#dizzy’s wardrobe

[dizzy-cottoncandy-icecream]

♡ i’m a small in a system! please feel free to remove me or ask for a post removal if it makes you uncomfortable!! ♡

♡ this blog is for coping with trauma, disabilities & stress ♡

♡ NSFW, DDLG/variants, Kink DNI!! ♡

☁︎ hellohi!! my name is Dizzy!! ☁︎

☁︎ i’m not comfortable sharing the bodies age so i will to stick to, i am 18+! ☁︎

☁︎ they/he/themself (or masculine) is the preferred!! ☁︎

☁︎ i am very shy so my social interaction will be very very little!! ☁︎

☁︎ this is my side blog! our main blog is @cloudywithachanceof-meatballs! ☁︎

☁︎ aesthetics for Dizzy are cotton candy, sweets & desserts, white ruffles, canopies, pastel stuffed animals, bows, sparkles, dolls, care bears, music boxes, lace, pastel rainbow ☁︎

my likes!

☁︎ bunnies, swans, ballerinas

☁︎ lavender, blush pink, pastel yellow

☁︎ chocolate, strawberry & banana milk

☁︎ pasta, cheeseburger helper,

☁︎ cookies, pastries, fruit yogurt

☁︎ Care Bears 2; A New Generation, MLP

☁︎ Flowers, cotton candy, vanilla

☁︎ ACNH, Care Bears

☁︎ Pusheen, Little Twin Stars, Starlight Glimmer, Trixie, Ballora

☁︎ Junie B. Jones, Pinkalicious, Angelina Ballerina, Chrysanthemum

i will be adding onto this list overtime!!

we don’t tolerate MAPS, racism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia of any sort, terfs, ableism, body shaming, sexism/misogyny, classism, DDLG/variants. i WILL ban you from the daycare!!

personal tags are: dizzy games, dizzy’s dream room, dizzy in the clouds, dizzy’s rain boots, dizzy’s outfits, dizzy picks, dizzy’s moodboards, dizzy ice cream, dizzy’s toy box

[mitamicah]

I am continuing to have friends and family way cooler than I am :’D

Yesterday I met up with a friend who has a strong relationship (I’d say it sounds very queerplatonic and beautiful) with a finnish person so my friend has been visiting Finland a lot

Oh and then they casually mentioned having watched käärijä a few time saying being at his gig was a cozy time (even if they didn’t understand all he was saying)

I -

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: But I'm So Sweet and Tasty [Yandere Vampire!L Lawliet x Reader]

Title: But I'm So Sweet and Tasty [Yandere Vampire!L Lawliet x Reader]

Synopsis: You've been kidnapped by a vampire with a penchant for sweets.

For Horrorfest request: I read your L x vampire fic a while ago and started thinking about the reverse. So maybe vampire L gets discovered, and instead of killing them to protect his identity, he decides to keep them like livestock? His own personal regenerating blood bag <3

Word count: 970ish

notes: vampire au, yandere, kidnapped reader, descriptions of blood drinking

“Is this really necessary?” You ask, pouting, tugging down the strawberry-frosting pink frills of a dress that barely reaches your mid-thigh. It’s a frilly, sweet pink number, with lace on the collar and a bounce to the skirt; certainly not the type of clothing you would have worn before all this. 

It is, however, the type of clothing you see in the magazines that L doesn’t bother hiding in his office. Magazines with idols wearing impractical things that are designed to bounce and jump and make their fans long for just a glimpse of something more. 

Yet it was the only thing to wear in your wardrobe when you woke up earlier; gone were your comfortable sweatshirts and trousers, gone were your warm pajamas, gone were the occasional dresses you liked to wear, sensible things with long skirts.

You’d had to practically beg L for each of them, and he never added anything to your wardrobe without a lengthy bargaining process, but your hard work was undone. 

In their place was this frothy, sweet little dress that barely kept you warm and made you look like–well.

Like a piece of cake. 

He puts the finishing touch on your hair, a matching ribbon that he deftly ties with his fingers, and pats your head for behaving so well. There was a time when you might have snarled at him through the entire process, though you were never stupid enough to fight him, even back when you would still cry and scream and rage at being stuck here.

Now, though. Now you behave, because it’s easier this way. And frankly, after so many evenings being fed on by the vampire beside you, you just don’t have the energy anymore.

Your reflection in the mirror shows no one but yourself, but when you turn your head, he is there–a small smile on his face.

“It’s very cute on you.” His voice dips a bit when he says it, and you know he’ll want to feed soon. Something about his moods when he deems you to be cute; he gets weirder, if such a thing were possible. He also gets hungry–and that never ends well for you. 

You’re staring in the mirror at your solitary reflection when he lifts your arm, giving your wrist a sniff. It never fails to make you dizzy, this contrast–the weight and pressure of him as he holds you and moves you, and the lack of him in the mirror. Like your body is on puppet strings, being yanked around by some awful thing above you.

Maybe it was, in a way. Maybe that thought is what makes you tense, now, makes you want to jerk away and run down the carpeted halls and scratch at the front door as if it wasn’t locked twenty times over. 

Maybe you couldn’t take another night of being his living blood bag, or another day of lounging about, tired and alone, snacking on the sweets he left you to eat in the kitchen. They made you taste better, he said, and you had no reason to think he was lying.

Maybe it shows on your face, in the way your muscles seize, all of this–

Maybe that’s why he gives you a gentle tug, and pulls you away from the mirror, so you can’t look anymore. So you can’t think about it.

It works, awfully enough. He smiles when he sees you shake yourself out of it, when you look at him, and not the things he does to you in the mirror.

“I bet you taste just as cute,” he murmurs, lifting your wrist again, and licking the skin there. 

You shudder.

“Things can’t taste cute,” you correct, wondering if he’ll give you a warning, or if he’ll take that first bite on impulse. It’s a 50/50, with L; he might give you a more accurate percentage, if you asked. But you won’t.

He hums. “Scientifically speaking, no. But visual perception does have a significant impact on how our brain perceives the taste of foods. For instance, something green will be perceived as being fresh and nutritious. But something pink and light…” His voice trails off, and his lips latch onto your wrist. “I can bring you the studies to read after this,” he says, voice muffled against your skin.

“No thanks,” you say, just as he takes a bite into the sensitive skin of your wrist. You cry out, squeezing your eyes shut, clenching your fist tight. It never gets easier. It never stops hurting. 

The sensation of his fangs sinking into your skin doesn’t change; the sharp points of them like carving knives, opening up your veins so that he can get the best flow of blood. 

“Worst part is over,” he murmurs, liquid against his mouth. If you looked down–you won’t, not again–you would see his front teeth all covered in blood.

Instead, you look everywhere else in the room. At the white walls, which he’s let you decorate. At your bed, with its checkered comforter. At your stack of books, that you’ll read tomorrow, when you’re too exhausted from blood loss to get out of bed. 

The bite is the worst part, you suppose. The part that hurts the most. After a while, the pain will dull down to an ache, and by the next morning there will only be bruises and the faintest memory of pain. 

Wooziness swoops down over your head as he begins to feed in earnest, and your stomach turns at both the feeling and the sound of it. Slurping and a soft squelch as he almost gums the wound at your wrist. 

Yes, it is the bite that hurts the most–but the slurping and satisfied hums afterward are just as sickening. 

[rogueddie]

Eddie couldn't take his eyes off of the ugliest, evil looking polo top that he's ever had the misfortune to lay his eyes upon. It's everything he hates in one piece of clothing, so horrible that he'd gagged at it when he'd first seen it.

His friends had laughed, agreeing that the top is an abomination and crime against humanity.

But Eddie couldn't stop looking at it.

It's the exact type of thing that Steve would wear. It's the type of thing he would love and brag about.

Even though the party, with the help of Robin, have been trying to 'fix' Steve and his taste. They're currently targetting his wardrobe and they're almost wearing him down enough to get him to stop wearing so many polos.

It's making Eddie feel... conflicted.

He agrees that Steves taste is horrible. He listens to bad pop music most of the time, he has no sense of fashion and loves romance so much that he thinks awful rom-coms are the height of cinema.

But it's Steve. Those things are what make him so... Steve.

He sneaks back to the top when his friends aren't looking, crouching behind racks to get to the till and quickly buy it. He buries it in the bottom of his bag, ignoring the bored and judgemental look the staff are giving him.

"There you are," Gareth squints at him when he rejoins them. "Where did you go?"

"Fainted," he sneers, throwing an arm around Jeffs shoulders. "All these neons and pop are making me dizzy."

They laugh, quickly moving on.

After dropping them off, he goes straight to Steves house. He doesn't want the ugly shirt on his person longer than necessary and the last thing he needs is someone finding it in his closet.

He nearly cheers when he pulls up to Steves house and his parents car isn't parked out front.

They'd only caught him in their house once, when they'd come home early, and he's sure he only escaped with his life because the entire party was there too.

"Eddie?" Steve frowns when he opens the door. "What are you doing here? Are you ok?"

"Yeah, fine, just..." he huffs, rubbing his eyes. He digs through the bag, grabbing the offending shirt, and throwing it at Steve. "Got you that. I thought- whatever. There. Good night."

"Woah, woah," Steve quickly catches his arm. "It's ok, man. If the others ask then I'll say I got it. It's... this is really nice, Eds."

"It's ugly."

"Sure," Steve snorts, looking back to the shirt. "But it's definitely my style. This really means a lot to me. I think it looks cool."

"Uh, yeah, I guessed," Eddie shifts, squirming with how genuine Steve is being. "It's just a polo."

"No, it's not. It's special to me."

"Right, because you think that pattern is 'so-"

"You saw it and thought of me. Like, you hate it, but you knew I'd like it and... it just means a lot to me, that you're thinking of me."

"Alright, it's just a shirt, calm down."

"No, I don't think I will," Steve gently tugs him inside so he can shut the door. "I get it if this is difficult for you but I'm getting impatient."

"If- what?"

"Do you need me to make the first move? Or- is this a move? Is your love language gift giving or something?"

"You've lost me."

Steve huffs, putting his hands on his hips and giving Eddie a look that he can only describe as 'disappointed parent'.

"We've been flirting for months and you haven't done anything about it." Steve falters quickly when he sees the shock on Eddies face. "Or... am I missing something? Is it the whole, like... keeping it secret thing? Because I don't mind! It's not safe to be out in Hawkins, I know, and I'm not expecting a big date at-"

"You knew that I was flirting with you," Eddie interrupts. "This whole time?"

"Well, yeah, I was also flirting with you."

Eddie stares at him for a moment. "And you've been waiting for me to make a move on you?"

"Exactly. Was I not being obvious enough? I didn't want to out you or anything..."

"No... in retrospect you were being very clear. All of Robins cryptic advice makes so much sense now. Oh, God, even Wayne figured it out."

[weltraum-vaquero]

cariño (eres un amor)

Jayce Talis x GN Reader

Synopsis: Jayce wakes up with feverish, and with a sore throat.

Tags: SFW, established relationship, fluff, tenderness, Jayce being a big baby about being sick, comfort, Jayce being a human furnace

Word count: 2.3k

Notes: Just another little something to tide you guys over while I work on my bigger projects. I don’t usually do fluff, but I hope it’s not terribly obvious and that you’ll enjoy this little sickfic!

It’s about three AM when the heaping mountain of warmth beside you clears his throat, and shifts around sluggishly. The mattress creaks uncomfortably under his moving weight as he moves to the opposite side of your shared bed.

You can hear plastic soles sliding against the floor when he slips into his fuzzy pink slippers (an old Christmas gift from you — mainly a joke, but now an indispensable part of his cozy wardrobe), and, with a suppressed little huff, moves to stand.

“Uh oh.”

His voice is raspy when he mutters it, and you hear him stumbling, and vaguely see him bracing himself against the nearest wall when you turn to look.

You rush to flick on the bedside lamp.

“Jayce?”

He’s set a hand over his throat, breathing labored, and his loose T-shirt is soaked through with sweat — between his shoulder blades, under his arms, even at his collarbone.

“I don’t… feel so good.” He croaks.

You’re up on your feet before he can finish saying it, rushing to his side to offer your help. He watches you with dizzy, weary eyes, and by the time you reach his side, you realize he’s trembling a little.

“You don’t look good either,” you mutter, brushing your fingers to his clammy forehead. 

Hot. Too hot.

“Hey.” He fake pouts, cracking a tired smile at his own attempt at a joke a moment later.

“You’re burning up a nasty fever, Jayce,” you conclude. It must be getting to his muscles, too, because his thighs are shaking a little. “What do you need, hm?”

“Was gonna go pee,” he says. You cannot, for the life of you, get used to how worn his voice sounds — like he’s just chewed and swallowed a handful of gravel. “And, uh, probably chug water from the sink. I’m so thirsty.”

“Let’s get you to the bathroom, and I’ll get you a big glass of water and make you tea in the meantime. Chamomile?”

He nods. “And an aspirin?”

“And an aspirin.”

His smile turns sappy.

“I love you so much.”

—

He manages to get himself back to the bedroom without you. By the time you get there with a tray of everything you’ve promised and more, he’s pathetically crawling under the sheets like he’s just lost a physical fight, curling up like a kicked puppy once he reaches the pillow.

“Got you some toast, too.” You tell him, setting the small tray on the night stand and sitting next to his curled up form.

Even his hair’s damp with sweat, you realize when you brush a gentle hand through it.

“Not hungry,” Jayce mutters. 

“I know, but you shouldn’t take the aspirin on an empty stomach. Do you wanna sit up?”

“Uuughhhh… okay.” Jayce groans like he has been cursed with the world’s most terrible predicament. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Which is often,” you tease, propping up his pillow against the headboard to help him sit up a little better. You give him his water first — he sounds like he needs it.

He grips the glass with two hands, unusual for Jayce, strength personified. Brings the glass to his lips with shaky hands before he exhales with bliss and starts chugging the damn thing.

He’s done with it in record time.

“Mmh. Thank you.” You take it from him, set it on the nightstand, before you take the tray and set it in his lap. Full, steaming teacup, a sad plate with an even sadder toast and an aspirin right next to it. “Breakfast of champions,” Jayce mutters, more to himself than to you, before he takes the toast.

At about three bites in, he looks at you with wide eyes.

“Shit, the gala. It’s—“ he stops to cough into his sleeve, “in two days…” Jayce looks down at himself, drenched in sweat, then at you. “And you have work tomorrow—“

“Viktor will have to take one for the team,” you counter. Another coughing fit takes him, you hold the tray steady for him as he does, and cradle the side of his face when he starts to calm. “And I’d rather have a shitty day at work than not be there when you need it most, Jayce.”

”I’m sorry,” he mutters anyway. 

“You didn’t ask for this,” you assure. Jayce closes his eyes and leans into the cup of your palm like a tired pup. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s just get you taken care of first.”

He nods weakly, before he pulls the blanket up a little higher over himself, settles into the pillows a little deeper and makes quick work of what remains of the toast. He takes his aspirin with the tea, which, judging by his sour expression when he sips some, is way too hot for his liking.

“Do you want me to blow on it for you?” you offer.

“ ‘m not a baby.”

“You are my baby.”

That makes him crack a wide, boyish grin — and it makes your heart soar. 

“Okay,” he mutters, before he lets you have it and sinks further into the sheets, until it reaches well above his lips, and it’s just his droopy, tired eyes peeking at you. 

You hold the cup with one hand, and the other comes to pet his sweat-damp scalp. He’s running hot, terribly so, but after a minute or so, you swear you can feel him starting to tremble under your palm.

It starts at just his neck first, but you can see the way it shakes him even under the thick blanket, can see the way it makes him nuzzle and hide further down. 

“C-can you get… another blanket?” He asks. “‘m starting to get really cold.”

And if there is one thing Jayce cannot stand, it’s being cold and damp. You know, because he’s always rushing to towel himself dry after his warm showers, you know, because he runs from any snowfall like it could make him melt. You know, because Ximena misses two fingers because of frostbite. You know Jayce was there when it happened. You know.

“That and a dry shirt,” you promise with a kiss to his clammy forehead. It leaves your lips a little sticky, but you don’t mind.

You’ve set the tea on the nightstand before he can finish asking, and you make your way to your shared closet fast. In one of the drawers, you find a thick fuzzy blanket, usually only reserved for the occasional power outage during winter. Which, granted, it is winter, Jayce’s least favorite season, but the heat is cranked up comfortably, as it always is. You can see his eyes smiling when he spots it in your arms, and smiling wider when you pick one of his loose, big shirts next. Whatever’s in reach first just so happens to be one with a drawing of his favorite cartoon dog and red hearts — a little V-day gift from last year.  

With both at your side, you sit down next to him and wait for him to finish his tea. Both hands cupped around it to soak up the warmth, Jayce sips on it in silence, as the both of you watch the street light outside your window, and the thick snowflakes visible in the flickering light below.

“At least I won’t have to wade through that to go to work tomorrow,” he muses.

“Well, I will.”

“Ha.” Jayce grins, curling up closer to his near empty mug in anticipated joy. He’s still watching the snow outside when he says it. “Sucker.”

If he weren’t in such a precarious state right now, you’d be blowing a raspberry on whatever’s closest til he begged for mercy. Right now, you settle for a smaller, gentler form of retaliation— peeling his blanket up and off of him when he least expects it.

“Okay. Let’s get your shirt changed.”

He frowns and makes a displeased little sound at that, but dutifully sits up regardless, and tiredly pulls the shirt up and above his head. To little avail, he also tries to dab himself dry using the damp shirt where he’s sweatiest — at the back of his neck and his underarms, before he tosses it near the laundry basket in your bedroom and turns to you.

“Arms up,” you tell him. “I’ve got you.”

It should be illegal to look this good while feverish and dazed. You can’t help the eyeful of him you get, not when his skin’s sweat slick and glistening, fuzz stuck to himself between his pecs and right below, the fuzz on the rolls of his tummy.

The second it’s on, Jayce wastes no time disappearing under the blanket once more, and you take the hint. The second, fluffy one is quickly unfolded and draped over him as well, before you climb atop him and begin to tuck him in nice and tight, the way he likes it when he gets like this.

Except — Jayce won’t stop staring.

He looks at you with pleading, puppy dog eyes and finally a pout when you don’t seem to take the hint.

“What is it?” You ask. You bring up one of your hands to cradle his soft, sleepy face, brushing through the scruff at his jaw. “D’you want a kiss?”

“Not just a kiss…”

He tilts his head and flashes you one of those sickeningly sweet, winning smiles of his. And he’s right to do it, because you know he’s about to ask something very difficult from you.

“Cuddle me?”

If he weren’t a living, breathing pile of hot coal right now, you might have said yes.

“I barely make it out alive and unscorched out of sharing a blanket with you on a normal day,” you remind.

“Please?”

It should be worrying how effective his tone is, worn and sore as it’s gotten. 

“You’re going to boil me alive under there.”

And that all seems pretty insignificant in spite of it all when he smiles drowsily and shrugs with a little hum.

“Mm. With love.” His raspy voice cracks on the second word.

It’s with much annoyance that you realize that if Jayce begged nicely enough, you would gladly do just about most things on this wretched earth. And that unfortunately includes this certain death sentence.

“Alright.”

From under the blankets, Jayce gives a tired, but victorious little yes.

You hardly make it far when you lift the blankets to join him. The heat is below overwhelming, even by his standards, envelops you suffocatingly, before warmth personified practically pounces on you. Jayce crawls to you the moment he can, nestling up against your side like he weighs nothing (except that he very much does, but it’s a familiar, comforting heaviness), before he drapes himself on top of you. Head on your chest, tired arm slung over your middle, the leg that’s closest to the mattress stays stretched out next to yours, and the other one he brings closer to himself, almost in a fetal position, his thigh atop your hips.

It’s already too much, but Jayce cuddles closer, rubs his face against you like an enamored little pet. If he had a tail it’d be wagging, or if he had the means for it, he’d be purring — either way, you can’t help a smile of your own, in spite of how smothered you are. You cradle the back of his head closer, until you can comfortably rest your cheek atop his hair.

Until… he shifts, and you can feel the tip of his nose nudging your jaw.

“And my kiss?” Jayce croaks.

He will be the death of you.

And yet, you’re very content with the notion as you pull back to look at him. You find him lazily lying on your chest, face tipped towards you in expectation, eyes lidded with sleepiness but still trained on you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Where do you want it, baby?”

“Mmm…” Jayce lets his eyes drift shut and sniffles a little. “Dealer’s choice.”

You go for the space between his brows — messed up from sleep and how he’s been rubbing his face against you, instead of neatly tamed into place with his beloved brow wax.

You can hear his smile widen the second your lips brush his skin. And you don’t get to smooch him properly, before he’s already asking: “Another?”

You indulge. One more at his brow bone. One at his cheekbone. One on his closed eyelids, lashes tickling your lip, one at the strong bridge of his nose, one at the tip of it, a last one—

“Hey, no.” Jayce hides his face before you make it to his lips. “Don’t risk it.”

You can’t help a little laugh. This is where he draws the line?

“If there’s anything to catch, I’ve most likely caught it already,” you assure. “Unless you don’t want a kiss.”

That gets to him.

“Hmmm… I do want one,” he replies before you can hope to taunt him any further. He ponders it for just a moment, before he’s already tilting his face back up towards you in invitation, nose brushing under your cheek. “Okay. Please?”

You give him what he wants. A tender little nudge of your soft lips to his smiling ones, a swipe of your tongue at his bottom lip. Jayce purrs with delight at that, voice coming out in a low, gravelly hum, before he licks back, not ravenously, much more like a kitten. Basking in your comfort, in your presence.

When you pull back, Jayce inhales a fragile little breath before his eyes flutter open just barely. 

“Are you a little warmer now?” You ask. 

He nods. “And you?”

You chuckle. “If you’re lucky, you’ll find my bones in the morning. The rest of me will probably melt off and soak into the mattress.”

“So dramatic.”

“I learned from the best.”

[yuujispinkhair]

oh man yuuji fixing the wardrobe in your shared bedroom or something and you bring him water and he just looks so…sexy <3 he’s sweating a little and his caps on backwards and there’s little tufts of blush hair poking out and his BICEPS !!!!! they bulge and flex when he rips the broken wardrobe door off its hinges and the grunt he lets out is delicious and his veins look so good and he looks so good

I AM GOING FERAL 💗💗🥵🥵 The backwards cap and the sweat and just aaahhhh 🥵🥵 18+. All characters are of age. Minors don't interact.

Yuuji is such a sweet guy, and he makes you laugh all the time, and being with him is always like being with your best friend, but that doesn't change how SEXY this man is. It makes you a bit dizzy to see how fucking strong he is and how big his biceps are. And the way his defined abs flex when he pulls his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face, revealing more skin to your hungry gaze, as well as the elastic band of his boxer briefs peeking out above his jeans.

The worst thing is that Yuuji isn't doing any of that intentionally. Other guys with a body like that would use it to tease you, and you would roll your eyes and find it stupid. But Yuuji has no clue what he is doing to you. He has no idea how fucking sexy he is. Even apologizes to you for how gross he is, being all sweaty and with his hair a mess under his cap.

He doesn't know you want him to slam you against the next best wall and fuck you with his gorgeous sweaty body pressing against you and that cap so attractively on his pretty pink hair. He doesn't know that you are getting wet just from the thought of watching his big biceps flex while he bounces you up and down on his fat cock.

But he will soon find out because you don't think you'll be able to keep your hands off him much longer when he groans and pulls his dirty shirt over his head in an attempt to cool off a bit. And now you are staring at Yuuji's buff pecs and firm abs glistening so deliciously with sweat.

The moment your eyes reach the soft-looking trimmed hair of his pink happy trail, you can't stop the needy whimper from escaping your lips.

"Yuuji... I think I need your help with something else, too."

[swappermanent]

Life in Retrospect (Part 3)

Staring into the mirror, with the necklace resting cool and heavy against my chest, I considered my next move. If I was going to convince the amulet—and myself—that this body was mine, I needed to make some changes, starting with the basics.

First things first, Mikey’s wardrobe was atrocious.

I rifled through his drawers and closet, finding an endless array of dry-fit shirts in bright, clashing colors and tank tops emblazoned with gym logos. Sure, being a gym bro was hot—I could see the appeal—but the looks were uninspired. He’d draw even more attention if he put in just a little effort.

“Time for a style upgrade,” I muttered, giving my reflection a grin that felt more confident than any expression I’d worn in years.

Memories surfaced of the days when I’d been known for my sharp sense of fashion—tailored suits, leather jackets, crisp shirts that turned heads on the street. I wasn’t about to step back into the polished looks of my old life; I needed something that fit this younger, edgier version of myself.

I hit the thrift stores like a man on a mission. Racks of vintage leather jackets, oversized sweaters, slim-fit jeans, and distressed tees called out to me. I practically cleaned out half a dozen stores, arms loaded with pieces that oozed effortless cool. My bank account took a serious hit, but I didn’t care. This was an investment—in keeping this life, this body.

“You’re gonna love this,” I whispered to the amulet, feeling it warm slightly against my skin.

Back at home, I tried everything on. A brown leather bomber jacket that fit like a second skin, vintage denim that hugged my legs just right, oversized sweaters that spoke of casual mornings at a café—I couldn’t help but admire the transformation. I looked hot as fuck.

The necklace vibrated against my chest, sending a shiver down my spine. Over the next few days, I noticed the dizzy spells became fewer and farther between, a sign that the amulet approved of the shifts I was making. But I knew this wasn’t enough.

Next, I tried changing up my day routines and friends. I started off by pulling away from the gym bro crowd and the endless banter about protein shakes and reps. Instead, I spent more time at cafes with people who shared my real interests, discussing books and philosophy. I went to art galleries, soaking in the quiet, contemplative energy that contrasted so sharply with the loud, boisterous nights out Mikey used to have.

But still, I felt that nagging doubt—the sense that it wasn’t enough. I was racking my brain, wondering what more I could do. I didn’t know Mikey well enough to pinpoint exactly what would be out of character, what would truly convince the amulet that I had made this body mine.

The answer was out there. I just had to find it.

---

One night, I found myself at a cozy little art event downtown with some of my new friends. The atmosphere was low-lit, filled with laughter and the quiet murmur of conversations over wine and soft jazz. I felt like I belonged here—a far cry from the sweaty gym floors and blaring music of Mikey’s usual haunts.

I’d been chatting up this guy at my table, a sharp, well-dressed guy named Ollie, who had a laugh that made my stomach do a flip every time I heard it.

Then, out of nowhere, it hit me—a realization that made me almost laugh out loud. Mikey wasn’t gay. There was no way he’d be flirting like this with a guy. This was exactly my chance to cement the swap.

leaned in, giving Ollie a smile that I knew, with Mikey’s rugged jawline and smoldering eyes, would have a hell of an effect. Sure enough, Ollie blushed, his gaze flickering down as I held his attention with just enough tension.

Eventually, we ended up heading back to my place. The anticipation buzzed between us, almost tangible, as we made our way up the stairs. I opened the door, pulling him in with a grin, and wasted no time.

The second the door closed, I reached for the hem of my shirt, peeling it off in one smooth motion. Ollie’s eyes went wide, his gaze magnetized by my bare chest, staring at the thick pecs that looked even better in this new, rough lighting. He was practically speechless, caught between awe and desire as he ran a hand up my chest.

“Damn,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, fingers tracing the defined lines of my muscles.

We moved to the bedroom, and the moment our bodies pressed together, the heat between us spiked. I guided Ollie onto the bed, pulling him close as he shifted onto his hands and knees, glancing back at me with excitement and just a hint of nervousness.

I took my time, positioning myself behind him, savoring the anticipation. With a firm hand, I stroked along his back, moving down over his shoulders and arms, then brushing over his toned torso. I could feel him relaxing under my touch, his body trusting me to lead. With a soft, reassuring whisper, I pressed the tip in, and he gasped, gripping the sheets.

“Relax,” I murmured, leaning down to trail a few kisses along his shoulder blades. My other hand moved to his biceps, kneading gently, helping him ease into the moment.

Slowly, I slid in a bit more, feeling him tense and then loosen as my hands worked their way over his muscles, calming him. I kept the pace unhurried, my hand still exploring his back, his shoulders, even reaching around to his chest, keeping him anchored in the moment.

Once he adjusted, I began moving, each thrust steady and deep. The sound of our breaths and the rhythm of my hips filled the room as we found a powerful flow.

I wrapped my hand around Ollie’s cock, stroking him slowly in time with my thrusts. He groaned, his breath coming in shuddering gasps as I picked up the rhythm, making sure he felt every sensation. It wasn’t long before he was practically writhing beneath me, his body responding to my touch, every inch of him pulsing with desire.

“Come for me,” I murmured in his ear, my voice low and coaxing. I wanted him to feel everything, to lose himself completely. And as I stroked him, watching the tension build in his face, his breathing hitched, his muscles tensing under my hands.

With a sharp gasp, Ollie finally came, his whole body trembling as he moaned, tightening around me. That sudden grip drove me over the edge. The intense pleasure hit me hard, and with a deep groan, I gave in, shuddering as I shot my load into his perky, smooth ass.

Laying back and catching my breath, the necklace pulsed against my chest, vibrating harder than it ever had before. I waited, half expecting something dramatic—a flash of light, maybe a jolt through my body that would make this transformation permanent. But, like before, nothing actually happened.

The next morning, as the first light filtered in through the blinds, I got dressed slowly, savoring every step. I slipped on one of my new outfits, a tight tank that clung to my shoulders, showing off my defined biceps, and fitted jeans that emphasized my strong legs. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t help but admire the transformation—the way this body wore confidence like a second skin.

Ollie stirred on the bed, watching me with a sleepy smile as I flexed my arm a little, just to see if he’d notice. He did. His eyes widened slightly, and I could tell he liked the show. I walked over, leaned down, and kissed him slowly, savoring the warm feeling that spread through me at the touch.

“That was… amazing,” I said, holding his gaze. "I’d really love to see you again, like, on an actual date. What do you say?"

As the words left his mouth, the necklace around my neck flared up in a frenzy, vibrating and heating until it felt like it was radiating warmth through every inch of me. I felt cascades of pleasure as if I was having 10 orgasms all at once. In that moment, I knew, this body was mine forever.

It was the missing piece, I realized. Mikey hadn’t been the type to ask for a second date or care about much beyond the night itself. For him, a hasty exit before sunrise would’ve been enough. But by wanting something real, something lasting, I’d pushed just far enough out of character to claim this life as mine for good.

Ollie sat up, grinning, oblivious to my inner transformation, and ran a hand over my shoulder. “I’d like that too. A lot.” He flashed a look at my huge biceps. "So… when should we make this date happen?” he asked, a hint of mischief in his voice.

"How about this weekend?" I replied, pulling him in for another kiss before standing up to grab my shirt.

As I pulled it over my head, the necklace finally cooled, a final confirmation that I was here to stay. I felt lighter, stronger, more alive in this body than ever. I glanced back at Ollie with a smirk, already planning out the rest of the day, and I couldn’t help but think, Damn, it feels good to be Mikey.

[iiseult]

Oooh open requests! May I have King Baldwin with a wife reader who sweetly helps him treat his wounds regardless of how he tells her not to come into direct contact with his skin? Please, do it nice and fluffy, if it's not too much trouble! Thank you!

Wedding Night: Baldwin IV x reader

CWs → fluff, probable historical inaccuracies, she/her pronouns, leprosy, christianity and mentions of god, reader and baldwin just got married!

Note: This is the first request I've ever responded to! Thank you so much for sending it in, I really hope you enjoy! <3 Also this was supposed to be a drabble but I got carried away

Wordcount: 2k

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Baldwin was laying on his stomach with his bandaged arms and legs stretched out across the large mattress, and his face nuzzled into a plush pillow. The day had been strenuous for him, requiring much more standing than he was accustomed to, and his body ached terribly. Though originally just on his hands and face, the disease had recently spread up past his wrist and onto a small patch of his back, causing an uncomfortable burning sensation every time his clothing brushed against it. He was waiting for his physician to arrive and apply his nightly soothing salve, which usually helped to relieve some of the discomfort that resulted from the intense dryness of his skin. But when the door opened, instead of his physician, it was you. 

Hastily, he sat up, looking around to find something to cover himself with. Besides the bandages wrapped around his ribcage, arms, and the middle of his face, the only thing he had on was a pair of white linen shorts. You covered your mouth and giggled as he scrambled to grab his robe from the nearby chair it was draped over.

“My lord, that really won’t be necessary. I’m only going to take it right back off once you put it on,” you said playfully, closing the door behind you and sauntering towards him. You were carrying a small basket in your left hand. He furrowed his brow and instinctually clutched the fabric to his chest, hoping it covered most of his exposed skin. A wave of heat rushed to his head, and he suddenly felt a bit dizzy.  

“Lady Y/N– I mean, Your Highness, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice betraying his mild panic as his eyes followed you across the bedroom. You had changed out of your wedding gown in favor of a tightly fitting dress of a deep emerald green and a low neckline– typical attire for a bride on her wedding night. Heat rose to his cheeks as he admired his new queen’s attractive figure, on display just for him. He really hadn’t been expecting this. You had to know that, given his condition, consummating the marriage would be more trouble than it was worth, and attempting to sire an heir with him would be a completely fruitless endeavor. Why, then, were you standing before him, looking like the very picture of grace and beauty? You smiled gently at him, setting down the basket and taking a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“Let me help you. Please, lie back down so I can take those bandages off,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. You waited a moment, but he only gawked, eyes still shamelessly concentrating on your choice of wardrobe. You sighed and placed a hand over his bandaged one, looking deeply into his eyes. 

“I promise I’ll be gentle.” 

He hummed sadly, shaking his head no, knowing he could not give you what you wanted. 

“I believe that you would, but I cannot allow it. If you were to come into contact with my bare skin…” he trailed off. You bit your lip. You knew he wouldn’t agree to it. 

He noticed your disappointment, and his eyes softened a little. 

“Look at you, your skin is so pure…if anything were to happen to it on my account, I could never forgive myself. Not only because of the pain it would inflict upon you, but also for my own selfish reasons.” He spoke slowly, letting his words sink in. 

“My wife, you are so beautiful, and so smart. You have so much to give, and you are everything I am not. If you were to put yourself at risk of becoming like me, you would be condemning yourself to a short, bitter life of wasted potential. Though I may not be long for this world, I want to spend the remainder of my days admiring you and all that you bring. Please do not forsake the gifts God has given you for fleeting desires of the flesh,” he begged. His blue eyes were so wide, pleading, swimming with genuine emotion, but it wasn’t enough to break you. You knew what you wanted.

“Baldwin,” you said, addressing him directly for the first time, “Just this once, please. Let me do this for you.” 

You tugged lightly at the fabric bunched up in his grasp. He resigned, allowing you to pull it away and discard it at the foot of the bed, leaving his mostly bare chest exposed to your intimate gaze. No woman had ever seen this much of him before. He watched as your eyes traced his body, beginning at his delicate neck and protruding collar bones, then down to the smooth expanse of creamy skin covering his chest, and finally to his well-defined middle. Those parts of him had yet to be contaminated by his affliction. You had yet to ever come into contact with his bare skin, but the way you were studying him, he could almost feel the sweet sensation of your fingertips ghosting over his body. 

“Y/N, I’m sorry if you had hopes of…enjoying a true wedding night with me, but I must be honest with you, even if it does cause me great pain and regret-” 

You hushed him quietly, clasping his hand in yours a little tighter. 

“No, my love, you don’t have to explain to me. I understand. That is not what I came for. I simply wanted to take care of my husband.” You smiled, the corners of your eyes crinkling as you gazed down at him lovingly. He let out a breath and untensed his shoulders, relieved that he wasn’t letting you down after all. The sight of you smiling down at him with all the love in the world melted his heart, and his resolve broke. 

“Alright. But please promise me you will cleanse yourself thoroughly afterwards. We must do everything we can to prevent the spread,” he whispered, dropping his hand to allow you to have your way with him. 

Slowly, carefully, you reached for him, stretching your fingertips out and finally grazing them against the middle of his chest. He inhaled sharply, watching in awe. Your touch was feather-light, but it sent a spark of heat straight to his heart. His skin tingled. Gently, you applied a bit of pressure, encouraging him to lay back. He stared into your eyes and refused to look anywhere else as he readjusted his position, locks of blond hair shifting away from his brow as he reclined.

“That’s it, just like that. Perfect. Now, just relax, I brought some oils and salves for you. I’m going to take this bandage off now, okay?” You said, reaching for his wrapped hand. He nodded, and you slowly began unwinding the linens, peeling them away to reveal the most decayed part of his body; his right hand. Any skin left intact on it was shaded by a grayish hue, and the rest was just angry, red, open sores. You fought the urge to wince, not because it disgusted you, because it didn’t, but because you empathized with Baldwin, feeling the pain he must have felt in that moment. The bandages you removed were dotted with blood and other secretions from the angry wounds. 

You continued unraveling, all the way up his arm, and its condition gradually improved the further up you got. Then you moved to the other arm, repeating the same process. Soon, it was time to attend to the linens coiled around his torso, protecting the rash on his back. 

“Can you sit up for me, please?” 

He wordlessly obeyed, watching you work through his curtain of fine, golden hair. You scooted over until you were fully seated on the bed, face to face with him. He was suddenly glad for the bandage covering most of his cheeks and nose, so you didn’t detect the blush rapidly spreading across them. 

You reached around with your left arm and placed your cool palm against his shoulder blade to steady him as you pulled away the bandages. He sat as still as possible, not sure what to do with himself. His heart was about to beat out of his chest. Your hand was so soft, so slow…it was lulling him into a trance. He sighed deeply, letting the air roll all the way through his lungs. You deftly unweaved the bandage with your delicate fingers, working swiftly to avoid any discomfort that the pulling might cause him. Soon, all that remained was his face. 

Wordlessly, you slid a hand up the back of his neck and cradled his head in your palm, threading your fingers through his curls. He let his head fall back, confident that you would support him, and closed his eyes. A quiet rumble emanated from the back of his throat when he felt your fingertips brush his forehead. Then, you peeled off the last bandage, finally exposing the sensitive skin of his face to the cool evening air. 

Yes, his complexion was blemished and inflamed, as you expected. His nose was red and dry, some of the skin flaking off completely. His lips were in much the same condition. A smattering of pink blotches covered his handsome cheeks. But to you, nobody had ever looked closer to perfect. You grinned and cupped his face between your hands, gently circling your thumb over his cheek. His pretty blue eyes crinkled up at the corners as he smiled back, letting out a short laugh he never meant to let out. 

“You are such a beautiful boy, Baldwin. I love seeing your smile so much,” you said, tracing his bottom lip. That smile only grew as he closed his eyes in bliss. Your warmth was almost too much for him to handle. 

“I’m going to apply the salve now, okay?” you asked, gently laying his head down on his pillow and reaching for a bottle from your basket. 

“Mhmm,” he hummed contentedly. The smell of lavender and chamomile permeated the air as you scooped up a large blob of the salve and gently smeared it over his cheekbones. He sighed in relief as soon as it touched his parched skin, his pink lips parting. Soon, his face had absorbed most of the moisture, making him glisten in the candlelight like he was made of porcelain, and you moved onto his back, having him turn over. You ran your hands over the plains of his shoulder blades, massaging the tissue to help relieve any aches that may have built up. He groaned into the pillow in satisfaction. You smiled, continuing your ministrations. 

Needless to say, Baldwin had never experienced anything remotely similar to this before. The way you handled him and didn’t shy away from coming into direct contact with the most afflicted parts of his body made his stomach do flips. Maybe he could get used to this. 

‘I think I’m all done, my king. You can turn back over,” you said softly, putting the cork back in your bottle and stowing it away in the basket. Baldwin stretched leisurely and rolled over, hair partially obscuring his half-lidded eyes and crooked smile. He suddenly looked so young; only eighteen years old and he had already led an army. 

“Thank you, love,” he murmured, reaching out to grab your hand, bravely intertwining your fingers. He figured the damage had already been done, and there was no harm in a few more precious seconds of warmth. So he swiftly lifted your hand and pressed it to his delicate lips, almost burning your skin with the lingering passion in his touch. 

Now it was your turn to blush. 

[kaynanarie]

Eyes of Gold (Part 4)

(A WukongxReader story inspired by Beauty and the Beast and Lutung Kasarung.) (First) (Prev) (Next)

            Two days later, the rash was finally gone. The baths and medicine had cleansed it away, leaving healthy, itchless skin in its wake. You couldn’t be more relieved. Shihou endured your smothering hugs and endless thanks with grace and a smidge of pride.

            With you now poison ivy free, the monkey was ready to show you the way up the mountain. You didn’t realize how literally he meant it until you were three hours into a grueling hike.

            “How much further?” you whined, climbing up yet another set of stone steps. Shihou snickered where he sat waiting for you to catch up.

            “Just a few more. Would you had preferred scaling the side of the mountain?”

            You huffed, pausing to catch your breath. “No, but I wasn’t expecting a maze of staircases and secret tunnels. Did Monkey King find all these?”

            “Actually, he made most of them,” Shihou said, leading the way down a side passage. “Fruit and Flower Mountain has seen plenty of battles and having a backdoor comes in handy.”

            Glowing moss along the walls offered some light but you still kept close to Shihou. With so many twists and turns, getting lost would be all too easy. After another flight of stairs and a few more tight tunnels, Shihou finally stopped by an unassuming patch of stone.

            “Here we are!”

            You glanced at the rocky surface then back at him. “Where exactly is here?”

            With a smirk, Shihou pushed the wall aside. Instead of stone like you first assumed, a cloth was brushed away, revealing a brightly lit hallway on the other side. You stepped out into the light, letting your eyes adjust while also enjoying the fresh air. Behind you, a woven tapestry fell back into place, covering the secret doorway without a trace.

            Once you could properly see, you found yourself in a corridor, one side dotted with large windows streaming in sunlight. Lining the opposite wall were statues, murals, and hanging weapons interspaced between ornate doors. Despite being carved from the mountain itself, the stone palace was just as regal and intricate as any human-made castle.

            “Your room is over here, peach friend! Come take a look!” Shihou called from down the hall. He was nearly hopping from excitement by the time you joined him in front of the open door. “What do you think?”

            The room was huge, a carefully carved cavern with artistic details etched into the very walls. Rosewood furniture adorned the space, expertly crafted and polished to a mirror shine. The wardrobe tucked in the corner revealed silk robes similar to your first gifted set. A bowl of fruit and bouquet of colorful flowers decorated a small side table. You were most excited to see a real bed, plush with a downy mattress and covered in embroidered blankets and furs. The whole space glowed by the light of the bay window leading out to an overlooking balcony.

            Of all the things you expected from a mountain palace full of demons, such royal accommodations were beyond your wildest dreams. “It’s beautiful! Look at this view!”

            Being so high up was breathtaking and dizzying all at once. The whole of Fruit and Flower Mountain stretched before you all the way down to the edge of the forest. Cascading green hills plummeted alongside the thunderous waterfall. Above the canopy of trees, white clouds drifted through the endless blue sky. You were so enthralled by the sight, Shihou had to tug you back by your robes before you could tumble over the balcony railing.

            “Careful! Wouldn’t want an accident before the King announces your arrival.”

            “He’s announcing my arrival?” you repeated in disbelief.

            “Of course!” Shihou chirped, leading you back into the room. With your weary body weighted down by the sudden news, the bed looked more inviting than ever. You all but flopped down on the mattress, sighing into the cloud-like comfort. The weight on the blankets shifted as Shihou hopped up to sit next to you. “The King wants to formally welcome you while also making the others aware of your presence. Best way to avoid any mishaps.”

            “If you say so,” you hummed, glancing over to him. “Any other surprises I should know?”

            “Well actually, there was something I’ve been meaning to tell you…” Shihou suddenly looked quite contrite, avoiding your gaze as he scratched at the back of his head. “But you have to promise not to panic or get angry. Okay?”

            You raised a brow. “Is it that bad?”

            “Probably not,” he said though his frown wasn’t very convincing. “Just…try not to hate me?”

            Before you could respond, Shihou jumped off the bed and scurried to the center of the room. You sat up to watch him, suddenly worried by whatever was about to happen. He took a slow breath, so focused even his tail was still. In a quick nod, a cloud of smoke enveloped him with a startling pop. You jumped to your feet, coughing and waving the haze from your face. As fast as it appeared, the cloud settled, leaving you blinking as a shrouded figure came into view.

            “Ta-dah!”

            Where Shihou had once been was now stood a demon. He was slightly taller than you, wearing simple pants and robes tied with a belt. The overall appearance was nearly human but his fur, tail, and bare feet were monkey-like. A nervous smile played across his simian face while he waited for your reaction. Only the familiar golden gaze kept full blown panic at bay.

            “Shihou?” you asked after a tense moment.

            “Yep! It’s me! Just a little taller now. And with clothes,” he smirked but there was still a cautious edge to it. “You’re not going to freak out, right?”

            Your arms flailed in bewilderment, grasping for understanding. “First you can talk, and now this? I thought you were just a regular monkey!” Your hands covered your face, mind whirling with every awkward conversation you had with him. “How? Why?”

            Shihou looked a bit sheepish at your confusion. “I didn’t mean to lie. When I found you, I disguised myself so I wouldn’t scare you and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up afterwards. Now that you’re here, you’ll be seeing a lot more demons around so I might as well be the first.”

            A deafening silence filled the room as you processed the monkey’s confession. The longer you stared, the more nervous he became, tail twitching as he fidgeted in place.

            “Are you mad at me, peach friend?” he asked, gold eyes wide and pleading. Despite the larger demon form, he managed to look quite pitiful in his remorse.

            You sighed and shook your head. “You’re lucky you’re still cute.”

            “Aww,” he cooed, his smile sharpening to a cheeky grin. “You think I’m cute?”

            His teasing turned to full blown laughter at your unamused glare. “Don’t push it. I’m already embarrassed I carried you around for three days.”

            “How about I carry you next time to make it up to you?” Shihou chuckled at your mortified blush. “Anyways, now that you know, it’ll be easier to show you around. For now, you should rest while I let the King know you’ve arrived. Will you be okay while I’m gone?”

            The idea of being left by yourself in an unfamiliar demon palace was unnerving but you nodded anyways. Shihou sensed your hesitation and placed his now much larger hand on your shoulder. “I won’t be long. Once everyone’s gathered, I’ll come get you for the announcement.”

            With a final wave and a quick wink, Shihou whisked out of the room. Alone with your reeling thoughts, you laid back on the bed to study the carved ceiling. Soon enough, you felt the fatigue of the day pull you into dreams filled with underground labyrinths, demons in disguise, and the looming presence of the infamous mountain king.

[fumiliar]

random headcanons - jjk

contains: gojo, toji, megumi, choso

satoru gojo:

satoru would bring an extra sweet in case you wanted one (he'd end up eating it most of the time). in his head, a bad mood can always be fixed by a sweet treat.

satoru who has one of the best styles among all the jjk men. he spends his money on buying timeless wardrobe pieces. he is an outfit repeater, he knows what looks good on him, so he sticks to those. maybe a mix of match of colours, but they're usually in the same format, but hey, what's worse, an outfit repeater or an outfit rememberer?

satoru who changed his perfume to a less pungent one in case you'd get dizzy. he wants to be near you constantly, he doesn't want his smell getting in the way.

satoru would squeeze your butt in public places, not in a sexual way, but in a "your butt is my stressball" way. you'd always be embarrassed, especially when he does it in front of his friends, but once you scolded him, he stopped doing in as often in public.

toji fushiguro:

toji usually has a hard time sleeping, his job not allowing him to rest easy, making him carry a burden on his shoulder at all times. but when he's with you, he sleeps so easily. you're like a pill of melatonin. you always complain, every time you meet him, he'll always fall asleep. but he can't help it, you're just so...comforting

toji is a man who loves back rubs. he didn't know he liked receiving them until you offered to rub his back because he kept complaining of having muscle pains. now, he constantly complains of back pains. it might be because he's old, but a little feeling in you knows, he doesn't need it, he just loves it.

toji has to be touching you at all times. like, he has to have at least one part of his body touching yours. his job requires him to be gone for a few days at a time, this makes him appreciate the little time he has with you before he has to scurry to his next job. he uses this time by being very touchy.

toji would make dad jokes all year long. never missing any opportunity to crack one. it's his favourite activity.

megumi fushiguro:

megumi gossips. every time you find out something juicy, he's all up in your face asking what you heard. he's the nosiest man you've met in all your years of living. he enjoys gossip sessions, some days he wishes your friends would adopt him as apart of the girls just so he gets the news as quickly as possible.

megumi is the most nonchalant chalant guy. he doesn't care for most stuff, he's only like that to you and his closest friends.

megumi knows weirdly alot about flowers. when he bought you your first flowers, it took him an hour of contemplating. he created an intricate bouquet with flowers signifying his feelings, keeping it as aesthetic as possible. he loves getting you flowers because it's his two favourite things combined into one, flower picking and you.

choso kamo:

choso would watch youtube videos on tutorials how to cook just because he wants to surprise you with your favourite meal. after he's surprised you with your fav meal, he realised that he quite enjoys cooking, now making it apart of his day to learn how to cook — still hiding it from you

choso lets you style his hair however you want. pigtails? sure. space buns? sure. he does not care, as long as you made it, he does not care if yuuji laughs at his face after seeing his hair shaped into cat ears. he could not give a fuck

[pers1st]

can't quit you - alexia putellas x reader

pairing: alexia putellas x reader

warnings: bit suggestive, angst but happy ending

Taking a quick breath in after sleepily glancing at your phone to check the time, you shoot up in the bed that is not yours, next to the body that is not your dog's, whipping around. Your head drops as you get ever so dizzy, and you hit the nightstand next to the bed with a loud bang.

"Ow", you wince, holding your forehead tightly and pressing against it, as if that would help your pain in any way.

"Joder", a soft voice mumbles next to you as you push the covers back, revealing your still naked body. Usually, it would be dark when you left Alexia's bed, but by now, the sun had risen and you were late.

Fuck.

"Get up", you instruct her as you crawl out of the warmth of the bed, hastily gathering the clothes you'd left on the floor last night.

"Ale, we have training." The blonde is still laying in bed, the duvet cover all the way up to her nose as she shields herself in comfortability. She doesn't react to your words.

"Ale, we're late", you huff as you pull your sweatpants on. At that, the seemingly unconscious body shoots up, banging her head the same way you had.

"¡Joder!", she curses as she mimics your actions.

It's been two months since you last spent a night in Alexia's bed. Your relationship was a long and stable one, and when you broke the news to your teammates, every single one of them was shocked.

You and Alexia, however, weren't. Despite the two years you called yourself her girlfriend, the both of you agreed that it was time to call it quits. Time to go back to being friends. You let yourself become too comfortable, and, along with it - clingy. The two of you could never be apart, and you both know that it wasn't beneficial for you or Alexia individually.

Still, you know that, no matter what happened, you can always count on Alexia, and so the breakup felt less like a stop in your relationship and more like a shift. That's how you found yourself in her bed after a team night out, and then, just a month ago, the two of you silently agreed that whatever this was - it was okay. You had, after all, agreed to remain friends (with benefits, it seemed).

But the golden rule of it all seems to be that you don't stay over. You and Alexia agreed to spend time apart, to be on your own, and although it included late night calls and (sometimes drunken) hookups, you didn't sleep over anymore. You didn't wake up in her arms anymore. Until today.

"Ale, I don't have any training clothes", you sigh, the realization dawning on you that of course, you didn't pack an overnight bag. Why would you? You never stay over.

"So? Wear mine", Alexia shrugs, throwing a pair of shorts into your face. You duck away quickly and watch as the fabric gets caught on the lamp.

"Yeah, sure", you chuckle.

"You go to training, I'll be there once I've driven by my house."

"But that'll mean more extra laps, no? Just wear mine", Alexia huffs, seemingly unbothered by your problem. It's, however, not as easy as it used to be.

"I can't, Ale. We're not together anymore, we don't share clothes, we don't fucking fall asleep together!"

You didn't notice your voice raised until Alexia raises her eyebrows at you, wincing ever so slightly.

With her still looking at you like a deer caught in headlights, you grab your keys from her wardrobe and leave her behind, not caring to say goodbye.

Your ex-girlfriend confuses you. How does she not see the problem? How does she not see the gravity that comes with the night you spent at her flat? How does she not understand the problems this causes?

You huff in annoyance as you walk towards your car, knowing that you'll be running laps for a good half-hour after training, seeing as officially, you were supposed to be there five minutes ago. With the extra ten minutes it took to go home, and the fifteen minute drive to the training grounds, you know that Jona will have a very stern talk to you. The only hope you can cling onto is that Alexia is already there, and the fact that no one notices how weird it is for the both of you to be late on the same day, when you usually never are.

Jona's words are harsh, but they are nothing you can't handle. Alexia already finished her laps during training, it seems, as she is not with you while you round the pitch over and over again. With only two laps left, you speed up slightly, not noticing the figure sat on the bench before you finally come to a stop, reaching for your water bottle.

Keira raises her eyebrows at you silently as you take greedy gulps. It's not a particularly warm day, but the sun is beaming down on the pitch as if it is Summer and the excessive running left you dry.

"What happened? You're never late."

You know by her tone that she is hinting at something, but you shrug as the two of you begin walking towards the building.

"My alarm didn't go."

It's a lie. You didn't even set an alarm, with how exhausted you had been last night. Keira wants to say something else, you can sense it in the way she keeps looking at you and then back down, but you don't urge her to, because you don't want to hear it. You don't want to hear anything, really. You didn't speak a single word to Alexia during training, dodging her every time you were asked to partner up and not cheering her on the way you usually did.

Even now, as you joined Keira for lunch in the cafeteria after a quick shower, you lead your friend to the table furthest in the back, away from everyone else. She doesn't mind, though, instead yapping to you about everything and nothing. Aitana joins you halfway through your meal, and you quickly become the third wheel, though you can't exactly complain. Your head is dangerously close to exploding, with the speed that thoughts are racing through your head.

Maybe sleeping with Alexia after the breakup has been a bad idea. After all, you split because it seemed impossible to spend time away from each other. With the excuse of remaining "friends", you still partnered with her every time, made conversation with her about everything and nothing, ended up in her bed every evening just to escape mere minutes later and pretend nothing happened. It's a vicious cycle, and it needs to stop. And that realization is what's bothering you the most. The fact that you need to stop. The fact that you actually need to be apart from the woman you still love so dearly.

You don't notice Keira and Aitana already left until a new body appears in front of you. Glancing up, you find the one person you didn't wanted to see.

"Estas bien?", she asks, looking down at your full plate. Feeling nauseous all of a sudden, you declare your lunch finished and throw your wet hair over your shoulder.

"Sí", you mumble as you rise from your seat, beginning to walk to the tray of dirty dishes.

"Estas segura?"

"Sí, Ale", you huff, reaching around her to discard your plate.

"Okay", Alexia shrugs. "Are you coming over tonight?"

You shake your head, looking at her with a stare that, admittedly, she doesn't deserve. Alexia isn't the catalyst of this problem, anyways. It was the both of you who made this decision, silently agreeing on a plan that now seemed so foolish. How did you expect to spend every night with her, not allowing yourself to be embraced by her warmth and love, and not fall for her all over again? Alexia agreed to the breakup. She is okay with the two of you not being together again. So, why the hell aren't you?

"No, I can't tonight", you reply, though it is a total lie. You don't have plans at night, ever, because you always know where you'll be. Where you would have been. If the two of you were still together.

"Okay", Alexia says, though it sounds more like a question. You can't seem to stand in her presence for another second, as you bid her a quick, cold-hearted goodbye only to sprint away from the cafeteria and to the locker room to gather your bags and speed home.

Alexia and you agreed. You need to be alone. And you need to practice it, now that you can't drag yourself into her arms again. There is no space for you anymore.

You can't seem to sleep on your own. Before, you were so worn out from Alexia's persistence to wreck you in every possible, leaving you in a sleep so deep the only thing to get you to stir was your shrieking alarm. Now, though, you fall into bed with a thousand thoughts rummaging through your head, and you lie awake for hours, watching the sun set, watching the sun rise, all while tossing and turning around, desperate to find rest.

It's not difficult for the team to catch on. You sweat off every bit of concealer meant to hide the shadows beneath your eyes, and your movements are slow - hazy, almost. Your performance is average, at most, and no one had ever seen you perform averagely.

Alexia notices too - at least you hope, because there is no way she can just forget about you, is there? She watches you curiously, but she never says a word about your piss poor sprints, your late passes or weak shots.

Even Jona seems hesitant to say something - and that is what you're left with. Everyone looking, no one asking. Everyone noticing, no one checking. The whole situation is beginning to drive you insane - Alexia is starting to drive you insane. Though she is not the culprit of this, you can't help but feel your heart wither away every time you look at her and feel just a little bit of anger. This isn't how you want to feel about the woman you loved for such a long time.

It takes you exactly a week to end up in her bed again. Alexia doesn't ask why you are behaving the way you are, and she doesn't react to your hesitation to come over to hers again, which makes you crave her even more. You're a bit like a child, when it comes to these things. You always seem to want what you can't have, to want what doesn't want you. Her head just peeks up from between your thighs as you lean back into her cushions, eyes hazy and head spinning. Alexia is so, so good to you. The anger is long forgotten, at this point.

"Estas bien?", she asks the way she always does, and it causes you to chuckle.

"Sí, Ale. Muy bien", you huff, as she lays down next to you gently, her own body covered in beads of sweat. You push yourself up from the mattress with the last bit of strength you have left, gently straddling her lap as you lean down to capture her lips in another kiss. Realistically, you are worn out, at this point. You've been in Alexia's bed for hours, and the both of you are likely satisfied. But it is so hard to leave.

She chuckles into your lips, intertwining the both of your hands with hers as you finally steal another kiss from her.

This- it felt oddly domestic. There was a softness in her eyes that you haven't seen- or potentially just not noticed, since the two of you broke up. It makes you stop in your tracks.

"What's wrong?", she asks as you lean back on her lap, looking at this glint in her eyes that completely captures you. You can't describe it, but this feels so right- being here, in her bed, being on top of her, laughing, kissing, sharing intimacy, the look in her eyes as she gazes at your every inch, that it feels entirely wrong. These moments are over. Your relationship is over. You have to remind yourself, again and again.

"I should go", you huff silently, pressing one last kiss to her lips before climbing off of her. You almost whimper at the loss of contact, but you rise to your feet anyways, searching for your clothes on her wooden floor.

"You could stay." Alexia sits up, patting the spot next to her as she looks at you, following your every movement with her eyes.

"No, Ale. I should go", you remind her, and remind yourself, and pull your hoodie over your head.

"I'll see you tomorrow?", you ask, though it is a given. The two of you always see each other at training.

"Will you partner with me for passing?", she asks back, a chuckle on her lips.

"Why? Miss me already?"

You only catch the meaning of what you said by the time you are in her hallway, and you pull the door of her apartment close a little harsher than expected. Alexia doesn't miss you. The both of you know it.

It seems like a vicious cycle that the two of you are caught in. Every time you decide to put some distance between the two of you, it leaves you craving her even more. It almost feels like an addiction you are so badly trying to break, but you relapse every time, soaking in every second you can spend in her arms. You go over to hers a few times, indulging the attention she gives every inch of you, and then you leave her high and dry, the wall between you rising again as you dodge her during training and outside of it.

Just last night, you were in Alexia's arms, letting her take care of you the way she always does, letting her kiss every inch of you until there was nothing left and the two of you were breathless.

Today, you didn't speak a single word to her.

Unable to stand the silence in your apartment, you asked Keira to join you for dinner at home, after texting Alexia that you couldn't come tonight.

Alexia, obviously, doesn't seem to believe you as she knocks on your door furiously, all the while Taylor Swift is echoing off the walls of your kitchen quietly, with Keira sitting on the countertop, stirring the pasta every now and then. It is dark in Barcelona already, and just twenty four hours ago, you were with Alexia. Still, she is the last thing you expect when you open the door.

She is dressed in sweats, but she still looks so good. It takes you a second to actually recognize her presence.

"Alexia, I have-"

a guest.

That's what you intended to say, but the woman pushed past you already, barging through your apartment.

"We need to have a talk", she declares as she strides through your hallway. You only manage to catch up to her by the time she has noticed Keira, who looks between the two of you questioningly.

"You, out!", Alexia points to the door as Keira shakes her head, a grin on her face.

"But we haven't had dinner yet!", she protests with a chuckle, but at seeing Alexia's stern face, which isn't kidding in the least, she looks at you, pleadingly.

You shrug. No one disagrees with Alexia.

"Wow, just kicking me out? I'm hungry, you were supposed to feed me! I can't believe this", she mumbles as she pushes herself off the countertop, shaking her head in disbelief as she walks past you.

"I hope your food burns!", she yells from the hallway when Alexia sits down on the couch and you go to turn the stove off. The door crashes closed with a loud bang.

"That wasn't nice", you point out to your ex-girlfriend. Alexia is strict when it comes to football, but outside of the sport, outside of the captain-responsibility, she is the sweetest teammate, friend, girlfriend. Her behavior towards Keira makes you sense the gravity of whichever conversation she is going to have with you, and it makes anxiety tingle in your stomach.

"Sit with me", she orders, though it sounds more like a question when she looks at you and you can see the slightest bit of doubt in her eyes. Along with that softness. That glint.

You are next to her within seconds.

"Y/N, I need to know. If we are friends or not- I can't do this hot and cold", she starts, and the vulnerability in her voice makes you shudder. You didn't know that this affected her at all, she never voiced any complaints, but the way she looks at you makes you realize that this whole situation had nagged her more than she admitted.

"Why did you agree to this- whatever, if you don't want it?", you ask, not knowing how else to describe the situation, curious to know what she is asking of you. Does she not want you to come over anymore? Does she want you to be over every night?

"Because I can't..."

You allow her the time to search for whatever word she is looking for, knowing that she always struggled with English.

"Quit you. I can't quit you, and seeing you, holding you, if you are in my bed I can convince myself that this isn't real, that we didn't break up", she mumbles, her voice barely above a whisper but loud enough for you to hear. She spins your head.

She agreed to the breakup. She agreed that it would be best for the both of you when you first opened the conversation of how dependent you felt on her. In truth, the realization of how much you love Alexia had only hit you when every footballer had suddenly gotten engaged, and you realized that all you wanted was to marry Alexia. The thought was scary, and it sent you into a rabbit hole for a bit, wondering silently whatever you were going to do with yourself when Alexia decided that this relationship just didn't work anymore. Now, as you look at her, you realize that it's foolish. Calling dibs on the breakup was your worst idea yet. But Alexia agreed.

"But you- you agreed, when I broke up with you. You wanted the breakup", you look at her with a questioning gaze, lingering on the freckles on her cheeks.

"Because I don't want to hold you back, amor. If breaking up with me is what you need then I'll try to survive, somehow. But that doesn't mean I want it."

At that, you throw yourself into Alexia's arms. How have you been so stupid? How have you hurt the one and only person you have ever, truly loved, just because you were scared?

You sense Alexia's hesitancy, but after a few seconds, she wraps her arms around you, pulling you even deeper into her chest. You can feel her heartbeat, and smell her perfume, and it makes you question how you have survived the past months without being hers. Her arms feel so familiar, so comforting, that you crave nothing more than to be here - in her embrace - forever.

"I only broke up with you because I was scared. I was so scared of you ever leaving me, and-"

Alexia interrupts you.

"I could never. I could never quit you, amor. You are stuck with me forever", she mumbles into your hair as she gently rocks the two of you from side to side, her arms never loosening around you. You chuckle at her choice of words, though you do admit it is somewhat fitting.

"You'll never quit me?", you ask, a slight smile on your lips as you pull back slightly. At that, she only tightens her arms around you.

"Never. I will never quit you."

notes: this is literally horrible

[velarisdusk]

Made for Him

Day 20: Dollification | Azriel x Reader word count: 1.2k author's note: something about being locked away and having no choice but to wait... mmmm ✦ . Kinktober Masterlist . ✦

The anticipation was almost unbearable. 

You’d been waiting for hours, nestled within the armoire, just as Azriel had instructed before he left this morning. It had been early, the sun barely kissing the horizon when he bent low, his breath warm against your ear as he told you to be ready when he returned. At the time, you had nodded, only half awake, thinking you’d have plenty of time to prepare. Of course, the second he left, you slipped back into the comfort of your pillows and sheets, lulled by his scent lingering in the room.

It was only hours later, when the sun hung high and you woke with a start, that the weight of his words crashed over you. Panic buzzed beneath your skin when you realized you barely had an hour before the time he usually got home. You scrambled to get ready, your hands shaking as you applied your makeup, each stroke meticulous, precise. You had no choice but to look perfect for him. There was no room for error.

The dress — his favorite — was one you vaguely remembered him mentioning before he left. You tugged it on with trembling hands, its tight fabric pressing against your ribs, restricting your breathing with each shallow gasp. You knew that’s why he liked it: the way it molded to your body, the way it trapped you in place. It made you pliable. Made you his.

The armoire was cramped, your limbs tucked tightly beneath you, heart hammering in your chest. You had no choice but to sit there, knees drawn up as the minutes ticked by, the tight dress biting into your skin, your pulse thrumming under your makeup. At first, frustration simmered. Why hadn’t he come yet? But then you heard him, the low murmur of voices downstairs—the unmistakable sound of Azriel laughing softly at something Cassian said.

He knew. 

He knew you were waiting, dressed just for him, pressed into the small space of the wardrobe, waiting in the dark like his personal toy, ready to be found.

And somehow, that knowledge snuffed out any resentment you held. It was replaced by a warmth that pooled low in your belly, a simmering ache that swelled with every passing second. He was leaving you there deliberately. Enjoying it. The teasing. The control. You bit down on your bottom lip, suppressing a whimper as you heard footsteps approaching the stairs, heard him coming closer.

The bedroom door opened with a soft creak, his familiar scent filling the air. You heard him drop his things onto the floor, heard the rustling of his clothes as he undressed. Then, the sound of running water.

Your stomach twisted in disbelief. 

The shower?

He was taking a shower — now? Heat bloomed in your cheeks, a mixture of arousal and exasperation, but you held still, just as you were told. Just as he expected. The minutes dragged on, each second a fresh kind of torture as you pictured the water running over his broad, muscled body. You wanted to look, to peek through the crack in the door, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. He would know. 

Finally, the water stopped. You heard him dry off, the soft shuffling of feet as he neared the wardrobe. Your heart lodged itself in your throat, but you kept your face still, eyes forward. A doll, through and through. 

The armoire creaked open, and there he was. 

Azriel stood above you, fresh from the shower, his skin still damp and gleaming in the afternoon light filtering in through the curtains. A towel hung low on his hips, droplets clinging to his hair. The scent of his body wash enveloped you, dizzying, intoxicating. You fought the urge to turn your head, to meet his gaze. Instead, you let yourself remain motionless, pliable, just as he wanted. 

A slow, appreciative hum rumbled from his throat as he reached down, his strong hands sliding beneath your arms to lift you effortlessly from your spot. His touch was possessive, steady, as though you weighed nothing to him at all. He carried you to the bed, laying you down gently on the soft sheets. 

He stood there for a moment, his shadowed gaze raking over you. "Perfect," he murmured, his voice dark and full of admiration. "You look… exquisite." His fingers grazed the tight fabric of your dress, brushing over your chest, your waist, before he lifted a strand of your hair, letting it fall delicately back in place. "This dress… it’s my favorite for a reason. And your hair, your makeup…" His voice trailed off as his thumb stroked along your cheekbone. "You’re glowing.”

You wanted to bask in the praise, to let the warmth of his words bloom on your face, but you knew better. You couldn’t give him that — not yet. If you did, you knew what he’d do: punish you, toss you back in the wardrobe without so much as touching you, leaving you aching and needy. He wanted you to stay like this — his beautiful, mindless toy.

And so you did. 

His hand moved to your chin, tilting your head to the side, opening your mouth as if you were nothing more than a puppet in his hands. “Such a pretty doll,” he whispered, positioning himself near the bed, letting his towel drop to the ground. His cock brushed your lips, his hand gripping the side of your head as he pressed inside. “So obedient. So perfect for me.”

He moved slowly at first, his cock sliding deeper into your throat, his hand keeping your head steady as he groaned in pleasure. "That’s it," he muttered, his voice rougher now, as he thrust in and out of your mouth, his pace increasing. "My perfect little toy. So good for me.”

You couldn’t move, couldn’t react, not even as your throat stretched around him. You were his to use, just as he wanted. Every thrust had you trembling, your core tightening with every harsh drag of his cock. 

He pulled away abruptly, leaving your lips parted, chest heaving in ragged breaths. With gentle but firm hands, he maneuvered you into different positions, each one more obscene than the last. He moved your dress as if it were nothing more than a prop, pushing the fabric aside to expose your breasts, your ass, your soaked cunt. 

His fingers teased you, brushed lightly over your skin as he admired every inch of you. “Look at you,” he breathed. “Look at how beautiful you are like this. Just waiting. My perfect doll.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears, your cunt throbbing with need, slick and aching for him. He hovered over you, positioning himself between your legs as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance. 

“Mine,” he growled, pushing into you slowly, savoring the way your body stretched to take him. “My perfect little doll, always so ready for me.”

His pace was slow, deliberate, as he thrust into you, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he moved. His words dropped over you like honey, filling your head with the only truth you needed to know: you were his.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Taglist <3

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@randomgurl2326 @scarsandallaz @julesvanslutta @fourthwing4ever

[daisyblog]

Shattered Hearts

Our Story Masterlist Summary: The argument that led to Harry and YN going on a break.

Warning: panic attack, shouting, swearing, arguing, angry!harry, angry!yn, smoking

Walking through the dark and lonely door was hard. YN had been practically living in Doncaster for the last few weeks, helping her grandparents with the older twins and being there as extra support for Lottie and Felicite.

Being surrounded by her family and being their support meant YN had a distraction from her own feelings. She didn’t have time to think about herself because she was too focused on her sisters. Her Nan had told her to go back home for a few days to be just YN.

If she was being honest, she didn’t want to. Being by herself meant she felt more, thought more and cried more.

For the first few days YN was back in London, she managed to keep busy. She had a few work deadlines to complete and walking Teddy as much as she could was a good distraction as she walked around the Heath with her earphones in.

She was missing Harry terribly whilst he was tour. Being in different time zones and his schedule being so chaotic meant they hardly spoke and if they did it was quick conversation before Harry was rushed off the phone.

Life had become so different for YN. She felt like her days were the same, the same routine everyday. She was just existing whilst the world carried on around her.

YN could feel the heavy feeling in her chest all day, but she had done her best to try and ignore it. Keeping herself distracted helped, but it was only a matter of time before the panic struck.

The feeling began in her chest; the tightness felt intense as she sat on the edge of the king sized bed. YN closed her eyes, praying the feeling would go away.

Her heartbeat thumped with no rhythm as she desperately gasped for breath, struggling to catch it has it left her body.

As YN sat on the edge of the bed, she opened her eyes only to see the room spin. The dizziness sparked her eyes to blink in worry. Her hand came up to hold her head, making no difference as her body continued to fight.

“Harry”.

“Harry”.

“Harry”.

The only person she thought could help right now. But no matter how many times she repeated his name, he didn’t come. How could he? He was a flight away.

It wasn’t the first panic attack she’d had, so she knew eventually it would end but waiting for that moment was torture.

Somehow in her fuzzy mind, she remembered the 333 grounding rule that Harry had helped her with many times before.

Identify 3 objects: book, wardrobe, mirror

Identify 3 sounds: the traffic outside, the tv downstairs, Teddy chewing at his toy

Move 3 body parts: head, foot, hand

Breathing gently and calmly, she began to feel her body and mind relax as she came down from her panic. She still felt uneasy but being able to breathe freely was something she took advantage of.

Blindly moving her hand around the duvet next to her, she found her phone. YN quickly found the one name she needed right now. Harry.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

No answer.

YN’s panic had turned into anger as she needed to feel relief from something. She sat in thought as she waited for her mind to find that fix. She was about to give up, when she remembered Louis always kept a spare pack of cigarettes in the guest bedroom in case he ever stayed.

Her feet trudged along the landing to the guest bedroom. Every draw was searched until her eyes landed on the box she had been looking for. Taking a white stick from its home and placing it between her lips felt unfamiliar but YN wasted no time lighting the end of the cigarette with the lighter.

She breathed in, allowing the smoke to fill her lungs as she let out a shaky breath. And for once, she sat in a room full of smoke trying to blow all her problems away.

---

Harry thought it was unusual for YN not to reply to any of his texts or phone calls but arriving home from tour for a couple of days, told him everything he needed to know.

He opened the front door and the silence hit him. The house was always full of noise, whether that was YN blaring music or clumsily trying to move something from one room to another.

Being greeted by a loud silence raised concern. Harry quickly left his suitcase by the front door, desperately trying to find YN. His search didn’t take long as he found YN spread out on the sofa, smoke surrounding her as she brought the white stick up to her mouth. Teddy’s pleading eyes found Harry from his place in his dog bed.

“Oh look who finally turned up”. Her tone caught Harry by surprise. It was bitter with a tad of sarcasm.

“Babe?”. He was confused. YN would usually be running into his arms, excited to see him. “Why are you smoking?”.

YN scoffed, a humorous laugh leaving her lips. “Of course you’d only focus on me smoking”. She brought the cigarette back up to her mouth before blowing the smoke back out, her eyes not leaving Harry’s, daring him to say more.

“What-What’s going on?”. Harry nibbled on his bottom lip in rhythm to his heartbeat that was pounding against his chest.

YN shrugged her shoulders in stubbornness, pushing the cigarette out against the small glass tray. “You tell me!”.

Harry frowned in confusion, his fingers scratching at his forehead. “Well, I come home thinking I was going to have a lovely welcome and…and here we are having some sort of silent argument…and out of no where you’re smoking”.

“Where were you on Friday night after your show?”. YN asked, confidence heavy in her voice.

“I was out with Jeff, Mitch and a few others from the band and crew”. Harry explained, still standing near the doorway. “Why? What shit have you read this time?”.

YN could hear the annoyance in Harry’s voice, which riled her even more. “I phoned you…you didn’t answer…I thought maybe you were busy or whatever…but when I saw photos of you at the club that night, your phone was in your hand majority of the night…but you didn’t phone me back until the next afternoon”.

Harry threw his hands up in frustration. “For fuck sake YN…you’re in a mood with me over not answering a fucking phonecall…do you not know how fucking ridiculous that is!”.

“I needed you Harry!”. YN shouted out in anger.

“You always fucking need me…you don’t know how hard it is on tour…performing most nights, straight to the studio…early mornings and late nights…someone always needing me for something…you just don’t understand, it’s so fucking hard sometimes”. YN was stunned, almost lost for words at Harry’s outburst.

There was silence between them until YN broke it. “You’re right…I don’t know how hard it is to be doing your job…but I do know what it’s like to have to sit with my little sisters until they fall asleep because they miss Mum…I do know what it’s like to listen to my baby brother and sister ask where their Mummy is…I do know what it’s like to listen to my grandparents crying through the wall thinking nobody can hear them because they miss their daughter…I do know what it’s like to have to step up into that role and try my best to keep them all happy and safe, because that’s what my Mum would have wanted”.

Harry’s gaze stared at the floor as he listened to YN. But what scared him the most was the fact that she didn’t speak with anger, frustration or annoyance, her voice was gentle.

“So yeah…I’m fucking sorry I can’t relate to your perfect pop star life at the moment”. YN watched as Harry stared at her with hurt.

“I’m sorry”. Harry’s voice whispered.

YN knew the next few words were going to cause more upset, but she felt this was the only way that her and Harry were going to deal with their emotions right now. “I think we should go on a break”.

Harry’s head shot up quicker than YN thought it would. “No!”. He shook his head a few times in disbelief. “No…no…we can’t”. The tears picked at the corner of his eyes.

“As much as this kills me…it’s for the best right now…you said it yourself, tours stressful and demanding…and I’m needed back home right now”. YN felt her own tears form in her eyes. “It’s not like the long distance is working, we don’t even talk everyday anymore”.

Harry felt like he was feeling all the emotions right now. He was sad, upset and angry, but the anger took over. “Fine…I’ll go to Gems and stay…but I think it’s silly to break up over me not answering a stupid fucking call!”.

YN closed her eyes in defeat because Harry couldn’t see the bigger picture that they were both going through difficult situations right now. She didn’t want him to feel guilty, she knew he was upset and angry, but that ‘stupid fucking call’ was a cry for help.

She watched as he grabbed his suitcase that sat by the front door. “I called because I was having a panic attack…and you’re the only person that can make me feel safe during them”.

Harry knew he should have said something, ran back to YN and wrapped her in his arms. But with the heated argument and the emotions surrounding them, Harry continued to walk through the door with guilt. Leaving two shattered hearts.

Tag List:

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[stainedglassvariations]

LADS and Claymores

Inspired by the lovely @heartswithinreach and her amazing imagines. I haven't posted anything on tumblr for YEARS, but I love the boys so much I decided to give it another go!

Inspired by the fact that I am, for the first time in my twenty three years of life, a heavy weapon main in this game. Minor spoilers for some of the main story and yes, no Sylus. I'm trying to be a good girl and not skip ahead so I haven't met him yet :(

Zayne is concerned. Throwing all that weight around everyday applies serious stress on your body, and he wants to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. Are you consuming enough protein, carbs, and water to aid in your muscle recovery? What about your sleep schedule? You are making sure to stretch before and after work, right? You always feel a little dizzy whenever you have dinner together, trying to keep up with his rapid fire questions. 

On a softer note, he always offers a massage whenever you come home with him. His evol leaves his hands blessedly cool as he rubs soothing circles in your knots. By the time he finishes, you’re a boneless, half-asleep heap on his bed. They also make up for the foul smelling horse pills he expects you to take with a full glass of cherry juice in the morning. 

During combat, he stays clear. He knows his strengths, and they don’t include trying to keep up with your great-sword swinging self. He can, however, freeze the feet of your targets which gives you ample time to wind up a decisive, fatal blow. And… you do look lovely under a shower of ice and Metaflux. 

Rafayel is upset. It’s hard to be your knight in shining armor when you’re swinging around a sword as tall as he is! Not that he wants you to be a damsel in distress anymore or anything, but a part of him misses the way you once needed him to come to your rescue. Plus, his flames and dagger are just a piss-poor combo when it comes to your team ups. You spend more energy making sure you don’t end up cleaving your favorite artist in two than you do fighting Wanderers.

Now, outside of fights, it’s a bit of a different story. If you can handle the weight of a claymore then surely holding him in your lap for hours on end is nothing in comparison, right? Oh, and he needs help moving a second wardrobe into his bedroom, you don’t mind do you? While you’re at it, Thomas is having a new frame delivered for his newest portrait so could you please bring that in with you?

You roll your eyes at the majority of his requests, but he always looks so genuinely put out whenever he sees you materialize your sword for combat that you don’t have the heart to say no. 

Xavier is confused. What’s wrong with a normal sword, why do you need one that’s almost as big as he is? You honestly don’t have an answer for him outside of “I like the way it feels” and “it’s hard to be scared shitless when you’ve got a big ass sword”. 

Really, watching you swing that thing around makes him feel tired. More so than usual he means. You’re not built for prolonged combat, so you go into every fight ready to put down the threat as quickly as humanly possible. He dutifully marches in after you, cleaning up the Wanderers lucky enough to escape your initial slaughter. 

It does make it weird for him whenever you ask him to open jars or help lift heavy boxes outside of work, though. Do you really need his help opening this pickle jar or are you just feeling lazy and don’t want to apply the effort? Your silence is telling. 

BONUS:

Caleb thinks you’re kidding. He laughs when you tell him that you chose to specialize in two-handed weapons, and then he sees your Hunter’s application. What follows is the most bizarre fight the two of you have ever had.

He asks you if you hit your head on the way to register or if you’re just stupid which immediately puts you on the defensive. When you deny both these things, he proceeds to lecture you on the long term consequences of muscle damage as if that’s the biggest thing you’ll have to worry about when you’re going to be out hunting literal aliens. Surprise, surprise, that makes him even more mad. 

In the end, the truth comes: he hates that you’re becoming a Deepspace Hunter. It’s a surprising show of vulnerability that makes your chest go tight and your knees weak. You toe the ground, suddenly too shy to look up at his face, and mumble something about switching over to mid-range pistols before hightailing it out of his room. You don’t, of course, you forget somewhere in the two minutes it takes to wrench open your bedroom door and dive under the covers. The look on his face when he sees you going through some exercises while back home from basic almost, just almost, makes it worth it.

[lis-likes-fics]

Antidote

Pairing(s): Coriolanus Snow x Reader, Original Character x Reader Word Count: 15.6k words Warnings: NSFW, smut at the beginning, swearing, mentions of death and murder, Coriolanus Snow is not a good person... A/N: This is part two to Poison. I didn't think it would take so long to write this, and this is only half of what I intended for this part. Now that I have a third part to do, I don't know when it'll be out by but it'll definitely be...a lot to process, me thinks. But anyway, I hope you enjoy this very not happy chapter! Thank you and enjoy!

PART ONE: The Discovery

You're startled awake by a knock at the door. You sit up with a groan, rubbing your eyes as you move quickly to wake up.

You mumble something, a groggy “mm” that tells the person at the door to come in. It's not Coryo. He would have just walked in.

“Charlotta?”

She bows her head briefly as she enters the room. You glance out of the window, confusion and the faintest feeling of panic edging your nerves at how bright it is.

“Sorry to disturb you, ma'am,” she says, and you notice the slightest confusion in her face as she speaks, “but Master Snow has requested your presence.”

You throw your legs over the side of the bed, stretching your arms out wide. “What time is it?”

“Half past nine, ma'am.”

A wash of ice shocks your skin to the bone. You bolt up in an instant, moving so quickly that you make yourself dizzy as you start sifting through your wardrobe for clothes.

Your panic is evident, and she completely understands as she watches you scramble. Like clockwork, you are up every morning at six—hardly an hour after all the servants have woken—to prepare for Snow. Because, like clockwork, he wakes at seven to begin his day with breakfast and you. You're never late. Never.

“How did I sleep this late?” you wonder aloud, snatching a pair of clothes from the closet and rushing to the bathroom.

“Not sure,” Charlotta shrugs as she steps further into the room, beginning to change the sheets from your bed as you get ready. “I came to wake you at your normal time, but you must've fallen asleep again.”

“Shit,” you curse as you shove your toothbrush in your mouth. Your words are garbled in your mouth as you speak through it. “Thank you, Charlotta. Please tell him I'm on my way.”

She nods, gathering the sheets in her arms. “Of course, ma’am.”

As you glance off at the clock on the wall, you grimace as you turn slowly back to her. She probably has a million other things to do but… “Actually,” you sigh, “I'm sorry to ask, but could you help me dress? It will go quicker.”

You're truly grateful for Charlotta. She's one of the only people you know from this godforsaken Capitol who's never given you a hard time.

“Of course,” she says with no quarrel. You thank her quickly as she makes her way over, discarding the sheets on the floor to deal with after.

Together, you're ready in five minutes. You rush to the kitchen and living quarters, retrieving his tray of tea and cakes and this morning's newspaper. You're in the middle of shoving your planner under your arm as you scarf down a cookie to stave off some of your hunger.

When you arrive at his study, you take a steadying breath and check the time. Barely over ten minutes. Not bad.

You let yourself in, not bothering with the door. There's nothing you're not privy to already. If you can't have your privacy from Coryo, he can't have it from you (unless it's an order, but that hardly ever happens).

He doesn't look up from the papers on his desk. As he writes something down, he mutters under his breath. “You're late,” he says.

“I'm sorry, Coryo,” you quickly reply. As you set his new tea tray on his desk, you pick up the old one to set it next to the door to be taken. “I overslept.”

He looks up at you, raising a brow. “You never oversleep.”

You move to stand in front of his desk, holding your planner in your arm. “I know. I'm sorry.”

Coryo looks you up and down, hums, and returns to his writing. “I need you to run these to my office and schedule my appointments for next week. The calendar should be there with the–”

“The stack of requests in the bottom drawer. Yes, sir.” You nod dutifully, scrawling your own notes in your planner.

Unphased by your readiness, he continues. “Yes,” he points a pen at you, “also, there's this creature bugging me. Go handle that, please?”

“Radley Flynn?”

“That's the one.”

You nod. “He's done.”

He hums. “And…” an exasperated sigh leaves him, “Tigris finished the outfits for the big conference next week. If she offers tea, you may have tea, but no fraternizing.” He turns back to his papers. He mutters the last part under his breath. “She's been a bit of a pain lately.”

“Yes, Coryo.”

Coriolanus is quite proud of himself. At the beginning of your employment, you were a bit of a rowdy creature he had to learn to control. The lessons you had to be taught took a while for you to learn, but now that you have, life is so effortless at times. You know your job, your place. You respond as needed, you do as you're told. You're a perfect assistant, a perfect pet. He often finds himself priding his decision to keep you those years ago.

“Before you leave…” He stands, making his way over to you as you watch him move. You're unflinching as he does, standing before you as he presses his thumb over your chin. “You left me unattended this morning.”

“I know,” you nearly whisper, staring up at him in this almost pathetic nature. “I'm sorry.”

Coryo’s hold on you is a persistent kind of tie.

When you imagine a person holding a leash on someone else, it's so easy to imagine a silver chain wrapped around one's neck. It's this tangible thing you can see in your mind’s eyes. Even you can imagine it—Coriolanus Snow with a chain encircling his wrist, yanking tightly to have you falling at his feet.

But that's not what this is.

Your chain, even in the mind, is invisible. It's worse than invisible, it's entirely imaginary. You make up this illusion of a leash to make yourself feel better about bowing to his feet and showering him in your obedience.

You're at the point where your obedience has given you a freedom that makes it easy to escape. At any point, you could escape. As long as you never stop moving, Coriolanus Snow would be a thing ever behind you.

But you've found, silently and unconsciously, that you have become comfortable here.

You have no say in politics, so you're free of the burden of speaking against the injustices of the Capitol (as deeply as you wish to speak against them). You have no possession that is truly yours, so you have no material ties to keep you restrained. You have only one true sentimental tie, as only one true person has a sentimental tie to you, but they have enough power to keep you from having the responsibility to protect them.

In terms of liberation from duty and morality, you are free. And only Coryo can give you that kind of freedom. It is a bitter draught, but you drink it anyway because it is easier than crafting your own wine.

The slightest smirk amuses his lips as he shakes his head. “Don't be sorry,” he brushes your chin, pulling it down just enough to see your bottom teeth. “Just make it up.”

His other hand raises and he brushes his fingers over the swell of your breasts. He pinches your nipples between two knuckles and the smallest gasp interrupts your breaths at the tenderness he finds.

He tilts his head, furrowing his brows. “What's wrong with you?”

You shake your head, raising a hand to grasp him gently. “Nothing,” you say quickly. Offering a smile, you clear your throat. “How do you want me?”

There's a long pause where he thinks to himself, considering your response before deciding to let it go. It's no matter. “Desk.”

“Yes, Coryo.” You do as you're told and sit on the edge of the desk, legs spread and ready to receive him. He likes you like this. Subservient.

He hums as he unbuckles his belt, making his way to you as he situates himself between your thighs. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in close as you hook a leg around his waist. He keeps staring at you, examining the features on your face as he contemplates.

You bring him in, embracing his lips. Your fingers card through the hair at the back of his neck, a gentle tug encouraging him. His tongue licks your bottom lip and his hands roughly grip your thighs as he steps impossibly closer.

One of his hands dips between your legs, sliding under your tight dress and pushing it up to your waist. You moan into the kiss when his fingers graze your clothed heat, spreading wider to allow him the access he demands.

He pulls your panties down your legs and pushes his finger past the seam of your pussy, smiling at the warmth he finds as his lips continue to slide and bite against your own.

It doesn't matter how many times he does this to you, how many times you feel his lips or his fingers or his cock, you never tire of his touch. Your body bends to his every will, and though it scares you sometimes, you're in far too deep to care.

When he’s coaxed you enough and you're nice and ready for him, you sigh when he pushes himself inside of you. You wrap your arms tightly around him, pulling him in close as his mouth finds refuge at your neck.

When he thrusts roughly inside of you, burying his cock deep within your wanting cunt, your eyes flutter as he pulls a heavy moan from your lips.

~

The door opens as you offer a gentle smile to the tall woman you're happy to call your friend. She beams back at you, all white teethed and shiny eyed as she wraps her long arms around you. “Wonderful to see you, dear.”

“Hello, Tigris,” you say softly. As the hug loosens, and she ushers you inside.

“Would you like some tea?” she asks as she pulls you into the living room. You sit gratefully, kicking off your shoes as you soak in the warmth of the home.

“Please,” you reply. Your feet are killing you, you've got a headache, and sitting down on the plush sofa feels like heaven.

She disappears into the kitchen and returns a moment later. “Let me guess,” she smiles as she sets the tray down. “He told you to have tea but no more.”

You take the cup she offers you. “He did,” you take a sip with a happy sigh. “But I would like some tea and some cakes, please.”

She smiles, chuckling lightly as she hands you said cake. “Coming right up.” You take it from her tattooed hands. She's had them a couple months. They're like tiger stripes.

She sips from her own cup, crossing her legs as she sits back. “I won't keep you too long. I know how antsy he gets.”

You hum. “Thanks, Ty.”

There's a tiny clatter in the kitchen but you both dismiss it. It's simply their grandma’am “assisting” the maids with cooking. She hates cooking, none of you know why she bothers.

“How have you been?” Tigris asks gently, looking you over. You look a little tired.

“Besides both my headaches?” She chuckles. “As well as I can.”

Humming, she licks her bottom lip. “I'm glad I chose this tea then. It should soothe you.”

You sigh thankfully, tilting your head and offering your quiet appreciation. “You're an angel.”

Tigris chuckles as she shakes her head. “I don't know about all that?”

The smell that hits your nose just then is strong. Your stomach does flips as the scent has you scrunching your face. “What is she making?”

She chuckles. “Dinner?”

“And what's for dinner?”

“Something with far too much garlic, it smells like.” Tigris laughs lightly and, despite your unease, you join her.

You bring your cup back up to your lips, hoping the gentle scent of the tea will ease your stomach. But it does little to help. You feel nearly lightly, and you close your eyes as the strong garlicky smell has your headache throwing fits.

“Excuse me,” you pardon as you stand, moving quickly toward the bathroom just down the hall. Tigris rushes after you, her brows creased with worry as she goes to your aid.

You make it just in time, bending over the toilet as you heave the tea and cakes you just consumed. It's gross and you hate it, and Tigris does her best to help as she can.

“Are you alright?” she realizes it's a redundant question but she doesn't know what else to ask.

You sit back, standing to your feet with a frustrated sigh to wash your mouth clean. “Yes,” you nod as you finish. “I was just feeling a little ill. I'm okay.”

She shakes her head. She thinks in all the time that you've known one another, you've only been ill once and it was a couple years ago at least, and it wasn't like this. “You need to see a doctor.”

You shake your head. “No, I'm fine.”

“Honey, you do.” She sighs, “You know Coryo hates sickness.”

“I'm not ill.”

“Nevertheless.” She raises a hand to your cheek, worry shining in her eyes as she looks over you. “Promise me you'll see someone.”

You look away from her, sighing as you concede. Your voice is gentle. “I promise.”

She strokes her thumb over your cheek before letting you go. She turns to leave. “I'll get you some medicine, and your clothes.”

You hum, turning to do another rinse as you mutter a “thanks” under your breath.

~

You hate doctors.

After the Games, the passive aggressive treatments, the dismissiveness because you were going to die anyway… you feel like your feelings are validated.

And worse, the last time you had to deal with doctors was when you were ill a few years ago. When he was trying to determine how you could have gotten sick, the first questions he'd asked you were about your sex life and your menstruation. Then he just patted you on the head and told you it was stress. You're plenty stressed but that's certainly not what made you sick.

It's safe to say that you're not confident in their ability to treat you.

But when your migraines persist and you think the smell of garlic is going to kill you, you give in and make a secret appointment with a physician between errands. Besides, Coriolanus is beginning to get suspicious. You've been sore, and it hasn't been from him.

Your name snaps you from your thoughts, and you look up to see who's called you. Your apprehension is clear in your face when you lay eyes on the doctor. He's tall, dark haired, older. You sigh gently as you stand, walking past him and down the hall to his office.

When you're in the shelter and general secrecy of the office, he speaks. “I'm Dr. Lockert. How are you?”

You keep it short and simple as you sit. “Fine.”

He hums, taking a seat in his chair across from you. “And why have you come in today?”

You hesitate before you answer. For a brief moment, you consider standing up and leaving. You just need to try and get more rest, you're sure of it…

But the pain simmering behind your eye is the deciding factor.

“I've been a little sick the past couple of weeks.” You clear your throat. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

He reaches to his desk, retrieving a clipboard as he plucks a pen from his coat pocket. “Describe the sickness?”

You sigh. “I've been really tired. Lots of migraines, nausea…a little bloated?”

He raises a brow, though he doesn't look at you. “Have you been using the toilet a lot?”

“Yes?”

He looks at you then. “When was the last time you had your blood?”

You refrain from reacting, you're good at that. The urge to grind your teeth and roll your eyes, the urge to stand and walk out is strong. As calmly as you can, you lick your lips and explain.

“I'm on contraceptives,” you say, your eyes unyielding as you watch him. “I haven't had mine in years.”

You think, for a moment, that spending so much time with Coriolanus has affected more than your confidence. You're a bit colder now, there's a harsher bite in your eyes that you had tried so hard not to recover from him. You think if Lockert can see it, the reflection of the president in your eyes, and that's why he clears his throat as he tears his eyes from your glare.

“Forgive my bluntness,” he mutters, “have your breasts…become sensitive? Perhaps sore or heavy?”

You're about to leave.

Your words are quick and dismissive. You're giving him ten seconds. “Yes, do you know what it is?”

Lockert removes his glasses, rubbing his forehead and sniffing gently. He looks up at you, and he has two seconds left to answer.

“You may be experiencing the early stages of…” he hesitates, “...of a pregnancy.”

You sigh. “No.”

“No?” He had expected that answer.

You sling your work bag over your shoulder and stand. “No.” He stands as well. There's no astonishment or confusion in your voice. You're thinking straight and clearly, and you're more fed up than anything else. “I can't be pregnant. I've never missed a dose once. My line of work…” you slow, ensuring he understands every word, “does not grant leniency for pregnancy.”

He shrugs. “Even so, contraceptives are not always 100% effective.” That's when your ears start to burn with anxiety, a pit forming at the bottom of your stomach. “All of your symptoms coincide with that of early stage pregnancy.”

You don't know if you should believe him. There are likely a multitude of things that mimic pregnancy symptoms. You're not, and you can't be. You don't know what to say.

“Tell you what,” he says. “If you can give me a urine sample, I can have it tested for you. I should be able to have those results by the end of the day. I'll make it a priority because I know you're busy.”

You nod firmly. “Yes, do that.”

He turns to grab the tools for the sample, making quick work of doing such. You might have been too stern, but you don't have time or patience right now. You're running late enough as it is.

As he turns and hands you the cup, you take it. “Dr. Lockert.”

“Yes?”

“If you tell anyone anything about what happens here…” you lean in close, “I'll ensure your sudden disappearance goes entirely unnoticed.”

He stares wide eyed at you, nodding slowly. You take a step back and nod back at him. “Thank you.”

~

The doctor's words have been weighing on your mind all day. It's been hard to focus with the thought of his diagnosis plaguing you. Around Coryo, you try your best not to show your hesitation but he knows you. He can see it in your eyes, the dread.

When you get that knock at your door later that night, after all your duties, around the house and to your boss, that curling anxiety strikes you again.

You stand and walk toward the door carefully. Charlotta stands on the other side holding a tray at her side.

“Hey,” she says, her voice gentle and hardly above a whisper. “I'm going to point to something in your room. There's an envelope under the tray. It's yours.”

You nod, playing along as you look in the direction she points. You slip the white envelope from its spot in one fluid movement, careful to avoid the cameras in the hall.

When she puts the tray back down, you give her a gentle smile and nod again. You play along.

“A man came to drop this off. He said to be subtle and give it straight to you.”

“Thank you, Charlotta.” You sigh. “You've been really good to me, and it means a lot.”

She smiles, ducking her head a little. “Good night, ma'am.”

You nod. “Good night.”

She leaves you, and you close the door quietly behind her. Turning toward the bed, your heart hammers against your chest as you stare at the letter.

“It's nothing.”

You tear the envelope open in just a few moments. You don't have time to be nervous. When you pull the paper out, you take a breath, and open it.

It's a white hot kind of feeling. It's chilling and stinging all at the same time. You don't know if you need to open a window for the crisp air that lies outside or start your fireplace.

So instead you cry.

You're riddled with gasps as you place a hand over your mouth to silence them. They rack through your chest until you're breaking down onto your bed and fully sobbing. Burying your head in your knees, you let the tears fall with as little control as you can grant them.

It lasts a long time. You don't know if the crying is a result of rejection, a strange sort of acceptance, or plain fear. A little bit of both invades every sense of your being.

You absent-mindedly press a hand to your belly, like you could almost feel the hardly-there being that you hadn't known was growing within you. It aches as it brings forth another round of sobs.

You never really considered the possibility of children, before or after the Games. This world is not suited for children, and after your experience, you never wanted anything so dear to you to ever have to suffer the possibility of facing what you did.

If that wasn't enough, your child was that of Coriolanus Snow's blood. The man was a lot of things, but a father was not among the list. You could not fathom allowing a child to grow under his reign. He was not suited, and you could never allow it to happen. Not without a fight, surely.

Of course, you could get rid of it. You could keep it secret, sneak it right under his nose. Things could go back to normal, like it never happened.

But if he ever found out, he'd probably kill you. A Snow heir? Laid to waste? You cannot hope to take that from him and come off best.

You hadn't many options.

You let a monster raise your baby, or you risk your life by being freed from the burden. Your life had little value to begin with, but you could not imagine the type of creature this child would become.

You don't know what you'll do.

~

PART TWO: The Escape

As the door is pulled open, she is shocked to see you on the other side as she holds tight to her robes.

“Hello, Tigris,” you speak softly, pulling your large hood close to you.

She stumbles on her words as she stares in surprise. “Uh– Hi. Why are you here so late?”

You'd woken her. You can see it in the exhaustion hiding beneath the concern. It makes sense for her to be resting, it's nearly three in the morning. But you had to be sure you were being watched, you had to be sure no one would follow.

“I'm pregnant.” Her breath hitches, and you swallow thickly. “With Coriolanus’ child.”

She struggles to answer at first, blinking quickly as she shakes her head. “What?” After a moment, she seems to remember you're still at the door. She beckons you in. “Come in, come in.”

She stands to the side and sets a hand on your back when you're safely within her home. She closes the door as she brings you into the living room, starting a fire. She asks if you want tea. You decline.

You shed your coat, sitting with your legs pulled close to your person as you stare at the flickering flames she stokes to life When Tigris takes her seat across from you, you silently hand her the letter you'd received from Dr. Lockert. She reads it quickly.

It's a long time before either of you speak, still in shock from all that's happening.

“How do you feel?” She thinks it's a dumb question.

You shrug, wondering that yourself. “Scared. A little excited? Although, I think that may be the nausea. But mostly…” your breath shudders on a sigh, “fucking terrified.”

She sets the paper down on the coffee table and sets a kind hand on your knee. “What are you going to do?”

You don't look at her. It's so hard to look at her when the thoughts in your head are so muddled. There are words piled on words piles on words. So many “this” and “that”s and “wait, but this”. You stare at the fire.

“I don't want my baby…” you sigh, speaking gently, “...growing up with someone like their…their father.” The word honestly stings when you say it, but you say it anyway.

“Back at Seven, the kids who grew up there were hungry and tired… but they smiled and laughed and played, too. They were happy because they had people who loved them, even if they were poor. Here…” you wipe a hand down your face, shaking your head. “Coriolanus isn't capable of real love. I want my child to be happy. I don't want them growing up with all this money and power, but with no heart to know how to use it.”

Tigris sighs silently, looking down at her lap. She lets your words sink in, nodding gently as she whispers. “So you'll run away?”

You finally turn your gaze to see her, speaking slowly. “I have to.”

You don't want to. It's so hard already. And you don't want to leave her behind. She's the only person who's truly cared since the beginning, the only person you've ever been able to confide in.

“You could get caught and worse.”

“I know…”

Tigris unfolds the letter once more, reading the cursive on the page carefully as she thinks to herself. She stands and walks toward the fire, and you watch as she tosses the paper inside. The flames lick at it, catching fire under the strength of its heat as it curls and crumbles.

“Well, you'll need some help.”

You stare up at her, your eyes glistening as she offers her hand. You take it, giving the weakest smile as you pull her into a tight hug.

~

The weeks you spend planning go by far quicker than you thought they would. It's in secret visits with Tigris between errands, subtle meetings with District rogues hiding in the Capitol during parties or public gatherings that were easy to hide in. It was arranging transportation, cover ups, people who can be trusted and people who can't. And to do it all without gathering the suspicions of Coriolanus was a painstaking process.

If he ever found out what you were planning… there would be irreparable damage. For you, for your baby, for anyone involved. The idea is chilling, but not as chilling as staying behind and allowing Coriolanus to raise a tyrant in his stead, if he even accepted the child to begin with…

So when the day comes that you are to flee the Capitol… to leave behind all you've known for the life of a fugitive in the Districts, you swallow your fear and take it.

You take a deep breath as you stand before Coryo’s door. You clutch the tray in your hands and files shoved under your arm, feeling the anxiety pooling in your belly.

If everything goes right, this will be the last time you ever step foot in this office…

“Good morning, sir.”

He doesn't look up from his desk. He's already working—always working. “My flower,” serves as his only greeting as he scribbles away at his work.

You set his tray down, picking up the newspaper and setting it where he likes it: laid out flat at the left of his desk. “I have your breakfast and a few documents that need signing before I go.” You put those in front of his work. “Is there anything you need from me?”

He hums, taking the pages and setting them atop the ones he had been focused on. “Aside from our morning appointments?” He looks up at you with a small grin. “No.”

“Perfect.” Anxiety rolls in your belly. This should be the last time you ever do this…

You know how to feel. The issue is not knowing how you actually feel.

“Where do you want me, Coryo?”

Anyway you want me, baby, that's the way you got me.

You steel your jaw and straighten your spine. As you plaster a smile on your face, you let out a silent breath.

This should be the last time you ever do this… And you feel determined to make that happen.

Coryo’s grin is toxic. You can see that. It spews poison, and you're sick of drowning and letting him sicken you with it.

“Come here,” he bids, turning out of his desk the same way he'd done it that first time: his legs spread, his lips curled, his eyes dark.

You walk toward him, your movements slow and sure as you come to stand between his legs with your hands on his shoulders. His own land on your waist, and it's such a warm feeling. But you can't let him distract you. Or you'll become intoxicated once more.

And it's a slippery slope from there.

He stays silent as he watches you, his hands stroking your sides, pulling you in close. He wraps an arm around you, guiding you to straddle his lap.

Even with his toxicity, you can't deny his beauty. Though that's usually how it goes, isn't it? The prettier the snake, the deadlier the venom.

“You are…absolutely radiant this morning, my darling.”

You almost fall for it. It's hard not to, he knows what honey to pour in your ears.

You're almost sure it's subconscious, the way you lift your hand and brush his pale hair from his face. God, his eyes are so pretty. Baby blue, twinkling with such pretty stars—stars you know are all a farce for the purpose of deceit. He's spent a lot of time crafting them, but you know what they really are.

Snowflakes.

Beauties made of pure perfection…but entirely cold and unfeeling. If you get enough of them, trillions and trillions and trillions on trillions, trillions more than that still…you freeze in the bite of the frost.

And if you stay, you'll turn to ice.

“Thank you, Coryo.” You drop your hand to his chin, tilting his head back just a slight before you lean in to kiss him.

The lust is immediate. There's never been any reason for easing into them. As usual, it's fast, it's biting, it's a game.

Who will break first?

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, grinding your hips into his lap. A light grunt falls from him, but he remains unbeaten. He grabs your hips and moves them himself. He knows your body well, even better than you, and it doesn't surprise you anymore.

His growing erection rubs against your clit, and your breath hitches, though you don't pull away. His hands snake underneath your skirt, pushing it higher and higher up the length of your thighs until he's got you exposed. When he's clawing at your panties, you have to remove them yourself before he does it for you.

By the time his hand is cupping your cunt, you're already wet for him. It's like clockwork. His lips and his fingers and his skin against yours make you so weak, all you can do is comply.

You long for the day where it's not so easy as pressing a button. You long for the day where he can ring a bell, and your mouth won't begin to water…

He slips his fingers past the seam of your lips, and your breath shudders. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in as you nuzzle your face there.

“So wet for me, aren't you?” he purrs. His lips curl, “Such a perfect thing, you are.”

You melt against his praise, so used to the coin toss between his honey sweet words and his hollowing insults.

“All for you,” you whisper into his ear, taking his lobe between your teeth with a gentle tug. You know he likes it. Just as he knows your body, you know his. If he's going to have you melting in his arms, you'll have him melting in yours.

You aren't on the same level, but you can pretend to be.

He thrusts his fingers in and out of you, torturously slow in his movements. Biting down hard on your lips, you fumble with his belt as you make quick work of undoing it all. He's half-hard when you take him in your palm and stroke the length of him, matching his tempo as his breath shudders with yours.

“Such a good girl,” he mumbles, clenching his teeth at the way you flick your wrist. His fingers pick up within you, massaging such a deep part within you as you grind against his hand, begging for more. You return the favor, jerking your fist roughly along him, wanting—needing more and more.

When the lust becomes too much, and you can feel the other's release growing nearer and nearer without the escalation of true sex, he pulls his hands from you and you huff needily. “Fuck,” you stutter out, pausing your own hand as his precum sticks to your thumb.

Coryo bids you to look at him as he dips his finger between his lips, sucking your arousal from them with a cocky spark in his eyes as he hums. You do nothing but kiss him back when he pushes his lips against yours, your movements as rough and as fast as his own. The taste of yourself on his tongue is intoxicating. It has you both moaning into each other's mouths, needing so badly to devour the other.

Coryo grabs your wrist, stopping your hand as you gasp at him. His eyes stay locked on you as he uses your hand to guide the head of his cock to your wet lips. Your eyes flutter when you sink down on him, letting out a long breath as your legs tremble.

Through his puffs, he smiles. “Look at you, so beautiful,” he murmurs.

You lock your arms around his neck, holding him close to you. It’s always good with him, this drunken, numbing feeling he gives you whenever he touches you. You crave it so much that you’ve convinced yourself in your entirety that you need it, him, everything he has to offer. It doesn’t matter how cruel he can be, his poison is a chemical in your brain that tells you it’s always worth it for this.

You roll your hips in his lap as his lips graze the skin of your neck. Your quick, fevered movements, so full of a craven kind of lust, make it difficult to set a steady pace. You ride him, and you do it with everything you have. This will be the last time you touch him—the last time he touches you. He’s terrible, he’s a horrible beast of a man that you wish nothing more than to escape, but you will always crave him—his horror, his bloodlust—somewhere deep within you.

His claws dig into your skin, rolling your hips. You’ve rubbed off on him, fueling that lingering primal urge that wants to push you to the ground and take you like an animal. That’s all you are. That’s all you’ll ever be.

“Fuck, you’re so lovely, my flower,” he purrs in your ear, encouraging a shiver down your spine.

“Thank you, Coryo.” You’re breathless, barely holding on by a thread—especially when the pad of his thumb finds your sensitive clit. You’ve been so sensitive lately. He likes it.

His hips cant into you, just as close to tipping over as you are as you grip one another, you searching for his relief and him searching for his own. He circles his thumb faster, he loves to cum with you because you get so tight.

You whimper, feeling tears gathering at the corner of your eyes as you try to will them away. “Coryo,” you sigh. “I’m close…”

“Come on, little thing. You can cum for me,” he bids, and you almost snap at that moment.

Rolling your hips in his lap, you hold on tightly to him as a thread in your belly tightens and tightens. He's more insistent, reaching for his own end in the sparks of his nearing release.

He flicks his thumb, and you break apart. Burying your face in his neck, a whimper—which more resembles a sob—shudders from your chest as you dissolve into him. “F-Fuck, Coryo,” you mewl, grinding a little harder into his lap.

You clench down around him, and a rough groan tears from his throat as his other hand sinks into your sides. His heavy breath is fast and deep in your ear, rare praises fall from his lips. It's all heat and rush and flooding pleasure as you're both sent on a high to last the day. For you, a high that will come crashing down for, quote possibly, the rest of your life.

But until then, Coryo feels good, so you feel good.

He spills inside of you, and you soak it all in. You soak it all in because, after all of this is over and you're sent back into this cold and hungry world, this is a part of him that will be all you'll have left.

Your arms tighten around him even more, willing the sparks of your pleasure to shoot just a little longer. You will away the tears threatening to spill. He surely does not deserve them. You do not deserve them.

With a steadying sigh, you pull away from him. Coryo looks at you with lust blown eyes, his breath leveling once again as he stares at you. He doesn't say anything for a while, he just stares.

He raises a hand to a strand of your hair between two fingers. He sighs shortly. “You're beautiful.”

You hold your breath. You don't mean to, but his praises have an effect on you that you hope you'll shed in the time to come. They play over and over and over again in your brain. My flower, my darling, so good and radiant and beautiful. So beautiful.

You swallow thickly. “Thank you,”you whisper, brushing hair from his face to take a long look into his twinkling eyes.

Snowflakes.

It is not time to freeze.

You kiss him, a deep and dark kiss that you hope will sustain you so you no longer need another. It's almost as if he knows, as if he is aware of your plane to flee. With the way he kisses you, so possessive with the intention to conquer, he must know.

But you pull away, catching your breath once more as you hoist yourself from his lap. You clean up in silence. And the silence is sobering.

As you retrieve the stack of documents needing intending to, you make your way to the door. And you linger. You don’t mean to do it, but you do. You stand there and think, over this and that, over everything that’s ever happened or will happen or won’t ever happen.

You don’t want to leave.

Coriolanus’ pull is so strong. It sucks you in, it urges you to stay within the comfort of his cold eyes. You turn, taking in the sight of him. He sits back in his chair, his attention already turned to his work. He is a sight to see, basking in the glory of a deceiving pale light. And then there are the roses. Those damned roses, frosted in flakes of snow.

He glances up at you, raising a curious brow. “Forgetting something?” His voice washes over you like honey. You have to remember it’s a front. His voice is not sweet honey, it’s bitter sap.

You shake your head. “No.”

You stare some more. How could you leave this man? When he is so beautiful…

Your lips part, an unspoken question on the tip of your tongue that you nearly blurt in your haste to find any reason to go…or stay.

“Do you really think I’m beautiful?”

He watches you for a long time, saying nothing. His pale eyes take you in, but they’re so cold. They’ve always been cold. He’s contemplating something. But it isn’t the silence that convinces you.

“Of course,” he admits. And you believe him, in a way. You believe him, and you look into his eyes and see…snowflakes. Billions and billions and billions of snowflakes. They’re so beautiful, just like him—you can already see your breath in the air.

You smile, your hand tightening on the threshold. As you nod his way, accepting him for what he is, you let go of it. “Thank you,” you say. You take a step back, crossing a barrier where the world outside of his office eases the gooseflesh that had risen in the chill of his winter. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Mhm.”

And you stand there, lingering. Already passed the threshold with nothing more to do than turn away. All you have to do is leave.

You never thought you’d find it so difficult to leave.

~

It's not as hard to remain inconspicuous as one might think in the Capitol.

Your dark glasses hide your face, your expensive robes cover your clothes, you're wearing a dark hood over your head that keeps identity more or less sealed.

But the fashion of the Capitol is so obnoxious that you're not the only one on the street dressed like this. You stride down the pavement, passing building after building on your way to the train station. It's heavily monitored by Peacekeeper grunts. Your heart is pounding in your chest at the idea of being caught.

Inside the station, it's freezing cold. You wrap your robes a little tighter around you in the hopes of preserving some heat in the shivering air.

You glance toward the hall past the receptionist desk, taking in a breath as you square your shoulders and begin to walk over.

“Ma'am?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you will it to slow so you can think straight. Without sharing your anxiety, you turn to her with a hum. “Yes?” you ask with a tired sigh.

“You can't go back there without confirmation.” You swear you almost pass out when you see her lift her hand, gesturing to a Peacekeeper grunt to step forward. You hear the heavy thump of his footsteps, and it matches the heavy thump of your panic in your throat.

Steeling your nerves and straightening your spine, you answer, “I have confirmation.”

“Let me see.”

Part of you realizes now that you have, in fact, been too much around Coriolanus. You have to remind yourself that most of this is an act as you sneer at her and her tone, walking straight toward her desk. 

You open the bag slung over your shoulder, tearing out documentation signed with the name Coriolanus Snow in elegant scripture. You watch her eyes widen, the name striking something in her heart as she clears her throat and nods. With a huff, you collect the paper and turn away to continue your venture.

You’d been holding onto that for a while as one of the things you had Coryo sign within his stack of important documents. You’re just glad you’d had the foresight as you strut down the hall, past the receptionist desk, past the offices, past the closets, all the way down to the exit door at the end. There's a large shed in the back, filled with crates and storage units and all the stuff they don't want to put in the station.

As you push open the door, looking around nervously, you feel like maybe this isn't such a good idea (as though that thought hadn't been bouncing around your head for the past few weeks). It’s so dark, weighed down with a heavy gloom that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You grind your teeth, clenching the strap of your bag between your fists as you steady your beating heart.

What if it’s a trap? What if he knew what you were planning all along and now he was here to collect you, punish you, kill you? Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, scared to announce yourself, to give yourself away.

Your focus shifts immediately at the slightest sound of someone’s soft boot against the floor. You feel your hands flex for something, anything you can use to defend yourself. You’re almost disgusted by the second-natured pull it has—the basic instinct that had been torn out of you during the Games.

It takes a moment, but you notice the second figure stepping out after you and release a sigh. Your fingers relax just a bit, feeling the slightest bit of tension as it slips out of you. “Tigris,” you sigh.

She goes to you, wrapping her arms immediately around your neck and pulling you in. There’s a weight there that both eases you and urges you to hold on tighter. This will be the last time you ever see her…

Tigris pulls away, though her hands are still firmly on your arms. “Did you get here safe? No one saw you?”

“I don’t think so,” you say, removing your hood and your glasses to unveil yourself. “Pretty sure I look like any other highborn schmuck in this place.”

The first figure, a woman you have yet to be acquainted to, steps forward for you to see. Her face is stern, it betrays no softness as she scans you. Her eyes are dark, her hair is darker. She's got tanned skin and a muscular build that you'd see on the ones from your home, or perhaps even District Two. She's a little older than you, an inch taller. She’s dressed as one of the workers here, her uniform as standard as the rest of them, her brown hair tied back in a tight bun.

“We have to be quick,” she says. “The train leaves in ten minutes.”

You let go of Tigris, schooling your expression to be just as hard as her own as you look her over. “Who are you?”

“Your only ticket out of here,” she says. “My name is Josephine, and from now on, you answer to me.”

You raise a brow. “I’m getting real tired of answering to people.” Is that not the whole reason you’re here?

She matches your expression with no patience for your reluctance. “Do you want to get out of this alive?”

You look at Tigris, then at Josephine. With a sigh, you glance down and nod, “Yes.”

She hums. “Then you do as I say when I say it. Otherwise, you screw us all. Do you understand?” You nod. “Good.”

She turns and starts walking further into the shed. You follow her, Tigris walking next to you as she leads you to a large crate. “You’re going to get in here, and I’m going to seal it. Don’t worry about suffocating, you’ll be fine. I’m going to wheel you out with the rest of the cargo, and we’re both getting on that train. Until we reach our first District, you stay in the crate. Silent. Do you understand?”

You nod. She smiles. “Say your goodbyes.” She begins to stack two other crates onto a large cart, leaving you to each other.

She’s crying. It’s the first thing you notice when you look at her. When you feel her arms wrap around you again, you let yourself be wrapped in her. She holds you tight, with a lot more strength than you would have thought her to have. You bury your face in her neck, letting out a slow, trembling breath in an attempt to keep yourself level.

“Please be careful,” she says, her grip just as tight as before.

“You, too.” You pull away regretfully, squeezing her arms with all the worry in your chest. “Don’t get hurt because of me.”

She raises a hand to cup your cheek. “I will be fine.” Glancing over at Josephine, waiting patiently by an open crate, cushioned inside only by a seat of hay. To look less suspicious, you imagine. “I think you’re in good hands.”

You nod, resisting the urge to hug her again as you feel your hand absent-mindedly reaching for your belly. You swallow thickly. “Goodbye, Tigris.”

She squeezes your hands twice. “Bye.”

There’s plenty left unsaid, only you don’t know what any of it is, you just know it’s put to rest.

With a sigh, Tigris pulls away from you, turning away and disappearing from the shed and from your life.

You turn toward Josephine and nod. Climbing into the crate isn’t difficult. You throw your leg over the side and hoist the rest of your body in. When you’re safely sat inside, Josephine gives you one last look before she’s sealing you in, trapping you with nothing but the slightest slivers of light from the breaks in the wood and the holes at the top. The banging of nails is loud, unyielding, it sets every nerve on edge as she locks you inside.

“It will be a long ride to Nine,” she says. “Just sit tight and stay silent, alright?”

You nod, feeling as though your breath is too loud and your voice isn’t loud enough. “Okay.”

You’re shrouded in darkness when she throws a large drape over all the crates, and you almost startle when you feel it move underneath you. You hold your knees close to your chest and try not to hold your breath as the loud squeaking of opening doors fills your ears.

When you hear voices surrounding you—people boarding the train, Peacekeepers barking orders to passengers and workers and other grunts—it all feels so surreal. And terrifying. It’s terrifying. This isn’t going to work. It would be too easy—all things considered. You’re going to get found out, and you’re going to be sent back to Coryo, and he’s going to have you killed.

You decide it’s time to stop thinking.

The crates stop, and you think you were right all along. Then you feel yourself being weighed back all the way to one side and realize that you’re just being loaded into the freight car.

And after a long, long while filled with nothing but distant voices and more cargo and more footsteps and slamming doors, a loud horn is sounded into the air.

And the train begins to move.

~

Everything is sore.

The crate rattles and clatters around you. Your back throbs harshly from the uncomfortable position you've held for the better half of the last day, your stomach is growling from the lack of food, your behind is aching, and there's a sweltering heat in the air, worsened by the small space.

It's hard to focus on anything when you hear the sounds of people on the street and birds in the sky and squealing wheels and horse hooves on cobblestone. You brace your hands on the walls enclosing you in the space.

You try to look through the cracks of the crate at what is around you. All you can see are the fleeting sights of people bustling through a busy street. It reminds you of the marketplace back in your home district. You can smell stale bread and animal shit and something else, and it makes you want to vomit.

Your concept of time is a little dull by the time the scene has completely changed. You think it's been about thirty minutes, and you're surrounded by the sounds of the wheels moving on top of dirt and the snorts of horses. You can still smell horse shit, so that hasn't changed, but there's the smell of fresh grass and something else to accompany it.

The wagon comes to a stop.

As though you have much of a choice, you huddle in on yourself as you hear heavy footsteps rounding to the back of the wagon to unload the crates next to you. Your crate is grabbed, and you try to stay quiet as you slap a hand over your mouth.

You hear the slight groaning of people lifting your crate, and you panic in trying to stay still as you're wobbling around. They carry you away from the wagon, and you just hope to whatever’s hearing you that these are the good guys.

After a moment, you're put down unceremoniously. There's a pause, then the sound of something metal, and then the top is being pried open by a crowbar. Your heart hammers in your chest, your breath kicks up to a million, and you feel like your brain is about to explode.

The lid comes off with a loud crack!. The face peering in on you is unfamiliar, but it doesn't seem surprised to see you. You don't move just staring back at him before he's backing away as well.

Then you see Josephine. She gives you a reassuring look that helps to calm some of your stress. A hand instinctively falls to your belly as you feel your heart slow just a pinch. She holds a hand out for you. You reach out and take it.

When you stand, you look around at where you are. The glaring sun isn't beating down anymore, but that doesn't change the fact that you're sweating, and you'll probably continue to sweat.

You're in a barn house. It's a nice size, big enough for a large family. There are corn husks and pieces of stalk and leaves all over the floor. There are tools and more tools and more crates and all the necessary items for a barn house (with more emphasis on the barn part than there is on the house part).

You take in the sight of the people surrounding you. There are quite a few, all with a varying amount of emotions across their faces. You swallow thickly, glancing at Josephine for some support. You don't know her well, but she's the only one you're sure is your friend (in the rather loose meaning of the word).

“Everyone,” she says, coming up to stand next to you as she addresses the people in the room. They watch you as they listen to her. There's a boy with brown hair and freckles younger than you, not quite a child but not yet a man. There's a woman older than Josephine with a few gray hairs on her dirty blonde head. Before you're done examining everyone, Josephine’s talking again. “Meet our newest guest.”

“No fucking way.”

Your head snaps to the voice who'd just spoken. You can see a woman your age, skin dark and hair short. There's a type of resentment in her eyes that you are not new to. She looks extremely upset by the sight of you, and you think ‘Great. More people who hate me.’

There's a guy standing next to her. He looks really similar, a brother, maybe. His hair is short like hers, he's much taller. His face, though, isn't as thoroughly repulsed than hers so you think maybe there's hope.

“What is she doing here?” He addresses Josephine directly. “Is this why you didn't tell us who it was?”

“She's fled the Capitol,” she states firmly, reaffirming her positions as the apparent leader. “Our job is to harbor people in need of shelter. She is one of them.”

“Why should we help her?” the woman asks spitefully, looking away from you like you hadn't even existed a moment ago. “What has she done for us, huh?”

They're speaking around you. You don't like that they're speaking around you, like you aren't even there. Something itches inside of you, something that should have dissolved a long time ago that you still find poking around when people aren't taking you seriously.

“Calm down, Via,” her brother says, turning to with an almost exasperated look. At least now you know this isn't an exclusive reaction, though it may be a specialized one.

Josephine’s eyes stay focused on this “Via” character as she speaks. There's an authority in her voice that is undeniable. “It's fine, Vincent.” She pauses like she's giving her rebellious subordinate a silent warning. “She's one of us. We protect our own.”

It's so strange to hear that. “One of us.” Like you're actually part of something, and not some “other” option that no longer belongs to a people anymore. You're so used to the insults: scum, filth, animal, murderer, something that's so worthless to a person's time and energy. Even from your own master, you are—you were—nothing but a pet. Just an animal.

Now you are, apparently, one of them.

Not everyone feels the same way.

“She's not one of us. Not anymore. She's Capitol now.” She turns to you, disgust curling her otherwise pretty features. “Look how she dresses, look how she stands, listen to how she talks.” She makes this scoffing sound. Your hands turn to clenched fists, and an anger seethe within you at this treatment that you hoped would start to dim with the start of your new life on the run. There's so much disdain for you in the things that she says, and you're sick of hearing it.

“She may have been District once, but now?” She shakes her head, raising a finger to point at you. “That's Capitol trash.”

That makes you snap. You don't mean to do it. After years of biting your tongue just to keep your head, after years of being conditioned to take these insults as you try to scrape your life together into something sufferable, being slapped in the face with them by someone who's supposedly on your side (who's supposedly “one of us”) isn't something you can keep down.

It spills like molten lava from a volcano. There's nothing fast about it, nothing striking. It burns your mouth and your chest and everywhere that it's been festering. It spews, but it moves so slowly and so softly that the lethargy is easily mistaken for a weakness, rather than this corrosive thing that's been eating you up for so much time.

“You don't understand what it was like.” Your throat burns as you try to keep it down.

She looks at you with spiteful amusement, as if to say, “It talks!”

“How what was like?” She raises a brow and pulls her voice slow to cut deep. “Being his little pet? His slut?”

The initial explosion comes in short spurts. Your mouth is hot as it forms around the words, words that are so unhelpful that they just continue to burn your tongue.

“He made me.” Flashes of Coriolanus flit through your mind. His smirk is embedded deep in the fabric of your thinking, his lips melding against your skin and his teeth sinking into the flesh are committed to memory.

She's unconvinced. “But you were happy to do it, weren't you?” She steps closer, and Vincent follows hesitantly, as if to ensure she doesn't do something stupid (or to back her up if you decide on something stupid). “You lived in the lap of luxury while the Districts suffered and funded your little paradise.”

“Volivia.” “Via.” Both Vincent and Josephine speak at the same time in an attempt to rein her in.

“No, it's fine.” You shake your head, taking a moment to choose your words. You lick your bottom lip in thought. “For a time, yes, I did enjoy myself.”

She scoffs and gestures toward you with an I-told-you-so look plastered on her face. “Like I said,” she spits. “She's a Capitol slut.”

Your voice raises a smidgen when you speak again, but you try to refrain. You almost don't realize your tactic, the way you speak, the way you try to establish yourself. It's written like Snow.

“Snow sought me out after the Games.” You take a breath, closing your eyes to center yourself. “I was alone and hungry and a lot of people in my District hated me for what I had to do during the Games. They threw rotted food at my house, they stole the food sent to me from the Capitol that I was going to donate most of anyway. I wasn't even allowed into some places because they hated me so much.”

You push past the bile rising in your throat, remembering the way everyone used to look at you. Friends who'd known you for years, who'd known your parents, who you'd practically grown up with turned on you just for “winning”.

“Some understood but no one wanted to risk being turned on by everyone else, not that I blame them for that. People need to eat… So I was really…alone.”

You sigh sparingly, like you're conserving air like rations. “Snow found me and offered me a contract—a spot in the Capitol where I could have a chance to be happy, as long as I became his assistant.” You swallow thickly. “And I agreed.”

Volivia isn't easily persuaded. “And it was so bad going to all those parties? Getting served fine wine and fancy foods?”

The fatigue gnaws at you. “You know, everyone thinks the Capitol is so sophisticated, but they always forget that I was still District.” Your blood begins to boil in your veins, thick like lava as you think of everything you've been slapped with. “They insulted me, and they laughed at me. Some spat at me on the street if they were so inclined.”

You wince. You hadn't meant to word it like that. Volivia wasn't entirely wrong when she said you were basically Capitol. You don't have Capitol blood in your veins, but you've got some of their nerves in your brain, and that's hard to wash out.

“I wasn't much better until Snow gave enough threats that they were forced to stop. You wanna know why I'm so much like Capitol now? Why does a possum play dead? Why do children in the Games kill other children?” No one speaks. “To survive.” It's always about survival. “I spent six years with them, how could I not conform?”

A softer voice speaks, the freckled boy you'd first seen when you arrived. He seems a little shy, if not curious. He tilts his head, speaking tentatively. “What about Snow?”

You look down at your feet. Images of him flash behind your eyes again, but you pretend they don't. Thinking about him won't summon the man, so you don't understand why it feels like it will.

It takes a while for you to garner the courage to reply. He waits patiently, hoping he hasn't offended you.

“My first month there,” you lick your lip, “I spent just getting used to running his errands. I was still so new, and I didn't want to disappoint him because I was afraid he would do something bad to me.” He glances down at his hands.

“But he called for me one night, and I came…” You screw your eyes shut, keeping them that way as you try to say these next words. “I came and he told me to get on my knees.”

A mixture of emotions runs through everyone. Most avert their eyes and look sort of awkward, offering silent sympathies or simply trying not to impose on your unease.

But Volivia will not be persuaded that easily to your side. “Please–”

“One night, I made the mistake of thinking we were on the same level when he threw me to the ground and told me I was nothing but District scum, whose only job now was to please and serve him.” She doesn't speak. “He called me an animal and a whore and told me that I belonged to him, made sure I wouldn't forget it, too. So your insults aren't really hurting me. They're just pissing me off.”

There's a little less venom when Volivia speaks again, but she still isn't kind. She can't let you know that you've affected her. You don't blame her. You would've done the same.

“That doesn't mean we should help you,” she argues almost weakly. “You signed a contract, you knew what you were getting yourself into. You left the Districts behind to become the enemy.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, guess what?” You throw your hands in the air, frustration at the both of you for prolonging this so much. “I'm a goddamn idiot who didn't read the fine print.” You take a step forward. Everyone reacts, but no one moves.

“Do you know what my contract said?” She raises a brow. “If I disobeyed Snow for any reason, he would drop me back at Seven and put my name back into the raffle a hundred times over so I was sure to go back to the Games.” You shudder at the thought. The very idea of going back to the arena is haunting.

You start to feel physically sick. As you imagine yourself running through that arena, your blood pumps through your veins and it itches so much that you think you’d break skin if you started scratching. Your muscles jerk, urging you to move as you stare into Volivia’s eyes. She’s staring at you, glaring. When you look down at her hands, her fists are clenched.

She’s going to hurt you. Don’t just stand there. Run! You swallow thickly. It’s all in your head. Run or you’ll die! Your heart hammers in your chest. You don’t think you can breathe. Go, now!

You close your eyes shut. You’re hit with an immediate wave of regret. Images of blood and gore, the sounds of screams and raging shouts fill your ears.

“I can’t–” You catch yourself. Swallowing thickly, you open your eyes and see her again. There’s something there, not quite confusion, not quite fear anymore. Your voice wavers as you speak quietly. “I can’t do that a second time. I can’t go through that again. The things we did, I…”

You take a step back. It gives away your power, but you can’t bring yourself to care yet. You keep your back straight, keeping your eyes open and focused. Do not show fear. They’ll smell it off of you. And you will die.

“We were just children.” She had red hair, like fire. It stuck out like a sore thumb. His was like night, but he just wasn’t quiet enough. “My games had the most number of tributes under 14 years old than we’ve ever had.” She was dark, he had freckles, she had two tones, he was sick, so was she.

You’d been able to shove it all down for so long, you almost thought you’d forgotten it all. He was so afraid of the dark. And he was so funny, so they cut out his tongue. And she–

“Do you remember their names?”

You turn toward the freckled boy. He’s really sweet. He reminds you of Willard, who had the kindest smile, even as the light was leaving his eyes.

“I remember…” you lick your lips. “I remember their names. I remember how they died, when they died. And I remember how sweet some of them were before they rang the bell.”

You feel childish, standing there and saying everything that you’re saying. It feels wrong, it feels like a sad attempt at sympathy. But you don’t want sympathy, you just want peace. You want to go to a land far, far away where you can forget everything. Where you can sleep without his eyes, their screams, their scowls.

“I would have done anything not to go back. That includes being a whore.” You focus a hard glare at Volivia, walking toward her again until you’re practically toe to toe. “So, yeah, I fucked Coriolanus Snow, but if you went through what I had to go through, there are a lot of things you would do to avoid that arena.”

She stares silently at you, a hard expression on her face battling her own conflictions.

On one hand, you represent everything a District citizen should not be (in her eyes at least). You were too well-spoken, too well-dressed. You smelled like expensive perfume, you kept a posture stiff as a board. Your hands are rough but your nails are pristine.

On the other, as she sees now…you bleed District blood; thick, dirty, and pumped straight from the heart. Even though you talk like money, you huff and bark and claw like an animal. You show her you’re dangerous by bucking up. You don’t waste your time with threats.

Volivia looks you up and down, licks her bottom lip, and steps away. You release a tiny breath. The tension in the barn house feels a little easier.

Vincent walks forward, gently grabbing Volivia’s arm and pulling her back to his side. “I’m sorry,” he says. He offers a small smile, a peace offering. “You’ve been through a lot.”

You sigh, relaxing enough to ease the pain in your back, your feet, your head. “I just want to lay down.”

Josephine reasserts herself. “You’re welcome here. Make yourself at home,” she says. “Vincent. Can you take care of her?”

“Yeah.” He tilts his head to the side, motioning for you to join him. “Come on.” You look between him and his sister and begin to walk forward. Volivia huffs, moving forward and shoving past you with the harsh brush of your shoulders.

She grabs a shovel from its leaning place on a wall, turning back to you and shoving it into your chest. “We’re not freeloaders,” she says. “Wherever we go, we work. Until you get too big to help anyone, you’ll be working, too.”

She turns to storm away, balled fists, scowled face, and all. She pauses as she gets to Josephine. “Who knows? Maybe she’ll use that shovel to dig our graves.” In the next moment, she’s throwing open the doors and leaving you all to gawk.

Josephine gives Vincent a look, and he just sighs and gestures once again for you to follow him. Josephine follows Volivia out of the barn.

You walk next to him as he leads you toward a flight of stairs. “Ignoring Via, we can’t risk letting you out of here so soon. You’ll have to lay low, so you’ll stay in the barn until we’re sure it’s safe.”

He leads you to the open attic. There’s still hay everywhere, still tools and loaded sacks and crates and the like. But there are shabby beds with shabby sheets, enough to fit one more.

“You’ll sleep up here.” He looks around the room, and then scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry for the lack of hospitality.”

You shake your head. “It’s perfect. All I need is a bed.”

He nods, doing a once-over of the room. “There will always be someone here to watch over you and make sure you’re safe. But, on the off-chance that someone we don’t know comes by, you hide in here.” He walks toward the small window. Underneath it is a bench that lines the wall. It’s stacked with crates and sacks and whatever else. He moves some sacks onto the floor and lifts the seat, revealing a small nook big enough for a single person to safely hide. “Just stack some empty sacks on top of yourself. You should be safe—it’s worked before.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m happy to help,” he smiles. There’s a moment of awkwardness. “I’m Vincent. Downstairs was my sister, Volivia. Before you ask—yes, we’re twins. I’m sorry about her hostility. She gets in trouble a lot with Peacekeepers so nothing scares her too much.”

You almost chuckle. You had your fair of arguments with Peacekeeper grunts before you were pulled from the raffle. The ones in your District were glad when you were chosen. It only meant less trouble for them. “It’s okay. I understand.” You look away. “I would have been the same way if someone like me showed up unannounced.”

You see him move out of the corner of your eyes. Though your instincts have dulled a bit during your time in the Capitol, the movement still makes you flinch a little. He’s sure to move extra slow as he sets a hand on your shoulder. “You’re safe here.”

You nod, taking a short breath. “Thank you, Vincent.”

Vincent hums. “Your bed’s right there. I’ll let you rest.”

When he descends the steps, the breath you let out deflates your whole body. You head toward the bed, sitting down slowly to keep it from falling apart underneath you. You lay down to rest your head on the pillows and bid your eyes to close.

There’s a strange feeling in being so far from him. You don’t feel…free. You feel like there’s a string (or a rope) wrapped around your neck, tying you to him still. It’s a loose bond, but it’s ever-present. It feels almost inevitable, this binding holding you to him.

Still, you try to urge yourself that it’s entirely fictional. There is no rope. There’s no chain. You made it up. You made it up to feel safe, controlled, tethered to the ground and not lost somewhere in the depths of absolute insanity.

You made it out. Everything will be okay.

~

PART THREE: Luxury

It’s been two months.

They kept you locked inside for a couple weeks before they felt safe enough to have you participate in chores. Volivia was pleased to have you start working. She was starting to call you a freeloader. Vincent did his best to make you feel welcomed, despite his sister’s hostility.

Josephine has been very accommodating, but she’s firm. It’s more grounding than it should be. There’s someone still in charge of you. Where you would have felt fatigued by the constant inferiority, you welcome it with silent gratitude. You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know how you would have done this on your own—you could have managed to survive well enough, but complete freedom isn’t as wonderful as some people make it out to be.

Gylan’s become important to you. You don’t know what it is. Maybe your mind is preparing you for a child by making you feel too protective over this boy, but you don’t care too much.

Which is a lie. You do care. Because if you care too much and you lose him, how are you to cope with that? At any moment, it could all come crashing down. Coriolanus is cunning. He’ll find you. He’ll find you, and he’ll hurt you, and he’ll make sure you can never betray him again.

That said, you haven’t been very optimistic. Gylan helps with that.

Every day has been the same. Wake up, get dressed, do your chores (which range from doing house duties to feeding the horses to shucking corn—it's a corn field—or whatever else there is to do), eat, go to bed. It’s tedious but it’s honest work. Sure, the bed is shitty, the food is some corn recipe with stale bread on the side most days, and your body hurts all the time, and you're constantly tired, but it feels nice to do something other than run around the Capitol just to have people dismiss you with wishes it is not your duty to perform.

At least here, you’re doing something to help. A lot of this food goes to the Capitol, but what isn’t used for that goes to the Districts.

You’ve begun to show a bit. There’s a little bump on your belly that you find yourself massaging sometimes. It’s never conscious. But it’s comforting.

Gylan asked what you thought you wanted to name the baby. You just shrugged and made a joke about naming them after him if you turn out to have a boy. He laughed, a really excited laugh. It’s refreshing, seeing someone so happy, especially all the way out here in District area.

Vincent has been appointed as your bodyguard—though you’re pretty sure he appointed himself your bodyguard to make up for his sister’s attitude. You don’t mind it either way. When he isn’t working, he’s by you ensuring that you’re okay. While you would normally find the constant company draining, he’s very good at avoiding it.

Sometimes it’s unnerving, being around Vincent. He’s very sweet, you don’t wonder about that, but…there’s something about him that confuses you. Gauging his thoughts is hard sometimes.

Volivia is less confusing to you. You’ve tried your best to avoid her. But it’s a small barn. She hasn’t been overly bitter; although she’s no sweetheart. She doesn’t insult you, but there are some backhanded compliments here and there. You appreciate her effort not to target you.

Sometimes you can’t breathe.

Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air, like you’re being buried alive. It’s quiet enough that you usually don’t wake anyone. You don’t know why this happens. Even before, your nightmares were obvious to you. These…they’re much different. It feels like you’re suffocating.

Maybe he drugged you. Or maybe it’s some sort of device planted into your brain. He put it there so that you wouldn’t get a moment of peace when you’re not with him.

But then you realize that’s paranoid and insane.

“Get upstairs now.”

You’re startled by his tone. You wince when you stick your finger with the needle you’d been sticking through the fabric in your hands. Gylan had a tear in one of his shirts from when one of the horses gnawed on it that you were fixing.

“What’s happening?” you ask, putting your stuff down to stand. There’s a hint of fear in your voice that you try to keep away.

Vincent grabs your arm, though he’s gentler than you expected as he pulls you up the stairs with him. Volivia is picking up your tools, throwing them into some crate to discard. There can’t be any evidence of your presence. She’s less patient than her brother, but you’re not upset by that. “There’s no time. Just go.”

You both move quickly up the stairs. He opens the cupboard for you, taking out all the sacks for you to get inside. When you’re inside, he sets them over you and ensures you aren’t seen. “Don’t make a sound.”

You hold your breath.

Loud footsteps are heard downstairs after the door opens with a force that could only come from a Peacekeeper. You would be shaking if the adrenaline coursing through you wasn’t so familiar. You treat it like the Games because it is. He’s hunting you. You have to be silent.

There’s talking downstairs that you don’t understand. It sounds like mumbling, and you can’t even try to focus on it over the loud beating of your heart. You take in a slow, silent breath, hold it, and let it out just as quietly as you took it. You feel a little less like you’re dying.

The heavy footfalls of soldiers come up the stairs. You close your eyes and remain as calm as you can, listening to all the different sets of feet as they come.

“You got anything up here?”

Volivia’s is the voice who answers. She sounds pissed, more than usual. “We’re farmers. What the hell do we have to hide?”

A set of boots scuff on the floor when someone stops. It sounds so close to you. You think you’d be mistaken for a statue if you were discovered, you’re so still. “Just answer the question.”

“No.” That’s Gylan. You almost lose all your calm worrying about him. But he’ll be fine. He’s supposed to be here.

You hear the Peacekeepers start to throw things around. You hear mattresses lift off of weak wooden bed frames and fall to the floor. You hear heavy sacks of tools hit the floor with a loud clatter, anticipating the harsh bruising that’s to come from it. Someone beats on the nook next to you. You’re so startled, you jump with the slightest movement. It’s just small enough that you don’t draw any attention to yourself.

They keep kicking them, not hard, just enough to see if they can hear anything. Your heart is running wild. You can hear it pulsing in your brain.

Everything is still. Silent. You could hear a pin drop (or, perhaps, even your heart hammering in your chest).

“We hear anything about this again…” there’s the sound of a heavy boot, “and we’ll burn this place to the ground.”

You don’t know what happened. All you hear is Vincent saying Volivia’s nickname like he’s warning her. You’re supposing she bites her tongue, because nothing else is said.

After a moment, the heavy boots retreat. But you’re not immediately retrieved. You think you’re hiding in that cupboard for another five or ten minutes before someone finally comes to get you. It’s Gylan. He looks extremely worried, but he’s putting on a brave face for you. It’s sweet, but you don’t want him to have to do it.

“Josephine is on her way,” he says, helping you out.

Vincent is gathering things. “Pack your stuff, only light essentials. We have to get out today.” He comes up to you, passing over an empty sack. (You’re getting tired of seeing sacks.) You grab it, but he doesn’t let go yet. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gentle and his eyes just as much. You nod. He lingers there for a moment, making sure, and then turns away to continue packing.

“Where are we going?” you ask as you start to pack some clothes.

“I don’t know,” Vincent replies. “It’s better not to say until we get there anyway.”

Josephine returns half an hour later. She’s carrying a bag over her shoulders that she hands off to Vincent. He passes his own back to her, looking up the stairs where you wait with Gylan. He’s telling you about which Districts he’d been to since he joined Josephine when Volivia’s calling you both down. You both grab your things and follow.

“We won’t take the train this time,” Josephine says. “It’s too risky.”

“We’ll travel by foot?” Volivia wonders. Wouldn’t that be risky, too? You’re easier to catch on foot. But she has a point, you’re easy to track by train…

“Until we reach the old farm at the edge of the District borders. There should be an emergency wagon there for us to use.” She turns to Gylan. “Are there any horses already there? Do you know?”

“There should be,” he says. “Penny said she checked up on them yesterday.”

“Good. Make sure you have everything. We leave in five minutes.”

~

It feels better, not walking so much.

The farm on the outskirts of Nine is even smaller than the one you’d been at for the past two months. It’s old and pretty run down. All the crops are bad from poor keeping. You don’t think anyone actually lives there. But they have an operational wagon and two horses that usually roam the area, so that’s all that matters.

It’s dark as the wagon takes you through the woods. You'd been traveling for over a day now. It’d been comforting to reach some trees. Being out in the open like you were felt so dangerous.

You peek through the tent, looking up at how dark the sky was. It isn't this dark in the Capitol. Too many lights. The stars are so bright here…

“How are you feeling?”

You look at Vincent, who’s holding the reins to guide the horses through a path in the trees. You shrug gently. Your body is sore—it’s always sore—your stomach is uneasy and you have a mild headache. They’re things you can ignore well enough until the wagon dips and makes your stomach flip uncomfortably.

“I’m okay, but this sickness is wearing me out,” you answer.

He chuckles lightly. “Do you wanna walk a bit? Via knows how to drive.”

The wagon is moving slowly enough that you could manage to trail behind it. It would be nice to break away from the uneven motion it’s putting you through, but the thought of walking isn’t giving you much relief with the way the bottoms of your feet ache.

You shake your head. “No, I’m okay. My feet still hurt from yesterday.”

He hums. Glancing away from the path, he gives you a gentle smile and pats the spot next to him. “Come sit next to me.”

Your stomach flips for another reason. You don’t want to get out and be seen… You don’t know who would see you, but the nerves eat away at you every time you think of the chance that you could be caught and condemned.

“You sure we won’t get caught?” you ask anxiously.

A light chuckle comes out of him as he nods. “Yeah. We’re basically in the middle of nowhere.” He scoots over a little. “Come on.”

You swallow thickly, thinking about it for another moment and assuring yourself that’s he right. There’s likely no one for miles. “Okay,” you mutter, hoisting yourself out of the wagon so you can pull yourself into the seat next to him. It takes some maneuvering, but you get there.

You sit next to him for a while. It’s so dark out and the ambiance of the horses and crickets and everything else around you is nice. You can feel yourself relaxing as the night air kisses your skin. You could fall asleep right then and there, but you refuse to. You’re too vulnerable right now. If you fall asleep and something happens… who are you to believe that you’re safe here? You know better than that.

You know it's foolish, but there's a bigger part of you, a wiser part of you that knows that you should always anticipate danger before you consider being safe.

So you don't sleep. The rest of the ride is silent, and you enjoy it as you try not to let your heavy head fall onto his shoulder.

~

District Eleven is beautiful.

Even in the dark, the vast orchard of trees to one side and field of strawberries to the other are breathtaking. The air smells sweet, the perfumes of the fruits in the late summer night waft into the air lovingly. You haven't been around such lavish fruits since you left—and even before that, they were never grand orchards of them.

You help the group unpack the essentials from the wagon, taking them inside with tired but dutiful movements in order to get in a bed faster. The owners of the orchard are kind, and they have a separate house from the large shed that is actually big enough to house all of their newcomers. It's nothing like the lavish mansions of the Capitol but it's spacious and comfortable and you don't share a room with five people. It's just you and Gylan.

Gylan is an easy sleeper. As soon as he plops into his bed for the rest of the night, he's out like a light. You don't have such luck. While he enjoys his slumber, you sit by the small window with your arms around your legs and stare out at all the greenery.

You don't know what time it is when a soft knock comes to the door. You quietly bid the person to come in. Gylan doesn't hear, he's a really deep sleeper.

“You're still up?” Vincent asks as he steps inside, looking between the two of you as he whispers to avoid disturbing your roommate.

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Sorry, not easy to sleep in new places.”

He shrugs, walking over to you and standing by your bed. “I get it.” He gestures to the edge of it, “you want some company?” He raises his brows, “I can help you sleep.”

You swallow thickly, your arms tightening around your legs. “How?”

He shrugs again. “I have a couple tricks up my sleeve.”

You try not to let your face drop into something more upset. You look down at your lap and clear your throat, letting your legs go and rubbing at your palms.

“I…” you clear your throat, not looking up at him. “I'm sorry, I'm really not… I…” You struggle to find the words. Rejecting him feels wrong.

You're not a whore, but you owe him and you owe the rest of his family for helping you. You're not a whore, but he could choose to throw you out and expose you to the Capitol again.

And what about Coryo? What if all of this was for naught, and he'd find you anyway? What if he found you and then found out that you'd betrayed him even further by fucking someone who wasn't him? It's the fight between two very difficult choices.

Vincent's face widens instantly as he realizes what you're saying. His eyes are big as dimes, his hands reach up in surrender. He shakes his head quickly.

“Oh,” he says, his voice hushed. “Oh! Fuck, uh– No, that's not what I meant. I meant like…like a back rub or something…” He wipes a hand down his face in an attempt to hide his embarrassment, and you find it reassuring—endearing, even.

“I see how bad that sounds. Um…” he shakes his head, as if to figure out what to say, “breathing exercises, y'know?”

“Oh.” You clear your throat, your own embarrassment creeping up your neck at the realization that you'd misunderstood him. “Okay, well. Yeah, um, that's fine.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Sorry, that was–”

“No, it was my fault.” You can't believe you misinterpreted him in that way. He hasn't come off in such a way thus far, and he's going to start now? How stupid could you have been…?

“No, it's not,” he breaks you from your thoughts.”You did nothing wrong.”

You don't believe him, but it's…nice to hear that you're not to blame. Even if you don't believe him. You should have known better.

“Okay…”

It gets quiet. And awkward. You sort of just sit there, and he sort of just stands there. It's silent and strange, and you don't know what to do with yourself.

“So…” you clear your throat.

He nods, “Yeah.” Vincent rubs his hands together, glancing around and rocking on his feet. “Did you want some…breathing stuff?”

You lick your bottom lip. “I'm actually…really sore in my shoulders, if you don't mind?” You feel like you sound stupid. You're not used to expressing your needs. You're used to standing straight and doing as you're told and pretending you've got everything together. Here, you don't have much of anything to keep together. You're exposed, and dealing with that is hard. “If that's okay with you, of course,” you add on, straightening your back to try to regain some composure, any professionalism you can hold onto.

“Yeah,” he says easily. “No problem.”

Vincent moves to sit on the edge of the bed. You stand, and he pulls your chair in front of him. You sit and feel his hands on your shoulders.

He's got strong hands. You assume it's from all the work he does, especially between moving around the Districts so often. His hands squeeze your shoulders, his thumbs moving between your shoulder blades to work out the knots he can feel. You're very tense.

Your eyelids are heavy. It feels really nice. Waves of relief and—almost embarrassingly—pleasure flower through you. You sigh longingly, trying to keep from making any sounds that would make this exceedingly more awkward for the both of you.

It's quiet and comfortable, as he works out the kinks in your back. You enjoy the peace and relief, he seems to enjoy granting it. When he speaks, it's very quiet and very assuring. You lean into every word and every pause between them, processing the weird curling in your chest.

“I just want to let you know that…” he takes a quiet breath, “I wouldn't do that to you—taking advantage of you like that.” One of his hands moves down to your arm, squeezing gently and smoothing his palm over the skin. “Especially not after everything you've been through.”

You're good at reading lies. You used to hear them every day, spewing from Coriolanus’ mouth like lava. But Vincent's words don't spew. They're soft and sweet, they're sincere and they're kind and you believe him.

You swallow thickly. “Thanks.”

“If you ever need anything, I'm here.” His voice is even softer now, dropped down a few pitches just to really make sure you understand what he's telling you. “All things considered,” he chuckles lightly, “you're safe here.”

That isn't a concept that was easy to understand for you. It never has been, and you're not sure if it truly will. But you want to believe him, and you want to trust him. He isn't lying, you know he isn't, you can hear it in his voice and feel it in the way he works his fingers into your back.

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes and letting them stick together like they're glued with sap. You take in a deep breath, let it out, and allow yourself to smile. Even if you don't believe it yet, you nod and think to yourself, ‘We're safe.’

Coriolanus Snow taglist: @the-nerdy-goddess @secretsicanthideanymore @tvparty18 @nowitsmissing @vi0lentb3rry @hiireadstuff @feyresqueen Tag yourself here...

[starlightsuffered]

Hey love!! Could you write a smut where timothée cuts his hair and the reader hasn’t seen it, so he surprises her (they’re already dating) and it turns her on immensely and they have a fuck sesh all over their apartment (slightly dom tim, but very caring and attentive)

Hairstyle

Info - slightly dom Tim, praise, multi cum, different positions, biting, unprotected sex

He got in the apartment still in his costume. I’d been through the straggly wig of The King, the red streaks of Lee, and the bouncy curls of Wonka. Somehow, nothing had turned me on like this.

“Timothée,” I said in a small voice. He looked up at me. His cheeks turned red.

“Sorry I’m still in wardrobe,” he said, rubbing at the spot where they’d made his eyebrows almost connect.

“Fuck me,” I moaned.

“What?” He asked.

“Fuck,” I said the first word as I perched on the counter.

“Me,” I continued as I spread my legs.

I knew I looked plain in comparison to him. I was in boy shorts and a sports bra. My hair was in a messy bun but his eyes darkened with lust regardless.

“Fuck, you drive me absolutely wild,” he growled.

His pants were pulled down just below his balls as if he couldn’t bare to undress further before having me. My underwear tore with his need.

Soon he was rutting into me. I loved the deep grunts that came from his soul. He always got so wild when I expressed need first. His fingers dug into my hips.

“Fuck baby girl, you have such a wet fuck hole,” his lewd tone made me ever wetter.

“You’re so fucking sexy with this hair, I don’t even want to touch it,” I moaned.

He was so deep I felt it in my stomach. He was pretty much growling at this point.

“Fucking wet good cock bait,” he gasped.

I kissed him hungrily. All my whimpers and whines were sucked down by his insatiable mouth. His member throbbed inside me. He didn’t even announce it, didn’t even warn me, and for some reason that made it hotter. He was spewing hot cum inside me. My walls were painted white.

“Gotta have you more,” he panted. He lifted me up. He bounced me up and down on his still rock hard dick. The wet slapping sounds made me cry out.

He made it to the couch, just hammering himself deeper. My sports bra was torn away. He drooled onto my hardened nipples like an animal. He was suckling them then. It wasn’t submissive in the least, but obsessive.

He nearly had my whole breast in his greedy mouth. I was so sensitive and I made the most desperate of noises. I arched into him as he bit the nipples and rolled them with his tongue.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I wailed as Timothée angled another way. His dick reached my g spot over and over. I was dizzy and seeing stars.

“I’m gonna come!” I squealed and wrapped my legs around my boyfriend. His new moustache was tickling me in a way that made chills wash over me.

“Come baby girl, baptise my cock with your juices. You’re so pretty when you’re fucked out like this, you deserve it all,” he whispered.

His lips peppered my skin with love as I erupted. My slick washed over his dick. I squeezed him tightly as everything contracted and I forgot even what to say or do.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he soothed. His thrusts were sloppy and his grunts were consuming him. Soon he was also emptying myself inside me. He slammed so far that a sweet mixture of liquids splurted out between us.

He laid on my chest, heaving from his effort. However, suddenly, he was rolling us to the floor. He now was under me and using his new muscles to lift me up and down on his once again hardening in my cunt.

“Ride me,” he begged. “I need it again. I never get tired of you.”

“Fuck,” I moaned. I anchored my palms on his chest to lift my tired body up and down.

“I never get tired of you either, your my man.”

“Your man?” He asked cheekily as he massaged my ass.

“Always.”

“You’re my baby doll,” he purred.

“Fuck!” I barked as I picked up the pace.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming @lovelyrocker