#tldr my head is empty

[turnedpalefromlackofsun]

Brown skin really is tough to balance out

I spent like an hour trying different shades. I would pick a shade, it looks nice, I color the picture, then the brown overshadows all the other colors

I think this brown works. If I want to make it richer like I originally thought, I have to do the same to the other colors and mess with the contrast so it looks cohesive

It was much more pale when I found a color that fits so then I just started a cycle of finding the shade I want, lowering the opacity, increasing saturation, lowering opacity, increasing saturation, lowering opacity

With rendering, I think it will look fine. I'm just really confused right now tho 🤣

Usually, my game plan is to find a shade, fuck it if it doesn't fit with the rest of the pic, and then hope rendering solves everything

Now that I actually think about it.... damn. This is something I will think about. I don't like guessing. Guessing bad because that means I can't reproduce it. One hit masterpiece and then I die. 👎👎👎👎👎

Too many of my drawings are like that. I guessed, it looked great, could never do it again.

I need a method to this madness

I don't mean to suck my own dick but I think my drawings with dusky to dark skin have been nice. But who cares. Looking nice isn't enough, I need to know what I'm doing

Otherwise then if I learn something new, I can't even begin to apply it because 🤷‍♀️

But anyways I'm so ready to try what I saw on xiaohongshu

I tried it before and it looked hideous but I did it wrong. I got it this time I think. I can do it i believe 🫡 and if I can't do it I'll give up and play video games

[dolyx]

((yan!)forgotten au sydney can cannibalize me idc but if he's not a little insane about it then what's the point.

the day his favorite, most trusted, most beloved lamb left his flock is one of the worst days of his life right after sirris's death. sydney begins to starve himself since then. unable to eat, sleep, or do anything. he still does his duties as the leader of his faction, but anything other than that is spent thinking about you. worrying about you. mulling over what to do with you should you come back begging for his graces. when your loss is too much for him to bear, he starts to hunt you down. you can't leave him like this, beloved. you're just lost - his beloved lamb who strayed from their path. it's his duty as shepherd to seek you out and make you come back to him. and when you do come back to him - well, you have to be punished still. you turned your back on him, after all. but don't worry, he assures. sydney will make it quick, will make it painless. you may have betrayed him, but you don't deserve the same fate as those wretched rats. you're his most prized lamb. you should be more than just sustenance for his flock. surrounded by his priests, sydney takes your life into his own hands. gently caresses your cheek as he tears at your skin. savoring the texture, the flavor of your flesh as he devours you. weeks of fasting has led to this moment, after all. he makes a ritual out of it, all bated breath and lust-crazed eyes as he consumes you, careful not to leave a single part of you forgotten. unlike the rats, he doesn't share you with his flock. you're his. sydney is your lord, your shepherd. your soul, your flesh, your body, should only be served to him. bound to him. anyone who opposes is a traitor to his faith.

but of course, your penitence does not end there. what you did was blasphemous, straying from the rest of the flock like that. your union through his consumption of your flesh and blood is not enough. you should serve him still, even in death. therefore, he must make you an icon. a symbol. either as a reminder to his people of what happens to those who stray from his path, or of your sacrifice, your act loyalty to this faith that prevailed despite your sacrilegious act of leaving him.)

[sensitivedead]

ive written some twenty or so pages since i woke up this morning in my journal. last entry is my acceptance that mentally i have nothing to get over but that i need to stop being self destructive and settle into acceptance and work physically through yourself because you are yourself so im like huh…. no more scramble to dwell on…..

[vyva-melinkolya]

we all agree that the push towards short form, vertical video (tiktok/reels/shorts) is ruining fucking everything right? Tiktok has been useful for the dissemination of political information (e.g Gaza) i’ll give it that, but that feels moreso a result of meta and twitters algorithms being just a little *more*’evil and censor happy. And i want to make it very clear that my hatred for tiktok has nothing to do with the fact that it was a product of a Chinese company, because i see a lot of critiques relying on some sort of sinophobic conspiracy. On the contrary, it’s what tiktok has become in the vacuum of western popular culture and marketing that makes me fearful.

I know that every generation faces a new, polarizing technology and inevitably, there are those among said generation who will critique it. That is the nature of things. However, there is also something to be said about how, with the acceleration of technology (running parallel to the acceleration of capitalism, acceleration towards collapse etc), each coming generation faces an increasingly more malevolent “advancement”. TLDR, i’m going to talk my shit.

I’m going to speak on the aspect that is most relavent to me, as a musician. I am petrified by what short form video is doing to music and to musicians. I think that tiktok provides the illusion of making music and being a musician more “accessible” while actually pouring gasoline on the fire that the pop music machine had already started. Standards for what popular culture “expects” from music are being doubled and tripled. Let’s talk about song length. Success and marketability favoring shorter songs is not something new, it has been the trend for decades. But with short form video, it goes even further. You’re not just hearing the same song over and over on the radio, you’re hearing the same 15-30 seconds of the same song over and over again. This in-turn, starts to influence the way people write music, persuading people to make songs that *could* have that 15 second appeal. There is an art to pop music, there is an art to writing a catchy hook—this is something else. We weren’t meant to hear or understand music like that. There are so many songs from reels that i found annoying, until i heard them in their full context. It’s insidious. It makes everything feel like a fucking commercial, even if nothing is being advertised.

I’m going to pull directly from someone else’s experiences, someone who’s music seems to be everywhere on short form videos. The ambient musician My Head Is Empty has a hundred million streams on the song “i was only temporary”. Despite that exposure, they experience “never ending copywrite issues” and have “received death threats” by people who refuse to credit them when using their song. Pulling a quote here, from a comment on their own post

“vyva_melinkolya unfortunately it just gets worse. i saw a bot content page that steals pod cast footage and spams dozens of videos with my song stolen, comment on a "motivation" spam content , who actually made a post telling people the name of my song, and the previous page i mentioned, the pod cast spam commented on that video saying "Bro stop don't give out the sauce. this audio helps me pull numbers brooo" - so people are actively INTENTIONALLY stealing it and telling people to not credit me. like. u can't make this stuff up”

Beyond this, My Head Is Empty feels frustrated that despite all this exposure, the rest of their work (nine albums) as a musician remains under appreciated, and i think that frustration is 100% valid. People cannot fully appreciate music, or even understand it as a work of art created by another human, when it’s taken so far out of its context. Again, the soul being sucked out of art by “the machine” isn’t anything new but, this is a whole other level. Being a musician is more expensive than ever, streaming earns you fractions of a cent etc, it all feeds into itself.

When a song or a musician i love deeply finds its way on to tiktok (let’s use Duster’s “Stars Will Fall”, one of my favorite songs ever as an example)I am not upset that i cant “gatekeep” it anymore. I’m not upset by the idea of something I love and hold dearly finding a larger audience. I AM upset in the manner in which it is being disseminated. I’m upset with art I hold dear to me being chopped up and used as “trending audio”. When I saw Duster in concert recently, lStars Will Fall” was the song I was most looking forward to hearing. It was the last song they played, and it was the song seemly everyone chose to talk loudly over. The audience was mostly people my age and younger. This complaint might come off as petty or pretentious or cliche, i frankly do not give a shit.

Let’s talk about how musicians are expected to promote music on tiktok/reels. This is a matter of opinion, at the risk of sounding very pretentious: the “POV we are x band from x” “My label says i need x followers before x” “posting this video until c musician notices me”. I understand that some of it is in jest but, what the fuck? When did this become the norm? I do not blame anyone for promoting their music like this, but we should want more for ourselves. I’ve always said being a musician is deeply embarassing, inherently. If being a musician is inherently embarassing then what is this? I dont have a solution for this, and the music industry has always been ugly and bloodthirsty and seldom fruitful— but i feel like the very small amount of dignity we had as artists is now lost and I cant fucking stand it. Artists seem to promote the same single with dozens of reels over the course of months, hoping that something sticks. I dont want to sound like i’m shaming or, again, sound like i can provide a solution. I’m just very fucking sorry that it seems like this is “the way”. And personally, i’m scared that if i dont “get with the program”, im going to fail.

Again, all of this speaks to larger trends in entertainment industry and even larger trends in capitalism. But i’m just airing specifics right now because frankly? I cant take it anymore.

[hatsukeii]

ring pop! / bsf!ushijima wakatoshi x reader

genre(s): heavy on the crack and fluff, dumb and dumber, ushiwaka is dense but loveable! childhood bsf to lovers! yay! sunshine! rainbows! candy!

warning(s): nothing, implied fem reader for fluency's sake, but please interpret this as you'd like!! i myself am non-binary, so at the very least you know the person who's writing has you in mind!! i still tried my best to keep everything gender neutral to the best of my ability!!

wc: 1490

tldr; “boyfriend? but i thought we were already dating?”

“Wakatoshi, can I have your second button?”

Petals of blooming sakura flowers replace the grey pavement beneath your shoes with a mosaic of dusty pink as you stand beneath Shiratorizawa’s famous confession tree. It’s a ritual that has been done for many graduations before your own, students would act nonchalant as they drag their romantic prospects beneath this very tree, all to ask for their second shirt button. This year, it’s your turn, your hands clenched behind your back as you rock forward, backward, forward, backward.

“What do you mean? My second button?”

“Yeah, your second button.”

Wakatoshi’s nose twitches in confusion and under the blanket of pollen from the flowers above. What’s so special about his second button, that you’ve dragged him under the Shiratorizawa tree for? His hand shoots up, picking at the thread sewn between each hole in his second uniform button. It doesn’t budge as he picks and pulls, until finally, he rips it off with force, handing it to you between pinched fingers.

“Here.” He reaches for one of your hands, linked with the other in anxiety and anticipation, and pushes your fingers apart, before dropping the button into your palm unceremoniously. You stare blankly at the small round in your hand, then at Wakatoshi’s deadpan expression.

“Toshi, that’s…that’s not how it works.”

He tilts his head in confusion, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to search your head for clues. The petals shuffle beneath your feet as you mindlessly grind your shoe into the ground, not sure what to make of this situation.

“I’m not sure what you mean. I gave you the second button, like you asked. Did I do something wrong?”

“Wakatoshi, I’m asking you to be my boyfriend.”

Boyfriend? Do you hear yourself? What nonsense, what has he been to you for the past six years, if not that?

“Boyfriend? But I thought we were already dating?”

You mind empties its contents as your jaw goes slack, a dumbfounded hum escaping your windpipe. You’re not too sure- no, you have not a single idea when that idea planted itself into his head. You’ve been subtle enough, right? And careful too! No love letters, or secret gifts, or bento boxes, just day to day, regular best friend interactions between the two of you. What could have possibly gone wrong?

“Dating? Where did you get that from??”

Wakatoshi frowns, hands moving to his pockets. A spring breeze whizzes by, filling the stale air between himself and you. That’s not very nice of you. Wakatoshi knows close to nothing about relationships, but he does know one thing: You probably should remember how you got together in the first place.

“You…forgot?” After all these years of tailing behind you at grocery stores, and weekly dinners at your house, and running to your place at a text’s notice, only to end up watching dramas all night and crying with you, and you forgot that you were dating? His voice quivers, a rush of betrayal in the gleam of his eyes stabbing at your chest as he grimaces at your confused expression, then back at the second button he just ripped off his chest that sits in your hand.

“I think I would remember if we‘re dating…but we aren’t.”

“How could you forget? I still have the ring pop from that day!”

What?

“Wakatoshi, the ring pop? From sixth grade?” At the mention of the ring pop, the fuzziness of an afternoon six years ago is wiped clean. You can almost taste the disgustingly artificial grape flavour that tingled and fizzed on your tongue, before sending you into a sugar high for hours, feel the cheap plastic ring that hung a size too big from your ring finger. You’re fairly certain that the company had discontinued that line of ring pops by now, the two pack too costly of a production for the cheap price they sold for in convenience stores.

“Yeah! I asked you to be my girlfriend with the second pop, and you said yes! You even wore the ring on your ring finger!”

His hands leave his pockets now, pointing accusingly at your ring finger that lacks a humorously large plastic ring. You’re not sure whether to be shocked or to laugh hysterically, not when Wakatoshi’s accusations of your…infidelity? are rooted in the sanctity and candour of a discontinued ring pop, until it all hits you at once. All the nights that he would drop off bags of groceries at your doorstep, your mother gleaming at his persistent service, and the afternoons of watching his volleyball trainings, his eyes glancing at you for approval at every legal point he makes, all the little times that led up to your eventual confession weren’t “best friend interactions.”

They were the actions of a boyfriend. A boyfriend, who (rightfully so) thought he was dating his girlfriend.

“Toshi…did it never occur to you that we’ve done absolutely NOTHING in all these years of ‘dating’? I mean, wouldn’t you have wanted to, I dunno, hold my hand? Or like, kiss me?”

Wakatoshi jolts backwards by an inch, hand travelling towards his jaw as he rubs it introspectively, trying to fan off the heat that is crawling from his chest to his neck. You stifle a giggle, before clearing your throat guiltily. No, you shouldn’t laugh at him. He’s trying his best to process the past six years of unrequited ‘dating’, how could you interrupt him? Do you have no heart, or shame?

“W-well, my dad’s always taught me not to do anything with anyone, partner or not, unless they asked for it first… and you never asked to. So, I never did.” He finally responds, as confidently as his stuttering voice could seem. “Besides, I assumed you weren’t the type of person to be into super-romantic dating, so I just never questioned it.”

You shake your head, smiling at the ground as you take a step towards him. Your hand grips his uniform button by your side, afraid that it might get lost in the petals if you drop it. Wakatoshi’s head darts from left to right, as if piecing together red herrings on a cork board, pinning down every interaction from sixth grade to now with thumbtacks as the strings tangle and twist.

“What about our drama nights? Was that also just being best friends?”

“Yes, Wakatoshi. That is what best friends do.”

“The grocery runs?”

“You offered to do them, and I assumed it was because you were always training late and wanted to help a friend out on the way home.”

“And the weekly dinners at your place?”

“We’re neighbours!”

You watch him groan, his face shoved into his now clammy palms. This is information overload, and Wakatoshi’s processor is melting down in front of your very eyes. He shakes his head frantically, his hair becoming disheveled. His hands run through his green locks, and land on his hips as his feet tap at the petal-covered ground.

“So, we have not been dating for six years, but you want to start dating from today onwards?”

"That is exactly what I'm asking."

Finally. He’s finally got it. The button weighs heavy in your hand, and you duck beneath his face to look him in the eye. He glances away, visibly repulsed by his embarrassment. He should've caught the signs...well, earlier. It somehow has never occured to him that a ring pop proposal might not be the most legitimate way to one's heart, and it certainly has never occured to him that it might have come off as an ingenuine attempt at securing a relationship.

"I meant it when I gave you the ring pop though."

Your face morphs into an effortless smile, the towering boy looking more timid than he ever has before. You haven't changed one bit since the day he's 'proposed' to you, from the smile lines that adorn your face, to the little pout of your lips when you grin. And as you look at him, eyes shimmering under the shade of the infamous Shiratorizawa confession tree, Wakatoshi is twleve years old again, missing a canine tooth on the top right side of his toothbed. He's pinching a long discontinued ring pop between both thumbs and index fingers, getting down on one bandaged knee earnestly to pop the big question.

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

And suddenly, you're twelve years old, standing right there, in front of him, tiny hands covering your mouth as you gasp and tell him yes, a million times over and more. Wakatoshi is 5'2 here, a whole foot shorter than his now eighteen year old self, slotting a ring pop that's two sizes too big on your ring finger, the candy diamond shimmering in the sunlight on the walk home. Except now, the ring pop has transformed into the second button of his soon to be forgotten Shiratorizawa shirt, residing in your clenched fist.

"I know. I know you did."

His eyes refocus as he snaps out of his thoughts, and he wonders if you still have the plastic ring from the ring pop, the one that means to him doing groceries for your household before his own, and showing up at your door to watch dramas all night in your bed, and helping your parents with the cooking before your weekly dinners. His eyes soften, the probing frown long gone from his face as he returns your smile with his own, cheeks pink and teeth threatening to show through his suppressed grin.

"Does this mean I get to kiss you now?"

"Yes, Toshi. Yes it does."

His hands spare no time to cup your face, pulling it up to his own as his fingers draw lines across your cheekbones. Wakatoshi's brain bursts in sparks of gold and red, and he genuinely ponders how he has lived until now without ever doing this once. He pulls away, unsure what else to do after, before sneezing in your face.

"Sorry, pollen, gross."

"Let's get out of here then, quick."

You grab his hand in your own, another sensation he isn't sure how he's lived without until now, and pull him away from the tree as you run to the school exit. He jogs behind you, and you turn around, your fingers interlocked with each other's.

"By the way, happy sixth anniversary, Toshi!"

author's note:

@catsoupki here's your long overdue ushiwaka prompt baby i hope you like you like ;P i had so much fun writing this omg i cracked myself AND my sister up like twenty times running her through what my plan was LMAOO

i too need ushiwaka btw i actually love him SO MUCH it's not funny anymore I NEED HIM SBSBSBSBSB the only other fic i have of him is genuinely some of the worst situations i've put any haikyuu character in recently so i have to treat him to a good one here ofc

anyways tags!!

@starlysama @chuuya-brainrot @fiannee @bailey-reeds

ok love u guys see u next fic bye bye

[another-random-paradise]

hello! if you're up to it i've had this one idea in my head for a long time that i just need to see written out

basically maybe short drabbles/hcs about leona, jamil, and vil with a reader who, on days where they're tired, is super affectionate physically as in they might see him pass by in the hall and take his hand for a moment/just search for him to get a hug from him, or comes up to him randomly and puts their head on his shoulder — maybe even in a few classes if they're REALLY exhausted, tldr reader just needs some affection when they're tired and loves receiving physical affection </3

~ ☆

Thank you for this lovely request!! I’m the same haha, nothing like a good hug when your tired <3 also I am so so sorry you had to wait this long, I’ve had a lot going on lately,, I really hope I did the request justice <3

---------------------------------------------------------

Reader whose affectionate when tired

Characters: Leona, Jamil, Vil

Format: Headcanons

Warnings: None that I can think of

Leona

-Leona is in heaven

-or at least he thought he was at first

-After all, you being affectionate when tired, means more naps with you!

-except that, thanks to these naps, you aren't tired anymore, and don't seek his  affection as often anymore. And the lazy lion has already gotten so used to it, that he finds it annoying to sleep without it now.

-He'd much prefer you'd just constantly had the urge to nap, like him

-You'll find him grumbling to himself, whenever you don't feel as affectionate, just as you'll find him with a smug grin whenever you cuddle into him while he lazes around the botanical gardens 

-Jack once overheard Leona grumbling, with his tail swishing around angrily, and Jack was confused to say the least, seeing as how the lion was just grinning at you a few seconds ago

-turns out you just weren't all that tired that day, and, in Leonas opinion, didn't give him enough affection before running of - not that he'd ever admit that 

-overall he really loves your affectionate side and wouldn't mind seeing it more often

Jamil

-conflicted, to say the least

-he genuinely loves you and your affection, he really does, but he's got a lot of work and a kalim who he needs to keep alive-

-He has fallen into a sort of routine when you feel sleepy, which is to get you comfortably to sleep as soon as possible 

-If your at Scarabia, he'll bring you to a more secluded couch (you cannot tell me that those couches aren't as comfortable as can be), lay you down, maybe with some hot tea, and stay with you till you very quickly fall asleep

-if you're at school, he always has some sort of coffee at hand to wake you up, or something sugary if you don't drink coffee! he'll make sure it's still somewhat healthy though

-should you fall asleep on him in class, he'll take notes and asks questions for you. Occasionally just looks at you for a few moments, his grades need to be worse than Kalims anyway, so he can't completely partake in the class anyway

-If you get caught by a professor though, he'll just chuckle a bit. 

-You can get mad at him for not waking you up, but he doesn't regret anything, he'll treasure in any time spend with you, where he doesn't have to worry about Kalim.

-on the very VERY rare chance that he has a day off, he basks in your affection! He'll most likely need to catch up on all the sleep he lost to Kalims shenanigans, so you two will most likely be cuddling in his bed, or on one of the couches in an otherwise empty lounge

-Or, maybe, to make sure Kalim doesn't barge in and ruin the moment, the two of you are at ramshackle, after sending Grim to heartslabyul! 

-on rare occasions Grim does join you two, curling up next to you, while muttering something about Jamil stealing his henchmen. You three almost look like a family <3 

Vil

-At first, Vil was confused as to why you'd sometimes be so much more affectionate than normally, but very quickly figured out the pattern; The more tired you are, the more affection he gets.

-He'd be lying if he said he doesn't enjoy the affection, it feels nice to be wanted by someone he genuinely cares for, who genuinely cares for him.

-BUT he doesn't like you not getting enough sleep, what kind of lover would he be if he just lets you miss your needed beauty sleep?!

-Also, he is a busy person with a reputation to uphold; he can't exactly film a movie or brew a potion with your arms wrapped around him, no matter how cute you may look..

-He does Indulge you, letting you cling to him when he isn't as busy, or in between classes, but never without a light scold about the importance of proper sleep!

-If you're clingy for a longer period of time, for example a whole week, he'll try to find out why, and then help you; If you stressed because of a test, he'll help you study, if something is worrying you, he'll pull out all the tricks to help you relax, ect.

-If you're just lonely, well.. he supposes you can sleep over ever so often, as long as he still gets his much needed beauty rest

-The first time this happens, he realises how much better he sleeps with you next to him, how much better the both of you sleep! 

-It very quickly becomes routine; that way you'll get your affection when you're tired in the evenings, but the two can still follow your normal routine during the day!

-...though he does miss, the way you'd hug him from behind in the hallway, or the way you'd lay your head on his shoulder when Professor Trein was being particularly boring.. maybe letting you stay up longer when neither of you have anything important the next day would'nt be all that bad.. 

Once again, just so very sorry it took this long, I promise I didn’t make you wait on purpose, I’m always trying to reply and write as fast as possible <3

Feedback is welcome, just be nice please! Hope you have a wonderful night/day

[cherryredcheol]

"pretty"

tldr: all the way chan uses your nickname a/n: he is my boyfriend (for real(not clickbait))

chants: when he needs you to slow down

“pretty, pretty, pretty” he rushes out, trying to get you to focus on him. you were pacing back and forth in the bedroom listing things off on your fingers, trying to remember if you forgot to pack something in your already overflowing suitcase. you were headed to busan for your anniversary and unlike him, you were a little stressed. 

“who knew it was so hard to pack for three days” he said under his breath as he got up from the bed stopping you in your tracks. you look up at him, face flushed from the stress and pout. he swears his heart skips a beat. he knew he shouldn’t think it was cute to see you so stressed but he was so endeared by the effort you’d put into this trip for the two of you. 

”this is going to be great because we’re celebrating us. let it be fun, pretty.” his shoulders shook as he saw you roll your eyes, pulling a deep laugh from him. you stepped around him and continued pacing, side-eyeing his empty bag in the closet. “it's our anniversary, you could forget your luggage entirely and it would actually make me happier.” 

slurs: when you open the door

“pretty~” he drawls, giving you a million-dollar smile. your eyes bulge as you take in the very drunk man before you. you were under the impression that he would be staying with the boys tonight since it was a “boy’s night”.  skincare complete, you thought you’d be alone for the evening and had your show already pulled up on the tv and your favorite snacks laid out on the coffee table. 

“let me in” he whines and you grab his hand, quickly pulling him into your apartment afraid your neighbors might come out to investigate the noise. you didn’t want anyone to catch you and your boyfriend in a less-than-desirable state. you had just moved into this building together. he beams at you, leaning down for a kiss, but you pull away, grossed out by the smell of liquor on his breath.

“you’re not even going to kiss me?” he was pouting now, disappointed he’d gotten a ride back to your apartment from the dorms and wasn’t even going to get a kiss for his efforts. you watched his pout deepen into a frown and gave in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, still repelled by the smell of his mouth. “if i shower will you kiss me for real?”

sniffles: after a fight

“hey, pretty?” he knocks on the bedroom door, peeking his head in. you’re flat on your back, eyes staring above you at nothing. he stands nervously at the door, unsure if he should enter. when you glance in his direction, he takes it as an invitation to come in. 

‘'i umm…” he pauses, standing next to the bed, your shared bed that now he wasn’t sure he was welcome in. you saw his hesitation and reached out a hand for him. the distance between you suddenly unbearable, fight seeming frivolous now reflecting upon it. you couldn’t even remember what you had been fighting about to begin with. all of it seemed so silly now after having spent the last few hours alone in this room when the person you wanted to be with most was in the living room, the only thing keeping you apart was your shared stubbornness. 

“i’m sorry, pretty,” he sat down at your side, grabbing your hand. your eyes had been trained on the slowly spinning fan above you but now turned to him, shocked to hear his voice so thick with emotion. you sat up, keeping your hands connected, sensing he needed some comfort in this moment. “i don’t like fighting with you, pretty.” 

grunts: when you land on top of him

“pretty–” it came out gruff, surprised by the sudden addition of your weight on his lap. the puff he’d been holding in his mouth came out with his words, making the already hazy living room even more so.  his eyes were lidded and rimmed red and you couldn’t help yourself when you saw him sitting on the couch scrolling on his phone with one hand, a joint balanced in the other. 

“is everything alright?” he was stoned, not fully coherent, but could still tell something was up. when you kissed him instead of providing an answer, he understood. you did always have a thing for him when he smokes. kissing you felt better than any joint had ever made him feel, the rush immediate and the high unmatched. 

“whoa,” he pulled back when you deepened the kiss, as far back as he could go pressed into a couch with you on his lap. the sting of rejection hurt but he soothed it immediately pressing smaller kisses sound your face, pulling a giggle from you, suddenly feeling a little high yourself, probably on him. “let’s get out of here and,” he held up the other half of his joint, “finish this somewhere more private?”

mumbles: when he wants something

“pretty?” you looked up at him from the floor of the practice room, setting your laptop aside to give him your attention. you’d recently gotten into the habit of bringing your work with you to hybe when you came to watch him practice. as much fun as it was, it got kind of old to watch him perfect the same five moves for hours on end. 

“would you dance with me?” he’s holding a hand out to you, a hopeful smile on his lips but words timid, rushed. you suddenly notice the dimmed lighting in the room and soft music playing from the speakers. you’d been so lost in your screen you hadn’t noticed anything. you blush and take his hand. he pulls you to your feet and into his chest. 

“you’re a good dancer,” he says after a few minutes of slowly swaying back and forth to a playlist full of romantic music he made with only you in mind, this moment was something he had hoped for when you’d started coming to the practice room at night. “i love you, pretty.”  

[mwagneto]

yeah so never let me do that again

men will take 3 night shifts in a row

[safination]

Lazy Mornings

|Masterlist|

Pairings: Alastor x Wife!Reader TLDR: Mornings with you are slow, and as you cling to Alastor, there's not way he'll be able to let go.

OKAY. So this is a repost of one scene from The Actual Competitor. I just love lazy mornings. (Even if seeing it reminds me of how single I am.) If you've read the Actual Competitor. It's just the same stuff lmao. This scene is just special to me because it's so soft.

Alastor wakes up in a warm bed instead of a cold one.

Pillows scatter around the room, either being used next to him or discarded on the floor. Breathy snoring takes up the air. It’s different from the usual sounds of his radio. It’s funny how soft snores can fill the emptiness inside better than the booming music of his usual morning radio shows.

Actually, it’s the fact that Alastor is even waking up at all – to wake up means to have fallen asleep.

With heavy, drooping eyelids, Alastor tries to blink awake. His arms stretch out to their fullest capacity. Still, Alastor feels the gentle pull of his lumpy pillows.

It seems today will be a slow morning. Days like these are.

Sands of time slip between his fingers whenever Alastor’s around you. Everything flows too fast when it’s just him with you. Will time slow once more when he eventually has to leave you for the hotel once again?

Your head pops up, surrounded by a whirlwind of puffy feathers.

“Al . . .?” you mumble. “Al . . . hehe. My Al.”

One of your hands reaches out to pat the empty space. A displeasured hum escapes as you chase the linger of his warmth. Eventually, your finger catches his pillow, and you pull it closer to your chest. Once more, your head retreats back into your bundle with blinking eyelids.

Alastor pulls the blanket back up your shoulders when snoring begins to shake the walls.

It’s him who’s in control. It’s Alastor who controls his body and his actions, and it’s not the other way around.

 Hmmm…maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to lose control for one, especially when you’re still searching the space he no longer occupies. Alastor should fall back into bed, trying but failing to blink away the heavy weight of sleep.

Instead, he runs his hands across the sheets, searching until he reaches your hand. The rings around your fingers clink when he intertwines his fingers with yours.

You settle back into sleep—feathers on your head, four fingers attached to your hand, and currently holding the heart and hand of one of the most vicious Overlord in this realm.

There’s much to do today, but Alastor will hold your hand like this if it means this moment can last.

Eventually, Alastor releases your hand to go to your side of the bed. He smoothens some of the whirlwind of feathers that currently nest you. A hand snakes under your head as Alastor gently peels the blanket away from your shoulders. The hand supports your head as he sits you and hooks an arm underneath your knees.

You’re blinking awake as he carries you in his arms. Instead of complaining, it seems you’re just determined to sleep. So, your eyes close shut as he settles you in his arms.

It would be funny to drop you right now. Actually, it would be downright hilarious. Dropping you would certainly pull him out of this morning slump. Alastor wants to do it…but you’re settled into his arms . . . 

Instead, he lands you gently on the vanity chair. You’re sitting up, trying to blink awake but still not fully out of the forest.

Groggily, Alastor grabs the brush from the table and runs the bristles between your feathers to preen it. Each pass of the brush serves to bring you deeper into a lull.

Your head nods off, even as Alastor preens your feathers. He has to gently pull on the ends to keep you from fully going back to sleep and falling over. A big and hearty yawn escapes you, and the absolute audacity of you to yawn when you should know that when you yawn, Alastor eventually yawns as well.

Alastor stifles a yawn, eyes half drooping as he brushes your feathers. “Now, now,” he says and despite his very best efforts, Alastor yawns. “What ever shall I do with you in this state?”

Your eyes flutter into a close, and Alastor has to tug you awake as you mumble out a small and sleepy. “Marry me?”

“I already did that.” Alastor’s eyes droop even lower, and he has to shake his head to bring himself out of the lull of the early morning.

A hum escapes you and you settle deeper into the chair. “Do it—yawn—again.”

“I also…,” Alastor begins, trying and failing to stifle another yawn, “…already did that as well.”

There’s a hum once more as you lean into the way Alastor brushes your feathers. Some of them puff up and expand as you sink into them like a comfortable bird. It looks quite soft to be buried underneath all those feathers.

It’s Alastor who is in control, not his body . . . but Alastor can also do whatever the hell he wants, and what he wants is to go back to sleep. And if he’s going back to sleep, well, . . . he might as well take you back.

The brush gets discarded somewhere irrelevant to his mind, and Alastor carries you and him back on the bed. This time, he actually drops you, snickering as you bounce on the cushions. Apparently, you’re too sleepy and dazed to do anything about it.

Alastor crawls back under the blankets, and has enough sense to land his head on your chest. Every breath you take cranks his head up and down.

Finally, he allows his eyes to droop to a close.

You pat his head, half-heartedly trying to push him away. “ . . . heavy . . .  you’re heavy.”

“ . . . rude . . .,” he mumbles and as punishment, Alastor presses deeper into you.

Quite the dangerous game he’s playing, indeed. Alastor’s gotten comfortable—too comfortable. 

As you draw circles on his back, Alastor can already predict how the rest of this morning will go. It was that easy to settle back into a routine with you.

He’ll have to re-brush all the feathers, and pick up the ones that scatter on the floor. After that, you’ll force him to brush his teeth and you’ll grab him by the ears if you have to. Once that certain battle is over, it’ll be time for breakfast. Alastor’s finally gotten you used to eating breakfast once more. So, skipping glossing over that habit won’t do.

Part of him wonders who will make sure you eat proper food once he returns to the hotel. And that thought plunges him into an even more dangerous game.

Because his mind wonders if he should get a car, and drive to the hotel everyday. Alastor can even drive you to work and drive you back. If he lives here, it will be like this every morning and every night and every afternoon and everything in-between.

The bed will hold two instead of one. All pillows will be used and scattered around the bed. The blanket will be spread wide instead of curled around a singular body that’s chasing a warmth that isn’t there.

What a cruel, cruel, dream for his mind to conjure up. Alastor really must be still asleep to be able to entertain such dreams.

You’re swatting his face, pulling him from the deep forest of sleep. “Al, get up,” you mumble, pulling his head closer to your body. The points of his antlers press into you. “We can’t stay here forever.”

Alastor wants to ask why not, instead he curls his hands around your shirt. “…okay…let’s wake up.”

“Come on, get off me.” Your arms lock themselves around his neck, smothering him as you curl closer “Alastor…we have to leave soon.”

The irony doesn’t escape him.

Eventually, the time comes where the day must begin. Sleep loses its hold on your bodies, and the lazy morning just turns into a morning. Despite that, Alastor still carries you to the vanity and brushes your feathers again.

Strands of feathers pass through his fingers. “They’re starting to look quite healthy again.”

“That’s because they’re being regularly preened,” you say, smiling at him from the reflection of the mirror. “It’s hard to reach the back on my own.”

Alastor hums, maybe he really should buy that car. “It’s getting longer.”

“It’s always been this long,” you tell him as feathers flutter when Alastor brushes over a particular sensitive spot. It has you sinking back into the puff. “I just tie them together to keep them from fluttering around everywhere.”

Alastor picks out a feather that sticks out of your scalp and plays with it a little. They tickle. “Does it need to be tied up today?”

There’s a small and shy smile on your face. “I’m not going to work today . . . .So, no.”

[hpgal]

DC X DP Ghost Dog

CW: Blood, Violence

TLDR: Jason is fighting a losing battle against a new opponent he is having trouble hitting. This leads to him being chased and running into Danny whose chilling in an alley.

Word Count: 1326

a/n: Might write more where more Batfam encounter Danny and Danny's perspective, may even rewriting the ending of this. I got the idea from a prompt someone posted here on Tumblr and I forgot to save it but I'd love to tag them if anyone can help me find them! The prompt was something along the lines of Danny will randomly appear in alleys with items that the person needs exactly to solve a problem they were having.

Jason emptied his clip a long while ago and was now being chased through Crime Alley by some sort of dog. It was big. If was angry and it was... green?

The bullets did nothing to it but aggravated the thing and so it chased him. His comms weren't working to call for backup and he was getting tired. It's been 15 minutes of running and that was before you add on he was trying to fight the thing prior and he was now injured after taking a hit meant for a civilian.

He jumped off the rooftop, stumbling. Instead of catching the opposite ledge he plummeted to the ground. A dumpster broke his fall. But damn did it hurt, especially with a prexisting slash of claws on his side. He was still human after all. He had some time but he did not want to waste a single second before it could catch back up to him. So, begrudgingly and in pain, Jason pushed himself back up and out the dumpster.

"Great I'm going to smell like rotten fish for a week" he muttered to no one in particular as he brushed garbage off him.

Before he could formulate a game plan, his thought process froze. He looked up in confusion and blinked. Then blinked again as he stared at what he saw.

A kid with black hair and looked incredibly scrawny sat on a stoll behind a table with a sign "Clockworks Goods and Services!" The kid seemed unbothered with headphones on and eyes closed as he leaned back against the wall of the alley.

Hell the kid almost looked like Damian. If he has blue eyes he'd be a perfect candidate for a Bruce adoption. But why was a kid here.. selling his services?

Jason takes a moment to listen out and notice it is oddly quiet which meant the green dog must not be close yet so he takes advantage of the situation to figure out what the hell is going on here. He takes a step forward and looks at the contents on the table. It was empty except for a single bell with faded writing saying "ring me!" And so he did.

The kid opens his eyes with a start. They were piercing blue. Oh Bruce would fall for this kid instantly, he thinks to himself.

"Oh evening!" The kid starts as he stands up stretching as he removes his headphones from his head. "It looks like you're in need of my services. What is your problem today?"

The kid was so nonchalant as he spoke and moved around. The kid glanced at the table and furrowed his brow. "My names Danny by the way" he quickly adds on.

Jason stares at Danny through his mask perplexed. Something about this didn't sit right with him. It was late at night and Danny was hanging out in an alleyway selling services yet he looked not a day over 15.

But something drives him to answer Danny's question and answer it truthfully, "I'm fighting something and none of my attacks are working on it but it's causing destruction and hurting the people of Crime Alley. It even managed to injure me"

As soon as he says it, he wants to smack himself. Why would he need to tell the kid that? He shoyld be telling him to grt out of here, that it isn't safe.

Danny however shrugs like this was normal for him and looks down at the table again. The plastic folding tables surface remained empty except for the bell but Danny seems confused at this.

"Huh usually it appears when you say it." Danny mutters and proceeds to look under the table then behind him.

Jason however is further confused and raises a hand to his helmet to try his comms again. Unsurprisingly he hears only static. What he does hear instead of his families voices, is the barking of a dog in the distance and something crashing.

Aw shit.

Jason looks up then towards the entrance of the alley with a sigh, "Look, kid, I'm going to circle back to you and your... weirdness later, for now, you need to find somewhere safe while I deal with an abnormally large and green dog."

This seems to catch Danny's attention as he jerks back upright and looks at me. He stares, and I see the wheels in his head turn. He sighs, and his shoulders slump inwards.

"I get it now. I'm the service you need" Danny rolls his shoulders back and steps out from behind the table, heading to the entrance of the alley.

"Woah kid stay back! It's dangerous!" Jason calls out behind him as he jogs to catch up, only slightly twitching in pain as he moves. The kid was incredibly fast for someone who looked malnourished.

As soon as Jason reaches the street, he turns to see where the kid had gone. His eyes widened at the sight of Danny walking like it was just another day towards the rampaging dog.

Danny stops just out of reach of the green dog and whistles two quick notes. The dog pauses and looks towards Danny, its fast twisting from one of anger to excitement as evident with its tail wagging.

“Cujo!” Danny yells, “Bad dog! Drop the car!” the dog whines and drops the car it had in its mouth with a loud thud.

The dog, Jason now knows as Cujo, gets low to the ground and its ears press against its head like any dogs would when they are embarrassed or know they’ve been caught doing something they weren’t supposed too.

“Come here boy! It’s time to take you home!” Danny calls out to it, producing a glowing green dog treat from his pockets.

Jason just watches the entire encounter unfold, gobsmacked. He doesn’t know what to think of it. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was that simple. Who is this kid? As Jason continues to watch his jaw drops to the floor at what happens next.

The dog starts shrinking until it is ithe size of a puppy and comes bounding up to Danny with little playful barks. Danny scoops Cujo up with a sigh and scratches Cujos head right behind his ears.

Danny turns to look towards me, the street where Cujo came from a mess. He gives a sheepish smile and wave, “Sorry about that! I didn’t think Cujo followed me today! I’ll speak to my dog sitter about watching him more carefully next time!”

Danny turns back towards the chaos Cujo created on the street and glances at his watch. “Well, it’s time for me to clock out. I’ll send someone to clean up the mess! Sorry again!” Danny pauses for a moment as he glances once more at Jason, squinting.

A green glowing portal opens up behind Danny and he looks between Jason and the portal. He sets Cujo down and directs him to go through the portal. Danny jogs over to Jason, digging through his pockets.

“Oh sorry you’re hurt and sick. Probably my fault honestly. Here.” Danny shoves something into Jason's hands before he can protest, dumbfounded by what just happened, “That should get rid of the tainted Lazarus Waters in your soul and let your injury heal up like normal. Sorry again!”

Jason just stares before finally getting his bearings again, “Who the hell are you?!”

Danny just laughs, “I’m just your friendly neighborhood ghost.” and with that Danny leaves through the portal, it closing behind him leaving destruction and a baffled Jason in the street.

Like Danny promised, not even a few minutes later, another portal opened up in the streets of Crime Alley, spilling out dozens of glowing green people, who Jason started to believe were really ghosts. The ghosts got to work and by morning, it was like nothing happened.

At the next family dinner, no one believed Jason of what happened that night.

-----

a/n: I feel like we don't see Cujo enough in fics. I mean come on, a ghost dog? How cool is that?!?! I love Cujo <3 And we all know how much Cujo loves Danny!

[giveafike]

ben shelton taking you on a date after flirting for months on atp/wta tour 😋

TLDR: Tennisplayer!fem reader x Ben Shelton flirting on tour until Ben acc gets a grip and asks reader out.

EDIT: part 2 here!

Word count + info: 5.1k! A LONG one but I just do not know how to stfu!! Dialogue (including comments, texts, phone calls - lots of flirting and teasing). Mentions of Carlos Alcaraz too (couldn't resist) alongisde Frances Tiafoe and Taylor Fritz.

Character Inspo: She's cheeky n playful (was listening to Promiscuous Girl - Nelly Furtado & 5 Star Hotel - Raye as I was writing this amongst many other similar songs so.... yea...behaviour like Sabrina Carpenter - yk just... fun! I didn't write any specifications but in my head I was envisioning Tyla so! But put whoever you want to cast ;)

Warnings + Content Ahead: SFW, this is sooo cute. There is a little naughty tsk tsk suggestive scene (CAR SCENE - feel free to skip) bit but nothing NSFW, teasing, playful relationship, little jabs here n there, hope its making ur feet kick! I hope it's funny too, like it makes u smile bc I had sm fun writing this !

Azzie Notes ✚: I literally gasped and giggled when I saw this prompt - I can't!!! SO, so, soooo cute I loved this prompt anon pls keep sending me more, you have this writer wrapped around your finger now. I love the idea of Ben with a WTA player, such a cute and fun dynamic!! Anyways, hope you all enjoy ;)

————————————————————————

Game, Set, Match - B.T.S

You stood on the court, the crowd's roar fading into a distant hum as you focused on the match ahead. A small smile played on your lips, and your eyes narrowed in determination. The bright sun overhead felt like a spotlight, buzzing on your skin, illuminating your every move and sharpening each muscle in your body. You were a force to be reckoned with — both polarising and captivating, your quick wit and cheeky banter stirred strong opinions. With a playful shrug and a blown kiss to the crowd, you dismissed the critics, your confidence as effortless as your serves.

Years of competing in Junior Opens had forged your resilience, and now you have been stepping into the world of professional tennis, where the stakes were higher and opponents fiercer. You had navigated this transition well over the past few years, finding your rhythm amidst the pressure, your footing steady on the path to greatness. The attention came quick too, especially with names like Nike wanting you to be an ambassador, and all sorts of products wanting you to be the face of the company, from protein powders to headphones - it was endless. The taste of victory was sweet and addictive, each match bringing you closer to the big prizes and recognition you had longed for. But just when you thought you had everything figured out, a whisper of uncertainty began to tug at the edges of your focus... not a what, but more a who?

In the past year and a half, life on tour has shifted for you in a whole different gear. Don't get it twisted, tennis remained top priority, but there was an undeniable spark that made the grind far more enjoyable and unpredictable, and that spark was no other than Ben Shelton. You first noticed him from afar, where casual nods turned into lingering glances that made the hair on your skin stand. With his raw power, boyish grin, and confidence that radiated from him, "Big Ben" was impossible to ignore. But it was during the Australian Open earlier this year that things between you really began to heat up.

Ben was anything but subtle. Once he set his sights on you, his flirting was relentless. You couldn’t help but feel flattered; it was hard not to get hooked to that buzz. After all, it wasn’t every day that a guy like him, full of charm and a teasing smile paid you so much attention. Others had thrown glances your way and offered compliments, but Ben? He stepped up his game like no one else.

Your first interaction was at a practice session where Ben sat by in the empty stands, right up by the court, arms folded and a smirk on his face. You could feel his gaze following you, his presence hard to shake off, not that you wanted to. As you finish another practice set, you heave, closing your fist to celebrate, and walk over to your bag, glancing up as his eyes light up as you catch his.

“You’re looking decent out there,” he teased, leaning over the railing, his voice laced with a challenge.

You stopped, placing a hand on your hip as you shot him a smirk, squinting up at him as you caught your breath. “Decent? It’s okay, I get it, it must be tough admitting I’m shaping up better than you.”

He laughed, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Better? That’s a stretch, Y/N. But I’ll let you keep thinking that.”

You shrugged, a teasing grin playing on your lips. “Believe it or not, it’s happening, Ben,” you winked before slinging your bag over your shoulder and heading toward the tunnel. His chuckle followed you as you disappeared from sight.

The banter didn’t end there, though. Throughout the tournament, you could feel his eyes on you, watching during your matches. On TikTok, he left comments that had both your fans and his buzzing. One day after you posted a training video, he had commented: “You sure you’re training for tennis and not modeling?”

You grinned, tapping out a reply. “I’m great at multitasking. What’s your excuse?”

His response was instant. “Just waiting for you to finally give me a real challenge.”

Comments turned into small conversations as you passed by each other, where you’d joke and flirt like it was the most natural thing in the world. His relentless teasing was addictive.  

It cooled off slightly to just a couple of liked stories and posts until Wimbledon had rolled around. By this point, the stakes felt higher. You were in top form, but off the court, the media seemed just as interested in your interactions than your matches. And it didn't end there either, it wasn't long before other peers started piqueing interest. For example, Carlos? He wasn’t subtle either.

After a long match, you were relaxing in the players’ lounge when Carlos wandered over, his smile too bright to ignore. He leaned against the table beside you, casually close.

“You were on fire out there today. Maybe we should hit the practice courts sometime,” he suggested with a casual grin.

You tilted your head, a playful glint in your eyes. “Careful, Carlos. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your fans.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll risk it. Besides, we’re both Nike athletes, we’ve got to stick together.”

Before you could reply, Ben Shelton walked into the room, his gaze locking onto you and Carlos immediately. His smile didn’t falter, but the way he sized up the interaction was hard to miss. He strolled over, hands in his pockets, exuding calm confidence.

“Carlitos,” Ben greeted, his tone casual, though the unspoken tension hung between the lines. “What’s this? Making future practice plans?”

Carlos shot Ben a quick glance, still smiling but aware of the shift. “Just talking about tennis, you know,” he said lightly. “Gotta keep sharp.”

Ben’s eyes flicked between you and Carlos before landing squarely on you. “I’m sure you can manage without help. She’s been getting a lot of attention lately, let her breathe.”

Carlos gave you a light tap on the arm before backing off, offering a polite nod. “Catch you later, Y/N.”

You waved him off with a smile. “See you around, Carlos.”

Once Carlos was out of earshot, Ben shifted a little closer, though still maintaining that casual air. “You’ve got him interested,” he commented, his voice dropping lower.

You looked up at him through your lashes, the corner of your mouth lifting into a sly grin. “What, jealous, Shelton?”

Ben’s grin spread wider, but his tone remained easygoing. “Nah, just keeping tabs. Making sure I’m not falling behind.”

You stood up slowly, meeting his gaze as you adjusted your posture, your eyes glinting with mischief. “I don’t mix business and pleasure, Ben. We’re both Nike—gotta keep it professional.”

He chuckled, tilting his head. “So, you’re saying you’re all business?”

You turned to face him fully, taking a step closer, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Oh, not always. But you’ll have to keep up to find out.”

With that, you brushed past him, leaving a lingering tension in the air. His eyes followed you as you walked away, and you could practically feel his grin growing. The banter was always playful, but now, with each exchange, the stakes seemed to rise; the unspoken understanding was clear: the game was very much on.

As the summer heat intensified, so did the buzz around Nike’s newest campaign. Your latest photoshoot was all about capturing both your athleticism and your bold personality. In a blue baby tee top with a heart-shaped keyhole and a matching skort, you struck poses that screamed confidence, captioned simply: "Ready?"

The comments rolled in quickly, and it didn’t take long before Ben made his appearance.

It didn’t take long for the comments to roll in. And as expected, Ben was quick to chime in.

benshelton:

"You call that ready? Looks more like you’re just warming up."

You chuckled, tapping your response.

Y/N.Y/LN:

"Warming up is all I need to beat you, Shelton."

benshelton:

"Beat me? Let's not get ahead of ourselves... You'd need more than a warm-up for that."

The banter was familiar, yet it always left you with a smirk. You leaned into the challenge.

Y/N.Y/LN:

"Careful, or I might just take that as a challenge."

benshelton:

"I play to win."

The playful back-and-forth didn’t go unnoticed by your fans, but it was clear this game of teasing wasn’t just for show. It must've been a week before it escalated further. You hsd landed a major Victoria��s Secret campaign, and it was unlike anything you had done before. They flew you out to Paris and guided you through the whole thing. The theme was dark and seductive—a fallen angel vibe. Lingerie, lace, and the kind of allure that left little to the imagination. You felt powerful, but also aware of how this would get attention—not just from the public, but from Ben.

You posted one of the shots late that night. The lighting was dramatic, casting soft shadows across your body as you reclined in lace.

The caption was simple yet suggestive: "Best kept secret. VS Summer 2024 Fallen Angel Collection, from me to you."

Naturally, Ben couldn’t resist commenting.

benshelton: Fallen angel, huh? Guess that means you’re trouble.

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a smile as you typed out your reply.

Y/N.Y/LN:: I thought you liked trouble.

It was no surprise when he slid into your DMs right after that.

benshelton: "I do. But you're playing a dangerous game."

You bit your lip, leaning back against your hotel bed. It was late, and the quiet Paris night settled around you, but your heart raced.

Y/N.Y/LN: " A game? Who said I’m playing? "

benshelton: "You might not be playing, but you're already winning."

You hesitated for a moment, then smirked as you typed out your next message.

Y/N.Y/LN: "And here I thought you said you could keep up."

Almost immediately, your phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t another text. It was a FaceTime call. You let it ring for a beat or two, your pulse quickening, before answering.

Ben’s face appeared on your screen, his hair slightly damp and his grin all too familiar. "You really know how to mess with a guy’s head, you know that?"

You smiled, pulling your covers up over you and leaning into the pillow. "What’s got you all worked up? It’s just a campaign."

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Just a campaign? C’mon, you know exactly what you’re doing."

You blinked up at him, teasing. "And what is it that I am doing, Ben?"

His grin widened, but there was a glint in his eyes. "You’re pushing my limits. You're tempting me"

You chuckled, biting your lip as you let his words settle over you. "Tempting? Now that’s an accusation if I ever heard one. Maybe you're just easy to push."

Ben raised an eyebrow, viting a smile back as well. "Maybe I am. But you better be careful, or you might get burned."

The heat in his gaze made your heart skip, but you kept your tone light. "I think I can handle the heat."

Ben’s smile deepened. "That’s what I’m counting on."

You stared at each other through the screen, the tension palpable even across the distance.

Finally, you smirked, pulling the covers higher. "Goodnight, Shelton."

He sighed, but his grin didn’t falter. "Goodnight, angel. Sweet dreams."

From there, the texts seemed to pour out. Every random moment, one of you would reply to a post or find some excuse to message or call, any reason to interact. You had a secret surprise up your sleeve which you knew would practically bring Ben to his knees for you if he wasn't there already, and it had something to do with a custom dress for a red carpet.

It was a hot July night in Spain, the night draped itself around you like a warm embrace, the energy of the red carpet charity event still pulsing in the air. Your dress—a stunning, sheer, sand-colored creation—clung to your body in all the right places, slit at the thigh, your hair pinned back, accentuating your glossy, sheen skin on your neck down your shoulders. The dress shimmered under the streetlights, leaving just enough to the imagination, but not too much.

Photos were posted by your team, "behind the scene" shots and red carpet poses.  The cameras had devoured every moment, the attention was full on and the night buzzed well. You reveled in the limelight and felt like a true celebrity for the night but, as the evening wore on, you began to feel drained from all the social interactions and wished you could just be alone with your phone, texting the one man who truly kept you on your toes.

Finally, as you collapsed into the backseat of your car, exhausted but exhilarated from the night's events, your phone buzzed with a missed call from Ben. The driver glanced back at you through the rearview mirror as you eagerly turned on your phone and smiled to yourself. In that moment, all you wanted was to be alone with Ben and continue this thrilling game of flirtation and surprises. You call him back after a minute passes, butterflies in your stomach fluttering away.

"Couldn't wait, could you?" you teased, giggling as you leaning back against the plush seat. His grin appeared instantly, filling your screen.

"Wait? After that post?" Ben's voice was a mixture of playful frustration and barely concealed admiration. His eyes roamed over your dimly lit image through the screen as though he could see you sitting there in that dress. "You’ve been trying to kill me with these looks for months, but this? This is the final straw."

You laughed softly, pretending to adjust the neckline of your dress as he clearly struggled to keep his composure. "I'm just doing my job. Don’t get too distracted."

Ben shook his head, a grin still lingering on his lips. "Distracted? I’ve been refreshing Instagram like a madman just to catch another angle of you. And from what I saw, I’m not the only one. You’ve got every guy on tour dropping their jaw."

You smirked, rolling your eyes playfully. "You jealous?"

"Jealous? Let’s see. Alcaraz, Ruud… even Tsitsipas liked your post. You know that guy doesn’t just like anything. But trust me, no one’s more jealous than me," Ben teased, his voice dipping lower.

You laughed softly, brushing a hand over your dress as you adjusted the fabric, playing coy. "Ben, there’s only one person I’m trying to get a rise out of—and it’s definitely not them."

His grin widened, eyes gleaming through the screen,scheming away, "Glad to hear that. So...how about you give me something a little more exclusive?Just a sneak peek. Something that’s all mine."

You crossed your legs slowly, feeling the slit in the dress reveal just a bit more skin, and you caught the driver’s eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. He quickly cleared his throat and looked away.

You smirked, feeling a rush of boldness. "I'm in public, Shelton. What are you suggesting?"

Ben’s eyes glinted with mischief, his grin widening. "Nothing crazy. Just a little something to hold me over."

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back, the sound of the city humming outside as you sighed. You stretched your legs out across the backseat, angling your body to the side, draping yourself across the backseat for a full body shot. The dress shifted, catching the city light while still being dimly lit, showing off your figure perfectly as you lounged effortlessly. "Is this what you had in mind, Ben? A full shot?" you purred, looking up at your phone, your eyes sweet and innocent.

Ben’s jaw tightened, his chest rising as he exhaled sharply. "Damn, Y/N, I knew you'd look good, but this…" He let out a low whistle, leaning closer to the screen, his eyes glinting and a blush creeping up all over. "You’re not playing fair."

You smirked, enjoying the power shift. "Fair? You asked for it, Shelton."

He laughed, but it was strained, the heat in his voice unmistakable. "Yeah, but you know how to take it to another level. Now I'm the one who's going to be distracted all night." His tone softened, a teasing edge returning. "Just one more reason for me to fly out, don't you think?"

"One more reason?" you echoed, playing with the neckline of your dress, a smile teasing your lips. "I think I’ve given you more than enough."

Ben groaned softly, running a hand through his hair, clearly captivated.

" Y/N, you don’t know what I’d do if I was there right now."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Yeah? What would you do?"

"I’d start with that dress," Ben murmured, his eyes never leaving yours through the screen. "Slowly. You know, just enough to tease. Then—"

The driver cleared his throat, and you bit back a laugh. Ben noticed, his eyes narrowing playfully. "Caught?"

"Almost," you whispered, your pulse quickening as you adjusted in your seat, the thrill of being on the edge of danger sending a shiver down your spine. "You’re getting me into trouble."

"Ben’s gaze softened, though his grin stayed. "Me? You’re the one that looks like that." He paused, his voice low and rough. "God, if I could just be there…"

"Careful," you warned, grinning as you looked at him through half-lidded eyes. "You might lose yourself completely."

Ben’s gaze darkened, and his voice dropped even lower. "Maybe I’m okay with losing it when it comes to you."

You bit your lip, heart racing as you shifted in your seat. The driver’s eyes flicked up to the mirror again, and you quickly glanced away, fighting the blush creeping up your neck. “You’re dangerous, Shelton. Keep talking like that, and I might have to mute you.”

“Go ahead. Mute me,” he dared, his voice thick with challenge. “But I bet you won’t.”

You smiled, a small, teasing hum escaping your lips. “Oh, you think I’m scared?”

“I think you like teasing me as much as I like it.” His voice was gravelly now, every word laced with want.

Your breath caught, eyes wide a bit before you were about to respond when the car pulled up to the hotel. The driver got out quickly, opening the door for you. You stepped out, feeling the cool night air wash over your skin as you walked through the lobby, Ben still watching intently through the screen. You could feel his gaze on you as you made your way to the elevator, the tension between you buzzing like electricity.

Once in your room, you tossed your bag onto the bed and sank down onto the mattress. "Alright," you breathed, "I’m back in my room."

Ben’s voice came through the phone, teasing yet low with interest. "So… how’s that dress treating you?"

You grinned at his not-so-subtle curiosity. "It’s treating me well so far," you teased, running a hand over the fabric. You stood up, positioning yourself in front of the mirror.

Slowly, deliberately, you reached behind you to the zipper. "I’ll give you a little preview."

You lowered it just enough for the strapless dress to reveal a sliver of your smooth back, keeping the front of the dress held firmly in place with your other hand. The exposed skin was just enough to tease.

You turned back slightly, catching his reaction through the screen, his eyes locked on you. "You wanted to see, right?" you whispered, mischief clear in your voice.

Ben let out a breathy laugh, clearly amused. "You really know how to keep a guy on edge."

You shot him a playful look over your shoulder, still holding the dress in place. "It’s all about the suspense. You should know that by now."

Ben's gaze flickered, his tone a bit softer. "You’re making it hard to focus."

With a smirk, you turned to face him, still holding the dress tight. "Goodnight, Shelton."

Before he could say another word, you ended the call, tossing your phone onto the bed, feeling satisfied. You knew he wouldn’t forget that little moment anytime soon.

By the time August had rolled around, the tension between you and Ben was impossible to ignore. Months of teasing, playful banter, and phone calls had built into something electric, something undeniable. Now, you were both in New York for the U.S. Open. The final Slam of the year where you'd cross paths for the year, and maybe the final chance for one of you to make a move.

After winning your third-round match, you made your way through the tunnel, your heart still racing from the adrenaline of your win. The buzz of the crowd still rang in your ears, but as you walked toward the tunnel, you heard familiar voices ahead.

Ben, along with Taylor Fritz and Frances Tiafoe, stood laughing and talking just a few feet ahead. Their voices echoed in the corridor, their banter unmistakable.

“Bro, it’s embarrassing now,�� Frances teased. “You’ve gotta ask her out. She’s into you, we all know it.”

Ben groaned, looking exasperated, dragging his hand over his face. “It’s not that easy. I don’t want to screw it up.”

Taylor chuckled. “Screw it up? Dude, she’s been giving you eyes all week. Just make the move.”

Frances nudged him. “It’s not like she’s hiding it either. The way she teases you, she's a green light.”

You smirked, slowing your pace as you approached. They didn’t notice you yet, too absorbed in their teasing.

Ben sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I don’t know.”

“They’re right,” you chimed in, finally stepping into view, as you walked by, wiping sweat off your brow, smirking. Their heads snapped toward you, startled. “Take their advice, Benny. It’s 'bout time you did something.”

Ben’s eyes widened as you walked past, your tone light but with an edge of challenge. His friends burst into laughter, both of them slapping Ben on the back, shoving him back and forth.

Frances grinned. “See? Even she's asking you to make a move, man.”

Ben shot him a look, but his gaze lingered on you as you disappeared into the locker room.

Later, after a shower and a change of clothes, you made your way back into the lounge, feeling refreshed but still riding the high of the match. You didn’t expect to run into Ben waiting for you, leaning casually against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

You raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at your lips. “Stalking me now?”

He pushed off the wall, taking a step toward you, his expression shifting from playful to serious. “No, what-uh, but I... I wanted to catch you before you left.”

“Oh?” You crossed your arms, looking up at him. “What’s up?”

Ben took a breath, looking almost nervous. “About what you said earlier... maybe they’re right. Maybe I have been holding back.”

You cocked your head, feeling your heart quicken at his sudden change in tone. “And?”

“And I think I’m done waiting,” he said, his eyes locking with yours. “Would you want to go out with me? Just us. Dinner, maybe?”

For a moment, the world seemed to be still. Ben, usually so confident and playful, stood before you with a vulnerability that tugged at your heart.

You let the moment hang, letting him sweat just a little before your lips curled into a teasing smile. “About time you asked, Ben.”

His tense shoulders dropped, a grin spreading across his face. “So, is that a yes?”

You let out a small giggle, your voice soft but playful. “Yeah, it’s a yes. Better come like a gentleman though.”

That night, you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the sweet, soft dress you’d picked out. It was a pale pink dress, fitted at the top with a flowing skirt that flattered your figure perfectly. The neckline was delicate, with thin straps that accentuated your shoulders, and the soft fabric wrapped your waist before cascading down to just above your knees. The dress was sweet and soft, but still undeniably you—playful with a touch of elegance.

You headed down to the hotel lobby, taking a seat as you crossed one leg over the other, checking your socials. At 7pm on the dot, Ben walks in, running a hand through his curls before he sets eyes on you.

Ben stood there in a crisp white button-down shirt, the sleeves slightly rolled up to reveal his strong forearms, accentuating his strong shoulders, paired with dark, well-tailored pants. His curls were just tousled enough to seem like he hadn’t spent hours fixing it, but of course, he had. He looked handsome—maybe even a little nervous.

“You look stunning,” he said, his voice low as his eyes took you in.

You smiled, a soft blush warming your cheeks, as you stood up. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He offered you his arm, and you linked yours through his, your fingers brushing over the firm muscles of his bicep as you stepped out into the lobby. There was a quiet buzz between you, the usual playfulness replaced with something softer, more tender.

As you walked to the car, Ben opened the passenger door for you, giving you a gentle smile as you slipped inside. Before he could close the door, you leaned over, reaching for the driver’s side door and popping it open for him.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he got in. “You always keep me on my toes, don’t you?”

You grinned, sitting back in your seat, and pulling your seatbelt over. “Always.”

The ride to the restaurant was comfortable, a soft hum playing through the speakers, "Love is Only a Feeling" by Joey BadA$$, making you smile a bit at his subtle but purposeful details. As the city lights flickered by outside, you felt a sense of calm settle over you. Every so often, your hand would brush against his on the center console until finally, you slipped your fingers into his, holding his hand gently as he drove.

Ben glanced at you, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand. “You seem... different tonight,” he said, his voice soft, almost as if he were trying to figure out the shift in your usual dynamic.

You smiled as you gazed at him. “Different how?”

He hesitated, his grip on your hand tightening just a little. “I don’t know. Less playful. More...”

“Serious?” you finished for him.

He nodded, giving you a small, sheepish grin. “Yeah. I like it, though.”

You let out a soft laugh, leaning your head against the seat. “It’s just nice to finally be doing this.”

When you arrived at the restaurant, a small, candlelit Italian place tucked away in the quieter part of the city, Ben quickly got out and hurried around to open your door again. This time, when you stepped out, you smiled up at him, letting him take your hand. Before you could fully stand, he bent down, bringing your hand to his lips and placing a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

Your heart fluttered at the gesture, the sweetness of it catching you off guard. “Such a gentleman,” you teased, though your voice was softer than usual.

Ben smirked, though there was a hint of nervousness in his eyes. “I’m trying.”

Inside, the restaurant was intimate, with small tables with flickering candles, and soft jazz music playing in the background. Ben led you to a corner table, pulling out your chair before taking his seat across from you. The low hum of other diners provided a cozy backdrop as the two of you settled in.

As you both browsed the menu, you found yourself resting your chin in your hand, watching Ben with a soft smile. He glanced up and caught you staring, a blush creeping up his neck. “What?” he asked, his voice a little breathless.

“Nothing,” you said, your lips curling into a grin. “Just... enjoying this.”

Ben reached across the table, his hand finding yours again. “Me too.”

Dinner was perfect. The pasta was rich, the wine smooth, but what made the evening unforgettable was how easy everything felt between you. Conversation flowed naturally, deeper than it ever had before. You talked about travel plans and places you both dreamed of visiting and shared stories about family traditions—like how your grandmother used to insist on making a very experimental desserts during the holidays, no matter how disastrous it turned out every year.

At one point, you glanced out the window, taking in the soft glow of the city lights before turning back to Ben. “What about you? If you could be anywhere right now… where would it be?”

Ben didn’t hesitate, his eyes locked on yours. “Honestly? Right here. With you.”

You felt warmth rise to your cheeks, your heart skipping at the simplicity of his words. He wasn’t trying to impress you, just telling the truth, and somehow, that made it even more meaningful. You reached across the table again, slipping your hand into his. His fingers intertwined with yours, the gesture now familiar, yet it sent a shiver through you all the same.

“I’m glad you asked me to dinner,” you said quietly, the weight of the night settling around you both.

Ben smiled, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand. “I’m glad you said yes.”

As the night wound down, Ben drove you back to the hotel. The city outside passed by in a blur of lights, but inside the car, everything felt still and comfortable. You held his hand the entire way, feeling the warmth and quiet reassurance of his touch.

When the car pulled up to your hotel, Ben quickly got out, making his way to your side to open the door. You stepped out, and this time, you didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, you turned to him, standing close in the cool night air.

“Thank you for tonight,” you whispered softly, looking up through your lashes.

Ben’s smile was gentle, his eyes warm as they met yours. “Anytime. Thank you for being here, with me.”

Your eyes crinkled as you smiled before you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek that lingered for a moment. His skin was warm, and you felt him inhale sharply at the unexpected touch. When you pulled back, your heart was racing, but you smiled up at him, feeling the lingering heat between you.

“Goodnight, Ben,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze lingered on you, and though he smiled, there was a quiet intensity in his eyes. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go, making your way into the hotel with a soft smile on your lips. You glanced back one last time to see him leaning against his car, a playful wave and your lipstick still visible on his cheek. For once, you weren’t in full control, but somehow, that felt right.

In a world dominated by meticulous moves, it was these quiet moments that grounded you. Now, with someone like Ben by your side, every win, every loss, and every day on the court held more meaning.

Sometimes, the most important victories happened off the court.

[revelboo]

hey, im the anon that originally asked for bluestreak content and i wanna thank you- reading what you've written for him has gotten me through so much these past few months. i picked up some scans of mtmte awhile back and was looking through some for drawing references of the scavengers and i! didnt!!! know that he dies!!! and when i say it hit me really hard it hit me ufckin hard and just. i asked about him not knowing much about him outside of him liking movies nstuff, initially, and you fleshed him out to the point that my chest physically ached for awhile after finding that out last night. hes come to mean a lot to me in a short amount of time and ALL THIS TO SAY: TLDR: your grasp on character writing and world building is impeccable, its made me want to create- like REALLY create, drawing and writing both- for the first time in awhile- like picking it back up i mean. thank you, and take care of yourself this holiday, alright?

He’s a character that I’ve always liked. The chatterbox sniper that can’t stop talking. I’ve always figured the nervous chatter was a stress thing for him.

I’m glad you like my writing and if it makes you happy to create, please do

Where I Belong Pt 9

Bluestreak x Reader

• Anxiety cranking through him as he leans on Smokescreen and tries to keep his other hand on your legs where you’d perched yourself on his shoulder, he makes his slow, careful way to medbay. Wishes you wouldn't sit up there, because it spins him tight with the fear that you'll fall, and he won't be able to catch you in time. Especially now. You never seem to realize how small or breakable you are and it amazes and terrifies him. “Your human’s scary,” Smokescreen whispers and you make a noise suspiciously like a laugh. He’d never seen you so angry as when you'd demanded Smokescreen come back and take him to medbay, but scary? No, just worried for him and it means so much to him. A warmth that spreads through him and twines about his spark. Because that anger had been fear for him. Trying to protect him the only way you could.

• One hand braced on the side of his helm for balance, you're half tempted to lean out and shoot a dirty look at his buddy. The feel of Bluestreak's servos pressing against your legs and thighs convinces you not to, though. Most likely he'll think you're going to fall and grab for you, so you behave as he limps to medbay with his friend's help. But it drives home how small you are compared to them, how little you can actually do to help if Bluestreak really needs it. Maybe he could have made it here without the other Autobot's help. Maybe not. And if he is hurt worse than he's letting on, if Smokescreen had left him, you wouldn't have been able to get help. Too small to even get down from his berth or to work the massive door if you could find a way down. Helpless and you hate it.

• "I'm not going in there. Doc's been cranky about anyone waking his human," Smokescreen says as he stops shy of the door. Thanking him, Bluestreak lets himself in and slowly limps inside. He can't blame Smokescreen for not wanting to deal with Ratchet in a mood. But he's not expecting to see Ratchet sitting on the side of a berth, big frame curled forward and servos brushing a small form curled on its side. That gentle touch almost feels like something private he shouldn't have intruded on. Head lifting, the medic's optics are tired when they meet his. Like he's not recharged in a while. Growling as he pushes away from that small shape to point at an empty berth. "Do I even want to know?" Ratchet asks.

• "We ran into Skywarp. Prowl said the Cons were patrolling out there, but we had it timed to miss them. Guess they changed their routine," Bluestreak says, hand reaching to grab you and move you to the top of the berth so he can sit on the side. "It's not really that bad." Somehow the more he insists he's fine, the more you're sure he isn't. That he'd always play it off no matter how badly he was hurt in favor of worrying about others. "I mean, it's barely a scratch," he adds, wincing when Ratchet examines his shoulder. You have no idea who Skywarp is, but you can guess that he's not friendly. One of the Decepticons. For being so talkative and distractible, Bluestreak seems to make an effort to not talk about whatever's going on except in frustratingly broad strokes. You know the Autobots are at war. That the Decepticons are their enemies and that both are here on your world. That they're likely all that's left of their species and yet they still can't stop fighting. The why they're fighting to begin with, though? You haven't figured that out. Climbing up onto his chassis when Ratchet makes him lay back, you ignore the look the medic shoots you and sit with your legs against the mesh of his neck. Watching him tuck his chin to be able to see you and smiling for you. Not scared like the last time you were both here, not as lost.

• Ratchet's digging around under his plating to repair the damaged lines and it hurts, but he keeps his attention on you. The warmth of you distracting him from Ratchet's servos. "You're not allowed to get hurt," you tell him, and he smiles despite himself at how serious you sound. "You're just going to have to be more careful." Ratchet snorts softly as Bluestreak reaches up his undamaged hand to slide a servo against your cheek. Realizing you really are serious. Worried for him. Spark warming as you catch his servo and hold it to you, wrapping your arms around it while you stare up at him. And he doesn't want you to have to worry over him, to feel like you need to protect him when he should be protecting you. Doesn't want to see the shadow of fear in the back of your eyes that he can see now ever again.

Previous

[fatesundress]

⭑ patience, please, and thank you. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom have always sought to best one another in school. it doesn’t help that upon graduating, you work for opposing shops.

tags. rivals to … rivals with benefits? lovers? there’s no real animosity just #flirting so i don’t know, SMUTT minors begone, fluff that may be ooc to some but Not Me, reader literally learns archaic latin for this man, poor boy x rich girl trope if you squint, pureblood reader (and mentions of pureblood marriage politics), explicitly f!reader this time sorry!, fem anatomy, fingering, piv, tldr tom riddle would be turned on by the culminated tension of an eight-year-long academic rivalry.

note. i was 5k words into something else (that is probably better) before this came to me and would not go away so. here it is. don't know where all the smut is coming from. head empty

word count. 6.4k

The bell to Borgin and Burkes knells low and hollow in your ear as you enter, and there he is. Prim waistcoat and perfect hair, tucking books away with a wave of his wand. Far too pretty a thing for a dusty place like this, you think, and you smile with your head held high, pretending to take in the inventory as if that's ever been your reason for coming here.

“You mightn't consider leaving at all," Tom says, regarding you briefly before returning to his books, “if you're going to return this often."

“Oh, Riddle, but then what would you do without my company? Talk to the bones?"

“A tempting offer when considering my alternative.”

He leans against the counter to watch you as you make your way down the aisle, fingers jolting as they brush the shelves of dark paraphernalia, preemptively casting a locking jinx on a particularly nasty skeletal hand that grabbed you once last year.

“Is there anything you're looking for?"

“Nothing in particular,” you hum as you peruse, “Curiosities of your friendly competitors.”

“Friendly,” he repeats, like he’s tasting a strange flavour.

You smile with just enough polished barb that you hope it bothers him. “Most cordial. And I am nothing if not the dutiful volunteer for the task." 

It is an objective truth that you are good at many things. Tom is good at all of them and perhaps one more: being pushed significantly and never showing symptoms of breaking. You'd like to be the one to change that.

“I presume you intend to leave with something?" There's a challenge in his voice, clear as day, as he stands straighter, but — not bothered. Not bothered, just intrigued. His hands fold behind his back and his chin comes up, daring you to say a single snarky thing that isn't true — that you're here to taunt him. Not to buy a thing, and not to enjoy his company.

It was such a boring day before this. If he only knew, he might have a tad more sympathy.

“Breathe, Riddle — if you can through all the dust in here — I've plenty of money to spare; there’s no need to fret about me leaving empty-handed." You select a book at random to prove your point, waltzing closer to hand Tom four sickles from your coin purse.

You're pleasantly surprised to see him actually smile, the corners of his mouth stretching with only the slightest degree of mirth. He reaches out and takes the coins, setting both upon the counter before turning up his nose at the book in your hands. “It must be an enthralling read to capture your attention."

You smooth the cover over with manicured hands and shrug at the indecipherable title. “Well, I’m remiss not to have a clue. I believe it's in Latin."

He runs his hand along the book, thumbing the pages with a raised brow. “It’s a history text. Ancient Roman institutes of magic.” His gaze returns to you. “Will that be all?”

You roll your eyes. He would know a dead language — it's such a remarkably Riddle thing to do — probably just for the sake of knowing it. 

“Yes, if that's satisfactory enough that I may be permitted to walk the premises without causing offence."

“Of course. Though I do expect a review of it soon," he adds, “to know whether my time hasn't been entirely wasted."

“A review?" You laugh. “And I suppose you ask that of all your customers? Mind the matter of it being in a language I don't know; it would take me a few months for a crude translation at best."

“Only my best customers," he says with a small shrug, as if that isn't a completely arbitrary standard he's just pulled out of nowhere. “In that case, you've the better part of a year to read it," he adds, and the smile on his face is less thin, less restrained, more cocky.

You raise a brow, scanning over the words on the first page as if hoping something will stick out. It's all gibberish. “I'm being timed now, am I? I don't recall accepting the task."

"Do you not?"

You scoff. "Of course I do."

“Or perhaps I could translate for you?" he suggests, “It's really no bother for me."

You should be offended — he's eternally eager to see you fail — but your stomach flips at the premise of a challenge you haven't felt since you were in school together, and most importantly, you never fail. “Give me a date, Riddle.”

“I think by Christmas would be fair. Does that give you enough time, or shall I set it a bit later?"

“Christmas," you agree, shaking his hand with all professionalism you can muster (this is, after all, a very professional exchange), turning away, and smiling to yourself as the shop bell tolls again.

It’s only weeks before Christmas when it occurs to you that this isn’t even for anything. There’s no prize should you win, no one else is aware of it, it’s a great waste of time when what began as a passable weekend hobby has now drowned you in English-Latin dictionaries and histories of Ancient Rome. The shop surpasses last year’s sales and you’re dozing off into your mother’s pastry dish during the family celebration. Even your father telling a rather pitiful tale of his Polyjuiced visit to Borgin and Burkes can’t keep your attention when he drones on about how easily he fooled Mr Borgin into remembering the details of some spat twenty years ago. Your brain is in a half-scattered language. It tugs you to what might be the most depressing December 25th of your life if you’re forced to give Tom the gift of your failure.

So you double-down. Your social life is nonexistent. You’re three quarters through the textbook and dreaming about duelling Tom under the Arch of Constantine, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins each time. It only propels you more. You’re downing Invigoration Draughts like a drunkard with a cradle of firewhisky. 

And you do it. 

You finish the damn book, you think you might have actually fucking learned Latin with how deep the words have rooted in your skull, and you win.

You win, in your prettiest dinner dress, snow clinging to your hair, wrapped in a brand new coat as the shop bell tolls and you step inside.

You’re grateful you don’t say as much (which you were planning on doing — planning on slamming the door shut behind you and carolling your bloody success) because it’s Mr Burke at the counter this Christmas evening, not Tom.

“...Miss?” He regards you with perplexity behind the counter.

You blink, recollecting yourself and stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr Burke. My family wished to extend their best wishes for the new year.”

“Quite a gesture," comes a familiar voice from behind you as Tom steps out from the staircase, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, like he’s just been out. He’s smiling. He looks disgustingly well.

You glance between the two men, and Burke bows curtly as if made aware of something he’d previously been warned of. “To yours as well, miss.” And then he’s off to assist the only other customer, an elderly woman in fur-lined green with so many glittering pins in her hair she resembles a Christmas tree.

“Riddle,” you say, facing him, unable to hide the triumphant grin that digs into your cheeks. You hand him the book, and atop it, your three pages of articulate, edited review.

“You made it. You read it," he acknowledges, though you doubt he’s surprised, and then nods to the stairs. “Come.”

You follow him up the narrow spiral into a short corridor, taking one look back at the old woman, now clasping a shrieking bauble you gladly turn away from. The door Tom opens is unlocked, presumably where he’d just come from, and — you feel a bit overwhelmed if you’re correct, but you have no idea what else it could be — presumably his flat.

When you enter, the door shuts behind you with an empty click of the latch. The room before you is rather sparse, a kitchenette in one corner, a cramped study in the other, with books upon books and scrolls stacked high on shelves along the dark walls. There's only the barest of seating, two armchairs beneath a dim desk lamp, a small table beside the fireplace, and… a bed, of all things, separated only by a thin divider and the courtesy of enough distance not to immediately draw the eye. You, of course, can't quite help it, gaze lingering on the tidy sheets and back to him.

It isn’t a thought you do well to dwell on. Too many directions for your imagination to roam.

“Well then," you say, hanging your coat at the door and trying not to display any overt anticipation as the parchment rustles in his hand, “Shall I just sit and await your evaluation?"

He raises a brow. “I was going to ask if you’d like tea. Do sit, though.”

Oh. Yes, right, you’re rushing things. Hospitality. Decorum. Consideration. You suppose Tom Riddle would extend those things for the sake of posterity if nothing else. “Something black, if you have any, please.”

The water comes to a boil quickly under the steady heat of his magic, and you’re sinking into a shockingly comfortable armchair taking in every shape and blemish of the room while you’re in it. You don’t have to guess that he doesn’t have many guests.

“Darjeeling,” Tom says as he offers you a steaming cup, “if that’s satisfactory.”

You resist a scowl at his mocking tone, placing the tea on a glass coaster and glancing purposefully at your work (your magnum opus, really) once more. “Perfectly.”

Tom notes your look with a smile, settling into the seat opposite yours. 

You take a sip of tea and lean back. “Do go on.”

“Eager,” he mutters, but begins.

He skims over the opening line before flipping the book open as if to be sure you haven’t made it all up, and then you think you probably could have made it all up if you wanted. Read one of the hundreds of magical histories of Rome that certainly existed — probably in your own shop, at that — and gathered much the same conclusion. But you did not. Tom must know you did not. 

The silence is thick as he reads, waned only by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. His brows furrow the way you always remember catching in school, like he's concentrating on a particularly hard puzzle, and you have to busy yourself with a nearly empty cup of tea to pretend not to notice the way his beauty is something almost delicate. Framed by firelight and the indigo gloss of the night shining in through the window, you imagine his hair mussed, his long eyelashes speckled with snow, his cheeks pink from the cold. You wonder about him in a nicer suit than this. You could buy him one, if you liked.

And then, at last, he looks up over the parchment, expression carefully measured. “I'm impressed.”

You put your cup down and you can’t help it. You're smiling. You're proud. His approval is like bottling the tail of a rainbow (which you’ve been told is possible), and it's a feeling that’s been absent from you for so long, it's never come from him — Merlin, you've always wanted it to come from him, haven’t you?

“You’re impressed?” you ask, as you love nothing more than to push. “Is that all?”

He loves nothing more than to keep his face impassive, but there’s a twitch there. Something you’re aware you can only spot because of how much attention you pay him. 

“I enjoyed your perspective on the Romans’ utilisation of firedrakes. It was well-thought.”

“Well-thought?”

“Quite good, yes.”

“Good," you say, grinning in the bulk of your triumph, “I suppose that means I win."

Win. You’re not winning anything but the implication that Tom is somehow losing. Still he does not break, and you think at seventeen he would have. At nearly twenty his smile just grows. “Have you ever done anything less?”

Is he pushing too? That could be fun.

“Oh, first year tribulations. Nothing since — you wouldn’t remember.”

“Hm, I do recall an unfortunate lesson with a matagot in Beasts, and that must have been, what—” He tilts his head as though to ponder it— “fourth year?”

You narrow your eyes. “Paid an ever-close watch on me, did you, Riddle?”

“As close as anyone else.”

“And by that you mean to say—?”

“Only that it’s a most fascinating custom, the matter of pureblood marriage. It was hard to avoid your name in a common room full of your particular politics.”

“Ah,” you hum, summoning the teapot from the kitchenette to pour another cup, “so my potential marital affairs are what drew your attention. And here I was thinking it was because I was the only person who could ever best you.”

He stops your tea mid-motion, and you still as he sends both the pot and the cup to the table beside you. “Can it not have begun as one and have become the other?”

“Well, your curiosity knows no end; I should be flattered by such multifaceted interest.”

“So you won’t mind my inquiring.”

“Whatever you wish, Riddle.”

“Upon the current status of your betrothal.”

You blink, and then laugh. “There is no betrothal. At present.”

“At present. Is it subject to change?”

“There’s always talk,” you offer, and it offers impressively little.

“Elaborate...”

“I don’t know that you’re in any position to be making demands,” you gibe, “considering I paid four sickles to prove you wrong and I haven’t anything to show for it but my pride.”

He smiles. “Not enough to sate your desire to make me grovel, it seems.”

“You? Grovel?” You gasp, fingers circling your knee idly. “What a fascinating concept… Wait now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

“Is that not what you came for?” he asks, and it’s odd to see him amused by the idea. You push and push and he just continues to take. “To prove me wrong? To puncture my pride?”

You shrug innocently, even though you’d just said as much. “I’m here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

He laughs, a warm, quiet laugh — more of a breath than anything — but true if you can read him at all, and that’s a bit alarming. “Of course. Near nine months of exhaustive translation all to bid me a nice holiday. It sounds almost like grovelling, doesn’t it? Wait, now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

You bite back your smile. Damn him. He’s never been funny before. That’s a problematic development.

“Fine.” Your legs are already crossed and now you’re crossing your arms too, and you look very reserved compared to his relaxed stature. “A match would, of course, need to be of good title.”

“Of course,” Tom says, without even an attempt at masking his amusement.

“And he would need to be rich.”

“Naturally.”

“It would help to be from one of the Sacred Houses.”

“I should not expect anything less.”

“And I suppose age is a factor,” you go on. You push, and push, and push. Tom is impervious. He takes.

“What age would do well?”

“Near enough to my own. For health, of course.”

“For health,” he agrees delightedly.

What the hell are you talking about?

“It would be preferable that he be handsome.”

“And of his character?”

“Most agreeable.”

“Docile?”

“Hm, docile, yes.”

“It is a long list.”

“I’ve been told I’m a difficult woman to sate. Far too prideful, apparently.”

Your fingers are drawing figure-eights on your thigh now, and Tom’s eyes flash briefly to the motion. You stop as though caught, and you aren’t sure why.

“A defamatory accusation,” he says quietly.

You wonder if his voice has always had that tinge to it: the gravel underlining his polish like the crack of the fire, and — that must be why it’s so warm in here, too. It has been that way since you arrived, hasn’t it? Such polarising temperatures between your walk in the snow to this, you must have only just adjusted… an hour after arriving. It’s completely logical.

“So there are talks,” you repeat, if only because you’ve blanked on all else.

“Well,” he says, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you feel transparent, “I wish you all the best. If it at all helps, you can now add a moderate understanding of Latin to your list of virtues.”

You drape an arm across your chair to match his easy posture. (And how is it he manages to look regal and informal at the same time?) “My list of virtues? Elaborate.”

He shakes his head with a small smile and you point an accusatory finger at him. “Ah, ah, Riddle — I won, remember? And I indulged your inquiring regardless.”

His eyes narrow. “You do want me to grovel.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t believe that’s the purpose of the day.”

“And that matters to you?”

He leans forward, looking over you as if your supposed virtues will reveal themselves upon scrutiny. It’s a bit offensive, really. You’d hope he could find more than enough with one glance.

He settles, after a long moment where you feel almost bare, on, “Your pride is agonising.”

It’s — not exactly what you were hoping for. Not quite grovelling, by any definition, but then, what did you expect from him?

“Excuse me?”

“Your stockings are ripped at the calf.”

“Riddle—”

“Your lipstick may have stained my teacup. It is a shade I’m rather fond of, but I do not wish to see a trace of it left behind.”

“Quite good,” you say through gritted teeth.

“And I should not be agonised — incautious and unfettered at a sliver of skin or the gesture of your mouth —” You realise with horror that he’s speaking through something constrained too — “and yet I am.”

It’s — is that a confession? Have you broken him? Have you won again? Your stomach flips and it doesn’t feel at all like winning. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s lost. In fact, he’s watching you intently, and at your lack of response, the constraint forming a taut line on his lips seems to slip back into something deliberate. Curious.

You recover to the best of your ability. “It is a short list.”

“Shall I go on?” he asks, and it’s an answer, too: no, you have most definitely not broken him. He looks a bit like he’s found a neat pathway to breaking you instead.

“I’d hate to debase you further.”

He leans in, and he might be about to stand, and that might be an irreversible thing to do. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine you’ve painted the picture yet.”

Oh, you’ve painted the picture. You’ve painted a gallery.

“I find the image regrettable half-done. No point finishing it now.”

You do not.

“And besides,” you add, “I know my virtues.”

He smiles, and he’s half orange in the firelight and half blue in the night, green somewhere in the middle, and he should be condemned for being this beautiful. “Elaborate.”

You shouldn’t. “I’m intelligent.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“So I’ve seen,” he agrees, still leaning in.

“I’m good at my job.”

And then he stands.

It is an irreversible thing. Your heart lurches like it knows he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. Your heart lurches because it is a thing you’ve anticipated, quietly, on late nights in scrolls of Latin so you might be able to pretend to mistranslate them — you know, in your first tongue and any other, that you do not want it to be undone.

“Anything else?” he asks. You aren’t sure if you’re resentful of the proximity of his seat to yours or grateful for it, because it takes no time at all for him to be standing before you.

“I’m well-mannered,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean for it to. “Lettered in etiquette.”

“Etiquette," he repeats slowly, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, and you don't quite know how he manages an intonation like that, but there it is, dripping with so much contempt you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over.

It wouldn’t be terrible if he did. He’d land right on top of you and put this little game to rest.

Instead he reaches a hand to your cheek — your hair — and brushes it like it’s an absolutely standard thing to do. He pulls away just the same. As if his hand is familiar with the shape of your face because it’s been there before. You'd definitely remember if it had.

“Of course,” you breathe, “patience and pleases and thank yous.”

“In all your manners, you might provide an example.”

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult. “I’d say I’m displaying great patience right now.”

“Hm.” His hands find yours where they sit on either arm of your chair, and his figure is blocking all light now. It shines on his shoulders, casts him like an aura. “That’s one.”

You look at his lips, and don’t bother to look away. You incline forward as much as you can when you’re caged in like this, until his breath is on yours and you can smell his cologne.

“Please,” you say, and for the challenge in it you don’t feel too humbled.

He is most obliging.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and you did say you were patient — so you wait. The feather-light touch of them stills before it deepens, his hands pressing down on yours. Your open mouth. His tongue. You're kissing him, breathlessly and frantically and completely, and it is all you want.

Tom pulls back and you instinctively push forward. You will your eyes to open and he’s still right there — he hasn’t gone anywhere (what a deranged concern that is) — lips an inch from yours, and he’s smiling.

“That’s two.”

Oh. Oh, he’s an aberration in human variance. There’s something incredibly wrong with him.

There isn’t a way of turning gratitude into a challenge, you think. It doesn’t ask for anything. It appreciates. In this case it would more closely resemble worship. Thank you for your kiss, Riddle, I’d be nothing without it.

So you search to find a way around it that still gets you what you want.

“I’ll need a bit more than a lousy kiss if you want to see me grovel, Riddle." Your voice is a bit rough. You don’t know that your confidence lands the way it typically does.

But you came here to — what was it — puncture his pride? Push him until he breaks? You’ve already made it halfway, and you are, after all, very good at it.

And you suppose he wants to earn the third, because he scowls and then he’s kissing you again and this time his hands are on your face, and perhaps they are somehow familiar with the shape because they fit around you in some inexplicably whole way, like they were made for it. With your hands free, you’re carding your fingers through his hair, hoping for that vision of him you imagined earlier, with thick, messy waves and flushed cheeks.

Tom brings a hand to your waist and tugs you in, and you’re partly pulled from the chair by his insistence and overwhelmingly pushing to get out of it yourself, lips never leaving his as you stumble past the meagre divider to his bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the footboard and your knees buckle, gasping away from Tom’s mouth as you reach for the bedpost. His breath is heavy as his hand curves to the small of your back to keep you steady, your dress bunched in his fist, and there’s a heat in him pressed against you, like a match being held to kindling. And in the flash of fire when it finally strikes, everything in his eyes is clear, singularly focused, and he's pushing you to your back, splayed across his tidy sheets as he kisses you with bruising ferocity.

There's an urgency now to his movements that wasn't there before, and it's a stark contrast to his usual calculated demeanour, but that feels like winning. That feels like breaking Tom Riddle, whittling years of practised constraint to… this. That draws the third: makes you nice and grateful like he asked, because no part of you wants his careful fortitude here. You want to ruin him.

He appears to want the very same from you, which wrecks the whole thing.

Your legs move to wrap around him and he stops you, one hand pinning you by the hip and then down, past where you think he’ll go, as he finds the hem of your dress and lifts it from your calf to your knee. He draws circles over the thinly-clothed skin and you can do nothing but lie there, panting a little, staring at him with less patience than you’d proclaimed to have. And then his fingers move upwards, and they’re drawing figure-eights, and you understand that if this isn’t a taunt, nothing is. He copies your earlier motions. He does not kiss you. His fingers trail higher and higher and they’re soft like the shadows framing his face.

Finally he finds the waistband of your stockings and begins to tug them down your hips, stopping when he reaches that sliver of skin revealed by a tear in the fabric, taking your leg and hiking it up so he can look closely. He smiles, finger sliding down the tear in such a precise, meticulous fashion you can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. The moment does not linger when he pulls away, shuffling your stockings down the rest of the way so your legs are unclad before him, your heels already kicked off somewhere across the floor.

He watches your sharp exhale when he ducks down to kiss the skin of your thigh. A shiver runs through you at his softness, another when you see his face, see his eyes go dark with want of you.

His constraint is back, and it’s fucking detrimental. The only silver lining you can find in it, and you hope to be correct (haven’t you been so far?), is that maybe that means Tom Riddle can be broken in litany. Maybe he amends his ruination now but you can carve it out of him again later.

“Come here,” you say, your voice ragged.

Tom frowns, one hand pursuing a dangerous path up the inside of your thigh. “And here I was under the impression you wanted me to grovel.”

“Oh,” you huff, “is that what this is? Not some feeble attempt at winning after I —”

You grip his hair as his fingers curl under the lace of your underwear, as he smiles at the dampness there, the way your argument dissipates beneath his touch. “Winning?” he derides, breathy to match your tone in a way that feels cruel rather than considerate. You nod even as your breathing accelerates and he lifts the skirt of your dress to rest over your thighs, his eyes darting between your legs and your own heavy gaze as if he can't decide which is more intriguing. And then he slides a finger across your heat and you think he’s made his choice. "Is that what you think I want?"

You blink, feeling a bit lost. "What else is there?"

“Will you thank me after this?”

Right. That. You swallow, head falling back on his pillow. “Doubtful.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, some kind of consideration that can only be answered by the movement of his fingers against you, slow as they seek to learn you.

You arrest the moan that rises in your throat, teeth clenching together as Tom climbs over you once more, his body keeping you in place to watch the sustained details of your expression as one of his fingers dips inside you. You hiss, and his gaze burns into you, his mouth parted with a degree of awe and you think perhaps this is the picture he painted — you, under him, eyebrows pinched together as your hands scramble for purchase on his chest, fighting to remain intact.

But then his thumb brushes up against your clit and you let out a sound — half a moan, half a mewl. Tom doesn't give you a second to recover as his lips come down on yours again, hard, desperate, like he's trying to inhale you. And you let him, you take the little bit of ruin he surrenders in the great expanse of yours.

Even if you could quiet your noises you stand to think Tom would feel them, taste them, bite down on them like he does your lower lip, a second finger coiling into you. Your hand smacks at his wrist, clutching his arm with such intensity you can feel every sinew of his movement as he works away at you. Your legs are trembling, pressing around his waist an act of simultaneous resistance and desperation as you push upwards for friction and conquest.

You find both. Undeniable hunger — how he groans softly against your open mouth, how the imprint against your thigh is hard under his trousers, how he wants you.

His ministrations only intensify when your hand searches for the buckle of his belt, gripping your jaw like he needs to watch you fall apart before you can find parity in your desperation. It isn’t an impossible wish; your mind is hazy at the push and pull of his fingers, curving where his thumb draws ceaselessly on the other side, and you think, as much as you’re able right now, that he could succeed. But you force your eyes open to the space where your hand is wedged between your bodies, yanking hastily at his belt and sighing into his shoulder as it unfastens.

His trousers are unbuttoned, unzipped, and you’re arching into him with laboured pants even when your hand slips past them to find skin you've never travelled before.

Tom’s motions stagger when your fingers brush experimentally over his length, and you suddenly understand his ardent focus. You can’t help but stare at the way his jaw ticks, a hiss parting through gritted teeth, and the fact that you’re doing this to him is almost enough to push you over the edge. You grip him in one hand, and his fingers move again like some act of defiance, tightening his hold on your jaw. And then you’re pumping slowly, carefully, the only way you think to with the intention of pleasing him. Of weakening him.

He turns your head so you’re gasping into the pillow, neck exposed for him to press his mouth to. His teeth and tongue are on you and your hand slips from him for a moment as you shudder. Fuck him. This isn’t enough. You won't lose like this.

You tug at his waistcoat now, snapping open the buttons until the last few are clinging on by cheap threads. You’ll buy him that suit, you think. One that you can shrug off as fervently as you like without worrying about tearing the seams.

Your removal of his shirt is not aided by the swelling fire inside you, how the attention of his fingers has remained steady through your squirming and it feels like it’s culminating to something fatal. Your fingers grow shakier but don't stop their pursuit until every button is undone and you can soothe their trembling by pressing your palms against the warm expanse of his chest.

And then they’re back in his trousers, pushing them down his thighs as he continues to chip away at you. You bite back moans and blink through your dizziness.

Tom stops, and it might be more devastating than if he hadn’t. Your body is taut, a fine, thrumming wire spared a moment before snapping.

“More,” is all you say, tracing the shape of him through his briefs.

“More?” he asks. There’s a small mercy in the rasp within in his voice, the uncertainty despite himself. “I suppose that means I win.”

“Win?” 

His gall almost, almost pulls you back to reality. But he’s — he’s pulling his trousers further down and your body, like some separate entity to your mind, is flush against him when he’s finally free of all obstructions. 

“Mhm,” he hums, and almost-reality dwindles away into fucking nothing — disappears before your eyes when he brings his finger to his tongue and tastes you.

You tear him back to your mouth with a sound that so desperate your humility shouldn’t be able to take it but that's all gone now. His lips are wet and swollen and you’re adjusting yourself so his hips are lined with yours, and your head rolls back when he positions himself against your core and stays there.

“I win,” you breathe. “Everything else is just—”

He moves, hands on your waist as he presses ever-so-slightly inside you. You clutch wildly at his arms, your eyes wrenching shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly. His thumb caresses your cheek as if any act of his acts of tenderness are at all actually tender and not depraved requests for your resignation. 

You shake your head. “It’s ju-just—”

He sinks further, unhurried, and you feel like crying, your body clenching around him as the pressure deepens.

“Just what?” he asks, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Just… um, just…”

“Hm?”

“I win... s’just… cheating…”

You feel him smiling against your neck, and then he detaches his lips to observe you, nodding with false sympathy. “You win.”

And he shifts himself forward so he’s pushed to the hilt. 

It’s a lie. It’s a lie as Tom holds you against him, carving kisses into your skin that burn, as you shudder a moan into the thick, hot air, as he begins to move rhythmically inside you, your fingers digging crescent moons into his spine and dragging.

You don't win.

If you are steel honed over years, it’s this moment that you melt, and you think if you were to be fused again it would be in a different shape.

And you mean that. You honestly feel liquified when he splits you slow like this, rolling his hips as you cling to him for strength like he isn’t the thing shattering you. 

You rock to meet him, you bury your nails in his back, you rest your moans with your teeth in his shoulder — whatever you can think to make this fair. Make true to your word. You are going to break, it's true, but you are going to break Tom Riddle too.

“Fingers,” you mutter, far too much of a demand for the way it almost stumbles into a sob, but Tom makes a strained sound in the back of his throat as if it gratifies him that you want it enough to ask.

“Thank me,” he answers on a harsh exhale.

You bite at his collar, shaking your head, but your legs are starting to shake and you wouldn’t ask if it was something you wanted — you mask it as an order because you need it. Because you imagine what he’s doing now combined with his thumb on your clit and it’s enough to make your abdomen clench just thinking about it.

Instead one of your hands forsakes the sweet curve of his muscles every time he thrusts into you so that it can snake between your own legs, and you mimic his earlier ministrations just long enough to drive a moan from your lips before Tom’s eyes dart from your lips, the rise and fall of your chest, to the hand missing from his back.

He grabs it with a scowl, pinning one wrist and then the other above your head.

“Stubborn,” he hisses, and he buries himself inside you like it's something personal, persistent in his strokes when his fingers finally rub over you how you wanted.

And you know you’ve done it when his head falls on your shoulder and you feel yourself tighten around him. His grip on your wrists is punishing. His mouth on your shoulder is stringent. He’s hard and full inside you and his fingers slide against you in delicate, torturous contrast. You know because it all stutters a bit when you pull him into a kiss, when you know you’re about to plummet into oblivion and he’s gripping you through it like you might steady him — like you aren’t the thing shattering him.

When you do, it’s something visceral. You think you might be spinning, or floating — screaming, maybe — spilling ill-mannered expletives in strings with his name because your hands are still trapped under his and your body can do nothing else. What you know, undoubtedly, is that you’re coming down from it for a long time, in a haze when you manage to breathe the words into his ear. “Thank you.”

Tom breaks. It’s the most beautiful you think he’s ever looked; eyebrows cinched and pink mouth parted, hair mussed like you wanted, neck tense as he stills inside you and you feel every part of him let go.

Your legs are too weak to cling to him through it, and you just pant under him, blinking languidly and in awe.

You stay like that for a long time.

He leans in when he finally pulls out of you, kissing you like one form of contact must be replaced with another. It's the same with his hands. He sinks into the space beside you and releases your wrists just to cup your face instead.

Yours come up instantly and shamelessly to his hair, craving nothing more than to curl your fingers through the dark mess of it. You trace the sharp shape of his cheeks, too, like his did to yours, like you need to memorize the lines of his expression and the heat of his skin before the world outside seeps in and it all goes cold.

But you pull away and you can't imagine it will.

There’s something in his eyes that feels new. Longing like he’s shed all pretence of acting like nine years of treading the lines of this rivalry has ever been anything but a pathetic display, like he knows you've shed it too. It makes you catch your breath to think this is what it feels like to be desired by Tom Riddle; that you desire him all the same; all this time.

“You know,” you say, and your voice sticks dry to your mouth, “I still win.”

He shakes his head. He smiles. You want terribly to kiss him again.

“I’ll just have to find something else to best you in, won’t I?”

You pretend like you’re considering it and not just staring at him. 

“I think by Christmas would be fair.”

[black-swan-slaps]

I try to keep my comments to myself and just reblog jikook funsizes (and also yoongi) but y'all...we've lost the plot.

We do not personally know Jimin, Jungkook, or V. We never will. That is okay. What that means is we do not and will not ever understand the intricacies of their relationships. We have to remember that these three have known each other for a very long time, have trained together, worked together, traveled the world together, and even fought with each other. But they still love and respect each other. Which means we have to trust that if they have any serious issues with each other, they will address it. We know for a fact this is how bts deal with interpersonal drama -- they address it with each other.

Are You Sure is the first time in a WHILE that we've gotten to see "unfiltered" members. These are full adult men. They are not our projections of what we think they are or would like them to be. Jungkook is a "no thoughts, head empty" kind of guy. He has said this himself. Does that mean I think he's never had a deep thought or dark emotions? No, of course not, but it's become very clear from these episodes that he follows his instincts and whims (much like we praise Jin for). Jungkook is weird and silly and hard working and caring and also a brat. He also works as an "entertainer" when not singing in a concert. He is aware when filming any kind of variety show, especially one focused on him, he should probably play around. Not saying I know his intentions for why he does anything, but like, let the dude chill?

Yes, Jimin was not feeling well again. But, and this may come off harsh, I think we also all know that Jimin has had a myrid of health issues throughout the years, which means the other members are probably used to this and likely know his limits. As someone who is also very accident prone and deals with health issues, I am no stranger to my friends being dismayed when I am once again hurt, but not dropping everything to baby me. Let's be real, Jimin is going to tough it through anything and that is his choice. Also, let's be logical, if Jimin really needed a break, he could fully tell the staff he needed a minute and disappeared. But he chose to stay in full view of the cameras.

Maybe he was annoyed Jungkook and V shot him with water guns while he was resting. Maybe he didn't care. He did laugh after it, but he also tried to get them back. Maybe V and Jungkook didn't realize fully hoe he was feeling. Were V and Jungkook being mean in this situation? No. Have you seen them? They goof around in the weirdest ways and they sure as hell showed concern when Jimin's lip was bleeding. (Also, doesn't hurt to point out that when Jimin really went to sleep they left him alone).

Did Jimin seem annoyed or bothered when they went to the adventure park? Not to me. But the point is (I'm yapping, I know) the way the members treat each other is up to each other. Just because it bothered you does not mean it bothered Jimin. And we would never know unless if he told us because that is not our business.

TLDR: They are adults with what I have to assume are healthy boundaries and respect. Playing around with each other is normal and may look harsh to you but clearly works for them. I'm inclined to believe Jikook are in love but who knows what that means for them. Touch grass.

[warblogs17282]

Stolas and his accidental racism problems that is still an issue in apology tour, plus how this affects Stolitz coming back together.

Go to bottom for a tldr

Yea the arrangement did not start off well, considering the situation Blitz was in when he got that phone call, I wouldn't be surprised if Blitz saw it as already starting it off as a thing where Blitz is basically serving the royal by having sex with him once a month, that being the only thing Blitz is useful for. Sure Blitz put the idea of the sex thing first into Stolas' head when they met again after 25 years since Blitz used that to his advantage to get the grimoire initially as seen in s2 e1, but it doesn't really change my point much. It still 100% rubs Blitz the wrong way into what his role in the arrangement is.

Then we get into the pet names and shit Stolas mostly used in season 1, in e2 Stolas refused to take the hint, constantly flirting with Blitz the entire way through, ignoring Octavia and sometimes doing it right in front of her, much to Octavia's dismay, as we know and is proven later on, Blitz took these pet names and stuff pretty hard. He gets pretty racist in the harvest moon festival as well, now using those pet names and stuff in front of a huge crowd of people, even after Blitz tells Stolas to stop, putting down Blitz's race of people in front of basically everyone, also making this kinda thing pretty racist of Stolas? He did not do this with the intention to be racist, he's just a horny weirdo who's trying to match Blitz's levels. Like just look at the imps faces while he says this. This specific comment however, is probably just something engrained into Stolas' subconscious, most likely from Paimon as we can see evidence of in s2 e1.

Then we get to the full moon episode, with the two major comments here being 'you were serious?' and 'Treat me like one of your little Butler imps'. The first statement being proof that Stolas gave Blitz enough reason to believe that this was only about sex and nothing else, with evidence to support this being that Stolas didn't even bother to tell Blitz about the change in the planned events, causing Blitz to believe that Stolas was only ever in it for the sex, and now he's getting tired of Blitz, leading directly into the second statement, telling Stolas that he thinks that Stolas thinks so low of Blitz as a person, and because of a later statement and behaviour before this, leading Blitz into thinking that Stolas is being racist towards imps again when that is not Stolas' intention at all.

And then it gets entirely addressed in a better setting, Blitz still thinks it's a sex thing even after the argument in the full moon episode, and this statement proves it, Blitz thinks that Stolas has a fetish for imps and such, all perpetuated by Stolas' pet names and such in the past, his general incompetence at times when discussing heavy topics, and finally, his lack of self-awareness. The last one is the major selling point for Blitz, as much as Stolas tries to get Blitz to understand this isn't all about sex, they both fail miserably at doing so, with Stolas not bringing up the butler imp comment, in 'When I see him' we see the servant imp be fed up because Stolas has just emptied the fridge, leaving him to clean it all up, and in seeing stars where Stolas nearly kills the imps by squeezing him so hard, leaving accidental racism towards imps unaddressed for Blitz, so Blitz will continue to believe that Stolas is still racist towards imps, even if that's not Stolas' intentions, it's still in Stolas' subconscious, something Stolas needs to fix asap otherwise this will be a reason of the many reasons Stolitz has fallen entirely apart right now.

Not to mention for the most part, Stolas has only seen imps in positions such as servants and other jobs like that, with Blitz being well, the only person to break that status quo for him. Sure we have the imps in the harvest moon festival but that basically amounts to nothing for Stolas right now because of the reasons mentioned in that section of this post.

Description reads 'Stolas still not quite being self aware enough at times'

So Stolas believes he's not looking down on Blitz, but he does and just doesn't realise it, leading Blitz to have reason to believe Stolas does in fact look down upon him. Stolas does not seem to understand WHY what he did in the past hurts Blitz so much, proving that Stolas is not being self-aware at all at the moment.

tldr: The fact that Stolas has still yet to address his unintentional racism towards imps at multiple points during this show is a roadblock that Stolas needs to fix otherwise Stolitz cannot get back together.

[twirlingsmilingwriting]

Tolerate It pt. 3 || Young! Coriolanus Snow X reader

"Took this dagger in me and removed it, gained the weight of you then lose it... If its all in my head tell me now. Tell me I've got it wrong somehow, I know my love should be celebrated but you tolerate it"

You don't need to read pt 1 to understand what is happening but if you want to ITS HERE

Part two is a little necessary but you'll prob catch on. Part two HERE

TLDR: Truly feeling like the luckiest person alive when your former classmate and short-term boyfriend asked you to marry him. Not even a year into the marriage and also a year into his presidency does the original love and admiration you felt for him start to dissipate. You can't help but feel trapped and tricked into a marriage in which he may have never loved you to begin with.

Warnings: Angst, Love-Bombing, marriage, gender ambiguous reader, typical snow tags (manipulation), alcohol, alluding to sexual acts but not described, kissing, unclear motives, crying, death, the reader being so delulu and manipulated omg, slight classism, self unaliving, blood

WORD COUNT: 7k

A/N: This is a dialogue-heavy one. Lots of yappin today y'all. Also a LOT and I mean a LOT darker than the others. I POSTED THIS LAST NIGHT BUT FORGOT TO PUT ANY TAGS SO I GOTTA REPOST IT

~

The morning light peered through the curtains of our bedroom ever so slightly, just enough that I could feel the warmth on my nose. I scrunched my face and squirmed under the covers. It wasn't until I felt the weight of his body move from beside me and get out of bed, that I reached my arm out for Coriolanus just to be greeted with nothing. I fluttered my eyes open and looked over. I watched intently while he threw on some clothes. God, he was gorgeous. Strikingly blond curls bouncing while he moved, his toned body with broad shoulders, a thin waist, those blue eyes and sharp jaw, he was so stunning. I love my husband so much. I whispered a quick 'good morning' to him and all he could do was hum in response. I sat up in the bed and used the sheet to cover myself up.

"Where are you going, Darling?"

"I have some business to attend to. You wouldn't understand, my beautiful empty head."

Aww. He called me beautiful. He gave me a quick glance before heading out and slamming the door behind him. I got out of bed and scoured the room for something decent to put on. Clothes from the night before had been scattered and I knew I'd have to add laundry to today's agenda. I picked up a white silk shirt from atop the dress and I threw the shirt over my head, I let out a soft sigh, looking over at myself in the tall gold mirror taking note of the smudged makeup and eyeliner that had dried in blackened streaks down my face from last night's tears. Tiny hickies decorated my neck and collarbones and I couldn't stop the smile that spread on my face from the joy I felt from Coriolanus claiming me as his. Gratitude is the best way I can describe the feeling. I am married to the most powerful man in Panem. What could I have done to deserve this?

Our relationship got rocky sometimes, yes, but he was just busy. I can't help but blame myself for how he was treating me after we got married. To be fair, he did just become president. I can't even imagine how stressful that must've been for him. It made sense why it felt like he had no time for me. Last night he admitted he never even knew I felt so neglected, it must've been my fault. Clearly, he loves me right?

Last night, I felt so loved, the way he kissed me and wrapped his arms around me, his aroma filled my senses. He loves me so much, if he didn't he wouldn't be showing me off to a whole nation of people right?

I kept asking myself for reassurance, but I had my answer, no one just marries someone they don't love.

Right?

Of course, he does. I remember when it started, it was real, so real. He's just been so tired these past few months. He has his reasons and I should understand that I can't be so selfish to be in his life taking up too much space and time. I am lucky for the sentences I will get in the story of a monumental man. Looking in the mirror of the vanity, I took a deep breath and smiled in contentment. My eyes continued to scan the display. The vanity was a white desk and drawer set with a large and extravagant mirror outlined with gold. I had hand-painted vines of ivy on the wood. The desk had makeup and my rose-scented perfume. Honestly, I always preferred fruity and sweet scents but Coryo loves it more when I smell like roses. My fingers tapped the delicate glass bottle before I placed it back down and walked to the window to look over the garden where we had the party last night.

Tables were still set up and cups littered the lawn. I giggled a little bit, remembering the fun people were having dancing around the area without a care in the world. There was always a certain type of peace that came after parties when everyone left. Similar to nostalgia where it's that strong sense of bliss but also a certain emptiness that comes from the drop from high emotions and energy to nothingness. Still, the memories of the fun of last night came back to me. A few men dressed in white peacekeeper uniforms started to file into the area and I cocked an eyebrow up in confusion. They must be coming to clean up the trash. My eyes followed them.

That's when I saw it.

The body of a tall man with ginger hair lay lifeless on his back on the stone pathway of the garden. It was the same man that I had talked with last night, Curtis. His eyes were rolled back into his head and speckles of blood could be seen on the corners of his mouth. A cup was held loosely in his hand. I gasped and my jaw hung low in shock. How could this have happened? Did he choke on something? Got into a fight? The peacekeepers started to harshly pick up his body and filed him out. Did Coryo know about this? The blood quickly left my face and I felt a sinking sense of doom in my stomach.

I had only known the man for a moment, but I felt like he was a good man. He didn't deserve whatever happened to him. The peacekeepers left the area and then moments later the maids came in to clean. Tears started to prick the corner of my eyes before I gulped heavily. Maybe he just drank too much last night. The red was just dried wine...

Yes

Yes

That made sense right...?

I had to think of something to ease my mind. Maybe I could ask Coryo about it later. More and more maids filed into the area, their black uniforms making the whole scene previously seem more grim. Red started appearing in my teary-eyed peripheral vision and I quickly shut the curtains. My chest heaved up and down as I struggled to catch my breath. I had to collect myself. I probably didn't understand the situation fully, Coriolanus knows what's going on, he always does. I won't worry about it until he comes home. I walked over the desk and wrote little notes for him on a few pieces of paper, scattering them around the bedroom. Then, I went to take a shower. I was going to have lunch with my mother today, I had to get ready.

~

The doorbell rang and I walked over to answer it. Instantly, my mother had wrapped her arms around me bringing me into a warm hug.

"Y/N! Sweetheart I missed you so much it's been so long," she spoke softly and I couldn't help the childish smile that dragged across my face.

"I haven't seen you since the wedding mom I missed you too," she loosened her grip on me and walked into the house.

"Wow... you truly are living in a life of luxury now sweetie look at this place... I see you put your little artistic flair on things haha," she joked and awed at the size of the house.

"Oh, the little paintings? I didn't think other people would notice them haha, after I dust I like to add the little things and details around. I've been hoping Coryo would notice but he's just a man, and he's so busy and tired all the time I can't blame him for not noticing. You should look at the plates when we eat today! I've been trying to add things to the table wear, which makes eating a lot more fun."

She continued to look around and I watched intently while her eyes followed the small roses, vines, clouds, and butterflies I had painted on the pillars and edges of the house. She then brought her attention back to me and pressed her lips into a thin smile, a glint of sadness was painted into her stormy eyes.

"Sweetheart, you look so thin, are you eating well? He doesn't have you on some crazy diet does he? With the amount of money you guys have I feel like you should be eating three-course meals for every meal..."

"Mom please~ I'm an adult, don't worry about me so much."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Come on let's go sit down at the table, foods' almost ready." I interlocked my arm with hers and started to guide her to the dining room. We sat facing each other. The chefs cooking could be heard faintly.

"How is the married life treating you?"

"Um... Well honestly mom, it's been rough. I felt like the original spark of our relationship had been extinguished the moment he put this ring on my finger, he had grown very cold and I swear there were days that went by where he didn't even look at me but last night we talked it out. He didn't even know I felt like that so I can't be mad at him"

"Sweetheart, I've been here for about 10 minutes and I can't help but continue to pick up these little details that are showing he isn't treating you the way you deserve. You are smarter than this Y/N I raised a strong fighting spirit, you survived a war with us and never let that darkness cloud the brightness that is your light but right now honey, you seem sad. I don't think your romantic spark is the only thing he's diminishing sweetheart, he's burning you out." Her hand reached out for mine and we interlocked fingers. She looked deeply into my eyes and I watched as the concern grew in hers.

"No mom it's not like that. He's just busy, you should know how hard he's working. I know my place is to sit and listen to him, he's so much wiser than I am. He's a great man and he loves me," I started to get a little defensive but tried to hold my temper. Her lips pursed and she gave my hand another squeeze. It was then the chefs came out and placed our plates in front of us. We sat in silence for a moment while we started to eat.

"You're stubborn I know. The more we tell you to run from him the further it pushes you away from us and closer to him. You should be celebrated, you do so much for this man and he gives you nothing. This... this just doesn't seem healthy."

"Mom. I'm fine. I'm breathing. My health is fine"

"But your soul isn't."

Her words spit venom into me and I froze in place and listened. "Truly, what kind of man doesn't let his spouse see their family more than once every few months. I had to beg him to be able to see you today. We all miss you at home. Hell, I miss you."

Shock ran through my body while I spoke. "He told me you never reached out for these past few months." A chuckle left her lips. "Does that man do anything but lie? I shouldn't be surprised... politicians will always say what you want to hear and what benefits them."

"Mom I- can we please talk about something else? I don't appreciate you disrespecting my husband. I shouldn't have ever said anything. This is why he doesn't want you around is you keep disrespecting him. I promise mom everything is okay. Just rocky sometimes and that's mostly my fault."

Her face scrunched up and she looked away to avoid eye contact. She frowned before taking another bite of the food.

"It just hurts to see you like this... I almost feel like I should've stopped it sooner-"

"Mom," I cut her off and slammed my fist on the table slightly. She quickly shut up again before her lips parted.

"How was the party last night?"

"Lovely, the capital parties are always a joy. Coryo even made a toast to me at the end of the night it was so heartwarming." I smiled, happy she changed the subject. I started to gush about how sweet Coryo was last night to try and defend himself from my mother. I don't understand why all of my loved ones just couldn't seem to like him.

"Did he talk to you?" She asked tilting her head up.

"Who?"

"Curtis."

My face went pale and my jaw dropped. Flashbacks to what I had seen that morning rushed into my mind and I sat there horrified. First was the shock then the confusion.

"He's a friend of your older brother. He's been living with us for awhile while his new house gets built. Your brother asked him personally to come to the party last night to try and talk to you. We weren't sure if we were going to be able to see you today so we were trying to find any way to talk to you and make sure you were okay."

"He um... yes I do believe I talked to him. He was very charming, sweet. He reminded me of someone I used to know but we only talked for a little last night..." I was in a daze while I spoke. I didn't want to talk about Coryo's jealous outburst or what I saw that morning.

"That's good to hear. Y/N how was he last night? He didn't come home last night though. Was he drunk when you left? We've been worried sick."

"He... no he seemed very sober though he did have the confidence of a drunk man." I tried to joke to distract from the adrenaline and fear that was pumping through my veins.

"Sweetheart I can tell when you're keeping things from me. Please, darling you can tell me anything, I'm your mother"

I avoid her eye contact like the plague and continued to eat my food, struggling to swallow.

"It's nothing really, I'm just a little tired today that's all. Mom, eat your food please, it's delicious. How's dad?"

Her suspicious mind was reflected in her suspicious eyes. She was not going to let this go so easily. I could see the same grim expression I had on my face from earlier start to spread on hers.

"The first thing I ever heard about your husband was that any person who got too close to him ended up dead, missing or disgraced. I truly hope you don't follow in those same steps."

"Mom, you guys told me that same line over and over again before we got married and it's not even true. Name one person who he's done that to"

She scoffed and spoke quietly.

"Lucy Gray."

I raised an eyebrow at her in confusion.

"Who?"

"I don't believe you watched The Hunger Games this year, you never liked the blood. There truly isn't any way to confirm this now but Coriolanus was in charge of mentoring a girl from District 12 named Lucy Gray. She was a songbird and I remember the first time I watched her sing on television, it was breathtaking. Rumors spread that your husband fell in love with her and planned to run off with her and then one day, she disappears. Not a single trace left but he returned. He returned to the capital and mysteriously got gifted a scholarship and an internship. That is a shady man."

"Respectfully mom I think you're telling folk tales right now. He told me I was his first love, the first one to make him feel so alive so that can't be true. I've never even heard of this girl. Wouldn't my classmates have said something?"

She shrugged. "I wouldn't say anything to upset the man suspected of such crimes." Suddenly, a peacekeeper walked into the dining room and another followed in. Doors slammed around us and one spoke in a booming voice. "By orders of President Snow, we have been assigned to escort you out of here ma'am" They got on either side of my mom and grabbed her arms.

"There must be some sort of mistake here, it's barely 2, he said I could be here till 3! Let me down!"

I stood there frozen and helpless, I had no clue what to do. I yelled at them to wait but they pulled her out of her seat then started to head out. She started kicking and tried to fight back. "Let me say goodbye! I need a hug! I am the mother here, it's my right to see my child! He sent you guys here huh? Can't stand my kid hearing the truth? All this that's happening to me is his fault!"

"Mama! Goodbye! I love you!"

"He did it Y/N! You know he did it! Don't let it happen to you my love! Fight, there must be a way out! You're better than this. I love you!"

She shouted while they escorted her out. Her voice echoed around the room whispering the words 'He did it'. As much as I shook my head I couldn't stop thinking about it. Sickening silence bounced against the walls while my head ran back everything that had just happened. I couldn't help but let warm tears fall from my eyes while I sat back down in my chair. I'm so confused. I just needed my husband right now. A maid walked in and cleaned up the table and I sat in the chair and cried.

~

I laid down in bed, sitting up staring at the ceiling. The bed was as comfortable as sleeping on a cloud but I couldn't sleep, nothing could calm the storm in my head. The door handle turned and I saw Coryo glace into the room. His blue eyes made eye contact with mine as he stepped into the room slowly. He shut the door behind him and started to loosen his tie.

"Darling, you're still up?"

"I can't sleep..." I admitted and watched as his plump lips parted to expel a sigh. He started to change into his pajamas.

"Why dear?" He started to crawl into bed and pulled me into him with his strong arms.

"Can I ask you a question?" I felt his grip on me tighten before he nodded and hummed a soft 'yes' into the air. A sigh left my lungs and I pressed my hand against my temples. Where do I even start?

"Coryo... have you ever killed anyone before?"

"W- what?"

I tipped my head up and looked deep into his blue eyes to search for any form of sincerity. "Please be honest with me... please..."

"Darling what could have ever put these sorts of ideas in your pretty little head?"

"Coryo that's not important now please answer me. I just want your honesty here, if you're honest I will not judge you, I- I'll still love you."

The only emotion I could see on his face was panic. He removed his arm from my body and I started to panic in response. He had just started being nice to me again and I was worried I pushed him away. My big mouth just couldn't stay shut.

"Y/N, of course I haven't. Who do you perceive me as? Some kind of monster? The only person I have ever killed is my past self and he had to die so I could be the man I am today, a man ready to love you the way you deserve."

He was rambling and his lack of eye contact made me feel uneasy. I wanted to believe him, I truly did but with the way he was acting, I couldn't wholeheartedly believe him and that made me feel sick. I should not be this distrustful of my husband. I started to zone off, lost in deep thought when his hand met my jaw and he positioned my head up to look at him. "Y/N you trust me don't you? I've done everything for you, you should trust me darling." He planted a quick kiss on my forehead. "I- I believe you Coryo." He smiled down and then pressed a kiss to my lips. I melted against his touch and placed my hands to cup his face. When we pulled away I still couldn't shake the questions that flooded my head. Remembering what my mother said, I couldn't help myself from the words spilling out of my mouth.

"Coryo... one last question, Who is Lucy Gray?"

His lips parted and his eyes frantically started to search my face. "How did you hear about her?"

"Coryo?"

Anger started to flood his eyes and his jaw clenched. Regret filled every part of my body and I sat up on the bed, keeping my hands on his face. "I'm sorry Coryo, is that a touchy subject I-" He was quiet for a moment as if planning what he was going to say.

"She... she was a nobody girl from District 12. I had to mentor her for The Hunger Games that year for my school project. I came out on top, Snow always lands on top."

He spoke through gritted teeth while he looked into my eyes, scanning my face for a reaction. What he told me so far aligned exactly with what my mom told me. This was even more worrying. There had to be more. He was keeping something from me. He could sense my distrust and started to speak again, more carefully.

"Darling, do you want the full truth?"

"Yes Coryo..."

He let out a heavy sigh. "She was my first girlfriend. We had a short fling and then she cheated on me." My jaw dropped. "Oh Coryo I'm so sorry..." I reached out and pulled him into a tight hug, tangling my fingers in his blond locks of hair. "It's okay darling, you didn't know. You don't know a lot of things." His hands started to rub my back up and down while I held him close.

"I never loved her anyways, I could never love someone so low class and trashy."

In an odd way I felt almost comforted by that statement. It meant he wasn't lying to me, I was his first love, right? He placed his hands on my stomach and pushed me away from the hug. My arms fell back down to my sides and I stared at him with deep remorse in my eyes. He smiled again, "It's okay Darling, is there anything else I can answer for you to put your troubled mind at ease?" Truthfully, I had a lot more questions but I felt bad and I didn't want to push him away more, not when our relationship was so delicate. I shook my head 'no' and he hummed before laying down on the bed. I followed suit and he turned his back to me.

"Goodnight"

"Goodnight..."

"I love you"

And then I was met with silence.

~

The next day passed and it was business as usual but I still couldn't get my mother's voice out of my head. My ears rang with every corner I turned. I saw Coryo's panicked face every time I closed my eyes after I asked him if he had killed anyone. It made me sick to my stomach but I didn't believe him. I do believe my mom was wrong about Lucy Gray though, he was genuinely hurt when I asked about her. I couldn't even imagine anyone wanting to cheat on him. Especially a girl from District 12, the opportunity to be with a capital man, especially one as charming, smart, and talented as Coryo should be a blessing. My poor husband probably had to deal with so much then.

When he came home he didn't talk to me that day. He couldn't even look me in the eye really. I felt wildly embarrassed and guilty. Of course, he was pulling away again, I pushed him. I should've just kept my pretty mouth shut like he had asked. My mom must have been mistaken. They don't know him like I do. It was nice to know how much they cared about me though.

Coriolanus slept in his office that night. I assume he had business to attend to so I just sat and tried to sleep alone in bed.

~

The next morning I woke up late and decided to try and make it up to Coryo by trying to leave more "I love you" notes around the house. I painted a portrait of a lake on one of his mugs, adding rose and ivy details to the handle. Stumbling down the hallway in the afternoon I walked by Coryo's office. I knew I wasn't allowed in there but damn it I was so curious. There were two maids in there talking and I silently eavesdropped.

"Careful when dusting that... This man has a lot of secrets and what's in those vials one I do not want to know about."

The other laughed and they continued to clean up.

"Isn't it odd we decided to have such a liar for a president?"

'Liar?' I thought. Why does everyone seem to think he's a liar?

"Yeah but he's great for the economy and the future of Panem."

Silence filled the room and then they both started laughing again.

"That doesn't seem to make it any better, then again, let's not bite the hand that feeds us."

They started to finish cleaning his office and once they left I snuck in. My hands traced around the walls of his office, it was small and packed with things. On his desk lay a little book filled with names and numbers, a pack of matches, a single white rose, and the vials the maids were talking about. Curiously, I reached for it. It was probably liquor or something. I picked it up carefully and examined it. It was clear and sealed shut. Cautiously, I started to unscrew the top and placed a drop of it on my finger. The liquid burned through my skin and I yelped loudly in pain. I grabbed a napkin and wiped it off my hand. I screamed in pain and the smell of burning flesh filled the room. Hot tears ran down my face as I removed the napkin and saw the damage that it left. My finger was red, hot, and my flesh was melted in the shape of a circle where the drop had been placed. Gasping desperately for breath, I tightly closed the lid of the vile and put it right back where I found it. I continued to cry from the searing pain, my finger throbbed and I whimpered desperately trying to keep quiet. I picked up my trash and made sure I left no trace of myself in there while I rushed to the kitchen, rinsing my finger under the water. Once the burning had gone away I slid down and laid my back against the kitchen cabinet.

"F- fuck fuck fuck- fucking poison. WHY THE FUCK WOULD HE HAVE POISON?"

I started to rock back and forth while I watched the skin around the burn turn purple. This must've been some sort of divine punishment to me for going into his office knowing I wasn't supposed to. One maid heard my wailing and hurried over to help me. She put an ointment on my finger before wrapping it up in a band-aid and above all, she didn't ask a question. I couldn't tell if that meant she was used to this kind of thing or if she was trained not to. I picked myself up off the floor and continued to go about my day and pretend that nothing happened.

Coryo didn't come to bed that night, I wasn't too sure if he had even come home honestly. I fell asleep alone again with nothing but my thoughts.

~

The next morning I was awakened by a rough hand shaking my shoulder. I yawned and opened my eyes to be met with Coryo's blue ones. They were deep and full of concern. He was sitting next to me on the bed still in his work clothes. I felt that pit of grief deep in my stomach again. Something was wrong, greatly wrong. "Coryo?" I asked, trying to remain calm.

"Y/N..."

"Coryo what's the matter?"

He sighed with deep remorse and said the worst news I had ever heard in my life. "Your parents... Y/N... your whole family they... um... their house burned down last night and the firefighters couldn't make it in time. When they arrived there, they searched the house but not a single survivor was found. They did find this though in your mothers room," He handed me a single stuffed doll. The doll was mine from when I was a child, it didn't have a single burn on it. I held it in my hands and sat staring at it in silence. They were gone. My whole family was gone. The tears threatened to spill but I felt so sick of crying lately. Why did my life feel like it was falling apart so fast? I just wanted a happy life as a newly wed and I have gotten nothing remotely close to that.

"Coryo... What's wrong with me? I'm like a bomb, anyone who cares about me either leaves me or dies... Am I cursed? I didn't even get to say goodbye. I didn't even get to hug them or- or- or see how big my little brother got or how smart my older brother is. I- I- I should've seen them more," I started weep, my tears starting to fall onto the doll below me, as if my tear were staining the innocence of the girl I used to be. Coriolanus grabbed me and held me close as I started to cry furiously into his chest. He planted a soft kiss on the top of my head and tried to whisper things to calm me down. His hands rubbed up and down my back.

"Darling, it's okay. You're going to be okay. You have me. I'll be here for you always. I make you happy, right? Your parents were always trying to keep you away from me... they didn't know you like I do. They don't know what you need darling but I do. We are going to get through this together, okay?'

I could barely process what he was saying through my tears. I just nodded into his chest and he continued to let me cry. I felt so safe in his arms in this moment. He was right, I do need him.

~

I couldn't get out of bed for days. The grief struck me overwhelmingly. I couldn't think straight. I just lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for hours at a time. When the foggy mist of the shock that had clouded my rationale finally faded I was left with the remaining thoughts. What was even real in this life anymore? I remember feeling so sad when almost none of my friends showed up to my wedding. I felt so alone and isolated but at least I knew I still had my family and my husband to be there for me and now, all I had was Coriolanus. I love him, I need him, but he's the type that gives love and then takes it away.

Maybe my mom was right... Maybe I do deserve better. This relationship isn't healthy. Has it ever been? Even when I was first falling for him, I always viewed him as better than me, which he is but shouldn't we be equal? Maybe... I'm too reliant on the love he gives me. I hate that. I hate how big of a hold he has on me. The way my happiness is always at the tip of his fingers, it makes me feel so weak. His hold on me is degrading. The worst part is, he knows how strong his power over me is. He knows me. He's learned me inside and out and he knows how to keep me under his palm.

My mom was right. The night of the party, he started yelling at me then when I threatened to leave him he switched. How could- how could I be so stupid? He switched because he didn't want me to leave him. He needed me to be there for him, to be his shining sparkling eye candy, to complete his perfect picture of domestic living, to be his waiting servant. And then when we made love that night, it must've not meant anything to him. He knows I believe everything people do has a purpose, he knows I don't ever want to exchange sex like a handshake. He slept with me to prove to me that he 'loves me' but that can't be true. I love him, his heart will never have space for me in it. No man treats someone he loves the way he treats me. I've been aware of this but every time I've gotten the courage to leave him he pulled me back in.

He's smart, he's manipulative. He's been doing it to me for months now. How could I be so stupid? Love is the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to me. He found his wide-eyed dreamer and just needed to ruin me. Even recently, he used my parent's death to try and make me even more dependent on him and it worked. I can't live without him.

"He did it"

His desk, the poison, no sane and normal man keeps poison in his office. It's making me think. The boy... the one my parents sent. Did Coryo know he was going to be there? He must've, the party was invite-only, you don't just sneak into the capital parties. The last thing Curtis did before he left was pour himself another cup of the juice. When Coryo ushered me into the house, I heard a man coughing from the garden but I didn't look, I couldn't, I was pushed away. His body the next morning... He had blood on his mouth. I remember learning from the academy that some poisons often makes you cough up blood before you die. Coryo had the poison. Could it be... did Coryo murder him?

"He did it"

Before I looked away when I saw his body in the garden, a glint of red could be seen in my vision. Was that his red coat?

"He did it"

Oh my god, the matches. He told me my parents house burned down.

"He did it"

The book with the names and numbers... who's names were in that book? What were the numbers?

"He did it"

I got out of bed for the first time in ages and rushed down to his office. My bones ached from the lack of mobility. I reached his office and rushed in. His notebook was gone. I started opening his drawers frantically. Finally, I found it. I opened up the pages and that was the last bit of proof I needed. His journal had the names and addresses of the different capital citizens, one page dedicated to every member of my family.

"He did it"

The matches were missing fully. Not anywhere to be found.

"He did it"

The doll. My doll. The doll probably reminded him of me, just a pretty object he can play with whenever he wants something to hold. It didn't have a single burn mark on it at all, he must've gotten it before the fire. Either that means my family let him into the house before he burned it down or he's been keeping it for a while.

"He did it"

My mom did say she had been trying to reach out to me for ages but couldn't. He was stopping them. He wanted to keep me isolated. I really didn't know who I was marrying. I married a murderer.

"He did it"

I couldn't continue to live with him but I can't live without him. It made me feel sick how much love I still felt for him even knowing he had been trying to destroy me from the inside out. I can't let him take my light. My mom really was right. Everyone who gets close to him ends up dead, missing, or disgraced. It's my turn to pick which path I was going to be.

My heart raced as I ripped a page out of his notebook and wrote a note for him, leaving it on the desk. I reached over and grabbed that familiar vile of poison and unscrewed the top. The cold glass hit my lips and I drank the contents like a shot. My heart raced and I started coughing profusely, everything burned from the inside out. Blood started to flow out the corners of my mouth but for once, I wasn't crying. Mama, I'm coming.

"He did it"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Coriolanus Snows POV

I'd be lying if I said I didn't cry when I found Y/N dead on the floor of my office. Blood trickled down the side of their mouth and they were holding the tiny vial I had on my desk. Y/N knew not to go into my office and frankly, I was shocked to see that it happened in there. On my desk was a note that said: "Till death do us part". I screamed loudly and felt like my body wasn't my own as I feverishly picked up the body and walked to the nearest in-house medic. Tears poured down my face. How dare Y/N just decide to selfishly leave me like this? After everything I had done? All the trouble I went through? It was ridiculous. I remember thinking, "I had you."

When I first met Y/N I remember believing that they were the embodiment of everything good in the world and the embodiment of what I needed in a partner. Loyal, innocent, trusting, naive, controllable. Truly, there isn't any room in this world for such goodness. My darling needed to be tougher or the cold world would do nothing but ruin them. I tried to make them tougher but their unconditional love was annoying at times but I tolerated it. No matter what I did to push Y/N away, they insisted on loving me till the end, but why? And if they did love me so much why would they leave me like this?

The medic couldn't do anything. Y/N was long gone by the time I got there. So much wasted time and potential. I don't think I will marry again. Not for many years at least. Just when it is time for me to have heirs I will marry. Gives my future wife less time to escape. I have to marry someone cruel, someone whom I can never seem to care about, especially not love. Y/N's crippling kindness almost had me falling at the end and that was dangerous.

The funeral was lavish. My darling was beloved by the public. Many mourned for weeks. It was shocking. As much as I tried to not care, the energy of the house felt so different now. It was a wasteland of what once was. Dust collected in every nook and cranny. I stumbled into the house and stood still, letting the world spin around me for a moment when I tilted my head up and noticed something I hadn't seen before, paintings, hundreds of them. Y/N painted tons of things around the pillars and walls. They were beautiful. Ivy and roses, clouds and sunshine. I forgot how truly artistically talented Y/N was. My eyes followed how the ivy traveled around the pillars. Ivy was a great metaphor for Y/N, beautiful, and simple, but still a pest that will grow all over you if you aren't too careful.

"Sir, Welcome home. We have prepared dinner for you." the butler said, pulling me out of my trance.

"Thank you and can we get someone to repaint this room ASAP, I need some things removed.

-

The whole house ended up being repainted. I never noticed how many of those paintings were left. Even on the furniture, I couldn't escape any of my memories of Y/N anywhere. The notes were the absolute worst. Small pieces of paper everywhere with sweet nothings written on them. "Have a good day", "I love you", "Good morning to Panem's greatest leader" Nowhere was safe. Memories and images circled my brain constantly.

I sat at the table we used to eat at alone, drinking coffee from my mug while reading the newspaper. They still were on the front page. It's been a month since the incident. I sighed and folded the paper, placing it face down on the table. I reached for the mug when I saw it again. A painting of a lake with roses and ivy painted on the handle. The lake... the lake. The lake of District 12,

Lucy Gray

The roses,

My Mother

The Ivy...,

y/n

I shouted at the top of my lungs and threw the mug at the wall. When will I finally be free of the past pests that continue to haunt my life?

~

A/N: WHAT DID YOU GUYS THINK??? It is almost 5 AM and I stayed up all night writing this, I hope you guys liked it. let me know plz. Now accepting requests for new stories, perhaps with new characters :)))