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acid-ixx · 4 months ago

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ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1, chapter five pt 2,

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you�� it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

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kotaromita · 1 year ago

Note

okay it IS illegal to hurt people but also akito's dad deserves it

so is it really THAT bad?

i mean i've never met the guy and i've only heard a little bit about him in passing

all i know is:

he doesn't get along very well with akito

he REALLY doesn't get along very will with ena

he's a famous painter

a robot burned his house down? and then someone threatened him at gun point right after he lost his house?

um and i think those last things are usually only things you do if someone is like a serial killer or a terrorist or something

maybe it's just because i get along with my dad so well that it's a little hard for me to take in but as long as akito and ena are okay and he and mrs shinonome survived i think that's most important?

#asks #my dad didnt really approve of my career path either at first #but he eventually accepted it once he saw how happy it made me #and he even was really kind when #all that stuff about nagi-san and taiga-san happened #he always wanted a more manly son i think #but takato is doing a good job at filling that role #they watch sports and samurai movies together #OOC: okay heres MY POV #i hate my dad a lot but thats not the point #i feel like theres been a lot of mischaracterization of shinei from some of you #yes hes a pretty awful father #but youre looking at him from SUCH a shallow lens #its so obvious hes so hard on ena because #hes projecting his own past and insecurities onto her #she reminds him so much of himself #and its safe to assume his journey as an artist #was a very painful one based on how he treats her #as cruel as his actions may seem #in his mind hes trying to prevent her from suffering #he just has VERY little tact about it #sorry im obsessed with all the NPCs #yes all of them

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jinwoosbabyboo · 5 months ago

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Last Call

Calling the LADS Men to say goodbye because you weren't going to be making it home to them. A/N: MC isn't reincarnating this time sorry. Artist @/am_soul_art on insta [Requested by: nocturnaoasis]

It was supposed to be a quick mission. The intentions were good and the plan was perfect. At least thats what the higher ups thought at the Hunter's Association. The plan was to take back Hat Island, the small island right off the coast of linkon overrun with wanderers. The Hunter's Association believed that their strength in not only numbers, but also Evols and skills had improved enough to take back the small island.

They were wrong. So very wrong.

It was a suicide mission from the start; the wanderers were too smart there was never a chance. You panted as you ran from the onslaught of wanderers that had evolved over time inhabiting this island. You watched as comrade after comrade was slaughtered right in front of you. The number of Hunters was decresing quickly and there was no help coming. You held your side for dear life as blood gushed from your wound. You accepted your fate right then and there. You weren't making it back to Linkon.

You managed to find a small cave on the side of a mountain where you could make one last call.

Zayne

The phone seems to ring forever you were afraid you weren't going to hear his voice in your last moments. Just as you thought it would go to voicemail he picked up.

Zayne: Hello MC: Zayne.... Zayne: Yes I'm here

You couldn't help the grin that overtook your face.

MC: Remember our trip to find 'old popsicles'? Zayne: Of course I do MC: Remember when you swept me away from my friends to go read in a secluded park? Zayne: Yes ... where is this coming from?

You took a deep breath before coughing and grunting form the pain.

MC: I just want you to always think of our good memories ... I don't think we'll be making anymore after today Zayne: What are you saying? MC: They're gone ... they're all gone ... and I don't have much time left.

You finally broke down and sobbed into the phone as reality truly set in.

Zayne: Wh- MC: Promise me you'll move on ... I want you to find something or someone to bring the same vivacity that I brought you ... don't shut yourself off from the world ... I want you to be happy ... remember me in a good light because just know I died doing what I love Zayne: ....dont leave me behind MC: I love you Dr. Zayne......

Zayne didn't hang up he stayed on the line until he could no longer hear your stuttering breaths. He couldn't keep that promise of moving on. He threw himself into his work to keep his mind busy. He was afraid if he slowed down for one second he'd never be able to recover.

Rafayel

He picked up on the first ring as if he'd been waiting by the phone just for your call.

Rafayel: Hey Cutie!

He sounded so happy at the fact that you called it was already killing you that you'd be breaking his heart with this call.

MC: You know you create the most beautiful art Rafayel: You're making me blush stop it MC: I'm going to be painting pretty sunsets and sunrises for you Raf Rafayel: huh?

You swallowed hard trying to keep your voice from wavering.

MC: The next time you're on the beach and you see a beautiful sunset or sunrise ... that's me ... painting the sky just for you Rafayel: No no no you're-

His words became panicked as you quickly cut him off

MC: I wish I would have hugged you tighter before I left ... I'm not making it back to Linkon ... I'm sorry Rafayel: I can come to you just tell me where you are

Tears streamed down your face as your voice broke at the sound of him falling apart on the other end

MC: Im running on borrowed time right now Rafayel I just wanted to tell you that I love you ... so much Rafayel: I love you too

Your head was already swimming you didn't even realize you muttered.

MC: Good ... good.......

Rafayel never missed a single sunrise or sunset after that. Thomas would always find him sitting on the beach with red eyes and a camera to capture the sky that you painted for him.

Xavier

He picked up on the third ring w/ a groggy voice; he'd been asleep.

Xavier: My little star

His voice brought you a kind of comfort that no words could describe.

MC: You made a good call getting sick this week you know that?

You couldn't help but giggle at the situation.

Xavier: What are you going on about? MC: Remember how pretty the stars were that night we danced in the forest? Xavier: Yea they were almost as beautiful as you

He always knew how to make you feel like the prettiest girl to ever exist.

MC: Well next time you gaze at the stars the one star that seems to twinkle and dance just for you ... that'll be me

A brief moment of silence....

Xavier: You're not saying what I think you're saying

You could hear rustling on the other end knowing he just sat up.

MC: I'm sorry Xav ... I'm so sorry ... I promised I would make it back to you, but thats a promise I can't keep anymore ... I'm losing blood fast I can already feel myself losing consciousness Xavier: Hang on I'll be right there

And there it was the choked sob that finally slipped out of you as you responded.

MC: It's too late Xav ... do you love me?

He was quiet for a moment before you heard his low raspy voice respond.

Xavier: Yes. Of course I love you with everything that I am

Those words brought one last smile to your face and you finally let your eyes drift closed.

MC: thats all I wanted to hear ... I love you Xavier..........

Xavier was never the same after that. He spent his days training to get stronger to the point where his hands were bloody. No one could get through to him not even Jeremiah. At night he swore he could hear your voice as he gazed at the stars.

Sylus

Sylus: Hi sweetie MC: I love you!

You heard his breath hitch and then silence. You had rendered Sylus speechless with the three words he always wanted to hear.

Sylus: Why so sudden? MC: I never got the chance to say it to you, but I couldn't go without letting you know Sylus: where-

You quickly cut him off because there wasn't much time left. You could quite literally feel your life slipping through your fingers.

MC: this mission was doomed from the start ... I'm not making it home to you tonight ... I'm sorry ... there’s no pain though so I must be dying Sylus: Stay right where you are I’ll come find you MC: Don't .... it's no use ... thank you for everything I was always happiest with you

You smiled as you admitted that to him; it felt good.

Sylus: Stop you're not dying on that island

You sniffled as tears began to sting the back of your eyes.

MC: it's too late ... just ... just tell me you love me Sylus: but- MC: Sylus please Sylus: I love you My Queen MC: Music to my ears........

Sylus still tried to look for you, but could never make it onto the island for the wanderers were too strong....even for him. Mephisto did however manage to find you and brought back the necklace Sylus had given you. It now sits on a mantle in a glass case.

#love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads #lads rafayel #lads xavier #lads zayne #lads sylus #lnds zayne #lnds xavier #lnds rafayel #zayne love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #lnds angst #love and deepspace angst #nikaaaaimagines

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jarofstyles · 10 days ago

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Line Work

Hello my ducklings. We’ve got a hefty one shot for you- featuring nervous cutie pie Har, blunt and bold Y/N, a bee tattoo, someone definitely needing to sanitize their whole station, wasted baked goods and a good helping of spice 😋

Check out our Patreon for early access to our writing and over 250 exclusive writings and series!

WC- 14.1k

Warnings- slight anxiety/people pleasing, tattooing, needles, switch! Y/N and H, mean Dom!Y/N, soft Dom!Har, choking, impact play, pain kink, slight humiliation and degradation, unprotected sex, cream pie

Harry was nervous, and it was silly. It wasn’t like he didn’t have tattoos… he had so many he could barely count them, actually. He liked the pain, probably more than he should, he wasn’t worried about regretting them, but the thing that had him a little anxious was the tattoo artist herself.

Y/N, or Angel as she was known to most people in the tattooing scene, was intimidating. She was beautiful, so beautiful that it had him feeling like his tongue couldn’t form words. He’d fumbled through his consultation, getting stuck on looking at her black liner that seemed sharp enough to cut, the tattoos covering her exposed arms, the pout of her vampy red lined lips.. it had made him feel like an idiot when she had to ask questions a few times to get his attention.

The thing was, she hadn’t been mean! Not in the slightest. She was just… quiet. More reserved. To the point. She hadn’t fed into his small talk too much, really hadn’t asked him much about himself, kept it only to the tattoo… and maybe he was spoiled for it, but he really wanted her to like him! Sure she was his tattoo artist but they could be friends, couldn’t they?

…So maybe he had a bit of a crush on her and it was distracting. Sue him! But he just… really wanted her attention. Was that so bad?

On the day of his first tattoo appointment, he’d tried to be prepared. Doing all the things he’d normally do to prep (this wasn’t his first rodeo even if it felt like it), on top of getting her a few pastries from the coffee shop he’d gotten his drink from. As much of a suck up it probably made him seem to be, he really wanted to impress her, make her feel like he was a good client. Maybe someone worthy of talking to after the tattoo was finished.

The tattoo shop wasn’t exactly like the ones he was used to. It was lighter and brighter, pale green walls covered with neatly framed examples of flash or other tattoos she and the other artists at the studio had in their portfolios. It felt a little more like a zen massage studio than anything else and he knew it should relax him, but he felt the nerves in his throat like a lump, sitting there as he got it together to greet the woman.

Clearing his throat, he held out the pastry box, trying to sound casual despite his racing heart. "Hi! Um, I brought some pastries for you and the team. I hope you like them, I wasn’t sure what t’get so I kept it but free and the separate box is something gluten free." He looked at her expectantly, hoping she'll accept the gesture- not think he was fucking weird for it. "I just wanted to show my appreciation for your time today. I know y’must be really busy, and I know your time is valuable. It was really kind of you to squeeze me in on your off day." He trailed off, catching himself in the babbling.

Her eyes looked him over, then to the box. A pink box with a red ribbon bow tying it all together, some fancy cafe name on the top of it that matched the cup in his hand. The corners of her lips twitched as she took the box, nodding as she placed it on the desk. “Thanks. I like money.” That… hadn’t been the response he had been expecting but then again- Y/N wasn’t exactly predictable. “It’ll just be us today, the studio is empty otherwise.”

His cheeks turned slightly pink. He'd assumed there'd be more people around. Being alone with her? No one to cut the tension? That hadn’t been a part of the plan either. "Of course," he stammered, running a hand through his hair, trying to fix it. It had definitely been a nervous habit he’d tried to cut but… it still popped up. "I didn't mean to assume..." He trailed off again, cursing himself for being so awkward. Trying to regain his composure, he glanced around the studio again, admiring her taste and the peaceful atmosphere. At least the zen vibe came in handy. "Your studio is really nice. Different from what I expected but... in a good way..."

“Thanks, I think.” She nodded, moving from behind the desk. “I’ve got to get the stencil printed now, but you can get comfortable on the bench if y’want.” Her hair swished behind her as she led him towards her station. “Think we’ll be doing outline today, shading when you come back. Is that something you can do?” Her eyes went over his arms. “You’ve done this enough times, probably know the drill by now.”

Harry nodded eagerly, falling into step beside her, almost tripping over his own feet in his efforts to catch up. "Yeah, absolutely. I've got loads of tattoos but it’s been a while since I’ve gotten one. I went through a phase where I got a ton in a three year span and figured I should chill out before I lost space later on." He tried to sound casual as he glanced at the various supplies laid out on her station, swallowing nervously. Even though he'd sat through plenty of tattoo sessions, the thought of her hands on him sent a little shiver down his spine. He didn’t know what his body was going to do. "So uh, how long have you been tattooing? If you don't mind me asking."

She took a moment to answer, back towards him as she sat at her laptop to send the design she’d drawn up to the printer. Tapping her nails against the counter, she let out a hum in her throat before turning to look at him over her shoulder. “Legally? 5 years.”

He blinked, surprised by her frank response. Finding her through a friend of a friend of a friend, he knew she was exclusive and a bit hard to get into, but he didn’t know much about her apparently. "Only 5 years? That's impressive, though. Your work is amazing." He quickly seated himself on the bench, trying to appear nonchalant despite the compliments bubbling out of him. His fingers drummed nervously on his thigh as he waited for her to finish setting up. "I bet you've seen a lot of weird requests in that time, huh?"

“Legally is the keyword here. I got a shitty tattoo gun online and practice skins when I was in school. Got good enough that I was fairly confident I wasn’t going to completely fuck up people’s skin and have them fight me, started doing them to make a couple bucks at parties.” She shrugged, standing up to go towards the printer, loading the stencil on. “I’ve done a lot of shit. You don’t really say no as an apprentice either, but now that m’taking my own clients I can be picky.”

His eyes widened slightly at her admission. To be fair, he hadn’t asked most of his artists how they’ve gotten started. They were super big talkers, but he felt that pull towards her and wanted to know little things. "You're self-taught? That's insane." He watched as she walked over to him with the stencil, his heart beating a little faster as she came closer. "That's... really cool." He bit his lip, trying to think of something else to say. Anything that wasn’t stupid or cliche- but came up empty. Cliche was better than stupid, he supposed. "So uh, what kind of requests do you usually turn down, if you don't mind me asking? Like... anything too offensive or just..."

“No hate speech or symbols, no neck or face tattoos for someone who’s not heavily inked, try to avoid hand tattoos because they come out like shit, and I prefer not to do the stereotypical shit.” She recited, laughing under her breath. “N’then there’s shit I just don’t like. Clocks, roses, lions. They aren’t bad, but I’ve got no interest in doing them.” She looked back over at him. “Bees are cool. I like tattooing insects. So I accepted your idea.”

A small smile played on his lips as he listened to her standards, appreciating how serious she took her craft. "I get that. I've seen some questionable clock and lion combinations." He chuckled nervously, adjusting himself on the bench as she moved closer with the transfer paper. " I really love bees. We used t’keep them in my backyard growing up." His shirt was already rolled up to expose his upper arm where the design would go. "Although... I have to say I'm happy you don't want to do cliche designs. My last... well, my last girlfriend, she wanted me to get one of those heart and dagger tattoos." He felt his cheeks flush at the admission, wishing he hadn't brought up an ex around her. "Not really my style anymore. I like having... meaningful stuff on my skin, you know? Stuff that actually represents me. I went through the phase of getting random shit for the hell of it. I don’t regret them but they definitely aren’t my favorite. Wanted to be more intentional. Get stuff I really love, or stuff that represents that." He paused before adding quietly, "Like bees. For my mum."

Her smile was ever so lightly on the corner of her lips as she nodded, brushing the hair out of her face. “Good. Don’t get shitty tattoos for demanding girlfriends. Cardinal rule. Shit doesn’t turn out well.” Her hand gripped his muscular arm, turning it slightly to get a view of the gap where he had said he wanted the tattoo. “Alright. Any placement changes, or is here still good?”

"Yeah, that spot is perfect..." His voice trailed off as he watched her face, those dark eyes and lips distracting him from anything else. Probably not the smartest idea but it felt like a privilege to be up close like this.

“Alright. Once it’s on you’re going to stand up and take a look in the mirror. if you want to move it, even if it’s just an angle- tell me.” Her face was serious as she put on her gloves, prepping the skin for the stencil. “Don’t people please. It’s on your body forever, not mine. We can take it off and put it back on again when it’s just a stencil, not when I use the needles.” With a careful hand she used the pink disposable razor over the skin, clearing it completely and wiping it yet again before centering the image. She was precise, making sure it was where she deemed fit before placing it down, running her hand over the sheet to pat it into the skin.

Harry nodded obediently, trying to be still under her touch. "I trust you." He caught himself, realizing how weird that might sound, and cleared his throat. "I mean, I trust your expertise. Obviously." When she was finished with the stencil, he glanced up at her nervously. "Want me to look in the mirror now?"

“Yep.” Her attention was already on cleaning up the station a bit as he stood up, walking towards the full length mirror she had mounted on the wall. Giving him a few moments to see if he liked the placement, she turned back to see him flex slightly to watch how the ink moved with the muscle. Y/N was professional, but she wasn’t blind. Harry was a very good looking man, and the tattoo would suit him well. “Good?”

"It looks perfect." He met her gaze in the mirror, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "You've got a great eye. S’exactly where I want." He turned back to her, hoping he didn't look too eager. "I can't wait to see how it turns out. It looks amazing just on here like this…." His fingers unconsciously traced the edges of the stencil, imagining the bee buzzing to life on his skin under her skilled hands. "So uh, how long until we start? I can try to relax. I don’t want to be in the way."

“You can sit down on the bench and drink your coffee if you’d like. I just need to get the prep started, wash my hands and change gloves.” Said hands made work of it, methodically taking out her supplies, lining up the needles and ink pot she had filled. “You know how it goes, I assume you don’t need the whole speech about how it’ll feel and all that.” Considering how inked he was, she was a bit confused at his questions so far, but she did tattoo some odd clients so it wasn’t anything too off putting. He was cute, in a way. Like an overly excited puppy at a training class. Nervous but eager.

He nodded, a light blush on his cheeks as he realized he was probably asking too many questions out of nerves rather than genuine curiosity. "Right, of course. I'll just relax and enjoy my tea then." He settled back onto the bench, trying to appear calm as he took a sip from his cup. The taste was smoothing, a stark contrast to the jittery feeling in his stomach.

As hard as he tried not to stare, the way she moved captivating him. Her dark clothes, black liner, and the tattoos peeking out from under her tank top only added to her allure. Even the sterile smell of the shop couldn't mask her own subtle scent - something sweet with a little spice- that made him more excited for her close contact while she tattooed so he could figure it out. He took another sip of his tea, hoping the slight caffeine would calm his nerves, but he suspected the real cause of his excitement was seated right in front of him.

He really did want her to like him, wanted her to think he was a decent client, someone she could tolerate chatting with during breaks. Maybe even someone she'd consider going out with. The thought sent a thrill through him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on his coffee instead. The last thing he wanted to be was one of those guys, but it was hard to ignore her. As he sat there, he found his eyes drifting back to Angel, studying her from under his lashes. He wrinkle in her brow in concentration, the way her hair fell in loose waves down her back, even with it pulled into a ponytail...

Fuck, he was in trouble.

“I’m going to go wash my hands but did you want t’use the bathroom or anything before we start?” She slipped her gloves off and stretched her arms above her head, trying to loosen her body up before she was hunched over tattooing. It was most definitely, 100% going to cause her issues one day- but at least she loved her job. Rather a creaking back over a creaking soul, her grandmother told her.

"No, m’good thanks." He nodded a bit too eagerly, trying not to stare at how her stretch made her tank top rise slightly, catching the piercing in her belly button. It was far more attractive than he could have imagined. Did he have a thing for piercings? Maybe it was just her.. Clearing his throat, he forced his eyes to meet hers instead of taking advantage of her casual pose. "Should I, uh... where do you want my arm? Positioned I mean. I want to make it as easy as I can." The nerves were making him babble again, but he couldn't help it. Her presence just did something to him. He knew he could get a little sappy over people he had crushes on but this was a whole other story.

“I’ve got the attachment for the bench. Give me a second.” Rolling it over from where she had it parked and prepped, wrapped in Saran Wrap, she placed it next to him and took his arm with her now bare hands to adjust it. “This is how I’m going to have you sitting, so figure out how you’d like yourself situated. I’ll be right back.”

Nodding dumbly, he watched her walk away, admiring the sway of her hips before forcing his gaze elsewhere. Get a grip, he chided himself silently as he settled onto the bench attachment, positioning himself as comfortably as he could. Why did he like when she ordered him around so much? He tried to focus on something other than her, like the sound of the water turning on in the restroom, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the feel of her hands on him.

Harry fidgeted slightly as he waited, adjusting his position again, trying to find the perfect angle. He couldn't shake the fluttering feeling in his chest, a mix of nerves and excitement coursing through him. He knew he was being pathetic about the whole thing, but that didn’t stop him from being that way. When Angel returned, her hands freshly washed and gloved once more, he offered her a slightly strained smile. "Ready when you are."

As she prepared to start the process, Harry found himself holding his breath. He could feel her hands on his arm, the gentle pressure as she adjusted his position, and he wanted more of that. Any kind of touch.. When she finally picked up the needle, he let out a slow exhale, watching as she began to work. There was no warning as she started, correctly assuming he didn’t need to be babied over it and given a countdown. At least she thought he was capable of that. The sound of the needle moving across his skin was almost hypnotic, and he found himself relaxing into the process, his eyes drifting closed as he let Angel's skilled hands take over.

The pain of the tattoo needle was sharp, nothing he wasn't used to. Nothing he didn’t… enjoy. But the real reason he was enjoying this experience so much was the feeling of Angel's touch, the focus and concentration evident on her face as she worked. He couldn't help but sneak glances at her, admiring the way her face looked as she was set in concentration, the way her lips pressed together in a soft pout as she blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes. Fuck, she was pretty when she was working. She had to be pretty all the time.

Harry bit his lip, trying to keep quiet as he sat there. It wasn't easy, especially when the needle kept sending zings of pleasured pain through his body. It wasn’t like it didn’t hurt- it absolutely did. But he had always found himself to like it. Pain was welcome to him. Not many understood. The focus now was on staying as still as he could. The last thing he wanted to do was be annoying or break her concentration. So he just sat there, breathing slowly and trying to relax into the process. Occasionally he'd let out a soft hum or clear his throat if she hit a particularly sensitive area, but he kept his voice low and tried not to draw attention to himself.

After a few minutes of silence, her voice surprisingly broke it first. “I hear feel you thinking.” She laughed under her breath, wiping away at excess ink before peering up at him momentarily. “You alright?”

Harry's eyes snapped open at her comment, his cheeks flushing slightly- again- as he realized she probably heard him making little noises the whole time. "Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered, trying to sound nonchalant despite the heat in his cheeks. He glanced down at his arm, watching as the bee began to take shape. "Just a little sensitive in a few spots, that's all." He hoped that was enough of an explanation to satisfy her curiosity.

It was impossible to be truly honest with her. Harry liked the pain. He couldn’t tell her that it was arousing to feel the needle more than it hurt.

The sharp drag of it over his skin, the pain mingling with something else entirely - a warm, tingly sensation that spread through his core every time it hit a particularly sensitive spot. It was fucked up, he knew it was, but he couldn't deny the way his heart raced or the way his stomach clenched each time she pressed down harder.

He was getting hard, he was getting fucking hard from a goddamn tattoo and he couldn't tell her that, could he?

The feeling was wrong, so fucking wrong. He was supposed to be getting a tattoo, not getting turned on. But every press of the needle, every gentle drag across his skin, sent a jolt of pleasure through him. He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, trying to adjust himself discreetly, praying she wouldn't notice the growing bulge in his jeans. Fuck, no. No, no, no. There was no way this was going to happen. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his breathing even, to not make a sound that would give him away.

It was humiliating, absolutely embarrassing that his cock was twitching to life under Angel's hands. He'd always had a thing for pain, got off on it in ways he wasn't proud of, but Jesus Christ, this was a new low. An artist this pretty, this intimidating, tattooing him? It was like every fucked up kink of his was colliding.

He closed his eyes tightly, trying desperately to think of anything else. Baseball stats, grocery lists, his grandmother, global warming and its dire acceleration —anything to distract himself from the growing throb in his jeans. But every pass of the needle, every soft exhale from Angel against his already sensitive skin sent another jolt straight to his dick. It was useless. The more he tried not to think about it, the harder he got. He was screwed. Quite literally, it seemed.

He bit the inside of his cheek hard, fighting back a groan as the needle traced a particularly sensitive line. Hell, even the way she'd occasionally wipe away ink with her gloved hands was making him crazy. It was like a teenager again getting hard at nothing. A light sheen of sweat formed at his temples, despite the cool air conditioning in the shop. It wasn’t hot, but he certainly was..

Angel took notice, as much as he hoped she wouldn’t. “Harry, you look a little sick.” Her voice turned slightly concerned as she paused, taking her foot off the pedal. “Do you need a minute or something? Don’t keep quiet about this shit. If you’re going to get sick I’d rather you do it in a trash can or something.”

He blinked rapidly, trying to come up with a proper excuse. It was difficult considering his dick was starting to hurt now from being so hard for so long- it held all the blood, apparently. Licking his lips nervously, he tried for a reassuring smile that he knew probably looked more like a grimace. "Nah, I'm alright. Just... a bit overheated, I think." He shifted again uncomfortably, praying she'd buy the excuse. "Can we keep going? Really don't wanna waste your time." Lie.

Her darkly lined eyes narrowed at his blatant lie, giving him a raised eyebrow as she adjusted herself on the rolling stool. It wasn’t often that a client looked sick and didn’t just admit it after she pressed. “It’s not a waste of time. You’re my only client today. If you need a breather you can take it. I’ll go out for a smoke or something.”

Harry was a shit liar- he could feel the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. He didn't want a breather, not even a second of not feeling her hands, not even a moment of not smelling her perfume even if it made him feel insane. He was a masochist, plain and simple, sitting there getting tattooed while his body ached with unwanted arousal. Not only that, but he really didn’t want to chance her truly figuring it out. He would be mortified. "No really, I'm fine," he insisted, his voice coming out hoarser than intended. "Let's just keep going, okay?"

Angel's expression darkened, a hint of irritation mixing with her concern as she watched him squirm on the bench, looking flushed and sweaty. She knew that he was lying through his teeth. "You look like you're about to pass out," she snapped, her tone laced with a hint of her natural impatience. "I'm not gonna have you faint or vomit on the bench and waste a whole day because you're too stubborn to take a break. So tell me what’s wrong.”

His eyes flickered nervously as he avoided her gaze, swallowing hard past the lump in his throat. He knew if he told her the truth, she'd think he was a freak. Who gets turned on by getting tattooed, for God's sake? He was trapped in a cycle of lying and sweating, his mind racing with how to explain his strange behavior without sounding like a pervert. "It's just... the pain."

“Is it too much for you?” Her face lightened, looking over his arm. “You have a ton of ink. Is it like this for you every time?” Obviously that was something she could understand, to a degree. She had tattoos in places that really hurt, but the placement shouldn’t be too painful. And considering her casual perusal of his Instagram after their consultation, he had a sternum piece. This should be nothing compared to that.

"No, no, it's not too much pain," he sputtered quickly, waving a hand to brush off her concern. "I mean, yeah, I've got a lot of ink but that's not... I'm used to it." He shifted uncomfortably again, realizing this wasn't getting any easier. His cock throbbed insistently against his zipper, reminding him of his embarrassing predicament. "It's just... really hot in here, isn't it?" he tried weakly.

She leaned up, gripping his chin with her gloved hand. “Are you on something?” The words were low and frankly, pissed off. That was one of the things in her waivers that she had him sign and she’d told him that when they first talked. “I don’t judge people for taking shit but if you’re high when I told you not to take anything before you came to the appointment I’m going to be pissed. I don’t work with people off their ass in my station.”

He felt his heart stutter at her touch, her dark eyes boring into his with genuine worry - and something else. Something almost intense, almost aggressive. Fuck, she was so close. "No, I'm not on anything!" he said urgently, meeting her gaze. "I swear." His breath caught slightly in his throat, realizing how she could easily mistake his flushed state and strange behavior. "It's... the heat, really." Another fucking lie. His cock throbbed again, seemingly mocking him.

Y/N didn’t buy it. Not when he looked so nervous. He was either high, or sick, or… Her eyes looked over his body, trying to find any tells, any obvious signs of discomfort- and it didn’t take long to find it.

He was hard. She could see the sizable bulge, making her manicured eyebrow raise again, looking back to his face.

He was busted. Completely and utterly found out. He could see the question forming on her lips, the way her dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. He was screwed. "Angel-" he started, trying to think of any explanation that wouldn't make him sound like a pervert.

“You could have just said you’ve got a thing for pain.” Releasing his chin, she shook her head and moved across her station to get on new gloves- no chancing any contamination. “Stressing us both out for no reason. I like direct communication. Don’t bullshit me anymore. I can handle a bodily reaction.”

Harry stared at her, mouth agape, a bit floored by her bluntness. She just... called him out, no judgment, no disgust, just straightforward honesty. It was the hottest thing he'd ever fucking witnessed. "Shit," he breathed, slumping back onto the bench. "Okay, yeah. I do have a thing for pain." No point in denying it now. "But not like, fucking weird pain," he added quickly. "Just... the endorphins, I guess?"

“I get it. I like it too. It’s fine, I’m not judging you. You haven’t been a creep or anything. Besides.” Placing the new gloves down on her station, she tapped her fingers over his cheek a few times. “You’re not the first to get hard on this bench. At least you’re cute.” Like she hadn’t said anything she moved her hand away.

Cute? He was cute? It was an one off compliment and yet his mind was spinning. Pathetic, his need for praise- How much he liked knowing he was attractive. She wasn't judging him, she understood his thing for pain, and she thought he was cute. He felt like he was dreaming, like this was some kind of bizarre, albeit wonderful hallucination. He watched, entranced, as she put her gloves back on and reached for the needle again. "So... you're used to this?" he asked quietly, his voice shaking slightly.

“Somewhat. It isn’t the most common reaction, but it’s something that happens. You haven’t been making weird comments or very obviously leering at me, which gets people kicked out. I understand why you lied. You didn’t want me to be uncomfortable. But you don’t have to be embarrassed. I can tell you are.” She shrugged her shoulder, picking up her gun with her freshly gloved hand. “You get hard at all your appointments? Or is it just me?”

His face burned with embarrassment, but at the same time, he felt a sense of relief wash over him. She wasn't disgusted, she wasn't judging him harshly - she was actually understanding, even a little amused. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "It's... not just you," he admitted quietly, feeling his heart trying to find its way down and out of his throat. "But you're the first artist I've told. M’usually better at hiding it."

“Yeah?” Pressing the needle back to the stencil, she watched as his eyelids lulled, a slight wince but a dash of what she now knew had to be arousal washing over his face. “Hm… That alright with you?”

Nodding slowly, his eyes fluttered closed as the needle resumed its work. It was alright, more than alright. It was fucking incredible. He felt so relieved, so understood. If it was possible, his crush on her grew tenfold. "Yeah, that's alright," he murmured, his voice deeper than it had been before. There was no hiding the effect it was having on him- and she had said he didn’t have to. "Really alright."

As the tattoo progressed, Harry found himself sinking deeper into a state of blissful discomfort. The needle continued its path on his skin, each pass sending a jolt of pleasured pain straight to his core. He could smell her perfume with every lean- which he was fairly certain was vanilla with sandalwood, maybe a bit of tobacco since she had mentioned taking a smoke- could feel the heat radiating from her body as she worked intently. It was overwhelming in the best way possible.

He squirmed a little bit, making her pause. “Stop moving, yeah? Be a good boy.” It was teasing, really, but she saw the look on his face. Harry liked it.

Harry froze, his breath hitching in his throat at her words. "A good boy," he echoed softly, his voice filled with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. He felt his face flush an even deeper shade of red as he held still, trying not to squirm. Was she flirting with him? Or was his horny brain just hearing things he wanted to hear? Either way, the command had his dick throbbing in his jeans. “Uh- okay. I can.. do that.”

Continuing the tattoo, all she could notice was that he was stiff- squirmy. She could tell he was trying his absolute best not to move, but he wanted to and it was distracting. Ten minutes passed, the outline almost done, and she really couldn’t keep up with this. She needed him to be relaxed, still, and calm… and not so distracting to her. Harry was cute. Really, utterly adorable. Hot in the way she liked but in demeanor he was nervous and twitchy. So cute… That she was going to do something about it.

“Alright.” Turning the machine off again, she crossed her arms. “You’re too stiff. We’re almost done with the tattoo… but I need you to relax.” Moving a hand, she rest it on his knee and curled her fingers around it. “I don’t do shit like this, but you’re cute. Let’s get you off so you can chill the fuck out.”

Harry's eyes widened in shock, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest as she spoke to him in such a matter of fact way. Did she really just... offer to get him off? Right here in the tattoo shop? Or was this a wet dream? He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "You uh, you don't have to-" he started weakly, but even as he said it, his body betrayed him, a visible shudder running through him at her touch as soon as she moved.

“You can say no.” She trailed her finger up his thigh. “We don’t have to do anything. But you’re trying to be good, and you can’t help that all you can probably think about is that cock. Whatever you’re gonna do to it after. Stroke it, go find someone to suck it off. Kinda makes me jealous, if I’m honest.” It looked big. That’s something she wanted. She was so tired of mediocre, selfish lays and if anything, it seemed like Harry was the type more than eager to please her. “So if you don’t want me to touch you, I can stop…”

"Fuck," he hissed, his hips lifting slightly at her words, completely failing at maintaining his cool facade. How was he supposed to think straight when she was saying shit like that? Her hand on his thigh was making his head fuzzy, his cock throbbing painfully in his jeans. "No, don't stop," he breathed out, voice trembling.

“There we go. Finally being honest with me.” She hummed, her other hand stroking over his cheek. “So sweet.” Tapping over his nose, her hands retreated to take the gloves off completely. “Alright, off with your belt then. Let yourself out.”

He stared at her for a long moment, speechless. Something about how blunt she was, how she ordered him around.. it was something he hadn’t experienced much of before, but he had always wanted to try. Never had he imagined it would be today, with his tattoo artist that made him incredibly intimidated and eager to please but he supposed that’s what made it so good.

Swallowing hard, he reached for his belt, unbuckling it with shaking hands before unlatching his jeans. He hesitated, looking up at her, a faint blush on his cheeks. "Like, all the way?" he asked hoarsely. God, he felt like a fucking teenager again. Nervous and excited and completely out of his depth. "And you're really just gonna...?"

“All the way. Yes, I’m going to touch it.” She discarded the gloves and pushed the tray table to the side- ink was a pain to clean up. “Don’t be afraid. As cute as being shy is, I have a feeling you’re really a needy little thing. Let me see your cock, sweetheart.”

His breath hitched at her words, his face burning with a deep, flush. Christ, she was so blunt, so fucking direct, something he had never dealt with in a woman before… And he ate it up, loving every second of it. With a shaking hand, he slowly pushed his jeans and boxers down, his hard, thick cock springing free. He was big, really fucking big, and the head was already leaking precome. "Fuck," he muttered, looking up at her with wide eyes, suddenly feeling self-conscious about his size.

His cock was long and thick, proportional to his tall frame. The veins were prominent, the head swollen and dark pink, almost painful from how worked up he’d gotten. Precum leaked steadily from the slit, making him a little embarrassed. He knew she’d be able to see just how fucked up he’d gotten from it all. The base was thick, the root of his cock visible under his neatly groomed pubic hair as it pulsed rhythmically, betraying how horny he actually was.

As Angel wrapped her hand around him, she could feel how much bigger he was than most men she'd encountered. The velvety soft skin was hot under her touch. She couldn't help but run her thumb over the shiny, leaking tip, spreading the bead of precum around the swollen slit. "My god, you are a big boy, aren’t you?” She murmured in a honeyed tone. “Such a pretty cock, Harry. It was aching this whole time?”

Her hand felt like heaven wrapped around him. The most welcome damn relief he’s ever felt. Biting his lip to stifle a moan, he watched as she spread the precome around his tip, the sensitive cock jumping at the contact. "Fuck, yeah," he panted, his hips shifting. "It’s been hard the whole time. I-I didn’t wanna move and fuck up the linework or anything..." He trailed off, watching her touch him with wide, dilated eyes.

“How sweet. You knew I’d be pissed if you messed up my work.” She cooed. “You‘ve been a mess this whole time, though. Is it because you think I’m pretty, Harry?” She tilted her head to the side as she leaned over, pursing her lips and letting a trail of spit dribble down to his cock. Hand spreading it around him, she wanted an answer. “Hm?”

"Shit," he cursed softly under his breath as the spit slid down his length, her hand moving expertly to spread it around. He nodded quickly, his face flush with embarrassment but his eyes dark with desire. He knew he was kinda into it, kind of liked a bit of humiliation but actively getting it made him feel crazy in the best way. "Yes," he breathed out, totally caught. "I mean, look at you..." He swallowed hard, watching how perfectly her long fingers circled his shaft. "The tattooing, the... the perfume, those fucking lips... god, your whole vibe, you're..." He trailed off, face burning. "Killer."

“Killer, huh?” That got a laugh out of her. “That’s so funny. Big, bad, tattooed Harry… intimidated by me. Got all that muscle, all that money, and all it takes to get you to fold is a pretty woman and some pain?”

"Shut up," he muttered, trying to look stern but failing miserably. His cheeks were on fire, his heart racing in his chest as she laughed at him. But fuck, it was a good laugh, and the way her eyes lit up only made him melt more. "I'm not intimidated," he insisted, but his voice wavered. "I just... appreciate beauty when I see it, okay? And you're fucking stunning.”

“Oh, sweet little baby…” She cooed, squishing his cheeks with her free hand, making his lips pucker. “Better watch the way you talk to me, m’kay? I could make you cum like this…” She squeezed around him, twisting her hand as she stroked his cock. “I could let you fuck me. Bend me over the bench, or get on top of you. I could suck you off, or…” She took her hand away, letting his sticky cock fall back against his stomach. “I could stop. I’m in charge here.”

His cheeks burned at her words, her voice like honey and venom, sweet and dangerous to his well being. She may as well kill him. "Fuck." He panted out, watching her hand leave his dick. It throbbed, aching for her touch again. He knew the game, knew when someone had the power. Angel fucking had all the power right now. "You're a bully," he muttered, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably. "What do you want?" He swallowed hard, eyes flicking between hers and her hand.

“I want you to be nice to me. Where’s my sweet boy gone?” A faux pout painted her lips. “You’re acting like a spoiled brat. Took time away to try and make you feel good and you’re calling me a bully…” Shaking her head, she curled her fingers around the hem of her tank top, pulling over her head to expose her tits. “You could touch them, if my nice boy came back. But you’re being mean to me.”

His voice caught in his throat as she pulled off her top, revealing her breasts, nipples hard and perfect and… when had he ever been shocked into stupidity? Was this a new record?. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "M’not being mean!” He tried to save, but his voice was hoarse, his eyes glued to her chest. He could practically hear his mom lecturing him, about disrespecting women, about using sweet words and gentle touches. And goddammit, he was gonna lose his hard-on if he kept thinking about that.

“No?” Holding her tits in her hands, she lightly pinched her nipples between her fingers. “You’re ready to be nice t’me?”

"Yeah," he said quickly, sitting up properly and moving so she stood between his spread thighs. As her hands dropped from her chest, she stepped further between his legs and he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to take her breasts in his hands, gently squeezing them. Fuck, they were perfect. So soft and warm, the nipples hard under his thumbs. “M’sorry," he murmured, looking up at her with wide, apologetic eyes. "I'll be nice. I'll be your sweet boy." He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. "Please touch me again, Angel." He begged softly.

His lips moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone and down to her sternum. He worshipped her chest with his mouth as he kissed and licked down to her tits, overwhelmed with opportunity. Lick, suck, bite, leave marks? Harry wanted to do it all. “I’ll be so good f’you, beautiful. I promise.” He wrapped his lips around one hard nipple, swirling his tongue around it before sucking gently. His hands stayed on her tits, palming and squeezing them together as he moved between them, giving attention to both. A big supporter of equal loving, he was.

He moaned softly as her hand pressed his face harder against her chest, the soft flesh yielding under his mouth. Opening his mouth wider, he took as much of her breast as he could fit, sucking and nibbling gently over the sensitive buds. His hand slid around to her back, pulling her closer almost desperately. More. He needed more. "Fuck," he mumbled against her nipple, the word muffled. "Perfect fucking tits."

“Tell me how beautiful I am.” She requested softly, pulling his mouth from her nipple with a handful of his pretty hair. “If you were so distracted by me before… You should have no problem doing that.”

"You're so fucking beautiful, Angel," he said without hesitation, his voice filled with genuine awe. "Like, breathtakingly beautiful. Those tits, that face, that fucking body..." He trailed off, shaking his head in wonder. "I don't know how you do it, but you're just... stunning." He reached up to touch her face, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "You're perfect. Please, let me kiss you," he begged, his eyes pleading with hers. "Just one real kiss, Angel. I need t’taste you, to feel your lips against mine."

He leaned forward, his hands settling on her hips as he looked up at her with the clearest depiction of desperation she had ever seen. "I'll be your sweetheart, your good boy, just please... let me kiss you." He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to her chin, hoping to wear her down. "Pretty please, beautiful."

“How cute.”’She cooed, tracing over his bottom lip. It was amusing to get men on their knees, to hear them plead and beg for her, but especially when said men looked like Harry. Buff and inked and otherwise looking like he’d be a complete dickhead she’d find at the gym, but so sweet just from his own desires. “Alright. Go ahead, since you asked so nicely.”

As soon as her fingers left his lip, he surged up to capture her mouth in a soft, gentle kiss. Trying his best to be gentle and sweet despite the overwhelming urge to devour her, it was harder to control himself than he’d ever remembered. He kept his hands on her hips, not daring to pull her closer or wrap his arms around her like he desperately wanted to. Breaking the kiss after a moment, he panted softly as he pulled back. "More? Can I have another?" He looked up at her with puppy eyes, already addicted to the taste of her lips.

The softness of it had surprised her, fully expecting him to be completely lost in it. If she was truthful, it only made her feel a little more fond of the man as he asked for another one, pleading almost with the luck he wanted to have. “You really are a sweet little puppy, aren’t you?” She murmured, stroking over his hair. “Want to keep kissing me that badly?”

"Yes, please," Nodding eagerly, he pleaded for it like he hadn’t before. "I want t’kiss you all day, Angel. I'll do anything, just let me keep kissing you." He rested his forehead against hers, clutching at her to keep as close as she allowed. "You taste so good, smell so good... I just can't get enough of you." He opened his eyes again, looking up at her with pure need. It was intoxicating for her, considering she hadn’t met anyone this down bad in her life. The power of it went straight to her cunt, giving her that telltale second heartbeat.

"Yes, thank you." the words were cut off, already pressing his lips to hers again as soon as she nodded in the most respectful kiss he could manage. This time, he pulled her a little closer, one hand sliding up her back while the other cupped her jaw gently, letting his fingers curl around and hold her where he wanted her- just testing it out. His tongue barely ventured out, just a hint of it ghosting over her bottom lip as he explored her mouth cautiously. Every kiss felt like a privilege, a gift. "You," he broke away just long enough to speak, "shouldn't be this perfect."

“But I am.” She hummed against his mouth, leaning into him as she allowed his hands to hold her. It was strange to feel a possessive hold on her body and yet see such a needy look on a man’s face. The juxtaposition of it all.

"Your lips are perfect," he mumbled against them, stealing another deep kiss. "So soft, so full..." He pulled back slightly to look at her face, "Your eyes are gorgeous, your nose is perfect, your jaw..." Cupping her jaw again, he angled it where he wanted it. "It's so pretty. Like you’re art, carved from marble or somethin’. I can’t even think straight.” It was hard to when she felt as good as she did. “Your neck." He leaned down to kiss her throat softly, "So smooth. Jus’ want t’bite."

She loved being worshipped, was the thing- And Harry was giving her the taste that she had wanted, completely submitting to her agenda without realizing he was filling the gap she had always wanted filled. It was precisely what she wanted actually, exactly what she needed, and the slight crazed look in his eyes had her cunt hot. “Mm… Thank you, good boy.” Gently running her fingers over his scalp, she felt his teeth graze her skin. “You getting mouthy, Puppy? Trying to bite?”

"Maybe..." he murmured, his teeth grazing her neck again as he tried to suppress a grin. He could feel her pulse quickening under his lips, taste the salt on her skin. His hands tightened slightly on her hips, thumbs rubbing small circles as he tried to restrain himself from outright biting her. "Is that a bad thing? Wanting to taste more of you?" His voice, low and husky, hinted at his building need, his cock twitching against his stomach. There was no hiding how affected he was by her.

“Not at all. Just didn’t know you liked to nibble on people, is all.” She took a handful of his hair, tugging him back with a heavy hand. “I like pain just as much as you do, seeing how much your cock is jumping just from a little tug of the hair. But you don’t have the right to bite me yet, so you have to wait.” Leaning down, she grabbed his cock back in her hand and spit over it again, stroking slow and tight.

Harry groaned, his head falling back as she tugged on his hair again and spoke in that stern, commanding tone that had him putty in her hands. "God you don’t even…. You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me." His cock jumped in her hand, the spit making it slick and easy for her to stroke. He felt a droplet of precum leak out, and he whimpered, his hips bucking slightly into her hand. "Please," he begged, his voice breaking. "Jus’ wanna… Want to make you feel good, too.’

She smirked down at him, her eyes glinting with amusement and a hint of something darker. "Is that so?" she said, her voice low and sultry. She continued to stroke him slowly, her thumb swirling around the head of his cock, spreading the spit and precum around. Messy and sticky, just how she liked it. "And how, exactly, do you plan on making me feel good, hmm?" She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, "With that big, thick cock of yours? Do you know how to use it properly?"

His entire body shivered at her whisper, his cock throbbing aggressively in her grip. "Yes," he managed to choke out, every ounce of control slipping away. "Would you let me?" He looked up at her with pleading eyes, a hint of vulnerability. "You're... god, you're making me crazy." His hips bucked into her hand again, desperate for more, more, more. Greediness was overwhelming. "Want to feel those perfect tits against me while I fuck you deep," he breathed, his eyes dark with the ever building lust. "Want to watch your gorgeous face while you cum on my cock. Feel your pussy clench around me, squeezing me so fucking tight, cause I know it will." His words were coming faster now, his restraint slipping. "Been hard imagining pounding into you all goddamn tattoo session. Want to pinch those perfect nipples while I do it, make you cry out-" He stopped abruptly, realizing he was rambling shamelessly. The mixture of his dominate side peeking out with the submissive. A true switch problem, feeling them both rearing their heads.

“Oh no, don’t stop on my account.” She laughed in disbelief. “You’re showing just how filthy you’re gonna be. Thinking about fucking me this whole time? Getting a needle in your skin but you’re thinking about my pussy?” It was filthy, it was dirty, but he had the privilege. She was attracted to him unlike most people, and that awarded him the right. “Keep going then, tell me what you want.”

"Jesus, you really do love hearing me say this shit, don't you?" He asked, a hint of a desperate smile pulling at his lips. Reaching up to cup her breast with one hand, he plucked her nipple lightly between his fingers. "Want me to tell you how I'd fuck you so slow at first, let you feel every inch, but then pound the hell out of that perfect pussy when you beg for it?" His tone was stronger, less nervous as he spoke to her about his hidden desire. She’d been blunt with him, so he was only awarding her the same.

"And when you're about to cum," he continued, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "I might just flip us over. Pin your wrists down and ride you hard enough to make those pretty tits bounce. Would you like that? Me being rough while I fuck you?" He squeezed her nipple harder, testing her reaction. The pretty noise she let out from the pinch let him know what he needed to know. She was just as much for it as he was. "Do you want a sweetheart who makes love to you slow, or a man who makes you scream?" His cock jerked in her hand, betraying his desire for either outcome.

“Think I want to be fucked hard. I haven’t screamed in quite a while. No one is able to do it.” The smirk on her face said it all, wanting to see just what he was capable of. How his voice had switched from nervous to confident, showing two very different sides of him? She had no idea. All she knew was she liked it. The duality of a man.

His expression morphed from pleading to predatory in an instant, his eyes glinting with a dark light. "You wanna be manhandled, then?" He purred, his hand sliding down from her breast to her hip, his fingers digging in as he took charge. “Alright then.” Standing up, he took initiative without another word- flipping her stance, pushing her over the bench and letting that perfect ass perch up in the air.

Harry was quick with it, calculated. Gripping her waistband in his fingers and tugging it down, exposing her bare body to him. No panties, nothing. Son of a bitch. She’d been sitting there with nothing on under the thin leggings this whole time? Unable to help himself, his hand came down on the soft flesh with a sharp smack to make his palm burn momentarily."Fuck, this ass, baby." he groaned, barely giving her a moment to realize what was happening before he slapped her ass again, harder this time. He admired the handprint appearing on her skin, wanting it to stay on there the entire night. It just looked too good to fade away.

Running his hand over the curve of her, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "You wanted rough, beautiful. Hope you can handle it." His other hand slid around to her front, directly cupping her pussy. "Already fucking soaked, aren't you?"

“Of course I am.” She laughed breathlessly. “You’re being sweet and then tossing me around. Smacking my ass. Did you expect me to not react?” Turning her head back towards him, she gave him a little attitude. “Do something about it.”

"Such a fucking brat, even after you call me one." he muttered, grinning despite himself. His fingers slipped up and down her cunt, letting out a grunt as he found that how soaked she actually was. Filthy wet, a mess, and he’d been the cause. "Look at that mouth, keep panting like that..." He moved his finger to stroke her clit, quick and firm, causing her to gasp. "Should I stuff it with my cock until you gag? Would that shut you up?" His other hand smacked her ass again as he spoke, leaving another hot mark in his wake. His voice dropped lower, more smug. "Or do you want me to just fuck you? Hm? The choice is yours."

"Damn," she muttered, her body wracking with shivers as his fingers strummed over her clit expertly. He may act nervous, but he knew what to do with pussy. "You talk shit," she threw back at him, "Like you’d actually shut me up with that dick. I'd bite it off." She snarled as she wiggled her ass to provoke him. "And who said anything about choosing? You asked if I wanted you to stuff my mouth or just fuck me. Where's the option to ride your face or have you eat me out?" She smirked.

“Trust me, I plan on doing it all.” He smacked over her clit a few times, feeling her jolt. It was such a pleasure, having her so reactive underneath him. “I have no intentions of this being a one and done. Not when you’ve made such a fucking mess out of me.” She had no idea, did she? “All I wanted was t’get you to like me. Wanted to hang out with you. Made me so nervous.. and then you tell me you want to get me off? Think m’not gonna go crazy?”

Clicking his tongue, he shook his head. The woman really didn’t have a proper clue. He’d wanted to go about it the proper way but she’d been true to her fashion, blunt and to the point. “Got all nervous just tryin' to talk to you. Thought you'd eat me alive, professionally and literally." He chuckled darkly, giving her clit one last firm tap before withdrawing his hand. “Now, m’not so sure I’d mind. Think we’re gonna take turns doing it.”

She let out a breathy laugh at his words, her head falling forward as she relaxed back against the bench. "Oh, you're something else," she murmured, her voice tinged with amusement. "Crazy, nervous, sweet boy who wants to make me like him and then wants to take turns making me cum." She reached back, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him down by his scalp as he looked over her body. "Fuck, I think I'm starting to like you, Harry. But I think I’d like you more with my cunt wrapped around that pretty cock.”

His face split into a wide, predatory grin at her words, his eyes flashing dark with desire. "For fuck's sake," he muttered, nipping lightly at her throat where her neck met her shoulder. "Such a filthy mouth for such a pretty face." One hand slapped her ass again, trying to get the skin hot while the other moved to grip his cock, lining himself up with her entrance. Pressing the tip against her, he applied just enough pressure to make her feel the stretch but not entering yet. "You wanna know something, beautiful?" He didn’t wait for her response. “I’ve never been so obsessed with making a woman like me the first fuckin’ times I meet her," he admitted, his voice rasping as he fought to maintain control. "I've never wanted to please someone so badly that it hurts." Flexing his hips forward slightly, he teased her with the tip of his cock. "And I've never, ever been this hard in my entire life."

"Goddamn," she breathed out softly, arching her back slightly to push back against him. "You get all sweet, talking about being scared of pissing me off. Making me laugh. Getting nervous..." She wiggled her ass again, wanting more of him. Just the preview of the stretch made her want more. "And then you spank me and talk dirty." Her voice dropped to a sultry purr. "Do you even have a filter? Answer me one thing, Harry." She asked, making him tense slightly. "Are you this sweet and this filthy all the time? Or jus’ when you get horny from tattoos?”

He chuckled, his hot breath fanning over her shoulder. "Both," he answered honestly, his hands roamed over her greedily, wanting to get very well acquainted with her body. "M’always sweet, always a gentleman when I need t’ve... but I've always been filthy in the bedroom." He bit down gently on her shoulder, his hips bucking forward slightly again, catching the tip of his cock on her cunt again. "And tattoos make me extra horny, so... here's your answer," he continued, his hands spreading her cheeks apart slightly to get a better view.

"Sweet and romantic most of the time. Dirty talker and versatile in bed." He pushed forward again, this time sliding just the tip inside her wet pussy. "Feeling you tattoo me… made me wanna throw you down and pound into you hard. Was willing to do anything you wanted if it meant feeling this… fuck, just look at that." He muttered, looking down in awe at where his body met hers, watching himself disappear slightly inside her. "No filter when I'm horny."

“Shit.” Y/N winced slightly at the stretch of him, feeling the tip pull back out before popping right back in again. It was the good kind of pain. “Thought you’d only be a sweet little sub but… You like both?” She wanted to know more, impressed with the so-called ‘versatility’. He’d been so sweet, nearly shaking earlier when she had caught him hard and now he was teasing her poor cunt.

On how the tables have turned.

He grinned against her shoulder, the motion making his hips move again and sending another inch of his cock inside her. "Mhm," he hummed, his hands squeezing her ass. "I like being sweet and submissive, but I also love being dominant and in control." He pulled back again, letting her feel the stretch of just the tip before pushing in further. "It's all about the situation and who I'm with." He nipped at her skin again, his words punctuated by slow, teasing thrusts.

"I can be your cute little puppy one minute, begging for your kisses, your touch..." His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips as he held her steady. "And then flip the switch and fuck you into oblivion the next, depending on what you need." He slid deeper this time, groaning at the tight heat enveloping him. "So is that what you want, Angel? Want me to ruin this pretty pussy with my cock?"

She nodded, her arms relaxing by her sides as she spread her legs further apart, giving him an unobstructed view of her dripping cunt and his thick cock disappearing inside her. "Fuck, look at that," he breathed, his eyes glued to the sight as he pulled back until just the tip remained inside her.. With a low groan, he pushed forward, watching her stretch around him. “S’so pretty. Wish you could see how gorgeous she looks, opening up for me.”

Harry wasn't small by any means, and he was more than aware that his size was intense for most women. He gave another testing thrust, watching her body swallow him up inch by inch. "Goddamn," His voice dropped lower, almost concerned. "You good?" He could feel her stretching around him, her inner walls quivering as she adjusted to his size. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest as he tried to push deeper, trying his best to soothe her. "Talk t’me," he rasped, pressing his lips against her shoulder. "You okay, sweetheart?" He flexed his hips forward again, burying another inch inside her.

Was it a bit contradictory? Yes. It was. But he knew she liked it- he could feel it, hear it in her little sighs. One thing he would give himself was that he was an observant lover. Her pleasure was above his own and he was paying attention to every shift in her. If she wasn’t loving it, he wouldn’t continue.

She let out a long, shaky breath, her head falling back onto his shoulder as she felt the stretch with each movement. "Fuck... it's been a while," she admitted, her voice strained. "You're really big." Her nails dug into his forearms as she tried to relax her body, to let herself open up for him. "I'm okay... just give me a second to... fucking... adjust." She hissed, wiggling her hips slightly, testing the feel of him inside her.

He felt her inner muscles clench and unclench around him as she adjusted, her body struggling to accommodate his size. He could see the stretch marks on her inner thighs, the way her pussy lips were spread wide around his thick shaft. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to slam forward and bury himself to the hilt. Instead, he held still, his fingers digging into her hips as he waited for her signal. "You look so fucking pretty like this, baby. Unreal." he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.

“Thank you, puppy.” She tried, cooing the best she could as she relaxed her top half over the bench as he adjusted her back down. “There’s that sweetness.”

"Still trying to earn more brownie points with you." he teased lightly, pressing a gentle kiss to her shoulder blade as his hand trailed up to brush her falling ponytail away from her skin. "Thought I might've ruined that when I spanked you." His hips gave her a little more, burying himself a tiny bit deeper just to feel her twitch around him.

"Mm?" She hummed softly, her body relaxing more around him. He could see the muscles in her back moving fluidly as she tested the stretch again, spreading her legs wider. He almost whimpered at the view - his thick length disappearing inside her slicked up, puffy lips. "This is all I wanted, baby. Wanted to be real fuckin’ nice to you. You think I’m being nice enough yet?” He tested softly, his voice dropping back to that sweet, almost innocent level..

"You're being a good boy," The reply came softly as she arching her back just a bit. "Sweet talking me one minute, spanking my ass and spreading me open the next. Making me take this cock inside me..." Moaning softly as he widened her thighs, he gave himself better access. "You're definitely being nice."

He grinned mischievously, his fingers splaying wide over her inner thighs. "Yeah, you like that, Angel?" He cooed, his sweet demeanor belied by the way he was positioning her body. "You like me being sweet while I make you take all this?" Pushing his hips forward again, he pushed the final inch inside her. "You think I’m being gentle enough? Or do y’need something more?"

She moaned again, his words driving her wild as he forced her legs higher. "You're being more than fucking gentle," she panted out, her inner muscles convulsing around him. She shivered, reaching back to grab at him. "Less asking if I like it, more show me how you fuck when you're being sweet."

"Yes ma'a." Harry echoed obediently, the same smirk playing at his lips as he pulled almost all the way out, leaving just the tip inside her before sliding back in with exaggerated slowness, letting her feel every thick inch keeping her open. He maintained that maddeningly gentle pace, his hips rolling against hers in smooth, controlled thrusts that hit deep but never rushed. “Such a perfect cunt. Christ.”

He peppered her neck with soft, open-mouthed kisses as he continued his slow, deep thrusts, his large hands keeping her right where he wanted her. "This is what you needed t’get you to talk to me, huh? Jus’ needed a thick cock t’fill you up. Didn’t need to be nervous… just needed to give the pretty Angel what she wanted." He murmured against her skin, his voice dripping with fake innocence "I think you’re ready for more."

"Damn it, you're playing with me," She gasped out, her nails digging into his thigh as she pushed back eagerly onto his cock. "Sweet talk me more like that while you fuck me harder." She purred, her head tilting to give him better access to her neck. "Wanted to shut up that nervous rambling with my pussy, huh? Gave you somethin' better to put your mouth on than words."

"Mmhmm, exactly," he hummed softly, his large hands tightening on her thighs as he continued his slow, rolling thrusts. "Shutting me up real nice with this pretty, squeezing little hole, isn't it?" He sighed against her throat, his hot breath tickling her skin as he spoke. "You’re so pretty, sweetheart. So fuckin’ hot around this cock." He flexed his hips forward, burying yet another thick inch inside her.

"Want more, Angel?" he murmured teasingly, barely moving inside her. "Need me to fuck this greedy little pussy harder?" He punctuated his words with a sharp, quick thrust before returning to his torturously slow pace.

She snapped at him, her voice tight with lustful irritation. "Shut up and fuck me, Harry! Stop teasing and put your money where your mouth is." Her demand was abrupt and harsh, contrasting sharply with the sweet way she'd been talking to him moments before. Harry chuckled darkly as he finally gave in to her demand. Her wish was his command.

He snapped his hips forward abruptly, finally giving her a taste of his full length and girth as he buried himself to the hilt inside her. "Like that, you greedy little thing?" he growled as he began to thrust harder and deeper, filling her completely with each stroke. "You want me to ruin this perfect little hole?" He snarled, his voice laced with a matched aggression as he fucked into into her.

“God, yes. Finally.” She moaned, loving the sting she felt from his cock filling her. It wasn’t the easiest to take and it had been a while but it fit her so well, she knew she needed more. He’d done a decent job getting her worked up, and she needed him to do what he promised now.. “Shut up and fuck me.”

"Christ, baby. Okay. I’ll- I’ll give you anything y’need." he groaned, finally letting go of that last bit of control. His thick length slammed into her again and again, each thrust harder than the last. One hand moved to her hip, holding her steady as he fucked into her, the sound of their bodies meeting echoing through the room.

The wet slapping of skin against skin filled the air, punctuated by his guttural groans and her own breathy cries. His thick cock slid in and out of her soaking wet pussy with ease, the sound of her coating his dick and making each thrust slick and, frankly, obscene. It was lewd and hot and he knew that he was living a damn dream. Harry's own moans grew louder, more primal, as he lost himself in the sensation of her tight heat surrounding him. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted, his voice ragged with pleasure. “Pussy is so fuckin’ good, baby. I can’t… you’re too good.”

Leaning over her body, his face pressed against her shoulders as he kissed and bit at her skin, seeking comfort and reassurance even as he ruthlessly fucked her. His hands moved from her hips to wrap underneath her, around her waist to hold her in place as he buried himself inside her over and over, his movements becoming less controlled and more desperate.

“There you go, puppy.” her voice was strained as her knees wobbled, clutching onto the bench and his thigh as he filled her right up. He was wrapped all around her, kissing and whimpering into her skin. “Shutting up and giving me that perfect cock. Just like you should.”

"Mmm..." The endearment of 'puppy' combined with her nails dragging across his skin made him whimper softly. His hips stuttered as he continued to fuck her deeply and smoothly, submitting to her praise as his mouth sought more skin to taste. "Makin’ me feel so good, Angel... d’you? Want you to feel so good too..." He was fully reduced to sweet, submissive whispers now, in stark contrast to his intense pace.

"You asked for sweet..." His voice dropped lower, almost shyly. "You like this better? Me being all nice while I pound your cunt?" He spread her thighs wider as he adjusted, changing the angle slightly to make himself go even deeper.

She let out a long, low moan at the new angle, her inner walls clenching around him tightly. "Fuck, yes... just like that, puppy." Her voice was husky with pleasure, her nails digging into his thigh hard enough to leave marks. "You're being so good for me, taking care of me so well with this perfect dick." She pushed her ass back against him, meeting his thrusts eagerly. "Keep talking to me like that, keep being my good boy while you fuck me."

Harry's breathing was labored as she praised him, his cock throbbing inside her. Pressing open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder and neck, he wasn’t able to shut the hell up. "You like hearing me talk like this? Your good boy, fucking you so deep and hard..." His fingers found her clit, circling it slowly as he continued to thrust. He needed to see her face as he did this. As much as he liked taking her bent over- he wanted to watch her face when she came apart on his cock.

Ignoring her whine when he pulled out for a moment, he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her effortlessly and flipping her over onto her back. Adjusting her so she was laying stead, he stepped between her spread thighs as he lowered himself back inside her. He wanted to see her face, to watch her expressions as he continued to fill her with his thick length. "Look at me," he whispered softly, his voice laced with submission as he began to thrust again, "I want to see your pretty face while I'm being a good boy and giving you this….cock," he finished, his hips snapping forward to bury himself to the hilt inside her again.

His eyes locked onto hers, drinking in the sight of her flustered face, her lips parted in a silent cry, her eyes glazed over with pleasure. "So fucking pretty," he breathed, his hands reaching up to cup her cheeks as he began to fuck her with renewed vigor, his thrusts hard and deep. "Look at me, Angel. Look at your good boy while I make y’feel good."

He worshipped her with his eyes as he continued to fuck into her, filling her up again and again. He brushed his nose against hers, breathing her breaths in as he whispered soft, submissive words against her lips. "You're so pretty... so perfect... you deserve this... you deserve me being your good boy and giving you everything you want..." He moaned softly, his hips rolling forward to brush spot inside her that made her eyes roll back. "You like that?"

Her back arched off the bench, her hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders as he hit it again. "Fuck, yes.” she cried out, her voice echoing through the room as she shuddered beneath him. "Just like that, baby. Don't stop, don't you dare stop fucking me." She bucked her hips up to meet his thrusts, desperate to keep that thick length buried inside her as he rubbed against her g-spot in the way he knew she needed.

His face broke out into a blissed-out, adoring smile as he felt her clench around him, her cries of pleasure music to his ears. Harry was determined to make her feel the best she ever had, to see her lose control and shatter beneath him. "Gonna make you cum, Angel... gonna make you cum so hard on my cock… tell me what you need." He’d do anything.

"Choke me," she panted out, her eyes wild with desire as she stared up at him. "Choke me while you fuck me, puppy. Show me who’s making me feel good." Her hands reached up to grip his wrists, guiding his hands to wrap around her throat. "Squeeze... please... I need to feel your hands on my neck while you fuck me..." She didn't even finish the sentence before he complied, his large hands wrapping around her delicate throat and squeezing lightly. “Yeah, like that.”

His large hands tightened around her throat obediently, squeezing just enough to feel her pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he groaned softly, letting her hear how it made him feel. “Look perfect with my hand around your neck… Makes me want t’cum so badly..” His hips slammed forward, burying himself impossibly deep as his fingers pressed slightly harder against her windpipe.

His other hand slid down to her clit, rubbing swift circles as he felt her walls flutter around him. "Come on, Angel... fucking squeeze me. Show me how good it feels. I can feel you tryin’ to milk my damn cock.” Harry could actually feel tears well up in his eyes as the intense pleasure of her tightening cunt mixed with the sight of his hands around her throat.

Her nails dragging over his wrists sent electric shocks straight to his cock, making him thrust deeper and faster. "So fucking beautiful... gonna cum so hard if you keep squeezing my dick like that..." His hold on her throat tightened slightly more as his cock pulsed inside her.

She giggled deliriously, her body shaking beneath his as she felt him losing control around her throat. "You gonna fill me up while you choke me?" She pushed up against him with her hips, making him hit that spot again and making her hiccup. "Come on, Puppy... c’mon, you look so sad with those tear-filled eyes... You gonna make a mess in your good girl or not? Give it to me.” She hissed, almost demanding it. “I want it. Show me.”

Harry really couldn’t help it. Her words pushed him over the edge, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and let out a low, guttural moan. "F-fuck... Angel..." he choked out, his fingers tightening around her throat as he came hard, his cock pulsing and filling her with his hot cum. Tears spilled over his cheeks as he shook and trembled above her, completely undone by her words and the intensity of the moment. "So good, baby it’s… so fucking good..." he was babbling a bit, but he couldn’t control it. She’d nearly fucked him dumb.

"It’s so hot…” feeling his load inside of her only made it harder to keep it together. There was nothing more arousing than a man losing it inside of her, unable to wait. “Keep going, just-," she panted out, her body still shaking. "Don't stop, puppy. Keep fucking me and choking me until I cum." Her nails dug into his wrists, holding his hands in place as she arched her back and pushed her hips up to meet his thrusts. "I need it... need to cum so badly... keep going, good boy... make your Angel cum all over you."

Her makeup was ruined, her eyeliner smeared and running down her cheeks as she laughed and begged him to keep going. Her hair was a mess, sticks and strands clinging to the sweat-damped skin on her face. Y/N knew she looked utterly wrecked, completely lost in the moment as she rode out the intense pleasure he was giving her, and she didn’t care. Her nails scraped against his wrists, leaving red marks as she held his hands in place, keeping his hand choking her as he listened to her. "Don't stop... don't you dare stop.”

"Jesus..." he gasped, his over-sensitive cock still leaking cum inside her as he continued to thrust, dedicated to her demands. He could feel his messy cum leaking out around his length each time he pulled back, creating a wet, lewd sound that only turned him on more. "Look at you... so messy... cum all over your pretty pussy..." He leaned down to kiss her swollen lips, groaning as his hips moved automatically, fucking her deeply. It was intense and he felt the over sensitivity but the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint her. "God, you're fucking destroying me..." The whimper was hoarse, hitting that perfect spot deep inside her again and again.

Her inner walls clenched around him, drawing out another desperate moan from him as he felt her getting close. "Cum baby, cum all over me..." He adjusted the angle slightly, pressing harder against that spot, knowing it would send her over the edge. "You're gonna squirt all over me, aren't you? I want you to give it t’me" He tightened his hold on her throat, hoping that extra pressure would help push her over.

His nose pressed against hers, his breath mingling with hers once again as he begged her to cum. "Please, Angel... please cum for me... squirt all over my cock and make a mess of me with your cum..." His voice was raw and desperate, his hips moving in deliberate, deep thrusts as he held her throat and fucked her with precise, calculated movements designed to make her lose control. "I need to see it, baby... need to feel you cumming all over me..." She was right there. He could feel her pulsing around him, bruising up to it. Taking her bottom lip, he bit down.

She choked out a loud moan mixed with a scream as she finally gave in, her body convulsing around his over-sensitive dick. She yanked his hair hard and pulled her throbbing lip from his teeth, arching her back and pushing her hips up to meet his thrusts as she let go, squirting hot and sticky all over his lower abdomen and balls. "Fuck, yes... yes... that’s a good girl!" He praised hoarsely, his fingers flexing around her throat to ease up as he felt her clenching around him. "There you go, baby. Jus’ like that..."

He slowly stilled his movements, still buried deep inside her as he reached up to gently wipe away the smeared makeup from her cheeks as she went through the last of it. "So fucking beautiful," he cooed softly, his thumb brushing over her tear stained skin. "Perfect, messy little Angel..." He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, his other hand resting on her throat without any pressure. "You did so good, baby... took me well." He praised her warmly, his voice filled with the satisfaction he felt.

This was the last place he had realistically thought he would end up today, but it’s his favorite place he’d been in a while.

"Mmm..." Y/N let out a happy, delirious giggle as she wrapped her legs around him, keeping him buried inside her. His forehead rested against hers as they both caught their breath, sharing the same dream, fucked out smile.

"Look at us..." he laughed softly, one hand still gently stroking her throat while the other traced patterns on her overheated skin. "Messy makeup, sweaty skin..." He wiggled his hips slightly, making them both giggle. "Both fucking destroyed...

"You're like a wet dream," she giggled softly, her legs tightening around him, making them both let out noises. "One minute you're spanking my ass and being all dominant, next you're choking me and being my sweet little puppy..." She nuzzled his nose with hers, laughing softly. "And now you're all gentle and touchy like you didn't just make me squirt everywhere..."

"Well, I think I’m multidimensional." He hummed softly, his forehead resting against hers as he listened to her breathe. "You're on the pill, right?" He asked suddenly, his voice curious. "Not that I'm complaining about not pulling out-but I wanna know if I can just..." He wiggled his hips slightly, making her hiss. "You know... stay inside you all the time..." He blushed softly, burying his face in her neck.

“Mhm.” She replied, stroking through his sweaty hair. “You can relax. M’fine.” It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to go at it raw but… prevailing circumstances. She didn’t regret it. “M’gonna have to sanitize the fuck out of this place now. I still have t’finish your linework” "Mhm..." He murmured happily, leaning into her touch as her fingers played with his sweaty hair. "Fuck, I'm glad." Pressing a small kiss to her throat, he relaxed a little. "My brains still scrambled from that orgasm, if m’honest..." He flexed his hips gently, making them both shiver. "But you know what?" He looked up at her with those sweet, vulnerable eyes. "I'll behave real nice while you finish my lines. No squirming..." He grinned innocently. "Promise."

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months ago

Text

Billionaire-proofing the internet

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

During the Napster wars, the record labels seriously pissed off millions of internet users when they sued over 19,000 music fans, mostly kids, but also grannies, old people, and dead people.

It's hard to overstate how badly the labels behaved. Like, there was the Swarthmore student who was the maintainer of a free/open source search engine that indexed files available in public sharepoints on the LAN. The labels sued him for millions and millions (the statutory damages for digital copyright infringement runs to $150,000 per file) and, when he begged for a settlement, said that they would accept his life's savings, but only if he changed majors and stopped studying Computer Science.

No, really.

What's more, none of the money the labels extracted from teenagers, grandparents (and the dead) went to artists. The labels just kept it all, while continuing to insist that they were doing all this because they wanted to "protect artists."

One thing everyone agreed on was how disgusted we all were with the labels. What we didn't agree on was what to do about it. A lot of us wanted to reform copyright – say, by creating a blanket license for internet music so that artists could get paid directly. This was the systemic approach.

Another group – call them the "individualists" – wanted a boycott. Just stop buying and listening to music from the major labels. Every dollar you spend with a label is being used to fund a campaign of legal terror. Merely enjoying popular music makes you part of the problem.

You can probably guess which group I was in. Leaving aside the futility of "voting with your wallet" (a rigged ballot that's always won by the people with the thickest wallet), I just thought this was bad tactics.

Here's what I would say when people told me we should all stop listening to popular music: "If members of your popular movement are not allowed to listen to popular music, your movement won't be very popular."

We weren't going to make political change by creating an impossible purity test ("Ew, you listen to music from a major label? God, what's wrong with you?"). I mean, for one thing, a lot of popular music is legitimately fantastic and makes peoples' lives better. Popular movements should strive to increase their members' joy, not demand their deprivation. Again, not merely because this is a nice thing to do for people, but also because it's good tactics to make participation in the thing you're trying to do as joyous as possible.

Which brings me to social media. The problem with social media is that the people we love and want to interact with are being held prisoner in walled gardens. The mechanism of their imprisonment is the "switching costs" of leaving. Our friends and communities are on bad social media networks because they love each other more than they hate Musk or Zuck. Leaving a social platform can cost you contact with family members in the country you emigrated from, a support group of people who share your rare disease, the customers or audience you rely on for your livelihood, or just the other parents organizing your kid's little league game.

Hypothetically, you could organize all these people to leave at once, go somewhere else, and re-establish all your social connections. Practically, the "collective action problem" of doing so is nearly insurmountable. This is what platform owners depend on – it's why they know they can enshittify their services without losing users. So long as the pain of using the service is lower than the pain of leaving it, the companies can turn the screws on users to make their lives worse in order to extract more profit from them. This is why Musk killed the block button and why Zuck fired all his moderators. Why bear the expense of doing something nice for users if they'll still stick around even if you cut a ton of headcount and/or expensive compute?

There's a way out of this, thankfully. When social media is federated, then you can leave a server without leaving your friends. Think of it as being similar to changing cell-phone companies. When you switch from Verizon to T-Mobile, you keep your number, you keep your address book and you keep your friends, who won't even know you switched networks unless you tell them:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/29/how-to-leave-dying-social-media-platforms/

There's no reason social media couldn't work this way. You should be able to leave Facebook or Twitter for Mastodon, Bluesky, or any other service and still talk with the people you left behind, provided they still want to talk with you:

https://www.eff.org/interoperablefacebook

That's how the Fediverse – which Mastodon is part of – works already. You can switch from one Mastodon server to another, and all the people you follow and who follow you will just move over to that new server. That means that if the person or company or group running your server goes sour, you aren't stuck making a choice between the people you love who connect to you on that server, and the pain of dealing with whatever bullshit the management is throwing off:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/23/semipermeable-membranes/#free-as-in-puppies

We could make that stronger! Data protection laws like the EU's GDPR and California's CCPA create a legal duty for online services to hand over your data on demand. Arguably, these laws already require your Mastodon server's management to give you the files you need to switch from one server to another, but that could be clarified. Handing these files over to users on demand is really straightforward – even a volunteer running a small server for a few friends will have no trouble living up to this obligation. It's literally just a minute's work for each user.

Another way to make this stronger is through governance. Many of the great services that defined the old, good internet were run by "benevolent dictators for life." This worked well, but failed so badly. Even if the dictator for life stayed benevolent, that didn't make them infallible. The problem of a dictatorship isn't just malice – it's also human frailty. For a service to remain good over long timescales, it needs accountable, responsive governance. That's why all the most successful BDFL services (like Wikipedia) transitioned to community-managed systems:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/10/bdfl/#high-on-your-own-supply

There, too, Mastodon shines. Mastodon's founder Eugen Rochko has just explicitly abjured his role as "ultimate decision-maker" and handed management over to a nonprofit:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2025/01/mastodon-becomes-nonprofit-to-make-sure-its-never-ruined-by-billionaire-ceo/

I love using Mastodon and I have a lot of hope for its future. I wish I was as happy with Bluesky, which was founded with the promise of federation, and which uses a clever naming scheme that makes it even harder for server owners to usurp your identity. But while Bluesky has added many, many technically impressive features, they haven't delivered on the long-promised federation:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/02/ulysses-pact/#tie-yourself-to-a-federated-mast

Bluesky sure seems like a lot of fun! They've pulled tens of millions of users over from other systems, and by all accounts, they've all having a great time. The problem is that without federation, all those users are vulnerable to bad decisions by management (perhaps under pressure from the company's investors) or by a change in management (perhaps instigated by investors if the current management refuses to institute extractive measures that are good for the investors but bad for the users). Federation is to social media what fire-exits are to nightclubs: a way for people to escape if the party turns deadly:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/14/fire-exits/#graceful-failure-modes

So what's the answer? Well, around Mastodon, you'll hear a refrain that reminds me a lot of the Napster wars: "People who are enjoying themselves on Bluesky are wrong to do so, because it's not federated and the only server you can use is run by a VC-backed for-profit. They should all leave that great party – there's no fire exits!"

This is the social media version of "To be in our movement, you have to stop listening to popular music." Sure, those people shouldn't be crammed into a nightclub that has no fire exits. But thankfully, there is an alternative to being the kind of scold who demands that people leave a great party, and being the kind of callous person who lets tens of millions of people continue to risk their lives by being stuck in a fire-trap.

We can install our own fire-exits in Bluesky.

Yesterday, an initiative called "Free Our Feeds" launched, with a set of goals for "billionaire-proofing" social media. One of those goals is to add the long-delayed federation to Bluesky. I'm one of the inaugural endorsers for this, because installing fire exits for Bluesky isn't just the right thing to do, it's also good tactics:

https://freeourfeeds.com/

Here's why: if a body independent of the Bluesky corporation implements its federation services, then we ensure that its fire exits are beyond the control of its VCs. That means that if they are ever tempted in future to brick up the fire-exits, they won't be able to. This isn't a hypothetical risk. When businesses start to enshittify their services, they fully commit themselves to blocking anything that makes it easy to leave those services.

That's why Apple went so hard after Beeper Plus, a service that enhanced iMessage's security by making conversations between Apple and Android users as private as chats that were confined to Apple users:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/07/blue-bubbles-for-all/#never-underestimate-the-determination-of-a-kid-who-is-time-rich-and-cash-poor

It's why Elon Musk periodically freaks out and suspends users who list their Mastodon userids in their Twitter bios:

https://techcrunch.com/2022/12/15/elon-musk-suspends-mastodon-twitter-account-over-elonjet-tracking/

And it's why Meta will suspend your account if you link to Pixelfed, a Fediverse-based alternative to Instagram:

https://www.404media.co/meta-is-blocking-links-to-decentralized-instagram-competitor-pixelfed/

Once upon a time, we had a solid way of overcoming the problem of lock-in. We'd reverse-engineer a proprietary system and make a free, open alternative. We've been hacking fire exits into walled gardens since the Usenet days, with the creation of the alt.* hierarchy:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/11/altinteroperabilityadversarial

When the corporate owners of Unix started getting all weird about source-code access and user-modifiability, we didn't insist that Unix users were bad people for sticking with a corporate OS. We reverse-engineered Unix and set all those users free:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GNU_Project

The answer to Microsoft's proprietary SMB network protocol wasn't a campaign to shame people for having SMB running on their LANs. It was reverse-engineering SMB and making SAMBA, which is now in every single device in your home and office, and it's gloriously free as in speech and free as in beer:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/samba-versus-smb-adversarial-interoperability-judo-network-effects

In the years since, a thicket of laws we colloquially call "IP" has grown up around services and products, and people have literally forgotten that there is an alternative to wheedling people to endure the pain of leaving a proprietary system for a free one. IP has put the imaginations of people who dream of a free internet in chains.

We can do better than begging people to leave a party they're enjoying; we can install our own fucking fire exits. Sure, maybe that means that a lot of those users will stay on the proprietary platform, but at least we'll have given them a way to leave if things go horribly wrong.

After all, there's no virtue in software freedom. The only thing worth caring about is human freedom. The only reason to value software freedom is if it sets humans free.

If I had my way, all those people enjoying themselves on Bluesky would come and enjoy themselves in the Fediverse. But I'm not a purist. If there's a way to use Bluesky without locking myself to the platform, I will join the party there in a hot second. And if there's a way to join the Bluesky party from the Fediverse, then goddamn I will party my ass off.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/14/contesting-popularity/#everybody-samba

#pluralistic #federation #decentralization #bluesky #free our feeds #mastodon #activitypub #reverse engineering

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fy-wonwoo · 4 months ago

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[IG] 241028 wonwoo left a comment on seungkwan’s post:

I no longer want to see my loved ones getting hurt. After observing everything that has happened, I’ve tried to suppress my feelings, thinking it would eventually pass. But now, I realize I can’t just watch these situations unfold silently for my fans, my members, and my fellow artists who are working hard.

Being an entertainer is a choice I made, and while I understand that I must endure some pain due to the love I receive, I don’t believe this profession should involve self-destruction. I want to do my best in my work and give back to the fans who support me, sharing the positive energy I can. The pressures and burdens I feel are immense, affecting both my body and mind.

Despite this, we must keep pushing forward. Some look at things rationally, others try to smile through the pain, and some are just enduring as best as they can. I accepted this responsibility when I chose this path, yet today feels particularly harsh and unfair.

Just as some days are bright and others are cloudy, today feels overcast for me. I wonder if I have ever truly tried to stay positive or smile through tough times. Today is not easy, and it saddens me to think of those who are hurting right now. It frustrates me that I can’t comfort everyone, and I question whether my clumsy words can resonate or provide comfort to anyone.

I want to emphasize that my fellow members and those in the K-pop industry I know genuinely love this work. They hurt because they care, and even when they feel empty, they continue to give love to themselves, their members, their families, and their fans.

I want to make it clear: we are not people who can be easily judged for our journey. We have endured pain and challenges to show our best selves on stage, and we work tirelessly for that. Please don’t underestimate what it means to be an idol.

We don’t deserve to have our story treated lightly. This goes for all artists; we are not your items to be used at will. Just one week of music shows can leave us utterly exhausted. Yet, even amidst advertisements, events, and performances, I see colleagues smiling warmly and greeting me. When they do, I smile back, as that is the least I can do. Their simple greetings and heartfelt messages in albums give me strength on tough days.

I appreciate the culture of challenges, where friends, even those who don’t know each other, can share dance videos together. Building small memories together is beautiful, and if it brings joy to the fans, even better. I hope we can all make an effort to be a little warmer. If we support and treat each other kindly, perhaps things can improve. Watching someone fall apart and give up is something I detest. My sincere wish is to stop giving wounds that we cannot take responsibility for. I don’t want to see my members, fellow artists, or our devoted fans hurt any longer. I want to express my love and apologies to those fans who support us so warmly.

ww: As Seungkwan said, I hope this can be a world only full of warmth.

trans

#jeon wonwoo #wonwoo #seungkwan #seventeen #svt #instagram #241028

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inkskinned · 1 year ago

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most writing advice is good as long as you know why it is good, at which point it is also bad. the hardest thing (and most precious thing) about being an artist is that you gotta learn how to take critique. i don't mean "just shut up and accept that people hate your work," i mean you need to learn what the critique is saying and then figure out if it actually helps.

i usually tell people reading my work: "i'm collecting data, so everything is useful." i ask them where they put the book down, even though it's too long for most people to read in 1 sitting. i ask them what they thought of certain characters. i let them tell me it was really good but i like it more when they look a little stunned and say i forgot i was reading your book, which means they forgot i exist, which is very good news.

sometimes people i didn't ask will read my work and tell me i don't like it. and that is okay, you don't have to like it. but i look at the thing that they don't like and try to figure out if i care. i don't like that you don't capitalize. this one is common, and i have already thought about it. i do not care, it's because of chronic pain and frankly i like the little shape of small letters. you use teeth and ribs in all your work. actually that is very true. i don't know what's up with that. next time i will work to figure out a different word, thank you. you're whiny, go outside. someone said that to me recently and it made me laugh. i am on the whine-about-it website as an internet poet. you are in my native habitat, watching me perform a natural enrichment behavior. but i like the dip of whiny, how the word itself does "whine" (up/down, the sound out your nose on the y), but i don't know if i want to feel whiny. maybe next time i will work on it being melancholy, like what you would call a male writer's poetry.

repeated "good" advice clangs in a bell and doesn't hold a real shape, dilutes in the water. like sometimes you will hear "don't use said." you turn that around in your head and it bounces off the edges of your brain like it is a dvd screensaver. it isn't bad advice, but it feels wrong somehow, like saying easy choices are illegal! sometimes i will only use "said." sometimes i will just kick dialogue tags out to the trash. sometimes i make little love poems where the fact that i do not say "said" is very bad, and makes you feel bad in your body, because someone didn't say something. i am a contrary little shitbird, i guess.

but it is also good advice, actually. it is trying to say that "said" sometimes is clutter. it makes new writers think about the very-small words and very-small choices, because actually your work matters and wordchoice matters. "i know," you said. "i know," you sighed. "i know." we both know but neither of us use a dialogue tag, because we are in a contemporary lit piece.

it is too-small to say don't use said. but it is a big command, so it gets your attention. what are you relying on? what easy choices do you make? when you edit, do you choose the same thing? can you make a different choice? sometimes we need the blankness of said, how it slides into the background. sometimes we don't.

i usually say best advice is to read, but i also mean read books you don't like, because that will make you angry enough to write your own book. i also mean read good books, which will break your heart and remind you that you are a very small person and your voice is a seashell. i also mean you need to eat books because reading a book is a writer's version of studying.

my creative writing teacher in the 7th grade had a big red list of no! words and on it was SUNSET. RAZORS. LOVE. GALAXY. DEATH. BLOOD. PAIN. I liked that razor and love were tucked next to each other like birds, and found it funny that he believed we were too young to know the weight of razor in the context of pain. i hated him and his Grateful Dead belt, where the colored teddy bears held up his appraisal of us. i hated his no list. it is very good/bad advice. i wasn't old enough yet to know that when you are writing about death you are also writing about sunsets and when you write about love you are tucking yourself into a napkin that never stops folding.

back then my poetry was all bloody, dripped with agony when you picked it up. i didn't know there is nothing beautiful about a razor, nothing exciting about pain. i just understood sharpness, which he took to mean i understood nothing. i wrote the razor down and it wasn't easy, but it was necessary. that's what i'm saying - sometimes it's good advice, because it's not always necessary. and sometimes it is very bad advice, because writing about it is lifesaving.

hang on my dog was just having a nightmare. i heard that it is a rule not to write about dogs - in my creative writing mfa, my teacher rolled her eyes and said everyone writes a dead dog. the literature streets are littered in canine bodies. i watched the rise and fall of his ribs (there is that word again) and had to reach out and stop the bad dream. when he woke up he didn't recognize me, and he was afraid.

it is good/bad advice to say that poems and writing have to mean something. it is bad/good advice to say they're big feelings in small packages. it is better advice to say that when my dog saw where he was, he relaxed immediately, rubbed his face against me. someone on instagram would make fun of that moment by writing their "internet poetry" as a sentence that tumbles across a white page: outside it is sunset and my dog is still in a gutter, bleeding a galaxy out of his left paw. or maybe it would be: i woke the dog up/the dog forgot i loved him/and i saw the shape of a senseless/and impossible pain.

the dog is alive in this one, and he is happy. when i tell you i love you, i know what i said. write what you need to write, be gentle to yourself about it. the advice is only as good as far as it helps. the rest is just fencing. take stock of the boundaries, and then break them. there's always somewhere else you could be growing.

i love you, keep going.

#warm up #writeblr

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punkbarbarian · 7 months ago

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for folks who don’t follow them on instagram— ally beardsley wrote part of an op-ed in the washington post for the 50th dnd anniversary about a moment playing dnd that really stuck with them and i wanted to share it here!

“a character’s journey — and my own”

I was an aspiring comedian in Los Angeles and had just landed a salaried job at the comedy website CollegeHumor. My co-worker and friend Brennan Lee Mulligan was looking for six comedians to create a show that would be like an at-home game of D&D. Why not? “Dimension 20” became a weird punctuation to my day.

I remember there being too many rules to remember. I kept turning to my friend, Brian Murphy, to ask which dice I should be rolling. I wasn’t paid overtime, but I loved the group and was having a lot of fun.

For the second season, I had my sea legs. I created a character for the campaign who was transgender. I had started going by the gender neutral they/them pronouns at work and among friends, but sourcing hormones or getting surgery seemed equal parts expensive and invasive. A fun thing about fantasy is stripping away the crunchy, real-world limitations and asking yourself: “What would I do if I could do anything?”  That season’s arc for my character, Pete, was extremely euphoric for me. I had described him as a trans cowboy you might see at Burning Man, and the artist drew him dressed as a freaky Hunter S. Thompson in an open shirt to show his top surgery scars. He has wild magic — uncontrollable and dangerous in the game mechanics — which we used to explore the painful chaos of leaving a family that doesn’t accept you.

Since then, I’ve started testosterone HRT and had top surgery. It’s funny to listen back to myself playing a character who had transitioned in ways I hadn’t. It’s full of inaccuracies that make me smile. Pete takes a testosterone pill every day; I now know it’s a weekly injection or a topical gel. I see my face, one wrapped up in playing something so new but instantly right. It was like an oracle. A near-future me who has health insurance! Who’s talked to their mom about being trans and even spent a week post-top surgery on that mom’s couch in Temecula, Calif!

As I started transitioning my appearance, seeing that in front of the camera felt raw. I was starting hormones, and my voice was cracking. Realizing it was all being recorded felt naked at times, but it has been really nice to talk to fans and friends about how important it is to see someone that looks like you taking a big risk on themself.

With Pete, it was really important to me to tell a story other than the dramatic lead-up to a medical transition. So we started with him having just gotten out of surgery, but that’s all you see of that process. Part of his backstory is that he doesn’t have a relationship with his transphobic parents, and before shooting the first episode, I felt sick to my stomach. I’ve been on a journey with my parents, and our starting place didn’t have much common ground. When my character meets with his father, it felt as though I was actually running into my own on the street.  Brennan could sense that discomfort, and as my character’s dad was about to call Pete by his deadname, Brennan shut the interaction down, surrounding his dad with bubbles that carried him into the sky. Magic is the power and freedom to manipulate your reality, and you can banish the awful voices in your life — let them swirl away into the air.

#made me emo a little #talking #ally beardsley #d20 #pete conlan

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iwanthermidnightz · 2 years ago

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When I think back on the Speak Now album, I get a lump in my throat. I have a feeling it will always be that way, because this period of time was so vibrantly aglow with the last light of the setting sun of my childhood. I made this album, completely self-written, between the ages of 18 and 20. I've spoken about how I feel like those ages are the most emotionally turbulent ones in a persons life. Maybe when I say that, I'm really just talking about myself.

I think they might just be the most idealistic, hopeful years too. At this point in my life, I had released my second album, Fearless. It became the breakthrough moment I'd always dreamt of, one that catapulted my career to new realms of success. It had brought with it a tidal wave of pressures and pitfalls and growing pains. All the while, I was encountering the milestones and checkpoints of normal teenage growth. I had cataclysmic crushes and brushes with heartache. I moved out of my parents' house and set my bags down in a new apartment. I hung photos on my own walls and decorated the space where I would sob and cackle and shatter and dream. Sometimes I felt like a grown up, but a lot of the time I just wanted to time travel back to my childhood bed, where my mom would read stories to me until I fell asleep.

In my darker moments, I was tormented by the doubt that swirled loudly around my ascent and my merits as an artist. I was trying to create a follow up to the most awarded country album in history, while staring directly into the face of intense criticism. I had been widely and publicly slammed for my singing voice and was first encountering the infuriating question that is unfortunately still lobbed at me to this day: does she really write her songs? Spoiler alert: I really, really do.

In the years since, I've developed a thicker skin about public criticism and the cynicism with which some people approach the music I make. At that time, it leveled me. I had these voices in my head telling me that I had the perfect chance and I blew it. I hadn’t been good enough. I had given it all I had and been found wanting.

I wanted to get better, to challenge myself, and to build on my skills as a writer, an artist, and a performer. I didn't want to just be handed respect and acceptance in my field. I wanted to earn it. To try and confront these demons, I underwent extensive vocal training and made a decision that would completely define this album: I decided I would write it entirely on my own. I figured, they couldn't give all the credit to my cowriters if there weren't any. But that posed a new challenge: It really had to be good. If it wasn't, I would be proving my critics right.

I had no idea how much this pain would shape me. That this was the beginning of my series of creative choices made by reacting to setbacks with defiance. That my stubbornness in the face of doubters and dissenters would become my coping mechanism through my entire career from that point forward. This exact pattern of enacting my own form of rebellion when I feel broken is exactly why you're reading these very words, and I'm re-releasing this album now.

I went through my first worldwide scandal (the mic grab seen around the world). I experienced the weirdness of trying to get to know a boy while a swarm of paparazzi surrounds the car. Media contacting my publicist for an official statement on why two teenagers broke up. These are weird experiences to have at any age, but even more surreal when you're 19.

I had the nagging sense that in the most intense moments of my life, I had frozen. I had said nothing publicly. I still don't know if it was out of instinct, not wanting to seem impolite, or just overwhelming fear. But I made sure to say it all in these songs. I decided to call the album Speak Now. It was a play on the speak now or forever hold your peace' moment in weddings, but for me it symbolized a chance to respond to the chatter and commentary around my own life.

Some of these emotional revelations were surprising to people. Some expected anger and instead got compassion and empathy with 'Innocent'. Some expected a kiss-off breakup song but instead got a hand-on-heart apology, 'Back to December. It was an album that was the most precious to me because of its vast extremes. It was unfiltered and potent. In my mind, the saddest song I've ever written is 'Last Kiss'. My most scathing is 'Dear John' and my most wistfully romantic is 'Enchanted'.

I'll be forever proud of setting a goal and seeing it through. I'lI always feel shivers all over when I remember singing 'Long Live' to close the show every night on tour. The outstretched hands of those bright and beautiful faces of the fans. Their support was like an open palm that reached out and helped me up off the ground when others were, frankly, mean.

These days I make my choices for those people, the ones who thought I had been good enough all along. I try to speak my mind when I feel strongly, in the moment I feel it. I'm still idealistic and earnest about the music I make, but I'm less crushed when people mock me for it. I know now that one of the bravest things a person can do is create something with unblinking sincerity, to put it all on the line. I still sometimes wish I was a little kid again in a tiny bed, before I ever grew up.

I always looked at this album as my album, and the lump in my throat expands to a quivering voice as I say this. Thanks to you, dear reader, it finally will be.

I consider this music to be, along with your faith in me, the best thing that's ever been mine.

Yours,

Taylor

#taylor swift #speak now (taylor’s version)#speak now tv #sntv prologue #speak now taylor’s version #sntv

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kiss-me-muchoo · 1 year ago

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𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬, 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞 || 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠!𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

part one: stop, you’re losing me || part two: in the trees, in the breeze (here)

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲_ your memory kept haunting Coriolanus Snow, so he found the way to end his exile. It’s a new era, but the same old feelings between Coriolanus and you keep causing scandals. Although, you are not ready to let go the pain he caused to you.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬_ Capitol ballerina!reader, angst, drama, violence and death lol, jealousy, unhinged Coriolanus, sex mentions, reader still has health problems, etc. 13k words fic IM SORRY

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞_ hear this along Can’t catch me now, I’m not an OR fan but I love that song from her. I mean, who didn’t? And thank you for the wait and loveeeee. PLEASE TELL ME OF ANY ERRORS BC I CAN’T BE ALMOST ACCUSED OF BEING TRANSPHOBIC PLEASEEEE

♪ ♫ awful Coriolanus Snow playlist ✰ Index (+ fics here)

_____________________________________________

Red, blue, red, red, yellow, green, green, pink.

Every color is correctly marked. A nurse smiles with some papers on her hand before she dissapears.

You can get dressed again. The color test was done, your vision was okay.

Purple and green bruises are scattered across your skin. Some appeared on your inner thighs. Two on your knees and one on the ribs from the day you collapsed after the post-Hunger Games celebration. You sigh covering your skin with a long floral dress. The reflection of yourself on the mirror salutes you with a tired, broken and sad face. It makes you force a smile, pretending more people were watching you. The room in empty though.

“Everything is fine. Your body is responding well to the shots.” A doctor asks as soon as he walks in into the room.

“The only thing that worries me is your mental health. Have you been stressed or has anything happened to you that could be considered a traumatic experience?”

The pointe shoes soaked in blood. The unstoppable bleeding on your feet. The late nights with panic attacks and over thinking. That young blonde man and the songbird together. The night on dressing room, how your hand burned after slapping the man so hard. The shock of all the events surrounding your life two weeks ago. How you lost control, your head spinning, blurred vision, heart pounding, numb arms and how you felt the oxygen was leaving. All the things you did for someone who never deserved you, making you shatter, fainting as soon as you finished dancing.

“Miss y/l/n… Are you okay?” The distant voice of the doctor breaks your bubble. You shake your head in disguise before turning away from the mirror, facing him and smiling politely.

“Yes, I’m fine. I was very stressed, yeah. Working with the production of the Hunger Games. My artistic performances, last days at the Academy. It was a lot…” the doctor sighs, annotating something. He then handed you the paper.

“I’m giving you some treatment for that. And please, you have to be careful and calm. Only that way the medicine will help everything to work here” he points his head. You nod, accepting the paper.

After that, you leave the private hospital. Trevor is there, your chauffeur and friend. He smiles, opening the door for you.

“Thank you, Trevor” he starts the car soon after.

“Is everything okay?” You nod, looking at the bright day at the Capitol.

“I just need to relax and eat well.” Trevor had trimmed his hair. It made him look younger, making you smile at the memory of him saying his wife was his hairstylist.

“Good. Oh, I received a call from your mother. This woman…uh, Dr. Volumnia Gaul? She wants to see you at the Univeristy today” you frown to look at him confused.

“Oh? So… Can we go now?” He nods, turning left to start the route. Meanwhile, you wonder what could she want. You made your part, the games had a higher amount of viewers compared to last year. You engaged with the production and the celebration was at full capacity. Your little accident even made it more attractive to the media. Appearing on the papers and magazines across Panem.

And after everything, you still wanted to keep dancing. Or else range would consume you.

…

It’s the first time you step inside the Capitol’s University. It’s very similar to the Academy, but the floor tiles are green and white. There’s a lot of white, cream, golden and black decorating the halls and long stairs.

Since it’s summer, most of the building was empty. Only some of the staff, and very few people who seemed like students. You see they dress very elegant. Some women wore hats with feathers or flowers. The men wore classy suits and you genuinely thought you would fit in.

You couldn’t wait to have some sense of normality as a Univeristy student along Clemensia and Lysistrata. Your only close friends left. Well, also Festus and Sejanus. At the time, you didn’t event know your dear friend was dead.

What seems like the private office of Gaul has a red door. Inside, she had a laboratory, smaller but weirder than the one you had seen before. Full of dissected creatures, tanks and crystal containers with unknown chemicals.

Some steps further and you see her desk, where she is collecting some folders and putting them away in some shelves.

“Glad to see you breathing, miss y/l/n…” somehow you found the humor to smile coldly.

“As you can see.” You reply standing perfectly correct.

“By this point you should know what happened to Mr. Snow” goosebumps make you shake your shoulders slightly, you nod again.

“He was exiled. Twenty years. He lied to me and did not said a thing about cheating on the games”

“Indeed. However this morning, I just discovered he bribed a woman to be sent to District 12.” You bite your tongue to hide your fury. A hot feeling invade your chest in rage. But you just breathe, failing to not show discontent.

“That’s not any of my business anymore.” Even Gaul seems taken aback. However, she doesn’t say anything, she just keeps pulling away the pile of folders.

“Well, since it seems you both parted ways… I must share that I’m deleting any record or data related to the 10th Hunger Games. Too many things happened before, during and after the games. Things that would compromise the reputation of the whole organization. Including me, the Academy, the mentors, you and Mr. Snow” honestly, you don’t know what to say. You just frown slightly, demonstrating how confused you were. But you also understood with half of the context. The death of Arachne, Coriolanus and his odd ways to make his songbird oustand, the rebel attack, Lucy Gray Baird winning from cheat. And the things you didnt know like Sejanus entering the arena.

However, you stick to your parent’s advice. You have to think about you and anyone else.

“I understand. But I did my part. I completed my task so I hope this decision doesn’t jeopardize my grant” she smiles. Dr. Gaul secretly believed that you and Coriolanus Snow could rule Panem together. In a sick and evil way, so she really hoped her dark intentions would work.

“Of course not. We had a deal. The views went up this year. You brought a new vision for the promotion that I’ll hardly let go.” The ambition started tickling you. Making you roll your tongue inside your closed mouth, at the verge of opening it and talking.

“Good.”

“In fact, you would be a nice option to become head of the promotion and relations team.” From the last games, you realized the director only gave instructions but he rarely did the dirty job. You liked having some power over the games. And now, a childish and unjustified resentment towards District 12 made you smile as Gaul offered you a new job.

“Is it a possible option to be working in behalf of my mother’s institution?”

“You’re very smart, y/n y/l/n. You are going further than Mr. Snow” your smile only grows, knowing you are nit being correct. You are letting the rage and resentment to guide you. You will make your last name shine brighter than your parents did. Just to rub it in the face of certain blonde who was now exiled. Probably savoring the country life of District 12.

“I just want to make my family’s name bigger than it already is” the woman giggles, taking out a red envelope and handing it you.

“I assume you’ll pursue the arts as you’re speciality. But if you want to get involved with the production, marketing and relations. You are taking politics and some lessons with me” when you look down at the envelope, the golden logo of the university is greeting you. It’s the admission letter.

“I expect to see you here by the end of the summer” you nod, thanking her.

And as you walk outside where Trevor is waiting for you, you have a cocky smile. Feelings like things could go better. You don’t even remember the doctor’s appointment you were in before coming to see Gaul.

…

Your soft hands gently brush against his forehead. Coriolanus had chills, he hadn’t had fever since he was 15 years old. But your hands are so soft even when they feel cold as ice. He just knows he’s in his bed. In his rottening penthouse. He can see a slightly blurred image of you, wearing a green dress, your hair in a braid, a golden necklace, dark purple lips. He can’t hear your words, but you are talking to him, spreading some cream across his chest, immediately he felt the mint soothing his cough and pain. He must’ve said something funny, because he can now see clearly your face, gorgeous as always. And he can clearly hear you laughing.

Coriolanus wakes up smiling. And he realised he was dreaming.

He was in a small and creaky lower bunk bed. Sejanus sleeping in the upper bunk. The sun hasn’t come up. And he’s a peacekeeper in District 12.

It’s been weeks since he left the Capitol. And since day one, you seem to be haunting him.

Current dreams of you, swearing to be hearing your voice. It makes him want to call you every single day. But he doesn’t. He was able to forget about you when he was in the peacekeeper training and duties. When he was with Lucy Gray any trace of you was gone. But as soon as he had a moment alone, he would remember everyhting about you.

He missed you. Painfully a lot.

Every Friday, he had been sending the letters. He hoped your mother would hand them to you. But Coriolanus knew you too well to know you likely would not be reading them. Nonetheless, he was letting himself to write the most vulnerable pieces of him, putting his heart on each word and phrase. Hoping that by the time his exile was over, you would have forgiven him.

When the sun came up, he was up along the rest of the boys. Sejanus gives him a friendly smile and they’re out exercising and doing jobs all day long. During his break, he’s able to seat in an old bench, with a beautiful view of an open green field.

That’s when he dreams of seeing you there, dancing or simply standing there with a sundress. Like the ones you used to wear on summer when he visited the house your parents had in District 4. He dreams so hard that he swears seeing the skirt of your dress swaying through the trees. And that’s when he knows he’s so fucked up.

But that’s long forgotten after the break is over. And by the night, he’s on the biggest bar of the town. He sees Lucy Gray singing something new. He honestly never understood the meaning behind her songs, but he was enchanted by her do what she loved.

After her live presentation, a big projector was introduced. They started playing the weather with Lucky Flickerman. Which made Coriolanus miss the Capitol so bad.

“They’re probably waiting for some women. That’s why the always start that thing” Lucy Gray said, appearing by his side and pointing at the projector. He smiled at her.

“To see women?” She nodded, grabbing a glass of cold water.

“You know how are men around here” with no tv around, no ostentatious lifestyles, men could get excited with little makeup and satin gowns. Coriolanus was disgusted by many mannerism of the 12. He had heard and seen many disapproving behaviors. But he was happy to be able to find some peace along the songbird.

“Yes, I know. What’s that thing by the way?” When Coriolanus turned around to see the old projector, he almost choked after seeing the big logo appearing.

It was the summer fundraising charity of your mother. Another luxurious gala to help the constructions of the Capitol after war. However, that wasnt the most impressive part for Coriolanus. Seconds after the recovered from seeing something directly related to his past, you appeared in the projector, entering the stage and getting in pose to start a performance.

Lucy Gray Baird was in shock. So if she was surprised, the men all around the bar where cheering and whistling.

There you were, with curled wet hair, metallic bronze makeup, wine lips, golden bracelets on your arms. But it was the attire. A two piece set that let your legs and stomach show off. With bare feet, and two elegant knives, one in each hand. Your cocky smile was back. And it was ruining Coriolanus Snow.

He literally jumped from his seat, leaving Lucy Gray to cross the river of men and properly see you.

She knew you had broken up with him. And that relieved the songbird, as she felt like she could let her feelings for Coriolanus flow freely. But seeing the boy literally hipnotized as soon he saw you, it made her feel uneasy. Deeply she knew that Coriolanus wasn’t over you. And no matter what, you were a sensible subject for him. That not even herself could ever test.

But he kept going. Each step meant hearing them say how good you looked, the places where they’d put their hands on your body. It boiled his blood.

But finally, the dance killed him. Because maybe for the capitol you were still elegant and classy. Their eyes would publicly appreciate your art, and privately let their mind wander with your half naked body. But for people from the 12. It was like throwing a piece of meat to lions in starvation.

With your hips swaying tentatively, pointed feet and letting everyone know how flexible you were. That sassy look on your face that Coriolanus was feeling too personal. It was like you were saying “look what you lost”.

He was used to see you in pastel tutus, hair in a bun. Not this goddess ritual dance type of thing. The music was very different, something very uncommon in Panem. He really wants to punch every man in the room. He sees how most of the women in the bar see your graceful image with disgust. And Coriolanus couldn’t blame them. But it made him remember that he had lost the right to call you his. And that intrusive thought made him automatically think he wanted to go back home so badly.

Your sensual and meticulous steps keep going, the knives making him remember the folk tales of women dancing with sharp objects to show fertility, honor of their kingdom and to seal a man’s faith. Every minute more desperate for Snow, who’s over the edge of hearing men say plenty of things about you. But soon, the music stops with you arched, pointed feet, your curls kissing the stage, the knives perfectly pointing like a clock.

Coriolanus doesnt miss your evil smile. He can sense you are changing. And he remember all the pain he caused you, making him sigh in resignation. His desire of going back for you only growing.

“I’m sorry I left like that” he explains to Lucy Gray. She notices how quick he drank his beer. She was a woman after all, she knew the effect a fine female could have on men. Especially on the man who was their lover. The one that probably hurt her and left her, ending their history in bad terms.

“It’s okay. I told you she was very pretty before” Coriolanus learns that Lucy Gray was not being sarcastic that day at the zoo.

…

It had come to the point where he couldn’t run away from his thoughts. Coriolanus was borderline obsessed with your memory. He constantly wondered how you were doing. He had to ask Tigris every time they talked to see learn anything about you.

For the first time, since he left the Capitol, Tigris shares that she had talked to you.

Coriolanus was surprised to hear that the reason you gave about the breakup was only because he cheated with Lucy Gray.

You didn’t said a word about him the lies, the last argument you two had. You only say that his songbird was special. And that you stopped to be what he needed.

Which was heavily mistaken. Some days before he accepted that you were the only thing he needed to keep going. He imagines a fake scenario where you came to the 12 with him. You find a humble home where you wait till his training is over. The lake where he spent hours with Lucy Gray and The Covey could’ve been hours with you. Talking about anything and everything. He would’ve come straight home to you when the training was over. Make love to you, promise to fight for a higher position, possibly as a commander one day and marrying you. And soon the years would’ve passed, his exile would be over and you would go back to the Capitol with him. Maybe some children along.

But that would never happen. And his delusion was starting to make him find a way to go back where he belonged.

He questioned if his urges where for power, or to get back with the woman he loved.

Whatever the reason was, a lot of people would pay the price. First were the daughter of the mayor and her partner, then the man who had the decency to hide the gun he used to kill those two. Who also happened to be his alleged best friend.

His hands trembling as he pressed to record Sejanus. But he knew there were high possibilities of being heard. And that way, he would go back. He would find you and slowly start again.

The death of Sejanus would haunt him for a long time. He knew he was a close friend of yours, which made him get chills, uneasy to decide what could be your reaction to the news. Either way, it was done. The heavens had to have heard him. He was offered to serve in District 2, gain some money and he could easily take the train to see you if anything.

But Lucy Gray had other plans. And Coriolanus wasnt even sure of what he was doing. Probably in his rambling and panic after everything he went through as a peacekeeper, one side of him wanted to run away and never see back again. To forget about his decisions as a mentor, to forget about his decisions as a peacekeeper and to forget about you. That way he would never have to face all the pain he caused you.

After some hours of walking, Coriolanus should have seen the signs.

“Everyone in the Covey are really good dancers. But I don’t think it’s my thing. I just have my voice…” Lucy Gray said, holding her bag tightly. Coriolanus only smiled, remembering how bad the songbird was when he tried to teach her how to waltz.

“Is it like… exclusive in the Capitol?”

“I think so. Today there’s only one institution, the mother of…” he goes quiet, realizing what he was about to say.

“…y/n?” She asked, almost nervous about mentioning your name. But in reality, she wasnt. After Coriolanus nodded, they just kept walking in silence.

“Her mother founded it?”

“It was her grandmother actually. Mine knew her, and they were kind of friends” he said smiling, trying to look away from Lucy Gray so he couldn’t see him smiling.

Once you leaned Coriolanus was financially struggling some years ago, you ended up visiting him for the first time. That day you learned Grandma’am was friend of your family before your mother was born. And that only made her appreciate you faster. Which made Coriolanus happy. Finally seeing her grandmother to let go the days of the war and any crazy ideas that stayed on her mind. All thanks to you.

“Grandma’am even started planting pink roses for her.” It slipped out automatically, he couldn’t control it.

“She’s like ink…” Coriolanus missed the point. But after some minutes of silence, he understood what Lucy Gray said. Which resulted true. Metaphorically, you were the brightest tint he’d ever seen. He let that ink fall and splash everywhere, leaving stains on him that probably would never leave.

And finally, Lucy Gray Baird fell to her end in the shallow woods. Hunted like a prey. By a broken man who decided to stop being good. Who was losing his mind for the pieces of a woman he let go so easily.

That changes like the destination of Coriolanus.

He’s going back to the Capitol. With tiny sparks of hope. But firmly believing that everyhting was meant to happen like that so he could go back to you.

However, as he came closer, Coriolanus realized he was lost. He had no idea what would await for him. And what version of you would greet him.

…

There isn’t an exact period over the Capitol that can’t be considered as autumn. The summer was practically over, and winter was already happening. Coriolanus had to wait longer than expected to get into University. In the meantime, he accepted the money from the Plinth family. He decided to get ahead of time. He used the last hot days to get Tigris and Grandma’am back to the penthouse. He bought the whole building and in two weeks the whole place was renewed. There was only one thing he couldn’t get rid of. The living room and entrance olive paint you brought. He painted the halls, dining room, studio and kitchen in a dark blue paint. But he wasnt able to get rid of the memories he made with you. His old self was long gone. But he had his supcisions that the version he was for you would never change.

However, he decided to stay afar from the public eye for that month after returning from exile.

Tigris said she hadn’t seen you. But that was okay. He would soon enter to University. He was going to see you there.

Eventually the day came. He gets rid off Casca Highbottom and then he walks towards the big and imposing University of the Capitol. He had a driver now, but he thought it wouldn’t be bad to use the mornings to walk.

In his first hours inside, he has private lessons with Dr. Gaul. Already mentoring him to be a game maker. She kind of suspects he was involved with the sudden death of Highbottom. But for some reason, Gaul has a lot of hopes in him, so she would easily act blind to keep her plans to keep going.

After that, Coriolanus starts looking out for you. He crosses the big seminar rooms and other halls. Until he is able to locate the arts building. It’s smaller but probably the most interesting. With a beautiful barroque facade. As soon as he enters, he sees a group of girls holding large canvas with beautiful paintings on them. Then, some steps later he spots two guys trying to carry a sculpture. Coriolanus believes that kind of modern art was the future of the Capitol. He had to admit the arts building was fully alive, he even forgot he was still at the university.

Coming down from some stairs, he sees two girls. A red haired and a tanned with black leotards and floral skirts are giggling. They seems like dancers, he doesnt think twice. He’s already approaching the girls.

“Excuse me, ladies. Do you know by any chance where I can find y/n y/l/n?” The girls look cheekily at each other, before smiling at him. Which makes Coriolanus wonder what type of rumours had been flowing around about you and him. Since mostly everyone knew the last Snow heir was dating the daughter of the kings of Panem´s television industry.

“She’s rehearsing a class for new students. It’s on the second floor, you’ll hear the music…” he thanks the tanned girl before going upstairs.

She wasn’t lying. He started hearing the classical piano music. He can hear some distant and low cheering. The whole floor is full of dancers. It’s a long hall, to the right, a big studio, with a classical mural, chandeliers and the most giant mirror he’d ever seen.

The people outside the studio see him with curiosity. But he only has eyes for the ballerina dancing all across the studio.

There you are, with a coral tutu, baby pink leotard and thighs. Your pointe shoes seem new. Your cheeks look so pink and your smile is there.

He has to understand that you have become popular enough to have your own fans. Some rumors said that your mother was offering master classes at the University. And he couldn’t help but think how much your family’s name have growth since he left.

He lost count of many turns you did, but you finish cleanly, offering a beautiful view of your tutu wadding. He can’t stop smiling.

People start a round of applauses. He debates whether to get closer or not. He doesnt have any speech prepared. He doesn’t know what to say to you.

“Coriolanus?” When he turns around, he sees Clemensia Dovecote there. Her old study buddy looked older, but not in a bad way. He saw the scales on her skin. But he didnt had to ask, he knew it was because of the rainbow snakes. It just seemed weird to see her short sleeves but turtleneck, rather than her trying to cover all of her face.

“Clemensia” he greets her. Clemmie was probably your female best friend. It wasnt a surprise that suddenly the woman seemed to dislike him.

“Since when you returned?” He looks back at you again. As the music keeps playing, he just smiles. He know the way things would now work. With no how are you questions or anything like the past.

“Some weeks ago.” Clemensia looks like she’s analyzing every movement and word of him.

“Why are you here?” Her hostile tone only makes Coriolanus to act more relaxed than he already is.

“I made the promise to come back for y/n…” the woman stares at him, probably taken aback.

“She doesn’t need this, Coriolanus. She can’t have this” Clemensia had visited you at the hospital. She learned most of his lies towards you. She knew you didn’t deserved to fall again. And especially not because of him.

“I know, Clemmie. I won’t be a burden for her” the music stops, and Coriolanus decides that it’s not time to talk to you yet. So he smiles once again to Clemensia.

“I hope so. Because you already failed her once…” his smile drops. Clemensia dissapears to get inside the studio. Coriolanus stares at you one last time, before he silently walks out.

…

Before you can reach your glass of posca, a porcelain plate with your food slides on the way. A soft piece pile of fried little steaks, with melted cheese and a golden sauce of mushrooms dripping. Your stomach churns and it makes Clemensia laugh.

She had a salmon fine cut with caviar and other exotic stuff. It was a beautiful afternoon to have dinner at one of the most elegant restaurants of the Capitol Downtown.

“Bless your food.”

“Bless your food” you reply back to her.

“So, How it went the rehearsal?” You roll your eyes giggling.

“It was great, until the girls taking the masterclass appeared to see me” your father was right. After working in the production of the 10th Hunger Games, many doors opened for you. Splendid career opportunities here and there. Only that you didn’t enjoy a lot of attention.

“Are they still at the Academy” you nod.

“Rich girls who can make their parents pay the classes of course” Clemensia smiles, drinking a little bit before getting back to eat.

“Coriolanus was looking for you…” you literally stopped eating. You almost drop your fork, but you decided to hold it firmly.

“What?”

“Apparently he’s back.” She reveals. Making you close your eyes in panic.

“How? He was exiled” you say whispering. Clemmie shrugs.

“Gaul. He’s her pupil star. And with Dean Highbottom dead now…” it must’ve been great for Coriolanus to learn the man was gone. Always putting him in the lowest, it was a mark for change.

“Doesn’t matter, I won’t let this get into my way” she smiles.

“What about what your father said?” During a late lunch, you had been talking with your parents, revealing that you broke up with Coriolanus because he cheated. Your mother was shocked, but soon she joined your father to give a twisted advice. He asked if you still loved him. You answered you weren’t sure.

Then I suggest you to proceed to ignore him. Soon you’ll learn his intentions if he ever comes back. Play with him a little. Show him that nobody will laugh in the face of family like ours. Let your hands get dirty, but never show this insecurity you’re talking about.

From that day, you still wake up every morning without knowing how you actually feel about Coriolanus Snow. You know you can’t just simply forget about all the things you did with him. But you firmly pretended that he was in the past.

“I still don’t know how I feel about him.”

“Are you still in contact with his family?” You remember Tigris and Grandma’am.

“Not as much as I used to”

“Mhm. Did they ever learned what happened?” You sigh.

“Just that he opted to choose the songbird before me. And I know Tigris has her own opinion. I just never gave her the opportunity to share it.”

“With him back… probably you’ll find out sooner than later” Clemensia admits, leaving you thinking for the rest of the dinner.

Turns out that you are not ready to find out yet.

…

The first time you see him, it’s at the gardens of the University. You had lunch and wanted to have a brief walk. Through a maze of flowers and plants, you spot him on a bench. He’s very concentrated reading a book. Your eyes widen, seeing how much different he looked. The posture, the clothes, the hair, the cold look.

Something notoriously changed. And you have your suspicions. It wasn’t a coincidence that Sejanus was gone, and Lucy Gray Baird had dissapeared.

You mourned the death of Sejanus one week. You send your condolences to his parents at the funeral. And that night you can’t help but cry on your pillow. Wondering why had life slowly turned dark. In a matter of months you had experienced things you never thought you would. You lost people, you had your first heart broken. You had lost the will to do much things. But, you had to keep going. And you felt guilty, because you thought you had no right to feel like your life was hard, just for being Capitol. The districts struggled more. However, it’s not on your power to mend their lives. Just as it’s not their case to judge your life.

And now, seeing Coriolanus so firm, so calm, it makes you doubt. Sensing that there must’ve been something off about him. Something bad, like all the things he did and hid from you.

You pretend you’re looking for some papers in your bag when you walk past him. He doesn’t see you though, and you thank it.

A couple of days later, you hear for the first time the rumours about him courting Livia Cardew. It makes you feel depressed. You cry out of anger as soon as you get home.

And to your dismay, the first thing you see after turning into a room for the politics class, it’s them. Coriolanus Snow is talking to Livia just beside the door.

That’s the first time you two look at each other again. He sees the anger, discontent and so much resentment. You see the questioning, curiosity and admiration in his eyes.

Nothing else is said because you break the gazes, you walk inside the room with your head high, and your presence is so evident that even Livia has to look at you. Taking too much time to see your beautiful heels.

A week later, you are having a good time with your friends. Festus and Lysistrata are there with you and Clemensia. You are talking all about the upcoming winter gala held at the biggest auditorium in the Capitol. Everyone is excited because it’s the great opportunity to make contacts and eat the most delicious food.

“Is your mother inviting Coriolanus?” Lysistrata asks with curiosity. You roll your eyes at the subject.

“I hope not. I haven’t even spoken with him ever since he came back” everyone knew you had broke up with him. But only Clemensia knew the details.

“Well, apparently he is courting Livia now” Festus mocks, making everyone laugh. Not that any of you had something personal against Livia. But she wasn’t the most brilliant star at the Academy. Now not certainly at University.

“Why Livia?” Clemmie asks laughing.

“Perhaps it’s becase how naïve she is”

“Or because of her father’s inheritance” you add.

“I don’t think so. He’s now the heir of the Plinth fortune” Festus remarks with dessaproval, which makes you feel angered.

“He’s dancing on Sejanus’ grave” your words create some minutes of silence for your late friend. Even when Festus and Lysistrata had made fun of him for being District and the ways of his parents to go up, at the end, they were friends. And now his absence had created a void.

“Ambitious and annoying. Just like his father…” Lysistrata comments sipping on her glass of water.

“How unfortunate. If he had stayed with you, we wouldn’t be talking bad things about him behind his back” you sigh at Clemensia’s words.

“Speaking of the king…” when you look past Lysistrata seated on her chair, you spot Coriolanus. He was wearing a dark grey suit, he looked so fine you had to admit. But soon you look away, the sudden memories of your last days with him haunt you.

After spotting his old friends and ex lover in a table at the cafeteria, he start walking towards there. Trying to make his first moves to go back to normality.

“Yeah. He would’ve been seated beside me right now. But he consciously choose the songbird before me. At least he’s refining himself a little bit with Livia” your friends turn to look at you in shock after the revelation, Clemmie only rises her brows as she sips her water silently, hiding her smile. By the time Coriolanus arrives the table, you’re gone and he curses himself for not walking faster. Festus and Lysistrata are shocked, making him furrow his brows in confusion.

“Did I missed something?” He asks.

“You had an affair with your tribute?” Lysistrata asks back in disgust. Coriolanus sees Clemensia giggling in silence with her head down. Probably enjoying his embarrassment.

His silence meets the requirement for an answer. One that they take as yes.

“And now y/n knows about you and Livia” Coriolanus frowns ever deeper after looking at Clemensia.

“There’s no Livia and I” He responds firmly. Even disgusted to her his name along the least smart girl of his finances class.

“Oh but everyone believes so. That you’re courting her…” he rolls his eyes, annoyed.

“I’m just talking to her because we’re partners for some stupid research paper” the silent sipping on their drinks at the same time is ridiculous to Coriolanus. He just stares at them annoyed.

“Do me a favor and leave her alone, Coriolanus. You were gone to go to your nobody girl from 12, but I stayed and saw her struggling in that hospital bed” Clemensia speaks confidently. Making the blonde to feel threatened.

So he realises that maybe you could have feelings for him still. And that this rumors could have weight on you. He curses himself. Even without realizing, he’s still hurting you.

“I won’t lose the girl twice, Clemmie. Have a good day” he says with a fake smile before leaving the table in shock.

He had to quicken the pace of his proximity with you. He had to make you see he never stopped caring for you.

…

There’s a shattering mess of broken glasses. You quickly move away from the crime scene, looking for your pills, immediately swallowing two.

Your mother’s assistant opens the door, asking for you with concern.

“Is everything okay, miss y/n?” You turn to look a the woman.

“I accidentally threw the jar. Sorry…” Millie is in her mid thirties. She was your mother’s confidant, and slowly yours too. She sees the news paper in the floor, half of it drenched from the broken jar that had water. She can see the title, The Snow heir tights the knot with the Cardew family?

“I’ll call the maids. Don’t worry” she says looking back at you.

“Thanks Millie.” She smiles, closing the door behind.

You breathe loudly, sighing in stress. Of course you had purposely thrown the water jar because of the news paper. A portrait picture of Livia is placed perfectly aligned with one of Coriolanus. Between some paragraph there’s your name too. But you don’t dare to see why.

You may pretend to be okay to the public eye, but you’re still drowning in the same feelings you got after Coriolanus Snow revealed his lies to you.

It’s almost like if he was still mocking you. Showing everyone how easy he had played with you. And how easy he got rid of you.

Someone had to pay. No, not someone, he. He, himself, Coriolanus Snow had to fail. Only that way you would feel slightly better. Only that way your tears would stop being for him.

The first chance you had, you would take it.

…

While you loved pursuing a dancing career along the production stuff. You still had some duties regarding politics and economy. Which is why you ended up at the submissions office so early in the morning. To send a petition.

You end up at at a messy office. A man is there, moving folders and other type of papers. There’s three baskets that can clearly be read as; approved, denied, pending.

However, you quickly look away to smile at the man who’s sitting behind the chair.

“Good morning.” Your smile is contagious to everyone. The man replies with a warm greeting.

“Good morning, miss y//l/n. How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you could hand me a petition form to send” he nods, standing up, leaving the mess of papers behind.

“I can, just let me go and print the form. It won’t take too long…” you smile again, letting him go outside the office.

As you wait, you start seeing the racks of boxes and more boxes filled with yellow and lined papers.

Your curiosity grows, making you look at the baskets on the desk.

You see at first glance some graduation petitions, letters, etc. You are still curious to see why some papers where pending. So you look at the door one last time before diving into the papers. You don’t know the first students mentioned. Until you see the third yellow folder, where you can see a white strip with black letter saying Coriolanus Snow.

You open the folder, seeing what it was all about. A petition to start a political campaign at the age of 19. You frowned. He was good at writing. Even with letters he had some charm. But you know he never beated you to be precise and delicate. You always heard Grandma’am saying he would one day be president. But you never seriously discussed it with him. Now you know it was real. And you can’t help but feel an enormous amount of remorse.

He doesn’t deserve it. He had lost everything once, but the way he was earning everything was through breaking you, and probably others you’ll never knew about. Even when it would make Tigris and Grandma’am happy, you slip the folder into the basket of denied. You don’t feel nothing as you do it.

In fact, you offer the sweet man a smile when he comes back with the form for you. You thank him and then walk out.

…

Coriolanus swears he didn’t intend to bump into your father at the bank. Your father was a frivolous man, but since he knew him, he greeted Coriolanus with respect.

The blonde was taken aback when he invited him to have dinner at your house. And he couldn’t say no.

Your house is the same. At least from the outside, because inside, there’s more color. Coriolanus sees your mother. And she offers him a smile before he leans to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Coriolanus, look at you. You look very handsome!” His cheeks warm, as your father giggles, handing his coat to a maid.

“I ran into him at the bank. Where’s y/n, dear?” Your mother laughs, rolling her eyes.

“That girl. I haven’t seen her out of her room since midday” the sudden sound of your heels gets noticed.

“I’m here” you say, coming down the stairs, putting some earrings on. Coriolanus notices the grey dress and black heels along the red tights. A diadem on your head and a bright smile that soon dissapears as you spot him in your house.

“Look who I found earlier” you sigh, standing straight.

“I see…” Your parents can see the way you correct your posture, showing how uncomfortable you are.

“We’re having dinner…” you ignore Coriolanus and his deep gaze on you.

“I can’t stay for dinner. I have rehearsals and I promised Clemmie to go to her birthday dinner party” they exchange looks. And Coriolanus is at the verge of smiling at the way you are making up an excuse to leave. Running away from him.

“Are you meeting with Jan before?” Coriolanus head almost pops to look at your father. And you don’t know if you should smile. Jan was your dance partner, he would dance with you at the gala. He was older, very handsome. And you wished he wasn’t off limits from you. Because you easily could admit your attraction towards him.

“Can you at least stay for some drinks?” You shrug at your mother, accepting your purse from a maid. You ignore Coriolanus and his way of looking at you, almost petrified.

His head was spinning, he needed to know who the hell was Jan.

“Unless you want me to do horrible at the Winter Gala, no. I cannot stay, mother” she sighs, tilting her head towards your father. He understands, your father was the one who convinced you to ignore Coriolanus and play with him.

“Well, that’s fine. Just be polite and say goodbye to Coriolanus.” You nod, watching them leave inside the long corridor to enter the dinning table.

You remain quiet, looking down at your purse to avoid his eyes.

“You look lovely” he says, breaking the ice.

“Thank you.”

It’s the first time you two talk since months ago.

“I heard you want to start your political campaign” you opt to pretend you are okay and you can face him with confidence.

“I did. But the idiots of the council rejected my essay. Guess it’ll give me more time to focus on university.” You nod, grabbing a pair of gloves from inside the purse. You want to smile so badly. He would never know you were the reason of his failed first steps in the politic of Panem.

“Anyways… How you’ve been?”

“I’m fine, Coriolanus.” the way you sound tired. Like tired of him makes him uncomfortable. But he tries to keep his best smile too.

“Who is Jan?” He asks almost too seriously. You smile politely at him

“No one of your business, Snow” you calling him by his last name takes him very aback.

“You know, I just hoped that… you know. Maybe we could start off again… like friends of course” you giggle, lowering your head. He frowns confused.

“Miss y/n, Trevor is waiting in the car for you” the butler say appearing from the side door, you thank him and he leaves again.

“I don’t think there’s a way to start again. You already failed me once, Coriolanus.” You admit, putting on the gloves with a bittersweet smile on your face. You turn to pat his cheek, and he swears he’s about to melt. He lounged for your touch since the moment he left you at the hospital. He closes his eyes, hoping to slow down time and felt your cold touch.

But you move away your hand. He opens his eyes and sees you putting the last pair of the gloves on. You walk towards the door.

“You know where the dinning table room is.” And with that, you are gone.

…

Your father gave him the green light to court you again. Coriolanus had to swear that he would never cause you any type of pain, or else, your father would destroy his career before it officially started.

That was more than enough for him. Since that day, slowly, he had been greeting you almost every day, at Univeristy and when you ecountered him and Tigris in a furniture store. You personally invited her to the Winter gala, and Tigris agreed to not share the news about the invitation. But to the young Snow woman, it was a surprise that your father had already invited Coriolanus to the gala.

Soon the day came. As usual the gala opened with the performance of an specific play, than everyone celebrated in the hall with fine dining, and everyone gossiped as auctions happened. It had been a couple of weeks, very busy ones. Probably it was even more important than the arts gala on March. But for this special occasion you had rehearsed a lot to be an elegant black swan.

You smile at your own reflection at the mirror, the black tutu was gorgeous. The crown you had to use was very intriguing. And the black makeup made you feel very confident.

“I came as soon as I could” Clemensia suddenly opens the door of your dressing room. She looks agitated, but she looked amazing on a beige dress and her hair in half ponytail.

“You look very pretty” she thanks you.

“But look at you. You are going to be amazing.” She sits and both start gossiping.

“Your father invited Coriolanus.” It makes you roll your eyes tired. But you are having a heartache.

“I’m… not sure if I don’t feel anything about him” Clemmie leaves her glass of champagne.

“The newspaper rumour affected you. Right?” Slowly, you nod. Too embarrassed to look at her in the eye. But Coriolanus had been really good. He smiled at you at any chance he could. Some days he would join you and your friends and he was fun, you had to bite your tongue to avoid giggling. And Clemensia had seen it too.

“I can’t blame you. I was there since the beginning…” your friend had seen the courting, the first awkward hand holding, how you two formed a strong connection. And Coriolanus left you at the hospital.

“You two had a beautiful bond. And he broke it. But that doesn’t mean you can’t miss him” Clemmie goes to hug you.

“Pa’ said to keep playing with him, to ignore him. But I’m tired, I just want to heal” she nods, letting you hide your face on her shoulder.

“You want my advice?” You nod.

“Do not force anything. Be polite to him, but avoid giving him any chance yet. As you heal, you’ll find the answer; if you should let him have another chance or not”

A man knocks. When Clemensia opens the door, he receives a bouquet of white roses.

You could recognize those roses anywhere. You get closer, taking the attached note.

Grandma’am and Tigris didn’t know what flowers to cut.

Good luck.

You try to hide your smile. But it’s impossible.

…

The whole place is full. Coriolanus takes a seat with Tigris besides.

“I talked with her yesterday. She said she was very nervous about this one” Tigris says. Coriolanus knows she’s talking about you.

“She’s always perfect, she shouldn’t feel nervous.” His mind was only thinking about Jan. He did his research. And learned he was a former dancer of your mother’s institution. It made him mad.

“Have you thought about inviting her to have dinner?” Coriolanus shakes his head.

“Not yet, I haven’t talked enough to her”

“Well, hurry up. Grandma’am wanted to see you married by the age of 20” she says laughing. But it doesn’t make Coriolanus smile.

“Oh look, it’s starting” Tigris squealed with excitement. The curtains lifted and the show started.

For the first twenty minutes, he’s so bored. Nothing exciting happens. He thinks the white swan is boring. And for the first time, he meets Jan. It makes him feel jealous.

It only worsened when you appeared on stage. Your black attire makes him go mad. He had never seen you in anything like that. He gets very invested in your scenes. He feels the emotion you are trying to project. Sassy, cheeky and attractive. You succeed to him.

Unfortunely, Jan had to appear too. And Coriolanus has to sigh, dealing with the scene of the man holding you to make you gracefully spin. The music doesn’t help, it holds the sense of you and Jan dancing together. Coriolanus knows dancing has a lot to do with acting. But he doesn’t enjoy the looks of lust and desire between you and your partner. The worst part? He had to seat and watch it for at least fifteen minutes.

His head malfunctions. But he already is telling Tigris he needs to the restroom.

It’s a lie. He goes to the dressing rooms. And his luck was so big that he found the one with the name of Jan. He slowly made his way inside. The place was so old that he didn’t need to check for security or anything, but he wanted to make sure nobody would see him in real time.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to accomplish, but surely he wanted to get rid of the man who apparently had your attention now. Your mother had said you and Jan worked very well. And now, with him seeing the performance, he was more than sure he couldn’t let it move forward.

His hand went to his pocket, and his eyes widened. He felt the little glass tubes of narcotics. The same he used to kill Casca Highbottom.

He thought about it just for a little. Was it worth it? Getting rid of a man just to have easier access to you.

Maybe.

Then he questioned how bad he wanted you back. Coriolanus had missed you since day one. He knew he would never love anyone else. He knew no one would treat him as you once did.

So he poured the liquid from one of the tubes inside the water flask resting on the vanity. And before leaving, Coriolanus slipped two more tubes inside the bag that contained Jan’s clothes.

“You took very long at the restroom” Tigris tells her cousin when he came back.

“There was a long line”

…

This time, is different. You smile and you can hear the big round of applauses as you make reverence to go off from stage. You were the last one and the curtains came down finally.

Once you are free, you have all the time in the world to breathe. Other dancers and production staff members congratulate you. But it’s Coriolanus Snow the one who makes you frown confused. He was backstage, looking at you with a soft smile. His classic black suit makes you go back and remember about the Reaping ceremony. How happy that day initiated, and how bad it turned out.

“Coriolanus.” You greet him, he can see a tiny smile on your face.

“You were amazing. As usual, of course”

“Thank you. And for the flowers, they were gorgeous. As usual, of course” he’s so surprised that you were talking to him with some humor sense. Both of you laugh and it feels… warm, and natural.

“It’s nothing. But.. perhaps we could just sit together at dinner?” Your cheeks warmth. You think about your confusing feelings, what your father and Clemensia respectively said. Sitting with him once wouldn’t be the end of the world.

“Yeah, we could.” He smiles, and even when his hair changed, his deeper voice. For some seconds you can see the boy you once loved.

And he almost feels like he was seventeen again. Watching you dance backstage, ready to greet you with a kiss. He sees the girl who helped him so much. And he just know all the horrible things he’d done were worth it.

“I-…” but his words stay lingering in the air. Both of you hear a female scream. Coriolanus and you exchange looks before starting to walk where the sound was heard. In the corridor of the dressing rooms you see a woman lingering to an open door. Immediately you recognize it’s Jan’s room. You quickly make it there, through the pain of your caged foot inside the pointe shoe. Coriolanus goes behind you, already sensing the scene inside.

He hears you gasp in shock, covering your mouth and tears forming on your eyes.

You are in shock, you sob, unable to blink.

Jan is on the floor, pale and blood on his mouth. He’s dead.

And as much as the scene shocks you, you are trained to entertain the Capitol, so you turn to them random woman.

“Go and find Millie. Tell her about this and do keep your mouth shut. Nobody can know beside my parents. Understood?” You indicate the woman with a broken voice. She nods in horror dissapearing through the corridor. When she leaves you can finally cry.

When you don’t know what else to do, you are holding onto Coriolanus Snow. You find comfort on his chest. And he immediately holds you back.

As much as you hate to admit it, you feel you are home in his arms.

With one hand, he closes the door of the dressing room and returns to completely be there to hug you. He smiles, knowing he’s already slowly winning.

Because when your parents find out what happened, they make you put a cute black and green velvet gown with crystals. They make you pretend nothing happened and you sit with Coriolanus and Tigris. Ignoring the upcoming rumors, and certainly not respecting the sudden death of Jan.

…

Two days later, Coriolanus finds you seating on a bench. You are eating a sandwich, looking lost. He takes a seat beside you.

“I’m sorry about Jan. It happened so suddenly” he doesn’t feel sorry. Opposite of what he felt about Sejanus and Lucy Gray. However, he firmly believes it was the only way.

“He was a wonderful man. A devoted dancer, with principales. He had a wife in District 3.” Coriolanus coughs. He wasn’t expecting that. That little detail wasn’t on his research. Something twisted inside him, but he still didn’t regret or felt sorry.

“He didn’t seem the type to use narcotics…he must’ve been very stressed out” you add. Oblivious that you are talking with Jan’s murderer.

“Are you sure you are okay?” You roll your eyes sighing.

“No. I’m not okay, Coriolanus. Not since that cursed Reaping ceremony day”

“I’m just trying to be here for you” he admits, and it’s your breaking point.

“WHY DO YOU CARE NOW? YOU FAILED ME WHEN I MOST NEEDED YOU!” He looks around to see if anyone was around. But the place is empty.

“I know I committed many errors but-“

“BUT NOTHING, CORIOLANUS.” You spit out with such anger, that makes him frown.

“You violated the trust, loyalty, respect and love we had for each other. You dissapear after making me have a damn breakdown. Only to go after that girl. And now you appear trying to mend things?” You won’t tell him about his denied petition and what you did. You just want to share all you couldn’t before at his face.

“Do you know how many doctor appointments I’ve had since you left?” He looks down.

“Twelve. And I have to swallow four different pills every day. Only to stay sane. And who’s fault it is? The hunger games, the galas, dancing, Lucy Gray Baird. But specially, you” when he looks up at you again, you are crying.

“If you really want to be here for me, you need to stay away and leave me alone.” You finall state, looking at his blue eyes one last time, before standing from the bench and walking away.

That wasn’t your day. Neither the following ones. Your pointe shoes died and your size was out of stock. The food took such a long time. Your parents left to have an audience in District 1 and your evening was to listen to music and cry.

But certainly what broke you once again was a phone call.

“Hello?” You answer.

“Y/n?”

“Tigris?” You ask. Her voice sounding worried.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Is everything okay? You sound alarmed, dear” you are able to hear her sighing.

“It’s Grandma’am. She’s sick. Coriolanus is busy at the Univeristy and the doctor I requested hasn’t appeared” your heart beats faster.

“She has a strong fever and it’s been like that for hours.” She adds, finally sounding more worried.

“Tigris, calm down. I’ll call my cousin, he’s one of the most prepared doctors around. I’m going there with you in the meantime” you reassure her, already taking off your nightgown and taking out a dress and coat from your closet.

“Thank you, y/n. I truly appreciate this, thank you.” You hang up after saying everything was going to be okay.

…

You see how changed is the penthouse. Fully renovated, with bright lights that contrasted the dark blue wallpapers. But you find interesting how the olive paint you brought is still there. And your portrait from the day of your eighteen birthday is still with the family pictures.

You wait outside the room of the elder woman, as your cousin is checking Grandma’am. You have to hold the urge from biting your nails. A maid offers you posca, but you can’t think about drinking at the time.

The front doors opens and seconds later, Coriolanus is there. He seems surprised to see you there. Since the day of your argument, he hadn’t see you. He tried calling you but your butler said you were out for the weekend to your grandparents house.

“Y/n?” He asks, dropping his coat on a chair.

“Tigris called me. She wanted a doctor for your grandmother” he worried a bit.

“Is she not feeling better. When I left she seemed better…” he says hurrying to go to her room, but you stop him, grabbing by his forearm.

“Don’t. My cousin is already there with her. I’m waiting for the results” Coriolanus only stares at you. He wants to smile. You came only to help his family once again.

“You look very lovely” you smirk, looking at his window with your arms crossed.

“Really? Your grandmother is sick and you are here saying how lovely I look today?” He smiles.

“You told me to wait. What else can I do?”

“How cynical of you” you respond coldly. After all you told him, he was acting like it never happened.

The door of the room opened and Tigris came out with your cousin.

He revealed Grandma’am was having a little difficulties in her lungs, which made her prone to catch a flu. He gave her some strong medicines and promised it would be fine with some days of resting.

After some minutes, you are also ready to leave.

You say good night to the Snow cousins and leave.

“Y/n. Wait…” Tigris comes out. Stopping you some feet away of the now working elevator.

“I-… Thank you.” She slowly says hugging you.

“It’s nothing, Tigris. I told Coriolanus once I would always help the people I love” Tigris suddenly feels so sad to hear you say that. She really hoped you and her little cousin had a different ending.

“He still loves you so much.” You fight harder against the tears when she says that.

“I know. And I still love him too. But… he never apologized. And I’m not ready to let go my resentment towards him.” You admit looking away.

“Although things did’t work out for you and Coriolanus, I really appreciate and care for you, y/n” se almost whispers in your ear. And your eyes water.

“I feel the same, Tigris. I really do” you reply slowly, controlling your voice to not sound cracked.

“I’ll come back in some days” she nods.

She lets you go and you finally head out. Not noticing that Coriolanus heard everything.

He never apologized.

That night, you are reading on the living room when your butler walks in.

“Coriolanus Snow is asking for you in the telephone” you thank him, walking bare feet towards the kitchen telephone.

“Yes, Mr. Snow?” You ask.

“I just wanted to thank you for coming today. You didn’t have to and yet you appeared here” you sigh.

“Whatever that happened between us has nothing to do with my relationship with Tigris and your mother” now he sighs, from his office, in complete darkness.

“About that y/n…” your hands go numb, and panic floods you.

“You don’t know how much I’m-“

“I know.” You interrupt him, cracked voice and you hang up.

“Sorry” he says through the dead line.

That night, you read his letters. The ones he sent when he was a peacekeeper at the 12. Where he seemed to have projected his more vulnerable and emotional side of his heart. Maybe he had been drunk, maybe Lucy Gray wrote them for him. You’d never know, and you preferred to ignore the idea of him actually feeling sorry.

…

A week later you’re applauding for Grandma’am as she sings for you. You smile, changing her pillow case and complementing how much of a sweet voice she had.

It’s getting late, and you must return to your house.

After wishing Grandma’am sweet dreams, you carefully close her door and you walk with the old pillow case away.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Tigris asks with a sweet smile, taking the pillow case from you. Coriolanus is seated, drinking something as he carefully looks at you. You ignore him.

“I must decline, dear. I have to go back and pack some things” she frowns, stopping to put some plates on the dinning table.

“Pack?”

“Yes. I think I’ll spend the holidays at District 1. My mother is opening a new studio and she’s going to need help. And well, if everything goes right, I might even stay there” Tigris almost drops the pillow case. And Coriolanus almost chokes on his drink.

“What? Why?. What about university? The galas? Your production job for the hunger games” you shrug with an honest smile.

“Lately the Capitol life has... it has been a burden. I want to live a peaceful life. I want to heal” Tigris sends daggers with her eyes to Coriolanus. He coughs, uncomfortable.

“CORIOLANUS!” Grandma’am calls the man, you only sigh. And slowly, he stands up to to the woman. He hears you keep talking with Tigris. And he wants to do something to stop you from leaving. Now he can give you the life he couldn’t before.

“Is everything alright, Grandma’am?” The elder woman looks at him from her bed.

“Are you really letting that young woman to walk away again?” Coriolanus frowns.

“What?”

“You’ve heard me.” Even in her sick days, she was firm.

“She doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore” Grandma’am shrugs.

“I don’t think so. Her eyes shine sadly at every mention of you. She was part of the family after all.” Coriolanus remains quiet. But he admits to himself that’s what he missed the most.

“I think she always waited for an apology. One that never came.” His heart pounds very fast. He tried, and you hung up.

“What do you suggest me to do?” Grandma’am smiles, coughing tiredly.

“You run to wherever she goes and beg on your knees. One time you show her vulnerability and you’ll never do it again. We, women, only want real love, stupid love. You show her that stupid love once and you can silently do it for the rest of your again”

“You already won the money and respect. You’re just missing out the girl” Coriolanus sweats, but when he turns to look at her grandmother again, she nods, reassuring him.

“Go. Get her back, Coriolanus” without saying anything back, he leaves.

When he enters the dinning room, he only sees two plates of food. He looks at Tigris confused.

“Where’s y/n?” She shrugs, taking a seat.

“She just left.”

Coriolanus runs. He actually runs out of his penthouse and when the elevator starts taking to much time, he decided to choose the stairs as his getaway. He feels sweaty and agitated, but as he goes down, he can’t help but feel slightly happy, the adrenaline of making it on time make him hurry.

“Y/N!” He yells your name once he makes it to the lobby, where he can see you turning back to see him.

You are waiting for Trevor when he appears running towards you.

And before you can even blink or breathe, he gets on his knees.

“Coriolanus Snow. What are you doing?” You ask confused and blushed.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

“I’m sorry about all the stupid things I did. I’m sorry about letting you down. I’m sorry for ruining our relationship. For letting you in that hospital bed and return to do everyhting but apologize to you” you look at him perplexed, not believing his words.

“I can’t lose you again. Because I know you’re the last and only person I’ll love. I won’t trust anyone else. And nobody would have ever looked down at me like you did when I had nothing” you sigh, feeling the tears coming again. You know he’s not lying. You knew him so well that you sense it.

“If you let me. To give me another chance, I’ll do things right. I will never fail you again in life. You’ll be the only person I’ll cherish and show love.” He offers you his hand, and he looks very suppliant.

You blink quickly to soothe the tears. And you know he doesnt deserve you. But aren’t the best person, so maybe you two were actually meant to be together.and that’s the only viable reason to why you want to let your heart freely beat for him again.

“Please don’t go, y/n” he whispers, waiting for your answer. You sigh, slowly and shaking, but you end up taking his hand.

“You’ll better be the most perfect lover of the history of Panem, then” he wraps your fingers together, and stands up.

“I promise, I swear” he knows the memory of Lucy Gray would always follow him. As well of all the deaths he had caused. But nothing compared to the joy of him kissing you again.

Your lips welcome him in the most sweet way. And he finds himself smiling through the kiss, gently holding you closer to him.

It’s in the start of the Road of Hope in the Capitol where Coriolanus Snow had his fully owned penthouse. Where he had nothing, and now had won everything.

…

Time flies, things had changed, probably for the better. You made Coriolanus keep fighting for a good and healthy relationship. Slowly, he made you completely fall in love again. And although there was certain spark missing, you knew it would never come back. However, you had also accepted that both of you had grown up.

The late talks were mature now. Talking about the future of Panem, planning dinners together. The kisses were more passionate, unlike the softness that was all over your early relationship. The sex was harder rather than slow and sweet like the beginning. Coriolanus would like to leave many hickeys scattered across your body, make a wet mess of saliva and fluids. He loved feelings your almond nails leave gentle scratches across his pale back.

But certainly, the biggest change was the way you two were handling a life together.

After turning twenty, you got married. Soon Coriolanus bought the house he always wished to give you. The one with black and white tiles floor, beige walls and big stairs.

By the first week in, he had done many refurbishments and he had fucked you in every room, every corner and every surface of the house.

Till the day you turned twenty-two. By that time, you had almost ditched your dancing career. Sometimes you still had some chances to perform on galas. But Coriolanus convinced you to focus on public services and the production of the hunger games. Dr. Gaul had officially retired, and it was going to be the first year of Coriolanus as a game maker. Things had really changed.

But everything seemed fine.

“Dear, Are you ready?” You turn to look at your husband, who waits on the frame of the door.

“Just one moment” you run to slip into your silver heels before grabbing your purse.

Trevor kept his job as your chauffeur and Millie was now your private secretary. Sometimes you hated how formal your life had become. Especially now that Coriolanus had some plans in mind.

As soon as you arrive to the fancy patio from a million-dollar man house, many women eye you and Coriolanus.

“Remind me what are we doing here?” You ask him. He holds your hand tightly, smiling at many of the invited people.

“I’m assuming the role of game maker. You are giving a speech about the improvements for the 14th Hunger Games, my dear” you nod, clutching onto his cold hand harder. Both of you were kind of the sensation around the Capitol. You know how they whisper about your dress and your husband’s physic.

“You’re going to be fine. You always choose the right words. And your voice can charm anyone here” he whispers on your ear, pressing a soft kiss on your temple.

“Thank goddess I’ve been studying the constitution. Or else these men would bury me” Coriolanus laughs. Soon you enter the actual event. With long white tables, candles and everyone dressed either on red or black.

“Men around here don’t know how smart my wife is” he says shrugging, remembering how many honors you received from university. Some of the wives ask you to join them. You wave hello to them before leaning to your man.

“Do not make me jealous or leave me alone during the speech.” You firmly say to him.

“Of course not, my love”

“Love you.” And with one last kiss, you walk away.

For the rest of the night. You feel uneasy. Because you succeeded with the speech. But once you read the part from Coriolanus, you are at the verge of babbling.

He shared some of his initial proposals for the games. Like lowering the age of the tributes, increasing the obstacles in the arena, using more mutts, allowing weapons, and making the interviews with Lucky Flickerman longer.

It had been a long time since you think about the games so much. But that guilt you felt after seeing Coriolanus as mentor, never left. And after that dinner, everyone claps for your husband and you, after being considered as the couple of the next generation for Panem.

In the privacy of your new home, you constantly zone out to think about it. You can’t ask Coriolanus to stop the games, but he could make some changes.

You knock swiftly on his door.

“Come in.” You walk in and he drops the papers he was signing to smile at the sight of you.

“Hello, you.” he says cheekily.

“Hello, you’.” You reply. He indicates you to seat on his lap and you do so. His arms lock around you, hands resting on your back.

“Are you coming to bed anytime soon?” You ask.

“I just need to sign some things, darling” he watches you frown, and he won’t say you look older, because you don’t. But you certainly look wiser, mature and more like a woman rather than a girl.

“I’ve been thinking about the games” He’s all ears now. He knows you had some specific opinions. You had said in your first interview how brutal the games were.

“What about them?”

“I would never ask you to stop the games. But…” you stop, suddenly feeling a little nervous.

“But what, my dear?”

“Don’t you think those tributes are humans? Yes, the Districts deserve to be reminded of the consequences of their acts. But most of the tributes are kids. Who don’t even understand everything that conveys a war.” Coriolanus sighs, trying to choose the correct words to answer you.

“What are you suggesting?” He tries to sound calm, but the mere subject makes him a little irritated.

“I don’t know… Maybe giving them more opportunities?” He giggles, caressing the skin on your hips.

“Giving them opportunities means going soft on them. And going soft on them could trigger a new rebellion” this time you sigh, trying to persuade him by brushing his hair, softly grasping his chin.

“Not like that, Coryo. I mean… raising the majority age of the tributes. Giving them at least the chance to train. To eat a proper meal on the last night. To show who they are one last time before they’re sent to die” Coriolanus would always believe that you’re only one weakness was your humanity. How you always turned to see down on others, feeling guilty from being born with all the commodities.

So, he tries to ignore it. He tries to see your suggestions as a way to punish the tributes harder. Give them everything to then killing them.

So, he smiles, urging you to kiss him. You reply immediately, holding him closer to feel the heated proximity.

“I could arrange some changes. Would that make you feel better?” You nod on his lips, smiling.

“Now let me finish this before meeting you in bed. And I expect you have this thing off before I get there” he says grabbing your nightgown. You laugh with a potent blush, gently pushing him away.

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly. In two days, we start the tour, we will be very tired to make love daily as we do now” you roll your eyes, almost running away ad your husband laughs, making fun of your embarrassment.

“This is madness. I’m going to bed” you say getting out of his office.

“Don’t forget about what I said!” He yells, making you smile in love as you leave upstairs, wishing good night to the maids and butler. For the record, you do not forget about your husband’s petition.

…

The best part of the house is the rooftop in your opinion. A terrace with cristal walls and ceilings that had a gorgeous view of the Capitol. A view that included some monuments and the snowy mountains surrounding the city.

You had a little bar there, an eccentric dining table and some couches with colorful cushions.

Grandma’am made you take some of his roses so you could start your own garden. That brought tears to your eyes. But now, it was only you and Tigris there.

You asked the chef to make some vegetables and creams as your sister-in-law arrived for dinner. Coriolanus and you were set to leave the next morning for his political campaign tour.

“Have you packed everything?” Tigris asks.

“Yes. I wish I could take Trevor with me. But only Millie will be able to come” you say smiling. Tigris notices how you constantly look at the door, hoping to see Coriolanus entering.

“Have you told him?” You shake your head at the woman.

“Not yet. Probably by the time we arrive District 4. We have good memories from there” Tigris smiles. She was really excited when you got back together with Coriolanus. She even made your wedding dress. And now she was so proud of the career you two were making.

“Sorry for the delay. I was arguing with some incompetent who cancelled the delivery of our new chandeliers” Tigris rolls her eyes as your husband cheekily smiles.

“Dinner isn’t ready yet, anyways” you say patting his back as he takes a seat beside you.

“You shouldn’t be stressing over the tour. Your dear wife must’ve prepared the most wonderful speeches for you to say” Coriolanus smiles, turning to give you a peck on the nose, making you laugh.

“It’s not that, Tigris. It’s the time that’s freaking me out. I don’t want to be gone for almost two months.” You sigh, trying to keep everything together. You just pray that the tour goes smoothly.

“Each district will host you with all commodities” it’s a lie. Coriolanus isn’t ready to go to District 12 again. Where his father died, where he committed the worst decisions of his early life. He knows those days will be a little sour. But he’s willing to play pretend very well for you.

“It’s going to be fine. Pardon me, dear” Coriolanus says after seeing your face of over thinking. His wife is so smart that she’s probably wondering the same as him. And that’s the least he needs of.

You take his hand, before hearing the food has arrived. The air changes, the dinner flows happily as you talk and gossip with Tigris and your husband. It’s a great dinner actually.

Maybe he broke your heart when you were teenagers. But you delayed his political campaign for four years. Maybe he had looked too much at Lucy Gray Baird, but at the end it would only be you.

You could’ve done better to get rid of that guilt for participating in the hunger games, but you just realize that maybe you didn’t because you are not a good person either.

Even so, every morning, you wake up in his arms as he fulfilled his promise of never failing you again.

You just hope that the tour, the upcoming games and everything else doesn’t get into your way. Nothing can be a recoil. Not when Coriolanus Snow’s first child rests peacefully in your womb.

The future was uncertain. But your past and present along him always seemed like… a hatred road.

_____________________________________________

fyi, in my head, if reader hadn’t delayed Coriolanus political emergence, the second rebellion would’ve started earlier and probably it wouldn’t have been successful. (Basically it would’ve been like a second time “dark days” situation and then back to reconstruction again)

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