#rose gold metallic shoes

[lemonsdietcoke]

A Pearl - Player!230

Dark!Choi Su-bong/Thanos x Fem!Reader

Warnings: emotional and physical abuse, NONCON/DUBCON,substance abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, toxic relationships, childhood trauma

Summary: “I fell in love with a war, and nobody told me it ended.” You thought love was supposed to hurt. That it meant holding on when everything burned. Inspired by ‘A Pearl’-Mitski

MINORS DNI

A/n: this story is super heavy so just be prepared going into this. This is probably the darkest thing I’ve written. Also the bold means it’s a flashback. Lmk if yall fw. I love feedback. Lmk what you think!!

……………..

The house is too quiet.

Not the quiet that lulls you to sleep, the kind that hums with the soft rhythm of peace. No. This quiet is suffocating. It weighs down on your chest, fills your throat until you can’t swallow properly, and presses against your ears until every little sound feels magnified. The ticking of the clock is too loud. The hum of the refrigerator rattles through the walls like a warning. And the silence, that awful silence, screams louder than anything else.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning under your weight as though the house itself is protesting your stillness. Your fingers move without thinking, the chain of your necklace twisted between them. You tug it forward, letting the locket fall into your palm. The cool metal feels heavier tonight, like it knows something you don’t. You trace the shape of the rose etched into the surface—a small, intricate carving, its petals curling toward the center where the gold is worn smooth from years of touch.

When you were a child, you’d thought the rose was magic. Your parents had given it to you for your twelfth birthday, saving for months to afford something so fine. Your father had clasped it around your neck with careful fingers, your mother watching with teary eyes, saying it was for the little lady you were becoming. You’d carried it with you everywhere, opening the locket a dozen times a day just to see the tiny, faded photo inside—a family portrait taken before everything went wrong. The three of you, smiling despite the faded edges of your clothes, despite the peeling wallpaper behind you. Your father’s arm was wrapped tightly around your mother, and she was holding you on her lap, her hand tucked over yours. You remember the way her hair smelled like rosemary, the way your father’s laugh used to make your chest flutter.

You hadn’t worn the locket in years, not until him. Not until Su-bong had found it in your drawer, tucked away like a secret. “What’s this?��� he’d asked, holding it up in the air between two fingers, his expression teasing but curious. When you’d hesitated, he’d snapped the clasp open before you could stop him, his brows raising slightly at the photo.

“Wow,” he’d said with a lopsided grin, tossing it back into your lap like it didn’t matter. “Didn’t know you were the sentimental type.”

You’d put it on that night, your chest burning with embarrassment. You’ve worn it every day since, the metal resting against your skin like armor.

Now, it feels like a lifeline. You wrap your hand around it tightly, letting the edges dig into your palm. The chain pulls against your neck, but you don’t loosen your grip. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded as your thoughts spiral. He left hours ago—another night, another excuse. He hadn’t even stopped to look at you when you asked him to stay.

“Do you really need to go? It’s already late.”

He’d barely paused to shove his shoes on, his hair falling into his face as he fumbled with the laces. His jacket had hung off one shoulder, sloppily thrown on in his hurry to leave. “Don’t start,” he’d muttered, voice low and clipped.

“I just—Su-bong, please.” Your voice had cracked, small and unsure, the way it always did when you tried to hold him back.

That was when he’d stopped. Just for a moment. He’d looked up at you then, a flash of irritation cutting through the haze in his eyes. “I won’t be long,” he’d said, his tone sharp enough to make you flinch. Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the picture frames rattle against the walls.

He hasn’t come back. You’re not sure if he will.

You glance at the clock on the nightstand. 2:47 AM. The seconds tick by, loud and relentless. You press the locket against your lips, as though the cool metal might soothe the heat rising in your throat. The ache in your chest twists tighter, suffocating and raw, and you force yourself to stand.

The bedroom is dark, lit only by the faint yellow glow of the streetlamp outside. The shadow of the blinds cuts across the walls like a cage. You make your way to the window, each step slow and deliberate. Your legs feel heavy, your bare feet brushing against the cold floor. The night outside is still, the air thick with fog. You half expect to see him stumbling down the street, his head tilted to one side, his steps uneven. But there’s nothing. Just the empty road stretching out into the dark, a void that swallows everything in its path.

Your stomach churns. You don’t even know why you bother looking for him anymore. He never answers your texts when he’s out. He never picks up his phone. He always comes back when he wants to, not a moment before, and when he does, it’s like you’re supposed to forget he ever left. “What are you so worried about?” he always says, brushing you off like you’re a child. “I’m fine. Just let it go, babe.”

He never understands why you can’t let it go.

Your fingers shake as you unlock your phone, scrolling through your empty messages. The last text you’d sent hours ago—“Let me know when you’re on your way home.”—sits unread, untouched. You’d stared at the screen for so long that your eyes had blurred, waiting for the little dots to appear. They never did.

You close the app and toss the phone onto the bed, breathing out shakily. Your chest tightens as you imagine him laughing somewhere, his hand wrapped around a bottle, surrounded by people who don’t care that he’s tearing you apart piece by piece. He’ll come home eventually, his breath hot and sour against your skin, his hands rough and insistent. You’ll let him touch you, because it’s easier than saying no. Because it hurts too much to fight him when he’s like that. Because at least when he’s touching you, you know where he is.

The thought makes your stomach turn. You press your hand to your mouth, your breath shaking against your palm. The metal of the locket digs into your skin again, grounding you, keeping you here, when all you want to do is disappear.

The house is too quiet. The clock ticks louder.

And he’s still not here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The light in the hallway buzzes faintly, flickering every so often. You’re leaning against the bathroom door, your back pressed flat against the wood, knees curled up tight to your chest. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, too fast, too loud, until it feels like your whole body is vibrating with it. You can hear him on the other side—his voice rising, slurring, vibrating with that sharp, manic edge that always makes your stomach churn.

“Open the door!” His fist collides with the wood, hard enough to make the frame rattle. “Don’t fucking ignore me!”

The sound sends a jolt through your body. Your hands grip the locket around your neck so tightly the edges press into your palm, the thin gold chain pulling taut against your skin. You don’t even notice the sting. You’re not thinking about anything except how close he sounds. How loud. How angry.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your breathing shallow, uneven. You tell yourself to be quiet—don’t make a sound, don’t move—but your body isn’t listening. Your knees are shaking so badly they knock against the door, the vibration rattling the hinges.

“I’m not gonna fucking ask again!” The next hit is harder, a sharp, jarring kick that makes the whole door shudder. You gasp before you can stop yourself, slapping a hand over your mouth, but it’s too late.

“Oh, so now you’re scared?” he sneers, his voice dropping low and venomous. You can picture the way his lips curl when he says it, that smug, mocking smile that always makes your stomach turn. “What, you think this door is gonna save you? You think I won’t fucking break it down?”

The door shudders again—another kick, harder this time, and you flinch so violently that your head knocks back against the wood. A crack splinters through the frame, faint but audible, and you can feel the panic crawling up your throat.

You press the locket tighter against your chest, the rose etched into its surface digging into your skin. You focus on the weight of it, the coldness of the gold, the soft click of the clasp when it used to open. Anything to keep your mind from spiraling too far. But it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Earlier That Night~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night had started quietly, the house dimly lit as you waited for him to come home. He’d promised you that morning, “I’m staying in tonight, alright? No bullshit.” You hadn’t believed him—not really—but some part of you had wanted to. Some part of you had clung to that tiny, fragile hope like it meant something.

When the door slammed open hours later, you knew.

You’d smelled the whiskey first. It clung to him like a second skin, sharp and sour, mixing with the faint scent of cigarettes that always seemed to follow him. His steps were uneven, his hand gripping the doorframe for balance before he stumbled further inside. He didn’t look at you, didn’t say anything. He just went straight for the kitchen.

You’d stood in the doorway, your chest tightening as you watched him dig through the drawers, muttering under his breath. When he pulled out the pill bottle, your heart dropped.

“Seriously, Su-bong?” you said, your voice sharp before you could stop yourself. “You’re already drunk.”

He didn’t even look at you. He popped the cap off with a flick of his thumb, dumping two pills into his palm and swallowing them dry. “Relax,” he muttered, like you were the one being unreasonable. “I’m fine.”

Something in you snapped. You crossed the room, grabbing the bottle from his hand and slamming it onto the counter. The sound was loud, jarring, but it didn’t make him flinch. If anything, he looked bored.

“Fine?” you snapped. “You can barely fucking stand, and you think you’re fine?”

That got his attention. He turned to you, his gaze narrowing, sharp and calculating even through the haze. A slow, bitter grin spread across his face.

“Oh, so now you’re the expert, huh?” he said, his voice low and mocking. He stepped closer, the smell of alcohol making your stomach churn. “Since when do you give a shit what I do?”

The casual cruelty of it made your throat tighten, your anger dissolving into something smaller, something more fragile. You tried again, softer this time.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, your voice quiet, careful. “Just… stay home tonight. Please.”

For a second, you thought he might listen. His gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening. He looked tired. Worn out. You could almost see the man you used to know beneath the haze.

But then he shook his head, huffing out a bitter laugh. “I can’t stay here all night listening to your shit.”

You stepped in front of the door before you could stop yourself, your chest tight with something between panic and determination.

“You’re not going anywhere,” you said, your hands trembling as you tried to sound steady.

His head snapped up, his gaze locking on yours. His face twisted into something colder, sharper, and for the first time that night, you felt the first flicker of fear.

“Move,” he said, his voice low and clipped.

You shook your head. “No. I’m serious, Su-bong—”

It happened too fast. One second he was standing there, and the next his hand was wrapped around your arm, gripping so tightly you gasped.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he snarled, dragging you to the side like you weighed nothing.

Your other hand shot out instinctively, pushing against his chest as hard as you could. He barely stumbled, but the movement seemed to snap something in him. His hand jerked, his grip tightening until you felt the sharp pinch of his nails digging into your skin.

“You fucking bitch,” he spat, and that’s when you ran.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your breath is coming too fast, too shallow, making your head spin. The pounding on the door has stopped, but you don’t feel any relief. Not yet.

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less venomous. “Hiding in there like a fucking child. You think I need this shit? You think anyone else would put up with you?”

The words hit harder than his fists ever could. Your hands tighten around the locket until the rose leaves an imprint in your palm, the edges sharp and unforgiving.

You don’t respond. You don’t move. You just sit there, shaking, waiting for him to leave.

Eventually, he does. The front door slams behind him, and the silence that follows is heavier than the noise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The clock’s ticking feels slower now, like it’s dragging time with it. The minutes stretch and warp until they don’t feel like minutes anymore. Just this endless, dragging ache that lives in the pit of your stomach and refuses to leave.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table now, your phone lying in front of you, facedown like it’s mocking you. There’s a mug of tea in your hands, untouched. It’s lukewarm now, the steam long gone, but you don’t put it down. You hold it tightly, your fingers wrapped around the ceramic, because at least it’s something to hold. At least it gives your hands something to do besides tremble.

The house is dark except for the faint glow of the light over the stove. It casts long shadows across the counters, over the piles of unopened mail and empty bottles that have been gathering there for weeks. You keep meaning to clean, but every time you think about it, your body refuses to move. It’s hard enough to get out of bed most days, let alone scrub the smell of him out of the walls.

You glance at your phone again, your chest tightening as though it might vibrate, might light up with his name. It doesn’t. It never does, not when you’re waiting like this. You should be used to it by now, but the sting of it never dulls.

The worst part is, you don’t know if you want him to come home.

You close your eyes, letting your head drop forward, the heel of your hand pressing against the locket that hangs around your neck. The edges of the rose dig into your skin, sharp enough to leave marks. It grounds you, keeps your thoughts from spinning too far out of control.

But the memories are harder to stop. They come rushing in like they always do, filling the silence with the sound of his voice, his laugh, the way he used to look at you like you were something soft, something beautiful, something breakable. He doesn’t look at you like that anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can still see the first time he smiled at you—really smiled, that kind of stupid grin that made your chest feel too full. You’d been sitting across from him at some shitty little diner, your fork pushing around a plate of cold fries while he talked about some dream he’d had, something ridiculous about a casino and a dog wearing sunglasses. It wasn’t even funny, but the way he told it made you laugh so hard your face hurt. You’d leaned forward, your elbows on the table, and he’d just stopped. Mid-sentence, he’d stopped, like he couldn’t believe you were there.

“You’re cute,” he’d said, simple and easy, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would stick with you for years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You open your eyes and the memory dissolves, slipping away into the dark like it never happened. You feel stupid for thinking about it, for still holding onto those pieces of him like they mean something. Like they haven’t been buried under all the yelling and the slammed doors and the nights you spent wondering if he’d ever come home.

You set the mug down on the table, your hands shaking slightly as you fold them in your lap. The quiet feels heavier now, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

What if he doesn’t come back this time? The thought creeps in before you can stop it, wrapping itself around your throat like a noose. It’s not the first time you’ve wondered, but it’s the first time it’s felt real. Like a possibility instead of a threat.

You try to tell yourself that you’d be fine if he didn’t. You’d figure it out. You’d get up tomorrow, make coffee, go to work, clean the house, move on. But the thought of it—of him not being here, of him leaving without even a word—makes your chest feel like it’s caving in. You clutch the necklace tighter, the chain pulling taut against the back of your neck.

He always comes back. He always does.

But what if this time is different?

The clock ticks louder. The house is too quiet.

And you’re still waiting.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The door slams hard enough to shake the walls. You feel it in your chest, a dull, rattling thud that echoes through the quiet house. Your stomach twists, the dread rising so fast it feels like a sickness. You already know how this night is going to end.

You’re still sitting at the kitchen table, the cold mug of tea in front of you. It’s been hours since he left, and you’d given up hope of him coming home sober somewhere around midnight. But now that he’s here, a part of you wishes he’d stayed gone.

You hear his footsteps before you see him, the uneven shuffle of his boots dragging against the floor. When he stumbles into view, it’s like you’ve summoned him with your thoughts. His hair is messy, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his jacket is hanging off one shoulder. He looks at you, his eyes glassy, his mouth curling into a sloppy grin that makes your chest ache.

“There you are,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. He sounds almost affectionate, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it, the kind that makes your throat tighten.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Your hands are clenched in your lap, your nails digging into your palms. You’re trying to stay calm, trying to keep your breathing even, but your heart is already pounding.

He doesn’t seem to notice. He walks toward you, his movements slow and unsteady, and leans against the table with one hand. The other hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from your face.

“Why are you sitting here all alone?” he murmurs, his tone soft now, almost sweet. The contrast makes you want to scream.

You pull back slightly, your jaw tightening. “Where were you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You hate how small you sound, but it’s all you can manage.

His grin falters, and for a second, something colder flickers across his face. “Don’t start,” he mutters, standing up straight. “I don’t want to hear it right now.”

“I’ve been waiting for hours, Su-bong.” You can hear the edge creeping into your voice now, but you can’t stop it. The anger is bubbling up, sharp and bitter, mixing with the fear in your chest. “You said you’d be home—”

“I said, don’t start,” he snaps, cutting you off. His voice is louder now, the sharpness in it making you flinch. He takes a step closer, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath, heavy and sour. “What’s your problem, huh? Why do you always have to make a big fucking deal out of everything?”

Your throat tightens, the words you want to say choking on the way up. You look away, your gaze dropping to the table. You can’t do this tonight. You can’t fight him when he’s like this.

But he doesn’t let it go.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less demanding. He reaches for your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “Why are you so mad, huh? You missed me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t move. You just stare at him, your chest tight with a mix of anger and something that feels too much like fear.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, and his mouth curls into that lopsided grin again. “Come on, baby,” he murmurs, leaning down until his face is inches from yours. “Don’t be like that.”

The kiss is sudden, his lips pressing against yours hard enough to make you pull back instinctively. You turn your head, breaking the contact, but his hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you in place.

“Su-bong, stop,” you say, your voice shaking. You try to push him back, but he doesn’t budge. His grip tightens, his other hand sliding down to your waist.

“You’re so tense,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your ear. “Relax.”

You push harder this time, your hands pressing against his chest, but it only seems to annoy him. His movements become rougher, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you to your feet.

“Stop it!” you cry, your voice rising in panic. “I don’t want to—”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he snaps, his voice low and sharp. He spins you around, pressing you against the edge of the table, his body trapping yours in place.

Your heart is pounding now, the fear clawing its way up your throat. You keep trying to push him away, but he’s stronger, and he’s not listening.

The locket around your neck catches on the edge of the table, the chain pulling tight against your skin. Your hand shoots up instinctively, clutching it, your fingers trembling as you press it against your chest.

“Su-bong, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

He doesn’t answer. His hands are on your hips now, his grip bruising as he pulls you closer. The tears sting at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. You don’t move. You don’t fight. You just stare at the wall, your breathing shallow, your fingers clutching the locket like it’s the only thing holding you together.

You can hear him murmuring something under his breath—something about how good you feel, how much he missed you—but the words blur together, lost in the haze of your thoughts. You’re not here anymore. You’re somewhere else. Somewhere quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house is still. The only sound is his breathing, slow and heavy as he lies beside you, one arm draped carelessly over your waist. You don’t move. You don’t even blink.

The locket is still in your hand, the imprint of the rose etched into your palm. You stare at the ceiling, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and try to ignore the ache between your legs.

The tears come later, after he’s asleep. You press your face into the pillow, your shoulders shaking as you cry silently into the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The car engine rumbles beneath you, a low, uneven growl that vibrates through the seat and into your chest. Su-bong’s hand is loose on the wheel, his other arm resting on the open window as the wind whips through the car. He’s not driving fast, but the way he keeps drifting too close to the curb, jerking the wheel at the last second, makes your stomach twist.

You press your hand against your thigh, trying to keep it from shaking, and force your gaze to stay on the road. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want to see the glassy, unfocused look in his eyes or the faint grin that keeps twitching at the corner of his mouth. He hasn’t said much since you left the bar—just a few muttered curses under his breath, his jaw tight and his grip on the wheel tightening every time he takes a turn too sharply.

You want to tell him to stop. To pull over. To let you drive. But the words stick in your throat, thick and heavy, like a stone weighing you down. You know how that conversation will end. He’ll snap at you, tell you to relax, accuse you of trying to control him. And you’re too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything except sit there and hope the car doesn’t drift too far into the wrong lane.

The silence feels heavier than the rumble of the engine.

“You embarrassed me,” he mutters suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet like a crack of thunder.

You flinch, your hands tightening in your lap. “I wasn’t trying to,” you say quietly, your gaze still fixed on the road ahead.

He snorts, shaking his head. “Really? Because, You had to make a fucking scene, didn’t you? In front of everyone.”

The heat rises in your chest, sharp and stifling, but you press it down. You’ve gotten good at that—at swallowing your anger, letting it fester somewhere deep inside where it can’t escape. “I wasn’t trying to make a scene,” you say again, your voice quieter this time. “I just… I didn’t want you to drink anymore.”

“Why do you care?” he snaps, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. His grin is gone now, replaced by that sharp, mocking sneer that makes your stomach churn. “What’s it to you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t trust yourself to.

The car jerks suddenly as he swerves to avoid a parked car, and your heart leaps into your throat. He laughs—a short, bitter sound that makes your skin crawl—and slams his palm against the steering wheel. “Relax,” he mutters, his voice dripping with irritation. “Jesus, you’re so fucking tense all the time. It’s not that serious.”

It feels serious. Everything about this feels serious—the car, the road, the weight of his anger pressing down on you like a hand around your throat.

You don’t say anything else for the rest of the drive. You just stare out the window, watching the dark streets blur together, and press your hand against the locket around your neck, the edges of the rose digging into your skin.

~~~~~~~~~

The house looks worse than the last time you saw it, though you’re not sure how that’s even possible. It’s his friend’s place. The place they all went to drink themselves into oblivion, and share drugs.

The porch sags under its own weight, the roof dotted with holes that make it look like it’s caving in. The windows are either boarded up or covered with newspaper, and the light above the door flickers weakly, casting the entire place in a sickly yellow glow.

Su-bong doesn’t wait for you to follow. He slams the car door shut behind him and walks up the steps, his boots heavy against the rotting wood. You hesitate for a moment, your hand still resting on the car door, and try to swallow the lump in your throat. You don’t want to go in there. You don’t want to see his friends, to feel their eyes on you, to sit in that awful, stifling air and pretend you’re okay.

But you don’t have a choice. Not really.

The inside of the house smells worse than you remember—like sweat, beer, and something sharp and chemical that makes your nose burn. The walls are yellowed with smoke, the carpet littered with cigarette butts and broken glass. There’s a coffee table in the middle of the room, its surface covered in ashtrays, empty pill bottles, and the faint glitter of crushed powder.

Su-bong’s friends are sprawled across the couches and chairs, their laughter filling the room like static. One of them glances up as you walk in, his bloodshot eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

Su-bong shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the back of a chair, and grabs a beer off the table without a word.

“You’re late,” one of the guys Nam-gyu mutters, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He’d been friends with Su-bong for a long time. Before you even met him.

“Yeah, well,” Su-bong mutters, twisting the cap off the bottle with his teeth. “Got caught up.”

Nam-gyu glances at you, his gaze lingering a little too long, and something tightens in your chest. Su-bong notices, too. He sets the beer down and shoots the guy a look, his voice sharp as he says, “What the fuck are you staring at?”

Nam-gyu laughs, holding his hands up in mock surrender. His sweaty hair falling around his face, framing it.“Nothing, man. Relax.”

Su-bong doesn’t say anything else. He just takes another sip of his beer, his eyes flicking toward you briefly before turning back to the table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hallway feels narrower than it should. The light from the main room barely reaches back here, leaving everything steeped in shadow, the air growing thicker and harder to breathe the farther you go. You can hear the faint hum of the television from the living room, the muffled sound of laughter and the clinking of bottles. The floor beneath you creaks with every step, the uneven boards sticky against your shoes.

The door to the back room is half-open, the dim yellow light spilling into the hallway. Su-bong pulls you inside without a word, his grip firm around your wrist. The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, sealing the two of you into the suffocating darkness.

Your first instinct is to stop breathing. The smell hits you like a wall—stale sweat, mildew, and the sour, chemical tang of old beer. There’s a mattress on the floor, sagging in the middle, its surface stained with patches of something dark and unrecognizable. The fabric is dotted with cigarette burns, the edges curling up like it’s been sitting here for years.

A single roach skitters across the corner of the mattress, vanishing into a crack in the wall before you can even process what you’ve seen.

Your stomach churns, your body screaming at you to leave, leave, leave, but Su-bong is already pulling you toward the mattress, his hands clumsy and insistent as they find your waist.

“Su-bong,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Stop.”

He doesn’t listen.

His breath is hot and sour against your neck, reeking of alcohol and something sharp and metallic. His hands slide up your sides, rough and impatient, tugging at the fabric of your shirt. You push against him weakly, your palms flat against his chest, but he’s too strong, too stubborn, and you’re too tired to fight.

“Relax,” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse. His fingers grip your shirt harder, pulling it up over your head before you can stop him. “You’re always so fucking tense.”

The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in on you as the smell of sweat and mildew grows thicker, coating the back of your throat. You tilt your head away from him, your gaze darting to the ceiling, to the cracks in the plaster and the faint shimmer of cobwebs in the corner.

The locket presses against your chest, its familiar weight grounding you in a way that feels almost cruel. Your fingers brush against it, trembling as you press it harder into your skin.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, barely audible.

He pauses for a second, his head tilting slightly, and you think—for just a moment—that he might stop. That he might actually hear you. But then he sighs, annoyed, and grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away from your chest.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, his grip tightening as he pushes you down onto the mattress. The fabric feels damp beneath you, sticky and rough against your skin, and you can feel something small and hard digging into your back—a piece of broken glass, maybe, or a shard of plastic.

You want to cry. You want to scream. But the lump in your throat won’t let you make a sound.

His hands are on you again, rougher this time, tugging at your waistband and pulling you closer. The mattress groans under his weight, the springs creaking loudly enough to drown out the sound of your shaky breathing.

You stop fighting. It’s always easier that way.

The smell of him overwhelms you—sweat, cigarettes, whiskey—and the sound of his voice blurs into static as your mind starts to drift. You stare at the wall, at the faint shadows moving across its surface, and try to focus on anything else.

Your fingers close around the locket again, the edges of the rose pressing into your palm. You focus on the feel of it, the coolness of the metal, the way it feels against your skin. You roll it between your fingers, clutching it tightly, and let your mind go quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing—heavy and uneven as he collapses beside you, his arm draped carelessly over your waist. The mattress shifts under his weight, the springs creaking one last time before the quiet settles over you like a blanket.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just lie there, staring at the ceiling, your fingers still curled around the locket.

There’s a roach on the wall above you, its legs moving slowly as it crawls toward the corner of the room. You watch it for a moment, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, before closing your eyes.

The smell lingers—on your skin, in your hair, in the back of your throat. You know you won’t be able to wash it off, not entirely. It’ll stay with you, just like everything else.

You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears start to slip down your temples, soaking into the filthy mattress beneath you.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The car ride home is silent.

Not the kind of silence that settles naturally, soft and comfortable. This silence is jagged, sharp enough to cut, stretching tight between the two of you like a rubber band about to snap. The sound of the engine hums beneath you, broken only by the occasional crunch of gravel as Su-bong drifts too close to the shoulder.

His hands grip the wheel loosely, his knuckles brushing against the cracked leather as he leans back in the seat. His head tilts slightly to the side, his eyes half-lidded and glassy, and you can smell the whiskey on him even from here.

You press your hand against the locket around your neck, your fingers curling around the metal as your chest tightens. You don’t dare look at him.

The tension in the car is suffocating, pressing against your chest like a weight. Your throat feels tight, your pulse thudding in your ears. You want to say something, anything, to break the silence—but the words stick in your throat, thick and heavy, refusing to come out.

When the house finally comes into view, you feel a flicker of relief. But it’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the hollow ache that’s been sitting in your chest all night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door slams behind you as Su-bong stumbles into the living room, tossing his jacket onto the couch without a second glance. You linger near the doorway, your hand still gripping the locket tightly, as though it might anchor you to something real.

The house is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside. Shadows stretch across the walls, long and jagged, and the air feels heavy, stagnant, like it’s holding its breath.

Su-bong doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at you. He just collapses onto the couch, his head tilting back against the cushion, his eyes closed.

For a moment, you think he might pass out.

But then he sighs—a long, low sound that seems to echo in the silence—and drags a hand down his face. His fingers rub against his temples, slow and deliberate, and his leg bounces restlessly against the floor.

“You’re mad,” he mutters, his voice slurred but steady.

You don’t respond.

He opens his eyes, tilting his head to look at you. There’s something in his gaze—something searching, something almost vulnerable—that makes your stomach twist.

“Say something,” he says, his voice quieter now.

You stare at him, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a physical force. Your chest aches, the words you want to say bubbling up inside you, but you swallow them down. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

His leg stops bouncing. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together as he looks at the floor.

“I know I fucked up,” he says quietly. “I know that.”

The words hang in the air, brittle and heavy, and you feel your fingers tighten around the locket.

“I shouldn’t have taken you there,” he continues, his voice breaking slightly. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have done any of it.”

He looks up at you then, his eyes glassy and rimmed with exhaustion. “I don’t even know why you put up with me,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’m such a fucking mess.”

He stands up slowly, unsteady on his feet, and takes a step toward you. His hands reach for yours, warm and trembling slightly as they close around your wrists.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says, his voice low and desperate. “You’re all I have. You’re the only thing that keeps me together.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your chest tightening as you stare at him. You want to pull away, to put distance between you, but his grip is firm, almost pleading.

“I’ll do better,” he says, his words spilling out in a rush. “I’ll stop drinking, I’ll stop everything. I’ll get clean. I swear to God, I’ll do it for you.”

You close your eyes, the tears stinging at the corners as you shake your head. “You’ve said that before,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“I mean it this time,” he insists, his grip tightening slightly. His voice cracks on the last word, and you can feel the tremor in his hands. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… please don’t give up on me. Please.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You think anyone else is gonna love you like I do?” he asks, his tone soft but cutting. “You think anyone else is gonna put up with you?”

Your breath hitches, the words cutting deeper than they should.

“Your family doesn’t want you,” he says, his voice cracking slightly, like he’s holding back tears. “They’ve never wanted you. But me? I love you. I need you. You’re the only good thing I’ve got.”

The locket feels heavy in your hand, the edges of the rose digging into your palm. You want to scream, to push him away, to tell him to stop—but the lump in your throat won’t let you speak.

“What if you can’t?” you whisper, your voice breaking. “What if you don’t stop? What if it’s always going to be like this?”

He shakes his head, his expression tightening with something that almost looks like panic. “It won’t be,” he says quickly. “I swear, baby. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything.”

The tears slip down your cheeks, hot and relentless, and you press your free hand to your face, trying to stifle the quiet sob that escapes your lips.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice breaking. He pulls you into his arms, his grip almost crushing as he presses his face against your hair. “Just give me another chance. That’s all I need. One more chance.”

You don’t hug him back.

But you don’t pull away, either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He falls asleep hours later, curled up beside you on the bed, his breathing slow and even. You sit there in the dark, staring at the wall, the locket clutched tightly in your hand.

You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

But deep down, you already know this isn’t the last time he’ll make this promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first sign is the smell.

It hits you when you walk into the living room one evening, faint at first, like a memory trying to claw its way to the surface. You pause in the doorway, your hand tightening around the frame as you try to place it. It’s familiar. Sharp and acrid, clinging to the air like a ghost.

Cigarettes.

He’d thrown out the pack weeks ago. You’d watched him do it—watched the way his jaw tightened as he flicked the lighter one last time, muttering under his breath about how he didn’t need it, how it was “just a habit” and “no big deal.”

“I’m serious this time, baby,” he’d said, his voice almost convincing. “No more of this shit. I’m done.”

But now, the smell is here again, seeping into the walls, curling in the back of your throat like smoke.

You don’t see him at first. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the TV, the sound muted to a soft hum. The curtains are drawn tight, blocking out the fading daylight, and the air feels heavier than it should.

He’s on the couch, slouched low with one leg thrown over the armrest, the other foot flat on the floor. A cigarette dangles from his fingers, the ash building up dangerously close to the filter, and there’s a bottle of something dark and half-empty on the coffee table.

Your stomach twists.

“Su-bong?”

He doesn’t look up. His eyes are fixed on the TV, the flickering images reflecting in his glassy gaze. The smoke curls up from the cigarette, disappearing into the stale air, and you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest as he exhales slowly.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly.

He blinks, slow and deliberate, like it takes effort to process the sound of your voice. When he finally turns to you, his lips curl into a lazy, lopsided grin that makes your chest ache.

“What’s it look like?” he mutters, holding up the cigarette like it’s some kind of joke.

You take a step closer, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I thought you quit.”

He shrugs, leaning back against the couch with a sigh. “Yeah, well.” He takes a drag from the cigarette, the ember flaring bright in the dim room, and exhales the smoke through his nose. “Didn’t stick, I guess.”

Your chest tightens. You can feel the anger bubbling up inside you, sharp and hot, but it’s tangled with something else—something smaller, something that feels too much like disappointment.

“You said you’d stop,” you say, your voice breaking slightly.

He laughs—low and bitter—and takes another drag, the smoke curling around his lips as he exhales. “Yeah, and you said you’d stop nagging me. Guess we’re both full of shit, huh?”

The words hit harder than they should, knocking the air out of your lungs. For a moment, all you can do is stand there, staring at him, the lump in your throat growing tighter with every second that passes.

It doesn’t stop with the cigarettes.

The next day, it’s the pills. You find the bottle on the kitchen counter, the cap loose, a few of the tablets scattered across the surface like they’d been spilled in a rush.

Your heart sinks as you pick it up, the plastic cool against your palm. You stare at the label, your chest tightening as you recognize the name—one you haven’t seen in weeks, not since the last time he swore he was done.

You don’t even notice him standing behind you until his voice cuts through the silence.

“You going through my shit now?”

You spin around, the bottle clutched tightly in your hand. “I found it on the counter,” you say, your voice sharp. “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore?”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing slightly, and you can smell the faint tang of alcohol on his breath. “What’s your problem?” he mutters, snatching the bottle from your hand. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Your voice rises, trembling with anger and something closer to panic. “You promised me, Su-bong. You said you were done with this.”

He laughs again—that same bitter, careless sound that makes your chest ache—and shoves the bottle into his pocket. “Yeah, well, promises can be broken.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It all comes to a head one night when he stumbles in late, his steps uneven and his voice loud enough to wake the neighbors.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, the locket clutched tightly in your hand, when you hear the front door slam. The sound reverberates through the house, rattling the picture frames on the walls, and you feel your chest tighten as the familiar dread settles over you like a weight.

The footsteps are uneven, shuffling, and you can hear the faint clink of glass as he moves through the house. By the time he reaches the bedroom, your hands are trembling, the metal of the locket cool and sharp against your skin.

The door swings open, and he’s there, leaning heavily against the frame. His hair is a mess, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his jacket is hanging off one shoulder. There’s a bottle in his hand, nearly empty, and his grin is wide and lopsided, his eyes glassy.

“Hey, baby,” he slurs, his voice low and hoarse.

You don’t say anything. You don’t move. You just sit there, staring at him, your chest tight with a mix of anger, sadness, and something that feels too much like fear.

He stumbles into the room, dropping the bottle onto the floor with a dull thud. The smell of whiskey clings to him, heavy and sour, and when he sits down beside you, the mattress dips under his weight.

“Why’re you sitting in here all alone?” he murmurs, his voice soft now, almost affectionate. The contrast makes your stomach turn.

You pull back slightly, your jaw tightening. “Where were you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, leaning back on his hands. “Out.”

“You were supposed to be getting clean,” you say, your voice trembling.

He laughs—soft and breathy—and shakes his head. “Clean’s overrated.”

It’s different this time, though. The relapse isn’t just about him anymore. It’s about you—how much you can take, how much you can survive before the cracks in your foundation become too wide to repair.

You sit there in the dark, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, the weight of his relapse pressing down on you like a hand around your throat. The locket is still in your hand, the rose etched into its surface digging into your palm, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

It never feels like enough.

He’s laughing softly now, his voice slurring as he mutters something you can’t quite hear. His head tilts back, his eyes fluttering shut, and you know he won’t remember any of this in the morning.

But you will.

You always do.

The next day, he’ll act like nothing happened. He’ll grin at you over a mug of coffee, his hair still messy from sleep, and he’ll say something stupid, something that would’ve made you laugh once. And you’ll smile back, the same way you always do, because it’s easier than saying what you’re really thinking.

But deep down, you’ll know: this is how it always goes.

This is how it always ends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house is too quiet.

Not the quiet that lulls you to sleep, the kind that hums with the soft rhythm of peace. No. This quiet is suffocating. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re the only person left in the world.

You’re lying in bed when you notice it. The sun is just starting to rise, the pale light slipping through the blinds and stretching across the room in thin, fractured lines. You’ve been awake for hours, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, the locket clutched tightly in your hand.

It takes you a moment to realize what’s different. The absence is subtle at first, just a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you can’t quite place. The blankets beside you are crumpled but empty, the faint imprint of his body still visible in the mattress.

You sit up slowly, the ache in your chest twisting tighter as your gaze darts around the room. His boots aren’t by the door. His jacket isn’t hanging on the chair.

Your stomach drops.

No. He wouldn’t. Not like this.

You stand quickly, the blood rushing to your head as you make your way to the living room. The floor creaks beneath your feet, the sound echoing in the stillness, and you feel your chest tighten with every step.

The living room is empty.

The couch is still rumpled from the night before, the faint smell of cigarettes lingering in the air. The ashtray on the coffee table is full, the edges of the glass stained yellow from use. But he’s not here.

You check the kitchen next, your hands shaking as you push open the door. The counters are cluttered with empty bottles and crumpled receipts, the remnants of another night that you’ve already lost track of. His mug is still on the table, the coffee inside gone cold, but there’s no sign of him.

The panic starts to set in now, creeping up your throat like a sickness. You check the bathroom, the hallway, the spare room that neither of you use, but it’s all the same.

Empty.

You make your way back to the bedroom, your chest heaving with shallow breaths, and grab your phone from the nightstand. Your fingers tremble as you unlock the screen, scrolling through your messages with a growing sense of dread.

Nothing.

No missed calls. No texts. No explanations.

You press the phone to your chest, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break through your ribs.

He always comes back.

You tell yourself this over and over, like a mantra. Like a prayer. He always comes back. No matter how far he goes, no matter how bad the fight, he always comes back.

But deep down, you know this time is different.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You find the letter hours later, tucked underneath the ashtray on the coffee table.

It’s written on the back of an old receipt, the ink smudged in places where he’d pressed too hard. The handwriting is rushed, uneven, but you’d recognize it anywhere.

“Sorry.”

That’s all it says.

Just one word, scrawled across the paper in shaky, uneven letters. No explanation. No apology. No promise to come back.

You read it over and over again, your fingers gripping the edge of the receipt so tightly that it crumples under your touch. The word blurs as the tears spill down your cheeks, hot and relentless, but you don’t stop reading it.

It’s the only thing he left behind.

The house feels bigger now, emptier. You wander through the rooms like a ghost, your feet dragging against the floor, your hands brushing against the walls as though you’re trying to anchor yourself to something.

His things are gone. Not everything—just the essentials. His jacket, his boots, the backpack he keeps in the closet. The rest is still here, scattered across the house like he’s planning to come back for it.

But you know he won’t.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the letter still clutched in your hand, and stare at the locket around your neck. The rose etched into its surface feels sharper today, the edges digging into your palm like a warning.

You think about the last time he smiled at you—the kind of smile that made your chest ache, that made you forget, just for a moment, how much he hurt you. You think about the way his hands felt on your skin, the way his voice sounded when he said your name, the way he used to make you feel like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

But that man is gone. Or maybe he was never real to begin with.

You don’t cry at first.

The tears come later, in the middle of the night, when the weight of the silence becomes too much to bear. You lie on the floor of the living room, the receipt still clutched in your hand, and sob into the empty space where he used to be.

The locket feels heavy against your chest, the chain pulling tight against the back of your neck as you curl into yourself.

You think about calling him. About texting him. About driving to every shitty bar and trap house in the city just to find him. But you don’t.

Because deep down, you know it won’t change anything.

He’s gone.

And he’s not coming back this time.

[pearlprincess02]

style guide: ARIES EDITION

ARIES RISING

rihanna - jupiter in 1st house, james dean - uranus & chiron & north node in 1st house, kendall jenner, miuccia prada - sun & north node in 1st house, barbra streisand - sun & mercury in 1st house, penélope cruz - sun & mercury in 1st house, cardi b - moon in 1st house, sophie turner - moon & venus & part of fortune in 1st house, amber rose - moon & juno in 1st house, nikki reed, shakira - chiron in 1st house, stevie nicks - north node in 1st house, vinnie hacker - ceres in 1st house,

style aesthetic: bold & dramatic, leather chic, modern minimalism, rockstar vibes, athleisure luxe, metallic accents, animal prints, vintage with a twist, unexpected mixes, sunglasses as statement pieces, red, orange, and black

ARIES VENUS

marilyn monroe - venus in 9th house, audrey hepburn - venus in 1st house, elizabeth taylor - venus in 4th house, mariah carey - venus in 12th house, lady gaga - venus in 11th house, gigi hadid - venus in 12th house, rihanna - venus in 12th house, jennifer aniston - venus in 6th house, shakira - venus in 12th house, cristiano ronaldo - venus in 3rd house, gigi hadid - venus in 12th house, keira knightley - (unknown), cate blanchett - venus in 11th house, melanie martinez - venus in 5th house, tyler, the creator - venus in 9th house, sarah jessica parker - venus in 11th house, eva longoria - venus in 5th house, janet jackson - venus in 5th house, millie bobby brown - venus in 8th house, suga - (unknown), sarah michelle gellar - (unknown), madison beer - venus in 11th house, helena bonham carter - (unknown), gal gadot - (unknown), emma chamberlain - venus in 3rd house,

style aesthetic: confident & playful, bold & romantic, leather with lace, athletic luxe, fiercely feminine, metallic accents, graphic prints, tailored pantsuits, bold blazers, vintage with a modern twist, bold jewelry, statement sunglasses, and eye-catching hats, gold, silver, red, orange, and hot pink!

ARIES MIDHEAVEN

tyra banks - moon & mars & chiron in 10th house, kayne west - venus & mars & chiron & part of fortune in 10th house, angelina jolie - jupiter & chiron & ceres in 10th house, céline dion - moon & mars & saturn & north node in 10th house, cameron diaz - chiron in 10th house, julia roberts - north node & lilith in 10th house, sharon tate, meghan markle, the weeknd - pallas & part of fortune in 10th house, jessica lange - sun & mercury & venus & mars & north node & part of fortune in 10th house, jennette mccurdy - moon & mars & juno in 10th house, danielle fishel - sun & mercury & venus & mars & chiron in 10th house, kate moss - mars & chiron in 10th house, cindy crawford,

style aesthetic: tailored suits, sharp blazers, crisp shirts, bold statement necklace, a brightly colored pocket square, a unique pair of shoes, bold eyewear, orange, black, white, grey, red power suit, a red statement scarf, and red accents

VENUS IN 1ST HOUSE

selena gomez - venus in leo, elizabeth II - venus in pisces, kourtney kardashian - venus in pisces, beyoncé - venus in libra, katy perry - venus in sagittarius, zayn malik - venus in pisces, angelina jolie - venus in cancer, cameron diaz - venus in cancer, nabilla benattia - venus in capricorn, audrey hepburn - venus in aries, blake lively - venus in virgo, anna nicole smith - venus in libra, avril lavigne - venus in scorpio, jude law - venus in sagittarius , rachel mcadams - venus in scoprio, halsey - venus in scoprio, doja cat - venus in scorpio, priyanka chopra - venus in gemini, olivia rodrigo - venus in capricorn, nina dobrev - venus in sagittarius, madison bailey - venus in pisces, damiano david - venus in aquarius, maggie lindemann - venus in cancer, elle fanning - venus in pisces, olivia holt - venus in virgo, mina - venus in aries, sophie turner - venus in aries, isaac mizrah - venus in virgo,

style aesthetic: flowy fabrics, pastel colors, silk fabrics statement jewelry, natural textures, well-fitting clothes, minimal makeup, unique color combinations, unexpected layering, vintage pieces, bold statement piece, a head-to-toe monochromatic look, eye-catching earrings, handcrafted pieces, unique materials, a touch of lace, soft pinks, baby blues, lavenders

NEPTUNE IN 1ST HOUSE

kim kardashian - neptune in sagittarius, paris hilton - neptune in sagittarius, kylie jenner - neptune in capricorn, ariana grande - neptune in capricorn (conj. asc), scarlett johansson - neptune in capricorn, eminem - neptune in sagittarius (conj. asc), nicole kidman - neptune in scorpio, marilyn monroe - neptune in leo (opp. moon), damiano david - neptune in aquarius (conj. venus & tri. moon), björk - neptune in scorpio (conj. asc), nelly furtado - neptune in sagittarius (conj. asc), perrie edwards - neptune in capricorn (conj. asc), dave franco - neptune in capricorn (conj. asc), river phoenix - neptune in scorpio (opp. moon), lil peep - neptune in capricorn (opp. moon), lorde - neptun in capricorn (tri. moon), sofia richie - neptune in capricorn (tri. moon),

makeup style: dreamy & ethereal, soft washes of color, shimmery textures,  makeup uses cool tones, metallics, glitter, glowing skin, lightweight foundations, highlighter for a natural glow, graphic eyeliner designs, whimsical lashes, soft & natural lips, smoky eyes with a twist, smoky purples, teals, touch of silver, lavender, muted purples, blues, greens soft pinks, peaches

@pearlprincess02

[tarotwithavi]

How to dress according to your venus sign

Can also be applied for Rising and mid heaven.

For entertainment purposes only!

Aries venus

Bold. you should embrace bold and adventurous styles that reflect your fiery and passionate nature. Opt for vibrant, eye-catching colors like red, orange, and hot pink to showcase your enthusiasm and energy. Choose clothing that highlights your individuality, such as unique statement pieces and daring accessories. Aries Venus individuals often enjoy a sporty, active lifestyle, so incorporate athleisure elements into your wardrobe, like sneakers or activewear-inspired outfits. Show off your confident and independent spirit with edgy cuts and styles, like asymmetrical hemlines or bold patterns. Don't be afraid to experiment with fashion and be the trendsetter in your group.

Taurus venus

Taurus venus is for luxurious, earthy, and sensuous attire. Begin with soft, tactile fabrics like silk, velvet, or cashmere in earthy tones such as deep greens, browns, and soft pinks. Your style should prioritize comfort and quality, so invest in well-fitted, timeless pieces like tailored blazers, flowy maxi dresses, or high-waisted trousers. Accessories should be elegant and understated, favoring natural gemstones like emeralds and rose quartz. Shoes should be both stylish and comfortable, such as leather ankle boots or suede loafers. Hair and makeup should be natural and effortless, with loose waves or soft curls and a nude or earth-toned palette. Show off that neck gurlll.

Gemini Venus

you should embrace versatility and a playful sense of style. Gemini is ruled by Mercury, making communication and adaptability key. Opt for outfits that allow you to mix and match, like a wardrobe full of separates, bright colors, and patterns. Experiment with various accessories to express your ever-changing tastes. Consider wearing clothing that incorporates elements of duality or contrast, such as asymmetrical designs or reversible pieces. Gemini is an air sign, so lightweight, breathable fabrics like cotton and silk can be your best friend. Don't forget to change up your style regularly to keep things interesting, as Venus in Gemini individuals thrive on variety and novelty in fashion.

Cancer Venus

You should embrace a style that reflects your emotional and nurturing nature. For example, soft, flowing fabrics in gentle, watery colors like seafoam green, silver, and pastel blues that soothe your sensitive spirit. Incorporate vintage or nostalgic elements into your wardrobe. Embrace feminine, figure-flattering silhouettes that accentuate your curves and emphasize your nurturing qualities. Jewelry with moonstone, pearls, and other iridescent gems complements your lunar sensibilities. Wearcozy, comfortable clothing that exudes warmth and comfort, like oversized sweaters and cardigans. Incorporate subtle touches of sea-inspired accessories, such as seashell-shaped pendants or bracelets.

Leo venus

Channel your inner confidence and glamor. Choose bold and attention-grabbing colors like fiery reds, golds, and vibrant purples. Like luxurious fabrics that exude regality, such as silk or velvet. Incorporate statement pieces like a dramatic, floor-length gown or a tailored suit with a dramatic flair. Don't shy away from sequins, metallics, or animal prints. Accessorize with bold and extravagant jewelry, such as statement necklaces or oversized earrings, and make sure your hair is styled to perfection, whether it's flowing locks or a bold updo. Animal prints and gold jewellery were made for leo venus.

Virgo Venus

Go for clean, practical, and detail-oriented fashion choices. Embrace earthy tones such as muted greens, browns, and neutrals, which resonate with Virgo's grounded nature. Pay attention to the smallest details in your outfit, like perfectly tailored clothing and well-coordinated accessories. Choose modest, well-fitted pieces that emphasize your natural beauty and avoid anything overly flashy or extravagant. Your style should exude professionalism and functionality, so consider incorporating classic pieces like tailored blazers, pencil skirts, and crisp white shirts. Also go for comfortable yet stylish footwear, and keep your hair and makeup understated, emphasizing a natural and polished look. Adding a hint of vintage charm or retro-inspired pieces can also align with Venus in Virgo's appreciation for the past.

Libra Venus

You should embrace elegance and harmony in your attire. Choose clothing that embodies balance and refined taste, such as well-tailored suits or dresses in soft, pastel colors or shades of pink, which resonate with Venus's love for beauty. Opt for outfits with clean lines and symmetrical patterns, as they appeal to Libra's sense of equilibrium. Accessories like tasteful jewelry, scarves, and belts can enhance your look, adding a touch of sophistication. Keep your hair and makeup balanced and graceful, avoiding overly bold or dramatic styles. Ultimately, aim for an ensemble that exudes charm, grace, and a sense of unity to align with the traits associated with Venus in Libra.

Scorpio Venus

Go for dark, intense colors like deep burgundy, black, or dark purple to exude passion and depth. Choose clothing that highlights your curves and adds an element of intrigue, such as form-fitting dresses, lacy lingerie, or leather accents. Incorporate accessories like statement jewelry with mystical or occult symbolism, and don't shy away from bold makeup with smoky eyes and deep, rich lip colors. Embrace fabrics like silk and velvet for their sensuality, and let your clothing choices reveal just enough skin to leave an air of mystery.

Sagittarius Venus

You should go for bold and vibrant colors that reflect your love for exploration and spontaneity. Choose comfortable, travel-friendly outfits that allow you to move freely. Consider loose-fitting bohemian dresses, wide-legged pants, and flowy tops for a laid-back yet stylish look. Accessorize with statement pieces like oversized sunglasses, feathered jewelry, or colorful scarves to showcase your eclectic taste. Footwear should be practical yet fashionable, such as comfy sandals or unique, eye-catching boots..

Capricorn Venus

You should opt for a classic and sophisticated style that exudes professionalism and ambition. Choose well-tailored, timeless pieces such as tailored blazers, pencil skirts, and crisp white shirts. Earthy and muted colors like black, navy, gray, and olive green are ideal, as they convey a sense of seriousness and authority. Invest in high-quality, durable materials like wool and leather. Accessories should be understated but elegant, such as a simple pearl necklace or a quality leather handbag. Practicality and functionality are key, so go for comfortable yet stylish shoes like classic pumps or ankle boots.

Aquarius Venus

Embody a unique and futuristic style that reflects your individuality and love for unconventional beauty. Go for clothing that incorporates metallic accents, electric blues, and vibrant purples, as these colors resonate with Aquarius energy. Experiment with asymmetrical and avant-garde designs, such as one-shoulder tops or geometric patterns. Statement accessories like chunky silver jewelry, oversized sunglasses, and tech-inspired pieces can add a touch of eccentricity to your look.

Pisces Venus

Embrace a dreamy and romantic style. Opt for flowing, ethereal fabrics like chiffon or silk in soft, oceanic colors like seafoam green, lavender, or aqua. Incorporate loose-fitting and comfortable clothing that allows you to move gracefully. Accessorize with subtle, mystical jewelry such as seashell necklaces, pearl earrings, or pieces featuring fish motifs, as Pisces is associated with the fish symbol. Don't shy away from pastel hues, and consider outfits with a touch of shimmer or iridescence to capture the Pisces love for fantasy and illusion. Flowing maxi dresses, bohemian-inspired attire, or anything reminiscent of a mermaid's allure will resonate.

Let me know your thoughts

[rafeandonlyrafe]

nsfw masterlist two (18+ only!)

MASTERLIST PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE

unexpected consequences words: 700

bruised knees words: 2.1k

pink princess words: 2.4k

you made me this way words: 1.5k

clicker words: 600

good host words: 4.1k

pink roses words: 3.1k

fear not, bunny words: 600

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chat words: 1.3k part two words: 700

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[kayhi808]

First Crush - 3

*Abby's sticker to Bucky*

After work, the Avengers are relaxing in the common room or playing pool like Clint & Bucky. Hitting Bucky on the shoulder, "I heard lunch was entertaining", Sam enters the room with Nat.

Bucky glares a Nat. "What? I couldn't help it. It was so cute."

"Cute? Are we talking about Miss Abigail Rose?" Steve smirks at Bucky leaning up against the wall by the pool table.

"Who is Abigail Rose?" Clint cocks an eyebrow at Bucky.

Natasha leans in excited to tell the story, "Fury's new assistant got called in today and she had to bring her daughter to work with her. Just cute as can be. Sweet and precocious. She had stickers all over her shirt. How old was she?"

"Two? Three maybe?"

"Adorable! Made a beeline straight to Bucky." Bucky tries to concentrate on his shot while shaking his head but the tips of his ears are turning red.

Incredulously, "Wouldn't give me the time of day," Steve acts disgruntled & shocked.

Sam teases,"You weren't her type. She's into Cyborgs."

Steve laughs, "You're right because she loved the arm! The arm was so pretty. 'I loves it!' "

"Poor mom was so embarrassed. Abby didn't want to leave Buck's side. Finally before she left she peels off a sticker from her shirt and sticks it to his arm."

Sam nods, "It was the 2yr old version of giving someone your insta." They laughs at Bucky's expense and Buck rolls his eyes.

Most people are afraid of him. He doesn't need to threaten or say anything for people to stay away. He did not have that affect on Abby. She didn't fear him at all. She seeked him out. Her tiny body leaning against him. She didn't cringe at the feel of cold metal. Her little fingers traced the gold detail on his arm.

Nat grabs Buck's arm, "Aw, where's the sticker?" Turning it, this way and that. "You lost it," Nat frowns.

Bucky pulls out his ID card and shows them the back where he stashed Abby's sticker, joining in with their laughter. "They were cute."

Clint catches him, "They??"

"She."

"Uh uh, man. You said they."

Natasha smiles slyly, ready to play matchmaker. "Y/N is gorgeous!" Bucky shrugs yet nods staring at the sticker before shoving the card back in his pocket.

*****

Some days are such a struggle. You never would have thought you'd be a widow with a baby to raise by yourself. Abby's father was a pilot in the Air Force. That's what attracted you to begin with. The image of a sexy daring fighter pilot. Things Jason did or talked about were so exciting. He was an adrenaline junkie for sure. Which is fun for a boyfriend, but not the best for a husband & father.

Now, its just you and Abby fending for yourselves. This job with the Avengers was heaven sent. It was so hard to make ends meet but now that you're with the Avengers, a huge weight has been lifted from your shoulders. You'll be able to give Abby a better life. Yet, sometimes just the day-to-day chores overwhelm you.

You finished getting yourself ready for work and started tackling the task of getting Abby ready for daycare. You brush Abby's hair trying to get it into a ponytail. Don't know why you go through the effort, because it's just going to fall out by midday after playing and naptime. "Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Today is school day?"

"Yes. You get to go to daycare and see Ms. Grace and all your friends."

"Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Remember the man with the pretty arm?" She tries to turn around to face you and you have to face her forward so you can get the ponytail up.

"Yes, I do."

"Me, too." You nod, knowing where this is heading already. "Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Mr S'gent don't go daycare."

"No, he doesn't. He's a grown-up. He goes to work." Finishing her hair, you carry her back to the room to put on her shoes.

"Mama?"

Rolling your eyes, "Yes?"

"I'm not a grows up."

Sitting her on the bed you kneel before her to put on her socks & shoes, "Grown-up. No. You are my baby."

"Mama?"

"Abby Rose!" Making wide eyes at her, "You are making Mama crazy." Abby laughs and pats your head.

"Mama?"

"Yesssss, Abby. What?"

She places her little hands on each of your cheeks, "Cans I go to work with yous?" She gives you the most angelic smile. You growl, picking her up & throwing her over your shoulder. She screams and giggles. "Mama!!!"

Bringing her down, to prop her on your hip, grabbing her backpack & your bag to make the trek to her daycare which luckily is only a couple blocks away. "You need to go to daycare."

"But...but...I wants to be with yous," she pouts.

"But...but...NO. You don't want to be with me. You want to see Sargent Barnes." She throws her head back and laughs with a cackle. You shake your head at her. Excuse me, Lil Miss! Who's child is this??

"Mamaaa."

"Abbyyyy." You laugh but sober up, "I'm sorry, baby, but no. You need to go to school."

"But...but...what if he forgets me."

"He will never forget you. He has your sticker. He has your drawing."

She puts her thumb in her mouth & nods her head, but she looks sad. She rests her head on your shoulder for the rest of the walk to daycare.

Next Chapter

@waywardhunter95 @rebeccapineapple @ordelixx @onceithough @crazyunsexycool @thezombieprostitute

[mochiwrites]

Jellie tends to be a very curious cat, sometimes. She likes poking her nose into places it doesn’t belong, or snatching things from Scar and Grian when they catch her interest.

Maybe Scar should’ve known better, then.

He sits in his and Grian’s bedroom (it’s been theirs pretty much after the second month Scar moved in), a ring in his hands. The metal is cool against his palm, a soft rose gold. The band isn’t anything special, a simple engraving in it. Scar knew Grian would throw a fit if he found out Scar spent so many diamonds on the ring. So he tried to get something reasonable.

He can spoil Grian with the actual ring.

If he says yes, that is. Just the thought makes a shiver run of Scar’s spine. Is he really doing this? He and Grian have only been together for a year and a half, but Scar just knows that he’s the one. There isn’t any doubt in his mind about it. But does Grian feel the same?

Jellie jumps up on the bed next to Scar, meowing at him. She brushes her head against his arm as she settles beside him, and Scar smiles. “Well hello there beautiful lady. Are we requesting pets?” he teases as he brushes a hand through her fur. She curls up close to him, leaning into his touch. Scar sighs softly, scratching behind her ear. “I don’t know Jellie… do you think he’ll say yes?” he asks quietly. She stares blankly up at him. “Yeah okay, fair enough.”

Past their bedroom, the front door opens and shuts. “Scar, I’m home!”

Scar jumps up, disturbing a content Jellie. He shoots her an apologetic look, giving her one last pet. But the most crucial piece?

He makes the mistake of leaving the engagement ring on the bed.

As Scar walks out the room to greet his boyfriend, Jellie takes to making their bed her own. Yet as she moves, the shiny ring catches her attention. She tilts her head, curious about the shiny object. Sticking a paw out, she swats it. Again. And again. And again. Until the ring tips over the side of the bed, dropping to the floor with a ‘plop.’

Her pupils widen in that playful way they tend to do, wiggling before she pounces.

Oblivious to what his cat is doing, Scar is sweeping his boyfriend into a hug. “How was work?” he questions, looking down at Grian with a curious yet soft gaze.

“Tiring,” Grian huffs, content to melt into Scar’s grasp. He lifts his arms, returning the embrace as he does so. “I had to remake the blueprint at least five times until the guy was happy with it.”

Scar winces, “Eesh. Now I’m kind of glad he only wanted you to meet with him.”

Grian glowers at him in return, though the look is entirely playful. “Yeah, yeah.” He leans up, brushing their lips together in a soft kiss. “Consider yourself lucky.”

“I think I will, thank you.” Scar grins, stealing a kiss. “How does a movie and dinner sound?” He bumps their noses together as he smiles.

“Let me think about it,” Grian hums, booping his nose against Scar’s as he does so. “As long as there’s ice cream after.”

Scar lets out an affronted gasp, pulling away. “I’m offended you think there wouldn’t be ice cream after all!” he says as he walks toward the kitchen. “Go sit! I’ll grab the takeout leftovers.”

Laughing, Grian takes his shoes off and heads over into their living room. He finds Jellie there, playing with something caught between her paws. He fondly shakes his head at her, “What do you have now, miss?”

Jellie looks up at him with a meow as she swats at whatever it is she’s deemed her new toy, chasing at it. However, said mystery object knocks into Grian’s foot, and he gets it first.

Leaning down, Grian picks up what appears to be a rose gold ring. He inspects it in his hand, eyebrows knit together as he does. “Where did this come from?” He blinks at it, looking down at Jellie. “Did you rob someone?”

Jellie sits in front of him, slowly blinking. The perfect picture of innocence.

Shaking his head with a faint laugh, Grian looks at the ring again. His heart skips a beat as he really takes in the detail of it. He certainly didn’t buy it. Did Scar? And if he did then….

Heart a little louder, he turns to his boyfriend. “Hey, Scar?”

“Yes, love of my life?”

“Any clue what this is?”

Scar walks into the living room, the soft crackles of a furnace behind him. He pauses when he notices what Grian is holding in his hand. His eyes go wide, looking a little pale. To the side of Grian, he spots the movement of Jellie’s tail, and looks directly at her. “Traitor,” he mutters.

“Scar?” Grian questions, confused and… maybe a bit nervous.

“Haha uh… any chance we can forget this all happened and revisit it like. Next month?” Scar weakly chuckles, the epitome of nerves as he looks at Grian.

“What’s going on?” Grian’s brows furrow in confusion, a bit of concern leaking into his expression.

Scar knows trying to lie about it is practically pointless. Grian is too curious and too stubborn to let it go. And now that he’s seen the ring… Scar takes in a shaky breath. “Void, alright. Guess we’re doing this.”

He walks over to Grian, “May I?” He gestures for the ring, and Grian slowly nods. He hands the ring over to Scar, who accepts it with shaking hands. “Okay.” Scar sucks in a breath, unbelieving that he’s really doing this right now.

Slowly, Scar drops down on one knee in front of Grian, watching the way the other’s eyes go wide. But something about the position doesn’t feel quite right. Brows furrowing, Scar sets his other knee on the carpet below. “G? Mind kneeling with me here?” he asks, to which Grian nods. He joins Scar on the carpet, kneeling with him as well. “Much better,” he hums, pleased.

“Scar what?” Grian questions, lost and confused, and goodness his heart is beating so fast.

“I uh, I had a whole thing planned out, but Jellie seems to have thrown a wrench into all that,” Scar chuckles. “But it’s fine! I can improvise, who needs a plan?” He does. He needs a plan. Shaking his head, Scar reaches for one of Grian’s hands, grasping it in his own. He takes a measured breath, and begins to speak.

“I love you. More than words will ever be able to describe, G. You’ve done so much for me, more than I think I’ll ever be able to thank you for. You found me on the street, and despite being scammed by me, you still offered me a roof to live under, and a home to heal in.” Grian’s eyes are focused on him, listening with rapt attention. His gaze only worsens Scar’s nerves, heart beating a mile a minute. “You’re stubborn and witty, and sometimes you steal the blanket from me.”

Grian laughs.

Scar loves the sound.

“You don’t let me wallow in self pity, or memories of the harder times. You’re endlessly kind to both myself and Jellie, and everyone around you, even if your patience runs a little thin and you get snippy. We may get into a minor disagreement here and there, but you always come back around to me.” Scar smiles softly at him, so painfully fond and loving. “Back on that world… I never thought I would get to live life again. Or even enjoy the night sky without being afraid. It felt like a part of me was always missing, but I found that part with you.”

“Scar…” Grian trails off, face going red.

“G, you’re my home, my light. I want to spend every day waking up next to you and messing up pancake batter with you,” Scar laughs, the sound wet and shaky. Grian laughs with him, sounding just as affected. “I want to hold you on your bad days, and on your good ones. I want to be there through everything, for the rest of our lives. You’ve reminded me what it’s like to live and love, what it’s like to be me. There’s no one else for me, my heart and souls are yours.”

Scar swallows, holding the ring out to him. “So… will you entangle your life with mine forever? And marry me?” His expression turns bashful as he asks, and Grian is red in the face.

“You…” he trails off, amazed and in disbelief all at once. He looks between Scar and the ring, and he shakes his head. “I’ve been trying for days to find the perfect way of proposing to you, and you go and pull the rug right out from under me,” he laughs. “Curse how perfect you are sometimes.”

“C’mon G, you’re really leaving me hanging here!” Scar whines at him, making Grian laugh all over again.

Grian wraps his arms around Scar’s shoulders, pressing their lips together. “Yes, you spoon. I don’t want anyone else. Just you.”

If their neighbors hear how loudly Scar yells, well… it’s a warm congratulations to the newly engaged couple.

Jellie watches her humans cry in each others arms, tail flicking lazily at her side. She better get extra treats for this.

(It’s only later, when they’re sitting on the couch, curled into each other, that Scar realizes what Grian said. He turns to him, “Wait, you were planning to propose too?”

Grian snorts with laughter, “Hadn’t even picked out a ring, but yes Scar, I was.”)

[darknight3904]

Memory and Devotion

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰᴏᴜʀ / ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ ꜱɴᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʀᴀᴢɪɴᴇꜱꜱ.

ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ɪɴ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ꜱᴛᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇᴅ ᴀ ʀᴏʟᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇꜱ ᴍᴀʏ ᴏʀ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴏᴄᴄᴜʀʀᴇᴅ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴀ ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴜꜱ ᴀʟʟ.

The bruise on his neck aches as a nameless Avox blends skin-colored makeup into his neck to cover it up. Their touch is too forceful but it gets the job done and Coriolanus knows the importance of looking good for a camera.

He plays the part perfectly, he always does. He shakes hands and smiles politely at those in attendance. The soft click of a camera reaches his ears and Coriolanus hopes the Avox's work hasn't faded away.

The tang of the lemon drink being served burns at the back of his throat. It's your favorite, he remembers the many times he'd bring it to you at countless galas you had attended with him. Coriolanus found himself wishing that you were here, at his side sipping at your own lemon drink and laughing next to him.

No one is laughing tonight though. The mansion is filled with a strangling air of sadness as Coriolanus pretends to inspect the roses on the table.

Dinner passes slowly and Coriolanus fights to swallow the lump in his throat when dessert is served. The delicate cakes with powdered sugar on top are your favorites. The china plate underneath the sweet is staring at him in mockery with its light blue flowers and intricate gold trim.

His head feels like it's stuffed with cotton as he bids your parents goodnight. Your father thanks him, something about being a wonderful partner and friend to you and Coriolanus can't look him in the eye, instead, he focuses on your father's shiny black dress shoes. Your mother gives him a warm hug and she almost smells like you as Coriolanus keeps his face devoid of all emotion.

Time is a funny thing. Coriolanus figures this out on the night of his 30th birthday. The city lights of the Capitol shimmer as he stares at them when he realizes how long it's been since he's seen you. He wonders what you'd think of him now. Sometimes he swears he can hear you voicing your opinions through the empty halls of the mansion. Moments like that have left parts of the mansion frozen in time but the sunroom has the worst of it. Coriolanus never goes in there yet he has an army of maids tending to it daily, keeping it devoid of dust and disrepair. Everything is just as you left it, from your books with the dog-eared pages to the slightly askew desk chair and the squished pillow you liked to put behind your back for support.

Everything is just as you left it, ready for your return, just as he is now as he sits at his desk, mind replaying the last moments he shared with you.

His heart was pounding as you struggled against him. Both of you had been a wild blur of limbs and metal in the dark as he gained the upper hand in the fight you had started.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

His enraged voice filled up the room as he grabbed at your hand and ripped the chain away from his neck.

Your answer is swift and unyielding as something plunges into his side. He feels blood soak into his shirt and lets out laugh. What a clever girl you were, using the paring knife that had been at breakfast this morning.

Sure, you were clever sneaking up on him and then stabbing him. But, if you had actually been smart, you would've used a bigger knife. If only you had waited, steak was being served for dinner later, now that knife would've been perfect, with its longer blade and serrated edge.

Blood drips onto the floor as Coriolanus grabs at the chain, still attached to your ankle.

"We could've talked it out, you know. I'm a great listener."

Your time in this room has made you weak. He's able to easily staddle you and quickly use his weight against you.

The struggle you put up is admirable, futile, but admirable. The chain reminds him of a snake constricting its prey before its meal as your arms flail beneath him. Soft gasps of a dying girl reach his ears but his brain feels fuzzy as he wraps the chain around tighter.

He'd hold it for a few seconds and then let it go. That would teach you your lesson. Hopefully you'd never be brave enough to fight against him like this again. Then, he'd take you upstairs and show you the maroon curtains he picked out. Perhaps you'd like them even more than the blue ones. He wanted to have strawberries tonight, big ones, just like the one you offered him the day he first laid eyes on you.

"Coryo!"

Your voice, barely a whisper is fluttering in his ears.

"Coryo!"

There you are, saying it again. It sends a warm tingle down his spine.

He feels a smile stretch across his face.

"Coriolanus!"

His eyes flutter open and he feels the slight bit dizzy as he forces his eyes to focus. For a moment he swears its you, back from the dead, rousing him from his sleep.

"Sorry, you seemed like you were having a nightmare." Livia says, backing up from him when he sits up, neck stiff from falling asleep at his desk.

"Its fine." He replies "Its late. What're you still doing up?"

"You try sleeping with someone kicking at your bladder every five minutes." She laughs

Coriolanus' eyes follow her hand and he watches her hand gently rub over her swollen stomach. A glamorous yet tasteful ring glints on her left hand in the low light of his desk lamp.

"Right, I forgot about that." He says

Livia lets out a slight hum and he looks away, mind racing with thoughts of you.

"Are you alright, Coriolanus? You seem upset." She asks

What a doting wife he has ended up with. How thoughtful she is, asking if he is alright.

"I'm fine. Just thinking about the past."

53 years later

"Tonight's preparations for the conclusion of the Victory Tour have been finished, sir."

"Good. How far away is the train?" He asked

"About 4 hours sir. When the Victors arrive, their stylists will need about an hour to get them ready. Their escort contacted the Capitol about twenty minutes ago." The maid replies

He nods, ready to dismiss the maid and go back to his work. But, the way the sunlight streams through the curtains stops him. Maroon, a favored color of his looks back at him.

"Tell everyone who is finished with their jobs to go down to the basement. There's a separate bedroom down there with boxes of blue curtains. I want them washed and hung before the party begins." He orders

"Yes, sir."

He isn't sure of the reasons behind his actions. Hanging up those old blue curtains. Perhaps old age is making him sentimental. Sentimental for what, he wasn't entirely sure anymore.

Hours later, the mansion is still a buzz as workers rush around trying to fulfill his command of washing hundreds of curtains. They remind him of little worker ants scurrying around, keeping the nest clean.

His shoes click slightly as he wanders through his home, taking in the decor, making sure it is all as he desires. His wandering leads him through the maze of hallways, and before he knows it he's standing in front of the sunroom.

Coriolanus knows he ordered that the sunroom remain untouched, expect for its daily cleanings and basic upkeep of fresh paint every few years, nothing should disturb the room.

Everyone in the mansion knows that this room is off limits no matter what occasion it is.

So why was he staring at the room, its doors thrown open with three workers, inside moving furniture around, discussing about who was going to clean up the large stack of books that had fallen of the desk.

Your desk.

Your books.

Your room.

You.

He knows his rage frightens the workers but he can't bring himself to care as they scurry out, heads bent low, apologies on their lips. His mind races with ways to do away with them, Perhaps a swift poison, or maybe they'd become Avoxes. He'd decide on a punishment once his mind was clearer.

He feels his bones ache as his brain reminds him just how much he misses you. It had been years since he properly thought about you and your demise. You had been dead to him for so long, but now your name felt like a curse on his lips.

Unsteady feet carried him into the sunroom, He hadn't been in this room since your wake.

His eyes take in the room he had regarded as sacred for so many years.

Ruined. It was ruined.

So many years of memory and devotion, ripped from him by three incompetent workers he had brought into his home.

Your books and desk had been shoved into a corner. Some your favorite reads were scattered on the floor. His hands shake and his back aches as he reaches to scoop them back up, wishing he remembered exactly what order you had kept them in.

He fixes the room by himself, ignoring the offering of help from different maids, dismissing them rudely. It takes time but he has everything back in its place. Or at least he thinks its back in place. He can't remember exactly how everything was and he wishes he could.

He sits at your desk, inspecting the little doodles you had drawn on a few pieces of paper. A flower on one, a heart on the next. Your name written in exaggerated cursive. One paper at the bottom of the stack remains unfinished though. His name, written in the same cursive.

'Cory'

The beginnings of the 'o' are there but its as though you were called away from your work. Perhaps you would've finished this if he hadn't strangled you down in that basement room.

He traces his finger over the page that had yellowed over the many years it had been apart from you.

Tears threatened to spill from his blue eyes as he looked at your name on the paper. His hand ran over his face, it was so wrinkled and old. Perhaps it was good you were gone. Would you have even liked him if you knew what an ugly old man he had become?

Perhaps it was better that you were frozen in the past. At least you never had to witness what he had become to sit on the throne he had now.

The soft click of the door to your room opening interrupted his train of thought.

"Sir, the Victors have arrived with their escort and mentor."

Coriolanus decides you would've loved this party. From the decorations to your favorite drink being served to everyone. Most of all though, he knows you would've loved getting dressed up for it. You had always looked so breathtaking in your gowns.

Cheers and claps filled his ears as he waved at the crowds of Capitol citizens that had arrived at his home while he was picking up the pieces that remained of you.

His eyes scan the crowd and bright colors look back. Over the top makeup and wigs glitter in the night as he looks through the crowd.

Finally though, he sees her. The girl who whose fighting spirit reminds him of you and how hard you tried to get away from his grasp that day in your room. He smiles at her and she stares back, eyes as hard as steel as he takes a sip of his drink.

Katniss Everdeen is watching as he finally makes his decision about this years Quarter Quell. She won't go on to haunt him the way Lucy Gray does. The way you do. The Girl on Fire will be snuffed out, he'll see to it himself.

Bonus Part to this series

Series Masterlist

Thank you for reading this series. This is the final part of It Burns For You. If you'd like to read more of my work, check out my masterlist or follow for more. I do plan to write more for Coriolanus.

Taglist:

@xxfanfictionxx @m-ichelles-world @horcruxmanor @crispymentalitytaco @nowitsmissing @rybunnie @abcdefghijklmmopqrstuvwxyz @jackquinnswife @nadisk @ms-longbeach @wearemadeofstardust0 @yourmomsbjtch

@livvieboo719 @bxtchopolis @angrytriumphtree @zizouu23 @hanversace @hanversace @511isa @tatertooted @manoknapula123 @teamostevengrant @daddiejaehyun @daisiesfor-mylove @lovelypaigey @readingthingsonhere

@1millow1 @elliexmylove @nix-rose @woweewowen

@katherines-imagines

@stelleduarte

@snowtargaryen

@imnotafishimamermaid

@marecaltrashhh

@livingdead-reilly

[midnight1nk]

EPISODE CONCEPT #6

What if… there was a very special day at the Showgrounds?

[more under cut]

For context, the people have spoken and the poll [link] is closed, the winner being 💍 (engagement ring) so I shall reveal what it is, drumroll please...

TWO-IN-ONE DEAL: FERRIS WHEEL WEDDING 🎡 + A SPECIAL SURPRISE AT THE END 💍

SURPRISE! The Wedding Episode Concept, naturally, was the Ferris Wheel emoji, but you all get a bonus for choosing the ring! Sorry that it took so long, but I've wanted to deliver something special to you guys for my birthday! Here's to celebrating my 22nd trip around the sun!

⭐️ 🎉 🎡 🎉 ⭐️

What more could he ask for?

SMG4 has been waiting for this his whole life. He had seen dozens of romcom movies and shows, as it was his guilty pleasure, and he hoped that one day, he would fall in love and perhaps even marry his partner. Of course, it didn’t play out exactly what he had seen.

Could you imagine: him, falling in love with his rival? And a former villain no less?

If you were to tell him years ago that he was going to love, date, and marry SMG3, he wouldn’t believe you. Hell, he would’ve coughed out some water if he had a glass, or stared at you because it must be some practical joke he didn’t get. Right?

But there was no joke nor was it a lie.

Change is a curious thing; the opportunities come so many times, but it takes bravery to say, “I want to change”. It then takes a lot more to say, “I will change”. Naturally, it can be difficult as it is, change having a negative perception. But what is human if not to fear the unknown? Four knew it too well, way before he dared to ask Three out. The ‘perfect’ incident, the Meme Factory. There were a lot of moments that he wasn’t proud of, all fueled by the pursuit of fulfilling an image. To show proof that he is worthy to his friends.

This was what stuck with him for years. He was lost for so long and, although it took him a while to find his self-worth, he knew he wanted to change. It was possible because he had seen it first-hand from Three.

Standing before the tall mirror in his room, he fidgeted with his blue bowtie for what seemed like the hundredth time. It was the same bow he wore in WOTFI 2023, except for the knot coated in a rose gold metallic. This, along with the matching waistcoat, were the only things he asked to be included exclusively in his wedding attire, it felt fitting for the occasion.

Meggy: “SMG4, your wedding’s in half an hour! Don’t mess up your collar.”

Meggy and Luigi were here, helping Four prepare for his big day as well as be his emotional support. Mario was supposed to also be here but apparently, he needed to do something else. He did wish Four luck, though.

Meggy was adjusting his white coat, a fusion of a normal jacket with a tail of what seemed like a wedding dress, all with its layers of ruffles. It matched wonderfully with his white dress pants and shoes. Seeing how Four’s nerves were getting to him, Meggy left the ruffles and helped Four with his bow again. He had to look his absolute best in his suit of white, blue, and rose gold after all.

Meggy stepped back, seeing the whole picture with Luigi. Four posed modestly and a note of hesitation.

SMG4: “Well, um… how do I look?” Luigi, giving a thumbs up: “Spectacular!” Meggy: [*nods*] “Agreed!” [*looks at him with patience*] “Nervous?” SMG4, turns back at the mirror: “Meggy, I’ve been running on expresso and adrenaline for the past couple of hours. Of course, I am.”

Meggy stands behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders.

Meggy: “Do you love him?” SMG4, slips a small smile: “Is that even a question? I do.” Meggy: “And you know he feels the same.” [*Four nods*] “Even if things get tough, you guys can figure it out. I know you can. Honestly, out of the two of you, SMG3’s more of a nervous wreck than you.” SMG4: [*laughs*] “That’s Three for you.”

Four and Three have been dancing around each other for years, one unsure to make the first move. Much less if they felt like the other wouldn’t reciprocate. Pretty sure someone made a scholarly study on their would-they-won’t-they.

When Three dared to make the first move and confess his feelings, it was a lot for Four to take in. Four felt the same way, yes, but he was completely stunned by it that he didn’t know how to respond. That, unfortunately, spiraled into a series of misunderstandings and harsh tension between the two. Slowly, they later were able to clear things up, allowing Four to say “I love you too.”

Eventually, Four asked Three out. Four, being inexperienced in dating, was worried that his date plans weren’t enough. They ended up always being over-the-top. Three, on the other hand, was a complete mess because “No, Eggdog, just because Four invited me to watch a movie together doesn’t mean I can’t look fabulous, and that means I can’t mess up my eyeliner right now”. Over time, they learned to be less extreme and enjoy the simple things. As little as just Three hanging out while Four edits a video, it was worth something.

When they started dating, they decided to keep their relationship a secret. They weren’t exactly sure how the Crew would react, other than pure speculation. But there were certainly hints they’ve unintentionally left behind.

White flowers appearing in the cafe’s empty vases. Three and Eggdog frequently joining Four and Beeg4 for dinner. Three and Four falling sleep from cuddling on the game room sofa.

…Well, maybe they weren't that subtle, now that Four thought about it. He was at least glad that the Crew accepted the relationship when the two eventually told them. He took a breath and smiled at the indigo rose pinned in his lapel. Meggy was right, everything’s going to be okay.

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

SMG3: “Nothing is okay!”

Meanwhile, in the cafe, SMG3 was pacing around, his purple heels clicking on the wooden floor. Bob and Saiko looked at him, unfazed.

SMG3: “Oh, by all the memes, what if he cancels the wedding? What if he doesn't want to marry me anymore? I mean, look at me! I look ridiculous, of course he wouldn’t.”

He stopped to present his attire to the other two with open desperate arms. He wore a white sleeveless, ballroom-styled gown with some ruffles in shades of purple and indigo. Like a dyed rose. A white pair of long silk gloves to match. His long hair was tied up in a messy bun with pearls and golden leaves sprinkled on his do. For the final touch, he wore a choker with his skull symbol in gold.

Bob and Saiko exchange a glance, an eyebrow raised.

Bob: “Dude, chill. If anything, I bet that idiot is going to short-circuit, forget everything, and propose to you again the minute he sees you.” SMG3: “Bob, I’m being serious! Weddings can go to complete disaster just by one small thing, and that is a fact.” Saiko: “Well, if you’re done with your what-ifs, come and sit down. I have to put the veil on.” [*pats the stool in front of her*]

Three grumbled, reluctantly taking a seat next to Saiko as she got the long white veil.

Saiko: “SMG3, relax. He’s not going to make fun of you. And no, he's not going to leave you at the altar.” SMG3: [*sighs*] “It's just… so many things could go wrong and… I don't want to lose him.” Saiko: [*her face softens*] “Alright, name me one time he's left you behind. Or that he doesn't care about you.” SMG3: “…Touché.” Saiko: “You love him, don't you?”

Three gives her a look as if she grew two heads. Really?

SMG3: “Of course I do.” Saiko: “Does he love you?” SMG3: “…Yes.” Saiko: “Does he want to marry you as much as you want to?”

SMG3 looked back at the past, remembering that day. Four and Three, as always, have been dancing around the idea of marriage. They joke around and say “maybe one day”, despite them already having engagement rings for each other.

Separately, they asked the other’s son for their approval. Eggdog immediately said yes to Four. If his dad is happy, then he is. But when it was Three’s turn, he was shocked when Beeg gave his approval without hesitation. Beeg explained that Beeg was on his dad's side in the ‘perfect’ incident. Even if Four was possessed and Beeg didn't regularly show it, Beeg did care for his dad. Three was the one who saved him. Not only once, but twice. And even more times afterwards. Beeg was forever thankful for that. Besides, it would be cool to have a dad that's just as chaotic as he is.

Four had planned a romantic date in his favorite flower field, just to propose to Three. Little did he know, Three had the same idea in proposing that day. Naturally, there was shock, confusion, then laughter. Indeed, they were the type of couple who would propose at the same time. Three remembered Four’s reaction, a smile filled with excitement and tears of joy in the corners of his eyes.

SMG3: [*smiles fondly*] “We both wanted this, more than anything.” Saiko: [*nods*] “Then, there's nothing to worry about. Just take his hand and you’ll know: everything is going to be okay.” [*finishes up, clips in the indigo rose to his bun*] “I think you're ready.”

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

When it comes to weddings, any newlyweds surprise themselves that they could never remember the finer details. Nerves, excitement, admiration, they all seem to cloud their minds. But even then, through the gaps of clarity, one can find a few memories. It was true when Four walked down the aisle.

Thanks to the recycled rides and stands from Puzzle Park, the Showgrounds appeared livelier than ever before. The lit Ferris Wheel served as the backdrop to the outdoor venue, the sunset painting the sky.

Walking alongside SMG1 and SMG2, Four could see every friend imaginable, all standing to watch their procession. Smiles, waves. Of pride and of silent congratulations. It seemed like the whole Mushroom Kingdom and beyond were here. Meggy and Luigi really helped get everyone settled in.

He manages to catch sight of Saiko, Kaizo, and Bob on a nearby stage, preparing to perform for the reception. They all waved when they noticed Four, Bob being more focused on the DJ turntable playing a record of soft piano tunes.

Once he reached the altar and turned around to wait for his partner, he could see the rest of the Crew in the front row. A few gave him a thumbs up, some were already starting to tear up. Four took a breath, drowning the last of his nerves. It's time.

And indeed, it was. A new tune settled in and the crowd turned to the front of the aisle. Four followed their eyes and no single thing else mattered anymore.

The long-awaited newcomer, SMG3, was the most beautiful person Four had ever seen. He've been knew, of course, but here, Three looked like an angel. A bouquet of indigo and white in hand, Three walked with their son. In tiny top hats and bowties, Eggdog throwing flower petals behind his dad while Beeg was holding the rings. The audience cooed and awed at Three's appearance. Four's heart skipped a beat, his stomach fluttered with butterflies. A lovestruck smile slipped on his face.

There was a mutter from Bob, followed by Saiko elbowing him to shut up, but he wouldn't notice. There was absolutely nothing that could top this.

Then there was Three, managing to see through the veil over his face, was drawn by his love upon the altar. Four looked amazing in the suit. It fitted him like a glove, colors and all. Breath taking. Oh, how much he wanted to run up and tackle him, pepper Four's face with kisses. With all the love in the world, he was tempted to do it. Once he reached the altar, Four offered his hand, Three swore he could melt right here and now.

SMG3, looking away in bashfulness: "Um...hey." [*Four lifts his veil*] SMG4, keeping his giddy smile: "Hi, dear." [*looking to realize they were the only ones at the altar*] "Ok. First off, you look beautiful and I'm willing to skip the vows just so I could kiss you, but... um... did you get someone to officiate our wedding?" SMG3: [*looks at him blankly*] "I thought you did...?"

As if their question was answered by the universe itself, a green pipe sprouted from the ground. Of course, the man of the hour, jumping out of it...

SMG3 and SMG4: "Mario?!" Mario: "Hello! :D" [*climbing out as the pipe went back down into the ground*] "It's about time you gays tie the knot."

Mario struck a pose, wearing his usual overalls and cap except for an additional black bowtie.

SMG4: "Wait, does that mean...? Mario: "Well, you officiate plenty of weddings, SMG4. It's only fair if Mario does it for you, as your Avatar and best friend. Besides, Toadstool gave me permission."

Four and Three looked at each other and shrugged, sure why not? Seeing that there weren't any problems with it, Mario cleared his throat.

Mario: "Dear guests, we're here today to see two of our beloved friends finally be together. Heroes, partners. Not only have they saved us countless times, they also saved each other. And believe it or not, man, how it was pure torture for Mario to see their yearning." [*everyone chuckles*] "Now, Mario may not be the most intelligent, or intelligent at all, but Mario will say this: the love and care between these two is undeniable. As much as they started as rivals, they have grown to be who they are today because of their partner. A miracle of second chances, of understanding. And as their friend, Mario can say how happy he is for the two of them." SMG4, whispers: "Wow, Mario. Thank you, that was actually very sweet." Mario, whispers back: "Dude, Mario's been captain of the ship from day one. Especially because of the igloo. Anyway..."

SMG3 and SMG4 froze, and glanced at the crowd with nervous smiles. Hopefully, no one else heard that. And no, no one did.

Mario: "If anyone objects to the wedding, speak now or forever hold your peace." [*the crowd stayed silent*] SMG3: "Good, because I was about to fight anyone that did." [*Four snickers*] Mario: "Now, for the vows." [*Beeg comes forth with the rings, offering them to his dads*] SMG4, holding a rose gold ring: "Three..."

But before Four could say anything else, a loud crash interrupted the ceremony. The ground shook violently, Three and Four held to each other protectively. Then, another rumble, this time the Ferris Wheel crashing down. The impact created a giant dust storm, the terror rising within the crowd. Fortunately, no one was hurt.

As the dust settles, a large figure emerges. Unfamiliar for most, the opposite for the Crew.

SMG4, eyes narrowed: "You..." ???: "Ah, was I too late to object? Or you didn't care to invite me?" SMG3: "Please, as if we wanted you here. At all." ???, to SMG4: "Gee, and I wonder how a hero would come to ruin, marrying a villain? Then again, with you and your perfectionism, you might've already had." [*turns to Three*] "And you, did you really believe turning yourself into a "good guy" would make you feel better for what you've done in the past? Or what, did you think villains could have happy endings?"

Three frees himself from Four's embrace to step forward, an arm shielding his partner.

SMG3: "Now, listen here, asshole! Being a villain or not, I don’t give a shit what you all think of me anymore. But don’t think I’m going to let you crash in here and ruin our wedding day!" ???: "Hmph. Well then, I would like to see you try."

With a wave of their hand, a whole army of henchmen starts to emerge from the woods, marching towards them. Somehow, SMG3 pulls out a giant machine gun out of thin air, leaving everyone flabbergasted. Where the hell did that come from?

SMG3, smug: "Bet on it."

Just as everyone else reacted, Four did as well. No, like seriously, where did Three get that gun from? Regardless of what that answer may be, Four simply seeing Three's iconic grin made him blush. Screw what Four said earlier, this was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Oh spaghetti gods, that was kinda hot.

SMG4: “Three…” Please marry me... oh wait, I already proposed. Shit. SMG3, looking back at his partner with reassurance: “I know it’s not how the wedding’s supposed to go, but since when was our world ever normal?” [*offers a hand*] “Whaddaya say, want to kick some ass?”

Four, completely enamored by Three, happily accepted his hand.

SMG4: “I’d say, let’s give the audience what they want.”

He winks at the viewer. Yes, you, the one behind the screen. He then turns to Saiko, Kaizo, and Bob.

SMG4: “Drop us a beat.”

The three nodded and performed a song, unlike one that would normally play at a wedding. The two parties clash, hordes of henchmen fighting against guests in fancy outfits.

Mario and Luigi knocked out a few with a hammer and vacuum respectively while Meggy had their back with her Splattershott.

Tari shot down enemies from the sky and Melony in her god mode struck several in the ground with her sword.

In the heart of it all, there was the newlyweds. Three switched between using his machine gun to throwing bombs. Four meanwhile used his meme power and a handgun, his senses becoming hyper-sensitive. If his new abilities taught him anything, it was that he could maneuver like an actual glitch. One second, he was in front of you, and in the next, he would be right behind you to strike. To them, this was an elaborate dance that only they knew the steps of.

They supposed it was true about weddings, time moves so quickly that you never remember the finer details. But Four, protecting his partner's back, knows that, in a moment of clarity: he was lucky to have Three by his side.

Soon, the army retreated back into the woods, and the villain, tempted to hide their defeat, glared at the duo.

???: "This isn't over."

And with that, they fed in a blink of an eye. The guests cheered, celebrating their victory. Three dropped his gun and was about to ask if Four was okay. Instead, Four jumped into his arms and kissed him. Three was certainly surprised by it but kissing his love back. Their attires were tattered up in tears and stains, their hair looking like bird nests. They didn't care.

The two part, and Three raised his eyebrow.

SMG3: “Doesn’t the kissing part come after we exchange the rings?” SMG4: [*rolls eyes amusingly*] “Oh, now I’m not allowed to kiss my future husband?” SMG3: [*takes a gold ring from his gown pocket*] “Husband.”

The two exchanged the rings as they said their vow:

I, as your partner, acknowledge that we had a rough start, clashing due to jealousy and greedy desires. But despite it all, I always have and will admire you, willing to forgive you for the hurt that was done. I promise to be with you when you need me. I promise to continue to love you, be your partner-in-crime. Let me be with you in every adventure until the very last. It'll be 'you and me against the world', until the stars fall from the sky...

SMG3: “As your husband, I promise to be true.” SMG4: “As your husband, I promise to be your light.

The two shared another kiss, this time the crowd cheering for the couple. Together, always and forever. A life spent with their love is all they could ever wish.

What more could he ask for?

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

⭐️ 🎉 💍 🎉 ⭐️

Hey guys! I hope you enjoyed this episode (concept), I've been waiting to share this one with you guys for so long and I had the perfect time to do so!

By the way, for SMG4's outfit, I was inspired by this from Pinterest [link] AKA the most enby wedding outfit that I've ever seen. For SMG3, I kinda just made it up on the spot but thought about "pretty princess" the whole time. As for the battle scene, I had the perfect (oh yeah, gonna use that word) song that matches it [link], a remix track from Deadpool & Wolverine. Just imagine all the slowmo, *chef's kiss*.

Anyway, thank you all so much for the birthday wishes and presents, it really meant a lot to me and made my day feel special.

Hang on, I'm getting a call....

Whats this?? ...MERCH?!?!? That's right, introducing:

Ferris Wheel Wedding (Fake) Merch Line

First up we got a special acrylic keychain, where one side we have the lovely couple standing in front of the Ferris Wheel, and on the other side, here they are being totally badass.

It also comes in as a standee, WOW

Next up, we got a poster of the newlyweds off to their honeymoon. Aw, look at them riding Four's forklift! How lovely ❤️

And lastly, for a limited time only, we have the matching wedding rings, exact replicas of Four and Three's!

Share it with a partner if you have one, use it in an actual wedding, or just have it as a souvenir!

GET YOUR MERCH TODAY!

(i'm luke trust me /j)

[bbluesrreality]

Increasingly comical gender war porno where tboys try to forcemasc gangbang me and trans girls try to forcefem gangbang me.

Pink and blue hallway. Whistle blows and 12-20 trans people run in to tug-of-war my body back to their respective rooms. When we pass a certain threshold the other team must relent for a full minute.

Pulled into the girls’ tufted, rose gold bedroom first, I’m pushed into a makeover at the foot of the bed. Holding my head still to brush my hair, filing my nails, and getting my boring, neutral socks and shoes off.

When the boys bust in having taken the ref’s whistle, hollering and swirling their shirts above their heads, the girls are too offended and honestly too polite to properly stop them from whisking me off. The fire two passes are choreographed for pacing, then the game really opens up. After the first two minutes, I’ve toggled PVP mode on. My co-stars have been made aware who among them is a stone top and who is else is a CNC switch down for wrestling play on the side of the main action. Any good team fight will involve into side some 1v1s, 2v1s, you know? Ad-lib away. The camera remains here with the girls as they strategize.

The boys room is a locker room, of course. They waste no time getting into dirty hazing rituals, men only want one thing after all. I’m on my knees in a corner, metal lockers cold on my back, they stuffed briefs out of my mouth and press tdicks hot on my tongue, impatient, competitive hands in my hair, begging for a wet moment. They pulled my hands away to touch themselves with, but one took enough pity on me to grind his work boot into my dick.

The ladies enter the room like it’s a SWAT raid, with their makeup brushes and palettes up like they’re guns, and the boys react as such. “Get on the ground! I’ve got a pop of color!” Is terrifying to the fragility of masculinity! They put their hands up. The ones who get on the ground get made fun of, Nelson style. There’s a beat for the girls to hit the men who make fun of other men for listening to women. The police moment is played entirely for camp, not horror.

One woman takes a guy by the neck and backs him into a wall. None of his buddies quite have the courage to help, all being threatened with Models’s Own Gold Sand highlighter at his cheek, or Ink Velvet 06 lip stain held at his mouth.

A particularly tattooed girl advances on a guy in the middle of the room, backing him up to the lockers. Everyone quietly watches. “Your skin… is going to be so supple…” he wails “Noooo!” As a friend pumps moisturizer in her hand to apply with two fingers, outwards from the bridge of his nose. The men cry out and rush to save him from this horrible fate and I’m carried off in the confusion. It seems like I haven’t been making any of my own choices, but I haven’t protested to a single thing that’s happened to me.

It’s clothes this time- torn fishnets slip up my legs, they’re groping my legs and barely, gently, patiently grazing my pussy as the goth girls move onto eyeliner. Coos like “Oh, you’re so soft here!” And “I can’t wait to find out what your shaving pattern is” in my ear, giggling and talking about me between themselves right in front of me, the way only narcissists at a sleepover with a perfect subject do.

They only get one wing on before the boys enter, a clear leader this time, more organized and efficient in their capture, but at the end, a straggler’s been left…. A tboy hostage. Perfect. This specific guy has been preselected, he is comfortable with drag.

I’m laid back on the bench this time, tights getting more and more torn, it looks like I’m thrashing, but their ripping them is just pulling my legs every which way. There’s cock in my holes and my hands and they’re slapping my abs and pinching my nipples and laughing at every sound of pleasure or pain. There’s no right answer, no real way to get praise here.

“This is what we’ll do to you”

The camera whips over and the women have entered silently offscreen. They’re leaning against lockers having stripped a man and put him in a tiara, a clear plastic pleated ultramini skirt and Pleasers that make him look like a deer. Their holding him up just off his balance point. One woman lights a cigarette.

They forgot about their boy! Women knew the boys would be too distracted with sex for solidarity. He writhes against the headlock to no avail, getting his nipples pinched.

A particularly bearded guy steps up. Ideally one that the girl given this line has a huge crush on IRL.

“Oh yeah? How are you gonna do that… when I do THIS?”

He tackles her with a kiss as she giggles and everyone forms a ring to watch them wrestle. When he starts winning, her girlfriends come in to back him up. “Hey that’s not fair, he’s juiced!” The brawl multiplies until almost everyone’s involved and some people take out pouches of pink and blue powder to throw at/spread on each other and it turns into a full on silly, sexy gender war wrestling match. Maybe there are more back and forth between the rooms passes with be before we shift into this mode of the film but I want to allow room to insert other people’s ideas there so I don’t want to over script. Act 2 is A fast-paced, messy, jackrabbit fucking, screaming and fighting and laughing and yelling and hitting and playfighthatefuck orgy playing out. I’d like to talk to the cast and crew about what shots they think men like to see in porn most, and put them here. Tittyfucking. Close up hole slamming. The angles in this scene are reminiscent of those you see in studio pornography, as explicit and exposing and NSFW as possible, wholeheartedly embracing of the feelings of being degraded and exploited and used as an object/total control. The findom who has a higher price for physical contact than what I could ever budget for this film watches her cigarette smoke in the corner. Her eyebrows come together for a moment. The fire alarm goes off and she protects her hair.

The water washes all the pink and blue powder bombs from the “fight” scene off of us as the new sensation of the rain pushes a few people into orgasm, and then we gather and shift to a more communal rather than combattive second climax, after cleaning each other in the communal shower then moisturizing and massaging we end up sucking and fucking and scissoring and caressing each other in the girls room. I’m now just one of the many beautiful bodies in the sea of girls kissing girls, boys kissing boys, boys fingering girls’ holes, girls pulling boys’ hair, a free love, pleasure forward scene with many orgasms, lots of words of praise and love and intimate, warm artsy shots of naked trans bodies feeling wonderful with each other. We cum many times, service enjoying orgy participants help us clean one more time, we turn down the lights and fall asleep together.

If I want to end it on a gag, the findom in black leather is still clothed and smoking in the corner. Her cigarette sets off this fire alarm too. Everyone groans and she says “Sorry!” , sounding only half like she means it.

Fin. :)

The action and dialogue will be more scripted towards the beginning of the film and opening up as it goes, meaning the production process will take less setup per minute of footage filmed as it progresses, hopefully this will keep set interesting, give us a good amount of time to all get comfortable bantering and with each others’ and the crew around, and make each shot feel like less of a tech slog than the last one. I hope for an efficient, respectful and lively set that is the opposite of a slog and leaves everybody excited to potentially work with each other again in the future.

I feel like maybe I should split the tops by femmes/mascs so that people don’t feel like they need to abide by gender roles they don’t want to. I’m asking people to pick team lipstick and team jersey for a fun role play bit and an excuse to do what a lot of cis people see as dirty gender things, not actually trying to enforce the idea that expression needs to line up with identity. Every aspect of this script is challenge by choice and I would invite all of my collaborators to tell me about changes they would prefer I make, either for physical comfort reasons, because they had a hot idea, or to address a subtextual meaning they derive from my script that they want to make align with their worldview, or body of work, or way of being a fulfilled performer.

While you were studying the blade I was writing barely coherent transgender gender war gangbang concepts on tumblr. Also I want to figure out however they made the colors look like that in But I’m A Cheerleader and do THAT. If there was a moodboard for this idea it would contain multiple shots from that film, from gay think Men.com, or FratX without the dogwhistles, and from Marie Antoinette (2006)??? And all of the beautiful women on twitter who inspire me very much.

[bebemoon]

which shoes do you think the sailor scouts would wear if they actually existed?

sailor moon | pretty sure she'd wear any/all of the sneakers from the vans x sandy liang collaboration, cutesy ballet flats in general, and also these mikiosakabe x pink house "jewelry" mohair trainers

{ also including the magical girl footwear, the gcds "bunny" boots }

{ bonus: neo-queen serenity would wear the melissa x y/project "court" point mules in white }

sailor mercury | unif "seph" black satin mary janes

sailor venus | versace "gianni ribbon" low satin mules in pink

sailor jupiter | prada wave leather heel sandals from the "fairy collection" (s/s 2oo8), fendi tan suede floral embroidered boots (c. 199o's)

sailor mars | prada "cloudburst thunder" low trainers in red and trippen "turbo f" asymmetrical sandals in black

sailor neptune | prada black leather mary janes (c. 199o's), christian lacroix heeled point mules in blue and gold (c. 2ooo's)

sailor uranus | either a nice pair of lemon pepper steppers or some kind of slick suede bootie. prada embellished leather lace-up derby loafer, marsell "gessetto" ankle-high suede boots in black

sailor saturn | maison martin margiela tall tabi boots w/ round heel (a/w 2oo3), (and the more tame option) unif 90's inspired "penny" platform oxford shoe in black

sailor pluto | masha popova wheelspin boots (a/w 2o23), giuseppe zanotti metal printed t-strap sandal

chibiusa | loveshackfancy x shelby mid ankle boot and city boot "cheek & bone" heart boot in pink

tuxedo mask | loewe black leather rose heel sandal

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue October 15, 1958

Seated left, Anne St. Marie in a brown crepe "femme fatale" dress, deeply slit at the sides, with a small fishtail train. By Howard Greer, in Avisco rayon crepe. Closed "open" shoes by Evins. Standing right, Isabella Albonico wears a loose evening gown of great Renaissance magnificence; high waist, sleeves, loose in the back. Silk brocade woven with metallic threads, floral in green, red, gold, pink, yellow. By Gustave Tassell. Slippers by Andrew Geller.

Assise à gauche, Anne St. Marie dans une robe de "femme fatale" en crêpe marron, profondément fendue sur les côtés, avec une petite traîne en queue de poisson. Par Howard Greer, en crêpe de rayonne Avisco. Chaussures fermées "ouvertes" Evins. Debout à droite, Isabella Albonico porte une robe de soirée ample d'une grande magnificence Renaissance ; taille haute, manches, ample dans le dos. Brocart de soie tissé de fils métalliques, fleuri en vert, rouge, or, rose, jaune. Par Gustave Tassell. Chaussons par Andrew Geller.

Photo Jerry Schatzberg vogue archive

[the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf]

You're waiting for a train...(6)

Conscience Makes Cowards of us All

Robert Fischer x reader

description - Arthur is an unwelcome presence in y/n's subconscious.

warnings - SA, implied explicit content, killing/death (in the case of waking up from a dream), Arthur being a dick because his ego is bruised, explicit language.

word count - 1.9k

a/n - More of y/n's past is revealed! Also Arthur is such a dick in this, i'm sorry if you like him but I needed him to be this for the plot!

Previous Part Series Master list Master list

If you want to be added to the taglist - here

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

*Arthurs pov*

My eyes shot open. I paced around taking in the expanse of the beautiful hotel lobby. It was decorated to be art deco and the murky dimly lit atmosphere with red and gold accents encapsulated her essence. The silence unnerved me. A mind like hers should be bustling like that of any young adult. Instead, it appeared she’d harnessed her subconscious and molded it to her liking.

My gaze was dragged towards an elevator which loomed at the very end of the seemingly never-ending hallway. I doubted my moves. I was walking into her home. No, it was more personal than that. I was invading her soul. She would hate me after this, and I wouldn’t blame her. The years of trust we’d built up would shatter in the face of my curiousity. But the seconds passing showed my body betraying me.

I entered the gold dusted box and the harsh metal rail dragged in front of me. My hand drifted to the marble buttons that climbed up the panel in front of me. “1, 2, 3.” Standard. My breath caught seeing the numbers decrease even further. What has she buried?

1,2,3. 1,2,3. If this was the girl I knew, she’s been logical and organised by memories; early to present. I pressed 3 without a second thought. It rumbled to life and a creaking industrial might rose me up into her mind.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The cage erupted out to reveal me to the third floor of this apparent hotel. The décor was neat and tidy, and the sage green accents gave it a fresh feel. I exited as I felt drawn into the hall.

Each side was home to bright white doors which held different hotel room numbers. How fitting, a hotel full of rooms and a room for each memory. Each room had an imperceptible buzx radiating behind it. As if the pure thoughts were fizzing in their own creation. But there was one.

‘301’ Burned like fire. I could sense the burst of life behind the door, that I found myself drawing closer. Numbing voices chatted behind the wood. And the shadows of two danced through the cracks of light. I placed my hand near the handle and felt the burning sweetness I associate with y/n’s dream state. She was here. I hesitated. She can’t see me here. Any semblance of relationship with her would be gone. But then I heard something else. A new voice. Mingling with her velvety tones. I grasped the brass handle and ripped it open. There I was greeted with my y/n lying in a bed with our mark.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

*your pov*

I jumped away from the projection as the room door was yanked open. I scrambled away amongst the sheets, dragging them up to cover ourselves. Arthur stood stock still in the doorway and the look in his eyes could have brought me to tears right there. His eyes raked over our bedraggled forms, taking in the thin sheets we put a lot of trust in. I sat up on the bed whilst Robert kneeled behind, holding me in his arms. I stroked my fingers over his arms. I felt him tense up. This was my dream, and he was my protector.

Arthur let out a humourless laugh, dripping in spite.

“Why did I expect anything less.” He spat at me, crudely gesturing between the two of us. As the tears welled up in my eyes Robert flicked to the defensive and stalked towards Arthur. In a blind panic, I threw on my red dress, foregoing any shoes.

Arthur moved forward, readying his fists.

“NO!” I shouted, halting the two men.

“Stay out of this!” Arthur snapped. His anger being directed towards me unleashed something in Robert’s projection and he lunged forward.

I slipped in the middle and separated the two brawling men. I shoved Arthur past the door threshold. I then took Roberts face in my hands and stroked my fingers through the hairs at his neck. I cooed at him, calming him down. His fingers curled around my waist, caressing my sides. Arthur looked on at us, betrayed.

When I felt he had been soothed enough and his eyes fell close. I pushed him away and sprinted out the door. When I slammed it shut I felt his body crash into it. Banging repeatedly, begging for me to let him out. I composed myself. My hand still clasped around the handle, my breath the only noise.

Eventually I released and let my body fall back onto the door behind me. I sank into the carpet and my gaze tracked to the ceiling. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Arthur. Couldn’t bear to wallow in his disappointed gaze.

“You have to do that every time?” Arthur finally spoke.

My eyes remained firmly on the door, as if daring it to break. “He can get antsy when I leave.”

“You mean the projection.”

“Of course.” I mumbled sadly.

“I actually can’t believe you!” Arthur laughed out. “You are smarter than this.” I let a few tears drop at his admonishment. “Well, I thought you were.” He said dismissively.

“Woah.” I rose up from the floor. “you wanna say that again, whilst standing here in my own dream, that you are not welcome in.”

“Your lipstick’s smudged.” He brushed my messy lips before I swatted away his teasing hand. He smirked. I slapped him.

“It’s just – he – I don’t know he just – “ I began to lose control of my body and my breaths wouldn’t stop leaving.

“What? WHAT?” Arthur stalked towards me to tower over my face. I could feel the spit leaving his shouts. I burst from my cowering.

“IT WAS SOMETHING NEW.” We remained staring at one another. “I looked at him and it was like everything in here made sense.” I tapped my fingers against my head.

“What made sense? What have you locked in here?” He looked at me so seriously that it was oppressive. I giggled and second guessed my decision as I made it. But I still grabbed his hand and led him back to the elevator. We both entered and I pressed the button.

Gravity fell from beneath us to drag us down into the depths. If Arthur wanted to know then he would.

It clanged as it reached the bottom. I could feel the weight of the air down here. I was suffocating on my own dream. The metal gate opened with a hesitation, willing us not to go further. I stepped out into the murky hallway. My bare feet froze on each step on the concrete floor. Arthur followed hesitantly, unnerved by my own confidence in such an unwelcome place. I hurried my pace until I met the end room. My red dress became the beacon of light for Arthur to follow. My silhouette engulfed by the cracking black paint.

I finally felt Arthur’s presence behind me and so I took out my ring of keys. It held many keys but only one stood out. It was as ornate as it was old, and it’s heaviness weighed down the whole set. I placed it in the door to unlock it for our eyes. The door trudged open with an audible creak. A hotel room was revealed, as was me and another man.

*the memory dream*

“I know who you are,” The man spoke. “And I know why you’re here.”

“I think you must be mistaken.” I tried to sneak past his form but he caught me in his arms.

“No no no. You’re not getting away that easily you little thief.” His dirty hands groped my sides and hiked up my dress. His calloused fingers crunched the skin of my thighs.

As I watched, I felt the movements repeated on my own skin, and all I could do was match the look of terror on my past face.

He got closer to my core and his other hand had found its place tightly holding my boobs. My form panicked and tried to wriggle out of his grip. It was too much; I could feel it too clearly. This was a dream but my pain had never felt so real. I elbowed his stomach and crawled away from him. Before he could consider a new move, I grabbed the gun from my holster and put a bullet through my head.

*back to Arthur and y/n*

Arthur jumped at the sound of the gun whilst I forced my eyes open.

“Killing just wakes you up, but pain is all in the mind.” I stated. “It may have just been a dream but I can still feel it, everyday.” Arthur placed his hand on my shoulder, questioning the move itself.

“That was not your fault.” He announced proudly. I turned in his arms to meet his sympathetic gaze. I giggled.

“That’s not why that memory is here. I shot myself, so I didn’t have to stay and finish the job.” I stalked towards him willing him to hear my words. “I buried my own cowardice.”

Arthur slowly backed away. He’d never seen this look in my eyes before and he couldn’t look at it again.

“Dad needs to know I can do this, more importantly, that I want to do this. My weakness helps neither of us.”

“Y/n, if Cobb had seen that, he would have made you wake up regardless.”

“And never let me come on a mission again, and I would have been alone. Again.” I walked back to the elevator and let my back rest on the cold metal. Arthur still hadn’t moved, his gaze on the dreaded door.

“Everything here is for my own good, and the good of the people I love.” He followed me and closed the gate behind us. “But it’s also mine. So get out.”

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The time on the dream ticked out, rousing us from our sleep. I ripped out the IV and threw together my stuff, ready to scram. I was halted by Arthur’s arms around me. He dragged me around to face him.

“Y/n listen to me. You’re compromised. You now have too much invested in this job and your judgement will be askew.” He stared me down as he spoke.

“You have no right to question my ability.” I argued.

“After what I just saw, you’re lucky I don’t rip you off this team right now.” He jerked his hands away from me, harshly rubbing my skin as he moved.

I pivoted away and let my feet march me away from him.

“Oh yeah,” He shouted, “What are you gonna do after? Go after Fischer and try and get yourself a cushy number.” I stopped in my tracks.

“No, actually.” I slowly turned back towards his smug face. “I thought I’d go home for the first time in 5 years.”

“Just don’t go meddling about in his mind with your own ideas.”

“Fuck you.” I forced out amongst the tears threatening to leave.

We were broken out when Eames, Saito, Ariadne, Yusuf and my dad entered the warehouse.

“Guys, Maurice Fischer just died 1 hour ago. They’re transporting the body from Sydney to LA tomorrow morning.” My dad announced, but he frowned when he sensed the tension.

“Well, I guess it’s time.” Arthur said, walking over to the others, ignoring my teary face.

I collected myself enough to leave with my dad so we could pack. We were packing to go home.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

taglist: @jonsncws @h-l-vlovesvintage @theethy @fashionki11a @felicity1994 @bearchermer @idkyoutellmesmh @mimimarvelingmarvel @butterfly-lies-chase-them-away

[shadowqueenjude]

This fic is for @hrizantemy , who loves this pairing! Happy New Year fellow Nesta stan ❤️

Part 1 of A Court of Wolves; read here or on Ao3

She sat by the banks of the river Sidra, drawing in the dirt with a stick. She criss-crossed the lines, forming a braid. Then, she gave the little figure a dress and shoes. She drew the hands, one of which was reaching out to somebody else. But who?

She looked across the river, and on the other side, a figure appeared.

Golden was really the only way to describe him. Rich golden-brown skin, long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail, and brown-black eyes. He was clad in metallic gold and silver armor with a sword hanging at his hip. His lips were parted slightly as he stared blankly off into space, as though he were waiting for something.

She doesn’t know what possessed her to do it, but she called across the river.

“Hello! Can you hear me?”

The figure jumped in surprise before his eyes fell upon her and his shoulders slumped in relief. Then they widened again as they looked her up and down, taking her in.

“Holy shit, you’re gorgeous,” he said. She looked down at herself. She was in a pale blue nightgown with billowy sleeves that fluttered in the breeze. Her clothes were too thin; it made her ample curves show through the fabric. Feeling exposed, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Who are you?” he challenged. She scowled. “Haven’t you heard? The phrase goes ladies first.”

The golden man laughed. “How do you know I am not a lady?”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “Had your looks not given it away, no woman would speak so nonsensically as you.”

The male put a mock hand over his heart. “You wound me, lady.”

She rolled her eyes, then put down her stick. She placed her hands on the ground and pushed herself to a standing position. “You’re already wounded? Pathetic. I haven’t even started yet.”

The man stared at her for several seconds before he burst out laughing, doubling over and slapping his knee. She raised a brow. What the fuck was so funny?

“Oh, my queen would love you,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Your queen?”

He nodded, smiling slightly. And in spite of herself, she found herself smiling back.

Then the river strayed off course and the water rose into the air, headed straight for her.

At that moment in the House of Wind, a lady named Nesta Archeron awoke with a start.

That was a strange dream, she thought. It had felt so real. And she remembered every bit of it.

She tried to forget about it; it was only a dream, after all. But it just seemed so important for some reason.

It was still early in the morning, so Nesta lit a candle and went into the kitchen. She felt hungry, so she poured some oats in a bowl, added some milk, then began to chop some bananas and walnuts. Then, Nesta eyed the chocolate chips in the cupboard above the fridge. It was high enough that even Nesta being a tall woman could not reach it. At least not without some finesse.

She stretched her hands out towards the top of the fridge, her thumbs gripping the side while her other eight fingers dug into the top. With great effort, Nesta pulled herself to the top of the fridge. Lying on her belly, she lifted her neck, opened the cupboard, and grabbed the chips before wiggling to the edge and gracefully descending, bending her knees upon landing.

While the oatmeal heated on the stove, Nesta poured chocolate chips into it and watched in delight as it melted. Finally: her bland ass breakfast smelled good!

When it was finished, she delightfully poured it into a bowl, set it on the table beside the couch, then grabbed a book so that she could read and eat by candlelight.

The book was called The Wallflower Wager, and it had Nesta giggling and kicking her feet. Nesta wasn’t quite so sweet as Penelope, but she wouldn’t mind a house full of animals. And the Duke of Ruin reminded her of Cassian- if Cassian was part of the nobility and was more devoted to her…

Nesta sighed in longing. Cassian was just not what she had dreamed he would be. In that moment when she’d covered his body with her own before the King of Hybern, she had thought he was someone he could spend the rest of her life with. She had wanted it, someone to love her unconditionally. So bad.

They were mates, but Nesta wondered if she was just trying to force it too much.

But she shut down those feelings and tried to focus on her food and the book.

She quickly finished the food, not realizing how hungry she was. There was nothing tasty to eat in the house, so Nesta decided to go out to see if there was anything open yet.

Nesta had always found Velaris a dreadfully boring city, but at this time, it was almost peaceful. The only sound was the soft crunch of snow as Nesta walked over it. Most shops seemed closed, but there was one whose sign had been marked OPEN.

She grinned. It was Emerie’s store. She burst into a little jog, knocking on the door before walking inside.

“Hi, Em,” Nesta said. Emerie perked up upon seeing her, walking out from behind the counter to give her friend a hug. “Hey, Nes! What brings you in this early?”

Nesta shrugged, tucking her hair behind her ear. She wasn’t used to having it down. “I was hungry, and there’s no food at home.”

Emerie raised a brow. “Normally, I’d say don’t eat anything spicy in the morning, but you eat too healthy as it is,” Emerie said. She gestured for Nesta to follow her to the back. As they got closer to the backroom, the smells of spices and oils got stronger. Nesta closed her eyes, taking in a deep scent. Green chilis and onions and olives and freshly baked bread…

Nesta found herself drooling. Emerie chuckled at her reaction.

“Care for some khara buns?” she asked.

Nesta had never said yes faster in her life. Smirking, Emerie cut from a giant loaf of bread three slices and wrapped them in thin paper. Then, she bent over to open her icebox. She pulled out a small brown cake and handed it to Nesta.

“I made chocolate cheesecake for you,” she said. Nesta felt oddly emotional. Her eyes rapidly began to water, and she sniffled. Emerie’s eyes widened upon seeing this.

“Thank you,” Nesta choked out. Emerie scrunched her eyebrows in confusion, but pulled Nesta into a hug. “You’re welcome.”

After hanging out with Emerie for some time and buying some new clothes, Nesta began to walk home, happily munching her snacks. By now, the sun had come out and people had begun to roam the streets. Valkyrie practice would be starting soon, but Nesta really didn’t want to go. Couldn’t she just skip a day? It would be fine, anyway.

She snuck back into bed with her goodies and wrapped her blanket tightly around herself. She had just flipped the page when she heard footsteps coming towards her. She rapidly shut her book and pulled herself under the covers, pretending to be asleep. She sensed Cassian’s enormous presence as he walked towards her side of the bed. She gripped her blanket tightly, almost protectively. Cassian had ripped the blanket off of her before.

Indeed, the male tugged on her blanket. No matter how much training she had, Cassian was physically stronger, and he used that to his advantage. He ripped the blanket from her hands, causing her to fly halfway up in bed.

“Nesta,” he growled.

“What the fuck, Cas!” Nesta shouted back. Cassian’s hazel eyes were menacing, like they were prepared to go to battle. Suddenly, Nesta was gripped with fear. Her heart began to race. She lifted her hands in what she hoped was a placating gesture.

“I’ll be ready to go soon, just give me a minute,” she said. No response.

Instead, Cassian grabbed a fistful of her hair and began to drag her out of the bed. Nesta shrieked as she felt his tugging at her roots.

“LET ME GO!” she cried. She jabbed the heel of her foot into his privates. When he doubled over, she twisted around and punched him square in the nose.

“NESTA!” he roared. Nesta crossed her arms over her chest. “You know what? I’m not going to practice; I don’t want to.”

“Mor was right,” Cassian hissed, pushing himself off of the ground where he fell. “We should’ve just left you at the human lands’ doorstep.”

Their relationship was so fucking tumultuous. At least with Elain and Feyre, Nesta knew they cared for her, though they had their disagreements. But it seemed that everybody took priority for Cassian over Nesta.

They had arguments all of the time- over Rhysand, over Mor, even over fucking Feyre- and they always made up for it with fervent rutting. But that was just lust; not love. Her relationship with him hadn’t been anything like what she imagined the mating bond would be like. She had heard that in a mating bond, the mates chose each other over everything. It may have been somewhat true for Nesta, but it had never been true for Cassian.

Aside from that one moment where Briallyn told him to kill and he turned the blade on himself. The problem was, Nesta felt that Cassian would’ve done that for Feyre, Rhysand, Mor, and Azriel. So, Nesta wasn’t special in any way.

Nesta was tired. From the moment she had walked into Prythian, she had felt like she was fighting a battle. She thought it would stop when she and Cassian wound up together, but it somehow only became worse. Nesta squeezed her eyes shut as tears escaped them.

“We’re done,” Nesta said quietly.

Cassian stilled. The silence in the room was fraught with tension as they stared at each other, silver to hazel eyes.

“What did you say?” Cassian growled. Nesta steeled her spine and glared up at him. “We. Are. Done.”

“You’re just going to throw it all away?” Cassian demanded. Nesta didn’t want to listen to this. She picked up her skirts and swept out of the room. “Nesta,

you listen to me!”

“I’m done listening,” Nesta answered. She shoved the remaining snacks into the bag with her new clothes and swept out of the house. Cassian chased after her.

“You’re just going to throw our mating bond away like it’s trash?” he snarled.

Nesta debated whether or not to continue to reply. In the end, she opted to leave him in no doubt.

“No bond is worth sacrificing my peace or self-respect,” she said.

Nesta was just able to detect an object sailing through the air by the whistle of the wind and dodge it before it smashed the back of her head. It landed in the snow instead, shards of glass flying onto her, digging into her skin. She felt the sting of cuts all over her body. As she bent over the object and picked up a piece, her heart went cold.

It was her Symphonia. The most thoughtful gift Cassian had ever given her: the gift of music. The day they had consolidated their mating bond. It had been the most perfect day of their relationship, when Nesta had been deeply in love.

Though she knew it would dig into her breasts, she shoved the glass under her bra before speed-walking away from her mate, her tears flying in the wind. She felt so betrayed, like her world was collapsing beneath her feet. She wanted to run away, run and never come back.

She didn’t know if Cassian was still chasing her and she didn’t care; all she knew was the utter conviction that she was not going back to him. Never.

She reached the river Sidra, where her dream had been this morning. She paused there for a moment, putting her hands on her knees to breathe. The day that had started out so well had quickly gone sour. She heard crunching behind her and realized Cassian was still chasing her. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

Nesta stared across the water and stilled. In the exact spot that the golden man had stood, an enormous white wolf prowled. As she watched, the wolf ran and leapt over the width of the river, landing on her side without so much as a thump.

Nesta leaned forward, stroking the wolf’s head with her hand. Nesta smiled as she saw the wolf’s tail wag in response.

By now, Cassian had reached her. He tugged her arm, his fingers digging into her skin.

“Nesta,” he hissed. “Come home.”

Nesta felt a tug in her gut as her power rose to the surface. “Let go of me,” she said coldly. She let the fire in her eyes show. She smelled the fear in Cassian’s body as he backed away from her. She turned back towards the wolf. His side now faced her, head bent, as though offering her a ride.

Nesta clambered onto the wolf, twisting his fur into knots to keep a tight hold on him. Once the wolf ensured she was safely on, he leapt into the air.

Nesta only had a glimpse of a golden circle in the air that offered a view to another place before the two of them vanished.

[shy-nightmare]

The Toonz Twins: Toontown Sleuths

Chapter Seven: Judge Doom and the Toon Patrol

Summary: Eddie Valiant and Twisted Twyla Toonz meet Judge Doom, the sole jurist of Toontown, and his law enforcement group called the Toon Patrol. Twyla learns that they’re here to investigate, but they’re working on the other side of the law.

Credit for inspiration goes to @imaginarytoon1, author of “The Birchwood Twins: Toontown Investigators” and @its-metal-mistress, author of “Bendy and the Ink Machine: Learning How to Live”. Please check out their own wonderful content ^^!

Special Guests Tags 😊: @marinerainbow, @slashingdisneypasta, @weaselnerd and @lastofautumn

WARNING: This chapter contains unlawful Toon execution, abuse of jurisdiction and authority, death of an innocent Toon shoe, Doom being an absolute terror, and a certain green zoot weasel trying to put the moves on Twyla

“Is this man removing evidence from the scene of a crime?” the man asked Twyla sharply. His voice was harsh like graphite, whetted sharp enough to cut leather.

Thankfully, Santino came to her rescue. “Uh, no, Judge Doom. Valiant here was just picking it up for you.” He pulled Eddie up, “Weren’t you, Eddie?”

The man, Judge Doom, extended his gloved hand. “Hand it over.”

“Sure,” Eddie said, taking the buzzer and slammed it on Doom’s hand, making the pale man shake and convulse from the effects. Twyla raised a brow; humans don’t shake exaggeratedly like that when they get shocked. Eddie took his hand away and smiled, “His number-one seller.”

Doom returned his smile, but it sent chills down Twyla’s spine. His smile was ominous and foreboding. Good thing she was in control of her composure, otherwise her tail would’ve frozen off. “I see working for a Toon has rubbed off on you.”

“I wasn’t working for a Toon,” Eddie replied harshly, “I was working for R.K. Maroon.”

“Yes, we talked to Mr. Maroon,” Doom agreed, “He told us he became quite agitated when you showed him the pictures. The rabbit said that one way or another, he and his wife were going to be happy. Is that true?”

“Hey, pal. Do I look like a stenographer?”

Eddie, I swear to God, Twyla rubbed her temple.

“Shut your yap, Eddie. The man’s a judge.” Santino said.

“That’s all right, Lieutenant. From the smell of him, I would say it was the booze talking,” he lightly sneered at the smaller man. “No matter, the rabbit won’t get far. My men will find him.”

Men? Twyla’s rose her brow.

As if on cue, the doors burst open with the blaring sound of a siren. A black 1937 Dodge Humpback panel truck, otherwise known as a paddy wagon, drove into the factory, nearly running the officers over. Twyla dodged it before it could hit her and ran her claws across the stone ground to ease her pose. The car swerved to the side and knocked a few boxes over. Twyla read the logo on the side of the car.

City of Los Angeles Toon Patrol.     

“‘Toon Patrol’?” she read, feeling uneasy.

“You all right, Twyla?” Eddie called out.

She responded with a thumbs-up and dusted off her suit.

“Weasels?” Eddie exclaimed.

“Yes. I find they have a special gift for the work.” Judge Doom answered.

“All right, you mugs! Fall out!” a familiar old-style Brooklyn voice barked.

Twyla’s eyes widened. It’s that voice from last night!

Five Toon weasels stepped out of the car. The first one, obviously the leader, was a lean mean-looking bastard. Like James Cagney kind of mean. He had tawny brown fur and tangerine painting his ears, muzzle and neck, palms and underbelly with a long scruffy tail tipped with black streaks. Although he was slender, his muscles were firm and solid and between proud, broad shoulders displayed a wide, masculine chest. His style of choice consisted of a light pink double-breasted James Cagney zoot suit sewn with four gold bronze buttons, and a matching fedora branded with a hot pink band. He also wore a hot pink bejeweled tie over a crisp white dress shirt and white spats adorned his clawed feet in an attempt to make him appear classy and sophisticated. A shining gold chain hung from his left breast pocket, matching the glint of his sharp golden eyes. His very presence sent an unpleasant shiver down her spine.

The second weasel, obviously the second-in-command, stood a head taller and almost towered over the whole group. He must have been some sort of Spanish descent. His eyes and fur were dark chocolate, accented with light mocha warming his ears and muzzle. Oiled black hair curled above his nape, slicked with greasy flamboyance. Unlike Cagney Weasel, whose muscle was apparent behind a lean form, the Latino weasel’s form was slender with a bit of a pot belly, though it looked natural and well in proportion to his size. He wore a zoot suit, too, referenceable to the Zoot Suit Riots. He was shrouded in a jade green trench coat trimmed with black lapels and baggy sleeve cuffs, high-waisted pants hiked up to his chest held with a narrow black belt and his head was hatted with a wide-brimmed fedora that matched his suit’s color. His fashion style was complimented with a white dress shirt and a hot-pink tie that stood out from his attire, and he wore pointed spectator shoes. Behind him, a long furry tail swayed, coated in ink and dark chocolate. His clawed hands tucked in his pockets as he followed his boss in a suave, near serpentlike saunter. Twyla took a whiff and recognized the strong, heavy cologne.

Standing on the leader’s left was a tall, scrawny weasel skinny as a pencil. His arms were long and spare, but hard like stone. And they were packed with steely muscle. Unlike the pack, his fur was an ashy blue streaked with light blue and just reeked of cigarette smoke permeating his body all the way down to his unkempt tail. He wore a stained bowler hat, dress shirt with half-rolled sleeves, an undone black tie and an open black vest, decorated with cigarettes. Cigarettes, some fresh and some old, poked out from his lips, and he hacked, revealing rotten yellowed fangs. He left a massive, nasty cloud of smoke in his wake, and blinked against the smoke as if he didn’t care about the toxic plume burning his bloodshot cobalt eyes.

Jesus, it’s like looking at a walking roadkill that died from smoking, Twyla’s little nose twitched in concealed disgust.

The fourth weasel was small, scrawny, and kind of cute. He had caramel fur with a light tan muzzle and spiked hair like he had a headful of porcupine quills sharp, untamable and serrated without mercy, and his tail lashed out like a barbed whip. His vibrant blue eyes were wide and maniacal, yellow swirls wildly dancing around his pupils with demented glee. He only wore a straitjacket with open restraints, and large baggy sleeves covered his paws. The looney-looking weasel’s lips pulled into a creepy, yet derpy smile adorned with small razor-sharp fangs that can probably tear off your fucking face and chew on your cranium flesh. But still, he was kind of cute.

And the last of the boogle, who looked more like a potato than a weasel, was just absolutely adorable. No seriously, he was so damn cute! His fur was scrumptious gingerbread, though his apricot-painted snout wasn’t lean and a single fang popped out. Soft, fluffy gingerbread warmed his thick, meaty arms dominated with comically concealed muscle. He only wore a blue and white striped T-shirt which barely fit his teddy bear gut, and a red beanie decorated with a yellow propeller. His blue tennis shoes were untied on both feet, and he nearly tumbled over his tail layered in a coat of massive fluff. He held up a large baseball bat dented with a sharp nail. His hazel eyes shone bright with pure innocence, presenting him as more childlike than ignorant.

It was like looking at a McDonald’s chicken nugget that can bash your skull with a baseball bat. And only one thought came across Twyla’s mind upon seeing this adorable walking teddy bear.

She internally gasped.

BABY!!!!!! Twyla’s eyes sparkled as she took him in her sights, unable to hold back from digging out her phone and taking quick pictures of him.

“Did you find the rabbit?” Judge Doom called out.

“Don’t worry, Judge! We got ‘deformants’ all over tha’ city! We’ll find him.” the leader said, his lips pulled in an evil glimmering grin.

Don’t you mean ‘informants’? Twyla mentally corrected him, digging down her purse to pull out a black Cigaronne case.

“You there!” Judge Doom called out.

The female hybrid nearly dropped her tin. Then, she raised a brow and pointed at herself.

“Yes, you. Do you have any idea where the rabbit might be?”

Her gut on Roger was still strong, so she gently shook her head with a silent, feigned apology. She heard the Hispanic weasel in the jade-colored suit chuckle.

“Not much of a talker, is she, Boss?” he smirked. His voice was low and husky like bourbon-soaked velvet and sinister as poison-kissed knives with a strong Puerto Rican accent.

Twyla went back to her own business and pulled out a long sleek black cigarette. She placed it on her soft lips and reached down her pocket to grab a lighter.

“It would be a damn shame if the flames of a fire burnt the petals of a flower as beautiful and delicate as you~”

Startled, Twyla nearly jumped and whirled around. Only to see the green-clad gangster standing a bit too close to her comfort. He held his hands up nonchalantly.

“Heh-heh. Lo siento, hermosa. No quise asustarte.” He apologized.

Twyla raised a brow, tilting her head confusedly. She didn’t understand Spanish very well.

“He said,” the blue weasel stepped in, his voice hoarse and scratchy and hacking up a fit of smoke. “He didn’t mean to startle you.” 

She glanced at the Spaniard, then gave him a slow, grateful nod.

Then, the pink mobster shoved the two out of the way. “Lemme talk to tha’ broad.” He barked harshly and lit up a cigar. He faced Twyla, “What are you doin’ here anyway? And where are ya from? You dress funny.”

The taller Toon rose a brow, giving him the once-over. Says the guy dressed up in a fuckin’ pink zoot suit, she thought while addressing his attire with her eyes.

He didn’t probably like what she was gesturing at and blew a ring of smoke in her face. “Ain’t you gonna ‘slay’ somethin’? It’s rude ta’ ignore your superiors.”

Superiors? Oh, you wanna do this now? Bet. Twyla opened the lid of her diamond skull-encrusted lighter and ignited a small flame, creating a thin silver smoke. She took a soft inhale…and blew out a large puff of black smoke shaped like a skull at the three weasels.

They coughed against the plume heavily, and even the blue weasel who probably smokes his packs religiously, swatted off the smoke. “What da hell was that for?!” the Brooklyn weasel snapped, coughing.

Dominance and personal space, asshole, Twyla smirked and walked off towards the humans. She stopped when she heard a red-and-white Toon clown shoe squeaking. The little guy was snuggling against Doom’s shoe, as if he were looking up to him for protection. Twyla’s heart froze with a newfound sense of dread and fear for the shoe.

“Since I’ve had Toontown under my jurisdiction, my goal has been to rein in the insanity.” Doom explained, putting on a rubber glove. “And the only way to do that is to make Toons respect the law.”

Insanity? Twyla visibly flinched. Make Toons respect the law? 

Doom picked up the shoe, shaking his head before he walked over to the back of the Toon Patrol vehicle.

“How did that gargoyle get to be a judge?” Eddie whispered to Santino.

“Spread a bunch of simoleons around Toontown a couple of years back. Bought the election,” Santino replied.

“Yeah?” Eddie motioned to a large barrel in the backseat. “What’s that?”

Twyla watched Doom open the lid…and what she saw next made her fur stiffen. Green boiling liquid. Is that…Dip?

Her eyes darted back to the judge. Wait…no.

Oh God, please no.

“Remember how we always thought that there wasn’t a way to kill a Toon?” Santino asked, trying to keep his voice hushed but Twyla’s ears never failed her. “Well, Doom found a way. Turpentine, acetone, benzene. He calls it the Dip!”

The Lieutenant noticed Twyla and silently jerked his head back, as if he were motioning for her to get behind him. Unbeknownst to her, the Latino weasel had been standing next to her with a flirtatious grin. But his smile faltered when Santino caught Twyla’s attention, and he growled at the human official.

Twyla caught up with Santino and he gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ma’am, you might want to look away. And cover your ears.”

Oh God, she mentally whimpered as she did so. Santino shielded her, as if he were trying to protect her from the impending horror.

“I’ll catch the rabbit, Mr. Valiant.” Judge Doom spoke. “Then, I’ll try him, convict him…and execute him.”

Twyla pressed her palms hard against her eardrums as relentlessly as she could to muffle the shoe’s screams. But it wasn’t enough. She could feel the shoe’s excruciating pain as he was slowly dissolved, and her heart sobbed for his tragic end. Every nerve of her body winced and tensed as the shoe’s painful screams echoed the walls, haunting her to the core. It was agonizing, so painfully and unbelievably agonizing she felt herself dying with him. Eddie watched the horrific death with eyes shot wide and jaw-slacked frozen terror.

The silence was deafening, save for psychotic giggling. Doom lifted his gloved hand dripping with red blood of the shoe.

“That’s one dead shoe, eh, Boss?” the weasel in the jade zoot suit chuckled.

“They’re not kid gloves, Mr. Valiant,” the tall, dark-clad bastard smiled with a toothlike grin. “This is how we handle things down in Toontown. I’d think that you of all people would appreciate that.” He flexed his fingers, rubbing the leather as he were flexing his knuckles.

I’d think you’d appreciate the last moments of your life before I’m done with you, Twyla’s blood boiled with red-hot rage and vengeful murder as black as the void. She’s going to kill him. She’s going to KILL him!

The horror Toon rubbed her temple, inhaling as much nicotine as she could to sate her rage. But she had to leave now, before she loses control and destroys the goddamn factory with everyone in it.

However, the head weasel somehow got a hold of the rubber glove used for the execution and thought it would be really fucking hilarious to torment her even more. He slowly walked towards Twyla, curling his lips in a sadistic bloodcurdling grin. “And just where do ya think you’re goin’?” he snickered.

Twyla’s fist clenched. Her fangs pinched her gums.

“Hey! Lay off, will ya?!” Eddie barked.

“Sergeant, no!” Santino shouted, but his voice fell deaf on the pink-clad weasel’s ears. He continued his stagger, and each step only intensified Twyla’s wrath.

“Well? Ain’t you gonna answer me, broad?” he sneered.

The chain just fucking snapped.

Twyla whirled around, nearly hitting him with her whip-like locks. She bared her lips in a dark, resonant growl, and revealed rows of fearsome fangs as she lifted her right hand, extending massive claws far sharper than any blade in the world. And she swung down.

Slash.

The little bastard watched the fingers slip off the rubber glove with wide, shocked eyes before he resolved and tried to pull a move—

And then Twyla punched him in the face.

Everyone else watched him fly across the factory until he crashed onto three giant wooden crates containing other Toon shoes, and they all burst out of the cage and ran around the warehouse like pieces of splintered wood. Laughter erupted clamorously, even the other four weasels as they watched him break through the debris, his eyes swirling with dizziness as he coughed from the dust.

Twyla stormed out of the Acme Factory, growling curses under her breath as she smoked heavily. That little fucker!

“Still in shock?” Santino asked from her right, breaking her out of her furious trance.

“Oh, gee, I don’t know,” she snarled sarcastically. “What the hell do you think?!”

“So you do talk,” he replied incredulously.

Twyla gaped at him indignantly. “What is this, a shock to everyone? Of course I can talk! I’m like fuckin’ Wile E. Coyote in Operation Rabbit!”

Santino took pity in the young lady’s state. “Look, ma’am, I understand your case, but you need to be careful. That’s the leader of Toontown’s highest police department.”

“Fuck.” Twyla cursed, crunching her cigarette.

“Um, ah, call me if you need anything, Eddie.” Santino glanced at her boss nervously. Then his eyes steeled, “Stay out of trouble this time.”

“Can’t make no promises.”

Just as they were about to part ways, the Dodge drove up and immediately stopped near Twyla’s right. The window rolled, and the driver was the Hispanic weasel.

“Don’t mind the boss, querida.” He purred. “He thinks that business comes before pleasure, like yourself. Well, adios! We shall see each other again…” he reached out and gently grabbed her hand before giving a kiss. “…real soon.” He winked at her, rolled up the window and drove away.

Twyla watched the car, then looked at her hand. Dumbstruck. “What just happened?”

“Well, he’s got eyes on you.” Eddie remarked.

A long awkward silence was broken by a chirping Toon cricket. Two pairs of eyes stared at the smaller man.

“What?”      

[radiant-reid]

spencer is the king of princess treatment. babe ties your shoes for you (esp during pregnancy) & helps you put on heels, he opens/closes your door and buckles you in, he buys and learns to cook all your favorite food, constant surprises and flowers and definitely jewelry (especially bracelets!! idk why he just is such a bracelet guy). also believe he wears a hair tie or two on his wrist at all times just in case you need one.

Convinced he invented princess treatment. He’s on his knees in seconds if you need your shoes done up and if they unlace while you’re walking, no way is he going to make you bend over and tie them up

I love that the BAU men all hold doors for the ladies, they’re single-handedly proving chivalry isn’t dead. Spencer could have both his hands full and he’s still going to open the door for you, even if he doesn’t like the idea of germs

Very big bracelet energy, he wants you to have lots of nice stuff in gold, silver, and rose gold and he doesn’t cheap out on any of it. No plated metals that are going to rush on your skin

Also whenever you’re tired, he’ll take all your jewelry and makeup off for you so you can sleep, he’s got that skincare routine memorized

And he’s always got your favorite snacks at his apartment and a couple in his satchel because no gf of his is going to be hungry. Food is such a big one for him, like you’re craving McDonald’s fries but they’re 20 minutes away ? Spencer’s in the car without a second thought

There’s very little he wouldn’t do for you

[spadesofgrass]

Oil On Canvas

1.6k | Teen + Premise: Trystan gets a makeover (or) a thinly veiled character study through the lens of fashion. (Crimes of Passion, Choices)

A/N: Yes this is a repost. Had a few things to change and read through. Overall I am kind of happy with how it turned out! Hope you enjoy! <3 I'm sorry if you were tagged before and tagged again and it's just a mess lol

___

They like you, but they’re like, not invested in you.

Sometimes negative attention is positive attention and sometimes it is the other way around. And sometimes you have to bite your tongue and not kill yourself.

We want you to be approachable, but also aloof. We’re thinking a fluff piece every two months. All praise, but first you must look a little less suicidal. A reinvention, we are calling it. You are as fluid as the ocean, sunny as the warm breeze. We want you to be loveable, but not too much. Look the part but — it is a lot better if you can like, get some red in your cheeks. Eat some eggs. Noticeable. Like the Gods walk amongst us.

Stressed clothes exemplify a mixture of grief and a chance at reconciliation. A gold bracelet or necklace will help you stay rooted. A temporary tattoo - the night is still young, you are your mother’s rebellious daughter - do we get that vibe? Yeah? Oversized pinstripe jacket with thick leather shoes. All tucked in. Your mother’s obedient son. Softer, relaxed textures will make you feel at home. A little baggier so they know you’ve been eating okay. Tint of colour everywhere, like copper pops. Your smile should reflect the orange. We’ll get you some staples - brown trenchcoats, silken trousers, blazers. Designer. Off-season colours are something I would personally recommend—?

We are going to experiment very little but it is good to fit in with the art deco crowd. Symmetrics. Stained glass windows. Slim jackets. Florals but we’re not going to go in with the typical bullshit - Venice floating markets, it needs to be organic. Snakes, roses, marshy gardenias. This isn’t a youth school choir, you can lose the tie. We’ll put you in a sweater. It is inviting. That is what you need. Bulky deck shoes with chunky soles with stark polish should also help. Tint of colour, okay? We’re trying to make you a real person. Do you feel real?

They do like you. You just need to give them something to work with.

Rings are just too um.

They aren’t what we’re going for-? It feels too —

We don’t want to scare them. Rings are only as good as the bearer’s fingers. Yours are too watery. You can hold a book - if you like? I dunno. You’re boiling, you’re right off the stove and there’s just a lot of anger and regret that people may not like to see. It’s an ugly grief and it wouldn’t come off as wearing your heart on your sleeve - but — interpreted literally so. Does that - make sense to you?

We can’t do much with your hair - baseball caps are best worn sparse. It will seem like you are trying too hard and you’ll have people sending you death threats. We’ll try scarves. Classy, down-to-earth. Embroidered with your trademark silver. A pop of metal in your clothes will offer your viewers consistency.

We’re trying to make you a plausible - person. A digestible concept. Watches are not — your jam, you will seem more busier and more bored. A thin silver band on your left finger and a gold bracelet in your right wrist; just obscured by the sleeve. A certain roughness around the edges. Shoes - um, we’ll have suede slip-ons. It needs to be fast. A flicker of colour. Grey silk, dark jacket.

Have you heard of the painting, The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali? It’s at the Museum of Modern Art - a drive away. You can go see it. They used to teach it to me in class - a symphony of hard and soft surfaces, a play on sight and time and textures. Sometimes you are never really quite here. Sometimes you blend in so well, you fade away and the colours don’t sing to you. You aren’t sure if you are just filling up space or taking space. It is the kind of ambiguity you want everyone to see you with.

We’ll dress you in big sweaters and socks. We will make you appear more wise but doe-eyed. Printed jackets, brightly coloured streetwear paired with Birkenstocks and thick shoes. We can play around with silhouettes for everyday wear. Whimsical pastels and patterned socks. Surreal with a touch of professionalism. An interesting shift in perspective every other day or so - whenever you’d like. A cheat day in this - way where you can select one item of clothing for yourself.

Sight, textures — what else?

Something immortal, maybe. We are thinking of a consistent piece in your wardrobe to have sleuths poke and prod at you from a distance. Sentimental that doesn’t have you ugly-crying. You have to move like water, like time. You cannot stick to one specific emotion. If we are having you wear a Drakovian flag for a consulate meeting, we will have you wear Her colours in the weekend. If there must be a headpiece - like a silver hat of some sort - we will have to incorporate it in your belts.

An hourglass jacket can do you wonders, but only if there is love at first sight. If we get a sniff of the surrounding air and detect something foul, we will change things up once more.

Perhaps this conversation wouldn’t matter in the long run, but it is an important one to have.

Well, we have always seen you as the eldest child, the firstborn. I think there is something like, intrinsically regal about it. You have no land for yourself now, but you do have the time in your hands. There is also something naive about the oldest child in a family, but it will be difficult to deliver that message through clothes. You aren’t helpless now. Trust me, whimpering, desolated looks will do you more harm. It is ugly to seek for help so desperately. We want to paint you as a mother’s favourite. A flawless, favoured-by-the-Gods. A replica of your mother’s necklace is being arranged for you to wear. Innocent and charming. It won’t be read in the same like, helpless flavour you so want to push for.

Once a month, we will opt for a glimmery turtleneck. Tailored nicely. Some eyewear - a pair of smart shades. Futuristic in Times Square. Forward-thinking. You don’t want to appear empathetic or approachable here. White platform shoes. Instant attraction. We will try to reflect like, the seriousness of the Drakovian Idea - the next carrier of the baton. A big bag to imply the same. New York moves fast and you faster. Never abreast and more of a casual observer. The latest headphones in the market to calm your hair down.

I love a good story. I love it when there’s a really specific mental image I can find in real life. It is a comforting Easter egg soup.

There are certain films you can watch to get your grip on the railings. We will try to make you seem like you are a pocket full of hope and ideas. Plaids, cable-knit jumpers, tucked-in khakis, playing around with velvets and matching belts and shoes from When Harry Met Sally. Beautiful oxford shirts - crisp and fit, denim bell bottoms, like an ode to the 60s, but in a less tackier way - perhaps replicating the idea of The Last Days of Disco - literally too. Everyday is New Year’s Eve and your clothes tell a story of rebirth. Ever-changing.

Shearling jackets, half-sleeved buttoned shirts, a very lost-in-your-20s, very Frances Ha. Let yourself seize a moment of messiness when you can. The image of you is young and foolish and you should be able to stare at yourself in the mirror and rub your tired eyes. We can experiment with the landscape; put you in situations where you stand out. A monochromatic you in a city of lights. A dark, hopeless road and a bright pair of rose-tinted glasses. Contrast is a boring, overdone subject and people have written theories about it, but it helps to have more of it and an odd number of it, rather than in twos and fours. Water or wine? Red, blue, green or yellow? You understand?

For the sake of the rising temperatures and the volatile sharks, we vehemently discourage you from having others’ tastes rub off on you. Anything you can be caught with. Think of it like your Mother reading your thoughts - the ugly doubts, the hidden truths. Romances are - like, great, but this is organized. This is important.

Books, people, thoughts, secrets, they are merely accessories. Who you are is a much more closely guarded truth and it is unwise to have that affect your outward appearance. It is just a turbulent time to be yourself. It comes off more as cheap than anything else. You might as well write a self-help struggle snooze-fest guide and that will be more promising.

We want to avoid making mistakes. You are neither a person seeking refuge or a heir to a powerful business. You are not a popstar or a model, you possess a face nobody can quite recognize and we want to stay away from costly errors. You are what the story offers at the moment. If they deem you rebellious, you are. If they deem you ungenerous with a ‘kiss my ring’ angle, you are.

It is such a painfully human understanding and I am not interested in that, much like everyone else. You are an idea and I have an idea. You have to be like, persistent.

People have to like you. But they don’t have to love you to like you.

__

Tagging: @aces-and-angels @trappedinfanfiction