#twelve days of coining

[bittersweetresilience]

there are twenty seven songs in my félix playlist which means a few more and i can do a monthly writing game. why am i saying this when i have several important wips i am meant to be doing? well, you see

[programmiing]

OGERPON IN POKEMON CAFE REMIX

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Targaryen! Little Sister! Reader prompt: When the small council plans to marry off once again, you turn to your older brother for help. word count: 1, 000+ words

You were the youngest and third daughter of Alicent and Viserys. A few months younger than Helaena and Aegon's little shadow in your childhood. Your older brother at first hated it, the way you cling onto him and gawk at him with an innocent awe.

It was your ninth name day, your Father had not paid much attention to it, but your Mother had ordered a celebration for it. You had trailed after him, babbling about nonsense as he tried to lose you. It was at dinner that night that everything had boiled over. Instead of receiving gifts, you had taken to giving everyone a gift.

He had not expected anything. He hadn't been the most kind to you. But was surprised when you had gifted him an embroidered cloth with Sunfyre on it. It was not the best and some threads were loose, but you proudly had told him you learned embroidery for him. Seeing those big doe eyes of yours his opinion changed. He adored you. You were the only one in the family that did not care about his worsening reputation. You just...adored your big brother, flaws and all.

It was why it killed him on your eleventh name day you were shipped off to the Reach, married off to a Lord as old as your Grandsire. He was haunted by your wails, of the way you clung onto Helaena and Aemond, the two of them wailing as Ser Cole carried you off to the carriage.

His young sister, the only one in the family who truly cared, was sold off like a piece of cattle. Not even your cold Grandsire was able to protest the marriage as politically it was a good match and good enough reasoning for the small council to approve it. 

As years ticked by, you gave birth to two children, a stillborn daughter and a healthy son. Your husband kept you away in the Reach, so no one in your family had seen you since you were twelve and given birth to your only surviving son.

He remembered the look in your eyes, so void and almost dead. Of how you tried to stay positive. Saying, "Tis' not so bad. He mostly ignores me, except when he wishes to bed me. But even then tis' not so bad, he finishes quickly."

When he became King, he swiftly ordered you to return home, regardless of your husband's wishes. No one would take his baby sister away from him. Not whilst he was still alive and had the crown placed upon his head.

Watching you bounce your son on your lap, he attempts to pay some attention to the small council, but his eyes keep straying back to you. It was odd to think that you were now a Mother and all grown up. Snapping out of his little daze, he glances back at the small council, each member arguing intently. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Ser Criston slides a piece of parchment in front of him, an uncomfortable look on his face. Raising a brow at what he had just returned to, he glances at the parchment, reading the words quickly. 

Your cunt of a husband was dead, finally croaked in his sleep. There was no reason for you to go back to the Reach. You could stay here in King’s Landing once more. Softly smiling at the good news, he goes to speak up when Lord Lannister stands up from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table. His face red from anger, his eyes wild like an untamable beast, and voice booming loud enough that it would make a dragon’s roar put to shame.

“To speak of the Princess in such a manner is dishonorable, I will see to it personally that your tongue is removed, Lord Wydle.” 

“The girl is of age, she has proven she can bear heirs, healthy heirs. To not give her hand to another Lord would be foolish.” 

“We need allies, the common folk are starving and soon the coin will run out. Surely as Master of Coin you can see reason, Lord Lannister.”

“Your grace, please, listen to reason we should⎯”

It takes a moment to realize what they had been discussing so intently. Then it clicks, they were speaking of having you remarry. 

"What?" He whispers, his voice shaky and full of disbelief.

"No, Aegon, please don't make me do this again. Please." You whisper, tears building up in your eyes.

"It would be best to have your sister marry someone⎯"

"Think of the war, your grace⎯"

Seeing the tears building up in your eyes, it reminded him of all those years ago when you were whisked away to the Reach. Struggling to speak up and dismiss their suggestions, you kneel in front of his chair, gripping onto breeches as you beg and plead for clemency to their plans. Your son starts to wail on the other side of his chair, making motions with his hands to be picked up. 

Feeling his heart break a little at the sight, he shifts his gaze from you then your wailing son then back to the small council. Everything is hectic and he doesn’t know who or what to focus his attention on. Does he console you? Does he tend to your wailing son? Does he handle the small council? Struggling to find his voice, he just stays frozen in his chair. 

“Please, please, do not make me do this again, Aegon.” You beg, “I did what was asked of me before. Please do not ask this of me again.”

“We need allies, your grace. The Princess is still desired by many men, men who will look past her past marriage and son. Think of the kingdom⎯”

“Send treaties, then!”

“Please, Aegon. I ask as your sister, not a member of the Court. Please do not make me do this again. I do not wish to marry again. Please do not send me away again.” You beg, your voice cracking. 

Watching as the tears begin to fall from your eyes, he clenches his jaw tightly, anger boiling up at the sight of you. His precious little sister, the one person in all of the Realm that he truly cared for, was crying by his small council's hand. Slamming his hands down hard on the table, the room goes deadly silent, minus the soft sniffles of you and your son. 

“There will be no marrying off my sister! If you wish for such alliances as much as you claim, do offer your daughters instead, for I will not be doing the same to my sister nor my daughter.” 

“Your grace, if you would just⎯”

“I am King, no?” He snaps back, “There will be no questioning of my decision. The matter is settled.”

----

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

[themerlinrewrite]

kilgharrah: a half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole… you and arthur are two sides of the same coin… he is your destiny

merlin, who hasn’t slept in three days and is currently wanted dead by twelve different people: stop fucking calling me gay

[searchingforserendipity25]

There are some things Davenport knows.

He counts them sometimes, the things he knows.

His name; how to tie his shoes with twelve different knots; how the Madame Director likes her coffee.

The rules of playing Fantasy Chess, and how to cheat at Fantasy Chess too.

How to tell when someone is afraid

How to make his bed, so tight and neat he can drop a coin on it and it jumps, newly polished and gleaming, right back into his hand

How to bandage up to twenty different kinds of injuries

How to make the best sea chowder on the Moon Base, and also on the planet

How to press a uniform so it lasts a week and several explosions with no crinkled corners

How to organise reports with proper colour-coding techniques

Not a great many words, when it comes to that - slippery as fishtails, words, hard to grasp in the mind and impossible to put into his mouth

How to laugh, and how to cry

How to be helpful, if not always in the most efficient way

Some very complicated geometry and arithmetic, though not the word for geometry, nor how to write down an equation to explain how he got his results.His name, the names of his colleagues, where he is, what time of the day it is, what happened yesterday.

His name, his name, even when he doesn't know anything else, his name is Davenport -

Most days, anyway

He cries, sometimes, over bowls of spicy soup and at cute dogs, when someone leaves a book half-open on the table - when he sees groups of people laughing, and when he's alone for a long time. He is rarely alone. The Madame Director finds him, every time. Brings him biscuits and jam, shares puzzles, gives him folders to file.

She tries to teach him new words from brightly coloured books, sometimes. Not often; Davenport hates to make her unhappy, and she looks very sad, whenever he fails. He hates failing - this he knows for certain. But regardless of what he does, the Director is sad a lot of the time. Busy, busy; but she goes very still, late at night, and writes lists in strange languages with shifting characters, and then burns them, with a look on her face like stone, like a closed fist. He sweeps the ashes, afterwards; there's nothing in them he can understand.

No one sees her in those hours. Only Davenport is there, with no one else around. Davenport does not count as company, really. Or at least the Madame Director trusts him enough to let him see her when it's very late and she is very tired, and there is too much work for a night's rest.

It's nice, being trusted. Davenport likes it, likes his little tasks, his schedule and his friends. He knows every corner of the Moon Base, except the ones he is not supposed to enter; he has a little map sewn into his coat pocket, for when he forgets he knows every corner of the Moon Base.

He loves slow music, and sea chowder, and to drink his tea (the Director makes it, sometimes; she knows just how he likes it) while standing behind the transparent windows and watch the planet down below, all green and blue and changeful, like a face with many moods.

He knows he likes these things.

It is only that, sometimes, Davenport is very full of a painful feeling, a feeling like being full of smoldering fire, a feeling like --

Anger has no face, no colour. Davenport does not know a lot of things; sometimes he grasps at the softened edges of his mind, looking for something sharp enough to cut himself with. Davenport is angry, sometimes, though he has no words for it. Sometimes, anger is the only real thing in Davenport's world, the first thing he ever knew.

And then he forgets about it.

There are few things Davenport knows. He can feel the shape of something very important, prodding at him, filling him up with a warm, unpleasant energy. It is there when he wakes, for a handful of moments - every day, in the dreaming place between wakefulness and sleep. Like a dream, it fades before he is done dressing for the day. He has no words for it. The truth is, most days Davenport only knows his name is Davenport, and the worst of it is Davenport forgets there might be anything missing.

[apricot-blossomss]

On my knees begging for hermes x f reader

you ask and you shall receive...

☛ hermes way of flirting with you is stealing your shit

☛ sfw, fluff, minor goddess!fem!reader, reader is mentioned to be shorter than hermes

The moment you entered your quarters, you slumped into your favorite plushy armchair, placed your godly symbol on the floor next to it and breathed a sigh of relief. Some of these days kept you real busy, even though you were only a minor diety. The whole day you had been looking forward to letting yourself be consumed by the soft cushion and your novel- that you thought you had placed on the small table next to it.

Irritated, you sat up to make sure, but, clear as day, your book wasn't where you had left it. You checked the ground next to it and under the armchair but it wasn't to be found. Maybe you hadn't put it on the table after all? Though you thought you distinctly remembered doing that. But it wouldn't surprise you if your mind had been playing tricks on you again. Over the course of the last few months, you had managed to lose a bracelet, earrings, two books, a pillow, a hairbrush and several pens. though you weren't as willing to stock it up to your forgetfulness as you once were.

Case in point, your book wasn't in the shelf either and you begrudgingly settled for another one to snuggle into your armchair with. The crazy thing, you thought to yourself while opening the first page, was that some of the items had been in your bag or directly from your skin without you noticing losing them. If they really were just lost, some mortal woman was probably overjoyed with finding you divinely forged jewelry right now. But if this was some sort of trick... Hermes was the god of tricksters. Could it be...?

No. Why would Hermes have anything to do with this? You were only a minor goddess while he was one of the twelve olympians. Why would he be stealing from you? Still, you found it to be harder and harder to believe that you had misplaced all of these items.

With a sigh, you chose to postpone your speculation and concentrate on your novel. The day had worn you down, even gods could get exhausted. So it was no wonder you were slipping into peaceful stumbler only a few minutes after. Your book dropping to the ground didn't wake you, having fallen asleep in your comfortable armchair.

From the lights inside your quarters and the open windows, Hermes had concluded that you had to still be awake, making the thrill of snatching something else away straight from under your nose even more exciting. Giddily, he entered your living room through the window when his eyes fell on you, curled up in your armchair, an open book on the floor before it, sleeping peacefully.

Careful not to make a sound, he stalked over to you and looked down on your peaceful face. Every time you huffed out a breath, you made a cute little sighing sound and a loose strand of hair moved away from your mouth, only to settle back on your face when you breathed in. Bewitched by the enthralling sight, he couldn't do anything but look for a few seconds. Then, his eyes wandered to your godly symbol next to your seat. Your most priced possession. Was there anything better to steal to get your attention?

In under a minute, he had picked up your symbol, stored it in his pocket and pulled out a winged coin out of its depths that he carefully placed on your palm. Though you didn't wake up, you mumbled something incoherent in your sleep when his fingers closed yours around his coin. Your hands were warm, cute. Before he left the way he had come, he picked up a blanket off your couch and draped it on top of your sleeping form. Tucking you in, he laughed to himself when you gripped his coin tighter in your sleep and left through the window.

🪽

Enough was enough. This was the last straw.

When you had woken up this morning, ecstatic at the prospect of your free day and strangely warm given the fact that you didn't remember having a blanket the night before, your first instinct had been to pick up your godly symbol. But it was gone. And it was not to be found anywhere in the house. In its place, you only found a coin. A coin you very distinctly recognized.

So now here you were. In the divine gardens of a fellow god where you knew the object of your ire stopped everyday on his errands to steal himself some apples. A little nervous, you picked your fingernails. Without your godly symbol, you felt vulnerable, and your nerves weren't soothed by the fact that you were about to confront the thief, who just happened to be your long time crush.

But enough was enough. This wasn't just some playful prank anymore. The loss of your symbol directly impacted your godly duties. And he had been messing with you for far too long. You shouldn't be surprised- who but him could steal the earrings from your ears without you even noticing? What had you confused was- why? Hermes was known to steal to his hearts content from his fellow major gods, even their godly symbols, but you were a quite a few levels under that in terms of importance.

A rustling pulled you out of your contemplation and you quickly hid behind a tree. None other than the god of trickery lowered himself to the ground just a few feet from you, you could hear rustling when he searched the trees for ripe fruit.

"Eriounios!" you called him by his epithet, and he turned to you with feigned surprise when you emerged from behind the tree, hands on your hips and not at all dying inside from the sly smile he gave you.

He greeted you with your name and wiggled an apple in your direction. "Want one? I hear they are the most delicious on the whole of Olympus, so they must be almost as sweet as you, honey."

The pet name had your cheeks flaring up but you didn't budge. "No thank you. I am no thief." Since he made no effort to close the distance between you two, you did, until you were only about a foot apart. Hermes would never admit it, but he couldn't help but ogle your chest when your crossed your arms and glared up at him.

He smiled down at you calmly in return and took a bite out of his apple. "Shame." His flirtatious wink almost managed to distract you, but you stood your ground and contemplated how to approach the issue the best. It was no good to be overly angry, but it had to be firm.

"Give it back, Hermes."

"What are you talking about?" he munched innocently and twirled around the apple in his hand. But the way his eyes sparkled with a hidden amusement at your predicament, you knew this was his doing.

Your exasperated sigh only made his smile widen. "My godly symbol. You took it. Not only that, but you have been stealing from me for months now. I thought I was going crazy, but it was all you, wasn't it?" You realized you were rambling and raging and took a long breath to calm down. "Look, I get it, this is what you do, but you went too far with that last one. I need my godly symbol, can I please have it back? You can keep the rest."

"Hey, I don't know what or who took your symbol, but I had nothing to do with it," Hermes grinned and discarded the rest of the apple. "And I really have to get back to work now, honey, though I would love to continue this conversation another day-"

Before he could run, you grabbed his arm and stood on your toes to face him. Still, he loomed over you and if the teasing look on his face was any indication, he found your efforts to be more cute than anything. "Quit playing. Please," you huffed in frustration and poked his chest with your index finger. "I know that it was you who took them, where are they?"

"You look very pretty when you're angry," Hermes flirted, but you didn't let yourself be softened by his charming words. You were about to throw another plea at him, or a threat, or a demand, when the trickster god gently took your wrist and leaned close to you. "Alright, if you can solve this riddle, I miiight give you a hint."

"No riddles," you retorted, not quite sure where you found the courage to talk to a major olympian god like this. "No games."

"Just one?" Since he didn't budge, you gave him a reluctant nod but freed your wrist to cross your arms once more.

He leaned down regardless, until his mouth was brushing your ear, as if he was telling you a secret. "It holds your power, strong and bright, But in my hands, it’s out of sight. Return it I might, if you can guess, Where does it rest? Take a wild guess!"

"So you do have it!" you exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at his self satisfied face. "Where is it?"

"Well, that's the riddle, isn't it?" he smiled teasingly.

"And the rest, that was you, too?" you asked.

"Ah, alright, yes, that was me, honey," he admitted, shrugging. "I must say, no offense, but you were quite easy to steal from. Or were you just so taken with me that you didn't see what my hands were doing?" Your face was burning, but he wasn't done. Out of his bag, he pulled your godly symbol and let it dangle in front of your face. "But alas, you managed to catch the thief."

Suddenly, you realized something and smiled up at him. "Only because he wanted to be caught, I fear. You left this." You showed him his coin. "Now, why would you do that?"

"Every master has a slip up from time to time," he answered suspiciously nonchalantly and held out your symbol for you to take. "Here you go, honey. I promise not to take it again- at least for a while."

You took it and frowned at him. "You gave me a scare. I thought I was going mad, you know?"

"Ah, sorry," he replied and it sounded surprisingly earnest. "I didn't do it to upset you, you know? 'Was just enjoying your attention, I guess." You were surprised to find his cheeks somewhat rosy. Was he... blushing? No way. That was your job. But there was a hint of sincerity in his voice when he draped an arm around your shoulders and teased: "And I do enjoy seeing you get this flustered. You are always so put-together."

"And... this was your way of getting my attention," you deadpanned. "Could've just asked me out." That last part was mumbled, actually just to yourself, but he caught up on it and gave you a look of surprise.

"Would you have said yes?"

"Yes," you answered way to quickly and averted your face in embarrassment. "Ah, anyway, here's your coin, I'll be leaving you to your work now."

"Keep it," he said softly, taking your outstretched hand and closing your fingers around the coin. His touch sent tingles up your spine, and as if he knew, he gave you another teasing smile. "You know, the apples here land in that one cafe's apple tarts. Rumor has it they are delicious."

"Sounds good," you answer breathlessly, resisting the urge to chew on the inside of your cheek to relieve stress. Hermes himself was asking you out. Gods, this was the best day of your life, and it had started out so bad! Though, when you now thought about it, the theft wasn't so bad, now that you would be going on a date with the thief.

"Expect the rest of your stuff in the mail," Hermes said and if you weren't mistaken, his smile was even brighter than before. "Along with the table reservations."

"Alright," you smiled, cheekbones aching in the best way. There was a noticeable pep in your step when you turned to leave, one that didn't go unnoticed by the other god. You couldn't help but turn around one more time and your heart fluttered when you found him already looking at you. He waved, and that was when you noticed something shiny wrapped around his fingers. Your hand shot up to your neck, but it was gone. Your necklace.

Instead of going back to get it, you only smiled and shook your head at his triumphant grin. You saw him take off and then, you were alone, admits the apple trees, with a sweet fuzzy feeling in your tummy, and your heart stolen by the best of all thieves.

[sourholland]

timeless; thomas shelby

This idea has been plaguing my mind for days, I cannot get it out of my head. I’m not sure if I will make any more parts of this, it all depends on how I feel about it and if it is well received. The timeline of this is skewed on purpose, it’s also heavily based on Tommy’s time fighting during the war. Timeless by Taylor Swift was a huge inspiration.

Both you and Tommy became unlikely friends during childhood, only for you to realize you had always loved him. Tommy finds himself seeing you in a different light, only war being able to separate the two of you. (3.5k)

Thomas Shelby was the first and only boy you had ever loved.

It was 1902, Tommy was twelve years old. He played with your older brother, they went out into the street with the Shelby brothers and few other boys from the neighborhood and kicked a ball around. You were eight, trailing your brother Joseph at every chance you had.

When you met Tommy, it was because you had chased after your brother one August afternoon with the intention to join their game of kickball. The moment you approached the large group of prepubescent boys, Joseph looked absolutely mortified. Even though he was older than some of the boys, at fourteen, he still followed all of Tommy’s orders. This, you didn’t understand.

“Go home,” he leaned down to your level in gritted teeth.

“I just want to play, just one game,” you pleaded with him. “Please, Joey.”

“No,” he barked. “Y/N, you gotta get out of here.”

Feeling your face heat up, you were near tears and embarrassed in front of all of the older boys. Joseph would not let up, angry at you for trying to play with him and his friends.

“What the fuck d’she want?” Arthur bellowed towards your brother.

Peering over at him, you could tell that he was not very patient and was even older than Joseph. After Arthur had yelled, you turned back to go home. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks as you shuffled back to where you lived and went inside to play alone.

“Fuckin’ asshole is what you are,” Tommy shook his head a bit. “Game’s not fuckin’ hard or anythin’, Joe. She could have played.”

That was all they ever said again on the matter, your brother never brought it up to you that night and you never spoke of it to him. It wasn’t until later on that month that anyone had approached you about what happened that day in Small Heath.

You were sent out to pick up your mother’s cigarettes, dragging your feet along the dirt path with the coin in your hand. Every Wednesday, you made the same trek. Tommy Shelby came up on your right side as you walked one day, you saw a screwdriver sticking out of his pocket and nearly shuttered. The kids around the neighborhood spoke of him in hushed whispers, calling him a gypsy and saying he and his brothers carried razor blades around with them.

“You’re Joe’s sister, aren’t you?” He asked, peering over at you. “Tried to join in on a game a while back?”

“Yes,” you nodded. “I’m Y/N.”

He hummed in response, kicking dirt with his shoe as you both walked. He was much taller than you, though he was still quite narrow and scrawny. Truthfully, there was no denying that you had a little bit of a schoolgirl crush on him.

“Where’re you headed?” He finally spoke up.

“Grabbing my mum’s cigarettes,” you told him with a sigh. “She sends me out every week to pick some up.”

At the time, you had no clue why Tommy had followed you all the way to the shop and then walked you home. He never gave you any inclination either. Then, he did the same the next week. He came outside when you passed his house and you walked together. This occurred every week after the first.

Of course, you assumed this meant he liked you and this caused you to revel in the attention just a little. Tommy would talk to you about school and horses mostly, he was kind to you.

About six months after you and Tommy had developed this weekly routine, you mentioned something to your brother about it and he teased you about having a crush on Tommy. Making the mistake of saying he must’ve liked you back if he continued to walk along with you, Joseph was quite cruel in return.

“He doesn’t do it because he likes to,” Joseph laughed. “Father started pestering me to walk with you when he found out you were being picked on in school, bothered and such by the boys around. I started to give Tommy a bit of my allowance to walk with you so dad would finally get off my fucking back.”

You no longer walked to the shops on Wednesdays.

Tommy waited for you the next week, but you never left out front and began past his house. The week after, he did the same and you still did not come.

“Y/N!” Your mother’s voice came up the staircase on Thursday morning. “Come to the door.”

Tommy stood there in the walkway to your home, talking with your mother about something as you came down the steps. She left you to walk outside together and down the stairs into the street.

“You’re not getting your mum’s cigarettes anymore?” He asked you suddenly.

“No, I am,” you told him. “Just don’t want to walk with you anymore.”

He seemed taken aback by this, not used to the idea of you sticking your nose up at him and looking the other way when he tried to talk to you. Tommy knew you were smitten with him, he didn’t mind it. He thought you were nice enough, he liked to walk with you every week. He just didn’t see you the same way that you saw him, you were too young and too curious about certain things.

“Why’s that?” He shot back a little annoyed.

“Joey told me that he’s been paying you to do it, to make sure nobody messes with me.”

“And?” Tommy asked. “Doesn’t really fuckin’ matter if you ask me, whether he’s payin’ me or not.”

This made you roll your eyes, shaking your head at him and leaning against the brick of one of the alleyways you walked down. Tommy was confused as to why this bothered you so much, truthfully it didn’t really matter about the money to him. It helped him to buy cigarettes, that was all. He didn’t mind walking along with you, though. He would’ve done it without the payout.

“It matters to me,” you told him. “I don’t need looking after or anything like that.”

Turning on your heel, you thought that you’d been able to get the last word. Little did you know, nobody but Tommy got the last word. He only realized you had decided to go out on Saturdays, rather than Wednesdays. He told Joseph that he wouldn’t be requiring payment anymore and you walked in silence for over a month before you spoke to him on your walks again.

His stubbornness irked you, leaving you infuriatingly mad at his inability to leave you alone. Your cheeks went hot when he came around, stomach in knots whenever he would say your name.

Over the years, you had tried to shake your feelings for Tommy. This was mostly due to the fact that you had grown attached in a way that allowed you to call him a friend. By the time you were eleven, Tommy had taught you how to ride his horse. He spent an entire summer working with you. He was fifteen and definitely had plenty of better things to do, but he spent hours upon hours in the grueling sun with you.

“Tommy,” you said, laying sprawled out on a patch of grass one afternoon when you were thirteen and he was seventeen. “D’you want to come ‘round to mine for supper tonight? Mum asked me to invite you over.”

The last bit was a lie, you truly just wanted Tommy to join you. He inhaled shortly before propping himself up on his hand and looking over at you.

“Can’t tonight, m’sorry,” he apologized to you.

“Why not?” You asked curiously, assuming he’d saying something about having to be with his brothers or Polly.

“I’ve actually asked a girl out,” he confessed to you. “I’m planning to take her out tonight.”

This was one of the few times Tommy discussed his love life with you. Your friendship mostly consisted of doing other things, less intrusive things. He still really saw you as a younger sister type of figure in a way. He thoroughly enjoyed your company, but there was no denying his attraction to the girls he saw in school.

Once, Tommy told you about Arthur bringing home a prostitute. He didn’t tell you why he did it, or what they did. Only laughed it off, unbeknownst to him that you really didn’t know what a prostitute was. Joseph had called them whores, but you lived a rather sheltered lifestyle and none of the older people around you ever spoke about such things in front of you.

Tommy took girls out, he’d had several girlfriends as you approached your later teenage years. Your friendship, however, never faltered. When you were seventeen years old, you remember going out riding with him and telling him how you wanted to make something of yourself beyond what Small Heath had to offer. Planning to become a schoolteacher, Tommy had always admired this about you.

“Don’t you want to be something other than all this?” You asked him, alluding to the fact that he was growing more and more responsible for the Peaky Blinders. “I mean, I just wondered if you ever had other dreams.”

“I’d like to work with horses,” he told you quietly, running his hands over the mare’s mane.

“Why don’t you?” You questioned him. “I know you feel some sense of responsibility over your family, I think it’s one of your best traits. Don’t you ever want to just—I don’t know, live a less tormenting life?”

Tommy played with the reins, looking at you and shrugging. This was all he’d ever known, and all he would ever know. There was no Birmingham without Tommy Shelby, you knew it as well as anyone. It still hurt, though. Knowing he was playing with fire every day, testing God, as your mother had called it.

Once Tommy had grown more involved in the gang, your parents no longer allowed him to come over to the house. They detested you seeing him at all, your brother most of all. He settled quickly, marrying a woman and starting a family.

Tommy realized he loved you when he was twenty two years old. He’d known you for ten years, having called you his best friend for a decade. You were eighteen years old and had just begun training to become a teacher, you were commuting frequently and saw Tommy less and less.

It was that Christmas when you’d introduced him to the man you had been courting, his name was Michael. When he shook the man’s hand, Tommy felt something inside of him shift. Suddenly, you were no longer that little girl with scuffed shoes and long pigtails. He saw a young woman with ambition and heart, but you were no longer holding out for Tommy like you had for nearly ten years.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Arthur came up and clapped Tommy on the back of the shoulder. “S’fucking Christmas and you’re really bringing my spirits down.”

Tommy said nothing, downing more whiskey as he watched Michael spin you around in a dance. You were in a fit of laughter, smiling at him adoringly.

“Be serious, brother,” Arthur sighed, drunk and wondering how Tommy could truly be as he was. “You can’t tell me that you’re sitting over here in the corner drinking away your sorrows because she’s brought along some bloke.”

“Fuck off, won’t you?” Tommy shot him a look.

“Unbelievable,” Arthur walked away laughing.

It was completely and utterly unbelievable, not only to Arthur, but to Tommy as well. He’d spent years with you, practically praying that you would find someone, anyone to avert your feelings too. As you grew older, you also were able to hide your feelings and emotions better in Tommy’s case.

He watched you the entire night, nodding a farewell when he noticed you trying to approach him. He had no intention of speaking to Michael again, for fear that he may be physically ill.

His hope that it was a passing courtship died with what looked to be your close friendship. The two of you hardly saw each other anymore, animosity forming between you after the night of the Christmas party.

Months later, Tommy found himself at your apartment door when Ada had told him that you mentioned thinking Michael was planning to propose. He left to see you after midnight, walking the entire distance to where you lived and putting himself at your front door well past one in the morning.

“Y/N,” he called out as he knocked. “It’s Tommy.”

Opening the door, you were only left in your nightdress. Your hair was down completely, something Tommy had not seen since you were some years younger. He could not help but to notice the sheer material of the fabric, the buds of your nipples showing through.

“Tommy?” You yawned. “What’re you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you,” he told you.

“Now? It’s the middle of the night.”

Ushering him in, you let him shut the door behind him and tried to rub the sleep out of your eyes. Tommy felt himself growing hard, looking at you in such a state.

“Y/N, don’t marry him,” Tommy blurted out in almost a whisper.

“What?” You looked at him, shocked. “What did you say?”

“Don’t marry him, don’t marry Michael.”

There was a stillness to the room, a silence that made you almost sick. His face was somehow stoic, but pleading at the same time. His eyes bored into your own, as if they were making it impossible to get a word out.

“He is a good man, Tommy,” you said. “He wants to take care of me, to make me happy.”

“With plenty of money and security, with a practical occupation and a good legacy to leave your children?” Tommy asked, sarcasm incredibly evident.

“Yes, Tommy. Fuck, I mean is that what you want me to say? That he can give me a good life? Why should it matter if he’s got money?”

“It shouldn’t, not if you love him,” Tommy told you. “Do you?”

It felt as if you were eight years old again, confronting Tommy about why he was walking with you in the first place. He looked at you with such yearning, such longing. It was as if he was begging you not to say yes, pleading with you not to have already devoted your heart to this man.

There was only one truth of the matter. Thomas Shelby was the only man that you had ever loved.

“Tommy, I have only ever loved you since I was eight years old,” you whispered.

As if unable to hold back any longer, Tommy embraced you fully and brought you into his arms. He kissed you furiously, without any doubt or question that you were meant for him. He let his hands run up and down your back and pulled you into his body.

Before you gave into your urge to let him rip your sheer nightdress off of you, you pulled away with swollen lips and eyes full of desire. This was not right, not until you spoke to Michael. Regardless of how you felt for Tommy, you could not do this to Michael.

“Not yet,” you whispered. “I gave a man my word, I need to speak to him before I can go any further here.”

Tommy respected your choice, he knew you wouldn’t want disloyalty on your conscience. He just nodded his head and placed a hand on your cheek gently, it was in these moments that he forgot about everything else.

Michael didn’t take the news very well at all, his ego was bruised and he pleaded for you to reconsider. He told you how deeply he loved you and how you had led him on, making him believe that you two would have a life together. He was right, you had encouraged him in all of his dreams of your future and you had done it without ever considering how it may end. It was selfish.

It took you weeks before you agreed to see Tommy again after Michael had left you feeling so guilty. Nights of tireless sleep, you would look up at the sky and pray to god that you were making the right decisions.

Over a year into your training, you would soon be able to do what you’d always dreamt of. Dark times approached, though. There were ghosts of whispers at every street corner, they spoke of war so feverishly. It was as if death was due to knock at the doors of families, stripping women of their husbands and children of their fathers.

The thought of this had left Tommy quite stoic most of the time, he held a monotonous view on the entire matter. Every time you had brought it up to him, he told you how he would be expected to fight on behalf of his country if it came down to it.

And so he did, when it came down to it and Britain had joined the War—The Shelby brothers and hundreds of other men in Small Heath joined as well.

“Tommy,” I sniffled as I watched him from across his bedroom pack a small bag of things. “I need you to promise me that you’ll come home, that you won’t die out there. They’re saying things about trench warfare, it’s all really terrifying—”

Tommy crossed the room and took your face in his hands, kissing you hard on the lips, as if it was the last time he would ever do so. A piece of you wondered if he believed that he would die out there.

“Please come home,” you breathed.

“I will come home,” he kissed you again. “I promise you.”

You planned to hold him to this promise. Having waited ten years for Tommy Shelby, you would wait however long more so long as he would come home to you.

It took two months before his first letter would come after you watched him depart on that large ship. Long months of kneeling at the foot of your bed, begging god not to take Tommy. Everything that was being said about the war was absolutely tragic, soldiers being blown to pieces or rotting below the earth in the trenches.

My Dearest Y/N,

I wish I was able to write to you sooner, I cannot say where I am for the risk of interception. Just know that I have never been in such conditions in my life, I spend my days underground. I have taken the role of a tunneler. Trench warfare has not been good to any of us, I find myself fantasizing of the end of this long hell.

I stare at your picture every night before I shut my eyes, dreaming of what it would be like beside you. There is no greater sorrow to me than your absence from my life at this point in time. I can only hope that it will not be for long.

Not long ago, myself and a group of men were gassed. I watched a fellow soldier go blind for nearly three days before he finally came out of it, only with some permanent damage. There are times when I have thought to myself, ‘Perhaps if I was hit, it would not be so bad. Perhaps even death is better than fighting in this war’.

Then I think of you. I think of the promises I made to you before I left to fight in this god awful war. I cannot understand how men are expected to live like this, nor how we will continue on. I was up to my knees in water last week, the trenches dark and desolate as we waited for the storm to pass. There is so much waiting these days.

I look forward to your letter.

With all of my love,

Tommy Shelby

[beom-pyu]

cologne ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ choi beomgyu

choi beomgyu x fem!reader , tags; lakeside cabin vacation funtime yay , summer , frenemies w beomgyu , annoyed reader , more friends to lovers bc why not! , some enemies to lovers? , jealous!beomgyu , nsfw , reader is in deep denial , silent pining , can't be a beom-pyu fic without fluff at the end!

warnings: smut (minors dni!) , slight frottage , thigh fucking , jealousy , subtle perv beomgyu? very subtle , beomgyu is a little possessive , cursing , needy beomgyu

( inspiration: cologne by beabadoobee!! literally has nothing to do with the song, but the vibe just reminded me of this fic so! :] )

a/n: just something cute and simple since it's almost summer!!! also, THANK YOU ALL FOR 100+ FOLLOWERS!! im oh so grateful for all of you readers and your lovely comments as well as cute tags and reblogs <;3 you guys make my day!!!

wc: 4.1k+

12:01 a.m

you place the last pillow in between your bodies, humming in approval at your makeshift pillow border. you clap your hands once to get beomgyu's attention, the brunette looking up at you with exasperation from the other side of the small bed.

"okay, so the rules are very clear. don't cross this line, don't—"

"don't touch your stuff, and don't talk to you. i know. you've repeated yourself like twelve times," beomgyu finishes your interrupted speech, ending his sentence with a roll of his eyes.

your face contorts into disgust at the boy on the other side of the pillow wall, rolling your eyes back at him. "whatever. don't steal all of the blanket either." 

beomgyu's lip curls up in an equal amount of repulsion, running his annoying fingers through his annoying hair. you abruptly turn your back to him, laying down to pull the sheets up to your chin. 

it’s just your luck to be stuck with beomgyu for your friend group outing. you are now solidified in your belief that flipping a coin was the most idiotic way to pick roommates. 

how did you end up with the single bed and choi beomgyu? this has to be some type of spiritual karma. maybe you should've given up your seat on the bus for that old lady after all.

"don't tell me what to do," he mumbles as he reaches over to turn off the lamp on the bedside table next to him, settling into the covers. you have half the mind to shoot a snarky retort back at him, but you decide to be the bigger person (for once) and just go to sleep. 

this does not mean he wins though.

rule  #1 (don't cross the pillow border) seems to be the easiest rule to follow. you both sleep with your backs to each other, bodies fully separated by the plush cushions you’d stolen from the cabin’s couch. it may be the littlest bit uncomfortable, but you rather wake up with a stiff back than feel beomgyu's annoying foot touch your leg under the sheets.

a shiver racks down your spine simply at the thought.

rule #2 (don't touch your stuff) is a little harder for choi “annoying bitch” beomgyu, much to your dismay. when you get up at 3 a.m. to pee, you notice your charger plugged into beomgyu's annoying phone, your own phone sitting sadly next to it at a whopping 23%. when did he even…?

you inhale deeply to calm yourself.

now, you would’ve… should’ve chucked beomgyu's phone across the room and poured ice down the back of his shirt in retaliation to breaking your rule, but when you look down at his sleeping face, you just can’t bring yourself to do it.

beomgyu's annoyingly pink lips are slightly parted, his annoying hair all messy and flopped over his annoying forehead into his annoying eyes, and his annoying chest rises and falls deeply.

he looks peaceful. cute, even.

...

wait.

what. the. fuck?

you silently gag at yourself, shaking your head before pulling a face at the passing thought. you must really be sleep deprived if you think choi “assface” beomgyu looks cute right now. even after breaking rule #2 (don't touch your stuff)!

you shake your head, shuffling over to unplug his phone, pretending to hit him with the device before you toss it to the foot of the bed. you happily plug yours back in before carrying on with your mission to the bathroom.

by the time morning rolls around, rule #3 (don't talk to you) is beyond broken.

there is no reason, no reason at all, as to why you are awoken to beomgyu's shouts bouncing off the walls of the small cabin room. 

"SPIDER! Y/N, GET UP! THERE'S A FUCKING SPIDER!"

you groan as you try to blink your eyes open to assess the situation, but the blinding sunlight through the sheer curtains of the room burns your corneas, your eyes squeezing shut again.

“just kill it then!” you whine, burying your head back into your pillow in an attempt to tune him out and fall back asleep. you couldn’t have been any dumber though—in a single beat, the warm white blanket over your body is pulled off, the cool morning air attacking your skin immediately. “what’s your fucking problem?!”

“get your ass up and kill it for me!” beomgyu’s annoying voice fills your ears, and that was your final straw, grabbing the pillow from under your head to chuck it in the direction of the noise, successfully hearing a muffled ‘oof’ in the distance. you smile in victory.

“damn, what did i do?” 

instead of hearing beomgyu’s complaints of getting hit, you’re instead met with his loud cackles. you peek an eye open to see soobin standing in the doorway with a pout on his lips and a pillow in his hands. wrong target.

“sorry, soobin! i was trying to hit that loser,” you apologize, sitting up to rub the sleep out of your eyes as you point toward beomgyu’s annoying figure. you see soobin give you a small smile, shaking his head slightly, and beomgyu frowns at the name you called him. serves him right.

after a good 5 minutes of soobin attempting to chase down the spider and get rid of it with beomgyu on his tail recording the entire interaction, you manage to drift off to sleep again, happily spreading your entire body out in the starfish position now that you have the bed all to yourself.

another few hours pass before a hand is shaking you awake.

“5 more minutes,” you grumble, turning onto your side to curl up into the fetal position, blanket still long gone.

“c’mon, y/n! get dressed—we’re going to the lake!” kai announces enthusiastically, shaking you again until you finally open your eyes, feeling a little disappointed at the fact that the voice doesn’t belong to beomgyu.

…

only because you're in the mood to argue! that’s why!

that’s totally why…

3:36 p.m

"soobin!" you shout down the trail, waving a bit as said soobin stops in his tracks, turning around to wait for you to catch up. you jog a bit to meet him, a wide smile crossing his face.

"hey y/n. you coming from the lake?" you guys fall into stride together, nodding mindlessly at his words.

"mhm. i forgot a towel.” you motion to your drenched body, and soobin hums in confirmation.

“i’m heading back too. yeonjun’s rod broke,” soobin informs you, holding up the broken fishing rod with a small, sheepish smile. you laugh a bit at the poor sight, covering your smile behind your hand.

“how did that even happen?”

and from there ensued a step-by-step breakdown of how yeonjun managed to break a pro-grade fishing rod, trailing into a bunch of other crazy stories soobin has to tell as you trek to the cabin. once you get back, your stomach hurts from laughing so much. soobin has his arm slung over your shoulders as he continues to tell the most embarrassing story of his life and you just can’t help it.

"stop laughing at me! everyone saw naruto my underwear," soobin whines, but the smile on his face gives it all away.

“maybe stop wearing jeans that are 2 sizes too small? you’re not in one direction,” you tease as you walk into the cabin, slipping off your flip-flops by the door. you hear soobin half scoff and half laugh at your comment, his hand coming to your waist faintly as to move your body so he can slip past.

you see beomgyu sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, watching you guys with narrowed eyes as he bites into an apple slowly. you feel uncomfortable with his intense gaze on you, suddenly aware of the wet bikini on your body, wrapping your arms around yourself self-consciously.

“you try finding a good pair of jeans when you’re 6’1,” soobin retorts, taking his own shoes off before looking around for the fishing supplies. you puff out a chuckle, heading over to the kitchen, you brush past beomgyu’s figure to dig in the freezer, your back fully turned to him.

“you want a popsicle, soobin?” you call over your shoulder as you pick out a strawberry one for yourself and a cherry one for soobin, already knowing his answer.

“yes, please!” he responds in a silly voice and you smile a bit at the action, turning around to make your way back over to him. your brows furrow at the sudden disappearance of beomgyu’s presence but shrug it away, making your way over to your lanky friend.

“did you want me to walk you back to the lake?” soobin asks from where his head is ducked into a closet, sounds of clanking filling the space as he digs around. you think for a moment as you lick your popsicle.

“no, you go ahead. i’m gonna shower and then help taehyun set up the grill,” you respond, soobin letting out a little noise of triumph as he finally locates the fishing rods, standing back up straight. 

“thank you,” he speaks as you pass him the popsicle, patting your head affectionately. “i’ll see you later!”

“see you!” 

and then he’s swiftly out the door, leaving you alone in the front room of the cabin. you’re reminded of your drenched body when you look down to see the puddle you’ve trailed across the hardwood floor, mentally promising to clean it up before you make your way back to your shared room.

you knock on the door before entering, just in case someone just so happens to be inside changing or something. when you receive no response, you push the door open to see beomgyu on the bed, headphones covering his ears. they don’t seem to be doing the best job though, considering the fact that you can still hear the music blasting through the speakers.

the eardrum damage must explain why he ignored your rules last night. you accidentally let out a cackle at your own inside joke, somehow gaining the attention of beomgyu who looks up at you with startled eyes. he removes his headphones to settle around his neck before the infamous lip curl appears on his face.

"you fucking scared me. why were you creeping like that?" beomgyu shoots towards you, venom in his voice. it doesn’t phase you one bit though, pursing your lips as you shrug your shoulders, licking your slowly melting popsicle as you head over to your bag on the opposite side of the bed.

"i knocked but you didn't hear cause of your loud ass music. not my fault."

you can feel beomgyu's eye roll from behind your head, but instead of receiving a retort back, he remains silent. it’s odd. choi “always has something to say” beomgyu doesn’t have a comeback ready for you? you grab your towel and stand back up to face him, cocking your head. he’s acting weird.

"why are you acting weird?" 

very classy.

beomgyu looks up from his phone screen, squinting his eyes at you. his lips are pressed together tightly, his hair messy, and in his eyes like it had been that night, your mind flashing back to his sleeping appearance.

gross. totally not cute. he’s choi beomgyu—so he’s automatically gross. he has to be.

"i'm not..." beomgyu drags out as if he’s unsure of his own statement. "i'm just tired because someone decided to make us sleep in the worst position known to man."

you give him a small glare before focusing your attention back down on your bag to grab your body wash and loofah. a beat passes as he continues.

"you seem to be having fun with soobin though."

your head lifts back up, giving him an inquisitive stare. 

“what? you can’t stand seeing me actually happy and not trying to rip my hair out like when i’m around you?” you laugh in amusement, flipping your towel over your shoulder to reduce the clutter in your hands. you could’ve missed it—you almost missed it—the way beomgyu’s eyes slightly dull at your words, nibbling on his bottom lip in thought. you try not to think of it though, walking to leave the room.

“anyways, we’re grilling at the lake in like 2 hours so don’t try to say i didn’t tell you!” and that was that as you exit, an uneasy swirling within your gut.

2:23 a.m

you sit on the edge of the bed as you plug in your phone, making sure its in the outlet on your side of the bed this time to avoid any more rule-breaking. you adjust your tank top as you stand to retrieve some more pillows. as much as you hate to admit it, you’re struggling to ignore the way beomgyu has been acting around you all day. 

little touches at the lake, playfully wiping your mouth during dinner, sharing a blanket with you as you all sat around the campfire, his head on your shoulder. maybe he really was just tired today. maybe he was so out of it that he didn’t realize how out of the norm he’s been acting.

it’s not like you hate choi “mr. annoying” beomgyu. that isn’t the case at all! you’d even go as far as to consider him your… friend. he just has a knack for pushing all your wrong buttons, evoking such guttural annoyance out of your body in a way that no one else can. it’s always been that way since the day you first met in high school.

but he’s never been like this, you think as you grab the pillows off of the floor to rebuild your pillow wall. his voice stops your movement, though, your head whipping around to see a freshly showered beomgyu—his hair is all wet and wavy, his skin smooth and golden from the summer sun. the sweatpants he’s wearing hang low on his hips, revealing the waistband of his underwear.

you swallow a bit as your eyes widen at his figure. 

only because you’re not used to seeing him in such a minuscule amount of clothes!

yeah… that’s why.

“can we go without the stupid border? my back still fucking hurts from last night,” beomgyu complains as he makes his way over to the bed, looking a little too good in the warm lighting of the bedside table’s lamp, an orange hue casting over his skin. 

you’re frozen as you watch the way his muscles move as he climbs into the bed, laying on his back with his hands behind his head. his eyes meet yours, a brow raised in question. you blink, snapping yourself out of whatever trance you were in, clearing your throat as you drop the pillows back onto the ground.

“yea, whatever. just—don’t touch me with your gross feet,” you mumble, slipping into the bed yourself. beomgyu laughs a bit at your words, reaching over to turn off the lamp. 

“just my feet, huh? so you wouldn’t care if it were my hands?” he asks, obviously joking—but you feel your stomach swoop slightly at the thought.

no! you’re just tired. it’s been a long day.

“don’t touch me at all, loser. and don’t talk to me either! starting now.” you turn your back to him, a perfect mirror of the night before as you pull the blanket up and over your body. the room is silent other than the slight creaking of the wooden bedframe as beomgyu gets comfortable. 

as much as you want to ignore his presence completely, you simply can’t. he’s too close to your body, so close that you can feel his steady breaths on your shoulder, his body heat radiating onto your exposed skin. you try to squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to just sleep, but he scoots closer. and closer. and closer—until his chest is fully pressed against your back, a hand coming to rest on your hip.

your heart pounds in your ears as you take in his touch. you should be telling him to get off of you, or push him onto the floor for breaking your rule! but his hand is heavy and hot on your hip, his fingers playing with the hem of your tank top for a second before they dip underneath, splaying his hand out onto your tummy. his touch is hot and searing. your stomach flips at the sensation.

you can feel his dick chub up against your sleeping pants, his hips slowly rutting up against you. you feel heat rush to your core at the simple action, your heart stuttering a bit.

“beomgyu, what are you doing?” you whisper, voice shaky and unstable as you feel him roll his hips onto your ass. 

“please, let me break your rules just this once,” he whispers back, deep voice filling your ears, clouding up your mind. his voice is breathy and low, holding you back against him. “i need—fuck, please, i just—”

his words come out sparse as he rolls his hips against yours again. your mouth is dry, unsure if this is even real. the beomgyu you know wouldn’t even dare to be closer than 2 feet near you, and now here he is, begging in your ear.

“what do you need, beomgyu?” you mumble back, biting your lip as he ruts against you a little faster, a small broken moan leaving his lips at the friction. you’re wet—you can feel yourself dripping into your panties as his fingers press into your skin. 

“you, y/n. i need y—been wanting you all day,” he whines into your ear, his nose nudging against your shoulder. it’s all too intimate, too intense—and you hate the fact that you like the way his breath feels on the back of your neck. “can i fuck your thighs, please? please, i won’t put it in—just your thighs, please.”

you inhale, wanting to weigh out the pros and cons—but you want him just as badly. your head is nodding before you can even think and beomgyu’s lips press against your shoulder, mumbling thank yous as his hands scramble to pull down your pants and underwear in one swift motion, before pulling his dick out. you feel it twitch on your lower back and you press against him, enjoying the way his breathing picks up a little too much.

you lift your leg a bit so he can slide his heavy dick in between your thighs, his shaft nudged up against your wet pussy. you sigh at the weight, beomgyu’s hand pressing flat against your stomach to hold you in place.

“thank you, thank you, thank you,” he whimpers out as he begins thrusting quickly, going dumb at the way your cunt drips onto his length, easing the glide. you tilt your head back a bit and beomgyu’s immediately kissing up the expanse of your neck, nipping at your skin, moaning in your ear. it’s so lewd and dirty and your hand comes down to rub at your clit, moaning quietly at the relief.

beomgyu notices your movement, brushing your hand away to do the work for you, his soft fingers rubbing delicious circles on your bud as his thrusts quicken, your thighs becoming wet with a mixture of your own slick and his precome. you can’t help the quiet moans falling out of your mouth at the feeling, his fingers moving just right over your sensitive clit, the drag of his veiny dick applying the perfect amount of pressure against your entrance. 

“‘m better than soobin. so much better than him. only i can make you feel like this,” he mumbles into your skin, voice high and whiny as he thrusts against you, pressing down on your clit in a way that makes your gut tighten. you can barely process his words—something about soobin?—but you’re too lost in beomgyu’s touch, his hips stuttering against your gushing pussy.

you’re unable to control your noises as your hand grabs onto his wrist, feeling your orgasm rushing upon you quickly. beomgyu’s dick is twitching against your folds and the combination of his breathy moans and stimulation on your swollen bud is too much. your body tenses up as you cum, pleasure washing over you in waves as you whimper in beomgyu’s arms.

“that’s it, baby. cum on my cock—fuck, just like that,” beomgyu talks you through your orgasm, fingers only slowing on your clit as he cums himself. you can feel the stripes of burning cum shoot onto your thighs, his thrusts faltering as he whines, mouth hot against your skin. you lay there catching your breath, head spinning as you gradually come back to reality, beomgyu’s hand still pressed against your rising and falling stomach.

his forehead rests on your shoulder, breathing heavily for a bit before you feel delicate kisses on your skin, trailing up your neck. you lean into his touch, letting those butterflies swarm your stomach again at the little action. 

you don’t want to speak first—you don’t know what to say. after all these years of fighting with beomgyu over the pettiest things, all the tension has led up to this point. you aren’t sure how to feel… but you think you kind of like it.

and maybe you kind of like choi “annoying loser” beomgyu as well.

you feel beomgyu slide out from in between your legs, moving over to the other side of the bed in silence. you feel a little disappointed at the disappearance of his touch.

“i’m gonna go get a towel, okay?” beomgyu speaks softly as he moves to stand, pulling his pants back up. his face is flushed and the tips of his ears are bright red, a shy smile on his face. 

“okay,” you respond quietly with a small smile of your own, acknowledging the way your stomach flips at the sight of him. what the hell are you going to do now?

it doesn’t take long for beomgyu to return with a wet rag, climbing over the sheets to clean you up. his brows are furrowed as he focuses on his task, and you cover your face in embarrassment at the closeness of it all—with his body in between your legs, gently wiping up the mess he made. you pull your hands away as his movements stop, helping you get dressed again. 

his gaze on you is heavy and you try not to meet his eyes, face hot and flustered as the entire situation fully dawns on you. he’s having none of it though, hovering over your body to turn your head so your gaze locks onto his eyes, his blown-out pupils a little too sparkly, making your heart flutter a little too much.

“are you okay?” he asks quietly—gently as if his voice was only made for you to hear. you nod in response. you want to shrink under his inquisitive stare, but there’s nowhere to run as you’re fully caged in by his body. 

you see the way his eyes flutter down to your lips for a quick second before they’re glued onto your eyes again. “please don’t tell me you regret that because i don’t. not at all.”

he sounds desperate, pitiful almost, and you reach up to brush the strands of hair out of his face with a small smile. because you don’t regret it either.

“remember that no talking to me rule?” you start, seeing the way beomgyu’s lips pout in disappointment, unsure of where you’re going with this. “how about you kiss me instead?”

beomgyu doesn’t give you a second to breathe before his lips crash onto yours roughly, as if he’s been waiting for this moment for years.

and oh fuck... maybe he has.

you sigh into the kiss, reaching to the back of his neck to bring him closer to you, his body lowering onto yours. his lips are incredibly soft, his weight comforting on top of your body. his hand comes to hold your cheek gently, thumb swiping over your skin. it’s everything and more—it’s something you didn’t even know you had been waiting for.

when he pulls away from you, it’s slow and gentle. beomgyu leans down to press a few more quick kisses onto your lips, a tiny smile settling onto his face as he rolls over to the other side of the bed, pulling you into his arms. you melt into his embrace, resting your head against his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso.

“i swear to god though, gyu. your feet better not touch me,” you mumble into his chest, feeling his body rumble with laughter.

“rules are made to be broken, baby,” beomgyu speaks before his still-very-annoying foot touches yours under the sheets. you squeal in shock at his cold skin, but laughter quickly overtakes any annoyance that was bound to wind up in you.

you’ll let it slide. just this once.

reblogs are highly cherished!

masterlist

©️BEOM-PYU

[syoddeye]

the warren

price x reader | 895 words

had the overwhelming urge to write creepy!price. this is the result. not closely edited, apologies.

CW: blood (mentioned), hunting (mentioned/implied), theft, stalking

Bare footprints, neat impressions set into the loam ringing the lake. They veered left to the woods, to the direction of the climb leading to meadows.

Where'd you run now?

The signs of her trail are near invisible in the night - disturbed foliage and snapped twigs - but not to him. Crouching at the edge where the prints disappear into the underbrush, he sees dark droplets of blood, wet, painting leaf and root. He wipes one off of a stone, brings it to his mouth, and runs the pad of his finger over his gums and tongue. Salt and metal, the very things she tried to use to keep him out, keep him away.

The very things he had developed a taste for.

John admires her spirit, even with his plan to snuff out that independence. Her frenzied escape only heightened his anticipation for when he'd catch her.

Run, rabbit, run.

~~ Three months earlier ~~

John knew the day he spied her trespassing at the hutch that her hands were clean. Soft and unsullied. Not a speck of dirt under her fingernails. Polite and easy with her apologies, lips parting to show a pink tongue and good teeth.

She saw the cat, followed it over the unmarked property line, and then spotted the colony in its enclosure.

"You like animals?" 

"Yes, who doesn't?"

"Come see the kittens, then."

She trailed after him, around the side of the shophouse and back to the business side. He held his tongue when she observed none of the lots on the road bracketing the bay were fenced.

Fences were unnecessary this far out. Everything, everyone, knew their place. Knew where they were not allowed to tread without invitation. Everyone except her, apparently.

A newcomer to this neck of the woods.

She crouched, peered into the plastic, straw-filled tub on the porch, and watched the week-old creatures half-blindly search for their mother. The heat lamp was a functional substitute while the queen was out filling her belly.

"So, this is your shop?" She brushed herself off when she stood, eyeing the store's interior through the front windows.

"Mhm."

"Are you closed?"

"For lunch, as of five minutes ago."

"Oh."

He sighed. "But I can delay my meal. C'mon."

"Thank you, I promise I won't take long."

~~

She takes ten minutes. John leans against the back counter, steel thermos down to the dregs of the morning's coffee. The basket in the crook of her arm carries a week's worth of canned and dry goods. She presents it with a small smile and digs into a pocket for her cardholder.

He rings her up, poking through the haul. In addition to the sundry of foodstuff, there are basic toiletries, insect repellent, a lighter, and a pack of twelve-hour candles. She adds a pair of cheap red sunglasses from the revolving display. They do not make it into the final total.

"Can I ask what brings an Englishman here?" She asks after handing over a wad of cash, setting her wallet down to take the tag off of the sunglasses.

Like clockwork. Always the same question with every new face.

"Retirement," He cards through the bills and makes change. "And you? Visiting?"

"I'm renting for the summer."

He smirks and closes the cash drawer. Holding out what she's owed over a manicured hand, he tilts his head slightly. "Would that be the old Warren place? Or the Lakeshore Arms?" He drops the money.

A few coins slip through the cracks of her fingers, clattering sharply against the formica, some ricocheting to the floor at her sandaled feet.

"Limited housing supply here, least longer term," John explains, making no move to assist other than lazily pushing a quarter back across the counter.

She scrambles to collect the scattered tender, resurfacing from the other side of the counter with a sheepish look beneath her brow, clearly flustered. "The Warren place."

"Hm. Need a bag?"

"No, thanks," She says, smiling tight when she pulls two canvas bags from the sling over her chest. She drops the items into each bag inelegantly. Cans settle atop the loaf of white bread, and the bug spray slots snugly next to the toothpaste.

Never bagged her own groceries before, I'll bet.

She grabs her wallet. "Are there…any other stores nearby?"

"Next place is two towns over. About an hour and a ten-minute drive, forty-five minutes if you speed," John leans back, arms crossing. I assure you, though, the store's got everything you need right here. And if it doesn't…All you need to do is ask."

It's heavy-handed. He knows. But it's better to plant the seed now and let it take root.

"I'll keep that in mind," She sets the sunglasses atop her head and turns to leave, only to spot the short stack of bagged deer corn near the door. One hand on the door, she takes a closer look. "Aw, I didn't know you could feed the deer like this."

His mouth slowly curls. "It's bait, sweetheart."

The instant drop in her expression sends a wicked thrill down his spine.

When she leaves, he watches her hurry down the road through the glass. He flips the sign on the door again: Out to lunch. 

John fishes her ID card out of his pocket, murmurs her name, and looks back at her retreating form.

You're a long way from home, rabbit.

[redak-ted]

yeah here flowerpunk incorrect quotes for the soul

Miles: I think I'm falling for you. Hobie: Then get up.

Hobie: I've already sent good vibes your way… they’re coming. There’s nothing you can do to stop them. Miles: This is the most threatening way I’ve ever been cheered up.

Hobie: Welcome, fellow idiots Miles: Hello, Hobie Hobie: No, no, not you, you're not an idiot Miles: You underestimate me

Hobie: What’s up guys? I’m back. Miles: What the- you can’t be here. You’re dead. I literally saw you die. Hobie: Death is a social construct.

Miles, struggling to keep upright in their 1 inch heels: Yeah, I-I don’t really think heels are for me Hobie, pointing at them and walking flawlessly in sparkly golden 6 inch heels: WEAK.

Hobie: Stubs their toe FUCK! Miles: Mind your language! Hobie: What else am I supposed to say, “Woe is I”??? Miles: Hobie: You have to accept that swear words are necessary sometimes, Miles.

Miles: This is such a bad idea. Hobie: Then why are you coming along? Miles: One of us need to be able to talk the cops out of arresting us when this inevitably goes wrong.

Hobie: Change is inedible. Miles: Don't you mean inevitable? Hobie, spitting out coins: No, I did not.

Miles, going over Hobie's resume: Okay, so right here, it states that you're creative. Hobie: Yes Miles: Okay…may I know what you create? Hobie: Problems.

Hobie: What if the 'g' in 'gif' is silent? Miles: Go the fuck to sleep Hobie: What gif I don't want to? Miles: Fuck You.

Hobie: Miles! My face is on fire! Miles: Hobie! Are you ok?! Hobie: Oh yes, I'm fine. I just said that to make sure you'd come in here quickly. Miles: But your face is on fire. Hobie: Yes. It's much faster than shaving.

Hobie: Don't stay up all night, Miles. Last time you got this sleep-deprived, you tried to eat your own shirt.

Hobie: Which is correct, seven and five IS thirteen, or seven and five ARE thirteen? Miles: Neither. Miles: Because it's twelve.

Hobie: Three words. Say them and I'm yours. Miles: Three words. Hobie:

Miles: It’s dark in here Hobie: Don’t worry dude I got this Hobie: *Stomps their feet* Hobie: *Skechers light up*

Hobie: You're the love of my life and my best friend, I would do anything for you. Miles: I want you to eat three meals a day and have a decent sleep schedule. Hobie: Absolutely not.

Hobie: In light of what you did for me, you can hug me for four to five seconds. Miles: FORTY FIVE SECONDS?!? Hobie: No! Four to five seconds! Miles: Too late!!!

Miles: Do you think you’d actually notice if someone didn’t cast a shadow? Or if their limbs were just slightly too long? Or if they had just a little too many teeth? like how many times have you passed something on the street and you just didn’t notice It? Hobie: Stay woke monsterfuckers ur love is out there!!!!! Miles: Yknow what? Not my point at all in any way whatsoever, but I’m glad I could be an inspiration

[girlystories]

Two sides on the same coin

— pairings: Joseph Descamps x ex-rebellious reader

summary: you get expelled from your all girls school after an incident you get yourself into. cutting all ties with your troublesome friends, your parents send you to voltaire lycée in hopes you change your ways. an annoying prick, though, gets in the way of that, making you constantly on the verge of breaking your promise to your parents.

additional warnings: underage smoking, usage of foul language, mention of boobs ig?

authors note: very creative chapter title, ik. also really sorry for this late update, but i honestly don't haven't any excuse. it's finally here so I hope you enjoy. also i added a character from another movie cuz i can.

words: 3.9k

Chapter 1: The bastard with the dumb glasses

[Name] [Last Name] certainly wasn't expecting her first day to occur like this.

She fell down on her knees next to the wounded boy, who held on his left eye. He was whimpering in pain, making it obvious the punch he took to the face was serious.

Placing a hand on his back, she tried to receive any attention from him. She called out his name but didn't get an answer. Blood was dripping from between his fingers and his groaning increased before she was pulled away from him.

...

Lumière Lycée was nothing but a memory now, all what happened there only for the driven girl to want go remember, whenever she even wanted to. If she wanted to. She couldn't lie to herself and say it was a good time. On the contrary, it was a living hell for her. It wasn't a catholic school, but it was somehow aiming towards it.

She'd gotten in trouble one, two, three, or more times. Times she couldn't even keep track of.

Not that it even mattered now. No one would know of her past, her previous troublesome and somewhat rebellious nature in a place for her old school and only herself. It was a year ago from now, certainly she'd have changed from then. Or, in better words, she wanted to mask it deep inside. She promised it to her parents.

Moving schools meant moving overall, but she was sure she'd get used to the new environment sooner or later. Voltaire Lycée, the only academy daring to take things further and expand into a mixed school containing both boys and girls. Such a big change, things were seemingly passing so fast. It was the only thing the newspapers and radio were discussing about all day long for the past three days.

She was now brushing her hair, styling it while in her bathrobe. She added a small touch of makeup on her lashes, in a effort not to seem as tired from sleeping late the earlier day. Her anxiety forbid her from it. To bring some sort of color to her lips, she applied some chapstick. She didn't want to impress anybody, but didn't want to stand out by appearing like some sort of messy girl. That'd make a horrible impression. She opted to blend in with everybody else, which wasn't as easy since she was expected as one of the other few new girls. She'd stand out either way. How many girls would even attend that school anyway?

Either way, she hoped for a change. From having more than fifty absences, five to nine out of twelve marks, constantly snapping at her other classmates and breaking into fights, to becoming a lady with a future ahead of her.

There was a knock on her bedroom door, "[Name]," a soft voice called from behind it, "are you ready yet? Your father could give you a ride to school."

"No, it's okay," she got up from her chair, giving a last look at herself from her mirror. "I'd lather walk on my first day."

Her mother nodded and left without a word, leaving her to finish in getting ready.

[Name] opened her wardrobe, inspecting her clothes and in the end decided upon a matching set of a top and short skirt that she tried out the day before. Before leaving her room she wore her pair of Mary-Jane's.

She headed to her kitchen, where her parents were already awake, eating their breakfast before work. She took a seat and took a sip of her prepared coffe. "Good morning," she said.

Her father swallowed his own coffe before speaking, "Good morning. How do you feel about your new school?"

"Rather anxious."

"No wonder," her mother said. "A mixed school? It's a much troublesome shift from what we're used too. Wouldn't you agree, dear?"

Her dad finished his coffe, placing his mug down. "Well, we do what we can do. If only you would behave, [Name]."

"[Father name], " her mother glanced at him with knotted brows. "Don't start again."

He ignored her warnings, "Now make sure to get your shit together or else things will be really complicated. I'm saying this from the bottom of my heart."

"I know," [Name] simply said.

Her mother still kept an eye on her husband and sighed, turning her attention at her daughter. "Now you have a nice day, okay? Be home right after school or if you want stop by the bakery."

[Name] finished her butter bread, taking her bag as she got up and went to the front door.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she got interrupted. Internally groaning, she went back and kissed her parents on the cheek.

"Alright, bye," she finally said and left.

Since it was still early, she stopped at her neighborhood supermarket to buy herself a pack of Gauloises, thanking the owner and lighting one while on her way. Just then she realized she didn't know the way.

Minutes later she regretted not accepting her parents' offer to drive her to school. Cursing under her breath at her possibility of being late on her first day, she kept her fast pase as she took a turn on the street she thought the school was located.

To her utter luck, she was right. When she noticed the front gate inspector closing the door she jogged there yelling for him stop. He rose his head towards her, earning his attention.

He threw his cigarette, chuckling softly. "Lucky for you, it's your first day, miss, otherwise I'd have left you locked outside," he said and opened the gate for her.

"Sorry, it won't happen again..." she breathed out.

"Well, they haven't made their way inside. Mr. Belanger is giving a speech."

"Thanks," she said and walked hurrily where everyone stood.

On top of the building's stairs stood the school staff, the students surprisingly listening from bellow. She shoved herself between the crowd to catch a word he was saying.

"-Gentlemen, I expect you to...to be as polite, respectful, magnanimous and dignified as I know you can...when on your best behavior."

"Who is that?" she asked herself.

"The school's Dean," she wasn't really expecting an answer, yet a guy replied from beside her.

She nodded at him, staying silent for a moment before talking again. "Damn, I don't even know in what class I am."

"Don't worry. They'll call your name anyway."

Just then, a woman walked forward, holding a sheet or paper. "I'll now be calling the first-year's, then proceed the second year's due to the addition of female students."

"Just like that," he smirked and Mr. Bluebeard began reading the paper.

[Name] breathed out a sigh of relief. "Good. Because I was afraid of almost getting detention from being late."

He let out a laugh, "On your first day? There's no way a person could achieve that record. Not even me. I can assure you I've tried. I don't think you get detention from being late."

"No," she said. "I said almost. Wait, what do you mean y-"

The call of her name interrupted her question.

"That's your name, right? Seems like you're in class 1B."

"Oh, yeah," she said looking as some other students walked up the starts when their names were called. "See you."

She took a seat behind two girls, and as she did so smiled at them when they seemed to acknowledged her. Little by little everyone gathered in class, each taking their seats.

The woman that was calling out the students from before walked in. "I am Mrs. Giraud, your homeroom teacher."

Then, a girl with blonde hair entered the class, eyeing the empty seats anxiously. She had her hair styled with a headband that matched her dress which was beautifully complimenting her figure. It was no surprise everyone was looking at her with either admiration or a tint of desire.

She took a seat at a desk in the front, and [Name] felt somehow disappointed she didn't choose to sit next to her instead.

Mrs. Giraud noticed her gesture. "What's your name miss?"

She got up from her seat, holding her hands together politely. "Annick Sabiani."

"Where do you think you are, miss Sabiani?"

She didn't get enough time to respond at her question.

"Do you think it's okay to sit next to a boy?" she asked sternly. "Get your things."

She began doing so, but Mrs. Giraud interrupted her again. "No. You," she pointed towards the boy next to her. He looked at her for a moment and she continued, "Get up. Go sit in the back."

"But I can't see from there."

"Back row, now," she then looked at [Name], realizing she failed in noticing her presence before. "And what's your name, miss?"

She got up, awkwardly looking around the class and trying to ignore the stares. "[Name] [Last name]."

"You sit in the front."

She gathered her bag and did as she was told, still feeling the stares accompanied with whistling sounds and whispers. The boy tried to do the same, but someone put his foot in the way. That made him trip and almost fall, the group of boys laughing and making pig noises. "It's not your day, piggy."

The teacher did nothing about it, only complaining about being interrupted. "Quiet! As I was saying... Mrs. Giraud, with a "D" as in "discipline.""

[Name] wasn't listening what she was saying anymore, glancing at the person who was at fault of tripping the poor guy. He was grinning at his friend beside him, finding it wholehearted hilarious, like it was comedy gold. He fixed his glasses before he pretending he was paying attention to Mrs. Giraud. Instead he wrote a note and showed it next to him, the duo starting cackling quietly.

Next period was Latin, where she was met with Mr. Douillard. She ultimately ended up not having a really good idea about him, earning already a bad impression by him ignoring the girls when they raised their hand. She grew more and more annoyed when he pretended not to noticed her and she just stopped trying. Sabiani did not back down, though. Still, Mr. Douillard picked the only guy that had raised his hand.

"I think she raised her hand," the same guy with the glasses pointed out in a snarky tone. He pressed his lips together to hold himself from laughing.

Much to the teachers dismay of having to pick a girl student, he side-eyed Sabiani. "Indeed. So?"

She pushed her chair back, fixing her dress. "The Romans welcome Horatio with joy and congratulations and escort him to his house."

"The Romans "cheer" Horatio," he corrected, obviously not wanting to lower to the level of ever praising a girl, wanting to dismiss their existence entirely. "Can you conjugate the verb "ovare"?"

As Sabiani was answering, [Name] noticed the guy from before writing something on a paper, giving it to the person next to him and whispering something. The note was passed down until the teacher noticed.

"Give me that," he ordered, interrupting Sabiani.

The poor guy sighed and stood up walking up to the teacher and handing the note. From where [Name] sat she couldn't see anything but by the expression of Mr. Douillard she could tell it wasn't good.

The unlucky person sighed and stood up walking up to the teacher and handing the note. [Name] knew of him. He was Alain Laubrac, a guy who happened to be in the same gang she used to hang out last year. She stopped hanging out with them after her expulsion, when she was grounded all summer, cutting all ties with them thankfully. She hadn't spoke to him since like the rest. From where she sat she couldn't see anything but by the expression of Mr. Douillard she could tell it wasn't good.

"Think this is funny?"

"It wasn't me."

"Who is responsible for this masterpiece?"

No answer. The guy who drew it pretended he didn't know a thing, placing his pen under his bottom lip.

"Your name?"

"It wasn't me," Alain repeated.

"'It wasn't me'," Mr. Douillard sighed, "All culprits have the same name. They must be related. Okay, Mr. 'It wasn't me'...'"

"My name is Laubrac," he corrected.

"Are you the boy from the foster care?"

The whole class chuckled at that.

"Some nobody's son's trying to graduate? How amusing. Didn't anyone teach you discipline in the care system? I won't let a bastard disrupt my class. Get out."

"But he didn't do anything!" a girl with blond pigtails protested.

"Nobody taught you to raise your hand in your girls' school, Miss Magnan? Or maybe you think you have a free pass because your uncle is the Dean," the teacher mocked, hitting the paper on his palm. "Escort your new friend to your uncle's office. He'll give you detention too."

They both left the room with their heads low, the class filled with silence.

[Name] bit the inside of her mouth, raising a hand.

"Yes, miss?" the teacher complained.

"With all due respect, sir, but you're being really unfair," she said. Mr. Douillard was taked aback and she continued before he interrupted. "It was Picasso over there who did it," she eyed the glasses-guy from the back.

The smile he wore dissappeared, now glaring at her and preparing to argue something back.

"You've got a nerve talking to me like that, miss [Last Name]," the teacher said. "Don't think I haven't been informed of your performance in your past school. I'm not afraid to get you expelled here too."

The class suddenly filled with murmurs.

"Unless you want detention as well I advice you to sit back down."

She looked down and without having anything else to say she sat on her chair. Her grip on her pen tightened when she looked back and seeing the guy still stare at her, slowly forming a winning smirk.

Bastard, she thought.

Finally lunch came, and she exhaled a sigh of relief as she stood up from her seat, an instant need to stretch her body overtaking her. She only wanted to smoke as soon as possible, the necessity of nicotine calling out to her from not being present for a while. She closed her notebook and walked out the classroom as soon as there was space for her to walk through the students.

She walked down the big row of starts, avoiding in pushing the boy in front of her, but still having trouble keeping her patience.

Just as she was about to turn a corner she felt her face being hit with a flat surface, being jolted back.

"Woah, what's the rush?" she felt an arm on her shoulder and was met with a silly smile. It was the guy from earlier in the morning.

"Sorry," she said, feeling embarrassed. She allowed herself to groan, feeling free from expressing her feelings. Even in front of this guy she just met. "I just couldn't stay in that room anymore."

"I didn't know class 1B was that far off," he joked.

"You know anyone from there?"

"Certainly. I could name quite a few if you ask me."

"Ugh, then I'm sure you know. Speaking of, in what class did you end up?"

He placed a hand in his pocket. "2B," he smiled. "If my last name was different we could've been in the same class. Maybe then the school year wouldn't be so bad."

"Yeah, talk about luck," she played along his playful attitude. She didn't know where he was getting at, but he was at least tolerable. "Oh, hey, we haven't met properly before."

"You're right," he extended his palm, smiling at her. "Mick Travis."

She replied with her name, shaking his hand. "Mick Travis? Is that French or..."

"I'm originally from Britain, but I've moved here for a while. I don't know for how long but I'll do what I can in the meantime. Second year in this school and I can't wait to get out of here."

"Did something happen last year?"

"It's a long story," he said simply, changing the subject. "So, where are you headed?"

In the end they sat at a bench, under a tree to avoid the bright sun from blinding their eyes and having to constantly squint at each other. Travis sat sideways, his one leg crossed while the other was extended freely, his head resting on his palm, the other holding his cigarette.

[Name] lazily looked up at the tree as the wind moved it's leafs, making her almost fall asleep. "Are they gotta tell us something for not going to eat?"

"Hell no, I'm sure they know how ass the food is anyway. We're just saving our lives at the moment."

She hummed, putting out her finished cigarette.

"So," he adjusted his head, in a way to look at her. "What do you think of this school?"

"I don't know. But I hope this year passes quickly. Last year was the worst year of my life."

This peacked his interest. "How so?"

"Long story," she laughed when she realized he responded the same way before. "Maybe I'll tell you if I skip a class."

"Fine."

Break ended too quickly for [Name] to enjoy and she dragged her feet to class, with Travis having to sometimes push her while she groaned in annoyance.

She walked inside, making eyecontact with Sabiani and giving her a look of "I can't stand being here already." The poor girl only giving her a sympathetic smile in response.

She was about to sleep on her desk, when a commotion made her raise her head to see what was going on. Descamps and his friends – whatever their names were, she didn't even bother to know – were making a fuss over something, and she noticed quickly a bucket filled with water behind the door. Descamps grabbed it and attempted to place it on top of the door, ordering one of his friends to keep watch from outside in the process.

The class did nothing, and so did [Name]. It took her a while to realize that a prank was happening, so whoever were to walk in would get drenched in that dirty bucket water. She rose from her seat, throwing her chair back and scaring Sabiani from beside her. She did promise not to act out, in hopes of not getting unwanted attention from the teachers, but she had enough from that Latin teacher anyway. She wouldn't let anyone stop her now.

She walked up to him, pushing him and making him almost spill the water. He narrowed his eyes at her, before he flashed her a cocky smile. "What's that? Didn't you learn your lesson from getting expelled from your last school? Are you planning on doing the same thing here?"

She clenched her jaw at the nerve he had. He didn't even know of her, yet acted better than her. "I'll get expelled for this? You're the one putting a bucket on top of the damn door."

She felt a hand grabbing her wrist and she turned around. "Don't get involved, just continue sleeping on your desk like you were before," it was one of Descamps friends.

She snatched her hand away, "Don't touch me." Turning her attention back at the vile glasses-wearing guy, she attempted to take the bucket away from him, only for him to raise it over her head, mocking her in the process. She would've been intimidated by his height, but she was already used to scarier guys from last year. Descamps laughed at her unsuccessful attempts, then motioned something to his friend. He got the memo and held back [Name] by restraining her.

"Let me down!" she yelled, but they ignored her, finally Descamps putting the damn bucket where he planned from the beginning. She looked at the rest of the class, everyone doing nothing about the whole thing and staying silent in their seats. She made eyecontact with Laubrac, her eyes seeking for his help. He only looked away, hiding his shame.

The victim of the prank was Magnan, as the water completely covered her from head to toe. Her braids were starting to fall apart from her cute style. Her frozen body left in shock as she looked around the class, everyone watching her without reaction. [Name] felt shame when she realized the water made the fabric on her chest area visible, being stuck on her skin.

Descamps and his friends were the only ones breaking the silence in the room, chuckling to themselves and breaking out laughing, [Name] being no longer being held back.

Suddenly he swallowed hard and composed himself at the sight of Mrs. Couret. He looked at her nervously and placed both his hands in his pockets.

Mrs. Couret was in shock at first, but acted quickly, taking of her jacket and putting it around Magnan. She ordered [Name] and Sabiani to look over the class, but they knew that with both of them combined they couldn't control Descamps and his dumb crew. Moments later, they exited the classroom, headed to the nurses office.

If that wasn't enough, Descamps even drew on the chalkboard, being a picture of who she assumed was Magnan, her chest area being the most prominent. [Name] was about to go off again, but Sabiani grabbed her wrist instead, shaking her head at her to tell her to stop. After a bit of contemplating she backed down. Before she could even sigh in disappointment, a senior barged inside the classroom.

He pushed a guy from his way and swing at one of the guys that indulged in the "prank". Sabiani yelled at them to stop but it escalated even worse. Descamps went to defend him, and this lead to him being hit. In the eye area. Next thing she knew, he was kneeled to the ground. Everything had happened so fast, [Name] was frozen in place.

Without thinking she fell next to him, trying to get a look at his injury. It was pretty hard to do so, as he pressed onto his left eye, his back slouching more and more as he couldn't contain his pain anymore. His groans made him so he couldn't hear the girl from beside him, but the warm touch on his shaking body comforted him even for a bit.

[Name] felt herself suddenly being pushed back, and she calmed herself when she realized it was the Dean.

"Let me see," he said, crouching to Descamps' level.

"My eye...! I can't see..."

"Don't touch it okay? Can you stand up?" when he nodded, he helped him get up. He then ordered Pichon to get the nurse, but she was already there.

"He's got some glass in his eye," Mr. Belanger said softly at his wife, as she placed a hand on his back and led him outside, mentioning something about taking him to the hospital.

"Get back to your class!" he yelled at the students that were watching from outside the door. "Dupin, take your seat. Jean-Pierre, my office. You two, put the chairs back. You wipe that off. And you, clean that now!" he looked at the rest of the class, his piercing look sending shivers down [Name]'s spine. "Everyone else, take your seats!" he ordered and the tone of his voice made everyone do so without question. "Quietly!"

He sighed, "I'll leave you to it, Miss Couret," he said, giving a last look to the teacher that had just arrived before storming off.

The rest of the day seemed to pass way slower that before.

tagging: @kpoploverxx-12 @puchosdementa @tropicalheart13 @luvmacyyyy @aiuragf @idontlikemonday @helchronicles @bubblegum-bitchhhhhhhhh @visndcaitswhore @blueberryblood11 @remusmuse @pookayyyyy @blvckdress @lirominissss @issoais-blog @murxhavia @b3l1z8 @nikkoiiii @beau-min

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[demonslayedher]

Determining Ages and Birth Years

Kimetsu no Yaiba’s first official fanbook gave us ages for the many of the main characters, but in a manga where calculating age can be crucial, why are these numbers not so straightforward? Because the Japanese calendar is a mess, and the Taisho period was an in-between stage in many ways. Many new changes were established in the Meiji period but not broadly enforced until the Showa period, including how to count one’s age.

This subject can be terribly complicated, but please follow me below for:

--Historical context for how methods of counting age could differ --Which method I choose to apply to Kimetsu no Yaiba and why --Based on that, a list of my calculations for dates of birth, zodiac signs (Chinese and Western), and because it’s handy, the date each of these characters would have turned 25

In the Taisho period, there are two methods of counting age in play:

Kazoedoshi (“counting years”): Counting the years one has been in alive in, with that year having started on the agricultural new year and counting a new year to one’s age each New Year’s Day after that, like how it is still practiced in South Korea.

Which is to say, you are born at age 1, counting the first calendar year you lived in, and on the following New Year’s Day, you are age 2, even if you have only been out of the womb a very short time.

Mannenrei (“full year age”): Counting only each full 12-month period since your birth as part of your age, like how it is practiced in the United States of America.

Which is to say, you are born at age 0, and after twelve full months have passed, you are age 1.

Kazoedoshi was practiced through most of the Demon Slayer Corp’s history, but the Meiji government enforced a switch to Mannenrei in 1902. However, most people still practiced Kazoedoshi throughout the Meiji, Taisho, and early Showa periods, and it wasn’t until 1950 that the government reinforced the switch to Mannenrei. This is also when, with the influx of American culture due to the post-war occupation, individual birthdays started to be marked with cake and presents. Until that time, people did not pay much attention to their date of birthday besides, perhaps, a passing notion and maybe a shrine or temple visit and a nice dinner (see more on this post). Many people continued to count their own age in Kazoedoshi until 1950, and although some people liked the “oh, actually I’m younger than I thought I was!” surprise (because Manrenrei really was outside of their usual way of thinking), it made centenarians a little sad that they hadn’t actually reached 100.

Similarly, even though the Meiji government enforced a switch to the Gregorian calendar which put New Years on January 1, many people still celebrated a sliding date according to a lunar-based agricultural calendar, like is still done in China. It was likewise later reinforced.

In modern Japan, New Years on Gregorian January 1 and counting age by the Mannenrei system are the norm and standard, however, some customs (especially but not limited to religious customs) are still celebrated according to the agricultural calendar and Kazoedoshi ages. It’s annoying to keep track of and if I had a 5-yen coin for every time I say the Japanese calendar is a mess, I’d have a lot more yen.

The canon of Kimetsu no Yaiba does not specify any of the following: 1. What year most of KnY takes place (but based on clues from the Hand Demon, we can extrapolate that most of it takes place in 1915) 2. Whether the characters’ given ages are according to Kazoedoshi or Mannenrei, and whether the characters’ given birthdates are according to the Gregorian or agricultural calendars 3. Which method the characters use to count New Years and their own age 4. If there are any differences among the cast and how they count these things (like if the city-slickers were with the times and the country bumpkins were not) 5. Whether or not Amane accounted for Mannenrei or Kazoedoshi when stating that all the marked swordsmen of the Sengoku period died by the age of 25

So what are fanfic writers who are preoccupied with canon accuracy to do? How much should the fans of characters who got the mark fret?

After tying my brain in knots (for years, since I attempted tackling this issue years ago and this is my better post addressing the issue(s)), here are the ways that I approach it.

First: I firmly treat most of the events of canon as firmly taking place in Gregorian 1915, with the Final Selection taking place that winter and Muzan’s defeat coming sometime around the very end of 1915 or start of 1916. (See here for how I calculated all the time frames indicated in canon. You’re welcome.)

Second, we have to treat the official fanbook material in the context of how it was published. I think the ages in the fanbook are given in Mannenrei for the benefit of Heisei/Reiwa period readers, but if you really want to dig into it, the characters might interpret their own age differently based on Kazoedoshi, since it was such a prevalent way to count one’s age even for people born in the Taisho period. For example, Tanjirou’s given canon age is 15 (Mannenrei), but if you ask him in-universe, he might say he is 17 (Kazoedoshi).

Even if we assume many of the characters use the agricultural calendar and Kazoedoshi, there is a chance that characters who actively used western technology—for example, Shinobu, who uses textbooks in English microscopes and thermometers that likely came from Germany—had switched to Mannenrei for the sake of more accuracy on an individual basis. It is also possible that the Corp enacted their own standardization to Mannenrei around the time they standardized uniforms and updated the payment structure. If this is the case, it might have required country bumpkins to rethink the systems they had always been used to. Tanjirou, if asked in-universe once he is a Corp member, would therefore say he is 15 (Mannenrei).

The places the Kazoedoshi/Mannenrei difference has more implications is where characters have stated their own age. For example, Himejima seems to use a Mannenrei system (he states that he became a Hashira at age 19, and now is clearly over the age of 25, with his canonical age being recorded as 27. The numbers check out). This makes me more curious about Muichirou, who has a canonical given age of 14, but says in his own recollection that he was 10 when he was orphaned, and 11 when Yuichirou died.

If Mannenrei: It was four years or more ago that his parents died, and then sometime after he and Yuichirou turned 11 on Gregorian August 8, the demon attacked on a hot summer night. If Kazoedoshi: It was four years or more ago that his parents died. New Years passed that winter and he and Yuichirou turned 11. Many more months passed before the demon attacked on a hot summer night. However, if the Corp enforces his Mannenrei age of 14, but being a country bumpkin with a fuzzy memory, Muichirou still thinks of himself in Kazoedoshi, thereby making him think of himself as 16: It was six years or more ago that his parents died. New Years passed that winter and he and Yuichirou turned 11. Many more months passed before the demon attacked on a hot summer night. He nonetheless became a Hashira relatively recently (according to aligning Kyojuro-related flashback material and the second fanbook making passing mention that he hasn’t been a Hashira that long so his impression of the others isn’t that deep). This implies he spent a very, very, very, very long time incapacitated before he could so much as hold a sword, let alone join the Final Selection.

So what if we consider the opposite, that every given age is in Kazoedoshi? That would mean that when the fanbook and Tanjirou say he is 15, we would translate that back to a Mannenrei age of 13. And, dear readers, do you really want to imagine the entire cast being one or two years younger than their given age? I didn’t think so.

It is already very, very difficult to determine the order of Kimetsu no Yaiba canon both due to incomplete histories and canonical errors introduced by outside material (Ufotable animating Kanao’s May 19 encounter with the Kochou sisters with a winter setting, or Hirano-sensei drawing a spread of all nine Hashira in a 1913 setting) or timeline errors introduced in the original manga likely due to oversight (Gotouge drawing Aoi in uniform shortly after Kanae’s death when Aoi is later stated to have attended the same Final Selection as Muichirou, who at the time Kanae died is likely still living with his parents). That is why I assume the following rule of thumb:

When ages are given in-universe or in supplementary material, assume it is Mannenrei, because this is a shounen manga and not a math textbook. (As another case in point, the heights of the characters would have made most of the characters giants in Taisho society, though they get away with just being a bit on the tall side in Reiwa society. Some things are simplified for the benefit of modern readers.)

Assume the characters do not pay much attention to their age, or their birthday, because this is a shounen manga with a lot of dedication to historical settings and folk traditions (and those folks didn’t pay much attention to their birthdays).

Ergo: If the Corp tells its members “this is your Mannenrei age, use it. When we say 25, we have already done the math from our Sengoku period records and we mean 25 in Mannenrei,” the Corp members probably accept that. However, the Corp members might think of it as having two ages for two different purposes. Given the prevalence of Kazoedoshi, in their heart, they might still think of New Years as the time when you collectively celebrate everyone’s birthday.

Since I’m assuming Mannenrei, I’m also assuming Gregorian birthdates, and assuming everyone’s given canon age to be the age they were during the Infinity Fortress battle that took place roughly around New Year’s Day 1916.

Why am I picking this date? Because this is when the first fanbook was published, and it treated canon as it was occurring at that time in publication, so Akaza, Douma, and Kokushibou were not yet given the “eliminated” status (also, Rengoku was given already called “former” Flame Hashira. Shinobu’s demise had not yet been published in the serialization).

I also say “roughly New Year” because of the agricultural/Gregorian calendar issues. The agricultural New Year’s Day in 1916 would have fallen on Gregorian February 4, but because I’m treating this as the Corp having adopted Mannenrei, I’m also having them treat Gregorian January 1 as New Years. Because Ubuyashiki Nichika and Hinaki were singing a New Years song when Muzan strolled in to visit, that leans credence toward it happening around then. More crucially, cherry blossoms are in full bloom “three months later,” which aligns it best with Gregorian January 1, since late March/early April is when you are most likely to get the full bloom of the most common somei-yoshino cherry trees.

It’s also a convenient date and time in the plot to measure by because all their birthdays would have passed for that year, barely including Nezuko’s. (But if Mugen Ressha took place prior to May, like I have calculated before… does this mean Rengoku would have been part of Team 21? My gosh, I’m crying. For this list, I’m treating it as the age he would have been relative to the others on that date.)

Tl;dr: I’m assuming you can treat every canon age as Mannenrei, and totally ignore Kazoedoshi in the first place (unless if it will help you be crafty in your fic, because there’s still a good case to be made for the characters using it).

Now here is the fanfic reference list I promised, including: 1. Their date of birth according to the Gregorian calendar, calculated based their canon age being their Mannenrei age as of December 31, 1915. 2. Their birth year according to the Japanese period 3. The year they would have turned 25 4. Their Chinese zodiac sign (yes, I know there is argument about whether or not you can say “zodiac” here, but this isn’t the place to start a new topic. Anyway, I’ve also included the elements for each year for the deep nerds who anticipate it) (also I’m really sorry, Inosuke is not born in the Year of the Boar, nor is Iguro born in the Year of the Snake) 5. Their Western zodiac sign (yes, I know there was a recalculation of sun signs some years back, but no, I’m not bothering to take that into account, this post is complicated enough as it is) Important caveat: I'm bad at math.

Kamado Tanjirou: July 14, 1900/Meiji 33 (1925/Taisho 14), Metal Rat, Cancer Kamado Nezuko: December 28, 1901/Meiji 34 (1926/Taisho 15), Metal Ox, Capricorn Agatsuma Zenitsu: September 3, 1899/Meiji 32 (1924/Taisho 13), Earth Boar, Virgo Hashibira Inosuke: April 22 (as was written on his fundoshi along with his name), 1900/Meiji 33 (1925/Taisho 14), Metal Rat, Taurus Tsuyuri Kanao: May 19 (chosen for the day she encountered the Kochou sisters), 1899/Meiji 32 (sometime in 1924??/Taisho 13??), Earth Boar(?), Taurus (???) Shinazugawa Genya: January 7, 1899/Meiji 32  (1924/Taisho 13) – by Gregorian/modern Japanese system he is an Earth Boar, but the agricultural New Year wasn’t until February 10 that year, so he might instead be considered an Earth Dog, Capricorn Tomioka Giyuu: February 8, 1894/Meiji 27 (1919/Taisho 8), Wood Horse, Aquarius Kochou Shinobu: February 24, 1897/Meiji 30 (1822/Taisho 11), Fire Rooster, Pisces Rengoku Kyoujurou: May 10, 1895/Meiji 28 (1920/Taisho 9), Wood Sheep, Taurus Uzui Tengen: October 31, 1892/Meiji 25 (1917/Taisho 6), Water Dragon, Scorpio Kanroji Mitsuri: June 1, 1896/Meiji 29 (1921/Taisho 10), Fire Monkey, Gemini Tokitou Muichirou: August 8, 1901/Meiji 34 (1926/Taisho 15), Metal Ox, Leo Himejima Gyoumei: August 23, 1888/Meiji 21 (1913/Taisho 2), Earth Rat, Virgo Shinazugawa Sanemi: November 29, 1894/Meiji 27 (1919/Taisho 8), Wood Horse, Sagittarius Iguro Obanai: September 15,1894/Meiji 27 (1919/Taisho 8), Wood Horse, Virgo

Afterword:

Suppose Amane didn’t do the math to state the Sengoku swordsmans’ ages in Mannenrei terms? What if their records were spotty, or she took Kazoedoshi and applied it to swordsmen who now use Mannenrei?

Well, in that case, Tanjirou would probably die sometime in 1923, and Giyuu & Sanemi sometime in 1917. Ergo, I think I will stick with Amane having done the math and converted Sengoku ages to Mannennei if she was going to tell them all something so important.

Also, using Kazoedoshi would totally mess with the Kimetsu Gakuen AU.

[thetriumphantpanda]

pining & desperately waiting | javier peña

take the weight off his shoulders - chapter two

Chapter Summary | As much as he’s trying to keep his distance there is just something about you that Javier cannot stay away from. Drawn to you like a moth to a flame, so to speak. He's worried about you too, putting yourself in harms way for your work.

Chapter Warnings | Mutual pining, slow burn, sexual tension, flirting, mention of smoking and drinking alcohol, mention of drugs, drug deaths and the drug trade, explicit smut - masturbation (F)

Pairing | dbf!Javier Peña x F!Reader

Word Count | 3.2k

Authors Note | When I tell you I love this (specific) man, I am telling you I love him. He consumes me. Thank you to @hellishjoel for letting me scream about these two with her and helping me figure this chapter out! If you like this I would love for you to join me in my ask box for screaming and please consider reblogging to support me! If you enjoyed this, you can make a donation to my Ko-Fi if you'd like to support me that way.

I no longer use taglists. Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs to be notified of new updates.

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You dream of him every night for a week after that night at the bar. They’re filthy, depraved sometimes, and you always wake up, slick pooling between your thighs, fingers working furiously before your alarm goes off to try a satiate you, or at least tide you over until you can climb back into bed that night and really take your time to imagine all the ways Javier would take you apart with his fingers, with his mouth, with his…. 

“Are you even listening to me?” 

You want to answer honestly and say no, you were busy daydreaming about getting railed by your dad’s buddy, but when you look across the table and see your boss practically glaring at you, you realise it’s probably for the best to lie a little. 

“Sorry,” You mumble, picking up your pen, “Didn’t sleep well, what were you saying?” 

“The fundraiser tomorrow,” She speaks, “For Dylan’s foundation, would you be okay to cover it?” 

You nod, because it makes sense for it to be you. Dylan had overdosed just over a year ago – seemingly on top of things, doing well in school and incredibly bright, found slouched over on a street corner, dead from an overdose before he’d been able to leave the small town for whatever bright lights he was destined for. He was just one of a string of drug-related deaths over the past twelve months – an ‘epidemic’ as they had coined it – the town too close to Mexico to escape the trade that Javier himself had worked so hard to quell. Dylan’s parent’s had set up a small foundation after his death, hoping to help other young kids who could be lured into this stuff to have other opportunities in their lives. 

“What kinda thing are you thinking?” You ask, starting to jot down notes as she speaks. 

“Just some reaction from people there, why they’ve decided to come out and support, maybe try and grab one of his parents, just the usual really, and we can run a story in the following days, might help drum up some more support for them if nothing else.” 

You nod, doing your usual with your notes of underlining the important parts, making notes on the kind of questions you’ll ask when you speak to people, “How many words have I got to work with?” 

“I think we can give them a page,” She says, looking to her boss who nods in agreement, “So whatever you produced for last month’s story, that should be good.” 

You nod, making a note of that too, and then continue to zone out for the rest of the meeting as everyone talks amongst themselves, mind going right back to Javi and what he would feel like putting his weight on you, settling between your thighs. You really needed to get a grip. 

“Oh, isn’t it so nice to see such a good turn out today?” Your mom gushes, looking around at what feels like the whole of Laredo milling about a number of stalls that are selling all sorts of different things. 

“Sure is good to see,” Your dad agrees, putting his hands on your shoulders to give them a squeeze, “You want us to leave you to your reporting, pumpkin?” 

The nickname makes you wince a little, a moniker from your early days, before you’d filled out into your body. It was cute, but at twenty-five years of age, you do sometimes wish he’d find something else to call you. 

“I shouldn’t be too long,” You turn around and smile at him, “I can come and find you in a little while.” 

You wander around, introducing yourself to a few people asking them questions and jotting down notes. You’ve just finished speaking to Martina, famous throughout town for owning her own candle business, about why she’s supporting the foundation, when you step back and feel two sturdy hands holding onto your waist. You’re about to turn around and slap whoever it is for touching you, when that deep voice hits your ears.

“Careful, querida,” Javier fucking Peña, “Almost stood on my foot.” 

You whip around, mainly to put a bit of distance between the two of you, because it felt like his lips had been inches from your ear. He drops one of his hands, but keeps the other ghosting at your side, maybe to keep you steady more than anything as you wobble from the speed at which you’ve turned around. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t stand too close then?” You offer, making sure it comes out more playful than anything, because actually, all you really want is for his body to press against you more often. 

“Fair point,” He shrugs, “Thought I recognized you so I wanted to say hi,” He finally lets that other hand drop from your waist, “So hi.” Is... Is he nervous? 

You chuckle a little, “Hi,” you respond simply with a smile, “I didn’t expect to see you here,” You say honestly, this wasn’t his kind of scene before, you can’t imagine it’s any more appealing to him now, “Didn’t think it was your kind of scene.” 

He rubs a hand nervously over the back of his neck, “It’s not, I’ve been made to come,” He nods his head behind him where Chucho is talking to a group of other ranchers, “Apparently I’ve got to start showing my face more.” 

“Well, it’s a nice face,” your mouth speaks before your brain can catch up with what it’s saying, you inwardly cringe when you realise what you’ve said, “I mean, I’m sure people are happy to see you around.” Is all you can think to say to try and get him to forget the weird compliment. 

He seems to smile, but like it had been across the table almost two weeks ago, his smile seems forced, “Just wish I could skip the bullshit about everyone being proud of me.” 

“But it’s true,” You shrug, moving away from the stall with him so other people can in front of you to look, “You did really good things out there.” 

He scoffs now, shaking his head a little, “You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers, querida,” He speaks, “Surely you should know that more than anyone.” 

You don’t know what he’s actually trying to say, but you decide to play it light, “Are you accusing me of lying in my stories, Peña?” You say with a smirk. 

“Perhaps not you,” He offers, “But I know plenty of journalists who know how to twist a story to get what they want,” He looks down at his shoes, kicking at the gravel a little, “Just don’t want you thinking I’m something I’m not.” 

“Been gone a long time,” You muse, “You might have to spend some time reminding me who you are.” 

It’s flirting the lines of maybe being too much you think, but you’ve not said anything that’s not true. He has been gone a long time, and if what he’s said is anything to go by, he will have to remind you of who he is or show you how he’s changed. 

“Not sure you’d like who I am now very much, querida.” He says simply. 

You’re about to open your mouth to respond, tell him you’re pretty sure that wouldn’t be true and that there isn’t a thing he could do on this earth that would make you think he was a bad person, but before you can, Chucho is coming up behind him, a firm hand on his shoulder. 

“Ah, mija,” He smiles at you, “You here alone?” 

“Hey Chucho,” You greet with a smile, “Mom and dad are around somewhere, I’m just here working on a story.” You hold up your notepad and pen.

“Let’s see if we can’t find them, huh Javi?” Chucho muses to his son, “Get you a nice cold lemonade for when you’re finished?” He motions to the blazing sun and then back to you. 

“Sounds lovely, thank you,” You motion over their shoulder to where Dylan’s parents are stood, “I just need to speak to them, and I’ll come and find you.” 

Javi doesn’t say goodbye, just follows closely behind Chucho as they disappear into the crowds, leaving you to wander over to Dylan’s parents. They’re not strangers to the paper, your boss had written a story with them not long after Dylan’s funeral, trying to spread awareness as to just how deep the drug problem ran in town. The Laredo Morning Times had always been supportive to them, so you didn’t feel the same anxiety you normally did when gathering information for stories, cold calling or knocking on doors trying to introduce yourself before doors are swiftly shut in your face or phones are hung up with a ‘no comment’. 

They’re warm with you as you speak to them, thanking you for coming, thanking the paper for agreeing to cover the event, they even smile, which for a pair who lost their only son in such a horrible way still shocks you for some reason. Their loss hasn’t defined them, only made them stronger, made them determined to stop their pain from happening to anyone else. You make a note to write something equally as poetic in your article. 

The crowds are thinning out a little as the midday sun does its worst. You can feel beads of sweat gathering behind our knees and you curse the fact you hadn’t remembered your hat. You can feel the heat prickling your skin as you spot your parents, sitting on a picnic bench with Javi and Chucho sat opposite them. When you’re close enough to the table, you can see everyone has plastic cups full of lemonade, but there’s one, put in front of the spare spot on the bench next to Javi, that is pink in colour instead of the cloudy yellow of everyone else’s. 

“You get everything you need?” Your dad asks, as you try and fight your legs over the bench in the most graceful way possible. 

“Yeah,” You nod, “Think it’ll make a great piece, Dylan’s parents seem really positive about it all,” You pick up the cup and take a sip, pink lemonade, your favourite, “Thanks for this.” You nod in the direction of your dad. 

“Don’t thank me, Javi got these,” He smiles, “Remembered you preferred pink lemonade and everything.” 

It actually makes your heart swell in your chest. He was always thoughtful, even before he left. Observant almost to a fault. But even after all these years, all of his stress, everything he’s seen, he still knows you well enough to know you prefer the sweeter pink lemonade. You turn your head to him to find him already looking at you with a little smile on his face. 

“Thank you.” You say quietly, sipping through the straw. 

“You’re welcome, dulzura.” 

Javier Peña is doing a piss poor job of staying away from you, even by his standards. He lasted less than a week before he was waltzing over to you, hands on your waist, buying you pink lemonade because he knows you prefer it. There hasn’t been a night where he hasn’t wrapped his fist around his cock and made himself cum over the thought of you. He finds it easier to drop off to sleep once he’s done it, but his nights are still fitful, full of nightmares, tossing and turning, waking up to sweat soaked sheets and a heaving chest. He wonders briefly, when he lies awake watching the dawn arrive through his curtains, whether your body next to him would ease his nightmares? But then he thinks what if it doesn’t. What if you have to wake up, look at him with those innocent doe eyes and see him for what he really is?  No, he can’t let his darkness cloud you, you don’t deserve that, you deserve someone that going to be gentle with you, someone softer, not him with all his jagged edges. 

He's currently sitting in his truck, just outside of the liquor store, contemplating how badly he wants that packet of cigarettes and the bottle of whiskey he’d driven out to buy. He’d done alright so far, chewing on his Nicorette gum, but his fingers are itching for the familiarity of a cigarette between his fingers, and he’d finished the bottle of whiskey last night. 

Then, almost like he’s being punished by God, which would make sense really, all things considered, you’re in his eyeline, walking down the street with a woman who is a little older than you, with your notepad and pen clutched in your hand. It’s late and he wonders where you must be going to report at such a late hour, and then he worries, because in his experience, nothing good happens after dark that worth making the newspapers. As the two of you approach him, he leans further out of his open window, holding his arm out to catch your attention. 

“Hey Javi,” You smile, coming to a stop in front of his window, “What are you doing in town?”

“Just picking a few things up,” He answers simply, because this isn’t about him, he needs to know where you’re going, “Where are you going this late?” 

You turn to the older woman you’re with, tell her to go on ahead and you’ll catch her up, “There’s been some kind of drugs bust a few streets over,” You explain, “Sounds like it might be quite big so we’re just going down to see what’s happening.” 

“Your dad working it?” He asks, because if he is, he knows you’ll be okay. 

You shake your head, “Nah, he’s not on nights right now,” You’re shifting back and forth on your feet, clearly itching to get going, “I’ll be alright though, sounds like plenty of dad’s officers are down there.” 

He turns his head back to the steering wheel and then back to you, “Be careful, alright?”

You smile at him again and if he’s not careful, he really could get used to being the person who draws that from you more often, “I know what I’m doing,” You chuckle slightly, and he doesn’t doubt it, not really, “Been covering this kinda shit for a while.” 

Without really thinking about it, he leans over, roots around in the glovebox and pulls out the little card he knows that’s in there. He passes it over to you, letting you take it, “It’s got my number on it,” He explains, “I’ve been in this shit and I just…” He trails off with a sigh, “Just, call me before you write something that might get you in trouble, okay?” 

“Worried about me, Peña?” You smirk, and he thinks above your smile, he’d like to make you smirk more too. 

“I’ve just seen too many good journalists write things that ruin their careers,” He shrugs, trying to play it off but probably doing a terrible job of it, “Don’t want you to make the same mistake.” 

He watches as you turn the card over in your fingers a few times, before smiling at him one last time, “I’ll call you if need you.” And he really hopes you do. 

In that moment, he gives up on trying to resist the call of the liquor store, pulling out his keys from the ignition and opening his door, climbing down onto the pavement. He stalls a little, before he puts a hand on your shoulder and gives it a squeeze, “Go and get your story, reporter.” And then motions his head for you to go. 

He buys a bottle of whiskey and two packs of cigarettes, smokes two of them before he gets home. He thinks if he were a stronger man he’d have managed to quit, but he’s not, especially when it comes to you. Sure, he knew you before, but this new you? He’s known less than a month and he’s already struggling to stick to his own rules. He steps down from his truck back on the ranch, walks in and pours himself a healthy double, trying to convince himself it’ll be okay, he just needs to keep to himself, but when he’s led in bed at night, thinking of your sweet smile, he thinks this might just be another thing he fails at. 

It’s late. Too late for you to be awake when you have to be at the office in the morning, but you can’t stop looking at the series of numbers, printed on the little card, underneath the words ‘Javier Peña, DEA.’ It’s out of date, clearly, the DEA nothing more than a memory to him. But it’s the principle of it that matters most. He’s worried about you, and he would only worry if he cared right? 

You set it on your nightstand, switch off the little lamp and plunge yourself into darkness, right at the same time as you plunge your hand under your sleep shorts and through your folds. You’re soaked, because you always are when you think about him, it’s actually sort of pathetic. You sink two fingers into yourself, only briefly, letting out a satisfied breath, dragging your slick fingers back you to slowly circle your clit. 

It's new, the way you always need to take care of yourself. The brief relationship you’d had in college with James hadn’t given you much to work with, you hadn’t really felt desperation to get yourself off like this before. 

Your other hand, currently running over your peaked nipples through your tank top, is itching to reach across to your nightstand, pick up the phone and dial that number. You want to breathe down the phone at him, tell him you’re being so bad, that you need him to help, need that deep voice to guide you through it. As you press your fingers harder into your clit, speeding up your circles and bucking your hips, you wonder what he’d actually do if you did call him. Would he tell you to get lost? You don’t think he would, you think he’d do exactly as you asked, talk you through it. 

You imagine his voice in your ear, telling you how good you’re being for him. You imagine his hand replacing your own, sinking his fingers into you, using his thumb to work your clit, the rough of his moustache running over the skin of your neck as he kisses you there. It’s the image of him looking down at you, smiling as he makes you cum that tips you over the edge. That flood of relief that rushes through you as you bite down on your bottom lip to keep you from whispering his name as your body shakes through your orgasm. 

You wipe your slick fingers on the skin of your thigh, roll over in bed so your back is to the phone, trying to get your breathing under control. You drag the covers up under your chin, closing your eyes and trying to sleep without imagining his strong arm around your waist, his broad chest against your back. Does he snore? You wonder as you try and fall asleep. Would he keep you warm? It’s all running through your head as you sleep, conjuring up dreams that come morning have you realizing something has to give, you have to know, you have to have him. You needed Javier Peña more than the air you breathe, no matter how bad it was to admit that, no matter what it meant, no matter what it would cost, you needed him and you think to yourself as you drive to work, that he might just need you as much as you need him. 

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Part 22)

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

Part 21

The hovercraft is only half full. Peeta, Cashmere and Y/N. Finnick, Cressida, Pollux and the others left the day before, they’ll be catching up with them once they reach the outskirts of the Capitol.

Y/N says goodbye to her children before school. Though Haymitch will be there in her absence, leaving never gets easier.

Peeta is skittish, from sitting under the harsh lights.

“You ok?” Y/N lays a hand over his.

He nods, still trembling. “My name is Peeta Mellark. I was born in district twelve…”

This is a new grounding technique he’s been practicing with Dr. Aurelius. It seems to calm him as they take off.

Y/N rests her head against the seat. Recounting the way she ran back down the loading ramp before take off, just to be held by Haymitch one last time. Even though he couldn’t go and she couldn’t stay. Just breathe.

————————————————————————

The truck that brings them in to meet the rest of their squad is welcomed with weapons trained on them, hot and ready.

Cashmere jumps out first. “Come on, Peeta. We got ya.”

“Y/N?” Katniss lowers her weapon.

“Hey.” Y/N smiles, one hand behind her holding Peeta’s. Protect Katniss from him. Protect him from Katniss.

“That’s close enough.” Gale says as they approach.

“Hey, stop.” Finnick steps out to greet them, pushing Gale’s gun to the side.

“What’s going on here?” Boggs demands.

“Coin sent us.” Cashmere explains, “guess she thought you could use a few extra hands.”

“How thoughtful.” Katniss snarks. Whatever game Coin is playing, they’re not meant to win.

“Tell me about it.”

————————————————————————

As it turns out, Daisy is not a fan of the formula provided by district thirteen. She is also very aware of the fact that Haymitch is not her mother and she’s isn’t thrilled by that either.

“Shhh,” Haymitch rocks her against his chest. “Daddy’s here.”

“It’s like she only wants Y/N,” Madge offers.

“You and me both, kid.” Haymitch stares down at his daughter, shifting between feet.

“It’s hard on everybody when she goes,” Madge admits, “but for what it’s worth, I think you’re a great dad, Haymitch. I know Y/N does too.”

Haymitch nods.

“I can take her for a while. A change of scenery might help.”

“I gotta figure this out on my own.” Haymitch mutters, under his breath.

———————���————————————————-

The Star Squad sets out to film their first propo. With the assistance of the hollow, they’re able to clear the courtyard full of pods before entering.

Two large machine guns slide out from the pillars, raining bullets between the group; split in two to take cover.

Katniss on one side with Cashmere. Peeta, Y/N and Finnick on the other. There’s not a word Katniss can think of to describe the way it feels, watching Y/N place her hands over Peeta’s ears. Trying to muffle the gunfire.

Peeta lays his own hands over hers, his lips moving; quickly. “I’m a painter and a baker…I always sleep with the window open.”

He is trying, Katniss knows this. Even now, Peeta remembers everything she tells him, in great detail.

Y/N catches her staring, somehow she always does. Finding Katniss’ eyes and offering a tiny smile.

Katniss considers glaring at her, because she shouldn’t be here. She should be in thirteen, safe; the way Katniss left her. The other half of Katniss wants to make a run for it, to fall into her arms and say thank you. Thank you for always taking care of me, even when I ask you not to.

————————————————————————

Y/N calls Haymitch, using the hollow as soon as they’re hole up somewhere safe after the pods, after Snow’s broadcast announcing they were all dead.

It had just been the Leeg sisters…and Boggs.

“Ah,” Haymitch finally answers, his image displayed across the grainy screen in her hands, “she lives.”

“Oh good, you’re still up,” Y/N smiles. “I didn’t want to wake the kids, I almost waited until morning but-”

“Do me a favor, anytime you’ve narrowly escaped death and had it broadcasted to all of Panem, do not wait until morning to call me.”

“Deal,” Y/N agrees.

“How are you holding up, angel?” Haymitch sighs.

“I’m alright.”

“What’s wrong?” He can see it in her face.

“I miss you,” she shrugs, blinking back traitorous tears. “That’s all.”

Haymitch purses his lips, “when this is over, we’ll never have to miss each other again. We’ve got some fight left in us, we can ride this out.”

Y/N nods, “no, I know.”

“Hey,” Haymitch calls her attention back to the screen. “I love you, be safe.”

“I love you too.” She ends the call, they have to keep things short, on the off chance communication is being intercepted by the Capitol.

Cashmere waltzes over, plopping down beside her friend. “You should’ve let him come.” She teases. “Now he’s there and you’re here, and you’re both miserable.”

“He wouldn’t have been able to focus. And god forbid something happened to me, you really think he’d just keep going?”

“Like you could?” Cashmere calls her bluff.

Y/N bites back a grin. “I die, he dies. He dies, I die. That’s why he’s there and I’m here. So we don’t kill ourselves trying to save each other.”

Cashmere gets it, “you’ve gotten smarter about it, I’ll give you that.”

“I had to. Sometimes the only way to win the game is to bend the rules.”

“So when this is over and there’s no more…” Cashmere searches for the words. “Moves and countermoves, what are you gonna do? What’s your happy ending?”

“Me, Haymitch, the kids, Madge. We go back home to twelve, rebuild. Make a real life for each other, no more cameras, no one watching; we earn our happy ending. What about you, Cash?”

“I don’t know.” Cashmere shrugs, “I guess I have to figure that out.”

“You could come stay with us, there’s plenty of room.”

“Maybe for a while,” she agrees.

“I’d like that.” Y/N bumps Cashmere’s shoulder.

Part 23

Series Taglist: @praline357 @flowercrowns-goodvibes @justheretoparty420 @avocadotoastwithegg @treehouse-mouse @emo-markie @spilled-mi1k @magical-spit @greaser9902 @jessicamellarky @yourebuckingkiddingme @smuha2004 @sendhelplease @ninimackbrews @wittiestrain184 @r1dd1kulus @erenluvr69 @helpimhyperfixating @jackierose902109 @jellybear455 @dreammgc @dadbodfanatic-x @ftdtcmlovr @inky-sun @ms-brek-ker @undercover55655 @mischiefmanaged21 @avoxrising @koiphisch @drwho-ess @daisydaisybilly @misfits1a @nj01 @eruannaaa-blog @thatkindofgurl

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty

TW: mentions of violence

When you pull up out front, you’re more than grateful—ecstatic—to see the charger parked against the curb and Tom leaning against it, waiting for you in the peaking yellow sunshine. He beams when he sees you initially, but that delighted expression quickly turns concerned when he assesses the leftover tears streaked down your face. He meets you halfway, and grabs you up, and you just can’t help it, you start bawling into his silk button up. 

“Hey, hey, baby, Jesus, what’s wrong?” His palm rests securely on the back of your scalp, holding you tight, other arm wrapped around your torso and soothing your side. 

Fuck. This is not great. Best case scenario, you tell Tom the truth and Julian ends up on life support and the one that put him there ends up in jail for a very, very long time. At this point, you don’t give a shit about Julian—okay, he’s a whole human being with heavy trauma that you inadvertently led on, so maybe you do a little bit, but you’re more concerned about Tom getting locked up for life, probably with people he helped or directly put in prison himself. 

You have to lie, and it has to be convincing. But you’re taking too long thinking of one, and Tom Ludlow got promoted detective for a reason. “It was that fucking little bitch Julian, wasn’t it? You wait here.” He pulls away from you, a man on a mission, and you panic, reach for him, say the first thing that will be either convincing or pathetic enough to get him to stay and avoid life in the hole.

 “Wait, Tom. Please don’t leave me?”

He actually pauses, and it almost makes you want to cry all over again, because how many times have you thrown those words at a man, just to have them ignored? He turns, striding back to you and catching you up in his arms again. “I told you, baby, if he hurt you he was going to pay.”

“We just argued,” your whimper into his broad chest, sick with the memory of what had actually transpired. “He threw away my sunflowers, because he’s a shit, and I told him so. He threatened to write me up. And it was a long, hectic fucking shift from hell, so please don’t go?”

You feel the tension ease in Tom’s arms just minutely, and you dare think that maybe you’ve managed to keep this man from committing murder on your behalf. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I will be if you stay. We could put on a movie? And you could…rub my feet?”

He looks down at you, so intensely searching your expression for the truth, and in that moment he’s so handsome that you really could die in his arms. You hate yourself so much for lying to him, but you tell yourself its for the best, until you figure out what the fuck to do about Julian Mercer. A solution that doesn’t involve Tom marching into the hospital and shooting the doctor down on the Emergency Room floor. 

You’ve always wanted a man who would protect you–the complications of the other side of that coin never occurred to you though. Keeping him from doing something you’ll both regret is quite the challenge, as good as it would feel to watch him beat the daylights out of your asshole doctor. 

Tom, seemingly reluctant, agrees to placidly follow you up to your apartment. First, he grabs a delicious smelling paper bag from his front seat. Salty, fatty, fresh and hot, melty cheeseburgers and crispy fries from his favorite food truck. As you sit on your couch with him, feet in his lap, munching on carbs, you realize you’d take this over a fancy French dinner any day. 

Tom is done with his food, so he’s leaned back, sipping on soda, intent on the screen in front of him. You’re much more focused on how someone can look so good doing such mundane things, and before long he turns over to catch your stare and grin at you. “Hey.”

You giggle. “Hello?” Boldy, your bare foot traces his taut thigh. 

He pats his lap. “C’mere.” 

You fold up on him sideways as he wraps around you. You feel safe, here, in his arms, and comfortable, too, not wanting for anything; content and sleepy. You rest your head in the space between his deltoid and chest, wondering how you’re going to take it if he breaks your heart. Not well. Not well at all. 

“You gotta work today?” You ask him, thumbing the line of his jaw. 

“At noon.” He kisses your hair. 

“Complaints desk? Are you there because of the.. y’know.” 

“I’m there because I work with pussies and assholes.” He nuzzles into the side of your hair. 

“No dicks?” You joke. 

“Plenty.” There’s a smile in his voice, but it’s injected with honesty. 

“Do you like your job? Like, actually like this current assignment?” 

“I don’t like the complaint desk,” he admits, “but I do like the field—sometimes. I imagine it’s sort of like your job. Some nights I go home feeling satisfied, sometimes I go home and wanna tie a noose around my neck.” His honesty is brutal, but damn if he didn’t hit the nail on the head. You and Tom are cut from the same cloth, it seems. 

You nod. “Yeah, that sounds right.” 

He clears his throat. “My old partner, I trusted him with my life more than once. We ran the gauntlet together, broke stereotypes and cleaned up the city piece by piece. I just learned he’s talking to Internal Affairs about me. He’s trying to get me fired.” 

“Internal affairs?” You ask. 

“Yeah. Some things we did, back then, they weren’t by book. He has dirt on me.” 

“Why?” You ask, now angry on his behalf. “Because you saved those kids?”

“He doesn’t think I did it the right way.”

“There was no right way to do it. If you hadn't helped them, they would still be getting tortured for Christ’s sake. Doesn’t he care about that?” 

He’s silent for a long beat, probably thinking about what he wants to say to that question. Finally, he settles on: “the man I once knew would have.” 

“And now?” 

“I don’t know.” He seems really sad about this whole thing, and your heart aches for him. You lean up to kiss the side of his mouth, inhaling crisp aftershave and skin. 

It’s strange, how a few days ago he was chasing you down on the highway and making you have vivid visions of your hands wrapped around his throat, and now he’s here snuggled on the couch with you, distraught. Things are moving too quickly, and you’re not sure how to stop them—stop the ten ton freight train headed right for your very delicate heart. It seems pretty impossible. 

“I’m sorry, Tom. If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure the majority of us laypeople think you’re a fucking hero…” 

He seems like he really doesn’t know what to say to that. Maybe, just like you, he’s bad at accepting compliments, accepting the fact that he’s a good man—despite the way he carries himself in the outside world, there is a unique vulnerability to him here, curled around you like a dragon protecting gold, and fuck if it doesn’t make you want him that much more.

“Can you lay with me for a while?” You ask, baring yourself to him and terrified of what the answer will be. Usually, different versions of this question—can we cuddle? Can we go to bed? Can you hold me?—yield failed results. Most men, at least the ones you’ve encountered, don’t want to just lay in bed doing nothing, and you’re prepared for Tom to think the same. 

Instead, he seems a little…dumbfounded. Like he didn’t expect this type of thing from his hot headed little nurse. That makes two of you. “In your bed?” 

“Yeah, in my bed. Let me…hold you?” You brace for his laughter, but instead get his arms wrapped around you tighter, his sigh against the top of your head, the relaxing of his body into a big puddle. 

“I would love that,” he says, and it sounds like he really, really means it. 

You end up with his head pressed against your chest, and your arms cradled around him, stroking his hair and rubbing his back. It’s silent, but the comfortable kind, the one that comes when you’re naturally in tune with someone. He fits right into you again, your missing piece despite the height and size difference. 

This is nice, and it’s not long before you’re drifting off in the shelter of Tom Ludlow’s arms. 

[mega-aulover]

Katniss didn't settle for Peeta, she didn't say well this is as good as it gets...no she actively chose Peeta every single time. She knew him intimately when she described him with swoon-worthy words:

You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces.

She always thought of him...chose him:

When he was reaped she expressed immediate remorse "Oh no not him, not the boy with the bread."

When he was reaped in The Hunger Games: "To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed."

In the Arena, the Hunger Games: “The idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don’t want him to die. And it’s not about the sponsors. And it’s not about what will happen back home. And it’s not just that I don’t want to be alone. It’s him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread.”

To Haymitch in Catching Fire: ″‘Like you said, it’s going to be bad no matter how you slice it. And whatever Peeta wants, it’s his turn to be saved. We both owe him that.’ My voice takes on a pleading tone. ‘Besides, the Capitol hates me so much, I’m as good as dead now. He still might have a chance.‘” (Katniss was ready to die for him and is begging Haymitch to die for him too)

In Catching Fire the Arena: I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. "I do", I say. "I need you."

In District 13 in Mockingjay: I drink in his wholeness, the soundness of his body and mind. It runs through me like the morphling they give me in the hospital, dulling the pain of the last weeks.

In District 13 in Mockingjay, she is deeply depressed without him. She is suffering from PTSD and doesn't have her support system there. She misses Peeta. Katniss pines for him - keeps the pearl he gave her nearby...

"Sometimes when I’m alone, I take the pearl from where it lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena."

"My mockingjay pin now lives with Cinna’s outfit, but there’s the gold locket and the silver parachute with the spile and Peeta’s pearl. I knot the pearl into the corner of the parachute, bury it deep in the recesses of the bag, as if it’s Peeta’s life and no one can take it away as long as I guard it."

By the end of the book, after watching her sister die, and having shot Coin - Katniss loses it...and she becomes almost catatonic. Katniss blocks out everything when she comes back to District Twelve in Mockingjay:

"I haven’t left the house. I haven’t even left the kitchen except to go to the small bathroom a few steps off of it. I’m in the same clothes I left the Capitol in."

She cares for nothing and is forced to eat it's only when Peeta comes back that she becomes aware of her appearance and it's when she literally begins to live:

"When I see him, I pull up short. His face is flushed from digging up the ground under the windows. In a wheelbarrow are five scraggly bushes. “You’re back,” I say. “Dr. Aurelius wouldn’t let me leave the Capitol until yesterday,” Peeta says. “By the way, he said to tell you he can’t keep pretending he’s treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone.” He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. He’s frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a halfhearted effort to push my hair out of my eyes and realize it’s matted into clumps." ...-... "Back upstairs, I throw open the bedroom windows to clear out the rest of Snow’s stench. But it still lingers, on my clothes and in my pores. I strip, and flakes of skin the size of playing cards cling to the garments. Avoiding the mirror, I step into the shower and scrub the roses from my hair, my body, my mouth. Bright pink and tingling, I find something clean to wear. It takes half an hour to comb out my hair. Greasy Sae unlocks the front door. While she makes breakfast, I feed the clothes I had shed to the fire. At her suggestion, I pare off my nails with a knife."

Katniss chose to be with Peeta, just like she chose to live when he came back...