#dahlia | angst (˶◞ ‸ ◟˶)

[trashydez]

like a phoenix. (2.7k words)

what if phoenix- instead of being virtually indestructible, actually wasnt? what if he was actually incredibly prone to death, but he just… never stayed dead?

(trigger warning for a multitude of causes of deaths!! some in detail and some not. other tw’s include implied suicide attempts, implied child neglect, derealisation and thinking one is already dead. be warned! take care of yourself!)

at 9, he wakes in his bed after having a high fever and his mom ships him off to school hours after it began. he finds it odd, because last he’d checked his temperature (that morning, when he told his mom he felt like he was going to die and his mom had left to go run errands, barely sparing him a glance), his temperature had been at 107 degrees farenheit. that was definitely high, but after he slipped into unconsciousness, writhing and restless and in a lot of pain, he woke up to his mother checking his temperature and saying he was fine to head off to school. he didnt feel fine, but his temperature had gone down significantly enough that his mother felt like he had no excuse not to go. hes glad he went to school though, even as he shivered, sneezed and sniffled, because there he found a friend in a boy with a funny bowtie and a heart made of gold.

he crunches and chokes on glass shards and poison but doesnt die. the doctors dont find anything wrong with him, aside from feeling a bit ill, so he goes back into the courtroom and dollie is convicted of murder. hes happy his roommate is away for some theatre troupe thing, because the sickness eventually catches up to him and he throws up shards of glass, acid and blood. it cuts into his throat and burns his eyes and he swears, he swears he dies right then and there, freezing and shaking and everything hurts. but when he wakes up hours later, the sun having set and the only light source in his dingy dormroom the moon outside, hes amazed to not feel sick anymore. but the puddle of sludge is drying beside his face and he considers himself lucky, or maybe unlucky, because unlike dahlia’s other victims, he actually lives to tell the tale.

phoenix arrives early to the office, having been in the public library nearby reading a book on reincarnation. he enters the office and promptly has his skull caved into his brain. he does not see his assailant, but when he wakes, theres an oddly dressed girl crying, crouched over his boss’ cold body. he doesn’t think about the drying blood in the back of his head, or how cold mia’s body is (and why he can even tell, considering the fact he has not touched her corpse) or the chapter in the book he’d been reading that talked about quantum immortality— all he thinks of is proving maya fey’s innocence.

as it turns out, being constantly anxious and terrified of mortal peril actually has its perks. maybe the fact he’s a lawyer whose only ever dealt with homicide cases definitely wasn’t benefiting his mental wellbeing either. in any case, its that fear of literally everything and constant feeling of impending doom that makes his body react before his mind does. taser! danger! maya! so, he gets tasered. and it fucking HURTS, but he feels more relieved than frightened as the searing pain shoots through him, because he’d been able to push maya away before von karma got to them both. wasnt a symptom of death by electrocution an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and imminent death? maybe he was going crazy. when he comes back though, its to his head in the lap of a crying spirit medium, so maybe a psychotic break isnt too bad if it means everyone else gets to escape with no damage to their own psyche.

its only after she stops screaming in terror- oh my god, nicks a zombie!! kyahh!!!- and nearly beating him with her bulky magatama necklace, that she tells him what she saw. (“like, there was a sudden bright light and then i realised it was coming from you! but when i tried to touch your glowing skin,” she says it like its the most absurd thing she’d ever seen, which really said something considering the fact she was from a family of people who could channelthe dead “it was HOT! like, japanifornia summer hot! blazing! i was only able to check your pulse after you cooled down a bit…”). maybe its this that makes him less alarmed by the way his skin glowed in the dark of his trashed bedroom, after drinking himself to death following a certain phone call from a terribly sad, newly bossless detective. he doesnt think he can bear the taste alcohol ever again, after that.

maybe the number of times he’s died of blunt force trauma to the head should be a cause for concern, even more so when he wakes up without any of his memories. he’s terrified, and doesnt even knows who he is, until he does, and is able to prove maggey byrde innocent. fun times! he should probably watch out to make sure his next death wasn’t to the head, lest he be as mentally impaired as a number of people liked to say he was… (and he should probably also be concerned by the fact he was already thinking of the next time he’d die, but ah well, blame it on the concussion).

as it turns out, getting whipped to death was not on his list of ways he thought he’d die next, but life liked to mess with him like that, it seemed. still, dragging his delirious self to the bathroom of his office to try and save the infected wounds from killing him wasn’t all that fun, and he’s immediately reminded of his first death, slow and painful, alone and scared of what came next. he feels bad for feeling relieved when maya shows up and screams upon seeing the state he and the bathroom (that’d he’d accidentally trashed when his legs gave out after he opened the door, a number of bottles fallen to the floor beside him) were in. he stops her from calling the police- there was no point, he didn’t have much time left. but when she asks what she could do, he goes quiet. (…just… stay here? i dont- he coughs up a distinctly red shade of spit. maya makes a noise between a choked cry and a whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck. but phoenix was shivering worse now, and hugs himself tigher. i dont want to die alone.) so she stays with him, on the cold bathroom floor, as his labored breathing eventually slows. when he awakens, he finds maya asleep leaning against him, and promises to get her burgers as a thank you.

who knew death by a monkey throwing a giant bronze bust of max galactica at you could happen? at this point, he’s almost glad he was basically immortal, because there was no way in hell he’d allow his autopsy report to say ‘cause of death: monkey manslaughter’! edgeworth would laugh himself to tears if he saw! not that he could see. or cry, because he was dead. and not coming back. damn.

so edgeworth isnt dead! yippee? he thought it was his thing to get reanimated after death, not edgeworths. when he saw him, standing in the middle of the police department, alive and breathing and very much not dead, he nearly started laughing. he must’ve finally gone insane! curse the amount of times he’d died of brain related injuries, not that he knew how many of them there were at this point. he might actually have laughed a bit, because pearls was looking at him like he was losing it (he was) but he couldnt really bring himself to care as he had more pressing issues at hand, like saving his best friend from a crazy serial killer holding her hostage, and punching his other best friend in the face for faking his own death (because really, dying was his thing! not edgeworths!). and if he pulls edgeworth into a hug immediately after, throwing caution in the wind (you only live once, right?), the warmth- a normal, human temperature, unlike his burning hot when he came back from death- is enough to stabilise his harried mind for just a moment, before he has to return to his guilty client and his hopeless situation.

by some crazy turn of events, he actually doesnt die from having boiling hot coffee thrown at his face. it burns, and maya screams when she sees the boils on his face after that first trial with godot, but after throwing a wet towel over his face and putting him in timeout on the sofa for 12-hours, the burns go away as if they were never there. he fell asleep at some point, and after alot of back and forth debate, they eventually came to the conclusion that 1. his body heat rising to burning levels when he dies must have caused his body has to grow immune to heat and 2. since sleep was like a ‘temporary death’, a ‘temporary wound’ would just heal like it did when he died of normal wounds, right? he didn’t want to dwell on it too much, because maya was looking at him like she wanted to test that theory for real, so he quickly changes topics before things got out of hand.

so their theory on the immunity to heat thing was correct! …almost. larry had tried to stop him, but it was fire and he was basically immune to heat, right? nope! his skin burned and boiled but he didn’t die as he tried to run across the burning bridge. even so, nothing hurt more than falling through one of the burnt planks and slamming onto the surface of the freezing cold rushing stream below. luckily the death was near immediate, but unfortunately he came to while in the water still, so he swallowed a sizeable amount of water before paramedics arrived. he hears the doctors find his survival miraculous, despite the scorching hot fever he was now under. he blacks out again, and comes to in the hospital, feeling absolutely terrible.

the horribleness feels familiar though, and when edgeworth walks in, he realises what it must be, when the man presses the back of his hand to his temple and quickly pulls his hand away as if burned. (oh. he thinks, tearing up despite himself. it must be the fever. i’m going to die like this again.) his internal monologue must’ve been external though, because edgeworth balks (‘again?!’). but phoenix was crying in hiccups and sobs, feeling terrible and like he was nine years old again, wishing his mother were there to nurse him back to health like she’d never done before. he faintly hears edgeworth sitting down on his bed and reaches out, gripping the mans waist like it was a lifeline. in a sense, it was. “don’t go.” he whispers, gripping the man tighter like he’d disappear into thin air (again). “please, please don’t go.” in his delirium, he nearly wails in despair when he feels edgeworth move, but he was only moving to readjust himself so he’s lying next to him, their bodies so close that it must burn, but the only sign edgeworth shows that he’s in pain is a wince and the crease of his brow. he allows himself to be cried on, curling a protective arm over phoenix’s burning body. “i- i dont know what’s going on, wright, but i’m not, i’m not going anywhere, okay?” he seems to be attempting exasperation, but it comes out terrified and concerned, but phoenix is fading quickly, so it might just be his waning mind making up things that don’t exist. “i am terrified. your body is life threateningly hot and— wright? wright!”

he comes to with nurses surrounding him, and a distressed edgeworth swearing on his life that that man was dead, his body was seizing and on fire and- and his heart stopped beating! but phoenix couldn’t dwell on it, because the mention of fire immediately brought him back to why he was in the hospital at all. and plus, it gave him the chance to use his best friends sensitive treatment of him afterwards to convince him to play defense attorney, so that was nice. still, he feels like he dies when he finds out dahlia had actually been iris and that godot was actually his dead mentors apparently not dead boyfriend. oh, and he was also a murderer. he also feels like he dies when dahlia- actual, serial killer and dead by execution dahlia, was exorcised from maya’s body. but that had more to do with his soul leaving his body in terror rather than actually dying, so that was a nice change of pace… probably.

later, he’d had to have a conversation with edgeworth to give him an explanation on just what the hell he’d witnessed in that hospital room. although, apparently his re-aliving symptoms must’ve started becoming more dramatic, because miles describes it as his whole body glowing as bright as the sun, and then his eyes opening for a moment to reveal nothing but white, glowing eyeballs with no irises. phoenix has to convince him to still board his flight the day after, that he was okay… probably. maybe not safe, but definitely okay. (still, edgeworth stays the night at his, and they hold eachother close, basking in the shared warmth of two alive bodies in heat equilibrium, listening to eachothers breathing and rhythmic heartbeats, no signs of impending mortality in sight, save for, what did the french call it? la petite morte? most of all, phoenix basks in the promise miles makes to him. “i’m not going anywhere,” he repeats, over and over like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was phoenix. “i’m not going anywhere, i promise.”)

and when he loses his badge, he thinks he really does die, permanent and definitively. he feels far away from his body when the forger is called to the witness stand. feels like a ghost when the council walks out the room and past him, making no eye contact and answering the unanswered question on the tip of his tongue. feels his life crumble to pieces when a blonde man with a pleasent, almost saintly smile gives him the most maddeningly sympathetic look and tells him he is sorry for his loss, as if there really was someone dead. only, the only one dead must’ve been him, because there was no one else there who had just lost their life. he couldn’t even hear himself as he laughed, which turned into sobs, as he excused himself and fleed to his bicycle. not one pedestrian bats an eye at the state he is in, so he must really be a ghost, cycling past speeding cars and large trucks and buses as if it couldn’t kill him, because he wasn’t there, he was already dead. when he reaches his office, freezing and quiet and dreadfully void of any human life, he passes by the window his boss had died at and sees his reflection, unkempt and red faced and badgeless. he wants to scream, but he couldn’t because no one would hear a ghost scream, so instead he just sits down in the spot his mentor had lost her life in, and mourns.

when two weeks later a warm, incredible alive life falls into his hands in the shape of a little girl with a too big tophat and a joy for being alive that he’d lost years ago, well, maybe he is glad that he couldn’t die for real, if only to be able to wake up to that beaming grin as his little girl tries to pull her daddy out of bed because she’d made breakfast, and it only smells burnt because of the magic something she’d added as a special ingredient. he eats it, char and all, because he can’t taste the burnt-ness of it anyway, but he could taste the love and care put into it, and that was more than enough to take his mind away readying himself for his next death. instead, he thinks of his daughter’s next performance at the wonder bar, and their next trip to kurain, and miles’ next visit. for once, he thinks of living.

[citnamora]

Do you think Maya kept Mia's magatama? That she convinced Gumshoe to let her have it back after the trial, because it's the only thing left of her that hasn't changed since Mia left her in left Kurain? Do you think she ever fastened it around her neck, just once, and wept upon looking at her own reflection? Because the reality hit her that she'll never be able to connect with her sister in a tangible form again, being the only one at the time who channeled her? Do you think for the first few years, on the day that Mia died, she runs her hands over that same magatama and wonders how things would be different if her sister was still around?

[allisluv]

COMING CLEAN

Chapter Three — knock on effect

word count: 5.3k

finnick odair x fem!oc

content warnings: finnick odair (yes he’s a warning in himself) flirting, dissociation, finnick likes his women a little mean, stylists freaking out, dahlia doesn’t like physical touch. lmk if there’s anything i missed!

previous chapter — next chapter

Dahlia had always been a light sleeper, which was why it came as no surprise that she stirred when her prep team burst their way into her hotel room the next morning.

She yanked the covers over her head and gripped the linen duvet, trying to block out the sunlight for as long as possible.

Bloom's unintelligible screeching, on the other hand, was harder to ignore.

With sleep still settled deep in her bones, she pushed herself onto her elbows and covered her eyes with her hands. Even through the drawn curtains, it was bright enough to make her head pound (but she suspected that had more to do with the glasses of white wine she had necked after her meeting with Finnick last night)

"Dahlia! Are you listening to me?" Bloom shrieked, throwing her arms helplessly in the air. "Is she even listening to me?" she hissed, spinning the question around to Malaki as if he could somehow crack open Dahlia's skull and peer in at her thoughts

Unfortunately, he wasn't a mind reader, which left him with the job of consoling her hysterics.

He took quick strides towards the stylist and put an abrupt end to her pacing by grabbing hold of her shoulders. "Relax, Bloom, the world isn't ending," he soothed. "Just sit down and have a gin."

He ushered her towards a leather armchair by the windowsill and grabbed a bottle of pink gin from the mini-fridge.

The clock had barely struck noon but no one seemed inclined to lecture Bloom for her drinking habits. Plus, she was a pretty nice drunk, so it wasn't as if she would push anyone off the balcony or anything.

Dahlia hugged her knees to her chest and scrunched up her eyes, trying to adjust to the lighting change. She didn't know what was sending her stylist into an alcohol-induced frenzy this early in the morning and quite frankly, she didn't plan on asking.

She had fallen prey to that old trick during the early days of her victory tour and, as a result, been forced to suffer through an hour spiel on why the district one stylist was a quote-on-quote "spineless hag who wouldn't know fashion if it slapped her in the face."

She mentally cursed herself for inheriting her mom's nosiness. "Are you gonna tell me what's got you this worked up or do I have to guess?" If she kept caving every time Bloom had something to complain about (which was more often than not ten times a day), she would never catch a break or learn her lesson.

Bloom huffed out something between a scoff and a sigh, pulling an old-fashioned newspaper from her knock-off handbag and chucking it across the room.

It nearly hit Dahlia in the head, which was probably what she was aiming for in the first place.

Malaki sprawled out on the double bed, the mattress dipping at the sudden shift in weight. He dug the pads of his fingers into his eyes.

Reluctantly, she picked the newspaper up from the foot of the bed and Bloom returned to nursing the bottle of gin. She flipped the newspaper around in her hands until the front page stared back at her.

A headline printed in bold letters. Two pictures; one of her heading back to her hotel room last night and one of Finnick doing the same.

"HEARTTHROBS OR HEARTACHE?

"Dahlia Holloway and Finnick O'Dair— both are known for their string of lovers in the Capitol, but things might just be heating up."

"According to an anonymous source, our darlings were seen getting up close and personal at last night's gala. We've been told that the victors were seen in a compromised position yesterday evening yet the details remain to be confirmed."

"Could it be possible that our golden boy and angel could be ready to settle down? Or is this another of their flings destined to end in heartache?"

Kissing Finnick at a Capitol party was bound to stir up rumours— that was the whole point! She and Finnick understood what they were getting themselves into. They had to throw Snow off their trail.

Still, it didnt make it any less humiliating.

"Well?" Bloom threw her hands in the air, clutching the gin bottle between her hot pink nails as the tips of her ears burned red. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, young lady?"

Dahlia blinked down at the newspaper in her lap, stifling down a laugh that threatened to bubble out of her chest.

The situation was far from funny but it was hard to keep a straight face. Bloom was akin to a baby deer and she simply wasn't cut out for acting like the big bad wolf.

"We left you alone for an hour!" she took another swig of gin and wiped the dregs from around her mouth. "An hour!" she cried out, jabbing the bottle in her direction.

Malaki sat up wearily and took the newspaper from Dahlia's hands. If given the chance, she'd launch it at the woman. He had spent years getting to know her, which was enough time to pick up signs of when she was getting stressed.

She was like a violent dog, for lack of a better term. When she felt threatened, she lashed out. It was a go-to, a reflex, an impulse. If she felt cornered, like she had nowhere to run, she snapped.

He wondered if it was a safety thing— push people away before they could leave. He had never endured the horrors of the games, though, so he didn't think he had the right to say whether that was where it stemmed from or not.

"Look, why don't we all take a breather and calm down," he reasoned, trying to keep two tempers in check at once.

Bloom leaned forward in the armchair, eyes almost popping out of their sockets. "Calm down? Calm down?" she hissed, slamming the gin bottle onto the table.

"What do you think will happen when people start asking questions, Malaki? What's he gonna do to us when he realises that people don't buy another star-crossed lovers tale?" she seethed, gesturing wildly at the front cover of the newspaper. "If any of us put so much as a toe out of line, we're all dead and buried."

She hadn't thought her heart could sink any further yet time and time again, she was proven wrong. Dread was wrapping its way around her lungs and squeezing tight.

It would have been easier if Snow had found out the truth and hung them for treason. At least then they wouldn't have been dragging anyone else down with them.

"I spoke to President Snow this morning," Malaki kept his voice steady, doing a far better job than his counterpart at maintaining his composure.

"He wants us to play into it, doesn't he?" There was an unevenness in her tone and she wished it would go away.

A pair of frantic blue eyes bore into his soul, and it was almost as if she was trying to predict what was going to come out of his mouth next.

"He thinks this might be a good thing," he explained gently, running a hand through his dark hair. "He thinks some good news may be a valuable thing for people to have in such a stressful time."

She could read between the lines without missing a beat; Snow was doing this purely for his own gain.

Having two of his most influential victors standing by his side would not only serve as a distraction but also shine a positive light on the victors as a whole community.

If the districts saw her and Finnick, who were referred to as Capitol sweethearts, together, it would be a perfect piece of propaganda. What better way to extinguish the spark of a rebellion than to showcase their loving relationship to the whole of Panem?

Presenting the districts with another star-crossed lovers tale would work in the president's favour if he could control these two. And he could— they still had people they cared about.

Perhaps the rebellious Girl on Fire and the charming Baker's Boy would be forgotten. Maybe Finnick and Dahlia could show how grateful they were for all the opportunities that winning the games had given them.

He wanted them to stomp out the rebel's spirit before it had a chance to spread any further.

Talk about killing two birds with one stone.

"Fine. We'll sneak around, pull each other into hotel rooms, whatever he wants us to do. Finnick and I are far better actors than Peeta and Katniss, anyway," she nodded earnestly, trying to convince herself that they could pull this off.

"I spoke with district four's escort this morning and she agreed that we need to be on the same page. We can't afford any mistakes, darling," he murmured, trying to explain the severity of the situation without sending her into another episode.

He vividly remembered the knock-on effect after her games. She was in and out of catatonic states for months and when she did come to, a trigger, no matter how small, sent her into full-blown hysterics.

Despite frequent episodes in which she couldn't tell what was real, it hadn't gotten that bad in months.

The last thing anyone needed was Dahlia spiralling, so if he could somehow shoulder part of that burden, he would do it in a heartbeat.

"You and Finnick have a date tonight," he saw the flash of panic on her face and quickly backtracked.

"All the details are sorted, it's okay. You'll be going to a quiet restaurant. All you have to do is show up. The paparazzi have been given an anonymous tip-off and they'll snap a few shots of you both coming back to the hotel. You can go to your separate rooms, for tonight at least."

Dahlia opened her mouth to protest but a choked sound escaped instead. She wondered if this was how avoxes felt; strangled and suffocated, paralyzed, as if someone had cut open their windpipe and left them to choke on their blood.

"How long do we have to keep this up for?" Her voice cracked and she willed herself to pull it together. "Because I can tell you this much for free, I am not being glued to Finnick O'Dair's hip for the rest of my life," she retorted, digging her blunt nails into the skin at the back of her neck.

Maybe she was being impetuous, but she had never been one to mince her words. Besides, she didn't think Finnick would be thrilled with his life being turned upside down, either.

Bloom hiccuped and managed to pull herself away from the gin bottle long enough to supply her with an answer. "Unfortunately, you love birds are stuck feeding the vultures until the next big thing comes along, darling."

As if someone had flipped a switch, she guzzled the dregs at the bottom of the bottle and tossed it to the side, kicking into autopilot mode.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she pulled up the thin spaghetti straps of her top. "I know this is a lot but what's done is done. Dwelling on it isn't going to do us any good, is it?" she pulled a sketchbook from her bag and wobbled onto her high heels.

The gin had taken the edge off her anger and seeing how shaken up Dahlia was was enough to make the rest ebb off naturally. "Everything's going to be fine, darling. You could've done worse—he's a looker," she shrugged halfheartedly in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Don't fret, darling. You've got the best stylist in the business. If Finnick isn't in love with you now, he will be by the time I'm finished with you."

˚＊✿❀༓❀✿＊˚

Nausea rolled over Dahlia in waves as she fiddled with the hem of her dress in the backseat of a taxi. The motion wasn't helping but Malaki had assured her that they were nearly there.

Bloom had spent forty minutes whipping up an outfit this morning and it had only confirmed Dahlia's theory that she had left the womb with a sewing kit.

It was well into the early hours of the evening before she was declared camera-ready and ushered into a private car.

After five failed attempts to keep the conversation alive, Malaki had taken the hint and allowed them to lapse into silence.

The taxi was unventilated and cracking open a window wasn't an option; they were blacked out for a reason, to stop the paparazzi tracking her every move.

She wondered if Snow had given up on the game plan and had simply resorted to suffocating her. Not likely. He would want to watch the life drain from her eyes, she reckoned.

As the car rolled to a stop in front of a restaurant, she started to really consider the fact that she might be sick. Malaki opened her door and the gust of wind fanned the side of her face.

"I don't think I can do this," she declared, clutching the fabric of her dress between her fingers. Real.

He leaned against the car door, not bothered about his jacket getting wet in the rain. "Yes, you can. I know you can because you've faced ten times worse than a date with Finnick, " he retorted. "Come on, I'll walk you in."

Dahlia closed her eyes, trying to trick herself into thinking that she was safe, even if that was far from the truth.

This wasn't about her. This was about June and Wyatt, Ivy and River, Malaki and Bloom, all the people she had dragged into this mess.

Wobbling unsteadily onto her feet, she repeated the list of names in her head like a mantra, a reminder that too many people's lives hung in the balance for her to screw this up.

She let Malaki lead the way into the restaurant and deal with the hostess while she tried to soak in the atmosphere and keep herself from drifting into the hazy other world. From the looks of things, it was pretty vacant.

It must be one of the places that Snow sent his favourable friends to. Toned-down colours and classy booths offered a bit of privacy from the rest of the diners. On the bright side, she didnt have to worry about hidden devices watching or listening. This was definitely a place that specialized in under-the-table deals —— no matter how stupid Snow was, he wouldn't risk secrets getting spilt to the public.

Once the last-minute details were finalized, Malaki pulled her to the side for a quick word. "I have to go. Just remember to breathe, it's going to be fine," he tried his best to instil some confidence in her but the truth is that it would have been easier to jump off a height and expect to grow wings.

She tried to tell him how sorry she was for getting him involved in this but the roof of her mouth had been superglued shut. She settled for a smile, hoping he wouldn't see through her. By the time she found her voice, he was almost out the door. "Thanks," she croaked, running her fingers through the ends of her hair.

He grinned reassuringly before stepping outside and being swallowed up by the fog.

"I can show you to your table if you're ready."

Dahlia nodded politely at the hostess, following her into the back of the restaurant where the lights began to dim, only to be replaced with candlesticks.

The walls were coated with ruby red paint and specks of gold were decorated around the outskirts of the booths. The place was practically empty apart from the occasional straggling couples picking away at dishes or gulping down glasses of wine. Everybody thankfully seemed to be too absorbed in their own conversations to pay attention to anything else.

Finnick quickly jumped to his feet as the two women approached the booth in the far corner of the restaurant. "Hi," he kissed Dahlia's cheek and gestured for her to sit down.

She gnawed on her bottom lip, wary of tearing a hole through the skin and having to endure a lecture from her stylist. She slid into the opposite side of the booth and folded her hands neatly in her lap, trying not to let herself slip away.

"Can I get you anything to drink? Some cocktails perhaps?"

"I'll have a pina colada and whatever the lady would like," he grinned lopsidedly, switching on the charm like a faucet.

It took an unbelievable amount of restraint not to kick him under the table. He hadn't done anything but being in his presence was more than enough to piss her off. In less than a day, he had managed to get under her skin like a fucking splinter. There was no way she was getting through tonight without something alcoholic. "Strawberry daiquiri please."

Once the hostess was out of earshot, Finnick wasted no time in voicing his amusement. "You realize we're meant to be head over heels in love, right? Glaring daggers at me isn't helping our case, honey."

Admitting that he was right was a tough pill to swallow and it left a sour taste in her mouth. "I never took you for a cocktail drinker," she easily redirected his attention elsewhere. Finnick raised a challenging brow, silently telling her to go on.

"Well, on first impressions, I had you down as a whiskey or margarita kinda guy — drinks with that bitter, kinda sharp taste, you know?"

The words were tumbling from her lips and she wished he would just reach across the table and slap a hand over her mouth before she made a fool of herself.

"I mean, it kinda makes sense, I guess. District four is mostly ocean, so it's understandable that people would want something sweet and light rather than something heavy.”

As she ran out of things to say, she made a mental note to spend more time with Ivy. It was obvious that Juniper's rambling was starting to rub off on her. If a sinkhole suddenly opened up beneath her feet, she would welcome it with open arms.

Finnick toyed with the collar of his black button-up and pretended not to notice the rosy blush dusting across her cheeks. "I can't stand that tangy taste of whiskey. Makes me feel sick. 'S why I prefer sweeter drinks."

Dahlia pulled her gaze away from her blunt nails to look at him. She had been so sure he was going to laugh in her face. She scanned his features, trying to find a cruel glint in his eyes or a condescending smirk, but came up empty-handed.

He lifted his shoulder into a shrug and swallowed down a laugh. "Can't say I was surprised by your order, though. Daiquiri drinkers are headstrong, adventurous, bold," he paused and sucked his teeth. "As far as first impressions go, you tick all three boxes."

She bit down on her tongue and ducked her head, trying to stop herself from smiling. He still caught sight of the twitch at the corners of her mouth. "You look beautiful, by the way, honey." His smile was cheeky, almost boyish, and she couldn't help but notice how young he genuinely was.

Absentmindedly smoothing out the creases in her emerald green dress, she teasingly tilted her head to the side. Finnick rested his chin in his palm, eyes twinkling with mischief, which could hardly indicate anything positive.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Finnick," she mocked sweetly, subconsciously mirroring his body language.

Their drinks arrived moments later and once they placed their orders for food, the hostess left them in peace again.

She reached across the table for her cocktail, fingers just barely closing around the cold glass before her hands started trembling. The liquid sloshed about and she could see him watching her out of the corner of his eye.

He had a feeling that she didn't often depend on people and the last thing he wanted to do was overstep, but after watching her struggle with the glass for longer than necessary, he couldn't sit still.

He skillfully snatched it from her grasp, knowing damn well that she wouldn't have passed it over even if he had asked her to, and set it carefully in front of her.

She folded her arms over her chest and clenched her hands into fists to stop them from shaking. He bit back a remark on how she looked like a stroppy toddler— all she needed was the pout and nobody would be able to tell the difference.

"I didn't need your help, you know."

"'You're welcome," he scoffed at her stubbornness and sipped his pina colada through a straw. He supposed that was the closest he would get to a thank you. "So, tell me about yourself."

A laugh burst out of Dahlia's mouth before she had a chance to stop it. "You know, your pickup lines could do with some work," she snorted, twisting her mother's wedding ring around on her index finger. It eased her nerves knowing that a piece of her mom was with her.

"You wound me," he shook his head and clutched at his heart teasingly. "Seriously though, I have a feeling we're going to be quizzed about each other; at the very least we should know the basics," he pointed out. He was acting as if it was totally normal to fake being in a relationship with someone you first talked to less than twenty-four hours ago.

Admitting defeat twice in one night was bruising her ego but she would agree to disagree if it meant a quiet life. "Fine. What do you wanna know?" she asked, chipping away at her nail polish without realizing.

Finnick cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his head as he thought. "Alright, I've got one. What are you made of?" he straightened up in his seat and she could practically see the excitement preventing him from sitting still. Anticipating her sarcastic response, he kept talking. "And don't say water or some other bull," he warned teasingly.

The waitress returned to the table with two steaming dishes before she had a chance to ask him what he meant.

She set down a bowl of pasta in front of Dahlia and slid a plate of salmon across to Finnick.

"Are you gonna tell me what you're made of or not?" she picked at her food once the waitress returned to the front of house. Hopefully the distraction would help her tremors subside. "Cause you'll have to go first —— I haven't got a clue what you're talking about," she admitted.

He chuckled under his breath and began sawing his knife through the fish as he thought. "It's basically a question that allows you to say what you are. Not what people say or think. Just you," he shrugged. "Like, I'm sunsets and footprints in the sand and... sea glass. I'm late-night swims and ginger cats. I'm Mags and knitted cardigans, lemonade and scribbled notes at one in the morning."

Dahlia smiled softly, mostly to herself than anyone else. It was sweet, she thought — the way he viewed himself. It seemed more accurate than the Capitol's persona of him, anyway.

"Alright. I'm.." she paused to think and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "...hardback novels. I'm black coffee, knitting needles and complex female characters." He hummed in agreement. "I'm black boots and my mother's anger. I'm Alara," she smiled sadly and pushed through the ache in her chest. He didn't say anything. He knew it hurt. "I'm Juniper and I'm Ivy and I'm poetry."

She reached out with trembling hands and sipped her drink through a straw (which was a lot easier than holding the glass).

"Complex female characters. I like that," he broke off into a laugh and she buried her face in her hands, shoulders shuddering as she laughed. "What about your family?" he asked warily, approaching the topic with tact.

She nodded and offered a half-hearted shrug, dragging a piece of pasta through the sauce. "I have a sister and a brother. Ivy and River — well, and June. She isn't actually my sister but I count her as one, do you know what I mean?" she explained, covering her mouth with her hand as she chewed.

"Ivy's seventeen," she spooned pasta into her mouth between sentences. "She's the baby of the family. She keeps to herself a lot of the time but she's a good kid, you know? Moody and quiet but I don't think that's unusual for teenagers."

"River's the eldest. He works long hours harvesting, so between looking after the girls and visiting the Capitol, I don't see him all that much either," she brushed a few fly-away strands of hair behind her shoulders and hesitated before deciding that she didn't want to talk about her parents.

"What about you?" she asked, voice losing its usual bluntness. "Tell me about Mags."

Dahlia vaguely knew that Mags was a victor from district four, but she figured it would be easier for him to open up if she gave him a lifeline to latch onto. He had already brought up Mags, so she figured it was a safe topic, too.

She tucked her legs underneath her as he started to talk about his family.

"Mags was my mentor for the Hunger Games," he explained, taking a particularly large bite of salmon. "She's more like a mother," he ran his hands through his golden-blonde locks and tugged, something she had noticed he did when he was anxious or unable to sit still. A way of getting rid of nervous energy, she supposed.

"I don't think I remember a time when she wasn't there for me," he admitted. "She used to knit me a wardrobe of cardigans when I was younger — she still does," he rolled his eyes fondly. "I don't know where I'd be without her. She saved my life."

Dahlia ran the fabric of her dress between her thumb and forefinger. "She sounds like a lovely lady," she answered honestly, ignoring the way her heart ached for her own mother.

She had never been the best at small talk so she was grateful that Finnick knew how to keep a conversation flowing at a steady pace —— even his horrendous attempts at flirting were a lifesaver.

It helped the remainder of the evening go smoothly and before she knew it, they were out in the rain and throwing themselves into a taxi before it had fully stopped.

The chit-chat started to die out as exhaustion crept in and it was almost impossible not to fall asleep with the motion of the taxi speeding along the roads.

Dahlia focused on the sound of rain pattering against the tinted windows. She could feel her mind starting to slip as all the leftover sparks of energy fizzled out. Leaning her head against the side of the car, she feebly traced patterns into the condensation, drawing things to keep her tied to the real world.

Finnick watched her curiously out of the corner of his eye, head tilted to the side like a dog that didn't understand what was happening. He kept quiet as he tried to work out what was going on in her head. By the time they pulled up outside of the hotel, he was no closer to finding out.

The engine went flat and she finally looked up, peering through the window at the paparazzi spying on them through the overgrown bushes. In all seriousness, they might as well have been stood right outside of the car, because their attempts at hiding were pathetic.

"You ready?" Finnick asked gently, angling his head until she met his eye. She nodded and dug her nails into her palms to keep herself from slipping away. "I'm gonna hold your hand when we get out, alright? They're looking for a show," he said, failing to mask his distaste for the camera crews lying in wait.

Dahlia scrunched her toes in her heels and rolled her shoulders back, willing herself to at the very least appear confident, even if she didn't feel it. "Well, let's give them exactly what they're looking for," she smiled weakly and clambered out of the taxi, bunching the skirt of her dress into her hands and hoping the hem wouldn't get soaked.

Finnick shoved a wad of cash into the driver's hands before making his way to the opposite side of the taxi.

"Here," he pulled his jacket off, draping it over her shoulders. "Let's go."

Before she had time to second guess herself, she took his hand in her own, intertwining their fingers. His touch still burnt away at her nerve endings but it was easier to cope with when she was the one initiating contact.

"Thanks," she choked out. "For the jacket," she clarified. Their shoulders knocked together as they bustled towards the hotel across the street. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to squirm away from him.

"Don't worry, honey, the jacket was an added bonus — my company was the real prize," he smirked and she scrunched her nose and rolled her eyes.

Squeezing her hand as a pre-warning, he kissed her cheek as they stepped under the patio. They could hear the cameras clicking as they pushed into the hotel reception.

Security guards locked the doors when they were inside and once she was sure they were out of view, she quickly untangled their hands. He didn't take it personally.

"C'mon, I'll walk you to your room," he leant against the wall as they waited on the elevator. Panic flashed across her face and he felt his heart constrict as he realized the deeper meaning his words probably had. "Don't worry, that wasn't an invitation. Just don't want the paparazzi climbing up the drainpipes to see you," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

She chuckled under her breath as the elevator arrived on the ground floor.

Once the elevator stopped, she kicked off her heels and looped the straps around her wrists. Bloom needed to find an alternative because breaking her ankles every night was not going to work.

She slid the jacket off her shoulders as her hotel room came into sight. She pulled her key from her purse and held the jacket out for him to take it. "Thanks again. I had fun tonight," she admitted, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

"Me too," he grinned and it lit up his face. "Keep the jacket, I wouldn't want you getting withdrawal symptoms from me," he backed up down the hallway towards his room, his grin infectious. "Night!"

Dahlia tongued the inside of her cheek and shook her head fondly. "Goodnight."

[kaicean]

@weylerweek2023┊day 6: black dahlia 🥀

[a1ecmcdowell]

ㅤㅤ SHARDS OF MEㅤㅤ . . .ㅤㅤpt 1 !!ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ( 🍒 )

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤor, ben mcdowell's dna made TWO clones . . . one just got to live, while the other got locked away.

NOTES. this will have three parts!! i rly hope i wrote alec somewhat ok bc despite loving and adoring him... i've never done it until now ik... so if it's wrong b gentle. dean's not introduced ( yet! ) but baby sammy is!! and i hope tht makes up for it at least a lil < 3

it was raining the day that x5-494 was born. 

sheets of drizzle and droplets clung to the trees and their leaves outside of the wyoming facility, falling wave after wave – a perfect mimicry of the screaming cries of the baby just born inside of its walls. 

and he was not a special baby, that one. the doctors and the overseers realized it quickly enough as the baby wailed on and on throughout the night, desperate for care and comfort that he would not be given. 

the others created from the dna of x5s did not cry. did not wail. and surely, if they ever were going to, certainly would not have done it throughout the entirety of the night onwards. 

they had to think fast, you see, because a genetically crafted baby could not just be dropped off on the doors of an adoption facility in a box with a blanket and a note. unremarkable as he was, this baby was still handmade and not just a mistake or a regret. no, the only regret that came from x5-494 was the fact that he held no purpose to their greater picture. 

they had a filing cabinet for the list of mothers who birthed their children in the facility’s main office – for the ones who could have been released back into society, that was, and did not kick a fuss and need to be dealt with – and so that was where they started. some of those mothers wanted babies, after all. that was why they’d volunteered to be the vessels for the x5s. 

it was settled, then, and perhaps a bit cruel, that x5-493’s birth mother would get the baby she desperately wanted that day. mary mcdowell. now married, now living in lawrence, kansas. 

mary winchester came back to gillette, wyoming, in an instant, however, when she got the letter. a baby. a baby that, while not directly birthed from her, was genetically hers. technically speaking. 

she whisked away the failure that was x5-494. x5-494 died that day, and became dean winchester. 

9 months later, another x5-494 was born, and he was perfect. so perfect that, once the time came that he was old enough to function on his own, he was thrown into psychology operations as a precaution — project manticore could not handle another 493. 

x5-494’s first mission was to hunt down dean winchester. not engage, not attack, but monitor. it was something that the higher-ups at manticore did often – check up on those they’d set free. the escaped x5s were proof of that, though they were a special case on their own, but the mothers, and now dean, needed to have tabs kept on them. 

and it was weird, wasn’t it? autumn had turned the leaves to auburns and umbers and maroons, and, well… 494 did not see a lot of trees. nor did he see a lot of families, who held small children’s palms in between them as they walked up and down sidewalks, as those little ones chattered mindlessly about god knew what. 

until then, all he knew were concrete walls and no windows. no windows, he remembered this specifically, because sometimes he thought it’d drive him crazy. hearing the sounds of cars outside, rumbling down roads and pavements he couldn’t see, wheels turning over rocks, and he would never see it. 

and now, here he was. outside. sun shining down on his skin, wind chilling the same skin that the light toasted, and cars drove on the pavement right there next to him, he saw it. 

weird, weird, weird, how free a life could be, and how solitary another was. 

494 doesn’t even realize that he is standing in the middle of the pavement until a child runs up to his leg, and he expects some snarky little comment, or maybe a soft voiced sorry! but the kid just stops. he’s got this floppy brown hair, and a coat about three sizes too big on him, and a gap between his two front teeth. 

and he’s saying nothing, but looking up at 494 with that toothy grin, and this was not a part of his training — dealing with children. 

“what do you want?” he asks, and it’s a bit harsh, sounds it to himself, too, when it spits out of his mouth, but. oh well. the most he can do is wipe the irritated, confused sneer off of his lips.

this is all just – a bit too much for him, really. 

the kid doesn’t even fucking falter though; that smile just widens. one of his littler hands shoots out and grabs 494’s and starts to yank. 

“dean! you came back!” 

the kid doesn’t falter, but 494 does. 

he plants his feet, and of course he’s stronger than this little guy — genetically altered dna and all, and plus, he’s double his size — so of course the kid stumbles backwards. 

his face contorts into confusion, pinched eyebrows, pinched lips, everything pinched. “what’s wrong?” 

and, like, what’s he supposed to say? honestly? his orders were do not engage. the kid engaged him. that’s not his fault. they should have had some sort of protocol prepared for–

“i know y’wanted to go t’that halloween party with casey,” the kid starts saying, and he’s got a lisp because of that gap in his teeth, which really just makes 494 feel a bit softer for him – surefire sign he needs to disengage, “but thank you. for comin’ back and all. i like trick or treating with you the best.” 

the kid loses him again, because what the fuck is a trick or treat? 

luckily, he starts to tug 494 along again, turning his back before he can see the sheer befuddlement morph onto his expression. and, that means that he doesn’t have to look him in the eyes when he– 

“i’m not dean.” 

weird, too, that is. giving something a name. he’s used to numbers and labels and codes, not humanizing things or people to keep it easy and simple. 

the kid skids to a stop, little shoes scuffing on the pavement. he doesn’t say anything for a moment, but the silence is enough. the only thing 494 can hear is the fucking wind whistling through the red and orange leaves, the giggling toddlers with their parents on the other side of the street, and it’s a bit suffocating, and now all he wants is for this one to go back to talking his ear off. 

“you… that doesn’t…” the kid stumbles over the words just like he stumbled over his shoes, and before 494 can let him turn around again and see that this entire thing is fucking killing him, he rips his hand free from his small grip. 

he walks at a leisurely pace, refusing to look over his shoulder, hoping that the kid will lose interest by the time 494 chooses to leap into the trees. he has to dodge around the even littler kid, a girl, being bounced up and down between her parents by their grip on her hands as they walk, her squealing loud even as they disappear out of sight. 

and it’s all too much, really, isn’t it? 

so he decides fuck it, and jumps up into the nearest tree, his hands closing around a branch of umber and maroon leaves, climbing higher up it until he can’t hear the sound of cars skating by on the road below, to make the journey back to his home of stone walls without windows.

[prommytheus]

see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil

[demo-dragon]

When your client, who is your adopted son, gets accused of murder, and he tells you that he ate the necklace.

"Mr. Wright, where's the necklace?!" Gregory asked while turning his head at his client with a concerned expression.

"........."

( He's hiding something..... I have to know what he did with the necklace that Dahlia gave to him.)

"Mr. Wright, please, I need to know what you've done with the" Gregory's eyes widen as he catches a glimpse of a color red from Phoenix's face mask. "Is that a blood stain coming from your surgical mask?!"

Phoenix quivered in shame as his eyes were blurry from all the crying from what his "Dolly" had said to him in front of the entire court, so he unveiled his mouth... it's covered with a nasty scar...blood is still dripping from his lips.

"MR. WRIGHT! What did you do?!?" Gregory shrieked in horror as he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Looking at his client, his son, in pure terror, knowing there was a slim chance that Phoenix might suffer the same fate as Terry Fawles.

"I'm so sorry, Dad...." Phoenix said quietly.

.

.

.

"I...I ate the necklace."

Note: I only wrote this for fun, and I am not sure if this scene will happen since the DL-6 doesn't transpire, so again, I wrote it to see how it turns out.

[urmultideadfandomperson]

Me before:

Me now:

[mrsaltieri-real]

His Perfect Victim (Mickey Altieri X OC!Dahlia Levine)

Chapter Seventeen: Three Little Words

Words: 4.7k

Warnings: language, angst, smut, first time, fingering, multiple orgasm, teasing, praise, dirty talk, riding, spit, biting, nipple play, arguing, gaslighting, a little fluff.

A/N: WE’RE FINALLY HERE FOLKS! The long awaited smut chapter, but with a twist at the end. This one has feeling, I felt so much writing it. Next few chapters are going to be rather intense, after that it’s borderline smut and then we’re pretty much at the end! Can’t believe how fast this is going but it’s just so much fun! Let me know what you guys think and I hope you enjoy!

Thank you to @bisexual-horror-fan for editing and beta reading. You’re really my rock and are helping me get through this so much! I wouldn’t have gotten this far if it wasn’t for your constant encouragement and help!

@lizey-thornberry

(Here’s a moodboard for Dahlia I made a while back that I completely forgot about!)

Campus was almost completely deserted, most people had gone to visit their families at the end of the semester. Randy offered again for me to go with him, saying his parents wouldn’t mind if I wanted to stay, but I told him no, there were things I needed to sort out here.

I’d been avoiding Mickey like he was the fucking plague, and he’d noticed fairly quickly.

I’d cancel plans, tell him I was under the weather, which wasn’t really a lie. Not only that, but I felt sick to my fucking stomach every time I thought about talking to him, having to undoubtedly lie to his face.

Lexi’s words played on my mind nonstop. “He isn't okay, there’s something dark about him, be careful.” It was driving me crazy. When I did see him, I found myself cautious and on edge for weeks. The sinking feeling was coming back and this time, it was more painful than ever.

The feeling that something bad was coming was one I could not shake. Every time he looked at me, I could tell he knew something was wrong, and I knew it bothered him that whenever he asked I would tell him it was nothing, I was just tired, I’d just had a long and busy day. It didn’t help that the few weeks till the next semester had raced to an end, and I’d hardly spoken to him.

About a month into break, my door was practically being hammered off its hinges and I groaned, mumbling out, “Fuck off,” at the noise, pulling my blanket over my head, but it didn’t stop, just grew angrier and more persistent. I forced myself out of bed and dragged myself to the door, pulling it open ready to shout at whoever it was.

Mickey looked furious. Angrier than I’d ever seen him before.

“So, you met Lexi?” He all but spat the words, glaring down at me.

I froze, still half asleep and a little dazed. His eyes were on fire, his hand gripping the door frame so hard it’s a wonder he didn’t splinter the wood.

“I don’t-“

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Dahlia.” His voice was sharp, instantly waking me up, and I took him in properly. I’d never seen this in him before. His eyes were burning, his jaw set rigid and tight as his stare blazed down at me. Mickey was always tall, but now it felt he was towering ten feet above me, and it took everything inside of me to not cower away like a kicked dog.

How the hell could he possibly know?

I asked him as much, voice small and my eyes refusing to meet him. He held a small piece of paper up to me as he walked past me into my dorm before snatching it away before I could see what it said.

“I got a note under my door this morning. What the hell is wrong with you?”

This caught my attention. My head snapped in his direction and I felt myself getting angry with him. “What’s wrong with me? Maybe I should be the one asking you that.”

He scoffed, turning on his heel to face me. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, glaring back at him with my arms tightly crossed across my chest.

“Oh, did she tell you some things about me? What an awful, awful person I am? How much I ruined her life? Did it never occur to you that she’s nothing more than a spiteful bitch who wants nothing more than to ruin whatever happiness I have because I couldn’t find it with her?” I could see his anger gradually begin to fade and twist into something different, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“She just…” I trailed off. Looking at him now, looking at Mickey, made me feel different. He looked almost sad, but that sadness was something I’d later find out to be nothing but a show. He knew he was a bad person, and he knew what he’d done. “-told me to be careful.”

His brow furrowed in confusion before he sighed, walking past me and sitting down on my bed, putting his head in his hands. “Right. I’m sure she did.”

Something in my mind told me to protect her, not tell him what was really said. That thought came too late, but I decided to attempt altering the truth. Not just for Lexi, not just for me, but for him too. I had to do the one thing I hated doing most in the world. I had to lie.

“I didn’t listen to her.” I said as smoothly as I could. “I know you. You’re a good person, Mickey.”

“Why did she come? How did she find you?”

“I didn’t ask.” I lied again, moving to kneel in front of him. His hands were shaking, I took them gently in mine. He felt ice-cold and burning hot at the same time. “I just told her to leave.” I didn’t see the point in mentioning this Debbie person to him. What would it achieve? It would just give Mickey another person to be angry about, and seeing him angry sent a cold feeling of dread crawling across my skin.

“Fuck, you don’t actually expect me to believe that, do you? My ex-girlfriend knocks on your fucking door, and you just told her to leave? Don’t treat me like I’m that fucking stupid.”

The venom in his voice would have made me flinch a year ago. But now, it just pissed me off.

“Oh, right! Yes. My mistake, Mickey. I forgot everything fucking revolves around you! Jesus Christ, what the hell is your problem?” I shouted the words at him bitterly, moving to my feet. This time, I was looking down at him, my hands curled into fists and my nails biting into my palms.

“I fucking-“ Mickey cut himself off, and I could see in his face he was trying to search for the right words, “It wasn’t a good relationship, Dahlia. But I’m not that person anymore. So whether you talked to her or not, don’t tell me. I could give less of a shit. But if you did, that guy she told you about wasn’t me.”

I didn’t say anything. I crossed my arms across my chest, turning my head to focus my glare out of my window.

“What? What are you thinking?” He asked. I could feel him staring at the side of my face intently, but I ignored his gaze.

“That now you’re lying to me.”

I felt his eyes boring into me further, but I continued to ignore it, focusing on the soft waving of a tree branch outside instead. It kept me grounded and calm, making it easier to have this conversation with him.

“I have never hurt you, Dahlia.” His voice was too calm, it unsettled me.

“Yeah, you did. When I didn’t kiss you at that party, and you fucked that girl right in front of me-“

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” He shouted this time, throwing his hands in the air, making me jump and my arms curl around myself, focusing more intently on the tree branch eyebrows creased with worry while I fought the urge to close my eyes and shy away from him.

“That was practically a year ago, Dahlia! We weren’t dating, fuck, we weren’t even friends!”

“I know but I- I fucking… Cared.” I struggled with my words, still not wanting to look at him. I knew if I did, I would break. “I wasn’t okay back then. In a lot of ways, I’m still not. You were the first real person I’d met here, and it just showed me that if I even upset you the slightest bit, you can just turn, Mickey! I’m terrified every single day that we’ll fight, and you’ll do something like that again! I wouldn’t be able to handle it, Mickey!”

“You’re… You’re scared of me?” His voice was smaller, pretty much unfamiliar. If he wasn’t sitting right in front of me, I would have assumed it wasn’t him speaking at all.

The words were hard to put together, they felt heavy and difficult on my tongue, but I told him with surprising clarity and confidence, “No, I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of the things you could do.”

“Dahlia, you’re talking like I cheated on you or something. I didn’t. Okay, I admit, I was trying to get a rise outta you and yes, I did just want to see how far I could push you but… Dahli, I don’t think you know just how much I care about you.”

His words were so intense, so real, I could feel tears stinging my eyes and threaten to spill. I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head and sniffled once. “Come here.” He said, voice softening.

“No.” I don’t say it with any conviction whatsoever.

He laughed once, standing up and walking to me. I felt his hand circle my wrist and pull me to his chest, his arms wrapping around my waist like a vice. I buried my face into his chest, fingers clinging to the soft material of his grey sweatshirt.

“You mean everything to me.” I mumbled into the material, unable to stop myself.

He pulled back just a touch to look down at my face, the smile I loved creeping onto his face. His eyes met mine and I could instantly tell he believed me.

“Really?” He asked. I could see the hint of hesitation in his eyes. It made me smile. I always saw Mickey as a confident person but maybe in his own way, he was insecure too. I watched the relief on his face as I nodded my head.

“I’m sorry for coming in like that. You just… You’ve hardly spoken to me in weeks, and when you do, it’s like your mind is somewhere else entirely. Then I found out about Lexi and I just.. just made an assumption. I’m sorry, baby.” He spoke softly, much more sweet, calm but not unjustly so. It fits the current moment much more.

The thing is, I wasn’t nearly as convincing as I thought. Mickey knew I was lying. I found out a few years later that Lexi Castro had been reported missing in mind to late 1997. The dates added up to when she’d come to Windsor and warned me off of Mickey, and it explained why I never heard from her again, especially after… Everything.

“It’s okay, baby.” My hand cupped his cheek, my thumb gently grazing under his eye. “Mickey, you know there isn’t anything you could do to scare me away, right?”

He scoffed, lips turning up a little for a second as he placed his hand over mine, our fingers twisting together as he pulled me back toward my bed and sat down. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

What surprised me is that I wasn’t trying to convince him of it. Regardless of what Lexi had told me, I wasn’t scared of him. Not my Mickey. His rapid change from furious to loving was enough to give anyone whiplash. Maybe I was still so broken inside I genuinely couldn’t tell that he wasn’t a good person. Or maybe I knew, but I simply didn’t care. One of the things I learned during my relationship with Mickey is that love can make you really fucking stupid.

“I’ve been thinking about Stu a lot lately.” I told him, trying to change the subject away from Lexi as swiftly as I could. “Wondering why he did what he did. Then I realized, he cared for Billy so much he would’ve and did anything for him, even the very worst thing you could possibly do.”

Mickey looked confused as I spoke, watching as I stood up and straddled him, my hands gently touching the base of his neck. “I couldn’t imagine caring about somebody like that, not before. Then I realized I would do anything for you.”

His face entirely softened, his finger grazing my healed over scar once before his hands settled on my waist.

“He told me once to wait for the right person because when I do, it’ll be worth it. I never thought I would meet anyone, that I was being stupid by putting it off.”

“Dahl, what are you-“ I placed my hand over his mouth quickly, shaking my head.

“I want to.” I insisted, taking my hand away from his mouth and pressing my lips against his instead.

I could feel his hesitation through his kiss, almost as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. His hands gripped my upper arms, keeping me at somewhat of a distance. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

“Depends on if it’s working.” I said with a half smile. I felt his grip relax, allowing me to pull myself closer to him, my hand locking behind his neck.

He really was beautiful. He seemed more keen now, hands gripping my ass and making me roll my hips down against him. The sensation made me let out a small moan into his mouth, which only prompted him to do it again. His lips were soft, careful. Too careful. I couldn’t help but think of how Lexi had described him. Intense, angry, violent. With how tender and gentle he was being, it was hard to imagine him being that way with anybody.

I needed this, I needed him. I pressed myself closer to him, fingers twisting in his hair and he chucked against my lips, hands sliding up my shirt and his fingers dancing across my back. So gentle. But I didn’t fucking want gentle.

“I’m not glass.” I mumbled, pulling back just slightly. He cocked an eyebrow at me, brown eyes curious before he said gently, “Dahli, it’s your first time. Don’t worry, I’ve got all the time in the world to fuck you like a whore.”

His words made me blush, which he relished deeply. He looked proud of himself, moving his fingers to my face to touch my pink cheeks. “Mm.” He murmured under his breath. I didn’t bother to ask him what.

I kissed him again, not pulling away this time. It was like I couldn’t.

My first time with Mickey was indescribable. It didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as I had built up in my head over the years, but that was due to him. He was so careful and so gentle with me, but not because he thought I’d break. I was still prone to panic attacks, so when he looked into my eyes, when he told me that I was beautiful as he pulled me under him, he was all I could focus on. How he looked, how he smelt, how he felt.

His fingers worked over me for a while, his lips dancing from my lips to my cheeks to my throat as he prepared me. He smiled his dimpled smile as he touched my bare pussy, and I jolted as he made a comment about how ready I was for him that turned me on to no end. I was. I don’t know if the fight had simply turned me on, or if it all just genuinely felt right, but I didn’t care. I could feel him against my bare thigh, so hot and hard.

It just made me fucking hungry for him.

I tugged impatiently at his pants, making him scoff affectionately as he helped me tug them off. “Are you sure?” He asked me for the final time.

“I am so sure.” I said softly, moving my hand up to cup his cheek.

“How bad do you want it?” He asked. His fingers continued circling my clit, determined to make me as wet as possible. I writhed beneath him, pushing myself against the pads of his fingers pathetically, practically preening as I felt them plunge inside of me and begin to curl gently. “Tell me how bad you want it, Dahlia.”

“S-so bad. So fucking bad. Please…” I whined, I begged, already a squirming mess under his skilled hands. He removed his fingers from my hole, forcing them into my mouth and ordered me to, “Suck,” to which I obeyed, tasting myself and sucking my slickness off of his long fingers. He watched my face as I did, favouring my lips as I suckled and swirled my tongue around his digits, looking him in the eye.

“Mm. You taste good, don’t you, honey?” He asked, dragging his fingers away from my tongue to smear my own saliva and wetness across my lips and chin. I sucked in the air, unable to look away from his eyes.

“Not as good as you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes affectionately, pulling me under him more securely. He reached between our bodies, pumping his cock a few times before he settled it gently in my throbbing hole.

He pushed himself into me slowly, carefully watching my face as I flinched and adjusted myself, working past the initial uncomfortableness. I could see that his expression didn’t really change at my pain, more that he somewhat revelled in it, but I didn’t let my mind play on that. Once it subdued, it quickly started to feel good. Really fucking good. My eyes fluttered closed, and I arched my back off the bed as his hand slid down my body, his fingertips lingering for just a moment over my scar to toy with my clit as he carefully rolled his hips.

“So fucking tight, Jesus.” He groaned under his breath, his head dropping to kiss my shoulder. I gasped in response as his hips snapped a touch harder, his fingers adding more pressure onto my clit. His other hand was roaming, palming my bare tit and twisting my nipples gently. “This is the only cock you’re ever going to have, understand?” I moaned, nodding dumbly and tugged at his hair with my fingers. I needed more. I needed him to really fuck me.

He ducked his head, teeth sinking into my nipple sharply. I felt my body twitch, the feeling sending a shoot of arousal straight to my pussy as I gasped when he pulled away. I felt my cunt clench around him as I let out a whimper into his ear, my legs wrapping around his waist securely, pulling my body impossibly closer to his as I pushed myself against him, my nails digging into his toned back and making him groan softly and begin to fuck me a little harder, registering I was more comfortable.

I knew Mickey was good. Too good. We’d done pretty much everything else before, but this was something else entirely. So much more intimate, and I’d never felt closer to anybody in my life. I felt so beautifully full, I’d never felt this stretched to capacity and content before, like he was a missing piece of me, and he’d snapped the final part of the puzzle into place.

I felt complete.

He lifted his head to look at me, his hand moving to grip my hair tightly, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Such a good girl, aren’t you? Taking me so, so well in your nasty little virgin cunt.” He praised me, degraded me, bending to kiss my lips again, to which I eagerly returned. It was a mess of spit and tongues and teeth, moans and sighs, but I never wanted this to stop.

I couldn’t help myself, I splayed my hand on his chest, pushing him onto his back and straddling him, connecting my lips with his as soon as I was on top of him. It took him by surprise, a muffled laugh falling from him as he let out a soft grunt, his arms wrapping around my waist. His fingers dug into my hips before he dragged them to my ass, squeezing the flesh harshly as he began to slowly thrust up into me. I placed mine onto his shoulders, steadying myself on top of him. Fuck, I could really feel him like this. I tentatively ground my hips down, hearing and soaking in the gentle groans falling from his lips as he watched me on top of him before his eye fell to my face again.

I slid my hands to his chest, my nails digging into his soft skin as our movements synchronized. I could feel him throbbing, achingly hard inside of me as my cunt clenched around him, wanting nothing more than to feel him finally cum inside of me. He was like a drug, I couldn’t get enough of him.

Mickey easily switched me back beneath him again, pushing his hand on my inner thigh to already my legs wider for him. “This is for you, not for me.” He insisted as I opened my mouth to dispute the change. I shut my mouth, fingers trailing his jaw as I watched him work over me. From the stories I’d heard about him, I assumed for the longest time that although spectacular at fucking, he was always quite selfish. I wasn’t picking up on that at all.

His hipbone was rubbing against my clit and I could feel the burning sensation in my stomach begin to boil. It felt better than I could have imagined, the combination of my clit being stimulated at his cock making me clench around him with every push, every thrust sent me into an orgasm so intense, he had to pin my body down by my hip. My back arched off the bed as I cried out his name, teeth biting into the flesh of his shoulder, which made him curse softly and his cock twitch.

There wasn’t much talking, I think we were both too lost in the moment. He fucked me through my orgasm, his pace picking up considerably. I knew he was close, that he was holding out for me. He’d told me countless times that when he fucked me for the first time, he was going to ensure that I had, cum all over his cock more times than I could handle, and the thought had made me both embarrassed and unbearably horny. But I didn’t care, I wanted to feel him cum. I craved it intensely.

“Want you to cum.” I gasped out and Mickey looked down at me again, that devastating smile on his face mixed with nothing short of contempt.

“You do?” He asked, voice teasing and light, albeit a little shaky. He was holding back, not wanting to until he’d lived up to his promise. “Now? Why?”

“I want to feel it.” I could hear that my voice sounded a little whiny, but I didn’t care, desperately pulling my body as close to his as I could. At that point, he was practically lifting me up, my ass hardly touching the soft mattress. There was nothing I wanted more than to feel Mickey’s cum cost me from the inside, feel his hot mess completely claim me as his and his alone.

“Oh, you want to feel me cum inside you, is that it? Dirty bitch, you want me to mark my territory?” He bit down on my neck, making me hiss softly, the feeling sending a spasm of arousal to my already hungry cunt before his tongue lapped over the crescent teeth marks he left behind. “Mark my territory, hm?” His voice didn’t have any humour, it was dripping with arousal, just like his eyes. I couldn’t reply, I just mumbled something dumbly at him, focused on his words and now fucking good he was making me feel. When I opened my eyes, he was looking at me like I was a slut, a piece of meat. And I really fucking liked it.

That was until a few minutes later, when I said the most stupid thing you could possibly imagine.

I could feel his cock pulsing and throbbing erratically, could feel the now familiar butterflies begin to flutter in my stomach. I could feel that he was close, his breathing had become more unsteady, his hips began to stutter slightly and his grip on my waist became so tight I had no doubt it would leave bruises. He began fucking me slow and deep, his forehead pressed against mine and so completely connected with him being so passionate, it just felt right.

He moved to kiss me again, so gently and carefully, and when he pulled back I said those three little words. Those three stupid fucking words.

“I- I love you.” I moaned, surely enough, looking into his soft brown eyes.

And what did Mickey say? Absolutely nothing.

He acted as though he didn’t hear it, but I had no doubt that he did. He’d paused for a split second, not looking at me but more at the space above my head before his hand moved toward the back of my knee, pulling it up and sending a new sensation through my body as he began to touch a new place I didn’t know existed, the head of his cock pushing firmly on the spongy tissue again and again, building up a harder and faster rhythm than before, burying his face into my neck. Not only that, but he began kissing it gently as he rhythmically rolled his hips. As good as he felt, I could help a stray tear from falling as I registered what I’d said to him during the most vulnerable state I could have possibly been in, and the fact he couldn’t return it.

He fucked me, he made me cum again at the same time he did. The feeling of him filling me, coating my walls, branding me and his before I felt him leaking out of my cunt was hot, it was satisfying in a way I could begin to describe but at the same time, it didn’t feel right at all.

He didn’t say anything.

I felt stupid, unbelievably embarrassed. I could hardly look at him as he pulled out of me and fell onto his back with a sigh, his eyes focused on the ceiling. I just wrapped myself into my blanket, rolled onto my side and squeezed my eyes closed.

Why did I say it, why did I say it, why did I say it?

Of all times to tell someone you love them for the first time, I couldn’t have picked a worse moment.

“I, uh, I have to-“

“No, yeah. Go.” I managed to keep my voice even, surprising myself. I felt him stand up from the bed, and heard the rustling of his clothes as he got dressed before he headed for my bathroom. I lay there, wanting the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

He emerged a few minutes later with a towel and a glass of water, placing the glass on my bedside table and the towel beside me. He squatted down, placing his hand on my face.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I focused on watching the condensation drip down the outside of the glass as I could feel Mickey pondering on what he should say.

“I do… You know.” He said softly, pushing my hair out of my face. I saw from the corner of my eye that he immediately frowned when he felt the moisture on his fingers, and he sighed deeply, his eyes closing for a few seconds before opening again. “I just… I can’t say it back. I’ve never said… That to anybody before.”

“It’s fine, Mickey.” I mumbled. I wasn’t angry that he didn’t say it back, I was angry that I had said it before either of us were ready. I knew how I felt about him, but it wasn’t the time or place. And him not being able to say it back made me feel painfully aware that he and I may not be in the same place in our relationship.

That is what hurts.

“Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell you.”

I didn’t reply, closing my eyes tightly. He took that as his cue, leaning forward and kissing my hairline softly. He lingered a little longer than necessary, almost making me open my eyes to check he was okay, before he pulled back sharply, straightening up and leaving my room without saying goodbye.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell you.

[griffin-the-stupid]

So if I were to hypothetically be planning on writing a fic about Dahlia Hawthorne’s trial, would Pheonix be a witness? Cause of the whole framing for murder thing along with attempted homicide?

[non-un-topo]

Little Light - tog ficlet

Something I felt like writing but didn’t know what to do with. A little scene inspired by an old fic of mine, Dahlia. A bonus scene, if you will.

--

Somewhere outside these old wood walls, an owl calls the morning forth. A gentle if not calming sound to Andromache, but to tiny brand new ears it is unknown and frightening.

The babe emits a discontented little squeal, and as Andromache leans away from the wall to see into the makeshift bassinet — an armoire drawer, placed on the floor between a bedroll and Andromache’s watchful place at the wall — the tiny thing grunts and attempts to kick her swaddled legs. A little lip pouts, trembles, then her gummy mouth opens with grumpy staccato cries.

There’s a shift in the darkness on the bedroll just beside the drawer. There is enough pre-dawn light pouring in from a half-boarded window for Andromache to see Yusuf poke his head up from behind Nicolò’s shoulder, then quickly lift himself on an elbow as he comes out of sleep to register the baby’s distress.

Andromache’s hand is on the swaddled baby’s stomach, just rubbing very gently as Yusuf carefully crawls over Nicolò and comes forward. The child’s newborn cries sound almost like little angry coughs, increasing in volume as Andromache’s attempts to calm her do virtually nothing. She’s so small, so new. In her mind, Andromache is going through the list of remedies to calm her down: Is she hungry? Is she cold? Does she need a change? Was she simply startled by the owl? There are no easy answers, just a crying baby wiggling in tattered fabrics, all they have for her.

Yusuf is on it, though. Has been since that first horrific day that brought the tiny thing to them. He squats in front of the drawer, and Andromache removes her hand as Yusuf very carefully slides a hand behind the baby’s head and neck and begins to free her from her swaddle.

The moment her arms are free, they shoot up next to her head — some reflex Andromache has noticed, and Yusuf coos at the sight of it. Andromache watches the soft look in his eyes with unease, but she’s then drawn to the shift of Nicolò as the baby’s cries wake him too.

Yusuf shushes the babe, and there’s a moment of uncertainty on his face like he’s having similar thoughts to Andromache, similar anxieties, before he gets both hands below her tiny arms, fingers stretched out behind her neck and head to support her, and lifts her from the drawer. As he does so she scrunches up into a little ball, hand-stitched nappy crumpling up as her knees bend, and her pink fists bracket her face as she grunts.

Andromache watches in silence as Yusuf settles the baby against his shoulder, fingers feather-light and safe on the back of her head where her wispy hair gathers at the base of her skull. She adjusts a little, rubbing her nose into Yusuf’s shirt, as Yusuf pulls open the back of her nappy to check her.

Nicolò is there next to them then, more alert and awake than Yusuf whose eyelids are drooping. Andromache can see all the thoughts in Nicolò’s head play out just by the slight crease in his brow as he watches the baby’s face. He raises a hand, sets is back to the floor, and although Andromache had warned them both about the dangers of becoming attached to the child, she does not want the poor thing to suffer while three capable adults can comfort her. She blinks permissively at Nicolò but he doesn’t need the permission from her, only from himself.

Yusuf is bouncing the baby slightly against his shoulder as he shushes her little noises. He turns his head to see the longing on Nicolò’s face and nods sleepily at him. As Nicolò reaches out to stroke a thin curl on the top of the baby’s head, she begins to squeal again and soon unravels into hiccuping little cries. With mild alarm, Yusuf adjusts her so her face is not pressed into his clothes.

“Let me?” whispers Nicolò, hands out and ready. Yusuf nods, stifling a yawn, and very carefully passes the little grumpy ball over to Nicolò, who lays her over his forearm, cupping her bottom and scrunched up feet in his large hand. Yusuf releases her head last in the crook of Nicolò’s elbow, and her fists fly up again as she settles back with another round of staccato cries. With that done, Yusuf immediately stands to rifle through their packs, likely in search of some goat’s milk they’ve saved.

Finding sustenance for the child has been exhausting and certainly a battle, but Andromache has seen too many children starve to let this one go hungry. She will be fed every chance they get, and she will be warm, and when they are able they will pass her into loving hands who will be able to house her and love her and help her grow tall and strong.

But for now, Andromache only sits and watches as Nicolò rubs the pad of his thumb up the space between the child’s peach-fuzz brows, a little trick she’d taught him that may calm her down and put her to sleep but does not seem to be working at the moment. The baby’s mouth is still wide open and trembling as she cries and so, supporting her with both arms, Nicolò stands with an exaggerated groan and begins to bob her just slightly.

“Alright, piccola,” he says, turning away as he begins to pace around a little, humming some low made-up tune on the spot.

Yusuf stands at his side then, with the jar of milk and the cloth they use to soak it in so the baby can suckle, and Andromache lets herself relax, lets her back touch the wall again as she just watches them together, the pink-faced baby emitting little punched-out cries between them. She’s quieting down, though, as Nicolò bobs her like the sea. Yusuf stands by with the cloth, peering curiously at her little face.

Nicolò makes a brave move then. With one shared look with Yusuf, he blinks down at the child and leans down to ever-so-gently press his lips to her head. He stays there even after the little kiss, and Andromache can hear him hushing her softly as he continues to bounce her.

She’s stopped crying. As Nicolò draws back, Andromache can see that her eyes are wide open, gazing up at Yusuf and Nicolò in wonder. They smile down at her, and something lodges itself in Andromache’s throat. Almost subconsciously, her hand closes around the pendant against her chest.

Yusuf senses her unease, of course he does, because he looks over at her and beckons her over with a jerk of his head and an outstretched hand. She goes willingly, if a little stiffly, and although she swears in her mind that they will not be keeping this child it is nice to see the men smiling in victory and adoration at her little face.

“Looks like she just wanted to be held,” Yusuf whispers.

Andromache might think something about the fact that the first hands to ever touch this baby were Nicolò’s. She might think about the fact that Yusuf’s soft voice had been the one to calm her cries on that first night. She might remember the way her tiny body felt so warm in her arms the morning the child’s mother left this earth, when the ground still trembled with aftershocks and somewhere in the distance the ocean watched Andromache’s back.

She says none of this. Instead, she joins them in the middle of the room as it slowly fills with early morning light. The broken three of them, and the fragile brand new fourth.

They have not named her yet. Andromache does not dare. But she will be called Dahlia, after the flowers her mother sold in a little shop north of the hills of Campania, where the winds smell of oleander and the olive trees face the sunrise.

[small-world-au]

GRRRRJSKAKEKEKKWWOSKD,,S GABE AND BABY DAHLIA ANGST

“I’m so sorry I can’t take care of you anymore my sweet little….”

“Dahlia”

((DAWG SOMEONE BETTER GO BACK IN TIME AND GIVE GABE MONEY TO SUPPORT HER KID))

*Pops out through a portal and gives gave da money!*

I gotcha fam! :3

[allisluv]

COMING CLEAN.

Chapter Two — glitter pens and dart boards

finnick odair x fem!oc

wc: 5.7k

content warnings; finnick odair (that man makes me hyperventilate), unsolicited touching but nothing graphic i promise, oc is forced to sell her body, slight dissociation.

previous chapter — next chapter

"Stop messing with the headpiece!" Bloom chastised, her voice cutting through the crisp evening air as she swatted Dahlia's hand away from the golden flowers weaved through her hair. "It's essential to your outfit darling," she continued fussing. Even with eight-inch heels, she struggled to reach the hairpiece.

If you took the backhanded compliments, ridiculous stilettos and melodramatics out of the equation, Dahlia found Bloom to be quite pleasant. Sure, she was a diva and slightly self-obsessed but by Capitol's standards, she was a gem.

Not to mention that she was absolutely gorgeous. If a siren emerged from the sea, Bloom was precisely what Dahlia would expect to catch a glimpse of.

Porcelain skin that looked as though it would shatter with the smallest of touches. Flaming scarlet ringlets rippled down the length of her back and a sage green dress glided behind her as she skillfully moved about on the lawn. She was crafted by Aphrodite herself, she was sure of it.

"You both look extraordinary," Malaki slid his way into the conversation with ease. Silver gems and jewels adorned his suit and when he shifted his weight from foot to foot, he bore a striking resemblance to a disco ball. Glitter had been dragged down the bridge of his nose and across his eyelids.

Offering both women an arm each, they hooked their hands through the crook of his elbow. Under normal circumstances, Dahlia would have declined his offer, but being in the Capitol always unnerved her. Malaki was almost a comforting presence and right now, she would take that where she could get it.

Malaki worked his way through the crowds as if it was second nature. The presidents' parties had always been a hotspot for the richest and most influential Capitol citizens so, naturally, Dahlia had to be on her best behavior this evening.

Her escort guided her into a banquet hall, where the victors and guests alike would spend the majority of their evening socializing. As much as Dahlia hated to admit it, the place was breathtaking.

Elaborately dressed figures spun on the dance floor, and from the way a number of them staggered about and giggled, she could tell that glasses of alcohol had started being distributed. Chandeliers hung from the high ceiling and velvet sofas were scattered wherever there was an inch of free space.

"Come on," Malaki interrupted her train of thought, gently knocking his elbow into hers and leading them towards a group huddled on a sofa. "I've got some people that I need you to meet."

Upon their approach, the men and woman sprung to their feet, planting a kiss on Bloom's rosy cheeks and clapping Malaki on the back.

Dahlia could feel her skin crawling as one of the men leaned in and kissed her cheek, too. She did her best to dazzle him with a smile, tugging on the heavy gold hearts dangling from her ears as they made space on the sofa and gestured for her to sit.

Bloom, thankfully, beat her to it, tossing her ringlets over her shoulders and blinking her winged lashes at the dark-haired man beside her.

A hand slinked its way onto Dahlia's lower back and she fought down the survival impulse that told her to strike first. Memories of the Hunger Games flickered behind her eyelids but once she registered that it was only Malaki trying to provide an ounce of reassurance, the kill-or-be-killed instinct ebbed away.

She forced a smile onto her face and hoped it would make up for her fleeting lapse of sanity.

"Dahlia, my darling, I'd like you to meet some of the Capitol's latest celebrities," Malaki announced, every muscle in his face aching from keeping up his facade. "I don't think you've had the pleasure of meeting our president's current friends," he let go of his victor and pulled up two silk lounge chairs, collapsing into one while Dahlia lowered herself into the other. The sofa broke into quiet protests and he tutted. "Don't go all modest on me now!"

Dahlia met his eyes over the conversation and tried to silently ask what he was getting at. He simply gave a gentle, but terribly clear, nod of his head.

If she hadn't gotten to know him over the years, she may not have thought twice about it. But she did know him and she could read him like a book—— he was trying to boost her Capitol status.

She didn't dare ask why. Not here, with dozens of eyes on her, anyway. His judgement had never led her astray before and hopefully, it wasn't going to fail her now.

"What can I say, I'm a busy woman," she ran a hand through the dark waves of hair framing her face. "To be honest, I admire you all— attending these parties every night and still being able to look as fantastic as you do. I don't know how you manage it."

The two women immediately turned the compliment around, praising how beautiful her dress was, from the ivy working its way down her arms, to the golden fabric of her outfit. Dahlia did her best to return the sentiment, but the women seemed determined to put themselves down and she was not here to boost their egos.

She eventually stopped listening and allowed her escort to carry the conversation on his back. She could read the room well enough to know when to nod or laugh. No one seemed to notice that their words were going in one ear and out the other, anyway.

So long as they believed her act, what they said was merely an inconvenience. Malaki would debrief her in the morning if there was anything he thought was of significance (—she didn't have the best track record when it came to paying attention).

After half an hour of agonizing small talk, Dahlia was desperately scanning the room for an escape route. If she had to spend one more minute pretending to like these narcissists, she would rip her hair right out of her scalp.

Then, as if her guardian angels had sent it right from heaven, she spotted the food tables scattered around the outskirts of the banquet hall. Pulling herself onto her six-inch gold stilettos, she staggered towards her escort, interrupting him with a tap on the back. "I'm going to get food."

She left no room for arguing and Malaki knew better than to stop her. She would do what she wanted with or without his permission. He nodded, turning back to Sparrow, an older man with an olive green wig who kept laughing boisterously and spilling wine down his dress shirt.

She didn't bother excusing herself— she hadn't been too involved in the conversation to begin with, so she didn't think they would notice her slipping out of the vicinity. Still, if Bloom hadn't been locking lips with the dark-haired man, she would have definitely been reprimanded for her lack of manners.

As she passed the velvet sofa that the Capitol people were lounging on, Sparrow slapped her backside, his hand lingering near the slit in her dress. Every single bone in her body tensed, a piercing cold wave of pain shooting up the base of her spine.

The sofa erupted into roars of laughter, all except the dark-haired man and Bloom, who were... well, preoccupied to notice what was happening.

Forcing a tight-lipped smile, she bunched the flimsy material of her dress into her hands and pushed her feet towards the food tables.

No matter how tempting it was to snatch the wine glass out of his hand and shatter it over his head, the consequences would only come back on her siblings.

Don't get her wrong, it would be worth it for the satisfaction alone, but she had lost too much at the hands of President Snow. If it put River and Ivy in harm's way, it was a risk she wasn't willing to take.

Her chest heaved with heavy, blazing breaths; it felt as though she was trapped inside a burning building with no exit in sight. She was swallowing smoke and thick clouds of it were constricting her windpipe. She blindly fought her way through the crowds of Capitol citizens, forcing harsh breaths out of her parted lips as she weaved between couples, muttering apologies as she went.

It was almost a godsend when the musicians struck up a livelier tune, sending flocks of giggling drunks to the dance floor and leaving her with a clear run to the food tables.

Gripping onto the first cream tablecloth in view, she used the back of her hand to wipe beads of sweat off her forehead. She didn't bother paying attention to the foundation that came away with it— if she didn't find a distraction soon, she would snap.

Thankfully, she had come to the right place. As much as she despised the Capitol and everything they stood for, she couldn't fault the food. It was one of the highlights of the evening, after all.

The choices were overwhelming; sushi rolls arranged in bite-sized portions; nachos drizzled in chilli sauce and topped with bacon bits; buckets of shrimp and dozens of different choices of meat.

As for the desserts, they gave a different meaning to heaven altogether; trifles drowning in whipped cream; mountains of profiteroles; apple pies the size of footballs and wedding-sized chocolate cakes.

It made her blood boil when she ate at the Capitol. People in the districts were dying of starvation and here, they drank flasks of champagne that made you sick with the sole purpose of eating more.

Dahlia begrudgingly snatched a paper plate from the stack and began piling food onto it. She hadn't eaten since earlier in the morning, so she pushed away the moral war raging on in her head.

She chose a lemon cupcake and shoved half into her mouth, continuing browsing.

Most of the guests were still absorbed in dancing and it left her with her pick of the litter. She had at least an hour until Malaki or Sparrow realised that she hadn't returned yet. An hour was good enough for her.

Spooning ice cream onto the side of her chocolate cake, a figure materialized out of thin air, standing beside her.

"After all these years, isn't it strange that we haven't managed to have a proper conversation?"

Dahlia resisted the urge to flinch and redirected her attention to the bread rolls across the table. "Well, my luck's gotta run out at some point," she offered sarcastically, stabbing a knife into a piece of cake.

She hoped that the cold shoulder would get him off her trail but after two minutes of silence, where he followed her around the food tables, picking away at the delicacies every so often, it was clear that he did not plan on leaving any time soon.

Tonguing the inside of her cheek, she lifted her gaze to meet his. "What do you want, O'Dair?" she hissed, slamming down the paper plates.

Finnick batted his eyelashes innocently and lifted his shoulders into a shrug. He was the Capitol's darling, adored and wanted by... well, everyone. As far as she was concerned, the only thing she and Finnick had in common was the fact that they were both stuck pleasing Capitol men and women.

In the eight years since she had been crowned victor, they had barely spoken. There'd never been a reason to, so what was with the sudden change of heart?

He knew how to play the game and he knew how to play it well, she'd give him that.

He was charismatic and talked circles around people. The Capitol women fell at his feet and as much as she hated to admit it, he was gorgeous.

He was built like a god, tall and tan, tousled bronze curls falling into his eyes. He was the perfect poster boy, the image of what a victor should be.

Dahlia had never been able to figure him out. She was beginning to think that maybe that was why she was wary of him. She didn't like the unknown and ever since the games, she found it hard to trust people. He was unpredictable, a bit of a wild card so to speak.

People in the Capitol may have been fooled by his charm, but Dahlia wasn't.

He had had eight years to speak to her. She found it highly unlikely that Finnick decided to talk to her on his own accord. Something had to be wrong. He had to have an ulterior motive— she just had to figure out what it was.

"What do you want?" she repeated, holding his gaze. If anyone was going to avert their eyes first, it wasn't going to be her.

Finnick chuckled breezily under his breath, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Relax, honey. What's the rush, hm?" he arched a brow and reached out to steal a bread roll from her plate.

"Get your own," she slapped his hand away, hugging the plates close to her chest. He pouted dramatically and she rolled her eyes at his childish antics. "And don't call me that," she scowled and set the plates on the table.

She scanned the crowds for any glimpse of Malaki but the people on the dance floor moved too quickly and she soon became dizzy. He was constantly hovering over her and the one time she needed him, he was nowhere to be seen. It was typical!

Finnick chomped on a bread roll, quickly shoving the rest into his mouth when Dahlia turned around and swiped for it, her mouth hanging open. He shot her a smug grin, tilting his head to the side. "Come on, honey, don't be like that," he teased, taking two glasses of white wine from a passing Avox and murmuring his thanks.

Tentatively sipping, he held out the other glass and waited for her to accept his gesture of goodwill.

Dahlia's brows knitted together, distrustful eyes searching for any indication that he was trying to trick her. He didn't miss a beat, his face remaining expressionless, giving her no insight into how his mind worked. With her patience wearing thin, she took the drink from his outstretched hand, fingers closing around the cool glass. She didn't speak, simply fixing him with that same icy, blasé stare.

Finnick downed the rest of his glass, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he cast a cautious glance over his shoulder. "I suppose you've heard the talk in the districts. The Mockingjay and her lover have inspired some..." he paused, closing the gap between them so that she could catch his every word, "...interesting topics of conversation."

"Whatever game you're playing, I'm not interested," she snapped defensively, cutting him off before he had a chance to say anything else. In the districts, speaking about rebellions was punishable by public execution.

She dreaded to think what would happen if they were caught discussing the subject in the President's House, of all places. He knew when to pick his moments, huh?

Finnick might not have had many people left to protect but she did.

She carelessly threw the full glass back onto the food tables and spun on her stilettos to leave. She made it into a hallway until a hand wrapped around her wrist, stopping her from going any further.

His grip was firm enough that she couldn't wriggle out of it but gentle enough that it didn't hurt. "Let go or I swear to god, I will slit your throat right here," she warned.

"Killing the Capitol's darling would only put a target on your back, honey," Finnick reasoned, releasing his hold and taking a step back out of her personal space. An apology lingered on his lips but the words got caught in his throat. He wiped his palms into the fish-scaled trousers that hung dangerously low on his hipbones. "I just wanna talk."

She had become somewhat accustomed to arrogance when he spoke, so the odd gentleness in his tone made her head spin. He tugged on a shell necklace falling down his bare torso and, if she hadn't known better, he almost seemed nervous.

"We can't talk. Not here, anyway," she gestured vaguely towards the security cameras and she could almost see the lightbulb appearing over his head. A mischievous twinkle glinted in his eyes and dimples etched their way into the skin of his cheeks.

It was still impossible to get a glimpse into his thoughts, but whatever elaborate plan he was conjuring up, she could tell it was something she wouldn't like.

Without a word of explanation, Finnick made a b-line for a door at the opposite end of the corridor. "Are you coming or not?" He asked, that teasing lilt returning with his confidence.

Dahlia huffed out a sigh, weighing up her options. No matter how insufferable Finnick O'Dair was, following him surely beat spending her time with Sparrow.

Picking up the golden skirt of her dress, she reluctantly traipsed after him. By the time she caught up in her ridiculously high heels, Finnick had pushed the door ajar and was propping it open with his foot. "Ladies first, honey," he mocked, lips quirking into a smile when she glared over her shoulder at the nickname.

The woman's eyes swept across the private study, no doubt searching for intruders lurking in the dark.

He closed the door quietly and the muscles in her shoulders tensed. "You can relax, honey. No offence but you're not exactly my type," he chuckled airily, no maliciousness behind his tone.

"Well, aren't you a charmer?" she scoffed, fingertips skimming along the spines of hardbacks on the bookshelves. For the most part, they were your classic fairy tales with happy endings and bright front covers.

She hadn't exactly expected the President to keep his personal items somewhere with so little security—the study door had been unlocked, for Christ's sake.

"Is there a point to any of this or what?" she asked curiously, browsing through the bookshelves.

"This is the only room that isn't riddled with mics or cameras," Finnick explained, leaning his weight on an oak table. "Which means we're able to talk about rebellions without worrying about anyone eavesdropping," he shuffled in the flimsy shorts his stylist had chosen and pulled a box of sugar cubes from his pocket.

Dahlia opened her mouth to ask how he could be so sure but fell short.

Finnick had been in the Capitol business' for a long time and if a client didn't want to wait to go back to the hotel, she assumed this was where they would come.

It would be insensitive to ask when she already knew the answer, so instead, she opted for the next question that popped into her head. "How do I know you're telling the truth?" She arched a dark brow and smoothed out the creases in her gown. "You could be trying to set me up," she speculated, watching as he threw a sugar cube in the air and caught it between his teeth. Show off.

Finnick lifted his shoulder into a shrug. "I'd be implementing myself," he countered, offering her a sugar cube from the container. She shook her head, unsure why he was acting so nonchalant about this.

"You're the Capitol's darling. Do you think Snow is stupid enough to touch a hair on your pretty little head?" She scoffed, absentmindedly flipping through the pages of a book to keep from meeting his eyes.

He hadn't asked to be adored by the Capitol; she knew that— Finnick hadn't asked to be put in this situation any more than she had. Regardless, a part of her couldn't help resenting him, even if it wasn't fair.

"You think I'm pretty?" he teased and without even having to look, she knew he was smirking like the fucking madman he was. "You're right—although our beloved president would have no problem putting me in my place."

He didn't have to explain what he meant; disobeying the president's orders only ended one way, and that was with someone they loved dead.

Guilt stirred in Dahlia's stomach, and she swallowed it down uncomfortably. It seemed that even the Capitol's favourites didn't get off scot-free. Well, they were off to a great start so far, weren't they?!

"So, what exactly do you want to talk about?" She cleared her throat awkwardly and reached out for another hardback, sliding it from its slot on the shelf. "You know, rebellions and the Mockingjay, you didn't pinpoint anything specific, did you?" She cradled the book in her hands and turned to face him.

"Fair point," Finnick ducked his head with a smile, nodding softly. "Alright. Let me ask you something, honey. Katniss Everdeen and the bakers' boy; do you believe the star-crossed lover's tale?"

Dahlia didn't answer straightaway, mulling over his words. It was a complex one, she supposed.

Katniss Everdeen kept her cards close to her heart and didn't allow an eye to bleed through to what she was thinking. It was almost impossible to tell if her feelings for Peeta Mellark, her district partner and fellow victor of the 74th Hunger Games, were genuine or an act.

Either way, the Capitol citizens ate it up, too tangled in the love affair to question the legitimacy of it.

When Seneca Crane, head game maker, announced that there could be two victors from the same district, only to revoke the rule at the last minute, neither Peeta nor Katniss could bring themselves to kill the other, which was exactly where the poisonous berries came into play.

Before they had a chance to follow through with the double suicide, Seneca Crane delivered the good news.

Somehow, someway, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark had defied all odds and outsmarted the Capitol. For the first time in history, the Hunger Games had two victors.

To say that President Snow was livid would be an understatement; Seneca Crane had met his untimely end, and the star-crossed lovers had no doubt been warned of the consequences if they failed to keep up appearances.

If Dahlia had to bet, she would guess that Snow had tailored his message towards Katniss.

Peeta may not have been the best fighter in the arena but he knew how to sell their story and make it believable. He deserved credit for that, at the very least. It was obvious to anyone with two eyes that his feelings for Katniss were real, regardless of whether they were reciprocated or not.

Katniss on the other hand... well, she wouldn't win any Oscars in the future, put it that way. Every time she was in front of a camera, it looked like she was sucking a sour lemon as opposed to being madly in love.

Their recent engagement had surely been Snow's idea, and if it wasn't, it was still meant to satisfy his peace of mind and distract the districts.

Dahlia couldn't figure out if Katniss was in love with Peeta, but she had a nagging feeling that behind the faux relationship and engagement, there was something there.

"I think they have more important things to worry about. You know, like fanning the embers of a rebellion? I doubt that went down well with our president," she scoffed out a bitter laugh and fired the book onto a black leather sofa.

She had to admit that the thought of their president finally being knocked down a peg was most appealing. It was no surprise that he hated the two victors— they served as a reminder that he and his system could fall just as quickly as it was built.

It's a good thing, she thinks. It tells him that he is not untouchable. That he is just as expendable as the twenty-three children who are sent to the slaughter every year.

Finnick clears his throat and it snaps her back to reality.

"I reckon he throws darts at photos of their faces every night before bed," he snickered, clasping his hands behind his head.

Dahlia laughed, pulling off her stilettos and looping the straps around her wrists. Bloom was probably one of the best stylists in the business but the heels she favoured would surely land her muse in hospital one of these days.

Bunching up the skirt of her dress, she pushed herself onto the opposite end of the table and let the heels fall from her grasp. "I bet he has a journal where he conjures up extravagant ways to kill them off," she smiled, swinging her legs back and forth.

He shot forward, crossing his legs and snapping his fingers in her direction. "Oh my god, he'd use glitter pens and put stars on the most painful ideas," he added, breaking into a laugh halfway through his sentence.

Dahlia let out an indignant snort at the mental image of President Snow in his office, using an array of glitter pens to write in his pretty pink journal.

She looked to Finnick, which may have been a mistake on her part, as it sent them both into a fresh fit of laughter.

When the sound of drunken giggles echoed down the hallway, Dahlia's blood ran cold. All of the giddiness was sucked from her body, leaving her with a chill that cut bone deep.

"Stop for a second," she tightly grabbed his arm, desperately trying to listen over the thrumming of her heart in her ears.

Contrary to popular belief, Finnick wasn't as stupid as he looked. He kept quiet, and he could just about make out the giggling of a drunk couple.

"Someone's coming," he hissed, wide eyes darting about as he hopped off the table.

"What do we do?" she whispered, bare feet making contact with the floor as she scrambled to pick up her heels. Wisps of dark brown hair had escaped from her bun and were falling into her eyes. "Should we hide?"

Finnick pressed his palms into his forehead, willing himself to think of something that would get them out of this situation.

Biting down on his bottom lip, he managed to compose himself long enough to resort back to the one thing he knew. "Do you trust me?" He asked, taking a hesitant step towards her.

"Absolutely not," Dahlia answered without missing a beat. What kind of a question was that? Before today, they had both been perfectly happy to ignore one another's existence! Of course she didn't trust him!

She may have made some questionable decisions in her lifetime, but she wasn't stupid——she didn't trust Finnick O'Dair as far as she could throw him. Shakily taking a step backwards, her hands flew out to steady herself when she hit the desk.

"You have to kiss me." The words tumbled from his lips before he had a chance to stop them and in that moment, he thought Dahlia Holloway was going to kill him with her bare hands.

Instead of clawing at his throat, she scoffed out a laugh, knuckles turning white from how hard she was gripping the edges of the table behind her.

"Well, do you have a better idea?" He hissed, digging his dull nails into the skin of his biceps. "We're not exactly friends, are we, honey?" he asked rhetorically now that being hung for treason was becoming a real possibility "So, how are we meant to explain this away?" he gestured wildly between the two of them.

"We snuck off to see each other," she nodded, eyes fluttering shut as she understood what he was implying. The Capitol couple were about to stumble into the study in approximately five minutes.

Either way, they were going to get caught and to the people in the Capitol, keeping their mouths shut was a foreign concept.

It was bound to get back to President Snow; Finnick O'Dair and Dahlia Holloway were found huddled in a study at one of his parties. It wouldn't take long for him to realise that the room in question just so happened to be the only room that wasn't riddled with microphones and cameras.

With the threat of a rebellion looming over his head, he wouldn't take that risk. Their families would be dead by morning— unless they painted him a different narrative.

It was stupid. God, it was so, so stupid. But the clicking of heels was growing closer and what choice did they have? There was no talking their way out of this one, not when Snow was out for blood.

She cradled her head in her hands, digging the pads of her fingers into her temples. She could feel herself losing her grip on what was real and what wasn't as she sunk further into the depths of insanity. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she sighed in exasperation and hopped back onto the desk, legs dangling off the side. "This is all your fault, you know that, right?"

There was no point portioning blame at this point and technically speaking, this was her fault just as much as it was Finnick's. Still, it was becoming almost impossible to string together a rational thought and blaming him was the easier option.

"I didn't hold a knife to your neck and drag you in here, now did I, honey?" He tugged on his curls and shuffled forward in his dress shoes.

It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to strike first. She wondered if anyone's heart had ever ripped its way out of their chest. If not, she was sure she would be the first; her stomach was doing somersaults and not the good kind.

"We might as well bite the bullet if we want to make it believable," she swallowed down the lump in her throat, bright eyes lingering on the doorframe.

He hummed softly in agreement and took one more step forward, keeping his hands to himself until she gave him the green light. "I'm not going to hurt you," he clarified, unable to stand the tension in the air.

She offered him an amused smile but he had a sneaking suspicion that it was an attempt to hide her discomfort. "You'd probably kick my ass, anyway."

Dahlia laughed, feeling the weight around her chest slowly lift. It was still a struggle to breathe but it was a little easier to tell what was real and what wasn't, which was classed as an improvement if you asked her. "Yeah, you've got that one right."

Finnick closed the gap between them, knees slotting between her legs. He hesitated and Dahlia took matters into her own hands, leaning close to him. Their lips met, tentatively at first, and warmth lit her nerve endings on fire.

She hadn't imagined him to be gentle. He was soft, all tender touches and careful caresses. His hands fell to the juncture between her shoulders and neck, smoothing back the dress fabric that got in his way. Her fingers carded through his golden locks, skimming the curls at the nape of his neck.

Both Finnick and Dahlia were so caught up in selling their narrative that they missed the creak of the door. It hit the wall loudly, knocking a potted plant down and scattering dirt across the floor.

A Capitol couple blindly stumbled into the study, gripping the doorframe to keep themselves upright. Neither of the victors pulled away just yet, wanting to make sure that the couple saw them.

"Oh!"

They broke apart as the woman noticed the room was pre-occupied. She clutched a bottle of whisky in one hand, slapping her partner's arm with the other. The man laughed, muttering something about how the mighty had fallen.

"Sorry! We didn't realise there was anyone in here," she giggled, swaying on the spot. "We'll leave you to get back to it!"

She winked, linking arms with her partner as they staggered back into the hallway, no doubt on the prowl for a more private room before broadcasting what they saw to the whole population of Panem.

Dahlia covered her eyes with her hands, forcing deep breaths through her mouth. She completely ignored the fact that Finnick was standing in front of her, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with her. Too much, she would have answered.

Eventually, she choked down the clawing sensation of panic and let herself retreat into autopilot mode. She picked up her discarded heels from the ground, shoving her feet into the ridiculous shoes.

Huffing out a sigh of frustration, she shakily stood to her feet and wrenched the door open.

She disappeared into the hallway without wasting a second and Finnick was hot on her heels, practically running to keep up with her quick strides.

They didn't exchange a word as they made their way to the banquet hall. Finnick scuffed his dress shoes against the tiles and Dahlia glared at him over her shoulder, but that was as far as their friendliness (if you could even call it that) extended.

Dahlia peered through the glass double doors, watching flamboyantly dressed couples prance about the dance floor. Thankfully, it looked like no one had noticed their escape, which meant slipping back into the banquet hall would be a piece of cake.

The adrenaline high was wearing off and it left an anxious feeling in its wake. Reality was burying its way under her skin— and quickly, for that matter. "You're gonna keep quiet about what happened in there, right?" she folded her arms over her chest, her voice lacking its usual venom. She was too exhausted to bother arguing.

"Do you really think those two are gonna keep their mouths shut?" he raised a brow sceptical, confidence and cockiness both returning at full force. "It'll be all over Panem by morning, but I'll keep quiet if it helps you sleep at night," he winked teasingly.

Dahlia scoffed, her narrowed eyes honing in on the ruby lipstick marks on his face. "Red suits you by the way," she smirked, pointing a finger at the smudged colour and slipping back into the banquet hall, trying to swallow down the panic clawing at her chest.

What had she gotten herself into?

[megaphonegirlk]

Not Even a Ghost

Sister Iris Fey sat quietly in her prison cell in reflection. Somewhere in the cold gray walls, she knew Diego sat in much the same. 

Life in jail wasn’t much different from life at the mountain…save for the lack of Sister Bikini’s comfort. Rigid schedule, routine meals– people even referred to her as the nun of the penitentiary and came to her for advice on the spiritual. Hazakura Temple without the extra steps and her adoptive mother– the only thing that bothered her in the isolation were the voices. It was only ever one voice. The voice of her other half, Dahlia Hawthorne. It sneered in the moments she was alone. It mocked when she closed her eyes. “Pathetic. Of course a spineless waste like you would wind up in a dump like this.”

“You and that idiot prosecutor, she wanted you to take the fall, you know.”“This never would have happened if you’d just done what you were told, Iris.”She came to her even now as she sat in a position of quiet meditation upon her cot. Venom dripping in her ear, from the almost tangible shape of Dahlia over her shoulder. “You’ve always been talentless and forgettable, Iris. That’s why I had father leave you in that ugly little temple. I bet even pathetic little Feenie’s forgotten about you here, Iris. I’m dead…but you’re the one they all for–”In the still of the cell, Iris finally spoke. “...talentless.” she murmured “you always say that, sister.” Dahlia laughed. “Should I find a more suitable insult? Maybe pointless? What’s the point of a Fey sister with no spiritual power and no brains? You were too cowardly to even follow orders, sister, so what’s you’re point?” Iris smiled, and leaned her head back to look into the mocking glare of Dahlia’s spectral eyes. 

“...if I have no talent, sister…it means you simply don’t exist.” She closed her eyes. “...if I’m as talentless as mother and you say, you’re not even a ghost. You’re barely even a memory.” She heard the indignant hiss of rage, and the familiar and wretched feeling of something pressing against her spirit. But it simply wasn’t real. A spirit medium who couldn’t see or speak to the dead simply couldn’t be affected by them. Dahlia was a whisper of her own internal darkness. She shut her ears, she closed her eyes– and the voice faded into the nothing it really was. Iris Fey sat alone in the cell with a quiet smile, mercifully surrounded by the comfort of silence.

AO3 Link

[its-hai-time]

super enjoying the amount of aa fans who are also Jhariah fans. Just know I’m catering to y’all specifically.

[just-an-average-fan]

girlies. do we know that Morgans dead or is there a chance she was let out of prison? she was only and accomplice after all.