#Vitality skin treatment

[yousseferqa]

sovrn.co

SOSEO VINBIOME Vitamin C Serum

; Opens a new tab

A potent antioxidant serum stabilized for minimal oxidization and irritation that visibly brightens and hydrates skin with 15% Vitamin C and 107's trademark complex, VinBiome™. This complex is an infusion of our proprietary vinegar fermented wheat and ginseng extract exquisitely blended with premium 10-year aged black vinegar, probiotics, and prebiotics that help to reveal more radiant and youthful skin day after day.

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#Vitamin C serum #Skin brightening serum #Skincare products #Antioxidant formula #Natural skin brightening #Skin strengthening #Wrinkle reduction #Collagen production stimulation #Vitality skin treatment #Skin smoothing

[thedisablednaturalist]

Literally all the shit rich people have turned into luxuries are stuff many disabled people need (or would need to manage their pain but can't afford it)

Comfy ergonomic chairs

Indoor pool/hot tub (therapy bath)

Massages on the regular

Aides (rich people call them servants)

Yea even a cook who makes you special meals (perfect for people with special dietary needs and for those with severe allergies, as well as people who are in too much pain or are otherwise unable to cook)

Elevators in your house (even small ones just for groceries, my rich aunt has one in her beach house!)

Rich people don't buy these for fun I hope but custom powerchairs are obscenely expensive. It pisses me off when I see another person invent "the wheelchair of the future!" Which then is literally never fucking used because none of us can afford it (and insurance definitely won't pay)

Indoor gyms or even personal exercise equipment. Hard to go out to a gym somewhere else when you're disabled, especially if you are immunocompromised

Outdoor spaces to relax in. It's literally vital for your mental health to at least see the outdoors. I'd rather be bedridden in a sunroom (with retractable blinds) than a shitty apartment with one tiny window.

There's even freaking health retreats these people go to regularly. There's a fibromyalgia retreat in new york where they basically take care of all your needs while trying different treatments and seeing which ones help. Either it's heaven or making money off of scamming desperate people who are able to scrape the money together to go.

Private planes, which I honestly think shouldn't exist, but one that specifically catered to people with disabilities (spaces for wheelchairs/other mobility devices, accessible handicapped airplane bathroom, anxiety reducing tools, trained medical personnel and care team)

Also customized cars, except instead of making gas guzzling racecars to joyride in while everyone else is trying to get to work, cars with electric ramps, lifts, doors, cars customized for someone with limb differences. Those cars where you can roll your wheelchair right up to the wheel. Fuck even self driving cars once they are no longer deathtraps.

Skincare products that are safe for sensitive skin like eczema but also actually work

Nice-looking clothes customized to fit limb differences, access points, look good in wheelchairs, colostomy bags, etc. while also being comfortable and not fast fashion.

Dental care!!! What the fuck why is this shit so expensive!! I don't want my teeth to fall out!! (Disabled people usually need more dental care bc we have a harder time keeping up maintenance)

Rich people go and splurge on all of these even though they don't need them while calling disabled people selfish for begging their insurance for even one of these.

#disability #chronic disability #chronic pain #chronic illness #fibromyalgia #spoonie #wheelchair #wrenfea.exe #i hope one day i can get even a small therapy tub #bc hot water therapy is one of the best things for my pain #and swimming is the only painless exercise i can do

[eiraeths]

ear’s guide to writing stab wounds

disclaimer!!!: this isn’t to be used as actual medical advice there isn’t enough information at hand to properly treat someone, this is just for writing.

hemostatic (blood clotting) control is the number one priority. minor bleeding can be controlled with direct pressure to the wound. moderate bleeding may require a compression bandage as well as direct pressure. severe penetrating wounds or a nicked artery means wound packing will be necessary as well as direct pressure.

types of stab wounds:

- blunt stab wound means whatever object caused the trauma wasn’t sharp or wasn’t moving fast enough so the skin tears.

- penetrating stab wounds go deep into the skin and into the muscle.

- superficial stab wounds don’t go too far under the skin and look worse than they actually are.

steps to treatment:

1. if the object is still inside the person’s body do not remove it unless it’s to the groin, neck, or axillae (armpit) and the bleeding is hard to control.

2. remove person’s clothes to check for any other wounds and keep the area clear.

3. keep an eye on blood pressure and airway.

4. the wound type and location changes how the rest of treatment will follow.

location:

head: direct pressure is mainstay. head wounds also bleed more than any other part of the body. has the highest mortality rate.

face: severe wounds to the face means the patient has to be seated forward to keep blood out of the airway.

neck: direct pressure is mainstay. if the airway can be secured and is absolutely necessary, wound packing can be applied.

arms: depending on the severity, any of the three treatments can be used.

legs: depending on the severity, any of the three treatments can be used.

abdomen: damage to organs is highly likely. direct pressure should be applied first while surveying if the object was long enough to damage an organ. if so, wound packing may be necessary.

chest: if the wound is deep enough it can cause open pneumothorax (‘sucking’ chest wound) a seal needs to be placed over the wound to keep air from getting inside. if this isn’t done in time the affected lung will collapse.

back: can typically be treated with only direct pressure. wound packing is rarely necessary.

neck, chest, abdomen, and pelvis wounds should never be packed unless absolutely necessary.

treatment types:

direct pressure: key to any wound. can be done with whatever is available even if that means the medic needs to use their own body weight.

tourniquets: applied to the limbs. typically not applied for more than thirty minutes. in some cases, they can be left on for hours, keeping the phrase “life over limb” in mind. complications with tourniquets like nerve damage or ischemia (no blood circulation) are rare. don’t apply over a joint and apply above the wound.

wound packing: done with standard gauze and or hemostatic dressing

wound packing steps:

1. control the bleeding with pressure. use anything available even if it means t shirts or a knee.

2. place a gloved finger inside the wound too apply initial pressure. this will hurt like a bitch. also gives you an idea of what direction the blood is coming from so gauze can be used more accurately.

3. begin packing the wound with gauze. keep pressure on the wound with finger while wrapping gauze around another finger and pushing it in the wound.

4. keep packing the wound until no more gauze can fit in, and then keep direct pressure on for at least three minutes.

5. after the three minutes, use something like a bandage wrap to keep the gauze secure inside the wound.

6. splinting the area to keep it immobilized may be vital to keep the hemorrhage from restarting

7. if bleeding continues medic has to decide if they need to take out gauze and reapply with new gauze or apply more direct pressure. this is usually done by how long it takes to get to further treatment. the longer the wait the more of an incentive it becomes to repack the wound. if it’s just down the road then apply pressure.

most likely complications:

hypoxia, shock, and hypothermia are complications that need to be watched for and treated immediately if they occur.

hypoxia:

occurs when a region of the body doesn’t have enough oxygen in the tissue. can lead to organ damage, brain and heart damage being the most dangerous.

symptoms include: tachycardia (rapid heart rate), difficulty breathing, confusion, shortness of breath, anxiety, headache, and restlessness.

severe symptoms include: bradycardia (slow heart rate), extreme restlessness, and cyanosis (blue or purple tint to skin).

treatment: oxygen

shock:

life threatening condition where the body doesn’t have enough blood volume to circulate through itself. if it goes on for long enough, organ damage and death may occur.

symptoms: rapid, slow, or absent pulse, heart palpitations, rapid shallow breathing, lightheadedness, cold clammy skin, dilated pupils, chest pain, nausea, unfocused eyes, confusion, anxiety, and loss of consciousness.

treatment: if they’re not breathing, cpr is required. if they are breathing, lay on back and raise feet a foot off the ground to keep blood in the vital organs.

blood transfusion and fluids once in a hospital setting.

hypothermia: occurs when the body is losing heat quicker than it can produce. the more blood that’s lost the more likely hypothermia is to occur.

symptoms: differ based on severity

hypothermia:

in mild hypothermia: shivering, exhaustion, clumsiness, sleepiness, weak pulse, tachycardia (rapid heart rate), tachypnea (rapid breathing), pale skin, confusion, and trouble speaking.

in moderate hypothermia: bradycardia (slow heart rate), bradypnea (slow breathing), slurred speech, decline in mental function, shivering slows down, hallucinations, cyanosis (blue or purple tint to skin), muscle stiffness, dilated pupils, irregular heart rate, hypotension (decreased blood pressure), and loss of consciousness.

in severe hypothermia: shivering stops, hypotension (low blood pressure), absence of reflexes, compete muscle stiffness, fluid builds up in lungs, loss of voluntary motion, cardiac arrest (heart stops beating), coma, and death.

treatment: covering with a blanket, hat, and jacket, adding external heat like a hot pack, and if severe and in a hospital setting, warm fluids via iv, warm oxygen, and or a machine to warm the blood in the body.

if you have any questions feel free to ask! i plan on making a guide to gunshot wounds and a more in depth guide to hypothermia later.

#tips for writers #writing advice #helping writers #writing resources #resources for writers #writing tips #writing help #creative writing #trauma writing guide #medical writing tips #writing guide #medical writing guide #stab wound #call of duty #cod #call of duty modern warfare #ear’s guide to writing

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

Wild Horses

Part 1

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Doctor!Reader

Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4

A/N: Just a little idea I had after seeing all the TikToks and now I am yanked onto the Ghost train. I used to watch my brother play the game but that was a while ago so bear with me here. (advice or little pointers are much appreciated). I also might make this into a short story or add another part to it, let me know y’all. Comments and reblogs are much appreciated!

Summary: Imagine being the new physician assigned to the team and a certain masked individual takes a new keen concealed interest in you. The two of you are too awkward to function.

Warnings: language, fluff, angst

You were assigned to the team as their personal physician, as requested by the higher ups in order to make sure the soldiers stayed in best health, both physically and mentally. You used to work at your local hospital before you were offered the position.

You knew the dangers and the risks involved, but you were in debt and had student loans that needed to paid. So after much hesitation, you accepted the offer, eventually being convinced by the fat paycheck.

You remembered the day you were first introduced to the team, the way everyone's eyes glued to you like a hawk, their large forms towering over your small frame in the room while you picked at the skin around your nails in nervous habit.

They were curious to say the least, wondering what the hell someone like you was doing in a place like this. And since when did they get the chance to have a full on doctor to treat them, usually they were offered combat medics. You had guts, that's for sure.

You on the other hand were nervous, frightened even, with the thought of living in the same quarters of men wrapped up within the tumults and afflictions of war without a single clue as to their current psychological state. You had seen the worst of men and humanity growing up and you no idea who these soldiers were, what they were capable of, or what their intentions might be. Maybe you should have requested that briefing before you hopped on that plane.

Amongst all of their gazes, you had failed to notice a certain masked individual in the far back of the room, his form shrouded amongst the others as he studied you. His eyes, hidden underneath the grooves of his mask that only seemed to be darkened by where he stood blocked by the only source of light, watched your every movement, from every gesture of your perfectly manicured fingers to every smoothing of the lint-free fabric of your sweater to the way you kept shifting your weight from one foot to another.

One thing was apparent; during the entire length the high ranking officer next to you introduced you and debriefed the men on what was expected and such, you had not uttered a single word, minus the small polite and somewhat strained smile on your face while your eyes told another story. Why the military truly hired you, he may never know.

After being shown your little office and workspace including your room, you were quick to settle in, decorating the area to the best of your abilities with what you had taken with you from back home in order to bring some life into the dull and two-dimensional area. If anyone questioned you on it you would just say that your own sanity is extremely vital in order to ensure quality treatment for your patients.

Once everything in your office was set up, you threw on your white coat and retreated yourself to your office space, sitting at your desk and hastily going over the files that you had completely forgotten about that were given to you regarding the soldiers' previous health before they come pouring in reporting symptoms of god knows what. Best be prepared. Jesus how many bullet wounds can a single individual have.

The soldiers were advised to do their routine physical examinations with you so the first one to come waltzing in through your office door was none other than Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, a cheeky grin plastered on his face and much too excited for his own good. That boy's got a crush on you I swear. To be honest I'd be lying if I said the whole team didn't have a schoolboy crush on you.

The men were quick to warm up to you, relieved to have a gentle soul in their midst after all the shit that goes down outside, you were like breath of fresh air. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to bring a doctor on board, as quiet and reserved as you were. They speculated you were just shy, the reason why you never spoke much, not knowing that you just couldn't hold a conversation if your life depended on it, especially around those you weren't close with. At first they couldn't tell because of your major rbf.

During their routine check-ups or whatever issue they had going on, they would do most of the talking, which was a good thing on your end because it helped you to piece together their temperaments. Thank the lord no one is a psycho murderer. Oh wait.

Soap is the most chattiest of them all. Boy wouldn't shut his mouth when he sat in your office. He's super flirty. But not as flirty as Alejandro.

Ghost on the other hand was reluctant to step into your office for his check-ups. After all he was usually the one to tend to his own wounds or just push through whatever it is that is going on, so he did not know what all the fuss was about in having to get his health checked. So when you call out his last name more than once might I add, clipboard in hand and scanning the area for whoever looks to be headed in your direction, he can't help but heave out a sigh, trudging over to where you stood, your clean white coat a stark contrast to the rest of the environment as you leaned against your door to hold it open.

You muttered out a small hello to which he let out a small huff as you moved aside to let the man enter, watching him walk into your office and seat himself down. That man intimidated you a bit not gonna lie. Not only could you not see his face but he had also not said a single word to you. And not to mention he was absolutely huge as compared to you, even more so in person. You also had heard a lot of stories from the other guys.

"How is your day?" You ask, shutting the door behind you as you briefly read over his previous but extremely short records on your clipboard. There's barely anything on this man. Does he not get ill?

Ghost is quiet at first, watching your eyes scan over the clipboard and curious to know just what is on those papers before your eyes flit up to meet his and catch him off guard, which causes him to answer abruptly. "Fine."

"Okey dokes." You give a quick smile.

Did you just say okey dokes.

Clearing your throat, you go over to where he sat and set the clipboard down on the table next to you beside your laptop. You didn’t have to read his body language to know he did not want to be here at all. So you were going to do him a favor and make the appointment as quick as possible.

"So do you have any allergies to any medications, any allergies I need to know of?" Your fingers hover over the keyboard of your laptop as you turn to face him, only to be met with an expressionless skull of a mask and the expressionless eyes beneath. Oh boy this session was going to be something. You had heard of how he had never shown his face, so you made sure not to question on it.

"No ma'am."

"Are you currently taking any medication?" You ask the same standard set of questions you have asked every single patient of yours, typing as you go.

"No ma'am."

Any previous illness? Disease?"

"No."

The more you ask him questions, the more he strangely finds it easier to answer. Your voice is surprisingly soft, warm even, like the start of autumn, and he finds it comforting to listen to. Or maybe it's just some technique doctors learn during training in order to relax their patients.

"Do you have any history of smoking, alcohol, or illicit drug use?"

".......sometimes I'll have a smoke, and a glass of bourbon." He's almost waiting for you to hand him a pamphlet about the dangers of smoking.

"How many times would you say?" You ask for details, your eyes still glued to the screen of your laptop as you await his answer.

Ghost is a bit confused by the amount of questions you ask, but he also has not been to the doctor's so how would he know. "Um I don't know."

"A rough estimate is fine."

"Not much, maybe 2-3 times a week or so when I'm not on duty."

"How many times a week do you exercise?" You feel silly for asking this question to a man like him but it's all part of the procedure and you almost pray he doesn't hate you for it.

"Every day." So no pamphlet?

Jesus this man has more discipline than you. You can barely get up in the morning.

"Okayyy." You mutter out, more to yourself as you enter in his responses.

Ghost finds himself watching you from his seat on the chair, his eyes tracing over and studying your features as you type away on your laptop. He thinks you're really pretty but either doesn't want to admit it or just flat out does not know that he finds you attractive.

There are certain details about you that he can't help but find himself intrigued by, like the small black outline flower tattoo on your hand that was located near the area of your thumb, running along the curve to meet the knuckle of your forefinger. He's curious as to the meaning behind it, if there was one. He wanted to ask what type of flower it was, perhaps it was your favorite? It would give him an idea as to what flowers to get you.

"Have you ever been hospitalized, had any surgical procedures done or been treated for any chronic conditions?"

"No." Ghost shakes his head before remembering his wounds from combat, wondering if that is something you should know. "Just the bullet and knife wounds from combat. Nothing too serious."

Jesus fucking christ. You were willing to bet he treated those wounds himself.

Ghost is not a fan of hospitals. Pretty sure this dude just looks up YouTube tutorials on how to fix himself instead of just going to the doctor like a normal human being.

"When was the last time you visited your general practitioner.......or just any doctor in general?" You ask the last question, willing to bet it never.

There was silence on his end as you looked towards him waiting for an answer, the clicking of your keyboard coming to a stop and only loudening the silence. Ghost could not remember the last time he had been to a hospital or even scheduled a visit. And as you looked at him, your eyes almost staring into his soul, still waiting for a response, he could not help but feel a tad bit embarrassed, as if you were judging him for not being a responsible adult. Also it didn't help that you were goddamn pretty.

"I'm gonna take that as a very long time, the last time being the prehistoric ages, correct?" There's the slightest hint of a tease in your voice.

"Uh.......yes ma'am." Ghost squints his eyes at you as you go back to typing on your keyboard. Did you just.............did you just call him…..He does not know how to feel about that. Did you just try to crack a joke? He always thought doctors were the serious type.

"Okay then." You straighten up, grabbing your sphygmomanometer off the table and turning yourself to face him. "Is it okay if I check your blood pressure?"

The man is stunned. No one has ever asked his permission for anything before. He's so used to either taking orders or giving orders that he doesn't know how to respond and stares at you for a moment, forcing his brain to process what to do next before eventually giving a nod.

"Is it okay if you take your jacket off so I can get a clearer reading?"

He nods again, still in shock as he takes off his jacket, leaving him in his black long sleeve thermal. He's almost thankful he wasn't in his full tactical gear, having to imagine you standing there waiting for him as he removes every single piece of equipment off his torso.

"Thank you." You give him a short smile, placing your hand under his tricep and gently lifting his arm in order to wrap the inflatable cuff around his bicep. You almost blush at the mere size of this man's arms. "Now you're just going to feel a slight pressure okay."

Ghost can't help but feel a slight warmth spread to his cheeks at the way you handle him with such care, as if he were the small delicate thing and not you. Now he knows why the others were so giddy after leaving your office.

As you place your stethoscope on his forearm near his elbow to listen to his blood pumping through the artery, your other hand pumping air into the cuff using the inflation bulb with your eyes glued to the numbers on the gauge, he can't help but to notice the old Donald Duck watch that sat at your wrist, the ones with the moving arms and the vintage style black leather straps.

And as he further investigated your attire, he noticed a few other details, like the colorful glittery badge reel in the shape of a pill container with the words "licensed drug dealer" printed on it that was attached to your scrub top, the glitter sticker with the words "I'm nicer than my face looks" as well a few Disney character stickers and the little frog looking keychain that hung off of your badge. He was wondering what the hell that thing was. Your accessories were awfully colorful for a general doctor. Something was telling him you either used to work with families or children. Whatever the hell managed to bring you to such a drastic change.

You brought him out of his thoughts as you shifted from your position, unwrapping the inflatable cuff from around his bicep and placing it back on the table before typing the results into your laptop. "Okay," You adjust the ear pieces of your stethoscope back into your ears as you turn back to him, "I'm going to perform some auscultations, which is just listening to the sounds of your heart and your lungs so if you could just sit up straight and relax that would be wonderful."

Simon straightens up his posture as you place your free hand on his shoulder, at this point you're not sure if you're steadying him or yourself, your fingertips just barely grazing across the bottom of his neck. He doesn't know why but, it's as if your fingers are directly touching the skin underneath, despite the fabric of his mask that separated your fingers from his skin. Your hands feels hot, like really hot and he has no clue why.

The soldier only feels his cheeks warm up even more so now as you inch closer to carefully place the diaphragm of your stethoscope on his chest, your head tilted and your eyes lowered to the floor as you listen for his heart beat. He gets a whiff of your perfume and he finds himself drawn to it. You smell like something along the lines of jasmine petals, geranium, myrrh, frankincense, and a hint of sandalwood. Now he definitely knows why the others are fawning over you. Poor Simon is praying you don't hear how his heart is nearly racing. He does not know why he is feeling this way and it slightly bothers him in the way that he has no clue what it is he is feeling.

He catches how your brows slightly furrow at the center and his heart skips a beat. Now he's fucking embarrassed and this man rarely ever is embarrassed. Maybe he's even starting to panic. Can you tell? Do you know? You open your mouth to say something but he quickly interrupts he just got back from a run so you dismiss it with a shrug, placing the diaphragm on his back now and asking him to give you a couple of deep breaths.

"Okay. Take a deep breathe in, breathe it out. Breathe in, and out."

He complies with your instructions, breathing in slow and deep breaths as you go from one side of his back to another.

"Good job." You remove the earpieces and let your stethoscope hang around your neck as you go back to your table, recording in more info. Hang on did you just, did you just tell a grown 6'4" man good job.

Even Simon is confused. Like bitch.

"Okay, so we're all done with that." You inform him, before going over to one of the drawers and sliding it open. "Now if you don't mind, I would like to have some blood work done on you, just to make sure there are no underlying issues that need to be taken care of."

Simon is silent so you turn to him. "Is that okay, Ghost, is that what the others call you? Would you like me to call you Ghost?"

Goddamn you're too polite. "That's fine by me ma'am."

"Perfect. Now is it okay if I take your blood sample?"

Ghost nods, so you grab the tools necessary and place them on the table next to you.

"Could you please roll your sleeve up and make a fist for me? Thank you." You ask him once you sanitize your hands and throw on a pair of fresh gloves. You grab the tourniquet and catch sight of the tattoos that cover his forearm as you tie the tourniquet around his arm above the elbow. You're curious to know the story behind them but you have a feeling he's not one for storytelling or just talking in general so you remain silent. You tear open the small packet of the alcohol wipe and apply it to the area. The chemical is cool against his skin as you sanitize the area before letting it air dry. Simon can't help but notice how small your hands are.

Simon watches you intently as you work, the way you are so focused and so precise with each step, and yet so gentle. It's almost cute.

"You're just going to feel a little pinch." You tell him in a soft tone, a tone you were used to using on all your little patients before inserting the needle into his vein. As if the man hasn't been shot or stabbed and god knows what multiple times before.

At this point Simon doesn't even notice the needle in his arm, he's too focused on the details of your face. He can sense that you're nervous around him and he feels bad. Even though he's just met you, the last thing he wants is for you to feel scared or unsafe around him. And even though this whole situation is awkward for him since he never was a fan of visiting the hospital, you're their physician, and at the end of the day you're there to patch them up. So he comments on your dark circles, thinking you haven't gotten any rest since you arrived here. "You look tired."

"............that's just my face." You give him that distinct smile, the same smile you have given anyone who ever commented on them as you connect the vacutainers to the needle to draw his blood, your eyes glued to the dark red liquid seeping through the thin clear tube before pouring into the sample tube.

If you thought it was quiet before, well you are most definitely wrong because the silence is absolutely deafening now.

Simon nearly punches himself for his stupidity. Why in the bloody hell did he say that of all things. He wanted to tell you he liked your dark circles but decided to bite his tongue instead. Now he's definitely not going to say another word. Better yet, once he leaves your office, he's not coming back. He's just going to avoid you at all costs in order to save both you and himself the embarrassment. He's willing to bet the others handled this way better than him.

"But I suppose I am a bit jet-lagged though. Haven't really gotten any rest since I got on that plane." You add. "I appreciate your concern."

You most definitely said that to make him feel better about himself, Simon thinks to himself as he stares at the wall and avoids your face. There was no other reason.

Once your done drawing his blood you ask him to hold the piece of cotton pad down onto where the needle was punctured as you open up the drawer where the gauze is located. "Do you have a favorite color?"

Did you just ask him his favorite color? Simon stares at you blankly. Were all doctors this odd?

"I'm guessing you like black?" You pull out the roll of black gauze, displaying it in front of you with the most deadpanned expression possible.

You've got jokes. Simon thinks to himself. If he had looked a little closer he would have noticed the ghost of a smirk on your lips.

"You should see the colors the others picked." You tease as you wrap the gauze around his arm at the elbow, making sure it isn't too tight but also not loose enough to the point where the cotton pad underneath slips out.

Simon narrows his eyes at you. Bloody fucking hell. The others picked a color?

You're pretty sure Gaz requested you get an Elmo print one he saw online once somewhere. Soap asked if there a print of the Scotland flag available. The look of hurt on his face when you said there wasn't so you improvised and gave him both the blue and white gauze. You gave him a Dum-Dum lollipop to make him feel better. The others may have also gotten a lollipop as they left your office, especially after seeing the special treatment that Soap received. Were they jealous? Maybe.

Once you tell the man he is all good to go and that you will call him once you're done getting the results from his blood sample, he nearly jumps out of the chair and bolts out of your office. He prays some unknown miracle happens and that his blood sample magically disappears so that he doesn't have to face you, firmly believing he insulted you and that you thought he called you ugly when that is not what he intended. I am telling you this man does not know how to compliment. They should make a guidebook for dummies specialized just for him.

You watch him disappear out your door with a quirked brow. Well that was fucking weird.

When Simon leaves the area he finds Soap lounging about on a chair with a sucker in his mouth.

"The hell is that?" Simon squints at the sergeant.

"Mph mph." Soap's voice comes out muffled.

"What?"

Soap pauses and turns to see Ghost looming over him. "It's a Dum-Dum."

"A fuckin what?"

"Y/n said they're called Dum-Dums." Soap pulls it out of his mouth, twisting the stick of the lollipop around in his fingers as if he were inspecting it. "This one's a cotton candy flavor."

"She gave you a fuckin lollie?"

"It's pure dead brilliant I tell ya. Why, did she not give ya one?"

More silence. Simon would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't a tad bit butthurt.

"Maybe you scared her." Soap jokes.

Simon lets out a grumbled incoherent huff and walks away.

Soap just shrugs and pops the lollipop back in his mouth.

Simon has a feeling he is going to go to bed thinking about his actions.

Part 2

#cod #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost headcanons #ghost x y/n #ghost x you #ghost x oc #ghost x female reader #ghost x reader #ghost x f!reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x reader #simon riley x oc #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost imagine #simon ghost riley imagine #soap x reader #soap cod #soap x oc #soap x you #john soap mactavish #john mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #cod headcanons #cod mw2

[venuzia0]

🌞how to spot a sun girl🌞

leo asc/sun dominant/1st house/☌ asc

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

Sun girls often have a magnetic presence that draws people to them. They exude confidence and charisma, making them naturally noticeable in any setting.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

Their eyes are often a focal point of their appearance, being large, bright, and expressive. Their gaze more often than not, conveys an inner strength and you can literally see their power and what they went through in life by looking into their eyes.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

They tend to have glowing skin that reflects good health and vitality. This natural radiance often gives them a youthful and energetic look.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

The face is symmetrical with strong, well-defined features such as high cheekbones, a prominent forehead and a sharp ass jawline.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

Their hair is the first thing you notice about them. It’s usually thick, shiny, and well-maintained. It’s naturally voluminous and people might have wanted to reach out and touch it.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

They usually have a strong, upright posture, which contributes to their commanding presence. The way they walk is purposeful and confident. They may also walk very fast and look like they always have something to do and are always on the go.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

They stand tall and often have an athletic body type or they are really interested in fitness and achieving a dream body of some sort.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

While their face demands respect, it is also approachable and friendly at the same time. People look at them as some sort of mentor, who will listen and give good advice.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

When talking about fashion sense. A sun girl is the definition of old money, luxury and respect. The girls that get it, get it.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

When she is known for a specific talent, interest or profession that she has. She is definitely a sun girl.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

Sun girls not only look like cats, but they also act and walk like one. They are graceful, have strong boundaries and expect princess treatment.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

Sun girls are amazing at public speech, even when they feel nervous, it literally does not show at all. They look and sound confident and appear like they were made for the stage.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

They often times find themselves in the latest gossip. People always have something to say about the sun girl. She is the center of attention. This can have its advantages, but also it’s disadvantages.

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗

next one will be about my moon girls

#astroblr #astrology blog #ascendant #astro community #astro notes #astro observations #astrology #astrology basics #spiritual awakening #spiritualgrowth

[possibilistfanfiction]

anything surgeons au, especially butch!bea omg

[an accidental 2.7k words of baby tai for the culture]

//

you don’t ask for beatrice to consult on the case just because the baby really does look like her in a tangible way: brown eyes that shine in the sun; gold skin; soft dark hair; a happy smile. tai — an orphan, which you also don’t prioritize when you ask her, but whatever — is small for her three months and quite sick, a bad valve in her tiny heart doing more damage than good. 

it’s a difficult surgery, complicated and intricate and, even though you’re the best in your field, a hardcore rockstar, you’re not a cardio surgeon. you ask beatrice to consult on the case because, even if you’d never admit it aloud in front of her, she is the best in the world.

‘dr. villaumbrosia,’ beatrice says, meeting you outside the picu. she’s not operating today, you’re fairly certain, or at least hasn’t yet, based on her neat navy slacks and oatmeal-colored sweater under her white coat, chelsea boots certainly not what she would wear in the OR, her buzzed hair not hidden under one of her surgical caps, her wedding band still on her finger rather than tucked away, pinned to the inside of her scrubs. you’ve known her for years and years, have watched her fail and succeed and succeed and succeed, have watched her fall in love and get married, have watched her build a home, a life — which includes you, in all the ways that matter, in the ways you will very rarely thank each other for and feel anyway. 

but still, ‘dr. choi,’ you say, ‘thanks for coming.’

she nods. ‘it sounded like an interesting case from your summary.’ she takes the ipad you offer her and looks at the scans of tai’s heart, then her vitals, then the scans again, a little closer and with something like wonder filling her eyes, just at the corners but enough for you to feel a spark of hope in your chest. she looks up at you. ‘we can do this, i think.’

‘yeah?’

‘it’ll be —‘ she pauses, nods to reassure both of you, sets her shoulders, and you know that’s it — ‘it’ll be difficult, but it’s not impossible.’

‘agreed.’

‘can i meet her, then? the patient? i’d like to get an idea of how small this heart actually is.’ 

‘of course.’ you open the door and it’s just like any other consult; beatrice is always brave enough to partner up on any peds cases, even the most heartbreaking, the most hopeless. 

tai smiles at beatrice, who is always good with children the same way you are: you talk to them like human beings, and you listen, and you take things seriously — their pain and their fear and their recovery. tai is too little to tell you anything, but beatrice still leans toward her gently and smiles at her babbling, runs a gentle hand over her soft hair, makes sure to warm the head of her stethoscope up on her thigh before pressing it to tai’s chest. 

there’s no way for you to realize it at the time, but you will swear for years that you knew, even before beatrice and certainly before ava, that tai was special; beatrice closes her eyes and listens to tai’s failing heart carefully. ‘i’ll need an updated echo,’ she tells you and your intern, standing uselessly behind you. ‘and then, if you’re free afterward, dr. villambrosia, let’s meet in the skills lab? i’d like to run through the procedure.’

‘that works for me.’

she nods once, seriously. ‘no parents?’

you shake your head. ‘she’s here through my org, from chengdu.’

beatrice considers this briefly but soldiers on, like she and ava haven’t had quiet, sad fights about children and adoption and a family and a home. ‘if you feel comfortable, i can hand off my follow-ups this afternoon to dr. amunet and we can get this taken care of. it’ll be a long recovery, so i’d rather it not degrade any further if we wait.’

‘as long as the run-through feels good,’ you say, ‘i think it’s the best course of treatment.’

beatrice nods, smiles once down at tai and rubs her little chest while tai squirms and babbles happily. for such a sick kid — on oxygen and a feeding tube, two ivs because her veins are so small — she’s generally happy, bright in a way that peds usually isn’t. she’s not guaranteed to survive so, like all of your patients, you don’t get too attached. beatrice hasn’t had that problem before, either, caring but not too much, unlike ava, who feels each loss as if it’s his own. but the way that beatrice lingers and lets tai hold onto her fingers while she tells your intern exactly what she wants from the ekg and bloodwork — you think this might be different. 

/

it’s touch and go for a while: you and beatrice are brilliant surgeons but, even with all of the tests and scans and practice, tai’s surgery is longer and more difficult than you could’ve prepared for: her heart is weak and so, so small; even beatrice struggles to place the careful, clever sutures you’ve watched her throw with ease, most surgeries, and for years. it takes longer than you would’ve liked to get her off bypass, much longer than you would’ve liked for her heart to start beating again in beatrice’s hands. 

but: it does beat. weak and small, yes, but sure, and steady, and even, all the valves and ventricles ready to heal as they should be. tai’s cheeks, once she’s settled in the picu again, are rosy, her skin warm, her oxygen sats already up comfortably from before. you’d wired her sternum shut and the incision running down her tiny chest will leave a scar, and she’ll probably need another procedure or two as she gets older — but she will get older, as far as you can tell. 

beatrice goes through — a little unexpected for the aftermath of a successful surgery, and far beyond the end of her relatively easy scheduled shift — all of the potential complications tai could face, how she was without a flow of properly oxygenated blood to her brain for an amount of time that frustrated her — maybe even frightened her. for as long as you’ve known beatrice — dr. choi — through undergrad and medical school, then residency and fellowships, into your first few years as attendings, she’s as unflappable as they come, unless it’s someone she loves who might be hurt, who might not get well. you’ve seen it with ava and her back, and shannon and mary after a car accident that looked much worse than it actually was, and even one time camila got the flu. 

it surprises you in the moment when beatrice, carefully taking off her scrub cap — patterned with little otters and rainbows, a ridiculous gift from ava that beatrice horrifically wears with not a single ounce of hesitation or embarrassment — slips into her hospital-issued fleece quarterzip and sits down in the chair by tai’s bassinet once you and the nurses get all of her machines situated. 

‘i’ll stay with her, dr. villaumbrosia,’ beatrice says, soft and formal.

‘there’s plenty of nurses, and dr. amunet, if you want to go home.’

beatrice shakes her head and leans over tai’s sleeping form, heavily sedated for the next few days so she’s not in pain, and runs a gentle finger along her cheek. ‘she — she doesn’t have anyone,’ she says, as much explanation as you need. ‘plus, dr. silva is on call tonight anyway.’

you resist the urge to say something mean about ava; he’s actually very talented and smart and he makes your best friend, your sister, very happy, and very full — even if he is the most annoying person you know. tai is alone, and all beatrice has to go home to, right now, is a beautiful house that’s empty of all of the life ava brings anywhere, leftovers in the fridge, a house that you know has an empty bedroom just down the hall from the primary, holding a lot of ava’s patient, quiet hope in the space.

‘okay,’ you say, not bothering her, just this once: tai is very small and still very sick; you’ve read enough studies to know that comfort, especially with babies who haven’t known as much of it as they should, can be extremely monumental in their ability to heal. ‘i’m sure you can handle if anything pops up, but i’d like to know anyway. text me.’

beatrice looks up from tai to nod, a grim smile on her face mellowed, seemingly, by tai’s steady breaths against beatrice’s palm. ‘will do.’

you nod and don’t bother to ask for anything else from her, taking your leave while she takes her glasses off and rubs her eyes, then slumps a little in the chair but keeps her hand on tai’s stomach, soothing and warm and present. tai has been alone her entire life, even if it’s only been very short; you believe that her body will know that she’s not anymore, at least for now.

/

it’s not often that you choose to come to work early, not often that you allow yourself to have much attachment to patients and their outcomes beyond whether or not you practiced the best medicine possible — no one would be able to do peds and neonatal surgery if they did — but you park far before the sun comes up and force yourself to grab three cups of coffee from the cafe before you head to the picu.

it doesn’t surprise you when you see both beatrice and ava by tai’s bassinet now, beatrice fast asleep, slumped over fully on ava’s shoulder, and ava scrolling through an ipad, probably taking care of charting here rather than in her office. ava smiles up at you, never deterred by your grumbling or eye rolls, and, just this once, you smile back.

‘dr. silva,’ you greet. ‘how’s she doing?’ you ask, handing him the coffee.

‘totally steady all night,’ ava says quietly, sounding far too proud of a baby that isn’t even really beatrice’s patient, let alone theirs. ‘she’s really strong, even if she’s small.’

you look over tai’s vitals from the past night quickly and it’s true, she is getting better even faster than you could’ve hoped. ‘she is.’

ava smiles, then looks over at a fast asleep beatrice, a little aching. ’bea said she’s an orphan?’

you sit down next to them both and nod; you assume beatrice gave ava enough of the details. ‘we’ll work to place her with a good family once she’s recovered well.’ the warning is unspoken: don’t get too attached.

ava looks over at beatrice, who has spent the entire night asleep in the picu over a baby whose heart she massaged until it beat again in her hands. he nods. ‘yeah,’ he says, hopeful despite it all. ‘yeah.’

/

‘i — i can do it.’

‘dr. choi.’

‘no,’ beatrice says, ‘it’s fine. i’m on call tonight, and it’s good for her.’

it is, you both know it, but tai is healing and, if all goes according to plan, will be released in a week or two, hopefully to a family who’s equipped to care for her, to raise her gently and generously and well. beatrice — and ava, whenever they make up a very flimsy excuse — have been in tai’s room often, and you know they’ve grown attached even though you warned them not to. but beatrice taking her scrub top off and picking tai up gently, careful of her leads and her still-tender chest, and then holding her close and settling into a rocking chair. 

‘beatrice,’ you say, sitting down across from her. 

‘have you — has there been a family chosen?’

you’re not the one in charge of any of that, your contributions to the organization being both your sixth-generation-surgeon money and your sixth-generation-surgeon talent, but you know there hasn’t been a decision made yet. you shake your head. 

she nods. ‘we…’ she swallows, readjusts so tai is held even closer, her left ear close to beatrice’s heart. ‘i spoke with ava. a lot, actually. and, well, you obviously know i’m chinese; i can teach her how to speak mandarin and make mapo doufu and she won’t — she won’t miss that part. and ava knows about not having a family of origin, and he’s, like, the best. and,’ she continues, ‘we’re both surgeons. you know she’s going to need care now, but also her whole life, and i — i fixed her heart.’ she can’t even look at you, just looks at tai’s peaceful little face as her voice gets wobbly and she sniffles. 

beatrice, above all, means what she says. she’s maybe one of the least impulsive people you’ve ever met, agonizing for as long as you’ve known her over haircuts and new hiking gear and dinner reservations, as methodical as it comes when she practices medicine. 

‘i —‘ she looks at tai once more and then takes a deep breath and meets your eyes. ‘i love her.’

you know, more than anything, ava has made beatrice want to be brave. you let it sink in, let it hit you like a tidal wave of easy warmth, then really let yourself look at your oldest friend and every careful thing about her, lean muscles and long-healed scars, the most careful thing held against her chest — the same skin, bathed in the light of an easy sunrise. ‘well okay then.’

beatrice seems surprised, for a moment, as if you would say no, or doubt her, or discourage or argue. ‘really?’

you nod, brusque mostly so you don’t cry. ‘i’ll connect you with aja; she’ll be able to help you with all the paperwork. i’ll put in my recommendation, of course.’

beatrice adjusts tai so she can free a hand to wipe a few tears. ‘thank you, lilith.’

‘let’s just hope she takes after you, not ava.’

beatrice laughs, and it makes tai smile.

/

‘no.’

‘she’s —‘

‘your daughter,’ you say. ‘you’re not tai’s doctor any longer, haven’t been in months.’

beatrice frowns, arms crossed. ava smiles far too serenely for your liking next to her.

‘she’ll be fine, babe,’ she says. ‘it’s just a post-op, super normal.’ she turns toward tai, happily squealing at a nurse playing peak-a-boo with her while they get her situated on the exam table. 

beatrice glowers but concedes, softening immediately when ava squeezes her bicep. they’re both definitely exhausted but happier than you could’ve really imagined; the empty bedroom now filled with a plethora of toys and clothes, colorful animals on the walls, a safe crib with a space mobile you’d personally given them. it makes sense to you, easily, that they’re good parents — kind and attentive and funny — even if, right now, they’re driving you insane. they’re both in comfortable clothes, not bothering with anything more on their shared day off. 

you have to physically shoo beatrice away as you’re listening to tai’s heart, which is ridiculous because you’re sure beatrice does it at home, probably every night. you’re more relieved than you would ever let on that her heartbeat is normal and steady — perfect, as far as you’re concerned. you go through the rest of her check-up and she’s as healthy as can be, gaining weight well, rolling over, holding her head up, starting to eat baby food — yes to bananas; no to green beans so far — not sleep regressing as much as they’d feared. 

‘she’s doing great,’ you reassure. 

‘fuck yeah she is,’ ava says, then sighs. ‘before either of you start, first of all, language is all relative.’

‘ava, we can’t have her first word being f—‘

‘— secondly,’ ava interrupts, then looks at beatrice putting tai back into her dinosaur onesie, slipping a warm cap onto her head, ‘she’s the best baby of all time.’

‘she is wonderful,’ beatrice says, still a little reverent.

ava elbows you as beatrice carefully pulls socks onto tai’s feet. ‘one of the better ones i’ve met,’ you concede, because you really do love tai, and, all things considered, she’s an easy, happy baby. ‘certainly better than i thought would be possible with either of you.’

ava rolls her eyes. ‘i read your recommendation.’ horrifyingly, she starts reciting it, so you move as quickly as you can.

‘i have a tight schedule today,’ you interrupt, beatrice laughing quietly, smiling at both of you with far too much amusement.

‘bye lil,’ she says. ‘thanks for everything.’

‘yeah, yeah,’ you say, but there’s no bite to it. ‘see you at dinner.’

#wn fic #avatrice fic #avatrice #surgeons au #i don’t often imagine them as moms but oh boy when i DO #tai … i love her. lilith also loves her #butch bea 🥺🫡 #a mom!!!! #if u rmb how zola was adopted in grey’s anatomy no u don’t but also objectively better w queer ppl 💁 #also sorry if u know things about medicine. in the spirit of grey’s anatomy #it is merely a plot vehicle here lol #also yes lilith does peds bc she is HARDCORE

[phoward89]

Jealous!Coryo x Reader, Odair!Ancestor x Reader.

Series Masterlist

WARNING ⚠️ Coriolanus Snow is a warning in and of itself. That man is a walking blood red flag waving heavily in the wind! engagement (not reader), smut, infidelity, love triangle, manipulation, stalking?, gaslighting, fluff, Head Gamemaker!Coryo, District 4 Cruise Ship Heir!Odair OC. Dark!Coriolanus, Jealous!Coriolanus, Dom!Coriolanus

Chapter 6:

It's been too long since you've been to the spa. You forgot how relaxing it is. And maybe what makes it even better is that Coriolanus is paying for it. That you can have all the treatments your little heart desires and he's footing the bill.

“It's good to see you here again. What happen, did Coriolanus and you get into a lovers spat and he cut off your spa allowance?” The esthetician asked, applying a much needed cleansing jelly mask to your face as you laid down on the comfortable bed like table.

“He's not my lover, Adara. He's actually my boss now, plus he's engaged to Livia Cardew.” You pointed out to your beloved skin goddess, the best esthetician in Capitol City.

“Oh please.” The violet and blonde streaked young lady loudly cackled. “Nobody believes that shame for a lousy minute.”

“What? But they look-” You start to say only for Adara to cut you off with, “Coriolanus looks absolutely miserable next to her in pictures. He seriously looks like he's going to strangle her.” Shaking her head and applying more of the thick vitalizing goop on your face, she adds, “And that blonde shrew might look sweet and smiley next to him but she bad mouths him every chance she gets. Some things she's said has even gone viral on Pan-Tok, Pan-Tube, and Pan-X. She even shit talked him while a bit tipsy on her friend's Pangram Live stream.”

“I didn't know this. Why didn't I know this?”

“Probably since the aspiring Senator Snow doesn't have social media and you only have a Panbook- that you haven't been on in like over a month.”

“Fuck! So she's dragging his name in the mud via social media?!”

“Yes.” Adara confirms while finishing applying your facial mask treatment. “And practically all of Panem hates her.” She informed you while putting cucumbers on your eyes for a finishing touch.

Sitting down in the stool next to your bed Adara, who was a friend of sorts to you, says, “Livia’s worse than her older brother and Livinius is always getting into shenanigans with the two Capitol losers: Odysseus Odair, the pretty boy that drinks too much, and Hector Heavensbee, the stoned cousin of Hilarious Heavensbee.”

“Wait, what? How do you know this?”

“Social media, duh.” The blonde-violet girl rolled her eyes at you, even if you couldn't see them since your eyes are closed with little cucumbers on them. “Girl, you're too young not to be on social media.” Adara seriously told you. “Listen up, after we're done with your mask we’ll do your manicure then your pedicure. And after that you're signing up for all the social media accounts.”

“Yes, I think it's overdue for me to have more social media then Panbook.” You told her, a calculating smile hinting your lips.

Oh you're going to be creating social media accounts, but solely for the purpose of finding out what damage Livia Cardew's doing to Coriolanus’ image. Once you find out, you'll have to tell him and then come up with a plan to address it.

You're hairstylist, Fabian, was currently with another client so you're scrolling on your phone; looking at all the crazy shit that Livia Cardew's been posting on Pangram, while sitting in the lobby of the high end salon. Oh God, she's such a stick up bitch. Such a shrew. She seriously posted a picture of a bubble tea while complaining that they're wasn't enough bubbles in the tea.

Oh hell…

The receptionist was sitting at the front desk, flipping thru a rag mag whenever she gasped. Whatever she saw must be shocking.

Flipping the magazine in half, she held it up to you and said in a scandalous tone, “That farce of a political pony show going on between your Coriolanus and Livia.Cardew’s going to ruin his reputation.” Waving the magazine in the are, she told you, “Look, paparazzi’s got some pictures of her drunk and stumbling on the sidewalk. The accompanying article says the picture were taken while she was ranting to her socialite friends about how her fiance’s a freak in bed that scoffs at her purity ring, asked if he could stick it up her ass to keep her virginity intact, and she even said that Coriolanus has a thing for dirty district women; chased that former singing victor all those years ago just to screw around with her before his fall semester of University.”

“What?!” You loudly exclaimed, jumping out of you seat and rushing over to the reception desk to grab that trash gossip magazine from Xandra. “Oh Andraste’s tit, let me see that!” You curse, snatching up the magazine that's freely offered to you.

As your eyes look at the damning pictures and read the article, the receptionist tells you, “That's one of the magazine's that get delivered all over Panem; even the Districts get it. Particularly the PK bases as I understand.”

“Shit…” You mutter under your breath. You feel both pissed and lightheaded at the sudden revelation of what Livia Cardew's actions mean for Coriolanus' Senate run.

Damnit…

And it was that moment that Fabian’s client left and the stylist with perfectly feathered hair came up to you. “Y/N, it's been too long.” The hairstylist greeted you with a kiss to the cheek, which you returned in kind. Leading you back to his work station, he asked, “It's been over a month since you've had your hair done. Did Coriolanus not like my work last time?”

“No, Fabian.” You shook your head. “We just got into a spat, so we weren't talking “ You explain, taking your place in the salon chair.

“I hope you worked everything out since he called to fit you in; is picking up the tab like always too.” Fabian told you while placing a colorful smock around you.

“We worked things out as best as we could considering I'm his new assistant now. I'm his new campaign manager too.”

“Oh that's wonderful. Now if only we could toss that horrible Livia into that toxic sludge river over in 8 then everything’ll be perfect.”

“Fabian, that's horrible.”

“Yes, but you know it's true. Now, what're we doing with your hair today? Blow out, keratin treatments?”

*I want an entire new look.” You told your hairstylist.

“Ooo, new look for a new era.” Fabian clapped happily.

“I want hair that says I'm a bad boss bitch.” You smirked.

“Oh, honey, I know exactly what you need. Just leave it to me.” Fabian told you before hurrying off to the supply room to grab some supplies to make your hair new and to die for.

Your hairstylist was going to give you new hair that'll be the envy of everyone in the Capitol. Your new hairstyle will even have Coriolanus down on his knees, begging you to take him back. Oh, Fabian knows that what he has planned cut and color wise for your hair’s going to drive Coriolanus up the wall with desire. That he's going to be going crazy when he sees you.

The hairstylist views it as his personal mission to make sure that his best client stays with the only man in the Capitol that encourages his girl to routinely get her hair done. Most men aren't so generous like that when it comes to expensive salon visits every handful of weeks.

After your getting your hair done, you went home and drowned yourself in endless social media posts across various platforms for Livia Cardew. It seems like some were worse then others, but none of them were any good for your best friend. As long as he's connected to her, well, his campaign's going to tank.

You saw that Festus and Persephone weren't following Livia on social media. The newlyweds, whose wedding Coriolanus dragged you a few months prior, seemed to have either never added her, stopped following her, or blocked her from their accounts. You also saw that the couple had started to follow you on the social media accounts that you created earlier in the day with Adara in the spa.

You’re done scrolling thru Livia Cardew's accounts and decide to call Coryo to tell him all about what you uncovered. After three rings he answers his phone with a professional, “Head Gamemaker Snow speaking, to whom am I speaking with?”, before he realizes it's you

“It's me, Y/N.” You tell him as you pop up on the phone’s video screen. “I thought you would've programmed my new number from my application into your phone.” You chuckle while sitting up straighter on your sofa.

“I didn't even notice it, I just hit accept hire after after looking over your education and work history.”

“Oh.” You simply nod.

Before you could even tell Coriolanus why you're calling, he gives you a dazzling smile paired with the compliment of, “I like what you've done with your hair. The new cut and color suits you, my darling rose.”

Fabian was right, the hairstyle and color he gave you was going to drive Coriolanus wild. How did he know, who knows? But right now Coryo's baby blues are flashing with interest and mirth; they're locked into your face- he's in absolute awe of your new hairstyle/color.

A lopsided grin appeared on the platinum blonde's lush lips as he suggests, “Why don't I take you out to dinner to celebrate hiring you as both the Head Assistant Gamemaker and my Campaign Manager?”

“Don't forget your PR Liaison as well, Aspiring Senator Snow.” You teased Coryo, who still hasn't styled his platinum curls yet. “Oh, I did some digging while waiting for my appointment at the salon and found out why your campaign’s tanking.”

“Well, what did you uncover, my darling?” Coriolanus asks, leaning back in his sitting chair. The one in his living room to be exact.

“The problem isn't you, but it's your fiance: Livia Cardew. Everyone hates her.”

“That doesn't surprise me; I hate the shrew too.” The imposing blonde man, who's been your best friend for nearly 2 decades, chuckled.

Shaking your head, you sadly sigh, “Well, I think she hates you more than you hate her considering she's posting a lot of hate about you.”

Coriolanus arched a perfectly shaped brow at your words, causing you to tell him the blunt truth of your discoveries. “She’s spewing shitty remarks here and there; not to mention ranting about you on her friend's Pangram Live.” You take a tiny breath, only to sigh and tell him the most damning information of all. “Oh and then there's a story and some pap pics in a very popular and well circulated rag mag that has her stumbling drunk and ranting to her friends about you wanting to stick it up her ass cause she's wearing a purity; how you have a sexual attraction to district girls too.”

“Fucking hell…” Coriolanus groans, raking his lake hands thru his platinum curls- a nervous habit of his. “That's very damning for my campaign.”

“Yes,” You nod in agreement, “it is.”

“Well, I've been wanting out of the engagement and I've found a way to end it without looking like the bag guy.” Coriolanus told you, his lips in a thin pressed line. “But I can't tell you until we're alone in my car, it's not something I want to talk about over the phone.”

A few hours later you find yourself alone in a sleek, black sedan with Coriolanus behind the driver's seat. Since it's early spring, he's in a light grey suit with a wine hued waistcoat. It pairs lovely and really makes both his platinum hair, whose curls he just lightly gelled to keep from being messy, and his cerulean eyes pop.

“You look beautiful, baby.” Coriolanus smiles, looking between you and the road, as he pulls out of the parking garage.

“Thank you, but flattery’ll get you nowhere. You already complimented me on my dress when you picked me up, no need to do it again.”

“And only you, my darling rose, has the audacity to get your feathers ruffles over receiving multiple compliments from your lover.”

“My lover?” You scoff sardonicly, rolling your perfectly made up eyes.

“Whether you want to admit it or not, it's what we are, Y/N.” Coriolanus tells you, his baritone a bit softer then usual, as his hand slides off the clutch and onto your thigh- a thigh that's covered by the peachy pink skirt of your dress. A dress that was designed for you by Tigris, that had small white roses randomly embroidered on it.

Pushing his large hand off of your thigh, you give him a leveling look and state in a solid tone, “I thought that we're childhood best friends, who had a situationship that got a bit messy, but decided to work together for your political dreams.”

“We're working on our political ambitions. Don't forget, I did promise to make you my First Lady.” The platinum man with looks rivaling that of the gods themselves had the balls to tell you, all the while taking your hand in his. With a smirk, he changed the subject by giving you his opinion on your manicure. “I quite prefer your nails long and red, baby. They look much better then the short French tips you were wearing during our month long absence from each other.”

Of course he prefers long red stiletto nails on you over the short square French tips. Man sure does love red. You're not even surprised about that.

You don't make a comment about him liking your nails, but you do comment on his little making you his First Lady remark. “Last time I checked, Head Gamemaker Snow, the First Lady's married to the President and you're engaged to Livia Cardew.” After the little reminder of his reality, you decided to twist the knife in his heart and hurt his ego (because he broke your heart) by adding in, “Oh, and right now I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth.”

Coriolanus’ Adam's apple felt thick and stuck in the hollow of his throat as a reaction to hearing your cruel words. He knows deep down in is black, head, shriveled up heart why you said that. That you're trying to hurt him because he broke your heart; his promise to you.

Except he's doing his best to right his wrong; to ensure that he keeps his promise to you.

Coriolanus’ Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows down the thickness trapped in his throat. Looking between you and the road as he weaves in and out of traffic lanes, he reveals, “I'm going to get out of my arranged engagement by framing the Cardew's for bank fraud.”

“What?” You blurt out, finding his idea to be a bit brash. “Can’t you just call off the engagement because of irreconcilable differences?”

“No, baby,” Coriolanus shook his head, “I can't just break it off due to irreconcilable differences.” He quickly switched lanes again, cutting off a car and getting honked at. “Livia’s being a frigid shrew and dragging my name in the mud; how do you think me dropping her like a hot potato’ll make me look? Hmm, how would it look for my campaign?”

Turning your head to give him an incredulous look, you ask, “So, what, you're going to destroy the family that runs the Capitol United Bank to effortlessly break off an arranged engagement and to gain sympathy votes for your campaign?”

“Yes.” The icy eyes man smiles widely, like a maniac. “It's a flawless plan, Y/N. I trust that as my right hand woman and future First Lady that I have your complete support with this.”

Honestly, it might sound horrible, but you didn't give a shit about Livia Cardew or her family. If Coriolanus had to destroy the top banking family in the country to end his engagement and save his campaign then so be it.

“You just do whatever you have to do to and when it's done I'll make sure that you come out smelling like a rose in the media.” You told the man next to you as he pulled over, without using his blinkers, into the entrance of the restaurant he's taking you to.

The Capitol Grille.

“Good.” Coriolanus nods while getting into the line for valet parking. “Tomorrow we need to start switching our banking accounts to the Capitol One Bank.”

You've been to The Capitol Grille a few times with Coryo, so when the maitre d greets you both with a smile and ushers you to a cozy table for two, while making the other patrons in line ahead of you wait, you're not surprised.

Coriolanus, like always, orders a bottle of the best wine and some glasses of water for you two. He also orders the go to appetizer for when you dine out at The Capitol Grille: shrimp cocktail. He also orders the usual for you two as well: the chef's suggestion of the slices filet mignon topped onions and wild mushrooms with cream spinach and au gratin potatoes. Oh, and he ordered the infamous Capitol made cheesecake the restaurant’s known for.

You didn't mind him doing the ordering since you two always got the same thing every time he took you out to eat at The Capitol Grille. You'd be shocked if he didn't insist on ordering, truth be told.

The waiter delivered both your glasses of water, wine, and the large shrimp cocktail to share all on one tray. Once he finishes delivering the items and pouring the wine, he assured Coriolanus and you that your food would be out shortly and left.

Coriolanus is fixing you up a small plate of shrimp cocktail and engaging in small talk with you about your upcoming job as his right hand woman in the Citadel whenever Odysseus’ voice reaches your ear from nearby as he smiles disparagingly. “I see it didn't take you too long to move on, sweetheart. But I didn't think you'd be moving on with Satan, or is he who you've been cheating with.”

“Oh, Odysseus Odair, I wish I could say seeing you while out celebrating Y/N’s new job as my assistant is a pleasant surprise, but then I'd be lying and I make it my utmost priority not to lie to or around my childhood best friend.” Coriolanus said in a very cool, calm, and collective way that has just enough zing to bite.

“Your what?” The bronze haired man asked, his voice hitched up in shock.

“I told you that I attended the Academy, Odysseus. Maybe you should've believed me instead of insisting I wasn't on the same level as you and Coryo.” You told your neighbor and new ex while gesturing between him and your Coryo with your hand.

“He what?” Coriolanus blinked his eyes slowly, like an offended cat. It reminded you of a cat you had as a child. Looking at you, he said with so much disdain in his deep baritone, “That manwhore insulted you by insisting you weren't good enough to attend the Academy?”

“Coryo, let it go.” You told him in a whisper hiss while Odysseus’ sea-green eyes bounced between you and the platinum blonde man you're dining with very suspiciously.

“I will not let it go, darling. He insulted you.” Coriolanus whisper hissed back.

Well, looks like chivalry’s not dead at all.

“I have a business meeting I need to attend, Y/N, but I'll call you later so we can talk things out.” Odysseus told you before booking it away from your table (since he didn't want to be around Coriolanus) and towards the table his father Posieden Odair, Mr. Larimer (a wealthy politician and investor) and Mr. Hearst (a wealthy newspaper mogul) was sitting at; waiting for him.

“You better not answer your phone when he calls.” Coriolanus tells you while making himself a small plate of shrimp cocktail with jerky, aggravated movements.

Grabbing a piece of shrimp from your plate and dipping it into the red cocktail sauce, you tell him, “I’ll answer it if I want to, Coriolanus. My relationship’s none of your business.”

Tossing the serving spoon back into the middle of the extravagant crystal serving bowl, causing some of the red sauce to splash up. Coriolanus face skewed up as he watched you eat your piece of shrimp. Taking his and dipping it into the sauce, he darkly chuckled, “I see you're going to play little minx and punish me for my arrangement by having a fling with the sluttiest man in all of Capitol City.”

“What's good for the goose's good for the gander.” You simply smirk, causing the man sitting across from you to nearly choke on his shrimp.

And then, as he's coughing and trying not to die from shrimp going down the wrong windpipe, Odysseus loudly tells somebody at his table to ‘Shut the hell up!’ before storming away from the table, right past yours, and out of the restaurant.

Hmm…

You wonder what happened at his table.

Coriolanus Snow, ever the gentleman, used his pristine white cloth napkin to spit his piece of shrimp that nearly made him choke and die. Folding his napkin and placing it back on his lap, he seriously told you, “He's a spoiled brat; I hope you get seeing him to punish me out of your system real fast because I don't like sharing what's mine, Y/N.”

“Last time I checked I didn't belong to you.” You smugly retorted while eating another piece of your shrimp cocktail.

Coriolanus leaned in close, nearly crossing the table, and declared in a low, dark timbre, “You’ve always been mine, baby. And, as you know, I'm going to ruin a family just to make you my wife; First Lady.”

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[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.07 ~ ♆

“ You were nothing like him. You were more. And maybe that scared him a little. “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, ptsd, forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, unintentional self injury, alcohol, insinuation of suicidal thoughts, mention of aphrodisiac abuse, sexual abuse, etc

{{ word count }} 8.2K

{{ prompt }} Six months was never going to be long enough. You would have sooner dug your heels into the earth and bared your teeth than go back - but you have to keep them safe. You only ever wanted to keep them safe….. in the end you never could…

{{ a/n }} Markiplier voice: “Hi - It’s me! I’m not dead! Which is an awful surprise considering how many people wrote my obituary yesterday! PREEMPTIVELY! In case i did die! But i didn’t! so suck on that!” anyhoo - This is LONG but also get ready to cry <3

p.s.- I promise reader isn’t a crybaby they’re just traumatized 😭 I also apologize if this is a bit scattered, it’s been in the works for over three months now but i swear you’ll get more consistency from reader here on out akkfkskdkskd The ending is also a tad rushed i just REALLY wanna get into them being older so I can write with more substance IM SORRYYYY

They’re alive.

Two words. Three syllables.

This mantra kept you moving. You’ve been home for little more than a month, but the treacherous plague of the arena had left its permanent reminders engraved on your skin. Still, you were too often dragged back by those same claws, kicking and screaming, under the blanket of night to relive the horrors of the 67th annual Hunger Games, only to awaken with bitter copper coating your tongue and a twisted scream retching from your throat. You’d already lost count of how often your episodes upset Dorian and Callan. They were too young to understand the poltergeists that haunted your nightmares. The poor boys had even started running to your father on wobbly legs dragged down by sleep to rouse the gruff man, bleary eyes the size of saucers, as your cries echoed through the too-big house. It sputtered that vital flame still fighting to ignite inside your chest to see them cry because of you.

You hated yourself for it.

Marjorie had hobbled up the three steps to your porch on creaking knees, breathless and panting as your Father led her into the finely furnished house the first night the terrors returned. He hadn't even bothered for his brown leather duster to cover the mangled remains of his dominant arm. Sweat pooled on Marjorie’s brow as the elder gripped her threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders. The panic on your Father's face was all she'd needed to follow the man home in the middle of the night. Your screams met the elder's ears first. Then Dorian and Callan came bounding out of the parlor to meet her with fearful eyes and tight hugs. "Please, help them, Nana!" The twins blubbered between tears. An expression heavy enough to resemble grief painted your Father's features as Marjorie connected her gaze to his.

"I'll see what I can do."

The unfortunate reality was that there wasn't much that could be done. Marjorie had even enlisted Mags’ help in deciphering a possible treatment plan for the traumatic stress that seized your mind, but any leads ended up inconclusive. A specially brewed tonic of chamomile and lavender before bed at least aided in closing your eyes to combat the insomnia you'd developed, but little could be done to keep you asleep. You had daily sessions with Mags to try and sort through the inner turmoil. But progress was slow going, and you rarely made it past recounting the first few weeks of life in the arena before tears bubbled and panic took over your chest, squeezing so tightly you feared suffocation. Marjorie suggested seeking a higher level of care for your condition, but Mags signaled things might only get worse for you to be removed from your loved ones again so soon. You'd agreed with your mentor. As harrowing as your experiences had been, all that mattered to you were the twins smiling faces and the warmth in their embraces, or the idle chatter over an evening meal about their latest school projects or primary school gossip. The normalcy helped in its own way.

Your father once tried to coax you into going to a local medical clinic on one of your better days. "It's just a check-up." He'd claimed. But after angry red scratches peppered his one good arm, and you were huddled in a corner far from the door like a wild animal set to pounce, the idea was left to rot amongst other failed attempts to heal your internal wounds.

As much as you hated to admit it, your episodes had only worsened since being back.

There were four things you'd learned to despise since surviving The Games.

1. Water

2. Closed Spaces

3. Finnick Odair

4. President Coriolanus Snow

Your aversion to water still clamped around your throat like a vice. But that natural, sometimes visceral, longing for the sea was a heavy weight in your chest. Water still brought painful memories to the front of your mind, with soap suds burning your eyes in the shower between ferocious blinks, but the salty spray of coastal air was too enticing to turn from. You still found yourself sneaking away from Victor’s Village in the wee hours of morning to the brine scented sands down a tall-grassed hill behind your house. Unlike your home, tucked away in a more secluded, woodland, part of town, the Village was right along the coast outside the edge of the port. You could see the lit up pier and ship docks down the shoreline in murky shadows over the horizon, occasionally illuminated by the ever turning lighthouse nestled amongst the cliffs younglings favored to dive from.

You’d ventured up to the cliffs a handful of times since returning to District 4. The wind was wild and whipped your hair this way and that with howling gusts up the face of the rocky mountain. Summer was nearing the end of its course, with crisper air wafting in from the ocean that sent shivers up your spine, and the hair on your arms and the nape of your neck to stand on end. You’d wander up at night, cloaked in shadow with whisps of moonlight curling over the planes of your face and arms. If anyone below witnessed the picture of your gauzy night clothes billowing in the wind amongst the shadows passing your face under moonlit clouds, they’d think they saw an apparition. One of the local myths, told only in hushed voices in warm taverns by rosy-cheeked, ale scented, fisherman out of Peace Keeper's earshot. You didn’t dare try to jump. However tempting the darkest reaches of your mind made the caress of its fingertips along the veil of your sanity, pawing the sheer curtain as if asking permission to flood your thoughts and set that roaring inferno in your chest loose, you stayed firm on the damp earth.

You wouldn’t do that to your family.

Days were easier than nights at least. You favored the large, second story bay windows of the grey dappled house, soaking up warmth from the sun and your personally home brewed tea. Your father had tried to replicate your recipes while you’d been away but Dorian and Callan loved to remind the poor elder that yours still tasted sweeter. Another thing the twins had missed in your absence. You’d taken it upon yourself to teach the younglings the simple brew in perfect replication, earning giggles of sheer joy from the boys and an eye roll from your bemused Father. You’d also begun a small collection of your personal recipes in a small leather bound journal gifted to you from your father to replace the old water damaged cards you used to keep the instructions on. Amongst freshly printing the terms you still tucked the old cards between the pages as keepsakes and tell of origin. You cherished the small book tremendously.

Cooking had also surprisingly became rather cathartic for you in a way. Doing something with your hands helped ease the nervous habit that created burning red crescents in your palms, especially when it came to kneading dough or fixing herbs to garnish meals. It had been an adjustment to fix more filling meals that made enough if not more for your small family. Instead of saving every scrap, or even skipping your own helping to allow the twins seconds, there was enough to feed everyone and then some for once.

The wealth that came with winning The Games was generous and easily enough to live well into the rest of your lives. But it also cast a heavy weight on your shoulders. Another permanent reminder of the spilt blood that coated your skin in phantom stickiness. Sometimes you wished nothing more than to be rid of the fortune, but the prospering health of your siblings always managed to chip away at the solid guilt cocooning your heart.

All you ever wanted was to provide for them and keep them safe.

Safe.

Three months have now passed since You’d arrived back in District 4.

Finnick Odair had kept his distance, if not attempting to avoid you entirely. Well - as much as he could with what shred of free will the boy had to spare. He was exhausted, and the knife that had carved out his bleeding heart from his chest had become a rudimentary ache. No matter how heavy the concealer his stylist’s applied was, dark circles and hangovers could only be hidden under playboy charm and pointy smirks for so long. Since Finnick’s announcement as a “Desirable” Victor four months prior, he’d felt the Capital collar and chain around his neck tighten and yank in whichever way Snow commanded with growing severity. Part of him was surprised there wasn’t bruising where the icy torque would have rested on his throat.

There was never a ‘day off’ for Finnick Odair. Not anymore. There was always a performance to be made, or an appearance at a party, or a sticky-fingered Capital elitist client spewing sultry filth in his ears that made the boy want to either be sick or run the lethal triple blade trident hanging in his bedroom through their gut several times.

The retched hunger of Capital elitist’s, heiresses, and whoever else was rich enough to pay the sharks prowling in shadowed corners of banquet halls or knew who to speak to in order to arrange an ‘evening’ with the ‘Prince of District 4’ was insatiable. Every minute detail of the Golden Boy’s daily life became scheduled, prepped, scrubbed, tested, ordered, dressed, touched, and pressed. There were no choices, no breaks, no compromises.

If Finnick Odair wasn’t perfect or spotlight ready for even a millisecond - people would talk. If Finnick wasn’t flirting or hanging on the arm of someone new every night they’d get bored. If there was no gossip, no allure to the honey-tanned playboy they’d lose interest and President Snow would bring down the iron fist poised mere inches over the carefully crafted safety net around Mags and the few people he dared hold higher than himself.

Cold water helped ease the pressure.

The freezing splash of droplets on his tanned skin was palpable. The opposite of sparks and flames which singed lapping, invisible burns through his veins and made setting himself ablaze more appealing than the possible friction of another persons touch for a thousand years. It was an expensive effort to not flinch away or recoil from groping hands. The most Finnick allowed himself under a mirror-practiced mask of feigned pleasure or pride was a minuscule flutter of muscle in his sharp jaw and the continuous picking at invisible lint from progressively more revealing tunics and netting.

Finnick didn’t want to think about what kind of scrap fabric or net he’d be forced to wear years down the line if the stylists were already pushing to show more skin on the Victor.

Scrubbing calloused palms down his mascara streaked cheeks, the taste of sea salt met his tongue. Poseidon’s waves had effectively washed the remaining remnants of gold luster from his neck and shoulders in the rolling shallows. Finnick took his time to savor a thorough inhale of the briney coast. He hadn’t bothered to venture back to his house in the Victor’s Village culdesac. He was lucky to have slipped away from the escorts Snow often ordered to be close by. Protecting the “merchandise”. Shades of navy and indigo painted the horizon with thin smears of pink where the endless sky met the waves.

The air was crisp, sending small puffs of white air into the atmosphere under tired breaths. Finnick had just barely returned from yet another unremarkable Capital function. He didn’t care that his luxurious trousers were now soaked to mid thigh in the frigid water, or that his fingertips had gone numb and pruned. He just wanted the memory of touch and the stupid damn gold dust gone.

“Damn it…” Finnick sighed. It was another exhausting effort to bite back the string of curses threatening to push through his teeth on pointed canines. To curse Snow, curse the Games, hell - curse all of Panem and the Capital for all he cared.

The boy let his sea-green gaze sweep across the coastline. Part of him wondered if snagging a boat from the docks and going off on his own would be worth it. Mags would never agree to it. Before the Games, Finnick would have accepted a quiet life as a fisherman, helping younglings and living off the daily catch.

But he wasn’t normal anymore. He wasn’t even a kid.

‘You’re just a kid.’

‘You’re both just kids.’

The memory pierced Finnick’s mind, drawing a crease between his brows and a wrinkle in his nose.

He wasn’t allowed to be a ‘kid’ anymore. He didn’t have a choice. Tearing his gaze from the sparkling lights of the bobbing sailboats sleeping in the far-off dock, Finnick’s gaze lifted to the spinning lighthouse on the cliffs. The weather stained roofing and salt eroded stones that made up the building left an eerie aura to the tower. Some of the older younglings (himself included) had spun ghost stories to scare the youngest kids around campfires on the dusty sands in mid summer.

He’d missed Summer.

The short cliffs were quiet much like the docks, a sleeping district soon to be awake in a matter of hours. There was a chilled breeze swaying the tall pine trees. Breathy smoke curled around the boy’s shoulders as he set himself moving. The frigid air and water had numbed his legs but he welcomed the cold. Late November didn’t freeze the coast but it sure as hell made things icy up here in the north. Wet sand sank and remolded under his leather boots. The boy had cast down his gaze towards the sand for only a moment in quiet contemplation before snapping back to the cliffs at the sound of a shrill cry.

“What the hell?”

Another sob ricocheted across the cliffs and swam over the shore through his eardrums. The sound was pained, and warrior instinct had his eyes scanning the cliffs over and over for its owner. Remembering he did in fact have legs, the boy put them to use, kicking up sprays of damp sand under heavy strides as he made a break for the curving paths that led to the summit. The specter of pale, gauzy fabric had been his only clue that someone was up there. Maybe he was an idiot for chasing danger, a fool for following the snapping thread in his chest like a second heartbeat. He’d remembered that scream as vividly as the day he’d witnessed you finish the Games.

His lungs started to burn halfway up as a haggard cough choked from his throat between ragged breaths. His calves barked in protest at the uneven terrain but he pushed himself harder. Already cycling through worst case scenarios the Victor had thrown caution to the wind well beforehand. Despite every fiber of his being screaming to stay away and forget. Forget the thread, forget the draw, forget the stupid hunger that made his fingertips twitch or the buzz in his ears get louder under your cold gaze.

He just had to get there. To you.

But why?

You were just another Victor. Just another cog in the grotesque clockwork of Snow’s empire. You were just like him.

You were nothing like him.

Maybe that was it.

You weren’t a career. You weren’t born and bred to kill. You weren’t him.

You were more.

And maybe that scared him a little.

Your name was a desperate prayer on Finnick’s tongue as he crashed onto the clearing he’d glimpsed your hazy form upon.

It was empty.

Maybe he was losing it a bit. Reckless paces that brought the boy peering over the edge on a tightened stomach that feared the possibility of what lie below dropped as sea green storms met empty rocks. You weren’t here. A vulgar curse huffed from his chest as damp hands fisted bronze waves as he paced around the empty clearing.

Maybe he was crazy.

But unbeknownst to the bronze-haired boy, your trembling form quickly retreating through the brush on bare feet that had the hemming of your nightclothes snag on stray twigs, growing caked in smears of mud by the second, said otherwise.

Six months passed too quickly.

The sun was a glowing smear between grey, puffy clouds. The weather had been dreary and damp for weeks now as winter set in. Maybe the sun had pushed past the clouds as a form of goodbye. A last touch of warmth before the metal tomb that stretched down the station platform before you swallowed you whole.

The Victory Tour was to begin in a matter of moments.

There was a cruel sense of comfort as you peered across the cobbled station at your family and the ever bustling Capital team featuring Thatcher Bellstone - your escort, and Hyacinth, your stylist from the Games, who was currently fussing with straightening jacket collars and lint rolling trousers.

Everyone had been dressed to the nines in typical Capital fashion. Callan and Dorian featured matching knit hats and handmade mittens, your Father bearing a new fur lined duster, and Mags had a cream colored muff to protect her aging hands that matched her coat.

And Finnick - God why was he even here?

His navy wool coat matched the emerald scarf hugging his throat in a neat knot. Black trousers and snow dusted dress shoes holding a casual stance as the boy’s bronze waves danced in the breeze. Your jaw set in annoyance. The two of you still hadn’t spoken, hadn’t interacted since the train ride six months ago. Vague glimpses of Bronze waves and liqueur coated chuckles had ventured through your cracked windows some nights but you could barely look at the fellow victor without wanting to punch him. The pleasure he seemed to take in being “Desirable” made your insides churn.

All cheshire smirks and no bite. That’s who Finnick Odair was. You’d stopped trying to decipher the hazy echoes of his cries that barely formed your name three months ago. How he’d even seen you on those cliffs that night was wild all on it’s own. Maybe you had imagined it - some half-baked, desperate, imaginary cry for help. Useless. Worthless.

He’d never care about you - maybe anyone - that way. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

Adjusting the dappled grey coat Hyacinth had dressed you in to match the twin’s, you averted your eyes from the Victor just as sea green irises flashed in your direction. You were thankful he wouldn’t be coming with. Finnick would rejoin your ensemble once the tour made it back to District 4 in a few weeks, but until then you’d be Peacock free.

Your senses felt wired with electricity as cameras flashed, with your knuckles burning under the vice-like fists you’d balled at your sides. You didn’t want to go, but you didn’t have a choice. It was tradition for the Victor of every Games to take a tour across the twelve districts and speak to the families of fallen tributes. The idea made you sick. You hadn’t won anything. You’d only survived.

Dorian and Callan were blubbering like sea sponges against your chest as you bent down to grip them tight. “It’s just for a little while…” You murmured while breathing in the love in their identical hair. The words were meek and your breath hitched on the end of the sentence but you bit down on the hiccuping sob prodding your throat and squeezed the boys tighter.

You’d said similar words before entering a death match mere months ago.

“Shh.. it’s gonna be okay, there’s plenty of tea in the ice box. Just don’t stress out Pa okay? Do your chores and be good. I love you.” You murmured between pressed lips, pulling back to look the twins in the eye. The boys nodded vigorously, giving tiny smiles between tear stained faces and red button noses. “We’ll be SO good!” Callan chirped with a small salute.

“That’s my boys.” You rasped, pulling down both of their knit hats over their eyes before quickly standing just as cameras flashed and elated shrieks echoed across the stones from the boys. Your heart squeezed as scruff brushed your cheeks while your Father came to envelope you in a bear hug with his good arm.

“Be good kid, be good..”

“I will, I will…” You nodded back, squeezing the man just as tight.

“Come, Come! We need to keep on schedule!” Thatcher clapped their burnt sienna gloves twice, calling everyone’s attention and causing the warm embrace of your Father to disappear as he returned to the boys a few paces away. The twins were busy ogling Finnick. Ironically, despite your disdain for the Darling, they’d taken a steep interest in the older boy as some “cool kid” much like how they referred to popular younglings at school. It made your eye twitch sometimes, but Finnick wasn’t mean or short with them. If anything he was kind and caring. Gentle. It was weird, seeing Finnick be gentle with someone other than Mags.

You tried to brush off the rising warmth in your chest.

Mags had soon appeared beside your Father, and the two silently communicated in hushed whispers from the man with Mags waving off his worries with gentle nods and heart warming smiles. They no doubt were discussing how to handle your terrors and your ‘zero alcohol’ rule they’d been enforcing the past months. You were thankful they didn’t let you sink too far, but sometimes the itch for that familiar numbness and sway in your vision picked at your brain a bit too harshly.

“Right! We have a tight - tight! Schedule to follow now. Smile for the cameras and let us be on our way dear. You’ll be back before you know it!” Thatcher bellowed between a phlegmy cough. Rolling your eyes, you gave everyone one last hug before standing in front of the bronze-haired Victor while everyone else filed onto the train or off to the side.

“Peacock..”

“Still using names are we? Didn’t know you liked me that much~” Finnick all but purred, earning another eye roll from you. “Shut up. Just - don’t corrupt my siblings while i’m gone. I can barely handle one of you, I don’t need three Peacocks running around.” You huffed with a wave of your hand. Finnick chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest as his voice had all but deepened and matured further these past months. “Can’t say that’d be the worst thing, would it?” You felt the tips of your ears burn at the flirtatious tone in his voice and shoved his shoulder away before turning around to face the train.

“Goodbye, Odair.”

“Hey - just..”

You couldn’t help but stiffen as the boy turned you back to face him, a firm hand gently brushing your shoulder. The urge to punch him had your jaw setting all over again.

“Don’t sink. You’ll be back.” Finnick’s voice was soft, softer than you’d ever heard it and for a moment you felt as if a thread ran from your heart up to meet his fingertips on your arm. He was never gentle. Not like this. “Stop being weird, Peacock.” You shrugged his hand off your shoulder despite the burning you felt in your cheeks and swiftly turned and strode away.

You had to have imagined it. The softness in his eyes that made him look younger, more alive. The honey in his tone that matched something you’d only read about. There was no way.

None.

The metallic click of the train car doors closing managed to snap you out of your thoughts as you scrubbed a stray tear from your cheek. Hyacinth coming over to flit about a powdered brush to fix the small amount of cosmetics she’s applied to your skin earlier that afternoon. “It’s wonderful to see you again darling, absolutely wonderful.” The stylist chirps while brushing an airy kiss past each of your cheeks.

You feel a bit sick.

A lot sick - actually.

Time moves almost in slow motion for a moment as your knees buckle and next thing you know you’re on the floor hurling up the biscuit and pear jam you’d choked down that morning. Ringing starts in your ears and a shrill cry from Hyacinth has Thatcher and Mags bustling over to help as the room sways and your trembling hands become blurry behind tears.

You’d been caged all over again.

The tour took a little over two weeks.

Every day and different district you visited felt like an eternity. You’d barely been able to keep anything down as the haunted faces of fallen Tributes and their families plagued every waking thought. Hyacinth continued applying increasingly heavier cosmetics to try and conceal your pain. Your facial features had become gaunt from the retching with deep smudges of purple making homes beneath your dull eyes. You couldn’t stand looking out at the families of people you had or hadn’t killed and having the audacity to apologize and read a flimsy notecard scrawled in neat cursive by Thatcher expressing that their deaths somehow meant something. You’d been verbally assaulted by crowd members gathered in the District’s Judicial Complexes more times than you cared to count.

Liar.

Murderer.

Cheat.

Thief.

The colorful names they called you felt like repeated blows to the gut. And they somehow knew exactly where to hit. Part of you wondered how Finnick had done this. How Mags had done this. How any Victor of the Games had done this. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t handle any of this.

“I-I can’t… I can’t Mags…” You’d begged and pleaded with your mentor to let you not go on stage. Begged her to not make you face another grieving family while you stood there alive like some prize winning salmon. It didn’t matter how much you’d survived you were still a coward. You didn’t deserve to be here.

Coward.

You’d been a coward to hide. It didn’t matter that you’d survived, you’d still killed and fought your way to the end of the 67th Games. You were everything those hecklers claimed you to be and worse and you knew it. Mags gripped your shoulders tight and forced your eyes to meet hers. Her stare alone told you everything you needed to know before she wrapped you in her thin arms and squeezed tight. You didn’t have a choice in this. You understood she’d have done everything and anything to keep you from going out there if she could but she couldn’t.

By the time the tour reached District 7 you’d gone numb.

“Panem thanks your tributes for their bravery. A-and I thank… th-thank them for their sacrifice…” You stammered on the sentence you’d read six times now. You’d continued to stumble through it for the past six districts you’d been forced to speak in front of. A bottle hits the front edge of the stage with a shattering crash, and angered shouts rouse from the crowd as Peacekeepers force themselves forward in an ordered line, batons shooting from holsters and sharp-shooter rifles strapped across their chests. Your eyes squeeze shut as white gloves grip your under arms and force you away. The speech remains unfinished.

Heavy wooden doors slam behind you and gentle hands grip your face as your mouth contorts to an even deeper frown. The owners fingers are soft, but a tinge cold. Mags. Your eyelids crack and the flimsy, wrinkled notecard in your hands falls to the floor as you crumple into the elders arms. The embrace is short as Thatcher comes up to usher your team to the train as shouting starts to echo through the thick doors behind you.

Coward.

“Best we be on our way. Things seem to be getting a bit out of sorts here.” Thatcher chirps, but their face is solemn as your eyes meet. “Come now Dear,” They sigh. Your only reply is a meek nod. Hyacinth provides a small handkerchief to wipe your eyes and the mechanical maneuvers of the Capital train greet your party as the machine lurches into motion minutes later. ‘Just a few more days…’ You try to remind yourself as Mags helps guide you to the observatory car. You didn’t need the physical support but welcomed it as the two of you found places to curl up on the large, curved sofa. The seats were as plush as you’d remembered.

You’d managed to spend most of your down time here. The scents of damp earth and various florals were comforting. Except the stark-white roses, which had been removed from the various coffee tables to one corner of the room. You tried not to look at them. Your mentor laid a gentle hand to your knee as you curled up to peer out the window. Buildings passed and turned into tall trees, citizens working the lumber were only spotty blurs amongst the rush of the train. “It’s hard to keep doing this over and over Mags…” You sigh, sparing a glance to the elder before continuing. “It’s almost like reliving the arena over and over…” A small squeeze to your knee was enough to turn your attention from the window.

Mags’ eyes seemed far away. Although she maintained eye contact with you, you could tell she was somewhere else. Revisiting the countless tributes she’d mentored in the past no doubt. Her small smile didn’t meet her eyes like it normally did. A few hand gestures from the woman was enough to convey what a part of you was itching to ask.

“It never gets easier. Only tolerable.” You echoed. Mags nods, and your knee receives another small squeeze. Your response is a small hum, moving a hand to cover hers as your fingers gently interlace. You’d had quite enough of the tears and the pains overwhelming your thoughts. The past half a year had been harrowing enough. Maybe it was time to take something back from Snow. From the Capital. From the Games. From all of Panem. A muscle in your jaw tenses before you speak, “I-I want to get better.. learn to tolerate it.” You mutter.

“I’m sick of being useless. Of sitting, and doing nothing. I don’t want to show the Capital that they hold power over me. That they’ve hurt me. They’ve seen enough of my heart, it’s time they see something else.”

An echo of words from the train platform almost a week ago ebb their way to the forefront of your mind.

“Don’t sink.”

You wouldn’t sink. Not anymore.

A twinkle of hope appears in Mags’ eyes as spiteful determination sparks in yours. That flame in your chest sparking back to life with a newfound vigor. You’d be better. You had to be.

You will not die. You will survive. And you will float - not sink.

You don’t stutter through anymore speeches from them on. You wouldn’t let them see that they got to you. Even if you broke behind closed doors, hiccuping sobs on the onyx tile of your bathroom floor, you wouldn’t dare let anyone else see it from now on.

Coward.

Arriving back to District 4 was a monumental relief, even if it was only for a day. The twins were overjoyed, forgetting a certain Bronze-haired boy’s existence the moment you stepped onto the cobblestone platform. Your nickname is a shriek behind elated laughter as you kneel to embrace the boys.

“Sheesh, what have they been feeding you boys? You’ve gotten taller and it’s only been a week!” You quip behind a coy smile. Dorian simply shakes his head and clings to your arm while correcting you that it’s been longer than seven days while Callan hollers a retort saying you’re lying. “Nuh uh! We’re just the same!”

You’re dressed in the same dappled grey coat with the edition of a sage colored scarf as breathy puffs of white air curl through your conversations.

“Uncorrupted just as you ordered.” Finnick quips with a dramatic wave of his hand and a slight bow as he approaches. Your eyes roll in annoyance but you can’t help the slight pull at the corners of your mouth. “My hero,” you deadpan as you rise, picking up Dorian and setting him on your hip. Finnick is dressed much the same as when you last saw him, though his bronze waves are more tousled than usual. His scarf is tied tighter around his throat, but you still catch the tinge of red and purple smears under his jawline. A tightness seizes your chest as Finnick seems to notice your stare and adjusts the knitted material.

“It’s nothing.” The boy claims, but a crease draws his brows in, and his tanned fingers pick a piece of invisible lint from the lapel of his navy coat. “Hm,” You hum in response, averting your own gaze back down to the twins as you feel an awkwardness rise in the air. You clear your throat while scrunching your nose and wetting your lips a moment before moving to say hello to your Father. Finnick remains rooted to his spot, but you can sense the Darling’s eyes lingering on your form as you retreat.

The rest of your visit to District 4 runs smoothly. There isn't much of a speech to be given, rather a small banquet is held in your honor instead. You dread parties, and a painful twist in your stomach squeezes as you sit through the meal that night under the beaming lights of the Judicial Complex auditorium making your head start to spin. What a part of you wouldn't give for one of the many glasses of champagne floating around, but based on the daggers Mags sends your way each time you reach for one of the crystal glasses has you quickly retreating and second-guessing your decisions. Finnick is somehow glued to your side much to your dismay. The boy looks almost like a prince. His pine-colored poet's tunic is cut low, almost to his navel, with black, slim-fit trousers with knee-high laced boots to match with a shimmer of iridescent luster sprinkled across his clavicle and the highest points of his cheeks. The miniature rendition of his famous trident rests around his neck again as well. Part of you wonders if Hyacinth and the boy's stylist were in cahoots behind the scenes as your equally pine-colored ensemble matches the elegance of Finnick's outfit a bit too well. You weren't fond of form-fitted clothing but had become rather desensitized to the matter following Hyacinth's frequent choices to show off your figure. Your garment tonight was a form-fitted silk gown that featured a high slit up your left thigh and an open back. The sleeves were off the shoulder and flowed in a balloon-like fashion before gathering once more at your wrists. Inky, strapped shoes with a short heel could be glimpsed at your feet as well. part of you wondered if Finnick had caught on to the whole ordeal but by the carefree, cheshire smirk on his rosy lips you couldn't tell.

Finnick had caught on the moment you'd stepped into the auditorium.

It felt as if he’d been set on fire. Sparks shot like lightning up his arms and across his chest as he couldn’t help drinking you in from across the room. That excruciatingly tight thread in his chest started to fray.

Finnick tried not to think about it.

He couldn't. He shouldn't.

'Shit...'

The closeness as you sat beside Finnick absentmindedly picking at your plate, not even a foot away had the boy so overwhelmed he couldn't think, only sparing a glance your way every now and then while trying to casually drape himself over his chair. The effort to keep a smirk on his face and a carefree aura was suffocating. What the hell was wrong with him? You’d sat next to or across from one another plenty of times. He'd seen you dressed up like this plenty of times.

Okay - maybe it had only been on screens but that was besides the point.

He had to get a grip. He'd already heard the rumors of there being something between the two of you from the Games starting to stir again amongst the elites as the end-of-tour banquet in the Capital district edged closer in the coming days. You didn't need more to stress over. especially not regarding him. You may have been able to keep a mask of chemical calm when dealing with everyone around you but he could see the shadows under your eyes and the limpness in your hair. Your hands still trembled, and your lower lip remained puffy from biting it. He'd learned your anxious habits from quiet observation. He had plenty of his own tells he was well aware of himself.

Finnick silently cursed himself again.

You were lucky enough to sleep in your own bed for the night, though Dorian and Callan insisted on joining you as if they were attention-deprived puppies. You welcomed their embraces as they nestled close, but knew you'd end up in a corner of the mattress without any blanket to keep warm as the boys occupied the majority of the bed space available. But you didn't mind. Nor did you want to leave them again so soon. But the tour had to be finished. You rested easier that night than you had in weeks, despite the bed-hogging of your siblings.

The morning was met with a quiet breakfast and another teary-eyed goodbye. Then it was back on the train and on to the final three districts. Homes of the Career Tributes.

This time around, Finnick had joined your party of escorts for the last leg of your journey. He claimed he had some occupations to fill and favors to uphold but didn't offer more explanation than that. He'd also opted for wearing higher-necked shirts and sweaters around the train, which you had found unusual compared to his normal attire, but didn't bother to question. It was his business and therefore you needn't bother with it. Pretty Peacocks had Pretty Peacock things to do, you supposed.

The remaining districts were as troublesome as the last eight. District 2 was especially harsh, considering the blade you'd driven through the chest of their male tribute in the final moments of the Games. The district of luxury held nothing back as the family spewed filth your way for your cowardness in killing their son. You couldn't manage to keep your dinner down that night. You didn't stay in your personal quarters either, opting to remain in the Observatory car instead.

You hadn't missed the dazzling limelight of the Capital district.

You especially hadn't missed the pawing hands of the elite citizens.

The gala outside of President Snow's mansion was beyond anything you'd seen previously. To say the vibrant lights and overstuffed buffet tables were overwhelming would be an understatement. They were downright outrageous. Between the high-pitched caws of heiresses and the phlegmy coughs and sticky fingers of brokers and other top-class citizens and staff, you felt your skin practically buzzing from the overstimulation. You wanted nothing more than to slip away or melt into the floor. Peacekeepers lined every alcove and doorway on guard. But there wasn't any concern for the groping hands or lingering touches as you tried your best to squeeze through the crowd. Thatcher had disappeared almost instantaneously, swallowed up by the sea of brightly dressed vultures. You felt your breath grow hyper as your eyes darted around in search of anyone to hold onto and ground yourself. Finnick could be spotted across the swell of dancers in the hall hanging on the arm of two squawking elitists. The Darling was dusted in a similar luster you'd seen at the banquet in District 4, except in much more excess as the boy wore an organza tunic the color of his eyes that left little to be imagined. His trousers were bone white with chestnut dress shows. The Darling was equally adorned in dainty, golden chains as he was glitter and smudged lipstick. Your own cheeks burned at the blatant display.

What on earth was he doing??

Your eyes locked for a mere second, your bewildered gaze pleading, if not begging but the victor paid you no mind as pointed, too-white canines flashed in scandalous conversation with the people around him. You were utterly stranded.

Someone gripped your backside suddenly, earning a yelp and the urge to whip back and punch but instead, you whirl, backing straight into someone's shoulder. Amid the swirling music and voices, you felt tears spring to your eyes, threatening to spill as a gloved hand catches your waist and you're steadied on your feet. Your deep aqua gown whispers on the tiled floor (yes, another secret match to finnick's ensemble) and you're sputtering apologies quicker than you can think. You had to get out of here.

"It's quite alright Dear. A bit overwhelmed are we?"

"I- uhm... I'm so sorry, s-sir." You stutter as you behold the man standing before you. Snow white hair slicked back, with a neatly groomed beard and stark white suit has you gulping down the lump forming in your throat.

President Coriolanus Snow is standing in front of you.

You wish nothing more than to be shot dead right then and there. The creator of your horrors, of the hardships across the districts and the killing games children are forced to play in, was standing in front of you with his hand on your waist. A wolf in sheep's clothing. The devil himself.

A string of colorful profanities cycles through your mind as you're only able to blink in horror and feigned surprise. Any confidence or spite you thought you might have leeches from your mind as your skin blanches.

"I've been meaning to have a word with you. You did quite well in the Games this season, and have caught the interest of a few...clients, of mine. Not to mention the Mockingjays flittering about with rumors of a certain Darling, hm?" The President's tone is hollow. His steeled gaze bores into your own and you can't form the words to reply before the gloved hand at your waist slides up your torso and over to the back of your arm as the older man begins to guide you. The crowd instantly parts and conversations nearby halt, obviously eavesdropping on what the President of Panem has to say.

"Let us move away from prying ears. Gossip is a terrible thing." The President drawls as he pats your elbow. You swallow hard with a meek nod, sucking your lower lip between your teeth and feeling the taste of copper coat your tongue. You bit too hard.

No words are exchanged between the two of you as you pass a very unbothered Finnick, his cheeks and honey-tanned skin are flushed as his overly dilated pupils pay you no heed. Something was wrong. very wrong. The Darling reeked of champagne, mint, and something you couldn't place, and strong. The heiresses on his arms were speaking in hushed, sultry tones, and were tugging at his barely-there tunic. The boy wasn't fighting back. Your stomach drops to your toes as you can only sense the growing fear coming from the crease between his brows and the muscle fluttering in his jaw.

The greenhouse the President brings you to has bile rising to your throat. Every pot, bed, soil flat, and more was covered in white roses. The sickly sweet scent had your skin crawling and nose scrunching, despite the tang of fear on your tongue and the gnawing pressure squeezing your chest. Snow gestures for you to sit on a stone bench near a small fountain. The water gurgles as it threatens to overflow the basin it waters. Snow takes his place beside you, a gentle twist in his torso that sends whispers of his blazer over his silk shirt.

"You put on quite a show in the Arena my Dear. Playing soft and subtle but outlasting the wolves and striking like an asp in the end. You caused quite a stir amongst high-profile viewers. There have been whispers of intrigue about you. Many people covet a doe amongst a pack of wolves. Soft and sweet - like a lily among a field of thorned roses. Something to control," Snow begins. You feel miniscule compared to the powerhouse of a man beside you. You worry he can scent the fear seeping into your bones as you clasp your hands together like a vice to hide the trembling.

"I-I'm sorry. I don't quite follow."

Snow chuckles. Chuckles. The sound makes you wish to crawl out of your skin.

" Certain individuals feed on control. On submission. Complete - submission." The President's eyes grow dark and feel yourself shifting away, though the attempt is futile on the small bench.

"I'm saying people want you. You're - Desirable."

Desirable.

You'd heard the word only in hushed whispers less than a handful of times. Mainly when Finnick was involved. This couldn't be good. An awful nausea settles in your stomach as the President makes his proposal.

"Predators enjoy the hunt of their prey. The thrill of the hunt. They want a new Desirable Victor. Yes, they've had their shiny new Princeling to enjoy and ravish. Mr. Odair, if I'm not mistaken. But with your victory and spectacular display, they crave more. So I'm offering this," The mention of Finnick's status holds a venom that solidifies the sickness in your gut. If you could run far, far away right now, you would. And you'd sure as hell hunt down the vipers coiled around Finnick and take him with you.

"Become Desirable - or those fetching siblings of yours, and dear old Father, and everyone you hold dear, will be punished. Severely. What are their names? Dorian? Callan?" The President squints his eyes, crow's feet becoming pronounced around the corners of his eyes as your throat goes dry. Horror shoots through you as your heart all but shatters into a million pieces.

"Maybe I should throw in your dear Peacock, hm? The Capital would adore a star-crossed scandal. Trading their prince for a heartbroken princess?"

"P-please..." You murmur, the word barely audible.

"There's no room for discussion here. They'll be dead by morning if you don't accept. For the greater good of Panem and the strength of the Games, Dear."

Your vision blurs as defeat slashes your chest. Your limbs feel like jelly as you feel blood drip down your chin from the bite on your lip and a dampness coats your cheeks.

"Let them live..." You squeak.

Shame filters through the horror and disgust you feel. But you have to keep them safe. You'd lay down your own life sooner than any of theirs. Always.

A white glove smudges the blood from your chin, a crimson stain coating the President's glove as he accepts your agreement and gestures for you to stand. You do.

"Smile for the cameras Dear, tonight will be grand."

You can't bring your lips to move. Another tear slides down your face.

President Snow wipes the stray tear from your blanched cheek as a vile grin adds to the wrinkles on his face. You say nothing as the Predator guides you away from the greenhouse and up to the balcony overlooking the party. The President clears his throat and the room falls silent.

Finnick is nowhere to be seen through the crowd and panic surges through your chest.

"My dear citizens of the Capital, and all of Panem. I have a very special announcement to make this evening. As you know, we are gathered here tonight in honor of the Victor of our 67th Annual Hunger Games. " Snow's voice booms over the gala. Your insides churn as he continues to announce the sentence to seal your fate. You'd lost an even bigger game than you thought imaginable. You can’t find Finnick anywhere. A part of you wants to scream.

"May I present to you my dearest subjects, the doe who won against all odds. They prey who vanquished the beasts. Your new desirable," Snow bellows your name with a venom that makes you fear vomiting right then and there. You weren't a Victor, you weren't a survivor, you weren't even considered a human anymore. You were a product. You were a doe staring down the maw of a starving wolf.

You were nothing.

Mechanical shutters fill your ears as flashes blind your vision. You’re supposed to be smiling. Things will get worse if you don’t smile. But all you can feel is the bile rising in your throat and your leaden tongue refusing to move. The sickly scent of roses invades your senses as gloved hands pat your trembling ones that grip the President’s suit jacket like a vice. You don’t dare move an inch.

There are two things you've learned to despise since surviving The Games.

1. Liars

2. President Coriolanus Snow

{{ taglist }}

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[thesweetnessofspring]

“Having sex is their coping tool” was a lightbulb moment for me. Sex is one of the stages of their relationship they actually have full control of the pace they go at. And it’s also the first time Katniss admits that she loves Peeta. I can really see it as their safe haven. Which is why I’m obsessed with their actual journey towards having sex. Like them actually taking it slow and learning what each other likes and getting over any insecurities both emotional and physical

Oh 100% all of that! I know that sometimes sex is used as a punchline in fandom, so I want to be clear (not to you, Non, just in general) that this is not a flippant comment by a rabid shipper. This is a serious comment by a rabid shipper, and this answer comes to you in two parts:

Part One: Science

When used in a healthy way, sex is a great coping tool. First because it's a form of connection and attachment which are vital to heal from trauma. Polyvagal theory has increased in popularity with trauma treatment because of how the body stores trauma (The Body Keeps the Score and all that) and using physical movement (walking, dancing, clapping, tapping) and physical connection (hugs, cuddles, feeling a heartbeat, eye contact, holding hands) brings the body and mind back into a regulated state. From there, processing can happen. So for partners, sex has all of that. The eye contact, the skin contact, feeling the other person's heartbeat, the rhythmic movement, and of course the oxytocin. And in terms of trauma, when in hypoarousal (numbing out, dissociation), sex moves the body up into hyperarousal (being very aware of surroundings/body) and then after the climax back into the regulated state. Or if in hyperarousal to start, a more soothing approach such as massages, slow touches, grounding through focusing on the activity, can regulate before having the climax again and going back into regulation. Obviously communication is needed for when sex is an appropriate and wanted tool, what they need from their partner in that particular moment, but there are scientific reasons for why Katniss and Peeta would find sex to help them heal and regulate their bodies following the trauma they'd been through.

Part Two: FEELS

It's implied that before "so after," Katniss had a nightmare and Peeta was there to "comfort" her. First with his arms, and "eventually his lips." And then at some point--maybe that same night his lips first comforted her, maybe many, many nights later--Katniss felt "hunger" for Peeta and she knew that they "would have happened anyway." That's the most our private, "pure" Katniss will give us, but to me it's all but canon that sex with Peeta brings Katniss comfort. That the one person who has been looking out for her the longest, her boy with the bread, is still there to guard her. That his arms hold her safe to his strong body, as they have through other numerous terrifying moments. That when she feels a hunger arise in her, he will satisfy her every single time. That each caress and stroke is a reminder that he stayed with her through the worst anybody could be put through, and he will be with her always. That what they have together in their home and in their bed, that word she'd been too scared and unsure and devastated to say before, that love is entirely real.

#everlark #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #the hunger games

[luckshmi]

Ayurvedic Secrets to Radiant Skin: Understanding Your Dosha and Simple Homemade Skincare

In the pursuit of healthy, glowing skin, many of us seek solutions in expensive creams, serums, and treatments. But what if the key to vibrant skin lies in ancient wisdom that's been practiced for centuries?

Welcome to the world of Ayurveda, where the holistic approach to skincare goes beyond topical treatments to address the root causes of skin imbalances.

What is Ayurveda?

Ayurveda, often called the "science of life," is an ancient healing system that originated in India thousands of years ago. At its core is the belief that our well-being is intricately connected to the balance of three fundamental energies known as doshas: Vata, Pitta, and Kapha.

Understanding Your Dosha:

Each person is born with a unique combination of these doshas, which influence not only our physical characteristics but also our mental and emotional tendencies. By identifying your dominant dosha, you can tailor your skincare routine to address specific skin concerns effectively.

Vata Dosha: If you have Vata-dominant skin, you may notice tendencies toward dryness, flakiness, and sensitivity. Vata skin often feels parched and is prone to premature aging. To nurture Vata skin, focus on moisturizing and nourishing practices.

Skincare Routine: Massage your skin with warm sesame oil to deeply moisturize and improve circulation. Use gentle, hydrating cleansers and rich, emollient creams to lock in moisture.

Homemade Recipe: Create a hydrating face mask by mixing mashed avocado with honey and a few drops of almond oil. Leave it on for 15 minutes before rinsing with warm water.

Pitta Dosha: Pitta-dominant skin tends to be sensitive, prone to redness, inflammation, and occasional breakouts. Excessive heat and stress can exacerbate Pitta imbalances, leading to increased oiliness and irritation.

Skincare Routine: Opt for cooling and soothing ingredients like cucumber, aloe vera, and sandalwood. Use gentle, non-abrasive cleansers and avoid harsh exfoliants that can aggravate inflammation.

Homemade Recipe: Make a calming face pack by mixing sandalwood powder with rose water and a pinch of turmeric. Apply it to clean skin, leave it on for 15 minutes, then rinse with cool water.

Kapha Dosha: Kapha-dominant skin tends to be oily, prone to congestion, and enlarged pores. Kapha imbalances can result in dullness, blackheads, and a lack of vitality.

Skincare Routine: Focus on purifying and detoxifying practices to balance excess oil and congestion. Use gentle, oil-balancing cleansers and lightweight, non-comedogenic moisturizers.

Homemade Recipe: Create an invigorating scrub by mixing ground oats with yogurt and a pinch of turmeric. Gently massage it onto damp skin in circular motions, then rinse with lukewarm water.

General Ayurvedic Skincare Tips: In addition to dosha-specific practices, there are some general principles of Ayurvedic skincare that benefit all skin types:

Practice Abhyanga, or self-massage with warm oil, to promote relaxation and improve circulation.

Drink herbal teas like chamomile or tulsi to reduce internal inflammation and support overall well-being.

Maintain a balanced lifestyle with adequate sleep, regular exercise, and stress management to promote skin health from the inside out.

Ayurveda offers a holistic approach to skincare that emphasizes harmony between mind, body, and spirit. By understanding your dosha and incorporating simple, homemade remedies into your skincare routine, you can unlock the secrets to radiant and healthy skin naturally. Remember, consistency and mindfulness are key to achieving lasting results. So, embrace the wisdom of Ayurveda and let your inner glow shine through!

Feel free to reach out if you have any questions or need further guidance on your Ayurvedic skincare journey.

#astrology #ayurveda #skincare #spirituality #vedicastrology #hinduism #homemade #lotus #lakshmi #goddess #beauty

[allgirlsareprincesses]

I am Venus: Folktale Motifs in Queen Charlotte

Adapted from my 2023 Twitter thread

How the love story of George and Charlotte subverts the classic animal bride and groom tales for a new generation:

We begin with clear swan maiden motifs, with Charlotte as the captured bride betrothed against her will. When the dowager princess refuses to allow her to wear the wedding gown she selected, this is stealing the animal skin (or power) of the animal bride.

What’s more, George’s mother insists she wear an English wedding gown. Clothing the bride claims her for the mundane world, separating her from her otherworldly home. In a typical swan maiden tale, she would flee the moment she recovers her stolen skin.

Then comes the first subversion of the tale: George gives her the option to leave, symbolically returning her animal skin and her power. And Charlotte chooses not only to stay, but also to wear her own wedding gown, thus claiming his world as hers.

Next we see Fruit Maiden motifs, as Charlotte is twice prevented from picking her own oranges. In these tales, the prince cuts open two oranges before discovering his true bride in the third. When Charlotte finally picks her own orange, she once again claims her power.

Later, we see hints of Star Lovers. George has already mentioned his interest in astronomy, but now we see his observatory. This fascination with the heavens and his role as monarch suggests that he is a star husband and Charlotte is his mortal bride.

However, Charlotte also originally called him a beast or troll, and as we see more of George’s mental health struggles, we realize that he does indeed see himself as the animal husband, unworthy of his celestial bride.

When she discovers him in the garden calling to Venus, Charlotte explicitly associates herself with the planet and thus with the goddess of the same name. It turns out SHE is the star bride after all, and George is the mortal husband.

In fact, as the king associates more and more with his "Farmer George" persona, even using this knowledge to assist Charlotte in birth, it becomes clear he is the earthly husband, always digging down while gazing up.

He allows himself to be practically buried in the cellar under the doctor's horrible "treatments," and hides under the bed to escape the sight of the heavens. His only light is his wife, descended from the sky of her own choice.

Mythically, the monarch is the conduit between heaven and earth. When Charlotte the Star Bride meets George the Earthly Husband in the middle, two halves become whole, and they are able to rule together.

Swan Maidens, Star Brides, and Fruit Maidens are nearly always captive brides. Their agency is not a factor in most folktales, but Queen Charlotte turns this on its head by making its heroine a goddess, giving her the power and choice to love as she wishes.

This story's thesis is vital in today's world where nothing seems certain: that life is lonely, so if you are fortunate to find your person, you choose to love them even when it's hard and painful. That feminine desire matters at every age. And that love can work miracles.

#bridgerton #queen charlotte #bridgerton netflix #charlotte x george #george x charlotte #king george bridgerton #king george iii #lady whistledown #star bride #star lovers #celestial lover #celestial bride #venus #aphrodite #fruit maiden #love for the three oranges #orange maiden #swan maiden #animal bride #animal husband #folklore #folk tales #fairy tales

[fatuismooches]

SMOOOOCHES!!! hello sweetheart!! ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১

I hope you’ve been well since the last time I came on here!! (little update on my test results: everything came back clean except a few things came back indecisive but nothing to worry about! Chronic illness doesn’t seem to be getting any worse as of right now.) but asides from that here’s a little drabble as I was re-reading a few of my earlier drabbles from last year!

We know fragile!reader despises examinations and having to endure the painful injections every few weeks when Dottore batches up a new medicine. However, what if it backfires completely? Causing fragile!reader to be in an even weaker condition, barely able to move and clinging onto Dottore as tightly as they can. Perhaps running a fever, feeling miserable as they feel as if though their whole body is being pricked by thousands of needles as they shake from their fever. Dottore would try his best to not let his emotions show, but deep down he’s panicking and trying to figure out how he can cancel out the current “medicine” running through their body. To say Dottore feels guilt is an understatement, he knows that any medicine that they take can easily backfire quickly, but he never would’ve thought the symptoms would be so severe. :( once their condition stabilizes I like to think Dottore keeps them close for at least a few days, just to make sure everything is fine. Even if it means they’ll be all clingy to him, he’d rather they be safe and alive rather than induced in a coma once again.

A bit of fluff: I like to think Zandy definitely also tries to cheer you up after the whole ordeal. He’s not sure why you weren’t visiting or reading books to him anymore, other than that “you were busy with Dottore”, is what you had told him. But even the little baby knows you look more weaker (even if it’s been a few days, your condition had still worsened anyways). So perhaps he tries to draw you adorable silly drawings, and also show you his “safe” experiments. (Lest he get a scolding from Zandik or the clones again…)

‘m giving you so many chu chus n cuddles like always smooches hehe gonna make your cheeks all rosy pinky! <33 I hope you have a lovely day n spend it with a smile like always!

-from your dear boo boo bear 🎐 anon! ౨ৎ

HELLO MY DEAR 🎐 ANON!! Ahh I'm so glad your results were okay! I'm so happy for you and for getting through all of this! *hugs you* And I LOVE this brainrot! ❤️ I've always brainrotted about this idea hehe because angst of Dottore failing... teehee.

Dottore, being the skilled scholar he is, never fails to concoct new medications and treatments for you in hopes of creating something that sticks, along with the actual cure. These meds always go through a few rounds of testing, on his experiments of course (as you said before) but sometimes there is only so little that can be done. After all, your body is very different from the average person's. So, there have been times when the things he's given you didn't agree with your body very well, but they were never anything drastic. However, that was until this instance.

Dottore is a confident man. He's smart, he plans ten steps ahead, and things always go exactly as he orchestrated or predicted them to. So that's why he expected nothing different to be with this batch, maybe you'd have a few minor side effects that he'd note and so on, but he expected you to be fine, to then whine about how all of this was so much work, and he'd only hum at your complains to which you'd pout at. In the beginning, you seemed fine. Looked fine, your vitals were fine. But in a matter of minutes, when you got off the operating table, all of that changed, as dizziness and blurriness.

You tried to wave off Dottore's concern, observing your worsened state immediately, but your resistance was futile as your knees buckled, though your husband caught you before you could fall. Your skin was on fire, sapping away your strength as you couldn't even bring your hand up to stop your hacking and coughing. You try to speak but everything hurts far too much for you to muster your words, and you can barely process the muffled voices, footsteps against the floor, and hands running over your body (he must have called a few segments in too.) You pass out soon after, unable to see the blank look on Dottore's face, how his hands don't shake, how he is unfaltering and flawless in his steady work to counteract what he put in his body. Unable to see what only you can see - what he's really feeling underneath everything.

You don't wake up until a few days later, to which Dottore spent trying to figure out where he went wrong constructing this medication. If only he had been more careful, if he had run more tests, perhaps this may not have happened. Perhaps he wouldn't be the cause of your even weaker state. But even when you wake up, you just smile at him, assuring him that you're okay. You'd never blame him. Even though this was all this fault. He despises it sometimes, how you're so kind and forgiving. It's a weakness.

Sure, Dottore has a lot of work to be done, and having you around so much serves as a distraction to his work... but he'll let it slide. Just for a bit. At least it is a reminder to him that you're not permanently sleeping again.

Zandy, despite being left out of the loop many times, mostly due to your insistence that he not be burdened with your own troubles, can still sense something is wrong after a while. Yes, he's a child, but he's a rather smart one. And a very attentive one when it comes to his favorite person, you. He can see how much time you spend for "check-ups" with the segments and Prime now, far more than what it used to be... how you always look exhausted but force yourself to perk up and smile around him, assuring him you'll play with him "next time", even though numerous "next times" have passed. Zandy doesn't know the exact details, but that's okay, he can see what you're going through. So obviously he's going to try and make you smile! In the time he's not with you, he spends it doing all the things you like to do too. Drawing you two together of course, in a happy little house in Sumeru where the two of you play outside together all day with no worries! Maybe he even tried baking by himself to surprise you with something yummy (quickly stopped by a segment before he hurt himself or perhaps blew up the lab.) Maybe the child should take up sewing... maybe he can sew a little Puffttore squish ball for you! Oh, but you always told him to stay away from needles... well, it's okay if you don't find out until after the fact, right?

#smooches talks #🎐 anon #fragile reader <3 #dottore love notes <3 #zandy bb <3 #giving you a million more chu chus!! and cuddles!! #i always luv luv ur brainrots! #only one post for tonight bc im eepy

[nirvanawrites111]

Say You Love Me (Sub!Jongin x AFAB!Reader)

Word Count: 3727

Pairing: Kim Jongin x Afab!Reader

Genre AU: Male Stripper AU

Summary: Y/n runs No Manners male revue club and is recently divorced from Kim Jongin. But, needs a huge favor so that Y/n doesn't lose money and customers. No pronouns are used but Y/N is afab.

other characters mentioned: Ten, Taemin, Jun, Choi Minho, Leo

Warnings: Smut, sub!Jongin, Stripper club universe, pegging, strong language, oral sex (both rec), cum eating, degradation during sex. Calls Jongin a whore. Also... Jongin calls Y/N Daddy!, fingers (both rec)

Mentions of being with Ten Lee and Taemin. This chapter is just Y/n and Jongin together.

MINORS PLS DO NOT INTERACT. Ty so much!!!

A/n: Not sure if Y/n will have intimate scenes with everyone just yet. But I had to release this part because the sub!Jongin community is pretty dry and I need it for my mental health and clear skin.

Okay, I'm rambling.. also I'm obsessed with LET ME IN by Exo. It's been on repeat since Monday. I even play the slowed version. THE VOCALSSS.

If you enjoy my work please reblog it. I appreciate it!

SMUT BELOW THE CUT

"Where the fuck is Lee Taemin?!" You scream. You swallow hard, and your throat is raw. You walk around the lockers trying to find your main attraction for tonight. 

He knows how vital that headliner spot is. People come from far distances to see him perform.

The last thing you need is to deal with disgruntled customers tonight. 

You see Ten walk past you in a fishnet bodysuit covered in body glitter, and you grab his arm. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

Ten turns around with his other hand still gripping the sizeable clear trash bag of dollar bills. "Umm, I'm going to count my money in your office. What's up?" His hisses. 

"Where the fuck is your friend, Taemin?" You ask. 

"Umm.." Ten avoids eye contact and looks down at the floor. "I have no idea."

You step closer to him and are less than an inch away from him. "Look at me, Ten."

His eye contact connects with yours, and he stares at you. "Yes?"

"Where is Taemin?"

"In the parking lot with Jimin."

"Thank you, baby," you pull him closer and kiss him.

You let it linger for a bit, and then you pull away. You head out of the locker room's back door and search the parking lot for the infamous pink Lamborghini. 

You see it in the back of the parking lot and race over to the car with your heels clicking against the pavement. 

You find yourself at the passenger side window and knock on it. Taemin jumps, and grabs his chest. 

"Roll down the window, drama queen!" you yell. You want to yank him out of the car because he has been MIA for the last few hours.

Not to mention he's still in his regular clothes, and his set is coming up soon. 

"Heyyy! Y/n," Taemin greets you. 

The marijuana smoke hits your face before he can say anything else. Both of their eyes are bloodshot red, and you are irritated, to say the least. 

"Get out of the car. You're late for work!" 

Taemin fumbles with the door, and Jimin starts laughing. 

"You look nice. Y/n. Are you hiring by chance?" Jimin asks.

"Fuck, no," you spit. 

You grab Taemin's hand as he gets out of the car. 

"What's up, baby?" Taemin replies. 

 "Don't baby me! I put you on as a solo headliner for tonight and you're literally blowing it. You know I don't let you anyone go up there high or drunk."

"I know. I know. I'm not high though. I was just talking with Jimin about doing some music. He has a producer friend that can get our songs on the radio," Taemin explains. 

"Taemin, I can't let you go on stage like this. Go home."

"What?" Taemin glares at me with glossy eyes. 

"You heard me the first time. You can't come to work like this. It's the rules."

"No, c'mon this night is important."

"I can't give you special treatment just cause we're fucking. You gotta go home."

You sigh in disappointment. You wanted so much more for him. He'd worked so hard to get to that top spot. He was just as much of a crowd favorite as Kai.

Kai's departure was so unexpected. You were left scrambling to replace him.

But, that's when Taemin stepped up to the plate, and helped boost the club back to where it was when Kai was the headliner. 

"Y/n, please. C'mon."

"I said what I said."

You walk away from Taemin because you might say something you regret or can't take back if you say anything else.

You reach into your back pocket. Your hand is shaky as you stare down at your iPhone in your palm. You pull up your phone and dial your ex-husband's number. 

"Hello?"

"Jongin." 

You take a deep breath and almost hang up the phone.

But you're desperate and don't want to disappoint your customers. Especially since tonight is a packed house. 

"Yes?"

"I need a huge favor. Can you perform tonight as the headliner?"

"Y/n, you haven't talked to me in months and now you need me. Sounds like you're in a tough spot. Where's Taemin?"

"I had to send him home." You grab your keyring off your hip and open the back door. You close it behind you. 

"I'll be there in five. But, you owe me, Y/n."

"Yeah. Yeah. Thank you! Jongin."

You know you won't hear the last of it from everybody, but you are the owner of No Manners. You have to do what's best for business and put all personal feelings aside. 

You walk into your office and see Ten counting his money and clipping it together in stacks. 

"Thanks for telling me about Taemin."

"I told him to come in for work, but he doesn't listen."

"He knew how important tonight is for the club. I don't get why he would do that."

"Me either."

"But, Jongin is performing tonight."

“Jongin… Kim Jongin? Here at No Manners?”

"Yeah, he was my last choice. You already did your set tonight. I couldn't make you do a double."

"You know Taemin is going to be pissed about it."

"I don't care honestly."

"Tonight, is about to be interesting."

"Are you doing the VIP room tonight?"

"No, I'm done for tonight."

"Okay."

Ten glares at the door, and you turn around to see Jongin transformed into his alter-ego. 

Kai. 

Your jaw drops when you see him wearing that one outfit you hand-made for him that he refused to wear. His muscular tone body is even more toned than when you last saw him. 

The tan sheer materials cover his body perfectly, and the rhinestone highlights his manhood but still leaves much to the imagination. 

It looks even better than it did a year ago when you had him first put it on. 

"You look.. stunning, Jongin."

"It's Kai for tonight."

"Right," you snap back to earth and nod. "Did you give the DJ your music."

"Yeah, I'm doing a new routine."

"You still dance?"

"Not in clubs. But, I've been playing around with something. Trust me the crowd will enjoy it."

You look down at your watch. "Alright, well. Let me walk you out."

You head out of the office, and Jongin trails behind you. You are curious about what he's been up to since the divorce was finalized, but you're going to mind your business. 

"That outfit looks perfect on you."

"I know."

You and Jongin stand at the metallic string curtains, and you stare out into the crowd. Jun is wrapping up his set, and his music fades out. 

The DJ starts playing the melody of a beat you have never heard. "We got a special treat for you all tonight. Get your dollar bills out. Hell, bring out your 10s 20s and 100 dollar bills for this special guest, tonight. Everyone rise to your feet for the one and only, Kai."

After the DJ says his name, the crowd erupts into cheers, and Kai struts throughout the crowd. He goes up to a lady coming to the club since you first opened it up. 

Kai works his magic and dances on the customer, and she almost falls over. He catches her, and she screams. People start throwing cash at him. 

One of the younger strippers goes with a trash bag and starts picking up his money for him. 

Kai continues making his runs throughout the crowd and gives a couple lucky people, some special attention. He doesn't care the gender. He doesn't discriminate. 

You are quick to remember why he's always been a crowd favorite. 

Kai finally makes his way onto the stage. You watch him, and he whines his hips to the music, and you can almost get lost in his movement. 

You love the way he connects with the crowd. He always focuses on one person and sucks them into whatever he's doing.

Kai goes over to the pole and swings around it. He climbs to the top and slowly comes down.

 He rises up the pole again and swings around it. He drops down into a split, and he climbs up. The light turns off, and I head to the DJ booth, where the music still plays. 

A few moments pass, and then he's just wearing a rhinestone cover g strip. The crowd cheers even louder, and more people move closer to the stage, throwing money at him. Seeing all that money all over him, he works the pole even harder. 

Your jaw drops when you see your ex-husband in action. He's a natural for this lifestyle and the best to ever do it. 

After his set is over and he heads into his dressing room. The younger stripper walks towards his door with two large trash bags of money. 

You grab the money and knock on the door. "Come in!"

You open the door and place the oversized trash bags on the couch. You glance over to see Jongin cleaning the makeup off his face in front of the vanity. 

"Your set was amazing."

"I know. I’m sure you freaked out about the lights going out."

"Yeah, I thought something was wrong."

"You know I always know what I'm doing. You would have just talked me out of it."

"I know. I appreciate it. The club just isn't the same without you."

"I'm sure. You should let me come back."

"You know Ten and Taemin wouldn't like that."

"You're going to let them affect your business like that?"

"No, but things are calm backstage. You know you're a diva."

"You saw my fucking stage, right?" Jongin glares at you, and his gaze on you is stirring something up in you. 

"I did. You're a headliner. You've always been one. Especially since Choi Minho left. You brought something different."

"The crowd eats it up every single time."

"I know. You were amazing. You didn't miss a beat. How's life post stripper life?" You ask and sit down on the couch next to his vanity. 

"I'd be lying if I said it was easy. Too many people recognize me as a stripper. I honestly needed the money, tonight."

"If you needed help, why didn't you call me?"

Jongin laughs at your question. Why would he ask you for help? He shakes his head and wipes the glitter off his neck. 

"We haven't talked in almost five months. I wanted to put this life behind me. I didn't want to be some washed up stripper."

"You're not a washed-up stripper. You're a talented fucking dancer."

"I know but my resume is seven years an exotic dancer with you as my only reference."

"No one has called my phone. You know I would speak highly of you."

"Well, I haven't gotten any offers."

"Something will come. Listen don't worry about giving me any of the money. Keep it," You reply. 

You stand up, and Jongin stands up in front of you. He towers over you slightly by a few inches. You two are standing looking at each other. 

"I miss you."

The words uttered by Jongin feel personal and envelopes you in a way you can't describe. 

You stare into his eyes and brush his hair back from his face. His usual chocolate locks are an ashy gray hue. His beautiful face sparks something deep inside you.

This is still the Kim Jongin that knows all your deepest secrets. The man who held your hand through building this club. You were there for him when he got into dance school. So much history between the two of you. So much has happened. 

Your chest tightens, and you take a deep breath. The words are caught in his throat. 

"I miss you, too. But, we both know that the divorce was for the best."

"Because I wanted to leave this place and you didn't want to let me go. I wanted to grow past the gaze of desire. I want to be taken seriously."

"I hear you. I knew you leaving the club would affect me financially. I wasn't ready to make that move."

"Well, I will be here for the next month. So, tell your little princess Taemin that his spot is taken."

Jongin slides into his baggy jogging pants and grabs the trash bags.

You know that you need Jongin even though it will cause a rift between the other dancers. You know it's best for business. 

***

Jongin sits in his car and stares at the flashing LED light with the club's name, and he sits back in his seat. He wants to drive out of this parking lot and never return. 

But, the way they cheer his name and empty out their pockets for him is something that will have him returning back. 

Jongin arrives at home to his townhome, which is gate operated. He pulls into the front of his house. He grabs his money and heads into his home. He inserts his keys.

He tosses the bags of money at the door. He kicks off his shoes and heads upstairs to take a shower. 

Seeing you was more than emotional. He didn't know how he would respond to you. Nor did he see if he wanted to even talk to you. 

His phone lights up, and he sees a car at his gate. He lifts his phone to see a red Corvette with the top down. He hits the button to open the gate. 

What is it that you want this late? Did you come to say that you no longer need his services?

Jongin heads downstairs and opens the door. He watches you get out of the car and head up the stairs.

Your strapless jean jumpsuit dress hugs your body just right. Your red heels make you a bit taller, but still not taller than him. 

Jongin raises an eyebrow, and you lift your infamous Gucci bag packed with his favorite toys. 

"So, do you want to get fucked out here on your porch or do you want to invite me in?" You ask him. 

"Come in and fuck me."

***

You push Jongin against the couch, and he smirks at how you manhandled him.

You would be a fool to not want to fuck him after seeing him perform tonight. Everybody is probably going home to masturbate after the performance Jongin delivered tonight. 

"Jongin, my pretty boy." You lean forward and sit down on his lap cowgirl style. You whisper against his ear and nibble as you feel him rise underneath you. 

"I'm yours?" Jongin breathes out. 

"For tonight, yes." You reply. You run your red fingernails down the center of his chest. "Can I taste you? Ya know to reward you for doing such a great job tonight."

"Of course, mistress," Jongin moans. 

The aura of this man is so powerful, yet in your presence, this beauty is so submissive to you. No one would ever believe it if you told them. But, you wouldn't care. 

You move down his waist and get down onto the floor. Your knees dig into the soft light carpet supporting you. You reach up to help me get out of those sweaters. His dick springs to action because he isn't wearing any underwear.  

"Damn, you're always so hard for me," you whisper, tracing your fingers along his length.

"Fuck, I've missed you, daddy."

Jongin loves to call you different things whenever you two are intimate, but daddy is the one thing you love the most. He's the only guy to ever do it. 

"Mmm… I haven't heard that name in months." You grab his dick and swirl your tongue around the head. Your core tingles, and you work your mouth up and down on him. 

"Please.." Jongin emits a moan, and it makes your heart flutter.

This was your favorite way to see the real Jongin. With his legs spread for you and moaning and panting. You haven't even really got into it, and already you are bringing him close to his release. 

"Please? What? You like it? Or you want me to stop?" You taunt him. 

"No, please keep going. I'm not going to last," he whimpers. 

Of course, he's not. He always reacts to you so well. You love that about him. It doesn't take a lot for him to come. He's been like this since you two first fucked. 

"You know other people might not like how easily you cum, but I'm honored how fast I can make you come."

"I know.. I'm only like this with you."

You stop and sit up on your knees. You watch his eyes spring open, and he looks down at you. "Why'd you stop?"

"You need to work for that nut, sir." 

You lie back against the carpet with your legs open. Showing him you’re pretty pussy without any underwear.

You want to taste his nut on your tongue, but you want to make him work for it. You know he's always up for a challenge. 

"Eat me until I come, Nini."

Jongin doesn't hesitate, moves down on the floor, and holds onto your legs as his tongue probes your sensitive region. You can feel the heat building inside you as Jongin's skilled tongue works its magic. You moan and writhe under his touch. 

One thing about him is he knows how to please you and will do all he can to ensure you know it.

His tongue explores your slit, and he catches your juices dripping down because of how turned on you are from hearing him moan for you. 

You could get off just from hearing him moan. You have in the past, recorded the audio of two of you having sex and used it for your personal time when you were alone.

Jongin sticks a finger inside you, and your body reacts to him quickly. He pulls it out and sucks it on his finger. You love the sight of seeing feast on you. 

He pushes two fingers inside of you and does the same thing again. "I've missed your sweet taste. Nobody taste like you."

Jongin leans down and kisses your pussy. His soft lips against yours make your body jolt. He is getting lost in pleasing you. Everything he does feels so good.

You can feel the heat building up inside you as Jongin continues exploring your body with his fingers. You moan softly, lost in the pleasure he is giving you. His kisses are gentle and loving, making you feel cherished and desired.

Jongin kisses on your pearl while he fingers you. You ride his fingers until you squirt all over them. He sucks your juices off his fingers. Jongin moves down and replaces his tongue where his fingers were to slurp out the rest of your release. You grab the back of his head while he sucks the soul of your body. 

"Fuck, Jongin!" You cry out and continue to ride the wave of your orgasm. It feels too good, and now you're sensitive to the touch. You push him off of you. 

Jongin lies next to you and you get down to his dick. You are on the right side of him and sucking him faster than before.

No one has eaten your pussy like that since you were last with him, so you know he's earned the right to come. 

You stick your finger in your dripping pussy to wet your finger. You stick it into his ass. He's always liked it, especially when you give him head. 

"Shit.. you know I love when you do that, daddy, please," Jongin whines. 

Just like that, he comes so hard in your mouth, and you swallow it. You love the taste of him. You climb on top of him. 

"Tonight is just an one time, thing, okay? If you're going to be at the club for a month. I don't want us to mess around. Cool?"

"Yea, of course. We're just getting it out of system."

"Exactly."

You stand up, unzip your jean dress, and toss it on the couch. You grab your Gucci bag and head upstairs. You still have your heels on. 

You make your way to his bedroom. You grab your strap-on and put it on. You sit on the bed and wait for him to come upstairs. You pour lube on your strap-on and coat it perfectly. 

Jongin comes upstairs. He's completely nude. He gets on top of you and slides down onto your strap-on. You feel the weight of his body on top of you as he starts to move back and forth. 

You lean back against the bed and watch him bounce on it. You like watching him fuck himself on your strap. 

"You're so.. naughty. Jongin. You're fucking yourself on my strap. You missed me that bad?" You coax him. 

"Maybe," he giggles. 

You slap his ass and grab it while he continues to ride you. In some weird way, you still have feelings for him.

Something you probably won't admit to him, and you don't know how you'll be able to survive a month with him at the club. 

"Maybe? You're acting like a whore."

"Cause you make me this way."

You lift him up and hold on to him while keeping the strap inside. You lay him on the bed on his back. You hold his legs open while you stroke into him. 

"Now stroke yourself, whore," You instruct him, and he obeys you. 

You grind your hips and continue to pound his tight ass. You miss moments like this. You know he's needy for the next nut by how he's jacking his dick. 

Your hand covers his as you pump harder until him until he comes again. 

"I love you, Jongin," You lean forward and slip your tongue into his mouth. 

"I love you, too, Daddy."

The two of you fall asleep in his bed, and the following day you wake up. Jongin still is sleeping, and you sit on the edge of the bed. 

You look at your group chat with The Lee Twins. 

Ten: Where are you? Y/n

Taemin: Damn, you didn't come home last night. Are you really that mad at me? I'm really sorry, Y/n. 

You: It's okay. You're spot is being replaced for the month. I'll see you two soon. 

You know things are about to get crazy, but you know Jongin can take the club to new heights. 

Read Part 2

#kim jongin x reader #kim jongin x black reader #sub!jongin #sub!kai #sub!kpop #sub! idol #sub!idol x reader #dom!reader #sub!exo #kpop smut #kai x reader #kai x black reader #sub!idol x dom!reader #sub!idol

[writing-in-glitter-pen]

Hii have you done an Albedo love language?? I love your work!

Awww thank you so much!!! I haven’t done Albedo so I’ll do it just for you ♡ I can’t believe we’re doing a part three per request!!!! Ily guys ♡

Genshin Men and Their Love Languages Part Three ♡

If you haven’t read part one with Diluc, Kaeya, Ayato, and Thoma, or part two with Zhongli, Xiao, and Wanderer, go ahead and check ‘em out ♡

Albedo, Baizhu, Childe x gender neutral reader!

Genre: Romance, Fluff

Content warnings: Albedo and Childe do not know what physical boundaries are. Albedo does not back off when prompted while annoying you. Childe is clingy. Baizhu is winning today.

You’d think Albedo’s love language would be acts of service or words of affirmation; he’s extremely talented in many areas of science that serve a wide range of purposes, and his quick wit would make him an exceptionally talented flirt. However, after your courtship period had ended and you two fell into deep romantic love, you find his love language is physical touch! He loves to sit you down on a stool in his lab as he works (even on the lab bench if he feels like breaking lab safety rules) and have one hand on your thigh as he works, rubbing circles into it with his thumb. When he’s pacing around the lab, working on different things in every corner, every time he passes you, he’ll softy drag a hand through your hair or across the small of your back. This man is also just a fiend for kisses. He steals them all the time. Like…he could get a kiss if he asked for it!! But no. He wants to steal it. He especially loves catching you off guard, suddenly capturing your chin while he was otherwise preoccupied with writing up a lab report and bringing your lips to his. While you’re sitting and maybe drawing or reading in his lab, he’ll come up from behind you and place a hand softly on your neck to tilt your chin up—then lean down to plant his lips on yours as his hand gently strokes down the tendants of your neck to your collarbone. He loves how your face flushes when you’re surprised, it just makes him even more fiendish! He’ll do anything to see you make that cute flustered expression again. When you get angry at him, refuse to kiss him or are just pouting about, he likes squishing and pinching your cheeks. It might make you angrier, but he’ll hold on tight, no matter how much you try to bat his hands away and complain. You just look so adorable with such a mean look on your face and such puffy cheeks! Whenever you’d get indignant enough, he’d grin slyly and suggest that maybe if you’d give him a kiss, he’ll stop squishing them. … well now one’s not enough. He’s going to need another. Another. Another. Despite your boyfriend’s cool and serious persona, he just loves annoying you to death, and loves it even more when he can get his hands on you to do so!

Baizhu’s love language is a combination of gift-giving and acts of service. As a doctor, his vast experience in developing medical products has also given him a knack for making more self-care and cosmetic aids as well. When you visit him at work, he always has a new sweet-smelling lotion or perfume he formulated specifically for you. It makes the other ladies in Liyue Harbor beyond jealous; you get asked at least ten times a day about the brand of perfume you use or where you bought it, only for you to apologetically tell them that your boyfriend made it himself, that it was an original. You lament to your boyfriend about the mean looks you get because of it, leaning sorrowfully against the reception counter, not catching the proud sly grin he adorns—he can’t help but love making you stand out, enhancing your already lovely presence. He also makes various hair, skin, and nail care treatments for you—masks and oils and serums galore! He wants you always feeling your best, maintaining your soft hair and skin, your beautiful hydrated and healthy nails. You’re the perfect image of vitality, all thanks to his doting treatments. He adores soaking in your beautiful visage whenever you drift through his place of work to see him— he’ll check your hands to see how the latest treatment is working for them before giving each of your smooth knuckles a kiss, then flip your hand to lay a firm kiss in your palm, inhaling the sweet notes of the perfume he made for you. In these moments, it feels like you’re completely his, and he takes good care of what’s his. In regards to acts of service, he takes pride in treating you directly. He’ll apply your serums and lotions for you—rubbing them into your skin in a caring massage, admiring any place he touches with gentle praises. Speaking of massages, say goodbye to every knot or ache in your body. His hands are god-sent, you’ll never know discomfort again. And never fret over checkups or any other medical treatments you need, obviously, your doctor boyfriend will take care of you! He honestly loves giving you checkups and you find him doing it even when you’re not in the medical office. He just appreciates being able to get an intimate look at your body to determine anything you might need—from something as minuscule as a bit of dry skin to something more serious. He’ll handle it all for you, dedicated to the cause of keeping his darling as comfortable and healthy as possible.

Childe’s love language is also a mix! He expresses his love for you through both gift giving and physical touch! We’ve been over this—Childe has more mora than he knows what to do with so he spends it all on YOU! Not only does he pepper you with lavish gifts frequently, but he also makes sure no necessities of yours are old or not working in perfect condition. If you were in a modern AU, Childe is the kind of boyfriend who takes your car to the shop for you even if you get the tiniest little knick on the paint—on his dime of course. And while your car is indisposed he’ll be more than happy to drive you anywhere you need to go! In our normal universe, Childe doesn’t let you wear shoes with a single scuff or patch of dirt on them, which makes your life difficult cause YOU’RE AN ADVENTURER. You’ve explained this to him multiple times but he just won’t hear it! So you just have to keep a pair of work shoes at the guild to swap for the latest spick and span pair Childe bought for you once you’ve finished your commissions. And even if you keep that pair looking perfect, you’ll still find a new, originally designed set waiting for you in a nicely-wrapped gift box on your bed once you return home. All you can do is sigh in defeat and love the new shoes he got you—in your favorite color too! Your boyfriend loves spending money on you, but he also can’t get enough of touching you! Whenever he’s home, if both of his hands aren’t bound behind his back, they’re on you. Your sweet, puppy-eyed lover just needs a lot of physical affection—his hands feel empty without you in them. When he’s apart from you at work, all he thinks and fantasizes about is when he’ll finally get to have you in his arms again. You’re a comfort to him in his turbulent work life, and the thought that he does it all just to come home to your beautiful face at the end of the day keeps him pressing forward. He needs a lot of physical affection to feel satiated, to the point that he’s basically on top of you all the time that you’re home. He trails after you everywhere; you’ll be cuddling on the couch, then you’ll get up to go to the kitchen, and not a minute later he’s right there behind you, kissing the space between your shoulder blades and holding you tight around the waist. Part of dating Childe is signing up to be his personal teddy bear, a job you fulfill with dedication and pride. And lots of love of course ♡

#genshin x reader #genshin x gender neutral reader #genshin x you #albedo #albedo x reader #albedo x gender neutral reader #albedo x you #childe genshin impact #albedo genshin impact #childe x gender neutral reader #childe x reader #childe x you #ajax genshin impact #tartaglia x you #tartaglia x reader #baizhu #baizhu genshin impact #baizhu x reader #baizhu x gender neutral reader #baizhu x you #childe genshin x reader #genshin childe #genshin baizhu #albedo fluff #childe fluff #baizhu fluff #childe imagines #albedo imagines #baizhu imagine #genshin ajax

[jacksprostate]

f Narrator wanting to murder maim mutilate m marla.. or marla/ male marla and narrator/f narrator worsties/besties. or marla/male marla and tyler… or anything with marla/ male marla..

Marlon called me, interrupted me at work, and he said he had a bruise. He said I needed to come and look at it right away, because he needed to know.

This was him, asking me, pounded flank steak, to look and tell him the nature of his bruise.

Marlon hasn't had health insurance in years, so he tries not to think about it, usually. It's easy, since there's no difference when you have health insurance. It's old hat.

But today, he thought about it.

And he noticed a bruise.

So I'm walking up to the Regent hotel after work, and he's in the lobby in his limp little tank top. He'd call it a wifebeater and imagine himself in place of the wife, I'm sure. I wonder if he isn't cold all the time. Mr. Marlon Singer, such a masochist just so he can show off his skeletal body with all the cigarette burns I have to hear him and Tyler laughing over.

I am Jane's abnormal hemorrhoid development.

He doesn't mention what Tyler and I stole from him, even though I think it was all the cash he had. Even though just three days ago he tried to chase me around the house and beat me with a broom. He made me and Tyler go sleep in the junkyard. Buried under our furs, howling at the moon. Maybe I can't fault him for that.

He couldn't keep it here where the guys he brings back could get at it, he said, and sure. But he should've known better than to tell Tyler about it, because now it's bags upon bags of lye being kept in the driest room in the house.

I work on grinding cracks into my remaining teeth as he grabs his neighbors Agatha and Dianne's Meals on Wheels kits. The delivery lady remarks on what a good young man Marlon must be, helping out these old ladies. Oh, yeah. A real, upstanding, mummified rat of a man. Maybe he helped them into the ditch. He yaps at me the entire walk up to his room, and I don't hear a word as I methodically rip up the skin around Tyler's kiss on my hand with a broken nail. It's been infected since Tuesday, and the ring of puffy red flesh makes the ghost of her lips white like the center of a neon tube. Always buzzing.

We get to his room, he says to me, "One of these boxes is for you, you know."

I think about all the women who bother to use what little time they have to operate charities that keep the poor and destitute alive enough to want to kill themselves. All that time spent cooking mac and cheese en masse and putting little packets of powdered milk next to little cartons of the liquid, like they get at schools and prisons, packets that can only be opened by the nimble fingers of caring relatives these elderly recipients do not have.

Sure.

Tyler told me I need to be eating at least two meals a day, or she'd steal a blender and make me drink raw chicken. So I eat the Meals on Wheels box. Sorry Agatha. I rip open the powdered milk packet, dump it into the carton, hold it closed, and shake it. Twice the calories. A recipe for palliative care.

Marlon's sitting there, quiet, eating Dianne's latest last meal. All the urgency is gone. Sucked dry. He's got pallor like a hospice heart failure. When dogs get treated for heartworms, the worms die, and sometimes, not all of them break apart. Sometimes, there will be thin, dead cords of necrotized nematode strung through their heart waiting for the right beat to fall apart and clot a vital artery. This can take years to happen. Your pet recovers perfectly from treatment until seven years down the line, you give it a doggy cupcake and a pulmonary embolism for its tenth birthday.

Marlon looks like he's had his first melarsomine injection and his owner is thinking about taking him to a dog park instead of bothering with the second. If you let a dog get its heart rate up too high when getting treated for all the parasites you let grow in it, its heart will explode. Or all the worms will clog its lungs. Whichever one it is, it's happening to Marlon here in this room. On this bed.

He says he'd found a bruise, a while back. A nasty little thing, like the crush of a plum under your thumb. Near one of his ankles. And Marlon Singer knew he couldn't afford any novel treatments, and he'd seen too many people rot from the inside out from them already. He did not go to the clinic down the street that gets its windows broken in often enough that there's just big black billowing sails of trashbags over their storefront more often than not. Marlon says he once saw a rat nailed to the door, which is something you'd think would be too neat and poetic for real life. He didn't go to the clinic because he didn't have to. And maybe if he was fucking guys he wanted to he would be a bit more cautious, but the men Marlon Singer gets to fuck are the type to have given him those bruises in the first place. They're the reason there's single mothers visiting that clinic, like half melted wax getting scraped out of the picture. He says he shouldn't feel guilty.

I tell Marlon about where I got the idea for poisoning all the food at the Pressman hotel.

He asks me what I mean by that, and I tell him about my first boss at the company I work for now.

When I first started there, I was selling our cars to companies. Bulk orders for work vehicles. My job was to not fuck up any contracts we already had. Marlon is probably aware, but the type of man involved in that sort of thing, he knows he's got you on a collar and chain. You and him both know he'll be renewing the contract, but you have to do the song and dance for him. Pretend you like how close he gets to you. Pretend you don't want to rip his testicles from his ballsack when he leans in sweaty and tells you how he likes your hair, did you go and do all that just for me?

Because he knows. And you know. But enduring this is what you were hired to do. If you were a man, you would've been hired to create a sense of the old boys club with this guy. But you're not.

There is so much pretense in the world.

Anyway, my first boss, call him Joe — whenever I'd return from those trips and dinners, Joe wouldn't pretend that it wasn't a shit job. He'd commiserate and wish me luck with the next one. He didn't overstep, he wasn't creepy, he kept his distance. The best you could hope for. Thirty days on the job, they asked me how I was doing, and I told them I was doing great. The job was amazing, I felt embraced by the company, my boss was great. One of those things was true to me.

And when Joe got his promotion, for being such a great regional manager, he cornered me in my cubicle and informed me he'd been jerking off into my nicely labeled thin salad lunches each time they showed up in the office fridge. He told me this with the same smile he'd always worn.

Marlon, he's next to me, and he leans closer like we're having a nice little confession. My skin itches.

It was before the 90 day clause kicked in my health coverage, so I had to wait at one of those free clinics like Marlon's, and I was surrounded by a lot of young men, wispy mangled pears. What little flesh was left was soft. When I told the nurse what happened, I watched myself die in her eyes. Dappling up with rashes and bruises until I was all painted and sunken like a bog body.

For the longest time, I wondered if I'd become the oral Mary. How many times I vomited in that office toilet, I don't know. I stopped bringing lunch.

The thing is, I couldn't see it in his face. Joe's, I mean. Not even when he told me. I couldn't see it in anyone. So I stopped eating out. Stopped eating altogether, really.

Marlon, his response was to go to the support groups. His tragedy was that it was a slow death, coming for him. Best to wriggle into the pile of dying bodies, see what it's like. Maybe that could muster enough suicidal impulse.

I tell Marlon, of course, I couldn't go to HR. I was a new hire with no evidence and previous record of liking my boss. I didn't want to tell my mom. I didn't want her to know. Those uncomfortable dinners became absolutely, wretchedly unbearable as I thought about the food I was being forced to share.

When the option came up for a dead end job in the least loved department in the building, I put on the best performance of my life to get the part. Best aspiring Compliance and Liability head and sole department employee, that's me. My new job was to keep secrets. It was, already, old hat.

For months I thought about waking up from a narcoleptic fit at my desk, with Joe leaning over the cubicle wall and asking if I was alright. I watched my stomach like it was nuclear. Every extra second it took until I bled like usual slid me closer to buying myself a shotgun and pumping a slug or two into my brain.

It's an unavoidable fear, I tell Marlon. You can't do anything about it. Once you know, you know. At some point, you have to find the peace in it. Imagine yourself, a balloon popping with meaty chunks flying apart, splattering onlookers and raining viscera.

For a month, six months, I had cancer. Worse than cancer. Every time I eat out, I get it again.

Marlon is looking at me, melting stained glass, drowning in that sort of shared pity you build together with someone who's dying.

I don't want Marlon to feel guilty.

I tell Marlon, that's why I poison the food at the Pressman hotel. Someone's got to do it. Blood in the tomato sauce, spit on the steak. Imagine what you could do to a soup. The men who go to the Pressman hotel, they're the kind that leave Marlon bloody and walking around Paper Street calling for Tyler to come out and burn more holes into him. They're the kind that get promoted from regional manager. They're the kind that lean in close, pull your wrist towards them, and say there's one way they know you could secure the contract renewal. The kind that almost ruin it in a temper tantrum when you don't, resulting in an upper management intervention on the 24th day of your new job. They're the kind that hear that shit and say you should've been more appeasing. More polite.

Don't feel guilty, Marlon.

I hope all of them rot so everyone can see the maggots eating their insides.

Marlon isn't smiling. I am unavoidably bad at distracting him. There's something final in it, when he sighs, and takes off his tank top. He says it's on his back, and I should just tell him.

I look. I see it. Black hole, botfly, necrosis. There's so many things these broken blood vessels could be. Withering, snapping apart like mummified heartworms. I imagine driving the two inch melarsomine needle deep into the muscles bunched upon his spine.

I look.

I press my hands into him, and I grip like I'm trying to rend my fingers through his skin, deep into his body cavity to rip out his guts. Like I'm trying to grab the rope of his small intestine and strangle him with it. Marlon's yelling at me and trying to hit me, arms flapping like a chicken, and I am bruising ten deep circles into the soft pearskin of his abdomen. It's the only place left on him that's mealy, that isn't frayed rope under worn out leather.

I tell him, you've got bruises. They look mostly normal, to me.

Don't worry too much about it.

And Marlon, he leans into me, and I let him.

#asks #fight club #female fight club au #my writing #obv directly in parallel to the book chapter #this has been sort of floating in my head #in the book its probably the most caring moment the narrator has for marla #and i think that is the same here actually #its just female narrator off the charts detestes marlon more in the first place. puts all her sense of sympathy and shared solidarity into #Tyler. but. yeah #anyway made marlon's life absolutely miserable #and the narrators #i actually went back and forth on that #i dont want to... necessarily... give her Solid Reasons in a way male narrator doesnt have #but its sort of inescapable that fucked up misogynistic shit would happen #and i was thinking how to resolves the food contamination question in my head #hard to explain #inherently more horrible shit will happen to her than male narrator #but not excessively and i want it to feed into the same issues. in this case her complete subjugation in the office and inability to freely #reject the horrific shit shes forced to play along with #resulting in her doing the same to the fat cats rolling by #anyway #she does care about marlon #its complicated

[sleepyboywrites]

Creepypasta with a s/o who pushes people away/is a runner

You don't want to cause problems in fact that's why you push people away and have a bag packed just waiting for the right moment.

Tw: miscommunication, mention of blow-up fights, physical/emotional abuse, manipulation

Eyeless Jack

• You better pray that you're running away from something, someone, somewhere else and towards him because otherwise you aren't getting far.

• Running from him will trigger his hunting instincts and you will be missing a few organs by the time you wake up with broken legs and tied to a surgical table.

• He might even harvest an organ or two of yours if you stop running up on sensing him regardless to ensure a part of you will always be with him and to ensure you're in too weak shape to pull that stunt again.

• He'll scream at you until you break down into sobs or scream back that you were trying to avoid issues.

• In the latter he'll probably freeze for a minute before screaming that you left him and all that did was cause problems.

• You will have to apologize for hours until he calms down. And then daily afterwards for quite some time.

• Expect to be restrained or clung to any walking moment. He can't have you leaving him again.

• Also expect to be treated roughly for the upcoming weeks because the likelihood of him being soft with you is slim.

• Think claws digging into your skin as he holds you to his chest or as you are walking around.

• If you push him away or start acting coldly towards him in an attempt to make him hate you then the opposite will most likely happen first.

• He'll start treating you as if you're made of glass. Checking in and asking how you're doing/what's wrong all while taking notes on your vitals he can sense as he does so.

• If this works and you talk to him then things will be resolved and your insecurities reassured. If not, you are on thin fucking ice.

• He'll try to be patient and calm. Essentially trying to lure you back in and keep you in a relatively happy healthy relationship and state of being.

• If these attempts fail however I suspect he would start mirroring your behavior. Acting as if he doesn't care and giving you the same treatment you've given him.

•He'll begin stirring in his insecurities and eventually he will become paranoid of you hating him and attempting to leave him. Then you'll be treated as if you had left him.

Laughing Jack

• If you think that you got away you didn't.

• More likely than not you are simply in an illusion as he tries to decide what to do with you.

•He could eat you. Or lock you up to make sure you are always by his side.

• What ends up happening depends entirely on how you're reacting to your so-called escape.

• If you seem happier than you were with him he will probably eat you or turn you into a permanent attraction to his circus, a nice new pinata if you catch my drift.

• However a few meltdowns and you'll most likely just spend a couple weeks with him in his realm until he's sure you won't leave for real

• Man's has abandonment issues and blatantly so. So if you do just run he's more likely to be hurt and angry and less concerned with your well being.

• In fact you won't be able to try and reassure him for a while because if you get too close he might accidentally kill you with three deep slashes from his nails in your abdomen as he screams at you to stay away.

• A lot of sitting across from one another as he stares or screams at you to the point where you may wish you'd actually ran away.

•Definitely the least stable in this situation. Think screaming one minute and whispering begging you to stay the next.

•Actively attacking you if you get too close complaining that you won't hold him the next.

• To be completely honest I don't know if you guys would ever get back to normal if you behaved this way.

• Additionally, if you tried to make him hate you by being cold, distant, and rude he would first try to cheer you up then if his efforts failed he'd try to comfort you but if both are unsuccessful he'd eventually start treating you the same and once that happens again you're in danger of him killing you because you aren't any fun anymore.

Ben Drowned

•One of the more gentle about it ones but don't let that get to your head.

• Once again if you thought you got away you didn't because this man is stalking you constantly even when you guys are in the best part of your relationship.

• That man is a screen behind you the entire time. It doesn't matter if you are traveling by horseback to an abandoned cabin way off grid he is hopping nearby towns rapidly because one day you'll need supplies.

• and He will find you the second you do and pull you into the digiverse with him which is where you'll live now.

• Unlike the others he won't scream or yell at you instead he'll essentially attach himself to you.

• Slinking his arms around your chest, shoulders, sides, waist, wherever he can get his hands and he'll stay there until you complain about the weight of his body dragging on yours in causing you pain.

• He may also alternatively carry you instead of clinging to your being otherwise after you complain or whenever he feels like it.

• The only signs of his anger at you leaving is if you ask to leave and go back to the "real" world, or if you complain about him clinging to you in any other way then "Ben this hurts" after a decent amount of time where you'd be expected for it to hurt.

• In which case he'll grip you tighter and glitch against you as he tells you that this is only happening because you left and this is the only way he can ensure you never do so again.

• Or if you've said enough to really piss him off he'll leave you alone in this blank digital void until you beg him to come back.

• If you try to explain yourself he'll either stop you by saying that it doesn't matter cause you'll never do it again or he'll listen in silence before clinging to you and telling you he's sorry he made you feel that way and any issues you have you guys can work out together.

Jeff the Killer

• least tolerant

• you're dead :)

• he killed you.

• Especially if you had been adjusting well previously because obviously you're a liar and never loved him.

• You can cry and plead all you want but it'll fall on mostly deaf ears.

• If you're lucky he'll just horribly mutilate you, thinking he killed you, but on further inspection you won't be dead and then he'll haul you back to the mansion and have someone fix you up.

• Once you're healed you'll most likely be thrown into a dungeon, locked up for "re-training."

• Where he will thoroughly break you into an obedient mindless husk of your former self with no identifiable personality.

• a pet if you will.

• His ass will not notice the signs leading up to your attempted escape. After all he talks so much he doesn't notice when you go silent and he is focused on anything but your emotions.

• While he saw something in you incredibly interesting his perception of emotions is wildly morphed after all he doesn't percieve emotions correctly himself. Pain makes him laugh and he finds what most find disturbing incredibly visually pleasing. That applies to you as well. Ie: you're tracing a scar from his knife he left on you with a frown he thinks you miss his blade against your skin or how passionate you two were when you both first met and will therefore bring out his blade or show you some passion.

• So he won't notice any of the signs and since he's finally allowed you to wander around with him instead of being chained somewhere if you run away regardless of the signs he will just be pissed.

• He'll act in a rage and horribly mutilate if not flat out kill you.

Homicidal Liu

• Much more tolerant than his brother but not necessarily less violent.

• I feel like Liu and Sully would give you a day or two to come back on your own. 2 if overnight trips had previously been allowed for you.

• If you don't come back however... 60/100 chance of survival.

• Survival chances depend entirely on which alter finds you and how you react.

• If it's Liu, so long as you run into his arms crying, apologizing, and explaining yourself after he calls out to you, you'll be fine but if you try to outrun him or make any moves away from him and you'll probably trigger a switch in which Sully will come out and I doubt you'd escape him unscathed or even breathing.

• If Sully finds you however you will have until he starts to talking to convince him not to kill you. One of the ways being if you run over to him and clung to him the second you notice him. It might trigger a switch to Liu and even if it doesn't Sully will dig his nails into your sides or hair and as he inhales he'll calm down enough for you to apologize. But if you try to explain to Sully before he's calm enough to discuss it with you himself, he'll call you a liar and slam your head into the nearest surface until you're limp and silent.

• Also if you try to interrupt Sully's monologue as he approaches you he'll choke you until he's finished but if you wait more than 3 seconds to speak afterwards he'll go "What!? Nothing to say!? You're worse than all of them who made us this way..." Before lunging at you and killing you with his bare hands watching your blood drip from your veins and the light fade from your eyes.

•If you survive they'll take you home, make you a meal, and then drag you to bed placing their entire body weight into you mumbling about how they hadn't slept since you left.

• They'll ask you about it after things have settled and your back with them where you belong. A week or so with the new rules in place.

• He doesn't want a mindless pet, the reason he likes you so much is because you make him feel like who he was before the accident, loved, and accepted. So they won't break you but they will restrict "privileges". Such as no more closing doors, public outings, or unsupervised times for the foreseeable future.

• If you try pushing him away you'll send him into a spiral.

• He's the most susceptible to this because he'll start feeling like you don't give two flying fucks about him after all and seeing as you remind him of before his traumas he may regress.

• You can expect several outbursts from Sully trying to hurt you or force you away from him because he's the trauma holder and by treating him coldly he's forced to relive some of his traumas.

Ticci-Toby

• You are his favorite person, and you left him. Tsk tsk reader, bad move.

• We also know his outbursts tend to be angry/agressive so chances are while attempting to pin you to something with his hatchet he might pin you to a tree through the square of your chest and you'll die. Therefore your best chance at survival is best if he finds your packed bags or comes back right as you were about to leave. Pray he's in a manic high and not a manic low.

• If you successfully start running away from him worst case scenario, he will chase after you and possibly accidentally kill you within 24 hrs, purely out of his blind anger and panic. He'll cry over your body saying it was an accident and he didn't mean to over and over until he calms down enough to bury you afterwards. Best case, he'll miss and you'll trip over his axe or he'll pin your pant leg to the ground. Then he'll take you home and your legs will be broken in such a way that you won't be able to walk without crutches ever again because how else can he ensure you're unable to leave him while still keeping the parts he loves about you the most.

• if you're really good at hiding and you manage to avoid him for a couple of weeks to let the crash really set in, you may be able to reason with him and survive essentially unscathed, though your insane if you think he's going to let things return to where they used to be, you aren't leaving his side ever again.

• if he walks in as you are leaving he'll either laugh at you and ask you what you think you're doing. Or he'll drag you back to him by your hair if he thinks you're leaving him and you don't walk yourself back to his side in a timely manner. Like see him, drop back, walk over, in that order within 10 seconds. Or a mixture of both.

• If he finds your packed bags it is going to cause a blowup fight. Think of him screaming, crying, throwing the shit you had packed around the house.

• or he'll drop your bag in front of you agressively in silence, which is when your best chance of talking about it arises. If you don't blowup fight will occur.

• Unlike some of the others, he'll notice the signs. If you try pushing him away chances are he'll first assume you're having a rough go of it and try to cheer you up.

• Then he'll assume he did something wrong or you guyd have a problem and start asking about it because as unhinged and unpredictable as he is, he generally tries to communicate. He doesn't want to end up anymore like his dad than he already is.

• though he may ask bluntly "What's up with you/us?"

• Regardless I recommend that you open up when he approaches you. Take the olive branch or suffer the consequences of him being upset and angry at both himself and you. More aggressive outbursts, cold behavior even when seeking affection, etc.

Tim/Masky

• He'll notice something is up immediately and start investigating it.

• He'll figure it out and fix it.

• And if he somehow misses it, he got too busy at work or his game was off a week, he will find out you're planning on leaving before you leave

• He found your packed bag and emptied it and when you repacked it later and he found it's new hiding spot he just took it.

• He'll see you as you're rummaging for your bag and hold it up in front of you and say "Looking for this, (y/n)? What were you planning, hm?"

• He'll then laugh at you as you sputter or if you lie and tell him nothing

• You will tell him one way or another. He assured you of that and informed you that it'll be in your best interest to just let him know now.

• If you comply he'll keep up his persona created specially for you and snuggle up to you spewing out words to comfort you.

• After all appearances are important to him and while to you it'll appear as nothing has changed he will be keeping closer tabs on you. Ie: you tagging along to paperwork work days and more cameras hidden in gifts. Maybe going as far as putting trackers on you.

• Anything else however and that will immediately drop.

• He'll lock you up for a few days and then ask again and this process will continue until you are honest with him but once he lets you out you will be expected to go with him everywhere that he goes.

• If you somehow still manage to run away you may get farther than you expected to just to be dragged back once you stop for the night or knocked out from behind and taken home only to wake up with a bruise and a cold cloth to your forehead as Masky goes "we need to talk" through gritted teeth.

Brian/Hoodie

• Knows something is wrong, doesn't know what, doesn't approach you about it because if it matters he expects you to tell him. If you're pushing him away he'll give you the space he thinks you're asking for to the best of his ability.

• Instead, he tries treating you as gently as he is capable and doing things to attempt to cheer you up. Ie: bringing home your favorite food, drink, trinkets that made him think of you. Offerings to you so you'll show different signs, ones of love, appreciation, wanting to stay.

•Even going as far as too avoid you when he feels an episode coming on.

• If you still try to run away I think his reaction would be a more even mix of upset than angry. He tried to encourage you to talk to him from his pov, tried to change this outcome and now he still has to hunt after you.

• Once he finds you, he will simply stalk you for a while. Watching you, waiting to see if you'll notice him, and waiting for the right moment to take you home.

• He doesn't want to force you to come back, he'd much prefer to be a hero in your eyes than a monster so he'd wait until you broke down then swoop in to comfort you. But I give him a week before his patience runs out and you wake up chained up as Hoodie stares straight through you before getting up and leaving the room.

• Then he'd return and leave periodically untill you decided to talk about it.

• Unlike with some of the others, (Masky, Toby, LJ) your physical needs will still be provided in this aftermath.

• Most likely to understand where you're coming from, reassure you, and then have things go back to a form of normal with no further changes or consequences.

#ben drowned #brian hoodie #eyeless jack #homicidal liu #jeff the killer #laughing jack #ticci toby #tim masky #creepypasta x gn!reader #may or may be based on personal emotional responses #sorry i disappeared #im back now #suggestions are welcome