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#and I feel like our minds are very alike
atlabeth · 2 months
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a rose and her thorns | luke castellan
pairing: luke castellan x fem!daughter of aphrodite reader
summary: luke vies for a valentine. you're just trying to get through cabin inspections.
a/n: take this as my formal apology for the angst i’ve been throwing at you all with demeter girl lol and take this tooth rotting fluff. this was supposed to be shorter but i got carried away, after writing that 11k angst riddled monster this was a much needed palate cleanser lmao
wc: 3.3k
warning(s): no warnings this is all fluff <3
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You huffed as you knocked on the door again, chewing on the inside of your lip as you waited for a response. The Hermes cabin usually always had kids in it—either they were ignoring you, or they were just causing too much ruckus to even hear it in the first place.
Honestly, you should have known this was how cabin inspections with Luke would go. He was probably in there right now, ushering all of them through rapid last-minute tidying in the hopes of something higher than a one. You had half a mind to knock a point off right now by virtue of tardiness.  
The hairs on the back of your neck stood up all of a sudden, and you whirled around. 
“Speak of the devil,” you said wryly. 
You were greeted with Luke Castellan himself, his hands up with a slight smile on his lips. “Easy. I didn’t think I looked that bad.” 
Your brows creased ever so slightly, and he gestured with head. You looked down and realized you were holding your pen like a sword. You cleared your throat and let your arm drop, adjusting your shirt on the way down. 
“Sorry. People tend not to sneak up on me.” 
“I can’t imagine why.” Luke put his hands down and started towards his cabin, craning his head back at you. “What brings you here on this fine day, Rose?” 
“Don’t tell me you forgot,” you pouted, holding up your clipboard and pen as you followed him. “We’re on inspection duty together. Where were you?” 
He snapped and pointed at you. “That’s what we were doing together today! I knew we were spending time together—not like I could forget that—but,” his hand paused on the doorknob, “I kind of forgot about the cabin inspection part. Had to spend a little extra time with one of your siblings at the end of sword-fighting lessons.” 
“Sounds like Liz is getting better, then.” A smug smile pulled at your lips as you stopped next to him. “And it sounds like someone’s gonna be cleaning the dishes tonight,” you said in a sing-song voice. 
You placed your hand over his and opened the door, and Luke groaned. “Take mercy, Rose. Please.” 
It was certainly a sight—more akin to a tornado than the inside of a cabin. Various kids—Hermes, unclaimed, and minor gods alike—ran around, shoving dirty clothes beneath beds, cramming duffles and suitcases into overflowing closets, with a few noble exceptions attempting the Sisyphean task of actually cleaning. 
“Wow,” you said, glancing down at the papyrus scroll. “Can I give you a zero?” 
“Listen,” Luke said from behind you, “our thing isn’t tidiness. It’s thievery—swiftness, cunning, panache.” 
“I thought you were supposed to be jacks of all trades,” you mused as you checked off boxes. “Cleaning is a trade.” 
“Not here.” You could feel him peering over your shoulder and he groaned yet again. “Come on! You’re grading us way too low. I get input too, remember?” 
“Sure,” you remarked. You held out the clipboard and gestured with your head at the natural disaster in front of you. “But you can’t tell me this is anything better than a two.” 
“A two’s better than a one.” Luke plucked the pen out of your hand and scrawled out a number two on the final line. 
“Luke—” you started in protest, but he just snatched the clipboard as well with a wink as he started walking backwards towards the door. 
“We’ve got a chance, guys!” he called out. “Hephaestus has gotta be worse than this!” 
You huffed as you chased after him, shutting the door on your way, and you crossed your arms as you came to a stop in front of him. “This isn’t very cooperative of you.” 
“Gotta give myself a chance,” Luke said, smiling as he took the Hermes sheet off the clipboard and stuffed it into his pocket. 
“That’s just cheating,” you said, and he let you take the clipboard back from him. You started walking, and he fell into pace with you. “Hephaestus is next—we’ll see how much of a chance you have.” 
“We should get some slack because we’ve got double the campers,” Luke said. “Nine’s got no excuse—they’re just a bunch of messy engineers.” 
You tapped your pen against the board. “I’m not changing my mind, Castellan.” 
“Ouch,” he winced. “I got last name’d.” 
You merely smiled and shook your head. You could see his own smile in your peripherals, then he huffed.  
“You’re distracting me from my whole plan with these ridiculous grades,” Luke sighed. “I haven’t ruined everything, have I?”
“You’ve got a plan?” you asked in amusement. 
“Of course I do.” Luke took a few long strides to get in front of you then turned around so he was walking backwards, that stupid smirk still on his lips as he kept eye contact with you. “Valentine’s Day is coming up.” 
“You’re very observant,” you said. “Watch your six.” 
Luke moved a step towards you to avoid a younger camper with their head buried in a book, and you chuckled as he shrugged. 
“It’s a work in progress,” he admitted. 
You hummed, biting back your smile as you came up to the Hephaestus cabin. You were about to knock on the door, but once again, Luke caught your wrist. 
“You’re not even gonna let me say my piece?” he asked. 
“I’ll give you a little time to polish it up,” you said. 
“You assume I don’t have it prepared already?” 
“Oh, I’m sure you do.” You winked. “But I know the effect I have on you.” 
Luke’s fingers loosened on your wrist and you allowed a small, self-satisfied smile as you pulled free and knocked on the door. It took a couple seconds, but eventually the door opened and their counselor—Alya, if you remembered correctly—greeted you with a smile. 
“Just in time,” she said, smudging the bit of grease on her face as she wiped at her cheek. “We’re actually not horrible today.” 
Luke grumbled beneath his breath as you walked in together—usually, the place was a mess of loose parts and hastily sketched out plans and smoke-scented clothes. Today, it was still a mess, but slightly less so. 
“Damn it,” Luke muttered. “Still not as bad as us.” 
“Stop comparing your place to everyone else,” you said. “This is supposed to be fun.” 
“Cabin inspections are fun?” he asked wryly. 
“Hanging out with me is fun,” you clarified. “I—”
You were cut off with a gasp of your own as you slipped, and before you could even fully process it you were falling. It wasn’t until everything steadied that you realized someone had caught you, strong arms cradled you around your waist. You looked up to see Luke’s wide eyes. 
“You good?” he asked, his voice slightly higher than usual. 
“Yeah,” you said, nodding far too many times, “yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” 
“...Good,” he said, ever eloquent. 
A small smile creeped in. “You can let me go now.” 
It almost took him a moment to come back to Earth, because he blinked before he nodded, smiling on his own as he helped you back up. You could feel the heat in your face and tried your best to ignore it as you looked down. A small pool of oil was the culprit—you grimaced at the thought of having to clean that out of your jeans. Thank the gods for Luke. 
“That’s gotta be points off,” Luke whispered in your ear, still close by, and you stifled a laugh. “Oil on the floor, making pretty counselors slip. Right?” 
You ignored him too, looking over at Alya, though you couldn’t stop your smile. She looked mortified. 
“I am so sorry,” she rushed. “I guess Michael didn’t clean as well as he said.” 
“No problem,” you said. “I’ve got a little guardian angel. But this place isn’t too great.” 
“Damn,” she mumbled. “I even got one of your sisters to come in and help clean things up. Do you not smell the perfume?” 
“The smoke kinda overpowers it,” you said sympathetically, and she sighed. “Three out of five, Alya. But you’re right on the edge of a four.” 
Alya glanced at Luke. “Better than Hermes?” 
Luke grimaced. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” 
She smiled and went off to talk to one of her siblings. Luke shook his head and tutted once she was gone. “The double standards here are ridiculous, Rose. I might have to report you to Chiron.” 
“Oh, quiet.” You hit him in the side lightly with the clipboard and continued scanning the room for  a final check. “If you wanted help with cleaning up from an Aphrodite kid, all you had to do was ask.” 
“And would you have accepted?” he asked. 
“Of course,” you said as you scribbled down your last couple of notes. “I’ll always help you, Luke.” 
He went silent as you continued to write, and when you finished you saw he was only looking at you. 
You frowned. “What?” 
“Nothing,” Luke said, still smiling. “Let’s keep going.” 
You stared at him for a moment, but he didn’t say anything else. So you just laughed a bit and shrugged. Luke followed behind you as you walked out, and despite his claims of ‘nothing’ just a moment ago, soon enough he was talking again. 
“So,” he said, “Valentine’s Day.” 
“Valentine’s Day,” you said sagely. “What’s your plan?” 
“Be my Valentine.” 
“That’s your plan?” You glanced over at him. “Just asking me out straight-up?” 
“Oh, sorry. I also have this.” Luke pulled something out of his back pocket and held it out. You couldn’t help but laugh. 
“A rose?” you asked with a lopsided smile. 
“Not just any rose,” he said as you took it. “A chocolate rose.” 
“You are so cute.” You pulled the wrapper off, and though the stem and leaves were plastic, the flower was, indeed, very much chocolate, and in the shape of a rather pretty rose. 
Luke shrugged. “Figured you needed something as sweet as you.” 
“I’ve got a toothache just from being with you,” you remarked. You broke it in half with a bit of effort and offered it to Luke. 
“You can’t just split the gifts I get for you with me.” 
“They’re my gifts,” you said. “I can do whatever I want with them.” 
“Really?” he asked. 
“What’s a rose without her thorns?” you responded. Luke grinned as he took the other half from you. You popped yours into your mouth and your eyebrows rose. 
“This is actually good chocolate,” you said as Luke ate his part. “Not like that crap we get at the camp store.” 
“I might’ve snuck out to the city to get the good stuff,” Luke said offhandedly. 
You looked at him incredulously. “What?” 
“Did I stutter?” 
“You risked all that trouble just to get some chocolate for me?” you marveled. “Hell from Chiron, extra chores for a month, literal monster attacks—” 
Luke held up a hand, stopping your ranting. “Nothing happened. And even if it did,” he shrugged, “you’re worth it. So it doesn’t matter.” 
You shook your head and Luke continued. “Besides, I got some other stuff too for the rest of my plan.” 
“Right,” you nodded, “you never finished telling me.” 
“How’s your schedule?” 
“Busy,” you said. “I’m an Aphrodite kid during Valentine’s season.” 
Luke tipped his shoulder. “Fair. Think you can block something out for me?” 
“That depends what it is,” you said. 
“It’s a secret,” he said. 
You stared at him. “A secret?” 
He nodded. “It might be a foreign concept to you Aphrodite kids, but—” 
You cut him off with a light shove and he only chuckled in response. “So you talk yourself up and it ends up being a secret.”
“I think I’ve earned some secret surprises,” Luke said. “I’m already sweeping you off your feet.” 
You shook your head, smiling inwardly as you tapped your pen against the clipboard. “Is that how you see it?” 
“Well, I did keep you from an untimely death back there,” he said. “And the more unfortunate plight of having to get oil stains out.” 
“You read my mind,” you mused. 
“And isn’t that worth a date?” Luke asked. “Saving you from a fashion faux pas?” 
“You’re worth a date all on your own,” you said as you came up to the next cabin—Apollo was bright as ever, gleaming golden in the sunlight—and you looked at him with a smile. “No rescuing required.” 
-
Your journey to the rest of the cabins went by relatively quickly, especially the Apollo and Ares cabins—you think Luke had been temporarily stunned into silence by you actually flirting back. 
You’d had a subdued smile on your face nearly the entire time, even as you felt warmth bloom over your face again. Luke really brought out the inner Aphrodite in you—you were sure your mother was proud, wherever she was watching. What seemed to get Luke out of his addled state was the 5/5 you gave to your own cabin—he complained that the scent of perfume gave him a headache, and when you said you’d been wearing perfume the entire day, he claimed that it was different. 
(Cabin Ten kept their full score. It was amazing what a pretty smile could do, especially when Luke was the victim.) 
Finally, you were at the Demeter cabin. Luke insisted on going there last, so that all the expectations would be tapered—he was still trying to get a better score for his cabin, but the odds were looking pretty slim. The door was already open, and you smiled at the newly grown flowers outside the cabin. 
“Nice touch.” 
Luke sighed. “Great. Going out with a bang.” 
“It’ll be fine, Luke,” you said. “I’ll help you clean your cabin tonight.” 
He frowned. “You were actually serious?” 
“Of course I was.” You tipped your head. “It’ll just have to be pretty late. Y’know, because you’ll be cleaning all the dishes.” 
“Low blow,” he said, shaking his head. You chuckled as you stopped in the doorway and poked your head in. 
“Hey, Katie,” you called to the counselor. “How’re things?” 
“Good,” she said, nodding. A smile of her own bloomed on her lips as her gaze moved over to Luke. “I see Rose and her thorns are on duty today.” 
“Flattery won’t help you with your score,” Luke mused as he walked into the cabin. You smiled as he held out his hand for the clipboard, and you finally acquiesced. You could feel Katie’s eyes on you as he walked further in. 
“He takes that as a compliment?” 
“Thorns protect a rose,” you said, still watching Luke. He played the part of a foreman well, investigating their shelves and walls with vigor and even opening drawers. You couldn’t help but laugh a bit, and Luke looked back and smiled at you. You nodded, giving him the go-ahead, and he winked as he gave you a thumbs-up. 
“And he protects you?” she asked. 
You shrugged. “We protect each other.” 
“…You would be cute together,” Katie admitted. 
You managed to tear your eyes away from Luke, leaning back against the wall. “You think so?” 
“He’s only been vying for your attention and flirting with you since the moment you got to camp,” she said wryly. “But you’re the expert on love—you tell me.” 
You bit your lip as your gaze darted back to Luke, who was squatting on the floor having what looked to be a very serious conversation with a younger Demeter boy. 
“I think I’m his valentine,” you said, almost absentmindedly. “And I think I’m really looking forward to whatever this date is.” 
Katie came back into focus as you came back to Earth, and even she was smiling. “Then I think you’ve got your answer.” 
Luke had picked the most opportune moment to come back, when you weren’t staring at him like an infatuated idiot—you were only one of those things—and he held out the clipboard and pen to you. “After having a very in-depth conversation with Damian about how things are going here, I scored them properly.” 
You chuckled as you took it from him, but your eyebrows rose the more you read. “You’re kidding me.” 
He shook his head. “There’s unpaid labor going on here—unpaid child labor. Damian said he’s responsible for half the cleaning and plants here.” 
“We’re all children. All the labor we do is child labor,” you deadpanned. “And we’re sure as hell not getting paid.” 
Luke held his hands up. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just delivering what he’s said.” 
“Don’t tell me he gave us all ones,” Katie said dryly. 
“You know him so well,” you mused. You scribbled out half of what Luke wrote as you stood up from the wall, shielding it with your body so he couldn’t see while you walked out together. “See you, Katie!” 
Her protests fell on Luke’s deaf ears as he held up the rear, shutting the door behind you two, and when you looked back at him he was grinning. 
“Straight ones,” he tutted, shaking his head. “What a shame. Looks like they’re gonna be cleaning the dishes tonight.” 
“You know they got a five, Luke,” you said, finally allowing him to see your revised marks. “If you’re gonna fudge the numbers, at least try and make them believable.” 
“Oh, come on!” he exclaimed. “A five is way too nice—it’s not fair that they can just grow plants all over and make everything look presentable. Using powers should count as cheating.” 
“Their floors are clean, their beds are made, and it smells like floral heaven,” you said. You tapped his chest with your pen. “You could learn something from them, Castellan.” 
He caught your wrist before you could move it away. “The Aphrodite cabin always gets perfect scores. Think you could teach me a few things?” 
You grinned as you pulled your hand out of his grip and continued walking, this time en route to the Big House to drop off the final inspections. “That depends.” 
“On what?” Luke came back into your peripherals as he caught up to you. 
“On how good this secret plan of yours is,” you mused. 
His eyes lit up, past worries of low inspection scores seemingly fading away in an instant. “So it’s a go? You’re in?” 
“Of course I am,” you said, tucking the clipboard under your arm. “You got me the good chocolate, Luke. How could I not see where this goes?” 
Previously unnoticed pressure dissolved in his shoulders as he took your hands in his. You could only focus on his eyes, on the warmth of his skin, on the callouses borne from years of sword-fighting. 
He was surely blessed by your mother. 
“You’re not gonna regret it,” Luke vowed. “All those promises I’ve made about blowing you off your feet, about making your mother proud—they’re all gonna be true.” 
“You know what wise men say,” you said wryly. 
“That they’re so glad you’re finally giving me a chance?” 
“Only fools rush in,” you provided. “Going all in on our first date seems a little hasty.” 
“Isn’t your whole thing supposed to be rushing in?” he asked cloyingly. “Y’know, daughter of love and all.” 
You shrugged. “Maybe I like taking the idea of taking it slow with you.” 
“Then call me a fool,” Luke mused, letting go of one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His own curls hung over his eyes and you had the strongest urge to take his face in your hands. “Because you should know I can’t help it.” 
You felt your cheeks heat as warmth spread all over, and you couldn’t even try to hide your smile. “You think you can take me out on one of those city trips of yours? Show me how to steal a camp van without getting in the most trouble?” 
“I’m trying to steal your heart here,” Luke said with a goofy grin, “but I think a van’ll do.” 
“Oh, don’t worry.” You took his hand back, intertwining your fingers together as you pulled him closer to you. “We can multitask.” 
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luveline · 7 months
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𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 —send me a shy!reader request for any character (with a plot) and I'll write a >1k drabble
Can I request shy!reader and Derek? Maybe where she's really shy about pda but she finally works up the courage to hold his hand or kiss his cheek in public and he just melts <3
tysm! ♡
"Penelope, I'm not wearing that." 
Penelope waves the custom t-shirt she's made at him threateningly. "Yes, you will, because you love me and you love Hotch and he deserves our support." 
She's created matching garb for their entire team as well as any partner willing to support Hotch. "This is his second triathlon, and he's very much going to remember last year's triathlon and his now ex-girlfriend. Plus, it's for charity!" She slaps his chest with the shirt. "Put it on." 
You smile at his reaction, the fond clench of his jaw, his rolling eyes as he peels out of his t-shirt. The smile quickly stifles, mouth dry as the Sahara in seconds. The tight pack of his abs ripple in the sunlight, dark skin practically glistening. 
"It's too hot for this," he complains. 
Penelope nudges you. "He can say that again." 
Derek squeezes into his shirt and laughs. "This better be the wrong size on accident." 
"Maybe." She leans down to grab another shirt from her tote bag, saying, "This should be the right size, sweetcheeks." 
Yours is big enough to wear over your original blouse easily. Derek glares at you without any real malice and swings an arm around your shoulders, dropping a kiss at your temple. "Looking good." 
Being with Derek has never made any sense to you. Or rather, Derek being with you has never made any sense —you'd be a fool to turn him down and he's a fool to think you're good enough. He's ridiculously attractive, a bombshell of a man, with ambition and a good heart, sweetness and heat alike practically drip from him. You're confused by him often and melted by him more, a melted puddle of a girl as he walks you to the crowd of BAU employees waiting at the finish line to cheer for Hotch.
Jack and Henry stand together, though Henry, JJ's son, is much smaller. Will crouches next to him to make sure he doesn't run anywhere he isn't supposed to, while JJ stands with Emily and Spencer, all already bedecked in their supportive t-shirts. 
There's a chorus of hellos as you join them. Everybody Derek cares about that isn't in Chicago stands in a bubble, and it terrifies you like always. You want to make a good impression. You don't want to let Derek down. 
Not that he cares about any of that. He knew you were shy to aching when you met and he has no intentions of trying to change you. "Sorry we're late," he says. "My fault."
Actually, it's your fault. You got the time wrong. But Derek doesn't embarrass you by telling them —your affection for him swells. 
He keeps a hand behind your back for a while. You sway under the huge sun beating down and on tired feet for a while, Hotch your saviour as he appears across the finish line. Will takes Jack to meet him, and Jack, the poor thing, gets a super sweaty hug.
Hotch isn't first to finish, but he runs a good time. 
"Better than last year's!" Emily cheers. 
Penelope wolf whistles. You clap your hands with Spencer, pleased if feeling a little out of place. 
"Maybe I'll sign up for next year's triathlon," Derek says, grinning. 
You know he's kidding, but Derek could do anything he set his mind to. You go on tiptoes and kiss his cheek. "I'd cheer you on," you say earnestly, stepping back, wiping the tiny balmy kiss print you've left behind. 
Derek looks at you plainly startled. Your heart skips a beat, worried you've overstepped. 
"Can I get another one of those, or are they in limited supply?" he asks, warm and quiet, not an inch of bravado to be seen. 
You turn back the unfolding scene of victory in front of you, "Maybe later." 
Derek is noticeably sweet on you for hours, and declares at dinner that he'll be joining Hotch in next year's triathlon. You reach for his hand under the table and nod along. You'd love to see him at the finish line. 
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wilwheaton · 9 months
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When you watch The Curse, you are watching two children who were abused and exploited daily during production. No adults protected us.
This was originally published on my blog in August, 2022.
I had a wonderful time at Steel City Comicon this weekend. It was my first time at this particular con, so I didn’t know there was such a huge contingent of horror fans, creators, and vendors who attend.
I love horror, and I was pretty psyched to be in the same place as John Carpenter and Tom Savini, across the street from the Dawn of the Dead mall. Pittsburgh feels like one of the places horror was invented, at least to me.
A number of these horror fans came to see me, and asked me to sign posters and other things from a movie my parents forced me to do when I was 13, called The Curse. I had to tell each of these people that I would not sign anything associated with that movie, because I was abused and exploited during production. The time I spent on that film remains the most traumatizing time of my life, and though I am a 50 year-old man, just typing this now makes my hands shake with remembered fear of a 13 year-old boy who nobody protected, and the absolute fury the 50 year-old man feels toward the people who hurt him.
I told this story in Still Just A Geek, and I’ve talked about it in some podcasts I did on the promo tour, but I’ve never put it out in public like this, in its entirety.
I suspect someone at the publisher would prefer I tease this and hope it drives book sales from people who want to read all of it, but I honestly don’t want to have another weekend like this one where everything is awesome, except the few times people who have no idea (and why should they) put that fucking poster in front of me, and all the fear, abandonment, and trauma come flooding back as I tell them that I won’t sign it, and why.
To their credit, each person was as horrified as they should have been, told me they had no idea (if they didn’t read my book why would they), and quickly put the poster away. They were all understanding. I am grateful for that.
But I really don’t need to tell this story over and over again, so here it is, with a child abuse and exploitation content warning, so I can just tell people to Google it.
After Stand by Me, everything changed. The attention from entertainment journalists, casting directors, and especially teen magazines came pouring in. The movie was a generational hit, beloved by critics and audiences alike, and every single one of us could pick anything to do next.
River’s parents and his agent got him Mosquito Coast, with Harrison Ford, as his next movie. I also auditioned for the role, but I knew even then that River was going to book the job. He was perfect, and I’d have to wait a little bit for my opportunity to come along.
I went on a lot of theatrical auditions after Stand by Me. I had tons of meetings with directors and the heads of casting at every major studio. It was all a very big deal, and I felt like we were all looking for something really special and amazing as my follow-up to Stand by Me.
At some point, a couple of producers contacted my agent with an offer to play one of the leads in an adaptation of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Colour Out of Space.” The script was titled The Farm. (It would, of course, be changed when the film was released).
I read it. I did not like it. It was a shitty horror movie, and I saw that right away. It was the sort of thing you rented on Friday when the new release you wanted was already out of the store.
My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.
I told my parents I didn’t like it and didn’t want to do it. I clearly recall thinking it was a piece of shit that would hurt my career.
It wasn’t the first thing that had come our way that I wanted to pass on, and every other time, it hadn’t been a very big deal.
Sidebar: I was cast in Twilight Zone: The Movie, in 1983. The film tells four stories, and I was cast as the kid who can wish people into cartoonland. It was a GREAT role, in a movie I still love. (Note that Twilight Zone had four directors. One of them got three people killed. The segment I was cast in was not that one. I mention this because too many people zero in on this to deflect from what this whole thing is actually about.)
But I was CONVINCED by my parochial school teacher that if I worked on The Twilight Zone, which she had determined was satanic, I would go to hell. (This woman and her bullshit played a big role in my conversion to atheism at a young age, but when she told me that, I was all-in on the supernatural story they taught us in religion class.) I was so scared, more scared than I’d ever been to that point in my life, I cried and wailed and begged my parents to not make me do the movie. And I never told them why, because I was afraid my dad would laugh at me for being weak and afraid. My agent tried to talk me into it, and I wouldn’t budge. It’s the only thing I deeply and truly regret passing on, and I really hate I made that choice for such a stupid reason.
Okay. Back to The Curse.
This time, when I told them how much I hated it, they wouldn’t listen to me. My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.
That is, until they made me take a meeting with the producers of the movie, in their giant conference room on the top floor of a tall building in Hollywood. All I remember about this place was that it was huge; the table was way too big for the five of us who spread around it, and there were floor-to-ceiling windows on three of the walls, but the room was still dark. There was a weird optical illusion in the center of the table, this thing they sold in the Sharper Image catalog, made from two reflective dishes with a hole in the top of one. You placed an object in the bottom of the bottom dish, and it made it look like that object was floating above the whole thing. They had a plastic spider in it. What a strange detail for me to remember, but it’s as clear in my memory as if I were sitting in that room right now.
One man, who I presumed was the executive producer, was European or Middle Eastern (I didn’t know the difference then, he was just Not Like People I Knew), and I was instantly afraid of him. He was intimidating, and seemed like a person who got what he wanted.
So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.
I don’t remember what they said to me in their pitch or anything other than how uncomfortable and anxious I was to even be in that room. I tried so hard to be grown up and mature, but I — and my parents — was way out of my depth. I’d done one big movie and that was it. We didn’t have my agent with us, who had lots of experience and would have known what questions to ask.
No, in place of my experienced agent, my mother had decided she was going to be my manager, and she tackled the responsibility with an enthusiasm that was only matched by her absolute incompetence and inability to go toe-to-toe with producers the way my agent did. She was outwitted, out-thought, and outmaneuvered at every turn.
“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”
So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.
At some point, this man, who is represented in my memory by big Jim Jones sunglasses under dark hair above an open collar, said, “We are offering you a hundred thousand dollars and round-trip travel for your whole family. We will cast your sister, Amy, to play your sister in the movie.”
It all made sense, now. I was only thirteen, but I knew my parents were pushing me so hard because this company was offering me — them, really — more money than I’d ever imagined I’d earn in my life, much less a single job.
I knew that the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, was to say no. There would be other opportunities, and it was stupid to cash myself out of feature films for what I thought was, in the grand scheme of things, not very much money.
It’s incredible to me that I knew all of this. It’s incredible to me that I could see all these things, plainly and clearly, and my parents couldn’t (or, more likely, chose not to).
So after this man made his offer, all the adults in the room ganged up on me, selling me HARD on this movie.
My mother said, “Don’t you want your sister to have the same opportunities you’ve had? Wouldn’t it be fun and exciting to go to Rome? Think of all the history!”
The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.
I don’t think about this very often, because it’s super upsetting to me. Right now, I’m so angry at my parents for subjecting me and my sister to this entire experience. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
In that moment, I felt bullied and trapped. All these adults were talking to me at the same time, and I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to go home and get out of this room. I just wanted to go be a kid, so I did what I’d learned to do to survive: I gave in and did what my parents wanted.
The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.
But here’s the thing: when you watch The Curse, you are watching two children, me and my sister, who were abused on a daily basis. The production did not follow a single labor law. They worked us for twelve hours a day, on multiple film units (while I work on First unit, second unit sets up and waits for me. When I should get a break to rest, they send me to Second unit, then to Third unit, then back to First unit. I was 13.) without any breaks, five days a week. I was exhausted the entire time. I was inappropriately touched by two different adults during production. I knew it was wrong, but I was so scared and ashamed, and I felt so unsupported, I didn’t tell anyone. I knew my dad wouldn’t believe me, and my mother would blame me. Anything to keep the production happy, that’s what she did. That was more important to her than the health and safety of her children. The director was coked out of his mind most of the time, incompetent, and so busy fucking or trying to fuck one of the women in the cast, he was worse than useless. He was a fading actor who was cosplaying as a director, as in over his head as my mother. My sister and I were never safe. Instead of harmless atmospheric SFX smoke, they set hay on fire in barrels and blew actual smoke onto the set. They took buckets of talc, broken wood, bits of wallpaper and plaster, and threw it into my face during a scene inside the collapsing house. My sister is in a scene where she goes to get eggs from some chickens, and they attack her. So they hired Lucio Fulci, the Italian horror master, to direct her sequence. His idea, which everyone was totally on board with, was to throw chickens at my sister. Live chickens, live roosters, live birds. Just throw them at a nine-year-old girl. Oh, and then tie them to her arms and legs so they’ll peck her. All of this happened under my mother’s observation, and with her full participation.
Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.
If just ONE of the things I can remember happened to someone I loved, I would have grabbed my kids, gone to the airport, and flown home. Fuck those abusive assholes in the production. Let the lawyers sort it all out. Nobody hurts my children and gets away with it.
My mom says she “had some talks” with the producers. She claims that, once, she wouldn’t let us leave the hotel. (God, what a fucking dump that place was. It was just slightly better than a hostel.) I have no memory of that, but honestly the entire experience was so traumatic, I’ve blocked most of it out.
The movie was the commercial and critical failure I knew it would be. My parents spent the money. I don’t know what they spent it on. I got to keep fifteen cents of every dollar, so . . . yay?
My sister and I hardly ever talk about this. I suspect it was as upsetting and traumatic for her as it was for me. I told her I was writing about it, and asked her if she remembered anything. She told me she’d been lied to her whole life about this movie. Our mother let her believe she had been cast on the strength of her audition. “I was excited to work with you,” she said. She reminded me about some stuff I’d blocked out, including a scene where my character’s older brother (played by an actor named Malcolm Danare, who was kind and gentle, and made both of us feel safer when he was around) shoves my character into a pile of cow shit. When it came time to shoot the scene, the mud they’d put together to be the cow shit looked an awful lot like cow shit. When Malcolm pushed me into it, we all found out it was real cow shit. I was FURIOUS. The director had lied to me and had allowed me to have my entire body shoved into an actual pile of actual cow shit. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember he treated me the exact same way my father did whenever I got upset: he laughed at me, told me I was being too sensitive, reminded me that he was the director and he wanted to get a “real” performance out of me, and concluded, “If it bothers you so much, we’ll get you a hepatitis shot,” before he walked away.
My sister also recalled that, after she survived the scene with the chickens, it was the producers’ idea to give her one as a pet.
Okay, let’s unpack that for a quick second: you’ve been traumatized by these birds, so we’re going to give you one as a pet. That you’ll somehow keep in your hotel, and then will somehow get back to America. It will shock you to learn that neither of those things happened.
She remembered, as I do, the huge fight I had with my parents in our kitchen, where I told them I hated the script and I hated the movie. I didn’t want to do it, and I hated that they were making me do it.
“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”
“This is the only film you are being offered,” my mother lied to me. She made me feel like, if I didn’t do this movie, I would never do another movie again in my life. I had to do this movie. As my father bellowed, I had no choice.
Both of my parents denied this argument ever happened. Can I tell you how reassuring it is to know that my sister, who was also there, remembers it the same way I do?
The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them.
But one thing she told me, the thing I did not know, the thing that makes me so angry I want to break things, actually managed to make the entire experience even worse than I remembered it.
There’s a scene after her chicken incident where I check up on her in her bedroom. She’s got cuts and bruises, and I guess we talk about it. I don’t remember and I can’t watch the movie because I’m terrified it will give me a PTSD flashback (I’ve had one of those and I recommend avoiding it). Here’s the thing about that scene: she has some cuts on her face, and those cuts are real. They are not makeup.
I’m going to repeat that. My nine-year-old little sister had actual cuts on her face that were placed there by an adult, on purpose.
The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them. My sister told me our mother wasn’t in the makeup room when this happened — honestly, it seemed like our mother was strangely and conveniently absent when most of the really terrible things happened to us on the set — and when my sister told her what they’d done, she “lost her shit” at the production. She was pissed, I guess, which is appropriate and surprising. I wonder what would have to have happened for her to put us on a plane and get us home to safety? I mean, her son being abused daily didn’t do it, and her daughter being CUT IN THE FACE ON PURPOSE didn’t do it.
I just . . . I can’t. I can’t understand or comprehend allowing your own children to be physically and emotionally abused. They were literally selling my sister and me to these people, like we were some kind of commodity.
This was a tough conversation. My sister’s experience with our parents is very different from mine. My sister and I love each other. We’re close. I know it’s hard for her to hear that her brother, who she loves, was so abused by her parents, who she also loves. I was really grateful she made the time to talk to me about it, and grateful the experience wasn’t as horrible for her as it was for me.
As we were finishing our call, Amy also remembered one man, a young Italian named Luka, who was our driver for the movie. I haven’t thought about him in thirty years, but I can see his face now. He was kind, he was friendly, he taught us how to kick a soccer ball, and in the middle of an abusive, torturous experience, he stood out as a kind and gentle man. I mention him because she remembered him, which made me remember him, and goddammit I want at least one small part of this thing to not be awful.
The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares.
Ultimately, as I predicted and feared, this piece of shit movie cashed me out of respectable films forever. I got offers for movies, but they were always mindless comedies or exploitative horror films. They were never the serious dramas I wanted to work in after Stand by Me. The industry looked at me and River, wondering if one or both of us would become a breakout star. They quickly saw that River was doing real acting work, and I was in this piece of shit. For River, Stand by Me was a beginning. For me, it would turn out to be pretty much everything, at least as far as film goes.
There are thousands of reasons film careers do and don’t take off. Maybe mine wouldn’t have taken off anyway. Clearly, it’s not where my life ended up, and I’m super okay with that now. But when all of this happened, it hurt and haunted me.
The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares. Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.
This annotation is the last thing I wrote before I turned this manuscript in, because opening these wounds is hard and painful. I put it off as long as I could, and I feel like I’m still holding back, because just this small glimpse of the experience has taken me a week to write. I can’t imagine trying to go back and unpack the whole thing. (Note that is not in the book: I’ve made an EMDR appointment to work on this because the nightmares have come back after the weekend).
Fuck The Curse, and fuck every single person who exploited and hurt two beautiful children to make it. You all participated in child abuse, and you all knew better. Shame on all of you. I hope this follows you to the end of your life. I hope that living with what you did to innocent children has been as hard for you as it has been for me, because you deserve no less.
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mrs-kmikaelson · 7 months
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Our Song and Dance¹
Pairing: Finnick Odair x reader Summary: You'd grown used to dancing the same dance over and over again, the victor's dance, but then you start dancing with Finnick Odair and you feel things you never thought you'd feel. So you let yourself enjoy the dance, even though you knew that every song inevitably came to an end. Warnings: super-duper-duper long, exploitation of minors, forced prostitution, unrequited love, complicated relationships, violence, death, mental health issues, canadian spelling lol, and i make up some names (lmk if i missed smth) Words: 19.7K
Masterlist | Part 2
a/n: i alr have this finished, but it was way too long to post in one part (as you can see) so i split it up into three parts. this one goes from pre-hunger games to right before the quell. had this idea in my head as soon as i finished thg, so i hope u enjoy!
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Y/N Y/L/N, victor of the 67th Hunger Games. You were from district 4, one of the youngest victors that not only your district has ever had, but also all of Panem. Of course, you weren’t the youngest; that title belonged to none other than Finnick Odair.
A man you hated with a passion and, frankly, a man who didn’t like you very much either.
You could still remember the night you met.
Snow was droning on and on, giving a speech about something you couldn’t care less about. It was all lies, anyway, and you were only gonna end up in some rich man’s bed tonight, so you’d prefer to go through that interaction as drunk as you could be. With that thought, you downed the rest of your flute.
“Ah, careful, Princess.” Before you even saw the person, you knew it was him. His voice was so easily recognizable, even though you had never met, not even after living in the same district, then the Victors’ Village, or even at these little Capitol parties. 
Finnick.
You turned, a faux smile on your face that he fully reciprocated. “Snow wouldn’t want the Capitol’s pride and joy to be under the influence,” he said, teasing but with an undertone that put you off.
You didn’t give a damn what Snow thought, but you weren’t gonna say that, especially not in his own home. Instead, you gave him the smile you gave the rest of Panem and directed the topic of conversation away from the President. “I won my Games, Finnick. Trust me, I’m not a lightweight.” Oh, but you wish you were. You wish you could get so drunk that you’d forget who you were entirely.
A part of you felt bad: twenty-three other people died while you walked out of the arena, and yet you wanted nothing more than for your life to end. A part of you wondered if the great Finnick Odair ever felt this way, either, but it wouldn’t be good small talk to ask.
Finnick’s grin only widened. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”
Your eyes just so imperceptibly narrowed. “Likewise.”
He started to walk away, but he suddenly paused like he forgot something, leaning closer to you. Your breath got caught in your throat when you felt his on your neck. Your eyes locked, and all of a sudden, you wondered how it was possible that you never noticed how beautiful his eyes were. 
“May the odds be ever in your favour, darling,” he whispered, and then he walked away without giving you another glance.
That night, Finnick didn’t leave your mind. It wasn’t until there was a resident of the Capitol lying on top of you that you stopped thinking about him. When you were in that position, you stopped thinking about everything, really.
When you walked out of your hotel room, done with your little job, Finnick was brought back to the forefront of your mind as your eyes met his. He looked like he was in the same state as you, also having been leaving a room. He looked surprised to see you.
You stared at him for a moment, but then you let yourself disappear down the hallway before he could say anything.
You knew what that meant; you knew it wasn’t his own room that he was leaving. When you got to your own room, you realized you were much more alike than you thought. You supposed that you couldn’t be surprised; Finnick was desirable, so of course Snow would put him up for sale.
You were in the exact same boat.
Since that night, you saw him in a different light.
You two didn’t talk when you got back home, no, but at your next Capitol event, you decided that you’d refuse to leave him alone, to leave someone who was going through the same thing as you to their own devices. That’s what you told yourself, but deep down, you just didn’t want to suffer in silence, either.
So you went and found him after a night with another Capitol pig. Standing outside, hands in his pockets, he looked so calm, but you saw a storm brewing in his eyes that only few could ever decipher.
You went and stood next to him, even though it was freezing cold out. He glanced over at you, and then his face became surprised, not surprise at you being there, but at you being there with him. Neither of you said anything; it was either that you were too afraid of a jabberjay overhearing or of yourselves. You just stood there in a comfortable silence.
You’d learn that, with Finnick, sometimes doing nothing could mean everything.
The two of you went on to do this every time you were there until, slowly, you graduated from just silence to holding each other. Oh, Finnick Odair was a cocky asshole, but when you were in the Capitol, he wasn’t him and you weren’t you. You were just two people that needed comfort, and that was enough.
You still didn’t talk, though, and when you were at home, you didn’t communicate at all. That was why you were surprised when you answered your door to see him standing on the other side.
Finnick went back to being Finnick, striding into your home without so much as an invitation. This caused you to roll your eyes, but they suddenly widened at his words. “Caesar Flickerman is on TV, saying that we’re dating.”
If you were drinking something, you would’ve spit it out. “What?” An incredulous look was painted onto your face.
Finnick, on the other hand, was a little more stoic, not exactly the charmer he was on television or in Capitol balls, but you could easily guess why—and if you hadn’t, then he was gonna tell you, anyways. “You know what this means.” He looked you in the eye, jaw clenched. “Two of Snow’s best—the Prince and Princess of Panem—dating? It’s the last thing he wants.”
“Finnick-”
“No, he won’t be able to sell us if we’re together, and if he can’t sell us, then he’ll start killing the people we love.” This was the first time either of you were even acknowledging the situation you were in.
You felt stung for some reason, even though you didn’t love Finnick—and he didn’t love you. But, deep down, no matter how much you tried to repress it, you knew there was something between you, so hearing him speak to you this way, like you were just nothing, hurt.
However, you got over your feelings quickly, the same way you always had. You moved your thoughts away from your heart and started thinking with your head. You were quiet for a second until you let out a soft gasp, like a light bulb went off in your head.
This time, you made eye contact with Finnick effortlessly. “What if this is exactly what we need?” You asked, a glint in your eye that he hadn’t seen before.
The blond scoffed. “I don’t see how our families dying is exactly what we need, Y/N.”
“No- no, Finnick, you already said it.” You grabbed onto his shoulders. “The Capitol- hell, everyone already thinks we’re the Prince and Princess of Panem. If we give them what they want, then- then we’d be unstoppable.” You paused to let him weigh in, but he only stared heavily at you, not a trace of what he was thinking on display, so you continued, “Snow and all of those Capitol motherfuckers will eat this shit up, Finnick. And then we’ll be free.”
You were trying not to show any emotion, either, but you couldn’t help it. At the mere thought of freedom, something you never thought was possible, you felt so many different things at once. While you were holding your feelings on your sleeve, Finnick was less easy to read.
But, in seconds, you knew exactly how he felt.
“We will never be free, Y/N.”
He walked out after that, leaving you alone in your living room. He’d never know it, but you stayed in that same spot for three hours, staring at where he once stood. His words had awakened something in you, the part of yourself that’d been thrown into the Hunger Games at only fifteen-years-old. 
At the time, you thought you were going to die. You were hopeless, but after you won, you realized there was hope after all. You could still make it. Even as Snow allowed your body to be violated, your mind to deteriorate, you still had hope. But Finnick’s words brought back that frightened little girl in you that you thought died.
You’d later realize just how lucky you were that he buried her again. He came back and told you that he’d do it, and as easily as he brought that little girl back to life, he drowned her.
It wasn’t easy at first, pretending to be in love. You didn’t know the first thing about it, but Finnick helped you as if he’d been doing it all his life.
“C’mon, Y/N, it’s gonna be fine-”
“No, it’s not gonna be fine. Caesar’s gonna call us out immediately- and if he doesn’t, then Snow will-”
“Y/N.” Finnick cut off your nervous ramblings with a stern calling of your name. Even him saying your name was still weird to you. You weren’t used to so much conversation with the victor, but now you were gonna have to pretend to love him. “We’re gonna be fine.”
You weren’t convinced, and he saw that with the twitching of your fingers. You knew Finnick was a great actor, and normally you were, too, but this situation was unlike any other that you’d ever been in. It was foreign territory for you.
“Look,” he grabbed onto your hand, “whenever you get nervous up there, you just hold my hand, alright? You’re not alone in this, okay? I’m right here.”
If you didn’t know any better, you’d say your heart skipped a beat. If you didn’t know any better, you’d even say you felt a spark when his skin met yours.
For a second, you pretended that you weren’t pretending. You pretended that you were holding hands because you were two kids in love, not because you had to survive. You pretended you were never in The Games, that you never killed so ruthlessly just to live without truly living. You pretended that you weren’t you, and Finnick wasn’t Finnick, and you were holding hands just because, not because you were about to go on TV and lie.
But that second ended far too quickly as you pulled your hand out of his grasp, nodding. “Okay,” you took a deep breath, repeating his words to yourself, “we’re gonna be okay.”
“Of course, we are. Now tell me again how we met.”
When the time came for the actual interview, you never let Finnick’s hand go.
The experience became more familiar to you as you went on. It was the same as any other show you’d put on for the Capitol. When you were younger, you dreamed of being a storyteller.
Now, you told stories of a life of yours that’d never existed.
Finnick and you were thrusted into the public eye, reciting the same stories day after day. It almost felt like it was actually real, and sometimes, you wished it was.
He’d look at you with a look of love in his eyes in front of all of the cameras, touching you tenderly. Oh, he was a wonderful liar. He even made you believe it for a second, too. But you knew that no such thing would ever happen.
Finnick Odair would never fall for a girl like you. Even if you were slowly falling for him.
During nights alone, you’d marvel at the turn of events. Finnick was once a man that you hated, but now look at you. You didn’t even know if you were faking it anymore. But it is fake, you’d remind yourself. He doesn’t love you, and you won’t love him.
You weren’t gonna let yourself love him. Truth be told, you were never gonna let yourself love anybody in the first place. Loving someone only made a new liability, a new weakness for the Capitol to exploit, but you could not love Finnick.
You’d been through a lot; your heart had taken many blows and survived, but you knew loving Finnick would only one day break it into a million little pieces. Still, it’s not like he made it easy.
You were lying in your bed- your shared bed with Finnick. Since announcing that you were dating, you moved in with him. You both decided it’d be easier to hide it all that way, easier for the public to believe, too. Sharing a bed was his idea—“just in case,” he’d said.
You wanted to object, but what would you even tell him? That you were afraid of falling in love with him? You would never even put the mere idea into his head. So you went along with it.
It was funny, though: you never went to bed alone, but that’s still how it felt. Being next to him, under the covers… it didn’t make you as warm as you hoped it would.
He didn’t live with anyone else. From what you gathered, Mags, your shared mentor, was his only family. His parents died of sickness early on; Mags took him in and kept him alive, all the way up until he was sent to The Games. Finnick didn’t get sappy with you often, but you knew that he couldn’t lose her.
What he was doing for Snow, he was doing for Mags. You thought Mags was the only person he cared about, but you learned that this wasn’t true. There was one other person who he was close to, who he’d do anything to keep safe. That person was Annie Cresta.
You met her once. She was beautiful and sweet, so you understood immediately why Finnick was in love with her. He never talked to you about her, but you could tell just from how he looked at her that she was the light of his life, even if she herself wasn’t aware of that.
Annie was good, the perfect girl for Finnick. She didn’t come with all the baggage you had, she wasn’t as rude, and she always knew what to say. You would’ve wanted them together, too, if it weren’t for the fact that Finnick was becoming your Annie. He was becoming your person, and so it killed you to know that not only was he in love with another girl, but he was also unhappy.
He’d never be happy with you. While you wished you could spare him the torment and just let him be with her, you had people you cared about, too, and he was now also on that list. So your job was to keep you all alive, not happy.
The door to your bedroom opened, interrupting your train of thought. You faced away from the entrance, but you knew it was Finnick. He had perfected soundless footsteps, even though you weren’t in an arena anymore. But you supposed you were still fighting for your lives, anyway.
He climbed into bed, letting out a big exhale when his back hit the mattress. You didn’t greet him, nor did he greet you, even though he knew you were awake. You’d gone through this whole song and dance already. You had to pretend in front of the cameras; you weren’t gonna do that in here, too.
The two of you were silent. This wasn’t a silence like before when you stood together in the Capitol after those horrible nights. This was a silence that was suffocating.
Things were never the same after you decided to go through with this charade. Maybe you were almost friends before, but now you were allies at most, just there to help the other survive. Oh, you wished you could be friends, but life was never so kind.
As if he could hear you begging for companionship, he whispered, “Y/N?”
Your breath hitched. “Yes?”
There was a beat of silence before his response. You wondered what his face looked like, but you wouldn’t dare turn around. “Can we- can we just be together tonight?”
Out of all the things he could’ve said, that didn’t even make your list. You sharply inhaled. Finnick didn’t sound like Finnick at all. He sounded small, and vulnerable, and scared, all states that he’d never let you see him in. But he was.
“What do you mean?” You didn’t turn around. “We are together.”
So unlike Finnick, he stammered, “No, I mean- can I- I want to hold you.”
If this were the dance you compared it to in your head, then you’d be stumbling over your own feet. He’d never asked about anything like that before. In fact, Finnick never even seemed to like you or this predicament much. Sure, you interested him, and maybe you were friends, but you knew that if he could’ve pick anyone else to dance this dance with, he would’ve.
You wondered what brought him to this point. Maybe it had something to do with Annie, but at that moment, you couldn’t bother thinking about it. He’d never know it, but you could never say no to him.
So you turned around and let him wrap his arm around you. But little did he know, you obliged not just to comfort him, but also yourself.
You’d fall asleep in Finnick’s arms every night after that. 
You’d always been so independent, so alone, that you forgot what it felt like to lean on someone, even if it was just for a little while in the dead of night. But when Finnick held you, sleep came easier and nightmares came less.
He had no idea that he became your knight in shining armour; he never meant to, but he did. Soon after you started “dating,” Snow left you alone. You still attended Capitol parties, still mentored kids every year, but you no longer found yourself in bed with members of Snow’s cabinet, and neither did Finnick.
It was easier once it stopped, but you still had to grapple with the pain of what had already happened to you; all of this didn’t even take into account The Games. Sure, you were done, but you still had to come back once a year and prepare a kid to kill or be killed. Nothing dredged up old memories like that did.
Doing it with him was what got you through it. When you lost a kid, Finnick was there to hold you and reassure you and himself that it wasn’t your fault, that you couldn’t have done much more to stop it. At times like those especially, you had to reel yourself in and remind yourself that, yes, he cared for you, but he wasn’t in love with you.
There were times that every bone in your body told you the exact opposite, that Finnick’s actions told you the exact opposite. Sometimes, he’d kiss you for the cameras and made you fall for it, too.
God, you were a team, such a great team. Would it be so horrible of you to assume you could be more?
You’d later realize that, yes, it was.
Because at the reaping for the 70th Hunger Games, Annie Cresta’s name was called and your little fantasy of a relationship with Finnick was shattered to pieces.
His usually calm demeanour was broken as he ran toward her as soon as you both got on the train, engulfing her in a hug and soothing her while she sobbed. You just watched from the sidelines, a frown on your face. You wished you were frowning because your dear friend Annie was just chosen to be in a fight to the death, but you were frowning because Finnick had never hugged you like that.
There were no cameras here; this wasn’t for show. He never looked at you like that when there weren’t any cameras around.
You felt like you were intruding on a private moment, even though you were just standing there, even though you were supposed to be his girlfriend, not Annie. A girlfriend would’ve probably cleared her throat, interrupted the interaction, but you couldn’t find the courage to do that.
Instead, you waited for the moment to end and walked over to her yourself when Finnick stepped away, giving her a tight hug as if she hadn’t just brought you to the brink of tears. But that didn’t matter. Annie could possibly die, so your little feelings for Finnick were pretty insignificant at the moment.
You tossed those very feelings to the side, directing all your attention to preparing your tribute. Finnick was trying to explain everything, but he was too worried, so you took over for him, pushing forth all your efforts while he focused on the boy that’d been reaped from your district.
You always tried your best with the tributes, always, but this wasn’t just any tribute. This was Annie Cresta, your friend and the love of Finnick’s life. You needed her to make it out of this alive—Finnick wouldn’t survive without her.
You gave her every piece of advice you could think of during that trip, digging through your memory for things you might’ve even forgotten. You wished you could help the boy in the same way, but there could only be one victor in these Games, and it had to be her.
Remember that these are games, Annie. Don’t worry about the killing once you’re in the arena; you need to treat it like a game, like the other tributes are just pieces that need to be knocked off the board, you told her. You hated every word that came out of your mouth, but she needed to hear it. She needed to overcome the shock now so she didn’t get choked up during the actual Games like you did.
When the time finally came for you to send the tributes off into the arena, you hugged yourself, taking deep breaths to try and calm down. You imagined that it was Finnick’s arms that were around you, but you weren’t gonna ask him to comfort you. He was the one that needed comforting, but you knew he wouldn’t accept it, so you didn’t offer.
Instead, you worked your ass off to get Annie sponsors, to get people to like her as if they didn’t already. You didn’t sleep for days, and neither did Finnick until he accidentally fell asleep for a few hours one day.
You both watched as she took the tips you’d given her, using them in her own way. She was small, but she was smart and she picked up on how to play the game quickly.
Only when the last tribute was dead did a sigh of relief finally leave you. Your shoulders slumped as you sat in front of the TV. Finnick’s muttering fell upon deaf ears as static filled your brain. She made it, you thought. She’s okay.
But that didn’t make life any more okay.
After all, nobody ever really won The Games.
“Annie- Annie, it’s alright-” 
“No, it’s not!” You heard something break, like it had thrown it to the ground. When you walked further into your house, your guess was proven right. Finnick and Annie stood in your living room, the former worried and the latter frantic, pieces of a broken vase all over the ground.
“Nothing is okay, Finn! Nothing! Do you hear me- nothing is okay!” The redhead was pacing around with your so called boyfriend trying to stop and calm her down. They were both so panicked that neither of them noticed you, and you didn’t announce your presence, either.
You only stood from the side, just like on that Capitol train. The Annie that went into that arena was innocent. She was eighteen, but she was still more of a child than either of you ever got the chance to be. Now that she won, she didn’t look so innocent anymore.
She wore a look that was so familiar to you. She was alive, but Annie had never looked more like a ghost of herself.
“Annie, please-” Finnick’s voice cracked mid-sentence. He kept trying to get close to her, but she moved away every time. The tears in his eyes made yours watery, too. You had never seen him look so broken, not even as you stood in the Capitol together those cold nights after being used.
If you weren’t sure of how much Finnick loved Annie, you were now.
“No, no, nothing is okay!” She screamed, tears streaming down her face. She suddenly stopped, letting out a sob before collapsing onto the ground. Finnick ran to her right away, pulling her close and rocking her as she repeated the same thing over and over.
You hadn’t even noticed you were crying until you felt the tear falling onto your cheek, wiping at it immediately and turning around to walk away as quietly as you possibly could. You weren’t gonna just stand by and do nothing while Annie fell apart and Finnick cut himself trying to put the pieces back together. You couldn’t.
You found yourself in the kitchen, putting a kettle on the stove to distract yourself. Your eyes zeroed in on it as you tried to block out the sound of Annie’s crying, trying not to cry yourself. At one point, you succeeded, because you couldn’t hear anything anymore.
You don’t know how long you stood there, but you were eventually broken out of your trance by a hand reaching out in front of you to turn off the stove, moving the kettle. It was only now that you realized how loudly it was whistling.
You turned to see the hand belonged to Finnick who now poured the hot water into your expensive tea cups. They were a gift given to you by a patron of the Capitol, an old man with kids and a wife. He was somewhat of a regular of yours, and so he gave you that tea set to try and make himself feel better for what he was doing, along with many other gifts.
You never told Finnick any of this. You wondered if he would so readily pull them out if he knew where they came from.
He wordlessly put the tea bags into the cups, sliding one over on the island to where you stood. Then he brought the cup to his lips, taking a sip of the scalding liquid like it was nothing. You ignored your disbelief and the rational part of your brain, picking the cup to do the same thing.
When the tea met your tongue, it burned, even as it went down your throat, but you still went back in for a second sip, anyway. This pain was able to distract you from all the thoughts bouncing around in your head, and so that made it feel like it was worth it. You wondered if this was Finnick’s logic, too.
You didn’t say anything for a long while, didn’t ask about Annie or where she went. You knew he must’ve known that you heard what happened, but he didn’t mention it, either. You assumed that she fell asleep.
You wished you could fall asleep so easily, too.
Your song kept playing as you both danced around the same topics, standing together silently as your world crumbled. You danced, and danced, and danced, until your tea cups were empty, but the song was still playing.
Finnick’s voice cut through the silence of your music effortlessly, even though he was still so quiet.
“Sometimes, I think she would’ve been better off if she died.” You slowly brought your head up to meet his eyes, but they were aimed at the cup in his hand. He looked nothing like the Prince of Panem, the charming man who always had something witty to say. No, he looked beaten down, just as lifeless as Annie. Maybe you looked as lifeless as you felt, too; maybe you were all so unaware of how broken you seemed.
You didn’t know what to say to his confession. So you didn’t say anything at all.
You’d never know where that conversation would’ve went, because in seconds, Finnick collected your cups, put them in the sink, and then he left you standing there.
His words from before echoed through your head. We will never be free, Y/N.
And maybe he was right.
Annie was back home, but she never really came back from that arena—none of you did. Hell, you were thrusted into a life you never wanted, a victor’s life, as soon as you were out. You thanked God that Annie wasn’t gonna have to go through what you did; the way she was spinning out made her undesirable. At least a good thing came out of her losing it.
Oh, you were starting to find a silver-lining with everything. You had to—otherwise, you’d lose it, just like Annie. You had to find some sort of good in this situation because, otherwise, what was the point?
Time supposedly healed all wounds, but you felt like you were still bleeding. You just learned to conceal it better than others.
Before The Games, you had friends. Now you really only talked to Finnick, and you two didn’t talk much, either. Every now and then, you’d see Annie and Mags, but they weren’t your people. And your family… well, how close could you be with them after what happened? You weren’t the same girl your mother raised.
She could barely even look at you anymore.
But you couldn’t think about any of this. If you did, you’d fall apart, and you couldn’t do that. You had a role to play, an image to protect—for your safety, for your family’s safety, for his safety.
You couldn’t afford to break down like that in your living room and throw things. You wanted to, so badly, but you didn’t have that luxury.
So your song kept playing, and you danced along with it.
Finnick’s walls went back up, too. His charisma was like a light bulb that briefly flickered, but it was back now. He was dancing, too. But, without even realizing it, you both held each other tighter at night, as if you were trying not to lose the other to the tornado that was your life.
However, when you woke up, you both pretended the tornado didn’t even exist.
Annie wasn’t one for pretending. Oh, she got wrapped up into the tornado the second she was declared a victor and there was no saving her anymore. Yes, she would’ve been better off dead, maybe you all would’ve been, but if you thought about this for too long, if you let the song stop, then you’d get caught in the cyclone, too.
You pretended for a year, attending Capitol galas with a smile on your face, getting interviewed right next to Finnick with his hand in yours, acting like you were the picture perfect couple. He spoke about you like he knew you like the back of his hand, but truth be told, he didn’t know you at all; he barely ever tried to. You didn’t blame him, though; it was hard to try to talk to someone when the music was so loud.
Then came the 71st Hunger Games, and you were mentors again. Meeting the tributes, it was almost like the music stopped- almost. The girl was quiet but angry, and she reminded you so much of yourself. The boy kept cracking jokes that she didn’t laugh at, jokes that were probably inappropriate for a time like this, but you knew he wasn’t doing it to be an ass. This was his way of coping.
He reminded you of Finnick.
Looking at these kids was like looking into a mirror. On the last day of training, he finally got a reaction out of her, made her smile with a faint blush on her cheeks. Oh, these kids should’ve been laughing together in the diner back home, not on their way to die.
They were too young and too innocent. It makes you wonder if things would’ve been different if you and Finnick had met before The Games. Would that have made soothed the heartbreak?
You didn’t know. But when you saw that boy crying as he held her in that arena, blood pouring onto him from her stab-wound, you knew that heartbreak was what he felt.
Too young. They were too young.
The boy died too. He didn’t even put up a fight.
These kids were just kids, and they died young.
Just like you and Finnick did.
You sat in your room at the Capitol, swirling your scotch around in your glass. It was a crystal glass so beautiful you knew it could’ve only been crafted by hand, but you didn’t want to admire it; you wanted to throw it at the wall.
Their names were Delta and Aalto. Aalto was the more talkative one; he said he dreamed of opening his own bakery one day, right in the middle of the district with food that everyone could afford and enjoy.
He’d never get to do that now.
And Delta- she didn’t know what she wanted out of life yet. She never got the chance to figure it out.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.
The door to the room opened, making you look up from the liquor in your hand to see Finnick walking into the room. He looked defeated. Of course, he was better at hiding it than you were, but you knew how to read him better now, after all these years.
The bed dipped as he sat down next to you. You held your glass out, almost like a peace offering, and he took it without much thought, downing it in one go.
You sat there together the same way you had many times before, not saying a word. But this time felt different. It felt like there was something you were supposed to say. So you turned to look at Finnick, trying to see if he felt the same weight, only to see that he was already looking at you.
You could tell just by his eyes that he felt it, too. He opened his mouth, then closed it like he’d lost his train of thought. When you met him, you never thought you’d see the day when Finnick was speechless.
Look at how wrong you were.
You opened your mouth after a few seconds, wanting to articulate your feelings in some way, but Finnick’s lips slammed against yours before you get anything out. Without thinking, you kissed back; it felt like second-nature to you.
This wasn’t the first time you’d kissed, but he had never kissed you like this, so passionately, not a camera in sight. He was kissing you like you were air and he’d been holding his breath for so long, like you were the treasure he’d been searching for and he didn’t want to let go.
It felt like nothing you’d ever experienced.
When you eventually pulled away for air and opened your eyes, you were brought back to the real world. There was something you were supposed to say. But you quickly disregarded it, pulling him back in for another kiss before he could notice the way you were looking at him.
Yes, there was something you were supposed to say. But you couldn’t put it into words.
So you hoped that this kiss said everything that you couldn’t.
You were both grieving, and you were both there. And you knew that Finnick didn’t like you like that, so you weren’t gonna get your hopes up. This meant nothing, even if it felt like everything for you when it was happening.
He was the only person you’d ever done anything like this with before. You did things with those people Snow set you up with, but that didn’t count. You were doing this because you wanted to. You didn’t know if this was his first time or not, but you weren’t gonna ask. You did everything but talk for the rest of the night.
When you woke up, it was still dark out and Finnick was still asleep. You stared at him for a few seconds, his fluffy blond hair that you messed up, his swollen lips. He looked so peaceful like this; you couldn’t bear to wake him up and ruin that, bring him back to this nightmare.
So you got up as quietly as you could, wrapping yourself in a robe and closing the door to the bedroom, walking into the living room. The rooms the Capitol provided the victors were beautiful, but never beautiful enough to make you forget about the ugly reason that you were here.
You sat on the couch, exhaling and leaning back. You were gonna sit there in silence, but your song kept playing, and the record was skipping, and you were starting to get a headache, so you turned on the TV.
Without having to change the channel at all, you were immediately met with the news, Caesar Flickerman’s face on the flat screen. It wasn’t long before you realized why he was so excited: the Hunger Games were over. Someone won.
Caesar’s attitude made your mood go sour. He was behaving like twenty-three children weren’t just killed. It didn’t matter if they died of starvation, dehydration, an animal, or actually another tribute—it was all murder, and the Capitol was the perpetrator. It disgusted you that there were people who found enjoyment in watching these Games, Caesar Flickerman included. They’d pretend to be sympathetic, but at the end of the day, you were all just circus animals to them.
The victor’s face came onto the TV, and you immediately recognized her from the rankings. Johanna Mason. Caesar kept talking, explaining how Johanna had managed to cause so many people to be enamoured of her, and you suddenly felt sick.
Snow was gonna jump at this opportunity. He was gonna use her, too.
You turned off the TV, going back to your room and getting back into bed like you’d never left. Your song came back on, and you went back to preferring to listen to it instead of your own thoughts. You weren’t gonna think about Johanna much longer; there wasn’t any point.
There was nothing you could do.
The next time you woke up and it was actually morning, you were surprised to see that Finnick was still there. While you were sleeping, he managed to snake his arms around you. 
You didn’t get up, even though there were Capitol duties to attend to.
You stayed in bed and pretended that you were a normal couple, that maybe Finnick actually felt something for you, that you weren’t in the Capitol right now, that the world wasn’t so fucked up, that you weren’t so fucked up. But you didn’t pretend for long, eventually getting up and facing the world that you didn’t want to be apart of but had been sucked into.
He didn’t tell you this, but he was pretending, too.
You both went to the gatherings you had to go to, talked to the people you had to talk to, kept smiles on your faces, and shook Snow’s hand, even though it made you want to puke. You endured it all—you both did. The Prince and Princess of Panem…
You realized it was true what they said, heavy is the head that wears the crown. This figurative crown was weighing you down; you wondered if it’d be so coveted if people got the chance to feel how you felt.
Then you went back home, even if it didn’t really feel like a home to you. It was still all you had. But Finnick kept surprising you.
Your dance suddenly changed. The song was still playing, but the dance was different, almost like that night you’d spent together had actually meant something.
You started having dinner together every night. Before, you often forgot to eat, but now how could you? You were beginning to look forward to your daily dinners; there wasn’t much more to look forward to in the life you led.
He made it hard for you not to fall even more in love with him.
You two still didn’t talk during dinner, but it almost did feel normal, like you were a family- like you could be a family.
And then the dance changed again, and that dream felt even more real.
You pulled your chair out at your dinner table, sitting down across from Finnick. You were both dressed “down” in more comfortable clothes, but you knew there was some people in the district that still couldn’t afford them. That bothered you, but when you had dinner, most of your worries were pushed to the back of your mind.
When you two had dinner, you just enjoyed the dance.
You were a few minutes into dinner when you noticed that Finnick wasn’t eating but he was staring at you. He hadn’t stared at you like that since when you first met, so curiously, like you were a secret he wanted to be let in on.
You couldn’t ignore his stare, even if you tried. However, you tried to act nonchalant. “Is there something you want to say?” You quizzed, twirling another bite of pasta like you were unaffected by his gaze.
Finnick responded in the same beat, so much like the Finnick that was charismatic and lively, not the quiet one you normally lived with. “Something I want to ask you, actually.”
“Oh,” you said, immediately kicking yourself at how stupid you sounded. “Well, ask away.” He didn’t need to be told twice.
“What’s your favourite colour?” 
You were caught off guard by his question, blinking like you were trying to figure out if you just imagined him saying him that or if he really did. He blinked back at you but never faltered.
“What?”
He repeated himself, slower this time. “What is your favourite colour?” You blinked again when you realized he was being totally serious. “You know, colours, like a rainbow-”
“I know what colours are, Finnick.”
“Ohhhh.” His eyes got big as if he thought you actually didn’t know what a rainbow was. “Sorry, you were just looking at me like I had said the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard. So what’s your favourite colour?”
You couldn’t stop the corners of your lips going up as his grin just got wider. God, you hadn’t seen him smile like that in so long. It actually looked real.
You thought about it for a second, looking right into his eyes when you came up with an answer. “It’s blue, not really dark or light either. Sort of green- it’s close to grey, too.”
He looked at you for a few seconds before blurting, “Y/N, that sounds like the least vibrant shade of blue I’ve ever heard of.”
You laughed. “It’s vibrant to me!” He laughed, too, shaking his head like you were crazy. That shade of blue that you described was more vibrant than any other blue you’d ever seen. You could never tired of looking at it whenever you looked into Finnick’s eyes.
When the laughter died down, you asked him the same question. “Okay, now what’s your favourite colour?”
He shrugged. “Don’t have one.”
You scoffed, “Oh, come. on. You have to have a favourite colour; you can’t be that boring.”
“That boring? I’m not boring at all,” he argued, a look of faux offence on his face.
You snorted. “I beg to differ.”
“I can make you beg a lot more if you don’t take that back.” Your eyes immediately went wide and, against your will, a faint redness spread on your cheeks.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he said, crossing his arms. He looked pleased at the reaction he got out of you. “Take it back.”
You scoffed again, but you weren’t sure if it was because of your stubbornness or because you wanted to see how far you could push him. “I’m not taking anything back.”
He just stared at you for a few seconds before flashing that famous smirk of his, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Really?”
You crossed your arms, too, nodding. “Mhm.”
He chuckled. “We’ll see if you still feel that way in the morning.”
And then he spent the rest of the night showing you just how boring he wasn’t.
The day after, you didn’t wake up dejected but instead with a smile on your face. You didn’t get out of bed at all, staying in Finnick’s arms. You felt giddy, like a school girl. There were no thoughts of his lack of feelings for you, Annie, or The Games. You just laid there and enjoyed the moment.
It didn’t even feel like you were pretending.
When Finnick woke up, you did it all over again. You ended up staying in bed all day together, cancelling your plans.
And when the time came to get out of bed, to go back to the real world, the music didn’t go back to normal. It was more upbeat now. You kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the beat to drop, but it didn’t.
Finnick didn’t pretend like you two sleeping together never happened. In fact, you two kept doing it almost every day. You actually had conversations during dinner. You learned basic things about him that you hadn’t known in all of the time you were living together.
He made you laugh often. You stopped crying so much.
Is this what happiness feels like? you wondered. If it was, you never wanted anything different. Whatever Finnick felt for you, it didn’t matter. As long as he kept making you happy, it didn’t matter.
You were so in love with him that it stopped mattering if he reciprocated your feelings. You didn’t want anything to ruin this, what you had. Your relationship was the most special thing you’d ever had, even if you didn’t know what to call it, so you were gonna do your damn best to hold onto it.
The things he’d say in front of the cameras felt real, then the things he did when you were alone made you believe it even more. Whatever this was between you, it felt real.
So real.
You were stirring something on the stove when two arms snaked around your waist, tickling you, making a squeal fly from your lips. “Finnick!” You screeched, trying to suppress your giggles as you turned around. The culprit (who was shirtless) didn’t look guilty at all, a shit-eating grin on his face. You shoved his shoulder. “I am trying to cook us breakfast.”
He snorted. “Yeah, trying and failing.” You shoved him again, causing him to laugh. “I’m sorry, you can’t cook!”
You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “I’ll have you know, I can cook very well, actually.”
He wrapped his arms around you again. “You know, you’re cute when you pout.”
“I’m not pouting!” You exclaimed, but a blush still arose on your cheeks that Finnick noticed right away. It was almost like he was always watching for those types of things, always trying to say or do something to get you red.
“You’re even cuter when you blush.” 
Your blush worsened, but you weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction of your defeat. “I’m not blushing. We’re in a kitchen, and it’s hot.”
He pulled you closer to him, grin widening. “Don’t lie to yourself, sweetheart, about your blushing or your cooking.” He glanced behind you. “Oh, look, burnt food.”
Your eyes went wide, immediately turning around. You groaned when you saw the brown eggs and the trail of smoke coming from them. “It’s all your fault, Finn, you distracted me.”
He gave your head a kiss, rubbing his hands up and down your arms. “Sure, darling, whatever you say.” Luckily, you were turned away from him so he couldn’t see how your cheeks reddened. You still weren’t used to the pet names, even though Finnick seemed to adore them. “Let’s leave the cooking to me from now on.”
You lightly scoffed, “Whatever.” He kissed your cheek before you started walking away, planning to sit on the couch while you waited for him to cook the food. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was probably smug.
“Who messes up eggs?” he muttered under his breath once you were a few feet away.
“I heard that, Finnick!” you shouted, but he only let out a loud laugh.
You shook your head at him, plopping down onto the couch in the adjoining living room and turning the TV on, but it was really just background noise. You found it much more enticing to watch Finnick cook. The way he moved so swiftly looked effortless; he knew what he was doing, that was sure. And it didn’t help that he was shirtless.
You discreetly stared at him for a while—or, you thought you were being discreet. Without looking up from what he was doing, he teased, “You know that I can feel you ogling at me, right?”
You went red as a tomato. “Shut up, Finnick!” you shrieked, turning back to the TV as if you even knew what was playing. His laugh boomed and you turned up the volume to tune it out, only causing him to laugh even louder.
Even though you were thoroughly embarrassed that he’d caught you staring at him, a smile still found its way onto your face. Around Finnick, it was hard not find a reason to smile.
You’d be content if you didn’t do anything for the rest of your life but wake up to him every day.
You spent many more mornings like that together, and lunches, and dinners, and everything in between. You exchanged jokes and playful banter constantly. Finnick really did make your cheeks hurt.
But he knew when to be serious.
There were still nights when you’d wake up from nightmares, and he’d comfort you back to sleep every time. When you caught him in a nightmare, you’d try your best to repay the favour, even though that didn’t happen often. He rarely wanted you to see him like that, so he hid his nightmares, but you did everything you could to keep him happy while he was awake to make up for it.
When you went to the Capitol, all of the darkness crept back in, squeezing in through the cracks of the walls that you’d built—for both of you. But you kept each other grounded. You weren’t alone.
Once, he had to talk you back from the edge as you had a panic attack in the bathroom. He locked the door and stayed there with you until you calmed down. You told him that you saw someone you hadn’t seen up close in a while, an old patron, and that just opened the floodgates. You saw his hands ball up into fists; he tried to hide the anger on his face, but you saw it and you understood it. 
He was angry at the Capitol, and so were you. He’d been through the same things you had, and that made it so much easier to cope, to have someone that understood. He understood for you and you understood for him, and so when things were bad, they at least became more okay. As long as you were there for each other, things were okay.
Meeting Johanna Mason at a later event nearly brought you right back to the brink. Her family was dead, she’d told you. And you wished you hadn’t understood so fast. You wished that none of you ever had to understand these things, that you could’ve stayed kids for longer before childhood was ripped away from you.
It’s not fair, you cried to Finnick. He killed her family. She said no, and he killed her family.
He let you cry on his shoulder, rubbing his hand up and down your back as he whispered, I know. It’s not fair, I know. But it was the world you lived in, and, unfortunately, neither of you had the power to do anything about it, even though you were the so called Prince and Princess of Panem.
So you did what you could. You were there for Johanna like how you were there for Finnick when you still didn’t know him. Both of you were there for her, teaching her the moves to your dance so she could dance with you while you were all at the Capitol together.
She was brutally honest, maybe even rude to the average onlooker, but it was what The Games did to her. Finnick and you understood that, and that led to you both forming a friendship with her. Coping with other people, people who understood, was the best painkiller that not even money could provide.
The Games were the hardest, but you went through that together, too. You trained those tributes with everything you had. You tried your best, but sometimes, not even that was enough to keep them alive. Finnick and you would grieve together. At times, he was more rational than you, reminding you that it wasn’t your fault, that these were games made to kill.
Whatever you went through, you went through it together. The good days, the bad days, the laughs, the tears—you were together every step of the way.
Things went like this for years. You really were a team, and nothing could convince you otherwise this time. You loved him more and more each day, but you never told him that; you didn’t need to, and you didn’t need him to love you, either. Being there, being together was good enough.
Your song never got old. You were so in sync as you danced. Oh, you never would’ve thought that Finnick Odair of all people would not only make your life bearable, but also joyful.
You were fake boyfriend and girlfriend, and yeah those lines started to blur, but you also became best friends over time. 
Finnick and you lied together in bed, the TV going on in the background. Your head was on his chest as he pet your hair. It was your seventh time doing this mentor thing, but it never seemed to get easier.
Your tributes were promising, but they still died early on, even though you both got them as many sponsors as you could. Mentors were usually down in the lobby, talking to sponsors and watching The Games with everyone else, but after your tributes died, there was no point.
So you went upstairs, and you both just lied there. It was one of those times where neither of you had to say anything. You were together, alive together, and that was enough.
Listening to Finnick’s heartbeat could calm you down in any situation. You must’ve been doing something to help him, too, because his heartbeat was steady. You stayed like that for a bit until he moved a bit, murmuring under his breath, “What?”
He sat up, making you sit up, too, while he grabbed the remote, turning the volume up. You glanced at it and the scene immediately caught your attention. You heard the last bits of what the announcer was saying, that a rule about two victors was being annulled. Your brows furrowed; you must not have seen the part where any such thing was declared.
You recognized the tributes who you quickly realized were the last people left standing. They were the kids from district 12, the Girl on Fire and the boy in love with her.
You scoffed. “Of course, they want the star-crossed lovers to battle to the death.” You were about to turn away, refusing to indulge in the Capitol’s bullshit, but Finnick grabbed onto your arm.
“Wait.”
You stopped, turning back. The girl, Katniss, had a bow and arrow in her hands. Peeta was a few steps away from her. They were both staring at each other, Katniss looking like she didn’t know what do, but Peeta looked like he already accepted that he was going to die.
You didn’t want to watch this, watch two people fall apart on television, but for some reason, this had captured Finnick’s attention.
One of us should go home, he said. One of us has to die; they have to have their victor. Katniss was already shaking her head.
No. She dropped her arrow to the ground, walking forward. They don’t.
You tilted your head, but you understood what was happening when she pulled a handful of berries from her pocket. “Holy shit.”
Peeta grabbed her hand, rejecting the idea immediately, but she whispered, Trust me. He must’ve really been in love with her, because he did. She poured some berries into the palm of his hand, making you lean closer.
“You don’t think they’re gonna…” you trailed off, puzzled. There were people that’d killed themselves in past games, but this had never happened. There was always a victor.
Peeta hesitated, but looked sure when he looked back into Katniss’ eyes. Together? he mumbled.
She repeated his words. Together. She looked up for a second, and then you suddenly recognized the look on her face. This was a bluff.
They counted down from three, and just as they were gonna bring the berries to their mouths, the announcer frantically cut in, Stop- stop! He cleared his throat. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winners… of the 74th Annual Hunger Games.
Relief flooded into Katniss’ eyes as she embraced Peeta in a hug. Shock flowed through you, and Finnick’s expression was no different.
Once you had processed the information, you couldn’t help the grin that grew on your face, disbelief and pride filling you at the same time. “They just screwed the Capitol.”
You turned to see him smirking. “Hell yeah, they did.”
And this made your Hunger Games experience just a little bit better.
Neither of you were surprised that Seneca Crane was found dead days later. He made a grave mistake, letting two victors win. Snow wouldn’t have that, and you could guess why.
What Katniss and Peeta did was causing chatter, sparking hope. People in district 4 were more hush-hush about it, but outlying districts, like 11, had gone into revolts. The Capitol must’ve been stressed, and knowing that brought you some sick form of comfort.
Katniss and Peeta were spinning their actions, making them out to be this act of love, like they couldn’t bear to live without each other, but you and Finnick saw right through it. After all, if there was anyone who could spot a fake relationship, it was you two.
However, the two love-birds flew from your mind when you got home. You were brought back to your little world, living life alongside Finnick. The urge grew to ask him what you were, if you were still in a fake relationship just like Katniss and Peeta or if this was real, as real as you felt it was, but you didn’t wanna mess up the one good thing you had going.
The truth was, you don’t know how long you would’ve made it without him.
Finnick was your lifeline, and he had no idea.
The next time you were at the Capitol, you were in the Presidential Palace for the so called biggest party of the year. It was always hosted right before the Hunger Games, so being there gave you many things to be anxious about.
But, like always, you concealed it, smiling and shaking hands with the people you came across, even as you were disgusted. Some of these people, the very people who paid for your body at sixteen, were there with their families. You wondered how they could have children and still do what they did.
You were a child, too.
Normally, Finnick would be there to calm you down, but he snuck off somewhere without telling you.
You were wandering around, trying to find him when a head of brown hair streaked with red came into your view. “Hey, Princess.”
A sigh left your lips, both out of relief that you found someone you knew and discontent at the nickname. “Hey, Jo.” You would usually make conversation with her, but you were pretty distracted, glancing around behind her. “Have you seen Finnick anywhere? I’ve been looking for him for a while now.”
When you looked back to her, a look you couldn’t decipher flashed across her face, but it was gone in an instant. “No, can’t say I have.”
For some reason, you got a weird feeling from her. It was almost like she knew something that you didn’t.
“Hey, why don’t we go grab a bite while we wait for him?” She suggested, gesturing to the buffet. “I’m starving.”
You shook your head, dazed. “I’ll catch up with you- I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.”
She perked up. “I’ll go with you.”
You were quick to decline. “No, that’s fine; go eat. I’ll be back in a sec.” She was hesitant  for reasons you couldn’t fathom, but she eventually nodded, agreeing to meet you later.
You walked through the halls, passing the bathrooms and not even sparing them a glance. You didn’t really know why you lied about where you were going, but in that moment, it felt like instinct. You trusted Johanna, but you were catching the same weird vibe from countless other people. All you wanted was to find Finnick and have him tell you everything was alright.
You didn’t have to look long before you found him, outside along with many other partygoers. But he wasn’t alone. Standing next to him was a man you’d just recently seen on TV. You just couldn’t remember his name.
You made your way over to them. They cut themselves off as soon as they saw you, not letting you overhear a single detail of whatever they were talking about. You stifled the reappearance of that weird feeling that was starting to feel a lot like suspicion. “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen.”
Finnick waved you off, “No, it’s fine, sweetheart.” He pulled you into his side, kissing your temple. “This is Plutarch Heavensbee.” A lightbulb went off in your head as you looked to the man.
He was Seneca Crane’s replacement.
What the hell was Finnick doing talking to him?
“It’s an honour and a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Y/L/N,” he greeted, holding his hand out. There was something about him that was throwing you off, not just your revelation of who he was, but you still shook his hand.
“Pleasure’s mine, Mr. Heavensbee,” you replied, smiling your umpteenth fake smile of the night. But you had an inkling that no one in the Capitol was as genuine as they seemed.
Plutarch didn’t try to stay and make small talk like the rest of the people you encountered at the Capitol, bidding you both farewell and wishing you a good night. Something told you his departure had something to do with your arrival.
Once he was out of earshot, you turned in Finnick’s arms. “Was that the new head Gamemaker?” He nodded, but didn’t offer any explanation. You furrowed your brows. “What were you talking about?” 
Finnick shrugged nonchalantly, but for some reason, he seemed tense. “He wanted to meet the youngest victor of The Games.”
You found that hard to believe, holding back a scoff. “Well, he didn’t seem too interested in meeting me.”
A smile arose on his face as he wrapped his arms back around your waist. “That is because you, darling, are not the youngest person to ever win.”
This time, you did scoff, but the tense atmosphere dissipated. “You’re a dick.”
“You love me.” Your heart nearly stopped, but you kept your composure. You did love him, more than he’d ever know.
You shook your head, acting unaffected. “C’mon, Johanna’s waiting for us by the buffet.” You tried walking away, but your faux façade of annoyance was broken by Finnick latching onto your hand and walking forward with you, chuckling.
And then the entire matter of everyone’s weird behaviour was pushed to the back of your mind.
Returning home from the Capitol was always peaceful, like a weight being lifted off your shoulders, but this time was unlike any of those other times. When you got home, the so called peace that the Capitol so delicately crafted was ripping at the seams.
The chatter from before, from when Katniss and Peeta defied the Capitol, was louder than ever. They had just gone on their victor’s tour, right before you left for the Presidential Palace, and they had apparently sparked a reaction in just about every district they visited, yours included.
You found out that district 4 had been in a revolt since Everdeen and Mellark came and gave their speech. The people were outraged. The news talked about seafood shortages due to bad weather, but the Capitol just didn’t want to let Panem know what was going on, that people were refusing work, that Peacekeepers were murdering innocent people left and right for the smallest of incidents.
When you were all caught up with what had happened, you were furious, too. You wanted to march out onto the streets and give the Capitol the finger, but Finnick pulled you back. 
“What are you gonna do, Y/N?” he questioned, not even giving you the time to answer. “You don’t even know.”
Your voice was vicious as you responded, a tone you’d never given him. You were angry, and you both knew you weren’t thinking clearly; you just didn’t care. “I don’t know right now, but I’m gonna do something, Finnick.” You tried pulling your arm away, but he was much stronger than you.
“I’m not gonna let you go out there and get yourself killed.” You could tell by his demeanour that he was angry, but not for the same reasons that you were.
You shook your head. “You of all people should understand where I’m coming from.”
His eyes went hard. “You must not know me well if you think I’d let my girlfriend kill herself.” That shut you up.
His girlfriend.
He called you his girlfriend.
You got over the shock and, suddenly, you were even more angry than before. While you could pretend all you wanted to that you lived in candy-land, the cruel reality was still there. Finnick didn’t love you. He was only playing with your emotions.
Tears built up in your eyes: sad tears, angry tears—they were everything tears. You felt everything. “I’m your girlfriend now?”
He scoffed, “Oh, come on, Y/N. You can’t be serious right now.”
“I am so serious right now.” 
At your deadpan, he finally let go of your arm, running a hand through his hair. A part of you felt bad that he was so stressed, but you were stressed, too. He looked like he was trying to figure out what to say when he looked back up at you. His voice was no longer harsh, but small. “Y/N, please.”
You swallowed. 
“I’m just asking you to trust me.” He grabbed onto your hands. “Please just trust me.” He was begging you.
“Trust you to do what?”
“I just need you to trust me, Y/N, please.” He held your hands tighter. “Trust me.”
Oh, it didn’t matter how angry you were, if your thoughts were set in stone. Finnick would still be able to mold you like clay. Every time.
“I trust you.”
There was something different about him, but you were too distracted to try and figure it out.
There were so many things going on.
You were with Annie when it happened. Oh, that must have been some cruel joke from the universe. You were walking through the town square, on your way to Victors’ Village with pastries from the bakery in your hands. You were slowed down by the all of the people congregating together, watching the screen.
President Snow was announcing the third Quarter Quell, and they were eating it up. You weren’t gonna do that, entertain his lunacy. You’d go the Capitol and play your role, but you weren’t gonna watch these broadcasts anymore. You weren’t gonna play along.
Finnick could explain it to you later so you’d be able to prep your tributes. The Quells were always made out to be the hallmark of The Games; they were always harder. You felt for whatever kids would have to go through them.
You felt a lot more once you realized who these tributes were gonna be.
You weren’t listening to what Snow was was saying, but his words cut through any sort of mental block you had. “On this, the third Quarter Quell Games, the male and female tributes are… to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district.” 
Your stopped walking as if you’d hit a wall, the stuff in your hands falling the ground, but it was almost like you didn’t hear it. You stopped hearing anything, not Snow explaining the condition or everyone’s gasps. Your ears rang. Everything was muffled like you were underwater.
You were done. You were supposed to be done. You went through those Games, you won, and now you were supposed to be done.
He was gonna make you go through it all over again.
You were so shocked that you pinched yourself, like you were a child and this was some nightmare, and even though you didn’t wake up, even though you knew you were awake, you were still caught in a nightmare that you’d have to die to escape from.
Your senses came back to you and you spun around, pulling Annie into a tight hug the second you saw the tears streaming down her face. She muttered the same thing over and over into your shoulder.
“This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.”
She couldn’t go through this again. The Games broke her beyond repair. She couldn’t mentor because of it; she could barely ever attend any of the Capitol parties you and Finnick frequented. She would die in that arena, either mentally or physically.
You couldn’t let that happen.
Your song played on a loop in your mind, making the decision for you. You were reminded that, even though your dance may have changed, Finnick didn’t love you. He loved Annie, and he would be destroyed if she died.
You couldn’t let that happen.
You couldn’t let Mags go back into the arena, either. He needed her. These were the only people he cared about; you couldn’t let them go through this.
Then and there, you decided your fate.
You were gonna be the one to go back into the arena, and no one was gonna stop you.
When you and Annie had made it to your house, ignoring all of the looks of pity thrown your way, Finnick looked just as beaten down as you, but not surprised. You didn’t have time to analyze that.
He hugged Annie first, shooting you an apologetic look, but you didn’t understand what it was for. You knew what Annie meant to him.
You weren’t so deluded that you’d believe you came before her. Besides, she needed to be consoled more than you did. You were calm. Annie was lost right now, but you knew exactly where you were headed.
That night, once Annie left, your clothes came off, and you and Finnick had the softest sex you ever had. It was gentle, and you let yourself feel loved one last time. You let yourself be selfish and have this one thing, just one last time.
You knew that the odds of coming out of that arena were slim, so you kissed Finnick like you were gonna die the very next day. I just might, you thought. And then as you fell asleep in his arms, you pretended that everything was alright. You pretended that your dance wasn’t gonna end so soon, that you weren’t gonna sign your life away when you woke up, that Finnick really loved you, that he loved you just as much as you loved him. You pretended one last time.
The next day, you and all of the other victors walked to the Hall of Justice, escorted by a dozen Peacekeepers. There were so many male tributes. As terrible as it sounded, you were praying that it’d be one of them that was chosen, not Finnick. If he was, then you would throw away any chance you had of winning.
If he went in with you, then he’d be the one walking out.
Cassia Locke stood in the middle of the stage, in between the male and female victors. You found it funny, almost: you were victors, but now the Capitol was gonna rip that refuge away after they’d already taken everything from you.
Cassia was just another mutt in your eyes. She was district 4’s Capitol escort; she was meant to be an advisor, but she didn’t do that well, not for you or the other tributes you mentored. But you supposed you couldn’t be too surprised. Her job was to make spectacles, not survivors.
However, she almost looked human for a moment, glancing at the women sympathetically before she pulled out a folded paper from the bowl. You stood on edge; there were only three of you. Unbeknownst to you, Finnick also stood straighter in trepidation.
She cleared her throat, announcing, “The female tribute for the 75th Annual Hunger Games and third Quarter Quell is… Annie Cresta.”
Annie’s face fell, but you quickly stepped forward. “I volunteer as tribute.”
“Y/N, what are you doing?” Annie whispered, putting a hand on your shoulder, but you brushed her off and ignored her.
Cassia nodded. “Very well, then.” She moved back to the bowl. “Now for the males.”
You glanced over to see that Finnick was already looking at you, an unknown emotion written all over his face, though you realized what it was quickly. Betrayal.
You were confused why. If anything, he should’ve been relieved.
“The male tribute for the 75th Annual Hunger Games will be…” she unfolded the paper, “Finnick Odair.”
Your heart dropped. That wasn’t supposed to happen. 
The universe must’ve hated you.
Finnick’s mask was back on. Any trace of emotion on his face was erased and replaced with the cocky, charming façade that he’d perfected. He smirked as if he wasn’t just chosen for the most brutal “game” there ever was, like there was nothing to be worried about.
He was so good at pretending. Maybe even better than you.
You both walked toward the centre of the stage simultaneously, routinely. You’ve danced this dance before.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our tributes for the Hunger Games.”
Right after that, Peacekeepers came from the side, trying to grab at your arms, but you shook them off. “We know where to go,” you said. You don’t know if it was the your tone of voice or the look on your face, but they actually listened.
You were escorted into an inactive chamber, the same one you were brought to for your first Games. Memories flashed through your mind before you shook them away. You couldn’t get PTSD right before you went into this.
Finnick was stoic as he stared you, but before either of you could say anything, Mags and Annie came rushing into the room. Annie took you by surprise, immediately engulfing you tightly.
She was still crying, but manage to blubber out through her tears, “Why- why would you do that?”
You rubbed her back. “Annie-”
“Why would you do that for me? It was supposed to be me. Supposed to be me, supposed to be me.” She kept repeating herself over and over, shaking in your arms.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Finnick and Mags watching you. “It’s gonna be okay, Annie,” you told her, but you knew it was a lie. “I’m gonna be fine.” You weren’t.
As if she knew this, she only cried harder. You didn’t know what else to say, so you just kept rubbing her back, hoping that she’d calm down. Eventually, she stopped shaking, but tears kept flowing from her eyes like a waterfall. She tried to wipe them away, but they just kept coming.
She sniffled, going over to hug Finnick, then hugging you one last time before she left. “Take care of each other- please,” she asked, and you weren’t thinking of doing anything but.
You nodded, assuring her that you would do just that. Mags hugged you, saying the words she couldn’t express through her gaze. You could tell that neither of them wanted to leave, but they had to. 
Only one of you was gonna come back, and that was gonna be hard to come to terms with.
They left, and then it was just you and Finnick. The music kept playing, and playing, and playing, and you weren’t sure you could take it anymore. You didn’t want to hear this song ever again if it could be your last time listening.
If you could have it your way, you’d dance together until the end of time. But forever was never promised, not in the world you lived in.
The silence, however, felt like it lasted a forever in the moment, so you broke it. “Can you say something?” Finnick just kept staring at you in a way he had never looked at you before. The music got louder. Tears came to your eyes. “Please.”
Maybe he took pity on you, because he did say something. You just weren’t sure if it was any better than the silence. “Why would you do that?” His voice was cold.
You felt cold.
You swallowed. “Finn-”
“Why would you volunteer?” He stepped closer to you, so much venom seeping through his tone that you thought you were gonna be sick. “Annie was going to go-”
You cut him off, throwing your hands up. “You saw her, Finnick. She’s a mess.”
“She was going to be fine-”
“She can’t go through The Games again!” You shouted, losing it. Why was he berating you as if you didn’t just save the love of his life? “It would kill whatever part of her is left.”
“She would’ve been fine. You would’ve been fine-”
“God, why do you care about what happens to me? Annie’s gonna be okay—you’re gonna be able to come home to her and build the family you’ve always wanted-”
He snapped. “You’re my family!” You recoiled like he just hit you with his words. It was like you’d been doused in cold water. Finnick sighed, running a hand through his hair. There was a beat where neither of you said anything, letting his revelation soak in.
But you didn’t know what that meant.
When he spoke up again, his voice was quieter. He didn’t look like the Finnick that smirked up on that stage; he looked defeated, not triumphant. “You’re my family, Y/N. Don’t you get that?” He looked back up at you. “I could’ve protected Annie in that arena, and you would’ve been safe, here—not there with me.”
You shook your head. “There is no protecting someone in an arena- you and I know that best.” You let a tear fall, smiling sadly. “You’re gonna come home, Finnick-”
“Stop.”
“You’re gonna come home and you’re gonna live a long life with Annie-”
“Stop it.”
“You have people to take care of. I don’t.”
“Y/N, stop it.”
Another tear. “You deserve this-”
“Stop it.” Finnick grabbed onto your shoulders. You didn’t even know he got so close. “I’m not gonna let you die in there. Do you hear me? You’re not dying.”
“Only one of us is coming back, Finn. It’s gonna be you.”
You don’t know if your eyes were just really that blurry or if there were actually tears in his eyes, too. “No, you are coming home-”
“Finni-”
He grabbed you tighter. “We are both coming home.” The dam in your eyes broke, and all of the tears you were trying to hold came flooding down your cheeks.
Why was he saying these things? He knew it was impossible.
“We are both coming home, Y/N, I swear,” he promised, but these were promises he couldn’t keep. These were things he couldn’t control. Why was he lying to you- why was he lying to himself?
You wanted to say all these things, to scream, to tell him that it wasn’t true, that you were going to die. But then you remembered every other time you lied in bed together, every time you kissed and held each other. You’ve been lying to yourself all along, pretending you could have a future together when, deep down, you knew that wasn’t the case.
So you held everything in, pulling Finnick to you and hugging him with everything you had. You were gonna let him pretend, just this last time.
You were gonna dance together one last time.
You spent the entire train ride in each other’s arms, only getting up to eat and go to the bathroom before getting back in bed. You didn’t have mentors—you were the mentors. You’d been here before already, and that was surreal in and of itself.
You thought you already won. But nobody ever won, did they?
Those games killed everyone, victors included.
The press was insane, but just as you expected it. You were the Prince and Princess of Panem; they didn’t want to watch you die. Turns out, people in the Capitol did have hearts; clearly, they weren’t all too functional.
This visit, in more ways than one, was completely different from any other time you’d been in the city. Instead of the graceful show you normally put on, waving and smiling, you were much more mute. You were gonna die, anyway, so what was the point of continuing to be a puppet? 
Finnick was still his usual self, smirky and arrogant, but even his anger snuck through the cracks of his act. All of you were angry, all of the victors. You could tell just by the mere glances you’d gotten of them, by the news coverage. Nobody wanted to go into an arena and kill people, not even the Careers (who you’d admit were pretty crazy).
However, this was all still a show to the Capitol, with you as the unlucky cast. And the show had to go on.
You and Finnick were separated to be prepped by the “glam teams.” The first time around, you remember being scared, but now you were just bored.
You were sitting idly in the dressing room, waiting for your designer when a man walked in, making you raise a brow.
This was a designer, but not your designer.
“Wait, I know you.” You tilted your head as his face became more familiar to you. “You’re Cinna- you designed those outfits with the fire.”
Cinna nodded in a way that you perceived as both humble and prideful at the same time. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Princess.”
This elicited a bitter chuckle from you. “Please, call me Y/N.” You then stood up to shake his hand when your curiosity sparked. “Aren’t you Katniss’ designer?”
“Yes, but I’m also going to be designing your outfits, as well,” he replied. “The head Gamemaker requested it. You are the Princess, after all.”
The corners of your lips went up. Most people you met at the Capitol would beat around the bush, but this guy didn’t seem shy. It was refreshing. You teased, “Ah, and since I’m a princess, I get Panem’s best to dress me?” 
Cinna chuckled a bit under his breath, but didn’t confirm or deny your comment. He dived straight into his plans, explaining what he wanted to for you with a twinkle in his eye that you noticed most artists had when speaking about their work. “I want to stay true to the district 4 theme, but I want to make a statement.”
“Yeah, I had a feeling.”
He smiled. “We’re gonna show the Capitol that they can’t control you.”
And then your little smile turned into a grin.
Cinna did not disappoint. You were in a golden, long-sleeve, grid shirt with holes where the squares were supposed to be; your velvet skirt was a dark blueish-green, skin-tight; and atop your head was a golden crown, decorated with blue jewels.
Of course, it wasn’t a normal outfit, but you were gonna save the theatrics for the parade.
Finnick was around somewhere, likely causing trouble while you were walking around, looking for Johanna. However, you ended up running into someone else.
“Peeta,” you called, and he turned around. He immediately reminded you of Finnick, a mask of charm hiding him. Although Peeta had only been at this for a year, he already knew how to play the game, unlike Katniss who was rather unapproachable.
“Y/N,” he greeted. He scrambled for something to say for a few seconds. “I heard about how you volunteered for that girl. It was really brave.”
You hummed, almost sarcastically. “You don’t have to suck up to me—it’s not like I bite.”
He got red, making you stifle a laugh. “That’s, uh- that’s not what I meant-”
“It’s fine, I get it,” you waved it off. “It’s probably intimidating to be here around all of us, just a year after you won.” He didn’t say anything, just awkwardly smiled. “You know, you don’t have to be scared. You have a lot of power ‘round here; you just need to learn how to wield it.”
He gave you a confused look, so you elaborated, “There’s power in the masses, Peeta. The people here love you.” You paused. “Use that.”
A look of realization crossed his face, and so you decided that you said all you needed to say. He thanked you, but his mind looked to be elsewhere. You nodded, then walked off to find your carriage.
Sure, the Capitol could try and treat you all like pieces on a chess board, but if you got rid of the board altogether, then there would be no game to play. You spoke to Peeta to help him realize that. It didn’t matter if you were all meant to be on different sides; until you got into that arena, you were all one team, and you were gonna try your hardest to stop The Games before they began.
If that didn’t work, then you would just have to concede. One way or another, you would make sure that Finnick made it out of that arena alive. Peeta reminded you an awful lot of him, and while you would otherwise be rooting for him, you would choose Finnick if it came down to it.
You met Finnick at the chariot not long after leaving Peeta. He was shirtless, wearing a skirt similar to your top, rope around his wrists like bracelets. If you weren’t about to go into this stupid parade, you would’ve probably been making out already, but you were far too worried to think about that.
You had Cinna to thank for calming your nerves, giving you something to look forward to. Once the parade had started and you were coming through, you pressed the button of the device he had given you and then your top went up in flames, disintegrating until you were just in a black bralette, revealing the swirls of blue they painted on your arms, resembling waves. The rope around Finnick’s wrists caught fire, too, burning up until there was nothing there.
The crowd cheered, chanting your names. The faintest of smirks grew on your lips, but you really had to stifle your enjoyment when you saw Snow staring your carriage down.
What you did symbolized freeing yourself of the shackles of the Capitol, of these stupid Games. They could try, but they wouldn’t control you. 
You would’ve usually felt some sort of fear- hell, you were never so defiant just in fear of what they would do to you. But what more could they do to you? They were already going to kill you. You didn’t care anymore.
After the parade, you ran into Johanna who gave you a good laugh as she told you how she stripped in the elevator. You would’ve paid good money to see it, that was for sure. You also talked to a few other victors on your way back to your suite.
You’d been friends with many of these people for years and now the Capitol was just gonna try and pit you against each other. None of you were looking forward to that—you were friends. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t make any allies.
Alliances didn’t last forever in the arena, but they lasted long enough. Considering your status, almost everyone wanted you and your “boyfriend” as allies; they certainly didn’t want you as enemies.
The next day was spent at the training centre, a brand new one made specially for the Quarter Quell. The thought made you roll your eyes. The Capitol would spend their money on things like this and yet there were still kids out there starving. What kind of world was that? One that you were okay with leaving, so long as Finnick would remain in it.
On your way in, you passed Cashmere and Gloss throwing knives at holograms. They were good, you noted, but not better at it than you. Johanna was off practicing by herself—though you were sure that she was doing it more so to release her pent-up aggression. Wiress and Beetee, Nuts and Volts as Jo called them, were by themselves, much less violent than everyone else here and much more strategic. Finnick was tying knots, looking more bored than anything. And you… you weren’t doing anything.
You leaned back on a wall, watching the other tributes instead of joining them. You didn’t care about the rankings or making yourself look dangerous. You didn’t have anything to prove; you did that already, and you really didn’t need to “practice,” either.
You’ve danced this dance before.
However, not everyone was so aware of just how well you danced last time.
“Not practicing?” You turned your head, seeing the newest victor walking up to you, donning her famous hairstyle. The corners of your lips quirked up in amusement. 
She must have been told to make friends. You couldn’t imagine it was working out so well if she was coming to you.
“Don’t need to, Everdeen,” you replied, shrugging. “I don’t need the spotlight; got enough of that.”
She lightly snorted. “Yeah, I know what that’s like.” And you didn’t doubt that. Katniss had definitely captured the attention of Panem with her actions, and she certainly acquired the attention of the Capitol. Snow couldn’t have been her biggest fan.
In another life, you could picture you and her being friends, but you knew it wasn’t gonna happen in this one.
“You’re lucky, you know,” you said. You knew she didn’t see that way, and maybe it was a little bitter of you to say that, but it was true. At least she hadn’t been under the spotlight long enough for it to burn her like it’d burned you. 
She scoffed, “How so?” The girl had restraint, you’d give her that. She clearly wanted to say a lot more than that, but she was smart. She knew better.
You shrugged again. “You just are.” And you left it there. If she wanted all the dirty details about you, she could try her luck with one of the other victors, but you doubted she sensed the real meaning of your words. She hadn’t been dancing long enough to even hear the song yet.
A dramatic sigh then escaped your lips. “Ah, though I suppose even your luck can only run so far, Girl on Fire. So sorry about your wedding.” The sarcasm in your voice was toned down just enough that it wasn’t so evident but evident enough to make your point.
She gave you a tense smile, although you weren’t sure if any of Katniss’ smiles ever weren’t tense. “Thanks,” she responded with zero sincerity in her tone. “I’m sorry you and Finnick never had one, either. Would’ve been a real royal occasion.”
You hummed, smiling your royal smile back at her. The Kat has claws, you thought. But you didn’t really feel like standing here and trading subliminals with her all day; you’d have enough of that with everyone else, anyway.
You left it at that, going to walk away before pausing as if you’d forgotten something. “Tell Haymitch I said hi.” You gave her a once over. “He’s done a good job.” And then you walked away.
Finnick’s voice rang through your head: May the odds be ever in your favour, darling. You almost felt like recycling that line and repeating it to Katniss, but you had already messed with her enough. 
Your demeanour was in stark contrast of how you normally behaved. You may have been more agreeable or kind at home, sweet on cameras, but in this territory, you had an entirely different reputation. Sharp, cunning, unpredictable—ruthless. That’s the way it needed to be if you wanted to survive, or at least survive long enough to do what you needed to do.
So, you supposed that you had a mask, too.
You all did.
When you got back to your suite later in the evening, Finnick informed you of Katniss’ display with her bow and arrow, how she had renowned victors quaking in their boots, but people were even more scared of you, and you hadn’t even done anything at training.  
You basically had the entire pool of tributes to choose from for an alliance. You were choosing Johanna, of course, and Finnick already had his mind made up on his pick.
Making his way over to you, he tossed you something that you swiftly caught before sitting down on the armchair across from the sofa you were sitting on. You looked down, opening your hand to see a golden pendant, a medallion with a rose in the middle.
You raised a brow. This wasn’t a present. “A rose?”
“They’re a Capitol favourite.” Precisely why you hated them.
“Alright, and why are you giving it to me?”
Finnick brought his wrist up, showing you a golden bracelet made of vines while wiggling his fingers. “They’re gifts,” he told you, “from Effie Trinket and Haymitch Abernathy.”
You were familiar with both people. Effie Trinket was crazy, but that wasn’t the dominant thought on your mind. “Gifts for what?”
He answered, “They’ve brokered an alliance with us on behalf of Katniss and Peeta.” At that, you groaned, but Finnick readily cut you off. “This will be good for us, Y/N.”
“They’re brand new to this,” you countered. Sure, you liked the spark that the Girl on Fire had, and Peeta was quite the catch, but they only won a year ago. The Careers would be a better pick, even though you didn’t exactly like them, either.
“Yes, but they’re good; you’ve seen them. And the Capitol’s gonna love it, the two pairs of lovers together. C’mon, you know all this.” You did. You knew that this was one of the best avenues to take, but something in you was against it.
Maybe it was just that Peeta reminded you of the man you were in love with, and Katniss reminded you of yourself. But right now, you had to remind yourself to think with your head, not your heart. You needed to disregard your feelings and do whatever it took to win this.
To you, winning didn’t mean surviving this. Winning meant that Finnick did.
So, with a sigh, you surrendered, agreeing to this little deal. “So, these accessories are, what? Bargaining chips?”
He smirked. “No, they’re symbols. Katniss and Peeta have theirs, too.”
You chuckled, shaking your head and mocking, “So we’re in a little golden alliance, then?”
“It appears so, darling.”
After a little more conversation, Finnick and you headed off to bed, even though neither of you could really sleep. You held each other, though, and so the insomnia was bearable. He told you to stow the necklace away, that you were saving the objects for The Games. Apparently, Katniss and Peeta still needed a little persuasion for this, especially the former.
She was smart not to trust you, but she was equally as naive for the same reason. If you wanted to, you could be judgemental all day, but you didn’t have the time for it, so your mind didn’t linger on the subject.
When you were waiting to be assessed the next day with the rest of the tributes, your mind didn’t really linger on anything. You felt numb: not pleased, not sad, just numb. If you could pin-point an emotion, it had to be anger, but that feeling hadn’t left you since your first Games.
Finnick, on the other hand, looked no different, maybe even a little amused by the tension in the room, too amused for somebody who had to go back to the arena. But Finnick was always one to look a challenge into the eye and, instead of looking away, give it a wink. That was his persona while you were here, in the Capitol, so you’d let him indulge in it if that’s what made him feel better.
You’d do anything for him, even if he didn’t love you back.
He went into the room first. You didn’t know exactly what he was gonna do, but you knew that you were all basically doing the same thing. Plutarch Heavensbee may have been new, but even he knew who you all were. You’ve all shown your skills already, been here already, danced this dance already.
The song was getting old.
You were all giving your own personal fuck you to the Capitol.
When Finnick walked out, he flashed you a smirk that almost made you laugh. You stifled a smile as you walked into the room yourself, but it was quickly wiped off your face as memories played in your head like a movie.
You remembered the first time you did this, coming in and saying your name, scared out of your mind but ready to win, ready to impress the sponsors.
Now, you didn’t have to say your name. You caught their attention as soon as you walked in. You were the Princess. You needed no introduction.
It was funny, though, how that imaginary crown couldn’t save you from this.
The thought of your inevitable death was what fuelled you. You were known for your abilities with a sword, but that wasn’t what you reached for. You reached for the jug of gasoline and a lighter, immediately opening it and pouring in a circle in the middle of the room before stepping into it.
Then you looked right up at all of them and their confused faces, and threw the open lighter to the liquid in front of you, igniting a circle of fire around you.
You stared right at the head Gamemaker as you did it, expressionless. His expression told you that he got the message, or at least your hostility.
You would burn this place to the ground if you had to, even if you got burned while doing it. 
When the flames got smaller, you turned and stepped over them, walking out of the room without another glance or word to the Capitol mutts. As far as you were concerned, they weren’t worth your time—you were running out of that, anyways.
Once the assessments were over, all any of you had time to do was get ready for the show. Caesar wasn’t exactly a face you wanted to see right now. Maybe he saw his enthusiasm as a way of “calming the tributes down,” but it was really just his lack of empathy. You didn’t need him cheering and practically gossiping about your death before it happened. 
As much as the people in the Capitol liked to think of these Games as games, they weren’t. They were your lives. But you really could spend days obsessing over it, days that you didn’t have.
It was time to dance, and there was nothing you did better.
You were backstage, standing with Finnick and Johanna, waiting your turns. Cinna had made you very pretty. He was good at what he did.
You were wearing a dark blue dress with wide straps tied into blue bows at your shoulders and a sweetheart neckline. The bottom half was pretty fitted, but it was covered by a sparkly, golden, A-line, hoop petticoat made of the same material as your top from the parade, gridded with holes like before. And of course, your crown sat atop your head—Cinna insisted.
He really wanted to nail the whole Princess thing, milk it for all it was worth. And you let him, because his designs were great. Part of you wished you could’ve gotten more into fashion; now you’d never get the chance to.
You couldn’t blame Katniss for being so stand-offish. You’d be intimidated, too, if you were new to the club, watching from the sidelines. You, Finnick, and Johanna didn’t really seem all too approachable right now, either, even the ever so charming Odair. They were exchanging jokes and laughing at the interviews, mocking them, while you were rather stoic, observing the interviews watchfully.
Cashmere and Gloss went first, of course. They did theirs together since they were brother and sister. It was odd to you, how two siblings managed to get reaped together out of all the victors district 1 had, but you were paying more attention to the act they were putting on. 
Casmere was sobbing. She’s a much better killer than she is an actor, you thought, but the people in the audience clearly bought it. You’d give her credit, though; you were all trying your best to get this thing cancelled, even if that was highly unlikely.
Next came the two crazy Careers who made Gloss’ acting look world class. Then Beetee went on stage, using logic as a tactic rather than emotion. Smart, but logic wouldn’t sway President Snow’s wishes. The Capitol sent innocent kids off to die every year in a televised event to pay for something that happened years before any of them were born—logic was obviously not their strong suit.
Wiress went next, and that’s basically when you tuned out. She was pretty out of it, not really saying much. Finnick was going after her. That’s what occupied your thoughts.
“Hey, you alright?” Your were snapped out of your daze by the very man you were thinking about, as if he was reading your mind. Those blue eyes that you loved so much stared down at you, concern swimming through them.
Those ocean eyes. You could drown in them.
You cleared your throat, straightening your shoulders. “Yeah, I’m good.” He continued to stare down at you like he was completely unconvinced, but before he could say anything, they were calling his name.
He cursed under his breath then placed a soft kiss on your temple before having to walk out on stage, that famous smirk on his face. He was so good at that, at going from hard to soft so easily, cursing to kissing you.
He was good. He was real good, and he was a much better actor than any other tribute here. He was so good that he could make even you believe his performance.
You watched them from the TV backstage. “Finnick,” Caesar started. “As I recall, the last time we spoke, it was with your other half, who is here today.” The crowd cheered.
Finn nodded, smiling tensely, which you were sure he did on purpose. “That’s right.”
“You and the Princess have so graciously shared your love with us, and we have fallen in love with you both, perhaps as much as you love each other.” You and Johanna simultaneously rolled your eyes. Finnick, though, smiled to the cheering audience, mouthing thank you’s that no doubt made them swoon. “None of us know how to deal with the fact that you are both going into The Games- I certainly haven’t come to terms with it. Tell us, how are you dealing with this?”
You scoffed. If there was something the people of the Capitol liked to do, it was pretending that your tragedy was their own. They didn’t know even half of your pain, any of yours. 
Caesar practically shoved the microphone in Finnick’s face. He looked down, like he was thinking, but you knew he probably had this bit down pat already. “If I’m being honest, neither Y/N nor I have come to terms with it, either.” He now looked right to the camera. “What I do know is that I will do whatever it takes to protect the woman I love.” The crowd cooed as you looked straight at the TV, as if Finnick was staring into your eyes. “And if I… if I die in that arena, then my last thought will be of her lips… and how lucky I was to have met her and have had the opportunity to give her my heart.”
The crowd went wild and Caesar said something in response, but you couldn’t hear it. You were stuck staring into Finnick’s eyes, the eyes you fell in love with. Oh, he was so good. He could dance the dance so much better than you. Because everything he said, he almost made you believe that he meant it.
You blinked the tears in your eyes away when Johanna shook you, telling you they were about to announce your name. You put the mask back on, and it was your love for Finnick that made you do it. You were doing this for him.
An exhale left your lips as you waited for your cue. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, as our Prince exits, I have the honour of welcoming his counterpart to the stage. The winner of the 67th Hunger Games. The Princess of Panem. Y/N Y/L/N!”
The doors you stood behind opened and you walked onto the stage, a stellar smile on your face as you waved to the roaring crowd. You just had to play the role, and everything would be fine.
When the cheers died down, Caesar gave you a sympathetic look, or at least a look that he thought was sympathetic. “Now, Y/N, it is lovely to see you. You look stunning.”
“Thank you, Caesar. It’s always wonderful to see you. I just wish it was under different circumstances.” You glanced to the crowd, catching their pity. For once, that was the exact emotion you wished to inspire.
“Yes, I think I speak for us all when I say that this is not easy.” You tightly smiled, even though you really just wanted to flip him off. “We just spoke to Finnick, he has been quite expressive these past few days in the Capitol, but you, Y/N, you have not been as revealing. Please, we’d like to know what’s been on your mind.”
If Caesar really heard what was on your mind, then he’d be appalled. That wasn’t your goal, even though you’d greatly enjoy that. Instead, you had a different play.
The audience was very quiet in anticipation of your response. You sighed, keeping the tired smile. “I, um… I’ve had a lot on my mind, really. Finnick and I, we thought we had more time, time to get married and even have kids, but now it’s like that time has just been… stolen from us.” Collective awes resounded throughout the crowd as Caesar brought his other hand to his chest, like your words moved him. “It’s- it’s just not fair, simple as that. But I love him, and that love will survive, even if I don’t.”
The audience let their dismay be known while Caesar shook his head. “Oh, my dear, I have seen your love- we all have, and I know that it will never die.” You nodded in agreement, listening to everyone else agree with you.
The acting was easier than you thought it’d be. Maybe that was because it wasn’t all acting, not for you. You knew your role, and you knew it well, but your love for Finnick was not something you had to fake. It was perhaps one of the only real things you had left.
“Now, we are all in for an emotional night, so I’d just like to lighten the mood a little- is that alright?” You nodded again, though you wondered how he would’ve reacted if you didn’t. “Okay, now we all saw your display at the parade- isn’t that right, everyone?” He paused, letting them applaud. “Yes, it was magnificent. Would I be right in assuming that you have something similar planned tonight?”
“Oh, you’d be correct,” you responded, flashing a grin at the whooping crowd.
“Please, please.” He stepped back. “Go right ahead.”
You glanced at Cinna sitting front row before pressing the button of the device he gave you. The golden petticoat then went up in flames, seemingly “ejecting” the skirt of your dress, sending it from above your knees to your ankles as it went from skin-tight to flowy. The very bottom faded into a teal colour, like the sea.
The crowd’s cheers got louder than you thought possible. Caesar wowed, then raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Princess of Panem!” You gave the crowd one last wave before making your way up the stairs to stand with the rest of the victors.
You were standing next to Finnick by the time the next tribute was called out and the attention was on them. To your surprise, he grabbed your hand, holding it tightly. But what really surprised you was the slight tremble you felt.
You looked up at him to see him already staring down at you. His mask fell a little, and instead of the at-ease Finnick you just saw, you were looking at a much more serious, stern version. You were confused by what could’ve brought this on, but then he leant down slightly, whispering in your ear, “I told you. I’m not letting you die.” When he pulled away, he didn’t look any less serious.
Oh, what a great liar he could be. There he was, making you believe in things that couldn’t possibly be true. You were going to die. You knew that, and you’d accepted it already. But Finnick hadn’t accepted it at all. He looked like he was believing his own lie.
You don’t know why this had shaken him so badly. Maybe he felt obligated to you, maybe he felt bad for you, but whatever it was, you weren’t gonna make it worse.
You could be a good actor, too.
For him.
You nodded, whispering back, “I know.” This looked to have calmed him down a little. He kissed the side of your head, and then the mask was back up. He kept his tight hold on your hand, and you let him.
You never know when it’d be the last time you held hands, and so you were gonna enjoy this while it lasted.
Even though this was an “emotional night,” as Caesar had dubbed it, you still got satisfaction out of everything the victors were pulling. When Johanna came on stage, she had a totally different approach than all of your sad acts and Beetee’s logic: she said what you all really wanted to say, giving the Capitol a loud fuck you.
You and Finnick had to stop yourselves from laughing amidst your shock. Caesar definitely wasn’t expecting that. You knew Snow definitely wasn’t expecting that, either. You hoped he was watching this right now, and you hoped that all of Panem could feel your outrage.
But if you were surprised by anything, it was the so called star-crossed lovers from district 12. Katniss’ wedding dress was a nice touch; she could’ve convinced even you that they were in love, if you didn’t know any better.
You weren’t the only one with a message to send to the Capitol with your attire. She spun around and her white dress was engulfed in flames, transforming into a midnight blue dress similar to yours. And when she lifted her arms, wings were revealed, and the smile on your lips widened.
“It’s a bird,” Caesar stammered in awe. “It’s like, a- it’s got feathers- it’s a bird- like a-”
You murmured at the same time as Katniss spoke up, “Like a Mockingjay.” You looked up to Finnick, seeing him already smirking. Everdeen was a lot ballsier than you thought.
“Your stylist certainly has outdone himself this time, hasn’t he? Bestowing not one, but two just astonishing looks upon us! What theatricality.” The attention was drawn to your designer. “Cinna! Take a bow.”
You were growing to like this man more and more, knowing that the Capitol must have hated him.
When the cheers died down and Katniss came and joined you all, the event was almost over with just Peeta left. You remembered the advice you gave him; you had high hopes for him, and he did not disappoint. 
He claimed he and Katniss had a secret wedding, reeled them all in, and then he added the cherry on top. “You know, Katniss and I, we’ve been luckier than most. And I wouldn’t have any regrets at all…” he paused, choking up, “i-if, if it weren’t… if…”
“If it weren’t for what? What, Peeta?”
“If it weren’t for the baby.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
The audience clamoured. You slapped a hand over your mouth to hide the upturn of your lips, feigning horror. Finnick was in the same boat, stifling a laugh.
Golden boy was smarter than he got credit for.
People in the audience stood up, shouting while Caesar tried to calm them down. They were calling for The Games to be stopped, exactly what you’d been trying to achieve all night. Caesar whispered something to Peeta away from the microphone, and he walked up the stairs to the rest of you, hugging his apparent wife.
Then suddenly, you were nudged by the person next to you, looking down to see their hand outstretched. You quickly realized what was going on and grabbed it. And then amidst all the fury, you brought your hands up together. Yes, they wanted you to kill each other, but you were all united in the same fight first.
It became obvious that Caesar couldn’t contain the crowd’s indignation any longer, so the anthem played, increasing in volume to try and drown them out, but your actions were still so much louder than words. 
That’s when the lights cut out.
But it would be a lot harder for the Capitol to snuff out the spark you all lit.
While you all did your best, your efforts appeared to be futile. Snow wasn’t against killing children, so you supposed that you all should’ve known better than to think that he’d cancel The Games for Everdeen’s baby.
However, it wasn’t completely useless. You had the public’s support. Sponsors wouldn’t be hard to get, so at least that was something. But all in all, The Games were still happening. One winner. Twenty-three of you would be dead, and you were going to be one of them.
Your last Games, you were relentless, selling your soul to stay alive. And you were gonna do it all over again, but this time, your objective wasn’t staying alive at all. It was making sure Finnick could make it home to Annie. 
Lying there in Finnick’s arms that night for what could possibly be the last time, you realized that you would die without ever having been loved by someone. You were with Finnick, and you loved him, but he didn’t love you back.
These last few days, you had been consumed by fire, knowing that you would burn everything down if it meant your lover would be safe, but it was like it was just hitting you that you’d been warming yourself up with a flame that wasn’t ever really yours.
You knew without a doubt that Finnick Odair was your soulmate.
But you weren’t his.
Tears pooled into your eyes at the thought, and so you quickly buried your head into his chest before a panic attack could came on. You calmed down to the sound of his heartbeat, the heartbeat that you personally would make sure didn’t stop until he was old and his hair was grey.
The next day was a blur between the hovercraft, having the trackers injected into you, and then being separated from Finnick. The only thing you really could remember was how he kissed your cheek before he left.
And then you were in the tube, rising up into the arena. You couldn’t get a good look at it. Every time you blinked, your Games flashed before your eyes. Sun, cold, dirt, blood, screaming, murder.
You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes as the announcer counted down. Pull yourself together, Y/N, you thought.
And then The Games begun.
Taglist: @honestlycasualarcade
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liaswills · 20 days
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Pick a card: What does this person want to say to you? ❤️
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Good evening lovely darlings! I'm back with another Tumblr Tarot post- for the delusional girlies, this is another What would this person want to say to you? Particularly love focused! This could be a message from a S/O- or F/s/o or perhaps even a f/o! Depending on your degree of delulu, ofcourse. :)
Pick a pile! Use the pics underneath or go based on intuition. Thankyou! ❤️
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Oh, love of mine. What wonders there are to be found when you look into my eyes. This is all poetic, truly, but in my soul, the deepest parts of it, I know that you'll still be hoping to come back to me. It is the way things are. I can't change it- even if I wanted to. I watch you. I see you. I hope you know I do believe in you- I love you. When I see tears on your cheeks, streaking like some porcelain beauty, some victorian soul, gauging at what is left of me, gauging at what the eye cannot see, I long to hold your hand, softly press a kiss to it and tell you all I have seen in you that you do not see. I would take you to my favourite spot, walk the whole way just to talk to you, I would tell you what I have been wanting to let you know- that no matter where I am, or what you do, or who we are, in our very souls, we are always one and the same. We are alike. Perhaps in spirit, personality, or maybe just in how we devote ourselves to spirituality, or God, but I know that I am yours if you will be mine. But you haven't been coming to me. You don't want to be mine yet. I know you think you do- but you're not ready for this. Neither am I. I have found myself trying to build what was left- to build a new. I have found I wanted to incorporate more of the old into my new life and therefore I am struggling to find my way to you- it will show some day but I will make time free. Free time for you. I promise you this. I fear some day, you may leave me entirely. Yet even when this happens, I'm but a cinder. I'm but a memory. A distant person you once knew. Distant eyes you once reflected upon, talked to, listened to, hoped for, wished and yearned. I'll not be the same because you won't either. We grow with one another. Tell me you love me. I need to know this. I need you to tell it straight to my face, to my memory, to my thought, to my soul, just think it. Think, say, breathe it. I will know when you do. Thank you for thinking of me today, I appreciate it.
You'll always be my true love, you know? ❤️
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It's in his kiss, that's where it is. You can feel when I love you truly, baby, because I would kiss you like you've never felt before. I'd go as slow as you want, as sensual as I could ever be, as loving as I could try, I would do it for you. I know we don't know each other that well yet. We are new. But even if you know me for a long time, this feeling is new. We haven't been together before- not in other lives. I haven't loved you yet. This is new to me. I think we would fit together.... I am confused about it however. I'm not really sure what I want. I know, I am indecisive. But with you- it does feel right, it does feel... like I am a child again kissing his first crush. It feels this way- which is why I think it's important that we continue to communicate, about what you want, about what I want... it'll make this easier because I can't smell what is on your mind. I can sense your feelings, I am very empathic, but I don't know what you're thinking. And I have the feeling you're led by your thoughts, just as I am. We are horrible in listening to ourselves. Perhaps, I am better at giving you advice than I am for myself but in truth, it should be me who has to do the work and approach you, romance you, love you, not the other way around. You're so kind to me- this bamboozles the shit out of me because I am not technically seen as an approachable nice person, so your energy it really confuses me for that reason. Am I not repulsive? Do you not... want to run away from me? You're making my bad thoughts about myself resurface and dissolve all the same. When I think or look at you, even for a second, I just know that I am looking at something good. I know this is something to be cherished. Can I trust my own feeling however? I'm not too sure. I want you to know this. Just to make some clarification about where I am right now. I am not trying to push you away- nor do I want you gone AT ALL I need you and I want you by my side but I am just a torn up dunderhead. Forgive me?
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"She's one of my favourite things." This is what I say when people ask about you. Hm, yes, I know. From me? You're surprised. I know some days you may think I don't know you, or don't like you, but I do, I like you a lot. You're my princess, in any fairytale that exists. And the divine to my subservient self. I'd worship you. Cherish you. Because, I know, that for you not to leave me, I have to step up and treat you well. I will be forthcoming, I will be consistent, and I will try to make your life as much of a priority as I will mine. It's not black and grey with me. It's quite clear with me. I want you to be mine. I need to marry you- some day or now. I do not care when. That's how serious I am. That's how real this feels for me. I don't need to figure this out by a 10 hour astrology research to compare my charts to yours. I don't need to figure out via a deity about what time you're going to call or text. I need to know just one thing- and that is that I can trust my feelings. I want you to trust yours. If you do- if you do feel for me, If you do cherish me, or even like me, or god above, if you even love me, if you could, that you won't break it hard on me. Do it gently. Tell me how you love me, and when you leave me, so I know it's easier. If you ever leave me, I would try to have you one more day. I really would. Not in spite or because I want some silly disgusting energy break up sex but because...I would just want to look at you, once more, see you, breathe you, just touch your hand perhaps, or even your hair, to just sit there and tell you nothing or a lot. But I wouldn't ever try to hurt you, I will never try to do this I just hope... perhaps... that you won't hurt me, all right? Can you do this for me? Can you do everything gently? (Except the sex, I don't need it to be gentle ok) but you get what I mean. My heart, my feelings, are much more tender than I can confess. I may look tough. I may be someone you think is tough- perhaps I am, maybe I am also that, but one word of you can silence me forever. Trust on that. So use your words well with me, it'll be better for both of us. Don't you think? I love you. ❤️
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God speed your love to me. You thought this was going to be the romantic pile, didn't you? Hahahaha! Bitch please! I am your worst nightmare. Just kidding, I am just incapable of showing you the love you so desire and dream of. What is it with you and me? You like me obsessively. Trust me, your guides and I have been chatting away for a bit and you're.... well, let's just say, you're at wits end about me, aren't you darling? Hehe. I like when you're mad. Some days, I just think how lovely it would be if you'd be in my arms and I could just... have a peek at that lovely chest of yours. Too dirty? I understand. You think I'm a pervert. Honestly, darling, I do too. That's what I hide behind, mostly, truthfully, I'm disgusting myself sometimes, especially during those solo hours. You don't want to believe the things I've thought about you- oh my god. If my life's work and thoughts would ever get published, it would be the biggest event of all lifetime. The world would stop. The M25 would be in a traffic jam all fucking year- don't know why, but it would, wouldn't it? Say, I know you from somewhere... that's what I always say, I always begin with that. And then, I would transgress your interest and I would try and lure you into thinking of me. And when you're thinking of me, I am thinking of how you're hopelessly and desperately thinking of me and then I'll- you know, get creative thinking of you. Honey, what am I to you? Though? Like- can we be real? Am I your friend? Your lover? Your nemesis? Your teacher? Your mentor? What the fuck are we? I am so confused ! 🤣 You say things that literally bolder me off the side of the road and throw me right into the cut. Like can we pretend that for one day, you and I aren't you and I and then we can be delusional together in our own little world? You'd like that right? Well, I would too. I need to escape whatever the hell this is, or this life is, and then we can get coffee and a drink or two and you can tell me what we're going to do about this, about us, because I can't stop thinking how we are going to solve this or do this or just... how. Hm :) You look good. Just wanted to say that. Take some medicine when you feel bad, especially cramps. Take good care of yourself. I could write to you forever- know that. You can reach out to me.
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iwantyouinacage · 3 months
Text
1977 Prowler
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Leon S. Kennedy x stalker!fem!reader
Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, dirty talk, dead dove, mean Leon, stalker!reader, noncon, drugging, stalking, p in v, oral (m recieving), creampies, one face slap, degradation, cheating, roadtrip
Leon may have been on a road trip with his long term girlfriend across the United States.  Technically speaking, so you were you.
inspired by the song Serial Killer by Elita.
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You'd watch them take their time carefully, painstakingly choose a souvenir postcard. Then you’d pick up whichever one Leon had to buy and get the exact same. This time they picked one of a desert. A 4" by 6" photograph of goddamn desert complete with a three pronged cactus in sunglasses. The skyline a butter yellow and rose colored haze. Leon may have been on a road trip with his long term girlfriend across the United States. 
Technically speaking so you were you.
You'd been chasing them state by state on their little anniversary vacation in their 1977 Fleetwood Prowler for weeks now. Stopping at every landmark, campsite, and RV park alike. Every loathsome truck stop and sad little gas station that Leon always hated having to stop at. But you loved them. 
You got to duck behind the aisles of chips and fruit snacks with your camera. To snap candids of them in semi good lighting. There was something sweet and intimate about watching someone in a gas station. It was almost a ritual.
 What snack would they pick for the road? 
M&Ms, but only the mini ones.
What drink did they reach for first, but ultimately put back for another?
A sweet tea, then nope -a hibiscus peach tea. 
Did they look longingly at the cold box full of strawberry it’s-it before they left without one? 
Yes. Twice.  
You centered the cross hairs on your viewfinder and snapped a picture. You could edit out the other… unwanted party out of them later.
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You held your newspaper up over your face in the little 50s diner. Your wandering eyes guarded by heavy sunglasses. You’d picked them up at an antique shop in Kansas. They sat heavy on the tip of your nose, made you look like an old starlet with a silk headscarf. You watched them from your periphery. Tucked away in their little booth. Picking at watery sunny side up eggs and toast. Your mouth watered at the out of place slice of pecan pie on the table even though it was 8am. Dessert for breakfast? The idea would have never even crossed your mind. Genius, really…
Their low conversation filtered through the air. Leon's girlfriend was talking, therefore not eating her pile of waffles on her plate. He didn't seem to like that very much..
"-next stop isn't for miles, and I think we should-"
"Your food is getting cold." He interrupted.
"Yes, but-" 
God, just shut up. You jabbed your fork into your meal. Ears straining, craning closer.
"SF is last on our list, Leon. I think we should stick with the plan and not skip the nature reserve. It's just one extra stop, then we're done with California." 
Leon sighed heavily, "we've seen a million big old trees, babe." Babe. Ugh, you wanted to stab that fork into your ear after you heard him say it. Jealousy seething. Leon cooed all sweet to his girlfriend, "But okay, just for you, I'll make an exception. For my special girl on her birthday." 
At this point the waitress behind the bar gave you a weird look as she refilled your cup of coffee. Your fork making awful scraping noises into the plate. 
So now, you guess, you are also adding another stop to your trip as well. 
You wait for them to drive off in their rickety little RV before you climb into your car. You tail them all the way into the thicket of forest. Til the desert becomes a sleepy seaside town. The only flat stretch of land nestled in the redwoods that loom ominously. The early morning fog makes you feel like you’ve entered silent hill. 
In the winding roads that snake up the mountains you lose them. How? You have no idea. No damn clue how you lose sight of a fucking pastel pink Fleetwood RV the size of a short bus. But you do.
You drive with one hand on the wheel, the other is shoving the pair of stolen underwear and your gun aside in the glove box. You need to find some sort of map because now you're lost. To make matters worse your gas tank is running on fumes and prayer. By the time you find the truck stop your engine is sputtering and coughing. Even the beagle bobblehead on your dash is giving you a look as you pull into the lot. You pat him on the felt head reassuringly.  Night is nearing, throwing a dark blanket over the sky, making the neon sign and fluorescent lights inside the large windows look like a beacon among the nothingness. 
You refuel. Giving the gas pump nozzle a shake pretending it was a cock, shaking off the piss from it. You're laughing dumbly at the thought before you're jumping out your skin. 
The tires of a great big RV shriek as they pull off the main road and park crooked at the pump right across from you. 
Eyes wide as dinner plates, you flop yourself into your back seat. Cursing the asshole you nearly crunched your skeleton between your car and theirs until you see who it is.
 A very disgruntled Leon behind the wheel.
 You’d think he was pulling into an ER drop off with how hard he banked that left turn. He's almost out of breath, cursing, spitting up words at his girlfriend like throwing knives. When he gets out his hiking boots smack the cement , slamming the door mid sentence of her. Your heart squeezes but you grin despite yourself. A little couples spackle, eh? You couldn't believe your luck. Now if only he'd abandon her at this truck stop and drive off in a huff. Leaving them separated. Then you'd have really won the jackpot. Ah, well a girl can dream.
You duck your face and the wise cracking smirk on it out of view. Right as Leon's head whips around. Almost like he's expecting an assailant behind him. He’d puffed up like he was expecting a fight or a sledgehammer to his brain. The glimpse of his anger you caught in his eyes before you hid sent a cold trickle down your spine.
Leon ran a hand through his cornsilk blonde hair, turning his back again. Cursing at the pump when it eats his credit card, and won't spit it back out. You can hear him kick the machine and shout his frustrations at it before he stomps off. Probably to go yell at the poor underpaid clerk. He does kinda look like a karen type from the back.
He leaves his girlfriend to hobble out of the car, legs wobbly like a fawns as she follows after him, looking distressed. 
"Leon! Wait, Leon! I'm sorry I took us down a wrong turn, okay? Where are you going, wait."
He doesn't. You don't either. Your eyes are drawn to that pump he was just at. The jingle of a gaudy advertisement playing on its little screen. A dirt boot print on its face. You tell yourself to remember there's a deal for a free cup of joe with every 25$ petrol purchase. Huh, nice. Your hands grip the tweezers in your pocket to pry his jammed card out. Thank you, acrylic nails! 
You see your chance, you take it. Those two are not leaving this truck stop. Not together at least. 
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You park off center in the lot by the truck stop. Conveniently situated where the light doesn't reach. You politely wave off the pretty lot lizard that tippy taps on your window with her manicured nails.
Their RV is parked somewhere further up, right where you can peer into the crack in curtains of their front window. The light creates a shadow box for you to watch them move about. They're eating cold sandwiches and drinking beers for dinner. You drum your fingers on the barrel of your binoculars.
The unscheduled stop on their way to the nature reserve probably made them flip off their water pump. There were no hook ups for the rinky dink death trap here. That leaves the couple with two options. One, conserving their half full water tank to use once they get on the road again by using the truck stop restroom. Or two, they could waste their water reserve and use the bathroom/shower in the RV. 
The light in the RV went off after a while, so you waited to see what they’d choose. And waited. And waited. Jeez, one of them had to piss sometimes right? …right? It seemed like hours before that metal door swung open and a pair of shoes came down the steps. 
You snapped up, eyelids flying open at the noise. You had been just, uh, resting your eyes in your car when you heard it. Now you were scrambling out quickly with your camera, zip ties, and a dose of something special in your pocket. 
You shivered in the chill of night, the shadows of the massive redwoods all around made you feel off put. It was far too dark, too quiet. It made you feel like you were trapped in a fish bowl. The treeline all around was imposing. Far away and suffocating all at once. 
You rubbed the goosebumps on your bare arms, rounding the gas station to the little bathroom out back. Listening at the door met with nothing but quiet. She must have been inside already. You gripped the zip ties, taking a deep breath to ready yourself. 
"Saw you steal my card you little thief." 
Your blood ran so cold it froze you in place.  Behind you Leon stood, eyes narrowed. Recognition lighting up over his features What should you do? Play it off. 
"You've been following us." 
"Uhm, I was just looking for the bathroom?" You stand woodenly, voice full of forced innocence. The kind that usually got you out of speeding tickets and free drinks. Maybe it'd work on Leon too?
"Well, you found it."
It did not work.
"You heard me, psycho." Fuck, fuck. You turn slowly, batting your eyelashes with the best bimbo look you could muster. Honestly, it came quite naturally to you. 
"I'm n-not following you mister, i-i don't even know you." You lie, your voice losing steam as Leon moves fast to crowd you against the bathroom door. Your breath left you as his blue eyes glared at you with disgust. You opt to hold in the scream you feel bubbling up. That just might set him off. Feeling that same look he gave the gas pump earlier now turned on you. You may have peed a little, okay probably not but you felt like you could. Those eyes made your knees knock together.
His large hand is warm as it slides around your hip, it felt like you could memorize his fingerprints with how thin the material of your pajama pants are. Your heart thumping loud in the silence.The skin on your back burned against cold steel asLeon slides his hand down to cup your ass roughly. You squeak. 
"Then what are these?" 
Leon's digits wrap around the handful of zipties hidden there, pulling them out. He wags them in your face, you flinch hard. That hard stare in his eyes. It was strangling to be this up close to a person you tailed and stalked for weeks now. He was even taller and broader and bigger looking when he was trapping you against a wall. Stark is the difference from your usual view of him, usually a blonde pin prick through your windshield. 
You laugh nervously, "u-uhm, those? Those are uhhh," play dumb. Play dumb! "I, uh, actually don't know how those got there." Not that dumb. Leon's chest rumbles with a deep sound. 
"You don't huh? Just carry these around for protection then?" He actually scoffs at you, lip curled in a snarl. It catches your eyes. Those same lips snarling at you, you’ve seen plant a few hundred kisses on his girlfriend throughout this entire trip. The same lips that wrapped around her nipples, sucking and latching with his teeth like they were his chew toys. Your thighs press together at the thought. "Yeah, I know exactly what your deal is, creep. Always skulking around. Spying. Stalking." 
You feel the words go straight to your heart. Spying?? Stalking? You were following your true love. You were merely trailing behind your soulmate for the last ten thousand miles. Like Orpheus and Eurydice. It was romantic, goddamn it. An epic poem. You were practically living the iliad!
"Give me your hands." He barked.
"I'm not-'' he was already gripping your wrists tight, securing them with zip ties -your zipties and pulling it tight enough to make you wince. Your pulse spiked exponentially now. Fight of flight kicking you in the chest. There was space enough to run into the darkness and back to your car if you were fast enough. Your stupid goldfish brain took one look at one large open expanse of land behind Leon, then the other. Then short circuited and for some biblically idiotic reason, you decided on fight. You shoved Leon hard.  The wall of a man didn't even budge. In fact, your own shove bounced you off his hulking body and sent you clattering back against the bathroom door. It sweeped open under your weight and you plummeted into the single stall at Leon's boots.
You cringed internally at the stickiness of the bathroom floor and in its dubious cleanliness. Your palms were skinned. Leon bent down over you, his hands on his knees. You tried to get back up. The ache in your sitting bones you felt after becoming one with the floor was made worse when Leon ground his boot into your hip bone. "stay down."
Grabbing the front of your shirt, he hiked you up by it. It wasn't lost on him that it pulled the material over your bare breasts. Your nipples already hard and tight from the night air. Even in the dark of the bathroom you could see Leon's leer. 
"How long have you been following me? Spit it out." He shook you like a beta fish in a baggy, making your teeth click.
You scowled, "following you? I haven't-"
Leon backhanded you so hard your ears rang. "Little freak, don't lie to me or I'll pop you again." 
You tasted blood in your mouth, your lip split. It trickled warm copper around your molars. Now you shivered, but with fear. The zipties felt like a leech, biting into your wrists. You vaguely smelled his girlfriend’s perfume waft from his shirt. You wondered if he had ever backhanded her like that too. 
When you didn't answer Leon snorted, with one hand he fisted into your hair, yanking your head back. The other fiddled with his belt. Your eyes went wide, all the blood rushed to your face so fast it made you lightheaded. The skin blood hot and burning.
"What the hell are you doing!" You shrieked. Trying and failing to scramble away from his half hard cock where it flopped out of his jeans. Leon's grip on your hair tightened. 
"Giving you what you've been following me around the country for. You wanted my cock that bad, whore? Well you got it. Suck." 
Your jaw would have dropped open if it weren't for the fact he was already prying it open, his fingers jamming into the hinge with force. Pinching at your nose so you had to open. His cock jutting out angry red before your eyes as he simultaneously shoved the back of your head. You shook your head hard, a rush of anger rising in your gut. The tip swiped crude lipgloss across your lips as you evaded it. 
"Wait! Wait!" You shoved your tied hands up, putting a guard up between his leaking cock and your mouth. "I-i was following you, b-but it's not- it wasn’t-" 
Leon grit his teeth together, his voice raising. "I know, freak. s’because you wanted this." 
"I wanted her!" You shouted back, only to be met with silence. You wanted to curl up and die at that moment. 
 Your hands trembling, you peeked an eye open. To see Leon's cold expression turn into something like shock. His hand still clutched around the base of his dick he was about to force into your mouth. "My girlfriend?" 
"Y-yes? S-she's perfect, and sweet and beautiful. I was just going to take a few pictures with the zip ties and leave her alone, I swear." Your eyes owly as they stared up at him, silently begging for him to believe you. You loved her. You'd chased her around the states and back just to get a chance alone with her. Cropping her stupid meathead boyfriend out of every picture. It was tedious! You wanted just one picture of her without him. Zip tied in a bathroom…okay, maybe a few of her pretty tits too…
"I don't give a fuck about you! She wouldn't have remembered a thing, either, I um brought something for that." you twisted in his grasp to reach for your pocket but froze,
Said thing was now between Leon's huge fingers now, like he was going to pop it like a tick full of blood. Shit, when had he gotten his hands on that? Probably the same time he got your zip ties, while he was also groping your ass. "You were going to use this to drug my girlfriend?" 
"Open." 
There was only horror on your face as he turned on you again, instead of his dick he forced the pill down your throat. The jagged edges scraping on the way down, he stroked the column of your throat, as if you were an unruly animal at the vet. Your legs kicked and thrashed. Leon held his hand over your mouth til the fast acting gel turned your thoughts slow as an IV drip. He almost laughed when your  pupils slowly dilated. 
Your eyes lazily drawn to the clinking of his belt as he lowered his pants to his thighs. Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. Visibly relaxing now that you looked somewhere far away. "Mmh, look at you. Someone’s a little space cadet now, huh?" 
You were limp as he dragged you up and bent you over the sink counter, your tied hands pushed above your head. They stayed stuck in that position where he left them, rigid as a posable dolly, even when he let go. Leon yanked down your pants and underwear, using his foot to push them into a puddle of fabric around your ankles. He kicked each ankle out, forcing you into a wider stance. 
"I noticed you tailing us around Nebraska, sweetie," Your thighs jumped at each tortuously taunting slap of his cock against your cunt. "And Texas," blap "and Nevada," blap, "and now that I think about it, I even remember you in Maine too." blap. He just kept slapping the tip against your clit, making the nerves fizzle and pop.
"Just a happy accident for me to find you today though.”
 “ You know…my little girlfriend you’re so obsessed with hasn't been putting out for me lately."
You do know. They haven't done anything under the belt since Missouri, your brain supplies.
He clicked his tongue, with a sinister chuckle. "Got myself a tight fucking hole right here now though, don't I? Lucky me right?" Leon lined himself up with your dry unprepared cunt and watched your lips stretch and spread to swallow up his cock with a sickening pop. Your head lolled heavy to the side, smacking your cheek against the mirror. The force of his penetration thwacked your head against the surface, Leon let out a rough grunt of relief. 
"Unh." You grunted, lips tingly and numb. You fought to keep your heavy eyelids open. The sharp sting of Leon's cock pounding into you raw felt like a gut punch. Outwardly, you could only sigh softly. It fogged up the scratches mirror your face was smashed up against.  Lashes fluttering against your cheeks,  He angled you up onto your tip toes just to make it harder.
"So fucking tight. You're not a virgin are you?" Leon laughed meanly, shoving your head even harder into the glass. Yanking his cock back to watch you clench around nothing, only to shove it back in. His pubic hair scraping against the skin of your ass. Your mouth fell open. "Dry as fuck, jeez is there something wrong with you?" 
Leon reaches around to rub your unresponsive clit for a while. With the drug in your body he might as well have been rubbing your elbow. Leon growled in annoyance, "you're this dumb and useless on my cock already? And to think you were gonna give that pill to my girlfriend?" He scoffed, shaking his head. 
Your pussy clenched at the mention of her, a groan leaving your lips.
Leon's rubbing stopped, realization dawning on his features in the reflection. He stilled, balls deep. He leaned into your ear, breath hot and muggy on it. "She's pretty, isn't she?" 
You inhaled sharply, your eyebrows frown. Your pussy gives another cruel throb. Leon starts railing you in earnest. 
"Oh, yeah she is. You're such a fucking freak, oh my god, you're getting off on that." His condescending comments don't stop the entire time. Mentioning things you already know about her, but they made heat rush through you all the same. The slap of skin quickly turns into a squelching mess between your legs, his fingers coaxing your clit to life. It swells,  almost too sensitive too quickly.
"S'the same cock that's been in her, don't you like that?" 
You drooled uncontrollably, moans and whimpers tumbling out of your lips. Nodding without a thought. Leon was huffing and puffing behind you, "she cums when I rub her clit like this." He whispers. Your thighs are shaking with numbness, barely able to support your weight but Leon is fixing that by practically holding you up by your head. Bruising thrusts knock your hip bones into the counters edge. Your eyes flutter as you try to remember the pattern he's tracing into your clit, the way she likes it. To you it's too rough, you wonder if she was faking it with him just to make him stop. But it's the possibility he's telling the truth that has you humping his hand. 
"F-fuckkkk" the broken sob comes straight from your lips as you cum in a painfully sensitive way. The nerves of your swollen bud feel frayed by his rough fingers. You see black for a few beats. 
"She speaks." Leon comments from behind you, shoving his fingers into your hot mouth. Your cunt burns and stings inside. "Holes don't talk though. So Shut the fuck up. Maybe next time I'll let you suck my cock after I fuck her and hngh- !" Leon shudders, his head drops to press between your shoulder blades with a loud groan from your pussy clamping around him "-god, just felt you cum from that, you dirty bitch." 
Somewhere in the haze, you feel him fully sheath, shooting hot strings of cum against your cervix. Grunting loudly in your ear drum. 
Your eyes slip closed as your legs give out. Everything in your body aches, shivering uncontrollably. Naked in the bathroom, with your pants around your ankles. His cum slowly oozes out of your insides to drip onto the puddle of clothing. You go in and out a couple times, Leon smacks your cheek to rouse you. 
"No slacking, stupid girl. We're not done yet. I've got weeks of fat loads stored up. M’gonna stuff this little cunt full.” 
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You vaguely are aware that Leon is carrying you out of the bathroom and towards what you think is your car. But he turns at the last second to his RV. Opening the large bottom hatch to the bottom storage unit, and dropping you unceremoniously inside. Your temple smacks into some camping supplies as your eyes roll back open. He's duct taping your mouth. "pussy so good, think I'll keep it. A little hole to dick down when she's not in the mood. Which is like, all the time.” he laughs meanly. Arms flexing as he grabs the top of the storage and leans forward. “You'll stay quiet down here and be good right? Maybe I'll bring you a lil treat. Some used panties or something. Little stalkers like you like that right?." Leon leans down to the storage, pretending to wait for you to agree. Knowing you're too drugged up to respond. You're already salivating into the sticky material of the duct tape. You feel like you might suffocate and drown at the same time. Leon chuffs at you, rolling his eyes.
He slams the lid to the storage drenching you in darkness. The entire rv shakes as he goes up the foldable steps, a door creaks open somewhere above you. You hear their footsteps thump over your head, sprinkling dust in your gluey eyes. It feels like your hands are turning blue from lack of circulation.
"Leon, where were you? You've been gone for hours." Her voice is like a church bell to you, you groan. Feeling the creamy mess of his cum drool from your abused hole.
You feel so happy you could cry just hearing her. 
"Had the shits, then some lot lizard tried to give me a handy at the urinal." He dismissively scoffs, he lies so easily, like he’s used to lying to her. Like he does it all the time. His heavy boots recede down the narrow RV. Towards the bedroom in the back cabin.
You hear as she follows after him.  "Really, again?"
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gay-dorito-dust · 1 year
Note
Hey I was wondering if you could do like Wednesday x fem yn but like Wednesday trying to tell mortica and gomez she has a gf and not knowing how they'd react and edin trys to help her and in the end they find out somehow you can pick if they take it good or bad but yea
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A/n: I’ve seen this get asked to another person but I’m too proud of what I had already written to throw it away.
The crystal ball upon Wednesday’s desk taunted her with the impending call from her parents. Wednesday was something she hadn’t been in a long time; worried. The last time she had spoken with her parents, a lot had changed and one of the most recent and most prominent changes was that she had found herself a girlfriend.
How you met was the typical run of the mill meet cute, Wednesday was caught doing something she wasn’t meant to and she threatened to take your tongue, vocal chords and hands should you ever rat her out. Your response? “You’re beautiful.” Ever since then you had been constantly drawn to the chaos that was Wednesday Addams and not once has the thought of ever letting you go crossed her wicked mind. She was happy, a word she never thought she’d use in a lifetime but truly, for the first time in a long time she was happy. You made the insides of her hollow husk of a human vessel warm.
You lit a match and threw it upon her coal heart, setting it ablaze with the very foundations of life as the fires reflected in her dark eyes. You were her cara mia as she was your mon cher. For you Wednesday would die for you, kill for you, even live for you should you command it of her. It was moments like those that she began to see how alike she was to her father; Unhealthy obsessed with the object of their eternal attraction. So unhealthy in fact the pair might possibly be clinically insane with their love. However not even a highly facilitated psychiatric ward would be able to prevent Wednesday from coming back to you.
For she would have it burnt to the ground in your name as though she were a crazed religious fanatic, pleading her love to the only form of higher power that ever truly existed; You. If she had it her way, you’d both would’ve carved out and calcified your beating hearts for the other, to have and to hold until you were both cold and dead within the ground that would make up your grave. You would now and forever more belong to Wednesday as she would belong to you until the dark forces swelled you both whole; snuffing out your mortal flame for good.
So as Wednesday clamped down on her finger nails, bitting them right down to the nub and then some, Enid couldn’t help but feel concerned for her friend as she stared vehemently at her -seemingly- only form of communication with a look in her eyes. “What’s chomping you at the bit.” Enid asked, begrudging to know the answer but knew that Wednesday was in a situation where a friend was something that she could use right now. “My parents will be calling soon.” Wednesday merely said, not taking her eyes off of the crystal ball as though she was awaiting for it to go off.
“That’s great! Unless your relationship with them is questionable at best then that’s…not great.” Enid trails off when she began to notice that she wasn’t helping in making the situation any better even in the slightest. However the blonde wasn’t one to give up even in the face of adversity, Enid presses onward and upward. “My parents only sent me here to mold me in their image, to forge a carbon copy of themselves out of me by the time inn through with this place,” Enid stayed silent, “I get sent to the same dormitory my mother once resided, I have premonitions like she does.” Wednesday falls silent as her fists clenched in silent anguish.
“However I am not my mother, nor will I ever be like her because unlike her I have a heart to give and I gave it to y/n upon a moonlight night; the same night where the crows dropped dead before us and black dahlias bloomed by our feet.” Enid smiled warmly, remembering the twinkle in Wednesday’s eyes when she came back to the dome after her first official date with you down by the greenhouse. It was a dangerous twinkle but a twinkle none the less, Wednesday could’ve told her that you had a sparing match that ended with the tips of your blades poised at the others throat and the werewolf would’ve still somehow find it romantic.
“Now I am seemingly at an impasse with the illogical concerns of how my parents would react to me engaging in romantic circumstances with another girl, despite being well aware of their stances on societal demands.” Wednesday admitted, not use to feeling this vulnerable in front of another person but at this point in their relationship, Wednesday trusted Enid -despite how much of a gossip she could be- a smidge more then she did the rest of the student body that made up Nevermore. So if anything, this was Wednesday’s silent cry for Enid’s help and luckily she wasn’t overly dense to not notice.
“Wednesday,” Enid began as she moved over to stand by her friends’ side, “what your parents think shouldn’t reflect upon your relationship with y/n. You love her and she loves you, so why ruin a perfectly good thing by listening to what you parents think.” She places her hands on Wednesday’s shoulders and made sure that they were meeting eye to eye. “Never, not once, since I’ve came to know you had you given a shit about what others thought of you. So why give a shit now?” Wednesday has to admit, Enid was right. Why should she all of a sudden care when all she’s ever done thus far was deflect other peoples opinion on her. It made no logical sense but she guessed that now that you were in the picture with her; Wednesday worries about her parents perception of you.
Just as Enid was about to continue with her speech, the crystal ball went off and within the clear cut glass could the image of Gomez’ stout figure and Morticia’s taller frame could be seen as though they were actually trapped within the crystal itself. Upon seeing their daughter, Gomez and Morticia sat up straighter and smiled at Wednesday who only stared blankly at them, blinking slowly like a cat does when trying to convey their emotions to their owners. “There’s my little death moth, how’s Nevermore been treating you?” Gomez started as Morticia only took in her daughter’s expressions with a curious furrow in her brow but she didn’t speak upon it. Yet.
“Same as usual, however-“ “however you have found love, with a girl perhaps?” Wednesday straightened at her mother’s words. “How did you-“ “call it a mother’s intuition my dear death blossom.” Morticia’s unnerving voice cut her off as she looked to Gomez who was already looking at her, love sick. “Our daughter has found love Gomez, the ancestors must’ve blessed her already.” Gomez only grasped Morticia’s hand that rested on the chair arm tightly. “That’s amazing ‘tish, our little cope has found her forever mouse to play with until she too becomes a viper, until she becomes an Addams.” Wednesday perks up at this, her parents were indirectly giving you their blessing to marry her, to join your soul with hers as one until the end of your shared days.
Enid, still in the room, was trying her hardest not to squeal in excitement. Sure this event wouldn’t be until later down the line but she hopes she becomes your guys maid of honour.
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cherikolya · 1 month
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𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑮𝑬 — an affectionate love that slowly develops from friendship, based on similarity
RECEIVERS。asylum patient!nikolai gogol x asylum attendant fem!reader
WISHCARD。“Let's make the 21st of February our Valentine's Day!” He says loudly, not caring for anyone who might be watching. “We will celebrate our rela— I mean, friendship, a week after Valentine's Day. It is like an anniversary for a couple, or something like that. Yes? Yes?”
BOUQUET。fluff, light angst, mentions of abuse and r*pe, hurt/comfort
PRICE。approx. 5.4k
FREEGIFT。dark red (steve lacy), & cry! (middle part)
MAIN MENU。FOUR SHADES OF PINK
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The sound of droplets of water echoes in the bathroom, along with the symphony of your attempt to stifle your soft cries. The rag is covered with a white and sticky substance—no matter how many times you have stroked the rag onto every crook of your body, it does not wear down any lingering disgusting touches that you could still feel. 
You grimace, throwing the wet rag to the floor and your legs are becoming too weak to hold the rest of your weight. You fall to the floor, sitting down in despair. You let the shower rain over your face, masking your tears along the way. Your hands reach up to wipe your face but they are slow and careful enough to not touch a few red bruises on your cheeks and chin. 
It has been almost a week since Valentine's Day has passed. It was nice to be treated nicely by your patient during the day—he gave you a flower he picked up from a pile of soil from the garden. 
But your fiancé came home drunk and wasted, reeked with the scent of alcohol and sweat, two nights later. The asylum is located pretty far away from the urban civilisation, but that does not mean there is no small town around. You suspected he was out to the town, whoring around women and men alike to celebrate his twisted way of Valentine's Day. No, the relationship between you and your fiancé is not open—he had made it clear and firm to you that he dislikes seeing you around other men. And yet, there he goes, sleeping with people who happened to make his dick wonders. 
You used to be disappointed and upset, upon knowing the fact that he is cheating on you, but that sentiment has turned into complete apathy—to this relationship and yourself. The reasons why you two were not breaking off the engagement were because he still very much wants to marry you and you have nowhere else to go, no one else to depend on. 
Because he could not get to spend Valentine's Day with you, for the next few days, he tried to get you to spend time with him as a romantic engaged couple. But really, all he wants is just to make sure you are still beneath him—someone he can keep around and love in his own ways, someone he can still control. 
He coerced you into having sex with him. You hesitated and you wanted to fight back when he started to grope your breasts and crotch, forcing horrible kisses on your neck and face. When you tried to resist his advance, he pinched—or perhaps gripped—your face too hard. Your skin breaks and bleeds. 
You rushed to the bathroom once he had gone to sleep. And you grabbed any rag to soak it in water and rubbed your body and crotch, trying to get rid of the sinful touches from him. 
But it doesn't work, as you are now sitting under the shower, naked and used. 
You are trembling and you try to control your sobbing and sniffling. Your mind is already deteriorating and you are afraid that you might lose yourself one day—you want to believe there will be something good for you one day, someone who you can trust and love. But the way you have lived your life for years now—alone and unloved—you think you might be in this cage forever. 
The key is nowhere to be found. 
All you can do is just to taste the lingering freedom that only teases your fingertips. 
— ♧
You barely talk to your coworkers when you are getting ready for your shift today in the locker room. In the regulation books, attendants are not allowed to interact with one another publicly. So, the locker room is one of the places the attendants are allowed to be themselves—complaining and gossiping, that is. 
You leave the room quicker than anyone else. You make your way to your patient’s room. Once you arrive, you use your keycard to access the door, allowing you to push it open. 
“Woah!” 
“Huh?” 
The sight of Nikolai splayed on the floor surprised you. He looks like he was doing something to the door right before you arrived. Nikolai grins and stands up quickly as he brushes his uniform. 
“Hello, pretty dove!” He says, cheerfully. You only smile before you silently get to your work—tidying his bed while also checking for anything suspicious. You do not realize Nikolai's stare and his pout when you do not reply to his greeting. 
He pokes your arm, shaking it. “Hey~! I said hello, didn't I?” He whines. 
“Oh…” you mumble. “Hello, Nikolai…” You give him a weak smile—something inside you is pulling your heart and emotions down today. You are in no mood to say anything, let alone smile. 
Nikolai smiles regardless. He is happy enough to hear your voice. His grin is akin to a young boy, though he is just slightly older than you. He holds your arm, slightly hopping like an excited bunny. 
“Can we go get breakfast now? I swear I didn't do anything suspicious last night, so quit checking my bed, okay?” He says as he pulls both your hands, directing you away from his bed. You look at him and nod, and once again a weak small smile forms on your face. 
“Yes, let's go. You must be starving. Come, change your slippers first.” 
Nikolai happily obeys you. You wait for him outside and when he finally leaves his room, he quickly holds your hand, grinning sweetly at you. “It's okay if we hold hands, right?” he asks. 
“Yeah…Yeah, it's okay,” you say before you close the door. “But we cannot be seen like this in the cafeteria, so let go of my hand later, okay?” You start to walk first and your footsteps are being followed by Nikolai. 
The cafeteria has a lot of people today—the asylum residents and their attendants of course. You notice your fiancé is attending to his patient. He looks up and his eyes roam around before they land on you. You try to avert your gaze elsewhere, not wanting to look at him at all. 
But Nikolai suddenly stands right in the middle of his sight, blocking you from being looked at by him. 
“It's okay, I’ll protect you forever.” Nikolai grins at you. You only stare at the taller man and nod slowly. Having no energy to even protest or remind him of guidelines, you mutter a soft gratitude, hoping Nikolai will catch it. 
Nikolai and you sit in the corner—it is his least favourite spot since it is pretty hot there. But he seems to notice the tension in you when you are near your fiancé, despite exchanging not a single word. 
“Do you remember the rose I gave you on Valentine's Day?” he strikes a question. You look at him and nod. You do remember the rose but you do not know where it is now. You know you put it on your dressing table in your shared apartment but the very next day, it disappeared. 
You suspected it was your fiancé’s doing, but you have no guts to call him out for it. 
“I think you lost it,” Nikolai says as he sways his feet under the table, accidentally kicking your shin and raising your dress sometimes. But he does not seem to care about it, despite your frown at his action beneath the table.
“How do you know?” you ask back. “Also, can you stop doing that?” 
He giggles. “Pardon me, my love.” His feet stop moving. “Because I put some magic on it. I told the flower to make you happy as long as she is near. But now you are so, so sad—she probably has disappeared now.” 
You snort with a small smile. “A magic, huh? Is it… one of your supernatural abilities or something?”
Nikolai smirks, rubbing his lips as his eyes gaze away from you. “You need not to worry about that. You have seen my records, aren't you? I can only do ‘stuff’ when I have my special cloak.” 
“Right…” 
“Speaking of which, are we entirely sure my cloak is not being kept here?” he beams. You shrug your shoulders. You know about Nikolai's ‘ability’ or something like that… based on what you read in his records when you first assigned to attend to him. You thought that kind of supernatural abilities thing was just a myth—you don't think you ever encountered one. 
But perhaps you really do not know what's outside of this place. 
Much like the residents of this asylum, you do not really view much of the world. Come to think of it, you have never taken a plane either. And it has been a while since you last saw a beach—you remember going to such places when you were a small child. 
“I heard that the authorities discarded your ‘special’ cloak. I don't know much about it.” You reply carefully. Nikolai crosses his arms and hums. 
“That sucks. I like that cloak. I love coats too. It is like my comfort piece of clothing. Do you know where I came from?” Nikolai asks again, leaning forward as he rests his chin on his hands, staring at you. Without waiting for your answer, he says: “I once lived in a city called St. Petersburg. You know, there is a period where the sun never fully sets. Eleven at night looks like eleven in the morning!” 
You let out a cackle, shaking your head. “Is that so? Are we sure you’re not lying?” 
“No, no, not at all! I don't lie! I just don't tell!” Nikolai looks offended but he continues regardless. “You should definitely come and see it. It is only for a certain time though. This world is just a rotating ball after all.” 
“I see…” you reply softly as you look down to your plate. Sometimes you envy this man—he always tells you about the places he went. From Europe to Asia, from the sky to the bottom underground. It kind of envies you because you know it is just a dream for you—you have no one and nowhere, and just like the residents, this asylum is your forever home. 
“Well, I guess if I ever had a chance, I’d visit such places…” you say. “Though, it's gonna be challenging if I were to travel by myself, no?” you look at him with a forced smile, although Nikolai is just looking at you with a slight frown. 
“Who said you’re travelling by yourself? I’ll come too!” 
“I’m not sure if anyone will allow you to step outside, Nikolai…” 
“But I am a much much much safer option than your…” he leans forward, suddenly whispering, “… fiancé.” 
You shift uncomfortably in your seat, looking away from his gaze. Nikolai props his head on his hand, scanning you up and down. “I notice, you know?” He says softly and slowly, just for you to hear. You do not look up or respond. 
“I am—well, I was a criminal. I kill people, I torture people and I beat people too. I know when a person is hit by another. Cheap makeup you can just afford from the nearest small town won’t work wonderfully to hide certain bruises, you know that right?” 
You palm your face, sighing lowly. Hesitantly, you look up at him and shake your head—silently pleading him to not mention anything more. But Nikolai presses on, “I don't like your fiancé. It frustrates me the fuck out knowing you are close to him when I am not near. Seriously, who the fuck he think he is? My love, if you just give me one real kitchen knife, I’ll make your life 100% safer, I swear.” 
“Nikolai, please… I don't wanna talk about this.” You plead and Nikolai groans, throwing his head back as he huffs. Hate it or not, he has to respect your choice—which is hard for him. 
“I don't like seeing you sad, that's all…” 
“Thank you… for your consideration, but I will manage this by myself.” 
“Oh, honey, you are a terrible liar.” 
You only glance at him as you collect his food tray and yours. Awkwardly, you get up. “I want you to stay here and not go anywhere. I’ll return these trays to the staff real quick.” You say and without waiting for his answer, you leave with the food trays. 
It takes you around seven minutes to leave empty-handed. But you see Nikolai is no longer at his seat. You grumble, cursing yourself. Of course he will roam around for no reason. He does not really like to do nothing. 
But it is not hard to find Nikolai. It takes you one round of walking around the cafeteria before you find him standing at the dessert counter. The desserts served are never really good—they are mostly just random delicacies with a lot of sugar and artificial flavouring. 
You walk towards Nikolai, touching his back—somehow it surprises you to feel his body beneath the patient's uniform. His shoulders are broad and the longer you let your fingers trace his back, you can feel the toned muscles of his body. And despite your hand on his back, Nikolai doesn't turn around. He still does something on the counter. 
“I have a gift for you.” Nikolai suddenly turns around, causing you to retract your hand. He smiles. His eyes glance at your hand that is still in the air. Flustered, you pull down your hand to your side. It hits you that you just touch his back for quite some time than necessary—perhaps you just feel his back without you realizing it. 
“W-What gift?” You ask, attempting to wash away the awkwardness. 
Nikolai then happily shows you a wheat cracker that is horribly cut into a crooked heart shape, with a messy strawberry jam on it. “Happy Valentine's Day.” He says with a grin. 
You take the messy ‘heart-shaped’ wheat cracker. It barely looks like a heart. Most likely it is because he ‘handcrafted’ it. But still, the effort and the gift make you laugh a little. 
“Thanks. Valentine's Day is one week ago, you know?” You say before you bite the cracker. You nudge your chin to the counter which is messy with scattered cracker dust. “And you need to get rid of the evidence.” 
“Oh, right!” Nikolai wipes off the dust on the counter with his hand, pushing them off to the floor. “Okay, clean!” He beams before his foot also pushing some cracker dust on the floor away. 
“Come! Let's go to the garden. Let's celebrate more for Valentine's Day!” He swiftly hooks his arm with yours and pulls you to leave the cafeteria. Exactly one second after you two step out, he holds your hand and just smiles. 
You say nothing, just letting him hold your hand as you two walk to the garden. 
You expect him to go to the birdhouses immediately—it is his favourite activity after all. But instead, when you two are out in the garden, he goes straight to the flower field. 
“Nikolai, what about the birdhouse? You don't wanna check on Timmy?” You ask, mentioning his favourite bird, little Timmy. Nikolai shakes his head before he carefully walks through the field, holding your hand tightly. 
“Later. I wanna make you happy now.” 
He stops by a crop of roses and squats right in front of it. Forced to follow, you lower yourself too, careful with the white parts of your dress. “I’m gonna make you a fresh bouquet. The gardener doesn't mind, right?” 
“I don't know.” 
Nikolai stares at you before he shrugs his shoulders. “Well, whatever! What use are they if they exist just to bloom and die? Might as well give them a purpose to make a girl happy.” Nikolai says before he touches one flamboyant red rose. “Now, let's make it a mission, little dove.” He clasps his hands, looking at you with a beam of smile. “What do we need when it comes to a bouquet?” 
“Uhm… flowers?” you reply to his riddle, hesitating. Nikolai bursts out laughing. 
“Well, duh! We need paper! Or plastic! To hold the flowers together. My, my! Don't tell me… have you never gotten a bouquet before?” He asks and drives his face closer to you. You purse your lips and glance away. Shamefully, you shake your head. 
Nikolai lets out a comical gasp, though you sense that he is not even that surprised—he knows about your relationship with your fiancé enough. Even if you want to avoid talking about it, Nikolai can just quiz himself and get his own answers. And most of the time, he is pretty accurate. 
You wonder if he has been in this kind of relationship before to recognize one. Or perhaps he might be the one who committed horrible things towards a partner. After all, you know he has a history of killing his ‘romantic’ partners. It is quite unclear the reason why he killed them as the only answer he is willing to give to the judge is just—“I want to feel that bliss of freedom again.” 
It seems that ‘freedom’ is just something so big that has been carved deeply in his heart. But if he is that committed to reaching his bliss, isn't he a prisoner of himself? Is he even aware of his circumstances? 
If you were to ask yourself, your freedom would be just simple things—a new life outside of the asylum, far from this place and your own plight. Living in a small apartment, with a decent job, not having to worry to get beaten and raped at night. 
“Hey, hey, hey, snap out of it, please! I wanna talk to you.” 
You feel Nikolai shaking your body, cutting off your thoughts. You turn to him and he is looking at you with concern. You smile stiffly, muttering, “Sorry… What were you saying?” 
“I want a piece of paper or plastic to hold the flowers. Do you know where I can get it?” He asks. 
“I do know a place… But patients aren't allowed there. If you promise to stay here, I’ll go and grab it.” You say. Nikolai nods happily and links his pinky finger with yours. 
“Promise!” 
You chuckle and get up. You hold your dress up to allow you to make wider steps and you jog your way to the staff room near the garden. Managing to get some brown papers from the room, you walk your way back to Nikolai who is—as promised—still in the same spot. 
This time he seems to be cutting some roses from their stems and already collected quite several roses. You stop right by him before you give him the papers. “Are these enough?” You ask and Nikolai hums, nodding. He cuts one more rose from the crop before he turns to you with a boyish smile. But your eyes are rather focused on a pair of scissors that he is holding—where did that come from? 
“Where do you get that? You're not supposed to possess a weapon.” You say, suspicious. Nikolai only shrugs and shakes his head, grinning playfully. He does not answer your question but he is more than happy to give back the scissors to you when you asked for it. 
You will keep away the scissors later. It is probably being left by someone who was in the garden before you two… But it is very unlikely. This pair of scissors is sharp enough to cut a flower from its stem. It is not even a gardening tool. 
You know Nikolai would rather keep his mouth shut than tell you, so you do not bother pressing him any further. 
“Come, let's sit elsewhere. I’ll make you a bouquet!” He says before he gathers the roses he collected onto his arms and cheerfully parades to a nearby bench. You only follow him closely, still suspicious about the scissors. 
You and Nikolai sit on the bench, with a gap between you two. He lays the roses on the bench and starts folding the paper into some kind of triangular shape, mimicking a bouquet. He seems too indulged in his activity, and for quite a few minutes he is too focused on making sure the papers are okay enough to hold the flowers. 
“You are having so much fun by yourself, hm?” You say, which makes him look up to you with wide eyes. 
“Ah! Ah, my love, pardon me for ignoring you. You see, I think I have something serious to deal with for this bouquet! I’m silent because I am thinking, not ignoring you. I promise!” He says with a tone of guilt behind his words. You chuckle, waving your hand dismissively. 
“No, no. It is totally fine. I am glad enough to just accompany you while you are doing things.” You reply, assuring him. “What's the serious thing that you are dealing with? I can help.” 
Nikolai’s eyes trail to your dress and then you. “Well, I want the scissors back, can I?” 
“And why so?” 
“See?” He raises one rose to you. His fingers are holding the stem very carefully because some thorns are still on it. He presses one finger on one of the thorns, making you panic a bit—you do not want him to get hurt either. But the thorn is quite dull, so it does not prick his skin to bleed. Nikolai continues, “I don't want you to get pricked and hurt. I just wanna cut the thorns off.” 
“Okay, okay, I’ll give back the scissors. But don't press your finger on it. You might hurt yourself.” You say as you take out the scissors from your pocket, handing it to him. He takes it and starts cutting the thorns from the roses. 
“Why do you do this?” You suddenly ask after five minutes of watching him cutting thorns. 
“I wanna make you happy. I have an idea of what your bastardized fiancé did to you. But, it must be a painful memory to live again, right?” Nikolai replies nonchalantly, without even looking at you as he is too focused on his important task. “So I wanna take care of you too! After all, you have been watching over me for a while as my attendant. I can do a little bit of kindness once in a while, yes?” 
“Right… So, why exactly do you want to… ‘make me happy’?” You ask. Nikolai cackles as he carefully arranges the flowers into his makeshift bouquet from the papers he has folded countless times. 
“Because it's our Valentine's Day!” 
Nikolai gives the bouquet to you with a cheerful beam. And you cannot help a sheepish smile form on your face as you take the bouquet. It is far from neat and presentable. But it is the prettiest gift you have ever gotten in your life before, especially from a friend. 
A friend? 
You look at Nikolai. “This is beautiful. It's my first bouquet.” You tell him as you hold the bouquet closer to your chest. “I am not sure if I can keep it in my apartment because… well, you know why. But I will try to make space for it in my locker.” 
Nikolai gasps happily, clapping his hands. “Great, great! Everyone will see that you are mine now!” 
“Well, that's not what—” 
“Ah, I know!” He holds up his hand, stopping you to stop talking. Nikolai then opens his arms proudly. “Let's make the 21st of February our Valentine's Day!” He says loudly, not caring for anyone who might be watching. “We will celebrate our rela— I mean, friendship, a week after Valentine's Day. It is like an anniversary for a couple, or something like that. Yes? Yes?” He scoots closer, lips widening with eagerness. And it is almost adorable—he looks like a young boy who is talking to his long-time crush. 
You want to retort that suggestion though—because perhaps you two would not be friends anymore after a year has gone by. And you are more likely to get assigned to a new patient or Nikolai would get deported to another asylum or another punishment for his crimes. 
Either way, you nod, agreeing to his idea. Nikolai is more than gleeful when he receives your silent approval as he already plans more gifts and ideas to spend the next 21st of February with you. It is nice to have a friend at this moment. Maybe next year, you won't be shackled to your abusive fiancé. Maybe next year, your fate will turn out better. 
“Nikolai,” you call for him and he stops his ramblings, paying attention to you. Your hand reaches up, caressing his cheek only for a few seconds as you say: “If we meet in another circumstance, I would really love to be your friend.” 
His porcelain skin is bleeding with a heated shade of crimson. You pat his cheek before you turn to the bouquet, admiring his handiwork. And Nikolai is silent and serene by your side, with his fingers lightly touching his own cheek on the very spot which your hand was on. 
He smiles sheepishly. 
— ♧
It is almost the end of your shift and your happy mood is gradually becoming stagnant. Sooner or later, you will face your fiancé again, and you are already prepared for whatever advances he might make to you tonight. And you pray to any Deity who is merciful enough to hear you—hoping he does not lay a finger on a strand of your hair. 
Before escorting Nikolai back to his room, you two make a stop at the laundry area to get him a new blanket. He claims that his blanket was dirty because it dropped onto the floor this morning. But to be honest, while you were tidying up his bed, his blanket looked just clean. 
Perhaps Nikolai is secretly a clean freak. 
Regardless, you get a new blanket for him anyway. 
“Mmm! Now it's more comfy!” Nikolai says happily as he squirms on his new blanket. You wonder if he even feels that comfortable on that hard bed. Compared to your apartment, the beds for the asylum residents—especially for criminals—are equivalent to what you would get in a prison. 
“Well, my shift ends here. I’ll see you tomorrow, Nikolai.” You say as you hold the bouquet he made for you this morning closely. Before you turn around, Nikolai gets up and grabs you by your dress. 
“Can you stay for a while?” 
You turn to him, confused. “Is there something wrong?” You ask. Nikolai does not answer, however. He just tugs your dress, forcing you to walk back to his bed. “Kolya, what's wrong?” 
“You can stay if you want.” He says, pulling you gently to sit on his bed. “If you come home at the right moment, you’ll see your fiancé, no? You can stay here until late at night.” 
“Well, that's impossible, isn't it? The guards occasionally check on the patients through that window on the door.” 
“No~! It's fine! It's okay, you don't have to be scared! I just wanna help… You can take a nap here until… I don't know, maybe 1AM? And you can leave. It's alright if you come home when he's too tired to do anything, right? It's alright if you come home when he's already asleep, right? It is truly fine, I assure you. If anyone asks you, just blame it on me! They won't question a madman’s mad behaviour after all!” He says, still trying to convince you. 
You ponder your decision and look around the room, unsure. It is truly like a prison but Nikolai looks like he is happy enough to be in here as long as you are near. 
Sighing softly, you nod slowly. He is quite right though, you do admit. “Alright… Alright, I’ll take a rest here for a few hours.” You say before you sit on the chair beside his bed. You put the flowers on the table, beside the supposedly dirty blanket. Nikolai frowns. 
“Huh? No, no, little dove. You come here.” He is still unsatisfied, tugging you to come to his bed. You reluctantly follow his gesture, finally sitting on the hard-padded bed. The only thing that is fragrant is just the new blanket. Nikolai gently pushes you down to lie on his bed. 
But your fight-or-flight response is acting too quickly as you seize his wrists, looking at him with suspicion and caution. Your breathing gets heavier and your irises are shaking with fear—a nightmare flashes quickly in your head. 
Suddenly, Nikolai lets go of his hold on you and stands quickly. He takes several steps back with his hands up. 
“I am not going to hurt you.”
Chest heaving, you are still shivering albeit slightly. Nikolai is frustrated—mostly because he knows you are reacting this way because of what happened to you yesterday night. 
“I swear to you, I won't hurt you. I won't touch you like that.” 
His voice is small and weak, and somehow you feel guilty that you are acting this way. You get up from the mattress, trying to reach Nikolai but he steps back. “No, no. Please, love. You don't have to feel sorry about me. I just want you to rest and feel comfortable. I apologise.”
You look at him, eyes lost with confusion for his actions. He is too kind—you thought. How is he so kind when he has committed too many atrocities?
“I’m sorry… for reacting that way… I don't know what came over me.” You say slowly as you watch Nikolai pulling the chair away before he sits on it, so there is a distance between you two. 
“Well, I do, so… You don't have to be sorry, really. But, if I could ease your pain just a bit, I would.” Nikolai smiles before he rummages through the drawer before he takes out a book. “How about I read you a short story, hm? You know, as a bedtime story.” 
“That book is from the library… Did you not return it?” 
Nikolai giggles before he just shushes you. “Now, now. Don't blame me for stealing a book. It is my only entertainment in this cell.” He says before he takes the old blanket and drapes it over him. He looks at you, smiling. “Make yourself comfortable, little dove. I am happy enough to sit on this chair for hours, as long as you get a moment of peace.” 
You nod slowly before you lower yourself, finally lying on his bed. You bring the blanket over your body as you turn yourself to face him. Nikolai is still smiling softly at you as he skims the pages of the book. 
“What are you reading?” 
“I don't know. I guess I’ll start at the beginning… This book is a collection of short stories. I think I can finish it all by the time you finish your nap.” Nikolai says before he looks at you. “Would you like me to read it out loud?” 
You nod. Nikolai smiles and with a deep and sultry voice, he begins: “Today an extraordinary adventure took place. I got up rather late in the morning, and when Mavra brought me my polished boots, I asked what time it was.”
You want to listen closely to the story, you truly do. But by the time he is on the second story, your eyes are already fluttering close. Though sometimes you can hear faint screams and laughter from other patients from neighbouring cells, Nikolai's voice is soothing enough to lull you to sleep. 
Ah… I don't really wanna sleep… 
It is 10PM and you plan to stay until twelve, just enough time for you to get back to the locker room before you get home. You do not want to stay for too long too, fearing that anyone would suspect something. 
But God, it feels too serene here, even in this dark cell which anyone would say is equivalent to Hell. For you, away from your plight, this is already a safe haven. 
As you try to fight the urge to drift away, you feel a warm touch on your head, gently caressing you. With your barely opened eyes, you see Nikolai is still on the chair, six feet away from you and he is wrapped nicely with his blanket. If he is this far, so who is caressing you, gently calming your sadness away? 
“Nikolai…” 
The hand that has been touching you trails down to cover your eyes, and it feels very familiar, very warm… very him. 
“Sleep well, my dear. Nightmare is not over but I am still here. I’ll stay with you forever.” 
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takenbypeter · 11 months
Text
When Symbiote Meets Symbiote
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Eddie Brock x reader
Words:1283
Author’s note: This isn’t exactly like the request there could be more arguing but I’ve been trying to write this for awhile and this is all i got and I’m tired of thinking about how to make this better so this is is it
Requested by anonymous: Obsessed with the thought of Eddie running into someone else with a symbiote, n y know they're alike in the sense that their symbiote is... well they're not as murder happy as Carnage n such, Problem is that Y/N's symbiote doesn't know that Venom isn't really a threat to their host, and Venom doesn't know S/N isn't a threat to him
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It was one of those late nights…you know the kind.
Those kind of nights were only the overhead streetlights guided your footsteps and cars zoomed by despite how dark it was out. The kind that had some people clutching their purses, while others walked around with hoods over their heads while minding their own business.
You were a part of the latter, having to run a small sort of errand so late and were just about on your way home.
The past you would’ve been terrified roaming the streets but the present you? The present you, was just fine with it.
The present you had no fear.
Okay not no fear but let’s say less fear, but anyone with your…”condition” would feel the same.
Suddenly feeling a cold rush of wind against your face you felt the dryness of your lips starting to irritate you. Pulling out your teeny tiny chapstick, you yank the top off. Pulling it a little too hard, it drops and rolls down the sidewalk. Despite knowing you’re not going to use that again, you still refused to litter and you followed after it.
With a bend at the knees you reached for the small object but became easily distracted at the sound of the sudden thrashing you heard coming from the alleyway right beside you.
Then, you heard some yelling. Curiosity quickly took over you, you stood there wondering if you should go and help, or you should instead just go about your day and mind your own business.
The latter was always, always so tempting.
“What to do? What to do?” You whispered under your breath before you heard the familiar voice.
“Let’s go check it out! Might get some brains out of it!”
You rolled your eyes at the clear excitement in your symbiote’s voice.
Creeping closer to the chaos your eyes quickly turn attention to the shadow that’s illuminated on the wall across from you.
You didn’t know what you were looking at.
All you knew was that it was huge.
The shadow appeared to be some huge bodybuilder type, and in his grip looked to be a body.
You watched in slight horror as the giant mass of shadow’s mouth seemed to split open before it ate the small body’s head clean off.
Now, having lived with a symbiote yourself for some time now, this seemed like very very familiar behavior, you in fact have eaten a couple heads yourself. But not once have you met or even seen another symbiote.
“Oh my god is that—?”
“A symbiote.”
After seeing what you just saw you’re not sure how to react, but your symbiote, Abyss does, “we can take ‘em.”
You knew you had a very tight knit bond with Abyss, therefore making you very powerful together, however you weren’t so sure about this.
“Wait, let’s just see what were up against first,” you suggested.
“Our bond is so strong, we‘re more than half as powerful as I am on my planet. Let’s go now while they’re distracted.”
“Okay wait let's just…wait.”
Despite feeling different about the situation than you, Abyss listens and you try to figure out what was going on, as you did your best to creep along the wall discreetly, until you’re standing behind the black symbiote. Before you could get “geared up,” as you might call it, you see the body in its hand fall and the black ooze slowly seems to disappear inside of someone revealing a rather normal looking man.
You let out an, “oh my god,” not as discreetly as you probably should have, because the man turns around spotting you.
He doesn’t have much time to react because soon the dark purple color of your own symbiote begins to surround you, covering every inch of your body until you’re fully concealed.
The man is clearly confused at what he sees before him. “Who the hel—“
Before the man can finish that question Abyss’ purple material goes out practically body slamming him onto the wall.
Inside your jaw drops, “you didn’t even let him finish,” you felt like he at least deserved that.
You watch as the poor man struggles to get up, using the wall as a helper, “wait, I just wanna—“ another slam against the wall, this time a double hit and you almost feel sorry for the guy who seemed to pose no actual threat.
It seems like Abyss may have thrown one too many punches because a new voice, a deep and raspy one shouts, “that’s it,” before the man becomes engulfed in the deep black-like material once again.
You really didn’t want to fight the guy, but thanks to Abyss it seemed like you no longer had the choice.
“I’ll eat you up and spit you out for breakfast,” said Abyss, clearly taking a line from one of the many wrestling matches that you‘even heard before.
You didn’t even have a chance to hold back Abyss because soon, the two symbiotes were practically tearing each other apart. Hitting each other left and right, uppercuts, pinning each other to the walls, it was almost an evenly met match.
It came to the point where they were pushing each other, hand gripping hand, and you couldn’t help but wonder, why you were even fighting this guy in the first place?
While Abyss and this random symbiote were screaming in each others faces, you fought to have your face revealed, and you managed to get out, “time out, time out. Can we all just time out and talk?”
It was a stretch simply asking for that while the two were at each others throats and clearly the symbiote across from you didn’t favor the idea.
“Ha you must be joking if you think—“
“V,” came a voice as the man’s face pulled through, “V come on, they just want to talk.”
A second passes by and the symbiote he called, “V” growls.
Taking this as a sign of hesitant agreement, you announce, “okay we’re backing down,” and although not on board with this, Abyss let’s go.
V doesn’t even let a moment pass before leaping and taking the opportunity to pin you by the throat. But before it can do any harm you hear the man shouting for it to let go and after struggling for a moment it lets go.
You grapple to collect your breath, as the two argued against the opposite wall.
“Venom, what the hell was that?”
“What? I thought it was a trick. How was I supposed to trust them? They tried to kill us first.”
Venom wasn’t the only one who was upset as you heard Abyss mumbling, “they’re distracted, why don’t we attack now and get it over with, they shouldn’t be here,” Abyss suggested.
“No Abyss, we’re just going to talk and figure everything out.”
Abyss, not really caring anymore, falls away flowing back into your veins and your skin. While the other two continue their dispute.
“Venom we’ll just talk, not everything has to be fought its way out.”
“Because bad people love talking so much.”
“How are we supposed to know if they’re bad if we don’t talk to them?”
“Don’t come to me when you’re lying in a ditch, I can just find another body to occupy anyway.”
“You know that’s not true.”
You almost don’t want to interrupt with how intense they were going back and forth but the man sensed you behind him, which interrupted their talk. Turning to you just human to human now, he asks, “do you want to get hot chocolate?”
And there’s really nothing else for you to say except, “I would love to get hot chocolate.”
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lovrsm · 5 months
Text
ɢᴏʀɢᴇᴏᴜꜱ
sum: in which your brother invites you to a party, and oh god, you're so glad you accepted.
word count: 2.4k
pairing: charles leclerc x singer!reader
warnings: drinking, curse words & insinuation of cheating.
Spotify - Apple Music
ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɪ - ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴜ
"you should take it as a compliment that I got drunk and made fun of the way you talk"
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Monaco was such a lovely place, when my brother had told me about it I thought he was exaggerating. I mean, it wouldn't be that weird if he had, he's always excited about everything, he's the kind of guy who makes you see as if the world is made of bright rainbow colors, and I believe him.
I arrived from the airport about 2 hours ago, I was on my way to the hotel where Lando was staying, he told me he got another room for me. How could I say no?
He called me yesterday at about 3pm
"No, I'm telling you, IT WILL BE THE PARTY OF THE YEAR!" he screamed over the phone, making me laugh.
"Lando, I just came from signing with my sponsors, they expect me to write more songs in a 4 months period, you know how complicated that's going to be?" I exhaled, taking off my heels, tossing them across the room as I lay down on the couch. I was exhausted.
"C'mon, you'll have plenty of things to write songs about, look, I can already hear it!" he started to hum a catchy tone, making the corners of my mouth go up. "Lando... Jake won't be able to be there, god, I don't even know if he'll want me to be there, you know?"
I could already see him in the doorway telling me where am I.
Sure, he was on canada filming, but what if he finds out?
"I'm not even letting you say no, I'm already booking tickets, get all you need, you can even shop here if you want, I just want my sister with me tomorrow night with me"
"You better go get me at the airport Lando Norris."
"I wont let you down peanut" He chuckled and hung up on me.
Well he kinda let me down, he couldn't come get me due to some last minute meeting he had. I don't really mind, I know having a busy life is exhausting.
I thanked the taxi driver giving his a generous tip, my bodyguard helped me get out my suitcases, I had a hoodie and black sunglasses, he had a casual outfit so we wouldn't stand out.
For being a top artist in the whole world, I did not like having that much security. But it was an obligation, not an option, I had to stick to what my manager and team asks me to do.
_
After a busy day of shopping and walking around the streets, I could barely feel my feet. I had gotten a beautiful short red dress. Perfect fit for the occasion. It was just 7p.m. and Lando had texted me he was on his way to my dorm.
The door opened to reveal my very festive brother in the other side "You're here!" "I'm here!" I screamed back jumping into his arms.
We catched up, he was telling me about how he checked the track, for the next season, since we were in December. Although I never really understood racing, when we were kids our parents would take us out to the karts, and I'd always crash while he was beating all of us who tried to play.
He focused on sports and I focused on music, since I was 12 years old I learned to play the guitar. My mom used to tell me that I was a genius at writing songs, I guess many people think the same.
Time passed by too fast, with him I felt like an hour were just 5 minutes.
After hating each other all our childhood, we became closer than ever after my career and his took off. I think it was because we were twins, we hated it when people said we acted the same, because physically we are not alike at all. I am so much prettier, obviously.
it was already 8 o'clock "I'm leaving, I should get ready, do you wanna come with me?"
"I'd stopped talking to you if you let me get there alone, I know none of these guys Lando."
"I'm sure you'll know somebody miss famous." He bumped my shoulder and left my room, entering to his which was next door.
I took my time getting ready. God, I love being a woman. I took a bath, fixed my hair, put on my make-up and finally there was the dress, hanging on the bathroom door. I think it is one of the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen in my life.
How did I manage to put on the mini dress correctly by myself? I don't even know, but I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror. God if only someone could look at me.
Oh wait! There is someone, I grabbed my phone to click his name, my phone started to ring. I waited patiently, but he did not answer. So I called him once more, this time he did answer.
I heard loud music and singing in the back. "What do you need?" he asked, I could hear the irritation in his voice. "I wanted to hear from you, we haven't talked-"
"We talked last Monday, wasn't that enough? I'm busy." He interrupted me.
"Where are you?" I asked intrigued this time.
"Uhm... I'm in the bar with some friends"
"Oh and that's just more important than your girlfriend?" I raised my voice at him, I was now sitting the edge on the bed.
"Look, I don't want to fight, just call me later." He said, basically hanging the phone. "Jake..." I said before he could do so.
"What?" He sounded desperate. "Take care." I said.
"Ok" He hung. I felt disgusted, why? not idea, I just felt dirty, as if I was forcing him to talk to me. I took some deep breathes so I could calm my nerves down.
I don't even want to go out anymore.
I tried hard not to cry, I wasn't going to ruin my makeup over some small argument, I'm sure tomorrow we'll be alright, we always end up alright.
It felt as an eternity till I heard a knock on my door, I quickly grabbed my bag, looked in the mirror once more to fix my dark wavy hair, and rushed to the door. I opened it, in the side was Lando, his back on the wall while he was looking at his phone.
He turned it off and looked at me, I smiled "Ready to go Peanut?"
"Lets go"
_
We finally got to the club, electronic music was blasting off, people were already drunk, and boy they didn't even tried to hide it.
We had to basically run to the VIP area, I didn't said anything to my bodyguard about this, besides, he can use a break.
Lando was immediately greeted by everyone who was in the room. "LANDO!" A man screamed to him "Ayee, we're here!" He said hugging the man, and patting him in the back. "you're so late, you were the only ones missing!"
"we're here Pierre, I'd like to present to you all my sister!" He hugged me by the side and I waved with a smile on my face. It seemed that most of them recognized me, because some of them just stood there in shock "Hey everyone, ready to get wasted?" I laughed, that made them less tense and cheered, lifting their cups.
Lando gave a me a sweet kiss in my head, "see, you'll be fine, have some fun peanut!" I let go and we both went our own way.
I started to talk to a girl, her name is Kika, I learnt she was the girlfriend of a guy named Pierre Gasly. I've heard about him but no one ever told me how fun his girlfriend was!
"Girl, you should try this margarita, the most wholesome thing you'll have in your life!"
She was not kidding with that. In a few minutes, I had asked for... about 5 of them, or maybe just 13.
I had talked to everyone in the room by 10 pm, they were all so fun, and the energy was of another planet.
"Yeah, and then Max would make that grumpy face. I swear he looks like and old man!"
"very mature Lando, so mature." I bursted out laughing. "LECLERC HAS ARRIVED!" I heard someone scream in the entrance, and in seconds half of the group was there greeting the guy.
I decided I was going to take something else than a margarita. I walked up to the bartender, who definitely did not understood me. I don't know if I was speaking too softly or if I was just way too drunk to talk, but I decided to leave, I turned around and bumped into someone.
I was about to loose my balance till his arms were wrapped around my waist, I was able to stand straight. "are you alright?" he asked.
I looked into his eyes, green eyes "what?"was all I could manage. "Are you alright?" He asked again, I now noticed a thick accent, I bursted out laughing for that.
He looked so confused, he let go and chuckled with me. For a second it was as if the whole club was quiet. I looked again at him, and I immediately looked down at the floor. He grabbed my hand, the lights went out for a second and my world spun. My legs were about to give up.
His touch was... it was, god I can't even say it.
"I'm Charles, what's your name?"
I bit my lip, what went out of my mouth was definitely not what I wanted to say. "Do you always talk like that?" I asked a bit to seriously, I chuckled so that I wasn't that rude.
"Yeah, my first language isn't english."
"Huh." I said, I felt as if he had a goddamn magnetic field and it was pulling me towards him, I couldn't stand it.
I ran off to the other side of the room, leaving him standing alone next to the bar.
_
All night.
All night I couldn't stop thinking about him, his hand touching my hand in the darkened room...
and I made fun of the way he talked.
I'm never drinking again.
Yet there I was, in the bar once more, asking for whiskey. Mature, so mature.
I kept bouncing back and forth between the people there, once I saw Charles walking to my way, I would ran to the other side of the room.
I have a boyfriend for gods sake! I can't be thinking these unhealthy things about him.
But, I mean, can you blame me?
Look at him.
His first two buttons were unbottened which made him look so attractive. And you should see his dimples, he's so gorgeous it actually fucking hurts!
"So you're not going to talk to me?" I heard a voice behind my ear. His chest touching my back. I didn't move, but I did answer.
"Who said I wasn't going to?" I asked playfully, with a grin on my face, knowing he couldn’t see me.
He hummed in my ear, before he turned me to look him in the eye, he grabbed my neck, but he didn't kiss me. Instead, he brought his lips back to my ear.
"Then why do you keep running, huh?" His hot breath sent a shiver down my spine. I was dumbfolded by his actions, he took a step back to look at me.
I looked into his eyes, I was absolutely taking him in. I looked at his dimples because of the grin he had in his face. His eyebrows, his slightly sweaty hair, with pieces of it falling into his face.
I couldn't help myself, I noticed how he looked into my eyes, and then to my mouth.
What if..?
I asked to myself, I closed my eyes and got closer to him, waiting for a kiss. But he grabbed me by my hips pulling me back.
"You're far too drunk, ma chou" I heard and opened my eyes, he gave me a sympathetic smile. I felt dumb for a second, but after seeing his face... I think I might be falling.
"Why don't we leave, would you like that?" I hugged him, my head in his neck. I nodded as fast as I could. He grabbed me and in a second, we were in his car.
For sure the alcohol got to my head that night.
_
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vampyrsm · 5 months
Text
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‣‣ COR UNUM: CHAPTER ELEVEN | TAMONTEN
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‣‣ Synopsis: Our tale continues with an insight into the dark recesses of the Shogun's daughter's mind, just how deep have the tendrils of darkness burrowed into her very being? Perhaps things will start to unravel in the light of a new vow...
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‣‣ Main Masterlist | AO3 ‣‣ Pairing: Sukuna x Reader ‣‣ Word Count: est. 11.7k ‣‣ Warnings: Blank blogs & Minors DNI. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Set in the Early-Heian Period, trueform!Sukuna, female reader, cannibalism, vivid gore and horror, descriptions of bodily harm, jealousy, Sukuna is on the softer side here, smut (dacryphilia, oral f!receiving, spit, very intimate, double penetration, biting/marking, creampie, possessiveness with a hint of a primal kink)
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“Watch your tongue, girl.” It’s Uraume who hisses the words. The girl in question seems to disregard Uraume entirely, uncaring for the way her haori flutters at her sides to reveal absolutely everything. You have to blink away the surprise on your face to give way to the confusion. 
Sukuna only grunts at the intrusion, heaving a heavy sigh that tells you that this woman is most definitely the guest of the day. His arm remains tight around your waist. As if he knew you were slowly coiling tighter and tighter like a snake once the unknown woman ascended a few steps closer to the throne.
“Yorozu.” Sukuna comments flatly, shoving a curled fist against his cheek when he leans against the armrest of the throne made of bones. “I told you the next time you approach me wearing nothing but a haori, I was going to add your skull to my collection.”
Yorozu doesn’t blanch at the threat, if anything her smile grows on her face when she manages to drag her eyes away from the arm looped around your waist and up towards Sukuna’s face. 
With the final step up, her lips part as if she’s ready to play his dangerous game of cat-and-mouse but instead… you watch the way her face suddenly twists in agony. The human body was so malleable, so easy to bend and snap until it was unravelled. Her screams were awfully loud within the grand room, bouncing and ricocheting until they settled against your ears.
You watched as her skin tore itself apart, twisting until it broke with a sickening wet ripping sound. Her once fair skin is replaced by that of blossoming red, it douses the white haori over her shoulders until it’s an entirely different colour altogether.
Mangled and beyond recognition, you still watch with a thrill that flutters in your chest. Her body is splayed against the cool tile floor, her blood seeping into the cracks until it flows away. Even now, the long-haired woman still screams — still wails as her limbs are torn, muscle and sinew alike ripping slowly… like it would if you were to sink your teeth into it. 
Would she still be worthy of eating after? Your stomach tightens at the thought, but not in disgust. In sick pleasure. You stare down at the writhing woman, the flesh of her legs is cleanly tugged from the bones that achingly hit against the stone floor with each thrash of her body. 
How long could the human body survive before it broke? When would shock set in? The human heart was fragile, like it was almost made of glass and anything could break it. You wanted to be the one to crush her heart in your hand, to feel the rhythmic beating of it as it still rested in her chest before you squeezed… and squeezed… until it burst.
A hand squeezes at your side and you blink away from the scene before you, only to find Yorozu is still staring up at you from her place at the bottom of the step. Sukuna has a much tighter hold over you, the tips of his claws dig past the multiple layers of rich silk and nearly pierce your skin. 
Not to hurt you, but to ground you — recenter your mind. As if he knew exactly what you had imagined. 
The woman before you, Yorozu, seems to flare her nostrils at the motion. Her fingers curl uselessly into the sleeves of her haori and yet—she still does not close it to hide her modesty. It only serves to spring more questions to mind, just who exactly was Yorozu to Sukuna? He seemed to hold no fondness for her in the way he addressed her, but he didn’t really in the way he spoke to you — did he?
“Spit it out, or get out.” Sukuna commands, a lazy look on his face despite the iron grip on your waist. 
Yorozu shifts her light-coloured eyes quickly away from you and back onto Sukuna once he speaks. Ah, so it was infatuation on her behalf, there’s no doubt about that. She looks at him as if he hung the moon and stars.
“Master Sukuna,” Yorozu all but purrs, the lilt in her voice makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. “I have what you asked for.” 
That makes Sukuna raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t move a muscle to get whatever it is he ‘asked for’. That makes Yorozu shift on her feet once again, the sound of her bare feet on the tiled floor is nothing short of claws on rock. 
“I didn’t know we discussed important matters in front of whores now—” She huffs a laugh, her gaze flicking away from Sukuna’s face just in time to miss the raising of his upper lip into a snarl. “Well? Get out of here.” That was addressed to you.
“You’ve been warned once. Watch your tongue.” He snarls in retort, and Yorozu’s thick eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “Get on with it.”
Despite her initial shock at the tone Sukuna took with her, Yorozu clears her throat and plasters on a much too sultry smile for your liking. “The Shogun has returned to his home. He no longer resides at the Shogun’s palace—apparently, he had important business at the Zen’in estate.” 
You don’t bristle at the mention of your uncle or the fact he’s returned to the Zen’in estate. It was a grand thing, built by and for your father. It held multiple branches of the Zen’in family, all of them trained warriors with formidable cursed techniques. Some of them however had no cursed energy at all… at least that’s what some of the scrolls you had filtered through just a day prior had mentioned.
“He moved his army there?” Sukuna asks, his back straightening just slightly at the idea of slaughtering not just the Shogunate—but the entirety of the Zen’in clan in one fell swoop. 
“Mhm,” She hums before continuing. “The Generals and Sun-Moon-Stars are also on the move.” 
The Generals and Sun-Moon-Stars? You had no idea who or what they even were, they’d never been mentioned by your father when you had often hovered around him as a child when he discussed strategies with his strongest men. 
One of Sukuna’s hands comes up to rub at his chin in contemplation, an odd look on his face. One of deep thought. Whoever these people were, the generals and Sun-Moon-Stars, Sukuna most definitely knew who they were. But you doubt he worries about fighting them, he had no qualms about fighting anyone. He knew himself as the strongest. 
“Fine. Where do they move to?” 
Yorozu grins like a feline, her eyes nothing short of seductive. Oh, you knew that look on her face — she wanted something in return for her information. 
“First. You promised me something.” Sukuna makes a face like he did no such thing. “You promised me that you’d spend time with me. Alone.” 
That final word is tacked on with a vicious glance in your direction, aggressive enough to have your own eyebrows raising just a smidgen in surprise. Clearly, the warning Sukuna had growled in her direction just mere moments ago had blown right over her head. 
“I promised nothing.” His fingers curl into a fist beneath his chin, propping his head up further so he could sneer down the thickness of his nose at the woman before him. “You mean nothing to me. Why would I devote my time to nothing?”
“And a common whore means something to you?” She spits before she can reign in her tongue, yet she does not back down. Her head held high with a twitch of an eyebrow—she was at her breaking point. You wondered if she too had a cursed technique, she must have if Sukuna had granted her more than one chance to speak to him. 
Those long claws sink further into the expensive silk draped over your body, stretching the material until it gives way. He leans forward just slightly, an imperceivable movement but you feel the way he presses closer to you. Keeps you closer. Just out of the corner of your eye, you watch as his upper lip curls into a snarl and the words form on his tongue.
The lower arm of which you were leaning on snakes around your side too, a large hand dipping down until it engulfs the side of your thigh in a possessive grip. You can feel the subtle circles he draws with this thumb, and the way he occasionally drags his hand back and forth as if he were stroking your very skin. 
It has your toes curling, your eyes fighting to flutter at the feeling of his hands on your body whilst staring down a woman who wants him so desperately. That heat still simmers from earlier when the two of you had been alone to dress, only growing hotter and hotter with each pass of his fingers along your thigh. 
“How dare you speak of my wife like that.” 
The entire room stills. Frozen and suspended in time and yet it’s not your cursed energy at work — but rather the words spoken by Sukuna. He doesn’t spit the word like it was a curse, nor does he scowl at the fact he had told a lie about who you are to him. He plays it off as if it were the truth. Why did that make your toes curl once again?
Yorozu sputters. “Wife? Wife?! You–! You said you’d never love someone!” 
“I said I’d never love you. You, the lowly street dog from Ainu. You never would’ve served me other than warming my bed before you thicken my broth with your bones.” Sukuna’s voice is a dark rumble in his chest, the grin on his face nothing but pure malice. “Know your place.” 
Perhaps it was the shock at the words Sukuna continued to spill at his lips, but you can’t stop yourself from hiding the evident surprise on your features. And Sukuna seems to notice that, as he raises one arm to conveniently block your face with the sleeve of his haori so he can point towards Yorozu.
“Get out of my sight before I mount your head on my wall so you’re forced to watch me fuck my wife.” 
Yorozu seems to fight the urge to snarl and snap her jaws at Sukuna, at you, but there’s a drop in temperature in the room. An icy chill that rolls from somewhere, a location you quickly realise is Uraume themselves. The cursed energy they release comes off of them in thick waves, a thick mist starting to coat the floor to bite at the bare ankles of the humiliated woman.
Yorozu leaves soon after, turning on her heel but not before shifting her hateful gaze to you—to stare at you in the eye with a scowl so scathing, you wonder if she had attempted to burn you alive. 
The air in the throne room was stifling. A chilling silence that lingered far longer than comfortable, yet Sukuna did nothing to appease said silence and Uraume at least had the decency to resume her post at the bottom of the steps. You, however, weren't sure where to look or how to sit properly. 
His wife. That’s what he called you. A title he pinned on you in the face of a woman who wanted nothing more than the four-armed beast still running his fingers up and down your thigh as if he did truly own you – body and soul. 
“Uraume,” Sukuna calls finally, snapping the room free from its silence. “Leave us.” 
Uraume turns to give a deep bow, their hair shifting with the movement to hide their features. “Yes, my King.” And like that, they were gone in a blink of an eye.
Sukuna handles you off of his lap far too easily, two large hands grabbing at your waist to lift you and place your feet on the floor before he too stands. It’s no surprise that he doesn’t speak a word to you, instead wordlessly expecting you to follow him down the few steps that led away from his throne and out of the room.
You follow — because of course you do. But you’re not entirely sure why, perhaps it was because you felt somewhat safest around him or you simply knew you had no other choice. Not after the failed attempt to kill him once and for all. 
He leads you through the neatly cleaned corridors of the temple, tatami flooring swept and kept pristine. You’d think it was home to a Lord of some kind; not a man who had zero qualms about eating another person as if it were the same as eating an apple. 
The rooms you pass by are large, but mostly empty save for a few low tables and cushions that appear to be unused for quite some time. It only leads you to wonder who used to live here, before Sukuna had taken ownership. You knew it to be his ancestral temple in a way, this was home to him.
But it was so barren, so large. You wonder if maybe he had plans to fill it one day—maybe with a family of his own or he was just a creature who enjoyed a large space to call his own. The latter seemed more likely.
Eventually, Sukuna stops outside of a large door. It’s different to the others, unpainted with any of the designs that you’d seen on his bedroom door for example. Instead, it’s clean, unassuming, in fact, if you were to walk by it you would’ve missed its very existence. 
The room opens up with an easy slide of the shoji door, the smell that comes forth is one you know far too well. Old books. It has your nose wrinkling momentarily, stepping into the room that seems to come to life the second Sukuna steps a foot inside too. The lanterns along the walls all flicker to life, illuminating one by one until you realise you’re standing in a library. 
A very extensive library. 
There were tall wooden bookcases reaching to the ceiling of the room, and each of them was filled with a variety of things. Scrolls that were stacked atop each other, poorly bound books that looked as old as time itself and stacks of loose papers that seemed to be in a certain order. 
It put the small collection you destroyed in Sukuna’s room to shame, what was in there was nothing in comparison to this. This alone looked like it took years upon years to gather, stock up and organise. Was this the reason why Sukuna was so well-versed in all things political and cursed energy-related? He had all of the knowledge he could need at hand. 
Sukuna doesn’t stop you when you squeeze yourself out from behind him and into the open room, hardly offering you a second glance as he disappears further into the room to search for something. You can only turn on the spot to truly take in everything, this was far more than you ever expected. 
It may even beat the impressive library you’d seen in the Emperor’s Palace as a child.
Noting Sukuna hadn’t beckoned you to follow him, you decide to meander around for yourself. With careful steps, you begin to walk down a long aisle of bookcases. Some of them were unlabelled, simply put there by someone who knew what it was and where to find it when the time called for it. But some did have titles crudely painted and carved into the cover of books. 
All history books so far. Asuka Period. Nara Period. You stop once your eyes find the title; Heian Period. No doubt it’d be incomplete, but you wondered just what had been documented so far. So much had happened in a short amount of time since the end of the Nara Period, something your father had often lectured you on as did your teacher. 
You pluck it from the shelf, the wave of dust itches at your nose and the tips of your fingers. You can’t help but grimace as it stains your pristine outfit with little specks of grey. The book itself was thick, but you could tell that most of the pages were empty; waiting to be filled in by whoever would ensure the future generations knew what had occurred. 
The start of the book is something you’d already learned previously; the movement of the Emperor and how he claimed the capital of Japan. Nothing was out of the ordinary there, but the further you began to read into it… the more you realised it was filled with blatant lies or simply nothing at all.
You stop when you see your father's name written across the page in black ink, his full imperial title. It states his death, but not the cause. Simply that your uncle had transcended to the position of Shogun in the wake of his death. None of this was surprising, but rather it was the history of your father that has you stalling. 
You knew him as a man of great peace and understanding, even if he was a hardened warrior. He wanted peace like no other, a world where he didn’t have to worry for the safety of his children—the safety of you. But here it states you did not exist. A Shogun with a deceased wife and no children, no heirs. Nothing. You were wiped clean of the history slate as if you weren’t anyone or anything at all. 
Was this the Emperor’s doing? Did he hold sway over the historians who documented everything? Or was it your Uncle, the underlying fear that his brother's daughter would come back with a vengeance and seize the title from him?
“Does it bother you that they wrote you off as nothing?” Sukuna’s voice is much too close. It can’t be helped when you practically jump out of your skin, fingers fumbling to make sure you don’t drop the book–or worse, swing it at the man who approached you with a trained silence.
“It does, doesn’t it? That Samurai pride of yours… No, not just that. The insufferable pride of the Zen’in clan still can’t be snuffed out even in the rejects of the family.” His words are mean, as they always are but something tells you that he isn’t coming completely from a place of total malice and hate—he’s simply telling you what you already know. 
But you don’t let him know that you’re aware of the truth he speaks. 
“No.” You speak with every ounce of self-confidence you can muster, hunkering down on the tone you had often heard your very father speak in— “No. What bothers me is you daring to claim me as your wife, in front of a woman who pines for you no less.” 
His presence behind you remains close, but you can tell he’s standing once again at his full height. So you turn to him once you replace the book on the shelf, and he’s staring down at you with an indifferent look on his features; he doesn’t care for your insolence or tone that you take with him it would seem. 
“You used me to make that woman jealous. Didn’t you? Dressed me up as some sort of bride and then splayed me on your lap like a prized house cat. How dare you.”
Sukuna stares at you for a tense long moment, maybe it was only a few seconds in reality but he stares at you like he would if you were a battle, a conquest that he’s figuring out how to conquer.
“Your tongue lashes with such poison and yet,” he leans in much too close, forcing your back to press into the wooden bookcase behind you. “Yet… I can smell just what it did to you, what it still does to you.” 
He cages you effortlessly, large hands pressing against the shelves on either side of you to lock you into place as he lowers his face down until he is level with your own. His eyes are all directed at you, watching with such scrutiny that you can feel him just beneath your skin; searching your very soul.
“You’re lying.” You can only breathe in return, even on your tongue you can taste your very own lie. You knew, deep down, that he was telling you the truth — he could smell your arousal, and that thought alone was electrifying in its own way. 
“Only one of us is a liar presently.” He heaves in a heavy breath through his nose as if to prove his point, and you have a front-row view of his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head whilst his pupils dilate just enough to nearly swallow the violent crimson of his eyes. 
Your heart thunders in your chest, batters against your very rib cage because he’s right. You’re lying to yourself. It had made something in your stomach churn pleasantly when he had openly laid a claim to you like that, to call you his wife in front of not just Yorozu but his right-hand Uraume… it thrilled you to no end. 
But you knew. You knew Sukuna didn’t believe in things such as marriage, or even love. It was foolish to believe for a second that he meant it as anything but a way to get rid of a headache that continued to pester him for his time. Another means to an end; that’s what your first ‘marriage’ was. A powerful pawn in the hands of a selfish man.
Sukuna hums quietly to himself, reaching up a hand used to brutalise men and women without a second thought. He brushes a large thumb over the apple of your cheek, rolling it down until he meets your jawline. You feel the wetness smudge beneath the pad of his finger — you hadn’t even realised you were crying. 
“I’ve always thought you were such a beautiful crier. You cried too the night you were meant to die, and I thought to myself… no woman had ever looked more beautiful than you did. With blood on your throat, and in the cracks of your teeth… crying.” It’s perverse, yet it has your eyelashes fluttering when he makes another pass of his thumb to swipe at your falling tears.
He leans in once again, his hand slipping away from your cheek to encase itself around your throat. His fingers squeeze gently, an impulsive reflex you think when his lips are within reach of your own. His lower set of eyes are nearly shut completely, whilst he looks at you through thick eyelashes with the other pair.
It’s intoxicating to be this close to him, a mixture of fear and arousal that blend so perfectly together you can’t tell one from the other. He could tear your very throat out in the blink of an eye, slice you into a million pieces and you’d never be found again. But he holds you with a sense of gentleness, his thumb making the barest of movements just beneath the corner of your jaw. 
You expect him to lean in to kiss you, to give in to that primal instinct to press against another human being but instead, his lips brush away from your own. They find home against your cheek, before he ever so slowly drags his tongue up along the tear tracks. 
He angles his head after his tongue follows along that watery path, until his lips brush against the shell of your ear. His breath is warm when his lips part, “You’d never be nothing with me.”
It’s sinful how easily he can drop the harshness of his voice, how he can soothe out the deep ridges until his voice is nothing but a rumbling purr. It takes great strength on your part to not let your eyes flutter closed and to part your lips to tell him just how much you enjoyed when he spoke to you like that.
“Is that what you want? To be something, to be someone?” Another deep inhale through his nose, no doubt savouring the scent of your apparent arousal. “With me, you could be so much more than just someone.”
“How?” Your own voice is nothing but a whisper, but Sukuna hears you as clear as day. His face breaks into that feline-like smile, brushing his lips against the lobe of your ear before he rounds back around to look you in the eye. 
“You’ve already given part of yourself to me, but the rest… give me the rest of you.” 
Your blood roars in your ears, screams at you to refuse to fall for another one of his deals—a bargain with the devil himself. But the way his fingers drag down from their place at your throat, gently prying apart your carefully planned outfit until the tips of those fingers brush over your collarbone. It’s impossible to listen to anything but your desire; a desire for more.
It was simple human nature. To want to become something more, to make a mark on the world that had been designed to oppress you as a woman – you wanted to be the reason why men feared your name, why they put you in the history books simply because you were someone. He was offering you power, plain and simple. 
You have to wet your lips to get your words to roll from your tongue, and Sukuna looks far too pleased with the effect he’s having on your body. “I don’t—How?” You repeat yourself. 
“A Binding vow.” He replies predictably, and his grin grows more wolfish when he sees the recollection dawn on your face. You couldn’t get out of the vow even if you tried once the terms were set. “I promise it won’t be as complicated as the first.” 
Those same fingers that were pushing your kimono apart succeed, it falls limply to rest atop your breasts. You expect him to pry it open further but he doesn’t, instead his eyes shift away from your own to settle on the centre of your chest. His fingers brush slowly, gently, along the area as if he were caressing your heart directly. 
“Give me your heart.” It comes from his mouth so easily, as if he hadn’t asked for the one thing that keeps you alive. It makes your skin sweaty beneath his touch, hairs rising on the back of your neck as if your brain finally caught up with the fact you’re pinned uselessly beneath a great beast. “And you will have mine. That’s the vow.” 
“That’s it?” It seemed far too simple, far too vague that it seemed almost like a joke. Like he was playing on your emotions. “How does killing me give me what I want?”
“I don’t mean literally giving me your heart. Not yet, anyway.” He breathes with a grin, his fingers pressing harder against the softness of your chest until his claws start to dig into the flesh. “Binding the heart should theoretically tie you to my own lifeline, you’d have access to unimaginable strength.”
“Theoretically?” You huff in part amusement and part disbelief, he wanted you to hand over your heart—metaphorically—based on a theory? “You want my heart based on… what, some story written by a monk gone mad?”
Those same claws still on your chest for a moment, but they don’t remove themselves from how they’re embedded in your chest; poised to rip out your beating heart. He instead drags his eyes back up to meet your own, that smile on his face is nothing short of bad intentions. 
“What, scared? Where’s that samurai warrior spirit of yours? You had no fear when you tried to cut my head off, twice.” He’s still so close that he speaks the words practically into your mouth. You know he’s trying to coax you into giving him what he wants, you know that, but… it was so easy to let your guard slip until you were intoxicated on everything that was Ryomen Sukuna. 
He must see it visibly slip on your face as his smile grows ever-larger, more devious and that hand on your chest splays out wide. The palm of his large hand settles wholly over your heart, even pressing a little harder to feel the rapid thumping of it against his own flesh. 
“Well?” 
“...I agree.” 
He swallows your agreement just as it leaves your lips, his own mouth working against your own whilst his hand presses harder and harder against your chest—until it feels like he’s about to pass his hand right through your body. It burns under his palm, hotter than anything you’ve ever felt before. But you have felt it before, in the hot spring. 
Sukuna brands your skin so effortlessly, binds your body to his own with a simple press of his cursed energy. Yet your body feels no different, you don’t feel the ‘unimaginable strength’ Sukuna had theorised about. You feel nothing but the pass of his tongue into your mouth, the tip of it running over the roof of your mouth until he flicks it against your teeth. 
He pulls back, mercifully, as your breath grows shorter. He stares down at you intensely, his palm still pressed against your chest. You want to know what’s running through his mind when he stares at you like that, a look that’s calculating yet so disarming. 
But instead, there’s a shift of movement and you’re hoisted into the air. Much too high for your liking. Your thighs squeeze around his midsection, and you’re forced to press your hands against his broad shoulders. Sukuna holds you above him, his head tilted back to look at you in a different light – and here you start to understand the look in his eye. Admiration.
“A normal person would’ve died…” He starts, but stops short of finishing his sentence completely. Instead, he draws you impossibly closer to his body, two large hands gripping your thighs whilst the other two hold your waist so delicately.
His words should worry you. His theory was based on the fact that most, if not all, people died at the very notion of binding your heart to another. But instead, you find yourself speechless, staring down at him tips the power scale over. You feel awfully out of place above him like this, his eyes have a different glimmer to them when he’s forced to stare up at you. 
You can’t stop your hands from leaving his shoulders to cup his face, your hands seem tiny on either side of his jaw that flexes at the contact. You drag your thumb along the black tattoos along his jaw, tracing them until you have to repeat the gesture over–and over–...
His lips mirror the softness of your own easily enough, he doesn’t force his tongue into your mouth as he had so many times before. Rather, he simply lets you guide the kiss, gently and smoothly. Your body is forced to hunch down to reach his, and he aids you with a hand splayed across the small of your back to keep you steady. 
One of your hands slips away from his jaw, hooking your arm loosely around his neck to run your fingers up along the nape of his neck, through the shortened hairs there until you can glide your fingers through the longer pink strands of hair. His chest rumbles between your thighs, a deep sound that resembles something so oddly familiar—
The sound grows louder with each pass of your nails against his scalp, up and back down to scratch at the nape of his neck. It’s only then that you realise the rumble is more like a deep vibration, a purr. Your toes curl against the corded muscles of his back at that sound alone, the press of his midsection between your thighs doesn’t help either.
It doesn’t take very long for the kiss to devolve into a slick mess, his insatiable greed for more growing far too large to ignore. He guides your tongue in a sensual dance, one that has your core aching with the memory of what that second tongue had done between your thighs not even a single night ago.
Suddenly, you’re pulled away from the bookcase he had cornered you against. The movement doesn’t break his concentration on your lips, each of his steps are with purpose. His gait doesn’t falter either when he begins to lower himself down onto his knees, those large hands holding you steadfast to ensure his time with your mouth isn’t cut short.
The way he handles you is entirely different to how he had the previous night. Last night was filled with adrenaline-fuelled lust, rough grabbing hands that took and took until there was nothing left to give. But now, he handles you with a delicacy you’d see reserved for loved ones. 
His hands don’t leave your waist when he lays you flat on your back on the softer tatami mat made for sitting and reading on. Instead, he holds you much tighter, like he expects you to wriggle out from beneath him at any second. Though you don’t plan on that any time soon, not when his lips finally break away from your own to press themselves in long passes against your jaw and the hollow of your throat.
The Uchikake slips away from your shoulders, giving him better access to start pulling and tugging in the right places until your kimono unravels entirely from your body. It falls limply at your sides, revealing your bare front to the prying eyes that do a slow sweep up and down your body. The hands at your waist smooth up the expanse of your hips, up along your rib cage until he rests his thumbs just beneath your breasts.
His eyes slip up along the length of your chest, lingering for just a moment on your breasts before he meets your own gaze. That carnal lust for blood has been replaced by nothing but pure desire, it leaks into his eyes until his pupils are dilated and locked onto yours. He looks like a predator who just found his prey. 
The length of his tongue is hot against your nipple, the black of his tattoo such a stark contrast to the pink of his tongue as it contorts to swirl around the hardening nipple before he sucks it into his mouth without shame. All whilst he maintains that heedy eye contact, making sure you watch him thoroughly enjoy your body; the body you’ve just given to him so willingly under the guise of a binding vow.
Thankfully, he isn’t forgetful. A hand comes up along your right side, pressing into your skin to feel each and every bump of your ribs beneath the skin that he could shred so easily. His hand comes up to cup the entirety of your breast in one large palm, fingers stretching and then squeezing tightly as if to get a true grasp of just what he was holding. 
It’s a painful grasp but it soon bleeds into pleasure when he pinches the stiff peak of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it until you’re forced to breathe out your pleasure. 
The sound that escapes your mouth seems to be what Sukuna was waiting for, his own groan is muffled against the flesh of your breast but it vibrates against your nipple nonetheless. Your hips buck up at the feeling, and in turn, Sukuna presses his own body harder against your own — pinning you beneath him, keeping you still so he could perform his ministrations against your body without interruption. 
He continues to twist the tip of his tongue around your nipple, sucking it further into his mouth until you’re sure it’s going to leave a painful bruise in its wake. But then he switches to the other, giving it the exact same treatment whilst his fingers now play with the abused flesh of the nipple dripping in his spit. 
Sukuna doesn’t linger much longer on your nipples, instead ducking down to latch his teeth into the fleshy part of your underboob and it’s enough to pull a pained hiss from you. You can feel his lips curl into a triumphant grin at the fact he was able to pull a sound from you and not fight the repercussions. 
The path he marks down your body is a tantalising mixture of pain and pleasure, his teeth sink into the fleshier parts of your body – only to be soothed over by the thickness of his tongue. You watch him as he lowers further and further down, his upper set of arms stretched up just slightly so he can continue to pinch at your nipples. 
He holds your eyes with his own, settling just at the apex of your thighs and here you can feel the billowing heavy breaths being pushed from his nose. It makes your toes curl and thighs rub together in an attempt to stave off the pressure between your legs. Sukuna of course doesn’t miss the movement, his tongue flicks out to run over his upper lip. He looked as if he were about to devour a meal.
The spare pair of hands come to your outer thighs, easily pressing his fingers into the flesh to manoeuvre them up and over his shoulders once he settles himself on his stomach between your thighs. It’s an odd sight; to see a man as gigantic as Sukuna on his stomach, between your thighs of all places. 
Part of you expects him to dive straight into it, he spreads your legs so wide on his broad shoulders that you don’t doubt he can see everything on display. That alone has heat burning at the tips of your ears and buzzing in the apple of your cheeks, it’s entirely different from the previous time he had been between your legs. 
It felt different when he used the tongue at his stomach, almost like that was just a way to prepare him for you but this…—it was beyond intimate. A man willing to lay down on his stomach in such a vulnerable position just for the purpose of pleasuring you was mind-numbingly attractive.
Those hands that had been pinching and squeezing at your breasts have meandered their way down to your thighs, easily wrapping themselves around the meat of your thigh to lock you into place whilst the bottom set of hands pry you open. Now that has you squirming, you can feel the wet heat of your desire leaking down to stain the pristine white fabric of your kimono that had been turned into a temporary blanket.
You want to look away from him, to divert your gaze away from the downright filthy look in his own. He doesn’t break away, not once, not when his jaw works for a moment before he spits against your clit. Your thighs tense, your hips jumping up at the contact of the significantly cooler liquid against the molten warmth of your pussy. 
Then. Then, he graces you with the length of his tongue. It presses against you, the tip of it dipping between your spread folds to then drag its way up until it teasingly flicks against your clit. Again, you jolt from the pleasure. It was most definitely different from the tongue in his stomach, that one was much too big – made purely to ensure you were dripping wet before he took you. 
But this tongue… the skilled tongue that had spat threats so easily, and had been the home of smug words and arrogance like no other. It was working you to completion much quicker than ever before. Sukuna must realise it too, noticing the sudden rush of arousal that graces his tongue and lips because he locks his arms tighter around your thighs. And then, he truly devours his meal. 
Long gone are the gentle, slow passes of his tongue. Each pass of his tongue is aggressive in a way that has your toes curling into his back and the heel of your feet dragging along the tattooed flesh there. His lips are unforgiving when they latch themselves to your clit, those teeth that you’d seen rip through flesh graze teasingly against the sensitive nub there until your fingers find a home in his hair.
When you pull, he groans. A low, deep rich sound that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. He sounds like a wounded animal, like he’s teetering on the edge of his own bliss with each clamping pull of your hand in his hair. He doesn’t give up on the quick passes of his tongue over your clit, nor does he stop drooling against your pussy as if you were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
You jerk beneath his ministrations once again, and your fingers tighten on his hair. Holding him in place as you ride the start of your orgasm against his tongue, Sukuna looks like he’s lost in his own world—one that contains only you and him in this very moment. His eyes are half-lidded yet you can see the unbridled lust there, something so humanly wanton that it makes your thighs twitch.
Then it washes over you. You feel a tug in your chest, a pooling of vicious lust in your stomach and with a moan of his name, a breathy “Ryomen!”, you cum on his tongue. He holds you in place thankfully, your hips jumping uncontrollably because his nose continues to press against your clit with each deep press of his tongue into your still throbbing walls.
Sukuna finally pulls himself away from the salvation he found between your thighs, the bottom half of his face and part of his cheeks are drenched. A shiny clear sheen of your very obvious arousal, and he grins. All sharp teeth and dark intentions on display, his eyes glitter with the fact he had you come undone on his face so quickly—so easily. 
He then crawls back up the length of your body, slow movements that pull his muscles perfectly. He’s the very image of an apex predator, and you find yourself slipping far too easily into the role of his unlucky prey. Your legs spread once again for him with the help of his own thighs spreading you wider, he’s fully dressed yet you can feel the heavy press of his twin cocks. 
A hand comes up to your face, a curled index finger stroking along the soft skin beneath your eye and down towards your temple, wiping away the stray tears that had come loose in the height of your orgasm. “You’re beautiful when you cum.” He says it nonchalantly like it’s a fact more than a compliment, yet it still has your heart pumping faster and arousal spiking. 
The kiss he lays against your lips is undoubtedly soft, far too soft for the man you know him as and it’s so fleeting that you’re left wondering if it truly even happened. His mouth instead finds a home against your neck, panting breaths pressed against the scarred flesh there from the previous times he tore you apart, just to piece you together again with his very own hand.
He settles his weight between your legs, forcing your thighs to spread impossibly wider to accommodate him. But instead of resting there for much longer, his hands grab at your waist and thighs. The world shifts around you, a blur of movement and a thump of a body against the floor — all to reveal Sukuna now splayed out beneath you. 
His hands stroke gently up along the bareness of your thighs, and slowly back down to stroke the soft skin at your knees. He still looks impossibly big even beneath you, but it makes your heart seize in your chest. He put you in a place of power, a seat of dominance on his very lap; all with a lazy smile on his face. 
“It’s an equal exchange,” he explains when he sees the thoughts flit behind your eyes. “I take from you, and you take from me.” 
Right. The Binding Vow. The reason why your chest still burns with an idle ache that feels familiar to the one at your wrist. Instead of answering him, you look down at your own body, noting the numerous bite marks embedded into your skin. Your fingers brush along each of them until you halt at the centre of your chest, right between your breasts—
There’s a new tattoo. It’s different to the band around your wrist, instead, it’s two curved lines separated with a smaller tear-drop line in the middle, shaped like a trident. The long lines curve with your breasts, the teardrop resting just over the centre of your heart. 
Your fingers brush over it briefly, there’s an aching sting beneath the fresh ink that blossomed on your skin. It’s tiny compared to the one you’ve seen on Sukuna’s body, on his tongue. You want to know what the symbols mean to him, each of them must hold a different reason for their shape and placement. 
“You suit them,” Sukuna supplies after a moment of watching you trace over the trident-like shape on your chest, and your eyes drift back up to meet his. That lust is still there but it’s softened into a gentler, more welcoming red. 
“I don’t think I’d suit the face tattoos.” You admit, and he arches an eyebrow in amusement at your words.
“No? You dislike them?” His claws playfully drag down along the flesh of your thighs, earning him a full-body shiver which inevitably causes his cocks to twitch from where they’re trapped against your still wet-heat between your thighs. 
Your laugh causes his own lips to turn into a smooth smile, his eyes tracking the movement when you shake your head. “Always putting words in my mouth,” you lean forward, planting your hands on his chest and inwardly mourning the fact he was still wearing his own kimono. “I just think you look much better with them. Fearsome.”
His eyebrow remains raised in feigned disbelief, perhaps even faked hurt. “Just fearsome? I bathe you in compliments, and in return I get fearsome?”
You lean ever closer, brushing your nose playfully against his and he returns the motion but a little more harsher. It’s an odd air that’s settled over the both of you, maybe it was the binding vow still setting in. You had handed him your very heart, and you were still due to take his. It’s not an unenjoyable air however, if anything, it’s the happiest you’ve felt in a very long time.
“Handsome. Ruthless. Regal.” Each word is breathed between kisses along the thick line of the tattoo along his jaw until you’re nestled next to his ear. “Does that satisfy you, or do you want me to stroke your ego some more?”
A buck of his hips has your newfound confidence wavering, a tumbling moan falling from your lips and gracing his ear. His hands grasp tightly at your hips whilst a large palm smoothes over the expanse of your ass, grabbing and squeezing — only to smack you with enough force to spring tears to your eyes. 
“Careful.” He blows the word against your own ear, nuzzling the tip of his nose against your earlobe before laying a kiss just beneath. 
As if remembering just the hold you have over him at the moment, you lean out of the biting range of that wandering mouth. He nearly snarls at the fact you pull away, until you start to tug at the obi belt of his kimono. Undoing all the layering until his chest is laid bare for you. You trace your own finger along the expanse of the lines that mar his chest there, down the chunk-like squares until your hand presses over his own heart.
Sukuna at least lifts his hips to help you push down his Hakama and free him completely from the confines of the materials you had dressed him only a short while ago. He relaxes further with the skin-to-skin contact, yet those cocks between your thighs twitch impatiently; drooling against his defined muscles. 
He holds your gaze when you plant a hand on his stomach, lifting your own hips to guide a hand between them and take hold of one of the thick cocks waiting for attention. You leave the upper one untouched, and he grunts at the realisation you won’t be taking both—not yet, anyway. 
The tip of his cock grazes against your still-sensitive clit, and glides through the sticky mess between your lips. You’d only grown more and more wet for him as you found yourself atop of him, and you don’t doubt that you could take him… with a bit of a struggle.
Sukuna schools his features well but you don’t miss the swell of his chest when he sucks in a breath, your entrance swallows the tip of his cock greedily and that alone has a stinging burn pinching at your walls. But you preserve, you push through inch by inch until you’re seated on his thighs with his heavy balls resting at the curve of your ass.
You clench involuntarily, and finally, the mask slips away from Sukuna’s face. He groans, without shame, kiss-bruised lips parting to relieve him of the pleasure he was trying to keep to himself. His hands are clamped to your hips, holding you in place just to give him a second to breathe — to recalibrate his brain and try to focus on anything but just how tight and warm your pussy was.
“Even after nearly stuffing you with two cocks, you’re still so fucking tight.” He hisses, sharp fangs on display when he grits his teeth to give a tentative roll of his hips up into you. 
Your thighs tense, walls throbbing around his length and the pretty moan pulled from your lips is complimented by his own rumbling groan. On instinct your own hips grind back, your clit catching against the underside of his unattended cock and those long black claws finally sink into your flesh. 
It feels too good. Far too good, and you’ve not even moved yet—not properly. You want to ride him, to sit atop of him and watch him unravel whilst nestled beneath you. But it’s becoming increasingly hard to think when you feel the tip of his cock that’s buried deep inside of you twitch against that one spongy spot deep inside of you. 
So you distract yourself, momentarily. Your hand slides away from his stomach and wraps around the weeping cock against his pelvis, Sukuna jerks at the motion as if he hadn’t expected you to take care of both. Your fingers don’t reach around the girth of him, but you squeeze nevertheless.
His cock is dripping with your arousal from when you had been seated atop of him, you had been turned on for him so much so that it had leaked through his pants. Your hand glides easily up and down, twisting gently at the tip of his cock to roll your thumb over the slit there before spreading the mixture of your slick and his pre-cum down along his length.
Sukuna all but groans prettily at the way you handle him, head thunking back against the floor when he finally, finally, relinquishes control to you. You give another grind of your hips and the pinching burn there has started to bleed away into undeniable pleasure, so you shift a little atop of him.
As if realising what you were about to do, Sukuna places his hands just beneath your thighs. Not to control you, but to simply guide you, support you, if you needed it. The first bounce is awfully loud and sticky, your pussy greedily sucking his cock back in when you drop down to his hips. 
Your hand slackens a little around the cock still leaking near his belly button, so a large hand engulfs your own and starts to move your hand up and down a little more aggressively — so not totally out of control, but you can’t complain when he nudges his hips slightly to meet your bounces. 
His cock presses beautifully against that spot deep inside of you repeatedly, each bounce and drop in gravity hammering the mushroomed head of his cock against it until your stomach coils painfully. Your impending orgasm makes itself suddenly known, and this one feels much more intense than the others. A pressure in your lower stomach that has your jaw slackening to moan without any shame.
Sukuna watches you through thick lashes, biting down on his lip to stop himself from growling or moaning, perhaps even both. Those hands beneath your thighs have started to slowly shift up until they rest at your hips, and a hand smooths itself over your lower back. And it’s a very subtle warning for what's to come.
A man like Sukuna is undoubtedly strong, made of muscles that were purely for ripping and shredding through people with ease. So it’s hardly a surprise when he bucks up into your hard, enough to plant his feet squarely on the floor before he fucks into you like he’d never get a chance to fuck you again. 
You can only squish your chest to his own to save yourself from slamming into him, and his hand on the lower portion of your back holds you there. Pins you to him in a vulnerable position whilst his hips work to thrust his cock hard and deep into your velvety core. 
A surprised moan mixed with a yelp is torn from your throat when a hand smooths itself down over your ass before pressing rather unceremoniously into the tight ring of muscle there, it’s not an unwelcome feeling but it still has you panting open-mouthed against the thick muscle of his chest. 
The orgasm that was building erupts far too quickly, and all you can do is gasp against his chest with a breathless “‘M gonna— gonna cum, please, please—” You don’t specify what you’re begging for, but Sukuna knows exactly what you’re pleading for. 
So he doesn’t let up on the fast and aggressive pace of his hips, snarling into your ear when you clench repeatedly around the length of his cock. The juices that drip from your abused pussy soak him entirely, ruining the material that had gathered beneath the both of you and it only aids in making the slapping noise of his balls against your ass even louder.
His hips only begin to slow once he’s rung out your orgasm until you’re oversensitive, flinching with each pass of his cock against your swollen walls. He lets you settle atop of him, his cock still buried deep inside of you and throbbing with the need to release but he holds himself back, and staves off his own climax.
You nearly purr when a hand finds itself in your hair, long claws scratching delicately at the sweaty scalp there until you’re ready to continue. The twitch of his cock pressed between his stomach and your own has your toes curling, and that small coil in your stomach twists with delight at the fact you’re still not finished. 
That hand drifts away from your hair once you reposition yourself atop of him, your hands dragging along the smooth expanse of his chest to settle at his stomach. His body gleams with a sheen coat of sweat, and his lungs expand harshly with each breath he sucks in. It seems fucking you through an explosive orgasm so aggressively took it out of him.
“You’re beautiful,” you find the words slip from your lips so easily, and Sukuna can’t stop the surprise crossing his features. Beautiful, no doubt a word that has never been used to describe him. But you mean it. He looks awfully angelic like this, in a twisted way when a quiet voice whispers in the back of your mind about the atrocities he’s committed. 
Yet it’s very easy to ignore that voice, to push it down and silence it. His hair is slicked back with sweat, yet tendrils of it curl around his ears and at the nape of his neck – sticking to the sweat there that continues to roll down his skin in droplets. His eyes are somewhat satiated as if seeing you reach bliss twice was enough for him for the day. His lips are set in a soft line, relaxed.
Truly beautiful.
He parts his lips to speak, maybe even to retort your compliment but you silence the words on his tongue by lifting up from his lap. His cock slips free from your swollen pussy, and it’s enough to make the both of you hiss in tandem. 
“Done already?” He questions, a tint of his voice sounding almost disappointed at being left high and dry. Though, you don’t say a thing when you shift your body up onto your knees so you’re hovering over not just the one cock, but the both of them. 
As if realising what you were planning, Sukuna wraps a hand around the girth of both of his cocks to help you when you start to lower yourself on both of the tips. Even after the mind-blowing orgasm, it’s still a very tight squeeze. Your face scrunches with the blossoming pain, and you know you should slow down. But that incessant tugging in your heart has your body overpowering your brain, and you lower yourself down… and down.
You only let out a heavy breath when you feel his thighs brush against the inner part of your own, and Sukuna grips your hips much more harshly compared to before. The whooshing of blood in your head is much too loud, and it only makes you feel like your head is submerged beneath water.
“Look at me.” A command, and you obey it wordlessly. You meet Sukuna’s gaze, and he’s staring at you with more care than you’ve ever witnessed. Your heart squeezes again in your chest, and you’re only now realising that it feels like a hand is wrapped around your very heart. 
Your own fingers glide along the sweaty expanse of his chest, pressing into the muscle there until you locate the exact position of his heart in his chest. It beats so heavily beneath his skin, thumping against your palm as if it yearns to break free and be held by your gentle hold. 
“How do I do it?” You ask in a breathless whisper, you hadn’t made a mutual contract like this before. You simply agreed to lend him your strength when he asked for it, but this time he had offered his own heart to you in exchange. 
“Just take it, it’s yours.” He lays his head back against the floor, eyes staring down the bridge of his nose to stare at you. He offers no further guidance, nothing to help you with figuring out how to take a man's heart—figuratively. 
He made it seem so simple, as easy as laying his hand against your own chest and wrapping his cursed energy around your heart until it beat for him, and only him. So you follow in his footsteps, your own nails dig into the muscle of his pectoral muscles and he at least notes the discomfort of you digging harshly enough to draw blood. 
You feel the tug in your own chest, his cursed energy squirms in your very body until it seizes around your heart and holds it still. Then you force your mind to focus on your own cursed energy, you let it wrap around his own that nestles itself tighter around your heart until the two become one. 
It snakes down your veins, from your fingertips and inevitably into his chest. It burns your palm when you press harder, ensuring that the vow is made successfully. Sukuna’s upper lip twitches in discomfort, yet he does not stop you from completing it. 
Your hips twitch involuntarily when you feel the familiar embrace of that dark energy that he exudes, it welcomes you so easily. It wraps its cold arms around you and digs into your flesh, pulling you further and further in until you can sense nothing but the man beneath you. 
“Take it.” Sukuna hisses through gritted teeth, and you do. You clamp down on his heart, your cursed energy snaps violently into place and Sukuna jerks at the sudden burst of it in his chest. His hands grip your hips harshly, tearing into the flesh without a care in the world and you yourself can’t find it within you to care about the blood that spills from your hips. 
Instead, you gasp in his hold, overcome with such an intense feeling of undeniable power. Strength beyond comprehension. Its dark tendrils slither beneath your skin, nestling themselves around your bones until they become a part of you. It doesn’t stop until you accept it, fully.
Something snaps into place and you blink back into reality to find Sukuna staring at you with a wide-eyed expression, something that makes him look so much younger than he really is. You feel his heartbeat beneath the palm of your hand, and it matches the pounding in your ears. 
He moves you effortlessly until you’re beneath him, not once breaking his eyes away from you — staring at you as if he’s never quite seen you before. The power that bleeds from him is familiar, it’s welcoming, it’s your own. 
The binding vow was complete.
He crowds you into the floor, two large arms caging either side of your head when he hunches down over you. The other arms work to lift your hips up to meet his own, wrapping your legs higher up around his waist before he starts to thrust into you, slowly… as if testing the waters.
The moan that’s punched out of you sounds wounded, not because you were sore from being stretched around two cocks but because your pleasure seems heightened beyond belief. You can feel everything and then some. 
One of those hands holding up his weight moves, cupping the side of your face. It always amazed you just how well he manoeuvred himself despite how large of a man he was, he wasn’t as nimble as some but he most definitely moved with a certain type of grace that was undoubtedly him. 
His thumb swoops down, pressing just beneath your jaw and tilts your head up slightly to meet his own. The kiss he devours you with is nothing short of consuming, he isn’t gentle with how he keeps his lips pressed tightly to yours when his hips roll once–twice, and then he’s fucking you at a rhythm that has your toes curling sharply.
The coil that had lain dormant in your stomach suddenly sparks back to life, it curls tight in your lower stomach until your thighs seize up and you’re left to clamp around the two sizable cocks shoved deep inside of you. Sukuna groans at that, a shuddering sound that’s expelled against your lips before he returns to your mouth.
His tongue pries you open easily enough, and his tongue is unyielding as he laps at you. Two hands flex at your thighs, long fingers digging into the flesh behind your knees to effortlessly fold you further into the mating press—you can’t help but gasp into his lips, pushing out the last of your breath into his panting mouth. 
“Mine,” Sukuna snarls like some feral beast, sharp canines glinting in the shimmering flame from the lanterns dotted around the room. It’s so primal, the way he takes you, the way he folds you nearly in half just to fuck himself deeper into you; to ensure you feel every last inch of him. “Say it.”
He gives a particularly hard thrust with the last word, gritting his teeth at just how tightly you clamp down around him. The hand at your jaw slips down, taking hold of your throat so easily and pinning you to the floor beneath him. He pulls back just slightly, enough so that you can see his face entirely — can see just how much you affect him. 
Your answer doesn’t come quick enough, however, as he rolls his hip back smoothly only to fuck into you with much more vigour. The rhythmic wet slapping sound contests against your choked moans, you can feel each time his balls slap against your ass; how heavy they are.
“‘M yours—” You manage to choke past the squeezing of his hand at your throat, the wild glint in his eye is dangerous. A look that you’ve seen before, right before he struck with the goal to kill. “Yours! Yours—fuck!” 
Sukuna chuckles breathlessly, sounding no better than yourself. He looks absolutely ruined, sweat dripping along the side of his face, at the back of his neck and along his chest. He looks positively divine, something you want to sink your teeth into. That realisation has you clamping down suddenly, pulling a shameless moan from the man above you. 
You’re so close, so fucking close that you can taste it on your tongue. Sukuna can feel it too, his gaze locking with your own before he shifts just slightly onto his knees. And then when he’s truly above you, does he start fucking into you at a much deeper angle. The tip of his cock drags heavily along your g-spot whilst simultaneously ramming itself against your cervix—it’s painful. 
But a type of pain that has your toes curling mercilessly, your hand grasps uselessly at the arm closest to you, the one holding you beneath him. You slip your spare hand down along your body, taking advantage of the small gap he’s granted you by wanting to watch you come undone entirely. 
Your fingers slip through the mess of curls below, you’re absolutely drenched—beyond wet, a type of wetness that only Sukuna is evidently able to pull from you. You find your clit, swollen and so sensitive that you flinch at the brief contact from your fingers. 
Sukuna seems to notice too, his lower set of eyes drifting down to see the way you touch yourself whilst he fucks you with both his cocks. His mouth opens in a wordless groan. You can feel the slickness gathering there when you brush your fingers down along your pussy, to brush your fingers against the sides of his cocks as he continues to fuck you. 
It grows increasingly difficult to smoothly roll your fingers over your clit, the stickiness causing your fingers to slip too quickly—sometimes moving away from your clit entirely when Sukuna gives a particularly rough thrust of his hips. He’s fucking you like he needs you to cum, like if you don’t then surely his heart might give out.
Meeting Sukuna’s gaze again, you can’t stop the way you clench around him and in return, Sukuna bares his teeth at you. It’s non-threatening, not quite as lethal as the previous times he did it in the past. Instead, it sends heat shooting down your spine, flaring up in your stomach and it’s impossible to stop the orgasm the second you register it happening. 
You moan, head flung back against the tatami mat with a dull thud and your entire body tenses up. The growl that comes from Sukuna is guttural, a deep sound that you can feel vibrate through your very own body from just how loud it is. 
His fingers tighten around your throat, and with a gasping breath, you call for him. “Ryomen,” you flinch at the sensitivity of your clit when he throws his hips harsher against your own. “Ryomen, please, please—” 
You may not know what you’re begging for exactly, but Sukuna seems to pick up on it flawlessly. His body surges forward, the width of his shoulders hiding you completely beneath him before his lips clash with your own. It’s not much of a kiss with the both of you panting in the other's mouth, and then he snarls—
“You are mine.” 
His hips stutter for just a moment before you feel him thicken impossibly further deep inside of you, both of his cocks throbbing and twitching—it sends a painful twinge up your spine before the relief comes. Both of his cocks twitch simultaneously, the pulse releasing a wave of seed deep inside of you. It’s warm, almost unbearably so, yet you relish in the feeling of it. 
You feel complete. A contentedness settles deep in your chest and wraps around you in a comforting arm, and all you can do is moan sweetly into Sukuna’s awaiting mouth as he shudders through his orgasm. His hips continue to pump against you, forcing his cum as deep as possible inside of you—claiming you in the most primal way. 
The world swirls around you, looming bookcases seeming to grow taller as the lethargy starts to kick in. Sukuna lowers his body slowly down atop you, still refusing to pull out from you but you can already feel the stickiness of his release trickling from around where the two of you joined and ruining the slips of silk beneath you. 
The hand at your throat moved at some point, instead coming up to smooth through your hair, peeling it away from your sweaty skin before brushing it further back. It has you leaning into the touch, and you’re sure if you could purr, you would at the tenderness Sukuna is handling you with. 
His nose smooths up along your cheek, his breaths coming in deep and heavy before he finds the shell of your ear. “You are mine, as I am yours. Your strength will know no bounds, for as long as you stay at my side.” 
A tingling sensation burns at your chest, an itch that you can’t quite reach once his words settle against your ear. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion starting to take its toll on your brain, but his words almost sound like he was completing the binding vow with an additional rule…
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hiveworks · 7 months
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Interview with Mad Rupert, author of Sakana
September 2023
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Sakana, the story of life and love in a fish market, is coming back from its hiatus soon! The strip comic style webcomic began in 2010 and follows Jiro, Taisei, Yuudai, and Chie as they navigate their relationships and learn to face their feelings. We asked creator Mad Rupert, author of Robber Robert and artist of Bunt!, for an interview to celebrate the series return.
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Sakana has been your baby for 13 years. What has the webcomic journey been like for you over the past decade?
It really has been over a decade, hasn’t it! There have certainly been ups and downs, periods where I was updating as much as I could, and also long hiatuses. I feel like webcomics have always been an amazing space to practice my craft and stretch my writing and drawing skills alike. You can kind of do anything you like with webcomics, and oftentimes people come up with wackier, and imho more interesting concepts than if they were beholden to a large publisher. Not that I haven’t made my fair share of traditionally-published comics and graphic novels… but there’s just something so gratifying about coming up with your own wild story and working towards its end on your own time. Webcomics are incredibly tough and time consuming, but also the ultimate form of self expression. 
What is the origin of Sakana? What made you want to tell this story?
Sakana actually started as a class project when I was a junior at the Savannah College of Art and Design. I had been accepted into the Sequential Art department’s yearly Japan trip to study comics and cartooning in Tokyo for a few weeks, and our final project was to create 11 comic strips based off of something that made a strong impact on us during the trip. We had visited the old inner market (now demolished) of the Tsukiji Fish Market at 4am one morning, and it was the most incredible place I’d ever been, so I decided to craft a short story that took place in the market. Beyond the first 11 strips, I decided to continue the story for as long as I could as a way to practice the comic techniques I was learning in class. That was over a decade and 600 strips ago! It really has become the most ambitious project I’ve ever undertaken.
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Do you have the ending already written? Do you see a conclusion in sight?
Yes! I’ve always had something at least resembling an end in mind throughout most of the comic’s lifespan. For a long-format comic like SAKANA, I think it’s very important to have a rough ending planned out as early as possible, otherwise it becomes difficult to keep the narrative moving in a satisfying direction, drop little tidbits of plot that will pay off later, or even maintain your enthusiasm for the project. To be clear, the details of Sakana's “end” have changed many times, which is only natural with a very long project like this. But I’ve always kept crucial details the same: basically certain characters in a certain place at a certain time doing certain things (to keep from getting too spoilery haha.) HOW they get there, WHY they’re there, and WHAT exactly they’re doing will ebb and flow as the years go by and I myself get older and older. But having a general sense of the end in mind has kept things moving all this time. The story’s got one more volume to go, and then I’ll be done!
Your hiatus is a result of working on a traditionally published graphic novel, coming in 2024. Is there anything you can tell us about your book?
My new graphic novel is called Bunt! and it’s a collaborative effort between myself and my dear pal, Ngozi Ukazu (author of popular webcomic Check, Please!) Ngozi wrote the book and I drew it, and we’re both really proud of what we’ve made! It’s already available for preorder all over the place and it will officially be out in stores in February 2024. We’re really looking forward to getting out there this fall and winter and spreading the word about it!
You recently successfully completed a Kickstarter for an 18+ comic, Robber Robert, as well. What is it like balancing these different narratives, genres, and mediums of publishing comics?
It’s definitely been a struggle at times to balance everything, and I definitely don’t recommend working on 3 giant projects at the same time! I finally had to admit that I couldn’t do it all at once, which led to me putting Sakana and RR on hiatus to finish Bunt!, and then keeping Sakana on hiatus while I finished up RR. I really burned myself out on comics for a while, and it’s been a huge struggle to get myself back to a good place with my work. Finishing Bunt! and RR Chapter 1 has really helped reenergize me, but I can always feel myself trying to overload my work schedule again and again. It’s my greatest weakness as a professional artist.
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What keeps you inspired?
Making something for myself, practicing my craft, and putting my own stories out there are all huge driving forces in my life. Learning to stop overwhelming myself with work has also helped a lot. Looking back on all the art I’ve made and all the different things I’ve tried makes me feel like I can do anything I put my mind to, so long as I give myself the time and space to enjoy the process.
Do you have any webcomic or graphic novel recommendations?
I’m a big fan of anything fantasy or sci-fi, especially if the narrative approaches the fantastical elements in a weird, unique, and kind of gay way haha. My favorite manga is currently Delicious in Dungeon, but I’m also a fan of historical series like Golden Kamuy and Bride’s Story. For webcomics, I love anything by Evan Dahm, like his long-format series Rice Boy and Vattu. As for Hiveworks comics, there’s too many to list individually but my current favorites are Fairmeadow by KP, and Tiger, Tiger by Petra Nordlund. 
Any advice for new readers of Sakana?
I would say…despite its high page count, it’s not that long of a read! The strip format keeps it moving at a pretty quick clip when read all at once (but it certainly didn’t feel like that over the last 13 years updating one page at a time!) I know that the format and the black and white rendering might feel a little dated in the current era of Webtoons and full-color stories, but I’m too stubborn to change now, and I really appreciate anybody giving it a shot! Also, no matter who you are, or how much you dislike him in the beginning, Yuudai will probably be your favorite character.
You can read Sakana for free at sakana-comic.com and print books are available at hivemill.com
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luveline · 7 months
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𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝'𝐬 𝐨𝐤 —
i'm watching season two of criminal minds and getting very sad and frustrated about how no one is noticing spencer's withdrawals. could you maybe do one where bau!reader notices that he's not okay and confronts him about it? our baby boy deserves all the help he can get at this point 🥲 love you endlessly!
love you!! cw drug use
"What are you doing?" you ask. 
Spencer pushes his book toward you wordlessly, an intimidating tome of Russian literature. 
"No, like, what are you doing?" 
Spencer sits up. His sunken eyes look for your tell, a twitch in your lips like this might be a bluff, but there's no feigned emotion to be found. "I don't know what you're asking me." 
"Is it downers?" 
A spark of life behind tired eyes, his face contorted by anger, Spencer hisses, "What are you talking about?" 
"Oxycontin? Xanax? Half the time you're looking at us like you hate us and the rest of the time you're quiet." 
"I don't– you're being ridiculous," Spencer says. 
"Your hands are shaking, Spence." You cross your arms over your chest and take a step closer to his desk. While you'd asked him somewhere far from private, driven by a need for truth, you care about him —that's why you're asking. You know you've gone about this all wrong. "You're coming down," you whisper, "and it looks painful." 
Spencer just stares at you. 
"Why don't we go to the cafeteria? Get something warm to eat?" you suggest. He's lost weight he didn't have to lose lately. 
"I'm never hungry," he says. 
You take it for a confession, an admittance that he's been doing something he shouldn't be. Withdrawal and drug use alike can cause a lack of appetite. Maybe he's upset you've brought it up, just… 
"I can't watch you being not okay anymore," you say. 
His surprise is obvious. "I didn't think anybody noticed." 
You can't speak for the others or their motivations. All you know is that you care about him too much to pretend it isn't happening. You'd hoped Spencer would tell you about it himself, if he needed help. You hadn't realised that might come off as you not paying attention.
"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to tell me, I shouldn't have– I'm sorry for being sudden."
"I haven't exactly been approachable," Spencer says bitterly. 
"I love you," you say. "Be a dick if you want. But I love you and I want you to eat more than dried fruit, so. Come with me for dinner." 
Spencer stands up quietly, no fuss. He pulls his jacket on and unlucky his hair from the collar, expression like a lost puppy looking down at you. You stare at him, his under eyes dark as wine and the slight hollow of his cheeks, the stubble like a shadow on his jaw. 
You go up on tiptoes and wrap your arms around him. "I just want to know what's wrong so I can be here for you," you say, crushing his hair to his neck with your cheek. You readjust your hands, trying to convey how you feel, the want to hold him together, put his misaligned pieces back in the right place. "I don't want you to be alone." 
Spencer clears his throat, but he hugs you back in his way, making himself smaller and shorter to fit in your embrace. 
"It'll be okay. Yeah?" You speak into his hair, a reassurance for him alone.
Spencer just hugs you harder. 
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edgeray · 22 days
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“LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME
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and never never never ever let go”- Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer
Mafia AU! Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot
Author's Note: It's been a while since I've actually published anything on here. Well, my gay ass is back with another oneshot. This one has been in the works for at least a month. I'm considering making a Part 2, but that will definitely take at least a couple weeks for me to publish (if not months). I wish I was kidding. School literally hates me and my teachers are incessant on killing my GPA. This is also a gift for @megistusdiary because it'll be her birthday when I post this. Please go check out her blog for amazing genshin wlw content (especially Arlecchino content!) Would you guys like this on AO3 as well?
Content Warning/Info: This is a long af oneshot (6.3k words), long af descriptions and kinda long intro, Arlecchino is referred to with they/them pronouns, implied female but no usage of feminine pronouns for Reader, general dark-ish content, pet names, Arlecchino is a lil scary, I've never been to a club so I apologize for the very inaccurate information, nor have I ever been apart of the mafia so also inaccurate, a bit suggestive but otherwise sfw, if I'm missing anything feel free to tell me!
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Monsters are said to have lied underneath beds–waiting to ensnare an unknowing victim–or stalk hidden among the depths of a closet–awaiting an opportune moment to strike its next prey. Monsters are fabled entities that are used to scare off children from bad behavior and are quickly eased from the mind by coddling parents. The mere notion of a monster shooed away like a pesky fly, swept underneath the subconscious like forgotten specks of dirt. 
You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.
You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.
If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes. 
‘You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them. 
You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here. 
Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.
Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be. 
The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead. 
Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.
Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage. 
Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly. 
You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it? 
You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form. 
Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you. 
"Someone wants you." 
You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight." 
He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight." 
You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else." 
"They're not someone you or I can refuse." 
"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh. 
"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."
Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?
Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living. 
“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.” 
And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking. 
“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting. 
“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both. 
Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.
You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.
“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you. 
Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken? 
“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself. 
There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch. 
Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end? 
Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face. 
It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them. 
“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face. 
Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily. 
“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount. 
“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh. 
You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client. 
The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers. 
You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk. 
They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation. 
Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice. 
“Sit.” 
Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own. 
Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin. 
As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?
It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave. 
You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly. 
Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin. 
The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson. 
“Doll.” 
Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you. 
However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by: 
"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds. 
The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.
“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger. 
They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make. 
You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge. 
You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste: 
They taste like sin. 
The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them. 
The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds. 
“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody. 
Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh. 
Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact. 
You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.
Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:
“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.  
Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips. 
“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection building inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you. 
Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle. 
Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?
The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf. 
Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips. 
“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting. 
“Yes.”
The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear. 
“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”
A short hum follows afterward. 
“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.” 
---
Link to M-Alexa's amazing art and how I imagine Arlecchino to look like in this oneshot.
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gilbirda · 11 months
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Okay, I want to follow this content. What do I do?
Hello everyone.
So given the recent raise of "tag me!" replies in fics going around Tumblr, and given the recent awareness post about how disheartening, annoying and sometimes disappointing it can be to only get that kind of engagement — I've thought it was a good idea to explain what you can do if you want to follow content.
Basing on what Dis already added to the original post, this is a more detailed list of what options you have when enjoying the content you see.
I liked this prompt, I wish to see all the additions to it. How can I keep up?
You can subscribe to the post!
Desktop: Left click on the three dots and click on "Subscribe to conversation"
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Mobile: Go to the Notes and click the top right bell icon
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I liked this fic the author posted and I wish to know when they post the next part. How can I be notified?
You have several options here:
Find their Ao3! A lot of authors crosspost on tumblr and ao3, or prefer to post a more polished version on ao3 later on. Whichever the case, you can go to AO3 and subscribe to the fic/author there if you'd like
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2. Follow the author! Really. We don't bite. You can just follow the blog, as easy as that. Want to be notified any time they post anything? You can subscribe to the blog and get a notification when they post anything
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EDIT: THERE ARE "SECRET" DASHBOARDS, and one of them is a dashboard of all the blogs you have turned on notifications.
Blog Subscriptions Dashboard or go to Settings and turn on the tab in Settings -> Lab
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A post about more fun Tumblr dashboards
3. You can still request to be tagged if they continue! But don't let that be the ONLY engagement you do. Like the post. Reblog it. Leave a comment saying what you like, a keysmash, a lovely "hey i really like where this is going!" and then you can say "if you do continue, can you tag me?". 9/10 we would love to write down your name. I can't speak for everybody so it depends on the person, but we want to not feel like we are screaming to the void. Engage. Respond.
KEEP IN MIND: Tumblr is a reblog-based social media. There is no algorithm. We get readers ONLY via reblogs. Likes? Likes are nice but do nothing. You liked the art? REBLOG THE ART.
Another post about reblogging, why it doesn't feel annoying for authors and how you can reblog and add tags faster on desktop and mobile
UPDATE: Tumblr feature for desktop!!!!! If you hover with the mouse over a post and hit "shift+R", post is automatically reblogged!
I liked this oneshot and I wish to know if they will continue it.
If it's a oneshot, RESPECT IT. The author may not have plans for the story, or doesn't have the energy to elaborate. Or if they do, it will be waaaaay later.
Whatever the case, don't demand a continuation.
Really, don't. Is very rude.
Still want to shoot your shot and see if they continue it?
Reblog it! Say why you liked it! In the tags, in the same reblog, wherever! If the author gets inspired they will continue, but remember we do this for free in our free time, you don't know what their life looks like. Respect that.
PLEASE NOTE: You can still find them in AO3 and subscribe to the fic/author there.
I like the AU/Idea/Project, how can I follow any new content for it?
You can follow a tag!
A lot of authors have a specific tag for their AU/idea/project (eg. "plant princess au") that you can follow if you want to keep up. Just check the tags in the post and hit follow.
Desktop:
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Mobile:
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And that's it! If I have more ideas or examples I will add to the post.
Remember, the point is not to make fun or to make people apologize for the "tag me" replies. This is informative for newcomers and older users alike.
If you have any questions or worries don't hesitate to ask! 🙂👍💖
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gatheringbones · 1 year
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[“I told my mother I thought I might be trans in a lengthy and overly apologetic email, which she didn’t quite know how to respond to. From her perspective, my transition had popped up out of nowhere, with no prior warning signs. She was convinced I had been brainwashed into transitioning, and agreed to meet my counsellor for a joint meeting with me, primarily to meet the person she felt had brainwashed her child into transitioning.
My mother describes her first meeting with me presenting as Laura as very difficult for her, due in no small part to her inability to see me as anything but her very traditionally masculine son in a dress. For a while she knew but did not talk to my father, which she found very difficult. She told me years later that she went through a period of mourning, feeling like her child had died, and that she was left with a stranger she did not know. It put a lot of strain on her, and on our relationship as parent and child.
Why the assumption I was brainwashed? Because of autism infantilisation.
Before we talk more about my journey coming out as transgender, we have to rewind a little bit to something else that went on at around the same point in my life: my diagnosis of Asperger’s. By the time my mother attended that appointment and met me as Laura for the first time, I had already been diagnosed with Asperger’s, which was part of the reason she was so worried about me. She was not aware of any statistical link between autism and gender dysphoria, and in her eyes I was a vulnerable young person with an autism spectrum condition who was being manipulated into transition because I was easily swayed, or lacking in ability to assess my feelings on the matter properly for myself. This is depressingly common: an adult’s assumption that having an autism spectrum condition means you’re incapable of proper self-understanding, or that you’re susceptible to being manipulated into believing things about yourself that you did not previously. You’re not trusted as being of sound mind to make choices about your own life, out of fear you’ve been manipulated.
Speaking to my mother years later, now she has somewhat settled down and got used to me going by Laura and female pronouns, she told me that her biggest fear, and the primary reason she agreed to attend that first joint session together, was that, as a youth with Asperger’s, my therapist was influencing me into believing that I was trans. She feared it was some kind of brainwashing that my gullible mind could not resist the allure of, rather than believing my own account of what I was experiencing.
I also faced this same issue with doctors when trying to access medical support through the NHS. I would have general practitioners, mental health doctors and gender specialists alike raise an eyebrow when I acknowledged my Asperger’s diagnosis, and then proceed to take plenty of extra time asking me lengthy questions about how my autism symptoms manifested, to ensure I was of sound enough mind to make permanent choices about my body. Apart from the obvious infantilisation of people with conditions like Asperger’s on display there, I always just explained it as being like the decision to get a tattoo. I am an adult, over the age of 18, who has been deemed sober and mentally sound, and as such I have every right to permanently inject colours into my skin that may never go away. Why should I not be trusted to take slow-acting meds that are somewhat easier to reverse? Still, the fact I had to fight to be believed that I was mentally sound enough to make that choice says a lot about misunderstandings about autism spectrum conditions, but highlights that to assert that transition is unique in the permanent nature of its change to the body is completely inaccurate.”]
laura kate dale, from uncomfortable labels: my life as a gay autistic trans woman
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