#four hundred twenty four pounds

[onryou-onryou]

Marianne Nowottny - André The Giant

[dear-ao3]

so. as you may know it’s christmas eve. as you probably don’t know i am eastern european. and probably the only real tradition anyone holds onto is christmas eve. normally my great aunt does all the food and very begrudgingly sometimes lets everyone help make like. one thing.

well.

this year. the year of our lord two thousand and twenty four. she decided she was done cooking and it was up to everyone else.

so i got a phone call from my mom a few weeks ago being like hey so. you’re making the cake. got it? good.

the cake in question is a walnut cake. i was entrusted with my great aunts recipe about seven years ago. i’ve made it twice. the first time i fucked up the frosting quantity. the second time i fucked up the eggs. both times were passable at best and notably! my great aunt did not taste either of them.

and i have to make this cake. on christmas eve. it is dessert. for everyone. my extended family will all be eating the cake. the walnut cake. on christmas eve. even my great aunt.

so yesterday, december 23 if you are counting, i went on the annual Last Minute Christmas Food Shopping Trip with my father, watched him climb into the case to get his half and half like he does every year, and stressed about my cake as i made sure i had all of the ingredients.

then. we went to my great aunts house. where i was met with Trial Number 1: The Cognac

this cake has cognac in the frosting. not a big deal really. except for the fact that my mom hates that there is cognac in the frosting. (my mom is hell bent on making christmas eve dinner vaguely healthier. no one else agrees.) and i was to be making the cake in my moms house.

also important to note: we (as in my parents) do not own cognac. mostly because none of us drink.

so my great aunt is like oh i have to give you the cognac. cause she knows. i am baking the cake. the walnut cake. (my dad told her. he is a traitor). and i say okay. sure. this won’t be a problem at all.

so she gives me. a shot of cognac. and when i say a shot. i mean an Entirely Full Shot Glass of Three Hundred Dollar Cognac. in a jar. for the cake. the walnut cake. that i have to make.

upon bringing the cognac home my mom says no we’re not putting that in. the cognac sits on the counter in its jar. no one touches it.

then i was met with Trial Number 2: The Frosting.

this recipe requires a pound of chopped walnuts. first. i couldn’t even find the walnuts. my sister and i searched high and low and in every cabinet we could find but no nuts. i called my mom. and said mom where are the walnuts? and she said. “they’re in the nut bag behind the basement door.”

oh of course. how could i have missed the nut bag? a holiday bag full of bags of nuts that was half hidden by wrapping paper and also behind a door?

in any case. could i have used a food processor? absolutely. did i? no. half because i forgot and half because i didn’t want to accidentally grind the walnuts into a paste. so i enlisted the help of my younger sister to chop the walnuts By Hand while i embarked on the real devil: the frosting.

which remember. is supposed to have cognac.

so i cream my butter. i add my sugar. i’m careful not to over sugar. i taste it a million times. i add my coffee and my vanilla extract (instead of cognac. which is still sitting on the counter) and it was all going so well until. the butter rebelled.

now remember. one time when i made this. seven years ago. i made too little frosting. so i made more this time. and i thought i had all my conversions right but evidently i did not because suddenly there was too much liquid in my frosting and it split.

the frosting for the walnut cake that everyone was going to eat. on christmas eve. the very next day.

i felt like a contestant on great british bake-off getting smited by the tent.

so i did the logical thing and shoved the whole mess into the fridge hoping that it would sort itself out overnight.

then it was time to face Trial Number Three: The Cake Itself.

as i have said this cake is a walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake that has been at christmas eve longer than i have been alive. and it requires no less than ten egg whites. which i whipped and i added to my walnuts and shoved the whole thing into the oven in my two baking dishes.

only to discover no less than 40 minutes later that the batter in the pans was Not Even (despite my best efforts). so i cooked one longer than the other and hoped that i hadn’t monumentally fucked up the walnut cake. like i had the frosting. which was in the fridge. and i was ignoring.

which leads to Trial Number Four: The Egg Yolk Cake

see i had ten egg yolks. i didn’t know what to do with them. my mom said flush them. my dad said make a custard. i proposed making egg nog. my mom said she didn’t want it in the house cause it was too fattening (a blatantly incorrect statement. please, if you are reading this, go drink a glass of eggnog. or some other fun festive drink. food is for the soul.) so i produced a recipe for an egg yolk pound cake. i made it. i still don’t know if it came out good cause i haven’t tasted it. i hope it did. but that was not the point. the point is the walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake.

and the following morning i was met with Trial Number Five: The Frosting Part 2

first i threw my failed frosting back in the mixer and it immediately secreted a brackish combination of vanilla extract and coffee so i did the only thing i could. facetimed my dad and said “father there are problems abound.” and he gave me the fatherly advice of “make it again.”

and so i did.

with more correct measurements. still scared it would split at any second.

though it didn’t.

and i didn’t add the cognac.

maybe no one will be able to tell???

my mom said that if anyone asks the first batch of frosting failed and i had to toss it. this is technically true.

but i had frosting. i had two uneven cakes. and it was time for Trial Number Six: Decorating

decorating cakes is easily in my top ten least favorite activities. decorating the christmas eve walnut cake is easily in my top three least favorite activities. because i am terrible at decorating cakes. and also because it has a filling.

the filling is jam. and i once again made the wrong choice because i put the jam on first before the frosting. which to be fair is what the directions say. but as everyone knows, the directions in recipes you get from your eastern european great aunt are not the real directions. so now i had to smear butter cream. on top of jam. for the filling of the walnut cake. for christmas eve. that we would be eating in a few hours.

and we didn’t have a cake plate. we had a large dish.

i had to use my fingers. i had to use three spatulas. i got jam everywhere. but i did it. and as soon as i set the top cake on top of the filling i realized my monumental mistake: i was supposed to trim down the cakes.

so now they were uneven. and lopsided. and there was nothing i, a mere mortal tasked with the impossible task of making christmas eve walnut cake, could do about it.

so i continued to spread my frosting. which i had enough of. and tried and failed to not get jam everywhere.

in the end it was almost presentable. not great. slightly lopsided. and definitely not as nice as any of my great aunts cakes.

which left me with Trial Number 7: Chilling It

our fridge was being taken up by other important christmas eve things (though not as important as my cake. the walnut cake) so i had to put it in the car. which was fine because there is snow on the ground.

i covered my cake. the walnut cake. in tin foil and hoped i wouldn’t accidentally squish it. and then i went outside. i tried to steal my moms shoes to walk outside. she was not impressed.

“you know, saph,” she said. “some of the time you’re pretty great. the other half of the time you’re really weird.”

i could not agree more.

i put my cake on the trunk. prayed to the cake gods and went inside.

on the one hand if the cake is good, i will be stuck making walnut cake for christmas eve for the rest of my life. on the other hand, if it sucks i will never have to make another one.

Trial Number Eight: The Tasting still waits.

[morrsbugged]

Is it still considered vandalism if you’re hungry?

The world's largest Cheeto. Cheadle Alberta, Canada

[reincrimination]

race against the clock

criminal minds | aaron hotchner x reader

content warnings: canon-typical violence, guns, death (unsub), panic attack, kidnapping, mild injury.

collection: whumptober 2024, day 1: race against the clock/search party/panic attack.

“Drop the weapon!” Morgan yelled. Hotch looked at Morgan, and then to where Morgan was looking. The rest of the police force did the same, and suddenly, twenty guns were all drawn on him- the man who had you. He had a gun, too, but he wasn’t aiming it. He held it in his left hand, which Hotch- and you- had known was his dominant one, by the characteristics of the stab wounds that he had left on his victims. Stab wounds that he might’ve- Hotch’s breath hitches- left on you. “Where is she?” Hotch yells. Another agent had been talking, maybe Morgan, but he didn’t give a shit right now. “What have you done with her?”

Aaron Hotchner knows how to keep his cool. Probably better than anyone on the team. In fact, he was the one to remind everyone to do just that before they breached the doors on this unsub’s decrepit cabin.

The woods were dark and eerie, as they always are on these types of days. It was some hour past midnight, Hotch couldn’t recall- all the numbers had started to blur together. The only time he had in his head was twelve hours, twelve hours since you’d gone missing. Taken right out of the parking lot of the precinct.

At least there hadn’t been much question about who had taken you. Finding the unsub’s cabin had been easy once Garcia had been given a name. Hotch only hoped recovering you would be that easy, and that you’d be unharmed.

“FBI! Open the door!” a man fully decked out in black SWAT gear and significantly more firepower than Hotch yelled, pounding on the front door.

The slats of the porch creaked under their feet, the paint flaking off the railings and the door-frame. The light shining through the smudged windows was the only clue this place was even inhabited.

There wasn’t even a car in the driveway.

The battering ram took the rotting door clear off of its hinges. The SWAT team fans out inside, searching room after room. Hotch hears them yelling “clear” as they proceed through the house. He waited with baited breath. If it were up to him he’d have been inside with them, but they knew this guy had lots of firepower at his disposal, so it was SWAT’s job to clear the house. Which, they had. Finding no one inside. Not even you.

Hotch felt the small balloon of hope inside him pop; the wind had been knocked out of him without so much as a physical punch. The SWAT team filed back out of the house. There was no unsub, and there was no sign of you.

A loud bang pierced the quiet night air.

The entire assembly of police and FBI agents all whirled around, guns drawn without a second thought. No one knew where to point them, though. The dark forest pressed in on all four sides of the cabin, the dirt road driveway even consumed by darkness after a few hundred feet.

“Drop the weapon!” Morgan yelled. Hotch looked at Morgan, and then to where Morgan was looking. The rest of the police force did the same, and suddenly, twenty guns were all drawn on him- the man who had you. He was half-hidden by the shadows cast by the tall pine trees, the moonlight unable to illuminate anything this far down from the forest canopy.

He had a gun, too, but he wasn’t aiming it. He held it in his left hand, which Hotch- and you- had known was his dominant one, by the characteristics of the stab wounds that he had left on his victims.

Stab wounds that he might’ve- Hotch’s breath hitches- left on you.

“Where is she?” Hotch yells. Another agent had been talking, maybe Morgan, but he didn’t give a shit right then. “What have you done with her?”

The unsub smirked, his grubby little brows furrowing, beady eyes narrowing, as he stared at Hotch.

“Answer me!” Hotch screamed. His voice broke on the last word.

“Take it easy, man,” Morgan said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Let the others talk to him. Take a breath.”

Taking a breath seemed like an objectively good idea, but Hotch found, he could not. His chest felt tight, like a rope was being pulled taut around him. His vision had begun to swim, the only thing he was focused in on was that disgusting, abhorrent man who had- who had-.

“Hotch,” Morgan repeated. He holstered his gun and took Hotch’s from him. “Come here. Don’t let him see you like this. That’s what he wants.”

“I need…” Hotch gasped. His hands were tingling, his fingers cramping. He tried to make fists with his hands as he followed Morgan back and around the back of an SUV, hidden from the unsub’s line of sight, but his hands weren’t cooperating. “I need to get her back, Morgan.”

What was happening to him? He had never felt like this before. He wouldn’t even be able to fire a gun like this, not with his hands cramping. How was he supposed to do anything?

“Is- are they talking to him?” Hotch peeked around the side of the SUV. He saw Spencer, his hands out placatingly, trying to talk to the unsub. He trusted Spencer, he trusted all of his team, but he needed to be out there. What if the unsub said something that they all missed. That only Hotch could put together. What if he said that he had killed you? Stabbed you, like all the others, or worse? “I need to- Morgan, give me my gun.”

“Hotch, relax,” Morgan tapped his shoulders again, trying to draw his attention back. “Focus on me. Breathe, slowly. You’re hyperventilating. You’re panicking, man. You’re no help to her like this.”

“Morgan, she’s not just- fuck- she’s not just an agent, she’s- we’re-,” Hotch stammered.

“I know, Hotch. We all know. And we’re going to find her.”

Hotch felt his hands relaxing, his chest loosening, his composure returning, like clouds parting after a storm. Leaving a clear sky. He needed to focus on finding you, and he couldn’t do that if he was panicking. He held his breath and counted to seven and then exhaled and did it again, until his hands were steady and his vision was clear.

“I told you,” Hotch heard the unsub groan to Spencer, “I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Hotch. To Aaron.”

Morgan handed him his gun back and they left the shelter of the SUV. The unsub was still talking with Spencer, but had clearly noticed Hotch’s absence. The unsub’s gaze had flicked to track Hotch as he strode to the front of the crescent of officers. He kept his gun at his side- enough officers had their guns trained on the unsub anyways- in an attempt to be non-threatening.

“I’m Aaron,” Hotch said. He stepped forward, closer to the unsub. Hotch scanned his clothes, hands, arms, boots, everything, for any trace of blood, or dirt, or any clue as to where you were hidden. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I think you know what I want to talk about,” the unsub huffed a laugh. “You were all she wanted to talk about.”

Wanted? In the past tense?

Hotch felt the panic rising again. He took a deep breath. He could do this, he could stay focused for you. He had to, if he ever wanted to see you- alive, or otherwise, again. He had to pretend this was no different than any other case, that you were just another victim. That was the only way for him to avoid panicking- something he had never known he needed to avoid doing, before. Before you. Before he cared about someone as much as he cared about you, before you were put in danger.

“What else did you talk about?” Hotch asked. He needed information, any small hint at where the man had hidden you.

“Plenty.” The unsub shifted his weight from foot to foot, his left hand flexed around the hilt of his handgun. “We talked about how I couldn’t wait to shoot you. How that would be more painful to her than any physical would I could inflict. She begged me not to. Have you ever heard her beg before?”

The unsub began to raise his left arm up, gun in hand, but before it passed his waistline, a hail of bullets rained down on him. His body hit the ground before Hotch could even blink.

“NO!” Hotch shouted. He holstered his own gun, and kicked the unsub’s gun away from his side. He sank to his knees, suit pants sinking into the damp mud and pine needles. Hotch knotted his fists in the man’s shirt, and shook him, hard. “Where is she?”

“Hotch,” Emily murmured, somehow kneeling beside him now.

“Hotch, he’s gone.”

“Tell me where she is, you bastard!” Hotch’s voice had begun to go raw from screaming. He shook him one more time. Then he noticed: the dark, round hole in the center of his forehead.

Hotch released his grip on the unsub’s body and stumbled to his feet.

His knees were wet from the mud, and maybe from the blood that had undoubtedly already pooled out around the body from the various gunshot wounds.

Now we have nothing, he thought, pushing past the crowd of officers. He glanced at the empty driveway. Not even a car.

Not even a car.

Hotch whipped around.

“Follow the tire tracks!” he ordered, breaking into a run. “He has to have used the car to move her. Wherever it is, she is.”

He pulled out his flashlight and shone it on the dirt driveway. The earth was wet and covered in pine needles, making it difficult to analyze what he found. Two divots on each side of the path denoted the place the tires must’ve usually rested when the car was parked. They extended down the path through the forest, down a few miles to the main road. There wasn’t much room between the trees for the car to have pulled off, but he must’ve found somewhere, because if he had taken you to the main road, the officers at the roadblocks there would have seen him.

Hotch broke into a run, shining his flashlight ahead of him, looking for the slightest disturbance in the forest floor. He heard footsteps and clamor behind him as the rest of the cops and his agents spread out into a search party. He knew they could get scent dogs out in a few hours, but your scent would be hard to track, if not impossible, especially if he was right and the unsub had moved you using a car. Searching on foot was Hotch’s only hope to find you soon.

He had said that they had talked about shooting him- how it would be more painful for you than anything he could possibly have done to her.

Implying that you had to have been alive when the unsub shot Hotch- or had tried to.

The relief and hope that flooded Hotch at that realization almost distracted him enough to miss what he had finally found- a tire track, veering off between two trees that the car had probably barely fit between. Hotch shone the beam of the flashlight on the trunks and noticed the bark had been scraped off, and chips of white paint were left in the gouges. You had to be somewhere close, if the unsub had walked on foot from where he had hidden you.

Hotch began yelling your name, and then, all the other officers started, too. They moved forward like in a grid search, looking behind every tree, kicking through the leaf cover for anything left behind. “I found the car!” Morgan yelled. Then, the words that Hotch had been waiting to hear for the last twelve- now more like thirteen- hours: “I got her! She’s alive!”

Hotch ran towards the sound. The officers had already clustered around a small wooden structure, a hunting blind. A few meters behind it was the unsub’s parked car. The area quickly became illuminated in bright white lights as all the cops present shone their flashlights on you.

Hotch watched as Morgan began to help you up. Your hands were zip-tied tightly behind your back; Hotch could see dried blood around your wrists where they had cut into your skin. A pair of zip ties hung off of your ankles- Morgan must have just cut them off. He used his pocket knife to slash the ones holding your wrists together, too. Your hair was disheveled and full of leaves and debris, like you had been dragged along the floor, and a huge gash and bump to your right temple, like you’d been pistol whipped, glowed in the bright light of the flashlights.

“Where is he?” you sobbed, clinging onto Morgan’s arms as he helped you out of the blind. “Is he dead?”

“He’s dead, sweetheart,” Morgan tried to soothe you and pull you in for a hug, but you pushed him away, more strongly than you should’ve been able to after being tied up for so long.

“No!” you wailed. “How could you let this happen?”

Confusion flashed on Morgan’s face, and through Hotch’s mind.

Then, he realized. The unsub had known that he would die when he faced the police, but he knew that his final act would be to psychologically torture you, leaving you to wonder if one of the gunshots you had heard had been him shooting Hotch, like he had promised you he’d do as his final act.

Morgan had misunderstood your question. He had just told you that Hotch was dead.

Hotch finally closed the distance between the two of you. He grabbed your shoulders and spun you around to face him. A broken sob wrenched its way out of your throat, tear tracks already cutting through the layer of dirt and dried blood on your face.

“Aaron,” you croaked. “Oh, thank God.”

“I’m here,” Aaron murmured beside your ear, so softly no one else could hear. It was just you and him now, in your own world. The secrecy of your relationship be damned, he would deal with the consequences later. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

You broke down sobbing into his arms, all the fight flooding out of you as soon as you realized that Hotch was alive. The dehydration, the hunger, the fear, and the pain in your head all rushed back in. Hotch’s arms tightened around you, the only thing holding you up anymore. His face was smushed into your dirty hair, the blood on your wrists was staining his shirt and tie, but neither of you noticed, nor would you have cared if you had.

“I knew you- I knew you’d find me,” you gasped, fisting his shirt in your trembling fingers. You stared up at him, into his beautiful glossy brown eyes, committing every inch of his face to memory. You had thought you’d never see him again, never hear his voice again, never feel his touch again. “When I heard the shots, I thought- oh, my God- I thought you were-.”

“Shh,” Aaron soothed. He wrapped a hand around the back of your head, near the base of your skull, and guided your face into the crook of his neck. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat, a wet, raw sound. “I know.”

“I thought he…” you mumbled into his neck, the words dying on your parched lips, or before that, in your sore throat. “Aaron.”

“I’ve got you, honey,” he murmured back, cradling your head so softly in his big hands. “You’re safe now.”

[vervainandspritz]

UNTIL YOU COME BACK HOME

Jackson Rippner x Reader

Word count: 3.3k

Warning: smut, angst, comfort

A/N: I'll get back to writing more chapters soon. For now, have this oneshot. Please Interact and let me know if you want to be added to the taglist.

“Oh god, Jackson!” Y/n gasped as soon as she saw him through the peephole in the door. Moving as quickly as possible, she swung the door open, pouncing forward to get a hold of him.

He stood there, his breathing shallow and rugged. White button up shirt ripped on his shoulder, revealing the bleeding wound. The material surrounding it was covered in crimson red. His hair sweaty, beads dripping down his face as he barely kept his blue, cloudy eyes open.

“Y/n” he mumbled, taking a heavy step forward as he grabbed onto her shoulders. She huffed as he put his weight on her, and with some struggle they managed to both get inside as she kicked the door shut.

Hundreds and thousands of thoughts ran through her head as she helped him to the living room where he mindlessly slumped on the couch.

“Wait here” she murmured, rushing to the bathroom for the first aid kit that was quite… advanced ever since she met him. Grabbing the necessities, Y/n quickly moved back to the living room, putting it all on the table with her shaky hands. He looked barely conscious and her heart was pounding like crazy as she took his shirt off to make sure that the visible injuries were the only ones on him.

He kept mumbling something every now and then but she didn't listen, instead she focused on stopping the bleeding from his shoulder and stitching him back up.

Breathing deeply, Y/n tried her best to get her hands more steady as she did her very best to ensure he'd be… better than whatever state she found him in.

Two hours and some tears later, Jackson was settled in her own bed, wearing only briefs and breathing heavily. She wiped her face while glancing at the clock only then realising how late it was. Jackson was completely out of it, and from the look of it, he would be for several more hours because of the medicine she gave him. The medicine he needed to ensure his wound wouldn't get infected.

Y/n was aware of his job, and it was one of the biggest factors of why she decided to never let their relationship move forward. Just sex, they said before. She couldn't afford getting her heart broken.

His lips said one thing, and his actions showed another, she thought. She wrapped her arms around his waist as she hugged his back lightly, her cheek pressing to his hot skin. Only for now, it was safe to do so. He was unconscious, so he wouldn't make a fuss about it. The closeness with lack of any sexual intentions. Intimacy. Comfort.

As expected, Jackson slept for a long time before eventually waking up, a little past 7 PM the next day.

She managed to clean up her bathroom and couch from his blood, getting her apartment to become squeaky clean because of the anxiety she was feeling. Y/n tried to be productive instead of impatiently waiting at him and biting her nails.

“Y/n” He said in a hoarse, husky voice before grimacing slightly because of the dryness and pain in his throat. Hearing him, she jumped a little, clearly startled as her book fell on the floor with a thud.

“Oh shit, you scared me.” Y/n said, with a hand on her chest as she eyed him quickly before getting up to get a glass of water for him, hearing the state of his throat. “How are you feeling?” She asked quietly after handing him the glass. Her brows slightly furrowed at his unusually pale skin.

“As wonderful as I look” He replied with a scoff after drinking the water and setting the glass aside with a groan.

“You were really hurt this time.” She started quietly, fidgeting with her fingers for a moment as she kept looking at him. “You’ve been asleep for over twenty four hours, Jackson. You—you need to tell me what happened.” She says eventually, crossing her arms over her chest as her frustration grew. She knew how unhappy he was whenever she'd ask questions, and Y/n liked his presence too much to risk losing him over that. So she wouldn't ask, not usually, but this time was different. It was too big to pretend like it didn't happen.

His pale, blue eyes avoided looking directly into hers as he let out a deep breath. His frame was tense.

“Don't act stupid, you know damn well what I do for a living, sweetheart.” He replied. “It's not always all rainbows and flowers.” The sarcasm smoothly made its way down his tongue, as always, seemed like. Y/n got used to the fact Jackson was fluent in this particular thing.

Hearing his tone her body tensed in a combative manner. Squeezing her first, she pointed at him with the other, shaking hand.

“Don't you fucking dare talk to me this way after I spent my whole night stitching you up, preventing you from bleeding out, and barely closing my eyes to make sure you were bloody alive!” Her voice shook slightly every now and then as she tried to stand her ground against him. “It's YOUR work to do… all that, but is it my work to always stitch you up afterwards? Why the hell do you come here since I don't deserve even a brief explanation?” She demanded to know, looking intently at him as she wrapped her arms around herself for some, much needed at the moment, comfort.

Jackson tilted his head slightly, raising his chin as he finally looked her in the eyes. His facial expression was impossible to read, as always.

But the one thing she was perfect at, was reading his eyes. Ever since day one, Jackson would always try to avoid eye contact in such situations. Even though his stare never failed before, and he was going through life thinking he mastered it.

Well, maybe he did. Y/n was the only one who saw more in his bright, storm and tempest filled eyes. So he'd purposely put a wall between the two of them. She knew him too well to believe in the theatrics he was so prone to use on people.

“Your apartment was the closest place I could think of at the moment. It's not that deep.” His voice was low and emotionless, husky from the lack of usage in the last twenty four hours but he managed to keep up the eye contact for just a few seconds before looking away.

Yet, it hurt her. Sighing deeply, she shook her head and made her way to the kitchen as Jackson slowly got up from her bed.

Looking around for his pants, he ran a hand through his hair with a groan. The one thing he could admit to himself was that seeing disappointment in her eyes wasn't… nice. It didn't feel good.

“So… when can I see you now?” He asked casually, trying to break the tension after a couple minutes, thinking that she just gave up asking him questions like always, after he'd shut her down.

The silence hung in the air for a longer moment, charged with unsaid words and buzzing emotions. Y/n was tired, visibly and mentally.

“Don't come here anymore, Jack. I can't do it.”

A quiet voice came from the kitchen, making his heart stop for a moment and his eyes to widen. Turning around he walked up to her, leaning on the counter.

“Come on, you're not mad at me, are you?” He asked, raising his eyebrows, not understanding the vulnerable expressions on her face, which she never hid. Y/n wasn't scared to be vulnerable with her feelings around him, which was always a source of conflicted emotions within himself.

With a resigned sigh, she put the knife and veggies down, looking up at him.

“No, it's… it's more than that. I just can't do what you're expecting of me.” She started, shaking her head a little. “Just—just fuck you, and then, then take care of you and never care enough to ask. I can't do that. It's—it's not me, I'm sorry.” The way her body language changed, the vulnerability and raw hurt in her voice made the annoyingly painful feeling gnaw at this one spot in his chest. He didn't know what to say for a moment before turning around and walking a couple steps through her living room. Anger and confusion grew in his head, as the only real emotions he knew so well. Hand tugging on his hair as he let out a humourless laugh.

“You don't mean it. We're just—just arguing again.” He said, trying to convince either her or himself, but the feeling of dread already settled between his ribs. His voice came out louder than intended, accusing even.

As the response didn't come, he turned around again facing her. Taking a couple fast steps he winced at the sharp pain in his shoulder.

“What do you want me to say, Y/n? We talked about it before, I— fucking can't tell you anything!” He said with sharp anger bubbling beneath the surface.

“Jackson, I said I get it! I just can't do what you want me to!” She exclaimed, her voice an octave higher than usually at his sudden outburst. She felt panicked with what was happening. With the idea of never seeing him again, and with what she was feeling at the moment. The feelings accompanying her were much more complex than she'd like them to be.

“Then why are you so fucking dramatic about it!” He continued pacing back and forth, not handling the situation very well, or picking up on the irony of his words.

Y/n raised her eyebrows with a scoff.

“Me? I'm just breaking it off, Jackson. You are the one yelling at me and running around my living room.” She pointed out, keeping the pain hidden away. For now.

He stopped in his tracks immediately as she called him out on the frantic behaviour.

“I wouldn't if you weren't like… this!” He spat out, his blue eyes filled with coldness and anger. The sudden motion as he swung his arm, caused the stitches to rip and blood started dripping down his arm. “Fuck!”

Y/n’s eyes widened immediately.

“Jack, calm down! Your arm!” She squealed, making him raise his eyebrows in surprise. Her hand grasped his bigger one as she pulled him to the bathroom, pushing him to sit on the edge of the bathtub. It was a fairly small room, with not much space after he'd fill it out with his wide frame, so without a second thought she slumped on his lap.

He sat here wordlessly, the combative facial expression still decorating his handsome face as she worked on the wound, cleansing it before getting to the stitching.

He didn't make a sound until the last stitch, when he suddenly let out a loud hiss at the particularly painful movement of the needle in his skin.

“Sorry” she said quietly out of habit. “You need to stop thrashing like a wild animal for the next few days.” Y/n added, concerned with his state.

Jackson scoffed, tensing as he looked in her eyes accusingly.

“Don't tell me what to do. You dumped me.” His voice was low and grumbly, still carrying some anger in it, but the way he put it made Y/n let out a giggle uncontrollably. His gaze softened slightly. He sounded like an offended child.

“As far as I know, we weren't together, Jackson.” Her voice was more playful than anything as she finished the stitching, putting the tools aside. Caressing the skin on his arm, Y/n sighed.

Jackson kept looking at her with a lump forming in his throat. After a minute he broke the silence.

“I don't know what you want me to say, but you won’t hear…” He started before clearing his throat, unsure of what words to use. Of how to explain.”—hear THAT from me, Y/n. I just can't.” He said quietly, his hands holding her hips, thumbs rubbing little circles on her soft skin. The silence settled in the air again, as she felt he wasn't finished just yet. Just needed some more time to recollect his words. “...but I don't want to not see you anymore.” He sounded weaker than ever, more… vulnerable. The trait she wanted to see in him so badly, making her heart soften in an instant.

Feeling the surge of hope rushing through her veins, she raised her hands to his face, tilting his head up so her eyes would meet his. Her eyes were– bright again, Jackson noticed subconsciously.

“You don't want to lose me.” She stated with confidence, knowing what he meant. Jackson neither denied nor confirmed, sighing deeply as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Say it.” She demanded, caressing his skin and as soon as he looked again, searching his blue eyes for anything that would show her she was wrong. She didn't find anything.

He took a deep breath, his fingers digging into her skin harder.

“I don't want to lose you.” He repeated, sounding like the words almost drowned him, but he knew it was a turning point. Jack knew she was – patient and understanding. It would be enough. They stared at each other for a longer moment before she touched his cheek with a little chuckle.

Seeing her eyes so shiny and cheeks blushed, Jackson regretted he didn't say it sooner. It took a lot, but it was worth it. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead against hers.

“What's so funny?” He scoffed playfully, looking at her lips with a deep breath.

Y/n leaned in, kissing him in a way that took his breath away for a mere moment making him forget who they were. Who he was. A way that she wouldn't dare to kiss him before.

“Stubborn man” she let out with a sigh after pulling away.

Only then did she get up, pulling him back to the bedroom deciding that she'd force him to rest if he wouldn't agree right away.

***

Slowly opening her eyes, Y/n wiped her face with a yawn before she noticed he was awake. The admirably blue eyes looked at her halfway open with a smirk, and for a second she got mad at him for never staying the whole night before. The view was wonderful.

“Hi” She said with a chuckle, making him raise his eyebrow in amusement.

“Hi,” He replied, pulling her closer. Her dishevelled state made her even more attractive than usual, in a completely different way. It was a way that Jackson never looked at other women before which was a little scary, but well. He was way too sleepy to think about it now. With his own eyes barely open and vulnerable as never before, he let out a chuckle. It felt so easy at the moment, like he wasn't a killer without any actual identity. Like he had a chance for a life with the beautiful woman by his side.

Stretching with a groan he shifted to the side, being fairly careful with his injured shoulder. Jackson's hand landed on Y/n’s bare hip as her shirt shifted up, revealing her pale skin. She opened her eyes again, glancing at him as she heard the throaty purr coming from his mouth.

“Jackson” She warned with a giggle, knowing his intentions too well. “You're–” She started, but before she'd manage to finish, he flipped her on her back, hanging over her like a thundercloud. “–injured.” Her voice was defeated with an undertone of humour at his mischievous doings.

“Still healthy enough.” He replied, leaning down and grazing his nose over her neck. After two years of seeing only her, he wasn't able to prevent associating her scent with something– familiar.

Home

Pressed so tightly against her, Jackson felt the familiar stirring in his lower stomach, making him sigh deeply. His warm breath wrapped itself around her skin, making her shiver with delight. He leaned down, biting onto her neck lightly as his hands began stripping her of the pajama pants she was wearing.

She let it happen, until she didn't. Her smaller hand getting a hold of his wrist.

“In my way.” She said, turning her head to meet his eyes. “My way or not at all. Your stitches will probably burst again if I agree to do it the usual way.” She said with a voice that allowed no opposition. That was a voice he rarely heard, but the feisty look in her eyes was clear. She wouldn't bend under his will because she cared about his health.

With a loud, dramatic sigh he slumped on the bed, giving up. Seeing it, Y/n chuckled, raising her brows. Pointing at the tent in his underwear, she asked.

“So you need help with that or not?” Her voice was full of amusement and clear lighthearted mockery. Jackson's eyes immediately shifted to her face.

“Don't push it before I change my mind” he grumbled with a hidden smirk, making her laugh out louder as she got up, pulling her underwear down all the way before she straddled his hips.

Her soft hand began travelling down his chest, tracing every inch of his skin, appreciating the masculine firmness to him. The sensation of his muscles against her delicate fingers.

The air in the room immediately shifted, and Jackson's expression changed. His brows slightly furrowed, as he watched her actions. He was clearly confused, never touched with such intention before in his life. His muscles tensed beneath her fingers, almost expecting pain to come any second now.

Violence was all he knew. She understood it, but it nevertheless broke her heart a little bit.

Looking him in the eyes, she leaned forward, her lips following the path her fingers travelled. She left little kisses on each scar and imperfection she encountered.

Jackson wasn't sure what he felt. Whether he liked it or not, he was more confused than ever before. That's why when she reached the V on his lower stomach, still kissing, he rose up slightly.

“Don't” he said quietly. The atmosphere was so intimate and vulnerable, that for once in his life, he didn't feel up to being pleasured in such a way. He already let her do too much, Jackson thought.

Y/n looked up, meeting his bright eyes with her own. The tension and– fear on his face was visible for the first time since she ever met him.

Nodding lightly, she came back up, kissing him passionately as her hands worked on his underwear, pulling it down and stroking his hard length. Deep groans pushed past his lips with each move as his eyes fell shut. He looked more beautiful than ever, Y/n thought seeing him then.

Only the sensation of her warmth engulfing his manhood brought Jackson back, making him open his eyes and letting his jaw fall open.

“Fuck” he gasped, as she leaned back, supporting herself by holding onto his stomach, not forgetting about his injury.

His hands gripped onto her hips. Still sitting up, Jackson tried moving her on top of his hips to get her to move faster, but Y/n wasn't having any of it. Pushing him back, she leaned forward and captured his lips in a searing kiss while she sensually moved. She was in no rush. Y/n enjoyed every sensation the connection between them was giving her. The slow pace was making him more sensitive to their surroundings than the usual frantic rhythm. The sound of her quiet sighs and whimpers filled his ears like the most beautiful melody. The way her face gave away the all-consuming bliss she experienced from how he felt inside her, but also from how… close they were. Jackson felt like he was slipping. The situation was getting out of control as his mind started spiralling into the vulnerability, which he desperately didn't want to happen.

Looking up, he noticed Y/n watching his face intently, her mouth slightly open as she moved to her own rhythm. Her breasts swayed with each movement before she leaned down, kissing all over his neck while her hands travelled around his collarbones, caressing his skin.

Wordlessly Jackson's bigger hand slowly grabbed hers, moving it up towards his throat, wrapping it suggestively with a certain look in his eyes. Y/n knew.

Of course she did.

With a quiet sigh, she shook her head lightly, moving upwards to his cheek, the gentle touch sending shockwaves down his spine as she watched him with care and gentleness he never experienced.

Covering her hand with his own, Jackson sat up lightly, moving her closer. He didn't fight it anymore.

“You're so beautiful” He breathed out, wrapping his arm around her waist and capturing her lips in a deep, sensual dance as she caressed his hair. They both seemed to get lost in the sensations, drowning in each other's presence without any will or need to seek saving.

As Y/n squeezed her eyes, her body tensing on top of his, Jackson knew she was coming. Leaning his forehead on her collarbone, he followed right after. For the first time in his life, he realised that the way she held him felt even better than the most amazing orgasm he ever experienced.

…and just like that, Jackson knew he’d stay the night, and countless more.

Because even if he couldn't name or say it, he knew the reason why he would keep coming back.

***

Taglist: @lau219 @xsweetcatastrophe

[swordsandholly]

A little sneak speak into a poly 141 x reader pro wrestling AU I’m working on for WIP Wednesday.

“Hello.” You blink up at the imposing figure above you.

Dark eyes stare down at you from behind his signature mask. A black balaclava with a sewn in skull covering his eyes. An iconic image in modern day wrestling.

The Ghost. Simon Riley. Current Heavyweight Champion. Thirty-one. Six-four and two hundred and fifty-five pounds. Lean.

You try very, very hard to ignore the fact that this massive man standing in front of you is wearing nothing but his wrestling trunks and knee-high boots. It feels so much skimpier in person.

“Och, yer the new announcer, aye?” Another man appears beside him. John MacTavish aka Soap. Another member of the 141 faction.

He’s pretty. The kind of pretty you’d recognize from a mile away. He was always one of your favorites to watch in the indies, when you could, and he continued to be a favorite all the way into the pros. He’s fast, high energy but a heavy hitter at the same time.

Current tag team champions with Gaz. Twenty-seven. Five foot ten, two hundred and twenty pounds and one of the prettiest men on the planet, as per the numerous fan pages dedicated to him and his kilt.

You nod, trying to calm down the rushing in your ears by giving your name and holding out your hand. Hopefully he doesn’t notice the shaking.

“Lovely tae meet ye.” He shakes your hand excitedly, a genuine grin splitting his face. “Donnae mind the big guy - he’s as quiet out of ring as in.”

You snort. So it’s not just the persona.

[mikareo]

“ ࣭⸰ ★ HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU . . . ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ 呪術廻戦 ; gojo satoru x fem reader (1k)

⊹ ⠀⠀ valentine's day is approaching; and with a valentine comes love...or for worse...heartbreak.

contains; gojo satoru x fem reader, angst, mentions of fluff idk, there’s some swearing i think author's note; happy (almost) valentine's,, i’m projecting

1 day, 9 hours, and 47 minutes.

your last conversation wasn't anything out of the ordinary. there was no dry spell. no plateau. no failure to communicate. just you and satoru, plus the typical banter, talking about something as simple as what you were planning on making for dinner; to be more precise, what you were trying to make for dinner. you're a pretty awful cook according to him.

everything seemed to be going so well...really well...almost perfectly well— and with valentine's day right around the corner, you'd instinctively assumed that he'd ask you to be his. instinct is a difficult emotion, though. is it even an emotion? you're not quite sure, but your heart believes it is. your heart— which is practically pounding out of your chest at the current moment, stretching your skin, eager to feel the limitless fresh air and freedom that comes with floating on cloud 9— instinctively wants to believe satoru is your soulmate. you love him don't you? is the answer yes? it should be no.

you've known him for...what? four months? four months of your twenty years of life is seemingly small. that's only one point six-seven percent of your entire lifetime...one point six-seven percent of your life that you wish you could relive forevermore.

...he isn't going to text you back is he?

2 days, 2 hours, and 15 minutes.

each second passing is another flicker of hope that misses the candle wick. instead of lighting the path that leads to your eventual relationship, it lights a fire beneath your feet. your socks feel warm. there's coal beneath them. hot, burning coal withering away the sense of feel in your toes; breathing in the aroma of heartbreak until it becomes a roaring fire that consumes all of you.

why is he doing this? what did you do wrong? you haven't done anything wrong. he's just a man. a man who can't seem to stop playing with your heart.

you can hear his voice in the back of your mind. the part of your mind that connects to your heart. "can you facetime, right now? i'm having a bad day and i just want to see your face." he had to have meant that. "you don't need to apologize for talking over me, i love hearing what you have to say." a guy wouldn't just say that to say that. "don't be too hard on yourself, i know you'll figure everything out becuase you're you. you always know what to do." it couldn't have all been bullshit.

it can't have been bullshit.

because if that's all it was, then you're just a fool in love.

and fools in love are no better than clowns.

3 days, 14 hours, and 22 minutes.

you did what you hate doing. the thing that makes you want to scream into your pillow at the mere thought. the very thing that screams desperation and neediness and clinginess and insecurity all in one. you sent another message.

in the past, you've never had feelings strong enough to elicit such a response. your heart hasn't tied itself to another person's with a red satin bow. the fated string of fate hadn't found you yet. it allowed you to maintain a stable head and remain grounded with no hopes of love on your radar. you hadn't yet learned how to fly; until that day you met satoru and suddenly you had a hundred pilot lessons lined up day-after-day.

it was so easy being with him. everything was so easy.

for the first time ever you had no doubts. you weren't afraid of waking up one morning to find him gone. disappeared. nonexistent. you full-heartedly believed he'd never leave; and you believed he reciprocated those thoughts. now, though...now you may never know what bits and pieces he reciprocated— because your plane crashed. turbulence flew beneath the wings and drove the flight off course. the oxygen masks bellowed down upon the passengers, every seat being filled with your pounding heartbeats, and each and every one of them blew out of the window with no parachute. he didn't even try to cushion the fall.

4 days, 1 hour, and 39 minutes.

if there's one message you never expected to receive, it's surely 'seen 14 hours ago'.

you'd given him space and assumed he'd been busy with a million other things and hadn't had any time to send you a quick message. your last text wasn't even anything out of the ordinary, just a quick "are you okay?", you think that's pretty reasonable. it's reasonable, isn't it?

something could be seriously wrong with him. why else would he leave you on read? he's never done this before. usually, you're the one who's more distant between the two of you. that's how your relationship began, after all. he'd send five texts in comparison to your two; which later evolved into five rivaling five, and now to zero rivaling two. the scales have tipped. how do you rebalance them?

you trust satoru. there must be a perfectly good explanation for this odd irregularity that's occurring in your otherwise perfect relationship. after all, all of your friends love him— they think he's the greatest catch of the 21st century. he's never done anything in the past to warrant such strange behavior. this is simply a difficult week for him...and you'll be there whenever he's ready to vent.

5 days, 22 hours, and 7 minutes.

a broken heart isn't for the weak...but unfortunately, you're not one of the stronger warriors.

he's at another girl's birthday party. he hasn't messaged you back in almost six days...and he's with another girl? celebrating her? he could be holding her close and you wouldn't even know, because god knows he wouldn't tell you. he won't even say good morning anymore. he won't even answer your fucking three word message that you sent out of desperation and concern for his well being. instead, he's at the club with his friends, getting drunk and taking shots, having the time of his life; and you're sitting in your room watching his social media stories...believing that everything that went wrong is all your fault.

but it's not your fault.

it's not your fault you fell for someone like that.

someone like satoru gojo.

[uhohdad]

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KÖNIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

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

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

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE WARNING I

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

Neither of you are listening.

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

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

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

“But-“

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, go on you two!”

She lightly swats your bicep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May your dedication to each other remain unwavering.”

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

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

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

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

“What? What’d I do?” You ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey!”

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

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

The rage that engulfs you is instantaneous and red hot.

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

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

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

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

You snap.

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

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

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

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

“What on earth?! What happened?!”

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

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

“What did you do?!”

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

You are not in the arena.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is going on?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What has gotten into you two?!”

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

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

You cut yourself off with a growl before continuing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch.

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

Ruby sighs.

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

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

“Where is Price?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just sigh.

Tired.

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

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

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

And you are starving.

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

Wait, no - second best thing.

It smells so good.

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

Oh, and the drinks.

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

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

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

It feels weird to be eating.

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

You push through it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old woman puts her fingertips just under her collarbones.

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

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

These people are so out of touch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you suck it up.

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

The hardest part is watching Konig get the same treatment.

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

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

He’s about to lose it again.

“Ruby?! Breather!”

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

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

It takes her a moment for it to click.

”Oh, oh! Yes!”

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

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

“Oh, my victors,” She hums.

You actually smile a little when you notice it.

Ruby’s drunk.

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

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

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

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

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

But you feel so alone.

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

“Did you see them?”

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

Even better that it’s trash talk.

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

”No,” He cuts, “On their wrists.”

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

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

Your ribbon.

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

That is your ribbon.

You earned that ribbon.

It was your gift.

It was your token to the love of your life.

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re too tired to be angry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiles mischievously and gives a sloppy wink.

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

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

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

”Maybe later,” You say.

”Definitely later!” She beams.

She then raises her brows at you both.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this-“

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

“But the drinks help!”

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

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

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

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

“Hey, what is this stuff?”

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

“Secret?” You ask.

Konig gently nudges you with his elbow.

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Are all of them-?”

Your question trails off.

“I think so,” He says.

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

“They’re despicable,” he says.

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

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

Does she hate you?

She must.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s welcomed.

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

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

“It’ll be over soon.”

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

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

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

“Want to sneak away?” He asks.

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

“Yeah?” You ask.

“Ja,” He says.

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

“Okay,” You say.

It’s an incredibly arduous task to sneak away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she just make a pass at me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All mine,” He says, low and breathy.

“All yours.”

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

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

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

You and Konig speak at the same time.

“I didn’t - ”

“Can we have five minutes of privacy?”

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

“Where have you been? These people-“

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

“Did you really knock out a Capitol official?”

Konig shrugs.

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

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

“He grabbed her ass,” He says flatly.

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

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

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

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

“So what?”

Price grumbles again, his shoulders tossing in annoyance.

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

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

“As kids.”

He draws a long sigh and rubs out his beard.

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

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

“No!”

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

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

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

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

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

Price snaps his fingers three times in rapid succession.

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

Price cuts himself off with another frustrated grunt.

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

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

“For you?!” You snap, “We died!”

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

“I didn’t ask for that!”

“I remember someone asking me to save Romeo.”

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

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

“Yes,” Price answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he speaks again, his voice is soft.

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

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

“Tape?”

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

Price clears his throat and looks away.

“Got it,” You say.

“Well, it-“

He lets out an exasperated grunt.

“It’s popular.”

Both you and Konig share a hesitant glance.

“The, uhm-“

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

“Look, it’s been passed around.”

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

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

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

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

“Well, not everyone,” Price mutters.

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

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

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

Price gestures between you and Konig.

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

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

“Desired?”

“Desired,” He repeats.

“They want to fuck us?”

Price smacks his lips, his voice lowering.

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

You really don’t.

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

It takes you a moment to digest this.

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

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

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

You are at risk of throwing up again.

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

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

“The whole - romance thing.”

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

Price sighs, a palm covering his forehead.

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

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

“I know. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blinding sun.

Pure white snow at your feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a little.

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

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

“All mine,” He whispers.

“All yours,” You whisper back.

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

You’re seriously considering ditching your heels.

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

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

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

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

“It’s easy!”

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

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

“And now you sway.”

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

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

“Graceful bad dancing,” She corrects.

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

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

And it’s not the worst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ach, of course.”

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

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

A sneaky, stealthy, slithering man he is.

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

“Congratulations, my dear,” He says.

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

“Thank you, sir.”

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

“None of that ‘sir’ nonsense.”

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

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

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

“Quite a show you put on for us all.”

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

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

His eyes crinkle.

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

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

“I- I’m sorry?”

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

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

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

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

Inhuman.

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

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

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

“I beg your pardon?” You stutter.

“Did you give your life up for him?”

The President lowers his chin, his brow raising.

“Or did you do it for you?”

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

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

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

“I don’t understand.”

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

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

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

“Forgive me, for being blunt - “

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That John-“

He chuckles with a shake of his head.

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

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

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

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

“A thorn in my side.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet.

The President gives a hearty laugh as he walks away.

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

“What was that all about?”

Konig’s brows furrow when you shrug unconvincingly.

“Just wanted to congratulate me, I guess.”

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

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

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

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

“Want to sit?”

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

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

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

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

“Hi there,” She says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping open.

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

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

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

“Yeah, uhm-”

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

DISTRICT EIGHT UNREST

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

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

Because of you?

Is it because of you?

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

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

Because of you?

It can’t be.

Why is she warning you about it?

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

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

Because of you.

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

“What is it?” He asks.

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

“A contact card,” You say.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, phew, sorry.”

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

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

He shakes his head.

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

“Ja?” Konig asks.

“Yeah,” You croak.

“Okay,” He says.

And so you get fucked up.

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

You take a drink.

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

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

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

More photos and grabbing hands and drunken breath.

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

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

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

Price is off.

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

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

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

“Kids?”

He clears his throat.

“A word?”

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

“You’re not gonna like this, but ah-“

Price sighs again.

“You’re sleeping in your own rooms.”

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

[vivwritesfics]

No Need To Ask

Chapter Twenty-Six - The Hunt

The Norris' were a notorious crime family in the UK. One of many. With Norris, the head of the family, running operations with his son, Lando, they work to keep Y/N Norris, Norris' daughter protected. Life in a crime family wasn't something they wanted for her.

But with tension with one of the Spanish crime families rise, Norris and his now deceased wife come up with only one plan, offer their daughter to the Sainz's or risk an all out war.

1.7K words

Warnings: guns, kidnapping, major character death!! LIKE SERIOUSLY MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH

guy's im so sorry for this one

Series Masterlist

Carlos watched the video again and again. He analysed anything he could from it, but there wasn't a lot to go on. It hurt to watch, seeing his pretty little wife in such a state. He watched it to the point he could see the bump forming. Their baby was growing. Through all of this, their baby was still growing.

He gave his phone to Lando, who had his best men taking a look at things. If anybody could find where the video had come from, it was them.

"Hello, Sainz. I believe I have something that belongs to you," the man in the video had said. Carlos couldn't see his face, just his wife on the floor.

He nearly snapped his phone in half at the sight of her. On the floor, a dishevelled mess. Hair greasy and matted, eyes bloodshot and tears staining her face.

"Now, what I want is simple. Leave two million pounds in a suitcase outside of the Mirabelle House hotel and it shall be collected at a time of my choosing. You have twenty-four hours to drop off the suitcase and retreat back to the Norris house. If the suitcase isn't there in the allotted time, I'll put a bullet in her pretty little head. I'll be watching."

The video zoomed in one Y/N, on her face as she sobbed. She looked so broken down and Carlos's heart was breaking.

This shouldn't have been the first time he saw his pregnant wife with a baby bump. It shouldn't have been from this video.

"Sir," Called one of Lando's men, striding towards them. He was a tall man that easily towered over Lando, but Lando was still much more powerful than him. It was clear by the way Lando stood tall and the man had his shoulders slumped. "We've traced the video back to a house maybe five minutes away from the Mirabelle House hotel."

"Great," said Lando, sitting back on the sofa.

Carlos just stared at him. They knew where Y/N was, yet Lando had sat back down, like he didn't care. "What the fuck are you doing?" He roared, that rage he had felt when Y/N first disappeared still there.

Sitting around for four days didn't help. Carlos wanted to tear the city apart, but Lando and Oscar held him back. Waiting was all they could do.

"Go and fill a suitcase with money," he said, switching on the television.

"Lando," Carlos growled. He was going to lose his shit.

"He's probably watching through the cameras! If we act like we're getting the money together to take to Mirabelle House, we can go onto the house and get Y/N!" Lando insisted.

It was at times like this that Lando showed his maturity and intelligence. It was his father's doing, how he had trained his son before he had died, Carlos realised.

He let out a breath through his nose (embarrassed that he hadn't thought of this plan himself) and went upstairs. As he went, Lando shouted up to him, telling him where he could find a suitcase and enough money to make it look like they were putting two million pounds into the suitcase.

Carlos was smarter than that, though. He put his body between the security camera and himself as he placed the two hundred pounds with of fivers into a suitcase. The suitcase didn't look very full, but Carlos pushed the bills to the side to make it look much fuller than it was.

When the suitcase was ready, Carlos carried it downstairs. Lando had received the address from his men and the two of them, along with Oscar, headed out to the car. "What about weapons?" Asked Carlos as he opened the trunk of the car.

Lando tapped the side of his nose as he pulled up the carpet inside of the trunk up, revealing the guns.

"Do we have a game plan?" Asked Carlos as he armed himself.

Oscar placed a gun into the waistband of his trousers. "Lando and I will deal with any men while you push forward and search for Y/N," he said and walked over to the drivers seat of the car.

Lando and Carlos couldn't protest that. Oscar was probably the calmest out of the three of them, the least likely to accidentally send them into the back of another car.

After Lando pulled up the GPS, they set off. The first upbeat, happy pop song came on the radio and Carlos was quick to switch it off. They certainly weren't going to be dancing in the moonlight tonight.

They drove past the Mirabelle House hotel and Carlos couldn't help but look around. Was the man that stole his wife away here? Was he waiting to snatch the money and go back to Y/N?

Some of you may be wondering why isn't Carlos just paying him? He certainly had the money. But this was a tale as old as time. Carlos knew exactly what would happen if he was to hand over the money. As soon as the money was in the man's hands, there would be a bullet in his wife's head.

They pulled up in front of the house. It looked incredibly unassuming, a simple town house in the city. Three bedrooms, maybe.

Oscar parked the car as though this was a normal day, as though they weren't about to go and rescue his best friend. The three of them climbed out of the car, keeping their guns in the waistband of their trousers.

They walked up to the house, Oscar leading them. They couldn't ring the bell or bust down the door, not without threatening Y/N's safety. So, Oscar got down onto his knees and worked on picking the lock.

It was one of his many talents, something he had learnt before Webber had taken him in. In fact, it was one of the reasons why Webber had taken him in.

As Oscar worked on the lock, Carlos and Lando noticed a camera, pointing directly at them. Fuck, that couldn't be good.

But, luckily for the three of them, the kidnapper was too busy watching the cameras in the Norris and the Sainz households. A grim smile had spread across his face as soon as he'd seen Carlos put the money into the suitcase and drag it out of the house. Soon enough they'd be back and he could go and get the money.

"Your fucking husband," he laughed as he looked at Y/N, the gun he was going to use to get rid of her in his lap.

Suddenly there was a commotion from up stairs. With no time to grab Y/N from her cell, he held his gun up, pointing it at the door.

Up stairs, Lando and Carlos shot the men waiting in the stairs. It wasn't a part of the plan, for Carlos to stay behind and deal with the men, so Oscar pushed forward.

It didn't matter that they weren't following the plan, thought Oscar as he pushed on. Aside from the two men on the stairs, there didn't seem to be anybody else in the house. But Oscar still kept his gun out as he made his way down to the basement.

It was just a hunch, her being down in the basement. The video had been dark and he couldn't really think of where else she would be.

The door at the bottom of the basement stairs were shut. Slowly and carefully, with one hand still holding his gun, Oscar pushed the door open.

A single shot cut through the frigid air of the basement.

Oscar didn't react right away. Red blossomed on the right side of his white shirt. And then his body dropped to the floor.

"That shot was meant for you," hissed the kidnapper as he turned back towards Y/N.

Y/N who's hands were covering her mouth. Y/N who couldn't believe what she had just seen. Y/N, who's best friends body was laying just a couple of feet away from her.

Suddenly, as the kidnapper reloaded his gun (he hadn't expected this, had loaded the gun with a single bullet for Y/N), somebody else came running down the stairs.

There was another shot and Y/N couldn't stop herself from screaming.

But her husband ran through the door as her kidnapper fell to the floor, dead.

His fingers wrapped around the bars of her cell as he reached towards her. "My darling wife," he whispered as Y/N grabbed a hold of him. One hand cradles her stomach as she stood up and rushed towards him. "How do I open this?" He asked, his voice calm as he pulled at the door of the cell. It didn't budge.

"There's a key. In his pocket," she said, her voice trembling.

Carlos searched the body, pulling a key out of a dead mans pocket. Neither of them had addressed the body of their friend on the floor.

As soon as he got the door open, Y/N ran into her husbands arms, tears streaming down her face. She sobbed into his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her tight. "Oh, my love," he whispered as he kissed the side of her head. "Mi amor."

But then Y/N pulled away from him. She walked over to the body on the floor and fell to her knees. "Osc," she said, as if it would magically bring him back. Fat tears rolled down her cheek as she grabbed his hand. "Oscar."

Placing his hand on her shoulder, Carlos tried to pull her away. He was gentle, though. A harsh hand would never be laid on his wife again.

"No!" She suddenly screamed, throwing herself over the body. "I won't leave him! I can't leave him!" She screamed, eyes shut as she cried into Oscar's suit jacket.

With his touch still gentle, Carlos picked her up. "It's okay, mi amor," he said, holding her in his arms. "We'll come back for him, Lando and I."

Y/N simply cried as Carlos carried her away, carrying her out of the house.

Taglist (CLOSED): @multi-universe21 @formulas-bitch @gills-lounge @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @carlossainzwho @f1lov3r @samaib11 @charli123456789 @queenofmanydreams @ironmaiden1313 @vellicora @glitterf1 @80sloverry @lightdragonrayne @moonayu @bellsalabanccini @topguncultleader @handsupforamiracle @cmleitora @jenniferrvsesi @barcelonaloverf1life @sbella13 @nicolettecallednikki @darleneslane @thehufflepuffavenger1 @champagneproblems17 @aespie @yukheizcigarettes @rewmuslupin @hollie911 @ashy-kit @ririgy @stqrgir1 @zaynzierulez @minkyungseokie @rafaaoli @carolinesainz @ashies-ln4op81aa22 @measimp @mizelophsun11 @eviethetheatrefreak @andydrysdalerogers @formulaal @graciewrote @biancathecool @evans-dejong @sparklyperfectionstranger @venusesworld @goldenharrysworld @cassie0sstuff @gracielukey @watermelonworries @celesteblack08 @shobaes @chonkybonky

[travellingdragon]

Every British dragon seemed able to maintain a full and perfect accounting, down to pence, of their funds. Even when there had been a further four allocations, after small seizures of individual wagons taken in skirmishing, there was still not a beast among them who could not stand before all the separate scrolls—Temeraire now kept these posted up outside his own clearing, under guard—and in an instant calculate the exact value of the shares of any dragon on the list, and compare this against their own. This facility in no way diminished their desire of having the numbers written out for them, however, much to the dismay of their captains. "I had no idea of Iskierka’s being so handy at sums," Granby muttered, as she announced with great satisfaction, "I believe I have one hundred twenty-four pounds sixteen shillings threepence, and Requiescat has one hundred twenty-one pounds eleven shillings tuppence; now pray check it for me, Granby, and show me all your work," which entailed a quarter of an hour’s hard-fought calculations for him, with one mistake along the way, which Iskierka pointed out severely before he had quite finished writing it down. Aviators did not get a great deal in the way of formal schooling. Mrs. Pemberton finally took pity upon the officers and offered her services to make individual copies of the lists, and as her head for mathematics was good enough to satisfy them, the dragons were eager to accept the substitute, although after a week she was obliged to begin charging them a shilling apiece for the copies, or she would have been applied to for a fresh set by every beast, every day.

League of Dragons, chapter 16

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Temptation and Need

Summary: Can Y/N tempt Dean into what he needs?

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Smut - this is just all smut. Unprotected P in V sex, vaginal fingering, oral (f receiving, very brief m receiving), face-sitting, cum shot, overstimulation, big age gap (21 and 43), dirty talk, dub-con (sort of - the reader not taking no for an answer), masturbation, voyeurism (very brief), use of a vibrator, spanking, (brief), pussy slapping (brief).

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Y/N

Word Count: 3,895

A/N: A million years ago (okay, last December) I got a request from a lovely anon asking this:

hi!! I was wondering if you could maybe write an age gap with dean winchester where the female!reader is like in her 20s and dean's is his 40s :) just some rough smut with like hair pulling where dean asks for her to sit on his face or something like that (if you're comfortable with it) and just dirty talks cause I absolutely love them haha :) I really love your writing btw!!!! thanks a lot <3

It took me about four and a half months to get to this, but it's finally here! Thank you so much for this request, hope you're happy with it Nonnie. And I hope everyone else who reads it enjoys it too. ❤️

Master List || Dean Winchester One Shots || Tag Lists

Y/N had known it would be good - no - amazing. Since the first time she’d laid eyes on Dean Winchester six months earlier, she’d wanted to feel him beneath her, above her, behind her, inside her. She’d wanted him any and every way she could have him.

She simply needed him with the heat of a raging fire that never cooled.

So she’d imagined this moment for more than a hundred nights, and she’d known it would be incredible. But her imagination had been woefully inadequate.

She’d been attempting to seduce Dean the entire time she’d known him. She knew that he knew how much she wanted him, but he’d been reluctant. Every time she sidled up close to him, he’d moved away. Any time she put her hands on him, his heart kicked up so she could feel it pound, and if she got close enough she could feel the hard evidence of his desire press against her. But inevitably he would gently lift her hands off of him and give her a look of warning.

“Stop this, Y/N.” He’d scold with heat pooling quick and fervid in his eyes.

One time he’d given her a look of exasperation and then scowled at her. “I’m too old for you dammit. I could be your father.”

She bit her lip and smiled, full of mischief, as she’d answered. “Well, I’m happy to call you Daddy, if that’s what you want.”

It was true that she was just barely twenty-one and Dean was forty-three, but she didn’t care. In fact, she’d always preferred older men. Men like Dean had experience and stamina, they knew just what to do to pleasure their partner. She’d never slept with anyone less than a decade older than her. Some people might say she had daddy issues (and maybe she did) but she didn’t care what other people thought - she pursued her own pleasure.

Yet in spite of plenty of sexual experiences with older men, despite all her fantasies about Dean, she’d never imagined this level of pleasure.

***

A few hours earlier:

Dean fell onto the library chair, closing his eyes with a groan and dropping his green duffel bag at his feet, just as Y/N walked into the room. 

“You’re back!” She called excitedly as she hurried towards him. “How was the hunt? Where’s Sam?”

Dean grunted as she hopped into his lap. His feet were planted on the ground, and he was slightly slouched in the chair creating the perfect seat for her. His long, muscular thighs rippled beneath her, and as she wiggled against him, she felt the telltale sign of his desire as the bulge at the front of his jeans hardened slightly against her thigh.

The muscle in his jaw jumped as he gave her a scolding look. “The hunt was long and bloody, but fine. It's finished anyway. And Sam is with Eileen."

She ran her finger across the small abrasion on his cheek. "Well, at least you're less beaten up than usual." She said with dubious cheer.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, it was a walk in the park. Now get off my lap so I can go take a shower.”

She nodded and slid off so he could stand, but when he moved off towards the showers, she followed. When he arrived at the shower room door, he turned to look at her standing close behind him. He gave a sideways nod towards the door.

“This is as far as you go, sweetheart.” He said with a raised brow; his gaze turned knowing as she pouted.

She tried for her most convincing tone. “But just think of how much more enjoyable it would be if I came in with you.” She could see in his eyes that he was thinking about exactly that scenario.

But he shook his head. “No. It’s late, you shouldn't have waited up for me. Go to sleep.”

She pouted some more and then sighed before giving him a winsome smile and a wink. “Yes, Daddy.”

Dean scowled at her but she just stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek before slowly backing away. 

“Goodnight, Dean. I’m glad you’re home. I sleep so much better when you’re here.” She said truthfully.

He gave her a nod and then walked into the shower room. She heard the lock click and she sighed. Another night with nothing but her fantasies to sustain her. 

She went to her room and got ready for bed, slipping on the AC/DC t-shirt she’d stolen from Dean. He knew she had it, he’d seen her in it, but he’d never demanded it back. 

She crawled into bed and tried to go to sleep. But she was restless, her body aching in a way that wouldn’t end without Dean between her legs. 

Her skin was flushed and the soft wool blanket she was covered with irritated her overheated flesh until she threw it off of her. She brought her hands up to cover her face; she knew she wouldn’t get to sleep unless she did something about the longing that had overtaken her body.

So she rolled over and pulled open the bottom drawer of her bedside table, pulling out the modest-sized vibrator she kept hidden in there for nights just like tonight. Since moving into the bunker a few months ago, nights like tonight happened pretty much every night. 

She leaned back against her pillows and let her mind drift, allowing images to flash into her mind’s eye. Dean’s face, set in lines of intense desire; his hands, strong and hard, warm and rough, moving over her body. 

She slipped her hand past the waistband of her panties, letting her middle finger swirl around her clit, desperately trying to imagine it was Dean’s thick, blunt fingertip pressing against her.

After a few minutes of bringing forth endless hot and decadent images of Dean into her head, she turned on the vibrator and let it press against her clit a moment or two before sliding it through her dripping slick, and pushing it inside. 

As she fucked herself with the toy, she kept Dean’s body in mind - his powerful muscles and solid bulk - imagining him hovering above her. She worked at it for a long time, desperately seeking her release. 

But though she moved the vibrating silicone cock fast and hard in and out of her quivering cunt, she just couldn’t find it. After half an hour of coming so close, but constantly missing the mark, Y/N was whimpering and more frustrated than she could express. 

In desperation, she began to chant quietly, imagining that Dean was there with her and could hear her need. “Dean. Dean. Fuck me, please. Ugh, I need you so badly, I fucking need you.” Her voice crescendoed in a moan of disappointment as her orgasm stayed just beyond her reach. “Dean.” She whined as she bucked her hips desperately.

Suddenly she heard her door squeak open, making her squeal and rip the vibrator out of her body, shock coursing through her, making her heart pound. But then she fell completely silent as she saw Dean standing silhouetted against the hallway light.  

For a moment or two neither of them moved. Finally, Y/N turned off her vibrator and silence reigned. 

Dean finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “I heard you. Heard you calling my name.” 

He took a step inside her room; she could see now that he was dressed for sleep, sweats and no shirt - she gasped softly at the incredible view of his wide chest, his shoulder muscles flexing as his hands balled into fists. She could also make out more of his face; it was set in harsh lines, the muscle in his jaw flexing over and over. He licked his lips and her pussy clenched.

“Why were you calling me?” Dean asked, though he had to know the answer as she still gripped the vibrator, and the scent of her dripping sex perfumed the air. 

She could sense that the cord that bound them, that had been pulling them together and apart since the day they met, was about to snap - if she could just say the right words.

She went with the truth.

“I was calling out to you while I fucked myself. I was imagining it was your cock buried deep inside me, imagining your hands on my skin, your lips on my throat.” Dean’s eyes were blazing emeralds with dark onyx pupils spreading across them as she spoke.

“But this thing wasn’t cutting it.” She said, lifting the vibrator and then dropping it on the floor beside the bed. “I need the real thing.”

She pushed her feet into the mattress and opened her knees wide, pushing her hand into her panties once again as she stared at him. “I need you, Dean. Please.”

The cord snapped and Dean charged forward, stopping at the end of her bed and grabbing her ankles to yank her towards him. She gasped as he placed a knee between her legs and rested his weight on his palms as he leaned down to capture her mouth. 

His kiss was hard, desperate, almost violent, as he crushed her lips and stabbed his tongue into her mouth. She moaned at the weight of him pressed against her, lifting her hips slightly so she could press her aching cunt against his thick thigh. She groaned harshly into Dean’s mouth as the pressure caused an even hotter fever to rage across her body.

Dean pulled out of the kiss and stood up, taking hold of her hands to pull her into a sitting position. His chest was rising and falling with deep breaths as he grasped the hem of his stolen t-shirt.

His voice was all growl when he spoke. “Do you know how many times I’ve dreamt about ripping this fucking t-shirt from your body? How many mornings I had to sneak away to the shower to jack off like a fucking horny teenager, after seeing you parading around in it? It barely covers your ass, and every time you’d bend, even a little, I could see a glimpse of your little cotton panties, or sometimes, just your bare ass in a thong.”

His voice was slightly dark, a rebuke in his words. “I knew you were doing it on purpose, of course, knew it was your way of trying to tempt me into fucking ruining you.”

He yanked the t-shirt up over her head as a moan escaped her. Dean groaned too as he got his first look at her. “Fuck me.” He said quietly. 

He looked her in the eye as he reached out and roughly tugged on her puckered nipple. She cried out, her head dropping back, as she arched her chest forward.

“God damn, baby, you really do want it, don’t you? I thought it might be a game you were playing, but you really do want me to ruin this hot little pussy.” He reached his hand down to rub against her soaked panties. “You want that, baby? Huh? Want me to fuck you sensless? Till you can’t walk? Can’t think?”

Y/N nodded disjointedly. “God yes.” She whispered, grabbing his wrist to try and press his fingers harder against her cunt. “Please. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Dean knocked her hand away and grabbed both her wrists tightly as he used his body weight to push her back onto the mattress. He stared at her, making her feel like he could see straight through her. Finally he spoke, his voice softer.

“How much experience do you actually have, Y/N?”

She shook her head to dispel any worries. “Enough. I’m no virgin, and I know what I like.”

His mouth lifted slightly at the corner. “And what do you like, baby?”

“I like it rough and hard, but I’ll take some soft wooing too.” She said with a grin. She shrugged. “Basically, I like you - a lot - and whatever you have in mind, I’m down for.”

Dean nodded. “Okay, but give me a safe word, just in case.” He kissed her softly. “I won’t take any chances with you.”

His concern for her made Y/N’s stomach flip in a pleasant way. She smiled. “K, how about ‘shenanigans’?” 

Dean chuckled. “Perfect.”

His smile faded as he bent his head to kiss her again, slowly this time, thoroughly, as though he didn’t want to leave an inch of her mouth unexplored. When he pulled away, leaving her gasping for air, he slowly kissed a path down her body, between her breasts, stopping to nip and suck on her nipples, pinching one and then the other, before trailing his lips down over her belly.

When he reached the apex of her thighs, he got off the bed to kneel at the foot of it, pulling her panties down over her legs and tossing them aside. He reached forward to wrap his arms around her thighs, spreading her open and pulling her to his mouth. He made a deep, guttural noise as he sank into her cunt, immediately licking and sucking on her sensitive skin, so that she was writhing beneath him almost instantly. She called out his name in desperation as she sank her fingers into his short hair, tugging slightly when he speared her with his tongue.

He pulled away from her and licked his lips free of her juices. “Fuck, yeah baby, say my name again, just like that.” 

He let go of one of her thighs so he could bring his hand between her legs and slap it hard against her pussy. Y/N gasped and then her hips bucked as he did it again.

“You’ve been a naughty girl with this fucking pussy, haven’t you? Pushing this dripping mess against me every chance you got. Fuckin' rubbing on me, and constantly begging me to fuck you.”

He smacked her a third time and Y/N felt her cunt throb with a deep ache. “Fuck, Dean yes! I’ve wanted you to fuck me, wanted you to take me apart for so fucking long. Please, please! Bury yourself so deep in me.”

She screamed in pleasure as he rammed two fingers into her, knuckle deep. As he crooked them forward inside of her, he leaned down to flick his tongue against her clit, making her rear up off the bed. She was so close now. She could feel the tension in her body just on the verge of snapping, when he suddenly pulled back from her, removing his fingers and causing her to wail and plead.

“No, please, Dean. More.” She whimpered pathetically as he stood up.

But then he pushed down his sweats and she caught sight of his cock for the first time. It was long and thick, just as she’d known it would be - everything about Dean screamed, “Big Dick Energy”. It was absolutely beautiful, red-tipped and standing at attention.

She sat up and reached for him, wrapping her hand around the base and sliding her tongue through his slit, licking up the pre-cum that beaded there. Dean stood rigidly, letting her lick at him like a lollipop for a couple minutes more before he pulled her hand away. 

“That’s enough for now, sweetheart.”

She pouted at him, but he just leaned down to grasp her waist, lifting her slightly and tossing her further up the bed. She gasped at the pleasure of being manhandled like a rag doll. He was on his knees as he moved towards her. He grabbed hold of her calves and flipped her over onto her stomach before smacking her ass once and then twice.

She moaned and instinctively lifted her hips, pushing her ass towards him for more. 

He slapped her again, and then ordered her, “Get on your knees, and lean forward to hold on to the headboard.”

She did as he said, grabbing on to the rails of her headboard tightly. He pushed her thighs apart before turning to lay on his back underneath her, pushing her knees open even further with his wide shoulders. 

Y/N was surprised; she’d thought he was getting her into position so he could take her from behind; instead she looked down to see his beautiful face positioned directly below her dripping cunt. 

“Sit on my face, baby. Fuck yourself on my tongue. Ride me.”

Y/N moaned as he lifted his head slightly so he could lick up through her folds. He dropped his head back to the mattress, though, and his voice was hard when he spoke. 

“Now.”

Despite all of her experience, Y/N had never been ordered to sit on a man’s face, and had never had oral sex this way. At first she was worried that she could hurt him, so she just lightly gyrated her hips against his mouth. But after a minute or so Dean grabbed onto her thighs and spoke angrily.

“I said sit, not float.” His hands pulled her down, forcing her to rest heavily against his face, so that she was truly sitting on it. His nose rubbed against her clit and Y/N couldn’t help grinding down against his mouth. His tongue delved deeply into her cunt, stabbing in and out of her entrance. 

Very soon Y/N was truly fucking herself on his face, using the strength of his jaw and the slide of his lips to create otherworldly sensations. Every once in a while she’d lift herself slightly to check that Dean was okay, but he’d always growl and pull her back down. 

Finally she could feel her orgasm growing inside her, felt the coil low in her stomach tightening almost to the point of pain, but then it burst open and she screamed as she rocked her hips and slammed herself down against Dean’s eager mouth as he slurped up everything she gushed onto him.

Aftershocks of her climax along with Dean’s probing tongue and plump, sucking lips, brought on two more mind-blowing orgasms. It felt as though she’d been edging herself for months and was now finally free to let go; her whole body trembled as Dean finally pushed her back and then rolled her under him.

Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he looked down into Y/N’s face; she knew she must look strung out, and she could feel unconsciousness creeping in. Dean must have seen it too because he shook his head and swiftly shoved three fingers into her cunt making her come alive again with a shout.

“No way, baby. You didn’t spend all these months begging me to fuck you, just to get off with coming a couple times and falling asleep. I want you fucked out completely. I want you stupid and useless beneath me. I want to fuck you so long that you’re just a boneless, lump of cock slut laid out on the bed.”

As he finished speaking he pressed his middle finger against her clit and that pressure, combined with his filthy words, was all it took to have her shouting out her ecstasy once again.

As she was coming down, Dean slammed himself into her, forcing her clenching walls open so her cunt could squeeze him tight as he sheathed himself inside. He pushed her knees wide open, keeping her feet in the air as he jackhammered into her. He slammed so hard and so deep, she knew he’d leave marks. 

And she knew she’d never experienced anything like it, nothing in her past, or even in her fantasies had prepared her for this level of raw passion and need.

She came two more times as he fucked up into her; he changed up his rhythm, going from hard and driving to slow and sensual as the mood suited him. By the time he flipped her onto her stomach Y/N did indeed feel boneless and stupid with pleasure.

“Please Dean.” She begged softly, not actually aware what she was asking for. 

“Come on baby, I didn’t say we were done, don’t give out on me now.” Dean said harshly as he lifted her hips. Her knees rubbed against the sheet, but really she was being held in place with Dean’s strength.

“I’m gonna make sure you’re seeing stars.” He told her before slamming her back onto his cock, drilling even deeper inside than he had before.

Y/N gasped, her pussy was so overly sensitive after being fucked for so long, but she couldn’t escape the intense rush of pleasure that came as Dean slammed his cock against her sweet spot deep inside her.

“Fuck, yes.” She mumbled into the pillow where her face was buried. 

“Yeah, that’s right baby.” Dean rammed into the spot again, making her scream, her throat raw from all her screams of pleasure. “Take every fucking inch. This is what you’ve wanted for months, isn’t it? Spent every minute I’ve known you trying to get us right here, haven’t you?”

He dropped one of her hips so he could spank her right cheek hard, watching it jiggle. “Answer me!” He demanded as he spanked her again before grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head up and back. “Tell me how much you’ve wanted this, little slut. Admit to prancing around this bunker, desperate for me to pin you down and fuck you just like this.”

“Yes!” Y/N gasped as he pounded into her over and over, never losing rhythm or strength. “Yes, fuck, yes.” It was all she could get out. She was truly exhausted, but she still chased the high he was raising within her with every thrust.

He spanked her again and then reached his hand around so that he could push against her throbbing clit. It took only a few circles with his finger, and a few more hammering thrusts before she shattered into a million pieces, seeming to shake and shiver forever.

As she came back to earth slightly, she could feel Dean pulling out of her. “I’m gonna come baby. Can I come on your ass?” She nodded and mumbled out a “yes.”

She heard him grunt obscenely, and despite her liquefied bones, her pussy still clenched at the sound, before she felt his sticky seed spurting across her ass, and lower back. He bucked forward, his thighs slapping against her ass as he shot another load, warm and wet, onto her skin.

Finally he fell to the side, and Y/N let her knees give out beneath her as she fell onto her stomach in complete exhaustion and immediate unconsciousness. She woke some time later to feel Dean wiping her clean with a warm cloth and pressing kisses up her spine.

When he saw her eyes flutter open, he tossed away the cloth and laid down beside her, kissing her nose and her cheek before pressing his mouth gently to hers. 

“You were so fucking perfect, Y/N. Everything I’ve dreamed about night after night.” He shook his head. “No, you were even more perfect than I imagined, so much more.”

She smiled softly and raised an eyebrow. “So you agree? You were an idiot and we should have done this so much sooner?”

He scoffed. “N’ah, it was perfect this way, at this time. But it’s gonna be even more perfect next time.”

Y/N grinned at him and tried not to be too obvious about how thrilled she was that there was going to be a next time. 

“I don’t know.” She teased. “You’re gonna have to try hard to do better than this.”

Dean grinned wickedly. “Challenge accepted.”

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters:

@lyarr24

@lacilou

@deans-spinster-witch

@globetrotter28

@suckitands33

@alwaystiredandconfused

@evznackles

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@krazykelly

@candy-coated-misery0731

@envyaurora95

@spnwoman

@deans-baby-momma

@luvr4miya

Dean Fics Only:

@roonthelittlespoon920

@slamminmine

@zepskies

@safiyas-world

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom:

@kazsrm67

@slut-for-evans-stan

@sexyvixen7

@nancymcl

@hobby27

@waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits:

@k-slla

@leigh70

@eevvvaa

@kickingitwithkirk

@foxyjwls007

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@roseblue373

@mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@avanatural

@mrsjenniferwinchester

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

@deangirl96

[webslingingslasher]

I just did an ab workout and it fucking sucked ass

But as a result… may I raise you, workout out with Peter

It’s a need!

*cleaning out my inbox*

peter’s strength…. so yummy 🤤

you knew exactly what you were doing, but peter didn’t. ‘i bet you couldn’t bench two fifty.’

he’s insulted to say the least. ‘i’m sorry, trouble. you said what?’ because there’s no way you just told him that.

‘i bet you couldn’t bench two fifty. you’re strong, but not that strong.’ peter scoffs, ‘i don’t think you realize how light two fifty is.’

you quirk an eyebrow, ‘oh really? i’d take you up on that bet.’ it’ll be the easiest bet of his entire life. ‘deal. i’ll take you to the gym with me next time, then you can see for yourself.’

that’s how you ended up watching peter grunt under the weighted bar, he’s got three twenty and he’s going so smooth he doesn’t need a spot, but you’re still there just in case. it’s not like you’d be any real help if shit went south.

‘is this your max?’ your words make peter laugh, like your question was adorable. ‘not even close.’ okay, maybe you thought he was stronger than what you originally teased. but him barely sweating at over three hundred pounds has you truly questioning his strength.

‘do you even have a max?’ there’s no way he could bench much more, he doesn’t have the muscle mass to back it up. not that he’s lean, but he’s no body builder either.

‘haven’t found one, no.’ the bar slams down, it bends under the force on each side. ‘there’s no way. i may have been exaggerating at first but you’re not mr. strongman.’

peter’s eyebrow raises like you just challenged him, you didn’t, but he took it as one. ‘wanna bet? give me a number.’

‘four fifty.’ an egregious amount but peter just nods and starts collecting more plates. the second his hands wrap around the bar you stop him, you didn’t want him over performing for your sake. if he hurt himself trying to impress you, you’d never forgive yourself for pushing him to that place.

‘you don’t have to. i believe you.’

peter fingers grip the steel, ‘it’s okay, i can do it.’ you slap his hands away, ‘no, really. don’t do it.’ you don’t care what expression he’s looking up at you with, you refuse to allow him.

‘you’re the one that gave me the number, trouble.’

‘because you were supposed to say no! don’t hurt yourself over this, i’m already impressed.’

peter clicks his tongue, disappointed you’d think of him so shallow. ‘i want to make you impressed at every chance, but i’m not gonna be stupid about it. if i couldn’t do it, id tell you.’

it’s not good enough, it’s a clear expression. peter immediately eats his words, he’s about to show off because you don’t believe him. the second the bar raises off the handle your teeth clench, you peer around the room and familiarize yourself with a very muscled man in the corner of the room. just in case.

no need, peter’s doing it with ease. he’s breathing hard, strained grunts pull from the back of his throat. he can bench it, but it’s not as easy as three hundred.

after four presses you can’t handle it, ‘okay, okay, okay! please stop.’ your hand hovers underneath the bar when it slams into the handle.

peter teases you when he rises from the padding. ‘you could never be the girlfriend of an athlete. what would you do if i broke my leg while drag racing?’

‘kill myself, i dunno.’

peter’s sweating across his hairline, his skin tacky under your touch. he shakes it off, ‘i’m hot.’ you wink, ‘yeah, you are.’

‘next time, just tell me you wanna see me workout. you don’t have to make up numbers, trouble.’

you play offended, ‘i did no such thing.’

‘you didn’t touch a single machine here.’

‘i was emotional support.’

‘i was eye candy, that’s it.’

your arms wrap around his waist, his back damp under your palm. ‘and you are so, so, so yummy. can i take you home and eat you?’

a glare from peter, ‘isn’t that my job?’

[huggybearhughes43]

Hi!! Could you write swayman x Reader what's she loses a bet to him and she has to do anything he asks? Could be filthy af if you like!

Pretend

Jeremy Swayman x Fem! Reader

Warnings- SMUT, oral (F+M! Receiving), dirty names, cum eating, cream pie, Jeremy being a sweetheart

Summary- in the ask

Word count- 2k

The crowds cheers pierced my ears as I stare at the ice in shock. Three hours prior I made the stupid decision of betting that Jeremy Swayman would not be able to make a goal as a goalie. Fans cheerfully exited the arena as the timer went off showing the game ended with a Bruins victory.

I had a few thoughts about sneaking out of the arena with the fans. But that ultimately wouldn’t work, I’d see him another day anyways. I reluctantly walk through the hallways that went towards the locker room, fidgeting with the hem of my dress. I scoff when I see Jeremy smirking at me from his stance against the wall with his arms crossed next to the locker room.

I roll my eyes and approach him. “What’s the price?” His smirk doesn’t falter as he furrows his brows. “What? No congratulations? No ‘wow that was amazing Jeremy! You’re so super cool!’” He mimics in a high pitched voice. I stare at him blankly, causing him to roll his eyes. “You’re gonna do everything o say for…” he thinks for a moment “twenty four hours? That seems fair.” I shake my head “and if I say no?” His expression softens but he doesn’t lose the smirk as he shrugs. “I can’t force you to do anything, y/n… but it is only fair.”

I gnaw at my bottom lip and sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Okay, fine, fine.” He nods and pushes off the wall, picking up his bag and handing it to me. “Starting now.” He smiles jokingly. I groan dramatically and throw his bag over my shoulder, the heavy bag slowing me down as I follow him out to his car.

Once we get to his car I drop the bag, breathlessly. Hearing my panting, Jeremy turns around with his hands on his hips and a smile plastered across his face. “Too much for you?” “It’s like… five hundred pounds!” Jeremy laughs as he opens his trunk, “it’s fifty.” I glare at him “same difference.” “Whatever you say.” He laughs as he hoists the bag into his trunk and closes it.

“Get in.” He says nonchalantly as he walks towards the drivers seat. “Sir yes sir.” I sigh and get in the passenger side. The ride back to his house was mostly quiet, quiet whistles coming from Jeremy all the way up until we pulled up in his driveway. “I’m not getting your bag.” Jeremy laughs and pulls out his keys to unlock his front door. “Yes ma’am.” He steps to the side to let me in. I walk into his house and stand off to the side.

He closes the door and goes to flop down on his couch. I look around the house, an unfamiliar one I’d never been in before. Jeremy looks over the back of the couch at me. “Make yourself at home.” I fidget my fingers and sit at the end of the couch he was laying on. “Did you eat dinner at the arena?” He asks almost politely. I look at him and shake my head.

He stands up and walks into his kitchen. I look over at him and furrow my brows. “What’re you doing?” “Making you something to eat.” He shrugs. “Aren’t I supposed to be doing stuff for you?” He looks back at me and smiles. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be nice.” “That’s a first” I half joke. “Remotes on the table.” He says as he looks through his fridge. I grab the remote and turn a random movie on that looked interesting.

In about half an hour Jeremy returns to the couch with two plates of food and two sodas. I smile up at him, “thank you” he laughs and sits down next to me as he put the plates on his coffee table. “Don’t thank me yet, I’ve only asked you to do one thing so far” I shrug “I guess so.”

Both of our attentions focus on the tv as we eat. Well, both of our attention were on the tv. My neck grew hot as I felt Jeremy’s gaze on my legs and then up to my face. I decide to tease him a bit, I look over at him and our eyes lock. “See something you like?.” He smirks and stands up. “Maybe I do” he takes the dishes to the kitchen, setting them in the kitchen sink. I roll my eyes, I knew he’d tell me to do them later.

Jeremy sits back down on the couch, this time closer than before, resting his arm behind my head on the couch. As I stare at the tv Jeremy focuses his gaze back onto me. He takes in a deep breath and lets his other hand fall to my exposed thigh. An obvious expression of discomfort falls onto my face and Jeremy takes his hand back quickly.

“Shit. I’m sorry, y/n- i thought-“ my eyes widen at his apology, I look back at him. “Jeremy- it’s not that! I mean… look at me!” I point to myself, “I’m a nobody! You’re famous, you have a good career, a future! I’d just weigh you down.” Jeremy stares at me dumbfounded. “That’s the only reason?” I look at him and nod. A stupid smile spreads across his face. His hand falls back onto my thigh, his pointer finger drawing shapes.

“Then pretend.” I furrow my brows as I look back up to him, our faces only inches apart. “What?” “Pretend I’m a nobody, pretend no one knows who I am, you’re the only person who knows me.” He whispers, his lips ghosting over mine. “That’s the second thing I want you to do, y/n…” I stare at his lips for a second then his eyes. “Jeremy, I-“ “please” a smile cracks on my face as I nod and mumble an “okay.”

He smiles and presses his lips to mine. His hands fine home on my hips, his soft kisses soon turning needy and sloppy. He disconnects our lips as he picks me up effortlessly. He connects our lips once again as he carries me up his stairs and into his room. He lays me down on his bed gently before pulling away to pull his own shirt off. He hungrily slams his lips back to mine, hovering above me.

My hands tangle in his soft hair as we make out, my moans filling his mouth. His hands move to under my short dress, groping my thighs. He pauses his rough kissing for half a second before pulling away and standing up. He fumbles with his belt breathlessly. “Knees. Now.” He pulls his belt off and pulls his jeans down along with his boxers down to his ankles, stepping out of them. I smirk and fall to my knees in front of him.

“Good girl” he praises breathlessly, tangling his hand in my hair, making a makeshift ponytail. I grab his fully erect dick and kitten lick it. I stare up at him and smile. “What do you want me to do for you?” Jeremy stares down at me breathlessly for a moment. “You dirty fucking slut” he laughs, “all the way, I wanna touch the back of your throat, wanna feel you gag around me like the slut you are.”

I do as he says and suck him as far as I could into my mouth. My eyes stay on his as I feel throat him, moving my head back and forth as tears prick in my eyes. Jeremy takes control when he feels me faltering. He uses my hair and moves me back and forth on his dick, forcing me to gag as he stuffs himself down my throat. I swallow around him and he throws his head back, fucking his load down my throat. He pulls off of me, his chest heaving as he pulls his dick out of my mouth with a *pop*.

He grasps my chin softly and runs his thumb over my bottom lip. “Swallow all of it for me.” I nod and swallow it all down, sticking my tongue out as proof. “Such a good girl.” He looks up at the bed. “Lay down.” I nod and lay on the bed. Jeremy takes it as his turn to fall to his knees. He grabs my ankles and pulls my legs off the bed. He rubs his hands over my knees and up my thighs. “Open” he whispers and like clockwork I open my legs for him, my dress hiking up to expose my clothed cunt.

He softly kisses each one of my knees before kissing up my legs. He smiles up at me before pressing a soft kiss to my core through my panties before pulling them off. He licks a stripe up my cunt, forcing my head to roll back. “This wet for me?” I nod eagerly, “thought so.” His lips connect themselves onto my clit, sucking hard. I moan out and tangle my hands into his hair as I arch my back, pushing myself forward onto his face.

He moves two of his fingers to prod at my hole. He looks up at me as he moves figure eights with his tongue on my clit before pushing his two thick fingers into me. This mere movement pushes me over the edge. I cry out as I cum all over his face. He laughs and pulls away, licking his lips predatorily. He stands up and pulls the dress over my head, leaving both of us completely naked.

He crawls up on the bed, hovering over me to connect our lips once again. I rehome my hands on his back, scratching softly. I moves one of his hands down to align his dick with my cunt. “Ready?” He looks down at me and I nod softly. He nestles his head in my shoulder as he pushes into me. I gasp and dig my fingers into his back. He sits in the same spot for a moment, letting me get used to him before moving.

He grabs my legs and rests them on his shoulders. “Tell me if you wanna stop, okay?” I nod “words.” “Okay, I promise” “good girl” he grasps my thighs and starts moving. I arch my back off the bed in pleasure, moaning out his name repeatedly. It felt as if with every moan he got faster.

He moves his thumb to my clit, rubbing the same pattern he used with his tongue. I grasp my hands to his wrists, not being able to reach anything else. He pounds into me, each thrust harder and faster to the last. “Cum for me, baby” I pinch my eyes shut and squirt on his cock, my juices reaching his stomach. I cover my face in embarrassment. “Don’t do that. Move your hands, now.” I reluctantly move my hands.

“That’s it.” He slams into me, his pace faltering. “W-where do you want it?” I whine out at his words. “In me- want it in me.” The words pushed him over the edge, his warm seed spilling into me. He flops down next to me, catching his breath. After a moment he gets up. “Where are you going?” I furrow my brows “calm down, I’ll be right back” he smiles.

He returns with a warm damp cloth and a glass of ice water. He sets the ice water down in the side table before pressing a soft kiss to my lips. He moves his hand with the cloth down to clean me up. I whine at the feeling, still sensitive. He presses a kiss to my forehead once he’s done, throwing the cloth in his clothes basket before shutting the lights off and crawling into the bed next to me.

He rubs my face softly with his thumb, sighing deeply. “Just one more thing I want you to do before you fall asleep” Jeremy suggests, I furrow my brows at him. He laughs “Will you be my girlfriend?” I smile brightly.

“Yes”

[lescarbille]

481 Pounds of Fine

Landoscar | 23K | College AU

Lando Norris is a boy with a blinding smile, showing the slight gap between his two front teeth and two dimples. His skin is tanned as if he spent the school year travelling the world. His look is the most striking for Oscar, a mixture of blues, greens, greys with hazel glitter, like an ocean. The narrowing of his eyes gives him a mischievous look, a mixture of: “I have never done anything wrong in my life” and “I am the most evil gremlins you have ever met”.

Oscar swallowed.

“So? Please tell me that’s twenty quid, I only have twenty quid on me.”

Oscar shakes his head to take his attention away from Lando, before looking at his screen. Under a flash of pixels, the sum appears, and Oscar can't help but gasp in surprise and lean over to check the sum.

“You're fined four hundred and eighty-one pounds.”

---

Lando has lost books and Oscar is a cute student who work at the library.

[thekristen999]

Inspiration Saturday

Still plugging away a few words at a time on the Crash Fic.

Previous snippets here.

Buck wanted to tell him not to worry, but his hand continued to throb.

He stared down at the split holding it together. It occurred to him how much he took his hands for granted. How complex they were. Twenty-seven bones, thirty-four muscles, over one hundred ligaments and tendons, numerous blood vessels, nerves, and soft tissue. All in one compact little appendage.

“Do you wonder what life would be like if we hand fins instead of hands?”

“I don’t think the thought has ever crossed my mind.”

“Hmm,” Buck said.

If they had fins, they wouldn't be able to do much on land.

A crinkling noise caught Buck’s attention. He looked over where Eddie pulled an emergency blanket out of the kit.

“I forgot that was in there.”

Eddie offered him a wan smile, unfolding the thin foiled blanket and wrapping it around their shoulders. Buck snorted. “I feel like a gas station burrito.”

Eddie laughed at that. “It’ll help us retain body heat.”

The rain pounded down all around them. The cold seeped into his bones, making everything hurt more.

Buck’s head throbbed, and now and then, his vision would swim. He tried to focus on Eddie, using him as an anchor in the storm of his thoughts. But even Eddie’s face seemed to blur at times, making him even more disoriented.

..

tagging those who may be interested.

@mellaithwen @andavs @dangerpronebuddie @favouritealias

@spotsandsocks @tizniz @exhuastedpigeon @homerforsure

@ci5mates @thebestbooksaround @fleurdebeton @diazsdimples

@hippolotamus @ronordmann @spotsandsocks @thelikesofus

@tulipfromtheinternet

[reconstructwriter]

Mushroom Foraging

So a couple months ago I found a mushroom while hiking at my local park, snapped a picture and asked a few naturalist friends what it was. 100% lion’s mane mushroom go back and pick it! But I either couldn’t find the exact tree or someone else had snatched it. The mushroom that got away.

A few days and I find more unknown mushrooms. Friends say they’re probably edible oyster mushrooms but not 100% sure so I decided to do more research.

More research concluded they were oyster mushrooms but by then my finds were too old and bug-ridden to eat. Missed my chance. Spent the next month looking for another one and doing more research.

December floods bring oysters of the woods.

This one log on my hiking route – I go by it almost every day – just exploded with oyster mushrooms. One day it looked normal and the day after the rain?

This, the whole way down:

I took one home, double-checked with my new field guide (thank you parents!) and took a spore print just to make one hundred percent sure they were edible oyster mushrooms. Then ate like three tablespoons and waited twenty-four hours.

Didn’t need to call poison control. Yay success!

I’ve taken home several pounds of these and I’ve still barely made a dent in the amount of wild edibles on this one freaking log!

I swear my hand is under this thing

The mushrooms were wet from the rain but I knew you could wring a lion’s mane mushroom out so I just did the same with these and they cooked up fine. I now have two large freezer bags stuffed full of dry sautéed oyster mushrooms for a rainy dry day.

I’ve also just taken a morning walk, gone by that log, taken a mushroom and just come back and made breakfast. Like I was stopping by a grocery store. This is (obviously) my first time really foraging for food and I am just bamboozled by free food. Free food that’s normally pricier than meat!