ll believe it. 

You close your eyes. “It’s only for a year. Only for a year. I can deal with him for only a year.”

Holy fuck, why the hell does he still look so handsome?

“Only. A. Year.”

And then you can run far, far away from him, from DF. You can save up and find a job elsewhere, away from that leer, away from those gorgeous blue eyes, away from that love of violence—that fierce desire to make him bleed. Now that you’re away from DF, your emotions are flooding back, filling you with fury at being conned into working there. Fury at the audacity of him recommending you for a job like this.

Is it actually fury if you still want to jump his bones and finish what you started almost a year ago?

Your cheeks heat as you remember that night, how you’d thrusted your tongue down his throat, how he’d grabbed your ass while you tried to pull off his suit. How in that moment, all you could think of was getting him inside of you, how maybe, just maybe, that would get rid of these dark, dirty thoughts in your head.

You feel a familiar aching between your thighs and groan in frustration.

“Holy fucking shit, I’m screwed.”

Unto an evil counselor, close heart and ear and eye

And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly

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Aaaand that’s the end, folks! I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing (I was literally fixing things in this chapter eight hours ago, so talk about last-minute!).