#but in the end she still ends up mourning alone

[dysfunctionalcreature]

so I have this Michael Shelley/Gerry Keay/Mike Crew AU and fanfic idea, which I know doesn't at all match up with the canon timeline but I don't care

The very simplified tldr of the plot is: Michael Shelley and Gerry Keay and Mike Crew became very close as young adults when they were all still human, but then Michael is taken by the Spiral, and Gerry dies of his brain tumor. Things follow canon for a while after that, but diverge around episode 91 because Mike isn't killed by Daisy. Things continue to diverge from canon after that, culminating in Mike and Gerry and Michael all being reunited, and going to live together in a house overlooking tall cliffs. But of course things are a bit different now, considering now Mike Crew is an avatar of the Vast, and Michael Shelley is an avatar of the Spiral, and Gerry Keay is an avatar of the End...

And my full fleshed-out outline/rough draft of the plot goes:

Michael and Mike became roommates when Mike was still searching for a Leitner to save him from the Lichtenberg Figure, and Michael had just applied to and gotten hired at the Magnus Institute. And they bond over the Spiral related childhood trauma they each have, they're the first ones to really understand or believe eachother's supernatural experiences, and they quickly become close friends.

Michael also encounters Gerry at the Institute and they become friends, Gerry hanging out (and probably flirting) with Michael whenever he stops by The Archives. And once they've gotten close Michael introduces Gerry and Mike, and while Michael and Gerry got close faster, Mike and Gerry do end up bonding over their experiences with and curiosities about Leitners. Gerry even eventually tells them all about the Catalogue Of The Trapped Dead.

Mike and Michael are still living together by the time Mike finds Ex Altiora, he was missing without a trace for like 2 days after he used Ex Altiora and jumped from that building to escape the Lichtenberg Figure and join The Falling Titan. Michael was so worried and stressed about what happened to him, and them and Gerry tried to look for Mike. But then Mike just returned one evening, still himself just with far bluer eyes and a more relaxed energy than either of them were used to, they're very happy that he's safe and to see how much freer Mike seems now.

Mike and Michael stay roommates until Michael disappears on his trip to Sannikov Land with Gertude. Once she returns from the trip without him, Mike goes to Gerry since he knows her but he doesn't understand Michael's absence either. So Mike questions Gertude, and when she tries to avoid telling him, he does to her the thing he did to Jon in canon, makes her feel like she's falling at terminal velocity, and she relents vaguely telling him that she sacrificed Michael in Sannikov Land to save the world.

Mike relays that to Gerry, and they both spend awhile searching for any sign of Michael, but eventually accept that he's actually gone, they mourn him together and also privately. Mike's sadness feels somewhat distant as a result of being part of The Vast, but he does keep the apartment, and all of Michael's stuff where he left it. Mike and Gerry stay in contact and even get closer, though they actually hang out less often.

Gerry continues working with Gertude, cause though her methods upset him, she is still protecting the world (as far as he knows). Mike travels a lot more, doing Vertigo stuff, but he still keeps their old apartment.

When Gerry doesn't come back from his final trip with Gertude, Mike confronts her, and she tells him that Gerry died and she left his body behind, but she doesn't tell Mike where he died or that she put him in the Catalogue Of The Trapped Dead. But Mike does remember the Skin Book, and he guesses that it might have something to do with that. He searches for Gerry and the book, but he can't find either.

Now Mike is alone without his two closest and only friends, but the lonelyness and missing them doesn't hit as crushingly hard as it would for most, due to the perspective he has from having been an avatar of the Vast for a number of years by now.

Mike meets Michael The Distortion once. It informs him that it knows that Michael Shelley cared for him, but it isn't Michael Shelley, and the fact that it (more-or-less) looks like him and has access to his memories is nothing but an inconvenience, Mike gets away from it quickly, very shaken by the encounter.

Episode 91 happens mostly similarly to canon: Mike gives his statement to Jon, he mentions that he used to be close with one of Gertude's assistants and also Gerry Keay, but it's clear that it's hard for Mike to talk about them. Mike survives the interaction cause they don't get interrupted by Daisy (she'll find Jon to kidnap once he's like a block away), so Mike bids Jon farewell with a remark about how he couldn't care less whether Jon's a better or worse Archivist than Gertude was, but he hopes that he's a kinder person to his assistants than she was.

After Michael The Distortion's statement to Jon in episode 101, it doesn't "die" like it does in canon, instead it spits Michael Shelley out and he's released from The Distortion, who does still become Helen now. Michael was part of the Spiral and The Distortion for long enough that now freed Michael is still connected to it, only now they're a more human avatar of the Spiral. As a result he can still access the Spiral's halls and make and use doors, so they easily find their way to where Mike is currently staying.

Michael looks much more human now but they are still somewhat distorted and strange looking - limbs elongated just slightly beyond what's normal, hair curlier and longer than it once was, eyes shimmering too many colours, body temperature noticeably warmer than it used to be, and he's shaky and tremblely in his hands - despite that Mike quickly understands and believes what happened to him. They're so relieved to be reunited, they hug and cling to eachother for a long while (Vast avatars and the former Throat Of Delusion can and do get touch-starved).

But then Mike has to tell Michael what happened to Gerry, and of course they're very upset.

Michael wants to try looking for Gerry's body and the Skin Book again so they do, and with the help of being able to travel through The Distortion's halls they actually find the Skin Book (before Jon would have gotten to it in episode 111).

Gerry's very happy to see them both again, but he doesn't want to just remain part of the book. So they start trying to figure out a way to free Gerry from the book and bring him back to life, and with Mike's experience with reading and safely using Leitners they do figure it out.

Gerry can be freed by becoming an avatar of the End, it's a process that involves sacrificing some people, specifically Gerry has to be summoned from the book so he can like drain enough peoples life forces. Gerry insists that the people are he kills be ones that probably deserve it, and Michael agrees and makes sure that the victims they find have it coming, Mike doesn't really care about the morals of it but he goes along with it, he doesn't mind as long as it works.

It does work, and once there have been enough deaths, Gerry is free and has a physical body again, though he's not technically alive. He's pretty undead, his skin is practically grey, his irises are dark, and he doesn't breathe or need to eat or drink anymore, and he's not only cool to the touch but Gerry himself feels like he has a constant chill, but, he is still capable of sleeping.

There's lots of hugs and some relieved tears once he's free. Over the following days as he starts to adjust to his new state of being he starts wearing only the warmest clothes he has to deal with his constant coldness. He also realizes that wearing trad goth makeup works well to hide how grey his skin is now whenever they're in a public setting.

And now they're all three reunited, Michael is no longer lost in The Distortion, and Gerry is no longer trapped in the Skin Book. So at Mike's suggestion they all decide to pack up and get away from London and go stay at a cottage on the vertigo-inducing coastal cliffs of Ireland. The cottage is actually owned by the Fairchilds but Simon offered to loan it to Mike years ago.

They settle into the cottage together easily, it's cozy but big enough for the three of them to not feel crowded. And it's a comfortable place for them all to get to know eachother all over again, now as avatars of It Is Not What It Is and Terminus and The Falling Titan.

They also spend a lot of time outside, in the garden and landscape around the cottage: Gerry and Michael often snuggled together in a sunchair on the cobblestone patio - Gerry wrapped in a thick blanket and curled around Michael since their unnaturally warm body temperature is a pleasant contrast to Gerry's unnatural coldness - Michael holding him close, enjoying the sun, and rambling softly about patterns and shapes he sees in the clouds.

Mike likes going on walks in the area and often Gerry or sometimes Michael will accompany him. Mike also enjoys "going for falls" off of the cliffs, just stepping off and falling until he feels like landing on the ground at the cottage's front door again.

And there's a village somewhat nearby that they stop into sometimes, to poke around the local antique and book stores. The town has a graveyard which Gerry appreciates and will linger in, and every so often Michael will add a new strange door into a townsfolk's house.

There's also castle ruins and such that are tourist destinations around that they'll travel to, as ancient buildings and places like that are perfect spots for Spiral and Vast and End fears to crop up, but they do it infrequently as they're all kinda anti-social beings who would rather just spend their time with eachother.

Aaand maybe at some point (like late season 3?) while they're living there Jon shows up, cause he tracked them down because he had more questions for Mike. And he talks with them and learns some answers, it's similar to his conversation with Gerry in episode 111, but with more information and perspectives since he's getting answers from three avatars now.

And maybe that interaction changes how things happen moving forward: maybe Tim survives the Unknowing? maybe they inadvertently help Jon figure out his feelings for Martin sooner? or maybe even the apocalypse doesn't come to pass?

Or maybe nothing actually changes, and the apocalypse does still happen... So then Gerry, Mike and Michael end up just vibing together as avatars throughout the Eyepocalypse: the cliffs around their home now dropping off into endless blue sky, no beach or even ocean in sight below. The town nearby now transformed into a mess of strange structures with too many doors, surrounded by a sprawling graveyard full of bodies that do not want to rest.

But inside their cottage all is peaceful, though it is weirder than it was before: there's extra doors on most of the walls. And sometimes the hallway goes on longer than it should. And the windows all show nothing but infinite, occasionally stormy, skies no matter what direction you look.

But thanks to the influence of the End, Mike and Michael are actually able to sleep peacefully, as long as they're in Gerry's presence.

So they spend plenty of time in there together, Mike and Michael cuddled up in eachothers arms fast asleep, Gerry settled close next to them with a book, he could sleep too if he wanted, but he'd rather watch over them and listen to their soft contented breaths, as lightning spirals through the blue sky outside their window.

[monophobix]

rafayel x black non-mc au idea!!

imagine that lemurian’s weren’t the only mer-people in the entire ocean. there were other civilisations and on occasions, these civilisations would meet as a way to exchange culture and encourage good ties.

non-mc is from one of these civilisations. i personally imagine it to be near the caribbean islands, a civilisation that primarily lives within the shallows near land, so naturally they adapted to that. dark skin, thick curly hair, tails that can change colour to blend in with the ocean floor. their culture is rich, they’re known for their close approximation to animals like sharks and their intelligence at evading humans.

as a cultural-crossover, some of them travel to lemuria, non-mc included. whilst there and learning of lemurian culture, she meets rafayel. the two quickly bond, a mutual fascination bonding the two who quickly become friends, promising to meet again. perhaps they meet as children then once again as adults, gifting each other gifts when they reunite, undeniably drawn to each other.

until they separate again. and the plot happens, and lemuria falls. non-mc hears of this so she travels to lemuria only to find it desolate. she presumes rafayel to be gone, she grieves him, mourns him. she writes of lemurian culture, of their rich history and beautiful people as a way to preserve his memory. until her own civilisation falls due to being discovered by humans. she is hunted alongside her kind, until she is the last one. cursed with memories no one will understand.

skip to the present and somehow she is still alive. she pretends to be human. maybe she’s an author, who writes books based on the history of lemuria and her own civilisation, believing herself to be the only one left as she travels the world in search of purpose.

she ends up in linkon. selling her books and exploring the city. perhaps rafayel reads one and seeks her out, wondering who could know so much about his people only to see her once again. or maybe she goes to an art installation, recognising the beauty only found under water, only to see rafayel there and find out he’s alive.

it could be super angsty. her rage at him picking a human, the ones who destroyed her people, over his own. her rage at the fact he’s been alive all these years and she never knew.

maybe rafayel goes back to her. seeks her familiarity, and they bond once again. perhaps she’s still angry at him, but agrees to help him hunt people down, and they bond over that time. or perhaps he chooses mc. states how she is always the one he would prioritise, leaving non-mc alone once again.

idk :3

[hightowerqueen]

Thursday Bangers

thank you for the tag @serensama <3 i'll tag @no1lucanispegger, @rookamell and @corvus-frugilegus if you guys want to play!

Rules for your Copy and Paste: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

This week's prompt: I'm prepared to sacrifice my life I would gladly do it twice - Mercy by Shawn Mendes

i fear i may have stumbled my way into ANOTHER parallel universe for the De Rivas. Rafe belongs to @nonagesimus (hi bb, i love you) and i am extremely not normal about him or him and Bea or either of them and Illario so. here you go.

referenced m!rook/illario, rook/rook

"Just go. They'll need someone to string up over this, but it doesn't have to be you." Bea's jaw drops. There's no fucking way Rafe is saying what she thinks he's saying. "What do you mean, go? I'm the one who dragged you into this in the first place!" "Yes, Bea. But do you want to make me watch them kill you, too? Haven't you done enough?" He's mad, and of course he is, but it hurts all the same, proverbial knife slid between her ribs as easily as if it were real, sinking through the flesh like butter.

The wound stings, because this is her fault. She's the one who'd gone and played hero, dragging him behind her, only to find out they'd somehow blown a Crow operation's cover sky high.

Rafe sighs, anger replaced by something defeated in his expression. "Viago is going to come knocking soon. He won't argue if I tell him I was working alone. He'd rather that than the truth."

He's right, again. He's looking at her with those maker-forsaken beautiful eyes of his, and she hates the way it makes tears pool in hers. Hates everything about this, hates how she's fucked everything up again.

This time it can't be fixed, she's pretty sure.

"You need to go, Bea," he continues, more insistant, "He can't find you here. Let him believe the lie, please."

There'd always been a line between them, before, an electrified fence they both stayed a respectable distance away from. But that seems stupid now, because they might very well never see each other again. The thought makes her feel ill.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, she finally crosses that line. Grabs him by the cuirass, yanks him in close enough to crush him in the circle of her arms.

"I'm getting Illario. There's gotta be some strings he can pull, especially for you," she whispers into his ear.

And then she's chasing his mouth with hers, the kiss a desperate, pleading thing she hopes speaks years of ignored feelings into his mouth.

She thinks it works, because Rafe goes slack in her arms, tension bleeding out of him and kissing her back like he's clinging to her just as hard.

They should've done this earlier. So much wasted time, and now it's over before it ever really had a chance.

She can still taste him on her tongue when she leaves.

-

In the end, Illario's connections aren't necessary. Viago negotiates for Rafe to be sent on a contract with Varric Tethras, something absurd about gods the only thing Bea catches. It's not death, but it also is, a mission with a scope that's almost designed to kill him off away from her eyes. Mercy, and not. Guilt claws its' way up her throat and she retreats to the rooftops, settling there and hugging her knees to her chest.

That's where Illario finds her, and they share a bottle of red to mourn the departure of the man they both love in silence.

She wonders, briefly, what ghost is hitching a ride with Illario for him to be so understanding of the weight she's going to carry from now on.

[lotus--pond]

another Isla headcanon but really sad this time-

Isla has a bit of a ritual she follows every year on Icarus's birthday. Every year she wakes up early and makes her way to his grave. There is no body buried there, but in a strange way, it helps her feel closer to them. She brings a picnic basket, a blanket, and an old children's book, but not much else

In the morning, her grandchildren and her sons-in-law and others who she has grown to consider family will come visit. It is a morning filled with sunlight and love and laughter. every glimpse of a golden wing in the sun, every catch of loud laughter, watching her grandchildren play pretend and chase each other, it all reminds her of them. Her friends will sit with her, it is not time for melancholy, at least not yet, so they chat, but with a bit softer voices than usual. But soon the sun climbs high in the sky, the children are hungry and asking for lunch, so they must go.

In the afternoon, Athena, Rae, and Soul will come to see her. Athena brings a bouquet of orchids, both for her and for them, and he bakes a birthday cake for them every year at her request. Soul will bring other food, something for Isla to do with her hands because she knows that she gets antsy. Rae does not bring anything, Isla never asks him to. it is a day of mourning for him as well.

They will share cake and food and Isla will tell them about what Icarus was like as a child. How they would laugh loud and bright when she scooped them up into her arms. How they shone brighter than the sun to her when she felt trapped within those castle walls. How when Rae was younger and got upset because he was too small and too slow to keep up with them, they would carry him on their back, running around until they were panting because they wanted their brother to know what it felt like to have the wind whistle through your hair, to be big, to be fast. It often starts out lighthearted, but it always ends in tears.

Rae rubs circles into her back, and reflects on how he gains understanding for his mother as time goes on. How every year on that day he holds his children a little tighter, hugs them a little longer, tells them how much he loves them even more than usual. How as the walls of his home fill with finger paintings and drawings with a bright yellow sun in the corner of the page and toys litter the floors and laughter fills the halls, he can't help but wonder how his mother does it. can't help but be in awe of how she still goes on even after her baby was taken from her. can't help but pray to anything out there that will listen to him that he can keep his children safe.

Soul squeezes her hand tightly because while she still has Athena, she could never imagine losing him, especially not so young. she knows how hard Isla fought for Icarus, how she could have taken the easy way and left them in that castle and ran to Enderian and raised Rae there his whole life but she never even entertained the thought. She knows that in those years where she was stripped of everything she thought she had ever wanted, Icarus was her greatest joy.

But the sun continues its rotation, and they know it is their time to leave her to be on her own. But in between those moments, between dusk and night, Alerion sits beside her, if only for a few minutes. Their interactions while he was alive were very few, but there is a quiet solidarity. no words are exchanged, but there is an undeniable communication of I mourn with you. His presence is a comfort, after all, he is more familiar with death and grief than most could ever imagine. Which is how he knows that, when the constellations make themselves known across the sky, it is her time to mourn alone.

As she sits in front of a perfectly kept grave, she pulls out the children's book from where she put it early this morning and starts reading. This one was always their favorite. She speaks, not to herself and not to the world but to them. She tells them so much. how she misses them. how much it hurts. everything that's happened. Sobs echo into the night, now allowed to roam free in the cool air. She lets herself mourn, she lets herself be sad and she lets herself be angry. She gets angry at Fable for taking her from them. Angry at the world for taking them from it so early. She wishes they had more time, would trade a thousand lifetimes just so they could have one more day.

But nothing comes of her sobs and screams and pleas. they do not magically appear behind her safe and sound. But there comes a moment where she feels peace. Where she presses her forehead to the cold rock of the headstone and imagines they can see her. that they are out there somewhere, lost and waiting to come home. She goes home and she crawls into bed, the emptiness she felt in the morning still there, but less as though it was freshly carved out of her chest.

She cannot do much for her baby bird now, but she can do this.

(also whatever you do, do not think of Icarus in the worldport watching this whatever you do please speaking from experience)

[zonezyo]

glinda and fiyero, both being for all intents and purposes on the same footing socially, are two sides of the same coin on what happens to those who come from privilege if they choose to forsake their standing in the face of adversity. they come from the same place, they have essentially the same thing to lose, but they end UP losing insanely different things based on the way they choose to live their lives. however, glinda and fiyero have the same thing to lose, but they do NOT have the same thing to gain.*

fiyero is of course actually very smart, no matter how carefree he plays himself, but before elphaba, before the catalyst, he WAS truly content with dancing through life-- he probably would have skated through on his looks and his charm, living a blessed but ultimately unfulfilling, unhappy life, with no real direction. but when given a cause he wakes up and begins to actually want. he wants change, wants elphaba, wants something different than what he's had. though it comes at obvious sacrifice for him, it is natural for him to follow elphaba. there is no personal risk of straying off his path because there is no real path ahead of him anyway. yes, he's captain of the guard, he's engaged to glinda-- but his heart is not truly with them. he has already mentally strayed towards elphaba.

glinda, though, is not like fiyero. she can play herself as charming as she wants to match him and everyone that expects anything from her, but she's at shiz to learn sorcery-- from the moment she's introduced we know that she's dead set on that goal. she WANTS something. she, like elphaba, marvels at the emerald city, imagining her life there one day. so when faced with this fatal decision between choosing what might be good but what is risky, she panics-- it's right there in the lyric!! to grovel in submission to feed her own ambition!! though part of it is certainly her backing into what is safe, she can't let go of her own dream for what would effectively kill every future she ever dreamed of. glinda is WILLING to forfeit her SOCIAL status for elphaba-- it's just that she's smart enough to understand that this is not simply forfeiting social status. this is forfeiting any and all power she ever could have, gain, or use to her/elphaba's advantage.

however: glinda's choice may seem entirely based in self preservation but she's also just as much trying to preserve elphaba's, maybe not safety, but status, because that's what she thinks of as safety. though it's unfair, glinda is right-- maybe not in this instance, but at least in the broad strokes of the song. elphaba HAS hurt her cause forever, she IS having delusions of grandeur, and this is going to make it that much harder for elphaba to ever truly make change regarding animals in oz because as a villain all she can do is drive people away (though ofc this doesn't mean she shouldn't have done what she did). glinda is desperately bargaining-- she knows elphaba cares about the animals, but she doesn't truly understand why, so there is nothing she could have said or done to level with elphaba. glinda ultimately still thinks that change is manageable under the people responsible for cruelty. she's misguided, unaware of the weight of what's happening. it's why she calls it ELPHABA'S cause, not the animals' cause, because she's not really concerned with the greater good at the moment, she's focused on saving her and her best friend. she's smart enough to understand power play, but not aware enough to understand what all that power means, really, at least not in the moment of act 1.

we can speculate what the "good" choice would have been for glinda but the real truth of the show is that the choice she made was the only one she was ever going to, though it might not be just or right or the one she should have.

[helpimstuckinafandom]

JUSTICE FOR DAVINA CLAIRE I'M SO FUCKING SERIOUS FUCK OFF OH MY FUCKING GOD

[usuallydyinginside]

"No One Mourns the Wicked" is about Glinda, not Elphaba

Okay, but hear me out. Wicked songs are so good at saying one thing and meaning something entirely different once you have more context. For instance, "I'm Not That Girl" is Elphaba singing about Glinda initially, then in Act 2 flips to Glinda singing about Elphaba. Because it turns out, Elphaba IS that girl and Glinda is not. When we meet the Wizard, he sings about how he always wanted to be a father. When you get to Act 2, you get the sad little reprise in the background music as he realizes that WHOOPS, he was one and he destroyed his only kid. "Defying Gravity" starts with "I hope you're happy" in the sarcastic sense and ends with them both using the same phrase to genuinely wish one another well.

"Thank Goodness" is set up as a cheerful engagement song where Glinda genuinely means "thank goodness for how great my life is" and ends in a place where she's insisting that she IS happy even as she realizes her engagement is a sham, her best friend is gone, and she's left with the Wizard and Madame M, who she doesn't even like.

You get the picture.

Basically, the whole musical is about subverting what you expect, starting with the base premise of "what if the Wicked Witch was the hero of the story" and digging in from there.

Honestly, I'd never paid much attention to the first song. It's a good opener, sets things up well, but it has some big competition with later songs. However, in the movie the staging and camera choices made me really notice it for the first time. Because you know what? Someone DID pay attention to that song, and you can really really tell.

For those who need a refresher, the lyrics to the chorus Glinda sings are: And Goodness knows The Wicked's lives are lonely Goodness knows The Wicked die alone It just shows when you're Wicked You're left only On your own I was always so busy noticing Glinda's grief over thinking Elphaba was genuinely dead that I failed to notice Glinda's grief over her OWN fate. The movie did such a good job with this because every time we get to the pink lines about being alone, Glinda IS alone. She is standing apart from the crowd who adores her. Standing above them. Standing at the center of a bunch of people yet still, isolated.

Because in the end, we know that Elphaba DIDN'T die alone. We know she wasn't on her own. We know her life WASN'T lonely ultimately. She had her flying monkey and animal friends. She had Fiyero.

And who does Glinda have?

Everyone, but realistically, no one. She is an ideal, not a person to most of Oz, just as much as Elphaba has become the token scapegoat. Where Elphaba is the "Wicked Witch," Glinda is "Glinda the Good Witch" - she is literally supposed to be the embodiment of goodness.

And what does Glinda have at the end of this whole thing (as of this song at least)? A disastrous end to her engagement, the death of her best friend, a sorceress who has hated her, demeaned her, and dismissed her from the start, and a con man who is also just a symbol more than a person.

I think it really hit me when Glinda throws the fire on the giant effigy of Elphaba. Ariana's acting was SO good there, because I'd expected us to see that private moment of horror or regret. What I didn't expect was the sort of determined and almost angry glare at the effigy.

But it makes sense. At this point, Glinda has realized that she lost everything and everyone she actually cared about.

As she so aptly puts it in "Thank Goodness"...

Though it is, I admit The tiniest bit Unlike I anticipated. But I couldn't be happier, Simply couldn't be happier, Well, not "simply" 'Cause getting your dreams It's strange, but it seems A little, well, complicated.

There's a kind of a sort of cost. There's a couple of things get lost. There are bridges you cross You didn't know you crossed Until you've crossed!

And if that joy, that thrill Doesn't thrill like you think it will Still-- With this perfect finale, The cheers and the ballyhoo! Who wouldn't be happier? So I couldn't be happier, Because happy is what happens When all your dreams come true.

Well, isn't it?

Happy is what happens when you're dreams come true.

It's not Elphaba's fault that Glinda has ended up this way. Glinda chose it every step of the way. Yet, if Glinda had never met Elphaba, (if she'd never known her, you could say), she might have stayed shallow and vain. She might never have been challenged to look deeper and realize how empty it all felt.

So as Glinda sings "No One Mourns the Wicked," she realizes that even if the Munchkins are singing about the "Wicked Witch," she's not.

She's singing about herself.

The one who traded her morals, friendship, and love for a taste of the admiration and power over those who don't really know her. The one who was so worried about being likable that she herself doesn't like who she's become.

Even after she makes things better for Oz and herself by sending the wizard away and getting rid of Madame M, it just leaves Glinda by herself as the leader and source of goodness in Oz. It leaves her on a pedestal she can never step off of.

It leaves her lonely.

Entirely alone.

[matt-murdockk]

Time

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader

words: 2.8k

summary: On their wedding night, (Y/n) disappears in Matt’s arms-blipped without warning. For five years, he mourns her, tormented by grief and hallucinations. When she returns, unchanged, he’s convinced she’s not real. (angst mostly with fluff ending)

warnings: angst, cussing, lack of proofreading rip, set in infinity war - endgame timeline (reader getting blipped, etc)

a/n: Listen, my boy Matt is the PERFECT practice for writing angst. I just like to put him in situations and watch him like he's in a fish tank and I'm outside tapping on the glass. This man absolutely cannot catch a break and while I am partially to blame (cause I'm writing it this time), just how Matt is written in general is in a way that it just makes sense to put him through shit. He is a walking amalgam of Catholic Guilt, adrenaline, and poor decision making and I love him so much. This one is a boatload of angst but I threw in some fluff in the ending because well, we deserve good things.

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

The apartment door creaked open with the softest thud, and then her back hit it as Matt pressed her gently against the wood, lips grazing her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He was smiling.

That rare, devastating smile he only wore when it was just them.

“You’re supposed to carry me across the threshold, remember?” she whispered, breathless with laughter.

“Oh, I didn’t forget,” Matt murmured. “Just wanted a moment alone with my wife first.”

Wife.

The word made her stomach flip in a good way- warm and giddy and ridiculous.

He scooped her up easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back, and she looped her arms around his neck like she’d never let go. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“I’m legally required to now,” he said with a smirk. “It’s in the vows. Carry you everywhere. Worship the ground you walk on. Try not to lose my mind over how good you look in that dress.”

“Flawless delivery, Murdock,” she teased. “Truly. I can tell you definitely wrote your own vows.”

He chuckled against her shoulder as he carried her through the doorway into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. Candles flickered. Soft music still hummed faintly from the speaker they forgot to turn off before the ceremony.

And for a second- just one perfect second- it was all stillness. Just them. Just this.

He set her down gently, hands lingering at her waist. They kissed again, slower now. Softer. Everything feeling like it had finally settled into place. She pressed her forehead to his, heart beating a little too fast.

“I think I’m going to cry.”

“I’ll beat you to it,” he murmured, eyes closing, nose brushing hers. “You’re here. You’re mine. We made it.”

She smiled, eyes glassy. “We did.”

They stood there for a while. Just holding each other. Breathing the same air. Wedding bands warm against skin.

But then-

She shifted slightly in his arms. Her brows furrowed.

“Matt?”

He straightened a little, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

“I feel... weird.”

He tilted his head, concern filtering through his features. “Weird how?”

She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I don’t know. It’s like- I just got dizzy all of a sudden. Like the room’s moving.”

Matt gently guided her toward the couch, helping her sit down. “Okay. Just breathe. You might be dehydrated. Or just- adrenaline crash.”

She tried to smile. “Yeah. Big day. Lots of emotions. Too many speeches.”

She stood too fast. Her hand slipped from his.

“Careful,” Matt said, already reaching for her again. “Take it slow- ”

“I think I need to throw up,” she mumbled, voice shaky.

“Okay, yeah,” he nodded, already guiding her. “Bathroom’s just- ”

She staggered.

Her balance tipped.

Matt caught her by the waist before she could fall. “Hey. Hey, I got you. It’s okay- ”

She didn’t answer.

Her body felt... lighter. Unsteady. Like her weight was shifting in his arms.

He tilted his head, trying to focus on her. “(Y/n)? You with me?”

She looked up at him.

Confused.

Scared.

“M-Matt, I...”

And then her voice just- cut out.

His arms were suddenly empty.

He blinked.

No sound. No step. No breath.

Just... gone.

The faintest warmth lingered against his fingertips- and then something like dust scattered through them.

“What the- ?” he whispered, stepping back. “(Y/n)?”

His hand shook. Her scent was still in the room. Her heartbeat-

No. No, that wasn’t right.

He turned, listening harder, straining his senses.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

The silence grew louder. His throat closed up.

“(Y/n)?”

He moved down the hallway. Checked the bathroom. The bedroom. “(y/n), c’mon. Say something.”

No heartbeat. No motion. Not even the creak of a floorboard. Like she’d never been there. Matt’s chest started to cave in.

“Okay, this isn’t- this doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Maybe you passed out. Maybe you hit your head. Maybe- ”

His foot bumped something.

Her ring.

Her wedding ring.

Lying on the floor.

His knees hit the hardwood before he could stop them. “No.”

He crawled forward, hands blindly reaching, as if she might be hidden just out of reach.

“(Y/n)!” His voice cracked. “Where are you?!”

Still nothing.

Just the flicker of the candles.

Just the soft sound of ash settling.

“No, no- God, no!” He stood again. Stumbled. Slipped.

“(Y/n)!” He shouted so hard it tore something in his throat. “Talk to me!”

He made it to the front door. Opened it. Nothing. No one. No footsteps. No sounds of retreat. Matt’s breathing picked up. His fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone, nearly dropping it before hitting Call.

Foggy.

It rang once. Twice-

Pick up.

The sound of the city outside had changed. He could hear it.

Screaming. Tires screeching. Glass shattering six blocks over. Someone crying for help. Sirens multiplying like wildfire. It all surged into his head at once- too much, too fast.

He pressed his palm against his ear, gritting his teeth. “Too loud. I can’t- ”

Click.

“Matt?” Foggy answered, out of breath. “Hey, shouldn’t you be- ?”

“She’s gone,” Matt said immediately, voice fraying. “Foggy- she was right here, and then she just... disappeared.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”

“I mean she turned to ash in my hands,” Matt snapped, breath catching. “I was holding her. She said she felt sick and then- then she just... she was gone.”

There was a pause.

“Matt, hang on- wait- ” Foggy’s voice shifted, panic creeping in. “I think... Matt, something’s happening. It’s not just her.”

Matt stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I’m outside and people are vanishing. Right in front of me. There was a guy walking beside me- just turned to dust. A woman screaming for her kid, and the kid vanished. A guy in a cab just disappeared behind the wheel, Matt. It crashed into a light post.”

Matt pressed a hand to the center of his chest like he could anchor himself to the sound of Foggy’s voice. But even that was drowned out by the chaos around him.

“I can’t hear her,” he whispered. “Her heartbeat- her breathing- it’s just gone. Like she was never here, foggy.”

Foggy’s voice came through again, strained and tense. “It’s happening everywhere. I can’t keep up. There’s shouting, people running- I think half the crowd outside just vanished. I’m not exaggerating.”

Matt stumbled toward the couch, hand landing on the coffee table. “She was right here.”

“I’m coming to you,” Foggy said quickly. “Stay there, Matt. Don’t go outside- Jesus Christ, someone else just- ”

The line crackled. Cut out. Came back.

Matt’s hands were shaking as he reached for the remote.

The TV flicked on.

"...mass disappearances reported in New York, Chicago, London- this is now confirmed to be a global event..."

Footage played- Times Square chaos. Pedestrians turning to dust mid-step. News anchors looking off-camera in horror. Phones on the ground. Car alarms going off in every direction.

“We are receiving reports that approximately half the world’s population has- vanished.”

The camera panned to a child’s stuffed toy, untouched, lying in a pile of ash. Everything was still. Except the noise. And the empty space beside him on the floor.

“She was right here,” he said again, softly. Like it might undo it.

“She was right here.”

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

five years later

She came back mid-step.

One foot lifted toward the bathroom- and when it landed, everything was wrong.

The apartment was darker. Colder. Rearranged.

The soft glow from the corner lamp was unfamiliar. The kitchen counter had a different crack. The rug was new. The air carried a different scent- like dust and time and a city that had moved on without her.

“Matt?” she called, voice hoarse.

Silence.

She stepped further in. The living room looked lived-in, but not by her. Not anymore. Not for a long time. The coffee table was cluttered with open case files. There was a cane by the door she didn’t recognize. Her heart pounded faster.

“Matt-?”

And then he was there. He stood in the doorway like he’d been carved from stone, unreadable and unmoved. Then, quietly- too calmly- he said, “So. You’re back.”

She stopped cold.

“Matt-”

He tilted his head slightly, almost as if studying her. “Took longer this time.”

“What…?” she breathed.

“Usually you show up around hour thirty-six,” he said, like it was a fact. “Right after the exhaustion hits but before the whiskey does anything useful.”

Her stomach twisted. “Matt, I’m not-”

“Don’t,” he cut in, sharp. “Don’t do that.”

She swallowed hard. “This isn’t what you think.”

“No?” His voice was soft, even, lethal. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like every other time I’ve lost my mind and imagined you standing in this room.”

(Y/n) blinked, her chest rising and falling too fast. “Matt, I- I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, no trace of humor. “You wouldn’t.”

“I was just- I felt sick and then it was cold, and everything looked wrong and-" Her words tangled, tripping over each other. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He didn’t answer.

“Matt?”

Nothing.

She took a tentative step forward. “Please. Say something. What happened? What- what’s going on?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp, like a scalpel slicing through skin without even trying.

“Don’t do this to me again.”

Her breath caught. “What- what do you mean, again?”

“I know your routine now,” he said, voice tightening with each word. “You show up, confused. You ask questions. You cry. And then just when I start to believe you might be real- when I almost let myself feel something again- you vanish.”

“Matt, I don’t- ”

“No,” he snapped. “Stop. Just stop.”

She froze. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his jaw locked, eyes unreadable.

“You know what it’s like to bury someone without a body, (Y/n)?” he asked. “To sit in this apartment with your ring in my hand, trying to convince myself that ash on the floor was all that was left of you?”

She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t remember anything-”

“Exactly,” he said, bitter. “You never do. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You pretend like you’re all confused. Like you don’t know what’s happening. And I- I fall for it. Every time. Like an idiot.”

“Matt- please, just listen to my heartbeat-”

“I did,” he cut in. “I’ve heard it before. Right before it disappears.”

Her lips trembled. “I swear I’m not-”

“You don’t get to do this,” he said, his voice suddenly shaking, but no less cruel. “You don’t get to come back here like nothing happened. Like you didn’t leave me bleeding on the floor that night. Like I didn’t spend years trying to claw my way out of what you left behind.”

“I didn’t leave you,” she whispered.

“But you’re dead,” Matt hissed, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat off his skin. “You died. And whatever this is- this illusion, this dream- it doesn’t change that. You don’t get to hurt me again.”

He said it like a closing statement. Like a sentence passed down after a trial that never had a chance. But he didn’t stop there.

“You think this is easy for me?” he went on, voice low, cracking at the edges now. “You think I want to keep seeing you in doorways? Hearing your voice when I close my eyes? You think I haven’t begged for it to stop?”

(Y/n) stood frozen, lips parted, tears streaking silently down her face.

“I have spent five years trying to forget the exact way you said my name before you disappeared. Five years trying not to hear it in someone else’s mouth. Five years waking up thinking you might be there- just once- and then realizing that all I’ve got left is a bed that’s too big and silence that’s too loud.”

He was pacing now, hands in his hair, breathing hard, unable to stop himself.

“You were my wife. You were supposed to be the rest of my life. And I had you for minutes. You were ripped out of my arms before I even got to love you properly. Do you understand that? Do you even get what you left behind?”

“Matt-”

“I grieved you like a man who’d never believe in God again,” he growled. “I went back to that night a thousand times in my head-wondering if I missed something, if I could’ve saved you, if I’d just done one thing different-”

“Matt-”

“I begged,” he snapped. “I begged God to bring you back. I lost everything trying to survive you. And now you show up here, looking exactly the same, like time hasn’t touched you, like you’re just picking up where you left off- like you didn’t burn me to the fucking ground-”

“Matt.”

She said it once.

Quietly.

And then she reached for him.

He flinched on instinct, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, gently, deliberately, she took his hand in hers- still trembling from the weight of his words- and guided it up between them.

To her chest. To her heartbeat. Right there. Steady. Real. Alive. His breath hitched. She kept his hand pressed there, fingers wrapped around his wrist like she could anchor him to this one undeniable truth.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not in your head. I don’t know how or why or what the hell happened, but I’m here.”

Matt didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hand pressed to her chest, like he didn’t trust what he was feeling. Like it might stop if he acknowledged it out loud. Then- suddenly- he let out a shaky breath and pulled her into him, hard.

His voice was muffled against her shoulder. “What the fuck.”

Her hands gripped his shirt like she was afraid he’d drop her again. “Yeah, what the fuck. I don’t know what’s happening.”

He laughed once, breathless and half-broken. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They just stood there for a second. Breathing each other in. Trying to recalibrate. Then, against his chest, she mumbled, “You look like shit, by the way.”

It slipped out before she could stop it. Matt let out an actual laugh- short, incredulous, almost like it startled him.

“That’s not funny,” he said, wiping at his eyes, still half-laughing.

She smiled weakly. “Little bit funny.”

He shook his head, still not quite believing any of it. “God, I missed you.”

And then he kissed her.

Desperate and real and messy- too much force, too much urgency, like he didn’t trust it to last. His hands found her face, holding her like he needed proof she was solid. She kissed him back just as hard, fingers in his hair, anchoring him to now. To her.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And that was enough.

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

a little bonus content because well it was funny in my head

A few days later

She was curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled, one of his old hoodies hanging off her shoulder. The TV was on, volume low, neither of them really watching.

She was still catching up- on everything. The blip. The aftermath. The years she missed. Sometimes it hit her like a freight train. Other times, like now, it just snuck up and poked her in the ribs.

She turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “Wait a second.”

Matt tilted his head toward her. “Uh-oh.”

She sat up a little. “So… technically, you’re five years older than me now?”

He blinked. “That’s what you’re choosing to focus on right now?”

“It’s a valid question,” she insisted, grinning. “I married a man my age, not some grizzled thirty-something.”

He scoffed. “Grizzled?”

“I mean, I don’t see any grey hairs, but-”

“I’m blind, not deaf. I heard that smirk.”

She tried to hold back a laugh. Failed. “So you’re like… what, thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-seven,” he corrected flatly.

“Oh no. I married an older man.”

Matt deadpanned, “And I married a time traveler. Guess we’re even.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. “You gonna start calling me ‘kid’ now?”

He turned toward her, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Only if you want to see how fast a five-year age gap doesn’t matter.”

Her face flushed. “Okay, grandpa.”

Matt groaned. “Regret. Immediate regret.”

She laughed, leaning back into him again, warm and solid and finally, finally real.

“Still married me,” she said, smug.

“Still would,” he replied, without hesitation.

And that shut her up for a minute.

[foldingfittedsheets]

I was talking to my coworker today about my deep belief that more media should be finite. Some of the most disappointing endings in TV happen because there wasn’t an end goal that the plot was working toward all along. Ironically this came up because I was lamenting Arcane only being two seasons, a decision I admire, respect, and mourn.

I was juxtaposing How I Met Your Mother with The Office. The whole conceit of HIMYM is that the story is supposed to be leading toward this woman who haunts the narrative with her absence but because they set out with no end goal the finale is ultimately so unsatisfying. Nine seasons of build up for someone who could never have lived up to the hype because she wasn’t chosen beforehand or included early on.

Contrasted the The Office which was nine seasons that only ever claimed to be about the daily lives of office workers. Things get a bit looney tunes at times but ultimately the finale feels correct because there wasn’t some stated goal they’d been working toward narratively all along.

I then stated that the best and most elegant storytelling for TV was on The Good Place, in which every episode furthered the understanding of moral philosophy, advanced the plot, and was funny. It set out with a clear story and wrapped up exactly where it intended in one of the most satisfying conclusions ever that makes me cry every time.

My coworker then said, “What’s The Good Place?”

I froze. I frantically ran back everything I’d said thus far for spoilers and concluded that I had not ruined the plot. “You haven’t seen it?”

“No, it’s pretty good?”

“It’s. Really good.”

He mused about watching it with his partner or alone. I know he doesn’t like to rewatch media but I still suggested, “Watch it alone first, and then rewatch it with her. Trust me. The twist at the end of the first season will recontextualize everything and you’ll get to watch her reaction.”

I hope I get to hear him talk about it when I work with him next. I’m excited.

[euphoria-looney]

Astro!

Yan!Batfam x Neglected!Reader Squid Games!AU

m. list|next

"And goodness knows, The Wicked's Lives are lonely. Goodness knows, The Wicked die alone. It just shows, when you're wicked, You're left only, on your own." 'No One Mourns The Wicked' by Wicked the Musical

Divider creds: (?) and @dollywons

As a kid, all I longed for was someone to play a game with me that didn’t require some form of technology to keep both of us entertained.

Well, be careful what you wish for, because I have reached an all-time low, willing to kill people with children's games to earn money.

How much longer will I spend in this twisted game before getting killed? Maybe this is better whether I win or lose, I still gain freedom.

One choice is just the better option. 

That’d be losing winning.

Sure I would feel immense guilt, but I’d be free from debt… and then what? No longer needing to slave anyway from the amount of money I receive.

What then?

Could therapy even help? They’d probably send me off to a mental ward. 

Who's going to believe I won millions from playing some children’s games?

I looked around and saw the old man again from earlier, sitting alone in a space, I approached him, and he accepted to play with me.

“When I was little, this was one of my favorite games as a child.” The old man told us while we were walking into an open area.

“Really? I’ll be honest, I’ve never played this game before.”

As we finally found a point to play the game, we conversed.

—

“Did we do this to make a pact?”

He held out his hand, his pinkie and thumb sticking out, I laughed, wrapping my pinkie around his, pressing our thumbs together.

“Sir, no my gganbu- I think that’s what they called a really close friend right?”

—

Eventually we went all for nothing, this was the funniest game I ever played… I almost forgot the fact that I was going to die at the end.

“Ah, guess you won, betting all my marbles for your single one. Didn’t see that one coming.” I chuckled sadly.

He held my hand and placed the last marble in my palm.

“Take it, it’s yours anyway.” I looked up at him in shock, I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

“We are gganbu aren’t we? Remember we swore on it. And Gganbu always shares everything no matter what. You made this all possible.” My shoulder shook, as I could only stare at my shoes, my eyes felt like facets at the point. 

And then I felt these same hands embrace me, and I felt like a child all over again.

“What a great way to go.”

He pulled away, making me face him.

“Thank you. I had a good time.”

I hugged him once again, my tears overflowing on his shoulders.

He let go and I walked out of the gates.

Sniffles were all I could do before I heard the voice behind me.

“I remember my name now. My name is Il-nam. Oh Il-nam.”

I kept walking then flinched when I heard a ‘bang’ go off.

Surrounded by all these dead bodies, and these empty emotions, I pushed forward.

[Player 1, Eliminated]

—

Despite everything, I’m still having these selfish thoughts of staying alive.

We had just played ‘glass bridge’ leaving three of us here, dressed in suits, and eventually I was talking with Penelope, she’s the one that helped me out of the restraint we were in after we left for the first time.

“Hey, [name], just in case either of us can actually make it out of this hellhole, promise that we will take care of each other's loved ones, okay?” 

“Don’t say that, we’ll be okay.”

But she took more damage than any of us once the glass had shattered and was losing blood fast.

“Stay where you are, I’ll go get someone.”

I left and went to the guard or whatever they were, to beg, plead, for a doctor, maybe one that could’ve been on standby, but instead they walked past me with a coffin.

I could only stare at my once best friend standing over her bed.

I ran over there and held her body up, shaking her for some sign of hope.

“No, Penelope, please, no…”

—

Approaching the end game, we ate a feast, so fresh and nicely made, I felt the need to puke.

We place in the field shapes surrounding us, to resemble a squid, this was, Squid Game.

The rain soaking both of us, gray skies, and a single guard on the side.

Astro’s shirt still soaked in blood, his suit back on. He spoke before the game began, a knife in hand.

“I ended her suffering. You know she would have died anyway.”

The tears that once stained my face had been washed off by the rain, and now I could only feel disdain for the man I once knew in front of me.

“That’s bullshit, stop lying. She could’ve survived, they could have treated her.”

He retorted.

“I know what you’re like, you’re the reason I had to kill her. I knew you two would stop all this, so she didn’t die there. Even though we’ve gone so far, just to quit?” 

It seemed so similar to the time back at the manor.

—

“Damian had a lot happen to him as a child, are you going to blame him for this?” Dick sighed Damian behind him with no remorse for the fact I had slashes on my arm, not deep but painful. And though they wouldn’t leave scars, would that really matter?

He held a weapon against me while all I had was a stack of books now discarded and torn on the ground.

“[name]. You’re older than him, he’s still a child. You are the reason for this, it could’ve been avoided if you didn’t egg things on. Don’t blame Damian for your faults.” Egg him on? All I did was try and avoid him.

It wasn’t fair.

—

Now, if it wasn’t high before, my blood pressure had to be spiking. For that petty reason? Simply because he didn’t want all of this going to waste?

“Was that it? You killed someone because this might end?” My voice trembled.

“Yeah! You and that girl would have been the majority you needed to get out! Going home without anything! I couldn’t live with that!”

“And you think that means anything?! What?! one more life on top of the others you’ve stolen isn’t enough, and won’t be enough until you receive something?! You’d rather have one more dead than for all three of us to leave and somehow find another way to bring something, anything home?!” I shouted back at him.

I took my knife out of my pocket.

“It's over…”

“I won’t let you leave here with the money.”

3RD POV

While the VIP’s finally stood up to watch this entertaining last game.

Two people who have developed over time physically and mentally, once friends, were squabbling, fighting with very small amounts of energy, but a passion to win.

Both stabbed the other when eventually, player 456 was able to get the other on the ground and punched him over and over again.

The Waynes couldn’t help but be relieved this was it, they’d never let her go again, they would make up for everything starting with making sure she would be okay.

“Found the location heading there soon!” They heard Cassandra on the other line.

Late, but they would make it.

—

[name]’s POV

I held my knife, before stabbing it into the field, next to his face, before limping over to the goal point, it felt miles anyway, the guard had his gun loaded and aimed at Astro.

There before me was the practical finish line.

I can’t… No, I refuse to if anything, playing this game has fucked me other the head, but I refuse for one second to let this game be the last thing I ever see Astro at.

“I wanna end here.” I face the guard walking back to them.

“Clause Three of the agreement. The players are able to end the game when the majority agrees, so if we both give up,  you have to end it right?” I stumbled over.

The guard spoke on the walkie-talkie while I gazed back at Astro.

“Astro.”

“Back when we went to the same school, we’d hang out together and study before leaving chasing after our purpose that called out for us. Nothing's calling anymore.” After all this time, he still is.

I smiled at him, that once gummy smile I adorned, one that I hated so much.

“Let’s go”

I extended my hand to him. 

“Let’s go together.”

He slowly lifted his hand.

“[name], I’m sorry.” 

And before I could react, he took that hand and grabbed the knife that I put right next to him, and impaled himself in the neck with it. 

Blood gushed out and he choked out blood.

I quickly went to his side, stabilizing his head.

“Astro! Astro!”

“[name]..”

“No, no, don’t speak! Hang on!” I was panicking, this can’t be the end of us.

“M-my mother, please take care of my mom. And…”

“I love you.” That made me freeze my erratic movements, I was sure he could’ve seen my eyes widen.

“Loved you since meeting you.” With that, he closed his eyes and I could only call out his name, and held onto his body, it was getting colder fast.

[Player 218, Eliminated. Congratulations, Player456]

—

3rd POV

“Believe in Jesus or go to Hell!” A guy holding two signs chanted outside in the rain, strangers walking past each other, a white limo rolled up on the side of the street, dumping a bruised and exhausted body on the sidewalk, the same guy chanting untied the girl.

“Believe in Jesus.”

The girl was in the bank depositing 4.56 billion dollars before withdrawing some out. Her hair a mess, eyes sullen and eye bags that dragged down her face, she seemed exhausted. Walking back to the store she once worked at, a sign stated ‘SOLD’ and next to it a reef, “Rest in Peace, Conny Claire, Died too soon, old shop owner that meant so much to many people.” Flowers that surround the message.

The girl that came there for a snack could only sink to the ground in shock, hands rising to cover her face, body shaking and quivering.

Walking down a store alleyway, Astro’s mom approached the girl.

“How have you been, here take some food for the road after losing…” She sighed, and patted the girl's back, walking back to her shop.

“Have you heard from… Nevermind.” 

The girl opened her run down apartment where she once lived and went to see all the old photos in the yearbook of classes she had with Astro and in all of the group ones featuring her, her classmates, and Astro she noticed how in each one he was looking at her, with those fond eyes.

She could only fall onto her bed, her tired state crept on her before she fell asleep.

Some time later, the girl kept her promise to Penelope and helped out her family, then left them with Astro’s mom, leaving a wealthy sum of money, they became a family… somewhat of a replacement for the other's loved one, and the girl left paying off whatever debt any of them had.

The girl was sitting alone at the pond, drinking some alcohol. Before an old woman approached her, a flower basket in hand, it seemed she needed to sell them immediately before they wilted away. The girl reached into her pocket, handing her some money before the old woman went off. 

Picking up the nicely wrapped flower, a card appeared, making the girl stumble at picking up the card before reading it.

Approaching a hospital, card in hand.

It was the old man.

“What is this… Who are you?”

“Pour some water for me. Please, [name].”

And there she sat, anger rising in her, but she couldn’t do anything against the man who made the games.

She sat listening to the man talk, about the homeless guy below them, about how everything he said about himself was true, how he missed the old days, him and his friend used to have the time of their lives, and how no matter if you're homeless or rich both lives are no fun. Then a clock struck.

She looked at the machine to see that his heart was no longer beating, instead a flat line appeared. Getting up, she closed his eyes.

That’s when she finally started her life again. She got it together.

So, at the first place, her life changed at the same bus stop, well across from it, the skies were clear and the sun was glaring into the area. It had been a regular day for her, working at her own company and all.

Maybe that’s why when she unlocked her car and stared right in front of her at that same place, she was shocked to see her father, Bruce Wayne, and his family.

That’s it for this part of Astro! Did you like it?

Also, unlike Squid Game, soon after [name] left, everyone that participated in Squid Games got arrested, which made it on the news, but was looked past after a few months, [name] made gravestones for Penelope and Astro.

Ofc the Batfam got the credit and got even more famous for uncovering this incident, which is also why they hadn’t ‘visited’ [name] and now are just getting to it.

Not the update you expected, but I hope you like it.

Any comments, advice and corrections are appreciated!!!

-ILoveeeMoney

Taglist time! ❤

Also, I love the idea and from fic from both @jellyfishmoon97 and @not-weirdoshrek and a new addition that I'm super happy I bumped into @alilobsessive.

@holysoulsweets @sh4rk-k1d @sillysealsies @loomspuddle @cantfindmelol @alwaysholymilkshake @leitor-sonolento @randomlyappearingartist @beyondblissxoxo @sirairi @yhin-gg @frankie-moon3 @welpthisisboring @yokesmam @bat1212 @enchantingarcadecreation @twismare @delias-stuff @ladylupuscrow @ferchu0406 @c4xcocoa @cruzerforce4256 @anonymoushehehehe @godoreo22 @blerp-22 @facelessisnthere @sirenetheblogger @themightybee4067 @boredselkie @tiffyisme3760 @random4137 @midnightgrimoire @mybones537 @chaoticmoontimetravel @jsprien213 @crazycaoticsimp @elfollaburras3000 @czarinera @tiffyisme3760 @exactlynumberonekryptonite @gwyneveire @k-anaru @a-lurking-fae @nxdxsworld @ryuushou

I think that's everyone who wanted to be tagged, I hope I didn't spell anyone's name wrong and tag the wrong person.

[humaling]

Hope Is A Dangerous Thing To Have.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick came back a different man. after weeks of silence and indifference, you find a locket in his cot—a reminder that maybe not everything is lost.

warnings: very angsty!! mentions of torture, the usual hunger games

word count: 9.4k

author's note: very angsty. hopeful ending tho. i feel absolutely depressed since i was broken up with and needed a way to cope so i wrote this

How do you grieve someone who still breathes? Who still walks beside you, whose laughter drifts through the corridors like the tide, whose scent lingers in the air like salt on the breeze? How do you mourn a soul that hasn’t left—only drifted too far from shore to reach?

You search for him in the waves of memory, in the warmth that once lived in sea-green eyes now as distant as the horizon. Those eyes used to anchor you, a harbor of safety in the storm. Now they are nothing but glass—cold, unreadable, unfeeling.

You tell yourself to wait. Tides change. Currents shift. He will come back to you. But as the days melt into weeks, the shoreline erodes beneath your feet.

And in the quiet hours, when the ocean is still and your thoughts are too loud, the truth creeps in like a rising tide.

What if the man you love has already drowned?

You sit in the farthest corner of District 13’s massive cafeteria, a space large enough to hold a thousand soldiers. The wall behind you is cold and unyielding, pressing against your back like a ghost of something long gone. You feel just as hollow.

Around you, people gather in clusters, voices weaving together in conversation, laughter spilling from their lips as if there isn’t a war raging beyond these walls. As if their world hasn’t already been splintered apart.

To your right, Primrose Everdeen speaks softly, her voice carrying the weight of quiet sorrow. She tells you something about the medical bay—about Peeta—but the words barely reach you. They drift past like foam on the surface of the water, light and inconsequential, while you are caught in the undertow, dragged somewhere deeper. Somewhere darker.

Your mind is tethered to someone across the room.

Bronze hair, sea-green eyes—the color of the ocean at dawn, just before the sun touches it. The color of home.

You know what that skin feels like beneath your fingertips, warm and smooth, shifting over muscle that tenses like a pulled fishing net. You know the ridges of his scars, carved into him like the grooves of driftwood battered by relentless waves. The roughness of his palms, the gentleness of his hands—hands that once traced circles over your skin as if mapping out a place to return to.

You know he sleeps best when sprawled out, like a starfish on wet sand, limbs stretched wide to keep the nightmares at bay. That he hoards the blankets like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to driftwood. That he needs exactly five pillows when he sleeps alone, building a fragile fortress against the dark. That his fingers move with effortless precision when tying a knot, quick and deft, like a fisherman who has done it a thousand times before.

And you remember his laughter—the deep, rich timbre of it, rolling over you like the tide. You remember the way his voice drops to a lower octave when he wants something, as steady and unshakable as the ocean in a storm.

You remember everything.

And yet, right now, he feels like a stranger.

Maybe he is a stranger. Maybe that’s all he’s ever been. A ghost of someone who drowned long ago. A boy lost at sea, swept too far by currents neither of you could fight. A stranger with sea-green eyes that once cradled the sunlight and now hold nothing but the vast, endless cold of the deep.

Your heart sinks. Not breaks—it’s already done that. It shattered three weeks ago in the medical bay, splintering like a ship dashed against jagged rocks. His gaze—once warm, once yours—turned to ice. His voice—once a melody—lashed at you like saltwater in an open wound, venom laced between every syllable.

And now, whatever is left of your heart sinks further, past your ribs, past your stomach, past anything human, until it is nothing but flotsam on a restless tide.

You never thought it was possible to mourn the living. To grieve someone whose heart still beats, whose hands still move, whose voice still carries. But here you are, swallowing salt, lungs filling with something heavier than water. Wearing a jumpsuit that doesn’t fit quite right. Picking at food that tastes like sand. Sitting in a dim, lifeless room, playing babysitter.

Loss upon loss, and yet—somehow—there’s still more to lose.

~

“They’re here.”

Katniss’ voice ricochets off the walls, sharp and breathless. You snap your head up instantly, fingers freezing around the knot you were tying. She stands in the doorway, chest heaving, breath ragged like she’s been running—or like the weight of those two words is too much to bear alone.

You stare, pupils blown wide, the meaning slipping through your fingers like grains of sand before she speaks again, firmer this time.

“They’re back.”

The words crash over you like a wave, and suddenly, you’re moving.

Your body surges forward before your mind can catch up, feet pounding against the cold floors, the world narrowing to a single thought. Finnick. He’s back. He’s here. He’s alive.

Finnick is alive.

You don’t look back to see if Katniss follows. You don’t hear anything but the rush of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart like a war drum. The world around you is a blur of gray walls and fluorescent light, too bright, too sterile, too detached from the wild chaos inside you.

You shove past people in the hall, muttering apologies you don’t really mean, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The scent of medicine and metal seeps into your lungs, and somewhere ahead, voices carry through the air—familiar, distant, pulling you forward like a rip current.

Your heart slams against your ribs, pounding like waves against jagged rocks, relentless and unforgiving. The roar of blood in your ears muffles everything else, reducing the world to a single, all-consuming thought—Finnick. Finnick, who is here. Finnick, who is alive. Finnick, who will be in your arms again, where he belongs, where he has always belonged.

You think about the words you will say when you finally reach him, when your hands find his skin, when the unbearable distance between you ceases to exist. You will tell him that you love him, that you will never leave him again, not for anything, not for anyone. You will tell him that you are sorry, that you tried, that you fought, that you did everything in your power to bring him back before they could break him. You will tell him that District 13 is no better than the Capitol, that their president is nothing but another tyrant wrapped in the illusion of revolution, that this place is suffocating, a prison disguised as salvation.

But then you see him, and everything inside you goes still.

He sits on the edge of the medical bed, his back turned to you, his shoulders hunched in a way that feels entirely wrong. The sharp curve of his spine is more pronounced, his posture heavy with something you cannot name. A nurse stands beside him, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm, but he does not move, does not acknowledge her, does not seem fully present in his own body. There is something unnatural in the way he holds himself, something that unsettles you, that makes your stomach twist in a sick, sinking way.

You try to tell yourself that this is normal, that exhaustion clings to him like seaweed tangled around an anchor, that of course he is different after everything he has endured. You tell yourself that the unease slithering through you is nothing more than hunger, that six hours without food is enough to make your body feel strange, that the nausea building inside you has nothing to do with the way his head remains bowed.

You force yourself to push the feeling down, to breathe past the doubt and the fear clawing at the back of your mind.

“Finnick.” His name leaves your lips on an exhale, soft and desperate, like the rush of air from a drowning man finally breaking the surface.

He turns at the sound of your voice, and the relief that crashes over you is instant, a tide that swallows every doubt, every hesitation, every ache you have carried since the moment he was taken. You barely register the stiffness in his movements before your body is closing the distance, arms wrapping around him, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as though he might slip through your grasp if you let go. The scent of antiseptic clings to him instead of salt, the sterile air of the medical bay stripping him of the warmth you have always known, but it does not matter. He is here. He is real.

“You’re really here,” you whisper against the curve of his neck, voice breaking under the weight of emotion pressing against your ribs. “I thought—” But the words catch in your throat, lost to the sheer relief of having him in your arms again.

His body remains rigid beneath your touch, his muscles locked so tightly that you can feel the tension humming through him like a wire stretched too thin. The longer you hold him, the more you become aware of the way he does not lean into you, the way he does not return your embrace.

A frown tugs at your brows as you slowly pull back, hands settling gently on his shoulders, careful not to press too hard. Your eyes search his face, scanning every feature, trying to find something familiar, something safe, something that tells you he is still him. His jaw is set in a sharp line, his lips pressed together in a firm, unsmiling press. His brows are drawn, a deep crease forming between them, but it is not exhaustion that shapes his expression. It is not relief. It is something colder, something harder, something unrecognizable.

His eyes, the ones that once held warmth, the ones that once softened when they met yours, the ones that always carried the unspoken promise of home, are different now. The sea-green depths that used to hold so much tenderness have darkened, the waves receding, leaving nothing behind but cold, empty waters.

“Finnick?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as your thumb moves to brush against his cheek, aching to ground yourself in something, anything, that feels familiar.

The second your skin grazes his, he flinches.

The reaction is small, a brief, involuntary jerk, but it is enough to send ice flooding through your veins, enough to make the air in your lungs turn sharp and unforgiving. Your mouth parts, the words forming somewhere deep in your throat, but they never make it past your lips. What could you even say? What could you possibly say when the worst thing you have ever feared is unfolding right in front of you?

Before you can find an answer, before you can even begin to process the chasm opening between you, his hands press against your shoulders, and he pushes you away.

The force of it knocks you off balance, sending you stumbling back, feet tripping over nothing, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch yourself. The impact never comes. Someone catches you before you hit the ground, steady hands gripping your arms, but your mind barely registers the touch.

Finnick is already on his feet, his body moving with frantic, clumsy urgency as he rips the IV from his arm, the tubing snapping loose, blood welling in the space where the needle once sat. He does not seem to notice, does not seem to care.

Then he turns to you, and whatever remains of your world shatters into pieces so small, you know you will never be able to put them back together again.

There is no recognition in his gaze, no softness, no warmth, no love. There is only anger, sharp and seething, festering beneath the surface like a wound left to rot. There is only hatred, raw and consuming, filling the space where something else—something beautiful, something yours—used to be. There is only indifference, cold and unyielding, cutting through you like the tide swallowing the last breath of a drowning man.

“Finnick?” You call out again, your voice cracking as you struggle to regain your footing, your limbs trembling beneath the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. The distance between you feels vast, an ocean you cannot cross, a current too strong to fight against.

Your hands move frantically at your sides, grasping at nothing, unsure of what to do, what to say, how to make sense of what is unfolding in front of you. What do you do when the man you love—the man who once held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable—now looks at you as if you are nothing?

Finnick’s lips part, and the scoff that escapes is sharp, cruel, void of anything familiar. “Don’t act like you’re so glad to see me.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving, but it is the way his words land that truly destroys you. They slice through your heart without hesitation, leaving gashes so deep you do not know if they will ever heal. The coldness in his tone, the sheer venom laced between each syllable, is enough to send your stomach twisting violently, enough to make your breath hitch and your pulse stutter.

You shake your head, your throat tightening as you struggle to make sense of it, to piece together something—anything—that could explain why he is looking at you like you are nothing more than a stranger, an enemy, something to be loathed. “Finnick… I don’t—” The words falter on your tongue, because how do you ask why? How do you demand answers when you are too terrified to hear them?

His expression twists into something cruel, something mocking, something that makes the ground beneath you feel unsteady. “You don’t what?” he sneers, taking a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator toying with prey. “You don’t understand? You don’t get why I wouldn’t be happy to see you?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, the sound dripping with something bitter, something tainted. “That’s funny. You, of all people, pretending to be clueless.”

The words don’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense. He is here. He is alive. He is back. So why does it feel like you are losing him all over again?

“Finnick, please,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I did.”

His expression darkens, his eyes flashing with something unreadable before his lips curl into a smirk, but there is nothing warm about it. It is hollow, cruel, a mockery of the smiles you once knew. “You don’t know?” He scoffs again, shaking his head. “That’s rich. That’s really rich.”

You reach for him, a desperate attempt to find something familiar, something that will bring you back to the Finnick you know, the Finnick who once traced the lines of your palms like they held the universe, the Finnick who pressed sleepy kisses to your shoulder in the early hours of the morning, the Finnick who whispered that he loved you like it was the only thing that ever mattered. But the moment your fingers so much as brush his arm, he jerks away as if your touch burns him.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, thick and suffocating. “Why are you doing this?” The words are barely more than a breath, shaky and broken, but they are all you can manage.

Finnick’s jaw tightens, his hands clenched into fists at his sides before his eyes meet yours again, his gaze colder than you have ever seen it. The weight of it crashes over you like a tidal wave, dragging you under, deeper and deeper, until all you can feel is the crushing force of the words he says next.

“Because I hate you.”

Your breath catches. Your body goes still. The world around you seems to blur at the edges, fading into nothing but the space between you and him.

No.

No, he doesn’t mean that. He can’t mean that.

But there is no hesitation in his expression, no flicker of doubt, no trace of the Finnick you know beneath the loathing that twists his features.

“You left me,” he says, voice steady, but laced with something bitter, something sharp enough to cut. “You left me there to die.”

Your head shakes before you even realize it, rejection spilling from your lips as if saying the words would make them true. “No. No, I—” Your voice wavers, breaking apart at the seams, but you swallow down the panic rising in your throat. “Finnick, that’s not true. I would never—”

His laughter is quiet, mirthless, like the hollow echo of waves against a broken shore. “Liar.” He exclaims, running a hand through his hair as if the very sight of you is exhausting. “I know what we were. What you were.” His eyes darken, and the next words come like a final nail in the coffin. “You were using me.”

Your breath shudders out of you, unsteady and uneven, but the ache in your chest only worsens as he continues, unrelenting. “I was nothing more than a means to an end, wasn’t I?” His voice is eerily calm, his gaze cold and unreadable. “All of it—the whispers, the stolen moments, the way you looked at me like I was something worth saving—it was never real. You had a motive, and I was too much of a fool to see it.”

Your entire body feels like it’s trembling, but you force yourself to move, to step closer, to reach for him as if you can pull him back from whatever abyss they’ve shoved him into. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “That’s not true, and you know that.”

He flinches away from your touch. Not violently, not aggressively, but in a way that hurts even more. As if your hands on him are unbearable. As if you are unbearable.

Your heart clenches so tightly it feels like it might collapse in on itself. “Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You’re breaking my heart.”

For the briefest of moments, something flickers across his expression. Something fleeting, something fragile. But it’s gone before you can grasp onto it, swallowed by the tide of whatever poison they’ve fed him.

His lips part, but no words come, only the silence stretching between you, cold and merciless.

Tears slip down your cheeks, hot against the numbness settling into your bones. You shake your head, refusing to let this be real, refusing to accept that the boy who once held you like you were his whole world now looks at you like you are nothing more than a ghost of something he wishes he could forget.

“I would never leave you there to die.” Your voice is hoarse, raw, carved from something deeper than heartbreak.

But Finnick only looks at you like he doesn’t believe you.

Finnick exhales, slow and sharp, like he’s trying to hold something in—something dangerous, something volatile. His hands tremble at his sides, fingers twitching as if itching to lash out, to grab onto something, to make this feeling stop.

“They told me everything,” he murmurs, and there’s something distant about the way he says it, like he’s reciting a fact, like he’s just now realizing the full weight of it. “How you left me in that arena. How you saved yourself and let me suffer.” His sea-green eyes bore into you, darkened with something cruel, something unbearable. “I should’ve died there. I would’ve died there if I was lucky.”

Your throat tightens. His words are salt in an open wound, stinging, burning, seeping into the rawest parts of you. You shake your head, stepping closer, reaching out despite the way he flinches. “Finnick, please. That’s not true. You know that’s not true.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He won’t hear you. His voice rises, every syllable heavier than the last, suffocating in its weight. “You let them take me.” The accusation slices through the air, through you, straight to the marrow of your bones. “You let them drag me away, and now you think you can stand here and pretend like you care? Like you ever cared at all?”

“I do care,” you whisper, but it’s drowned out by the storm unraveling in front of you.

Finnick’s breathing grows unsteady, his body taut like a wire stretched too thin, fraying at the edges. His fists clench and unclench, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting something unseen, something warring inside of him. His shoulders tremble, his entire frame locked in battle with itself, with the ghosts clawing at his mind.

“Get away from me.” His voice is lower now, raw and laced with something just shy of a snarl. “I can’t—” He swallows thickly, his breath coming out harsh and uneven. “I can’t be around you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your limbs feel heavy, your skin ice-cold, but you force yourself to stand your ground. “Finnick, I’m not leaving you.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, fragile and desperate. “Not now. Not ever.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something you want to believe is hesitation, but before you can reach for him again, a firm hand clasps around your upper arm.

“Come on,” a voice urges—one of the soldiers, firm but not unkind.

You try to shake them off, to dig your heels into the floor, but Finnick’s gaze stops you in your tracks. The way his expression twists, the way his body shakes as his breathing grows erratic—it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

“Get her out of here,” another voice commands.

“No, wait,” you plead, struggling as the grip on your arm tightens, as another set of hands joins the first, dragging you back, forcing distance between you and him.

Finnick stumbles back, his chest heaving, his hands threading into his hair like he’s trying to rip something out of himself. His entire body quivers, like a wave cresting too high, about to break.

Your own body thrashes against the hold keeping you away from him. “Finnick, please, listen to me! It wasn’t like that! You have to believe me!”

But he isn’t looking at you anymore. He turns away, his breathing sharp, his entire frame locked in place as if afraid to move, afraid to break.

And then you’re gone—hauled through the doorway, dragged down the hall, your screams swallowed by the sterile walls of District 13.

The last thing you see before the doors shut is Finnick, hunched over, hands gripping his head, like he’s drowning in a tide he cannot escape.

~

You sat with Haymitch outside of Katniss’ room, the dim, sterile hall stretching endlessly in front of you. The air was thick with something suffocating, something you couldn’t name—grief, maybe. Or something worse.

Apparently, Peeta was in the same condition as Finnick. Hijacked. Twisted. Warped. Their minds were tampered with, their memories poisoned, their love rewritten into something unrecognizable. Snow had not only taken them—he had turned them into weapons, sharpened and honed for one singular purpose.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that Finnick despised you now, or the gnawing, gut-wrenching fear that the Finnick you once knew might never come back.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your knees to your chest. Your fingers curled and uncurled, your wrists rolling to shake off the numbness, to rid yourself of the ghost of his touch—the rigidness of his body beneath your hands, the way he flinched at your presence like you were something vile, something rotten. It made your skin crawl. Not because of him. Never because of him.

Because of what they did to him.

Because of the way you made him feel.

“It’s not your fault.” Haymitch’s voice cut through the silence, rough and low, but not unkind.

You turned your head to look at him, at the wreck of a man beside you. Haymitch looked like hell—more so than usual. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but beneath it, there was something else. A deep, quiet horror. Like he had seen this before. Lived it. Survived it, but barely.

You had heard the stories. What the Capitol did to him. What he endured in his games, and after.

Your throat tightened, a bitter laugh slipping out before you could stop it. “Should’ve been me.” Your voice was hoarse, raw from screaming, from pleading with someone who no longer wanted to hear it.

Haymitch scoffed, pulling a flask from God-knows-where, twisting it in his hands before taking a swig. “No, it shouldn’t have.” He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared ahead, gaze locked on something distant, something only he could see. “You wouldn’t have lasted long enough in there.”

Your jaw clenched, a protest forming on your tongue, but he cut you off before you could speak.

“You don’t have the mind for it. The will for it. You’d break faster than Peeta. Hell, maybe worse.” He finally turned his head, meeting your gaze, his gray eyes softer than you had ever seen them. It unsettled you more than his usual cynicism.

You sucked in a breath, tilting your head back against the cold, lifeless wall. Your eyes burned as you bit down on your lip, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape. Your heart ached, a deep, gnawing pain that felt like drowning, like being dragged under a current too strong to fight.

It was unbearable. Unyielding. You didn’t know how to deal with it. You weren’t sure you ever would.

Haymitch sighed, running a tired hand down his face before taking another sip. “It’s a process, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “But you need to hang on. For both of you.”

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, gripping the fabric so tightly it might tear. He was right. You hated that he was right.

And you hated that, despite everything, despite the venom in Finnick’s voice and the ice in his eyes, you would wait for him as long as it took.

~

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, shoulders squared, as if bracing for a fight that will never come. As if standing like this, standing strong, will keep you from falling apart.

Your gaze is fixed on Finnick’s chest, on the slow, steady rise and fall that proves he is still here, still breathing. He looks peaceful like this. Almost untouched by everything that has happened, everything that has been done to him.

But you know better.

His fingers twitch from time to time, grasping at something unseen, someone unseen. A phantom touch. A memory slipping through his grasp.

You stay where you are, unmoving, barely breathing, watching him from a distance. Is this what it will be now? Is this all you’ll have left? Watching him from afar, knowing the only time he’ll ever look peaceful is when he’s unconscious? Knowing that the moment he stirs, it’s because of the nightmares?

Something acidic rises in your throat, burning, bitter, unbearable. The taste of grief, maybe. The taste of something you cannot name, something that twists your insides and leaves you hollow. You swallow it down, but it lingers, coating your tongue, settling deep inside you.

You hate this. You hate all of it.

All you want is to be in his arms, to lay your head against his chest and pretend that the world isn’t burning above you. Pretend that nothing has changed. Pretend that he still loves you.

But you stay in the doorway, feet rooted to the cold, unforgiving ground. Watching from a distance. Because that is all you have now. This is all you have now.

Footsteps echo softly against the cold floor, breaking the silence that has settled around you like a heavy fog. The sudden sound startles you, your body tensing as you instinctively turn on your heel, your fists clenching at your sides, ready to strike if necessary. But the moment your eyes catch the familiar cascade of long auburn hair, your shoulders ease, the fight within you slipping away just as quickly as it had risen.

Annie stands a few feet away, hesitant but unwavering, a quiet understanding reflected in the softness of her expression. There’s no pity in her gaze—only recognition, as if she knows exactly what kind of storm is brewing inside you without you having to say a word. A small, tentative smile tugs at her lips, a gesture so simple yet filled with warmth.

"It’s been a while, hasn’t it?" she says, her voice gentle, lacking the weight of expectation. She isn’t here to force words from you or demand answers you don’t have the strength to give. She is simply here.

You study her for a moment, unsure how to respond, as if the simple acknowledgment of time passing feels like an admission of how much has changed. Eventually, you nod, the motion slow, measured. "Yeah, it has," you murmur, your voice carrying the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered questions.

Annie doesn’t waver, doesn’t take the hint to leave you to your silence. Instead, she steps forward, closing the space between you in a way that isn’t intrusive, only familiar. She settles beside you, mirroring your posture as she leans lightly against the wall, her presence steady and unshaken.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your gaze cautious, guarded. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t probe. She only offers a quiet reassurance that you hadn’t realized you needed.

"Relax," she murmurs, as if sensing the lingering tension coiled in your muscles. "It’s just me."

Her words should be meaningless, just a simple reassurance, but somehow, they carry weight. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tightness in your chest easing—if only just a little.

Annie doesn’t expect you to talk. She just stays, letting the silence stretch between you in a way that feels less suffocating, less lonely.

Annie stands beside you, silent at first, her fingers idly twisting at the fabric of her sleeve. The air between you is heavy, thick with unspoken words, yet neither of you rushes to break it. The weight of everything—of what’s happened, of what’s still happening—lingers between breaths, settling deep in the space where grief and exhaustion intertwine.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but steady, as if she has rehearsed the words in her mind too many times before. “They kept me locked in a room without windows.” She doesn’t look at you, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the present, lost in a memory she can’t escape. “At first, it was just isolation. No light, no sound. Just me and the walls. I don’t know how long they left me there before they started asking questions.”

You don’t say anything. You barely breathe.

“They didn’t care about me,” she continues, voice devoid of emotion, like she’s reciting something detached from herself. “They wanted Finnick. Wanted to know how much he knew, how much he’d be willing to trade for me.” Her fingers curl around the hem of her sleeve, twisting it tighter. “I told them he didn’t know anything, but they didn’t believe me. They kept saying he would talk if he knew what was happening to me. If he thought they’d kill me.”

A sick feeling crawls up your throat. You grip your arms, trying to steady yourself.

Annie exhales slowly, as if forcing the weight of those memories from her chest. “But they weren’t just trying to break him. They were breaking all of us.” Her voice tightens slightly, but she pushes on. “Johanna—she fought them at first. Wouldn’t give them what they wanted. They stripped her of everything, piece by piece, until she wasn’t sure who she was anymore.”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, trying to steel yourself against the wave of emotions threatening to pull you under.

“And Peeta…” Annie hesitates. “I never saw him, but I heard him. Sometimes, in the halls. The way he screamed… I knew they were doing something different to him. Something worse.” She finally looks at you, her green eyes filled with something raw, something fragile yet unbreakable. “They weren’t just hurting him. They were remaking him.”

A sharp, searing pain twists in your chest.

You shake your head, trying to will away the image of Peeta trapped in the Capitol, his mind being twisted into something unrecognizable. “And Finnick?” The question leaves your lips before you can stop it, your voice barely above a whisper.

Annie hesitates, and that hesitation alone is enough to make your stomach drop.

“When they realized they couldn’t break him, they made him believe something worse,” she says finally, her voice so soft it’s almost lost beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights. “They made him believe you left him there. That you abandoned him.”

The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“They told him you were never really on his side. That you used him. That he was nothing more than a tool to you.” Annie shakes her head, jaw tightening.

A sharp, visceral pain shoots through your chest, so intense that for a moment, you can’t breathe.

Annie notices. “I don’t believe it,” she says quickly. “And I don’t think—deep down—he does either. But they got inside his head. They took everything he was feeling and twisted it.”

Your vision blurs as a lump lodges itself in your throat. You’ve always imagined the worst, always wondered what they must have done to him, but hearing it like this makes it real. Makes it undeniable.

Your nails dig into your arms as you force the words out, your voice barely holding together. “I would never leave him.”

Annie’s expression softens, but there’s something pained in the way she looks at you. “I know that. You know that. But Finnick… Finnick isn’t himself right now.” She hesitates before adding, “That doesn’t mean he’s lost forever.”

But what if he is? What if the Finnick you love, the Finnick who loves you, is gone?

“I should have—” Your voice breaks, and you shake your head, unable to even finish the thought.

“There was nothing you could have done,” Annie says, her voice firm despite its softness. “Nothing any of us could have done.”

But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like you failed him. Like you lost him.

You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to keep the tears at bay. “I just want him back.” The words come out fragile, almost childlike. “The real him.”

Annie’s expression softens. “So do I,” she murmurs. “And I think, when all of this is over, he’ll find his way back.”

Neither of you speaks after that. There’s nothing left to say.

Instead, you both stand there, side by side, drowning in the weight of everything that’s been taken from you.

~

It has been a month since Finnick and the others were rescued. A month of waiting, of hoping, of slowly unraveling under the weight of what has been lost. Finnick and Annie were cleared after two weeks. Johanna still has one more week under observation. And Peeta—Peeta is making no progress at all.

You visit Annie and Johanna most often. It feels easier, in a way. Johanna makes jokes sharp enough to slice through your grief, her bitterness grounding you when you start to spiral. Annie doesn’t say much, but when she looks at you, there is an understanding in her gaze that makes it easier to breathe. Even in silence, she sees you. She sees the way you are trying to move forward, to convince yourself that there is still something ahead of you and not just the gaping void Finnick’s indifference has left behind.

But every conversation ends the same way. No matter how much you pretend, no matter how much you try to stitch yourself back together, you always end up right where you started—wallowing in the emptiness, drowning in the cold distance Finnick has placed between you. Every moment without him feels stretched thin, an unbearable ache that never eases. The man you love is right there, close enough to touch, but it might as well be miles. He does not look at you. He does not speak to you. And if he does, it is with an apathy that cuts deeper than any blade.

Sometimes, when the weight of it becomes too much, you visit Peeta. Maybe because you think if you can bring him back, there’s hope for Finnick too. Maybe because you need to see what the Capitol did to him—to both of them—to remind yourself that this isn’t your fault. But Peeta isn’t Peeta. He flinches when Katniss’ name is mentioned, his voice is sharp, and his words are laced with venom. And yet, all you can see is Finnick.

You see it in the way Peeta looks at Katniss like she is the enemy, the same way Finnick now looks at you. You see it in the way his hands curl into fists when she enters the room, the same way Finnick tenses whenever you are near. You see it in the way his voice is edged with something hollow, something broken, something that does not belong to him. And you remember. You remember the cold detachment in Finnick’s eyes, the way his hands no longer cradle your face but push you away, the way his words are no longer laced with warmth but with quiet, unshakable hatred.

It makes your skin crawl. Makes you want to run. Makes you want to claw at your own chest and rip out whatever it is inside you that still dares to hope. You wish this was just a nightmare, something fleeting, something you could wake up from. But there is no waking up from this. There is only time. And with every passing day, Finnick becomes less of the man you loved and more of a stranger wearing his face.

So you tell yourself that whoever came back isn’t him. That the Finnick you love is still somewhere out there, lost in the wreckage of what the Capitol did to him. That this man—the one who won’t meet your gaze, the one who does not say your name, the one who acts as if you are nothing—is an impostor. A hollow thing trying to be him. Because that is easier than accepting the truth.

Because the truth is, if Finnick is truly gone, you do not know how to keep going without him.

Maybe that’s why everything is starting to blur, the edges of the world dulling into shades of gray. Nothing feels sharp anymore, nothing feels real. You’ve stopped trying to move forward. Instead, you let the grief sink its claws into you, dragging you under, hoping—maybe even begging—that it swallows you whole. Anything to keep from waking up another day, from dragging yourself through the motions, from existing in a world where everything you do, everything you see, everything you feel is stained with the absence of him.

You speak less. See people less. The days pass without meaning, slipping through your fingers like sand. Most of your time is spent in silence, lying on the stiff mattress of your bunker, staring at the ceiling, waiting. For what, you don’t know. Maybe for Finnick. Maybe for something else. Maybe for nothing at all.

But no matter how much you try to numb yourself, no matter how much you try to pretend it doesn’t tear you apart, the truth still sits in the hollow of your chest, pressing against your ribs like a caged scream.

You don’t last like this forever. Although you wish you had. But Coin doesn’t let opportunities slip through her fingers, especially not when she sees potential. And you? You’re efficient. You know weapons, you know how to track, how to move unnoticed. That makes you useful.

So she forces you out of your bunker, shoving you into training, into preparation, until suddenly, you’re being sent out on expeditions. To hunt, to kill, to spy. It doesn’t matter. You don’t ask questions. You just get the job done. Because what else is there to do?

Of course, the others notice. Katniss has been trying to get you to talk, to tell her what Coin is making you do. You learn, unwillingly, that she’s being forced to make propaganda films to strengthen the revolution. The idea of it makes you want to laugh. What difference does a camera make when people are already dying?

But it’s Haymitch who’s the most persistent. And that surprises you.

At first, you assume it’s just boredom. He doesn’t have alcohol to drown himself in, so maybe he’s looking for something else to pass the time. But the more he seeks you out, the more you realize it’s something deeper. He watches you too closely, the way your hands stay clenched at your sides, the way you don’t sleep, the way you barely eat. He sees through you.

And he doesn’t like what he sees.

“Come on, sweetheart, we both know what she’s doing,” Haymitch mutters one day, cornering you outside the training room. “She’s using you up until there’s nothing left.”

You scoff, shouldering past him. “You say that like I have anything left to begin with.”

He doesn’t let you go so easily. His grip snags your wrist, firm but not forceful, just enough to make you pause. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” His voice is quieter now, but sharper. “You’re letting her turn you into something you don’t even recognize.”

You rip your arm free, glaring. “What do you care?”

Haymitch exhales roughly, raking a hand through his hair. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, he says, “Because I’ve been where you are. And it doesn’t end well.”

You freeze. Something tightens in your chest, but you shove it down, scoffing. “I’m not you.”

“No. You’re not,” Haymitch agrees. “But you’re on the same damn path.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You think if you throw yourself into this, if you bleed enough for the cause, it’ll make up for everything? That it’ll bring him back?”

Your stomach twists violently. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cuts in, relentless. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything? To watch the people you love get taken from you, piece by piece, until you don’t even know who you are anymore?” His jaw tightens, his eyes dark with something old and painful. “I drank myself into oblivion to cope. You? You’re letting Coin use you as a weapon, like that’s any better.”

His words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. Because you know he’s right. You’ve known it for a while now. But admitting it—saying it out loud—that’s something else entirely.

Your throat burns. “You don’t understand.”

“The hell I don’t.” Haymitch shakes his head, exasperated. “You were Mags’ girl. She would’ve died before letting you turn into this.”

Something inside you cracks at that. You whirl on him, rage and grief twisting together. “Mags is dead.”

“And so is Finnick, if you keep this up,” Haymitch snaps back. “Because when he finally does come back to himself, do you think he’s gonna recognize you? Or are you just gonna be another ghost?”

The words hit deeper than you want to admit. A cold, ugly truth settling in your bones.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because the anger, the bitterness, the grief—it’s all rising too fast, threatening to suffocate you. Haymitch sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not saying this to piss you off,” he mutters. “I’m saying it because someone has to.”

You swallow hard, looking away. “So what? You want me to stop?”

“I want you to remember who the hell you are,” Haymitch says. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna lose yourself completely. And I know for a fact Mags didn’t raise you to be some mindless soldier.”

The silence between you is heavy, filled with too many unspoken things. But for the first time in weeks, something inside you stirs. A flicker of something—doubt, regret, maybe even hope.

Haymitch doesn’t push you any further. He just exhales and steps back, giving you space to decide for yourself. “Think about it,” he says, before walking away.

And you do.

For the first time in a long time, you really do.

~

The underground bunker hums with quiet activity, a constant murmur of voices and the soft scuff of boots against the cold floors. The air feels heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of too many people forced into the same confined space. You should be paying attention, listening for updates, but none of it registers. It hasn’t in a long time. Your mind remains distant, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the dull ache of something deeper, something you don’t have the strength to name.

Your feet carry you forward without thought, drawn to a space you shouldn’t be seeking out. Finnick’s cot is just another part of the bunker, another piece of fabric stretched too thin over metal, indistinguishable from the dozens of others. And yet, you always find yourself looking for it, searching for some trace of the past, as if by sheer force of will, you might bring back what has already been lost.

The dim lighting catches on something small resting against the rumpled sheets. A glint of gold, barely noticeable but impossible to ignore. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, stopping you in your tracks before you even realize what it is.

Your fingers close around it almost on instinct, the cool metal familiar against your skin. You don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. The weight of it alone is enough to tell you that this is the same locket, the one you once traced with your fingers on nights when the world felt too vast, too cruel. The one that held a piece of you and a piece of him.

The clasp resists when you try to open it, as if the locket itself is reluctant to reveal its secret, but after a moment, it gives way. Your breath catches the moment you see what’s inside.

Your own face, captured in a moment frozen in time.

The sight of it steals the air from your lungs, a sharp ache blooming in your chest. You knew this locket, knew what it contained, but seeing it here, now, in his possession—it doesn’t make sense. If he believed what they told him, if the Capitol had truly twisted his mind against you, why would he still have this? Why would he keep something that tethered him to you?

Your fingers tighten around the locket, the edges pressing into your palm as if grounding you in reality. For the first time in weeks, doubt begins to take root, curling into something almost dangerous.

A voice breaks through the silence, low and familiar, stopping your thoughts in their tracks.

"Did anyone tell you that touching someone else’s stuff is rude?"

The words send a shock through you, and your breath stutters in your throat. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Finnick.

His tone isn’t harsh, isn’t cold or cutting like you feared it might be. It simply exists, filling the space between you in a way that makes your pulse hammer against your ribs. After everything—after weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending you don’t exist—he’s speaking to you. Acknowledging you.

Slowly, you force yourself to turn, meeting his gaze for the first time since the medical bay. The sight of him knocks the air from your lungs. He looks like himself, and yet not at all. The sharpness of his features remains, the familiar curve of his mouth, the green of his eyes—but there’s something different. The exhaustion clings to him like a second skin, his expression guarded in a way that sends a painful twist through your chest.

For a moment, neither of you move. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant noise of the bunker around you. Then, hesitantly, you lift the locket, the gold catching in the dim light as you hold it between you. His gaze flickers to it, something unreadable passing across his face.

He doesn’t snatch it away, doesn’t shove it into his pocket as if ashamed to have been caught with it. Instead, his fingers brush against the metal, slow and deliberate, before he takes it from your grasp. His thumb traces over the worn surface, lingering over the picture inside, his jaw tightening slightly as he studies it.

You watch him, heart lodged in your throat, afraid to speak and shatter whatever fragile moment has formed between you. For the first time in weeks, something shifts in the space between you—not enough to undo the damage, not enough to bring back what was lost, but enough to spark the faintest flicker of something you thought had been extinguished forever.

"Why do you have it?"

Your voice is quieter than you intended, barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t matter. The question lingers between you, pressing against the silence, desperate for an answer. You need him to say something—anything—that tells you he’s still in there, that beneath all the hatred, all the distance, there’s still a part of him that hasn’t let you go.

Finnick’s brows knit together, his gaze still locked on the locket in his palm as if the answer might be hidden in its worn edges. His fingers tighten around it, thumb tracing the familiar grooves, but he doesn’t speak.

The silence stretches, wrapping around you like a slow-moving tide. The world around you dulls, fading into nothing but the space between you and him. It’s been so long since you’ve had this—just him, just you. Even now, when everything feels different, wrong, broken, you can’t help but reach for what you lost.

Seconds drag into eternity, but you won’t back down. You’ve spent too many weeks pretending you could survive this distance when all you really wanted was to collapse into his arms, to hear him say something that could put you back together again.

Finally, he exhales, the sound barely audible, as if he’s been holding it in for too long. "I don’t know."

His voice is rough, strained, like the words cost him something. For the briefest moment, his eyes soften, something vulnerable flashing through them before it’s gone. He closes them, his lashes brushing against his cheek, his throat moving as he swallows hard.

You watch him carefully, memorizing him all over again. As if you haven’t traced every inch of his face before. As if you don’t already know every scar, every freckle, every shift of emotion that he tries to hide.

He looks exposed beneath your gaze, like the weight of your stare is too much, like he wants to run from it.

“I’ll tell you what,” you say, voice softer than you meant it to be. His eyes open at that, locking onto yours, and for a second, your breath falters. You could drown in that gaze. You always could.

Swallowing, you force yourself to keep steady, to say what you need to say. "Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

"Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

Finnick doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just holds your gaze like he’s caught between disbelief and something else, something heavier. His fingers curl around the locket, his grip tightening for a second before loosening again.

"What truth?" His voice is quiet, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like he’s daring you to say something he won’t be able to ignore.

You take a breath, steadying yourself even as your chest tightens. "That the Capitol didn’t take everything from you."

His jaw clenches, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. "You think you know what they did to me?" His laugh is humorless, bitter, the kind that scrapes against old wounds. "You think you understand what’s in my head?"

"I don’t have to understand it to know that this—" you gesture to the locket in his hand, "—means something. That you kept it for a reason."

Finnick exhales sharply, his fingers flexing, his shoulders rising with tension. "Or maybe I just forgot to throw it away."

The words sting, sharp and cruel, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you step closer, closing the space between you. His breath hitches for just a moment, and you see it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his body tenses, like he’s fighting something within himself.

"Then do it." Your voice is steady, a challenge. "If it doesn’t mean anything, if I don’t mean anything, then throw it away."

Finnick says nothing. His grip tightens around the locket again, but his hand doesn’t move.

Your throat feels tight, but you press on. "I know you, Finnick. I spent nights tracing your scars on your skin, and so did you. And I know that no matter what they did to you, no matter what they forced into your head, some part of you still remembers."

His breath is uneven now, his gaze flickering away, like he can’t bear to look at you.

"Tell me I don’t matter," you say, voice softer now, almost pleading. "Tell me that locket doesn’t mean anything. And I’ll leave you alone."

Finnick stares at the locket in his palm, shoulders drawn tight like he’s caught in a battle you can’t see. His fingers hover over the clasp, as if debating whether to close it, tuck it away, or crush it in his grip. But he does none of those things. Instead, he just stands there, the weight of your words pressing down on him like an anchor.

You wait, heart hammering against your ribs, but he doesn’t speak.

"Finnick." You take another step, your voice softer now, hesitant. "Please."

His jaw clenches. "You think this changes anything?"

"It changes everything," you counter. "You’ve been pretending I don’t exist, but you kept this. Why?"

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes, something that makes your stomach twist painfully. "I don’t know," he admits, and for the first time since he came back, he sounds… lost.

It guts you more than the indifference ever did.

You don’t realize you’ve reached for his hand until your fingers brush against his. His skin is warm, familiar, but he flinches like you’ve burned him. He doesn’t pull away, though. Doesn’t shove you aside like you half expect him to.

"You do know," you whisper.

His breath shudders as he finally lifts his gaze to yours. The exhaustion clings to his face, but beneath it, there’s something else—a flicker of recognition, of a battle waging inside him.

"You said if I told you that locket doesn’t mean anything, you’d leave me alone." His voice is quieter now, almost hesitant.

You nod, forcing yourself to hold steady, even as your chest tightens. "I meant it."

Finnick swallows, gaze dropping to the locket again. His thumb brushes over the worn gold, over the tiny latch that guards your picture inside. Another long silence stretches between you, the tension pulling tight, suffocating.

Then, finally—so quiet you almost miss it—he exhales, "I can’t."

Your breath catches. "Can’t what?"

His fingers tighten around the locket, his shoulders rising with a shuddering breath. "I can’t say it doesn’t mean anything."

The air between you shifts, something fragile and dangerous crackling in the space. Hope stirs in your chest, tentative and unsteady, but real.

"Then stop pretending like I don’t exist," you whisper.

Finnick’s throat bobs as he swallows. He looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something, teetering between fear and familiarity. His lips part, but before he can say anything, a voice calls from across the bunker.

"Odair, let’s go!"

Finnick tenses, something closing off in his expression again. His fingers curl around the locket, hiding it from view, and just like that, the moment shatters.

You watch as he steps back, his face unreadable again. But before he turns away completely, you see it—the way his hand lingers near his pocket, the locket still clutched tight in his palm.

He doesn’t throw it away.

And this time, you let yourself believe that means something.

[starsintheendlessnight]

I'll leave more context here it's long btw so yk

I want to clarify quickly that this is obviously something invented since we know almost nothing about Ctimene in Epic and it is just an idea of ​​mine and aha yk

Ctimene was waiting for Eurylochus for 20 years just like Penelope, I imagine her during these 20 years having an art block due to the lack of inspiration and her muse. Something simple to start with

After the arrival of Odysseus he stayed with his wife in his room for a few days since he wanted to spend time with her and his son. Ctimene wanted to greet Odysseus but he refused since he was not ready to talk to her since he would have to give her the news of Eurylochus' death and he was not prepared for that. Ctimene already feel that something bad had happened but decided to keep hope but found out from Telemachus that her husband died. She was devastated by the news and even more so by the way she found out. Odysseus spoke to Ctimene when she approached him asking for an explanation since he forgot bc he was spending time with Penelope and Telemachus. Odysseus spoke to her privately and explained everything in a totally partial way and apologized for the decisions he had made. Ctimene understood the reason for her brother's decisions but she did not forgive him for sacrificing her husband and for leaving her so aside in a difficult moment.

With Penelope, she was always very close to Ctimene and even more so when their husbands left for war, they were both very VERY close and shared the same pain but after Odysseus arrived it took Penelope days to approach Ctimene and offer her condolences for the death of Eurylochus, she knew that Ctimene was going through a period of mourning but she still couldn't get close to him bc she didn't know how to do it and when she did it was too late, Ctimene felt betrayed by someone who supposedly cared about her but it turned out not to be like that.

Both Penelope and Odysseus left Ctimene aside, they didn't do it with bad intentions of course they just didn't know how to approach her but it still hurt. Her sister-in-law with whom she shared years of pain didn't even say anything to her when she knew she was going through a period of mourning and her brother did the same, it hurt bc they acted as if she wasn't having a bad time. I'm not saying that Penelope and Odysseus should have taken care of her like she was a little baby but the least they said to her was "I'm sorry for your loss, I hope everything gets better" and that was it, they continued with their lives as if nothing had happened while she struggled with the grief of her husband's death, Ctimene just wanted a shoulder to cry on and the two closest people she had left her aside. As if her pain didn't matter.

Bc of this Ctimene lived resentfully for a long time, they left her aside dealing with her grief alone, the only person who came to see her from time to time was Telemachus and when he had his free time. She was upset to the point of even blaming Odysseus for many things that happened before her husband's death (she never blamed him directly like saying it to his face, it was more like thoughts she had when she was really upset).

With this I don't want to make Penelope or Odysseus look like bad people, they didn't know how to approach Ctimene and even though they didn't want to hurt her, they ended up doing it and she won't forgive them for acting like she wasn't going through a difficult time. Again, Ctimene isn't a child but those closest to her didn't even ask her how she felt and it hurts how the people closest to you leave you aside like that and it hurt even more on Penelope's part, so many years together for her to only receive an "I'm sorry about what happened."

Ctimene will never forgive Odysseus for sacrificing her husband and for leaving her aside, she understands what he had to go through, she knows that her brother didn't have a good time those 20 years and that it wasn't a piñata party but that doesn't takes away her pain and no matter how much she understands it, she won't forgive him for it.

She will not forgive Penelope for leaving her aside after Odysseus' arrival, she understands that he is her husband and that she wants to spend time with him but she acted as if their friendship had never existed even though she did not want to show thag, that is how Ctimene experienced it, it felt like a betrayal by someone so close and with whom she shared very personal moments.

With this I do not mean that "live resentful forever and never forgive anyone"

It depends on each one of us if we decide to forgive someone for the harm they caused us, whether it was done with bad intentions or without knowing that they were causing any harm. Ctimene will never forgive them both and that is okay, it is her decision. What is not okay is to live resentful.

Living with resentment only stagnates us more in that pain that torments us, it is okay not to forgive but it depends on us how we deal with the pain. Ctimene at first lived with resentment. She was upset and sad about her husband's death and how others treated her pain as if it were something unimportant, everyone tried to move on except her.

But, within that pain there was something else

I have already spoken to you about the pain of memories, how it hurts to remember that important person, those moments that we cannot repeat and that part of our identity that was taken from us. But, within that pain there is something beautiful which is appreciation, we appreciate those moments, those people who were with us and the impact they had on our lives and identity.

Ctimene had realized that she could not continue living resentfully and she realized that maybe, just maybe she could create something beautiful with her art. She remembered Eurylochus with pain but began to remember him more with appreciation, being inspired again and trying to keep his memory with her, she realized that she was not alone, there were more than 500 families who were also devastated, families who also waited for 20 years for the arrival of a loved one who unfortunately will never return. She used her art to tell the story of those men who did not manage to return home and with the help of Odysseus! Yes, she will never forgive him it is true but they both learned to live with it, Ctimene created pieces of art so that everyone would remember her husband and his comrades. Which honestly seems like a very nice idea to me.

I hope you understand what I mean and I am sorry this is too long 😭🙏

[megwritesriddles]

Tightening the Knot ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Reader is captured at the end of the war as the Death Eater's celebrate their victory. She is told she is to marry Tom Riddle, but can't figure out why he'd want her or why she isn't trying harder to escape…

Tags: Forced marriage, P in V, Unprotected sex, Fingering, DarkLord!Tom Riddle, Set after a vague Wizarding War, Not canon or timeline compliant, Voldemort wins, Reader is a member of the Black family, Enemies to lovers (?), Imprisonment, Implied age gap (but i was thinking of it as like 10 years at most, again, not timeline compliant).

Word count: 2.6k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: This was based on a request that I changed a bit to make myself more comfortable writing it (e.g. making the age gap smaller but vague enough so you can imagine whatever you like while you read it). Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

It wasn’t what you would picture as a prison. The plush furnishings, grand windows and monumental bookcases suggested an atmosphere of comfort and luxury, but make no mistake, this palatial room was your holding cell. The order had fallen, and the writing had been on the wall for some time now, however, there was no giving up in the fight against evil, so they fought until the bitter end. You were one of the lucky few still alive after the battle on the grounds of Hogwarts, although you hardly felt lucky given the circumstances. You stared at the ridiculously ornate, but admittedly beautiful, wedding dress hung in the small walk-in-wardrobe across from your bed, wishing it would light on fire from the anger in your gaze alone. But of course, it doesn’t. You have been stripped of your magic, your wand is who knows where and your room is enchanted to allow no magic inside it, all to prevent your escape.

Why he chose you, you can���t understand. Sure, you were from a well-established pureblood family with a deep history as he’d explained to you the one time you’d seen him since your capture, but there were many girls like that for him to have his pick of. You were angry and defiant, you didn’t wish to bend to him, you spoke back and you lashed out when he tried to touch you. Why would he choose that over, say, your relative Bellatrix, who seemed to constantly be vying for his affection and shared your heritage? Throughout the war, you had constantly found yourself facing against him. He had even commented on occasion that it was always you in his way. Perhaps, this was merely his final revenge.

“I don’t even like you!” you’d protested, sitting across from him at the grand dining table of the Malfoy or Nott or Lestrange manor, whichever of his snivelling followers house this was, shackled to the tall-backed, velvet upholstered chair.

“You do,” he’d smiled smoothly, sipping his red wine, eyes drinking you in with something like amusement. “You think I’m handsome, you can’t deny that,” he added with a smirk. Your cheeks bloomed red and you scoffed, looking down at your shackled hand, the other free to allow you to eat. He’s right, you can’t deny it, you’re aware of his skill at legilimency and you’re sure he has watched a few of the dreams you’d had since you’d got here and been told you were to marry him a few weeks ago. Filthy dreams about what your wedding night might look like, how rough he might be with you or how gentle. Later that night, a dream of him bending you over this very dining table, unaware of how close he had been to really doing so. Avoiding his eye, you continued.

“That is hardly enough to base a marriage on,”

“I have known marriages based on less,” he mused. “You will like it more than you think,” The smile that followed those words stirred your stomach in a way you don’t wish to try to interpret.

The wedding is a few days later. The decor in the manor is much darker than the decor for a usual wedding might be, feeling more mournful than anything else. It fits your mood, although from what you gather it’s merely an aesthetic consideration for the death eaters that put the event together. Your dress is beaded in intricate designs, black beads twisting around a white silk base, painting a design of thorns and roses across the fabric that almost reminds you of chains. Beautiful chains. How very fitting. Your veil is black, as is the bouquet of roses you are given to carry down the aisle. You wonder who designed everything, it was beautiful, presumably one of the death eater’s wives who had an otherwise unused eye for aesthetics. Bellatrix, the only relative you have around, is the one to walk you down the aisle, holding your arm oppressively the whole way. She is clearly bitter that she is not in your shoes, but still eager to please Riddle, who waits, standing tall and proud in front of all his death eaters in a pressed, pitch-black suit.

When you reach him, he slides his arm around your back and holds you tight, making sure you couldn’t possibly leave if you tried. He’s never touched you before, his hand is cold, large and imposing, making you want to lean in and away all at once. You are not asked to recite any vows or to say ‘I do’, the decision has been made for you. Once Riddle has agreed that he will take you as his wife, he turns you toward him by your waist and lifts your veil carefully, tutting at your unhappy expression underneath. He cups your chin and tilts your face up, leaning down to kiss you to seal your marriage. The kiss is forceful and possessive, but despite yourself, you lean in just a little, heat shooting through your veins as his lips press to yours. He is handsome and powerful, and as much as you want to resist, as much as you hate all he stands for, your body is weak. His fingers tighten into your dress, gripping the small of your back. You know what it means. You’re his now. 

Riddle keeps you held captive at his side throughout the reception as he talks and drinks with his followers. You can tell from the way they glance at you at his side, that they are as confused as you are about why he chose you to be his bride and not one of the many willing girls and women amongst his followers, but have clearly been told not to dare question his decision. Trying your best to distract yourself, you play with the wedding ring on your finger. A thin serpentine silver band winding around your ring finger, inset with emeralds and black star sapphire. Once again, you wonder who might have picked it out for you. Surely, not Riddle himself? To your surprise, Riddle also wears a wedding band. A plain one with a subtle carving of a serpent, complimenting yours without being anywhere near as ostentatious. It’s a surprise that he would want to advertise himself as being married, you hadn’t expected it, but you aren’t sure what to make of it, so you don’t dwell. At least the food at the beginning of the reception had been delicious, and the cake your favourite flavour, decorated with the same thorny patterns as your dress. 

You find yourself incredibly annoyed to stand around and listen to these men talk and laugh, wanting to retreat to your room, despite knowing what will follow. It’s your wedding night, and Riddle made it clear that he expects you to comply with traditional wedding night activities with him. At first, you were angry and disgusted, but now you just feel like you want to get to it as soon as possible, only to get it over and done with. His ever-present hand on your waist or lower back doesn’t help this feeling. Finally, once he is also sick of listening to his followers' drivel, he guides you out of the hall in which the wedding was held and up the stairs, not towards your quarters, but his own. You’re tense as you walk, knowing what is drawing ever closer and closer. His hand softly rubs your waist as he escorts you, presumably trying to ease a little of your tension, not wanting your apprehension to ruin his wedding night. 

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, which was somehow even larger than the one in the room you’d been staying in, you watch him loosen the tie at his neck, pouring himself a little champagne. 

“Want any, darling?” he smirks, sipping the drink, his eyes roaming the flattering figure your dress gave you. Part of you wondered whether you should drink to numb the experience, but all the same, you wanted your faculties about you. You shake your head silently and he shrugs. “Later then,” Once his drink is finished, he comes to sit beside you. You stiffen as his cold hands gather up your hair and move it out of the way, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your back. He waits a moment before popping the first clasp on your back. Goosebumps erupt across your skin and your muscles tighten, drawing in a breath. “You’re surprisingly willing, I told you that you’d like this more than you thought,” he ponders aloud with a hint of teasing, continuing to pop the clasps down your back. “I almost miss the fight,” he slips the sleeve of the dress off of your shoulder and bites down gently on the bare flesh. “Almost,”

The feeling of the cold air of the room meeting your skin sends a fit of shivers through you, the fabric of the dress pooling at your waist and baring your breasts to the air, your nipples hardening to peaks in an instant. Riddle hums, watching like a hawk over your shoulder, his hands caressing your skin just beneath your breasts, drawing yet another shiver from you. He slowly bites up and down your shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, to leave behind small possessive marks. His warm chest presses to your bare back, the soft fabric of his dress shirt brushing against your skin, his suit jacket shed much earlier in the evening. 

“What has you so willing now, darling? You were so… incensed before,” he taunts, just gently brushing his thumbs on the underside of your breasts, his breath tickling your neck. 

“I just want to get it over with,” you mumble, observing as his large hands move across your skin. He chuckles.

“I’m sure,” he hums, clearly not believing you. You wouldn’t believe you either. “Be a good girl and stand for me,” Very hesitantly, and fighting against several tonnes of pride, you rise to your feet, jolting as he gently eases your dress down over your hips, taking caution not to rip the dress or damage the beading. Once it passes the swell of your hips, it falls easily to the ground, leaving you in only a pair of panties. You remain facing away from him, too sheepish to turn. His fingertips trace the edge of the material on your hips, down to your rear. You twitch away from his touch and he tuts. “Come now, you’re only prolonging this,” he gently grips your hips, guiding you back toward the bed, his hands skimming over you as he twists you around and lays you down against the pillows. Staring up at him, you notice a disconcerting predatory look in his eyes, despite the otherwise uncharacteristic softness in his expression. Even more bothersome is the way your stomach flips upon seeing it. He crawls up the bed to loom over you, a smirk decorating his handsome face. “Such a pretty picture you are, my beautiful bride,” he husks, leaning down to nip at your pulse point. You close your eyes. Bride. You couldn’t believe that word was real. This time, you feel the bite of his teeth and you know he’s leaving a proper mark. A whimper leaves your throat despite your reservations and you feel him grin against your skin, pleased to have evidence of your enjoyment of this, despite your performative protestations.

You keep your eyes closed as you feel him withdraw from you, hearing the rustle of fabric as he removes his dress shirt and the clank of metal as he reaches for his belt. Your thighs clench as the reality of what’s coming washes over you properly. Despite everything that you know should have you running for the hills, you are curious, too curious for your own good. So curious that when you feel his fingers hooking into the fabric of your underwear and beginning to softly tug downward, you wordlessly lift your hips and allow him to bare you to his gaze. He growls softly, presumably noticing the arousal that has gathered as he spreads your legs. 

“You don’t like me, darling?” he scoffs, repeating your words from a few days before.

“No,” you murmur. He brushes his thumb against your lower lip, which makes you part them obediently and clench around nothing. He notices your reaction instantly and gives a smug laugh.

“You are a terrible liar,” he purrs, placing his thumb on your tongue. “I think you like me very much,” he watches, enraptured, as you suckle on his thumb for the briefest of moments before you collect yourself once more. 

“I do not,” you protest weakly, finally opening your eyes to look up at him again, but you know you aren’t remotely convincing. “There is a difference between liking and lusting,” you huff. He rolls his eyes, though he looks amused.

“I suppose that is true, I’ll give you that,” he hums, using his now moist thumb to come down and begin gently circling your clit, drawing a ragged gasp from you. “You don’t like me, but right now, I reckon all that matters is lust, don’t you, darling?” Your head falls to the side as you avoid his knowing gaze, breaths coming short as he continues his intoxicating circles, the sensation enhanced by how worked up he has you. Your hips squirm lightly and he just seems to find it entertaining. You hear the rustle of fabric once more but pay it no mind, eyes fluttering shut at the syrupy pleasure he’s providing you.

You shoot up in surprise when you feel him prodding softly at your entrance, your eyes flying open to meet his. He shushes you gently, pushing you back down to lie and despite yourself, you go. His thumb never stops circling, making you more compliant than usual. He’s hot and hard against you and it makes you moan. It’s awful to realise just how badly you want him to press inside.

“You knew it was coming, just relax, we don’t want it to hurt, do we?” he soothes with his slightly patronising tone, but you just give a shaky nod. “There we go, you can be so good when you want to be,” he coos. After a few more calming circles on your clit, he’s pressing inside of you slowly. Your eyes roll back and your lips part, your walls fluttering as you do your best to accommodate him. He shifts, looming over you even more, propping his hand at the side of your head to support his weight. 

His eyes are dark as he stares down at you, growling in pleasure, finally inside of you like he has wished to be for so long. All those years of your infuriating scheming and fighting, only to end up a whimpering mess beneath him in your marital bed. The grin that graces his lips is downright devilish. He has you where he wants you, completely, rocking his hips a few times to draw those rousing mewls from your lips once more. Your hand grips his arm, the cool metal of your wedding band digging into his skin. Finally, he has you here and you’re willing, no matter what you assert. The sinful pleasure he’s giving you feels like sweet revenge as he begins to fuck into you properly, hips slamming into yours, slick sounds filling the room, claiming you entirely, consummating your marriage. The marriage you had claimed not to want, but never once tried to disrupt as it happened.

“You know what I think, darling?” he grunts, you don’t answer with anything other than a cry of pleasure as he angles himself to thrust even deeper inside you. “I think you do like me, and you will forever, whether you want to or not,”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

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[heavensoutofsight]

indulgence | b.e.

synopsis: you meet up with a woman at a dingy night club in attempts to forget about your horrible break-up with your ex; she's incredibly charming and easily the most attractive woman you've ever met. you're lonely and touch-starved, and this mysterious yet alluring woman makes you an offer you just can't deny. but -- you eventually come to the realization that there is more than what meets the eye with her.

tags/warnings: voyeurism, discussion of casual hook-ups/fwb relations, blood drinking, sexual content (oral sex, fingering, dom!billie), lots of swearing, angst if you squint really hard, fluffiness at the end

word count: 8.7k

author's note: okay there are a few things i want to clarify first. number one: billie's fangs are retractable. two: she can be out in the sun. just for the sake of the narrative 😭😭 sorry to any hardcore vampire lore fans. that's about it, just wanted to get that out of the way. DINNER IS SERVED ENJOYYY.

also here is a link to what i imagine billie wears during a certain scene... you'll know when you get there ;)

taglist: @brat-at-the-disco, @hannahluvsbillie, @karaeilishh, @rhearipley-69, @bilssturns, @bla1rxoxo, @billiesrighthand, @weluvwbb, @belleishot, @floweiralie, @natbelovasblog (forgot to add again omg)

You weren't much of a party person; you could really only enjoy small social gatherings with close friends at most, as anything bigger than that almost always had you mentally exhausted by the end of it; and yet, despite your distaste for big parties, you currently found yourself in a bustling club, filled to the brim with sweaty, gyrating strangers and music so loud you were certain you'd lose a little bit of your hearing later. 

You were seated at the bar, watching the people on the dance floor move their bodies carelessly, drunken smiles plastered on everybody's faces. The multi-colored strobe lights vibrantly flashed, some of them flickering to the beat of the music. 

The only reason you were here was because your friends insisted that you tag along; and while you would typically be against going to these kinds of places, you decided to entertain them just for one night—besides, they were just trying to be helpful. You were still trying to get over an ex-girlfriend of yours, and while the heartbreak was less painful now, given that it had been a few weeks, you were still clearly in the mourning process. You friends went on and on about how the club would be the perfect place to forget everything, and for a second, you foolishly thought that maybe they would be right, and you entertained their idea.

But, in reality, your ex was still on your mind, and going clubbing didn't seem to be much of a remedy at all. Neither the loud music, the crowded room, or even the alcohol could fully distract you from the heartache that you were still experiencing from the messiness that was your last relationship. If anything, sitting at the bar completely alone only made you feel a bit worse. You saw so many couples out on the dance floor, and you couldn't help but feel a pang of envy.

Eventually, your eyes found your friends; they were also on the dance floor, uncoordinated limbs flying all over the place as they moved to the beat. Just a few minutes ago they tried to get you to come with them, but you declined the offer, to which they all just smiled apologetically at you before leaving you at the bar. You were thankful that they respected your decision, although you did feel a bit bad for essentially rejecting them. But with the mood you were in right now, dancing just didn't sound very appealing. 

At some point, the club was beginning to feel a bit stuffy; you could feel a thin coat of sweat forming on your skin and you weren't even moving. The peaceful quietness and cool weather of the outside sounded more than lovely at the moment, so after you quickly downed your beverage and tipped the bartender, you grabbed your things and headed for the exit, not even sparing your friends a glance. 

Once you stepped out, you decided to sneak around to the back of the building, away from any watchful eyes. You leaned against the building's hard exterior, closing your eyes, taking in deep breaths. The clean air was refreshing compared to the nauseating stench of weed with a tinge of vomit from inside the club. 

You were so focused on just escaping and getting some alone time that you failed to realize there were already a couple of people out here. You did realize they were there when you heard the unmistakable sound of a moan. It definitely wasn't a moan of pain, either.

Your eyes shot open, and you turned your head to where you heard the sound. Your eyes ever so slightly widened as you took in the sight before you.

It was two women; one of them, a blonde dressed in a black mini skirt with a matching sheer black top, both of which left absolutely nothing to the imagination, was being pinned to the wall by another, more masculine appearing, dark-haired woman who was clad in baggy, dark jeans, an equally baggy matching denim jacket, and a white tee, one that she was drowning in. The dark-haired woman had her mouth on her neck (probably giving her a hickey, you assumed) and her hand was clearly under her skirt. The blonde was enjoying every second, her perfectly manicured hands gripping the other woman's denim jacket and her eyes screwed shut in unadulterated passion. 

You felt like a total creep, watching this unfold, but once again, you felt that familiar feeling of jealousy blossom within you as you watched this random woman ascend to cloud nine. You hadn't been touched like that in what felt like an eternity. Your last relationship went through a bit of a dry spell, especially toward the end of it. Sure, masturbation helped; but more than anything you craved the touch of another woman.

Your eyes stayed glued onto them. Even though there was a voice in the back of your head screaming at you to look away, you shamefully ignored it. 

You watched as the dark-haired woman moved her hand faster, eventually pulling away from her neck, leaning in close to the woman she was pleasuring. She had begun whispering something to the blonde, something that made the blonde nod fervently. With the distance in between the two of you, you couldn't make out what was being said; but it was clear it had an effect on the woman.

At this point, the blonde woman wasn't exactly very quiet, her moans growing in volume, transitioning from light and breathy to loud and brash. The dark-haired woman simply put a hand over her mouth, continuing her ministrations down below, her hand moving at a crazy, relentless pace. You couldn't help but feel a wave of heat wash over you, pooling within your belly and traveling to your own nether regions. It was a bit embarrassing and it would definitely haunt you later, but you couldn't fight the natural reaction your body was having at that moment.

Eventually, the blonde woman very clearly reached her peak, her legs shaking like leaves and her cries of pleasure reaching a new pitch. Her eyes were open now and she was looking directly at the woman in front of her. She was still wailing profusely, even as she was coming down from her high, and the dark-haired girl didn't let up until the blonde tapped her shoulder a few times. 

The dark-haired woman then removed her fingers from under the blonde's skirt. She slowly brought her two fingers to her mouth, sucking them clean right in front of her, never once breaking eye contact. You couldn't stop the way your jaw dropped slightly at the sight, feeling a faint but unmistakable throbbing sensation within your core now.

The blonde just laughed, leaning her head against the wall, wearing a fucked-out expression. “Holy shit, Billie,” you heard her say. “You're so fucking hot.” 

The dark-haired woman, you presumed was named Billie, just smirked. “Mmm, right back at you, mama.” 

The blonde just giggled some more, now leaning her head on Billie's shoulder. At the movement, you just barely heard her do a sharp, pained inhale, her hand clasping the side of her neck that Billie was showing a lot of love to earlier. 

“This hurts,” the blonde woman whined. “It'll go away, right?” 

Billie absentmindedly began fiddling with the woman's sheer top as she answered. “Yes, just give it a couple days, okay? Since the weather's getting cooler you can just cover it up with a scarf or something, no problem.” 

“Good idea. If my boyfriend found out, I'd be fucking dead.” 

“You still haven't dumped his ass yet?” 

The blonde sighed. “I'm just… still figuring out how to break the news to him.” 

“You told me that last time, Ashley.” 

“I know, I know. Just give me, like, a week. Okay?” The blonde—named Ashley—said, twirling a strand of dark hair around her finger, biting her lip. Billie just leaned in, giving her one last messy kiss.

Billie pulled away first, giving her waist a gentle squeeze. “Yeah, sure, a week,” she stepped away, shoving her hands in the pockets of her denim jacket. 

“I'll see you later, babygirl.” Billie said. Ashley just beamed at her, re-adjusting her skirt and heading back into the club, but not before finally meeting eyes with you on her way back in. Her smile dropped, and she looked at you with disgust. 

“Perv.” Was all she said to you before leaving. You couldn't even feel completely offended, because you kinda were being a perv. The shame was really starting to kick in now. You dropped your eyes to the ground, hoping that the other woman wouldn't confront you either. 

Unfortunately for you, she did exactly that. And the words that came out of her mouth were completely unexpected.

“Did you enjoy the show?” She asked. You foolishly looked around to see if there was possibly anybody else she could be talking to; of course, it was most definitely just you. You tensed, reluctantly meeting the woman's eyes. She was already staring at you, dark eyes still slightly hooded, a lazy grin resting on her face. 

You nearly blurted out something about how fucking hot she was. Maybe you would have if not for the overwhelming feeling of embarrassment you were feeling right now.

“I'm- I'm really sorry, I– I don't know why I– I'm sorry. God, I'm a fucking creep– look, I can just leave, okay?” You uttered, your cheeks burning under Billie's heavy gaze. She only chuckled at your floundering (and it was by far the sexiest sound you've ever heard).

“Don't be sorry. Answer me.” she spoke, voice gentle but undeniably firm. She stepped a bit closer to you, repeating her words: “Did you enjoy the show?” 

There was no denying how dominating her presence was. You didn't know this woman at all and yet you felt so compelled to do whatever she asked of you. It only made you even more embarrassed– you were so desperate for intimacy and attention that you were just about close to begging at the feet of the first attractive woman you ran into. You were a total mess.

“Um,” you started, your voice meek. “Yeah. I… I did.” You said, wanting nothing more than for the ground to swallow you up.

She chuckled once more. “Don't feel bad about it, it's okay. I'm kinda into that shit, to be honest.” 

Her response just made your cheeks burn hotter. You weren't sure if she was joking or not, but either way, her words were certainly making an impact on you.

“Oh,” was the only word that left your mouth, your brain effectively shutting down in this woman's presence. 

“Hm,” Billie began, looking at you inquisitively. “You're cute.” 

“I– um– thank you.” You stammered out, internally cringing at your own awkwardness. Your panic in front of her was also going to haunt you later – probably for the rest of your life. 

Billie just seemed highly amused at your predicament. “I love making pretty girls flustered,” She said. You didn't miss the way her eyes gave you a quick look up and down; she wasn't particularly subtle about it. “Could I fluster you some more over lunch? Or coffee, if that's more your thing.” 

You were taken aback by her rather direct offer. Crossing your arms, you scoffed. 

“Would your girlfriend be okay with that?” 

Billie laughed. “Oh, Ashley? She's not my girlfriend. She just… comes to me when she needs to relieve some stress. It's nothing serious.” 

“I see.” You said, nodding. “Stress relief, huh?”

“Yup. She's got an insensitive asshole for a boyfriend who has absolutely no idea how to even pleasure a woman."

"That's… tragic." You commented.

"Very," Billie replied. "So, when she needs to take her mind off of him for a bit… I'm there for her. Like a distraction of sorts."

She licked her lips, and you found yourself entranced by the simple action. She gazed at you curiously, a dangerous smirk resting on her face. She said her next words quietly as if anyone else was around to hear them. "We could all use a distraction sometimes, right?"

You shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so."

"You look like you could use one." Billie said suddenly, a teasing edge to her voice; there was no missing the underlying implication in that sentence, and you couldn't help the smirk that grew on your face.

"You think I need a distraction?"

"Yeah. I can kinda sense these things."

A light chuckle escaped you at that. "Really now? Well… I guess you wouldn't be wrong." You replied, briefly thinking back to the reason you were here in the first place. Obviously, clubbing was not helping you in forgetting about your ex like you hoped it would. Maybe what you truly needed was a fun little hook-up with no strings attached.

Billie could tell that you were deeply pondering your response, and she spoke up again. "You know, I can give you a really good time..." She insisted, her voice lowering in a way that made you feel cartwheels in your stomach.

You still hesitated a bit; although Billie was the hottest woman you've ever laid eyes on, you didn't really have experience with causal relationships. You had heard some horror stories from your friends about their own causal hook-ups about how messy and damaging they could be. But at the same time, walking away from a woman whose looks could rival Aphrodite felt like a crime.

"Well… I-"

"How about this," Billie interrupted. "Give me your hand."

You just stared at her, confused, eyebrows furrowed.

"O… kay?" You said, eventually doing as she asked. When you stuck out your hand, Billie was quick to dive her own into the large pocket of her denim jacket, pulling out a pen. She took your palm into a surprinsingly cold hand and began hastily writing something on it--you very quickly realized that they were numbers.

"That's my number," Billie said, putting the lid to her pen back on and returning it to its place in her pocket. "When you've made up your mind, just call me, and we can go out and get to know each other a bit, yeah?" She said with a grin that made your heart flutter.

You looked down at the number sprawled messily across your palm, and then back at her. You gave her a shy smile.

"Alright. Sure." You replied.

"Great." Billie said, grin widening into a smile of her own. "You have a good rest of your night—"

"Wait." You said, stopping her from walking off. She was silent as she waited for you to continue, staring at you with expectancy.

"Do you… do you just carry around a pen with you all the time, or…?"

Billie laughed at that, and you immediately found yourself replaying the sound in your head.

"Of course I do. I need to have it on me just in case I run into any pretty girls like you." She spoke, the flirtatious words easily and smoothly pouring out of her like butter. You let out a giggle, biting your lip to stop your smile from growing any bigger. You were feeling like a hormonal teenager all over again because of this mysterious woman's charm. You had a feeling that she probably used that line on a ton of women, but it didn't make you feel any less like a flustered mess.

Billie seemed to thoroughly enjoy your reaction to her shameless flirting, her own smile never once leaving her lips.

At that moment, the heated tension between the two of you was intercepted as a familiar face rounded the corner.

"Oh my god, there you are—" your friend, Carly, exclaimed. Surprisingly, she didn't seem super drunk, only mildly buzzed, her face flushed, hairs sticking to her forehead due to a light coating of sweat.

"I was looking everywhere for you—oh. Hello." Carly suddenly noticed Billie's presence.

Billie's smile faltered a bit at the sudden appearance of another person. "Uh… hey." She said.

"Um… was I interrupting something?" Carly spoke. You saw her wiggling her eyebrows, which immediately caused you to roll your eyes.

"You ready to go?" You asked, ignoring her question.

"Are you?" She retaliated with a knowing smirk. You glanced at Billie, who wore an unreadable expression.

"Don't let me keep you." Billie uttered, and the slight hint of disappointment in her voice was just barely noticeable. "You seemed kinda tired anyway."

"Yeah," you replied quietly, feeling awkwardness creep into the atmosphere. You looked back at Carly. "We can go." You said. Carly nodded, grabbing your hand. As the two of you began walking toward the front of the building, you stole one last glance at Billie.

Her smirk had returned, and while making a phone gesture with her hand, she mouthed the words: "Call me?"

You just shrugged, a smirk of your own tugging at the corners of your lips as you disappeared around the corner.

Eventually, you and Carly made it back to the car, where your other friends were in the backseat, completely knocked out. Since you had barely anything to drink, you decided to be the one to drive.

The ride back to your place was quiet for a while, the car radio softly playing some songs from Carly's playlist. Soon enough, though, your slightly tipsy friend in the front seat next to you piped up.

"So… you gonna tell me all about that fucking hottie back there?" She asked. Your eyes were locked on the road, not even looking at her, but you could hear the teasing smile in her voice.

"She just… walked up to me. She was already out there."

"Was she hitting on you?"

You felt your cheeks heat up thinking back to your brief conversation with her. "Yeah… I think she was."

"Oh my god. Please tell me you got her number. If I find out you walked away from her without getting those fucking digits I swear to god—"

"Yes, she gave me her number." You said, chewing on your bottom lip, once again trying to stop a smile from growing— you couldn't have your friend seeing just how smitten you were already for a girl you knew for all of twenty minutes.

You heard Carly gasp excitedly. "Holy shit. Girl, you better fucking pounce on that. Before I do."

"You literally have a girlfriend."

"Yeah, well, we've been talking about having an open relationship lately, so… she wouldn't mind."

You couldn't hold back your surprised laughter. "Oh my god." You said through a fit of chuckles.

The rest of the car ride home, you couldn't stop thinking about thr mysterious, dark-haired woman. You couldn't stop thinking about that devilish smirk she wore. You couldn't stop thinking about her intoxicating scent.

Yeah. You were definitely calling that number.

"Okay, so… how do I look?" You asked your friend Carly via video call, standing in front of the mirror while you filmed yourself adjusting your flowy, white blouse. You hadn't gone out on a date in ages—to say that you were quite nervous was putting it lightly.

"You look gorgeous. You're totally getting some tonight." Carly said. You chuckled at that, rolling your eyes and feeling warmth rush to your face.

"Oh, shut up," you said playfully. Looking at the screen, you saw Carly shrug, sporting a teasing smile.

"What? Isn't that the end goal?" She questioned.

"I mean… I would say the end goal is not making a fool out of myself." You replied earnestly, your stomach feeling as if it was in knots currently; Bilie had already texted you a few minutes ago saying she was on her way, and any second now she'd appear right outside your house. You really hoped you wouldn't turn into babbling idiot upon seeing her face.

"That's not gonna happen," Carly reassured. "You've gone on plenty of dates before, what's different this time?"

"It's been a million years, Carly." You stated.

"So what? Just… keep doing what you've always done, y'know? Be yourself."

You let the truth of your friend's words really set in, and you began to feel yourself relax ever so slightly. You breathed in and out, now looking at yourself in the mirror with a newfound confidence. You hoped that confidence would be here to stay.

"You always know just what to say." You spoke, your tone a mix of playful and sincere.

"Of course. I'm a genius." Carly jokingly replied. You smiled, opening your mouth to respond, when you suddenly heard your doorbell ring.

You froze, and you couldn't ignore the way your heart rate increased in mere seconds.

"Oh shit, she's here." You said with barely contained enthusiasm. "I gotta go. Thanks for the fashion advice."

Carly grinned, giving you a wink. "Any time. Hope you have the best sex of your li-"

You hung up on her in the middle of your sentence, once again rolling your eyes at your friend's bluntness, wearing an amused smile.

You gave yourself one last look in the mirror, quickly straightening out your shirt and pants and doing last minute readjustments to your hair. You did all of this in the span of a few seconds, not wanting to keep Billie waiting for too long. Soon enough, you were exiting your bathroom and heading toward your front door, grabbing your purse on the way.

You were not at all prepared for what you'd be greeted with upon opening it.

There Billie stood, her long, shiny dark hair down and framing her face beautifully. She was wearing a standard black suit, one that was stylishly oversized, with a matching black tie and simple, thin glasses that rested perfectly on her nose. In the daylight, she appeared paler than you initially thought, but no less gorgeous. When her eyes locked onto your face, she gave you a grin that caused a million and one butterflies to viciously attack your stomach. You also didn't miss the way her eyes quickly gave you a once over, her bottom lip being pulled between her teeth briefly as she took you in.

"Hey, pretty girl. You look absolutely stunning."

Immediately, you found yourself looking down at the ground shyly, a wide smile overtaking your features. "Thank you, Billie." You replied. Your eyes met her again, and you gazed appreciatively at her own outfit once more.

"You look… wonderful as well." You said. She also looked like the sexiest woman alive but you didn't want to lay it on too thick too soon.

"Thanks," Billie replied, still sporting that lazy grin. "You got everything?"

"Um… yeah. Yes." You spoke nervously. Billie just chuckled endearingly at your slightly anxious disposition.

"Okay, then. Let's go." She said, offering you her arm to hold onto. It was such a simple action, and yet you already felt yourself swooning.

She politely walked you to the car (which was just as sexy as the person driving it, you noted), and when you both got there, Billie was quick to open the door to passenger's seat for you. The chivalrous, gentlemanly action made your heart warm, and you were sure to mutter a shy "thank you" in response.

The car ride to the restaurant (a sandwhich place specifically, one that was your favorite—Billie let you choose), was pleasant and comfortable, the sound of Billie's playlist softly playing from her car's speakers. You couldn't help but shamelessly stare at Billie as she drove, her gaze locked on the road ahead of her. Sometimes, she drove with one hand for a bit, and whenever she did you were thankful that you were already seated because otherwise your knees would have buckled at the sight.

You were only pulled out of your ogling when you noticed Billie had turned the music down.

"So," she began, smiling cutely. "How was your day?"

"Boring, for the most part. I was at work just feeling… antsy. I've been really looking forward to this." You replied honestly.

"Me too. I was… really hoping you'd call." Billie said, her voice getting a tad smaller in volume toward the end of the sentence, seemingly a little shy about her confession, which you found positively endearing since she was normally so flirtatious and bold (from what you've seen of her so far, anyway).

"Is that so?" You replied with a grin. "Well, I would have been the world's biggest idiot to not call you. It only took me a while because I was, uh…" you trailed off, suddenly feeling embarrasment wash over you.

At a red light, Billie glanced at you quizzically, wondering why you had cut yourself off. "You were…?"

You chuckled, absentmindedly playing with the fabric of your blouse. "I was, um… nervous."

"Nervous?" Billie repeated, and even though you were no longer looking at her, you could hear the teasing lilt to her voice.

"Yeah," you confirmed in a meek voice, chuckling some more—it was something you often did automatically when anxious, like a reflex.

"So you're saying… I make you nervous."

You felt your face heat up even more, so much so that sticking your head in a bucket of cold ice water felt highly appealing at the moment. "Well—I mean, it's been a while since my last date, so that's definitely why, but… I guess it is also because of you." You said.

You heard Billie let out an adorable giggle of her own. "God, you're so fucking cute." You heard her say quietly, under her breath almost, like she didn't want you to hear—but of course, you caught onto to every word, and the compliment only unleased the butterflies within your stomach yet again.

"Well, pretty girl, you don't have to be nervous around me. You don't find me intimidating, do you?" Billie asked playfully.

"Well, not neccessarily intimidating, just… really funny. And beautiful. I wanna make a good impression."

Billie smirked. "You already made a good first impression at that club the other night."

"Really?" You said with a groan as you recalled the events of that night and your embarrassing actions. "Even though I was… kinda being a weirdo?"

"I told you, I found it hot."

"You were being serious about that?" You said through breathy laughter.

"Of course I was."

"You are… something else." You said, to which Billie just smiled.

Several minutes of playful banter later, you and Billie had finally made it to the quaint little sandwich shop. It was a small place, and the atmosphere was quiet and tranquil as there were only a few other customers spread out in the building. The both of you chose to sit in a cozy booth, in front of a large window that looked out to various people going about their day, the sunlight providing natural lightning that filled the entire area. Upon sitting down, a waitress was already coming to serve the both of you, taking both of your orders for drinks and handing you the menu before shuffling away. You got the same thing every time you came here, so you really didn't look at the menu much at all. You glanced at Billie, who only browsed through the menu for a couple of minutes before setting it down and placing it aside. She seemed to have decided what she wanted fairly quickly.

"So," Billie began with a grin. "Do you come to this place a lot?"

"Yeah. It's great. Have you been here before?"

Billie shook her head. "Nope, first time. Honestly, I don't really… eat out much."

"I see. You more of a delivery person? Or, do you prefer cooking?"

"Uh… sure. Yeah." Billie replied a little awkwardly, shifting in her seat. You weren't sure what she was saying "yeah" to, the delivery part or the cooking part, but you didn't think anything of it, finding her more endearing than anything.

She cleared her throat. "You already know what you're getting?"

"Yup. I get the same thing every time. This place makes a killer BLT," You replied. "What about you? I noticed you didn't look at the menu for very long. Something caught your eye already?"

"The roasted cauliflower sandwich sounds good."

"Ooh, it does," You said, picking up the menu to find the sandwich in question to briefly read the ingredients. You noticed that it was under the vegan section.

"You're vegan?" You asked, not in a accusatory way but simply out of pure curiosity.

Billie cleared her throat before replying. "Uh—yeah. Have been my whole life." she spoke, absentmindedly fiddling with the several rings on her fingers.

"I've tried going vegan, but there's just so many foods I can't pass up."

Billie chuckled. "Yeah, well, it's certaintly not the kind of diet that suits everyone."

"That's true." You agreed.

Shortly after your brief conversation, you both ordered your food, and much to your surprise (and delight) the food arrived fairly quickly, and you and Billie didn't have to wait for very long.

While you felt a little awkward initially, as time went on, you found yourself relaxing more and more in Billie's presence. The two of you meshed well together; you both had similar senses of humor and equally found each other hilarious, and you even had a lot of things in common in terms of hobbies. During your date with Billie you also discovered that she had two adorable pitbulls, an older brother, a job as a music producer and songwriter, and that she used to be in a choir growing up. Every little thing that you learned about her only made you love her more, and frankly you didn't want the date to end. Billie never at any point slowed down the conversation, and she was so attentive when you were speaking, her eyes fixed on you the entire time as she asked several follow-up questions, hanging onto your every word. You didn't expect to mesh so well with her, and for a second, you almost forgot that the whole reason this started was because you both wanted a casual hook-up and nothing serious. At the reminder, you felt a twinge in your heart; the last thing you wanted was to fall in love with someone who clearly wasn't looking for commitment, so you shoved those feelings away for now.

When there was finally a lull in conversation between the both of you, you felt like it was necessary to talk more in detail about your particular… arrangement.

"So, uh…" You began, shifting a bit in your seat. "We should probably talk about our… y'know. Situation."

Leaning back in her seat, Billie seemed to immediately catch what you were throwing at her. "Right," she said with a smirk. "What about it?"

"Well… how exactly does a casual relationship even work? To be honest, I've never really—I mean, I just don't have much experience with—"

"We can just hang out. Y'know, like friends. Friends who fuck occasionally." Billie said, and her bluntness had your eyebrows raising slightly.

"Oh. Okay." You said, and at your expression of surprise, contagious laughter arose from Billie's throat.

"Cute," she muttered to herself before leaning in a bit closer to you, pushing her now clean plate aside and placing her arms on the table. "Anyway, that's what you want, right? I don't want you to agree to anything that you're iffy about it. You're free to change your mind about this whole thing."

Your heart warmed at Billie's consideration. You took a moment to actually think about it; even though casual was never really your thing, your friends all insisted that you might enjoy the freedom that comes with a no-strings attached relationship, and you felt like you might as well give it go since you only live once, after all. You hoped it wouldn't end in a total heartbreak—although, if it did, you'd probably get good sex out of it, which was kind of a silver lining.

You met Billie's eyes with a serious gaze. "Yes. I do want this."

"Okay… and you're cool with this relationship being open? As in, we can both see other people while also seeing each other?"

Honestly, with how attractive Billie was physically and personality wise, you didn't see yourself spending time with another woman, but you agreed anyway, nodding your head. "Yeah. That's fine."

At that, a smile grew on Billie's lips. "Okay. Great."

Having eaten a good meal and talked about all the important stuff, you and Billie finally left the sandwich shop, right as the sun was dipping past the horizon. The sky was a beautiful mix of oranges and pinks, and it had cooled down a bit, a slight breeze in the air. You and Billie both agreed that you didn't want the date to stop there, so the two of you rather impulsively decided to take a walk in the park, admiring the sunset side by side. Even then, it was like you could never run out of things to talk about with Billie. Your first date with your ex wasn't even this long, surprisingly.

Unfornately, it was getting late, and Billie had to drive you back home. But even when she walked you all the way to your door, you still didn't feel like the day was over.

You had your key in the door, but before turning it, you looked at Billie with a contemplative gaze.

"Y'know… the night's still young," you began, wearing a crooked grin. "Do you want to come in, Billie?"

Billie bit her lip as she smiled knowingly.

"I'd love to." She replied, and your grin turned into a wide smile of your own as you finally opened the door, inviting her inside.

It was totally innocent at first. Billie had made herself comfortable, taking off her shoes and her blazer. The two of you decided to put on a movie, and at first, you both were sitting with a respectable amount of distance between the two of you; but at some point during the movie, you both grew closer to each other, unknowingly. There was also a moment where Billie wrapped an arm around your shoulder, and you instantly felt yourself melting into her side. The two of you fit together so naturally, like you were both missing pieces to a puzzle. Her vanilla-scented perfume was intoxicating, and so was the warmth of her touch.

At some point, you weren't really focusing on the movie anymore. You placed a sly hand on Billie's thigh, not moving it; just keeping it there, but when Billie didn't respond, keeping her eyes on the film, you squeezed ever so gently.

That's when Billie looked at you then, raising an eyebrow.

"To be honest, Billie…" you said, meeting her eyes. "This movie is kinda boring."

Billie grinned. "I thought so too," she replied, her eyes briefly flickering down to your lips.

"What are you thinking about?" You asked her, but you definitely already knew the answer and just wanted to tease.

"I'm thinking about… kissing the shit out of you."

You leaned in impossibly closer to her, your voice barely above a whisper as you responded with, "What's stopping you?"

At that, Billie didn't hesitate, immediately closing the small distance between the both of you. One of your hands went up to cup her face as you passionately moved your lips against hers. Billie tilted her head, deepening the kiss, and after only a couple of minutes you felt her tongue swipe at your bottom lip, silently asking for permission. You didn't waste a second in giving her what she so politely was asking for, opening your mouth slightly and feeling the tip of your tongue meet hers.

At some point, without even fully realizing it, you had climbed into Billie's lap; her hands were gripping your waist tightly, as if you'd disappear into thin air if she let go for so much as a second. The glasses that rested atop her nose were shifting a bit, and she pulled away for a split second to hastily remove them and throw them elsewhere on the couch before immediately going back to kissing you.

As time went on, things only got more intense; in your growing neediness, you found yourself slowly grinding into her lap, and Billie's hands slowly moved from your waist to your ass, guiding your movements. You needed her like you needed oxygen, and with every passing second your clothes were feeling more and more like annoying barriers.

You pulled away reluctantly, looking at Billie with eyes blown wide and lips shiny with spit. You tugged on the black tie that she was still wearing.

"You are sexy as hell in this suit, but I need you out of it."

Billie let out a laugh, one that sounded a bit breathless. "That can be arranged, baby." She said, and the pet name that rolled off her tongue made you swoon.

You both stood up, going back to kissing each other, trying to walk to your bedroom at the same time. You stumbled into walls and corners here and there, giggling the entire way.

When you both made it to your bedroom, Billie had kept walking you toward your bed until your knees hit the edge of it; you instinctively laid down, and Billie quickly crawled on top of you, keeping some of her weight off of you as she continued attacking your lips.

Eventually, she began kissing down to your neck, biting and sucking, and you even heard her inhale, feeling her nose pressed into your skin.

"Fuck," Billie groaned. "You—you smell so good. Holy shit."

You grinned at that. "You can still smell the perfume I chose for you?"

"Yeah, I can but—I meant you. Your skin."

"Oh," you said, letting out some surprised chuckles. "So it's my body wash you like?"

"Yeah… yeah, that…" Billie trailed off, continuing to pepper your neck in kisses and small bites. You were letting out pleased sighs the entire time, your eyes fluttering shut. You felt Billie's fingers toying with the hem of your shirt.

"Can I take this off?" She asked you, tugging at it impatiently. You immediately nodded with zero hesitation, and Billie made quick work of removing the article of clothing, throwing it haphazardly to the floor. You sat up a bit to remove your bra, lazily throwing it elsewhere as well. You watched Billie's hooded eyes take in your shirtless form, her eyes widening ever so slightly as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Oh my god." She muttered under her breath. "I want to devour you." She just barely whispered.

Your felt heat rush to your face at her words. "Please do. But take off your shirt, first." You said with a playful smirk.

Billie chuckled, following your command. She removed the tie, and with a painful slowness unbuttoned her clean, white shirt. Even just seeing her in her pretty lace bra was enough to leave you breathless.

Soon enough, the bra was off too, and your mouth watered at the sight of her breasts looking so soft and perfect—but before you could even suggest playing with them for a bit, Billie returned to kissing down your body, and immediately, all thoughts left your mind.

Her mouth latched onto a nipple, and you gasped, squirming underneath her as her tongue swirled around the hardening bud. Her other hand played with the other one, tugging gently. Your eyes were shut again, focusing closely on the pleasurable sensations you were experiencing.

Billie gave the same treatment to your other breast, this time switching it up a bit by quickly flicking her tongue up and down, and you already felt your back arching a bit, your gasps turning into drawn out whines.

"Billie," you moaned. "Fuck, please—"

Billie released your breast from her mouth with an audible pop. "What do you want, baby?" She teased.

You tried pushing her further down, attempting to silently communicate to her where you really needed her mouth. But Billie wasn't taking your whiny pleas as an answer.

"You're a big girl, mama. Use your words." Billie said, her attractive voice low and stern. The way the new pet name sounded in her voice nearly made you lightheaded and you desperately needed to hear it again. You let out an impatient groan, but you were no doubt enjoying every minute of this.

"Please, Billie—I want your mouth," You pleaded. "Please. Please give it to me."

"Where do you want my mouth, baby? Gotta be more specific." She said with an evil smirk on her face. With every passing minute, you felt the throbbing sensation in your cunt become more and more unbearable, and that damn look on Billie's face only made it worse.

"Fuck—need your tongue on my pussy, Billie, please."

At that, Billie gave you a pleased smile. "Atta girl." She said, already moving her hands to the buttons of your jeans. You raised your hips, helping Billie in removing them from your lower body, along with your socks. You instictively spread your bare legs, suddenly feeling a little bit embarrased at the wet spot that you no doubt knew was prominent on your cotton underwear. You watched as Billie licked her lips, staring at your cunt as if she was in a trance.

She hadn't even done anything yet but you were already gripping the bedsheets in anticipation.

At that moment, she took two fingers, hooking them around the waistband of your underwear and pulling them, before suddenly releasing and letting the waistband snap back against your skin. You let out a surprised yelp, which Billie chuckled at, before moving those fingers directly against your fabric-covered cunt.

"Can fucking feel how wet you are—can see it, too," Billie said, expertly finding your clit even through your underwear and rubbing it in slow circles that made you squirm. "I want you to cum in my mouth, mama. How does that sound?"

You nearly moaned at her words alone. "Yes—yes, fuck, please." Was all you could muster, your body and mind completely overcome with unadultered desire. You don't remember the last time you felt so turned on, so needy.

When Billie was done teasing you through fabric, she slowly began to remove your underwater, tossing them aside once they were fully off. Your pussy lay bare in front of her, glistening and clenching around nothing, and Billie gasped.

"Look at this pretty fucking cunt, all for me," she said, her breathe hitting your folds. "Goddamn."

"Billie, I swear to god—"

You were about to complain about how slow she was being until you suddenly felt her mouth on your soft thighs. She peppered small kisses there, purposefully avoiding the place you needed her the most. She did this for a minute or two, leaving your whole body on edge.

But finally—finally, you felt her two fingers spread you open a bit more, messily spitting directly onto your center, before she gave your needy pussy one long and slow stripe of her tongue, her lips gently closing around your clit when she reached the top. Immediately, your head was thrown back into the pillows and your hands flew into Billie's hair, gripping tightly. 

"Yes—fuck yes, Billie," you cried out, pure bliss washing over you as Billie moved her tongue against your heat with so much skill and practiced ease. She went into a steady pattern, licking around your clit in circles before gently sucking it, while also not forgetting to give you broad, long strokes every now and then. You were writhing around a lot more now, and Billie had to hold you down, keeping your legs forced open so you couldn't close them around your head. She held onto you, tightly, not letting you escape her tongue for so much as a second. You felt like you were in heaven.

You tried not to pull her hair too hard, but Billie didn't even seem to care, too busy devouring you like you were her last meal on earth. She played your body like an instrument, knowing exactly which buttons to press that made you lose all sense of reality.

“Oh my god, Billie– fuck.” You cursed, feeling completely overwhelmed by the immense amount of pleasure you were receiving. With your eyes closed, it allowed you to really hone in on every precise swipe of Billie's tongue– and eventually, her fingers. 

You felt two of Billie's slender digits push into you, while her tongue started focusing directly on your bundle of nerves. That was enough to make you squeal, your legs attempting to close around Billie's head, but failing due to her keeping them pried open. 

She was thrusting her fingers in and out of you at a fairly quick pace, and her lips never stopped their gentle suction around your clit. The combination of her fingers against your walls and the direct clit stimulation very quickly brought you close to your peak, your eyes squeezed shut and your chest moving up and down rapidly. You felt a tightening sensation within your stomach, and it was getting tighter every passing second. When you felt your orgasm on the rise, you decided to open your eyes, wanting to look at Billie's face while you climaxed. It was no surprise when they fluttered open that you were met with Billie's eyes already on you, staring at you hungrily.

“Billie– fuck, don't you dare fucking stop,” you squeezed out in between loud moans. Billie obliged, not stopping or slowing down for so much as a second, well aware of how close you were—even though she hadn't known you for long, she could easily tell when a woman was at the edge, the subtle changes in body language extremely noticeable to her keen eyes.

You felt it—as Billie kept up with her ministrations, looking at you with her intense gaze, it quickly became too much for you. The tightening sensation in your gut finally reached its peak, and you felt yourself tumbling into an orgasm, fast.

"Oh my god—fuck yes, Billie—fuck—!"

Your orgasm washed over you in waves; the feeling was pure euphoria, your toes curling and your hands flying out of Billie's hair to clutch the sheets with a death grip instead. Your back arched beautifully, and while you were still feeling every little shock, Billie didn't let up, allowing you to ride out the sensation of your orgasm until it gradually faded away. It wasn't until your legs were twitching and you were gently pushing her away that she slowed down, and eventually removed her mouth from your center.

When you were able to open your eyes, you looked down at Billie, noticing how the lower half of her face glistened with your juices and how her eyes glazed over. You were suddenly feeling shy again at the mess you made.

Your head went back into the pillow as you let out an airy laugh, still trying to catch your breath.

"Fuck, Billie… I want you all to myself." You said in a daze, not even fully aware of the sentence that left your mouth.

"Me too," you heard Billie reply. "God, I want more."

Billie sounded starved, as if eating you out wasn't enough for her. You chuckled.

"Just—just give me a minute, and then maybe we can—"

Suddenly, you felt a sharp, prickly sensation. Billie was biting you—but it didn't feel like the gentle, playful bites that Billie was giving you earlier. This bite was painful.

You gasped.

"Billie—ow! Fuck, that hurts—"

But then, the pain slowly morphed into something more pleasurable. Your brain was completely confused at the dual sensations.

You let out a moan as you felt Billie's mouth remain in place. You looked down, still too fucked out to fully process what was happening, but you saw Billie's mouth latched onto your thigh, her eyes closed in bliss. Your eyebrows furrowed.

It wasn't until Billie pulled away that your eyes completely widened—in fear.

There were two puncture wounds in your thigh, and you saw two very sharp teeth in Billie's mouth that strangely were not there just a few minutes ago. There was a red substance pouring from your puncture wounds and dripping from Billie's mouth—obviously blood.

"Billie? What—what the fuck?" You said, suddenly feeling lightheaded.

Billie stared back at you, a sudden expression of shock taking over her face like she only just now realized what she had done.

"I'm so sorry—shit," She exclaimed, panic in her voice. "Something came over me—I was just so hungry, fuck."

That was the last thing you heard before your head hit the pillow again and everything went black.

When you awoke, you were greeted with your bedroom ceiling. The room was dim, and you could tell that the sole light source was coming from the lamp on your bedside table.

You felt dizzy, so you didn't make any sudden moves just yet. You laid there, trying to piece together everything that happened the past few hours. It didn't take you long for your memories to come rushing back in. You looked down and noticed that you were atop the covers. You noticed that you were now clad in an oversized shirt, one directly from your closet, and a pair of clean underwear. Glancing down at your inner thigh, you also noticed that your puncture wound was no longer bleeding.

Fangs. A bite mark. Blood. Billie.

You turned your head, and there Billie was, also staring up at the ceiling, her shirt that was previously discarded covering her frame again. She saw you move out of the corner of her eye, and immediately, she was facing you, rolling over onto her side. You could feel her breathe fan across your face.

"Hey, baby," She said softly. "Are you okay?"

You slowly sat up, nodding, wincing at the pain you felt in your thigh. Billie looked at you apologetically, also sitting up alongside you.

"Thanks for dressing me." You said, fiddling with the fabric of your shirt.

Billie gave you a light grin. "Of course."

Then, there was a stretch of silence; not awkward silence necessarily, but it was clear you both were unsure how to proceed after what had just transpired a couple of hours ago.

Gazing at Billie, you noticed her usual confident demeanor was gone, and instead she appeared small and anxious, clearly worried about what you'd say.

You decided to be the one to initiate conversation first.

"Billie…" you started, your tone cautious as you broached the difficult subject. "You have some explaining to do."

She sighed. "I know… I'm so sorry—"

"And— I have a lot of fucking questions."

"I totally understand. I'll tell you everything you wanna know. I'll explain everything. I swear. I'm sorry, baby."

"It's…" you trailed off, releasing a sigh of your own. Your eyelids were still heavy with fatigue. "It's okay, Billie."

She looked at you with her eyebrows raised in surprise. "You're not… afraid of me? You're not gonna kick me out?"

"No. I'm not." You told her sincerely. "I just—it feels like I'm dreaming. I can't believe you're… you're a…"

"I know it's a lot to take in." Billie interjected. You scoffed.

"That's putting it lightly."

"Look," Billie began, gently holding one of your hands. You tensed a bit when she touched you, but eventually relaxed.

"I shouldn't have bitten you. Without your consent. But I just—I can't control my actions when I go too long without feeding. It's… a whole thing that I can explain later, but—"

"Billie." You interrupted, squeezing her hand.

She looked at you with eyes full of guilt; it was clear she felt terrible about what she had done, and it warmed your heart to see how sorry she felt.

"Can you… stay the night? I just want you to hold me. I'm tired." You said.

Billie seemed taken aback at your request, clearly not expecting such a response. She was frozen for a while, processing your words, before eventually nodding.

"Yeah. I can do that." She replied. You gave her a tired, barely there smile, one that she returned.

The two of you laid back down together, getting under the covers, Billie wrapping an arm around you as you nestled into her chest. You could feel her bare legs underneath the blankets; she had discarded her pants at some point.

Never in your wildest dreams did you think you'd ever come into close contact with a vampire—those were creatures that, for a long time, you thought only existed in fiction. But now one was holding you and kissing your head and laying with you, and even though you had a million questions plaguing your mind, all you wanted to focus on was the pretty girl you were cuddling with.

You quietly laughed to yourself at the absurdity of it all.

"What?" Billie said, ears catching the sound of your chuckles.

"Nothing," you said. "Thanks, Billie. For the date."

"Of course." She replied, and you could hear the smile in her voice.

The both of you would definitely talk later, but for now, you only cared about the lovely vampire woman keeping you company.

(dividers by @/strangergraphics)

[trulyumai]

Blinded by the Flame

Pairing: Messmer the Impaler x Reader

Warnings: Blood, Death.

Synopsis: Left bloodied and blinded, Messmer searched. Not for revenge, but for his wife.

A/N: So, this fucking sunflower boss is kicking my ass. Im cooked.

Enjoy the story!

“Ah! Mother, please!” In the middle of the room, sat the legend of the flames. 

He balled up in agony, his fingers covered his face— his eyes entirely. 

Blood seeped between the crevices of his digits, his eyes burned with an itch, a feeling he wanted to tear out.

“For how could I— your spawn, be subjected to such a monstrosity of an ending?” The man cried out, his deep wails echoed throughout the chambers around his being. 

Messmer mumbled incessantly, begging and twitching as his vision blackened. 

He had to gain control— before the chaotic numb feeling goes too far, before his mind slips away completely. 

Think of the throne 

Think of the order 

Think of… 

“Wife,” 

He called out, saliva dripped down in a reddened  pace between his lips. 

Messmer reached out to nothing, to the blackness that surrounded him. 

“Wife!” He wailed

“Don’t— don’t leave me alone!” 

The lanky man keeled over, his hands beat against the wooden floor with fury. 

“A-Answer me! Your husband— your Lord demands it!” 

With a slurred speech, he crawled, began to move toward where he thought the door might be. 

His hand met with a stone wall, it stood firm against his blood covered palms. 

He couldn’t think- couldn’t remember the size of the room, the chamber at all for that matter. 

The  pain was piercing his mind, it left fire in its wake. 

“Augh—“ 

The knight continued his mission, persisted onto finding the exit, the way to his home- his love. 

Knees now scratched and molded over with scabs, he stopped his movement, as something cold came into contact with his dirtied palm.

Shakily a pale arm reached down once more and with his posture bent, he leered over the object. 

It was fleshy, wet with a warming substance and–

“No,” 

Firm hands acted, looked for proof that could refuse the perverse thoughts invading his mind. 

“No, no, no!” 

Shaky fingers guided their way to a hand, it was soft, so small that he could cover it whole with his own. 

He came into contact with a cold metal, a band that had been wrapped around the person's finger. 

His darling wife’s finger. 

“—Ah! No, this— this is a warning- a vision, it's a farce!” 

Not bothering to stop the blood from pouring down his chin, it fell atop of the bloodied woman. 

Her eyes remained closed, the middle of her person laid into a deep maroon color. 

As best as the weakened knight could, the woman was pulled towards him. She rested upon his lap like a deity. 

Her head was angled towards him, it sagged into the man’s chest instantly. 

He smelled the apples— the Elder flowers that clung onto her stilled skin.

There was no denying, it was his love that lay crumpled in his arms like a wilted lily. 

Only his cries were heard through the chamber, bouncing off the walls with ease as his wails got louder and louder. 

The cries were wet, uneven hiccups accompanied the tears. 

As if nature mourned her loss; thunder boomed, rain seeped down to drench the land and the wind howled beneath the winking stars. 

The man’s shoulders shook, he howled— it was too much, too far beneath the golden rays he was promised. 

Burying his head into her neck the man refused to move. 

His kin could walk through the gates now— with a cure for his blindness yet he would say put. 

For his protective reign is over. 

Now that his purpose lay still and quiet. 

His grip tightened, wide knuckles turned white with pressure. 

“Thy will bury it all in flame,” 

His voice but a whisper among the pelting rain. 

“I will offer it all; and join thee with the heads of the filthy accusers, who dare put thy to rest.” 

Biting down on his cheeks, more crimson seeped down with unwanted reign. 

“Rest, my wife,” his forehead met with hers, the surface sticky and wet. 

“My love will hold me here—“

“—nnnghh,” 

Thin red brows raised, with his mouth agape he let out a noise like no other. 

“Darling, love, please!” He didn’t know what he was begging for, but it came out in unseen repetition

Her mind was foggy, vision even more so as her arm raised above her being. 

It felt as if daggers pierced through her chest, and needles laid about her arms like unseen birthmarks. 

“–mer, Messm—“ 

“I’m here! Gods, I’m— lovely, hear thy cries, please!” 

The voice sounded like it was under rubble, or even perhaps miles of sand and dirt. 

She felt the light touches, how they guided their way on her cheeks, her jaw. 

It was a loving, soft touch made by roughened hands. 

Familiar hands. 

Tears struck her bloodied cheeks, a sloppy smile graced her expression. 

He hadn’t left her afterall— after the fall, the oncoming of soldiers, he was here, by her side. 

Grunting out a low groan, words fled her cut lips in a rush. 

The woman’s words slurred together, and the man tried to make sense of them.

“Slow down, my wife, slow—“

“Es, mess, yo— your eyes!”

On queue, the blackened holes throbbed. Dark pits of ash wobbled down the crevices and met the material of his armor. 

“Shhh, Darling, it will be alright, it will be alright.” 

Her lips shook with a new level of fear, of total shock. 

“I will take care of it— mother will help. I— it will be alright.” 

“She is the cause of such damnation, how will she help?” Taking her hand in his larger one, Messmer placed kisses upon each finger.

The woman gaped up at him. 

“Why are you so calm, aren’t you angry— hurt?”  

“I… was,” He replied. Still distracted by the kisses he laid upon her skin. 

“But thy are here to calm such a flame, hm?” 

The red knight pushed his woman closer, till the cheek of her face mushed against his dirtied armor.

“Let us get fixed, then such a discussion can be demanded.” 

Ignoring the woman's constant worried touches, a smile adorned his face. 

He wasn't alone, his wife lay huddled between his arms. The unspoken horror lay hushed beneath his heel, stomped and winded. 

Although he was blinded, left to die on his own, he could continue his push to the capital.

For the prophecy has already been foretold. 

The kingdom will be left in ash; with only his wife and him to huddle in the flames of ambition. 

[xetlynn]

IMAGINES- Jasper x reader

My Star

(This was requested months ago and I’m so sorry I’m just now putting this out 😭)

Twilight Masterlist

In which Jasper lost his “Star” before turning into a vampire and years later spots her with his new vegetarian family.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Carlisle asked Jasper whose eyes were widened already trying to control his thirst around all the humans.

He nodded his head.

Edward and Emmett stood on either side of him.

“If it gets too much let one of us know.” Alice stood in front of Jasper with a sweet smile on her face.

The family thought Alice and Jasper would end up together due to how much he trusted her but Alice knew she wasn’t the one for him.

He mourned for his lover before them.

Before turning.

She knew that was the only woman for him.

And he was glad she understand, not having to speak on it. The pain was too much for him to bare so he kept silent about it.

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiles down at the girl, his hands laid behind him, clasped together.

“Alright, you got this.” She nods at him, getting out of their way and the three men enter together. The rest of the family behind them.

As they entered the loud building the energy switched.

Jasper focused on the music that played, watching the girls that kicked their feet and played with the bottoms of their dresses as they danced.

The men that encourage them, cheering them on.

He scanned the room, observing.

“I want to dance.” Rosalie stated behind them.

“Let’s dance then baby!” Emmett boomed.

Edward furrowed his brows trying to remind them of why they were here.

Alice placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let them have fun.” She nods her head to assure him.

Edward makes eye contact with Carlisle who also allows it, taking Esme’s hand and taking her to dance.

He scoffs, staying sternly next to Jasper.

Jasper still scanned the room, not paying attention to his new family. Alice joined Jasper’s other side and took his hand.

“Want to try to dance too?” She had a lot of hope and confidence in him.

Something he could say the same for.

The blood burning his nose as he tried his hardest to hold it in.

“I don’t know, honestly.” He answers her, his nose flaring but he tries to hold it in.

“You got this, trust me.” She pulls him onto the dance floor as well.

Alice begins to twist her hips, following the rhythm of the music.

“C’mon!” She encourages, now kicking her feet and moving his arms for him.

“I don’t know how to dance.” He begins to smile.

“Just follow my lead.” She gets more into and he finally follows suit, the burning in his nose still there but she distracts him from it.

Edward still stood there, solemnly.

Watching Jasper’s every move, making sure he doesn’t get caught up and switch like a light.

As Jasper dances, he glances around again.

A shine of a light flashes on a man and he stares at the guy for a little bit before moving alone onto the next thing.

This time his eyes spot a lady.

A lady who looks oddly familiar.

Her hair bouncing as she dances and laughs.

Time freezes for him. Alice notices his change in posture. His moves slow down.

“Jasper?” She turns to see what he’s looking at. Edward comes up to them, pulling them off the dance floor.

“What happened?” Edward aggressively questions.

“I- I don’t know.” Alice stammers, Jasper’s eyes don’t leave the girl he saw.

“Jasper, what’s going on?” Edward grabs onto the mans shoulders.

“I see her.” Is all that leaves his lips.

“See who?” Alice asks, gently pushing Edward out of the way.

“My star.” He whispers, shoving past Alice and Edward, the girl left the dance floor and to the bar.

He stays feet away but watch her every movement just like Edward was doing to him.

But for him, he was trying to see if it’s true.

If it’s his star. As she got her drink, Edward grabs onto him once again.

“Jasper, you can’t do that.” Glaring at the man who doesn’t seem to be there. Not paying attention to his “brother.”

She’s on the move once again, a man beside her this time. She’s flirting with him and Jasper feels a pang in his chest.

She laugh and he hears it for a split second. That’s how he knew, it’s her.

It’s his star.

She grabs onto the man’s shirt that she’s flirting with and guides him outside into the back of the building. Jasper realizes he needs to get Edward off of his back.

He looks around trying to find something to do so. Alice watches Jasper’s movements and then she gets a vision.

Holding onto the wall once it’s over.

She grins and goes over to Edward.

“Eddie!” She laughs vibrantly, grabbing onto the boy and spinning him around. “Please dance with me!” She then spins herself with his hand. “Alice, now’s not the time.”

“When ever is there a time, Edward.” She pouts, then glances at Jasper and widens her eyes, telling him to go as she distracts the boy.

He mouths a “thank you” before rushing off. Following who he believes is his lover.

He exits the building, now being quiet.

He looks around for her. Not spotting her as the wind blows in the air. The moon shining down on him and the body of water ahead.

He takes a few steps out, he hears some noises of a man whimpering, gargling his own blood.

The blood smell fills Jasper’s nostrils.

He feels enticed by it, his body moving slowly towards the dying body feet away from him. It’s the man that she came out with.

It’s the same man from before.

And before he can get any closer his body flies to the ground with a thud. Someone pinning him down. “Who are you?” A voice questions, shoving him further into the ground.

The lady not getting a look at him.

He grunts, trying to fight her off. Slowly he stops fighting, trying to get a good look at her face.

“My star.” He huffs out, his hands laid next to him and her strength weakens on him. Pulling her hands back.

“Jasper?” Her voice breaks, this time he flips them over and pins her down. Not harshly.

She laughs loudly.

“My Jasper!” She squeals, not able to do anything but she kicks her feet to the ground as he stares down at her with a grin.

“[Name], I thought you were dead.” He tells her, observing every feature upon her face.

“I thought you were dead.” She lifts her head up to tell him. He lets her arms go but still straddles her waist, slightly hovering above her though.

“You’re one of them too?” He notices the blood that drips from her mouth.

“I was turned after you left, they invaded our home.” She informs him, leaning up on her elbows. He closes his eyes, shaking his head.

“I should’ve been with you.” He mentally beats himself up.

“Hey! Who’s back here?!” A voice shouts and the two scramble up. Jasper grabs her hand, yanking her away from the scene. They hide behind a vehicle as a sheriff flashes a light around the area they were just at.

He finds the body and gasps. [Name] giggles to herself, watching from the window of the car.

She looks down at Jasper with a smile, gripping his hand and she guides him to the lake in a fast movement.

“You eat humans?” He suddenly asks her. She furrows her brows. “What else would I eat, darling?” She bends down, cleaning the blood off of her face. Luckily none of it got onto her dress.

“Animals.” He responds in a quiet tone.

“Your family’s one of the vegetarians?” She sat on her knees but turned her body to his direction.

“Your’s isn’t?” He tilts his head.

“I don’t have one. I’ve been alone since they killed everyone in our village.” She hums, playing with the water.

“Everyone?” He repeats.

She then realizes how insensitive she sounds, that was his family too. “The Volturi, since everyone grew in havoc they deemed us dead. No hope for any of us to be civil enough to live out in the world.” She thinks back to her memories of when it all happened, the fire.

“I escaped without anyone realizing. I’ve been on the run for a while.” She stands up.

“Before the village was turned they told me you died. I had no reason of living. But then I was turned and I couldn’t even kill myself. It was tragic.” She places a hand on his cheek, rubbing it gently.

“Did you ever return home?” She goes to take her hand back but he grabs it, keeping it on his face. Cradling her hand.

“No, she told me you were dead and I couldn’t bare to see your name on a grave.” He spoke softly.

“She?” She furrows her brows.

“Maria. She turned me. Made me her personal soldier after she told me you were dead.” He closes his eyes trying to fight back the memory of him falling to his knees when he found out his star was dead.

“I’ll kill her.” Venom laces in [Name]’s voice but Jasper chuckles.

“She’s dead, my Star.” He shakes his head.

“Good, she’ll never experience my torture.” She half-jokes. Knowing there’s some truth to it.

“Never leave my side again.” He kisses her hand, pulling her into his arms.

“Never again.” She agrees, laying her head on his chest. It was cut off by yelling.

“Jasper!” His siblings were looking for him, he grabbed [Name], holding her close to him as the family found the man.

“Who is this?” Rosalie was the first to question. Esme held Carlisle’s hand. Alice clapped her hands.

“It’s her!” She grinned. Jasper gave the shorter girl an earnest smile.

“Her?” Rosalie gave a dirty look, still confused. “It’s [Name], his passed lover.” Carlisle announces.

Edward then lets it all hit him.

That’s why he was acting weird in the building. Relief also hits him when he doesn’t see blood all over him. Just a little on the girl next to him.