#my fingers are itching to write something

[artficlly]

letters of devotion [one-shot]

marvel band au drummer!bucky x waitress! reader

you sent filthy, anonymous letters and nudes to the drummer of your favourite band, never expecting he’d read them. never expecting he’d keep them. never expecting he’d show up at your diner one night, more than eager to fulfil your fantasies.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, multiple orgasms, forced orgasm (consentual), oral (f receiving), fingering, p n v, unprotected sex, praise kink, explicit consent, aftercare, reader is horny lol, daydreaming smut scenarios, beefy bucky, band au, diner au, love letters, fangirl/obsession, lowkey depressed/sad reader, bucky is a menace, bucky matches reader's freak levels, use of the petname sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: hi, thank you for 5k followers! as a treat, have this absolute filth. i think this is the closest you'll ever get to smut w no plot from me lmao, i went through every stage of grief writing this. inspired by dinner in america + spun my prompt wheel and got band au / beefy - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were starting to think your obsession with the Winter Soldier wasn’t just unhealthy, it was pathological.

Two hours into your shift at Sal’s Diner, buried in the itch of your polyester uniform and the reek of burnt coffee, you’d already drifted off into fantasy more times than you could count on both hands. Daydreams clawed at the edge of your attention like static, buzzing louder with every second you spent beneath the flickering fluorescents. You’d nearly poured hot coffee straight into a trucker’s lap. His barked ‘watch it!’ still rang in your ears as you’d scrambled with a rag, your hands shaking as liquid pooled across the table. You’d forgotten table four’s extra side of bacon, missed table six’s banana smoothie with extra whip.

You hated this place. Hated the chipped pink tiles, the dusty jukebox that hadn’t worked in years, the scent of grease that soaked into your skin no matter how many showers you took. But more than anything, you hated the sameness of it all, the way this town never changed, never grew. How every face that passed through the diner was one you recognised, and worse, how they all recognised you.

You were twenty-something, with nothing to show for it except a minimum-wage job and a slowly decaying sense of purpose. Your apartment was a shoebox with paper-thin walls and a view of a brick wall. Every night, like clockwork, the baby next door shrieked, the couple upstairs screamed and stomped, and the couple across the hall fucked like they were being paid for it. You’d eat something microwaved and vaguely beige, drink cold coffee you forgot you poured, and zone out to reality TV you weren’t really watching. Housewives screamed through muffled speakers while your brain quietly rotted.

Everyone else’s lives were in motion—marriages, babies, master’s degrees, weekend getaways with friends and Instagram sunsets. Yours was stuck on pause, the buffer wheel spinning endlessly. You kept saying yes when Sal asked you to cover a double, because what else did you have to do? You had no plans. No passions. No clue what you even wanted.

You had tried. God, you had tried. College ended in a quiet breakdown and a withdrawal form. Relationships fizzled before they even warmed. Nothing stuck. You felt like you were wading through a fog that everyone else seemed immune to, like they all had a compass pointing to some clear, shining future, and you were just circling in the dark.

If anything still lit you up, it was music.

It was the only thing that made you feel. You were always listening, earbuds in as soon as you left work, blasting bass-heavy playlists on your way home, tapping your fingers to invisible rhythms behind the counter. You hummed under your breath while restocking napkin holders and scrubbing dishes to the beat of crashing drums. Music drowned out the ache, the boredom, of everything you didn’t want to think about. It was the closest you got to peace.

And your salvation came in the form of one band: The Howling Commandos.

They were everything you weren’t—loud, chaotic, unapologetic. All raw vocals and snarling guitars, like rebellion captured in sound. You clung to their music like a lifeline. Their songs made you feel invincible, if only for three minutes and forty-two seconds at a time. You stalked their socials like a religion, hoping they'd announce a show in your town. Underground gigs, secret venues, cryptic posts…the mystery only made you want them more.

And they were hot. Unbelievably so. You didn’t even know what they looked like. They performed in ski masks, their identities always hidden, but that just added to the appeal. They were anonymous, untouchable. A fantasy you could project anything onto. Big, muscled silhouettes thrashing under stage lights, voices full of rage and sorrow. 

And the Winter Soldier, the drummer—he was your favourite delusion of all.

He was the biggest, a towering shadow behind the drum kit, all brute force and brooding stillness. Maybe it was just the size of him that drove you wild, the thick bands of muscle in his arms, the way his thighs flexed as he worked the bass pedal. His hands were massive, wrapped tight around his drumsticks like they could break bones just by holding on too hard. You’d close your eyes when one of their songs hit its peak, feel the rhythm pounding in your chest, and imagine those hands wrapped around your waist. Pressing down your hips. Spreading your thighs. Keeping you still while he—

The shrill clang of the service bell sliced through your fantasy.

“Oi, girl!” Sal’s voice barked from the kitchen, all gravel and phlegm. “Plates for table three! Move it!”

You blinked hard, swallowing the heat that had risen to your cheeks. “Sorry, Sal,” you muttered, forcing your legs to move, dragging yourself away from the milkshake machine with the weight of a thousand unmet fantasies.

Because the truth was... yeah, you were obsessed.

Not just a fangirl. Not just a casual listener with a couple of favourite tracks. You were consumed by the Winter Soldier. The mystery, the sound, the brutal power behind the drum kit. You had no musical talent yourself, no rhythm in your bones, no dreams of making it big. But still, music was your only lifeline. And him? He was the rope you clung to when it felt like you might finally let go.

So, you found your own way to contribute. Your own warped form of expression. Your own art.

Love letters.

It had started innocently enough. Just a few pages of breathless admiration, scrawled out after long shifts while your brain buzzed from caffeine and exhaustion. You confessed your devotion to the band, to the music, to him. You wrote about how their songs made the world feel bearable. You poured out thoughts like they were diary entries, lyrics from a girl whose life was anything but lyrical. You didn’t expect a reply, you weren’t stupid. You imagined he probably received plenty of letters from fans. But the act of writing? It helped, it made the loneliness less loud.

But the longer you went without hearing back, the longer you worked the closing shift in a sweatbox diner and watched your life go nowhere, the more unhinged the letters became.

Passion turned to desire. Pages and pages of filthy, desperate confessions. You wrote about how you wanted him to bend you over your shitty couch, how you’d beg if he made you. You described exactly how his hands would feel gripping your hair, how his voice would sound in your ear as he pushed into you. You stopped holding back. The words poured out of you like something exorcised.

And then came the photos.

You’d found an old thrift-store polaroid camera, the kind that spat out little grainy prints with bad lighting. On your braver days—the lonely, horny, bored out of your fucking mind days—you’d strip down in your bedroom, the blinds barely tilted shut. You never showed your face. That wouldn’t be on brand, you gave him anonymity right back.

Your body became the message. Lace underwear clinging to your hips, the curved lines of your thighs spread wide. Some days you kept it tasteful, just the bare suggestion of skin. Other times, when the ache got too strong and the fantasy too vivid, you’d pose with your fingers between your legs, soaked and aching, back arched.

You’d kiss the pages with bright red lipstick, spray your favourite perfume, and seal them tight in mismatched envelopes.

You called them Letters of Devotion.

And maybe, deep down, beneath the layers of lust and delusion, you still hoped he’d reply. That he’d see your letters—your alias, your handwriting, your stories—and feel something. Anything.

Maybe you were a little crazy.

Or maybe it was the only thing keeping you sane.

—

It was late.

The kind of late where the world outside the diner windows had gone completely black, where the parking lot was empty save for a few tired trucks and one lone streetlamp flickering. Your feet ached in your shoes, cheap sneakers with soles worn thin from double shifts and the way you dragged yourself around this place like a ghost. You’d been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, fueled by lukewarm coffee and pure spite. Even the radio had given up playing its same old loops and was spitting static.

The bell above the door jingled, and you glanced up from the counter, expecting maybe the regular who came in late for grilled cheese and three cups of black coffee. But instead, four men walked in.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

They didn’t look like locals. Not the usual crowd of truckers or farmers passing through. No, these guys were something else. All broad shoulders and heavy steps, tattoos trailing up their forearms and necks, worn boots and dark jackets dusted with road dirt. One of them had a scar splitting through his eyebrow. Another had arms so thick he barely fit into the booth. 

Your gaze snagged on one in particular.

He slid into the booth facing you, his leather jacket creaking as he settled in, and you swore the breath stalled in your lungs for a beat too long. He was massive. Broad through the chest and shoulders, thighs spread wide like he didn’t know how to sit small. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, his mouth pulled into a neutral line—neither a frown nor a smile. Serious. Watchful. His hair was dark and thick, ruffled like he had dragged his hand through it a few too many times. 

You forced yourself to move, grabbing your notepad and approaching with a practised smile that felt barely glued to your face.

“Welcome to Sal’s,” you said, as cheerily as you could force. “Kitchen’s closing soon, so if you want something hot, order now.”

One of them, the one with the scar, grinned and cracked a joke about ‘always liking it hot’, but you barely registered it. You were still stealing glances at him. He didn’t say anything, just looked up at you with those cool eyes, and nodded toward the menu. 

“Burger and fries. Black coffee.”

“Sure thing,” you managed. You scribbled it down, turned before they could see the way your cheeks flushed.

Behind the counter, you leaned against the milkshake machine, heart still thudding, mind absolutely not on the order. You watched them from the corner of your eye. They spoke in low voices, murmuring to each other, intense and focused

And all you could think about was him.

You didn’t know why. Maybe it was the size of him, the stoic vibe, the fact that his shape reminded you of The Winter Soldier. Maybe it was the way he didn’t talk unless he needed to, the way he moved like his body was too powerful to be casual. Or maybe you were just so sleep-deprived that your brain was automatically generating pornographic content to keep itself entertained. You could imagine him behind the drum kit, imagine his face behind the ski mask. Maybe you would hold onto this memory, think of his stormy blue eyes when your core was hot and wet, fingers already scrabbling for your polaroid, ready for another Letter of Devotion as you came and came again at your own hand—

Your eyes drifted back to the booth. 

You imagined what it would feel like to be pressed against that chest, what it would sound like if he whispered in your ear with that voice. What it would feel like to have his hand sliding up your thigh beneath your diner uniform. You imagined him fisting your hair, guiding your head as he fucked your mouth slow and deep, until the cheap linoleum beneath your knees squeaked—

You were so deep in the fantasy that when you blinked, he was looking at you.

Direct. Curious. Like he knew.

Your heart skipped. You jerked your gaze away so fast you nearly knocked over the salt shaker. You busied yourself behind the counter, wiping an already clean surface, trying not to combust.

—

Eventually, the guys finished eating. Paid in cash, left a decent tip. One of them winked at you on the way out. He just gave you one last lingering glance as the bell over the door jingled again, then disappeared into the night.

You exhaled, a little dazed. Tried not to think about the heat still curling in your stomach.

And then you noticed it.

In the booth, the one they’d just vacated, sat a black backpack. Left behind, half-tucked beneath the table like someone forgot it in a rush.

You looked out the window. Their taillights were already gone.

Somehow…it felt like a sign. 

You rounded the counter on instinct, hands moving on autopilot as you stacked plates and wiped down the booth, the backpack heavy in your peripheral vision. You slipped into the kitchen, scraping leftovers into one of the giant bins, trying to look busy while Sal shouted down the phone near the walk-in freezer. Something about plumbing. Something about the hot water. You weren’t really listening. Not with your thoughts spinning like a carousel.

Your fingers twitched with anticipation.

Had he left it behind on purpose?

Maybe it was nothing, an honest mistake. Just a man in a hurry, too focused on the road ahead to notice what he’d forgotten. Or maybe, just maybe, he had been distracted. By you. Had you gotten into his head the same way he’d buried himself in yours? Had he been sneaking glances the way you had? Imagining things?

God, the possibilities curled hot between your legs.

You were elbow-deep in soapy water when Sal came stomping back in, muttering curses. 

“Dahla’s moanin’ that the hot water ain’t workin’,” he barked, grabbing his keys off the hook. “I gotta run. You good to lock up?”

You nodded, barely looking up. “No problem.”

He grunted in the barest minimum of thanks and was gone within the minute. You waited, counting the seconds until the crunch of his boots on gravel faded, until the cough of his truck engine roared and peeled off down the road.

You all but bolted to the front of the diner, heart hammering in your throat. You hadn’t even locked the front door. The open sign still glowed in the window like a forgotten thought. You didn’t care. Your hands were still damp from the sink as you reached for the bag, tugging it up onto the counter with a soft thud.

It sat there, plain and unassuming. Black canvas, one shoulder strap fraying. Just a backpack.

You stared for a second.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A note? An ID with a name you could finally put to that face? A number scrawled on a napkin meant only for you?

Your lip caught between your teeth as you slowly tugged the zipper down.

The contents were disappointing at first. A couple of old t-shirts, faded and smelling faintly of smoke and sweat. Crumpled food wrappers. A phone charger. Some receipts. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing romantic. Your heart dipped—

Then froze.

Nestled at the bottom, slightly bent at the corners, was a thick bundle of envelopes. Cream-colored. Handwritten. Lightly smudged ink. It wouldn’t have been that strange if it weren’t for the fact that you recognised them. 

It was the smell of the perfumed paper that hit you immediately. You knew that smell. The faint trail of your favourite perfume, sweet and smoky. The red lipstick stain pressed into the corner, your shade. That was your kiss. Your handwriting.

Your fingers moved with nervous urgency, fumbling as you grabbed the stack and rifled through it.

Your letters.

At least a dozen of them. All opened. 

You seized one at random, and your hand trembled as you pulled the page free. A small clatter followed as a polaroid slipped loose and hit the countertop face-up.

You felt the heat rush to your face like a punch.

You. 

It was you. 

One of the more explicit ones. Black lace panties, expensive, a splurge from when you were still clinging to the idea of romance. Your thighs spread wide. Your hand, barely hidden behind delicate fabric, buried between your folds, caught mid-motion. Your other hand was out of frame, probably holding the camera. You remembered that night vividly. Remembered how worked up you'd been, how starved. You hadn’t just been horny, you’d been aching, lonely.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you slowly unfolded the letter, the edges soft from wear. Like it had been regularly reread. Your cursive spilt across the page, desperate and messy. A confession. A fantasy—

I had a dream about you last night.

Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was a memory from some other life. One where you knew me, touched me, ruined me like you were meant to.

You bent me over the arm of my couch. One hand flat on my back, keeping me down, keeping me still. The other between my legs. You didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. You slid your fingers through my pussy and hummed like you liked what you felt. Then you pressed two fingers inside me, slow at first, then rougher, curling them just right until my legs shook and I moaned like I’d break apart.

You didn’t stop. Not when I came. Not even when I begged. You made me take it, over and over, until I was soaked and shaking, face pressed to the cushion, drooling into the fabric while you watched. While you owned me.

And only then did you unzip your jeans.

You didn’t say anything. Just dragged the tip of your cock through the mess you’d made of me and pushed in, inch by inch, nice and slow. I remember crying out, legs spreading wider like my body already knew what to do, like it wanted to be ruined by you. You fucked me deep. Kept me bent over. Kept that hand wrapped around my throat when I tried to lift my head.

And when I finally looked back at you, barely able to keep my eyes open, you grabbed my jaw and made me say it.

‘Tell me who you belong to.’

And I did. Over and over. 

I woke up soaked through my sheets, hand still between my thighs, still aching. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I can’t stop imagining this. Wanting this. Needing it—

“Why are you going through my stuff?” A deep, gravelly voice jolted you back to reality. The letter slipped from your fingers and fluttered back onto the counter

You hadn’t heard the bell.

Hadn’t heard the door open.

Hadn’t realised the man you’d spent the last hour wet and restless for was standing just a few feet away. Arms crossed over his broad chest, head tilted, expression somewhere between amused and dangerous.

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to breathe through the thick, electric panic that was blooming behind your ribs.

“I—” 

You fumbled for words, your voice catching and unravelling as heat rushed up your neck. “You left it behind. I thought maybe I could find ID or a name or—I wasn’t trying to—”

Your voice faded as he took a single step forward. Just one. He was already towering above you. You stood frozen behind the counter, gripping the edge. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or drop to your knees.

And then, against all your better judgment, the words tumbled out.

“Why do you—how do you have these?! I didn’t write them for you, I wrote them for—”

You cut yourself off. Because you were watching it happen in real time, the slow curl of understanding at the edge of his mouth, the glint of something unholy blooming in those stormy eyes. A smile pulled at his lips, knowing and wicked.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, half-horrified, half-aroused. “Unless… unless you’re him. The Winter Soldier—”

He stepped closer, until the edge of the counter was the only thing between you and the solid heat of his body. His gaze dragged down your face, your throat, like he was memorising you.

Then he leaned in, just slightly, and spoke, low and lethal.

“I read every single one.”

Your entire body flushed hot.

Every. Single. One.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out, just the soft stutter of your breath as your brain struggled to catch up. You were painfully aware of your appearance. The grease-slicked apron, your hair pulled back in a lazy bun, the sweat still drying at your temples from a long shift. You were supposed to be invisible here. 

But now he was here. Standing over you. Real. Breathing the same air. And he’d read it. All of it. All the filthy, aching, needy things you’d never even said out loud.

“You…” you rasped. “You read them?”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You think I just collect random strangers’ letters full of desperate, pretty little fantasies?”

His voice was quieter now, just above a whisper. It curled around your throat like a hand.

“I started reading the first one on tour,” he went on. “Thought it’d be funny, another obsessed fan. But then I kept reading…kept waiting for more to arrive.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You don’t hold back, sweetheart. Not even a little.”

You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t think—I never thought anyone would actually—”

“—read it?” he finished, one brow raising. “Come on. You write shit like that and don’t expect it to crawl into someone’s brain? The way you describe it, how you want it… fuck.” He leaned closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear. “You got no idea what you’ve been doing to me. You’re like some kinda genius, some kinda fuckin’ succubus. Do you know how many songs I’ve tried to write about you, about those fuckin’ photos?”

Your knees went weak, pulse thudding behind your ribs like a warning bell.

“Which one was your favourite?” you asked before you could stop yourself, breathless and reckless. 

His grin returned, dark, indulgent. “The one where I make you cum over and over again,” he murmured. “And you beg for it, like a good girl. And you beg until you're so fucked out you can’t even speak, just moan and take every last inch of me.”

Your breath hitched.

He studied your face, then slowly, very slowly, reached out and picked up the polaroid you’d dropped. He held it between two fingers, glancing down at it with a hum of approval.

“You still have these panties?” he asked casually, like he was asking for a drink recommendation.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked up from the photo, and his expression turned serious in a way that made your stomach flip.

“What’s your address, sweetheart?” He asked.

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I’ll come by after you close up,” he added, voice low, fingers tapping on the counter. “You let me in and I’ll do everything you wrote about, hell, I’m ready to beg for it just lookin’ at you.”

—

You weren’t sure how you made it home without crashing your car.

Your hands shook the whole drive, knuckles white around the wheel, still sticky from the milkshake syrup you’d forgotten to wash off. The radio played something mindless, but you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat thudding behind your ribs like a fist.

You didn’t even turn the lights on when you burst through your apartment door. Just kicked it shut behind you, peeled off your apron, and headed straight for the shower. The water was too hot, scalding your skin, but you welcomed it. You scrubbed with your nicest soap, dragging the loofah hard over your flesh. Like you could wash off the diner grease, the lingering smell of cheap coffee. 

You towelled off in a hurry, slipping on lotion while your skin was still damp.

The panties were easy, the black lace ones from the photo. No bra. Just a thin cotton tank top, the kind that clung to every curve.

You paced your apartment like a storm was coming.

Checked your reflection.

Then checked it again.

Clean sheets. Dim light. The curtain pulled just enough. You caught yourself reaching to tidy the bookshelf, then stopped. What the fuck were you doing?

He didn’t care if your books were alphabetised. He was going to ruin you.

The knock came just after midnight.

You froze.

Your feet carried you to the door before your mind could catch up. You stared through the peephole, breath caught.

Still in that worn leather jacket, shoulders broad enough to fill the frame. His eyes were darker in the hallway light, but they still found the peephole like he knew you were watching.

Your fingers curled around the doorknob and tugged it open. 

He looked at you, eyes dragging down your bare legs, the hem of your tank top, the curve of your breasts beneath it. His jaw tensed like he was trying not to say something filthy right there in the hallway.

“You wore them,” he said at last, voice rough.

You swallowed. “You said you liked them.”

He stepped inside without another word, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. You stood barefoot on the rug, heart hammering in your chest as you looked up at him, your fingers twitching at your sides.

You parted your lips to speak, to say something, but you never got the chance.

Because he was on you in a second.

He crossed the room in two steps, grabbed you by the waist, and lifted you clean off the ground. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips as he shoved you against the wall. His mouth crashed down on yours, tongue sliding past your lips. 

You melted into him instantly, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, back arching to press yourself closer. When he finally pulled back, you were panting, dazed, lips wet and parted.

He carried you to the bedroom without asking and dropped you onto the bed, stepping back just enough to shrug off his jacket.

You whimpered. You didn’t mean to. It slipped out, needy and desperate, before you could stop it.

“Take off your shirt.”

Your hands trembled as you obeyed. You pulled the tank top over your head, exposing your bare chest to the warm lamplight. He watched you like a man starved, his eyes dragging slowly from your flushed face down to the curve of your breasts. You could feel the heat pooling between your thighs already, the lace of your panties damp and sticking to you.

He stripped his own shirt next.  “Lie down.”

You sank into the sheets, heart pounding, legs already falling open.

He crawled over you, his face right above yours. His fingers brushed your cheek, your jaw, then slid down to wrap gently around your throat.

“You want this, sweetheart?” he murmured. 

You whimpered again, nodding, thighs instinctively rubbing together.

“Words,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, I want this.”

He smirked, and then he dropped his mouth to your chest, biting softly at your nipple, soothing the sting with his tongue before moving lower. He kissed your ribs, your stomach, licking and dragging his teeth along every inch of skin until he reached your panties.

He hooked a finger under the waistband, met your gaze, and then ripped them off.

“Still my favourite pair,” he muttered, tossing the ruined lace aside. 

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue hot, thorough, relentless, he licked into you like a man on a mission. His hands gripped your thighs hard, spreading you wide, keeping you in place as you writhed beneath him. You sobbed, fingers digging into the sheets, your hips lifting off the mattress before his hand came down hard and held you still.

Your first orgasm crashed into you fast, so fast it stole your breath, tore the sound from your throat. You choked on it, body arching, tears prickling at your lashes.

But he didn’t stop.

Not even when you whimpered, not even when you trembled.

“I said over and over again,” he reminded you, dragging his tongue up your slit with obscene precision. “Beg for the next one.”

“Please—fuck, please—” you sobbed.

“That’s better, good girl.” The praise scraped low from his throat, barely audible over the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy.

You were already shaking, thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hands fisted in the sheets. But he didn’t slow, didn’t let up. His tongue worked you ruthlessly, slow when you needed fast, fast when you couldn’t take it. He read your body like a song he’d memorised, like he was playing you just to see how many ways he could make you fall apart.

He licked deep, flat and hard, then flicked his tongue tight against your clit until your hips jerked. Every time you gasped or moaned or bucked against his mouth, he made a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he muttered between strokes, his voice ragged.

You choked on a moan, your back arching off the mattress, but his hands clamped down and held you there.

“I can feel it,” he said, breath hot against you. “You’re close again, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you sobbed. “Fuck—please—”

“Not yet.”

He pulled back just enough to slide two fingers into you, thick and unforgiving. Your whole body snapped. He hooked them expertly, rubbing against that perfect spot deep inside, his mouth still latched to your clit, and your orgasm hit so violently you couldn’t even speak. Your cry caught in your throat, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your eyes rolled back as white-hot pleasure splintered through you.

You collapsed against the bed, panting, twitching, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause.

He licked through the aftershocks, fingers still curling inside you like he was searching for more.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled. “You said you wanted this. Said you wanted me to ruin you. That I could fuck you until you couldn’t speak.”

“I did—I do—fuck—I do!”

“Then take it.”

He leant back on his knees just enough to watch what he was doing, his fingers fucking in and out of you, soaked to the knuckle. Your juices dripped down the insides of your thighs, your pussy glistening in the warm light, flushed and swollen. He looked wrecked watching you, his cock straining hard against his pants.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, sliding his fingers out with a slow, slick pull that made you whimper. “Look at this fucking mess. You’re dripping, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, a sob tearing loose from your throat.

“I want it,” you gasped. “I want you. Please. I need you inside me—please—”

He moved fast.

One hand on his belt, jerking the buckle loose. The clink of metal echoed through the room, followed by the sound of fabric hitting the floor.

He stood at the edge of the bed, fully naked now. His cock was thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip, the veins along the shaft standing out as he wrapped his fist around it and stroked once with a tight grunt.

You couldn’t look away.

“I’ve been hard since the diner,” he said hoarsely, eyes locked on your wrecked body sprawled across the sheets. “Sat in the truck reading that last letter again, just thinking about how wet you’d be for me. How sweet you’d sound when you begged. How I’m gonna write that fuckin’ song about you, how I’ll write a whole fuckin’ album about you—”

You mewled again, tears slipping down your cheeks now, your thighs twitching open wider on instinct. 

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I’ll say it. I’ll say anything. Just give it to me.”

He climbed over you slowly, bracing himself on his elbows as he lined up at your entrance.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dark with hunger. “You’re gonna take every inch.”

And then he pushed in.

You cried out as the head of his cock stretched you open. Your back arched off the bed, fingers scrambling at the sheets, your body twitching from overstimulation. Your pussy clenched tight around him on instinct.

“Shhh,” He murmured, his voice ragged as he held himself still. “You can take it. I know you can.”

He slid in another inch, slow, dragging, splitting you open around him.

You keened, helpless. The stretch burned, but the pressure—the way he filled you so deeply, so perfectly—made your toes curl. Your walls clamped down around him, greedy, desperate, already milking him without meaning to.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re tight. So fuckin’ tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands flew to his back, clawing at his skin, dragging down his spine. He was heavy and solid, his cock thick and pulsing as he fed you more inch by inch.

“Please,” you gasped, legs trembling on either side of his hips. “Please, fuck me—just do it—”

He let out a rough groan.

And then he sank the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a hard, final thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

Your body spasmed beneath his as he filled you to the hilt. 

He moaned above you, one arm sliding under your back, pulling you tighter against him, locking your bodies together.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice shaking. “How perfect you take me?”

You nodded frantically, tears slipping free, your hips rolling up to meet him before you even realised.

And then he started to move. Each thrust dragged the full length of him through your soaked pussy, grinding against that perfect spot inside you with unrelenting precision. You cried, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to keep him as deep as possible.

“You’re already squeezing me,” he groaned, fucking into you harder now. “Already so fucked out, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your eyes were glassy, lips parted, hands slipping uselessly across his slick back as he took you. His pace built, thrusts snapping forward faster, harder, making the headboard bang softly against the wall. 

“Beg for it again,” he panted against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. “Let me hear you say it.”

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—need it—need you—”

“That’s it.”

He shifted, changing the angle, sliding one hand beneath your ass and lifting you to meet his thrusts. The new position had you screaming, your body jerking, clenching tight as your orgasm slammed into you so hard it felt like falling. You convulsed around him, sobbing, your nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body begging without words.

But he didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, through your crying, through the way your body trembled and tried to curl in on itself. He held you open, held you down, every thrust bruising and perfect.

Your vision blurred. Your voice broke.

And still he kept going.

“You said you’d let me,” he growled. “Said I could fuck you until you couldn’t think straight.”

“You can,” you cried. “Please—just don’t stop—please—”

His mouth crashed down on yours, swallowing your scream as he finally lost his rhythm, his thrusts turning sloppy, urgent, his cock twitching inside you.

And then he came.

Hot and relentless, spilling inside you with a groan so wrecked it made you see god. He buried himself, grinding in as he filled you, a string of curses a rough whisper in your ear. 

You didn’t even realise you were crying again until he brushed the tears from your cheek.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You took it all. Just like I knew you would.”

You didn’t know how long you lay there, trembling and spent, your body still flushed and twitching in the aftermath. You couldn’t move. Could barely think. You were splayed across the mattress, your skin slick with sweat, your thighs sticky and sore, your pussy still aching from the stretch of him.

A large hand brushed damp strands of hair away from your forehead, gentle fingers stroking through your hair with surprising care. “There she is,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, bleary-eyed, lips parted but no words came. You were too fucked out to string together a thought, let alone a sentence. Your body was heavy, bones turned to syrup, and you felt the flutter of tears threaten again.

He leant over you, his skin warm where it pressed against yours, and kissed the side of your temple. A lingering kiss, soft and steady. One that said, I’m not in a hurry.

“You did so well,” he murmured against your skin.

You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed. “You know, I never even asked your name.” Your voice was hoarse, practically gravel from all the screaming and moaning.

You felt him smirk softly. “It’s James, but all my friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky…” you sighed, almost dreamily. “Suits you.”

Silence fell over both of you as you nuzzled his shoulder, dazed.

He stayed close, his hand never leaving your body, sliding down your arm, over your hip, then back up again. A slow, idle rhythm that kept you tethered to reality.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I read every word you wrote.” He finally whispered, enough to jolt you back to full consciousness. 

Your breath caught, eyes opening, but he kept going.

“I tried to write back, wanted to...” His thumb swept over your cheekbone. “I’m just no good with words, not in the way you are. Different from writing songs, I don’t know why. Was scared I’d fuck it up somehow, scare you off.”

He watched your face, his tone softening even more.

“I think I’ve spent this last year looking for you, whether I realised it or not. Like I knew I’d find you.”

Your chest ached. Your lips moved, trying to speak, but you only managed a faint, broken sound, a gasp, a sob, maybe a laugh. You weren’t sure. You were too far gone, too full of him, too unravelled.

“And now that I’ve found you?” he said, voice dropping low. “I’m not letting you go.”

With a shaking hand, you brushed a few fingers across his forehead, down his temple to the stubble of his jaw. His breath caught at the motion. “Yeah? You’ll take me away from this place? Make me happy like in my letters?”

A huff of laughter escaped his nose. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.”

---

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[cvldbones]

a friend of mine just reminded me of one of my favorite fic tropes, which is when one character in a pairing suddenly wakes up in the future where they’re together. and thinking about mel or frank waking up the day after their first shift in the future where they have a whole life is making me crazy

anon i've been thinking about this all day. i do not have enough thoughts to write something tangible unfortunately but like the buzz would go soooo hard

the first thing he notices is the ring on his finger. it's silver. fitted. he stares at his hand like it's on fire, trying to remember when the hell abby replaced it. they'd been talking about it for months - he'd lost some weight when he started the drugs and blamed it on his new marathon training regimen, which she, thankfully, believed - but the last thing he remembers from last night is her tear-streaked face as she slammed the door to their bedroom in his face. his back seizing a little as he tried to get comfortable on the couch. his hands itching for a pill. (all his extras were in their bathroom.)

but he is, quite notably, not on his couch in his living room. he doesn't think this room is even in his house, actually, because the walls are a pretty pale blue, and abby is the type of person to bring home four shades of white and ask, which one? (as if he could tell a difference? he's a doctor not a damn warlock.) the comforter, too. that's different. the one in his and abby's room is a thick, heavy duvet, the kind of thing he's always tossing off halfway through the night because he's sweating. but this is a soft, worn cotton. a quilt that feels like it's been washed a hundred times and just gets better each time.

frank stares around the room. is he hallucinating? that's not one of the symptoms he remembers from withdrawal the first time. but that had been opiates, so maybe benzos are different? he's wracking his brain to come up with an explanation when the door opens and he completely fucking short-circuits, because --

"mel?" he says, strangled.

she's wearing his t-shirt. that is the only thing he is 100% certain about right now. it's his favorite one from college, and he can see a hole near the armpit, and she's just... she's only wearing that. a pair of seamless underwear. hair tousled like someone had been running their hands through it.

she's leaning against the door frame. "you better get up if you don't want to be late," she chides, expression soft.

and, okay: he liked mel yesterday. she was sweet and sensitive and fucking good at the work in a way that was both innate and evidence of hard work, and she'd looked at him and seen past the tough facade he put up for his other colleagues. and she hadn't looked away.

but that still did not explain why she was half-naked in the same house as him wearing his fucking t-shirt and -

"is that a wedding ring?" he asked, staring at her left hand. she'd brushed some of her hair behind her ear petulantly, and there was the tiniest refraction of light, prisms dancing along the room thanks to the small beam of sun through the half-open curtains.

"ha, ha," she says with a roll of her eyes. "what's next, you come here often? i think you've used that one already this week."

"i've - "

"seriously, abby said she would kill us if we were late, so get up. especially," she adds over her shoulder, smile gone teasing, "if you want to join me in the shower."

he doesn't have time to respond. his entire soul leaves his body as she shucks off her - his - shirt and tosses it on the bed, leaving the room with a sly glint in her eye.

"what the fuck," he mutters under his breath.

[hannybunnie]

Serendipity

Clark Kent x fem! reader

Warning : English is not my first language. just fluff .

a/n : just wanted to write my fun little idea about how you met Clark Kent ♡ You can imagine any version of Clark Kent you want! (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠)

You were just looking at the flowers in front of a flower shop, choosing which flower to pick. And suddenly, you heard someone screaming. When you looked up, the lady from across the street was yelling something at you. You couldn't really hear her but she looked horrified.

You frowned. Then someone bumped into you roughly, causing you to trip and fall to the ground. You hissed when the surface of the concrete scratched your knee. Your thigh hurts.

When you glanced up, the tall building was collapsing, the pieces of glasses were falling down, some of them managed to scrape your face. Tears ran down your cheeks as you tried to get up but you couldn't. You looked around for help but people were just running for their life that no one seemed to notice you.

You closed your eyes, maybe this is the end. This is how you died , you think. Then all of a sudden, someone picked you up.

The soft blowing of the wind, your head against a solid chest, You slowly opened your eyes, everything was blurry at first and when the vision became clear, you saw the sky and you saw him.

“ Superman “ You whispered. He looked down at you and smiled.

“ You're alright now, ma’am “ Your heart skipped a beat.

He finally lowered down to the ground. You realized he was dropping you off at a park, a little far from the place the building just collapsed. You yelped as the pain shot up across your legs when you tried to stand up. You stumbled forward a bit. His hands moved to your waist to hold you. Your breath caught in your throat.

“ Are you sure I can leave you here? I can take you home” He offered. The intense gaze of his was making you flustered.

“ No, no! It's okay. I’m sure you have other important things to do” You insisted as you looked down at your feet. You gasped when he picked you up, gently placing you on the bench.

" Do you have someone to call?” He asked.

“ Yes” You muttered. When you glanced up, he was staring at you. Then— his hand softly touched your face. He was looking at the splits on your cheeks and forehead with concern.

Your eyes widened , you felt your face heat up. Unable to do anything, you just gazed at him, leaning into his touch just barely. You failed to notice that his cheeks turned into a fainted shade of pink.

After a while, he drew his hand back with a hint of hesitation. His fingers itched to touch you again.

“ So, um… I’ll be going”

Sadness hits you like a truck. Your gaze dropped.

“ Oh, okay “ Your voice was small. You didn't even know why you felt that way. You literally just met him. It wasn't like you didn't know who he was. Superman was all over the news and TV, your family and friends had talked about him more than once, but you never paid attention to him before. You will probably never see him again like this.

“ Goodluck” You mumbled, smiling up at him, trying not to show any sadness.

He nodded, starting to walk away from you. Your shoulder dropped, sighing as you took out your phone to call one of your friends. You stared at his back, hands gripping your phone slightly, waiting for your friend to pick up her phone.

And then, he stopped walking. Your heart beating faster and faster as he walked closer to you again.

“ Ma’am , May— I know your name please?” He almost fumbled with his words.

You gazed up at him shyly as you told him your name. He nodded, hand nervously touching the back of his neck, like he didn't know what to do next.

“ I hope we meet again” Your stomach flipped at his words.

“ I hope so too” You giggled.

He grinned at you, eyes filled with amusement. And he flew up to the sky.

You closed your eyes, smiling like a lovesick fool. You looked down at your phone, panicked when you saw the call had been going on for 2 minutes. You didn't even realize that your friend had picked up the phone.

She's going to tease you so much …. but at least she didn't know who he was.

“ I hope we meet again “

You in fact did meet him again a month later. He brought you flowers too.

[joluvsfinnick]

The Columnist

f!fashion journalist reader x model finnick odair pt.1

summary - she writes columns. he wears the clothes she drags. when panem’s most beloved victor accidentally likes a tweet accusing her of being secretly obsessed with him, all hell breaks loose. online and off. enemies-to-lovers, Capitol style.

a/n - a mix between a smau and regular fic. please be nice, its my first smau🗿 i hope its not too jumbled.

wc; i have no idea. but tis long. good luck babes

NIGHT OF THE EVENT | 9:07 pm | the president’s mansion

“You’re staring. Hard.” Cinna’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink—once, twice—before dragging your gaze away from the blonde across the ballroom. Finnick Odair, bronzed like a god and dressed like… a lost tourist in a couture accident.

“I’m repulsed,” you mutter, swirling your wine like it might wash the image from your mind.

Cinna chuckles beside you. “It’s not that bad. His regular stylist caught something, so they called in a last-minute replacement.”

“That doesn’t explain the silly armor. Or the belt. Or—” you pause, squinting, “whatever’s happening with those shoes. Honestly, I’d rather marry Caesar Flickerman than be caught dead in that outfit.”

Cinna bursts into laughter. “That’s dramatic. Even for you.”

“Am I wrong?”

“…No.”

You smirk, then murmur almost to yourself, “Kiss, Marry, Exile.”

Cinna raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You nod subtly toward the crowd. “A game. I’ve been playing it all night. One to kiss, one to marry, one to exile. Based entirely on what they’re wearing tonight.”

He leans in, intrigued. “Go on.”

“Kiss Cashmere, her dress tonight? Chef’s kiss. Marry Caesar, strictly for the money. Not because that afterburner suit was anything special, but it was expensive. And exile Finnick, obviously. Because those shoes are a war crime.”

Cinna snorts into his drink. “New article in the making?”

You glance over your glass with a sly smile. “Not a bad idea.”

—

AFTER THE PARTY - 4:32 AM

Your heels hit the floor with a dull thud as you kick them off by the door, barely missing the pile of other shoes you’ve promised to organize. The sequins from your dress still itch at your shoulder, and your head is pulsing with the ghost of champagne and Capitol noise. You groan, tugging your hair free from its pins as you cross your penthouse in a daze, grabbing the green juice you left in the fridge like a peace offering to your liver.

By the time you sit at your desk, the sun is rising.

“Marry Caesar,” you mumble to yourself, cracking your knuckles. “Kiss Cashmere. Exile Finnick Odair.” You pause, let the silence settle for a second, then let out a quiet, amused exhale.

You open your laptop. The keys feel too loud in the morning stillness, but your fingers move fast, your kind of fast. That special buzz crawling up your spine that only happens when the words are sharp and the target’s golden.First, a title. Something simple. Something cruel.

KISS, MARRY, EXILE: Capitol Gala Edition

And then, you begin to write.

—

liked by effietrinket, thecinna, and 352,829 others

@/thecolumnist: had an amazing time last night. between mingling with panem’s finest, gossiping with Cinna, and dodging a few questionable accessories, i may have come up with something new for the next article. let’s just say: it’s a game. and some of you won’t like how it ends. dropping at 8pm tonight. xx.

view all 2,194 comments

glimmerglow: WAIT WHAT DO YOU MEAN A GAME??

district1style: omg what i’m so here for it

fashionfiend44: i’m scared and obsessed already

caesarsnumber1fan: WE’RE READY

effietrinket: already know this is going to be amazing!☺️ liked by author❤️

odairnation: omg??? finnick was there too. PUHLEASE tell me you saw how good he looked

↳ thecolomnist: oh i saw him alright!

thecinna: curious to see who survives your little game. i’ll be reading 👀🖤 liked by author❤️

caesarflickerman: should i be excited or nervous? either way, i’m clearing my schedule 💅✨ liked by author❤️

30 MINUTES BEFORE POSTING | 7:30PM

Writing it was easy. Super easy. Judging or critiquing has always been your thing. How else would you have made it this far in the industry?

The words seem to flow naturally to you, especially when you start on his outfit. He’s incredibly handsome, you’ll give him that. Annoyingly so. But his fashion choices? Consistently offensive. Sometimes, they can’t even be considered outfits. A few draped straps of silk. A sheer shirt that might as well be invisible. And don’t get you started on the fishing net debacle.

People fawn. They drool. They repost his photos like he’s some kind of divine art piece.

You, on the other hand, find it repulsive. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’re not convinced whether it’s the outfit that irritates you, or the way he wears it with that smug little grin, like he knows exactly how much people are looking.

Either way, your article nearly writes itself. And by the time you hit publish, you’re already imagining the chaos it’s going to cause.

POSTED | 8PM

Immediately, it blows up. Notifications flood in faster than you can refresh. Twitter, Instagram, your inbox, even the private channels reserved for Capitol elites. Comments range from breathless admiration to dramatic fan threads dissecting every word, every phrase, every deliberate bit of venom dipped in velvet. People live for this. For you.

And you? You’re no stranger to it. You can’t deny the sly smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth as the attention pours in, the kind that says you knew exactly what you were doing. You always do.

Your articles are highly favored for a reason. You don’t just write, you weaponize. A critique from The Columnist is both a death sentence and an invitation to play. You toe the line between elegance and destruction like you were born to walk it in heels. And today’s piece? A flawless blend of fashion, Capitol politics, and a certain veiled jab at the nation’s favorite son with sea-green eyes and a mouth that won’t stop smiling.

They eat it up.

Screenshots circulate. Anonymous sources speculate. Threads are spun. The Capitol spins right along with them, and in the center, you sit, perfectly unbothered, sipping something expensive and sparkling while chaos unfolds under your name.

Everything was going just how you wanted it to.

But then you see it.

His tweet. No, tweets.

Finnick Odair’s tweets.

Directed towards… you??

Your jaw drops slightly, not in shock, not really, more in amused surprise. You weren’t entirely expecting him to bite back, and definitely not as quickly as he did. A part of you wonders if he had been watching your account. Waiting. Watching. Refreshing your page like everyone else.

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head.

Of course he saw it. Of course he had something to say. He’s Finnick Odair, the Capitol darling, ego the size of Panem, and apparently, no stranger to the art of digital sparring.

Still. You can’t let him think he’s rattled you.

So you do what you do best.

You ignore it. For now.

You let the comments stew. Let the netizens pick it apart. Let the theories spread, is it flirtation? A feud? A PR stunt? You say nothing, offer no clarification, no clever response.

There’s another event this weekend. One of those glittering, self-important Capitol galas where everyone pretends to be effortless while calculating every move. You’ll be there. You’re always there. And you’re sure he’ll be there too.

He always shows up when the cameras do, and this time, you’re more than happy to let him.

THE NIGHT OF THE EVENT | 7:29 | PRESIDENTS MANSION

You chose the dress with intent, not to provoke, not to seduce, but to remind. You are to be watched.

It’s sleek and architectural, high-collared with sharp shoulders that taper into a body-hugging silhouette the color of spilled ink. Black, but not boring. The fabric catches the light, glinting violet and navy when you move. The bodice is structured, almost armor-like, while the hem trails behind you like smoke. Understated, elegant, a quiet kind of power.

Hair swept up. Lips painted a careful red. No statement earrings. Just a single ring, the one that always draws attention, because you never explain it.

The Capitol is in its usual state of pre-gala panic. Stylists barking orders, assistants sprinting down marble hallways, glitter clinging to the air like pollen. Outside, Peacekeepers mill around the perimeter, tension buzzing just beneath the surface. Someone mutters that Snow has issued a last-minute “reminder” for guests to remain celebratory, gracious, and “ideally sober.” It’s ignored. No one stays sober very long at these parties. The thought of it is almost laughable.

Your car rolls up just late enough to matter.

The flash of cameras begins the moment your foot hits the carpet. Reporters call your name, questions already flying about the article, the tweet, the tension, the dress. You offer only a glance and a faint smile, ducking your head with the practiced grace of someone who knows better than to give them what they want.

Inside, the mansion is glowing, warm gold, soft candlelight, the scent of champagne and fresh orchids in the air. Violin music drifts from a balcony overhead. Everyone is polished to perfection.

You barely make it two steps into the foyer before—

“Darling!” Effie Trinket descends like a parade float, decked out in soft metallics and structured ruffles. She clasps your hands with too much excitement, her grin edged with gossip. “I must say, you’ve caused quite a stir this week,” she says brightly. “Which, of course, means you’ll be right at home tonight. Now, come see where they’ve put you. It’s delightful.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Delightful?”

Effie nods, leading you toward the ballroom doors. “I thought it was absolutely hilarious. Snow sure knows how to stir things up! This will have the press talking for days.” She lets out a soft laugh, squeezing your hand in hers.

And sure enough, as you’re guided to your seat, you spot him almost immediately, standing across the long, polished table, right across from your seat. He’s hasn’t settled in his chair yet, but he has a glass in hand. Finnick Odair, flawless smile, eyes already on you.

You watch him carefully, all that effortless confidence as if the whole gala was his personal stage. His suit is… well, something.

It’s midnight blue, sleek and tailored, sure. But then…there’s the collar. Oversized, exaggeratedly high, almost comically flared like something out of an old-fashioned naval uniform, which, knowing Finnick, is probably no accident. The lapels are embroidered with gold thread in intricate swirling patterns, some kind of fancy fish or sea creature, maybe? It’s hard to tell if it’s elegance or satire.

Beneath, his crisp white shirt sports a cravat instead of a tie, a glossy silk affair twisted in a way that screams both old-world charm and deliberate flamboyance. The cuffs have silver cufflinks shaped like tiny tridents, District 4 pride, no doubt, but they catch the light and sparkle like little disco balls.

His trousers are sharp, but they have a subtle shimmer under the ballroom lights, like he’s wearing liquid fabric. And those shoes, polished to a mirror shine, but with oversized bows on top, almost clownish if it weren’t for the confident way he wears them.

He’s clearly having fun with this. Or maybe sending a message. And when his eyes meet yours, there’s a flicker of challenge, or maybe amusement. Honestly you can’t really tell, and it bothers you. You can’t decide if he’s mocking the Capitol’s obsession with grandeur, or mocking you.

He looks away for a moment, pulling his chair out and taking his seat before meeting your gaze once more. Hraises his glass slightly, like a toast, or a dare.

You sit. You don’t look away.

The clink of cutlery and glassware fills the room in a soft, elegant rhythm. Waitstaff move like ghosts, pouring wine, delivering small plated courses with the precision of performance. Laughter floats down the table from a group of minor socialites discussing something absurdly expensive and unimportant.

You smile politely at whoever’s seated to your right, some designer’s cousin, you think, but your eyes wander. You’re aware of him in that way you hate: without meaning to. Finnick Odair, lounging in his seat like it was made for him. Elbow resting on the armrest, chin in his hand, a lazy sort of confidence draped over him like the perfectly tailored suit he’s wearing.

You think it might be custom. Subtle ocean tones in the stitching. Fitting, of course. Although you’ve been sitting here for at least an hour by now, he still hasn’t said a word to you. Not yet. But you catch him watching, not constantly, not enough to draw attention. Just often enough that you feel it.

Effie has planted herself at the left of the table, guiding conversation with her usual chirp and glitter. You say all the right things. Smile at the right times. Laugh gently when appropriate.

Then, in a lull, his voice cuts through the table. No one seems to notice, they’re all too busy with their own conversations. Gossiping away the night.

“So,” Finnick says, casually swirling his wine. “Do I need to submit my wardrobe to you in advance now, or do you prefer the element of surprise?” Your fork pauses just slightly above your plate.

You glance up, slowly.

A few people chuckle, but you’re unsure if they actually picked up on what he said or if they’re laughing at their own conversations. You offer a polite smile, tilting your head.

“That depends,” you say, voice light. “Are you asking for my approval, or just worried about making the list again?”

He leans back in his chair, smiling wider now. “Just curious. You seemed very invested last time.”

“Only because your outfit gave me so much to work with,” you reply, taking a sip from your glass.

A small silence between you and him follows —the kind that crackles with something unspoken. Then, soft laughter from his side of the table. The people closest to you have apparently picked up on the conversation, and they give their own slight chuckle as they realized what they’ve just witnessed.

You go back to your food like nothing happened.

But when you look up again, his eyes are still on you. He doesn’t appear angry nor rattled, but rather interested. And honestly? That might be worse.

Dinner spills into the ballroom in a flurry of silk and perfume, the entire evening swelling into its second act like clockwork. Music drifts upward from a live quartet tucked behind crystal drapery, their instruments blending traditional waltz with something more indulgent, more decadent, exactly the kind of hybrid tune the Capitol adores. All around you, the elite gather and glide into place, as if choreographed from birth. Laughter rises like champagne bubbles. The air hums with old money, old secrets, and tonight’s polished spectacle.

You don’t join the crowd.

Instead, you step into the periphery, letting yourself fade just enough behind a marble column near the bar, where the shadows are kinder and the vantage point is clear. This is your favorite part, the post-dinner unraveling. When drinks loosen tongues, when heels start to wobble, when the cracks begin to show. You sip something light and expensive, the kind of thing you wouldn’t drink if it weren’t free, and let your eyes drift across the room like a hunter surveying the field.

Effie appears beside you, delicate and glowing like a doll come to life. She’s wrapped in a frothy gown the color of sea foam and diamonds, her hair sculpted with alarming precision. “Still no dance?” she asks, her voice feather-light and curious.

You tilt your head. “Not unless I’m close to blacking out.”

She laughs as though that’s charming. You suppose, in this world, it is.

And you do what you do best, observe.

There’s a sponsor’s wife dressed like a tropical bird, barely able to walk in platform heels that rise like monuments to poor taste. A young rising actress wearing head-to-toe gauze that does nothing to hide the fact she’s tripping over her own hem. A tribute escort whispering too closely to a Capitol official who is very married. You aren’t even trying, and already you have the bones of a column. It’s effortless.

Then, out of nowhere, a voice glides into your ear, smooth as silk and sharpened by amusement.

“I hope you know you nearly cost me a client.”

You blink, turning instinctively toward the sound, and nearly choke on your drink when you see him—Cassian Merel. The Cassian Merel. Icon, designer, Capitol tastemaker, the man whose fall collection inspired two riots and a perfume line. Tonight he’s dressed in an emerald suit so sharp it might be illegal, the fabric catching light in subtle waves of texture, as if sewn from envy itself. His signature gold hair is perfectly windswept, his smile lazy and wolfish.

You know how to keep your cool. You’ve built an entire career on it. But his presence unsettles something in you.

He gestures lightly with his coupe glass. “Your article last week—the line about my spring line looking like upholstery for rich ghosts?” His brows lift. “Devastating. And accurate. I fired three interns after I read it.”

You part your lips to respond, unsure if he’s leading with sarcasm or genuine admiration, but he cuts in again, that same smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’ve got a cruel eye. I like that. Keep writing the truth, as brutal as it is. The Capitol needs a little fear.”

He lifts his glass to you in a mock toast, and then he’s gone. Just like that. Swallowed back into the crowd, as though he hadn’t just made your entire week.

You stand there a beat too long, glass still halfway to your lips, pulse a shade quicker than before. There’s a smug heat rising in your chest, pride you don’t dare show on your face.

Effie glances over with narrowed eyes. “Well, someone’s glowing.”

You take a sip, trying to hide the smile curling at the corners of your mouth. “Just enjoying the view.”

But of course, the moment can’t last long.

A sharp voice cuts through the buzz near your shoulder, this one higher, thinner, and altogether less welcome.

“Columnist, darling,” drawls Sabine Lex, one of the Capitol’s more persistent socialites and your least favorite kind of subject. “I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t mention my name in your last piece. Surely that was an oversight?”

You turn slowly, offering her a smile that doesn’t touch your eyes. “Not at all.”

Sabine’s jaw twitches slightly, though her own smile stays firmly plastered in place. She’s dressed like a walking chandelier, crystals dripping from her sleeves, her neckline, even her lashes. It’s too much, but that’s never stopped her before. She leans closer, voice dripping with venomous sweetness.

“Well. I’m sure you’ll correct that mistake next time. I’d hate for people to think you only write about disasters.”

“I only write about what’s interesting,” you reply, sipping from your glass again. “But I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Sabine huffs a breath of a laugh, like she doesn’t care, but she absolutely does. And when she turns on her jeweled heel and disappears into the crowd, you don’t bother hiding your smirk.

Effie stifles a giggle behind her hand. “I adore when you get like this.”

“I’m not getting like anything,” you murmur, adjusting the fall of your sleeve. “Some people just write their own headlines.”

But even as you slip back into your quiet position along the wall, you feel it—his presence.

Across the ballroom, Finnick Odair is still very much here. Still very much avoiding you.

You’ve caught only glimpses of him since dinner, always at the edge of the room or behind some Capitol elite, never lingering long enough to meet your eye. And you, perhaps out of pride, or something less dignified, haven’t sought him out either. You’re not sure what you’d say if you did.

So you both orbit each other in silence, unspoken words hanging like smoke between you, the weight of that tweet still pulsing beneath the surface.

But tonight, there will be no confrontation. No war of words. Not yet.

You watch the glittering room spin around you, sip your drink, and let the story write itself.

The air is thick with perfume and ambition, and somewhere beneath the surface, you can feel the undercurrent of carefully choreographed chaos. It’s intoxicating.

You don’t bother to smile at the crowd. Instead, your eyes flicker across the sea of faces, sharp and deliberate, each one a potential headline in the making. This is your favorite part—the subtle game of categorizing, a Capitol pastime disguised as casual observation.

You find a thrill in this: finding ones who will be kissed, those destined for marriage, and of course, the inevitable exiles, those you’ll mercilessly dismantle with a few well-chosen words.

Your gaze first lands on the senator’s wife, glowing with that brittle kind of charm polished over years of Capitol life. She’s laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny, trying to mask the sharpness in her eyes. Kiss. Maybe. She’s the sort who could keep a scandal at bay with enough smiles and whispers.

Near the edge of the dance floor, you spot a young stylist, his hair slicked back and his grin too wide to be entirely sincere. Marry, you decide immediately. Ambition wrapped in tailored suits, eager to climb higher but not yet dangerous.

Then, across the room, you find the perfect exile: the hovercraft tycoon, Marcellus Vane. His tailored jacket strains at the seams as he loudly regales a group of sycophants with stories that don’t quite add up. Too loud, too careless. The kind of man who thinks power will shield him from consequence—exactly the kind you love to take down.

You take a slow sip of your drink, the edges of your lips twitching into a faint smile.

The game is already in motion.

And somewhere in the back of your mind—no matter how hard you try to focus—there’s that persistent, ridiculous image.

Finnick Odair. Those absurd, stupid heels with huge bows. That impossible, smirking confidence.

You roll your eyes. Not tonight.

Tonight, you have a story to write.

AFTER THE EVENT | 2:27AM | PENTHOUSE

Back in your penthouse, the city sprawled out beneath your window like a glittering labyrinth, you sank into your chair, the buzz of the gala fading into a distant hum. The night’s performances, the calculated smiles, the subtle betrayals—they all wove themselves into your mind like threads waiting to be unraveled.

Your fingers found the keyboard, and the familiar game took shape, sharp and precise.

Kiss: The senator’s wife, her charm a practiced mask worn a little too tightly, eyes flickering with hidden calculations.

Marry: The young stylist, polished and eager, a safe bet whose ambition hasn’t yet tipped into danger.

Exile: The tycoon who filled the room with loud boasts and careless arrogance, certain that power could shield him from any consequences.

You type the words with a cool detachment, each sentence a scalpel peeling back the veneer of Capitol glamour.

No distractions. No hesitation.

Just the cold, clear eye of the journalist ready to expose the cracks.

liked by thecinna, glimmer1, and 281,292 others

@/thecolumnist: another night for the books...or perhaps, the next article. stay tuned xx ;)

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glimmer1: beautiful as always. loved seeing you last night. mwah. liked by author❤️

thecinna: Always raising the bar. Can't wait to read it. liked by author❤️

finnickswifereal: i wonder if finnick will be mentioned again ↳ snowswhitebeard: surely not. two back to back mentions would be insane behavior.

10 MINUTES BEFORE POST | 7:50PM | PENTHOUSE

Ten minutes before the article goes live, you sit at your desk, fingers poised just above the keyboard, the soft glow of your tablet casting shadows across your face. The room is quiet except for the hum of the city outside, a distant murmur of life that feels worlds away from this moment.

Your thoughts swirl. Strategic, sharp and restless.

This isn’t just another piece. It’s another move on the board. Every word carefully crafted, every sentence designed to land with precision. You can feel the weight of anticipation building, like a held breath ready to be released.

You think about the people waiting—those who’ll devour your words, the ones who’ll clutch their pearls, the ones who are waiting to see if they were mentioned in the newest article.

You take a steadying breath. 7:58. One last read-through. Then…

Your thumb slides across the screen. Posted. The game moves forward. And you’re already three steps ahead.

Now, you’re curled up on the chaise in your penthouse, one leg tucked under the other, the silk of your robe catching against the light. The glass in your hand is sweating slightly, something cold and sweet, untouched because your phone has your full attention.

The tweet is still climbing. Hundreds of replies, even more retweets, and the article link, your article, is being passed around like contraband.

You scroll with one finger, slow and lazy, your lips tugging up as the praise pours in.

“INSANEEEE. I just KNOW Caesar is eating this up. He loves this type of stuff.”

“The Columnist really said ‘try harder.”

“Omg HELLO?? Her comment about his suit and how she wished she would’ve had bleach for her eyes? im crying.”

Cinna’s tweet makes you pause. You reread it more than once, not because you need to, but because it’s good. Thoughtful. Smart. Kind. You smile a little to yourself, your chest warm with something you’ll never admit out loud.

You let yourself enjoy it. The validation. The rush. The quiet power of knowing people are hanging on your words. You earned it. Every snide remark and cleverly worded exile.

WEEKS LATER | 10:29PM | PENTHOUSE

Its been weeks now.

Maybe longer, but you’ve stopped counting. Time folds differently when your words are going viral on a Capitol-wide scale. What started as a cheeky social commentary has become the conversation. Everyone’s playing it now. Kiss, Marry, Exile has spiraled far beyond the confines of your column, into party games, hashtags, even late-night talk segments.

You saw someone do it once with different eras of President Snow’s life.

Baby Snow got “kiss.” Age 18-22 Snow got “marry” (along with some other vulgar words that repulsed you beyond words) and current Snow got “exile forever and ever amen.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or delete your entire brand.

Either way, the momentum hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s grown teeth. And so have you.

Your inbox is stuffed with event invitations. People linger just a little longer in your orbit now, like proximity might make them next week’s “kiss.” or “marry.” You hear your name whispered when you walk into rooms, sometimes followed by laughter, sometimes dread. Everyone wants to be close enough to get noticed, but not close enough to get exiled.

And Finnick?

He holds the record.

Of the 23 installments you’ve published, he’s been exiled in thirteen of them.

The comments always explode when he’s featured. Half of the readers call it justice. The other half act like it’s a personal attack. But no matter the response, one thing is always true: Finnick Odair pulls clicks.

He always has.

Sometimes you wonder if he knows. If he keeps a running tally, if he circles the exile like a little badge of honor. Or if he’s just waiting, biding his time until he can strike back with something clever and cutting and just a little too personal.

But lately?

He’s been quiet.

No tweets. No petty quips. No reactions at all.

And somehow, that’s the most unnerving part.

—

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He definitely isn’t subscribed to your column. And he absolutely doesn’t get the push notifications the second a new article drops.

That would be pathetic. Obsessive. Ridiculous.

(And yet—every Sunday evening, around 8pm, somehow, his schedule clears)

It irks him. Not the stuff thats trending online as people rank his different eras, he’s been ranked before. Over and Over.

But it’s you.

It’s the way you write about him, so specific, so perfectly tailored to get under his skin.

“Finnick Odair arrived in what can only be described as nautical chaos.”

“His outfit seemed to ask the age-old question: what if a sea captain had a midlife crisis in a jewelry store?”

“I would exile him for the shoes alone, but the necklace really sealed the deal.”

He read that one three times.

It drives him insane, how easy you make it seem. How casually you tear into him like you know him, like it costs you nothing to shred what’s left of his image into something Capitol-charming and empty and shiny. He doesn’t even know what bothers him more: that it’s clever, or that it’s true.

And he thinks about it constantly.

When he’s getting dressed.

When someone mentions your name.

When he walks into a room and people glance at him like they’re already mentally deciding whether to kiss, marry, or exile him on the spot.

And yeah. Maybe he’s been exiled thirteen times.

He’s counting. He pretends he’s not, but he is.

(He also pretends he doesn’t check if you mention him, and he definitely pretends it doesn’t bother him when you don’t.)

He tells himself you’re just doing it for the attention. The drama. The numbers.

And still, when he lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling of his apartment with nothing but the sound of traffic below, your words loop back through his head like a curse he can’t shake.

You’re clever. Vicious. Effortlessly cool. And, God help him, you’re starting to live in his mind rent-free.

He sees the tweets.

Not just yours, though those are always the sharpest, the ones that land hardest, but everyone else’s, too. They pile in like vultures circling a wounded show pony. People picking apart his outfits, mocking the drape of his shirt or the weight of a necklace he forgot he was even wearing. Some Capitol influencer retweeted your article with a zoomed-in shot of his cufflinks and the caption, “no bc what is THIS.”

He should laugh.

He used to.

But lately?

Lately it’s different.

Lately it feels like the conversation has shifted, like he’s no longer the charming rogue everyone loves to tolerate, but the joke that keeps on giving. And no matter how many parties he shows up to, how many smiles he fakes, the story is no longer his.

It’s yours.

You’ve hijacked the narrative and made it art. Clever, biting art. The kind the Capitol eats with a silver spoon and reposts a thousand times.

And he?

He’s tired of being reduced to a fashion critique with legs.

So he opens his phone. A habit he broke months ago, back when he stopped caring if anyone noticed him for more than his body and a smile. His thumb hovers over the app— Instagram. He hasn’t posted in… what, four months?

He scrolls through his camera roll until he lands on the photo. The one he took just a few days before the first Gala. Before the first article dropped, before everyone decided his accessories and fashion choices (well, his designers) were public property.

He hadn’t posted it then. Maybe because part of him knew what it looked like. Maybe because part of him wanted to be noticed for more than the visual chaos.

But now? Now it’s perfect.

His shirt is white, made of something silky and just reflective enough to catch the light. The sleeves are dramatic, billowing, cuffed in soft gold. The neckline plunges low, too low, if you ask most Capitol critics, and his chest is dusted in layered chains: silver, obsidian, even one sharp glint of green that doesn’t match anything, just because he can.

Rings cover nearly every finger. His pants are fitted. His expression? Bored. Sharp. Dangerous.

He looks expensive and impossible and mildly unbothered, like a man who’s read every article written about him and didn’t flinch once.

But you know better. And maybe that’s the point.

He uploads it without flinching.

liked by brutusd2, thecolumnist, and 829,029 others

@/finnickodair: exiled in print but always on your mind.

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districtdollie: HER LIKING THIS??? INSANE WORK. INSANE!!!

finnickdilf: omg hello welcome back king

haymitchsgumdrop: if being exiled means looking this good then sign me up

peetabread: this is so messy of u i love it

—

Your jaw slackens the moment the post loads.

Finnick Odair, silent for months, not a single photo or story or petty tweet, has reemerged. And of course, he doesn’t just post a casual photo. No, he posts this: a low shot, deliberate and infuriatingly well-framed. He looks good, annoyingly good. The shirt is deep and dramatic, open at the chest just enough to feel like a statement. The sleeves are cuffed, the jewelry still excessive but… balanced somehow. Intentional. The entire look sits on the edge of being ridiculous and impossibly cool.

But it’s not the outfit that makes your stomach tighten.

It’s the caption.

Exiled in print but always on your mind.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. It’s bold, more bold than you expected. Not just a subtweet. Not a passive dig. This is deliberate. Designed to sting a little. A performance meant just for you.

You stare at it for longer than you should, phone cradled in your palm, thumb hovering like it might do something on its own. Your thoughts spiral, too quick to catch. Is he mad? Mocking you? Or worse, is he enjoying this?

Still, the stylist in you can’t help it. The outfit works. Begrudgingly, you can admit it’s probably one of his better looks in recent memory. And maybe that’s why your thumb finally taps the heart. A like. Nothing dramatic. Just a professional nod of appreciation.

Admiration for the fashion. That’s all it is.

The second you hit the button, your notifications light up. Comments. Tags. People noticing. Reacting. The air shifts, and you suddenly feel like you’ve given him something, even if it’s tiny. Even if it doesn’t matter.

Your phone buzzes again, a new message sliding into view at the top of the screen. Effie.

THAT SATURDAY | 7:21PM | SPECIAL EVENT

The second you step into the ballroom, you’re already searching for him.

You don’t even pretend otherwise.

You’ve told yourself it’s for research. For the column. For the next Kiss, Marry, Exile piece that’s already half-drafted in your mind ever since his little Instagram stunt. That caption, “Exiled in print but always on your mind”, still echoes in your head like a taunt you haven’t figured out how to answer.

You’re not obsessed. You’re a writer. A professional. And if your gaze just happens to drift across the room every few seconds, it’s purely out of curiosity. Strategy. Definitely not nerves.

You’ve already imagined what he might be wearing, something dramatic, probably. Over-styled, definitely. Maybe another nautical disaster with too many rings and something shiny at the throat. You’re already drafting one-liners in your head, your mental notes cruel and clever and just biting enough to stir a reaction.

But then—

You spot him.

And every word disappears.

He’s standing near the center of the room like he owns it, the soft golden light from the chandeliers slipping down the smooth lines of his chest and the sharp cut of his jaw. The first thing you see are the leather pants. Fitted. Black. Absolutely criminal. They stretch over long legs and leave very little to the imagination.

His shirt, if it can be called that, is silk and barely opaque, loose and open at the collar like he got halfway dressed and decided it was enough. And the pearls. Draped across his collarbone like they were poured there on purpose. They swing gently as he moves, catching the light and drawing your eyes down the slope of his chest.

It’s unfair. It’s intentional.

And the worst part is—he knows it.

Because before you can even recover from the sight of him, he moves.

Not away. Not across the room.

Directly toward you.

Your pulse stutters.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause for effect. No lingering glances or drawn-out tension. He walks like this was the plan all along. Like you were the destination.

The music hums low. Voices blur. And your whole body sharpens into awareness.

And now he’s here, stopping in front of you, standing just close enough to make your breath catch and your brain stall.

He steps closer, that slow, confident smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His voice drops just low enough for only you to hear.

“Hope you brought a pen. I dressed for the column.”

You meet his gaze without blinking, a slow, sharp smile curving your lips. “You dressed like that and expected not to be written about?” The words hang between you, playful but loaded, a challenge wrapped in velvet. He chuckles, eyes sparkling with mischief and something darker beneath the surface.

“Well, now you’ve got your material.”

He leans in closer, close enough that you can catch the faint scent of the ocean mixed with something sharper, cologne, maybe, or just the way he carries himself. His eyes never leave yours, daring you to keep up.

“You know,” he says, voice low, “I was starting to hope you’d run out of things to say about me. That maybe you’d finally admit defeat.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head like you’re entertaining a foolish notion. “Admit defeat? Please. You underestimate my capacity for creativity. Especially when you make it so easy.”

Finnick smirks, that cocky tilt returning. “Is that what you call it? Creativity? I thought it was obsession.”

You don’t bother denying it. Instead, you let your gaze flicker around the room, as if noting the throng of well-dressed Capitol citizens who haven’t yet noticed your little exchange. “Maybe a little of both. You’re fascinating, after all.”

He laughs softly, a sound that’s part amusement and part something darker. “Fascinating enough to be exiled thirteen times, apparently.”

The weight of that stings for a fraction of a second before you recover, leaning back slightly. “And yet here you are. Still standing. Still causing a scene.”

Finnick’s smile widens, a flash of teeth, like he’s daring you to say more. “You’re trouble.”

“Maybe. But you’re not complaining.”

He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. “Not yet.” The gesture shocks you, your breath catching for a moment.

There’s a pause then, thick and charged, before the orchestra swells and someone nearby calls for attention. He straightens, glances around like the moment never happened, then fixes you with a final, smoldering look.

“Enjoy the party, Columnist.”

“Enjoy the headlines.” You reply, voice low.

With that, he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts, and the unmistakable certainty that this dance is far from over.

MID-EVENT | 11:54PM

The party has settled into that sweet middle stretch, guests just tipsy enough to say things they shouldn’t, reporters weaving between gold-dripped gowns and half-finished drinks, the music swelling in elegant, forgettable waves.

You’ve stationed yourself near one of the marble pillars, a flute of champagne in hand, surveying the room like it’s prey. The wheels are already turning. You’re mentally collecting details, who’s had one too many, who’s swapped clothes mid-event, who whispered what into whose ear. The next column is practically writing itself.

But then you hear it.

Not just your name, though that would’ve been enough to make your ears perk. It’s the voice that says it.

Smooth, confident, infuriatingly amused.

“Her? Oh, she’s dangerous. But smart. Sharp enough to make you regret not behaving. I mean, I’ve been exiled thirteen times now.” A pause. A chuckle. “But I can’t really complain… she’s got great taste. And legs.”

You turn. Eyes narrowing.

The holo-screen mounted near the bar is flashing live coverage, interviews with the victors, the glowing chyron reads.

And there he is.

Finnick. On camera. Shirt still scandalously unbuttoned, pearl strands glinting beneath the lights, that same lazy grin stretched across his face like he owns the whole city.

The interviewer asks something you miss, but his answer cuts through the room like a dart made of glitter and spite.

“She pretends not to like the attention, but we both know she lives for it. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Your stomach drops.

Sweetheart.

He said it on live Capitol television. With cameras. With half the city watching. With you standing there, absolutely frozen.

The laughter that follows—gentle, indulgent—burns worse than the word itself.

Your grip tightens around your glass, lips parting slightly as you watch him flash that camera one last smile, toss a flippant wink, and walk away like he didn’t just detonate a bomb in the middle of your evening.

You swallow the fire rising in your chest.

That’s it. That’s the moment. The exile was inevitable, but now? Now it’s personal.

Your phone buzzes once. Then again. And again.

You don’t even have to look. You already know who it is.

You sit your phone down, eyes scanning the room as you see people whisper and point.

Oh, he’s definitely paying for this.

AFTER THE EVENT | 1:39AM | PENTHOUSE

You sit back in your chair, silk robe slipping off one shoulder as your fingers glide across the keys. This one writes itself. Fueled by fury, champagne, and the ghost of the word “sweetheart” still echoing in your skull.

It starts as a whisper.

Then a sentence.

Then the headline forms. It’s sharp, and clean, yet also delicious.

KISS: Johanna Mason.

For wearing a full velvet suit and punching a reporter in the same night. The range. The drama. The sheer feral elegance. I’ve never seen someone elbow a camera and look better doing it. Honorable mention: her boots. I don’t think they’re technically legal.

You pause only to grin. The next one is obvious.

MARRY: Peeta Mellark.

Wore a soft brown suit with a matching linen tie, and asked if I’ve ever wanted to learn how to bake. The answer is yes. Always yes. Gentleman. Golden boy. Will likely frost your birthday cupcakes and also build you a bread oven.

And then. The one. The name your readers wait for. The one they’ll screenshot, repost, and quote into oblivion.

You crack your knuckles. And type.

EXILE: Finnick Odair.

For reasons already clear to the public and now permanently archived in print. For the leather pants. For the pearls. For looking me in the eye and calling me sweetheart on live television.

Consider this a formal declaration: exile status has been reinstated. Do not pass go. Do not collect applause. Can someone please confiscate his jewelry. For public safety.

You sit back, rereading the paragraph. The grin that spreads across your face is slow, wicked, and deeply satisfied.

It’s way too early to post this article. Your regular scheduling is at 8pm on Sunday evenings, but with how everything went down tonight, you can’t help yourself.

You click publish.

Then text Cinna:

“Kiss: velvet. Marry: bread. Exile: war.”

And with that, you toss your phone to the side, shut your laptop, and crawl into bed.

—

2AM | FINNICK’S PENTHOUSE

It’s late. Too late for anything productive.

2 AM.

Finnick’s sprawled across his bed, still dressed from the party. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, the sleeves rolled, his tie tossed somewhere near the foot of the bed. The leather pants…yeah, still on. Too much effort to remove. One pearl earring dangles from his left ear, the other lost in a champagne-fueled blur hours ago.

His room is quiet except for the soft hum of the city below and the dull blue glow of his phone in his hand.

He’s not really doing anything. Just scrolling. Aimlessly. The way you do when your body is exhausted but your mind refuses to quit. He’s already checked the news once. Twice. He saw his own name trending, again. Not shocking. The fallout from tonight was inevitable.

Still, he’s surprised when he gets the notification.

The Columnist just posted a new article.

His brows furrow. “Now?” he mutters.

She never posts this early. Her usual publishing window is Sunday evening, an intentional, calculated drop, like she wants the entire Capitol to have their tea with a side of tension.

But this? 2 in the morning? That’s emotional. That’s pointed.

He should ignore it. Let it sit. Let her words wait.

But his thumb is already tapping the link.

The page loads slowly, just long enough for him to feel the weight in his chest. The familiar knot that always comes before reading her words.

And then, there it is. His name. His exile. Again.

He skims Johanna’s bit—velvet, violence, applause. He almost smiles. Peeta gets a pass, as always. But Finnick?

Exile: Finnick Odair.

For reasons already clear to the public and now permanently archived in print. For the leather pants. For the pearls. For looking me in the eye and calling me sweetheart on live television.

He huffs a low laugh and drops the phone on his chest. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs to the ceiling.

But he picks it back up. Of course he does. The article’s trending. His name’s trending.

And then, there it is.

A tweet. Liked over a thousand times already.

“She pretends to hate him but we all know she’s obsessed. Classic enemies to lovers bait.”

His lips twitch.

He shouldn’t laugh. He shouldn’t like it. But—

He clicks the heart before he can stop himself.

And just like that, he’s given them more fuel.

He tosses the phone to the side with a sigh, scrubs a hand through his hair, and finally lets his eyes fall closed. But he knows sleep isn’t coming.

Not when she’s still on his mind.

END OF PT.1

—

a/n - oh. my gosh. my hands hurt. my brain hurts. who thought a smau was a good idea. wHO????? anyways. obviously there will be a pt.2. i just had to post this cause i felt like it was becoming ridiculously long. I HOPE YALL LIKE IT😭🙏

[illumoria]

"Pretty Baby"

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·˚ ༘ .⋆𖥔 ݁ ˖ ݁ ˖۶ৎ. ghostface!patrick zweig x reader

content warning!! smut | thigh riding, overstimulation,power imbalance, degradation+praise, d/s dynamics, oral sex (m receiving), hair pulling, objectification language, one singular slap, he is ROUGH + lmk if I miss anything! i've re-read this almost 3 times but I still feel like I'm missing a warning or 2...

word count: 1134

author's note: had trouble sleeping last night and this came to me....so....i obviously had to write it

🏷️: @angel06babysworld @rafeysvenicebitch @chuuuchuuutrain ۶ৎ to be added!

masterlist!

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You don't even remember how long he'd had you perched on top of his thigh for, dragging your clothed cunt over the middle of his thigh while you tried not to cry out from overstimulation.

Was it your second? Third, maybe. He didn't care.

He was getting off on it–watching your brain turn to mush as he rolled your hips over and over again. Not like you could do anything about it. Push him away? He's pushing right back–with a knife to your throat.

"C'mon, pretty baby...know you got one more in you."

He chuckled darkly, his voice low and smug. You could practically picture the smirk behind that mask.

You couldn't respond–not with words at least, just a whine. A high-pitched noise that only made his smirk widen.

"I think I heard a yes.." he cooed, the rough material of his gloves itching your skin as his grip grew tighter around your waist.

"P–patrick." You whimpered, one of your hands fisting the fabric of his cloak–trying to hold onto something–giving yourself something to cling to so you wouldn't pass out right then and there.

He didn't bother to try and pretend to give a fuck about your pathetic whimpers, carelessly sliding his hands down to the fat of your ass, flexing his leg beneath you just to tease you all the more.

Your hands were everywhere. Holding onto his shoulders, biceps, his cloak–so close to tipping over that edge it was almost torture.

"Please." You whispered, letting out a small gasp when he suddenly grabbed your jaw, his fingers squishing into the plump flesh of your cheeks.

"Please what?" He smirked, cocking his head all clueless. Evil. That's what he was. So fucking evil.

"Please–wanna...wanna come." You moaned, shifting your weight so you could grind harder against him, just barely restraining yourself from coming right then and there.

He looked down at you for a moment, not saying anything. Though his actions were speaking louder than anything that could've come out of his mouth.

He delivered a small slap to your cheek, elitciting a louder gasp from your lips.

"Go on, beg some more. You can do better than that.." He murmured, rubbing over your cheek condescendingly–like he wasn't the one who made it all red.

"Please, Pat–" you whispered, the rhythm of your hips beginning to falter as he gripped your waist tighter, dragging you faster–harder against his thigh.

Your jaw went slack as he finally gave you what you wanted, your high-pitched gasps and noises bouncing off the walls as you came.

"Ohm..haah...oh my god." You babbled, your body going limp against his chest–finally letting yourself relax for the few minutes he wasn't touching you.

Well...more like few seconds.

He cupped your cheek with one hand, running his fingers through your hair with the other.

"My poor baby.." he mocked, reveling in the sight of you completely ruined. Teary eyes, flushed cheeks, quivering lips. It was heaven.

He pulled you closer, holding you in his lap like the precious little thing you were.

"Feels good to be rewarded doesn't it?" He chuckled, rubbing your back with his hand in slow circlular motions.

You whimpered in response, shakily nodding.

He slowly tilted your head up, making sure your eyes were on him.

"You do know though... nothing's free right? Especially rewards." He murmured, almost groaning out loud from how quickly your eyes widened.

"H-huh?" You stuttered, gnawing at your lower lip all nervous. A deer caught in headlights.

"You didn't think you didn't have to pay me back, yeah?" He chuckled, sliding his hands back down to your waist.

A beat of silence passed before he pushed some hair behind your ear, whispering against your skin.

"I think you know what I want." And you did. It didn't take a genius, really.

He let his hands fall to his side, let you shimmy all the way down till your knees hit the floor and your face was between his thighs.

He was impatient. Greedy. He wanted whatever you could give him and more. He didn't wait to shove his pants down till they pooled around his ankles, barely held back from grabbing your hair and just–Fuck.

You slid his boxers down his thighs, looking up at him as if for searching for his approval. You'd get it anyways, he'd always approve of what you did if it benefitted him.

His dick sprang out of the black fabric, clinging to his stomach–achingly hard and leaking.

He didn't need to say anything for you to know what to do next.

You sunk your lips down his length, an audible groan leaving his lips as you began to slowly bob your head.

His fingers grabbed onto your hair, roughly pulling you down each time he felt you weren't doing enough. The gagging and choking noises that left your lips only spurred him on, eager to ruin you. Ruin your mouth. Leave his cum on your tongue so everyone could see what was his.

You swirled your tongue around his tip, your hand working whatever your mouth couldn't, twisting and sliding in tandem.

He started to twitch. You could feel it. How his hips started to lift off of the chair he was on, bucking up into your mouth and hitting the back of your throat.

He didn't even want to stop. He was selfish in that sort of way.

He pulled on your hair harder, grumbling curses under his breath until he suddenly pulled out of you, leaving you gasping for air, on the verge of tears, and ...slightly confused.

"Pat–" was all you were able to get out before he grabbed your face, pressing his finger against your lips.

"C'mon. Open up, I wanna see." He grunted, coaxing your lips to part around his finger.

You slowly inched closer, getting him off with just your hand–just above your tongue.

He finally leaned back, letting out another moan just at the sight of you–mouth open and waiting for him. It was enough for him to cum right there.

And he did.

Right on your tongue.

His head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut as your hand gently slowed down, crawling back onto his lap before he could say anything.

"Y'so good for me." He grunted, wiping away the dripping white from your lips as you settled back down ontop his thighs.

"Mhm.." you hummed, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

"Yeah..good girl." He chuckled, his hands sliding down your back to gently massage the fat of your ass.

"C'mon..let's go clean you up."

" 'Kay." You murmured, letting him carry you all the way into the bathroom –though you both might've gotten even dirtier than clean.

The handprints on the glass walls of the shower proved it.

line dividers: @/hyuneskkami

[dipperscavern]

hiii! :) i really admire the way you write, especially for the man that exudes such strong husband energy: jon snow 😜 i was wondering if it’d be possible for me to request jon snow crushing on shy!reader while he’s still in the night’s watch. how would he go about his feelings? is jon’s duty to the program stronger than the base of what makes people human; the communion of two people? it’s a war between his mind and heart but it wouldn’t have to be if they were both on the same side, but which side is that?

baby girl this was like one of the first asks i ever received on this blog i am SO sorry for how i neglected you. really i just thought it was such a good request i needed to make a whole series about it HAHA i've moved away from that idea but here's the outline of it (with my word vomit in between the main points) for u :))) i admire YOU and the way YOU worded this. poet. come back to this blog so i can kiss your feet. OK LETS GO!

jon snow x fem!shy!reader // 3k words (i’m sorry.)

you make yourself scarce around castle black.

of course, being the only woman (and because of how close knit the brothers are), people notice you're there, but most don't bother you. you clean, you cook, you serve maester aemon, and you're more of an essence than anything. nobody even knows your name, and every time anyone asks the maester acts like he's sundowning (LMAO)

when jon discovers castle blacks secret, he's immediately enamored. he can't put his finger on what it is exactly… the sway of your hair, the bits of personality he catches glimpses of, perhaps it's the secrecy of it all.

that's what it must be — curiosity. the itch to dig in the ground where you know there's something under the dirt. nothing else, of course.

the first time you speak, he's more surprised than anything. your hair isn't blown by the wind to cover your face, and you're not an essence now, in this moment while facing him. you're real, and tangible, and hesitantly answering his questions.

he's careful about it. he says to himself its to be polite and not scare you, because that's not how father raised him. and while true, it's not the secret desire thrumming under his skin. the desire to speak to you again, and he knows if he prods too much, you'll show him the true meaning of recluse.

he even manages to get your name by the end of the conversation.

you don't know why you tell him. maybe it's because he's the only person besides the maester and lord commander you've talked to. maybe it's because of that strange feeling in your chest whenever he's around. whatever it is, you don't dwell on it.

if only jon could do the same.

it's like you planted a seed during your conversation. you've not sprouted yet, but, always, jon can feel you in the soil.

at first, he mistakes it for lust. thinks it's because you're the first woman he's laid eyes on since winterfell. that must be it. the nature of men, swallowing him and his thoughts whole.

the only thing he does more than train with a sword is shame himself for it.

he's been told — by the few that haven't acted like being a bastard is contagious — that he's observant. told by lord tyrion, especially. he used to take it as a (sort of) compliment, but it seems like he can't stop observing you.

when walking stairs, you skip every other step. sometimes you won't when leisurely walking down, but if you're in a rush you will. and you always skip them when walking up.

before doing a task, specifically holding something on the heavier side, you flick your left wrist to crack it. its subconscious, you never notice you're doing it. an old habit, jon thinks, likely stemming from an old injury. he's seen old northern lords do the same with their ankles before mounting horses.

your conversations begin to happen more and more, and jon starts to subconsciously seek you out. he once thought it was you walking in, but edd came through the door instead. he didn't let jon live it down for days, telling anyone that listened how his company can't be so horrid it makes people look like he just kicked a puppy among arrival. jon might’ve rolled his eyes at such a thing if he wasn’t blushing so furiously at the mention of you.

you're an unbelievably easy person to like. you smile and tuck hair behind your ears to ease your nerves, and somewhere in between doing so you burrow yourself deep into peoples hearts.

that's been jons experience, at least, but he can't fathom anyone having anything different.

it's like you've taken hold in his heart a place near arya, where protective nature and affection (yours a different kind then hers, quite obviously,) overlap. he eyes new recruits up and down, noting any to keep an eye on lest they be the kind he wouldn't trust around his sisters.

jon's not irrationally paranoid, so to say. a few have taken notice of you, and they aren't the kind you introduce to your mother and father. they make lewd gestures, and even lewder sentiments, which prompts jon to start your routine.

he starts walking you to your chambers at night. sam is up just that bit earlier with the stewards and keeps an eye on you in the mornings. if you notice, you don't appear to mind, offering a shy smile if you notice sam around. it's returned equally shy, if not shier.

he even mentions it to the old maester, just in case.

"And you worry for her, Jon snow?"

"Aye," he says. "I do."

the old man does a bit of prodding, himself. it's his favorite past time. "Why?"

jon glances to the window, where you can be seen feeding the ravens, unaware you're the topic of the present conversation. "Their eyes, Maester. They look at her as a piece of meat for the taking."

aemon nods. "And you do not, of course."

jon pauses, but not because the maester is right, and he feels a sort of guilt for it. he pauses because he’s wrong, and something uncomfortable tugs in his chest of that even being an idea. but he holds steady. "No. I don't."

the old man smiles, then. jon’s observant gaze sees the sorrow behind it. "I believe you."

it's a warm routine he falls into for a while. he rises with the sun, he trains, then its chores until lunch. you've become more of a presence around the castle, the security of jon (and, ghost,) and permission of the maester responsible for such an ability. so he sees you around. darting around corners, feeding ravens, scrubbing tables, skipping every other step in between. you both smile when you spot each other, even if it's a hard day. even if the day is cold.

once, you were cleaning the mess hall, and he & edd just happened to be walking by one of the windows you were near. naturally, edd, ever the observer and, more importantly, troublemaker, knocked on the window and quickly darted out of sight. since the gods favor him, your head snapped up just in time to see jon pass by.

when he walked you to your chambers that night, he explained it with such embarrassment the tips of his ears turned pink. you couldn't help laughing. jon couldn't help the way the sound made his heart sing.

it's a comfortable routine, and he finds security in having one. he’s learning, he’s becoming, and he is not alone. jon feels a sort of familiarity with it as each day passes.

the gods never favored him much, of course.

he ventures out beyond the wall and is stolen by fire. oddly, as he's hauled to the wildling camp, the most worry he feels for himself stems from the worry in your eyes when learning he'd be going on that journey. the absence of you stings worse than the cold.

he begins to go mad, seemingly. he imagines how you'd react to things, even though you're nowhere near. tormund said the strangest thing the other day, and the only thing jon could think of is your brows, and how they'd furrow. only lightly — you're careful in how much you let on.

he's frustrated with the woman with flamekissed hair, and how kissing her is the only surefire way to keep himself alive. the only way to get back to you. he's even resorted to putting ghost between them as they sleep. and as he lays there, frustrated, his thoughts drift to you (as they do most nights.)

he knows what you'd say if you were here. “'S not like she wants you, or anything mad like that."

jon, the fool, smiles to himself. he can't even help it.

"What are you grinning at, Crow?" someone says, and the smile is gone as quickly as it came.

internally, he chides himself the rest of the night and the next day for having no self-control about you. it's pathetic, he says to himself.

liar, a small voice whispers back.

a shake of his head, an intense blow of winter wind, and the voice is gone. a raven caws in the distance.

wind and words, wind and words.

the thoughts of you never really cease, so to say. he's able to put a leash on them, but can't seem stop himself in some instances.

you'd like that plant. you'd braid this animals hair, if you could. you'd think this child is cute. he blinks and behind his eyes he can see the warmth your features would carry when looking at them. the shake of his head does nothing this time.

somehow, some way, he makes it through.

the process is long and hard, and he feels different when he comes back, but at least he does. that is the important part. full of arrows and bleeding, but he makes it through those gates.

and all those feelings he worked so hard to bury come rushing back in one big swarm when he wakes.

the waking comes in two parts. first, he comes to, but doesn't open his eyes. the ache of arrows is registered, but it doesn't feel nearly as it did. theres something in his system dulling it, and he knows it must be something of maester aemon's. the realization that he's not only alive, but safe, has him a moments away from sleep as his body relaxes. but one thing keeps him awake for merely a second longer.

a voice. soft, and shy - like its not used to making itself known. a womans.

yours.

you're mumbling, but he can make out a few bits, and the cadence in which you say it. you're reciting an old northern prayer.

his heart swells, but he itches to tell you not to bother. they won't hear you, he wants to whisper. my blood deafens them.

and the darkness is greedy and swallows him whole.

the next time wakes is the final time. the first thing he registers isn't the ache of his wounds, surprisingly. of course, its quick to follow, but first is the weight of a smaller, softer hand in his. and his chest begins to ache for a different reason.

he opens his eyes to see you standing at his side, hand in his, but you aren't looking at him. your head is turned toward the window.

he could say something.

but he doesn't.

almost, he does, but something holds him back. perhaps it is the same thing that makes his eyes flutter shut again until you take your leave sometime later.

it's the last time you're together for a while.

even when he recovers, he doesn't seek you out. he doesn't push you away when you come to him, but you can feel the absence of a pull. the gravity of you no longer pulls him into orbit.

except it does. it's only farther now.

something shifts between you, and it is a strange kind of understanding.

he acts like he doesn't feel for you like he used to, while still refusing to leave your solar system. he still walks you every night. you act like you think he really doesn't feel that way anymore, while continuing to be his sun. you still brush a hand against his during your walks, sometimes. he used to lean away from you in his nerves, but now he twitches into you. you both pretend as if you don't notice, of course.

things are different, yes, but he's here. though you sleep in different buildings, it's still in the same walls. such small comforts make that distance between you both seem just an inch smaller — and these days that is enough.

is it?

as jon lays at night, like they did beyond the wall, his thoughts drift to you. it's harder to lie to himself when the moon is full, somehow. perhaps its watching.

eyes or none, after a few sleepless nights where he can do nothing but lay and think, he eventually comes to terms with himself.

he loves you, this he knows.

but he is unworthy. it would be a sin to taint you with such a ridden thing as himself — to not give you the life you deserve.

so, as the sun comes up, he makes a vow to himself and to it. its unspoken — merely crawled up his throat in a final breath he uses to blow out the candle lit at night when you consume his thoughts.

time passes. hearts beat, but they ache. distance grows between the planets, and it seems as if gravity weakens its pull with each passing day.

jon soon becomes lord commander.

you aren't allowed to vote, but if you could, you'd cast yours for him. for your heartache.

it's not like he doesn't hurt, too. you can see it behind his eyes whenever he looks at you. he doesn't allow himself to meet your gaze much anymore.

you offer him a shy, small smile and a nod of your head when he wins the election. he looks away.

you take your leave, and as you brace the weather in the walk to your chambers, you have a fleeting thought of snow and winter & their intersection. his absence stings like the cold.

and like a winter storm does his absence flurry.

he drowns himself in his duties now. there's a plethora of them, and it does good to rid himself of you.

a harsh thought. he winces with its fury.

it's better this way, he thinks. you're better off without him. safe, too. sam, grenn, and edd take turns escorting you at night under his command.

you may miss him, but you'll live, and so will he. he doesn't miss you much anymore.

"Liar," he says out loud this time.

time is a funny thing, you know

it’s always stretching on, somehow both impossibly slow and racing at alarming speeds. it feels like only months ago he left winterfell and joined the nights watch — an inexperienced bastard boy with nothing of his own.

now, lord stannis baratheon stands before him, the lord commander of the nights watch, offering him the ruling seat of the north on a silver platter. not just that — stannis has offered to legitimize him. he would bend the knee as jon snow, and rise as jon stark.

he could have you.

if he agreed, your children wouldn't be bastards. they'd run around the very halls jon grew up in.

when he sits at his desk in the dead of night, he almost agrees. his knees are on the cusp of bending, of hitting the ground not just in front of stannis, but in front of you. for the rest of his days.

he almost does it.

until the voice of ned stark fills his head. the voice of honor, of duty, of loyalty — of being alright with dying if it was for an honorable cause. and, ultimately, that voice carries weight heavier than stannis baratheons.

however, what jon fails to observe are the times and ways in which ned stark chose his family above all else. he doesn’t know that ned stark proudly harbors a "stain" on his honor and reputation such as jon for the love he bore his sister.

how could he? perhaps if jon knelt at the weirwood as often as he was told to, his father could speak from its mouth and tell him so. if only.

wind and words, wind and words.

the wind is cold the day jon tells stannis baratheon his name will remain snow. it blows with a fury the day the lord departs.

as jon watches him, he spares a glance to you. you're already looking at him, and his heart lurches against his will. your lips twitch in a frown as you turn your back to him, ravens cawing at you incessantly to be fed.

they are restless in the days leading up to the knives.

they caw during all hours of the night, keeping many of you awake. others have tried, but they only calm when you come to them. sometimes, when even that isn't enough, you recite that old northern prayer while feeding small seeds through the cages.

the few times you've done it, you've seen jon through the window of the lord commanders chambers. sometimes he stays in; others, he and ghost go for a walk. it's as if that prayer wakes him up.

if it does, it does nothing to wake his heart when it stops beating.

blood spilled on snow. blood spilled from snow. all of it is a blur — all of it is too much.

grief and heartache like you've never known it. a hook in your ribs, a chain of loss weighing from the end of it. it drags your shoulders down, drags your tears down your cheeks, and you feel heavy as he lays there, cold. colder than you've ever known him. cold like snow isn't a name, but what replaces his muscle.

maybe it does.

his body doesn't leave your sight until tormund giantsbane breaks through to castle black and order is restored. melisandre tries some strange ritual, but it doesn't work.

you aren't surprised. the gods never favored you much.

it feels like your prayers have always fallen on deaf ears — you can’t remember why you even bother to recite.

but, still, you thank her for trying. edd slings an arm over your shoulders as you both take your leave, and the weight is comforting.

the weight in your shoulders is lifted when you're found minutes later with the news of the undead.

you're no longer heavy — you run. you run so fast you skip every two steps when coming up the stairs to the lord commander's chambers.

it's somehow all a blur, and the clearest your memory has ever been.

he's no longer cold like the dead are. he's standing in front of you, and you can see it as he looks at you. he's been torn down and rebuilt and is missing pieces the recent blur of life and death make it impossible to label which are gone.

even so, you throw yourself into his arms, and they're already open and searching for you before you do.

his skin is cold, but he is not. he recites apologies until his voice breaks, and he gets quiet, and you tell him it's okay. and when you break apart, and look at each other for the first time in months, jon makes a decision - a vow, right then and there.

he couldn't - and didn't - have you in his last life, so he will have you in this one. he gave his life to the nights watch, he thinks. any oath he swore died with him.

well, at least that's what ricochets in his mind as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, closing the small gap and crashing his lips into yours.

[savyindeepspace]

whew your writing sratches that itch in my brain fr 😵‍💫 i would LOVEE to see you write about zayne and sylus reacting to the reader being self conscious about squirting for the first time pretty please 🥲

I appreciate you 🥰 thank you for waiting, I just finished a longer fic, so I can answer this now!

MDNI 🔞

❄️ : Not only has Zayne learned your body and all its responses to stimuli, but he’s a surgeon as well as your primary care physician. His hands always worked with precision and care, whether it was keeping steady while holding a scalpel or working you open around his long fingers. Every time he made you cum, it was always mind numbing—but he wanted to give you more and test the limits of your pleasure.

After a particularly tough week at both your respective jobs, you needed release. Some nights, all you could muster was a slow make out session or a little dry humping before bed. “I’m sorry, Zaynie, I’m just so tired,” you said before rolling over, pressing your back into his embrace. Zayne is a patient man, his level of restraint was something that he’d sworn to maintain. So he’d wait until you were ready, because it was always evident in your gaze, your touch, even your scent.

You didn’t know there was a possibility to experience a more intense climax than the ones Zayne gave you. Your body always laid trembling and dewy with sweat when he took care of you. He made you wet with even the most feather-light touches and he always listened, never insecure when you told him to change his pace or pressure. And he loved to give, even if it meant not receiving anything in return. Zayne’s goal during intimacy was to watch you fall apart beneath him, by his hands, mouth or cock.

You stayed at his condo over the weekend, tidying his space while he was at work. He agreed to take a shorter shift since you had an early day yourself. Before he came home, you showered away the dust and grime accumulated while cleaning. He came through the front door quietly, his black tie loosened around his neck, lab coat draped over his forearm. Changing from dress shoes to house slippers, he shuffled his way into the kitchen. You stood with your back turned towards the island, preparing dinner, mindlessly chopping vegetables and humming to the music playing off your phone.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, drawing a deep breath and sighing softly from the smell of your jasmine lotion. “You’re home,” you cooed, turning around in his arms. His bright dreamy hazel eyes were a little less tired, the previous dark circles now fading. “You smell good,” he murmured, nuzzling into your neck. “Thank you baby, hungry?” Zayne squeezed you a little tighter, held around your waist a little longer. “I am. Thank you for starting dinner, but let me help.” You gesture to a plate of chicken thighs, “season those for me?” He nodded, then pressed a kiss to your temple.

After finishing the dishes, you agreed on a movie night before bed. Your bodies were snuggled together under a mountain of blankets, taking turns popping candies into each other’s mouths. Zayne rubbed your thigh, an absent minded motion he did frequently, but tonight it was driving you crazy. After a while, the movie became less interesting. Taking hold of his wrist, you put his hand on your crotch and his fingers flinched from the heat rising from your core. “You’re being so bold,” he said low and husky, but slowly rubbing circles into the fabric. “Mm—we’ve been to tired and busy lately, I miss you…,” you moaned, feeling the muscles in his forearms flex with each turn of his wrist.

Zayne pulled you into his lap, planting his hand on your waist, “I knew the movie wouldn’t last long.” The buttons on your pajama top were undone just enough to expose your cleavage. Letting out a soft groan, Zayne buried between your breasts nose first. You carded your fingers through his dark hair, mewling as his lips grazed your nipple. “I’ve missed you all week, need to hold you, feel you around me,” he rasped, rolling the hardened bud between his teeth. Your hips began to rock against his lap, breath hitching when his erection nudged your swelling clit. Zayne’s normally chilled skin became hotter and flushed, his cheeks and ears a bright red.

When you kissed him, his tongue still tasted like strawberry candy. He slithered his hand between your bodies, diving into your pajama shorts. “God, you’re always so wet for me,” he said with a strained tone. You moaned into his mouth, grinding against his deft fingers. “I want to make you wetter, can I do that love?” His voice was raspy, breath brushing against your ear and neck. “Mhmmm, need you, Zayne, so bad.” You whined as he filled you with two fingers, curling the tips over your sweetest spot. His forehead fell, resting on your shoulder. “So…warm,” he groaned, “I don’t think I can wait anymore.”

He quickly rose off the couch, fingers still working you open, essence rolling in clear beads down his hand. Your back bounced off the mattress, watching Zayne shrug out of his dress shirt. His fingers were still soaked as he unbuckled his belt and slipped his grey slacks to the floor. He crawled over you, palms sinking into the mattress, cock hanging heavily between his legs. “I’m going to make up for everything,” he whispered, soft lips bruising your earlobe. You arched into him, pussy clenching around nothing, begging for fullness and friction. He pushed your hips into the sheets, “behave. I’m going to take care of you.” Zayne pursed a slow trail of kisses down your stomach, biting the plush skin under your navel. His lidded gaze fell to your messy panties, “fuck…,” he couldn’t help but drag his tongue over the transparent stain. “A-ah!,” you keened, gripping the hair at his nape. The doctor pulled your ruined underwear away , moaning deeply at the sight of your weepy sex.

His tongue slid in and out of your entrance, giving you a hint of fullness. You writhed impatiently, “baby please…” A tight smack stung your flesh, making a yelp rip out of you, “I said behave.” Zayne closed his lips around your clit, giving it light sucks while pressing his palm on your abdomen. “F-fuck…what are you doing?,” a foreign pressure began building from this new sensation. You could feel your pulse thrumming from inside your core. “Giving you more,” Zayne said with a clinical tone, reintroducing his fingers to your entrance. Your body shattered, you came around his pumping digits, hips bucking like a wild mare. “Mmmm fuck—Zayne!”

He rose from between your thighs, quieting your moans with a reverent kiss. “Feel good?” You looked at him with needy eyes, nodding frantically. “Use your voice.” “Yes, daddy, so good,” you whimpered, making his cock jump. He dropped his hips, rubbing the tip through your folds, “I’m not done, yet.” His breath was hot as it fanned over your shoulder, making your skin prickle with goosebumps. Zayne instructed you to breathe as he pushed himself inside, grunting from that first clamp of your walls. The stretch was intoxicating, every inch satisfying your need for fullness. “God, so tight,” thrust “so perfect,” thrust “so fucking good for me. It started with long, slow movements, warming your pussy with his length. He memorized every twitch, every shudder of your muscles, filling you deliberately. “Faster baby…please..,” you pleaded, asking for a kiss with your eyes. Your lips were met with a loving embrace, his tongue invading your mouth. The vulgar gushing between your bodies made lighting shoot up Zayne’s spine, you’ve never been this sloppy for him and it filled him with a sense of pride.

You were already feeling euphoric, mind dizzy and vision blurry. His hand reached under your pillow, retrieving your vibrator you thought he didn’t know about. A gasp ripped from your lips when the rattling toy met your flesh, making you fist the sheets. “Z-Zayne—I can’t take it, s’too much..,” you panted, an unusual pressure building in your gut. His thrusts changed, sliding in and out ferociously. “I got you, love. Be a good girl and cum for me.” You wept from the combination of pleasure and pain, this unknown pull at your insides was tearing you in half. “I…I—ohhh god, I’m cumming Zayne!” A scream shattered your vocal cords and a warm fluid sprayed from where you connected, leaving a small puddle beneath you. Your cheeks felt hot, “baby…what was that?” Your lover held your chin, pulling your gaze to his, “don’t be embarrassed, I just wanted you to feel better.” He gently kissed you, still plunging himself inside your fluttering pussy. “Did I squirt?,” you cooed, still feeling a little vulnerable. Zayne’s hips rutted into you, his cock coating your insides with cum. “Haah—yes, and I loved it, I love you.”

You squirmed weakly, feeling full, spent and drowsy. You kissed each other lazily moaning softly against your sweeping lips. He gently pulled out, watching you leak onto the sheets, “such a good girl, I love you too, angel.”

🐦‍⬛: Sylus was no stranger to love making. He put you in positions you didn’t know existed, pulling the most earth shattering orgasms from you multiple times a night. He had an open mind when it came to you and your needs, giving you anything you desired. After all, he made it his life’s purpose to spoil you rotten, to feed your greedy intentions. His devotion for you was ancient, otherworldly—it showed in more ways than intimacy. Lately, however, he noticed your light was a little dimmer than usual.

For months Linkon had several waves of Wanderer attacks. Terrorizing local communities, so much so that it took multiple teams to defeat them. Sylus frowned at your slumped shoulders and dark circles, feeling an ache in his chest for his normally feisty kitten. “Is there anything I can do to help?,” he asked, thumbs digging into your traps. Your head fell back against his shins as you sat in front of the couch, melting from his firm ministrations. “Mm, no Sy, it’s okay really.” He grumbled above you, slightly annoyed by your stubbornness. “You don’t always have to be so independent, sweetie,” he murmured, gliding his hands down the back of your neck. You leaned over and kissed his calf, “m’fine, I promise.”

Then the next day, you weren’t. Finally at your wits end, you thrashed through the base doors. Sylus had no time to greet you as you shut yourself away in the bathroom. You were frustrated, on the verge of angry, exhausted tears and all you wanted was a hot bath. Stripping away the layers of your Hunter’s uniform, you threw them in a messy pile and began to fill the tub. Your muscles loosened and bones felt softer when you sank in the steaming basin. A deep sigh, blew from your lips and slowly, you closed your eyes.

Sylus knocked on the bathroom door before peaking his head inside. You were so immersed in your soak, that you didn’t notice him undress and sink in behind you. “Mmm, hey you,” you groaned, resting your head on his chest. A light kiss pressed against your hair, “everything okay, Kitten?,” he asked, gently rubbing your arms. You sighed, “just so tired, of everything…” “I understand, why don’t you let me take care of you tonight?,” he soothed, arms squeezing tighter. After months of grueling work, you gave in.

You let Sylus wash your hair, run a loofah over your skin, practically purring from his touch full of intention. As he rinsed away the suds from every part of your body, a trail of kisses followed. You nuzzled into his lap, still surrounded by the warm embrace of the water. “Sy…I want more. More touching, more kissing. I need it.” He hummed sweetly, lifting you out the tub. Kneeling before you, he smoothed a towel from your tummy down each leg pursing his lips down your skin. His touch was worshipful, making you sigh with a mixture of pleasure and feeling seen. Then he stood, blotting your dripping hair, grazing your neck with his nose. “You’re so soft, smell so sweet…,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. You let out a soft hum, leaning into his broad frame.

You wrapped the towel around your self while Sylus put your hair in long braid down your back. “There, feel better?” “Mhmm, thank you, I’m sorry for being so stubborn,” you mumbled. His finger curled under your chin, pulling your gaze upward. “It’s okay, Sweetie, I know it wasn’t personal.” He guided you backwards until your back met the cool marble countertop. You floated upwards, landing softly as you sat by the sink. Sylus pushed between your thighs, “from now on, you’re under my care. Understand?” The towel fell to the floor and his hands splayed over your thighs. “Yes–“

“Good.”

He kissed you slowly, reverently, slipping his long tongue into your mouth. A low growl rose from his chest when you bit his lower lip. Sylus moved to your neck, sucking rosy marks into the flesh. “Mine..,” bite “mine…,” suck “all mine.” Your fingers raked through his silver locks, lightly tugging at the roots and earning a small moan. He palmed your breast, needing the plush swell in his large hand. You gasped as he inhaled a nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peak. “Good girl, keep making those pretty noises for me…” His tongue gave your other breast some attention, making your mouth fall into an O shape. “Sylus…more…,” you breathed, parting your thighs further, feeling sticky at your center.

Your lover could smell the arousal lifting off of you, sliding his fingers through your slick. He groaned, rubbing circles around your clit, “fuck…you’re so messy already, I need to taste you.” He sucked his digits clean before using them you fill your entrance, caressing your puffy insides. “Ah—Sylus, yes…,” you mewled, tossing your head back. His fingers warmed your core, gushing lewdly, making the silver haired man bite his lip. “I love it when she talks to me, so dirty,” he growled, “I’m gonna make her leak everywhere, too.” You yelped as Sylus threw you over his shoulder, still buried knuckle deep. You whimpered, every step he took towards the bedroom nudged his fingertips against your walls, making you clench tightly.

You melted into the mattress, face down and a curved arch in your back. Large hands gripped your ass, spreading it apart slowly. A warm glob of spit plopped on your pussy, then spread evenly with his crown. “Don’t hold your breath and make those pretty little sounds for me, okay?” You whined, moving your ass in needy circles against his erection. Smack “hmm?,” Sylus hummed, soothing the stinging spank with his palm. “Y-yes! Okayyy!” His weight leaned against you, pursing a kiss between your shoulder blades. You could feel him in your guts when he finally sank inside, filling you to the brim. “Goddamn,” he rasped, pulling back and watching his cock disappear with each languid intrusion.

Your moans were muffled by the blankets before another warning spank swiped across your ass. “Ah—s-sorry baby.” He rubbed the flushed cheek, accepting your adorable little apology. Sylus’s eyes never left your pussy as it swallowed him whole, leaving a ring of slick around the base. He knew being in doggy was your favorite position, how hard you came from his hips slamming into you from behind. When your legs began to shake and voice was raw from calling his name, he prepared for the moment you’d break beneath him. As his thrusts grew more intense and rapid, your arm swung back, pushing away from intense waves of pressure. Sylus held your hand but kept his bruising pace, “don’t run Kitten, you’re almost there…”

You nearly collapsed to the bed when his fingers found your clit, “w-wait—oh my god!” But he didn’t stop, only growled at your pleasured moans and how your back arched even deeper. An unfamiliar feeling boiled in your lower abdomen, threatening to crash over you at any moment. Just when you felt like you couldn’t hold on any longer, Sylus tapped your clit repetitively. You wailed, clawing at the sheets and gushing endlessly down your thighs. “Yes that’s it’s, just like that, Kitten.” The mess pooling on the bed drove him crazy, and he came hard, holding your hips with an iron grip. A soft whimper fell from your lips as he claimed you, limbs struggling to hold you upright. “Good girl,” he purred, pulling himself free. You winced, rolling on our back. Sylus bent down and dotted kisses all over your dewy skin, the worship returning in his touch. “Love you so much, sweetheart,” he soothed. You sighed, sweeping the plastered strands of silver from his forehead, “I love you, baby…but I feel so embarrassed. Never squirt before.”

A subtle laugh rumbled from his throat, and he pulled you into his arms. “Don’t ever apologize for experiencing pleasure. I wanted you to let go.” His reassurance was warm and sweet. You curled into him and let out a relieved sigh. “But don’t fall asleep yet, I’ll definitely need to change these sheets. My little mess maker.”

*further proof I need the snowcrow duo in my bed*

[muqingslover]

Rafayel being forced to kill the person he loved the most because MC commanded him is peak angst. I can say with ease that I fucking CALLED IT and I love that they went with that

The way he holds her in his arms with such desperation and tenderness knowing it will the last time, allowing himself to shed tears just before she literally slips away from his arms.

"I'll become one with the sea and stay with you forever." Oh they're sick for this and I love it.

MC is the only one who could make a God pray and fall apart.

btw I looooove that he cries pearls I think it's my new favorite thing.

[spicyspiders]

was looking at these of hugh jackman kissing rafael casal in bad education and i noticed at the beginning of the second gif there's a string of spit connecting their mouths. do with that information what you will.

[zazima]

the sirius&harry tag on ao3 ain't hitting like it used to can someone drop a banger pls

[jichanxo]

date outfit kitakata save me......... save me....

[souenkun]

I changed the plot of my aokabu fic not even halfway into my first attempt, and I'm still mourning the fact that I couldn't include these two paragraphs in the new fic 🥲

Read my published aokabu fic here.

[theflyingfeeling]

#like the cute olli/allu one i imagined last night while listening to a raging storm outside 🥺

hiii, would you mind sharing this? 🥺💕 i love your ollli/allu headcanons and ship thoughts 👉👈💕

thanks for asking!! 🥰

I was just thinking of an AU in which everything is the same except Olli and Allu live in the same city (i.e. Helsinki), and they often hang out at Aleksi's studio to make music together (or to just talk <3). One evening when they have scheduled another hangout, the weather is absolutely horrifying with pouring rain and raging wind, so Aleksi assumes Olli's gonna cancel (he doesn't have a car and religiously prefers his bike over public transportation), but then Olli shows up at his door completely drenched, yet a smile on his face because he's so happy to see Allu and to finally be there after his journey (he couldn't ride his bike properly because he could barely move forward upwind). Aleksi then has to lend him some dry clothes and wrap him up in a blanket and give him something warm to drink, and as Olli is sitting on his studio couch sipping on some tea his cheeks an adorable shade of pink, Aleksi has a ✨ realisation ✨ ...🥺

(were Olli's cheeks pink because of the strenuous exercise, or because of the fact that he was so completely soaked that he had to borrow everything from Aleksi, including underwear...? 😳)

I had another idea related to the same/similar AU today, this time about the two of them just practically spending every evening together at Aleksi's studio and growing closer day by day, also physically. One time they almost kiss but they snap out of it, the next day they kiss a little but they still laugh it off and Olli makes his exit sort of hastily, the next day they kiss a little bit more (by then they're maybe looking forward to the prospect of kissing rather than making music), until idk how many days in they start making out practically at the door already. Also included in this scenario is Olli ending up stradling Aleksi on his studio chair as they take a break to snog the heck out of each other (cue some "accidental" boners 😌)

[jubshead]

I want to write, but I don't, bc I feel like it's not gonna be good enough, even though I know that I will only be good at it if I write

[finemealcreates]

If you asked Estelle, she would tell you she has no idea how it started. It was a lie, of course, she was the first worker who had encountered the ghost after all.

She had been going through her closing cleaning duties, listening to an audiobook on her headphones to help the time pass faster. A sudden chill had entered the room, causing her to shiver.

When she looked up, she spotted a boy there.

Confusion had filled her. Why was there a boy in this room? They've been closed for almost an hour, maybe someone missed him when doing a sweep to make sure all the guests had left?

She opened her mouth to say something, before she stopped.

The boy ... he was floating. He's laying down, almost touching the floor, but not quite. He's ... hovering.

Wait, she recognizes this boy. White hair? Black and white suit with a "D" on it? Isn't this that ghost boy ... Phantom the newspapers had talked about?

She had heard a mix of good and bad of the kid, but she had never encountered him before. Should she encounter him now?

Before she can decide to do anything, he looks up at her. He offers a small smile, it looking almost like a wince.

"Sorry," he says, "didn't mean to bother anyone."

"It's no bother," Estelle responds automatically, her customer service brain acting instinctually for her. "Just uhh ... do you mind hovering over there for a second? I haven't quite swept there yet."

Phantom nods, offering a smile as he floats over to the section she had already swept.

Wordlessly, Estelle moves and keeps sweeping, mind running faster than she can even process. She'll have to backup the book, she has no idea what's been happening and has apparently missed a crucial part.

Yet she can't even think about her book right now. What the hell is happening? Why is the ghost boy here? And he wasn't even doing anything bad! He was more polite than most of the guests Estelle had encountered today. And he's not causing any actual fuss. As long as her manager doesn't find out it should be fine?

"Alright, all done," Estelle eventually states, offering Phantom a smile.

He smiles back at her, going back to his original spot.

"Thanks," he says kindly to her.

"No problem. As long as you don't cause any messes or trouble for me to have to deal with, I don't mind," Estelle tells him. And she realizes that she means it. She doesn't get paid enough to make these decisions, so she won't.

His smile widens at her, and he extends a hand.

"Phantom," he introduces.

She takes his hand, resisting the urge to shiver at how cold his hand is.

"Estelle," she says back.

Phantom's smile widens to an impossible size.

"Nice to meet you Estelle."

+

Of course, none of her coworkers believe her. They all say she's crazy, that she made it up, and maybe she should catch up on rest.

She huffed, but she knew what she saw. They would meet Phantom or they wouldn't, but best not to push it.

However, she wouldn't have to. When she comes back after a couple days off, a bunch of her coworkers come up to her pressing her for details about Phantom.

"I thought you didn't believe me," Estelle snarks at them, putting her items away in her locker.

"That was until Danica and Astra also saw him!" Alex tells her, practically vibrating in place.

"He came back?" Estelle asks thoughtfully.

"Apparently! He was really nice, didn't cause any trouble. He's honestly a better guest than anyone else we get."

Estelle smiles at them as they head out onto the floor, heading towards their sections to begin their shifts.

"Welp, you should've believed me when I was talking about him originally," Estelle taunts with a slight smirk. "Told you guys I wasn't lying!"

+

And that's how it begun. Phantom didn't come every night, but he came most nights. He was nice, would chat with them to help pass time. Hell, even Estelle's managers loved Phantom.

Sometimes Phantom would even help them out, even if he technically wasn't supposed to. No one knew if free labor counted for ghosts too, but Phantom would insist he was volunteering ergo it was fine for him to help.

Estelle and the rest also learned pretty quickly that Phantom loved to talk about space. Everything and anything space. He would talk to them about the latest discovering from NASA, explain in detail the different mythological stories about certain constellations, or even listen to them prattle on about space.

Point is, Phantom had slid his way into their lives.

More and more people began to want to work the evening shifts just to get a chance to talk to Phantom. Luckily, those with the evening shifts don't have to drastically change their schedules. Once or twice there'll be a day or two of a morning worker working in the evening, but it's mainly the same. Helps closing go faster, that way. Plus, if too many people find out about Phantom it could be dangerous.

Estelle had talked to Phantom once about why visits the planetarium so much.

"The obvious answer is I love space," Phantom teased. "But the other answer is so that I can relax. Being a ghost isn't always the safest thing to be in Amity, ya know?"

Estelle didn't know. But she made sure to spread the word to everyone about any potential threat to Phantom. Telling them what he admitted to her.

Perhaps that's why they were so prepared when one day, after closing, the doors were smashed open.

Heads turned as a strangely dressed couple with weird machines came strutting in.

"Where is Phantom? We know he's here! Our Fenton-tracker told us a ghost is here!" the man shouted out, brandishing a ... was that a bazooka?

"I don't know what you're talking about," Estelle spoke first, crossing her arms as she glared at them.

Of course, it was a lie. She had just been talking to Phantom not ten minutes ago, and she's almost positive he's still here.

"He must be hiding, we have to find him and capture him for everyone's safety!" the woman insisted, beginning to move forward determinedly.

Estelle blocked their path, doing her best to portray calm and sternness as she raised an eyebrow.

"If he's as dangerous as you say, wouldn't he already be causing destruction by now?" Estelle questioned.

"Yeah, we would have heard it if he was here to cause trouble," Alex pipes up, pretending to lean on her mop casually.

Estelle saw the action for what it was. Alex was prepared to hit them over the head with her mop. Estelle grabbed her own arms, wishing her broom wasn't out of reach. If anything, she'll punch them if she has to.

"If he's hiding you wouldn't see him," the woman argues.

"Yeah, but wouldn't there be cold spots or something?" Estelle retorts, rolling her eyes. "Lady we've been cleaning for over an hour. Been in every room in this place. There hasn't been any cold spots. Your machine must be malfunctioning."

The woman frowns, looking down at the machine. The man looks over her shoulder, also frowning.

"I could have sworn we calibrated it all correctly yesterday," the man comments, grabbing the machine out of the woman's hand.

He gives it a couple of shakes, pounding on it's side. In doing so, he accidentally breaks the thing.

"This girl must be right! If it was finished it wouldn't have fallen apart like that," the man says, oblivious to the fact that he was why it broke.

With a sigh, the woman looks away from the man and to Estelle.

"Feel free to send the bill to Fentonworks for the door, sorry for the inconvenience."

And with that, they're gone. Out of the planetarium as quickly as they had arrived.

Estelle shook her head, turning towards Alex, mouth open.

An oof escapes her as arms wrap around her.

"Thank you," Phantom whispers in her ear, squeezing her tight.

She smiles as she wraps her arms around him.

"Of course. You're our friend," Estelle tells him as she squeezes him back.

"I'm going to call Morgan and tell her what happened, perhaps we can get those two permanently banned from here," Alex says, already raising the phone to their ear.

Phantom shakes slightly in her arms, and Estelle realizes she can hear him crying slightly.

She squeezes him even tighter, rubbing his back and cradling his head with her hand.

"We're not gonna let anyone hurt you, Phantom. If you ever need help, you can come to us."

Phantom doesn't say anything, but she can feel him relax slightly in her arms.

Estelle meets Alex's eyes.

Just what the hell have those two done to him?

Guys, I need “people working at the planetarium having a good bond with Phantom because he goes there so often”! It’s mostly the people on night watch who get to see him. He goes to the planetarium for some peace and quiet, he usually just lays on the floor as if it’s the first break he’s had all day. Sometimes he talks with the staff, but it’s mostly him just casually haunting the place.

They eventually figure out that space is his obsession, and since he’s very polite and they don’t know just how important it is for a ghost’s health to indulge in their obsession, they have no problems with him being there. No one says a thing to any ghost hunters. Once, the Fentons came suspecting Phantom was there. They were right, but the workers teamed up to convince them it was a malfunction in their inventions.

Once they were gone, Phantom turned to the nearest one like they just saved him from death and hugged them. They were not released for a solid ten minutes.

[sabbathbloodysabbeth]

(Disclaimer: this is not the normal kind of thing I post, there's nothing bad with it but its a little more personal? I've been exploring art forms and kind of really enjoy creative nonfiction and I kind of wanted to write and Tumblr was looking at me funny so here I am.)

My Experience with fandom

So... I feel like one of those youtubers who don't consistently post and always comes back after a few months to say something silly like, "So... I'm back" to only disappear for months after posting maybe a handful of videos after saying they won't leave.

I've once again been busy with college, and I've had the urge to write. But what I want to write is unknown. I haven't had much time to get into any hyper fixations (as well as there isn't anything that interests me). I've been working on myself (a lot) this past year and so much has changed.

For one, I no longer use fandom as a crutch. I haven't for a long time, and I think I've kind of shifted out of the era where escapism was charming, for me at least. Yes, I still partake in thinks that fall into the category of escapism but not nearly as bad as I did when I was younger. Apart of me misses spending hours upon hours a day writing on my computer, talking to others and reading fanfic after fanfic. But now, I'm more content with the way I am now.

I also, now at twenty, can recognize that some, if not most, of my behavior on Tumblr was always seeking attention rather than seeking fulfillment with the things I wrote. This is one of the many reasons why I believe I've never finished a piece I've been super into. I enjoy writing, and for the most part I was and still am proud of most of the work I've written. But I do have to admit, around seventy percent of what I was doing was based on numbers. The digits that told me how many reads I got on a piece. How many comments. How many subscriptions. Whether it be from Wattpad or ao3 I found myself constantly checking. It got so bad that at one point I would spend more time checking the numbers then actually writing. Though it wasn't just these numbers that influenced me, it was also word count.

All the more popular pieces of work I read typically had long chapters. Ranging from 5k words to sometimes even 20k. Because this was the form of writing I enjoyed reading the most I put the pressure of writing that much in every chapter I produced. And well. I would get burnt out pretty quickly. I would end up writing 10k a chapter and felt like I never got anywhere.

If I could go back in time, I think I would really try to seek more fulfillment with what I wrote. There isn't necessarily anything wrong with wanting attention or recognition when it comes to your pieces of art. But when that desire mixed itself into the writing process, I personally believe that will become an issue. I'm sure there are acceptations to this but for myself it does cause problems.

I began writing and reading on the internet when I was ten or eleven. I was introduced to Wattpad by a very chronically online individual. The first piece of content that I ever saw was a five nights at Freddie's smut. (And it wasn't by choice.) Shortly after I would dive into the internet. Starting with Darly Dixon fanfics. Then Justin Bieber. Then One Direction. And what could possibly be my last and most recent Stranger Things. When I started this journey, I was a nervous and insecure preteen girl. Now, I am guy who happens to be an adult. And somehow I now have a girlfriend? Despite being convinced that I was gay?

As I write this I enjoy the words that are filling up the white space on my screen. I know deep down that I don't really give a shit if anybody sees this or not. I, for once, wrote this piece for me and me alone. If anybody happens to read this, great. I hope you've had a nice day. If you're someone who relates to what I'm saying then I have one think to ask from you. Look around you. Or go somewhere that you feel comfortable, and look real hard. Try to name and place things around you that are important to you. Feel them. Take a deep breathe in and out. And once you feel comfortable come back to the screen. And let your thoughts unravel on a blank piece of document. Or if you don't want a screen write on paper.

Trust me when I say that this will help. If you give it time. It may not work for everyone, but if you are open to it, it may help with whatever problem you have. Anxiety, writing block, or pretty much anything if you're determined enough. If you don't have the energy to do any of the things I said, that's fine. Try doing something that you do have the energy to do. And do it for yourself. Not for anybody else.

Heres an adorable cat for your feed