#a wooden hunger games spoon

[blueautumngrave]

Not fob related but LOOK AT WHAT MY LOCAL BOOKSTORE HAD

I CAN COOK WITH THIS

[l5byrinth]

new romantics

“the best people in life are free.”

pairing: finnick x fem!reader, platonic!johanna x fem!reader, literally everyone else just platonic

summary: celebrating the anniversary of getting rid of the hunger games with your found family with a surprise for them in store as well.

requested

a/n: i wrote this like rn which is almost 1 am and i’m not mad about how it has turned out. i should probably edit this but wanted to finish at least one of the requests by today!! also anon i kind of changed it by making johanna someone like sister for reader just so more people feel included when reading <333 hope you like this anon and tbh it’s really bad but i hope you enjoy!!

WITH a wide smile on your face, you jokingly scolded your little child and Peeta for running around the living room. You were busy chatting up with your closest friends Katniss and Johanna, while the rest of your friends were all having a conversation of their own. You were glad the others got distracted by the two, because they were just questioning the fact you passed on a glass of wine. “Sorry,” Your little toddler pouted their underlip forward, your heart melting at the sight.

You motioned for the kid to come and sit on your lap, “That’s okay, sweetie. Now, show aunt Johanna and aunt Katniss your teeth.”

The little child bared their teeth for Johanna and Katniss to examine. Your kid had recently lost two of their teeth, and saying the little one was proud was an understatement. “Wow, you’re all grown up now.” Johanna commented, making the small child smile even wider. Katniss questioned, grabbing the young one’s hands, “What’d you do with the lost teeth?”

Your kid hopped off your lap, “Made money with it, duh.” And the youngster sprinted off to Peeta, who was already waiting for him.

Laughter filled the room, and even Katniss - who was a hard one to crack - couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. Finnick, who was previously busy in the kitchen preparing one of his favourite meals, entered the sitting room. His gaze fell upon you and, just like every time he looked at you, it was like he fell in love all over again.

When you noticed him on the other side of the room, you excused yourself to your friends before making your way over to your husband. You draped your arms over his shoulders as he rested his hands on your waist, “How’s everything going in the kitchen, love?” He smiled and leaned in closer, letting his nose brush against yours, “It’s going just fine.”

“Ugh, get a room you two!” Haymitch, who was playing with your child together with Peeta, yelled out of nowhere. You rested your forehead on Finnick’s chest while chuckling. He pulled you in closer while he did the same. “Let’s go to the kitchen.” Finnick offered, putting some distance between the two of you to look at you. He grabbed your hand, before leading you to there.

The stove was filled with different kinds of pans and pots, and judging on the kitchen counter covered by many ingredients, you could tell Finnick really was trying his best. “I need you to taste, darling,” Finnick said while grabbing a wooden spoon. He dipped it into one of the pots and blew on it a few times. He sipped on it a little himself, just to make sure it wasn’t too hot, before offering you.

Your eyes widened when you tasted it and Finnick’s face fell, “Oh, no, don’t tell me I’ve ruined it.”

“I’m so sorry, Finn.” You apologised while pulling a faux soured face. With his hands covering his face, he shook his head in disbelief, “I knew it! I should’ve…”

He stopped when you removed his hands, letting him see the smile on your face. “I was just kidding, Finn, that was amazing.” You assured with a giggle. “Oh, you! Darling, if it weren’t for you being so damn adorable…” He pulled you in closer as you couldn’t hold in your giggles. When your laughter died down, he left a kiss on your forehead, before resting his against yours. “We’ll tell them, right?”

You nodded in response, forgetting about the entire world in your lover’s arms. Just like you did since the moment you met him.

A call of your name by Johanna brought you back to reality. “Where are you?” She continued in a sing-songy tone while entering the kitchen. She stopped when she saw the two of you and a smile tugged at her lips as she said, “Oh, hey lovebirds.”

“Hey, Jo.” Finnick and you said in unison while you faced her.” She walked over and grabbed your hand, “I’m going to steal my wife from you real quick, Finnick.”

Finnick responded, pulling away from you with furrowed eyebrows, “Sure…” You let go of Finnick and followed her out of the kitchen as Finnick yelled, “Wait, you mean my wife!” You and Johanna laughed while linking your arms, “Nope. Mine!”

“You wish!” You heard Finnick faintly before you entered the dining room.

The two of you started talking as you set the table, a lot of memories being recalled. “Oh my god, I remember how terrified I was of you when we first met!” Johanna’s mouth fell agape by your exclaim, and she jokingly responded, “Ouch!”

You playfully nudged her side with your elbow, “You were scarily intimidating, Jo! How could I not be?”

“You know what, I’m actually glad I gave that impression. Exactly what I was going for.” Your best friend spoke, setting the last plate on the table.

“I can’t believe that we have come so far.” You still remember the hard times as clear as day. The hunger games, the rebellion, the war. But you got through it together with all the people who had become such a huge part of your life along the way. Like Johanna, who was basically like a sister to you. “Done!” Johanna said, as she just finished putting all the cutlery in place.

“What’s wrong?” She questioned when she noticed you had fallen silent. “Just grateful,” You started with quivering lips, “You’re like a sister to me and I couldn’t imagine a life without you-”

Johanna walked over to you and pulled you in for a tight, but comforting hug. Something only Johanna could do. She pulled away as she said, “Now, stop being so sentimental. I don’t want to cry in front of you.”

You chuckled at her comment, wiping away the tears that had escaped bay. “Let’s call everyone to the table now, shall we?”

With the dining room filled with the people you loved with your entire body and soul, you couldn’t wish for anything else. Everyone had taken a seat, admiring the food that lay upon them. Most of the food was cooked by Finnick, who was sitting beside you and holding your hand tightly. Your little child was sitting on the other side of you, talking to you about everything and nothing.

You smiled at your child’s story, and when it finished, your eyes found Finnick’s. You knew exactly what his eyes were telling you. Both you and Finnick stood up and the room quieted down. He wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you in closer as you spoke., “It has been quite some time since the day we finally got some peace in our lives.”

“And sitting here, with the family I found during the hard times, there is no place I’d rather be.” You continued, everyone listening attentively and some nodded at your words. “So since we’re celebrating the anniversary of the day we finally got rid of the games, there was something Finnick and I wanted to announce as well.”

Everyone waited in anticipation, wondering what was going on as you and Finnick shared a look. He nodded encouragingly with a soft smile.

“We’re having another baby!” You announced as Finnick held up the photos of the echo you had made a week ago. The whole room erupted in joy and excitement. Johanna was the first to get up from her seat and run over to embrace you, followed shortly by Katniss. Finnick was being congratulated by Peeta and Haymitch, as Katniss told you, “I knew it! You were so obvious, you know?”

However, before you could respond, your small child stood on your chair, “Daddy told me not to tell anyone!”

“Yes, and you didn’t, baby. You did such a good job.” With the brightest smile on your face you kissed your little one’s forehead.

“We can’t wait to welcome our little baby to the family.” Finnick said to everyone, to which they nodded their head to. Everyone sat back down on their chairs as soon as they all had congratulated you. You and Finnick sat down as well, relieved that you didn’t have to keep this from your loved ones any longer. “You’ve got to name your little one Effie if it’s a girl.” Effie commented, grabbing ahold of Haymitch’s hand with as she looked at you with a smile.

“Or Peeta if it’s a boy!” Peeta exclaimed.

“No, no, no! You should definitely name him Haymitch.”

“In your dreams.” Katniss said, rolling her eyes at the man.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips and you turned your head to face your husband, who was already looking at you with a lovesick smile.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Take two:

I would like to play in the Smutty Sleepover game. 😍 Please create something with my little blue eyed devil, Tommy Shelby using this prompt:

"If you don’t stop it, I’m gonna make you regret teasing me."

Thank you so much for creating this game 🥰

Hey babe! I'm afraid that prompt got chosen just before you submitted your ask, so I went with a similar one left from the list!

Slight smut below the cut, minors DNI!

He knows exactly what you're doing, and Tommy, being the stubborn man that he is, isn't having any of it. He can't quite help himself from looking, though, as you move around his office, letting your skirt ride up to flash your nylons, bending over to accentuate the round of your backside in the slim-fitting pencil skirt you wear.

Those blue eyes, full of lustful depth, keep having their focus pulled as you stir at his lust, ignite his fuse, and play with him in the hopes that he turns his attention from his papers to his wife instead.

"Finished your pottering about yet?"

That Brummie lilt. You hated it to begin with, until you realised it truly didn't matter. Tommy Shelby could speak to you in any accent and the words would still sound smoother than warm honey trickling off a spoon.

"Almost." Moving to the bookcase with your feather duster, you pull the wooden ladders along, hitching up your skirt until the tops of your nylons are exposed, garters too. "I can never get up these ladders unless I have a little legroom."

Now you've gone and done it.

Tommy takes a deep breath, feeling his cock stir and his pulse quicken as he turns from his desk. "If I have to stop what I'm doing, you won't be able to walk for the rest of the week."

"Oh, but Thomas," you gasp sweetly, turning to him. God, that stare. His eyes might be glacial blue, but he could melt entire frozen continents with the heat of that stare. "That's exactly what I want to happen."

He should know better than to let you play him, and as he pushes his papers aside, getting up to retrieve you from the ladders, he knows that. After placing you on his desk, pulling your undies off and burying his mouth between your legs to lick at your cunt with hunger, the notion of caring about it is the farthest thing from his mind.

[breadvidence]

thénardier puts crayfish on the menu for the sergeant of waterloo (he gets first pick for the leftovers)

Monsieur sends her out sometimes to the creek to catch crayfish with a piece of raw liver on a string and the net she patched together herself. Her feet are numb and clumsy in cold water on the slick stones, and she must be alert as a little rabbit for the game warden, but she goes eagerly. She takes great care to secure the string and pulls it up quick as quick so that the crayfish do not get too much of the meat, and when her net is full, she unties the string and in one big swallow gulps the liver down. It slides down cold and slimy and rank, and once it made her belly ache, but Monsieur believes her when she says she works until it is all disintegrated into the water, and food is food.

⁂

Éponine and Azelma giggle over the cooking pot, each with her big wooden spoon, and prod the crayfish down into the murky water as the temperature rises. Soon the animals’ bodies toss one over the other, red flashes; holding her finger to her lips, Éponine uses her spoon to lift out one, then another, dropping them into her apron; seizing her sister’s hand in her own, she goes scampering away to find a dark corner where they can split the meat from the shell away from their father’s eye. Once they took too many, and he noticed, but he beat Cosette for the theft.

⁂

After the diners have left, all their grumbled complaints to each other—stringy chicken, scanty crayfish, sauce that tastes of piss instead of wine—nothing to innkeepers who care only about the sous they pay anyhow, Thénardier sits by the ashes of the fire and dirties his fingers on the shells: a nail scraping here, lips pursed around heads, sucking the watered-thin butter from them, using his back teeth to crack the joints of the legs and grind out the hair-thin shreds of meat.  

When he goes to bed, there is hunger in his wife’s kiss, the dart of her tongue seeking the grease on his lips, the guilty swallow, a confusion of the body’s desires. Their debts are great, and she is a big woman to feed on dwindling meals. 

Not so ill-fed yet that her trunk-thick thighs do not dimple under his gripping hands. He asks, “Had you wanted some of the fricassée, wife?”

“I ran my bread along the rim of the pan, my little friend,” she admits, and tries to gather him close.

“Ah, I thought the pot looked licked! I see where the fat has gone to.” He bites at her breasts, a growl theatrical, teasing, threatening. “I will have to get back what’s mine.” Bites again, leaving red imprints on rough skin. “My wife knows how hard I work every day. I do not have your reserves. I must keep up my strength.” A third, sucking bite, as if he would draw the sauce back out of her as blood.

“Yes, yes.” She laughs and squirms under him, hungry, hungry, always hungry—for him, for want of other food. When she moves to reciprocate, to press her lips to his skin, he pushes her down. He will have his choice of what to offer.

[deerhobbs]

☆dee/finn (depending on where you know me from)

☆he/they/she☆

☆main twitter, discord, pinterest, ao3, spotify, instagram: deerhobbs

☆twitter priv: cannineteeth || alt tumblr : cannibalisticgirlthin

things i like…

☆music: ethel cain, the smiths, the cure, chappell roan, noah kahan, kacey musgraves, zach bryan, olivia rodrigo, slipknot, metallica + literally everything else ever

☆movies: adam (2009), pride and prejudice (2005), beetlejuice, edward scissorhands, lisa frankenstein, corpse bride, the nightmare before christmas, Girl, Interrupted, heathers, mean girls, blood and chocolate

☆shows: hannibal, yellowjackets, stranger things, wednesday, adventure time, gilmore girls, anne with an e

☆books: wilder girls, girl in pieces, you’d be home by now, the most dazzling girl in berlin, percy jackson and the olympians, the heroes of olympus, the trials of apollo, the hunger games, paper girls

☆other things: writing, reading, my best friend ry <3, religious imagery, lambs, old houses, fields, wooden spoons, long dresses, veils, white clothes, bows, my cat gerald, horses, pinterest, music, running away to the woods with my friends, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, true crime podcasts, deer, the woods, creeks, old churches, yule, lughnasadh, crying over little things for no reason

links

daily clicks to help palestine ‼️

resources to help/info on palestine ‼️

go fund mes for the DRC ‼️

go fund mes for sudan ‼️

for if you’re sad

[luckyshotwrites]

Ch. 39 // Cravings // Day 25

Contents (Warnings): Back to the old grind, with more problems. (safe soft unwilling vore, near overwhelming hunger, some soft moments, bloody/self harm because of hunger, and as always character/monster info).

Wordcount: 4400+ (Yes a day was skipped, it's added here

-------------------------------------------------------------------

(Day 24)

I woke up, curled up on the couch. I sat up and looked down to see Wicks sprawled out on the floor, snoring. 

I didn’t press him to continue his “I’m seeing someone” charade last night. 

I carefully stepped over him. I lifted the blanket I used and put it over him. What kind of secret are you talking about? And why did you start bringing it up more and more now? I didn’t think he’d be in a similar situation to me.

The hurt entered again. I went to make breakfast. 

I’m okay. I said to myself.

I embraced my shallow contentment. I put the griddle on the stove and started to cook our eggs. 

I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked the time. 11:20 a.m. I unlocked it, opened my contacts, and found Happy Pizzeria immediately. I called the number. 

“Hello, Happy Pizzeria. This is Sandra; how can I help you?”

“Hey, Sandra, it’s Lynette.”

“Ah, Lynette, what seems to be the problem?” There was a pause before her regard showed. “Don’t tell me you’re resigning!”

I’m not going through all this for a month just to quit. I thought. “I’m not going to give up.” An unconscious sigh left me, “I’ve been through far too much at this point to call it quits now.” how should I put this? “I was calling because I’m still drained from the event, and I don’t think I can come in today.” I mustered up my enthusiasm. “I will be there first thing tomorrow at 4:30 a.m., though.”

Her chuckle sounded like an exhale, “That’s great to hear, Lynette. See you tomorrow, and rest easy.”

We exchanged goodbyes, and I hung up. I held the phone to my chest, relieved. 

Then, my nose scrunched at the smell of burning. I pulled from the fridge and squeaked out, “the egg!”

I heard Wicks from across the room, “Lentils! What happened!” He frantically ran into the kitchen, the blanket draped over him like a toga. He saw me scraping them off with our wooden spoons. 

He laughed, “thanks for breakfast. It looks great.”

I sulked, “you’re welcome.” 

And later on, Sandra posted in the main chat that I wouldn’t be coming in today. And once the night crew’s shift started, I saw a text pop up in that chat.

Lev: Hey, Lynette, since you called out, does that mean you forfeited your game day?~ 6:02 p.m.

Claudia: 👀 6:02 p.m.

Why would it matter to you, Lev? You’re not even there...I think I did the same last time too. I couldn’t remember, but I wanted to keep consistency. I picked up my phone, thinking about how the days lined up.

Lynette: I do. So it’s Alexander’s day tomorrow, Drake’s Thursday, and yours Friday, Lev. 6:04 p.m.

I tossed my phone down on my bed. It buzzed with their replies. My eyes fell down to it, not breaking my crisscrossed legs. 

Alexander: Good. 6:06 p.m.

Lev: Can’t wait.~ 6:07 p.m.

I teetered sideways, holding my ankles, and flumped into my bed. I held my unbreakable position. 

I viewed the texts until my screen went black. 

One month down, Lynette, with a month of vacation...10 more to go.

…

(Oct. 10th, Monday) 

I played a familiar game of chase with sleep, and like several times in the past, it eluded me. I took a shower to trick my mind because the lack of light outside told my body it was still time for bed.  

I got ready and walked toward our short hall before we reached the door. I waved my phone flashlight around and stopped. I saw a pink lunch box with a post-it note attached to it.

“LUNCH! I PACKED DOUBLE, ONE FOR EACH SHIFT. AND A BANANA FOR BREAKFAST!! I LOVE YOU!”

The last part was really tiny. 

I smiled, plucked it off, got the pen next to the box, and wrote on the back. “I love you too; thank you, Wicks.”

I opened the lunch box, took out the banana, and nodded at the PB&J sandwiches. I sealed it back up and chowed on the banana. 

…

There were four cars, five including mine. I recognized Alexander’s sleek vehicle. 

Another pulled up next to mine when I got out.

It was June. He leaped up and leaned over the hood. “What are you doing here, Lynette?”

I sighed, holding my empty peel and lunch box. “I’m going to be working with you guys this week.” 

He sputtered with excitement making his way to me. “So cool! I can’t wait to get to know more about you!” 

I liked the warm sliver of happiness. He’s so sweet! I thought to the others during the night shift. Why can’t the others be like this? Huh? Why do I have some of the biggest jerks working with me? 

“Likewise, June, you seem so nice.”

He chortled with a soft snort with it, “thank you.”

Maybe I should change to the morning shift? None of them seemed that bad.

I opened the door for him, and he went ahead. I followed him down the hall, stopping at breakroom one to put my lunch box away. I told him I’d meet him at the time clock. I threw out the peel and placed it on the top shelf next to the stocked water.

Anxiety brushed against me when I looked over the tables. Ten months, it’ll be over before I know it. I picked up my pace. 

I flicked toward the time clock and saw Elliot near the break room. 

His umber irises shifted to me. My right foot slid back.

He blinked slowly, unamused. “I’m going to show you both your tasks while you’re working our shift,” Elliot said.

Both? 

When he got off the wall and walked to the kitchen, I saw Alexander was next to him. They were the same height.

“Let me scan in first,” I plucked up my badge when we passed it. 

“Hurry, I’m only going over this once.” His drowsy dip was followed by a yawn. 

…

Alexander 

I ate last night, so why…WHY! He cried in his head as her piquant smell drilled into his nostrils. He couldn’t even look at her because the idea of consuming her absorbed his thoughts. Can I eat her now? I should... He bumped into Elliot, not realizing he had stopped.

“Focus, Alexander,” Elliot said. 

He pressed back his golden locks for a moment, then gave the nod and let it fall. Think of anything else. Like- He struggled to focus on what Elliot said in the main area. 

He luckily put it all together. We're cleaning everything in the customer areas, then after that, I go to the back and…she… He nudged his gaze away. Instead, he stared at the chairs on top of the tables. 

A lot of their supplies were already set out for them by Elliot. 

“Thank you!” She said to him. 

“Welcome.” He gave a thumbs up and eyed Alexander while leaving, but he didn’t say anything to him. 

Alexander watched Lynette get to work. She called the bathrooms as long as he handled the main room. Alexander flipped the chairs back down.

She wasn’t in his direct proxy, but just knowing Lynette was within reach made his body stir. Mara really did curse me, didn’t she? Alexander knew he checked his body after he got home, but since that day, the craving got stronger and stronger, and he didn’t understand why. 

He was fine for the most part during the festival, given the mixture of smells and free food. Yet now, Lynette was the only meal he could indulge in.

He stepped outside and cleaned the glass door. It was a temporary fix until Lynette approached him. 

He stood up quickly. 

Lynette flinched and pointed to the bottle of glass cleaner near him, “can I borrow that for a second. I’ll bring it right back, okay?”

He gave a nod, pressing up his glasses. He refused to speak. She picked it up and swiftly turned around. She hurried off, and his eyes followed her. 

His toes clenched, and he took steps after her, going to give into the chase.

“How’s it going, Alex?” Beatrice said, almost appearing in front of him.

He hadn’t noticed her. It knocked him from his motion, and he traced her glittered-up complexion. 

He forced a swallow before speaking. “Fine.”

Her hand pressed at her gem-red lips, “don’t you want to know how I’m doing?”

Not really. He thought. Alexander knew if he said that, she would make it her mission to ruin his day, and he lacked the tolerance for it. “How are you?”

She pushed back her curly locks with her hand as if she was in a hair commercial, “lovely, thanks.~” She blew him a kiss.

He moved his head up, avoiding her gesture. She’s in a good mood. He hated the minefield he’d tread with her. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with her daily.

She hummed with a fan of her hand and a curious eye, “and before I forget, Elliot wanted you to help out in the kitchen while I help clean up here with Lynette.” 

Her name simply made his hunger return. “Mhm.” He huffed, moving around Beatrice and sneaking a glance at the bathrooms. Why am I so possessed, damn it.

…

Lynette

I finished cleaning the bathrooms in time for break. They told me they went to the first break together since the pizzeria opened at 8 a.m. June came and got me. I didn’t notice Beatrice runoff. 

“Elliot and Tila told me you are all on the same punishment,” June said. “I had no idea.”

I yawned, “Yeah... it’s fine.” I looked near the counter as we passed it, “it’s a little off-putting here, though, with the quietness.” 

“Off-putting?” He chuckled after he said, “OH, because you get a lot of customers and have to rush around, right?” He clapped with his hands, “if you want, I can make more noise in the kitchen to make you comfortable!”

I smiled at the gesture, “you’re okay, June. I appreciate it, though, thank you.”

“Anything for a friend.”

My heart skipped a beat. What-he already- ohhh my gosh! He saw me bend forward.

“Oh no, what’s wrong?” June touched my shoulder gently with his hand. He stopped my motion and peeked down to look at my face. 

I lifted my head, and even though he was close, I wasn’t as scared as I was with the others.

“I didn’t expect you to call me friend...” My wide smile quivered. “You’re too sweet.”

June joined the smile club, “That’s good, right? Most monsters say I’m too squishy.” He explained. I wanted to jump in and elaborate. He spoke more, so I couldn’t. “I’ve also never been called sweet before. They say I’m like sour candy, whatever that means.”

“June, no, I meant nice! Not taste-” I looked him up and down. He was a few inches taller than me. “You get eaten by other monsters?”

June nodded, unphased, “sometimes a friend needs it. I don’t really mind.”

They might be taking advantage of this poor boy. How can he still consider them friends after they eat him? Does he not realize he’s too innocent to know!

My thoughts followed the track. I don’t think anyone should see someone else’s insides unless they are a doctor doing surgery. And somehow, I’ve been eaten by everyone on the night crew... I squeamishly shivered. My mind sickly reminded me of it constantly. It brought me a new question after I thought more about what June said. Would I let Wicks eat me if he was a monster?

I remembered the nightmare from a few nights ago, evil Wicks. I told myself. If he absolutely, without a reasonable doubt, NEEDED it. Maybe…but I couldn’t say it with a smile.

I entered break room three with June. “I don’t think I could say the same. It’s too personal?”

“That’s okay! If anyone wants to eat you, send them my way.”

I don’t want to throw you under the bus! I’d feel terrible if I did that. And-its not like I could, Lev and Alexander seem set on humans. Claudia at least doesn’t seem interested in hunting me, Zilla likes monsters, not humans, and Drake…

“Do you have blood?” I asked. 

I wasn’t going to tell Drake to bite him. It was pure curiosity.

“Nope.” He tapped my shoulder, calling my attention. He tugged at the corner of his open lips, showing the inside of his mouth. They were normal, then changed to a baby blue hue. It looked like a solidified slime, except for the drippiness of a more transparent color. “I don’t know if you can see it, but in the back, I’m filled with a liquid that absorbs things’ energy. It’s usually way back there.” He pointed his finger to the back of his throat. “If you want, you can reach for it.”

“NO!” I exclaimed and lowered my voice. “I-I believe you-” I smirked sheepishly. His tongue didn’t move when he spoke, and his mouth was wide open. “How are you talking to me?”

“Telepathy,” he let go of the corner of his mouth, “Tristan taught me to move my mouth when I talk, so humans think I’m talking normally.” He pointed his hand to me and then to himself. “I can make it solely between us, or-” he threw his arms out like he was ready for a hug, “all around me. I usually do it in a small radius to seem normal.”

I hadn’t even noticed. Slimes sound like one of the most complicated monsters I’ve met. And-do they have organs? Like a brain? How is he piloted? Is he-

“Hey there, honeys ~” Beatrice buzzed.

We arrived next to her and Tila’s table.

“Hey, guys!”

“Hi.” I gave a wave. I sat down.

Tila squinted at Beatrice but nonetheless said hello to us.

“I never noticed you used telepathy, so your lip-syncing is very accurate,” I told him. Then again, I never spoke to him until we met at the festival. 

“I appreciate an admiring eye, Tila, or is that your attempt at disdain?”

Tila papped her hands on the table. “You can’t sit here and tell me I’m the weakest working here!”

Beatrice held delight, “I said there’s no way you could win against me.”

“Beast variations aren’t that strong.”

Her pupils shrank, and she showed off a mean pucker at her lips. “If you believe fairies are superior ones, you’re delusional.” Beatrice raised her palm. “you’re all tiny and could easily be squished.” She clenched her fist as if she had one. 

Tila climbed a bit on the table, “you’re conceded, Beatrice. A fairy could take down any foe!”

Beatrice chuckled, “I heard you lost to Claudia during the magic competition..”

June finally popped in with a question, “where’s Elliot and Alexander?”

The two looked at him, and both answered.

“Kitchen.”

They squinted at each other again. Should I try to make sure they don’t start anything? June looks unphased. Is this normal for them?

“How did you guys start working here?” I blurted out in a desperate attempt to stop their fight.

Tila craned her head very slightly, perplexed by my sudden question. While Beatrice flipped her whole body in my direction. Her priority landed on me.

“Zane invited me~.” She pressed at her chest, giving a slight kiss. “And before this, I used to work at a test facility for the giver program.”

“What made you leave?” I asked.

“I wanted to do something different,” Beatrice’s voice wavered. “Though, I still have a few fans lingering about that miss me eating them.

Why don’t they hire a giver? I looked toward the break room door, waiting for Alexander to pop up behind me. Everyone always had the uncanny ability to surprise me. 

“You guys never tried hiring a giver?”

Beatrice exhaled, “we’ve tried, but the giver facility plan has better benefits.”

Really?! I thought to myself. Then scrapped the idea, remembering what it was all about. Is it different from my job now? But I can avoid it to an extent...kinda...not... my head started to fill with dread.

I looked up at Tila, “how about you?”

“Sandra asked me about the job, and I thought it’d be a great way for me to leave the borrow,” Tila replied.

Beatrice smiled and leaned forward, “do you still have your dirt collection on you?”

The mockery in her voice didn’t sell well to the lime green-haired girl. “You’re walking on a beam, Beatrice.”

“Good thing I have excellent balance,” She teased.

Luckily before a fight could result, their breaks were both over. I waited for them to leave before talking.

“Are they always like that?”

“I don’t think they like each other very much.”

“I got the same vibe.” It seemed like Alexander got mad at everyone on my crew, but the others didn’t get peeved.

...

Beatrice and I finished cleaning. She didn’t say much to me, focusing on using magic with her tasks.

She was doing delivery today, so she would be heading out shortly. 

I got to the registers next to Tila, yawning with my wave. I can’t get sleepy yet, come on, I still have the rest of this shift and the next. 

“You look tired.”

I chuckled, “I didn’t sleep too well last night. Did you sleep okay?”

“Huh?” She tilted her head and giggled, “what do you mean?”

“How was your sleep?” I repeated a little louder. 

She pointed at herself, “I don’t sleep.”

“You don’t?”

She held her head up, mighty-like. “I keep forgetting you’re a human, uneducated regarding us monsters, huh?.” 

Up until working here, I didn’t know monsters existed! I exclaimed in my head. I’d probably fail a monsterology class the same as anything science related. 

“Sorry,” I muttered. “So fairies don’t have to sleep?”

She bobbed her head like she followed a rhythmic beat. “Fairies make up for their energy loss by eating a lot of food. That’s it..” 

Didn’t they mention she’s super small too? Oh, like those fairies in that small Cafe, I went to with Wenna and Drake.

“Are you tiny too?”

Tila raised a finger at me, “don’t think I won’t get you, too, human.” She had the same energy as an old lady mad that I stepped on her lawn.

I tapped my chest, “I didn’t mean to be rude. I was short too once, even smaller than you fairies after that potion Claudia gave me.”

Her scowl faded once she heard Claudia’s name, “Claudia?”

“Yeah…”

Tila leaned on the counter and tapped it, “never trust a Fae, Lynette. They’re all very dastardly and cunning.” 

Dastardly maybe? But cunning? No way, she seems innocently silly. Unless it is all an act? I retraced back to the shop. I’d call her sad if what she said about her family was true. Wait… OH No. Hopefully, she forgot our bet. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I looked over the height distance. I liked to be taller than someone. “Any other warnings about you guys?”

Tila tapped her head. “You’re smart for the asking.” She pointed to the kitchen. “First, don’t wake up Elliot during his naps. He gets really grumpy.” She grumbled next, “Beatrice is tough to work with.” She shrugged, “Then June’s a sweetheart, too sweet, and Zane…he gives me some weird vibes, but he’s been fine so far.”

I thanked her for her explanations, keeping Elliot and Beatrice in mind. 

We were splitting into two groups for lunch since the pizzeria opened at 8 and lunch started at 8:30. By this time, Edgar had arrived. 

He gave Alexander and me a cheerful, good morning. I was relieved to see his smiling face over the serious one on Saturday.

They sent me to the early group with Beatrice and Elliot. 

I sat on the couch, eating my lunch. The only one I have to worry about is Alexander right now, so as long as I eat and stay on my toes, I can avoid him. 

Beatrice cooed across the room as she entered, “hey, how are you, hun?”

“Good, how are you?” I asked.

She came around with a joyful smile, “I’m fairly disappointed,” she gave a loud "harrumph" as she plopped down next to me, “but fine…~.” 

She sighed heavily. 

"What's wrong?" I took another bite of my sandwich. 

“Nothing..." She then pressed her shoulder to mine, "and I’m so sorry about the festival. I wanted to go to Sweet’s party with you, but I couldn't ignore those other treats.~”

"I-it's okay. I got those turtles. They were excellent. Thanks for the recommendation." I wanted to talk about actual food instead of people. 

“Speaking of excellent things...” She put her head on my shoulder. “The new hirer I invited won’t be here until Friday.” She hummed, “so, do you mind doing the honors and helping me?”

“Helping you-?” I denied her. "N-no. Sorry, I don’t-” I scooted away. “I don’t like or want to be eaten, Beatrice.”

Her happy grin twisted. It sharpened as finely as her honeyed eyes. 

She stood up from the couch, bursting with an unsettling giggle.

“You’re a hilarious little human.” Her case ruptured, revealing the fluffed-up and slender bee-like humanoid. I didn't have time to get off the couch. She tipped the sofa over so it was balancing on the back legs. She had a hand on the lower half and the back piece. It made me stare right up at her and her encroaching face. 

"It's funny that you thought I was giving you a choice." 

I tried to crawl upward, "then why ask it like I did-" her open maw dripped its sticky saliva all over me. It bonded some of my clothes to the fabric. I tried to kick off the couch. 

Her long thin black tongue sprung out, rubbing against my frantically moving arms. 

"This is gross, stop!" I shouted. 

"Such disgusting nerve from something so puny." She hissed.

Her tongue yanked up my arm toward her mouth. It caught me between her lips. And her tongue slipped out again, wrapping under my back and pulling all of my body to her. It squeezed almost too tight, enough to make me wheeze. 

Not that I had much time to think as she brought me into her bright sunflower yellow insides. 

And whatever was inside her mouth made it, so I lost my mobility. It was like dried gum but still as wet. 

What is this? I tried to keep my head away from it, but it coated my eyes, so I couldn't open them. 

I felt her grab my legs and press the rest of me at her throat. I couldn't yell as whatever it was, cocooned me. And I knew she swallowed. I felt the familiar vibrations and tightness surround my body.

I couldn't even say anything as my breathing felt hindered by whatever was over me. Until I reached her first stomach. Having more room, I fought harder and broke from the cocoon, getting blasted by heat. I hadn't even noticed the cocoon was not nearly as warm as the average saliva. 

The illuminated, hollowed, reverberating insides made me whine. The little bit of space I had compared to Alexander's interiors gave me no comfort. 

And unlike theirs, I heard her moan. “OH~ You were so sweet, hun.~ Thanks for the meal.”

I gasped out, "STOP, DON'T SAY STUFF LIKE THAT!" 

She pressed the wall in front of me, at least as far as I could tell, because of its sudden push to my face. 

"How else are you going to know I enjoyed your contribution, hmm?” 

I pushed at her gut as it rubbed at me, "DON'T! YOU-I'M SORRY I CALLED YOU GROSS. YOU'RE NOT, PLEASE-release me-" 

A tease entered my ears, "never~."

…

Alexander

He expected less. He avoided eating her earlier because he didn't know if Edgar would be pissed or not that he'd technically be helping her avoid some of their punishment. You're kidding me. The room he saw Lynette's name also had Beatrice's and the queen bee herself in her monster form.

He went over to her, a possession in his gaze. 

“Hey, Alex~.”

He studied her unmoving gut, then her. He wasn't as threatening to most monsters in his human form. 

Alexander grit his teeth, and Beatrice gestured to her abdomen, “what’s the matter, you look jealous?” she chuckled, “I’m sorry, you wanted her, didn’t you?”

“You're an asshole for eating her.”

Beatrice's lip raised with a snarl, "don't talk to me with such disrespect, half-breed." 

I should rip her from her body right now. Alexander thought.

"Let her go."

Beatrice leaned back, smiling again. She massaged her fingers into it, “at the end of my shift, sure~.” 

He clutched his fists and then exhaled with a rapid breath. “You-” He couldn’t focus and felt a skittishness in his body. I should be the one- He caught his thoughts.  

Alexander turned back, feeling his mouth ache. He stumbled out of the break room, catching himself on the walls once he got to the hall. He panted erratically as he kept his body from changing. 

He stumbled toward the kitchen, holding his collar and pulling at it as he felt he couldn't breathe.

“Ed-Edgar.” He called. 

The man who spun the dough looked up with a big grin. Then, his expression changed when he saw Alexander's state.

“What’s going on, son?” He placed the dough down, searching over him.

“I’ll do two weeks. I-I have to leave.” He begged. 

He couldn’t get Lynette out of his mind. “I have to get checked out.” 

Edgar held a fatherly expression when he heard the desperation. “Fine. Leave for today. Just work tomorrow or Wednesday instead.” 

Alexander nodded, shakily leaving to scan out. He had to force himself past the breakrooms. His nose keenly picked up on her scent once more. 

He got to his car and put his hand on the roof. He fumbled for his keys and felt at the dent he never got rid of that day. 

It sent him spiraling down, and he turned back to go to the pizzeria. 

He yelled out and forced his arm up.

 He sliced into it with his large fangs that barely fit in his jaw. The pain made a muffled whine from beyond his own disgusting flesh. The mixture of iron and raw gooey meat would make him hurl if the contents of his stomach weren't empty. 

It let him gain control again. He released his arm, and a giant gnawed gash left, dripping down in quick pitters of his own blood. 

He held his eyes shut. The light from him using his magic peeled past them as the wound healed. Once it was, and it had stopped bleeding, he leaned over his car again. 

Dry heaving before eventually settling enough for him to drive to the nearest medical office for monsters.

…

Thank you for reading! :D Have a gouda day! (Nonnegotiable, if you're lactose intolerant, you're about to be in a lot of pain, sorry, not sorry. Lol).

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What I’d do for a Livable Income (Synopsis/Chapter - List)

[sparrowgardner]

When Sparrow was little, the Reaping had been an ordeal and a half. Despite the day off the Capitol granted them for the occasion, Culler would wake up his brood up at the crack of dawn, rousing them from their beds by clanking a wooden spoon against an old cooking pot. They’d all hated the sound at the time, but now that she was older, Sparrow understood it took nothing less to wrestle nearly two dozen brats from their mats into a quick spray-down and their nicest clothes, which were often only slightly cleaner than the usual. Then he’d serve them breakfast (boiled barley, more often than not), and they would line up in rows of two that, by the time they got to the plaza, would have invariably dissolved into chaos.

She hadn’t walked to the Reaping with company since she’d turned sixteen, though. She did miss the bustle sometimes, Sparrow thought as she pulled on her least musty set of clothes, shaking the dust from the sleeves. It took less than a minute for the fabric to start clinging to her skin. Even in the shade of the little shack she’d claimed for herself, the heat was sweltering, the sun already high in the sky. Soon enough, she’d have to head out and take her place among her peers, sweating her ass off as they all waited for some poor sod to be reaped and for that little show to be over. 

Six more years. She’d made it more than halfway through her eligible time already. Six more years, and while she’d be far from free, the Hunger Games would become the least of her worries. 

Her stomach grumbled, and she indulged in the last peach from her stash. Today had few good things going for it, after all, and while she was running low on supplies, it wouldn’t do to show up to the town square on an empty stomach. Some people always ended up fainting in the oppressive summer heat, and she didn’t intend to make a fool of herself this year. Sparrow bit into the fruit, slurping up the juice before it could drip down her chin and onto her clean shirt. She ate the last of it on her way to the main square, tucking the pit into her pocket. Who knew where she could muster enough room to plant it, but maybe she’d find a way. 

She slid into place on her row just in time. Only a couple of minutes passed before she heard the Peacekeepers’ sharp whistle and everyone fell silent, enough to hear a fly buzz by. Sparrow tucked her hands into her pockets, keeping her eyes on the ground. It was a silly ritual, but if the Capitol was like a great eye watching over their lives, she felt as though not meeting its gaze might save her. She was still staring a hole into the dirt when the escort’s voice rang out.

“SPARROW GARDNER!”

She didn’t budge, even as her brain registered the words. This wasn’t happening. Gardner was perhaps one of the most common names in the district, and Sparrow⎯well, maybe she’d misheard. Maybe it was all a fluke, and the escort would laugh and pick another paper slip out of their great glass ball. Any second now. 

But no one was laughing. Instead, a murmur ran through the ranks of prospective tributes as her neighbors looked at each other, then at her. The nearest two stared at her then shifted away, as though her misfortune would somehow rub off on them. 

“Sparrow Gardner,” the escort said again. “Please make your way to the stage.” Did they sound impatient? Sympathetic? She couldn’t tell. Why couldn’t she tell? Her ears were full of white noise. Her throat burned. The peach threatened to come back up in a trickle of bile. 

She didn’t know where she found the resolve to move. Breaking down into tiny steps helped. One foot in front of the other, again and again. A few more, and she was on the wooden blocks that led up to the stage, then on the stage itself, facing the crowd. A camera flashed in her face, and the sunlight glinting off the lens brought some of her senses back to her. She pulled her hands out of her pockets and attempted to stand up straighter, even though her knees felt like jelly. “Mighty bad luck I’ve got, huh? I bet no one’s hankering for a ticket to this show.” Her voice came out croaky and shaking, but surely anything was better than cowering in fear when the Capitol was watching.

The rest of the Reaping passed in a blur. She should’ve made an effort to jot down the name of her fellow tribute, how they’d behaved themselves in front of the crowd, but every thought she tried to have drained out of her head as if out of a sieve. Next thing she knew, she was sitting on a ratty velvet couch set up in one of the train station’s waiting rooms, still shaking. People were still talking outside, but their voices were muted, though she couldn’t tell whether they were muffled by the closed door or if her ears were still buzzing. 

Then the panel swung open with a creak, and old Culler was standing in the doorway. The last three years had worsened his limp, which he now had to remedy with a cane, but he looked exactly the same as he did when Sparrow had last seen him, sending her on her way with all her life stuffed into a ballot over her shoulder. 

She’d never been a particularly affectionate child, even when she was little, but here and now, she had to resist the urge to throw herself into his arms. Instead, she stood as best she could, propping herself up on the arm of a couch. “Didn’t take you for the sentimental type, Pops.” 

He reached out and cuffed the side of her head, as he’d used to when he’d walked into the kitchen to find her wrist-deep in the treats jar. “And I didn’t take you for the quakin’ type. Guess you’re not as good as getting a read on folks as you thought, eh?” 

As if to prove him right, she felt her eyes water. Before any tear could flow, she swiped at them with the hem of her sleeve. Who cared about clean shirts now, when she might die in the coming week? “Yeah, well, you’d best hope you’re wrong if you ever wanna see my mug again.”

“Who wants to see it again, you lazy little scamp?” Even as he spoke, she could hear his voice catching, the rust of years grinding to a halt. “You best make it back in one piece, you hear? If you kick the bucket out there, the young’uns are never going to let me hear the end o’ it.”

For the first time since her name had been called, Sparrow laughed. When she stumbled forward and held out her arms, he didn’t push her away, instead tugging her forward by the wrist until she was pressed snug against his old vest, scratchy and smelling of old straw. Home. Her home, right here⎯shabby and desolate, but it was the only one she had. 

“Uh-huh.” She sniffled, then took a deep breath. Alright. Get your shit together. “I'd better not disappoint, then. Keep an eye out for me, yeah?”

[neonponders]

When Coal Turns Into Pearls - Harringrove x Hunger Games!au - ch. 1

Ch. 2 | Ch. 3   [ putting these here until ao3 is back up. ]

• • •

Steve watched the first bubbles engorge on the surface of the tomato sauce and pop with a splash. He gave it a stir with one of the few pieces of cookware they still had—a wooden spoon, in this case—and waited for more bubbles before killing the heat.

Their last can of tomato sauce. Expired ten years ago. The only thing about it that has really lasted is the vibrant red color and the salt content. If he keeps himself distracted, it’s the same as tomato soup. Nothing close to what his mother used to make, but it’s also not boiled water and cabbage. He would be eating that tomorrow, and the day after that.

“Okay, mom,” he says, somehow both tired and wide awake. Wired. He had an interesting day ahead, to say the least, but until then, he needed to feed his mother.

She sat by the window, coherent enough to gaze out across the wide boulevard opening its arms on either side of them. Steve wished she would sit in a different room, where the sunrise would give her peach tones instead of cool, mean lighting. But this parlor gave her peace, and he was happy she walked around at all.

He’d kill for an actual peach, but instead he stirs the bowl of soup sauce and tests it on his own palate—

Steve makes a face that Annette Harrington is too oblivious to see. He might as well be eating cabbage, the flavors on his tongue are just tomato and water. Old tomatoes…

Steve took a moment to revisit the can in the sink—to be washed and sold as scrap metal at the earliest opportunity. The paper label has long since been pilfered or worn away, but the factory happened to stamp letters into this particular can, so Steve can read almost clearly: CRUSHED TOMATOES.

He sighed. So that was why. Once upon a time, all tomatoes in cans were seasoned. This can emerged from a factory during the war, which made it surprisingly fresh in comparison, but totally devoid of the extreme luxury of anything green, like herbs. No salt.

“Well, it’s just me who will hate it,” he murmured to himself. As he sits back down before his mother, he knows there’s some kind of irony to all this.

Red and purple are the most expensive dyes and pigments, his mother told him, so long ago. Apart from yellow. That comes from saffron.

They weren’t expensive, really. Red and purple proved as easy to come by as a swinging fist, cheap if there was something sharp or heavy in that hand. The war put red and purple in abundance. Yellow too, even though piss washed away far more easily. The worse off a person was, the more vibrant the pigment.

Ten years later, Steve sat with a bowl of red—more like orange at this point—gently cradling his mother’s head to massage her jaw. She wasn’t stupid. Just…lost. Steve had a long time to learn how to coax or trigger reactions from her. Massaging around her ears, pressing the pad of his thumb along the strong muscle of her jaw until he reached the hinge. Relaxing her jaw made her eyelashes sag a little. Whether she consciously knew food was coming, or her body simply responded in grateful need, Steve didn’t know. More than likely, the massage reminded her of Steve’s father.

The highly decorated veteran of the Harrington clan lived in the hospital. Comatose. The same as dead Steve knew, but his mother only truly roused when it came time for her signature, seal, and blood sample to unplug her husband. It wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t nice either, even to her only child. The prick of a finger was all it took. Steve tried to find solace in that she was as close as skin deep.

So Robert Harrington stayed plugged in, siphoning money out of the bank accounts to the point that Steve and his mother lived like the war had never ended. Black market canned goods of fine produce. An empty penthouse home on the most prestigious street in the Capitol, all furnishings sold and traded apart from the bare minimum. A memory. A good one, Steve could only assume, based on how faraway him mother went. His father was the old money who married a young, beautiful thing with the right pedigree. Steve hadn’t believed there was anything more than respect and occasional fondness between his parents. Only real love could make his mother this way.

Right?

Steve would rather visit a headstone, but as things were, he planned to get to the hospital today before school. He’d rather have the privacy and quiet of a cemetery. Even better, the Harrington mausoleum. He’d rather the money pumping his father’s heart go into the pockets of caretakers for his mom.

He did have the Hendersons. They were something. Special, even. Capitol citizens were not exactly known for compassion and generosity, but the city had its own economic ecosystem, which included upper, lower, and Avox classes.

The Harringtons were the uppest of the up.

The Hendersons were the building’s managers. Service staff. They kept the floors clean and the mailboxes locked. Claudia Henderson had similarly lost her husband during the war, and her son had been just a baby. A big baby, who now stood ready to intercept Steve in the stairwell.

“Steve, hey! What are you doing later?”

Steve’s shoes screeched to a halt. His father’s shoes. They were too big but shined the way old money should. “Is your mom home?” he blurted. He can’t leave if Claudia isn’t around to make sure his mother doesn’t turn a stove on in some daydream of wifely duty.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s cooking. She wanted to bring something over—Steve.”

He pivots back in the direction of his home. He knows it’s a lie. The Hendersons might have been granted the most meager—still grand by District standards—apartment in the basement, but there was no way they didn’t struggle for money. It was written in the dirt smears on the infernal baseball cap Dustin insisted on wearing over his longish, curly hair. Baseball. What a relic. If he was as smart as his grades claimed, the kid would sell it to an absurd collector, instead of constantly diminishing its value with his sweat.

Steve didn’t say any of this. He had his own relics that he kept close to his soul.

Dustin caught Steve’s shoulders and held him still. “Steve. I promise she’s taken care of.”

The muscles in Steve’s jaw clenched just as quickly as he released it. A nervous tic bestowed from his mother, apparently. He doesn’t knock Dustin’s hands off of him, though. Steve has never considered himself a violent person. Proud, yes. He does, however, wiggle out of Dustin’s reach because he can’t look anything less than a Harrington today. He can’t. He’d ironed his Academy suit jacket with the bottom of the pot he’d just used for breakfast.

Far from ideal, that Dustin knew about his mother. Very, very few people did. Three, in fact: Dustin and Claudia Henderson, and Steve’s only—dare he say—friend, Robin Buckley. She had been an accident, but a blessing he was eager to rendezvous with at school.

Brushing the sleeves of his uniform, he huffed, “Since when has your mom been cooking?”

Dustin smiled, all gums in the front. Shouldn’t a fourteen year old have his teeth already? “Since she got some corn syrup from the closet. Corn syrup, dude! She’s over the moon. Don’t be surprised if she uses your stove. Ours cuts out a lot.”

“Yeah, so does the rest of the city,” Steve sighed, resuming his path down the stairs. There was a reason the elevator was out, and it affected the Henderson’s stove most days. It was a reasonable trade, a steal even: the use of the Harrington kitchen for his mother’s care. The only real pitfall was his mother’s pride. Every so often, Steve caught her realizing who sat talking to her and her matching whiskey eyes found him with more personality than he usually got to witness. Claudia Henderson was a good person, she just had the wrong last name and mannerisms. The Capitol elite like to believe they’re born superior. Really, it’s just whatever a person is taught, but old money can see new money imposters from a mile away.

It angered Steve beyond words that his mother’s pride woke her up better than her son asking for soup. He didn’t voice this to anyone, not even Robin. It was one thing for a son to think ill of his mother, but Steve would never allow anyone else to spit a word towards her.

“What the closet giveth, it taketh away, or whatever. Are you good?”

Closet. Black market. Everyone had their favorite terminology. Robin’s was closet, and Dustin had picked it up.

“Oh shit yeah, it didn’t cost us anything. She was cleaning the place on the third floor, and tripped over a floorboard. She’s been petitioning the city for ages about those floors and ceiling cracks but, well we know how the elevator’s going.”

Steve frowned as they went round and round the staircase. He didn’t particularly miss the elevator. They were almost to the ground floor as he said, “What council do you write to for that?”

“No idea.”

Meaning, there wasn’t one. Or it never wrote back to them. There were too many empty floors in their building. Not enough families to pour money into the place, or to entice the city to take care of its oldest names.

Steve didn’t fault Dustin’s mom for not talking money with him. It might be that very negligence that made Dustin total idiot when it came to tact. That’s where he and Steve…fit. Dustin had the grades, but Steve could read a room. Dustin was far from evil; he just didn’t have the teeth to stop certain things from flying out of his mouth.

Steve listened to him continue as he slipped a hand into his pot-ironed trousers for the mailbox key. “I don’t know why she bothers airing out the empty floors, but she got so pissed at the floorboard, she ripped it right up. I would say that’s pretty awesome, but it was a hiding spot. A couch or something was supposed to hold it down.”

Steve’s father’s dress shoes clipped over the marble and granite floor of the lobby. There used to be a huge, circular red carpet directly below the chandelier. There had been a massive circular, wooden table as well. Steve remembered the bouquets that would stand on it. The vases were big enough for his little kid body to sit inside.

 He took a sharp right from the stairs and slotted his key into the wall of brass mailboxes adjacent to the concierge desk. Nobody stood behind it anymore. “What was the jackpot?”

“Liquor,” Dustin smiled as if he’d been the one to find it. “She got the whole nine, dude: flour, baking soda, vinegar, even the tiniest jar of honey, but she chose the syrup instead of real sugar to get more for the bottles.”

That’s not nine things, Steve wondered to himself. Something tickled his brain, the familiarity of something…

His eyes landed on Dustin’s hat. Nine innings in baseball. And then there was the voice of his father in the back of Steve’s mind, “We played the front nine…the back nine...”

Golf. Steve didn’t remember the rest of the story, but clearly nine was a popular structure in pre-war sporting events.

“What is she making?” he asked as he pulled out a surprise parcel. Usually there was never any mail apart from the rogue envelope. Hospital paperwork, but the important stuff typically arrived with a person. The Harrington name warranted a personal exchange from one pair of hands directly to another’s.

“Uh,” Dustin wavered. This earned Steve’s attention off of the parcel, which he tucked under his arm for a later unwrapping. Dustin shrugged and tried to say casually, even as he peeked around the empty lobby. “She stress cooks. Honestly…she found the bottles weeks ago. She saved them to trade for today.”

Steve pressed his mouth into a consoling line and rubbed the kid’s shoulder. He didn’t have time for compassion, he needed to drop by the hospital and get to school. He was already expected alarmingly early, never mind doting on his parents. There was something cruelly ironic about that too.

Today was July Fourth, the day of the Reaping. On the anniversary of the Capitol winning the war, the twelve districts surrounding the Capitol put their kids, between the ages of twelve and eighteen, on display while two names were plucked from a raffle. One boy and one girl. The collective twenty-four tributes would compete in the Hunger Games, a glorified fight to the death televised across the country. Everyone was taking care of their children for whatever few precious hours they had left, while Steve looked after his parents.

Dustin was wise not to voice his own or his mother’s dislike for the post-war celebrations. It’s also in this moment that Steve realized how Dustin never answered him about what his mother was cooking. Insinuating that it might not be up for sharing. The kid might have some tact, yet.

Steve just knew Nancy was going to give him an ear full at school. Until then, he inhaled deeply, and offered to walk Dustin to school. The kid agreed with the caveat, “I’m going to Will’s place first. His mom saved some stuff from being thrown away. Thrown away! What idiots! One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Will and Jonathan were excited, so it’s probably something to do with music. I hope it’s a stereo, the kind with a radio.”

Nerds, Steve thought benignly.

He walked Dustin halfway, where he split off for the hospital. He really ought to have thought better about the shoes. The hospital had been a last minute decision, but keeping a pair of worn sneakers in his book bag was not. Steve ducked into an alleyway and switched shoes, grateful for the familiar soles and cushion.

He as good as strolled right into the hospital, so familiar were the staff with him. “Good morning, Mr. Harrington,” the lady behind the visitation desk purred almost musically. “Happy Hunger Games.”

“Huh? Yeah,” he returned distractedly. Not like she cared. Hospital staff had seen every flavor and degree of emotion human beings were capable of. Steve’s slip in manners and etiquette would hardly be noticed.

“Go ahead, dear.”

It’s not like there was a line to see his father anymore. People had stopped visiting. His old business colleagues were slowly rotting in luxury or dead. As for his fellow veterans…it was the man’s job to send men to their deaths, not die himself.

Steve entered the hospital suite. It was actually cheaper to house him here than in the Harrington penthouse. The military paid for his medical care. The Harringtons paid for the luxury. To house him in his actual home would make the government and its money recede. Steve preferred him here anyway. He didn’t know if his mom would ever flicker awake if her comatose husband was constantly within line of sight.

It was a joke. All of it. A façade that Steve despised. Hiding the fact that the noble Harringtons were dirt poor, their penthouse a cracked and battered shell from before the war. That Steve was an orphan and next to nobody knew it. That he bought the sneakers on his feet third-hand with the money from a minimum wage job in the shadows of the city where no one knew him. It was Robin’s skill with bleach that made the shoes almost pass the test. They looked new, or just reasonably loved by an athletic student, unless someone saw the worn out spots on the soles. Where the rubber had long since thinned out so only the fabric insoles shielded Steve’s heels now.

Steve pulled up a chair beside his father’s bed. He loathed it here. He visited when things were hard….no, worse. Worse than usual. Steve visited when he needed to be reminded of strength. Or spite. Spite could be a hell of a drug. Nothing lit a fire under Steve’s ass like wanting to get the hell out of a hospital. Away from a corpse.

“Hi, dad, uhm…” he began quietly. The man would hardly hear him alive let alone asleep, but Steve still got up to shut the door anyways. Bad idea. Some heir of a war hero, squeamish and claustrophobic. Steve rerouted from the chair to the windows and threw up the sash. There was a dry breeze today. It helped. The infusion of light made the dim cave feel less like a roomy casket.

Everything was wrong. The room was wrong, smelt wrong. Steve had the man’s true fragrance hidden in the vaults of his memory. He had the actual cologne bottle at home, hidden in a place Claudia Henderson would never find it. Steve rarely sprayed it; the bottle had been half empty already when his father…passed? Still, it was like a weak medicine for pain. Nothing could compare to the real smell of his father’s warmth combining with the cologne and the brushes of his mother’s citrus perfume on his clothes, but it was nice to possess half of the whole. Because the other half lay here, sterilized and waiting to die, officially.

Robert Harrington would never put gray curtains in front of the windows, or cover himself in waffle-knit blankets. He would never allow Steve to walk around with the dirty canvas pencil pouch that he gingerly extracted from his bag. Nor would he allow Steve to fill the empty boot polish tin with water for the branch of lilac he revealed from the pouch. The purple blossoms immediately scented the air, giving Steve a little reprieve.

He set the flowers on the bedside table and began, “The roses are dead. Mom could tend them, but…let’s just say it’s good the lilac comes back every spring. Mom always favored the picky flowers but the lilac makes the whole block know we’re still around. And the wisteria vines are probably all that’s holding the building together.”

A weak smile flashed on his face, but he quickly dashed it against his lap when he looked down. “I’m going to be a mentor,” he said to his knees. He might as well save his energy. Acting took a great deal of energy, and the day would be chock full of fake smiles and conversation.

“For the Games. The Gamemakers are working with the senior class of the academy. I guess…thanks for being an alumni, and for making donations before…My grades aren’t good, but I want to go to school. I want to stand a chance. If my tribute goes far enough in the Game, it should be enough for some sort of scholarship. I…I know neither you nor mom likes borrowing or charity, but I need it.”

Steve looks up, waiting a little while to see if his father’s pride is enough to wake him up. It isn’t.

Steve swallowed thickly. “How did you send someone to die? How did you convince them to do what you ordered? I think I’m the only one who ever told you no. I don’t know how to obey—how can I know what will make a tribute fight? To trust me? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I wouldn’t trust me, either.”

The gentle, beeping machine answers him alongside the rustling tubes pushing air into his father’s lungs. Even if he did speak, his throat has been so dry he might as well be an Avox.

Steve’s head jerks, shoving that thought away, hard. Avoxes were traitors who had their tongues cut out. His father was nothing close to that, and even so, something inside Steve twitched unpleasantly at the notion of making light of the Avoxes.

He needs to go. He’s said his piece and he’s got a long walk to the Academy. Steve tilted his wrist to see his father’s watch there, held on by a leather band. A smart investment, a mechanical thing that did not rely on a battery. Standing up, Steve went to the sink on the wall opposite his father. The patient didn’t have any need for a toilet but the nurses used a sink, so the latter simply attached directly to the wall for easy access. No mirror, though.

Steve looked to see if anyone could possibly be entering the suite, his ears almost picking up the prickle of silence behind the machine noise. From his interior breast pocket, he withdrew a square powder compact. It was a relic in the same way his father’s cologne was, older than the war, perhaps even older than Panem. Plastic compacts were not hard to find, but a metal one…

Vintage, was the word that crossed his mother’s mouth at one point. But as to whether this was hers…one of Steve’s sharpest first memories was a jape made by his father’s colleagues. Not sharp in its clarity, sharp in how it injured him. Steve remembered not understanding the joke, how a man like his father would choose any accessory over his mother. It took a long time for him to figure out that some men saw no difference between women and jewels, and maybe his father had a preference for sapphires instead of diamonds.

Steve had stolen the compact on sight. He never dared to try and figure out whether it belonged to his mother or someone else. All he knew was that it was lovely, and his now. Spite and longing proved an interesting cocktail. What was he to think? His mother had always carried brass compacts with uniform designs pressed into them. They looked like large pocket watches. The shell compact in Steve’s hands stood out in a beautiful, terrifying way.

The square lid was a glimmering sheen of blue, green, and dark silver mother of pearl. The body and interior were sultry yellow brass, protecting a fine, glass mirror as well as an almost seamless little door. Popping the lid of the compact exposed the peachy powder cake, but Steve hadn’t much use for it, usually. But he couldn’t get himself to throw it out, so the door stayed shut, and he checked his hair in the mirror. He made sure his voluminous brown and chestnut tresses arched over his forehead the way he wanted, and that the pieces around his ears curved correctly to frame his face. He used a little brush slotted underneath the powder cake to make sure his expressive brows were combed right.

Maybe he should dab a little of the powder under his eyes…So much of his features came from his father but his enormous doe eyes were his mothers. Like gaping windows he could never keep shut all the way.

He snapped the compact shut without opening the powder. Today was an exciting day. Nobody would be looking at his skin, or the discoloration there. He changed his shoes regardless of the long walk; people needed to see him from a long ways down the avenue called the Corso, and he needed to look the part to perfection.

Steve Harrington, son of Robert and Annette Harrington. The Capitol’s finest and the first mentor to a tribute in District…

Well, he didn’t know yet. The Reaping wasn’t until two o’clock.

[pineapple-coco]

how about before being isekai'ed to NRC mc was a vigilante? like a mix of daredevil and batman or like deadpool and red hood? imagining mc using martial arts or macgyvering unassuming everyday objects into weapons to defeat overblots instead of magic seem cool, the funniest scenario, mc using a wooden spoon, a slipper or even if you watched icarly a butter sock to hit and defeat an opponent would be hilarious, how would the dorm leaders and first years react to this?

So I kinda did this earlier on a Batman and Robin hyperfixation and I think this works, with Robin Yuu.

I'm also sorry that I haven't been writing often, I've kinda lost my Twisted Wonderland interest and been working on other things... might write a Hunger Games fanfic tho.

[ppersonna]

indulgence - jjk | m

love of mine, won't you lay by my side and rest your weary eyes before we're out of time? give me one last kiss for soon such distance will stretch between our lips - as much as i ever could, city and colour

↳ summary- Sometimes your boyfriend Jungkook reminds you how much you love him by doing absolutely nothing at all.

↳ rating- explicit / 18+

↳ word count- 3.8k

↳ pairing- jungkook x reader

↳ genre- fluffy smut, smutty fluff, whatever you wanna call it. its got fluff and smut, established relationship

↳ warnings- oral sex (m receiving), penetrative sex, real hot love making, squirting? sure, unprotected sex (condoms are cool use them)

↳ a/n- lindy is in her feels apparently because this was supposed to be hot and kinky and i just made it real romantic but whatever dskgjkg. thanks to @sugarly-laysa​ for requesting jk smut i hope this is good for you, booboo  ily all thanks for reading!! feel free to come chat with me, request smth, tell me how your day is, etc etc etc.  enjoy cute babie jk being cute.

You’re not sure why the universe decided you are lucky enough to be the one to love Jeon Jungkook, but as you trudge into your apartment after an inexplicably horrific day at work, you realize you should thank your lucky stars for aligning just right to make him yours.

Jungkook doesn’t realize you’re home.  He’s too distracted at the sink, hands soapy as he scrubs at the dishes from the day.  He’s wearing those jeans you love, the ones that fit him tightly and show off his perfectly shaped ass and toned thighs.  He’s singing off key to his own songs, hips rolling in a minute version of his carefully practiced choreography.  He performs for the dishes only, unaware of the audience of one in the doorway.  

A smile that hasn’t broken through the cloud of despair all day makes its way on to your lips without you even noticing.

Jungkook is like the lighthouse in the storm.  He guides you home and keeps you safe from crashing and burning. His presence brings you safe harbor and you find yourself able to be at peace no matter what, as long as he’s there keeping his light on for you.

You don’t announce your presence.  You’re unwilling to end his show too early.  He continues scrubbing at pots, often flinging his watery hands around the room as he continues to dance like he’s performing at Seoul Olympic Stadium all over again.  Although his movements are jerky and unrefined now in his multitasking and his singing is definitely a pitch or two off, he pours his heart into the private performance.  

It makes your heart clench.  You love how much he loves his career, his life.  He’s grown up in it—it's the only world he knows and yet it still hasn’t tainted him.  He grew into a man capable of so much more than just singing and dancing, and you loved watching him blossom with every passing year.

Jungkook has clearly taken care to clean the entire house today.  You hadn’t asked him, and truthfully you never needed to.  He was as good of a partner as you could get.  He never felt you should be responsible for household tasks.  He took care of his own things, like a grown man should.  He adored it when you helped, washed his clothes for him or cleaned up his mess after a night of gaming, but whatever you gave to him, he did back for you plus some.

As you lean against the wall, staring at the love of your life popstar boyfriend pretending to be a popstar, wooden spoon as microphone and all, you recognize you’re the luckiest girl in Korea.  Maybe even the world.

Jungkook is pirouetting around as he hits his high notes of ‘ON’ and shakily ends his solo in a deep lunge.  It breaks you from your silent role, a laugh finally making its way out and he snaps his eyes open and blushes.

“Hi,” he says sheepishly.  He holds the spoon in both clasped hands, as if to signify he totally wasn’t just singing into it like a microphone.

“Hi,” you reply.  Your coat and shoes come off, bag hung on the hook, and you make your way to him. 

“You washed the dishes,” you state as you approach.  He looks confused for a moment.

“Yeah, I made lunch earlier so I wanted to get them cleaned up.”  His confusion is apparent, unable to decipher the look in your eyes.

You’re staring at him with heat, an undeniable hunger.  The fact that Jeon Jungkook is yours and is in your kitchen doing his own dishes hits you hard.  It soaks you to the core.  Maybe it’s the domestic side of you, but you’re absolutely salivating at the thought he cleaned the kitchen and his mess with no problem.  He didn’t even do it to impress you, he just did it.  And you’re aching for him.

You’re slowly lowering yourself to your knees and Jungkook’s eyes widen.

“Wh-what are you doing? You just got home from work.” 

“I’m going to suck your cock.”  Your words are simple, and it makes him shiver.

“But why?”  The bulge in his pants grows regardless of his suspicion.

Your hands make their way up his solid thighs, muscles rippling under your favorite pair of jeans he owns, until they land at his button and fly.

“Because I really, really, really want to suck your cock until you cum down my throat.  Then I might do it again.”

He stifles a groan and nearly drops the wooden makeshift microphone from his grip.  

“Not that I’m complainin-ahhh...” he gasps as you pull his pants and underwear down to his knees and his cock springs free. “Shit—I mean I’m down but is there a reason?”

Your hands rub at his thighs once more and you smile sweetly at him.  

“Because I am in love with you.”

Jungkook is still confused. You know he wants to ask more, but your hand grips his length and all questions fly out of his mind as fast as they enter. 

“Okaaayy,” he sighs.  

He wants to tip his head back in bliss as you pump your hand, but he also wants to maintain eye contact with you.  How can he not? You’re gazing up at him as if he’s the one responsible for putting all the stars in the sky—like he lit every single one of them for you.  The intensity is intoxicating to both of you.

You can’t move your eyes away from him.  They trace over the lines of his face, the smoothness of his skin, the way his hair falls onto his forehead with just the perfect swoop.  You’re seeing him through fresh eyes for a moment, and it feels like you’re drunk.

“I love you,” you murmur as your lips move closer to him.  Jungkook sighs and lets his eyes close for a moment.  He can feel the heat of your breath on his tip, you’re sure of that, and as much fun as it is to tease him you can’t bring yourself to do it tonight when you’re so desperate to make him feel good.

“I love you too,” he coos. “Especially when you come home and wanna blow me immediately.”  He grins cheekily as he opens his eyes back up and looks at you.  Jungkook can’t stay serious in a situation to save his life.  Leave it to him to still try to make you smile when you’re about to milk his cock dry with your mouth.

“I should do it more often,” you assess as your tongue flicks out at the head.  You let it rub gently at the slit at the top where moisture has accumulated.  It tastes salty, it tastes like him.  

“You should?” He questions with a hiss at the feel of you.  “I mean, yeah, you should.”  He corrects himself and bites his lip.  Your tongue is still laving at the surface of his head, a sweet torture that makes his knees feel weak. 

“You did the dishes,” you repeat as your tongue now slides down his shaft.  It follows down the underside, the vein guiding you towards his pelvis and down to his balls.  You allow yourself to spend some time there, licking and sucking at them lightly.

“Oh f-fuck,” he gasps. “If this is what I get for doing the dishes, I’ll do them m-more.”  

You hum in reply as you suction them into your mouth and swirl them gently.  Your hand remains on his thick length, gently pumping and caressing him to keep him stimulated.  You can tell he’s losing his mind.  He’s been caught off guard and is now getting his cock worshipped by you.  You’re still in your work clothes—oxford shirt and tight skirt.  It makes Jungkook even harder, if that is possible.  He likes the idea that you literally couldn’t wait another second to get his dick in your hot little mouth.

You release him from your mouth and he moans at the feeling of the air on the moistened skin.  

“Fuck,” he whines. “You’re so hot.”

You smile up at him again as you kiss his length, punctuating each spot on his dick with a press of your lips. You trail back up to the head where he’s leaked more pre-cum, and you waste no time in wrapping your lips around the tip and suckling lightly.

“Shit!” He yelps at the sudden pleasure.  “Oh, my god.”

He’s going to lose the ability to speak coherently, you both know it.  He can last until you’re taking him into your throat, then he may as well be speaking a foreign language.  You never understand what he’s saying except the occasional gasp of your name.  You can’t wait until he gets there tonight.  You love sucking him stupid.

Your mouth accepts more of him in, tongue lapping at any surface it can as you pull him in deeper to your mouth.  He’s sighing his ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s like a proper gentleman, and one soapy hand comes to rest at your hair.  He gently pushes back any bangs or stray sections of hair that threaten to impede your pursuit.  He holds your hair back gently and watches you close.

Doe's eyes look back at him and soon you’ve got him buried inside you.  Tip to the back of your throat, your nose buried in the light splatters of hair at his base.  He is whimpering now, can’t believe a few minutes ago he was washing the dishes and now he’s balls deep in your throat.  

“Babe, oh my god,” he’s trying hard not to stutter.  He feels like he could cum, but he wants more.  He begs his body to behave, to let you have your way with him.  “S-so good.”

It pleases you; the approval rolling over your body like fine silk.  His voice is shaky and getting close to the sexy, fucked out sound that has you dripping.  

You allow him to rest inside your throat for a moment, swallowing around him to allow him the feel of the tightness, before you’re pulling away and starting a pace of bobbing your head up and down on him.  You never let your eyes leave his.  Even when he’s closing them in pleasure, you maintain constant contact with his.

He looks back down at you and feels his body quake.  You look incredible, still all dressed up and made up, red lips wrapped around his cock and bobbing a pace that gets him closer to the edge than he’d like to admit.  

His cock feels heavy on your tongue and it’s exhilarating.  You almost wish you could be attached to his cock at all times, sucking him until he’s had his fill for a few moments, then returning to the action.  You kick yourself for all the times you’ve not been sucking his dick.

Your hand joins in to assist your plight, fist gripping the areas of his cock you cannot reach with your mouth alone and pumping in time with your head bobs.  His cock quickly slicks up with your saliva and it’s easy to stroke him with the lubrication.

“Ohhhhh, fuuuu-,” he whines.  You smile at yourself.  You’ve made it.  You’re at the place where Jungkook forgets his native language and begins speaking a new one that only he is capable of translating.  He groans out unintelligible syllables, and it makes you go even faster knowing he’s past the point of no return.  

“Be-,..” he gasps. “Bayb-... Gonna cum.”  He warns.  His thighs are quivering and you allow the hand that isn’t stroking his perfect cock to completion to rest on one solid muscle, hoping it will help still the seizing in his legs.   You don’t slow down, don’t stop for a single second as you know he’s so near the edge.

You can tell by his facial expressions when he’s about to hit his high.  His moans go from loud and echoing around the room to silent, mouth agape in noiseless rapture.  His eyes close tight and his body tenses.  If he was naked, like he normally is when you’re doing this, you would see his abs tense so hard that a defined six-pack is on display like a little reward for sucking his dick so well.  His neck veins become more prominent and you can tell that with just a few more sucks, a little lick here and a nice hard pump there,

He’s cumming.  You feel the heat of his seed spill into your mouth and you slow your motions but don’t stop, never stop, as you coax as much of him out as you can.  His silence is broken as he groans in time with each pulse of his cock.

It’s a few seconds later when he comes back to reality, when he’s restored with the ability to speak a language you both know.

You pull away from him only when you feel his cock weaken, soften, inside of your mouth.  You release him and give him a show of your open mouth and hot white cum loaded on your tongue.  Like you want to savor each drop, not let a single drip go uncherished. It’s a fine dessert, you want to appreciate the flavor forever.

The act makes Jungkook groan.

“What the fuck,” he pants.  “That was so fucking good.”

You smile and close your mouth, allowing the pooled liquid to slide down your tongue.  For the first time that night, you allow yourself to close your eyes and relish.  It’s a familiar taste, the flavor of Jeon Jungkook that is incredibly addictive.  It tastes like home.  It tastes like love.  A high rushes through your veins, more powerful than any drug, of that you’re certain.  You feel drunk and euphoric.

He notices this and smiles at you.  His cock is still out, hanging out of his jeans awkwardly, but neither of you care.  He cups a hand on the side of your face and lets his thumb stroke your cheek gently.  

“You’re so good to me,” he whispers.  You open your eyes now, level them to look at the man above you.  He holds your face delicately and the penetrating stare he returns is adoring.  You are his prized possession—in his eyes you are appraised higher than any of the glittering gold awards lining your shelves.  

“I love you,” he states.  “Not just because you sucked the life out of me.”

There it is again, his cheeky jesting that captured you in the first place.  You slip a laugh from your lips as your hands unbutton your top.  You’re staring at each other and intention is written in the gaze.  He never wavers from your watch.  He doesn’t move his glance elsewhere as your top falls to the floor and your bra soon joins it.  He’s maintaining his firm sight as you slip the skirt off.  

Jungkook pushes the jeans to the floor and steps out of them.  There’s no talking, no dialogue.  No dirty talk, no kinky banter.  His plain shirt joins the rest of the discarded clothing items and he stalks to you and lays you down on the hardwood floor of your kitchen. 

It’s so heated, the surrounding energy, that it warms your skin in the otherwise cool air.  Jungkook radiates so much it’s palpable.  He presses his lips to yours and kisses you deeply, tongue immediately sliding inside as he’s desperate to taste himself on you, to solidify the notion you are his and he is inside you, both physically and metaphorically.  

His hand runs down your body as you kiss and suck at each other's lips.  It’s like kissing him for the first time all over again the way your body reacts.  Your veins feel as if they’ve been dipped into lava, it boils through your entire body and threatens to melt your core.  His fingers rub at your breasts for a moment.  He’d ordinarily spend time on them, but tonight is different.  Tonight there is one mission between the two of you, and that is to have him buried inside your tiny cunt as soon as he can.

The hand slips further. It caresses the smooth skin of your stomach and slowly sweeps down to your core where he feels the full extent of your love, of your arousal.  You’re drenched and have been since you first spotted him with his hands deep in soapy water and his own lyrics belting out of his mouth.   He doesn’t bother with foreplay—there’s no need tonight.  He’s sure he’ll be able to slip inside you with ease.  He allows a finger to run over your clit and gather up wetness there, before he drags it up and pulls away from your lips to lick your taste into his mouth.  It’s only fair he has you inside as you do him.  

The act has you gasping for air, lungs feeling as if you’re breathing underwater.  

He lines his cock up easily, finding it as if it’s magnetized to point to the true north of your center.  

His lips press against yours again as he pushes into you.  The stretch burns, matching the burning of the blood and the heat on your skin.  The feeling of him stretching you and filling you make you feel whole and complete.  You love the way his head nudges at your cervix, the way it kisses the tip with each thrust.

Jungkook sighs happily as he sinks in to the hilt.  You’re replying with your own assortment of moans and praises, kissing his lips hungrily as he starts movement between your hips.  His pace is slow and gentle.  He pulls out nearly all the way before he spears himself in again. He keeps his eyes on yours, watches the way your plump lips still covered in red lipstick opens and closes in awe and in fulfillment.  You’re boring into his own gaze, attempting to convey just how right he feels, how you’ve never felt an intense love-making as the one you’re engaged in now on the hardwood of your kitchen. 

You’re tight around him and he’s sure he’s close to the edge again.  He feels your channel tighten with each thrust in and it encourages him to ever so gently increase his speed until the sound of skin slapping is timing out a pace like a metronome.  He indulges in the feeling of your silken walls and the way it slicks up his cock and pulls him back in tight, desperately.

He lets a hand run back down you, meets your joined centers at the hood of your clit where he rubs circles around the nub.  It hits you hard as he murmurs his love and affection for you.  He whispers his devotion to you, to your body and soul, to your cunt.  He tells you he never wants to pull out of you, wishes he could bury himself inside the wet heat of your pussy for eternity. He’s never felt like this before, and he lets you know with each thrust of his hips, each roll of your clit around his finger.  

Your orgasm is approaching, you feel it not just in your core but nearly to your very bones.  It’s slithering its way up and wraps around your body, threatening to take over at any moment's notice.  You notice your words have run dry, that the sounds leaving you are as unintelligible as his and you realize you’re not so different.  He’s fucking you stupid and you feel it. 

“C-cumming!” You whine as your thighs tighten.  He powers through and continues his motions. 

“Cum for me,” he whispers.  “Cum, my love.  I love making you cum.”  

He doesn’t want to be dirty, doesn’t want to make you think of whips or chains that are fun on other nights right now.  He wants you to think of him.  Only him and the way the simple act of him being inside you and loving you has you coming completely undone.  You need no more, your body listens to Jungkook’s coaxing and releases you completely.  It hits like a hurricane and makes your body shake.  You feel wetness flooding your legs and if you were conscious enough, you’d recognize you’re quite literally squirting, but all you can feel is hot, white, deeply rooted pleasure that has you screaming and your body singing.  

Jungkook loses it as you soak his cock.  His body reacts to the knowledge he just made you squirt all over his dick from his slow and methodical pace, and he’s losing himself inside you.  His cock pulses with the intensity of his orgasm, as if it hadn’t just been given one earlier that rocked him entirely.  He pumps himself into you and stills as he feels himself finally stop filling you.  He doesn’t leave, still desires the ability to remain inside you all day, every day.

He kisses you again.  You’re panting and slick and wet and realizing now that you’ve just creamed yourself and your boyfriend on the floor of your kitchen, but when he kisses you, it doesn’t matter.  You don’t care as he presses his chest into yours and kisses you so hard he forgets to breathe, forgets he needs anything at all other than you. His body reminds him of his mortality and he pulls away, cum slicked hand coming up to move your sweaty hair from your face.

There’s no talking. There isn’t a need. You exchange enough between each other with the passion in your eyes and the softness in your grasp.

He holds you like he’s afraid to lose you and he lays himself down on the floor beside you, cock still resting inside your warmth.  He strokes his hand through your hair and down your back and over the hills and valleys of your curves. He sketches into your skin his love by the graze of his fingers and sucks your lips to his to embrace you fully.  He loves you.  You love him.  You both have never felt a love like this, one that encompasses you completely and shelters you from anything else.

Jungkook, always unable to maintain a sense of decorum, idly thinks he should wash the dishes more often.

© ppersonna - 2020 - do not repost on any site, or translate without express permission from author.

[seasonsofeverlark]

Love Light

Author: @rosegardeninwinter​

Prompt: Christmas baking! [submitted by anonymous]

Rating: T for some subtly implied married shenanigans 

Summary: Katniss, Peeta, and Prim do some snowy day baking. The fourth installment in the Snowstorm Universe, approximately two months after Hearthsong (and, though the characters don’t know this, in my mind it is set on Christmas day). You don’t need to have read the Snowstorm Universe to get the basics of this AU, which are that Prim won the 74th Games, and Peeta and Katniss fell in love, courted, and are now married. 

Author’s Note: Special thank you to @captainseaweedbrains​ who acted as my lovely beta on this sugary fluff-fest! Enjoy!  Word Count: ~ 1500 words

____________

The heat from the wood stove makes the windows fog, blurring the pale violet dawn behind our curtains, as my lips trail back up my husband’s body to make a home against his throat, feeling his pulse coming down from its rapid peak. 

“Good morning,” I say innocently, tapping my fingers in a meaningless pitter-patter against his chest. 

Peeta exhales a raspberry. “It is now.” 

I laugh. Nip at his neck and get a gentle swat on my hip for my trouble. “Give me a second and I’ll return the favor,” he says, but I yawn and shake my head. 

“Later,” I say. “I was promised gingerbread last night.” 

“That you were,” he says, a bit dazedly, “and you’ll have it.” 

I sigh and tuck my nose against his neck, breathing in his scent. His fingers lightly trace my arm, resting across his chest in a loose embrace. It’s not usual for us to stay in bed like this. Most days, I’m up and out running errands for my mother, or helping Prim make charity baskets for the people who will accept her generosity. Peeta frosts the cakes for his father’s bakery, and makes cookies to go in the baskets. Prim’s winnings mean neither of us have to work, but it’s not in my nature to be idle. Making the charity baskets is the least I can do to help those less well off than we are. 

“Okay, woman,” Peeta says at last. “You’ll have to let me up if you want that gingerbread.” 

“Hmm,” I say, nestling my nose further into his neck. I smile against his skin, then kiss his shoulder. “If you insist.” 

“I didn’t,” he laughs, but swings himself out of our bed anyway. He pulls on his pajama pants and shimmies into a sweater. I bite my lip, admiring his broad shoulders and back, before they disappear behind the thick fabric. He gets a match from atop the stove to light the lone candles in each of our two windowsills. 

“You’re sure I can’t open a window?” he asks, hand already on the latch. “It’s burning up in here.” 

This is one of those compromises and arguments we’ve had to resolve as we get used to living as a couple. Peeta, having grown up sharing one room with his brothers, wants to leave the windows open, even in winter. I spent the early years of my life stopping the cracks in our windows up with old gloves and bits from the rag bag, and I hate the cold. But I’m cozy with his residual heat trapped under our quilt, so I nod. 

Peeta pops the latch and opens the window a sliver. The curtains and the candle flame flicker in a breeze, but the candle doesn’t go out. My husband peers onto the street below. 

“It’s snowing,” he says as he comes back to the bedside. “I bet it started last night. It’s like someone dropped a bag of sugar over everything. Come with me,” he adds. “I bake much better when I have company.” 

I smile and prop myself up on my elbows to receive a quick peck on my lips and promise that I’ll join him in a minute. He leaves. His footsteps, never very quiet, thunk down the stairs and I smirk as I stretch my arms above my head, curl my toes. I could go back to dozing, but I won’t pretend I don’t like to sit and watch my husband work. I get up, wash my face, and braid my hair down my back. The stockings my mother made for my wedding go up to my knees, and a warm shawl goes over my shoulders. I shut the door to our room behind me and let my hand trail the bannister as I tiptoe downstairs. Chances are, my mother isn’t awake. She has the most patients in December and January, when illness and hunger are their worst. She needs her rest. 

There is a soft conversation coming from the kitchen. I pause in the doorway, leaning against the green trim. My sister bends over a handwritten recipe book as Peeta sets out his baking supplies: bowls, measuring cups, spoons. My heart warms at the sight, as it always does. The cold season isn’t easy on Prim. The end of the year brings the Victory Tour to our district. For Prim, that means bad memories and nightmares. Peeta knows about them. The last time she couldn’t sleep, it was my husband who discovered her crying in the living room when he got up at four in the morning to put on a starter for bread. She’d fallen back asleep against his shoulder on the couch, and I’d fallen more in love with him than I thought was possible when I found them later. Peeta fits so perfectly into our home, I don’t know how we managed before him.

“Ooh, ‘cinnamon pull-apart bread,’” Prim is saying, tapping the page with her metal finger. “That sounds amazing.” 

“It is,” Peeta agrees. “Even better with apples, when we could get them. We could make it tomorrow if you want. How much white vinegar for the gingerbread?” 

Prim flips forward a few pages. “Um — two tablespoons.” She looks up at me. “Good morning.” 

I wrap my arm around her as I come over to see the recipe book. “How can I help?” I ask. 

“Ask your baker,” Prim laughs. “I only know I’m on kettle duty.” She nods to where the kettle is hung over the hearth, warming up. 

“Katniss, if you’ll take these.” Peeta sets three glass jars marked “syrup” “apple mash” and “molasses” in front of me, along with a wooden bowl and stirring spoon. He kisses my temple. “I can handle the spices and flour.” 

The three of us set to work in the quiet, cozy morning. The only sounds are those of opening jars, stirring spoons, the fire cracking, and Prim reading measurements to us. The sun continues to rise, and snow continues to float down under a pale purple sky. 

I bring the jar of molasses up to my nose and breathe in the heady scent. It’s only thanks to Prim that we can afford such expensive things, and we try not to use them often for ourselves, but today I add an extra splash of maple syrup to the wet ingredients in my bowl. I hear my husband groan when he sees me do it. 

“It’s the Everdeen sweet tooth,” Prim laughs, going to fetch the whistling kettle and add the hot water to my mix. “Can’t be helped. Especially not with three of us in the house.” 

“Apparently not,” Peeta says, grinning. 

I hop up to sit on the counter as he takes my bowl and slowly stirs in the dry ingredients, making a thin, brown batter. We haven’t even put it in the oven yet and it smells good enough to just drink up. 

“Almost done,” Peeta says, picking up a measuring spoon and smiling like he’s a little boy again. “This is Granny’s recipe, so there’s one last thing.” 

“What’s that?” 

Peeta twirls the spoon between his fingers thoughtfully. “She always said to add one spoonful of being grateful, even if there wasn’t much to be grateful for.” He goes pink around the nose and ears. “I mean, we don’t have to,” he says. “It was just something we did as kids.” 

“No,” I say. “I — I think that’s a beautiful idea, Peeta.” It sounds like something my father would do, something Peeta would teach our children, if we lived in a world safe enough to have them. 

He gives me a look glowing with what my father would call love light, and strokes my stockinged leg. “Thank you,” he says. “I can start.” He pretends to scoop something out of the air. “One spoonful … for sunrises.” 

Then it’s Prim’s turn. She holds the spoon up in the candlelight, the glimmer reflecting on the shiny surface, and smiles. “One spoonful … for a warm fire.” 

I don’t know what I want to say. I have an abundance of things to be grateful for, in spite of where we live. I have a roof over my head and warm clothes. I have gingerbread and stockings, violet sunrises and snowfall — and I have hope. I’m not even sure of what, but with my husband and my sister beside me, I have it all the same. 

“One spoonful … for having spoonfuls, ” I say, and I trust they understand what I mean. 

I don’t know if the spoonfuls of being grateful do anything to make the batter taste better, but I wouldn’t put it past Jenny Ann Mellark. And when, an hour or so later, I’m laughing as her grandson kisses sticky gingerbread crumbs from my fingers, while my sister giggles and pretends to hide from us behind her mug of warm milk, I decide I’m pretty sure they do. 

[somedayonbroadway]

Room

Chapter 2

Room Maserlist

TW: Implied rape/non-con (Nothing shown)

Tyler yawned when he heard familiar beeping. There were always six of them before something buzzed above him and a soft scraping noise signaled the opening of the metal door into space. Spider lived in space. He wasn't an alien, but he could live out there. Jack didn't like Spider even though Spider brought them Sunday Treat by magic. Tyler didn't really know him. He was never allowed to speak to the man.

"Hey… I brought jeans," the old man said. He was always loud. Daddy didn't answer. "Got you canned peaches. And no, I'm not wasting my money on any breakfast meat. You don't need it…" Still, Daddy remained silent.

Tyler let out a breath as he slowly sat up, tracing the broken board of Wardrobe that let him see into Room at night. He could see Spider set down a bag of groceries as he laughed, looking down at the table. "What is that? A birthday cake?" Spider took a fork and took a bite out of what was left. "That's why you asked for flour instead of new socks… you're such an idiot," the man laughed, almost playfully. "How old is the little guy now? Four?"

"Five," Tyler whispered, knowing the man wouldn't hear him. He watched the old man step out of his pants and walk closer to his daddy. "I'm five…" Daddy didn't correct the man. In fact, Daddy didn't say a single thing.

"You should've told me. I would've gotten him a present." The words made Race curious. He tried to peer out, but he wasn't allowed to open Wardrobe when Spider was in Room. Daddy wouldn't be happy with him if he did.

It was not the first time Race had seen this happen. Daddy had drawn little ticks on the wall above him. Race was supposed to count them when he woke up in the night and heard the squeaking coming from Bed.

So that's exactly what he did.

"One… two… three… four…"

It was easy to count those marks. There were at least a hundred of them. So Race often let his mind wander while he counted, not liking the sound of that creak that always seemed to happen when Spider came into Room.

He thought about Room. There was Room and then outer space where all of the TV planets were. Then there was heaven. It's where he was before Room. He couldn't remember it. Daddy said that it was another life, one where he was free and happy. Race never understood that. He was happy here, with his daddy, in Room.

One day, he promised his daddy that he would take them to the TV planets. He thought Daddy might be happy if he saw the TV planets. He knew his daddy wasn't happy here. He just pretended because Room was all that was here and the aliens couldn't hear them when they called. But one day, Race was going to change that.

The TV persons weren't real, they were flat and made with shapes and lights and colors, but the aliens that made them were. Plant was real but trees weren't and forests and oceans were much too big to fit anywhere. Spiders were real though and not Spider the old man but the bugs. And one time a mosquito had sucked Race's blood. Cats and dogs weren't real though. Well, except for Hammer. He was Tyler's puppy that was going to come for them as soon as he could hear them from space.

But for now, he was in Room. And he was with Daddy. And he was just fine with that.

Jack stared straight up at the ceiling. He breathed evenly as the man beside him held a strong arm around his bare waist. He stared up at the sound tiles that made up the ceiling and tried to forget that he could feel Spider's breath on his neck. All he could do was wait, counting the second until the old man finally left him alone.

It had been nine hundred and seventy six second since he'd started counting. He didn't stop. It helped him lose focus on the things his mind would tend to wander to when things were quiet and he was alone and he didn't have a five year old to focus on. He didn't like where his mind went at night, but he couldn't get himself to sleep. Not when Spider was here, making him feel like another object in Room, like he only served a single purpose.

Maybe he did.

He kept counting, forcing himself to continue breathing normally. Spider wouldn't sleep in Room. Not for much longer, anyway. Soon enough he would go back into space. Then he'd come back tomorrow night and the horrible cycle would begin again.

Nothing was going to change now. It was useless to dream. It was useless to imagine what might have been had things been different, where he could have been had there been a single thing he'd done differently on one particular day of his life that had seemed just like any other. This is where he was. This is what the universe had chosen for him.

Room was the whole world. There was nothing else out there.

Not for him.

When Spider finally left, Jack swallowed the lump that always seemed to make itself known in the back of his throat. He waited until the big metal door was shut again before he pulled his pajama pants back on and carefully shuffled his way over to Wardrobe. He let out a breath as he opened the doors of the thing to find a little boy sleeping. He expertly scooped the child up in his arms, careful not to wake him as he whisked him back to Bed and lay him down, cuddling up against him as he pulled the single blanket he had over the both of them.

Tyler stirred only a little as Jack shushed him.

Jack pressed his head into the boy's small shoulder and let his eyes close, allowing himself to drift off into oblivion with his baby in his arms.

The next day began just as the last one had. Quiet. Nearly silent.

It was just a little bit harder for Jack to get out of bed.

Running low on cereal, Jack knew that they had to have a small breakfast and he begrudgingly cut up an apple, using a knife with its tip broken off, barely sharp enough to cut through the fruit. He didn't care. His wrist throbbed but he ignored it, sniffling and rubbing at his exhaustion stung eyes as he continued on, eventually handing his son, who was banging on the bottom of a small bucket in the bathtub, half of the small thing without a word.

Quietly, the child put down his wooden spoon and accepted the food, taking a bite of it immediately. He watched Daddy curiously, wondering if this would be one of the days that he didn't speak at all before he saw the man wince.

A pain spread throughout the back of Jack's mouth. He felt something come loose and he placed a hand over his mouth as he began to try and assess what had just happened. After a moment he reached inside his mouth and tugged on the tooth that had been bothering him for weeks.

It came out without any more trouble.

Tyler's eyes widened. "What is it?" he asked, not understanding at all what had happened.

As Jack inspected the small thing, he sighed. "It's a bad tooth." The small molar that was supposed to be white had a black hole in it and Jack could taste a little bit of blood where he'd just pulled it out. Emotionlessly, he held the thing down towards his son who was ever so inquisitive and let the boy's wide blue eyes linger.

"Can I hold it?" Squinting a little bit, Jack bent down to hand the child the blackened tooth and he watched the boy gaze in awe. "Whoa…"

Jack smiled for only a second before it was gone again and he looked back down at the apple on the counter. His stomach was tight with hunger but he didn't want to eat. For a long while, he just stared at the fruit like it had betrayed him somehow before his mind wandered back to what would happen that night. He put his head in his hands and rested his elbows on the counter.

His head hurt. He was exhausted and he didn't want to be awake. So he set the apple back in the fridge and wandered back over to the bed, curling in on himself as he pulled the blanket up and closed his eyes.

Today was just one of those days.

Still fascinated by the tooth, Race only knew Daddy had walked away because he heard Bed squeak. He looked over to find that Daddy's face was covered by Blanket. Race knew right then that it was going to be a gone day.

On gone days, Race would read. Daddy said he was still learning, but he was a really good reader. Only, Race didn't want to read right now. He wanted to play. He wanted Daddy to dance with him and run around Room with him. He wished his daddy would smile. He loved hearing Daddy laugh.

But he knew that he had to be quiet now. So he climbed out of Tub and wandered over to Egg-Snake, fiddling with him instead of running around and making noise. Egg-Snake was his best friend. He was the best at hiding from Daddy. Sometimes they'd play hide and seek when Daddy was happy. And when Daddy found Egg-Snake, he would pick Race up and hand Egg-Snake back to him with a smile and say "Nice try, Tyler James." Sometimes he'd get sad and say that there was nowhere to hide in Room. Tyler just thought he liked playing games and he wanted to be able to play himself, but he didn't know why.

Daddy was really good at finding things.

So lost in thought, Tyler didn't even notice that hours had passed him by. Rather than continuing to rattle Egg-Snake or bang on buckets, the little boy found himself picking at the loose edges of Rug after getting bored of staring at pages of his book that he couldn't get himself to read. That is, until he heard a squeaking noise.

It wasn't like the squeak that Bed made at night or the one Wardrobe made before he slept. It was much softer and much faster than that. So those big blue eyes peered up from Rug. That's when Race saw it.

He'd seen one once, in a movie, he thought. It was so small and such a soft looking grey color. It was eating a crumb of bread from the birthday cake. Spider must have dropped some of it last night. Daddy never left crumbs on the floor before they went to bed.

Fearing the small creature might be hungry, Race stood silently, reaching for the plate that still held their birthday cake, carefully taking a fist full of crumbs and letting them fall into a pile on the floor before he scurried away quietly. He lay on his tummy on the ground, not wanting to scare his new friend away. He believed the animal's name was Mouse. Mouse looked at him. Tyler could see every breath the animal took as it hesitantly crept forward towards the cake crumbs.

He'd never seen a real live Mouse before. He hadn't thought they were real. They were supposed to be made up, just like cats and dogs and dragons. Daddy had said that bugs could get into Room because they could fly, but Mouse couldn't fly.

The tiny thing began to nibble on the small peace offering as Race's mouth opened, creating the shape of a perfect circle as he gazed up at the creature in pure amazement. He crawled closer to it, watching it for another moment longer before he carefully and gently reached towards it, his hands cupped so he might carry it.

He flinched when something flew past him, hitting Mouse dead on. Race gasped and scrambled back, glancing up to see his daddy walking with purpose towards the crumbs to see if he'd hit Mouse. "Hey!" Race cried.

Jack sighed, grabbing the book he'd thrown from the floor and making sure the rat was gone. He tossed what was left of The Bible back onto his bed and kneeled down, trying to figure out where the thing came from, but he couldn't find any visible hole. Maybe if the rodent had gotten in, there was a weakness in the wall somewhere. Somewhere their noise could be made louder.

"Mouse wasn't doin' nothin'! He was bein' quiet!"

"It would've eaten our food," Jack stated, nearly monotone as he still found nothing. Sometimes he wished he would just turn to metal.

Tyler pouted, stomping over to his daddy and glaring up at him. "I gave him some food! He was hungry!"

"That thing's filled with diseases. It would've bitten us in our sleep." Race lightly hit Jack's leg at the words, letting him know that he didn't believe that.

"You killed him!"

Jack let out an irritated breath. "No, I didn't," he assured, running a hand through his hair. It was down to his chin now. He hated how long it was. He tried to ignore the fact that it immediately fell back in his face as he began to pick the crumbs up off the floor. "Mouse is just fine in the backyard with his family."

"The backyard?" It wasn't until Race asked that question that Jack realized his mistake. The young man paused for a moment, glancing down at his son. "Mouse lives in a backyard like in TV? Does he live on a TV planet?"

Biting back a frustrated groan, Jack shook his head, reaching over for the stupid book he'd thrown back onto the bed. "Here… why don't you go draw a dinosaur 'r somethin'," he suggested, trying to change the subject as quickly and calmly as he could.

A small sigh escaped the child and he looked at the torn up Bible for a moment, almost doing as he was told. But he paused. "Why didn't you tell Spider it was my birthday?"

Biting his lip, Jack stood, fighting back the only feelings he ever seemed to have anymore. Anger and despair. "Tyler," he warned, really not wanting to have this discussion again. "You're supposed ta be asleep when Spider comes."

"He said he would bring me a present!" Tyler whined. "I've never had a present…" he wondered.

Jack knew that his son hadn't meant those words to be so hurtful to him, but that didn't mean they didn't hurt more than anything. "He was lyin', Race. Spider ain't our friend," Jack said, throwing away the crumbs and dragging his feet back over to his bed.

The child stood up fast, watching Jack nearly collapse on the bed, wanting to just let the world swallow him whole. "It coulda been my puppy!"

"We can't have a puppy, Tyler. There's not enough room— space," Jack corrected himself, sitting back up and rubbing at his eyes again and not looking back at his little boy. "We don't have enough space n' I can't handle the scratching n' the biting an' the barking—"

"Hammer promises he won't—"

"There is no Hammer!" Jack argued, his head pounding. He'd kill for some pain killers right now.

Stomping his foot, Tyler screamed, "Yes there is!"

"No, he's not! You made him up in your head! He's not real!"

The words came out much harsher than Jack had meant them to. He froze, finally letting his gaze trail back down to his son. His heart tore apart at what he saw.

Tyler's bottom lip trembled as his big blue eyes welled up with tears. The child's shoulders slumped a little as he turned away. Jack melted. "No… no, baby, I'm sorry…" he tried, getting up and quickly gathering the five year old up in his arms. "Come here, come here, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, please don't cry…" The boy turned to him and rested his head on Jack's shoulder as he cried. "Please don't cry, sweet boy, I'm so sorry…" Jack climbed back onto the bed with his son snug in his arms. He tried not to break down right along with the child. He rubbed the boy's back and kissed his head and played with his hair. He sniffled, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Race's temple. "I'm so sorry…"

His child whimpered and sniffled against him, not understanding why Jack had gotten angry. To be honest, Jack didn't understand why either. Getting angry and irritated didn't help anything. It just made the weight of everything else sit heavier on his shoulders. He rocked the boy back and forth, swallowing hard as he shoved back his own sobs.

"Shhhhh… I'm sorry…" Jack hushed. "How about a story, huh? You wanna hear a story?" he tried, his voice shaking just a little. When Tyler nodded his head, Jack sniffled and relaxed back onto the bed, letting his back hit the mattress as he played with the child's hair. "Okay…" he began, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment before he tuned out the sound of his own voice. "Did I eva' tell you the story about the boy who lost his shadow?"

The story would only last so long, but Jack could at least get lost in the images and pictures that he'd had as a child. His imagination used to run wild with this story; a tale of adventures, ruthless pirates, beautiful mermaids and a boy who would never have to grow up and face the reality of the world that didn't exist to Jack anymore. That boy could just fly away from his problems and never have to return.

It wasn't fair.

Despite his jealousy of a fictional character, Jack managed to continue on with the story, calming the boy in his arms as he spoke in a soothing, slow voice until he managed to force himself onto his feet. He held Tyler in his arms as he turned the stove on and began boiling up some rice for dinner as his boy nearly fell asleep on his shoulder.

"... and up in the sky, they could see it," Jack whispered. "A pirate ship in the stars flyin' away while the Darling children went to sleep, believin' all of it was just a dream."

Race yawned, nuzzling his head beneath Jack's chin. "Was it?"

Jack peaked down at him. "Was it what?"

Lifting his head to face him, the child watched the water in the pot boil. "A dream?"

Pausing, Jack sighed. He bit his lip. "I don't know…" he admitted. "Maybe…"

It wasn't long after that that the rice was cooked and Jack served Racer some in his bowl. He let the kid take it to his chair that was pushed in front of the TV and started eating as Jack joined him. For a moment, it was quiet as the television was clicked on and Race chose a channel to watch. "Where do we go when we sleep?"

Only glancing at the small child, Jack replied, "Right here in Room."

"But what about dreams?" Race challenged. "Do we go into TV for dreaming? Or to Neverland?"

Taking another reluctant spoonful of rice, Jack shook his head, reaching out to smooth back his son's hair. "We're never anywhere but here," he assured brokenly, glancing at the metal door, agony in his gaze as he ran his fingers through Race's long blond curls. He forced himself to keep eating as his mind went blank and he watched three cartoon ducks get into trouble over and over again.

The rest of the night went on like normal. Jack got Tyler bathed along with himself and he helped the boy into his sleep shirt, running a comb through his hair to calm him down enough to sleep. He sang until those blue eyes closed and then he shut the wardrobe, leaning his head against it and closing his eyes, sending a wish into the heavens or higher that this boy would sleep through the night.

He didn't think he was asking for a lot.

Then he trudged back over to the bed and lay down, curling up tight and closing his eyes. He tried pretending to sleep before. It never worked.

When those six beeps and a buzz sounded over him, he remained motionless, letting a hand tug on his hair.

He didn't move. He just lay there and let the man talk. "Your hair is much too long. We'll have to cut it soon." Jack stared straight ahead at the wall. "I brought you something…" The young man stopped listening. He just let the old man roll him onto his stomach and he didn't say a word.

He didn't want to wake Tyler.

But by the time it was over, Jack could hear a soft whispered voice coming from the Wardrobe, counting, "Thirty three… thirty four… thirty five…" Jack swallowed back a whimper as he turned his head away from the man who was practically on top of him, his eyes meeting the scribbled, left handed drawings he'd managed to create on only pages of that horrible book people meditated and prayed on. The sketches looked back at him, smiling gently at him and Jack almost reached for them, stopping himself when Spider grunted in his sleep.

Of all the cruel things Spider could do to him, what he'd done tonight was among the worst. Jack felt a tear fall down his face, but he refused to cry. He just kept looking up at those pictures of those people instead of looking back to the kitchen table where that thing sat. He didn't want to think about what it meant, what the Spider was thinking when he bought it. It was all too much.

Jack just wanted to be able to sleep again.

Arms around his waist and breath on his neck, Jack swallowed hard, silently listening to the breaths and whispers of his little boy. The arm that tightened around him made him bite down on his tongue. He tasted blood but he didn't care.

When Spider stirred beside him, Jack refused to look at him. The man sat up beside him and pulled his pants back on. A hand brushed through his hair and lips pressed against his cheek possessively. Jack didn't react. "Make sure Tyler gets his present. I'll see you tomorrow night."

Still staring right past the man, Jack set his jaw. But the hand that brushed through his hair tightened and turned his head.

Jack hated looking into those black eyes. "Say 'goodnight'."

Scowling a bit, tears still in his eyes, Jack couldn't argue. "Goodnight," he breathed.

The hand released him and Jack glared at Spider all the way out the door. The second the door was shut, Jack stood, nearly stumbling to the ground as he pulled his pajama pants back on. He caught himself and made his way to the wardrobe, opening it up to find his little boy, nearly back asleep. Gently, he scooped the child up in his arms. Tyler moaned. "Shshshshshshhhhh…" Jack coaxed, cradling the boy to his chest before he lay the child in the bed to tuck him in.

This is normally when he would lay down beside the child, cuddling against him and shielding him from the cool air that the door had let in. But tonight he didn't even want to sleep. Instead he sat down at the table. He sat in his yellow chair and he stared down at the box in front of him. He glared at it.

Five years and he'd never been able to so much as buy his son a birthday present. He should be happy that this year he'd gotten one at all. But all he could feel was anger and resentment.

There was no sleep for Jack that night. He just watched over his son, knowing nothing would happen to him. Not in Room.

Nothing new ever happened in Room.

It was just Room.

[cupcakemolotov]

Far From the Shallow Now

Synopsis: Caroline needs to get her head on straight after the ball and is still awake when Klaus drops by.

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence × Pre-Relationship × Technically Tyler and Caroline Are Still Together × No cheating × Still Mostly Tyler Friendly × A Moment After the Ball × a what if × Domestic Fluff × Sort Of ×

A tiny pieces would be part of the random snippet series. Just a bit of a what if Caroline had been up when Klaus dropped off the drawing. You can read it here on A03 if you prefer.

                                                       -

The kitchen smelled like her childhood. Warm brown sugar and melting chocolate, the memory of afternoons spent baking with her dad were precious moments that still ached. Pre-vampire Caroline has really hated cooking, and she’d found her opinion hadn’t changed much over the past few months. But baking? With its necessary precision and attention to detail, even the most finicky of recipes soothed her. It had been her dad that had first put a wooden spoon in her hand, who had sighed at her scrunched nose and red face and smoothed her bangs.

“Come on, Care Bear. Let’s try a new recipe today. I’ll let you pick.”

But those memories had been filled with afternoon sunshine and the blare of a radio, and they had been a long time ago. Long before the silence between her parents had grown cold and Bill’s business trips had taken longer and longer. Her childhood was bittersweet and it clogged her throat to think of all the things she’d lost.

But that was for another night.

Tonight, all she had was the silence of her home and the shadows of the neighborhood around her. With her mom working the graveyard shift, she had the house to herself. It had been a relief to come home to shadows and silence after the noise and color of the ball. A chance to process and detox, push away the memory of Klaus’ hands on her skin, the boyish, curling smile on his face and the anger as she’d walked away from him. Breath shuddering in her throat, she stirred the cookie dough a little more thoroughly.

A little pre-baking cleaning had helped calm her juggling nerves and here she was, getting worked up again. The fridge was stuffed with sympathy casseroles, and she’d thrown out dozens of wilting flower arrangements. The cards were neatly stacked and organized in piles alphabetically and according to whom she still needed to reply to.

Her mom probably wouldn’t even notice.

Tomorrow’s project would involve freezing what was left of the food that her mom would eat, she’d already packed the leftovers into Tupperware so she could return the pans to her neighbors. But her dad had taught her to never return a dish empty, so at least her midnight baking would have a purpose. Absently licking at a smear of cookie dough, Caroline watched the clock on the oven click over past 3 AM, and mentally counted her blood bags. She’d need an extra tomorrow, to offset her lack of sleep, but her mind couldn’t stop spinning.

Is it so hard to believe I fancy you?

She’d showered as soon as she’d gotten home, needing to remove Klaus’ lingering scent from her skin. She scrubbed herself pink with her favorite soap, and stood in the shower far longer than needed. The dress was already folded and packed in the box it had arrived in, her bra and underwear at the bottom of her dirty clothes hamper. Now she was sitting in her kitchen in old cheer sweats, and surrounded by two dozen cookies while she worked on the next batch.

And nothing had managed to stop the wheels spinning in her head.

Running a hand down her face, Caroline tried again to decide how she felt about the fiasco that had been her night. The dancing, the hunger and lust in his gaze, those falsely boyish smiles and the rage that had burned when she’d flung his diamonds back at his face.

Klaus had meant every word he’d said and none of it. That was the game he played. Perfection and coercion, falsely sweet words that clung like poisoned honey. It’d been easier to push aside her curiosity, that niggling fascination for how his brain worked before he’d turned his gaze towards her.

Klaus was a monster. But he was a smart one, always steps and steps ahead of his enemies. She didn’t want him, she needed to not want him, and she was pretty sure he didn’t want her either, and it stiffened her shoulders to think he saw her as the distraction Damon insisted she play or his very own potential Trojan horse.

She would never betray her friends.

But Caroline didn’t want to die.

Eyes closing at the thought, she took a careful breath. The games Damon played were dangerous. Esther, Bonnie, all his siblings were spinning on a course that could only lead to collateral damage, and she was sick of it.

Tyler too sometimes only saw her as useful. Her dad had died helping him and still the last time they’d talked he’d wanted her to play more games. As if she wasn’t drowning in grief and what if’s, as if her world hadn’t been twisted as violently as his, as if she wasn’t trapped in a spiderweb she had no idea how to escape. Her fingers tightened on the wooden spoon, and she exhaled slowly.

She and Tyler hadn’t chosen what had been done to them but they could choose how they responded and she was starting to feel less and less comfortable about the bitterness he carried. The hard edge of rage. Whatever had happened when he left and found Hayley had sharpened parts of Tyler she hadn’t known were there and she wondered what he saw when he looked at her. If what he saw made him as uncomfortable as it made her.

Lips flattening at the thought, she reached for the bag of chocolate chips and froze at the sounds of her front door opening. Eyes snapping up, body going taut at the potential threat, her stomach knotted at the sight of Klaus stepping into her home.

For a long moment, they just studied each other.

In the hours since she’d left the ball, he’d ditched his jacket and bow tie, his white waistcoat nowhere to be found. His hair was no longer so perfectly arranged, he’d rolled his shirt sleeves to bare his forearms, and if that wasn’t enough to spike her blood pressure, he still wore his suspenders. Hidden behind the counter-top, her nails dug reflexively into her palm. He’d been stupidly good looking earlier at the ball with his sly smiles and dimpled promises, but this? Rumpled, lips bitten red, his gaze dragging along her body with a slow perusal that set her nerves of fire was something else entirely.

Klaus smiled slow, cheeks creasing, all of the anger from before tucked beneath charm and guile. “I’m surprised you’re still awake, love.”

“Your family is exhausting,” she agreed tartly, straightening her spine. “But of the two of us, I’m the only or who is expected to be here at all. Kind of rude, just bargaining in, don’t you think?”

He gave an elegant little shrug and strolled closer. Her jaw flexed, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a velvet box and setting it on an empty space on the counter. “I do have an invitation. And perhaps it is also just as rude, don’t you think, to return gifts?”

Shoving the wooden spoon back into the cookie dough before she was tempted to smack him with it, Caroline settled a hand on her hip and faked her bravado. “It’s way ruder to offer gifts with so many strings in the first place.”

An amused glance from beneath his lashes before he peered at her cooling racks of cookies. “Most women enjoy apology jewelry.”

“I must have missed the apology.”

One dimple peaked high on his smile and he snagged a cookie. “I didn’t realize you baked.”

She narrowed her eyes as he took a bite, his clear dodge. This entire conversation felt surreal, a little bit domestic, and a lot concerning. Wasn’t she just thinking about how dangerous he was? This, this charm, only highlighted that danger. He slipped so easily from mood to mood, as mercurial as the wind and she needed to remember that.

Promises or no.

“It’s not like we really exchange small talk. And that’s the only cookie you get. I have a dozen dishes to fill and I need this done before mom gets home.” She tipped her chin towards the dining room table where the clean dishes and tinfoil were waiting for her. She was willing to bet he'd already noted the dishes, but so what. “So why don't you get to your point and leave?”

Klaus made a thoughtful noise as he finished the cooking, dusting his hands of crumbs. “Need help?”

“From you? Absolutely not.” The words slipped out before she could catch him and find something politer to say. This was her grief, her method of coping. He didn't get an opinion and he didn't get to pretend they were friends. Not when he wold kill all of them if he thought it necessary. This? This mess and this grief and this small thing to help her mom was hers.

The smile died on his face but she didn’t flinch. She didn't know what he read on his face, but his head tipped in a silent acknowledgement. Instead of baiting her more, his hand returned to his pocket, and this time he produced a rolled up piece of parchment.

Caroline looked at it warily. “What is that?”

“Part of the apology,” he murmured as he set it delicately on top of the box holding the diamonds. “The bracelet is yours love, no strings. Do with it what you will. As for the rest.” He paused, blue eyes narrowed as he studied her, a hint of gold burning the edges of his iris. “The games my mother plays are not kind to her pawns. Be sure you don’t find yourself in over your head, Caroline.”

She lifted her chin to hide her tremble. “Threats?”

“Call it a warning.” Klaus said. “Likely the only one you’ll get.” Just as quickly, that sense of danger melted under another smile and he snagged a second cookie before turning and sauntering away at her protest.She slid her tongue between her teeth at the sight of just how well his pants were tailored and the way the suspenders highlighted the length of his back. The image was going to be burned behind her eyes for days.

As if he could sense her gaze dragging down his spine, he cast one more boyish smile at her as he opened her door. “The cookies were delicious, love. I do so look forward to learning what other secrets you're keeping.”

She watched him go, barely breathing, a mix of alarm and arousal mixing with adrenaline. So many layers. The hidden threat in his words, the reminder that he could walk into her home whenever he wished. The return of the bracelet, that little bit of claim he’d laid on her life.

An apology.

Swallowing, she wiped her shaking hands on her sweats and reached for the parchment. It unrolled to show the familiar lines of her face and the perfect image of a horse.

Thank you for your honesty.

Swallowing, she set the drawing down and didn’t know what to think.

[watchtower-feed]

Death Do We Part

SSA Spin-off ✧ Jason Todd ✧ Physical Link ✧ 1 ✧ 2 ✧ 3 ✧ 4 ✧ 5 ✧ 6 ✧ 7 ✧ 8 ✧ 9 ✧ 10 ✧ 11 ✧ 12 ✧ 13 ✧ 14 ✧ 15 ✧ Notes: The main story of SSA is on hiatus while I figure out how to end it. For now, please enjoy this three-part (or four) spin-off that’s been nagging me ever since Until Death was finished. Words: 2,000+

     A physical link is one of the most dangerous soulmate links around and that’s what you share with your soulmate. Your link with him is also more sensitive than most because sometimes your hair moves with the wind even though you’re indoors or you can taste what he’s eating.

     But what you didn’t know was how much fun your link was going to be. Ever since you started holding pens and doodling on your arm, you’ve been getting replies on the other one. You thought it was such a fun game but it nearly gave your parents a heart attack. When you could form words and read them, you started to communicate with each other.

      Jason, don’t forget your homework this time.

     Oh crap! Thanks for reminding me, Y/N.

     You roll your eyes as you say goodbye to your parents. You rush to the next block over just in time to see Jason stumble out of his apartment building. He falls and scrapes his knee. You both shout and wince at the same time.

     “Jason! I thought you were going to be more careful. Are you trying to kill us before high school?” Jason laughs and grabs your hand. He drags you to the bus stop and you make it just in time.

      Jason was careful. Both of you had your fair share of paper cuts, bumps, and bruises. But neither of you have ever sprained or broken anything. It sucks when one of you gets sick though.

     “If I sneeze, are ya gonna sneeze too?” Jason says with a nasally voice lying in bed next to you. His dad was always out and his mom had to work so your parents offered to take care of him while you’re both sick. They basically only have to take care of one child anyway.

     “I don’t know. We haven’t tried that one,” you smile and rub the bridge of Jason’s nose. He purrs. “That feels good, huh? It feels like I’m unblocking your nose.” You and Jason laugh.

     “Y/N with the magic fingers. Gotham criminals beware!”

     Your parents hush the two of you and threaten to make you sleep on the couch while Jason sleeps in your bed if you two don’t rest soon. You grab each other’s hands under the blanket and immediately close your eyes until they leave the room.

     You open your eyes and Jason is staring at you, pouting. You take out your other hand and stroke his warm cheek. He closes his eyes to lean into your touch then opens them again. “Pops hasn’t been home in days. My mom thinks he’s run away or dead in a ditch somewhere.”

     You frown and pull Jason close to you. “You’re always welcome here, Jason.”

     He knows that. He knows you mean it but he couldn’t just take advantage of your kindness like that. So when his mother runs away and he’s left alone in an empty apartment for three days straight, Jason decides it’s time to be a man and take care of himself.

     You don’t know what’s going on with Jason. He would still come out of their apartment building and go to school with you but you know he’s a little off. The first signs you pick up on are the pangs of hunger. No matter what amount of food you eat, your stomach growls and it feels like it’s eating itself.

     When your mother asks you to bring a pot of leftovers to the Todds, that’s when you realize who the real culprit is. You march over to their apartment building and find the door unlocked, the lights off, and there’s a silhouette of a boy crouching in the corner of the unfurnished apartment.

     You kneel down next to him and find that he’s awake but refuses to look at you. You call his name but he ignores you. You pinch your arm hard and it makes him jump. He hates it when you do that.

     Jason devours the food in seconds, eating straight from the pot with a big wooden spoon. Little by little, he managed to survive by selling their furniture but he still had to ration whatever money he had so he only ate one meal a day. Jason laughs, “but when ya pig out, Y/N, I get so full. I don’t even have to eat more than that if ya think about it.” You don’t find that funny because you don’t think the link actually works that way.

      He frowns and looks at his hands.

      He wants to tell you that he’s being kicked out of the apartment tomorrow. He doesn’t want to use his meager amount of money to pay for rent when he can just survive in the streets.

     He doesn’t say a word. He lets you stay with him until it’s late and he walks you back to your place.

     He doesn’t go to school the next day. You go to their apartment to scold him but find that’s it locked because new tenants were moving in soon. You ask the landlord about Jason and he tells you he’s been gone since last night.

     Jason, you idiot. Just stay with us. Mom is making your favorite tonight.

     He doesn’t reply to your messages anymore and it’s making you more angry than sad. You sit in your quiet room and close your eyes, “Where are you, Jason?” you mutter before concentrating on what you feel. You try to distinguish the sensation inside your room to what he’s feeling outside.

      You can feel humid air around your skin and sweat drenching the tips of your hair. He’s outside under the Gotham summer heat. You concentrate harder and you can hear footsteps and voices in the background. Foot traffic, so the streets? But which one? Then you hear it. The unmistakable sound of gunshots and running and police sirens. He’s in one of the worst parts of Gotham. Then you smell it, the lingering scent from Marco’s Bakery. He’s in the Narrows

     You grab the leftovers and sneak out through your window. You try to make yourself small as you enter one of the worst parts of the city. You would take the alleys and hide behind dumpsters every time you hear shouting. Then you finally find him lying on flattened cardboard.

     You kick him in the knee, bracing yourself for the sensation. He gets up quickly and his eyes widen at the sight of you. You drop the leftovers in front of him and glare. “If you don’t want to talk to me anymore, then fine. But at least eat.” 

     Walking away from Jason is hard but you know his pride won’t let him eat the food in front of you. You’re nearly home when you suddenly feel satiated. You do this every night. Leaving him food in that particular alley even when you stop finding Jason there.

     It suddenly becomes something Jason would count on because you have always been the only one he can rely on. After a day of thievery and barely surviving he would smile on the way back to his flattened cardboard where your family’s homecooked meal would still be warm.

     One night, Jason is astonished to find the batmobile in his alley. He’s admiring its size and fortress-like structure when he realizes that it had run over the food you left for him. Motivated by anger and vengeance, he finds a way to steal the hubcaps off of the batmobile’s wheels.

     “I’m sure you know who you’re stealing from.” The menacing voice shocks Jason and he turns around with a screwdriver in one hand. He takes a moment to appreciate the sheer size and intimidating stature of Batman.

     Then he glares at him and kicks his shin, “Yeah! Yer the big boob who ran over my dinner!”

     Batman is instantly puzzled. He narrows his eyes to one of his wheels and finds pasta littered on the floor and a ruined plastic container.

     Two nights after that, you’re dropping off Jason’s food and you’re surprised to find him standing in the alley in fresh clothes and a wide grin on his face. You narrow your eyes in an instant, “Did you finally inhale too much Joker gas or something?”

     “Y/N, you’ll never believe it. Oh boy!”

     Jason walks you away from the Narrows and back to your neighborhood. He tells you about running into Bruce Wayne the other night, leaving out the fact that he’s Batman.

     “He said I reminded him so much of himself when he was younger that he couldn’t imagine not adopting me,” he boasts with his thumb brushing the collar of his new shirt.

     You roll your eyes and of course, you don’t believe him. But then you arrive at your house and there’s a limo in front of your building. The door opens and Bruce Wayne steps out. Your mouth hangs open as he approaches you.

     Jason smirks and snaps his fingers in front of your face, “Y/N, I’d like ya to meet Bruce Wayne. Brucey, this is the friend I was telling ya about.”

     “It’s very nice to meet you, Y/N. Once Jason’s settled in at the manor, we’d be more than happy to invite you and your family over for dinner.”

     You gulp. Because honestly what else can you do? The richest man in Gotham is outside your house and he’s Jason’s new father.

     But Jason never did invite you to the manor. In fact, ever since he became a Wayne, you saw him less than never.

     I miss you, Jason. Why are you avoiding me this time?

     For Jason, that was anything but an easy decision. It was never really Bruce that invited him to his home. It was Batman. And Jason knows that if Batman finds out he has a physical link with a civilian, he would stop letting him be Robin.

     So he dedicated all of his time to being a good son, a model student, and a fierce sidekick. Subduing criminals before they get the chance to land a blow on him. Whenever Bruce tells corrects his movement and his fighting style, Jason always takes his criticisms to heart because it’s not just his life on the line.

     Whenever you’re missing Jason and it gets too much, you lie on the floor and close all of your senses again. You imagine him lying on a thousand-thread-count cotton bed or warm in front of a crackling fire while laughing and drinking tea with Bruce Wayne and his butler.

    But all you get is whiplash. The wind is strong and harsh against your face. Your hair is flying up while you’re lying on the floor. You can also smell the smoke of the steaming sewers wafting into the Gotham air. 

     Jason’s out in the night and from your heavy breathing and aching muscles, you can only guess that he’s happy and exhilarated. Your breathing labors against your chest and you can feel the muscles along your jaw strain hard. Jason’s laughing.

     You roll on your side and smile at the thought of Jason enjoying his life. You miss him.

     Then it happens.

     You’re out with friends at someone’s sweet sixteen party and you’re wearing a dress just like everyone else. At first, you’re laughing, something someone said about a joke you haven’t yet heard. 

     Then suddenly your whole body is thrown back as a blow to your head knocks you against the table. You use your elbows to support yourself and you watch as everyone stares at you.

     A phantom weapon hits your back and you’re kneeling on the floor, coughing out blood on someone’s shoes. That’s when the screaming starts. But you can’t listen to them now. No, you need to focus on Jason. What the hell is happening to him?

    Another blow to your back makes your body drop flat on the ground. Your lip bleeds when your teeth tear into them as you hit the ground. You groan. This is the most pain the two of you have ever been in and you think you can also feel Jason’s fear.

    “Hand me a pen!” you scream before a blow to the side of your ribs flips you onto your back. You cough more blood and you desperately try to sit up as one of your closest friends hands you a marker.

     “I called your parents. They’re on their way. What’s happening, Y/N?”

     You don’t know. You don’t know. You try to write as legibly as you can.

     Wats wrong

     You wait for a response. Then something happens. It forces your eyes to look up and you think you see something intangible floating in the air. A crowbar? Then it comes crashing down against your ribs and you hear bones crack. Your friend screams, too afraid to touch you.

     You think one of your ribs splintered and your lungs have collapsed. It’s too hard to breathe. It feels like no air is coming into your lungs. You rest your head to the side, staring at your arm. 

     Slowly, words start appearing, smeared in crimson blood.

     I’m sorry, Y/N. I lov

SSA Spin-off ✧ Jason Todd ✧ Physical Link ✧ 1 ✧ 2 ✧ 3 ✧ 4 ✧ 5 ✧ 6 ✧ 7 ✧ 8 ✧ 9 ✧ 10 ✧ 11 ✧ 12 ✧ 13 ✧ 14 ✧ 15 ✧

✧ Watchtower Masterlist ✧

[clstldrmr83]

Babble Bubbles

I am surprised at the recent influx of followers and realize I need to cross post some of my older creations that have been exclusively hosted at The Plumb Bob Keep. I only have a few large mods, but I am particularly proud of them even if it took forever and a day to finish and share them.

I’ll start with my Default Replacement Speech Icons... I play a Historical Fantasy styled game, so hopefully some of you will find these to your taste.

Many moons ago, I stumbled onto the Icons page of the UESP- Elder Scrolls Online, and I knew our Sims were longing for new topics of interest and conversation. I give you... Babble Bubbles - These are a mix of mostly ESO and other Elder Scrolls Game Icons, with some Sims Medieval, Sims 3, & a Handful of Random Clip Art thrown in to complete the topic chains.

Base Game Interests:

Animals - Horse, Bird, Fish, Rat, Bug

Crime - Stocks, Shackled Wrist, Lockpicks, Lock, Red Hand. Thieves may be "Caught Red Handed" or perhaps it's Blood.

Culture - These are straight out of TES and might not jive with everyone, but we have: Falkreath, Bruma, Morthal, Stormcloaks, Riften [edited]. But they could be: Pagans, Romans, Celts, Vikings, Britons.

Entertainment - Masquerade Mask, Maypole, Lute, Fanfare Trumpet, Stein. 

Environment - Firefly/Lightning Bug, Leaf, Log, Pig, Flower. 

Fashion - Cloak, Vest, Sash, Parasol, Fashion Comb.

Food - Wine, Cabbage/Lettuce, Pot Pie, Fish, Bread. Because there are so many different food related topics (FT & AL), I wanted this topic to reflect everyday/common foods. 

Health - Tooth, Toe/Thumb, Herbs, Guts, Skull.

Money - Jewel, Coins, Hands Giving/Receiving Coin, Coin Sack, Gold Bars.

Politics - The Royal Scepter, Silver Crown, Chalice/Grail, Broken Crown, Golden Crown. My idea behind the Broken Crown was to signify a Corrupt or Dead Monarch, great for Stories, yes? 

Paranormal -  Crystal Ball, Ghostly Face, Mystical Star, Magic Stone, Lighting Orb.

School - This topic comes in two flavors: Education or Religion, files are labeled for easy deletion of one or the other.

Scroll, Paper, Brain Silhouette, Abacus, Open Book. 

Incense Scensor, Mausoleum, Shaman's Tool, Sacred Tablet, Praying Statue.

Sci-Fi - Werewolf, Fae Woman, Elf Woman, Banshee, Orc/Ogre.

Sports - Blue Flag, Gold Star, Broken Shield, Winner's Tokens, Green Flag. Because there are so many different sports related topics (FT & AL), I wanted this topic to reflect tournaments or competitions. The 2 flags, one for either "team", the Gold Star signifying a winner, the Broken Shield depicting the looser, and the Tokens representing bets placed.

Toys - Noisemaker Drum, Wooden Horse, Blocks, Teddy Bear, Doll.

Travel - Sextant, Compass, Map, Spyglass, Lantern.

Weather - Sunny, Partly Cloudy, Wind, Rain, Snow.

Work - Inn/Tavern Keeper, Fisherman, Craftsman, Hunter/Skinner/Tanner, Farmer.

Misc. -

Pet Interests:

Basic - Leaf, Dog, Cat, Pig, Collar.

Food - Raw Meat, Cooked Fish, Sausages, Cooked Rabbit Leg, Raw Fish.

Hunger - Fish Tail [Cat], Bones [Dog].

Outside - Flower, Partly Cloudy, Tree, Log, Rock.

Playtime - Feather, Lizard, Rat, Balls, Stick.

Scary Things - Claw, Cage, Thunder, Fire, Parasite.

Sleep - Blanket, Rug, Bed, Bed 2, Pillow.

Free Time Interests:

Arts & Crafts - Paint Palate, Woven Fabric, Clay Vase, Thread Spool, Embroidery Thread & Needle.

Cuisine - Empty Pot, Soup Bowl, Spoon Of Spice, Crock, Pan For the second food related topic, I used icons leaning more toward the cooking aspect.

Film & Literature - Wax Seal, Envelope, Letter, Inkwell, Book. Since my game is pre-electricity aspects of film haven’t been included.

Fitness - Fresh Air, Citrus [Vitamin C], Soap, Radish [Veggies], Moon & Star Icon [Spirituality] I went with the idea of Health and Well Being for this topic.

Games - Fox & Geese, Dice, Chess, Horseshoe, Tafl.

Music & Dance - Lute, Dancing Lady, Instruments, Dancing Lady 2, Skyrim Lute. I’ve never been completely satisfied with this one, I might revisit in the near future.

Nature - Beat, Carrot, Grapes, Leak, Berries. This Hobby led me to think more in the direction of Farming or Gathering.

Science - Jar Of Powder, Alchemist's Stone, Potion, Ambelic, Vial.

Sports - Sword & Shield, Mace, Yellow Flag, Bow, Dagger. This is the second Sports Topic for our Sims; I went with a combat training idea here.

Tinkering - Blacksmith Tools, Carpentry Tools, Architect Tools, Farming Tools, Sculpting Tools. I went with a combo of different craft skills with this hobby.

Apartment Life Stories:

Art Story - Bohemians; Black Salt, Vine, Rune Stone, Teeth Talisman, Magic Potion

Computer Story - Techie/Wizards/Witches; Varla Stone, Golden Magic Rune, Mystical Spell Paper, Dwemer Puzzle Piece, Storm Stone. 

Fame Story - Socialites/Nobles; Fine Furnishing, Luxury Items, Medal Of Honor, Rise In Status, Money Chest.

Mechanic Story - Gearheads/Smithys. I couldn’t get away from Dwemer tech on this on; Dwemer Gears.

Sports Story - Jock/Knights. What else is Sporting in Ye Olde Times and likely to spark a story? Hunting! Tack, Bow & Quiver, Mounted Deer Head, Horse, Hunting Horn.

Freetime Book Plots:

Children’s Book: Fae Ear, Magic Lamp, Knight Statue, Bantam Guar [Dragon-ish Creature - ESO].

Cook Book: Pan, Chopped Meat, Salt Bowl, Cut Onion.

Drama Book: Pretty Mask, Hero's Helm, Bloody Dagger, Scary Mask.

Mystery Book: Candlestick, Dagger, Bloody Hand, Potion Bottle.

Romance Book: Fancy Mask, Lock Of Hair, Hourglass, Wedding Rings.

Sci-Fi Book: Magic Orb, Monster Hand, Wizard, Storm Atronach [Rock Golem].

Custom Novel Icons:

AND NOW, the moment you've all been waiting for!! As with ALL Default Replacements, there can ONLY BE ONE; if you have Rugz' Gift of Gab, please remove it before installing my Babble Bubbles Inside the Folder you will find Sub-Folders for SCHOOL & RELIGION, choose ONE, delete the other. You will also find Sub-Folders for FT BOOKS & FT BOOKS/NOVELS, choose ONE, delete the other; Drop Final Choice into your DL's Folder.

DOWNLOAD

[writingvenusian]

There is a woman at the door convinced that I owe her a shilling. Or maybe she is not convinced, but hopes that if she repeats herself enough and bothers me enough, I will give her one. I know that I do not owe her a shilling.

“You owe me a shilling, Martha,” she insists. She pulls the wet shawl tighter around herself. The skin of her nose is slowly getting closer to the blue-grey colour of the sky that hovers above these mountains, and her shawl is the same rough soaked brown as the path up the cliffs to my home. Her breath rasps in her mouth as though her throat is clenching around it to force it back down and her teeth are digging into it. This is a woman of hunger.

I look over her shoulders and see that the night is falling quickly. The mountains stretch far away into the distance. Their end—where the rich rivers and nourished fields are, where living is easier and humans have spread—is out of reach. The peaks that roam the skyline hide the deep ravines. The ravines do not have a bottom. The mountains are not connected. There are many places where ferocious trees have stretched across the gaps with their roots and formed thick and sturdy bridges, and the wild things that roam have learned how to find their footing there, but humans can rarely do so, especially when it rains as it does today, when the roots grow slick and adjust themselves to pull in all the water they can, becoming more like nets or buckets than bridges.

“You have come a long way,” I say to her. She spits at my feet.

“You’re right I have,” she says. “I wasn’t going to let you get away, was I? No, siree, no ma’am. You owe me a shilling, Martha, don’t think I’d forget it.”

My name is not Martha. I look at her again. Her eyes slide back and forth across my face, possibly looking for a reaction, possibly looking for something familiar.

“Come inside,” I say. “I have soup on the fire. There is more than enough for both of us.”

I can see that hunger lurches up in her and beats its thin fists against her brow. Still, she backpedals, throwing up a hand as if to shield her eyes from some bright light. “Now, don’t you go thinking you can trick me like that, Martha. I know all your dirty little secrets. How much will it cost, eh? A shilling? Huh? No, you’ll not get out of debt to me that easily. You owe me a shilling, and I’ll not be sent away without it, despite your nasty games.”

I open the door wider. “Of course not. I will give you a shilling. I will also give you my fire and a bowl of soup.”

“No.” She shakes her head wildly. I am lightly sprinkled with the drops that fling from her tangled hair. “Give it to me out here.”

“It is cold,” I point out. “And raining. And it may take me a long time to find my money purse.”

She hesitates. Behind her is freedom, but her freedom is full of gaping ravines and mountains made for things with wings hooves or and long hooked hands and feet, and it is quickly growing dark with night and impending sickness. Ahead of her is sheer uncertainty.

The smell of soup rises through my door, overpowering the ozone of the rainstorm. She is hungry.

“Let me in,” she growls. I step back. She barges into my one-room home without looking at me. I notice that she does not bother to take off her muddy shoes or her shawl, instead immediately plopping down on chair closest to the fireplace, where I know the warmth makes one feel as though one is slowly roasting.

I close the door gently and without latching it, then go to dig out two bowls and two spoons. I set all but one bowl on the table. I take the one bowl to the pot with the intention of filling it. When the woman sees what I’m doing, she hisses.

“Ah ah ah,” she says, “no. I never said I wanted any of your stew. You’ll charge me for it, I know you will. I’ll never get my shilling if I let you go about like that, Martha.”

I shake my head. “I will charge you nothing for the soup. I am simply of the opinion that allowing a guest to go hungry while soup sits before them is inhospitable. Please, share my dinner.”

“No.” She fixes her eyes on the fire and leans in closer to it, gripping the shawl even tighter. She will not look at me.

I nod. “I will force nothing upon you.” I take up the ladle and use it to pour a healthy share into the bowl, being sure to turn it so that she can see the meat and vegetables land thickly in the bowl along with the broth. I set the bowl on the table to her side and place a spoon in it. “That is for you, if you so desire.”

She curls up tighter in herself and looks like she wants to pinch her nose when the scent of the broth wafts over her.

“Now for the moneybag,” I say, as if to myself. My home is small. It has to be, for me to best keep my more wealthy visitors uncomfortable. It is good. Still, because it is small, it is crowded. There are large baskets filled with supplies, shelves bursting with food and canned goods and cooking implements, corners filled with weapons and tools and their implements of upkeep, waterproof chests of books and scrolls, a simpler chest of clothing, and odd bits and bobs cluttering up every surface with evidence of what I have made for myself in all my time here. I know that I have a few mortal-made coins in a box filled with the gifts of the younger visitors, and I know that one of them says “shilling” on it. I even know that it will be underneath the slightly green acorn, its shine just peeking out between the split vanes of a seabird feather. Still, I turn my attention instead to the shelf where I keep canned goods.

As I pretend to search, I hum a tune. The Honor of John Pig, it is called. Its notes roll with laughter and excitement.

“If you’re trying to trick me into giving up my shilling, Martha, it won’t work,” she says. Her voice, though, is beginning to trail off. A minute later, I hear slurping.

I turn around. The polished bowl is at her mouth, tilted, and her eyes are wide open as she looks inside it. Her hands curve around the bottom of the bowl and her thumbs hook the top, to keep from letting it get away. Her fingernails, I see, are ragged and broken.

When she puts it down briefly to wipe her mouth, I see that half the broth is gone already. She snatches up a spoon and starts shoveling up the meat and vegetables.

“This means nothing,” she says with her mouth full, glaring at me with an expression like a clenched fist. “I’m not paying you anything.”

I smile. “I know.” I walk across the room to where the baskets full of supplies are. There are only sacks of flour inside the first one. I dig my hands underneath and around them as though looking for dropped change, their weight heavy against my arms.

“Good,” she grumps. I hear more chewing and slurping.

After more of me looking for money I have already found and her consuming my gift as though she has stolen it, I finally open the box with the best-loved presents and pull out the shilling.

“Ah,” I announce evenly, raising it to the light, “I have found the lost coin.”

She sits up. “Give it to me.”

I cross the room and sit on the chair slowly to lessen the frightful creaking its old wooden frame can put up when handled roughly. When I extend my hand, the coin glints dully in my palm.

She snatches it and presses it to her chest. “Good. Now let me leave.”

I lift a finger. “No need for such haste. I have given you the shilling you asked for. Let us celebrate your good fortune of having gained a shilling with a shared meal.”

She narrows her eyes and sticks the coin in her cheek. “There’s my meal. I am satisfied.”

I shake my head. “Not for long, though. What will happen after that is gone?”

“I’ll find another.” She is stubborn.

I take the bowl that she has set by her feet and stand to fill it again. This time, she does not protest. When it is brimming with warmth and nourishment, the other bowl follows. There is a loaf of bread on the shelf, and I take it down and cut two pieces. The good butter goes on thick.

When I have finished, I sit and gesture. “Eat.”

She has not removed the coin from her mouth. “I cannot eat,” she says.

“Why not?”

Her hands are balled up tightly in her lap. Her jaw works, wanting to stay closed over her prize, but she speaks. “Everyone knows you can’t eat bread without drinking, and there’s nothing to drink. Besides, how do I know the bread doesn’t cost extra? Or that the drink wouldn’t cost extra?”

There is fresh milk from this morning. I pour it into two cups. “I will not charge you for the celebration of having found the coin owed to you. Lost coins refound are deserving of great rejoicing. So here we are, as friends, and we will eat and drink to your good fortune without worrying any further about prices or debts.”

“No such thing as a free meal.”

“The price has been paid.” The milk froths in the cups. I set down the jug and ease myself back into my seat. Without checking to see if she has begun, I take up my spoon and bring up the first bite.

The soup is rich, and the bread is made well. Compared to the table spread of the city’s lords, it is poor, but when held against the merit of the meager pickings available in the wilderness to the inexperienced traveler, it is fare fit for kings. I eat with satisfaction. After more hesitation, she discreetly spits out the coin and tucks it into some pocket of hers, then begins a ravenous attack similar to her work with the first bowl.

Soon, the dishes are cleared of food. I sit back, content with how my teeth have dug into the bread and how the soup warms me inside. The fire still goes, but it is starting to calm. The woman, too, is beginning to calm. She has settled into her chair. Her hands no longer clutch at the still-wet shawl. Her head nods up and down in tandem with her eyelids. The shilling is left in the pocket.

I shuttered the window long before the rain and the woman arrived, its rough slats keeping out all the wind and water, but now I look at it as though I can see how heavily the night hangs in the air. “It is late.”

She murmurs an affirmative through cracked lips that are now wet with soup instead of rain.

“Travel is dangerous at this time of night in the mountains.”

Now she looks at me. “I won’t stay here,” she says angrily. Her hands look like they don’t know whether to cover her face or clutch at the shawl. “You’ll charge me for the board, I know you will, Martha, even if you won’t charge for the food.”

I shrug. “I ask no payment of you. Stay.”

“Bah! What for?”

I pause, to make sure she listens. “It is dark outside. Nothing looks familiar when nothing can be seen. Animals roam the cliffs. You will be safe here for the night.”

She knows about the animals and the ravines that seem to appear out of nowhere in the dark. It was a long journey to reach me.

“I’ll share no bed,” she spits.

I stand and go to where I know the extra bedding is. I spread it out on the floor in the warm space next to the fire. There is a bedroll, a blanket, and a pillow, all softer than the mountain. The bedding is all dark and warm red, like a sunset, or a flower under a yellow moon, and in the light of the fire it looks like prince-worthy luxury.

She leans towards it from her chair, but stops when I point at her feet.

“Your shoes.” I then point again. “Your clothes.”

Her wariness has returned, along with rage. “And what of them? They too good for you, Martha?”

“You can’t sleep in them,” I say evenly. “They are wet and muddy.”

“So?”

“You will soil the bed. You will be uncomfortable.”

“What does that matter!”

But I am already looking through another chest of mine, my back to her. I can hear her grunt angrily, but then there is the clomping sound of dropped shoes.

“Happy now?”

I turn around carefully. She has removed the shoes and is holding the shawl her hands.

“All of what you wear is muddy.”

She throws a fit. She is not going to be left vulnerable in the home of the untrustworthy, she says. She is not going to wake up turned out with the door locked and robbed of every stitch she wears. She worked hard to keep everything in one piece while she was lost out in the godforsaken wilderness, and she’ll keep everything on her, thank you very much.

She continues to scream while I set out the clothes I have chosen for her and placed them on the pillow, pile the dishes where I will remember to wash them, and put rainwater on to boil. There is more rainwater in the barrel. It is enough for a bath, so I prepare one in the washbin. She continues yelling until I ask her how warm she prefers the water.

“What?” She stares at the bath, having not been watching me during her rebellion. She is uncomprehending of my question, so I decide that the usual ratio of boiling water to cool water will do. When I am done, I bring out a cleaning cloth and a bar of lavender soap and offer it to her.

“If you bathe,” I say, “the bedding will not be made dirty.”

She looks at the cleaning cloth and soap bar.

“My hands are full,” she says softly. It’s true. She clutches the shawl with both hands.

“Give it to me,” I say. “I’ll hang it up to dry with the rest of your clothes when you have gotten into the water.”

She gives me another glare, but the clenched expression is loosening. It has been a long road. “You’ll look at nothing.”

“Nothing at all,” I agree.

“You’ll pretend I’m not here.”

“I’ll immerse myself utterly in completely distracting tasks.”

She still does not trust me entirely, but she trades the shawl for the soap and the washcloth. I turn my back even once she is in the water, then pick up the discarded clothes and busy myself in setting them out to dry. They are filthy, but tonight is no time to wash them, so they’ll have to wait until morning.

She finishes quickly and dries off with the towel I give her (while I stand backwards), then changes into the new outfit.

“Is it comfortable?” I ask. The long robe that stretches from her ankles to her throat to her wrists is for sleeping, so it is simpler than her day dress, but it is made for sleeping on cold rainy nights, so it the blue fabric is heavy and warm. I trust that it will keep her well during the night.

“It’s fine,” she says. There’s a bite to her words, but I do not know if she snaps at me because she doesn’t know what to say or because she is overwhelmed. Perhaps it is both.

“I’m glad.”

While she tucks herself into the sleeping nest she has made for herself, I change into my own night clothes and get into my bed. The fire is burning as it should, and I have no concerns for it. My own bed is close enough to it that I do not freeze, but far enough that I do not encroach upon her space.

My head rests on my pillow. “Goodnight,” I say.

She waits to see if there is anything else that I will add. When there isn’t, she responds. “Goodnight.” It is curt, but no longer angry. The fire crackles peacefully.