#and they’re cutting the hedges

[mazzy-rockstar]

Lads i fear there might be another storm coming

[robertreich]

Should Billionaires Exist? 

Do billionaires have a right to exist?

America has driven more than 650 species to extinction. And it should do the same to billionaires.

Why? Because there are only five ways to become one, and they’re all bad for free-market capitalism:

1. Exploit a Monopoly.

Jamie Dimon is worth $2 billion today… but not because he succeeded in the “free market.” In 2008, the government bailed out his bank JPMorgan and other giant Wall Street banks, keeping them off the endangered species list.

This government “insurance policy” scored these struggling Mom-and-Pop megabanks an estimated $34 billion a year.

But doesn’t entrepreneur Jeff Bezos deserve his billions for building Amazon?

No, because he also built a monopoly that’s been charged by the federal government and 17 states for inflating prices, overcharging sellers, and stifling competition like a predator in the wild.

With better anti-monopoly enforcement, Bezos would be worth closer to his fair-market value.

2. Exploit Inside Information

Steven A. Cohen, worth roughly $20 billion headed a hedge fund charged by the Justice Department with insider trading “on a scale without known precedent.” Another innovator!

Taming insider trading would level the investing field between the C Suite and Main Street.

3.  Buy Off Politicians

That’s a great way to become a billionaire! The Koch family and Koch Industries saved roughly $1 billion a year from the Trump tax cut they and allies spent $20 million lobbying for. What a return on investment!

If we had tougher lobbying laws, political corruption would go extinct.

4. Defraud Investors

Adam Neumann conned investors out of hundreds of millions for WeWork, an office-sharing startup. WeWork didn’t make a nickel of profit, but Neumann still funded his extravagant lifestyle, including a $60 million private jet. Not exactly “sharing.”

Elizabeth Holmes was convicted of fraud for her blood-testing company, Theranos. So was Sam Bankman-Fried of crypto-exchange FTX. Remember a supposed billionaire named Donald Trump? He was also found to have committed fraud.

Presumably, if we had tougher anti-fraud laws, more would be caught and there’d be fewer billionaires to preserve.

5. Get Money From Rich Relatives

About 60 percent of all wealth in America today is inherited.

That’s because loopholes in U.S. tax law —lobbied for by the wealthy — allow rich families to avoid taxes on assets they inherit. And the estate tax has been so defanged that fewer than 0.2 percent of estates have paid it in recent years.

Tax reform would disrupt the circle of life for the rich, stopping them from automatically becoming billionaires at their birth, or someone else’s death.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not arguing against big rewards for entrepreneurs and inventors. But do today’s entrepreneurs really need billions of dollars? Couldn’t they survive on a measly hundred million?

Because they’re now using those billions to erode American institutions. They spent fortunes bringing Supreme Court justices with them into the wild.They treated news organizations and social media platforms like prey, and they turned their relationships with politicians into patronage troughs.

This has created an America where fewer than ever can become millionaires (or even thousandaires) through hard work and actual innovation.

If capitalism were working properly, billionaires would have gone the way of the dodo.

[delta-piscium]

Steddie | 1.7k words it is (swedish) midsummer so I wrote this based on my favorite old tradition because I can and will make anything steddie, so like glad midsommar (happy midsummer)

“What are you doing?” Steve asks as he follows Eddie to the hallway where he’s frantically putting on his shoes. 

“I almost forgot,” he mutters under his breath not acknowledging Steve at all.

“Forgot what?” 

“I can’t believe I almost forgot.” 

“Eddie,” Steve says a little louder, more adamant.

He does look up at Steve then and almost looks surprised to see him. As if he’d forgotten he was there, as if they haven’t been hanging out for hours. 

“Oh,” he says. “Uhm,” he squints at Steve who waits for him to continue, to explain. He doesn’t.

“Yes?” Steve implores because he would really like an explanation. Eddie had just abruptly stood up halfway through telling Steve about some folklore he’s using in his new campaign, just cut himself off mid-sentence and walked off. Steve doesn’t think it’s especially weird or demanding of him to have questions. 

“Did you have other plans that you just now remembered?” Steve frowns, starting to feel unsure when Eddie still isn’t saying anything. It’s just past eleven at night and Steve doesn’t know what plans those would be but he had showed up unannounced earlier in the evening so it’s not impossible that Eddie had plans that Steve interrupted. 

“No, no, no,” Eddie assures him finally breaking his silence, “it’s- okay it’s a little silly but I read this thing researching and I want to try it.” 

And well, okay then.

Steve raises his eyebrows and waves his hand gesturing for Eddie to go on. 

Eddie’s cheeks turn a light pink and he resolutely looks somewhere above Steve’s shoulder instead of at him. 

“Midsummer, which is today, is supposed to be this magical night and there are all these traditions and old myths about it.” 

Eddie glances at Steve and he smiles. Tries to show he’s listening and wants to know whatever thing Eddie read about. 

“And well, okay so there’s this one tradition where you pick seven different kinds of flowers before you go to bed and then put them under your pillow and you’re supposed to dream about who you’re gonna spend your life with.” 

Steve blinks, wasn’t expecting that and doesn’t know what to say about it, so, he blinks again. 

“Maybe it’s dumb, but with all we’ve seen magic and folklore don’t seem so far-fetched and,” he shrugs, “I wanna try. And like, it’s close to midnight and I don’t know if that’s a rule but I don’t wanna risk messing it up.”

“It- huh,” Steve frowns slightly and looks at his shoes then back at Eddie. “Yeah alright, let’s do it. Can’t hurt right?” 

His voice is light, like it’s not a big deal and just a fun thing Eddie read about because that’s what it is, isn’t it? But something about it settles deep in Steve’s gut. Makes it feel important in a way he’s not sure he could explain if he tried. Maybe it’s just the fact that Eddie is getting so worked up about the possibility of dreaming about the person he’s gonna spend his life with when Steve maybe a little bit wishes it would be him, but like, only a little. 

Eddie looks at him with wide eyes like he didn’t expect Steve to want to join, like maybe he expected Steve to make fun of him for wanting to do it. But then something seems to switch in him and a slow smile spreads over his face and he gives Steve an exaggerated once over. 

“Looking to find your true love huh, Harrington?” 

“I thought you said it was the person you spend your life with, not the same as true love necessarily.” Steve quips back because technicalities are easier to argue over than answering that question, especially when Eddie is the one asking.

Eddie shrugs. “Different sources say different things, sometimes it’s true love sometimes it’s who you marry.” 

“Well, then I guess we’re both looking to find our true loves?” Steve hedges, drags Eddie down with him if they’re gonna go there. 

A soft look passes Eddie’s face before a responds, voice quieter. “Guess we are, yeah.” 

They pick their flowers in silence, something about the magic being broken if you speak. Walking around the edge of the woods behind Eddie’s trailer a couple of feet apart, every once in a while coming together or crossing paths. 

After, Steve stands in between Eddie’s trailer and his own car. Holding on to his bouquet of seven flowers unsure what to do. He could go home, he should go home, but he doesn’t want to. He did have some beers hours ago and if he was allowed to speak he’d use that as an excuse to not drive and ask Eddie to crash on his couch. Right now he can’t though so he sighs inwardly and turns to his car. 

He makes it about two steps before a hand reaches out and grips him around his free wrist stopping him. When he turns around Eddie is giving him a look that very clearly says ‘stop being stupid’ and jerks his head towards the trailer silently telling Steve to go with him. He doesn’t let go though and uses his grip on Steve to drag him along like he can’t be sure Steve will actually listen and follow. As if Steve would ever not follow Eddie. 

They quickly get ready for bed. And again when Steve walks toward the couch Eddie grabs him and shakes his head. He waves his arms around a bit like that’s supposed to explain anything but Steve isn’t too bothered about an explanation anyways and easily follows Eddie to his bedroom. 

They’ve shared a bed before but always when they’ve been drunk or high so this feels different. Steve is a little glad they can’t speak or he’s sure he’d blurt out something way too revealing about it all. 

He avoids looking at Eddie as he tucks his flowers in under his pillow, knows Eddie is doing the same next to him. Is aware of it only being an old myth from a region halfway across the world but there’s a weight to it. Something real and tangible. 

He expects it to take a while for him to fall asleep like it always does. For him to twist and turn and lay awake until the early morning. For once though, that doesn’t happen. With the weight of Eddie next to him and to the sounds of his soft breathing and small movements, Steve falls asleep.

And he dreams. He dreams of big brown eyes and bright laughter. Of wild hair and warm arms embracing him. He dreams of growing old next to someone and how every wrinkle on their face tells a story of their shared love. 

He wants to stay in the dream forever, desperately tries to hold onto it even as he floats into consciousness. He turns and groans, gets a mess of someone’s hair in his mouth and nose and that’s enough to startle him into full wakefulness. 

Eddie grumbles next to him, clearly also just waking up. Steve looks at him, with his wild hair and his big brown eyes that are slowly blinking open and of course. Of course, it was Eddie he dreamed about.

Their eyes meet and Eddie freezes. Eyes widening as he looks back at Steve. 

“Oh,” he says. 

And yeah, oh.

“Eddie?” Steve asks, unsure of how to bring it up, to ask about it. If he even should? 

He puts on a teasing smile, even though he feels like goo inside, but making it lighthearted is all he can think of because what if he’s taking this whole thing way too seriously? Jumping to conclusions? 

“Dream of anyone?” 

Eddie nods and looks away, “I did.” He says it simply, voice careful. 

And maybe it isn’t just Steve.

“Who?” He asks, dropping the teasing tone. 

Eddie swallows and looks back at Steve. “The person I wanted to dream of,” he says and it’s not really an answer but he’s looking at Steve so intently he thinks it still might be. 

He thinks about Eddie’s quiet but delighted surprise at Steve wanting to join him yesterday. About Eddie dragging him first into his trailer and then into his bed. How they’re so close on Steve’s side of the bed and Eddie must have drifted towards him in his sleep.

He bites his lip to stop his smile from spreading too wide, there’s still a chance he’s misinterpreting things, “yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And who would that be?” Steve asks, leaning in even closer until he feels Eddie’s small puffs of breath across his face. 

“You,” Eddie whispers but Steve hears it clearly. 

He takes a moment to bask in it, to let it wash over him before he responds.

“That’s good,” Steve tells him eventually and Eddie’s eyes are so wide and open, and so pretty, “because I dreamt of you.” 

He knows it’s cheesy so he doesn’t give Eddie time to respond, just leans in and closes the remaining gap between them. Slots their lips together. Eddie gasps into the kiss, grabs Steve by the hair, and pulls him in. Makes all these cute noises that make Steve want and want and want. 

He shifts, goes to put his leg in between Eddie’s to move on top of him and get a better angle. But he only gets halfway before Eddie grabs his hips and twists them around. Pushes Steve flat on his back and straddles him. 

He grins down at Steve. 

“You think the Scandinavian magic worked or was it just dream psychology and wishful thinking?” 

“Does it matter?” Steve asks, way too earnestly. But like, they’ve just spent this whole time doing some true love magic so he thinks it’s fine, “got what I wanted.” 

“It’s forever though,” Eddie points out, bending down to bite at Steve’s jaw, “if we believe the old Norse people.” 

Steve hears the question there, thinks this might be Eddie’s way of asking what this means to Steve. His way of telling Steve this isn’t just a hookup for him.

“God yeah,” Steve exhales, “I fucking hope so.” 

He feels Eddie smile into his neck and grabs his hair, uses it to pull him back and steer him into another kiss. 

[uhohdad]

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KÖNIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, Protective!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Abuse, Slow Burn, Konig Pines Hard, Sexual Content, Porn with Too Much Plot, First Time, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Smut, Fluff, Angst

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE WARNING I

While you haven’t let go of him, you and Konig still haven’t shared a word since the dressing room. Savoring the short break on the ride to The President’s mansion, letting Ruby do all the talking as she coaches you on party etiquette.

Neither of you are listening.

You’re both worn out, fixated on your shoes, eyes hollow and thoughts a million miles away. Your headache is pounding, every last muscle in your body aches, and with each blink you have to fight to reopen your heavy eyelids.

It’s when you try to take the crown off your head that Ruby cuts through.

“No, no! What are you doing? Leave that on.”

“But-“

“Oh, no, young lady! The victors wear their crowns - You earned it!”

You release a weighty sigh, too tired to argue, and let your crowned head lull back on the luxurious leather seats.

Once you arrive at the mansion gates, Ruby stops you when you move to open the door, insisting you wait for an attendant to do it. You and Konig step from the limo linked at the elbows, and are immediately blinded in all directions by flashing, white lights.

What must be a hundred cameras snapping photos, Capitol elite overlapping in grating shouts.

You and Konig turn in on each other, raising your hands to block out the harsh flashes from all directions. Ruby skips over and gives you both a gentle shove on your backs.

“Well, go on you two!”

She lightly swats your bicep.

“And don’t cover your face! They’re taking pictures. You’re going to look ridiculous!”

You can hardly hear her over the buzz of the crowd, too busy trying to keep your heels planted on the red carpet and not on your tribute pedestal, deafened by the sound of Eleven’s snapping neck at each shutter of a camera lens.

You cling to Konig’s arm with both hands as you wobble on your heels through the golden gates of The President’s mansion, heart pounding in your chest, wide eyes catching a hundred cheering, smiling faces. You both flinch and draw in a sharp breath at the sound of an explosion, only to look up and see candy-colored fireworks sparkling in the shape of your names.

The President’s garden is so off-puttingly perfect, neatly sculpted hedges and bushes of roses, not a single leaf or petal wilted or brown. A large fountain sits in the center of the garden, the flow of water glowing with a rainbow of colors as they cascade to the shimmering pool below. Soft, twinkling lights seemingly float and bob in the air, casting a dim, ever-changing glow onto the guests. Paths designed with patterns of colorful river stones sidewind around the garden, and a stage hosts musicians, playing a triumphant song on your debut.

Konig’s eyes meet yours, both of you exchanging a look of hesitance as you’re led to the stairs up to the mansion, swarms of people lined up on either side of the riverstone path.

Every eye at this party is trained in your direction. You feel like you’re on display, a prey with hundreds of hungry eyes on you just waiting for their opportunity to pounce. As they clap and cheer loud enough to be heard miles away, Ruby guides you to the mansion’s marble stairs where she gives you a gentle shove and struts off.

Maybe you’d know what the hell is going on if you’d bothered to listen to Ruby in the limo, but you’re guessing you’re both to make your way to the balcony and meet The President, standing tall and towering over the party from his perch.

You cling to Konig’s bicep, keeping careful watch of your shaky heels with each step.

You give The President a weak smile with sloped brows as you near the top of the stairs, a shaky peace offering. The eyes that meet yours are unforgiving and entirely cancel out his perfect smile. You’re too weak to hold his gaze for long, watching yourself kick up your sparkly dress hem with every step instead.

You can still feel it, his stare. It’s burning your skin, piercing straight through to your core and melting your insides to a heavy sludge.

By the time you both make it to the top of the stairs, your legs have turned to gelatin and your muscles are trying to vibrate their way out of your skin.

A Capitol attendant extends an intricately-rimmed silver platter to you both, two long stem wine glasses filled with a yellowish, bubbling drink placed neatly in the center.

“Is this alcohol?” You whisper to the attendant, who gives a curt nod in response.

You and Konig gently pluck your glasses off the tray. You go to take a sip, but stop when the attendant widens his eyes and shakes his head at you.

The crowd laughs from down in the garden. Your head snaps to meet them, brows tight in confusion and cheeks flushing with heat.

Your eyes nervously flick to The President. His smile says amusement, but those dangerous eyes are flickering with a flame of pure hatred.

You swallow and look down to the floor as Konig’s arm sneaks around your waist with a tug into his side.

The music ends in a grandiose flourish, and in its absence you can hear a few straggling chatters and hushes from the guests down in the garden.

You flinch as The President’s slow but powerful words broadcast over the speakers.

“A toast. To a truly inspiring year of the Hunger Games.”

The crowd has their glasses raised, and you follow their lead as discreetly as possible, hoping anyone won’t notice you’re late to your cue or the shake in your fingers.

“And to two victors who beat all the odds, and overcame great adversity.”

The President’s stare flits in your direction without warning.

It reminds you of the snake from Price’s games, like you had thrown a fruit square into his neck, those sharp eyes narrowed and slicing straight through you. You’re worried he might just slither over and swallow you whole.

“May your dedication to each other remain unwavering.”

The crowd gives a one-note cheer, playing a symphony with their glasses, exchanging hundreds of clinks and tinks before collectively drinking. You follow their lead, the drink sloshing and bubbling furiously against the glass in your jittering hands.

The President’s eyes are still trained carefully on yours when he tilts his glass and sips his drink with his wrinkled lips.

His stare seems to paralyze you, you’re unable to look away, in shock from the gashes he left behind with his cutting eyes, your guts spilling out and filthying his pristine balcony.

You finally break the stare when the crowd laughs again, taking a strong gulp of air as you pull away your empty glass to wipe your lips with the back of your hand, smearing lipstick on your skin.

“What? What’d I do?” You ask.

Konig leans into you and speaks from the side of his lips, trying to keep his words discreet.

“I think you were just supposed to take a sip.”

You look down to the empty glass in your hands, and then to everyone else’s glasses, still bubbling with the yellowish drink.

You close your eyes and force a deep breath through your nose, fighting the urge to cover your burning face as you wish for this balcony to swallow you whole.

You can’t bring yourself to check in with The President, afraid you’ll once again be frozen under his surely displeased, no - loathsome stare.

The Capitol attendant has sensed you and Konig have absolutely no idea what’s going on, and wordlessly guides you both to make your way down to the garden once again.

So many stairs, such unsuitable shoes and dress hem. The only thing you can focus on is how terrified you are that you might fall face first down these elegant stairs in front of the entire country.

Oh, and of course, the eyes burning holes in the back of your head.

You take it out on Konig’s arm, your grip on him so tight your knuckles are shaking. It takes you both far too long to descend the marble stairs, but the crowd waits patiently with brilliant smiles and clapping hands.

As soon as your second heel makes contact with the garden’s riverstones, you’re surrounded.

Trapped by a blur of chests and pushing arms and touchy hands, the open air robbed from you and replaced with suffocating drunken breath. They’re ruthless, elbowing each other out of the way to get pictures with you both where you will surely look horrified and confused. There must be ten hands on you, hundreds of voices speaking to you at once.

Grabbing around your arms, your free hand, someone puts their hands on your hip and squeezes.

“Hey!”

You whip around, keeping your grip on Konig as you try to wiggle and shove your way from their hands, but as soon as you swat a pair away, another comes to replace it.

You catch sight of Konig, flinching at your side, trying to get away from much too adventurous touches and insistent questions. He’s trying to shake away the women clinging to his bicep and feeling up his chest.

The rage that engulfs you is instantaneous and red hot.

You bare grit teeth, elbowing to put yourself in front of him and shove away the outstretched hands reaching for him.

Konig’s arms close in on you, though, and with a stiff yank he pulls your front into his in an useless effort to hide you. You gasp and flinch into Konig’s chest when someone’s hand melds far too low on your back.

Before you can swivel to find the culprit, Konig’s arm whizzes over your shoulder, and Titan’s pulpy, caved-in face blinds you when he makes impact. You and the flock collectively gasp, followed by the sound of a body lifelessly collapsing onto the river stones.

Your eyes are screwed shut, trembling fingers clawing into Konig’s suit as Sapphire rips her own spear from your hands with her dead weight.

You snap.

Each flash of a camera, each grabbing hand, every grating voice a build-up of pressure in your skull until it explodes. There is no time for thought, your body moves without permission.

You snatch a long-stemmed wine glass from a guest’s hand, and duck to a squat to smash it against the river stones. As soon as the shards burst in all directions, the drink foaming and lapping up your dress, you’re on your feet to bring what remains of the jagged crystal to Titan’s throat - jabbing Sapphire’s bloody spear at him in threat. With heavy breath you hold your ground, swiveling on your feet and thrusting her spear at anyone who dares to near you.

The circle of heels and dress shoes finally begins to make room, gasps and shouts of horror from all directions. You think a few people have actually fainted.

You can make out Ruby’s shrills somewhere in the crowd.

“What on earth?! What happened?!”

You can see her hair bobbing as she excuses her way through the crowd, skidding on her heels to a stop when she breaks the growing clearing.

Her hand shoots up to her mouth as she eyes up the mess - shattered glass and an unconscious body lying in foaming drink.

“What did you do?!”

As soon as you lock on to her face, you suck in a sharp breath, your face transitioning from rage to horror.

You are not in the arena.

You are at the fanciest party in the country, being broadcasted live to all of Panem, attacking Capitol elite at The President’s mansion.

You choke on a squeak as you meet the silent crowd, staring on with gaped mouths and wide eyes. The wine glass stem is tossed from your hands as if it was burning you, a violent shake in your fingers and tears in your eyes.

You’ve been angry before, but nothing like this. Ever since you left the arena you feel like an rabid animal, teeth bared and relying purely on instinct.

Ruby sees your face, drained of color and mortified, and she forces herself to rid her shocked expression as she smooths two hands over the front of her dress.

Her glossy heels side step the puddle of drink and broken glass before she puts a gentle hand on both your shoulders, guiding you both to turn and walk.

“Excuse us, excuse us for a moment. Yes, yes, you’ll all get your photos, dears!” She says with her charming, bright white grin, ignoring the shocked faces and the humiliation you just know is burning her skin.

Every eye is trained on you, the guest’s murmurs to each other drowned out by the upbeat music.

Your entire body is shaking, face simmering with a nauseating heat as Ruby leads you along the pathways out of the garden, paraded in front of every last guest until you’re out of sight.

She’s trying to stuff it down, but the hysteria in Ruby’s hushed voice is certain.

“What is going on?!”

“They were - they were touching us,” You stammer.

“Of course they were! They want photos with you!”

Konig’s bicep hardens under your clammy palms when he crosses his arms over his chest.

“No touching,” He says, “Or we leave.”

“You can’t leave!” Ruby chirps, “This party is for you! Do you know how rude that would be?”

“As rude as grabbing her ass?” Konig grits.

Ruby’s pacing now, her heels clicking on the ground and her hands rubbing out her temples.

“As rude as downing your glass of champagne during The President’s toast?! As rude as attacking Capitol officials?!”

She shakes her head at you both in disbelief, her eyes wide with bewilderment.

“What has gotten into you two?!”

You sputter, your brows pinching and hands flinging out at your sides.

“We died, Ruby! That’s what happened! We died! And we killed! And you can’t just-”

You cut yourself off with a growl before continuing.

“You can’t just expect us to go back to normal!”

Ruby sticks a ring-adorned finger in the air, and the thick superiority in her voice immediately triggers your eyes to roll.

“May I remind you, the people at this party spent large sums of money to send you gifts, which kept you both alive in that arena.”

“I didn’t get anything from them,” You spit.

“Well, if it weren’t for them, Konig would not be alive - and I seem to recall him saving your life quite a few times.”

“I didn’t realize that meant we were giving them a pass to grope us,” Konig says.

“They’re just being friendly,” Ruby says with a dismissive wave, “You two are victors! The whole country wants a photo with you! And you two are acting like animals!”

Ouch.

“I guess that’s what happens when you’re treated like one,” You mumble, scraping pebbles under your heels.

Ruby sighs.

“Can you play nice for one evening? I told you you’re on strict orders! You’re going to give John a heart attack!”

Your brows immediately pinch, the hostility drained from your voice and replaced with confusion.

“Where is Price?”

You can’t help but feel a little abandoned. You’re certain if he was here this whole mess wouldn’t have happened.

“Oh, who knows,” Ruby dismisses with a roll of her eyes and a smack of her lips, “That brute is probably off drinking.”

Ruby launches into a rant about Price’s lack of respect, and you and Konig both take your opportunity to relish in another breather, prying the feeling of wandering, drunken Capitol hands from your unwilling bodies.

The open air is nice, a moment of respite, even. The air in the theatre was so stuffy, cycled through thousands of lungs and fried by stage lights. The air at the party, while open, is suffocating. Distorted and tight with grating voices and hundreds of prying eyes.

This air, the air outside the gates, - it’s resetting, crisp and begging for your attention. The breeze is soothing on your face and arms, almost painful as it passes through your nostrils with each crisp breath.

“Now can you please show an ounce of decorum?”

“We’ll show them as much decorum as they show us,” Konig says flatly.

You tilt your head up at him, and give his bicep a squeeze. He’s wearing those bored eyes, standing tall with his chest puffed out.

“You’re victors now,” Ruby tutts, “You have a standard to uphold! Please do not embarrass me any further!”

You just sigh.

Tired.

When the three of you return to the party, stiff and so clearly uncomfortable, your crown hangs low. You stare only at your dress hem dragging along the walkways.

The silver lining is everyone keeps their distance, whispering to each other and sneaking glances in your direction instead of crowding you both.

It’s humiliating, and you feel like there’s a spotlight on you, but at least you have free rein of the buffet.

And you are starving.

The food may just be the best thing that’s happened to you all day.

Wait, no - second best thing.

It smells so good.

There are too many dishes, there’s no possible way you’ll be able to taste them all, but it’s not going to stop you from trying. Creamy soups and meats draped in flavored, savory sauces, potatoes cooked in just about any way you can imagine, an entire table lined with only desserts, all of which look more like art to be admired than food to be devoured.

Oh, and the drinks.

You truly thought all booze tasted terrible, so the drinks they serve, fruity and sweet and barely tastes of alcohol, only makes you wonder why Price drinks whiskey.

You and Konig take your assigned seats just in front of The President’s mansion, giving him a perfect view of his aberrant victors.

There’s hundreds of circular tables, each one draped with a pristine, pure-white table cloth. A flame sits in the center of perfect centerpieces, and it must be a fake, because it’s ringed by flowers and a nest of twigs that sit far too close to the realistic flame.

It feels weird to be eating.

Too normal, too routine, so out of place after the nightmare you woke up from. You can’t help but feel like you’re not worthy of it. Like there’s twenty-two tributes sitting with you at this table, watching as you gorge yourself with their lifeless eyes and empty plates.

You push through it.

It helps that the food tastes too tempting for you to convince yourself to put your fork down.

The silence has continued between you and Konig as you eat, too tired, too guilty, too raw to talk. Your chairs could not be closer, though, your thighs flush together and arms bumping as you eat.

You sneak glances at him from your peripheral throughout your meal, and it hurts. Everytime you look at him, it is a new reminder of the horrors - gruesome kills and sacrificial deaths.

It doesn’t hurt to rest your head on his bicep once your stomach is bursting at the seams, though.

Mauve joins you three at some point, and aside from Mauve’s gushing paired with plenty of cheek kisses, and Ruby’s pointers on table etiquette paired with light swats, you couldn’t repeat a single thing either of them said if you tried.

The booze is making you sleepy, drowsy eyelids fluttering shut as you embrace the cozy warmth the alcohol brings to your skin. You give in to its whim, using Konig’s arm as a pillow and forcing yourself to only think of the music and the scents of extravagant dishes.

The atmosphere of the party has lightened by time you’ve both finished eating, the drinks coursing through the guest’s veins and rowdy conversation lending you both a hand.

As the guests get drunker, the more courage they have to near, and one of them finally breaks the barrier and asks for a photo with you both.

When not greeted with punches and shards of glass, the others steadily trickle over with caution, until you’re both swarmed once again.

With every snap of a photo, you have to stifle the image of the boy from eleven. His lifeless eyes stare back at you from the center of each bright white flash, every shutter of the camera lens slurred into the sound of a broken neck.

Your already forced, uncomfortable smile becomes more warped with each photo, and you’re sure you’re yawning in at least ten percent of them.

Konig doesn’t make any effort to keep up appearances. He stares forward, features hardening as the night drags on. He can’t seem to hide his rightful disdain, eyes projecting hatred and superiority. Like everyone at this party is beneath him.

The first person that dared to put their hand on your shoulder made you flinch and instinctively pull away under their hand, launching back into Konig’s instinctive brace as you face the culprit.

And of course, it’s just about the oldest woman you’ve ever seen, hunched at the back and walking on a cane. Capitol elite or no, she immediately evokes pity, and then guilt. It was surely an innocent and functional touch, and the look of embarrassment on the little old lady’s face burns your face with a matching shame.

“No, no,” You assure her, “I’m sorry, just scared me.”

She gives a laugh, showing her perfect, pearly white teeth. Not a single one of her teeth is rotted, missing, or even the slightest bit brown. You can’t help the way your head shakes in confusion, because you’ve never seen an old person with perfect teeth before. Not a whole lot in District Nine can even live long enough to reach the definition of elderly, let alone do so while maintaining perfect teeth.

The old woman puts her fingertips just under her collarbones.

“Oh, my, can you imagine? A little thing like me?”

You can’t find it in you to laugh with her, only able to conjure a weak smile and faint nod.

These people are so out of touch.

After what you just went through, you’d be startled by the blow of the wind. They’re not treating you like someone who lived the past week as prey, entirely glossing over the fact that your two hands have ended lives, that you’ve just woken up from being dead.

And it coming from just the seemingly innocent, tiny, crippled old lady just makes it all the more eerie.

You’re not supposed to be wiser than someone four times your age, but you can’t help but feel as if you are.

Once everyone sees the little old lady get away with touching the victors without getting knocked unconscious or threatened with broken glass, it’s free reign, and the drunker the guests get, the touchier they get.

They don’t seem to notice your discomfort or annoyance, and the only thing keeping you both from wigging out is Ruby, smiling proudly as she sips her drinks and accepts her congratulations a few feet away. And of course, The President, who you can’t see, but know is watching.

You can’t help but feel like you owe it to Ruby, too. Her very first victors. She’s probably been dreaming of this moment her entire career, and year after year of watching her kids die, maybe she should get to enjoy her moment without dealing with insolence and embarrassment. Especially after she gave you her fancy locket.

So you suck it up.

For hours you deal with the hands on your shoulders, on your back, smoothing over your arms and grabbing your hands.

The hardest part is watching Konig get the same treatment.

In most every photo since the little old lady, your stares are focused on each other, faces twisted as you watch each other get felt up.

It’s when someone other than Mauve or Ruby finds it appropriate to kiss you on the cheek that Konig’s fingernails start to dig into your skin hard enough to make you hiss, your interlocked fists trembling with his rage.

He’s about to lose it again.

“Ruby?! Breather!”

Ruby’s brows pinch, a slight confused jerk of her head as she rips her focus from her conversation.

After a moment you add a stiff, “Please.”

It takes her a moment for it to click.

”Oh, oh! Yes!”

She excuses herself from her conversation, sets down her drink, and waves the crowd away in her standard pushy-but-polite fashion, assuring them they will get their photos, just not now, dears!

When it’s just the three of you, Ruby gives you a proud smile and a nod. Maybe for asking instead of exploding, maybe because you actually used the word, ‘please’ for once, or maybe it’s just because you made her the escort of a victor.

“Oh, my victors,” She hums.

You actually smile a little when you notice it.

Ruby’s drunk.

She’s got a slight sway in her upper half, her cheeks are flushed rosen, and her smile is wider than ever.

It’s incredibly endearing, but Konig does not find it so.

His stance is wide, arms crossed over his chest, and the bicep you cling to is entirely tensed. You give him a squeeze, but he can’t seem to meet your gaze, his half-lidded eyes staring off into the distance. His hand does shift on his own arm to graze a finger over your knuckles, but it only soothes the sting a little.

You know your face is a reminder of the horrors he just went through, and the thought makes your throat swell and ache. As you look down and attempt to swallow the thought away, tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

He’s right here, you’re clinging to him, you went through it together, you are together.

But you feel so alone.

Konig’s head tilts towards the ground, and he speaks through grit teeth as he scrapes the sole of his glossy dress shoes on the river rocks.

“Did you see them?”

You perk up, an instantaneous wave of relief washing over you.

Even better that it’s trash talk.

“They’re awful, I wish they’d just stop-“

”No,” He cuts, “On their wrists.”

Your brows furrow as you wait for explanation, but he gives none, continuing to avoid your stare.

You carefully look to the guests, and once you notice one, the others practically scream for your attention. More people are wearing them than not.

Your ribbon.

For a solid five seconds, you stare blankly, bouncing around from wrist to wrist. A momentary calm as you process what the fuck you’re seeing.

That is your ribbon.

You earned that ribbon.

It was your gift.

It was your token to the love of your life.

Turning your gruesome kill, Willow’s suffering, and your parting suicide token into a fashion statement!

You are literally shaking with rage, tears of frustration well in your eyes and threaten to spill over your exaggerated lashes.

When you realize you’ve been holding your breath for far too long, you push a long exhale through parted lips.

You wonder if maybe it’s a good thing. If the ribbons spread far and wide mean that Willow’s pain will not go forgotten. Maybe her suffering is acknowledged through these ribbons.

You know that’s not what it means to them.

But you’re too tired to be angry.

“You have the original anyway,” You croak with a shrug, “That’s all that matters.”

While Konig doesn’t turn his head, he does look at you from the corner of his eye.

After a beat, he lets go of a heavy breath, his arms untensing under your touch.

“You know,” Ruby sings, leaning forward a little too far before she whispers her secret, “If you don’t dance at these things, people will talk.”

Without really meaning to, you adopt a patronizing but soft tone while speaking with her. That of a parent trying to gently let down a child who wants to play outside in the dead of winter.

“We’re not really in the mood for dancing, Ruby.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be good dancing!”

She smiles mischievously and gives a sloppy wink.

You wear a weary smile, another scoff behind your closed grin.

“I don’t think we’re in the mood for bad dancing, either.”

“No, no! Can’t have that! The victors always dance! I’ll show you!”

”Maybe later,” You say.

”Definitely later!” She beams.

She then raises her brows at you both.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this-“

She looks over her shoulder to make sure no one’s listening in on her scandalous advice.

“But the drinks help!”

She bursts into laughter, and when you look at Konig, he looks back.

You didn’t realize how cold your chest was until it floods with a sickeningly sweet warmth. He gives a soft roll of those comforting blue eyes, but your favorite is the grin he bites back.

You’re actually eager to follow Ruby’s advice for once.

You hardly have to move, as soon as you lock eyes with a Capitol attendant they step over to you, a tray of drinks in hand. It’s one of the sweet drinks you tried earlier, and as you take a glass you can’t help but ask - hoping you’ll never have to deal with the repulsive taste of whiskey ever again.

“Hey, what is this stuff?”

The attendant's brows raise, and she transfers her tray to one hand to bring a finger to her lips.

“Secret?” You ask.

Konig gently nudges you with his elbow.

“What?”

His lips are twisted when you meet his face, and after studying the woman for a few moments longer, the realization hits with a heatwave of embarrassment.

“Oh. Oh!” You give a nervous laugh at yourself, “I’m so- I’m sorry, I’m a little-”

You cut yourself off, the hand raised to your forehead begging her for grace. The attendant gives a polite curtsy before scurrying off.

You lean into Konig’s, quieting your voice as your eyes pick out the various attendants in their white and black uniforms, doting on guests.

“Are all of them-?”

Your question trails off.

“I think so,” He says.

“This place is fucking insane. It’s insane. I feel like I’m in- I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“They’re despicable,” he says.

As your eyes dart around, you can’t help but wonder if one of the attendants is the girlfriend of the boy from eight.

You shake away the thought as quickly as you can, but she lingers.

Does she hate you?

She must.

You’re the girl who foiled her boyfriend’s revenge plan, the girl that led a pack of bloodthirsty careers straight to the love of her life.

You try to imagine what it must be like for her - forced to serve the Capitol elite day in and day out, knowing her boyfriend’s back home, but having no way to reach him.

If it had been you - taken away for speaking out about the Capitol, knowing Konig is back in District Nine, but having no way to check on him.

And then to see him for the first time, the boy you broke by leaving, so clearly unwell, lurching forward to volunteer in the games and hellbent on getting gory revenge against the girl that ratted you out.

You have to stop the thought there, it’s making you sick to your stomach, and you find your grip around Konig has turned deathly.

That girl, wherever she is, wins the suffering game.

The drink goes down quickly, and as soon as your glass is empty, an attendant rushes over to take your glass and offer a replacement.

It’s welcomed.

Between sips, you rest your weary head on Konig’s bicep and close your tired eyes.

“I want to go home,” You whine into his arm.

“It’ll be over soon.”

He says this with a reassuring kiss on the forehead, but his hoarse tone betrays him.

“I wish we could be alone,” You whisper.

After a few moments of consideration, his grip tightens on you.

“Want to sneak away?” He asks.

You whip around to face him, looking up to find a goading raised brow and a faint, sly grin.

“Yeah?” You ask.

“Ja,” He says.

Those pretty blue eyes are sparkling with a glint of determined mischief that you couldn’t resist if you tried.

“Okay,” You say.

It’s an incredibly arduous task to sneak away.

Every few feet must be earned by a new wave of introductions, photos, and grabbing hands.

One woman pinches your cheeks, and you’re just thankful it’s the ones on your face.

“Oh, you really are just the cutest thing! I don’t usually, well, you know, but I’d make an exception for you!”

“Hey,” A nervous laugh crosses your lips, “What?”

She just laughs, the pungent smell of alcohol on his breath.

“Such a feisty little thing,” She chimes with a wink, her form swallowed by the crowd before you can get an explanation.

“Did she just make a pass at me?”

You shoot a look at Konig, but he’s too busy trying to placate a gaggle of elite gushing over his size. Hands reaching out to touch his chest, arms, shoulders.

What’d you like to do is start dishing out black eyes, but the booze, and of course, Ruby’s pride, make it easier to be semi-agreeable.

“Alright,” You say with a playful wave, “Step back, he’s already spoken for.”

This is a somewhat effective approach, because the guests seem to adore your ‘joke,’ and plently oblige with their rowdy laughter.

It doesn’t seem to discourage whoever is taking their turn with a picture, though. As if taking a photo gives them a pass to grope you.

When you both finally manage to shuffle your way over to a maid’s closet, you have to wait patiently to cycle through more photos, congratulations, and drunken introductions before there’s a lull.

You’re just about to throw in the towel on the whole thing before the perfect moment arrives for you to both awkwardly slip into the maid’s closet.

When the door shuts behind you, the music and rowdy party chatter muffled the moment it clicks shut, you find you’re nervous to be alone with him. Butterflies in your stomach and a shaky laugh on your lips. Your hands fidget in front of your core, and it’s difficult to make eye contact with him.

He nears with slow, daunting steps, each one making your heart beat a little faster. His hands caress down the sides of your abrasive, sparkly dress to find their home on your waist.

For a moment he studies you with a look in his eyes that you can hardly decipher, an intense stare that pulls a glow to your cheeks and turns your thoughts obsolete. His fingers tighten on your sides as he leans down to press his lips to yours in a long, lingering kiss. Your heart is both pounding furiously in your chest and ablaze with a cozy warmth that blooms throughout your torso and trickles down your limbs.

And suddenly you’re not thinking about the horrors. You’re only thinking about the prick of his stubble on your skin, the strong hands on your waist holding you close, the hint of alcohol on his breath, the vibration of his low hum on your lips.

With little warning, his hands slide down the curve of your hips to the back of your thighs. He scoops you up without so much a grunt of resistance, awkwardly bunching your dress in the front and resting your inner thighs on his waist.

He doesn’t break the kiss even when you gasp into his mouth. He deepens it instead, keeping you firmly on his front with one hand and another pressed to the back of your neck to keep you from losing focus.

He rests your back against the wall, and with a tilt of his head, his eager tongue intertwines with yours. The grip on your thighs is assured, his fingers indenting the soft flesh beneath the scratchy dress.

He pulls away for a moment, his lips inches away and pretty blue eyes staring straight into yours.

“All mine,” He says, low and breathy.

“All yours.”

The front of Konig’s suit pants rock against your front through the layers of your bunched dress, forcing a hitched, breathy sputter from you. You find your nails are digging into the lapel of his suit and tugging him close without thought.

There is little time to react between the jiggle of the doorknob and the door opening, looking over Konig’s shoulder to find Price slinking into the gap just big enough for him to sidestep into the storage closet, wasting no time as steps over to you both.

Konig immediately lets go of the back of your thighs and raises his palms in surrender, backing away from you the moment your heels find the floor with a huff.

You and Konig speak at the same time.

“I didn’t - ”

“Can we have five minutes of privacy?”

“No,” Price says sharply, seemingly not fazed at the display of canoodling he walked in on.

“Where have you been? These people-“

Price ignores you, boring into Konig with stern eyes and pinched brows.

“Did you really knock out a Capitol official?”

Konig shrugs.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you have any idea the amount of work you just gave me?”

Price’s voice is rising, but Konig doesn’t buckle.

“He grabbed her ass,” He says flatly.

Price winces, and for a moment you can see his face go through a range of emotions as he tosses a thought around. He groans, grumbling something at the ceiling before he turns to you, his voice urgent.

“They’re already not happy with you. And you being disrespectful at the interview, at this party - is not helping!”

You go to speak, but Price raises a finger to silence you. His words pour out quickly but as clear as crystal. Intense, careful eyes take turns between holding either of your stares.

“You didn’t play their game, you didn’t follow their rules, and you used their arena like it was a fucking playground.”

“So what?”

Price grumbles again, his shoulders tossing in annoyance.

“You took what was supposed to be a punishment for rebellion - and had fun instead. Get me? Your deaths meant something more than just losing a bet to these people. People aren’t supposed to root for breaking the rules, but they saw you as more than tributes.You were way too human, and Capitol folk are starting to see you for what you are.”

Price shrugs, his voice going soft for just a moment.

“As kids.”

He draws a long sigh and rubs out his beard.

“It probably would have been fine if Romeo took the hit, but you,” Price points his finger at you, “Of course you always have to have the last fucking word. The way they see it, you might as well have spit on the games themselves by opting out of victorhood.”

“You're saying it would have been better if Konig died?”

“No!”

Price grunts in exasperation, his muscles tensing, literally fighting back his annoyance.

“What I’m saying is - the rule is that there is one victor. And two outer district kids finding the loophole, breaking that one rule by rejecting their offer, and getting away with it? Well, how do you think they feel about it?”

“You know what?” You start, “If they didn’t want human, maybe they should have fought roosters instead. And I’m tired of everyone pretending like winning the games is some - “

Price barks your name, and it stuns you in the form of a choke, catching in the back of your throat and fighting you when you try to swallow it.

“This is serious,” He hisses, “Two outer district kids aren’t supposed to be above the rules. You think they wanted to pull you both out of there?”

Price snaps his fingers three times in rapid succession.

“They wanted to let you both die, hear me? You both are a spitting distance away from being rebels as it is - and you telling Caesar to go fuck himself, knocking out officials - “

Price cuts himself off with another frustrated grunt.

“This would have been nice to know sooner,” You mumble, rubbing out your bicep in hopes to relieve the nauseating unease creeping over you.

“This is the first time we’ve been alone and off tape since you both entered that arena. Do you have any idea what this week has been like for me? And you two-”

“For you?!” You snap, “We died!”

“And who do you think brought you back to life?!” Price hisses at you.

“I didn’t ask for that!”

“I remember someone asking me to save Romeo.”

Price jams his thumb in Konig’s direction, and while you blow a huff of air in dismissal, you both know he’s right.

“Isn’t this a good thing?” Konig asks, “If people are seeing the tributes differently?”

“Yes,” Price answers.

Your brows furrow, and Price gives a forced, mocking grin.

“That’s the problem. So do me a favor-“

His tone suggests it’s not a favor, but a demand, and with each sentence his frustration thickens.

“You go out there. You play their game. And you behave!”

You can’t pin why, but the hissed ‘behave’ makes you flinch. Your shoulders tense, your fingers adopt a sudden shake, and blood rushes to your ears in one instantaneous whoosh.

Price sighs, and his eyes find the floor. A hand comes up to his forehead before smoothing over his hair, rubbing out the back of his head.

When he speaks again, his voice is soft.

“One more thing,” He says, “I don’t want to worry you both, but the - ”

Price sucks in a breath, his next word riding a heavy exhale, “Tape.”

“Tape?”

“The tape,” He repeats, “Of you two, uh-“

Price clears his throat and looks away.

“Got it,” You say.

“Well, it-“

He lets out an exasperated grunt.

“It’s popular.”

Both you and Konig share a hesitant glance.

“The, uhm-“

Price can’t make eye contact, can hardly get the words out.

“Look, it’s been passed around.”

“What?” You sputter, “But that- that’s-“

“It’s not like these people have ever been moral.”

Price clears his throat again, and he can’t seem to stand still in his spot, restless in the way you’ve only ever seen him the night before the games.

“So everyone at this party has seen us fuck?!”

“Well, not everyone,” Price mutters.

Your burning face warps under the forceful pinch of your own hand.

“I don’t need this, I really don’t need this right now.”

“There’s a lot that you kids don’t know. And- and I’m hoping they’ll cut you some slack, considering the circumstances.”

Price gestures between you and Konig.

He sees both of your blatant confusion, and another sigh leaves his lips. He looks over his shoulder at the door before finding you both.

“The victors have always been,” He pauses, his eyebrows raising, “Desired.”

“Desired?”

“Desired,” He repeats.

“They want to fuck us?”

Price smacks his lips, his voice lowering.

“They don’t want to fuck us, they do fuck us, you understand?”

You really don’t.

“It’s not like you have much of a choice. The payment is just,” He thinks for a moment, “A bonus, get me?”

It takes you a moment to digest this.

As it dawns on you, you squeeze Konig’s arm a little tighter, and make a baby sidestep to close what little distance there is between you.

“And that tape only got them - More excited.”

The thought of someone forcing prostitution on Konig, the thought of Konig fucking some rich Capitol -

You are at risk of throwing up again.

“So it is crucial that you do - Exactly. What. I. Say. You understand? If we play our cards right, I think I can get you both off the hook.”

His loose wrist swirls in front of you, gesturing between you and Konig.

“The whole - romance thing.”

You nod, and shift on your feet as your eyes find the floor.

Price sighs, a palm covering his forehead.

“I’m sorry, kids, I really am. It’s all bullshit, I know it. But I am trying my best.”

Your brows furrow, and the strain in his voice seems to be contagious.

“I know. Thank you.”

He nods slow, face more than weary, his eyes pinching closed for a moment.

“Now, please - I am begging you both to be good. Don’t make this any harder on me than it already is. Please?”

Price is throwing all sorts of curve balls at you today. Price does not call you by your name. Price does not beg. Price orders.

You give a shaky nod, and find you’re digging into Konig’s arm so tight your knuckles are turning white.

“You’ve got two minutes. Make ‘em count.”

Price turns on his feet, heading for the door. Without looking back, he waves a hand at you both over his shoulder.

“And don’t make me come back in here and drag you both back out. I got enough of a show last time.”

As soon as the door closes behind Price, you and Konig face each other.

His hands find your biceps, sliding down your arms until he tightens his hold around your forearms.

“I won’t let them,” He says, “I won’t let them.”

You nod, quick and assured, your hands gripping his forearms in return.

“I know. I know. I won’t let them either.”

You pull each other into a deathly tight embrace that you’re sure would have lasted the entire two minutes, but it’s interrupted by the door opening again, this time much less gentle. The doorknob crashes into the wall hard enough you both jump, holding each other tight at your sides.

At once you’re both blinded by flashing, white lights, ears assaulted with the sound of camera lenses shuttering and the rowdy chatter of the Capitol folk, squeals and shouts overlapping in a nauseating chorus. You have to pinch your eyes shut, teeth grit, arms raised to shield your eyes.

Blinding sun.

Pure white snow at your feet.

The sound of a broken neck in your ears and Eleven’s lifeless eyes staring at nothing and right at you all at once.

You cling to Konig’s suit, fingers shaking as you bury your face into his chest.

A sharp whistle commands attention, Price’s sturdy arms forcing his way through the crowd, extended at his sides and forcing them away from the door.

“Alright, alright, back it up! Nothing to see.”

He whistles again, and you know that’s your cue to wriggle through the part in the crowd. Both you and Konig hold each other tight as you run, run like you’re ripping through the trees of the fall forest, branches tearing into your skin to escape the gory slaughter, to escape from the boy you love after he killed for you.

Your face is burning, flushed with humiliation and fear, breaths heaving and your pulse pounding against your temples.

“How much longer? How much longer?” You ask Konig, as if he knows the answer.

“I know, I know,” He says, “It’s okay.”

It’s starting to feel like this party will never end.

It’s your hell, your punishment for killing and dying and stealing someone else’s victory. Trapped in this shameless extravagant world with people who don’t get it.

Konig positions himself behind you once you’re steady on your feet, and drapes his arms around your collarbones. He hunches over to rest his chin on your head, and puts a bit of his weight on you.

Just a little.

It’s weirdly soothing. Grounding, something to focus on. After a few minutes you begin to trace little hearts on his suit jacket sleeves as you cling to his forearm.

Throughout the embrace he leaves periodic kisses on the top of your head, and you both ignore the guests not-so-sneaky sneaky photos.

“All mine,” He whispers.

“All yours,” You whisper back.

You stand like this for a while, mostly thinking about how bad your feet hurt, the ache starting to travel up your ankles in an all too familiar fashion.

You’re seriously considering ditching your heels.

Your dress is so long, they surely won’t notice if you walk around barefoot.

“Time to dance!” Ruby chimes from behind you.

You groan as Konig stands straight, his hands finding your shoulders instead.

Ruby gives you both little choice, pushy-but-politely ushering you both to the space in front of the live band, which is unfortunate, because what you crave most right now is some peace and quiet. To her credit, though, she keeps you at the edge of the crowd on the dance floor. The last thing you want right now is to be surrounded.

“It’s easy!”

Ruby is touchy with her demonstration, but you don’t mind it as much as you do the rest of the guests and their touching. You know it’s innocent, and it’s hard to say no to her in this state. Coming from her specifically - her acting like everything is fine is making it a bit easier to pretend like it is, which is weird, because usually her ignorance is nothing but grating.

She takes your hand and practically slaps it on Konig’s shoulder, and guides him by the wrist to put his hand on your waist. She circles you, and on the other side, she prompts you to intertwine your fingers.

“And now you sway.”

“No, no, don't bend, stand straight and use your whole body!”

“I thought it was allowed to be bad dancing,” Konig mumbles.

“Graceful bad dancing,” She corrects.

And so you sway, rolling your eyes and shaking your heads at each other, because this is ridiculous. Dancing after what you just went through just to appease these abhorrent people.

You’re glad he’s connecting with you again, at least. Sharing in the hatred.

And it’s not the worst.

Getting to look at him and not think of what has happened, soaking him in and feeling his touch under your fingers.

At one point you close the distance, resting your head on his chest instead, his silken tie on your cheek. You wrap your arms around him in an embrace, and in return he holds you tight.

You close your eyes and take another break, here in his chest. Breathing him in to ease your nerves, putting a little weight on him to relieve your poor ankles, melting into his strong arms.

“Would you mind if I had the next dance?”

The spine-chilling, unfortunately familiar voice comes from behind you, and immediately twists your intenstines in knots.

You both perk up, and you watch as Konig’s brows raise.

“Ach, of course.”

Konig lets go of you, palms displayed as he takes a few steps back. You beg him with your eyes to come back, but you both know that’s not an option, so he offers a wince of apology.

You don’t have the sense to hide your horror as The President steps in and offers his hands.

A sneaky, stealthy, slithering man he is.

His hand feels dead in yours, cold and sagged, like if you’re not gentle enough the meat might just slip off his bones.

“Congratulations, my dear,” He says.

The President gives a polite nod of his head. Those icy eyes are piercing, staring straight into yours and not so much as blinking. You’re convinced he can see your very soul, every thought and fear and secret binded into a book for him to skim over at his leisure.

“Thank you, sir.”

He gives a hearty laugh that makes your skin crawl, your stomach threatening to send bile to lap at the back of your throat.

“None of that ‘sir’ nonsense.”

His head tilts up, and he looks to the evening sky as he speaks. Slowly. Carefully.

“I can’t help but feel as if I know you personally. As well as I know a friend.”

You have to stifle the sharp inhale you instinctively draw when his eyes meet yours again. The hint of a cruel, cautious smile tugs on the corners of his lips.

“Quite a show you put on for us all.”

Your throat is so tight, if you could find the words, they would surely have come out wavered. You nod instead.

“I have to say I admire that young man’s dedication to you.”

His eyes crinkle.

“Do you think he would still be as infatuated with you if he knew you wouldn’t repay the favor?”

A choke catches in your throat. Your eyes dart to Konig, standing just out of earshot to keep an eye on you. His face is twisted, brows scrunched, asking you with just a look what’s going on.

“I- I’m sorry?”

The President’s smile doesn’t falter. He speaks as if he’s clarifying a step on a recipe, and not drilling you with the most bone-chilling, unhinged questioning you’ve ever had the displeasure of being on the end of.

“If he knew that his dedication was not returned.”

You don’t have the sense to hide your nervous, confused laugh.

The President’s eyes remain locked onto yours. They’re just a little too open, his smile a little too wide.

Inhuman.

“I- I- gave up my life for him. I don’t-”

“Did you?” He cuts with a curious perk of a brow.

You blink twice, your awkward sways coming to a halt.

“I beg your pardon?” You stutter.

“Did you give your life up for him?”

The President lowers his chin, his brow raising.

“Or did you do it for you?”

He leans in closer, his voice just a frosted whisper. While his words are terrifying, his face upholds appearances. Refined and cheerful, as if he were recounting a lighthearted story around his surely exotic dinner table.

“Death is easy, my dear. There is no pain. There is no consequence. There is no ‘aftermath,’ as you like to put it.”

You try to work up saliva into your dry mouth, but it’s no use.

“I don’t understand.”

The President gives a low, calculated chuckle that tapers into a hum.

“Nothing to understand,” He says through a smile, “It’s notional.”

You have to coax the words out, each one spiked and slicing your throat on its ascent.

“Forgive me, for being blunt - “

Your unsure voice takes on an unnaturally high pitch when you find the courage to make eye contact with him.

“Is- Is this blackmail? I - What do I have to do?”

For the first time, the President’s face falls, and his expression finally matches those loathsome eyes.

“It’s notional,” He repeats, “And if you’d like to keep it that way, then I’d suggest you listen to that mentor of yours.”

You look down to your shoes before giving a shaky nod.

He reinstates that perfect smile, and you can tell, even in his perpetually loathsome eyes, that he takes great pleasure at the way you cower.

He hums and finally looks away, watching the evening sky as he slips back into his act.

“That John-“

He chuckles with a shake of his head.

“He certainly is a sentimental man, isn’t he?”

The air being pulled into your lungs is useless, you can’t breathe, bordering on hyperventilating.

“It’s clear he cares quite a lot about you both.”

The President’s face drops suddenly again, and his annoyance is clear.

“A thorn in my side.”

“He’s a good man,” He continues with a resetting breath, “But that big heart of his is going to get him in trouble one of these days.”

The President might as well have Price under his thumb, and he’s deciding whether or not to smush him like a bug or go get lunch.

When the song ends, his eyes narrow dangerously at you.

“I hope you enjoy your evening,” He says.

The President leaves you frozen in your spot, stepping over to him and reaching up to give him a hearty pat on the shoulder.

“She’s all yours, my boy. Not a scratch on her.”

Yet.

The President gives a hearty laugh as he walks away.

Konig all but runs over to you, wrapping his hands around your biceps.

“What was that all about?”

Konig’s brows furrow when you shrug unconvincingly.

“Just wanted to congratulate me, I guess.”

Konig nods slow, a concerned pinch of his face and lips weighed down, but he doesn’t push.

When you go to dance again, you rest your head on his chest. You close your eyes and let him lead, the hands on your back guiding you into a loose sway. Your entire body has gone limp to his, bones made of jelly and a stomach made of lead as you try and make sense of The President’s ominous words and not-so-subtle- subtle threats.

You can’t, and to be honest, you’re so exhausted you’ve turned numb. Once the shake in your fingers goes away, you’ve decided - in the simplest of terms, you’re not going to give a fuck until morning.

“My feet are killing me,” You mumble into Konig’s tie, “And I just want to go home.”

“Want to sit?”

You nod into his chest, and are subjected to another round of photos and touching hands, which is even more unnerving after learning that these people know what your naked bodies look like, have seen you be intimate, and are eager to force you both into their bedrooms to get a live version of the show.

After you quell this round of eager elite, you take a seat next to Konig on the cluster of patio couches along the mansion gates. His arm slings over the back of the couch to invite you to nuzzle into his side, and you happily take his offer, closing your eyes as you cozy up to him. You hope you can sneak in a break, here in the safety of his chest.

Your attempted break is interrupted, though, when Konig squeezes your shoulder to alert you that someone’s approaching.

A sole woman, mid-thirties, you think. A plump build and wavy brown hair.

“Hi there,” She says.

She’s lacking in the Capitol effectuations, and she leaves moderate distance between you as she extends her hand in your direction.

“I’m sure you’re both, uh,” She gives a weak laugh, “Sick of people by now.”

You give a polite but tired hum as you carefully accept her handshake.

“I’ll make it fast, promise,” She says with a quick wave of two palms.

“My name’s Mabel. Just - wanted to thank you, I suppose.”

You eye her with a crease in your brow, brain already scrambling to figure out her intentions. She sees your confusion, and jumps to explain herself.

“I’m - I’m one of the District Eight mentors.”

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping open.

Mabel gives a solemn nod at your horrified recognition, before she carefully looks over both her shoulders. Her gaze flits to the ground, and her lips barely move when she speaks again.

“I wanted to tell you that it’s never easy to do the dirty work. And we thank you for making that sacrifice.”

You exchange a glance with Konig before giving her a hesitant nod.

“Yeah, uhm-”

You’re really not sure what to say to that one, and your brain is too foggy from the drinks and too scrambled with exhaustion to find an elegant response.

“Yeah.”

Mabel smiles at you, and takes a few steps closer. Her core creases when she leans over and sets a rectangular card on the drink table in front of you, and her voice returns to a normal volume.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate.”

She gives the card two taps before she turns and leaves you both be.

You and Konig share another look before you carefully pry the card from the table with your nails.

You flip the card over in your hands, expecting to see contact information, but the sloppily printed capital letters makes your blood run cold.

DISTRICT EIGHT UNREST

Your head shoots up to find Mabel, but she’s disappeared among the party goers.

The world has fallen upon deaf ears, unfocused eyes blur the vibrant colors that surround you into a gross, brown swirl, the music and drunken chatter suddenly a million miles away.

Because of you?

Is it because of you?

If it has nothing to do with you, why would she go out of her way to pass on a message of treason?

She could be executed for spreading district intel, and for her to give it to a strange victor so brazenly, when you are surrounded by elite at The President’s mansion and being broadcasted to the entire country -

Because of you?

It can’t be.

Why is she warning you about it?

If what’s on this card is true - then you know why there’s unrest in District Eight, and it’s not because of you.

But you are the only player left standing from a very recent incident heinous enough to potentially make an already discontent district reach its boiling point.

Because of you.

The flinch that tears through you when Konig nudges your shoulder snaps you back to reality, the music and chattering flooding your ears once more.

“What is it?” He asks.

You just shake your head, an unconvincing croak in your voice as you stuff the card into your bust, right next to his token.

“A contact card,” You say.

Konig’s stare lingers for a moment before he nods slow.

You move to a stand, rushing over to the nearest Capitol attendant, and snatch two drinks from the tray with a quick thank you.

When you turn, you bump into Konig’s chest, apparently at your heels. The bubbling drink sloshes up the side of the glass, splattering and foaming onto the hem of your dress and the river rock path below.

He steadies you by your shoulders with a worried look in his eyes.

You just nod at him as you bring the glass to your lips and down the entire thing, stifling a burp when you finish the glass.

“Oh, phew, sorry.”

You bring the other glass to your lips and begin to down it as well, but stop when you catch Konig’s pinched frown.

“Oh, sorry,” You say, gesturing what remains in the second glass in his direction, “Want some?”

He shakes his head.

You finish out the second glass and take a sharp gulp of air when you pull away.

“Ja?” Konig asks.

“Yeah,” You croak.

“Okay,” He says.

And so you get fucked up.

Everytime feel the prick of Mabel’s card on your chest, everytime you think of The President’s threats, everytime Price’s voice echoes through your thoughts, everytime you wonder if one of these attendants is Eight’s girlfriend, everytime you think of a suicide, of a gory kill, of the injustice of it all -

You take a drink.

It’s not long before your unpleasant thoughts are beyond fuzzy and your cheeks are pooled with warmth.

The drinks make the photos and the touching easier to bear, but it doubles the weight of your already heavy eyelids and drapes your body with a cozy blanket that’s hard to resist.

Finally - finally, the party ends. So late into the night the sun must be close to rising. It takes you an unbearable amount of time for you and the rest of your team to make way to the golden mansion gates.

More photos and grabbing hands and drunken breath.

When you finally make it to the limo, you slip your shoes and your crown off almost immediately, and curl up into Konig’s arm on the leather seats. You even doze off on the ride back to the tribute suites.

You don’t bother putting your shoes back on before climbing from the limo, holding them at your sides as you stumble to the elevators.

Ruby’s in a similar state, and she seems to have gotten over the whole kissing situation, or at least is too drunk to care at the moment, because she has no trouble linking her elbows with Price to keep herself steady while she gushes over the party and all the praise she received.

Price is off.

You can feel it, even through your intoxication. He’s radiating a tense, stiff aura, his features tired and expressionless. He doesn’t even tease Ruby about her particularly rowdy behavior. Just guides her along, silently.

You’re more than relieved to see the sickeningly extravagant suite, knowing you’re mere yards from a comfortable bed and having Konig all to yourself.

Price lets out a heavy sigh behind you as you breach the entrance of the hall.

“Kids?”

He clears his throat.

“A word?”

Konig and you slow, already uneased and hesitantly turning to face him.

“You’re not gonna like this, but ah-“

Price sighs again.

“You’re sleeping in your own rooms.”

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

[laurenttheninth]

i’m just saying if i had to write a final bucktommy scene at the end of s7

i’d probably have a full-circle moment of them at a romantic restaurant, this time they’re holding hands and buck only has eyes for tommy. they only pull apart when the bill comes (buck pays without hesitating)

and as they’re getting up and tommy’s helping buck into his jacket, buck remembers, oh, and asks if tommy can drop him off at eddie’s instead of the loft; he promised he’d pop over to play this new video game chris diligently saved his allowance for

and tommy says of course, he says sure, and he smiles but there’s something… else behind it. not malice, not quite sorrow, not resignation. maybe resolve? nothing buck can identify, but we see him clock it with a tiny, inquiring head tilt, a question in his eyes. tommy just smiles at him, hand on his lower back, guiding him out of the restaurant.

cut to them pulling up in front of the diaz house; Buck unbuckles his seat belt, leans over to kiss tommy goodnight, and tommy… lingers. just a second too long. he’s playing the same cautious beat we saw after their first kiss. buck doesn’t let it go this time.

so buck invites tommy to come join them for a while, to come play games. he clearly doesn’t want to leave him like this. and tommy, always clever, makes a quip about buck inviting him into someone else’s house.

buck hedges, because it’s not “someone else’s” house, not really, it’s eddie’s house. maybe buck says something about it being more of a home than the loft is?

and tommy’s got that look again. and buck, a little scared now, asks him what’s wrong. and tommy takes his hand and says “evan… i —“

“wait, tommy, don’t —“

“i think we need to talk.”

cut to inside the diaz house: chris answers the door, and buck looks… hollow, maybe. eddie comes around the corner and immediately asks chris to get the game set up while he talks to buck for a minute.

chris goes, shooting buck a concerned look. eddie gets close, asks buck if he’s okay. buck just barely shakes his head, tears in his eyes, and eddie immediately shuffles him to his room, closing the door behind them, giving them privacy.

“tommy just broke up with me.” he says it before eddie can even ask.

and eddie is shocked, concerned, because what happened? they were good, so good, buck had even said that he was really falling for him —

“yeah… he said the same thing.” and buck’s really not trying to hold back the tears but he’s not exactly crying, it’s more like the tears are just happening while his mind is elsewhere. “he said he doesn’t want to fall in love with me.”

and now eddie’s getting pissed, because what the hell? why wouldn’t he want to fall in love with him? was he — was he afraid of commitment, or did he want �� ?

but buck cuts him off, barely listening to eddie, and says “he said he didn’t want to fall in love with me when i’m… already in love. with someone else.”

and then buck, breath shaky, looks at eddie for the first time since he came into the house. “eddie?” he asks, and its fragile and terrified and somehow both hopeful and hopeless, “am i in love with you?”

and we just see eddie hear this. and he opens his mouth to say something, anything, and —

roll credits.

[jam3sacaster]

Every Breath You Take.

(Rivals) Rupert Campbell-Black x Reader

Synopsis: Rupert pops the biggest question of his life…

Title derived from Every Breath You Take by The Police.

Prologue: 18+ FANFIC / Just some super cute, soppy Rupert 🥺 Reader character aged at 21. Hope you enjoy! 🩷

Spring — your favourite month — had officially engulfed the entirety of Rutshire, with vivid daffodils rising from the ground in droves, and a plethora of tulips lined the garden of Penscombe Court, vibrant pinks, indigos and scarlet reds. The gardeners were occupied outside, shearing the hedges into the most fantastic shapes. The lawn was freshly trimmed, the nostalgic aroma of the clippings clinging to Penscombe Court. From the hanging baskets surrounding the mahogany back door, a blissful cloud of sweet alyssums and cyclamens. Dressed in his Sunday best, Rupert was sporting a rather suave navy blue jumper with white lining around the waistband and neckline, brown corduroy trousers and tan leather brogues, his ink black hair gelled flawlessly. “You’re pulling out all the stops this season, Mr Campbell-Black.” The portly gardener chirped, holding his shears mid-air. “All for good reason, Dennis. You’ll soon see. Can you ask Edith to plant a few lilacs there? They’re angel’s favourite.” He announced, pointing towards an empty flowerbed. The man nodded in response and returned to shearing the hedge.

Pottering back inside, Rupert sloped into the kitchen, his smile immediately brightening as he saw you, freshly awake from your slumber. You were dressed only in one of his Venturer t-shirts, that hung down to your knees — your cappuccino-brown hair tangled across your shoulders. “You’ve been outside for a while, what are you doing?” You questioned suspiciously, flicking on the kettle. “Nothing. Just… go and get ready, will you?” Rupert snapped, anxiously adjusting his watch. Furrowing your brow in astonishment at his miniature outburst, you barged past him and marched upstairs. “Properly ready, we’re going out!” He called up after you, sighing.

-

Rupert was all too aware that it took you a while to get ready, but wow, you were taking your sweet time today. Almost two hours later, as the grandfather clock struck 12pm, you were finally dressed, and howled at Rupert to wait by the stairs. Obliging like the obedient man he was, Rupert stood at the foot of the winding staircase, his jaw instantaneously dropping in adoration as you began your descent. Your curvaceous figure was wrapped tightly in a black silk dress cut to your knees, cleavage on show with a plunging neckline, alongside black kitten heels and accessorised with a pearl necklace and earrings. Coffee-coloured hair was draped across your back, tied neatly with a black satin bow, and your makeup was subtle and elegant. In other words, you looked phenomenally glamorous and utterly irresistible. “Wow, angel… you look incredible.” Rupert chuckled, offering his hand to guide you down the last few steps. “Thank you.” You muttered, still partially irritated by his snapping. “Come with me.” He winked, beginning to lead you out into the garden.

Penscombe’s garden had been entirely transformed overnight. Spring - and the gardeners - had transformed the dreary, overgrown disarray into Eden. “Rupert! It’s… it’s beautiful” You weeped, heart fluttering at the arrangement of lilacs. Thank God, thought Rupert. Atop the freshly-trimmed lawn sat a tartan picnic blanket filled with fresh treats, helpfully provided by Taggie O’Hara the night afore. Unbeknownst to you, the large topiary bushes lining the lawn were methodically sheared to spell out ‘Marry me?’ The hired orchestra of five musicians began to play Every Breath You Take by The Police, your favourite song, as you both sauntered onto the grass. Blissfully unaware of the sheared topiary, you gasped in delight, clapping your hands together in time to the music. “Oh Rupert, you shouldn’t have!” You joyfully exclaimed, unable to remove your gaze from the violin.

Wrapped up in your harmonious euphoria, you hadn’t noticed Rupert had gotten down on one knee, yielding a small red leather box. Within the plush cushioning of the box sat a silver banded engagement ring, an immense diamond proudly glinting on top. “Angel…” He prompted, gazing up at the woman he so loved. Slowly, you began to read the words sheared into the topiary, jaw dropping rapidly. A dumbfounded gasp parted from your lips as you spun round to meet him. “Rupert…” You managed to breathe out.

“My darling, any attempt I make to tell you just how much you’ve illuminated my life… not just with your vivid flowers or your awful music, but with your beautiful, caring heart, will never be enough.” He began, hand trembling slightly. Tears had already begun their descent across your cheeks. “You haven’t had the easiest job in taming me, but you made it look effortless. Whenever you are gone, I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t breathe. I can’t live without you. I wonder if you’d take on the awful burden of becoming Mrs Campbell-Black?” He asked, that awfully heart-wrenching nervous look overtaking his features. “Rupert… yes! Of course I will! My God.” You stutter, grinning widely as he hoisted himself up and enveloped you in his arms.

[thebowieconstricker]

Expressing Yourself with Edward Scissorhands✂️🥀🪡

Edward Scissorhands x Reader Oneshot!

masterlist link

Summary: You need a haircut, and your best friend is happy to help. Pining and fluff ensues.

Tags: Haircuts, soft touches, pining, fluff, so much fluff, domestic fluff, they’re in love and they don’t know it, give Edward Scissorhands a happy ending 20XX

AN: Hey y’all, this takes place before Edward has cut anyone’s hair, cause I love the idea that you’re the first to get an Edward haircut lol. Also this is partly just me ranting about wanting short hair, but take this anyway you need it! You are valid and Edward loves you <333

You hated your hair with a passion. It stuck out here, or was too long there, or was uneven at the back. Every time you looked in the mirror, you sighed before putting it up so you wouldn’t have to look at it. Although you had pleaded for a trip to the barbers before, your parents wouldn’t budge, and you were forced to keep your atrocious hairstyle.

This was the rant that you were currently giving to your very best friend, Edward. Ever since he had first come to town, you had an immediate kinship with him. Obviously you didn’t have scissors for hands, but you related to him. You were an oddball in your family, striving for something more than the technicolor suburbs. And when you saw Edward… man, it was like someone had created the perfect friend for you. He was so kind and understanding, he always seemed so enthusiastic about your dreams (though enthusiastic for him meant a small smile), and he was an amazing listener.

Like now.

Currently, you were pacing in the Bogg’s basement, where Edward sat on the couch, watching you. This had become your designated hang out space when you didn’t want to be outside.

“I just- I don’t get why they won’t just let me cut it. And like- I would do it myself, but I don’t know anything about styling hair!” You had been pacing for some time now, and at this statement, you dramatically collapsed next to Edward (though a good distance away as to not make him uncomfortable). He gave a small inhale and a smile that you took to be a laugh at your antics, and you looked at him.

Suddenly, you got an idea.

“Edward… have you ever cut someone’s hair before?”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, before shaking his head ‘no’.

You adjusted to face him more head on, his brown doe eyes giving you an awfully sweet, curious expression.

“Would you cut my hair? I mean, if you wouldn’t mind, of course. And it’s okay if it’s bad, ‘cause at least then my parents would have to take me to get it fixed.” At that you giggled a bit.

Edward furrowed his brows then, looking at you carefully.

“I like your hair.” He said it quietly, but seriously, and your heart melted.

“That’s sweet, but- I just don’t. And hey, I’ve seen the stuff you can create out of hedges, maybe hair can be your new medium!”

He gave a small smile to himself, then looked back at you seriously. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

You frowned. “You won’t hurt me, Edward. I trust you.” To emphasize, you gently put your hand on his shoulder. He flinched a bit at the contact, just enough that you notice, but then he froze, staring at you. He stared a lot, you had noticed. But this time, he seemed to be almost analyzing you. After a moment, he finally spoke. “I can do it.” You grinned and took your hand off of his shoulder, the urge to hug him becoming overwhelming. “Thank you SO MUCH! This means so much to me!” His eyes seemed to soften at your excitement and he smiled. “I’m happy to help you.” Edward motioned his hands upward, which you took as a sign to adjust yourself.

Oh, we’re doing this here-?

Eh, I’ll clean up Peg’s carpet.

You moved to grab a chair, which you set directly in front of him, then sat in it with your back to him. Edward stood up behind you, walking carefully around you as he took in the full spectacle that was your hair. You blushed a tad when he moved his face closer to yours to look at the hair in front of your face, but you tried to stay calm. After doing a few circles around you, he raised his hands and gave a part of your hair a sharp cut.

As the chunk fell to the ground, you couldn’t help but grin.

Edward cut more and more, here some and there some. As he grew more confident, he cut faster, the snipping sound you heard increasing in tempo. You couldn’t tell what style he was doing, as he seemed to be cutting at random. But you stayed as still as possible, getting excited as strand after strand wafted to the ground.

After a minute of him cutting at what seemed like the speed of light, he began to slow down, taking more care with certain parts of what hair you had left. Suddenly, he carefully put his scissor-hands on either side of your head, and your heart began to beat. Slowly, carefully, he turned your head to the left. You gulped.

He paused. He observed. He took his hands away from your head, but you kept it still, looking to the side. Taking very small steps, Edward circled you, and you stayed as still as a statue.

Without a sound, he jerked his arm up and gave your hair a final snip.

He smiled softly. “Done.” He whispered.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Woah, that was- an experience.” You said, getting up from the chair. Edward blinked as his smile widened, a gesture you had decided to mean he was laughing. You walked across the room to a mirror hanging on the wall, nervous but excited.

When you looked-

It was you.

Really you! The truest version of you that you had ever seen! Your hair was perfect! Edward had styled it so it framed your face just so, but also created such a unique shape that you laughed out loud seeing it.

“Do you like it?” Edward’s soft voice floated from behind you. You turned to him, grinning so widely you could tell it was contagious from the way he smiled back. “Edward it’s- it’s so perfect! I love it! You’re so talented I- can I hug you?”

He continued to smile at your praises until you mentioned a hug. “I can’t.” He frowned and said it so sadly.

You frowned with him, but then, you thought of something. “Could I put a braid in your hair?”

His eyes lit up, perking up immediately. He nodded with a smile.

You dashed to gather the proper materials in your bag, pulling out a hairbrush and some small, elastic hair ties. “Your turn in the chair, Ed!” He moved quickly to sit down, his hands fidgeting in excitement.

After a while of trying to organize Edward’s hair into something even remotely manageable, you took a part of his hair and gently began to braid. Although you had always admired his hair from afar, you never took in how beautiful it actually was. A dark, inky color, it swirled and curled in intricate layers. Choppy and messy, yes, but with such charm.

Unbeknownst to you, Edward was in heaven. His eyes softly closed the second you began to touch his hair, a small hum of contentment escaping from his lips. You had been the first person to want to get close to him. You had always been so relentlessly kind to him. You were never afraid to touch him. And now here you were, happily braiding his hair. If his pale face could blush, it would, and he felt the heat rising to his cheeks. He had basically fallen for you the second he saw you, but moments like these made him fall harder and harder.

A moment later, you had finished a small, pretty braid in the mess of his hair. Small enough that it didn’t alter his style (you’d never want to do that, it was too gorgeous), but large enough that it could be seen.

“Done! I like it!” You ruffled his hair affectionately and Edward beamed. He got up from his chair slowly, but then dashed robotically across the room to the mirror, making you giggle. He looked at himself and turned his head at an angle to see his braid. As you watched, his eyes crinkled with how much he smiled, his scissors sniping back and forth. He turned to you.

“Thank you very much.” He said, grinning.

You walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “No, thank you. This was amazing.” His eyes were focused on you, giving you an expression of adoration and gratitude.

Leading him back to the couch, you began to chatter away about another matter. The two of you ultimately settled again, this time you put your head on his shoulder. The rest of the night would go on like your previous hang-out nights, but you both knew that things had shifted between you two. Things were the same, yes, but you had shared something special. You finally felt like yourself, thanks to Edward. And Edward felt appreciated and loved, thanks to you.

AN: Thanks so much for reading! I just want there to be more cuddly Edward content so I guess I’ll have to do it myself. Also I included the “you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding” line on purpose, because it’s such a cliche lol. Gimme requests if ya got ‘em and have a wonderful autumn! <333

[jadeshifting]

— GALAS AT MALFOY MANOR

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

a MALFOY GALA is less about having fun and more about proving you belong—if you can keep your wits about you and avoid spilling wine on your robes, you might just make it out unscathed

— the INVITATIONS are delivered by sleek black owls with embossed emerald parchment, each one radiating a subtle but unmistakable don’t even think about declining energy. declining is possible, but only if you want to be talked about for months

— FIRST IMPRESSIONS, arriving guests are greeted by enchanted lanterns that light the winding driveway, their flames flickering in perfect synchrony. a house-elf in pristine livery opens the grand doors, and Narcissa herself offers the faintest of smiles as you step into the marble-floored foyer

— the ATMOSPHERE practically drips with opulence, from the enchanted chandeliers glittering like constellations to the string quartets playing hauntingly beautiful tunes. it’s all about showing off—not just wealth, but power

— the MANOR is decked out to perfection, with enchanted roses blooming in every room and marble floors that reflect the candlelight. guests can wander the gardens, but you do not open random doors—who knows what cursed artifacts are lurking

— the GUESTS are a who’s-who of the wizarding elite, with sharp smiles and sharper tongues. everyone’s dressed to kill, literally dripping in jewels and designer robes, and no one’s above a bit of genteel gossiping in the corners

— DRESS CODE is strictly black-tie, wizarding style. robes must be tailored to perfection, and any magical embellishments—like self-adjusting hems or floating crystals—must be tasteful. Narcissa will notice, and Draco will most definitely make a subtle dig at you if your outfit doesn’t meet the mark

— THE MALFOYS; Lucius and Narcissa glide around like royalty, greeting everyone with icy politeness. Draco’s usually lurking near the drinks table, equal parts brooding and charming depending on who’s watching

— the banquet tables of FOOD are insane—tiered platters of exotic delicacies that practically float into your hands. expect flaming desserts and cocktails that shimmer like liquid starlight

— DRINKS, the bar is stocked with rare vintages, including Malfoy estate wines and liquors that glow faintly in the dark. The signature cocktail of the night features some absurdly rare ingredient like powdered unicorn horn (ethically sourced, allegedly, but you know no one truly believes that)

— the SEATING ARRANGEMENTS are very strategically assigned by Narcissa herself. expect rival families seated just far enough apart to avoid an outright duel but close enough to exchange cutting remarks. if you’re at the main table, congratulations—you’ve made the inner circle for the evening

— the POLITICS make every conversation a chess game. compliments are laced with subtext, and alliances are solidified or shattered over a glass of wine. it’s not unheard of for a marriage to be proposed or a business deal to be sealed between bites of pheasant

— GARDEN STROLLS, between courses, guests often wander the enchanted gardens. hedges shaped like serpents and peacocks loom large, and fountains spout shimmering streams of water that occasionally form words like Prestige or Legacy. don’t get lost—the statues might move if you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be

— the ENTERTAINMENT is always top-tier—enchanted ballet performances, fire-breathing dragons (contained, of course), or dueling demonstrations in the courtyard. if you’re lucky, the family’s private orchestra might play a piece commissioned just for the evening

— occasionally, a guest might be granted a private tour of the MALFOY LIBRARY, which is more like a cathedral of books. if you’re invited in, it’s a signal that Lucius or Narcissa considers you very important—or that they’re about to offer you a deal you can’t refuse

— the DANCE FLOOR of the ballroom opens up after dinner, and it’s the place to be seen. couples glide across the floor to live orchestral music, their robes trailing behind them like spilled ink. if you don’t know how to waltz, you’d better fake it or stay far away

— someone always makes a DRAMATIC EXIT and leaves in a huff. whether it’s over an offhand comment or a subtle power play gone wrong, there’s almost always a flurry of robes and the slam of the front door as a disgruntled guest Apparates home

— the GOSSIP is unbelievable, and by the time the gala is over, the rumor mill is in full swing. who danced with whom, who got too drunk on enchanted champagne, and who dared to challenge Lucius in a political debate? everyone talks about it for weeks

as the evening winds down, you’ll find Narcissa giving parting gifts wrapped in silver and green, while the house-elves discreetly clean up without a sound. no one leaves feeling quite the same, not that they’ll admit it

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[sapphicslaylist]

Slay The Princess Borrower Fic, Anyone?

Life has never been safe for a Borrower in a world governed by humans. Viewed as evil omens, any power-bearing “Fae” find themselves prey to black market circles where their fates are drawn to the highest bidder. And sometimes, the winners prefer to place them into the ring and hedge their bets even higher on a gladiatorial fight against something much, much worse.

As is the fate of a pair of escaped siblings, surviving in the woods by the skin of their teeth. But when evading their opponent proves too challenging, it may take deciding between trusting the owner of a nearby cabin or trying to outrun an enemy that can’t be killed.

But the tenants of that safe haven have one damning condition: they must reveal themselves to him first to be granted shelter. In order to make peace with the present, it may take unraveling the horrors of the past and the entwined destines between them all to save who still remains of all Borrowers, Cryptids, and Fae - and perhaps even the very forest itself.

When on Borrowed paths, some things cannot be returned.

Info on the series, its inspiration, and the intended message of the fic are under the cut! You do not need to know anything about Borrowers to understand the story; just think “Princess Tiny.”

Please take care of yourself while reading. Themes of Realistic PTSD, STP-Typical Violence, Internalized Ableism, and Childhood Trauma are all major factors in this work. While I can promise a kinder ending, much like Slay The Princess itself, have heart and see the horrors through. This is a love story about how to trust again.

Was very determined to have the first of these up in the fandom and it appears I managed to do so! For those unfamiliar with the Borrowers, the basic gist of the series is that they’re mouse-sized people who live underneath the floorboards and survive off of lost objects. The original series does depict their plight with humanity (“beans”) and survival of genocidal practices including extermination, imprisonment for entertainment, and otherwise dehumanizing aspects. Combined with the elements of Slay the Princess which often stand for feminine survival of abuse, these two themes clicked together nicely for a properly dark and heartfelt exploration of survival and recovery. All are properly researched and/or experienced, and maintain respect to victims.

I’ve often found myself dissatisfied by how quickly Borrower fics tend to have the beans & borrowers mingle, or how romanticized the brutalism is on people who stand as reference for marginalized communities. For this reason, this work is done as a depiction of their existence in contrast to these actions, and all trust build (handheld elements, interaction of free will, and other prominent soft tropes in this fic) are built up to vs gained immediately. Expect some slow burn and relationship conflict which will be resolved.

I do hope you enjoy it!

[kindersurprisebacterium]

Mister (Ghost/Reader)

CW: DILF Ghost, age gap, best friend's father, cunilingus, fingering, vaginal sex, overstimulation (kinda), alcohol use, reader is in college

Gender Neutral AFAB Reader

WC: 3.2k

On the corner of a caul-du-sac sat a cookie-cutter house. The front was adorned with terracotta brick walls. Nearly trimmed hedges and flower beds lined the driveway. It was suburbia. Different from the campus housing I was used to downtown. 

I was hesitant to come here. Sleepovers seemed…juvenile. But Audrey and I seemed to get along well, even after knowing each other for only two weeks. So I packed up a night’s worth of clothes and some toiletries and met her in the corridor after lecture. 

Her neighborhood was only fifteen minutes outside of the city. The speakers shook the car. Wind whipped through my hair as we sped down the highway. 

I felt odd being here, needless to say. Maybe it had to do with the fact that her dad would be home. I stepped out of her lifted truck, pulling my bag behind me. Her carabiner clinked as she unlocked the front door. I watched as she stepped inside and kicked off her shoes before following behind. 

“My rooms upstairs. You can put all your bags there.” Audrey said, pointing to the staircase. 

“Cool. You gotta show me that poster you were talking about” I grinned. She’d already started up the stairs. The hardwood creaked beneath my feet as I followed her. 

“I was in line for like…three hours? They cut the line of right after me.”

We turned down a corridor filled with picture frames. My eyes skimmed across each one. School pictures, beach trips, vacations abroad, and family photos that were obviously taken in a JC Penny. I jumped when my eyes met a pair of glaring brown irises. 

A man stood before me, leaning in the doorway of an office. Silver curls sat atop his head. Faded scars, years old by now, adorned his pale face. He had a stern look on his face, a look that was somewhere between apathy and annoyance. Maybe that was just his face. 

His arms, covered in intricate black ink, crossed over his broad chest. Even through a thick sweatshirt, I could tell he was well-built. My jaw clenched tightly as the man eyed me. 

“Oh dad, this is my friend from anthropology I was telling you about. They’re staying over tonight,” Audrey spoke up, gesturing to me with her painted nails. 

“Nice to meet you Mr. Riley,” I said, extending my hand. 

“Simon.” He gripped my hand and shook it with a jarring strength. His palms were big enough to nearly engulf my hand. He let go, sliding his hand into his pocket. I turned to face Audrey. She pulled me into her room, closing the door behind the both of us. 

She pulled a framed poster from the wall and held it out for me to see. In the bottom right corner in silver sharpie was a swirling signature from the lead singer of a metal band. 

“Isn’t it so cool?!”

I couldn’t focus on the movie, or the bottle of beer in my hand. My mind kept going back to Simon. I don’t know what it was about him. Maybe it was the way he looked at me as if I was nothing. Maybe it was his grip on my hand. Or his gruff voice.

I felt��embarrassed? I haven’t felt this way about someone since middle school. My mind kept replaying that moment in his head. The way he said his own name. The way his arms flexed when he crossed them over his chest. 

These scattered thoughts flooded my mind for hours. I couldn’t sleep. I glanced back at Audrey, who was out like a light with a puddle of drool on her pillow. Gritting my teeth, I slowly moved off of the mattress. My eyes stayed locked on her sleeping frame, looking for any sign of movement. Nothing. Sighing, I stepped out of the room. Maybe another drink would quell the thoughts. 

I crept down the hallway, walking on my toes. A beam of light caught my eye as I rounded the corner. The kitchen light was on. The steps whined beneath my weight as I descended. Brown eyes locked onto me. 

Simon sat at the kitchen island. His right hand was on his computer mouse, the other resting under his chin. He closed his laptop.

My skin felt hot as his eyes ran up and down my body. I tugged at the hem of my shorts, now acutely aware of how they rode up my thighs. 

“You’re up late,” he muttered. 

“I uh, couldn’t sleep,” I said with a smile that was a little too forced. I stepped into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, jumping when I heard his chair moving from behind me. My fingers wrapped around the neck of another bottle. As I closed the fridge door, a head of grey hair appeared from behind it. 

He was closer now, leaning on the kitchen island with a glass in hand. 

“Anthropology…” he mumbled, “why’d you choose that?”

“It’s a part of my psychology course,” I explained as I twisted the top off of the bottle. I held the cap in my hand as I took a swig. The amber liquid made my throat tingle as I swallowed. This was more than I’d drank in a while, but I needed it if I wanted to deal with the man in front of me, the man who was slowly stepping closer. 

I could feel my heart in my ears as he approached the fridge. His arm bumped into me as he set his cup underneath the water fountain. Out of the corner of his eyes, he stared at me. My face felt hot. I pursed my lips, looking away hoping he wouldn’t see my flushed face. 

I heard his throat squelch as he swallowed, not daring to look. He sighed and reached his arm across me. The glass clinked as he set it in the sink. I was waiting for him to pull back, give me room to breathe, but he didn’t budge. My eyes traced up his inked arm, to his face. His eyes were fixated on me, staring through me. I felt naked under his gaze. 

“You’re shaking.” He placed a hand on my waist. If anything, his touch made it worse. My entire body was quivering. Whether from nerves or anticipation, I couldn’t tell. He stepped forward, close enough that his thighs brushed against my hip. 

“You’re shaking,” he repeated. His fingertips grazed my chin, gently tilting my head up to look at him. 

“I know.” My voice was barely a whisper. The corner of his lips curled up into a smirk. He was getting a kick out of this, and somehow that made it even hotter. 

“You nervous?” He asked. It didn’t seem like a question if he already knew the answer. His eyes flicked between my lips, and my eyes. Every time his eyes met mine, I could feel it in my stomach.

“I-” I couldn’t get the words out. His lips were on mine. The warmth of his kiss slowly melted away the tension in my muscles. By the time his hands were on my hips, I was putty in his grasp. I hooked my arms around his neck, pulling him down so I didn’t have to stand on my toes. His fingers slid into the waistband of my shorts. 

“Wait, I don’t want to wake Audrey,” I pushed my hands against his chest, breaking the kiss. 

“So we go to my room.” His tongue slid up my neck. The tips of his fingers grazed along my hipbones but didn’t date to go another inch forward. 

“But-”

“When’s the last time you’ve had a good fuck,” he asked, speaking against my neck. He punctuated his words with a kiss along my carotid. My lips pursed. I could feel my hands clench into fists. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. Audrey was the first friend I’d made all year, and I didn’t want to jeopardize that. The throbbing in my core drew my attention. Every inch of my body craved his touch. My head was spinning with desire. My breath grew shallower, quicker, as lust swept over me in full force. I couldn’t take it. There was just something about him. I needed to feel him. 

“Please don’t tell her,” I begged. My fingers latched onto the collar of his sweatshirt. He pulled back, just to see the look on my face. My lips were parted, eyes half lidded, and I’m sure the blush on my cheeks had deepened to a red. 

“I wouldn’t dare.” He picked me up by my waist and slung me over his shoulder. His palm rested on the small of my back, while his other arm hooked around the back of my legs. Simon approached the stairs, giving my thighs a squeeze as he ascended. He turned right down the hallway. My eyes locked onto Audrey’s door. I could feel my jaw clenching. Should I really be doing this?

The bedroom door clicked shut behind us. My back met the plush bedding. The mattress creaked underneath my weight. Simon pulled his shirt over his head. His muscles were defined, illuminated by the soft lighting. Thickened scar tissue dotted his body like ivy on an old wall. I couldn’t help but feel intimidated as he crawled on the bed. 

He sat between my legs. His fingers idly stroked my inner thighs. His stubble scratched the skin of my neck as he leaned in. He pressed kisses to my neck, traveling up to my jaw. 

“Can I take these off?” He asked, tugging at the hem of my shorts. My stomach fluttered. 

“Yeah,” I spoke softly. He slipped his fingers beneath the waistband and began tugging, jolting my body as he pulled them down my hips. I felt my face heat up as his gaze locked onto my cunt. He swiped his index finger through the wetness pooling in my core. The tip of his finger brushed against my clit. A whine caught in my throat. 

“I just know you’re not gonna be good for me.” He moved to lie on his stomach. His sharp canines pierced the skin of my thighs. My teeth sunk into my bottom lip to quell the onslaught of moans. 

His thumb circled my clit. The movements were slow at first. His eyes locked onto my cunt, almost as if he was waiting for something. I bucked my hips into his hand, and then he stopped. I whined, pouting my lip.

Warm, wet licks against my skin diminished my protests. His hips rutted against the bed as he slowly ate me out. My brows furrowed as his tongue flicked against my clit in sharp movements. Fingertips circled around my entrance before slowly sliding in. He moaned against my cunt. I clamped my hand over my mouth in an attempt to muffle the cry that rose from my chest. 

Simon differed from anyone I’d slept with before. Foreplay was never a big part of my escapades, it was always straight to penetration. There was something about a man between my legs, moaning against my cunt, and looking up at me with pleading eyes that made my body heat up. 

Every movement of his was deliberate, from the way his fingers curled up ever so slightly with every thrust, to the way his palm rested on my stomach. It was as if he’d cast a spell on my limbs. My toes curled, fingers digging into the sheets. Each thought in my head slowly disappeared, replaced with the feeling of his tongue on my clit. I felt hot and sticky. Beads of sweat rolled down my chest. I gripped my shirt and pulled it from my body. 

His hand slid up my stomach until reaching my chest. He gripped my nipple between his index and thumb. My back arched off of the bed. His gaze seemed transfixed on me, soaking in my every reaction with those brown eyes. 

I tossed my head against the pillows. My stomach tensed as each flick of his tongue drew me further into bliss. His lips wrapped around my clit, sucking gently. My hand flew to his head, pulling his hair tight. A throbbing pain settled in my face as my eyes rolled to the back of my head. My muscles went taut as I came on his tongue. 

He pulled away, skin slick with my wetness. His fingers kept slowly pumping inside of me. He leaned in, pressing his lips to mine. I could taste myself on his skin. A whine swelled from within my throat. He slid another finger inside me, thrusting alongside the others.

“Simon,” I said against his lips. 

“Gotta make sure you can take me, love,” he groaned.

The nickname made my heart flutter in a way it shouldn’t. As the haze that clouded my head faded, I became acutely aware of what I was doing. I was fucking my friend’s dad. 

“You’re so tense. Come on, open up for me.” I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or my cunt. My breath hitched when his mouth lowered to my chest. He gently bit down on my nipple, laughing at the way it made me squirm. His brows furrowed as he sucked my skin into his mouth. 

With a soft pop, he pulled off of my nipple, only to dive back in. He sunk his teeth into my skin. I clenched around his fingers, earning a groan from him. His thumb brushed against my sensitive clit. My voice contorted as the overstimulation made my head swim. 

“Fuck, there you go,” He spoke against my skin. “Such a pretty cunt.”

His words pushed me over the edge. I gushed around his fingers. My thighs quivered and clamped down around his hand. I took in heaving breaths as he worked me through my orgasm. I stared down at the man with half-lidded eyes. He smirked, watching my expression as I slowly came down from my high. 

The bed shifted as he moved. His grey hair vanished from my peripherals. The drawer to his nightstand slid open with a low rumble. I didn’t bother to turn my head. 

When he settled back onto the bed, his jeans were gone. My eyes skimmed down his nude body, settling on his cock, which was now resting on my stomach.

He was right. It was big. The heat that radiated off of his skin drew my thoughts into more perverted places. The head of his cock was flushed and leaking. A single silver barbell protruded from the head of his cock. He lifted my hips and slid a pillow underneath me. 

“You on the pill?” He asked, popping open the cap to a bottle of lube. 

“Yes.” I watched him slide the lube over his cock. 

“Good, cause I don’t have any condoms.”

He pushed one of my knees to my chest. His hand guided his cock to my entrance. With his eyes locked onto me, he slowly pushed inside of me. It burned, almost felt stabbing. I clenched my jaw and gripped his wrist. His hips halted. 

“You okay?” His thumb gently stroked my knee with a tenderness that drew my attention away from the pain. 

“It hurts,” I said through my teeth. 

“We can stop-”

“Please keep going,” I interrupted. He stared at me with wide eyes. With a nod, he pushed forward. 

The stabbing pain faded into a more manageable cramping pain. I felt undeniably full. He let go of my leg, instead moving to my stomach to gently stroke my skin. He whispered praises as he sunk deeper inside me. My brows knit as he bottomed out. His hips stilled, eyes fixated on my cunt. 

“That’s it, bein’ so good for me.” He groaned. I clenched around his cock, earning a grunt from his heaving chest. 

“Simon, please move,” I crossed my ankles behind his back. 

He shifted his weight onto his hands, placing them on either side of my head. 

“Since you asked so nicely…”

He began thrusting his hips into me at a steady pace. Every jolt of his hips made the mattress squeal beneath us. The sound of our skin slapping echoed throughout the room. He was rough and forceful, bullying his cock deeper into me. 

His moans were deep and gravely. Every little noise that came out of him sounded like music. I hooked my arms around the back of his neck, pulling him down to my level. His lips clashed against mine, tongue licking against my bottom lip. I parted my lips for him. A moan slipped from me as he slid his tongue into my mouth. 

Tears welled in my eyes as the stimulation grew. I wanted more, needed more of him. I bit down on his lip and pulled back, tugging his skin. Something changed in him then. He pulled away and gripped onto the headboard, using the leverage to thrust harder into me. His eyes screwed shut. I could feel him twitch from inside me. 

I Clenched around his cock, stomach tensing as my third orgasm rapidly approached. He gripped my chin between his fingers.

“Fuck, you gonna cum?” He asked with his plush lips parted. 

My response was an incoherent mess of words and a frantic nod. His thumb went to my clit. He rubbed tight circles into my skin, encouraging me to cum, begging even. I knew he wouldn’t last long with the way his thrusts grew erratic. 

With a snap of his hips, I came on his cock, squeezing around him. He grunted, stilling inside me as he came. A stream of moans rose from my throat.

My body felt tingly like tv static as every nerve in my body fired. I felt overstimulated, hot, and sore. I whined as he pulled out. The bed shook as he collapsed onto his side. 

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and held the screen out to me. It was a “new contact” page. I smirked as I put my number in under the contact labeled “Derek”

“Derek…who are you gonna tell them I am when that name pops up on your screen?” I asked, swinging my leg over his hips.

“Old coworker.” He said with a laugh. 

“Old coworker with bomb pussy?” I raised my eyebrows and pouted, scanning his face for a reaction. He smiled and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. 

“Audrey’s going on vacation with her mom in a couple weeks. Why don’t you come over then?” He ran his hand along my back. 

“I’d love to, but speaking of which, I need to get back.” I sat up, grabbing my shorts from the foot of the bed. 

I threw my clothes on and hastily tossed my sweat soaked hair into an updo. My fingers grasped the doorknob, gently pulling it open. I waved at Simon before slipping into the hall. As the door closed behind me I sighed.

My brain replayed every minute of our interaction over and over again. The way he touched me with care, got off on eating me out, and checked in on me. What seemed to be basic decency was something I’d been lacking. My stomach fluttered as I thought of seeing him in a couple of weeks. I didn’t regret this, in fact I wanted more of this. 

What did I get myself into.

Masterlist

[magicalbats]

Kinktober 2024 Day 21: Wriothesley x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 5459

Warnings: Afab!reader, prison, handcuffs, solitary confinement, abuse of power, desperation play, noncon, vaginal fingering, watersports, piss

A/N: Once again cutting it close but I made it!

⭐

Evidently kicking one of his guards in the face was enough to warrant a personal visit from the Duke of Meropide himself. Go figure. 

Cautiously straightening up from the grumpy slouch you’d fallen into against your cot, you look over to the narrow doorway at his sudden and unexpected entrance. You can’t help noticing that he appears to take up most of the doorframe with his tall, stocky build, the solitary confinement cell they’d shove you into so small that he seems to fill the already cramped space with his presence. And you don’t exactly like the way he shuts the door behind himself either. 

You’d only been a prisoner in the Fortress long enough to know its head warden was a rather elusive fellow who didn’t often make public appearances aside from the brief glimpses one could catch of him walking down the steel lined and reinforced corridors. Being on the receiving end of a one-on-one talk with him so early on in your sentence did not seem to bode well for the rest of your stay in this deep sea prison. 

“… what are you doing here?” You hedge, warily watching him lean back against the opposite wall directly across from you with his arms folded over his broad barrel chest. This was your first time seeing him up close like this, and you were admittedly rather impressed with how very large he was. 

Or maybe intimidated was the better word. 

Sighing faintly through his nose, Wriothesley settles into place and pins you with a level stare that doesn’t tell you much about his reason for being here, but it does seem to solidify that your initial thoughts on the matter were correct. This couldn’t be anything good. 

“You should be glad it’s only me.” He drawls in a surprisingly light, affable tone for what he was saying. “A few of the other guards wanted to handle our newest troublemaker themselves, but I know how they do things and I told them I’d take care of it. You’re a lucky little inmate if I do say so myself.”

You restlessly shift on top of your cot, shooting him a suspicious look. “Why would you do that?” 

He gives those broad shoulders of his a rather disinterested shrug. “You’re a woman. Simple as that. I generally try to be a bit more lenient with the fairer sex when I can, even when they foolishly decide to kick one of my guards in the face.”

You self consciously draw your bare feet in at that, tucking them under yourself where he wouldn’t be able to easily see how naked and bare they were after the penitentiary officers relieved you of your standard issue shoes for the transgression. As far as you saw it, your penance had already been paid. Both in the form of how very chilled your toes were and also the last few hours you’d spent in here with absolutely nothing to do. 

But the way he looks over at you with a vague air of stern authority reflecting in his chilly blue gaze seemed to suggest he was not in agreement with that estimation. 

“That doesn’t sound very on the up and up to me,” You murmur, listlessly flexing your wrists where they were restrained behind your back to test the give of the cuffs around them. Nope. Still just as unrelenting as the last time you’d checked. “Does the surface world know about this? Something tells me The Steambird would love nothing more than to run a scathing exposé about the questionable practices of not only the Fortress staff but its own Duke as well.” 

“I’m sure they would too. Luckily though they’re not going to get their hands on this information any time soon to run that article in the paper.” 

“You - -“

“I think that's enough banter for now.” He smoothly cuts across you, his mild tone leaving no room for argument on your part. “Let’s talk about you instead. Wanna’ tell me why you decided to attack one of my guards like that?” 

Primly sniffing, you turn your head to look elsewhere in the room but there’s not much else to focus your attention on other than the stand alone toilet in the corner and the wall. You settle on the wall. “I don’t see why I should explain myself to you.”

“You should do it because I asked. Nicely, I may add. I don’t have to be polite about it, just keep that in mind.” 

You can’t quite stop yourself from prickling slightly at the soft note of warning in his voice. What was with this guy? Either he was on a massive power trip down here where no one of a more civilized nature was there to keep an eye on him or he had an ego the size of Fontaine with the attitude to match. You really didn’t think you liked him very much. 

“Fine. I kicked him because he grabbed me even after I told him not to. I was defending myself. Simple as that.” 

Stirring at the bitter vindication in your voice, Wriothesley slowly unfolds his arms to let them hang loose down at his sides. It’s so slight and subtle, but something about the change in his body language does not make you feel very optimistic about how this was going to play out, and you anxiously shift on your cot again. 

“Interestingly enough, I heard a somewhat different story. You were refusing to cooperate and go where he was telling you to go. He only grabbed you, as you put it, to get your butt in gear. Isn’t that right?” 

“It was unnecessary.” You hiss back, hackles starting to rise. 

“Not in a prison it’s not. You’re expected to follow orders, little miss inmate. Without question. The guards are well within their rights to make you do something even if you don’t want to do it.” 

“Well, he didn’t need to touch me to accomplish that!” 

His brows taking a sedate trip up to his hairline, Wriothesley looks at you like he’s equal parts impressed and puzzled by your growing anger. Could he really not see what the problem was with having an unknown man suddenly putting his hands on you like that? If he'd get close enough you wouldn’t have minded giving him a good kick in the face too, and you think he must see that in your expression because he lets out a quick laugh.   

“Goodness, you’ve certainly got a short temper. I’m starting to see now how the situation escalated like it did. Maybe I should give you a bit more time to cool off and we’ll see if you’re feeling less mouthy when I come back.” 

You’re so shocked by the abrupt shift in the conversation that you just numbly watch him push off from the wall and make the short pivot towards the doorway, reaching out for the handle. It’s only when he’s got it halfway open and you realize he’s actually serious about leaving you in here even longer do you lurch forward with a jerk. 

“Wait!”

Wriothesley pauses and glances back at you. He doesn’t say anything though so you quickly rouse yourself, cobbling together a haphazard entreaty on the fly. 

“Please don’t go. I don’t like it in here. I’ll cooperate, I promise. Please?” 

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before lashing out like a brat then.” 

“I wasn’t being a brat! I just … I’ve never been in a prison before and I’m so scared. I’m not used to being around this many men. The guards were yelling at me and I panicked. I didn’t know what he was going to do to me. He could have really hurt me or — worse. I swear it was just self defense, I didn’t mean anything by it. Really.” 

Batting your lashes at him, you fix the Duke with your best sad look of helplessness and even conjure a filmy sheen of moisture into your eyes for effect. It was one of the trusty ace’s you kept up your sleeve and one that tended to work on even the most resolute, emotionally unavailable men, but Wriothesley just stares at you with a less than impressed frown tugging at his mouth now. Dammit. 

You hadn’t expected him to be completely immune to your ploys and feminine wiles, and you don’t exactly have a back up plan in mind as he shifts his weight back to thoughtfully settle inside the tiny room again. 

“Hmm. If I remember correctly … you’re the one who’s in for scamming people, aren’t you? Is that poor little put out face how you got all those gentlemen to sign over their life’s fortunes to you?” 

A genuine flush starts to crawl across your cheeks, more than slightly embarrassed at having your innocent act fail so miserably. “That has nothing to do with this. I’m telling you the truth.” 

“I bet.” Scoffing a quiet laugh, he once again brings his arms up to cross them, pinning you with a pointed look. “Cute trick though. I’m sure you’ll be quite disappointed to find it won’t work half as well as it did on the surface down here. Well, maybe with the male inmates it might get you somewhere I suppose. But it’s not going to do you any good with my guards and it’s certainly not going to have any effect on me. Perhaps you could give it a try on one of the female officers next?” 

You shoot him a biting look of warning at that, making Wriothesley chuckle another brief sound of amusement at your expense. 

“Ooh, how scary. It looks like someone is in need of a major attitude adjustment to me. But don’t worry, we’ll take care of that in due time.” Still quietly laughing, he begins to turn back towards the door. “Enjoy the rest of your timeout. I’ll see you again in a few hours.” 

Your eyes immediately pop open, widening to the approximate size of dinner plates, and you lurch forward again when he starts to push into motion. 

“Wait!” 

Pausing once more, Wriothesley turns just enough to peer over his shoulder at you. “What is it now?” 

“You can’t … what do you mean ‘hours’? You can’t leave me in here that long!” 

“Oh? Is that so.” 

You sputter at that, realizing in a distant sort of way that he was actually, really truly serious about this. Not only did he plan to leave you locked inside this solitary confinement cell for who knows how long but he was also perfectly comfortable with the notion. Not even an ounce of guilt or shame! 

“This is — it’s a human rights violation, isn’t it?” You desperately stammer, foolishly thinking you might be able to get through to him if you just reasoned with him enough. “No food, no water. Nothing but a paper thin blanket in here to keep me warm. And I thought you said you like to be more lenient with female inmates. Or was that just a trick to make me trust you?” 

Studying you for a long, drawn out moment, Wriothesley finally breathes out a slow exhale and rocks back to stand inside the small room with you yet again, fully this time so he can swing the door shut with a casual flick of his hand. 

“That only applies to the female inmates who don’t test my patience and make everybody’s job harder than it needs to be. I gave you a chance to get in my good graces and behave but you refused. Tell me why you think that should have earned you any sympathy from me.” 

“It’s not about sympathy, you ass.” You growl at him, furiously working your arms against the unbudging handcuffs behind your back. “It’s about common decency! You can’t treat people like this just because you’re on some tyrannical head trip. But if you’re so dead set on doing this then at least take these damn things off. I can’t even use the toilet like this!” 

“Sure you can. I bet you haven’t even tried yet.” 

“Ugh! You are infuriating! How am I supposed to pull my pants down or wipe like this? And — and I don’t even see any tissue paper in here! What am I supposed to use, my hand?” 

He makes a considering face at that, as if it was a reasonable enough idea and you were simply too unreasonable to see that, which just pisses you off even more. Perhaps you would have been a little less on edge and a little less focused on this particular problem if you didn’t have to pee so bad. You’d already been stuck in here for a tortuously long stretch of hours since the incident first happened, no way could you last a couple more. 

“Please.” You sob, letting some of your desperation bleed into your voice now. “You’ve already taken everything else from me. My freedom, my life, even my shoes! At least let me keep my dignity.” 

“I’m telling you,” He intones, the abrupt drop in his voice down to a strict whip crack startling you somewhat. “You do not need your hands to go. You’re being a bit dramatic about this, don’t you think? Or is it just that you want me to help you with it?” 

Your spine snaps ramrod stiff, a curling tendril of real unease snaking through your cramping gut now. Surely he couldn’t be … “You wouldn’t.” 

“Oh, but I certainly would. It seems to me you’re forgetting a rather important detail, miss. I’m in charge here, not you. I can do whatever I please whenever I so choose. Would you like to try me?” 

You reel back in abject shock, feeling your shoulders quake with the impotent rage coursing through your system. There was even a hint of fear underneath that red hot current too, if you were being honest. It just didn’t make sense to you how he could speak to you like this, treat you like this and threaten you like this, all in good conscience with nary a sign of guilt to show for it. And this was all somehow legally sanctioned by the powers that be? 

Clearly seeing the raging confusion and uncertainty on your face, Wriothesley takes a casual step towards you and you suck in a sharp little gasp. Quickly drawing your legs up onto the cot so you can kick at the thin mattress and scoot as far back from him as you can. There’s nowhere you can feasibly go with your shoulders against the wall though, and you realize just how limited your options really are in such a cramped space with no shortage of sinking dread. 

Undeterred by your frightened reaction, he comes to stand over you in only two short strides, further reiterating how very trapped and cornered you were in here. You try very hard to keep a brave face but you can’t quite manage to conceal it when he was looming there like that. He was just so big and obviously powerful, if the size of his arms was anything to go by, so of course you’d be scared! 

The helplessness of having your arms secured behind your back doesn’t help either, and all you can do is cower when he sedately reaches out a hand towards you. A multitude of possibilities fly through your head all at once, each worse than the last as you imagine what sort of humiliating trial he was going to put you through next. You probably should have just kept your big mouth shut. 

To your shuddering surprise though, he merely wraps his massive hand around the back of your neck in an unexpectedly gentle yet firm grip, nudging you from the wall just enough to fit his knuckles between. Wildly trembling there on the cot, you hesitantly tip your eyes up to look at him. You didn’t understand what he was doing. This was not what you’d imagined when he’d said he would help you, thinking he was going to drag you over to the toilet and take your pants down himself, or perhaps even make you urinate on the floor like an animal. That is not what seems to be happening though, and you have no idea what to make of it when he lifts his other hand to reach for your lap, tracking the motion with a great deal of fast mounting horror. 

He doesn’t even give you a word of warning before he does it, just unceremoniously shoving his broad palm between your legs to cup you through your pants, and you jolt so hard you nearly come right up off the cot. He keeps you in place with his hold on your neck though, leaving you with such a limited range of movement that all you can do is squirm in place, hissing at him like an incensed cat. 

“Wh - what are you doing? You can’t … you can’t touch me like this, you bastard!” 

“Well, that’s quite a mouth you’ve got, isn’t it? Perhaps you need to have it washed out with soap when I come back.” 

Whimpering softly when that casually delivered threat hits its mark, you uselessly kick your legs up in an attempt to fight him off but of course it doesn’t work. Even when you press your bare foot into the bend of his elbow and push he doesn’t even budge. The Duke just keeps holding your cunt in the palm of his hand like it was meant to fit there and you frantically clench the muscles in your lower body, the warmth of his hand suddenly making it feel like you need to go even more than before. This could not be happening. 

“Leave me alone!” You warble, starting to pant from the effort of trying to wriggle free while holding back the urge to empty your bladder at the same time. “This is — a gross abuse of power, do you hear me? You’re sick! W - what do you think you’re doing to me!”  

“I think I’m teaching you a lesson that you should have learned a long time ago.” He tells you, perfectly calm and collected despite all your restless fidgeting. “Given your attitude and the long list of crimes you committed, I’d wager you think yourself pretty much untouchable huh? And it may have even been true at one point but unfortunately for you that’s no longer the case.” 

Pinching your neck just tight enough to make you squeak a hurt little sound, Wriorhesley all but scruffs you like you were nothing more than a misbehaved kitten to make you be still. The sharp pinprick of real tears rushes into your eyes as you roughly seethe, painfully stiff and halting in his hold. Immobilized like this, you can only follow the motion of his other hand when he lifts it from your cunt to demandingly tug the waistband of your pants lower. 

“I’m afraid you’re playing by my rules now. And before you start in on it again, no, I will not be facing any recourse for it regardless of how much you throw a fit over it. This is my fortress, little miss inmate. You’d do well to remember that from now on.”

He reaches into your pants then, slipping rough, callous worn fingers straight down through the top of them, and you plaintively mewl at the gruff way he worms it lower to dip into the space between your legs. Even trying to squeeze your thighs shut isn’t enough to dissuade him and Wriothesley merely bullies them apart, stretching your bottoms out as he angles his hand downward to find your slit. 

The first indelicate swipe of a blunt fingertip over the fleshy crease makes you jolt so hard your head slams back into the wall with a dull thud. He doesn’t seem to care though, slowly working his digit back and forth for a drawn out moment to encourage the fleshy lips to part for him. And gradually, they do. Not of your own volition or even with any conscious thought to the matter, but the insistent nudge against your labia still has its intended effect. 

As soon as he can dip that finger inside you he does, spearing through fleshy creases and folds to locate your clit. He presses down on it firmly enough to make your thighs twitch around his wrist but he doesn’t hurt you, which manages to surprise you slightly. For a man who looked like he’d be more of a meathead than anything else, someone who was much too focused on stroking his own ego to concern himself with the pleasure of a woman, he’s unexpectedly adept at rubbing you just right. Not too soft yet not too hard, all while not missing his intended target completely. It was astounding in a way. 

You hate it though. Even when your body grudgingly responds to his steady ministrations and you feel your pussy start to warm up to the masculine presence between your legs, you still mentally curse him for everything he was worth. The one and only good thing about this is the more he keeps caressing over that responsive pleasure button the less urgent your need to go seems to be. Maybe this was good after all. If your cunt was too busy getting fingered you wouldn’t have enough time to think about how badly you needed to pee. 

“There. That’s a little better now, isn’t it?” He murmurs when you stiffly relax into it, rewarding you for your good behavior by bringing a second finger to your soft clit so he can caress you over a wider surface area now. “If you would have just listened to the instructions you were given we wouldn’t have to be doing this right now, would we? Maybe next time you’ll stop and think before you act out.” 

Groaning a soft sound of protest under your breath, you screw your eyes shut and try to turn your head away from him. He was far too close for your liking, his warm breath ghosting softly against your hair where he was bent close over you. But Wriothesley’s hold on your neck is as good as iron, and all you can seem to do is reluctantly shudder in place for him, earning a brief click of his tongue when you halfheartedly try to twist away from his hand. 

“Don’t get yourself all worked up again. And you were starting to look so obedient too. Just relax. I’ve got you, you little brat.” 

You noise a threadbare sound of disagreement into the suddenly static charged air, your legs flexing in vain against the sheets underneath you. It’s clear you were losing the fight though — and then he switches up the motion of his hand, going from carefully deliberate nudging at your clit to flattening those long, broad fingers over the apex of your mound so he can firmly drag them back and forth. The very sharp surge of sensitive arousal that shoots through you in response probably would have bowled you over on the spot if he hadn’t been keeping you held upright and in place, shuddering intensely with a faltering mewl. 

It makes your head positively spin from how potent it is as your hips reluctantly judder under the exquisite pressure. You were feeling more and more delirious by the moment, especially when you were aware of your pussy slowly wettening for him. He could feel it too, and he murmurs quiet words of praise at you for being so pliant for him. 

That alone is almost enough to lull you into a throbbing daze wherein you don’t even think to protest when Wriothesley finally directs his damp fingers even lower to press into your entrance. It’s only when he pushes in, smoothly sliding a thick digit into your cunt with enough soft, gooey friction that you woundedly lurch in your spot, and you abruptly snap out of it. 

Mild alarm registers in your mind at the unexpected penetration but it quickly ratchets up to full blown, squirming panic when you realize a moment later how insidiously cruel this really is. The heavy presence of him inside you puts additional strain on your bladder's muscle control, the resulting weak flex pulsing through your entire cunt to make your inner sleeve sensitively contract around his finger. All at once that insistent pressure to let go until you were mercifully empty roars back to life full force and you renew your struggle with a frantic little whimper. 

Wriothesley just shushes you though, sedately withdrawing his hand from your pussy just so he can then push in with two fingers. The mind numbing stretch to your body makes you weakly thrash and clench your teeth in an attempt to stop yourself from involuntarily pissing everywhere. But he seems to know what he’s doing and he’s hellbent on doing it, curling those broad digits inside you to push on up on your upper wall and jab towards where your heavy bladder rests inside you. 

“Oh - oohh — waaaah, stop it! Please! I - I don’t want to …” 

Readjusting his grip on your neck, Wriothesley pointedly nudges your face in his general direction to make you look at him even when your head drunkenly lolls in his grasp. “What’s not getting through that pretty little head of yours, huh? It doesn’t matter what you want. Your needs and desires are of no concern to me. As long as you’re here under my care you’ll do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Understand now?” 

Blubbering rather pitifully while he continues to almost idly fuck his fingers into your aching bladder, you just stare up at him in wide eyed disbelief. Not only were you incredibly taken aback by his misuse of power, his total lack of empathy for you, but the fact that he seemed to be actively trying to make you piss yourself strikes you as particularly alarming as well. Why would he want to do this to you? It didn’t even make any sense. 

But you stubbornly clench down even when the tears start to run over and track hot streaks down your face, fighting tooth and nail to keep your continence under control. It’s a losing battle when his fingers were so thick and heavy, churning your guts with every sharp little jab against your interior. And as the seconds tick by you can’t quite decide which is worse — the way his rough ministrations make your pussy noisily suck at his fingers, slurping loudly each time he plunges them inside, or if it’s the way your desperate attempt at tightening up just makes you squeeze down on him even harder. 

It’s a dizzying, confusing rush of sensation slamming into you all at once, head spinning so fast it almost comes as something of a relief when you feel the pressure in you start to tip. Wriothesley practically forces it out of you, demanding your body respond to him with such insidious precision that you simply can’t help but cum. 

And you do, seething viciously through your teeth while you tersely judder and shake into an unexpected yet not unwelcome orgasm. It leaves you reeling in his hold, woundedly lurching while you gasp and squeal, hips bucking uncontrollably as he continues to fuck his fingers into you. Deliberately milking your release for everything it’s worth and dragging it out until you sensitively angle your pelvis away from him, moaning a dire sound of frazzled distress. 

To your reeling, punchdrunk surprise, the Duke allows his fingers to carefully slide out of you and leave your tender cunt altogether, and you wheeze a grateful sigh at the reprieve. You’re not entirely sure how you’d managed not to vacate everything in your bladder throughout that process but you feel vaguely proud of yourself in the aftermath, in a far off, dreamy sort of way. 

You even manage to straighten up enough to shoot him a relatively sharp look of victory that you’re certain is not in any way diminished by the fact you were flushed hot and still trying to catch your breath. 

He just looks down at you though, those icy crystalline blue eyes taking some of the wind out of your sails for how unmoved they were. 

And when Wriothesley slides his hand out of your pants you foolishly think this bizarre trial is over, that you’d bested him at his own game and now he had no choice but to give up. 

Your triumph over him is regretfully short lived though, and a haggard, hissing gasp catches in your throat when he presses his palm down on your lower stomach. Jerking at the pressure, you immediately try to twist out of his grip even when it yanks on your neck but he holds you fast. A little more firmly he pushes down, not enough to crush or hurt you, yet it’s more than sufficient to make the tension in your bladder start to give out. 

You couldn’t stopper it. Not after being attacked from the inside and now the outside. All you can do is helplessly squeal and squeeze your thighs together as tight as you can but it’s no use. You feel it coming, eyes starting to roll back in your head when the first tiny trickle slips out of you. And once that small allowance is made, involuntary though it may be, it’s like you lose complete control all at once. 

Another dribble of piss quickly follows and then a full on stream, forced right out of you by the uncomfortable pressure on your guts. Wailing a stricken sound of humiliated defeat, you bonelessly slouch back into the wall and let your legs fall open in a wide spread while it just keeps coming out of you completely against your will. The warm, wet sensation rapidly spreads underneath you, soaking into the cot and even right through your pants. You’ve never felt quite so deeply embarrassed as you do watching that stain spread across the material as your hips twitch at the onset of great relief that comes with it, knowing Wriothesley was watching you piss yourself the same way. 

He doesn’t let up on your stomach until he seems to be certain there’s nothing left some few moments later, slowly retracting his hands from you and then straightening up to leave you sitting in your own soiled clothes. Weak and broken, you just lie there without even making an attempt to close your legs and hide the evidence from him. Not only was it much too late for that but there was also too much of a mess for you to conceivably hide any of it. 

Your pants were soaked. 

The middle of the mattress was as good as waterlogged. 

There was no way you’d ever be able to forget this mortifying ordeal for as long as you might live, and something told you Wriothesley was going to personally see to that himself. 

“Well,” He intones, casually straightening out his tie where it had gone askew. “I’d say that takes care of that. I trust you’re feeling better now, little miss inmate?” 

Listlessly rousing at that, you send him a halfhearted and tearful glare. “Screw you …” 

“Ah, so you’re still inclined to be mouthy with me I see. No matter. I’m sure you’ll be singing a much different tune the next time I check in.” He starts to pull away from the cot as if to leave but seems to think of something else, turning back to you again with a stilted exhale. “Seriously though, I hope you’ll take this opportunity to reflect on your behavior so we don’t have to have another demonstration like this one. I don’t like throwing my weight around unless I absolutely have to. You’re going to get yourself hurt down here if you start running your mouth with someone who’s a little less nice than me. Just some food for thought.” 

He does leave then, calmly walking over to the door which he tugs open and steps through, shutting it with a click behind him. The sound of a rattling set of keys turning in the lock rings loud in the tight, cramped little space as you’re left alone in a quickly cooling puddle of your own piss with only your deeply embarrassed feelings for company now. 

If this was how the Duke did things in his fortress then perhaps it would be wise to behave him from now on. At the very least you didn’t want to get on his bad side again. 

⭐

Crossposted: here

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Fellow watches a Drama Club production and joins them either because Vil Ortho ask or because he decides their performance needs the Fellow Pizzazz. “Let’s make it fun! That’s what theatre should be.”

… I couldn’t resist joining in the joke about how Fellow and Gidel’s localized names are their fake identities to dodge the police 😂

Fun fact, the buff student I mentioned in this interaction is a reference to Beans Day II; in that event, Vil earns the respect of physically intimidating mob students by beating them up www

So tell me, do you wanna go?

There was, Fellow noticed, a commotion in the courtyard as he and Gidel passed it.

Hmm? What's this?

Fellow waved his hand at Gidel, signaling for the boy to crouch down. Together, the two scrambled into the hedges to observe the scene.

Professional lights and cameras were set up, and the students swarming the perimeter bore clapboards, makeup palettes, brushes, and watches. Others were centered, having traded their school uniforms for new attire—sumptuous suits and glittering baubles. The fine metals and jewels caught the sunlight, winking at Fellow. His gaze snapped to them.

Jackpot!! Those must be worth a chunk of change.

“CUT!!”

Fellow balked at a stern bark cutting through the light hum of activity. Beside him, Gidel made to cover his own ears.

A slender young man with his golden locks pinned into a loose bun had come into focus. He slapped a rolled up script against an open palm, his beautiful face—one that had graced several glossy high fashion magazine covers and TV screens—twisted in disappointment. One withering look from him, and a blanket of silence fell over his peers.

“What was with that subpar performance?!” Vil demanded. “I expect better out of you potatoes.”

“S-Sorry, Schoenheit-senpai,” a mob student stammered an apology, “but I don’t see what I did wrong? I thought I played the conman flawlessly…”

“And therein lies the issue!” Vil countered, pointing his script at the mob. “You assume because your acting was flawless, you played the character correctly? Nothing could be further from the truth!

“The conman is meant to be highly slimy and suspicious, not inconspicuous. He is overly familiar, talkative, and invasive. I felt none of that from your portrayal. It was too safe and squeaky clean.”

They’re distracted, Fellow realized, a smirk slowly forming. Now’s a good time to lift the jewelry from these brats.

Keeping low to the ground, he slinked out of hiding. Gidel crawled after him, following Fellow’s lead.

A light touch of magic was all it took for a brief levitation spell. It was just st enough to make the trinkets float off of their fingers and wrists and to the ground—he didn’t have enough strength to bring them directly to him. Instead, the duo picked up the pieces, stashing them in their jackets and under their hats.

As Fellow was dropping a silver band with a sizable diamond into his breast pocket, a soft voice from behind met him.

“Those are fake, Fellow Honest-san, Gidel-san.”

“H-HIIIIE!!”

He yelped louder than he had intended to. Gidel’s eyes blew wide in alarm. Suddenly, all the students were staring at them.

The diamond ring tumbled from his fingers and onto the lawn. It landed at the heeled feet of the fearsome director. Vil paused mid-lecture, frowning as he retrieved the prop ring.

“… My, it seems we have uninvited spectators.”

“They must have be curious about the Film Research Club’s work!” Ortho suggested with a giggle. The android hovered over Fellow and Gidel like a specter, his eyes as bright as the blue flames he called hair.

“They appear more like thieves looking for an easy mark to me,” Vil scoffed, handing off the ring to a nearby mob student. He returned his attention to the intruders, both his expression and tone glacial. If looks could kill, Fellow would most certainly be a dead man walking. "Aren't you bold for showing your faces here after what you tried to pull. Ortho, you're far too kind to them."

"Hehe. I wonder if it's fair to call it kindness, Vil Schoenheit-san." Though Ortho's mouth was hidden from view, the way his eyes creased implied he was grinning. There was no innocence in it. "I did point them out to you."

"Hm? Club leader, Ortho-san, you know these guys?" a mob asked. "They friends of yours?"

"Friends? Hah!" Vil's laugh was cold and cruel, like that of a scorned lover. “No, nothing of the sort. We met them some time back, and they gave us… trouble, shall we say. And given that they're sneaking about and pilfering goods, I'd wager they don't have the proper permissions to be on school grounds."

“Huh? You punks givin’ aniki trouble?" a student built like a barn muscled his way to the front of the group. A murmur rolled through the others, some shifting to wall off route of escape. A few stepped forward, as if readying themselves for a brawl. Vil was their queen, and they, the huntsmen at his beck and call.

Fellow paled. Gidel gripped onto his trousers--Fellow could feel his little balled up hands shaking. There were too many of them and not enough of him, nor his magic.

"H-Hold on now!" he protested. "Can't we talk this out?"

His begging fell on deaf ears--until Vil held up a hand. His club members stopped in their tracks.

"You have a minute to explain yourself. If you fail to convince me, we will remove you from our campus. You'll have to go through the typical application and approval process to be allowed in."

"Eeeeh~ So kind of you, Vil Schoenheit-san," Ortho chuckled, echoing the dorm leader's word choice from earlier, "offering them a get-out-of-jail-free card!"

He folded his arms, giving a tight-lipped smirk. "I am not so easy to convince."

We'll see about that! Fellow set his jaw, the grip on his cane tightening. Since this kid already knows about my usual trick, I'll have to wing it with just my charm...!

He mustered up all the strength he could into his smile. "That's where you're wrong, my good sir! It seems you folks have made a grave error."

Vil arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

"You've mistaken me and my companion for other people! These... Fellow Honest and Gidel folks," he explained with the wave of his hand. "You see, we are not Fellow Honest and Gidel! We are...!!"

He removed his top hat, tossing it into the air. A shower of glitter and confetti rained down as Fellow and Gidel spun theatrically. He caught his hat on its descent, capping it at a jaunty angle on his head as he posed, leaning back on his cane. Gidel whipped out his oversized hammer, attempting to do the same (but stumbling over an untied shoelace before righting himself).

"Ernesto Foulworth and Gino!"

There was a beat of quiet. That moment felt like forever to Fellow--he could hear his heart thundering in his chest, blood violently churning in his ears.

"... Let's kick their asses," someone declared. Ugly shouts of agreement rang out.

"Bzzzzt!" Ortho formed an X with his arms. "Mission failed, game over! Now it's time for the punishment game."

"Hold on."

At Vil's command, the mob students froze, as if spellbound. Fellow would have been impressed had he not been preoccupied with cowering.

"Oooh! Intervention from the Game Master," Ortho marveled, delight sparking in his voice.

"Schoenheit-senpai? You don't really believe these guys, do you?"

Heheheh, of course he does! This Fellow Honest-sama is a genius at acting!

"... Of course I don't," Vil said (smashing Fellow's self-confidence like a toy he was no longer interested in). "No one with a half decent head on their shoulders would fall for such a clear ploy."

"Th-Then why...?!"

"Because we might have a use for them," Vil replied coolly. He pointed a dagger-like finger at Fellow. "Highly slimy and suspicious... Overly familiar, talkative, and invasive... He's the ideal conman for our production!"

"Hey, you just insulted me three times over!!"

"Now that Vil Schoenheit-san mentions it, it's true. Fellow Honest-san has all of the traits of the conman character in our script. It's a 98.9% match!"

"Of course I’m correct. In fact..." Vil tossed Gidel a glance. "There’s a young but well-meaning henchman in the story as well. Considering the strong off-set dynamic between our two newcomers, it could translate well on-set.”

"Whoa, nice thinking, aniki!"

"This will really make the film stand out."

"Vil-sama always has the best ideas."

"Oi, are you bastards listening to me at all?! And don't make decisions about me without my say-so!!" Fellow cried out indignantly. "You think I'm going to lie here and take you kicking me while I'm still down?!"

"Oh? Should I take your protests as an indication that you would rather be escorted off the premises?" Vil asked. "If so, that could be arranged."

"Why's it that my only options are between that and helpin' out with your crummy flick?!"

"You are the trespasser here. I think that speaks for itself." The Pomefiore dorm leader clapped his hands. "Make your choice quickly, then. We haven't much time."

"You just don't get it, do you?! I don't... I can't...!!"

Because I'm not a star. I was never meant to be one.

He couldn't say it. Couldn't admit it out loud.

Gidel tensed, hugging his guardian's arm. It was a warm, comforting gesture but—

The corners of his eyes burned, frustration knotting his throat. His breaths ran dry, ragged.

"... Fellow Honest-san." Ortho lowered himself to meet him at eye level. He was softer now, sweet—almost like a pixie. “You don’t need to worry. Vil Schoenheit-san is a great coach. He can teach you many valuable lessons.”

“He… can?” He sounded small, doubtful.

“Yes! I’m a product of his teachings,” Ortho chirped. “He taught me that if you don’t try at all, there’s a 0% chance you’ll succeed. But try anything and it’s possible for even a 0.01% to become 100%.” The android exchanged a proud look with Vil. “Heheh~”

“Heh,” Fellow scoffed. “Optimistic of ya, kid. Real optimistic. Not sure if I buy it though."

“… Do you doubt my skills? Or is it yourself you don’t trust?” Vil snipped back. "This, coming from the same man who claimed that anyone can become a star?"

"That was obviously a lie!"

“Perhaps the meaning behind it was—but I trust that your feelings weren’t.” The steel in Vil’s voice softened. “I am a skilled actor. It is simple for me to discern when others are putting on a show—but I know… you weren’t acting back then. The excitement and reverence you held for the stage was very much real.”

“…!!” Gidel suddenly leapt, standing up on the balls of his feet. He yoinked Fellow like the man was a tooth that needed to be pulled out.

“Whoa, Giddie! What’s gotten into ya?”

The young boy shot him a pleading look. Then he tugged again. Understanding set in.

“You want me to join,” Fellow whispered.

Gidel nodded firmly. His cheeks puffed with determination, and he returned to pulling.

Listen to them. Give your dreams another shot! he silently screamed. In his eyes, a hopeful sparkle.

A memory erupted in sharp colors and sounds. Him, indicating the stage as its lights kicked on, velvet curtains pulling back. The visitors, their breaths held in anticipation.

"On this shining stage... anyone—yes, even YOU—can be a star!" he had bellowed. Bright-eyed, heart racing. Eager for the next performance, full of dance and song, jubilance and freedom.

Where had that version of himself gone?

A visceral longing twisted in his gut. Admidst that fog of pain, a rebellious thought rose up.

That’s right. I want to be a star too. With all my heart, I want to be a star…!

Fellow choked out a shaky laugh. “… Yeah. Yeah, alright. What the hell, count us in.”

“Hmph, that’s the spirit.” Vil turned to his club members. “There you have it. We’ll resume with the production after a 10 minute break. Ortho, see to it that they are fitted and ready for filming.”

“Roger!”

Vil clapped once more, and the courtyard was set into a whirlwind of motion, students peeling off in different directions. Ortho floated over to Fellow and Gidel with a warm smile.

“Welcome aboard the Film Research Club! Please come this way for a full-body scan. I will be taking your measurements to ensure that the costumes are laser-cut to your figures!”

“You don’t have to tell us twice. Let’s go, Giddie!”

“!!”

[solarbird]

A lot of people are making decisions this weekend. Let’s help them make the right ones.

Locally, I’m sure a lot of people in Washington State are doing their voting this weekend, and for all of us, please vote no on all statewide initiatives. That’s no on all of them. They’re all funded pretty much entirely by a California Republican hedge-fund manager who wants to be our new Tim Eyman – even the Seattle Times called him that – and he needs to be told to fuck off right out of the gate.

I wrote up the individual reasons here, but if that’s too much to read right now, basically it’s like this:

I-2117 and I-2066 are there to ramp up climate change by burning more fossil fuels and block the state from promoting climate-neutral power solutions

I-2109 is a massive MAGA-style tax cut for the state’s wealthiest 4000 people and literally nobody else, and finally,

I-2124 is intended to torpedo the state’s long-term health care programme, and will do a great job of bankrupting families while driving them into truly shitty minimal- to zero-coverage private plans.

All very MAGA, all very horsecrap, all very PLEASE VOTE NO.

In the presidential race, I still think the story of Elon Musk – Trump’s to-be director of fiscal policy – stating outright that Trump’s plans will tank the economy has been woefully, piteously under-covered by the press.

If you know anyone who has ever said they were voting Republican ‘for their wallets,’ please, please, please, show them this. Show them the original sources, show them Musk’s own words.

Because Elon’s right – Trump’s plans will tank the economy. That’s what he wants to do, destroy it, and then build it back up I’m pretty sure as a quasi-gold-standard-but-probably-crypto-based system, deflationary, and utterly ripe for the looting. People like him will profit insanely, just like they did in post-Soviet Russia, while the ordinary people – you, me, people who don’t matter in his world – will have to, in his words, “embrace the pain.”

Tell them that’s what their vote is going to bring to their wallets this year if they vote for another term of Trump. Pain.

If they don’t care about the lives of LGBT people, if they’re racist dickbags who kinda want Trump’s mass ethnic purge, if they’re hungering to put women back in our “place” and let are willing to let the whole world literally burn by reversing every bit of climate progress we’ve made and dumping as much more carbon pollution as possible into the air all for a fucking tax cut they won’t even get…

…ask them if they also want to take it in the shorts, in the form of taking it in the wallet, as a reward.

Because they will. And not just in tariff-driven compound inflation, either.

Again, Trumps’ biggest allies – in particular Elon Musk – say his plan will absolutely tank the economy. Everyone but the ultra-rich will suffer, and all of us will just have to “embrace the pain.”

That’s what they want. Elon’s just plain saying it.

Make sure they goddamn well know.

2 days remain.

[mvlionheart]

34 lestappen

Mini fic / Ficlet prompts (Open)

34. Things you whispered in my ear (Halloween edition!) Max/Charles | 984 words | Rating: Teen

Dr. Leclerc's Monster

Max loves Charles. Not a big enough word, love. Charles is everything to Max. The spindle around which the thread of Max’s existence is wound. Charles is the lamplight that splashes back the inky darkness. Every moment they’re apart the tide of apprehension in his chest threatens to drown him. Charles is the tide, and the shore, and the moon. 

Max loves the lab. The small, cozy room is always fire-warm and smelling of familiar chemicals. He spends all his time in the lab, thumbing through Charles’ extensive collection of books–dusty tomes barely holding their binding, newer volumes and folios, some manuscripts from his fellow colleagues at the university. Charles would talk about them sometimes, never naming them, but assessing their intellectual acumen and scholarly integrity. 

Charles doesn’t believe in death. Max does. He feels like the expert; Charles disagrees. Any argument resulted in further reading assignments and tutting about how young Max’s mind must be. Regression, he calls it. 

He explains the terms–the reasons he’s right; hooks Max up to wires and sensors. He delights in his research and so does Max. Well, in part Max enjoys it. Charles touches him, his skin–the sensation of warmth–he craves it, but it’s like diamonds. Rare, hard, cutting. 

Max hates pain: the electricity that floods his veins, the wretched noises gutted out of him, the smell of burning flesh and the taste of iron and ash on his tongue. The pain is necessary, Charles assures him, wiping the sweat from his brow and looking at him with kind eyes.  

Sometimes it takes him back to the blank; the dark place. It’s not bad, but there’s no Charles. It’s not something he thinks while he’s there, because he’s not there, but when he comes back he feels an ache of longing–the same ache he feels when Charles steps out to go for groceries or pick up his mail, the long days he spends out. Just out. He doesn’t tell Max where he goes, just comes back with the result. 

Charles loves results. They put him in a good mood. Max’s mood reflects the weather of Charles’ disposition. Storms would roll in if the desired outcomes were not so easily grasped. He’d curse in English, then again in French. Max doesn’t know French–none of his books teach it–but he does know the sound of French: the curl and hiss of the sharp phrases as Charles stomps around the lab. 

Max doesn’t leave. Max never leaves. Charles traces the scars that wrap his bicep when he tells him. It makes Max angry sometimes–the confinement. Maybe he’d call it imprisonment after finishing The Count of Monte Cristo, if it weren’t for the way Charles touches him. Max doesn’t leave, but he does peel back some of the newspaper covering the windows. Just at one corner. The view is obscured by overgrown hedges, but Max can make out the moving shapes and colors of people. 

Charles hates people. Max thinks he doesn’t understand them. Charles is smart, but Max thinks he’s not patient enough for people. He huffs at that suggestion when Max mentions it. 

“A ridiculous assertion,” Charles scoffs. 

“The laughing man,” Max offers, thoughtfully and without malice. A man had come to the door. It was during the cold months when everything turned pale: the ground, Charles’ skin. “He was nice.” Max is right about this. It’s objectively true. He had been forthright; funny; careful with Charles as his temper soured. 

“He was not nice, Max.” Charles nears him and Max flinches. Max loves Charles, but he flinches. Charles doesn’t notice. He simply brushes a thumb over Max’s cheek. 

“Beautiful, simple, don’t think of this too hard.” 

“He said Max.” The name Charles has always called him. “He was nice.” 

Charles hates to argue–they don’t argue–so Charles doesn’t respond. But there’s a shift in the green of his eyes. Something flat and hollow, dwelling in the swirling depths, makes Max think long and hard afterward. He sits and stares at his hands, the tangle of veins under the patchwork of his skin. He knows some things are true when Charles says they are not. 

Charles loves Max. Charles hurts Max. Charles lies to Max. 

After that he read The Time Machine and The Death of Ivan Ilych, and he understands better how things can carry two different aspects in a singular, or he tries to understand. It makes a sharp pain jolt behind his eyes, then it lingers there. It helps him. He wants to continue reading, and also he doesn’t. He loves Charles, and he also fears Charles. 

The next time he’s on the table, wide leather straps holding him down, he asks Charles to clarify a part of the puzzle. 

“I’m Max, but also I am not Max?” Charles tightens the buckle at his chest. His knuckles brush the vertical scar running between his pecs. 

“Your name is Max.” Charles answers. It’s not good enough. Max makes a noise of protest as Charles presses the wooden bit between his teeth. He struggles against the straps and hears the table creak. “Stop this!” Charles demands, and Max stills. 

Max is scared of Charles. So he stills. 

“You are the only Max.” Charles whispers into his ear after a moment before leaning away. He pushes the hair off of Max’s forehead and stares into his eyes, somehow seeing and unseeing. “My beautiful Max.” 

He’s far away when he says it and he flips the switch a moment later. 

Charles works and Max suffers. 

And suffers. 

Suffers. 

Time passes and Max learns to understand why Charles doesn’t believe in death. He isn’t scared of the darkness, of the nothing, because he’s never faced it. 

Max reasons that he should. 

It’s a late night when Max wraps Charles in a hug. They don’t touch often, but to Max’s surprise Charles leans back against him. Max tightens his grip. 

Max loves Charles.

[hamsterclaw]

Heist

Bangtan Christmas 2023 drabble 5 - read the rest here.

You know you can't trust Kim Taehyung from the moment you set eyes on him, he's a rogue through and through. So why do you agree to work together?

Pairing: Taehyung x f! reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 4.2k

Genre: Con artists Taehyung and reader, smut, fluff

Warnings: Sex, swearing

It takes a con artist to know one, and you clocked Kim Taehyung as soon as he sauntered into the room with an insouciance so natural you knew it had to be practiced.

Even if you weren’t a con artist, just like he is, you’d have been able to work it out.

The preternatural beauty.

The elegance of his movements.

The exquisitely tailored clothing.

He’s too perfect to be real, and if there’s one thing you’ve learned in your time on this earth is that when something or someone is too perfect to be real, that it’s because they aren’t. 

Real, you mean, you’re not arguing that he’s perfect.

He works the room, charming, oozing sincerity, all artfully tousled dark hair, boxy smile and dark eyes. 

You’re watching, amused, as he collects influential people like they’re his friends instead of pawns in his game of confidence.

You’re so distracted that your own companion for the night, a dull but fabulously wealthy man called Seongho, comments on it, bringing you back to your present.

You’ve got your own game to run tonight, you remind yourself.

You put the beautiful man out of your thoughts and get back to it.

***

The hotel room door closes behind you with a quiet, discreet click, and the lush carpet muffles your footsteps as you tiptoe to the elevators.

The silver panels are about to close in front of you when a man enters hurriedly.

Speak of the devil.

It’s the beautiful con artist from last night.

He eyes you, then holds out his hand.

‘Kim Taehyung,’ he says.

His voice is deep, smoky, reminiscent of campfires, of toasted marshmallows and warmth.

You shake, introduce yourself in turn.

‘I noticed you last night,’ he says.

‘Yeah?’ you hum, non-committal.

‘Yeah,’ he says. 

At first you think he’s going to leave it at that, but then he laughs softly and asks, ‘Want to get breakfast?’

***

You’re a pretty pair, you have to admit, when you catch a glimpse of yourselves in the glass at the 24 hour cafe you’re eating at.

His physical attributes complement your own.

You could be siblings, friends, lovers. The possibilities are endless. 

You catch him eyeing you over his waffles, assessing you like you assessed him last night. 

He forks a mouthful of waffles into his mouth, chews, swallows. Washes it down with a swig of coffee. 

You cut your pancakes into squares, small, even. 

‘Want to work together?’ he asks. ‘The Black and White Ball is in a couple months.’ 

You flick your gaze at him. 

‘You’ve got an invite to the Black and White Ball?’ you ask, genuinely curious. 

The Black and White Ball is the society event of the season. It’s annual, the week before Christmas, and an invitation costs upwards of 50 million won. You’ve never had the stomach to find out how much a table costs. 

It’s attended by a veritable who’s who of powerful people in the city. A con artist’s dream. 

Taehyung shrugs, slides his phone across the table at you. 

‘I have two.’ 

You glance at the invitation, the familiar branding, but you already know it’s legitimate. 

You’re pretty good at knowing when people are lying, it helps that you’re so good at lying yourself. 

‘Why do you need me?’ you ask, hedging. 

Taehyung takes his phone back, slips it into the inside breast pocket of his exquisitely cut jacket. 

‘You’re like me. Think what we could do if we worked together.’ 

The offer is as irresistible as his stunning smile. 

This time, it’s you who reaches out your hand. 

***

Taehyung’s waiting outside the office building where you work when you finish. 

He glances over your neutral work outfit, your sensible flats, smirks a little. 

‘What do you know? Turns out your legs are as beautiful in couture as they are in cheap-ass polyester.’ 

You roll your eyes. ‘Yeah. What are you cosplaying as today? A broke college student?’ 

You tilt your head at his baggy jeans, casual tee under his oversized coat and beanie, the wire-rimmed glasses you know damn well are an affectation rather than a necessity. 

Taehyung laughs, holds out his arm. ‘Come on, let’s get noodles. I’ve got a party to get ready for tonight.’ 

At the noodle bar, you work on your cover stories for the Black and White Ball in between slurps of ramen. 

‘So your business is an exclusive boutique eco-hotel in Northern Costa Rica,’ you say, clarifying. 

‘The views of Nicaragua Lake are stunning at sunrise in the early morning,’ Taehyung offers. He sips his drink. 

‘How much truth is in that, Taehyung?’ you ask. 

‘Does it matter?’ Taehyung asks. ‘People love to invest in something sustainable.’ 

At your expression, he relents. ‘My mother loved Costa Rica,’ he says. ‘We went on a family holiday there once when I was a kid. I’ve never forgotten it.’ 

Using a grain of truth to make the lie more believable. You have to admit the man is clever. 

‘And you —’

‘My father worked with Starck, in Tokyo and Saint-Tropez,’ you tell him. ‘He set up his own architectural firm and I worked for him before the firm closed down a couple years ago.’ 

‘Family heritage,’ Taehyung muses. ‘I like it.’ 

You wait for him to ask how much of your story is true, but he doesn’t, simply hums and takes another slurp of noodles. 

The truth is, it’s all true. The only bit you left out was that your father was as crooked as he was brilliant, and when the biggest con of his career collapsed, it took your family’s reputation in the architectural world and your entire fortune with it. 

‘If we do this right, we’ll be set for life,’ Taehyung says. 

‘Or until we get bored,’ you say. 

Taehyung stretches. ‘Bored? I can see myself on a beach in Costa Rica. Sun, the rainforest, fish so fresh you can taste the ocean.’ 

He shrugs. ‘The only thing that would make it more perfect is you in a bikini, with me.’ 

You can’t deny the picture he paints is tempting, but you can’t let him have the last word. 

‘I prefer to sunbathe topless,’ you say, haughty. 

‘Even better,’ Taehyung agrees. 

He waggles his dark brows at you over his noodles. ‘Eat up, heiress. We have more work to do.’ 

***

You walk into the gym and look around for Taehyung. 

You spot him, flat on his back, near the weights. 

You march over to him. ‘Was this really necessary?’ you ask, exasperated. 

He grins up at you. ‘I like the view from under you like this.’ 

You give him a stern look as you try to suppress your reluctant smile. 

‘Spot me,’ he says, arms folding under the barbell. 

‘I won’t,’ you say, turning your back, crossing your arms. 

Taehyung laughs, grunts softly as he lifts the weight and places it back on the rack. 

He sits up, swats at your ass with the towel around his neck. ‘I gotta take a shower, wanna join me?’ 

‘You owe me dinner for making me wait on your ass,’ you say, sourly. 

Taehyung stands. You’d forgotten how tall he is. 

He tilts his head at you. ‘I’d wait as long as you wanted me to, for your ass,’ he says, the smoke in his voice making your toes curl. 

Thank god you’re wearing sneakers so he can’t see. 

‘Stop flirting with me and get showered. I have a date with a mark,’ you tell him. 

‘Ah,’ he says, softly. ‘That’s why you look so good.’ 

Heat passes between you as you lock eyes. 

‘Wouldn’t want to keep you from the hustle,’ he says. His voice has dropped so low you can barely hear him. 

His mouth is so close to your ear if you turned your head your lips would meet. 

You stay completely still. 

‘Like I said, you’re buying. I want sushi.’ 

His laughter echoes in your ear as he saunters away. 

You stare at his ass as he leaves. You can’t help it. 

Damn, the man looks good. 

***

There are two men in the room at this charity dinner who have seen pieces of the real you. 

One is Kim Taehyung, who you’ve not known for long but in some ways knows you better than some of these shallow acquaintances. 

One is Kim Namjoon, an artist and sculptor who’s just had shows in New York and Berlin, a renaissance man, a scion of an already prestigious family of publishers and artists. 

The man you’d dated for five years until you realised he was too good for you. 

Honest when you were duplicitous. 

Behaving with integrity when you were getting down and dirty. 

A man who recognises his own worth, secure in his position in the world, when your own world broke apart when your family company turned to existential rubble. 

Potato, potahto. 

Taehyung, beside you as your official date for this charity event, hands you a flute of champagne. 

‘Drink up,’ he says, brisk. ‘Then tell me why you look like you got slapped across the face when the Kims entered.’ 

You do as you’re told, downing the entire contents of the glass in one. 

Taehyung takes the empty glass from you and hands you his own. 

‘We have a job to do,’ he says, quietly. ‘So tell me if I need to keep Kim Namjoon away from you.’ 

His firm tone reminds you that it’s not just your own livelihood at stake, that you have an agreement and you depend on each other now. 

‘We dated. For a long time,’ you say, deciding to stick to the facts. 

‘And?’ Taehyung prompts, turning you gently to steer you away from a collision course with the Kims. 

‘But nothing. We broke up. He was —’ your voice wobbles unexpectedly. 

‘He was too good for me.’ 

Taehyung snorts, and his obvious incredulity makes you look up at him sharply. 

‘No one is too good for you,’ he says. ‘Also, you’re with me now. If you need out just say.’ 

‘I can’t leave you here.’ 

‘Who said I’d stay?’ Taehyung asks. He shrugs. ‘The food at these things is always shit. Let’s go get pizza.’ 

You stare at him, aghast at his casual attitude. 

‘We can’t leave, Taehyung, we need to be seen together. Extra credibility and all that. The Black and White Ball’s weeks away.’ 

Taehyung looks at you, dark eyes serious, patient. ‘No con is worth something that upsets you this much. You’re pale, and you look like you’re about to pass out.’ 

Your back straightens, and you take another gulp of champagne. 

‘I’m not going to pass out on you, Taehyung,’ you say, firmly. ‘We need this and I’m not going to let us down. Besides, I know him. He’d rather eat his own arm than behave inappropriately at an event like this.’ 

‘Like this?’ Taehyung asks, mildly, just as his hand settles on your ass over the silk of your gown. He cups and squeezes, firm.

You stumble a little, and your grip on his arm tightens. 

‘Are you wearing a bra? I think I just made your nipples hard,’ he says. 

You can’t help it. The giggles burst out of you, and with them, the biggest part of your anxiety over coming face to face with Kim Namjoon. 

Taehyung leans down, brushes a kiss over your parted lips. 

‘That’s my girl,’ he says. ‘It’s your call. We can work the room, or we can forget this and go and get pizza.’ 

‘Lee Seongho is over there,’ you say. ‘Let’s get to it.’ 

***

Taehyung’s with a group of well-known hoteliers, whilst you’re speaking to an up-and-coming tech entrepreneur who seems to be spending more time looking down the low neck of your dress than listening to what you’re saying. 

You summon what remains of your patience, look over at Taehyung again, who’s looking at you, brow raised inquiringly. 

He side-eyes the tech entrepreneur, Jacques, you think his name is, with a barely hidden disdain. 

You stifle a giggle and give Taehyung what you hope is a quelling look. 

A moment later he’s by your side, nodding politely at your companion. 

‘Apologies,’ he says. ‘My fiancee and I have a prior commitment.’ 

You walk away on Taehyung’s arm. 

‘When did we get engaged?’ you ask. 

‘I asked you to marry me when we were in Bruges,’ Taehyung says, mock-affronted. ‘How could you not remember?’ 

‘Why Bruges?’ you ask. 

‘Because you looked so beautiful as we walked along the Zwyn,’ Taehyung says. 

You’re still laughing as you round the bar and come face to face with Namjoon. 

The only visible reaction he displays is a slight tightening of his jaw, only evident to you because of how well you know him. 

‘Namjoon,’ you say, pleased that your voice is steady. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’ 

He introduces you to his companion, a very tall, stunning blonde dressed in green. 

As she offers you her hand, you notice the emerald ring on her engagement finger. 

Your heart jumps into your throat, and Taehyung steps in smoothly. 

‘I’m Taehyung,’ he says. 

You exchange niceties, the rest of the conversation is a blur but you’ve never worked so hard to not let any emotion show on your face. 

Then it’s over, and you’re grateful for the warmth of Taehyung’s arm around you as he walks you away. 

He leads you back to the cloakroom without you having to say a word, collects your coats, places yours around your shoulders, taking care with the buttons. 

Outside the hotel, a light snow’s falling, catching in his dark hair as he hails a taxi, gives the driver instructions. 

You don’t ask where you’re going. 

The journey isn’t long, probably twenty minutes or so. 

He holds your hand the whole time, helps you out of the taxi and into a building that is now dated but would have been stunning back when it was first built. 

He pushes the door to his apartment open, flicks on the light. 

It’s small but it’s warm, eclectic and so terribly him that you smile. 

Taehyung says, ‘I knew the food was going to be shit.’ 

His tone is disgruntled on the surface, and so, so, kind underneath that you reach up and touch his cheek. 

He stills under your fingers. 

You run your fingertips lightly over the faint stubble over his jaw, and he sighs, leaning into your touch. 

It’s more intimate than a kiss. 

‘I don’t want to make you do anything you’re not ready for,’ he tells you. 

Here, in his cosy apartment, you curl your hand around the nape of his neck and pull him closer to you. 

‘You never have,’ you agree. 

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but your lips meet his and it never gets said. 

Taehyung is a consummate liar, just like you, but you sense the truth in the way he touches you. 

Fingers sliding down your back, unzipping you so that your dress falls into a shining puddle on the floor. 

Hands over yours when you can’t get his shirt buttons undone quickly enough. 

He unbuckles his belt one handed, the other hand cupping your breast as he kisses you deeply. 

His tongue licks into your mouth, and the heat of him makes you shiver in his arms.

‘C’mere,’ he says, low, turning you around, walking you into his bedroom.

The hardness of him pressing into your ass makes you arch back into him.

The sheets of his bed would be cool against your heated skin if you weren’t pulled tight against him, almost on top of him.

‘Told you I like the view like this,’ he murmurs.

You settle on top of him, his torso between your thighs.

He drinks you in with a gaze so intense you can’t meet it, choosing instead to run your hands down his bare chest.

Underneath you, his cock lies against his flat abs, so hard that when you tug his briefs off he curls his hand around himself so he doesn’t hit you in the face.

‘I’m big,’ he says, almost bashful about it.

‘Yeah,’ you agree.

You lean down and take him in your mouth, letting saliva pool around him to ease the glide.

The blunt head of him nudges the back of your throat, making you tighten around him.

He’s still watching you intently, eyes aglow as you curl your fingers around the base of him.

His lips part, and instead of the teasing comment you expected, he says, ‘I can’t believe you’re here with me, like this.’

It’s unexpectedly sweet.

You can’t answer, not with him in your mouth, but you lick along the underside of him with the flat of your tongue, guided by the way his breathing quickens, the low groan he utters as you swirl your tongue.

You taste the salt of his pre-cum, swallow like you can’t get enough, and he says, ‘Wait.’

He tugs your hand. 

‘Come sit on my face.’

‘Don’t you want me to —‘

‘Hell yeah, I want it all,’ Taehyung says. ‘But we have time to do all that, any time you want. Any day you want. Come sit on my face first.’

He tugs you up, kisses up your thigh. His warm hands slide around to curl around your ass, holding you to him as he presses his open mouth to your core.

He licks at the arousal at your entrance, tongue delving in between your folds. Your eyes close involuntarily as he laps his tongue against your clit, flicking back and forth in a slow, maddening rhythm.

You’re wet, so wet, between his mouth and your own arousal.

Taehyung grunts, tugs you closer still, buries his nose and mouth between your spread legs. He licks, swallows, and your hips move involuntarily.

He hums his approval into your cunt, and your hips move again. 

‘That’s it,’ you think he says, but he’s muffled, mouth and tongue working to get you off.

The heat low down in your lower belly ignites into a flame as he presses his lips to your clit, sucking, flicking with his tongue.

You realise you’ve got your hand pressed to your mouth so you don’t scream.

‘Ngh, fuck, Taehyung!’

His eyes meet yours, the intent in them so blatant you’re catapulted into your orgasm, the need for release flipping into a burst of pleasure so intense there are stars behind your closed eyelids.

Taehyung tugs you down under him, floppy like a rag doll from your release.

You can feel his hand working between your bodies, stroking himself frantically, and you part your legs.

‘Inside, fuck, inside,’ you say, your voice hoarse, husky.

Taehyung groans, positions himself at your entrance.

‘This what you want?’ he asks.

In response, you reach around his ass and pull him into you, both of you gasping as he fills you, sinks in to the hilt.

‘Move,’ you cry, but he’s already doing it, slow thrusts that fill you almost all the way, dragging himself out, panting in your ear.

This time it’s you who reaches down between your bodies, fingers spreading over where you’re joined, stroking over your clit.

Taehyung looks down, groans and shudders. ‘Fuck, you’re so hot.’

You can feel him getting harder, thicker as he moves.

‘Gonna —-‘

If he finishes his sentence you sure as hell don’t hear it because you’re coming again, pulsing around his cock as he fills you with his warmth.

He keeps moving, hips circling like he doesn’t want to stop, kissing your face, until you can feel him softening inside you.

Finally, he collapses next to you, flat on his back.

It’s a moment before either of you speak.

‘Did you mean what you said about doing this again?’ you ask.

The question hangs in the dark between you.

Taehyung rolls over onto his side to face you.

His smile is blinding. 

‘I’m going to need time to recharge before we go again.’

It’s not the question you asked, and you think he knows that.

For the first time since you met him, you’re not sure how truthful he’s being, and you’re not sure you want to ask.

***

It’s been three weeks since you and Taehyung fucked, and if you’re being partially honest with yourself, things between you are the same as they always were before you fucked.

He’s still flirty and suggestive and makes you laugh.

He’s as beautiful as he ever was.

If you’re being completely truthful?

Everything’s changed.

He’d never answered your question properly, and you haven’t talked about what happened that night.

You’d woken in the morning to the lingering scent of sex and his cologne in the sheets, but he’d been gone.

You’d left too, there hadn’t been any messages on your phone and you’d felt like a stranger in his empty apartment.

You’re at a final fitting for your dress for the Black and White Ball when your phone rings.

It’s Taehyung.

‘Can I see your dress?’ he asks.

‘You’ll see it tonight,’ you remind him.

‘I’m bored, come hang out with me.’

‘I need to get ready.’

‘You could walk in there right now and still be the most beautiful person in the room,’ he coaxes.

You roll your eyes at his over the top flattery. 

‘I have time for coffee,’ you say.

Taehyung ends up coming to meet you at your apartment. 

‘What are you going to do after tonight?’ he asks.

You shrug. ‘I’m going to go away for a bit, see what happens. Visit my mum for Christmas, maybe. Travel. You?’

‘Same. Get out of town for a while, whilst the heat dies down. I’ve always wanted to be somewhere hot at Christmas.’

You’re distracted by a tiny scuff on the heel of the shoes you’re wearing tonight.

There’s a studied casualness to his tone when he says, ‘Costa Rica’s great this time of year.’

Your eyes meet his.

‘It’s rainy season, I heard,’ you reply.

You sense the question he hasn’t asked, but the memory of being in his bed and the uncertainty you felt floats into your head.

You need to hear him say it.

He’s still looking at you.

In the end, neither of you say anything.

Maybe it’s for the best.

***

The Black and White Ball is exactly how you envisioned it would be. 

You’re on Taehyung’s arm as you walk into the ballroom. He’s wearing all black, and he looks devastatingly handsome. 

You catch him staring at you, more than once. 

‘Something on my face?’ you ask. 

‘Just your face,’ Taehyung answers. He grins crookedly at you. ‘You’re perfect.’ 

You’re greeted by the Phans, an influential media family, as though you have every right to be here. 

Like the two of you are legitimate members of high society instead of two confidence tricksters, two con artists about to perform the heist of the century. 

Taehyung nudges you like he knows what you’re thinking. 

‘Four hours, and we’ll have pulled it off. Want a lift to the airport?’ 

‘I always wanted to fuck in a limo,’ you say, thoughtfully. 

Taehyung nods at a prominent hotelier in greeting. ‘I’m down with that,’ he whispers into your ear. 

You laugh, but it’s bittersweet. 

You have no idea what you and Taehyung will be after tonight, you’ve been working together and planning this for so long that you’ve only got the vaguest plan beyond it. 

‘There’s a beach in Guanacaste with white sand and a horizon that feels like it stretches to the end of the world,’ Taehyung tells you. 

He says, ‘I’ll be there on Christmas day with a Mai Tai.’ 

‘Just the one?’ you ask, teasing, smiling at the old-money contingent of elderly ladies who are beckoning you over. 

Taehyung waits until you’re looking at him. ‘One for each of us,’ he says. 

Then he smiles, and you don’t have time to reply before the Cousteaus are upon you, eager for someone who can speak French like you do, courtesy of your time in France when your father was working with Starck. 

Taehyung helps you work the room like he always does, and if there’s an added reverence to the way he’s looking at you tonight, you can’t dwell on it now. 

You both have a job to do. 

It’s only when people start to leave that you turn to him again. 

‘I like mojitos,’ you say. 

Taehyung’s smile could light up the room. ‘Yeah?’ 

‘Yeah. Want to go get pizza?’ 

You end up in some tiny hole-in-the-wall pizza joint sharing a bottle of Merlot Taehyung took from a table as you left the ball. 

It’s the best pizza you’ve ever had. 

***

The blue of the Pacific will be blinding later, but just after sunrise, it’s beautiful in a way that makes your heart ache. 

You turn your head as Taehyung approaches, chest bare, towel slung low round his hips. 

He offers you one of the cocktails he’s carrying, and you burst out laughing as you accept. 

‘It’s a little early for cocktails, Tae.’ 

Taehyung smiles. This close, you can see the dusting of freckles on his shoulders, the golden gleam to his skin from sunning himself. 

He smells like sun, and sex, and you. 

‘It’s Christmas,’ he says. ‘There are no rules.’ 

‘This definitely beats the cold,’ you say. ‘Merry Christmas, Tae.’ 

Taehyung leans back on his hands as you climb on top of him, tilting his head up for a kiss. 

Underneath your tiny bikini his cock stirs, and you feel a throb of arousal even though it’s been barely hours since you last fucked. 

‘Again, Tae?’ you ask, as his hands go to your hips. 

‘Again,’ he agrees. ‘As long as you’ll have me.’ 

©hamsterclaw 2023

[paperstorm]

“Owen, I’m busy,” Gwyn says shortly, instead of hello.

“Have you heard from TK today?” he asks, knowing that will instantly cut to the chase and snap her out of whatever inclination she may have had to nag at him for interrupting her at work.

Gwyn pauses, her voice sharper and more attentive when she replies. “No. Why?”

Owen hedges. He bites the inside of his cheek, second-guessing. “Nothing, probably. He’s just late for work and I wondered … if you’d heard from him.”

“Late?” Gwyn repeats, a bite in her tone. “How late?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Owen assures again. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Owen Strand, you are not calling me for the first time in like eights months just to tell me that our adult son is a few minutes late to his job. What the hell is going on?”

Closing his eyes and regretting picking up the phone, Owen says, “I’m overreacting, that’s all. I worry about him.”

“Yeah, so do I.”

“I’ll text you when he gets here.”

“When was the last time he was late?” Gwyn demands. In the background, Owen can hear another voice and the hissing sound of Gwyn shushing them.

Owen sighs, because that’s exactly why he’s worried, too. Reluctantly, he admits, “Never. Not since …”

In a sardonic voice that doesn’t pose it as a real question, Gwyn asks, “Not since we sent him to rehab because I found him half dead in a crack den?”

“Not exactly the words I would’ve used, but yeah. That.” Owen sighs.

“What the hell happened? I thought he was doing good.”

“He …” Owen begins, and then his blood runs cold as something occurs to him. Something that had slipped his mind in the shock of being asked to rebuild a firehouse in Texas. “He said he was going to propose to Alex, last night.”

For a moment, Gwyn is quiet. “I helped him pick out a ring three weeks ago.”

Owen frowns. “Wait, you knew?”

“I knew he was planning on asking at some point, I didn’t know it was going to be last night. Did you get a call, after? Is he engaged?”

“No, I didn’t get a call after,” Owen answers heavily, and neither of them need to speak the words aloud for it to be clear they’re thinking the same thing.

Gwyn breathes, “Oh my God.”

“I’ll find him,” Owen promises, pushing abruptly up out of his chair and grabbing his keys.

“Owen …”

“Gwyn, I will find him. Okay? I’ll call you as soon as I know he’s safe.”

He doesn’t wait for her answer. He presses the screen to end the call and heads for the door.

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