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reidsdaisies · 2 months

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༉‧´ˎ˗ pairing; emily prentiss x fem!reader

༉‧´ˎ˗ summary; Derek and Emily are the last to get back to the hotel. Derek kicks Emily out for the sake of his ‘beauty sleep’, and she’s left to have to share a room (and bed) with reader.

༉‧´ˎ˗ content warnings; bed sharing, cuddling, mention of emily’s nail biting habit.

༉‧´ˎ˗ wc; 1.0k

𝐂𝐌 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 || 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

The smile you give at her presence is a sweet one, though you do look a little dazed as you were just awoken from your slumber. It was a good dream you were having, snow flurries slowly falling on you, the world around you calm. Her knock was what had pulled you from that dream. Instead of lying on top of a cushion of thick snow, you woke up on the same stiff hotel mattress you fell asleep on as soon after you got back from the local police station.

“Em, wh-what are you doing here.. so late too?” you squint your eyes, vision still blurry and adjusting to the light coming from the hallway she stood in.

"I just drove back with Derek," the raven-haired woman sighs, one hand stuffed in the pocket of her dark striped pantsuit, the other holding onto the strap of her bag that's slung on her shoulder. She’s not able to contain her grin as she takes in your state, the sleep-mussed hair, plain grey sweatshirt, fuzzy heart patterned sleep shorts that are indeed very short, one sock missing. "Derek kicked me out of the room, made up some bullshit excuse about how he can't sleep properly with another person in the room and that if he doesn't get enough sleep, he'll be completely off his game tomorrow.”

“..and you want to sleep here?” Your voice is groggy and your eyes have just begun to adapt to the light. Those same eyes dart down to the bag she carries, and know it makes sense why she’s carrying it.

She nods.

“If it’s not too much of a burden, that is.”

“N-no, you’re never a burden.. come in.”

You open the door wider, gesturing with your arm for her to step inside. Emily’s eyes flicker from the inside of your hotel room back over to the door of the room she was supposed to stay in with Derek.

“Are you sure it’s fine?”

Before she even finishes getting her question out, you're nodding.

“Im sure.. and I’m also sure I’m very tired.”

She huffs, a barely there smile appearing on her lips at your whine, knowing that if you get too well adjusted to being back awake, you won’t be able to get any rest tonight. You shut the door behind her after she enters and watch through the darkness as she sets her bag down at the end of the bed and gets out her pajamas as well as a makeup wipe, hairbrush, and her toothbrush and paste.

You fish around under the sheets for that other sock, putting it on before climbing under the covers. You can hear her getting ready for bed, distant noise coming from behind the bathroom walls. It’s only another 7 minutes before she’s done and striding back out in her own set of pajamas, placing her toiletries back in her black bag.

“Thanks again,” she says in a hushed tone, slipping into bed next to you. The bed shifts, dipping slightly with the additional weight.

“It’s no problem.” Your voice is a barely there whisper, and you’re already close to drifting back to sleep.

Another few minutes of silence pass and you open your eyes back up, witnessing as she fidgets with her fingers above the comforter. You glance down at her fingers, silently inspecting her fingernails. Even though they’ve always looked chewed up, you can tell she’s bitten them quite recently, maybe even today.

You’d put two and two together the first time you met Emily when you originally joined the team and figured she had a habit of biting them. You were right, and she confirmed the suspicion a couple of months into knowing each other when she made an offhand comment about your nails when you came into work after getting a manicure that weekend about how well-kept your nails always were and about how if she didn’t have this nasty habit of biting hers, they could be that same way.

“Em..?” You whisper her nickname, breaking the silence.

“Hm?” She hums, stopping her fidgeting and turning her attention over to you.

“I thought you said you haden’t bitten your nails in a while..”

Emily goes quiet. Her memory takes her back to just a week prior, when she had told you her weekend went well, and that she hadn’t bitten her nails since that last Friday, 2 days. It’s been 11 days now, and it seems like she broke that streak.

“Yeah, I did.. This case has just been really stressful, for all of us I’m sure.”

You nod in agreement. You know that’s not the whole truth, and she can tell you know by it being clearly written on your face.

“I.. I’m not in the mood to talk about this right now.. sorry.”

“Well if you ever change your mind, and you do want to talk, you can talk to me if you’d like.”

Emily lets out a soft sigh, appreciating the understanding in your eyes. She shifts slightly in the bed, finding a comfortable position as she brings her arms closer to her chest, tucking her hands inwards.

"Thank you," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "It means a lot."

You offer her a gentle smile in return, your eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and empathy.

She takes this moment of calm between you as an opportunity to shimmy closer to you, hesitating slightly before draping her arm over you. “Is this alright?”

You answer her with a small nod, letting your eyes fall shut as you curl up into her. She rubs your back languidly, softly lulling you to back to sleep against her as she rests her head gently on your shoulder, the shoulder your hair is draped over, and moves her leg over yours, effectively spooning you beneath the covers.

“Goodnight, y/n.” She whispers beside your ear, and she can hear each soft breath you take and each beat of your heart with how close you are to her, no room between you, bare thighs pressed against her pajama bottom covered ones, her head right next to yours, pressing against the cozy material of your sweatshirt.

“Goodnight..” you mutter back, voice weak as you drift off.

#reidsdaisies #reidsdaisies emily <3 #emily prentiss #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss blurb #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss scenario #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x female reader #emily prentisd x fem!reader #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss fandom #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #emily prentiss criminal minds

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biteofcherry · 1 year

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To find the light, we must first touch the darkness

Please also check out @bluepinkangel’s amazing hot moodboard for this universe 🖤

dark!mafia Steve Rogers x female reader

summary: When you unexpectedly are appointed to run a health center, you foresee many struggles along the way, but not one in the form of a merciless mob boss. Steve Rogers’ core aim is to own and he won’t take no for an answer. To any of his demands.

warnings: dark!Steve Rogers; manipulation; threats; power imbalance;

word count: 4.4k

Touch the Darkness Masterlist

Chapter 2. Lava in the snow

~ * ~

Always a professional, you decided on setting hard boundaries with Mr Rogers, but in the privacy of your office.

It was never a good idea to have an audience for a type of a scolding, especially if a person considered themselves in a position of power compared to the people witnessing the scene. That escalated reactions, while meeting eye to eye gave the opportunity for both parties to still hold respect.

Taking a step back from Rogers’ towering posture, you stiffly motioned for him to walk inside your office.

You cast a pointed glare Natalie’s way as you closed the door. She was swift in her work against the unexpected circumstances, but you wanted to drive in the point of not doing favors for anyone.

The only favors you accepted in the center were those for the patients. For them you’d make things as flexible as needed.

You took a calming breath, fingers still resting on the door handle, before you pulled back your shoulders and turned around to face your guest.

He watched you curiously. At least you preferred to assess it as merely curiosity, as something told you it was best not to read the intensity in his eyes as actual, deeper interest.

The way his gaze slid up from your feet, taking in every inch of your body until it settled on your face, was bordering on inappropriate.

You met his gaze evenly, trying not to show that the vivid contrast between you two made you feel uneasy.

You were wearing a simple, pale blue pantsuit (the jacket currently hanging over the back of your office chair) and a white blouse; your heels not too high, a few jewelry pieces not overbearing your looks.

Appealing light tones to underline your professional approach.

He was an unpolished chunk of darkness. Clean, but heavy boots; jeans on which you tried not to focus, since they seemed so tight around his thighs and ass; a dark henley and a black leather jacket to match.

Each piece was basic, but pristine; and heavy compared to yours.

Light versus dark, to put it simply.

But there was more to the difference between the two of you. And you weren’t certain - not with the way he carried himself - that you’d easily maintain an upper hand even in your own office.

Rogers was like a nugget of volcanic rock that landed among the bright snow of your world, and the black heart of it sizzled with so much destroying force the innocent wintery landscape would have to melt for him.

“Please sit, Mr Rogers.” You tilted your chin up, adamant on not yielding.

You walked around him, noticing that he moved to sit down only as you took a seat in your own chair. He probably waited to assess your intentions. Or it could be a gentleman’s habit, though you wouldn’t assume he possessed such traits.

Not with the way he strolled into the center, like there was no risk of him being denied anything he demanded.

He was probably leading some old-money, family company, where the great grandsons of a slaver were so used to their wealth and spoiled with attention, they didn’t even bother to show simplest acts of courtesy.

“I’m sure you’re a busy man Mr Rogers,” you forced your jaw to relax, not to grit the words through your teeth. “So I assume your need to see me goes beyond simply wanting to meet the new director of the center.”

You knew there have been phone calls with invitations to lunches, or brunches, or other unches, with bored philanthropists and benefactors. Which Natalie skilfully dodged, placating the hungry for novelty elites with promises of you joining them for a meal in the future.

You didn’t suspect Rogers of that, but one could never be sure.

“It does, but you are a curiosity.” He leaned back in his chair.

“How so?” You raised an eyebrow.

Was it because your name hasn’t been on the list of celebrity doctors, with whom Stark-level elites were mingling with? To have an actual commoner become the head of a prospering health center could shake the boring world of snobs.

Then again, it didn’t seem that the center was interesting to any of them, since Howard made sure to not profit from it. Its main goal was to serve people, not his name.

“A pretty, shiny fish being dropped into a tank full of sharks and swimming through it all calm and confident.”

His voice carried hints of amusement and disbelief; and also a drop of fascination, which alerted your senses as something bad.

Still, you weren’t about to reveal uneasiness, nor uncertainty. That’s how people of his caliber learned they get to poke at weaker ones. You wouldn’t be weaker. So you crossed your palms in your lap, holding your back ramrod straight.

“If you mean dealing with health care system moguls, I assure you I have experience in that. Managing donations for a privately based center won’t be much different than wrapping pharmaceutical companies around a finger.” You shrugged, quite confident in your abilities.

Rogers, in turn, grinned darkly.

“That’s not what I mean at all.” He replied, entertained with your attempts to cover a shiver which clearly shook your body.

Becoming even more annoyed, you huffed and placed your hands on your desk.

“What is it that you mean, then?” You asked, your patience thinning.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” Rogers tilted his head to the side, previously shown amusement dimming down.

The air around him seemed to hum with power as his features settled into sharp seriousness. You were starting to suspect it wasn’t a usual business meeting. Nothing about this man was usual. Not in your standards, anyway.

“One of Howard’s benefactors?” You swallowed nervously, while still trying to remain calm on the outside.

You wanted to believe that initial assumption, even though you now suspected it to be a lie. Not only from the course of the conversation, but also the way Steve Rogers sat in a basic office chair as if it was a throne.

His ringed fingers resting loosely over the armrests added to that aura.

Thick, dark silver bands; some simple, some twisted in more intricate shape, a few even had colorful stones submerged into heavy metal.

Vines of black ink stretched over one of his hands, a shape of bare roots that twisted into a thicker pattern over his wrists, but the tattoo disappeared under the sleeve of his jacket and you were unable to decipher it.

You should’ve noticed earlier that he wasn’t a spoiled heir to an old fortune, but someone who probably reaped his riches with brute force.

“Of sort.” Rogers quirked his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth tilting in a smirk for a brief second. It was all gone in a blink of an eye.

“I’m someone who has all of those benefactors under my thumb.” He stated simply. “As well as other people.”

He wasn’t boasting. Rather laying down the law he expected you to take into consideration and abide by.

“What do you want exactly?” Earlier you were careful not to irritate (too much) a potential donor, now you needed to stay cautious of danger that lurked beneath the surface of Rogers’ handsome face.

“A lot of things,” his grin was sharp and threatening, “but now, from you? I want this place.”

That actually surprised you. Having watched too many movies, you half expected to hear something about paying for protection, or else your place will accidentally burn down to the ground.

Instead, Steve Rogers wanted to own the whole place. For what reason? It made absolutely no sense. It wasn’t a company that gained money, you weren’t producing, or selling anything worthy. It was a health center founded on charities, basic contracts with the ministry, taking care of people who couldn’t afford private help.

“You want to run a health center?” You asked slowly, still not comprehending his words.

“Not at all.” Steve shook his head, his grin not disappearing. “The grounds it stands on are of value to me.”

At that you felt a surge of anger. Justified, in your opinion.

A cocky bastard, who potentially could kill you with his bare hands, was attempting to deprive dozens of people in need of medical and mental help they needed, just because he wanted to own some valuable land.

“There are plenty of available plots all over the city and outside of it.” You rose to your feet in a rush, ready to throw him out of your office (though you weren’t sure how exactly you would manage to do that).

“I am not going to hand over this place, robbing people in need of the help they only recently received, just because you wish to broaden your show-off territory.” You circled your desk in swift steps, standing in front of Rogers with your hands on your hips.

“I won’t ever sell it. Or hand it over. No!”

As you nearly screamed the last word, it dawned on you what you’ve done. How reckless was your outburst, considering the man you were speaking to.

You still had no idea who he was exactly, how deep under the ground he buried his enemies - or maybe, quite the contrary, he displayed them for all to see, so no one else would go against him. But you sensed it was stupid to go for his throat so boldly.

“You haven’t yet heard my offer.” Rogers remained seated, though you noticed his fingers clenching on the armrests of his chair.

His rings scraped against the metal and you almost felt the cold pressure of them against your own throat. He’d undoubtedly leave red dents in your skin if he clenched his large hand around your neck.

“I’m not interested in it.” This time your reply came out softer; as if his fingers were already circling the front of your neck, threatening to squeeze.

You weren’t going to change your decision, but you had enough working brain left to control yourself to not antagonize Rogers further.

“You should be.” Steve slowly stood up.

As he did, you instinctively took a step back, bumping into your own desk. Which was a bad move, you knew. Not only you sort of blocked your own way of escape, but showed a sign of fear, which the predator before you undoubtedly noticed.

“See, I’m not the only one who will show interest in this place.” Rogers rolled his shoulders back, in a move similar to fighters readying to throw a punch.

With how big he was, how strong his fingers alone looked, you suspected that if he punched you, your teeth wouldn’t only rattle in your mouth, but fall out.

Though maybe he wouldn’t hit you, just break your neck in one quick snap.

“Word goes around, especially in this city. Others will reach out to you, too, when they find out I’ve shown interest.” He took a step forward. “Sooner or later. For your sake, I hope it’s too late for them.”

When his gaze slid up the length of your body, it felt like a scrape of a blade against your skin.

His eyes were so cold, irises a shade of rising sunlight caught in mountain ice, that running a sharp knife along your skin might feel a warmer caress than standing his gaze.

A chill crept up your spine.

A different kind of zing surged downward at the unexpected image of Rogers' blue eyes studying your responses as he runs an actual blade over your body.

Still, you tilted your chin up defiantly, arms crossing over your chest.

"If it's so desired by many, as you claim, why should I take your offer instead of others?" You asked, stubbornly refusing to bend to Steve Rogers' will.

Not that you planned on taking anyone’s offer, but perhaps you could play a sneaky game and lead them all in circles with false declarations of selling to the others. Though you doubted they’d believe it for long. Rogers sure didn’t look stupid enough to fall for it.

He cocked his head to the side, a glimmer of curiosity reigniting in his eyes; like a glint at the tip of an ice pick about to pierce right through you.

"Because-" his voice was so deceivingly warm and deep- "I can protect you from them. But no one can protect you from me, Princess."

First obvious threat striked you, forcing the air out of your lungs in a gasp. Your arms fell to your sides, fingers slightly trembling.

You wanted to accuse him of a big ego, laugh that any petty criminal would say how dangerous they are and no one else could protect you from them. But somehow you believed Rogers. You believed he’s as scary and untouchable as he painted himself to be.

“There’s no need for condescending names,” you blurted out instead, needing to direct your shaken feelings at something.

“Condescending?” Steve inched even closer, his feet bracketing yours as his hands slipped between your arms and your body to rest on the edge of the desk.

He had you truly trapped. Caged between the desk and his powerful body, which radiated warmth that was so tempting to lean into.

Further temptation was his perfume. A warm spicy scent, notes of cedar and cardamom, with a splash of something awakening, something tart and fresh to pull you from the lulling haze of the first notes.

His perfume was just like him - a lethal slice of acid hidden beneath a warm, comforting veneer.

“A Princess is a title of a royal family’s member,” Rogers’ eyes bore into yours, “You may not be connected by blood, but you are now an heiress to Stark, who has been treated like royalty for decades.”

“A Princess-” one of his hands brushed your hip- “is also a girl deserving to be spoiled.”

You couldn’t help glancing at his lips when he licked them. Or maybe you wanted any excuse not to be looking into his ice cold eyes.

“Seize the opportunity while I still consider you deserving of it.” He pulled back; the comforting softness of his voice transformed into coarse bidding.

“You can keep your center, I don’t need it locked down. But you will sign the property over to my name.” There was finality to his tone which you didn’t dare object at this very moment. “You have twenty four hours to consider. This time tomorrow, I’ll come to hear you say yes to me, Princess.”

Don’t hold your breath, itched to roll out on your tongue.

You kept silent, however. Twenty four hours wasn’t long enough to wage your options, but perhaps it’ll be enough to contact law enforcement or other institutions and gain yourself help.

You watched Rogers leave your office, your fingers clenching on the edge of the desk as you allowed tremors to shake you now that he wasn’t watching.

A few heartbeats, three deep breaths, and you were straightening.

You walked to the door with purpose, telling yourself you wouldn't shake if Rogers was still behind them. Yet you sighed in relief when you saw his shadow disappearing far around the corner.

Your gaze shifted from the end of the corridor to the two people still standing nearby. Natalie was typing away on her phone, seemingly unperturbed by what just occurred. Felix wasn’t shaking as much as before, but his forehead was still dewy with sweat.

“In my office, n o w.” You ordered, though your anger didn’t scare them as much as Rogers calmth did.

Maybe you needed to start wearing darker clothes?

You shook your head to rid away the idiotic thought, reminding yourself that you did not want to be anything like Steve Rogers. Your goal wasn’t to terrify people, it was to provide help and safety.

Something Rogers was probably unfamiliar with as a concept.

Felix closed the door when both of them entered your office, choosing to stay behind and sit on a small chaise that served more decoration than a used seat. Natalie took the chair which Rogers not so long vacated, spreading her calendar open in her lap and looking at you with her usual readiness to follow the day’s agenda.

“Who. The. Fuck. Is Steve Rogers?” You paced the floor, needing to get rid of the last remnants of adrenaline his visit evoked.

“I swear, if one of you says influential-” you leveled them with a pointed glare- “I will throw a stapler at you.”

“He’s a mob boss.” Felix gulped, rubbing his hands against his thighs. “A very, very bad man.”

“Well, he’s good at running his branch.” Natalie rolled her eyes. “There are three major mafias in the region. Rogers is the head of one of them. Over the past few years, his power has grown enough to push back the other two families, leaving them only scraps.”

“A mob boss.” You said to yourself, nearly breathless.

You suspected it, but some naive, helpless side of you didn’t want to fully believe it.

Things like that happened in movies and books. Sure, you were aware the likes of him truly existed, but they never crossed paths with people like you. Hell, the only crime you ever committed was a speeding ticket half a year after passing your driver’s license exam.

“More like a king, to be fair.” Natalie looked at you seriously, a first flash of her taking the situation as heavy as it was. “He really has ties all over the city and far beyond that.”

“I’ve heard he has at least four senators in his pocket.” Felix piped in, calmer now that Rogers nor his men were anywhere near. “And quite a few big fishes on other continents, too.”

Rumors tended to be overblown. Those serving to cement someone’s big, scary reputations were probably deliberately maintained, so people wouldn’t fight him out of fear of consequences. As there were - to some - repercussions worse than death.

“I should assume he has sway over the police, then.” You nearly deflated as realization dawned on you.

If Rogers had even one third of the influence they said, it meant you wouldn’t do well going with this case to the police. He’d know about it right away, which could result in retaliation worse than what awaited you if you just stubbornly said no.

“I-” Felix opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “He was seen having dinner with the chief of police and some FBI person. Chatty and cozy, like old friends.”

Your eyebrows rose nearly to your hairline. Natalie turned her head, glancing at Felix over her shoulder with a genuinely surprised expression, too.

“And how do you know that?” She asked; perhaps a little offended that Felix knew more than her. Natalie liked to be the best at everything.

“You know me, I can’t help but live for the gossip columns and blogs.” He admitted, with an embarrassed sigh. “Even if that’s only gossip, I’m pretty sure it’s close to the truth.”

You suspected he was right. If some of the information about Rogers’ connections was exaggerated, still it was safe to assume it had basis in truth. There was no safe way to ensure your actions weren’t reported back to him.

“Fucking fantastic.” You muttered, closing your eyes and pressing your fingers against your temples.

If the whole ordeal resulted only in one big headache, you’d take it. Unfortunately for you, there were more problematic consequences awaiting, regardless of your choice.

“Can’t you just give him what he wants?” Natalie asked cautiously.

“No!” Felix’s protest sounded more vehement than yours.

His suddenly discovered moral spine surprised you. In a good way.

Natalie was calculating, you couldn’t blame her for that. If saying yes meant little trouble, you probably would choose it as the logical option. But Rogers owning the place meant he could decide its fate at any time. Promises of letting you run it could be revoked within months. Not to mention the reputation of the center would shatter, if the public learned who truly owns it.

“If Mr Rogers simply wanted me to admit someone into our program, cutting the waiting list, I’d give him that.” You’d still be pissed that some rich fucker wanted to screw over poor people who were also waiting, but it was something at least someone in need could actually gain from.

“What he wants isn't that simple.” To him it was; a simple yes or no. To you it could change your entire life.

Moreover, his insinuation suggested others would be coming with similar propositions. Perhaps worse propositions, leaving you no false hope of even running the health center as it was.

His wrath, if you took someone else’s offer, would probably be a very painful one, too.

Why did it all have to fall on your head? Couldn’t Rogers discover the worth of these grounds a few months ago, when it would have been Howard’s problem, not yours?

The rest of the day ticked away like mad. Meetings and smaller problems, with which you’d deal easily any other day, now seemed to gain in size and difficulty. Your head wasn’t clear; images of Rogers’ face flashed back before your eyes. The sound of his voice saying twenty four hours resounded with each strike of the clock.

Before you knew it, the sun was setting. Meaning you stayed at work longer than you first assumed you would.

It was dedication to what you did, but at this very moment also fear of having to fully face the truth of what was coming in the morning. Who was coming.

And you still had no idea what to do.

Felix and Natalie were long gone when you left the building, as were the rest of the employees. Only the night shift security guards remained. They escorted you to the parking entrance and locked the door behind you.

You nervously swayed your car keys in your hand as you walked toward your car, briefly entertaining the idea of driving far far away.

An escape would postpone making any decisions. But it wouldn’t solve the problem.

Quite the opposite, it could multiply it.

Plus, it wasn’t in your nature to just run. You always fought back against whatever life threw at you. Granted, often you fussed and whined, pitied yourself when you had to struggle with something, but you never ran.

You were a few steps away from your car when you heard a sound from somewhere behind you. Clutching your keys in your hand, you turned around.

There was no one.

Before you were able to let out a sigh of relief, a dark cloth was thrown over your head.

Arms wrapped around you, trapping your own arms to your sides. Your scream was muffled by the hood that covered your whole face and a hand pressing over your mouth.

You squirmed with all your might, trying to jerk your head backwards to maybe break the assailant’s nose. You managed to kick them, your pointy heel cutting into their leg.

He cursed, but his hold on you didn’t falter much. It was a man, judging by his voice. He called you a bitch when you began kicking back with all your effort, striking his legs a few more times.

Then another set of hands were grabbing your ankles, depriving you of this form of defense. They hoisted you up, despite you thrashing like a fish out of water.

Suddenly, your legs were dropped down. You didn’t know why, only heard a grunt and the sound of something heavy falling.

Your other captor cursed, pushing you down so hard your head hit the asphalt. Above you, something metallic clicked, then grunts and sounds of something crushing followed. You rolled on the ground, hoping to blindly get yourself from whatever was happening.

Buzzing noise filled your head as you propped yourself on your hands and knees. You really hoped you didn’t have a concussion.

With jerky moves, you ripped the hood off your head. Your vision was slightly foggy. It took you a long moment to realize it wasn’t dark because you had a severe head injury, but because it was very late in the evening.

You glanced toward the commotion. Someone was lying on the ground, unmoving. Perhaps it was the man who was holding your legs. The other one was fighting with someone. Futily. Despite his muscles and physical strength, he couldn’t block any of the fast punches from his much smaller opponent.

You weren’t interested in staying to see who would win. Your savior would have to do with self-pride, because you weren’t going to stay to say thank you. Oh no, you were going to drive the hell away from here.

As soon as you located your car keys, which had to fall out of your hand when you were tossed to the ground.

You were searching for them in panic, squinting your eyes to see better in the shadows, when a screeching sound of tires pierced the night.

A black car burst into the parking lot. It raced past you, smoothly wedging itself between you and your assailants, and halting.

Two pairs of heavy boots jumped out of the car, landing with a thud on the asphalt. One pair ran around the car toward the fighting strangers, the other pair turned your way.

“Get rid of them,” came someone’s cold, angry voice.

“Then find that fucking little rat.”

You almost crawled back on all fours when those boots stopped inches from you and a familiar face came into your line of vision when he crouched down.

Steve Rogers was here again.

And it hasn’t been twenty four hours yet.

You stared at him, both in fear and awe. He appeared to be your savior, but his eyes didn’t hold an ounce of pity or sympathy. A stormy ocean was locked in his irises. You couldn’t be sure if you weren’t also a part of the source of wrath shining in his eyes.

Steve reached his hand out, picking up your keys, which suddenly materialized so close to you. He tossed them up and caught them again, but didn’t offer them back to you.

“Come, Princess. Before midnight strikes and more trouble comes your way.”

“Worse trouble than you?” You huffed, wincing as you tried to stand up.

You weren’t that badly battered, but it still hurt to move. Dizziness took over your head as you clumsily stood up.

Rogers’ hand wrapped around your elbow, supporting you as you swayed a little. There was that smile again - half amusement, half threat - but the shadows distorted it into a wicked grin.

“Give us a chance,” he teased, not letting you go, but forcing you to walk along him toward his car, “you may like the kind of trouble I am.”

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #dark!mafia steve rogers #dark!mafia steve rogers x reader #dark mafia!steve rogers #dark mafia!steve rogers x reader #to find the light we must first touch the darkness #touch the darkness #my writing #steve rogers fic #steve rogers imagine

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nebulablakemurphy · 1 year

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Moves & Countermoves (Part 2)

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

Prologue | Part 1

By the time they arrive at the Capitol, Katniss and Peeta are whisked off to be prepped for the tribute parade.

Y/N is already dressed to the nines, they are here to work after all. Haymitch has begrudgingly squeezed into a pantsuit to match and they’re off to talk up the night’s festivities.

Y/N drags him by the hand as they’re rushed through the streets, bustling with excitement.

“Come, come.” Their escort insists. “Five minutes to curtain.”

“Can’t wait.” Haymitch grumbles, a little hung over. His wife flicks at lint on his shoulder pads, allowing him to take a few sips from his flask as they wait in the wings. Fussing over his hair. “It’s fine,” he’s not like her. Nobody is expecting him to be perfectly put together.

“Remember, we’re happy, we’re grateful, we’re in love.” Sounds an awful lot like the pep talks he used to give her. As if somehow, over the years, they’ve switched places.

“Are we not in love?” Haymitch slurs, cocking his head to the side.

Y/N sighs, “of course we are.” Maybe not the way they were in the beginning. Gone are stolen kisses and frenzied hands; given way to comfort and familiarity.

Flickerman’s music plays, the show has started. As the crowd settles back into their seats, Caesar makes his announcement. “Tonight, we will be joined by two very special guests before the tribute parade.”

The audience squeals with excitement. They get to see her.

Y/N rose to fame because Haymitch pushed her there; she was the first sign of hope he’d seen in a long time. But she remains at the top because Snow allows her to; Y/N is everything he dreamed a victor would be. Someone to rally and unite the people with a story of gratitude and love for the nation.

“Y/N and Haymitch Abernathy,” Caesar smiles, standing at the front of his chair.

That’s their queue. Walk out, smile, wave.

The crowd howls, erupting into applause. Stealing the air from Y/N’s lungs, though no one besides her husband could know that. They greet Caesar in turn. Y/N with a hug; the show host vibrating with delight. Haymitch is a hand shake and a pat on the back.

“Welcome, welcome. Thank you for joining us.”

“Thank you for having us,” Y/N takes her assigned seat on the couch after Haymitch plops down.

“Tell us, how are things?” Caesar crosses one leg over the other. “How are the children? It’s been so long since we’ve seen you.”

Not long enough.

“Kids are great,” Haymitch tells him, “brought some pictures for you.” He fishes around in his pocket for a moment before leaning over Y/N to deliver them.

“Oh my,” Caesar cries, “our babies.” He turns the photos out to the crowd, giving the film crew a chance to tighten the shot. “Where are our babies?”

The people let out a collective coo.

“They’re growing up,” Y/N nods.

“You can say that again. Where has all the time gone?”

“I don’t know Caesar, you haven’t aged a day.”

“Ahh,” he clutches a hand to his heart. “You flatter, my girl. Now, I have to ask what we’re all dying to know…”

Haymitch moves to the edge of his seat, feigning anticipation.

“Do you plan on having more children?” Caesar leans in.

Y/N turns to her husband, making a show of whispering in his ear.

Haymitch smirks, nodding suggestively toward the curtains offstage.

“Haymitch, you dog!” Caesar fans himself at the implication.

“It sounded like an invitation,” he shrugs. Quite pleased with himself as people begin cheering. There will be no more children. Not if they have any say in it.

————————————————————————

“I have never seen a more beautiful gown.” The Capitol woman, seated aside of Y/N for the parade, gawks openly at the floor length midnight blue show stopper.

“This?” Y/N looks down at herself. “Doesn’t hold a candle to your outfit. I have half a mind to be jealous.”

Before the chariots are sent out is the perfect time to fish for sponsors. Lay the bait, then once they see the tributes, reel them in.

“Vanity has become quite the talk around here. Everyone loved your reaping dress, we always love your dresses.”

Apparently there is a slew of outfits for a victory tour, assuming one of her tributes ever make it that far.

“Darling, let Y/N breathe.” The woman’s husband cuts in. “Forgive her, she does get overly excited.”

“It’s more than fine,” Y/N reaches a hand out to shake his, “good to meet you both.”

Haymitch watches, giving the man a good old nod and smile when they make eye contact.

The presence of victors is addictive to these people. No matter how much they give, the Capitol demands more. Snow sells it for a price, sells them for a price.

Y/N wants out, she wants freedom. Haymitch keeps her sane, keeps her happy within the confines of their birdcage. They aren’t the only ones. People are angry, desperate for reform. Panem is on the precipice of a revolution, Snow can feel it too. So he digs his claws in a bit deeper.

Soon as the anthem begins to play, all eyes are on the tributes.

District twelve is last, they probably have them dressed as miners again. Ever since Vanity left her post as stylist for the games, the outfits have gone downhill.

This new stylist, Cinna, comes with raving reviews. Still Y/N is surprised to see Peeta and Katniss emerge…on fire?

“Oh my goodness!”

“Look at them!”

“That’s amazing!”

The crowd goes wild, rising from their seats for a closer look. Haymitch huffs a laugh, proud to be their mentor, even though he’ll never admit it.

Katniss won him over during breakfast on the train when she stabbed his placemat. She is a fighter, fighters have a chance if sponsors like them.

When their tributes join hands and hold them high in the air, people eat it up. So far, things are looking better for Katniss and Peeta than any tributes before. The ones Haymitch can’t put names to, the faces that come unbidden in his dreams.

————————————————————————

“Each district gets their own floor.” Effie claps her hands together as she informs the tributes. “Since you’re from twelve, you get the penthouse.”

Katniss side eyes Y/N. Is she serious?

Y/N shoots her a reassuring grin when Katniss freezes at the entrance to the elevator.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Haymitch demands, at this rate he’ll be holding the door open all night.

Katniss swallows, stepping in aside Peeta. Even with Effie, Portia, Cinna and their mentors, the space is not cramped. She wonders idly how many other people could fit.

When they reach the top floor Effie scurries out. “Here it is!”

This time Peeta stalls.

“Come on.” Y/N puts a hand to his back, nodding to the foyer.

Peeta snaps his mouth shut, following after his stylist. It is a bit overwhelming, Y/N remembers. Though the novelty wears off in time.

Effie shows the kids to their rooms. The mentors know theirs well.

“Unzip,” Y/N pleads, the moment they are alone, in the privacy of their suite.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Haymitch chortles. Turning her away to open the gown, allowing it to pool at her feet.

She kicks it away, removing her jewelry and opting for a shower before dinner. When the water runs clear she towels off, feeling like herself again or something close to it.

Tomorrow they train.

Part 3

Series Taglist: @praline357 @flowercrowns-goodvibes @justheretoparty420

#haymitch abernathy #haymitch abernathy x y/n #haymitch abernathy fanfic #haymitch fanfic #haymitch x y/n #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch x reader #hunger games fanfiction #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #effie trinket #the hunger games

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pennyserenade · 3 months

Text

the devil hath power

part two: the game

pairing: coriolanus snow x f!reader, coriolanus snow x you, coriolanus snow x nameless reader (no use of y/n) rating: m (mature, 18+) tags/warnings: talk of suicide, talk of death, talk of sex work, classism, a little bit of power play, power imbalance, food mention, alcohol mention, tigris snow cameo <3 word count: 3.6k+ summary: Coriolanus and his 'friend' begin to play a game neither of them are prepared to lose. a/n: the link to part one of this story can be found here (tumblr) or here (ao3). part three of this will follow very quickly after this one - maybe a day or two later - i promise. i've written a good chunk of it, as i intended to post this all one part, but it became much too lengthy. also, if you want to be tagged in the next part of this - or other stories like it - you can sign up to my taglist here or follow my updates blog @belovedinfidels and turn on the post notifications. thank you a ton for all your support and love. it's been lots of fun interacting with you all and writing for this fandom.

part one | part three

The money for what had conspired between her and Coriolanus came quickly, as he had promised it would. In the early hours of the next day a nondescript envelope, along with a sizable clothing bag, was delivered to her door by a nameless Avox. The amount was far more than she would’ve charged him, and yet not enough (as it always seemed to be).

However, it was the contents of the clothing bag that surprised her most of all. When she opened it she found a finely made pantsuit, feminine in its cut but masculine in its style, with wide shoulders and flared pant legs, but a more tapered, closely fitted waist. The fabric was not inexpensive either; it was a costly wool in a light burgundy shade, not unlike the color he had worn when he’d approached her in the club. She ran her fingers beneath the peaked lapels, admiring the work of what must’ve been his in-house tailor.

Though she enjoyed this gift—it was far more expensive than anything she’d purchased for herself in years—she did not feel particularly warm nor grateful towards its giver. She took the suit and hung it in the closet of the main bedroom, where she kept all her finest items, and did not think about it again until the next week.

To say Coriolanus filled her thoughts during this time would be a lie; he slipped in occasionally as she conducted business, but did not remain for more than a moment. Young men, with their heads full of ambition and tongues thick with Capital accents, brought her back to moments in that darkened bedroom, watching Coriolanus’ pupils blow wide, his lips twitching, his voice lower. The earnest clatter of teeth provided by Monday’s man reminded her of Coriolanus’ bruising intensity. The cool touch of Thursday’s regular brought her back to Coriolanus’ fingers beneath her chin. Saturday’s newcomer had blue eyes, which were infinitely kinder and much more open than Coriolanus’, but still filled her with a wave of repulsion. But it was nothing, harmless meanderings to make the time pass.

The only time she truly allowed him to invade her truly invade her thoughts was the following Sunday. The same Avox that had delivered the suit and the money returned with another envelope. Whereas the previous one had been free of design, of name, of anything that could mark it back to Coriolanus, this one bore all the signs of him, from the golden rose seal to the loopy script that read out his name.

The Avox stood at her door, staring down at the envelope in her hands with some urgency. She got the hint, opening it up without her usual regard for its design. Quickly her eyes scanned over the contents. She frowned softly; he was inviting her to a soirée at his apartment, asking if she would so kindly RSVP or decline and then send it back immediately. The date was not far away—only two short days. This, the invitation implored, was why the RVSP - or the decline - was so urgently needed.

Of course, she checked yes. How could she not? The previous envelope was evidence enough that Coriolanus followed through more than enough in terms of money, and wasn’t that all that mattered? When she handed Avox the invitation, the woman handed her another envelope. This time she did not stick around to watch her open it.

When the Avox left she sat down at her kitchen table, putting the envelope in front of her. Somehow she knew that whatever was inside its folds would impact her life in a way so few things had, and she was not yet prepared for it. Her eyes trailed over the details of the room, focused on the dampened quiet, the emptiness that lay in the elongated dining table with no guests to fill it.

As a child she had loved this room, perhaps more than any other, for it was a basin of social activity. Her mother had been a lively host and her father a jovial one at the head of the table. Wine had flown freely and their plates had been filled with food they had not known to appreciate but in retrospect. There had been nights when the guests got so drunk and so merry, and they found her innocence and her childishness compelling, cooing as she weaved her little body through their legs beneath the table. In the next room there used to be a grand piano on which she would sit with her mother after dinner concluded, and listen to her sing to the guests. Her father, a typically stoic man, would slouch against the piano and look at her mother and herself with a fondness she would never forget. How beautiful love feels when it's all gone, dried up except for the aching ghost of it rattling in the bones of a once beautiful home.

The truth of it was that her parents were dead and this home was all she had. When Coriolanus called it a museum, he wasn’t too far off. Not much had changed since her mother had died. So much had been taken before, as the Dark Days reached their peak and the hunger became unbearable. Everyone who had been beautiful and lively at those dinner parties became hollow, and thin, including her parents. It was her father who died first, but when he went it was as if her mother had died, too – it only took a little longer. Seconds, days, weeks, a total of two years until it was truly over.

It was a frightening thing to witness as a child, the destruction of something as sure and sturdy as one’s mother. She had not been told of the gruesome demise of her father, only that it had been attributed to the war. It was only later that she would find out that he had died by his own hand, that he had left what little funds they had with her mother, found an empty home, and did away with himself. His death had affected her but none so much as her mother’s had. She had to become a spectator of her mother’s failing health, watched as the rot of it filled their home, and sat idly beside her bed as it consumed her completely. Death was not delicate, not kind, not to her parents.

A better woman would’ve left this home behind as soon as she’d gotten enough funds to free herself from it, but she could not seem to. Somehow living in it felt like the greatest vengeance - or revenge, depending on the day - for her parents. Everything she did was to better this home, to restore it to the beauty she had witnessed in her once-grand childhood. That’s why the envelope was so daunting; she knew that whatever Coriolanus wrote her, even if it was inconsequential, would somehow tie to this dream. He was money and money was everything, the single stepping stone to life.

She took her time when it came to opening it, first finding a gold letter opener in the haunts of her father’s old office. The envelope was not thin but it was easy to open with the knife; she cut smoothly beneath the seal and peeled back the lip, running her fingers over the rose details that sat on the outside. She could see through the back of the folded paper that it was a letter, handwritten.

Everything is about winning, the letter began, but you know that, don’t you? I think you can see that I am not a man of unfulfilled promises now and you’re taking a step in the right direction – as any smart girl would. On the night of the party, I will send a car for you – the weather’s been rather cool for a walk – and it will take you to my apartment. Whether you choose to wear the clothing I sent is up to you, but I will say to you that the designer of the suit will be there, and she is very eager to meet you. Don’t fret too awfully much about keeping up with your appearances; it will be a small gathering, full of like-minded individuals such as yourself. They may ask what you do for a living and you may divulge the truth to them if you wish. I think I am no more ashamed of you than you are of me – what a thrilling dynamic we have.

Until then, Coriolanus Snow.

The letter remained open on the table until the night of the party. It was a reminder that she was a player in a game of her own making, but that she needed to tread carefully, lest it slip through her fingers.

She knew she could not afford to lose this; it meant far too much now that this kind of money had entered the equation.

— Even Coriolanus’ building gave the air of being self-important, large and foreboding.

Before she stepped out of the driver’s car and onto the sidewalk before the opulent apartment, she first took a wary glance upwards. The sky was a flurry of white, but even through the thicket of snow she could see the bright lights of the apartments shining ominously above her.

Her mind had been churning over the possible outcomes of this party all day. She had poured over his letter and dissected it until the individual words meant nothing and everything all at once. What she kept coming back to was the line about her occupation—how it meant very little to him whether she told the guests she was a prostitute or not. If she knew Coriolanus’ type the way she thought she did, she knew that her occupation would be of some worry to his acquaintances. Had he written that to throw her off? To make her embarrass herself the way she had him? If so, he’d have to work harder than that. She wrapped her black coat more tightly around herself and mounted the stone steps. Exhaling a deep sigh, she braced herself for whatever could come of this night.

The doorman greeted her with a curt nod as he opened the door for her. The lobby was an enormous space, full of stone columns and large potted trees. She admired the high ceilings and beautiful hanging chandeliers before another man, dressed smartly in a tuxedo and red bow tie, escorted her in the direction of the stairs. She wanted to request a walk up the large staircase but thought better of it. Now was no time to gawk over the fine housing of one of her clients. Because that’s what Coriolanus was: a client.

The elevator ride up did little to prepare her for what would come. What greeted her first was the warm sound of music and laughter. Not rich, honeyed laughter but real laughter, laughter that belonged to a time she had not been familiar with in far too long. It was feminine, rich, and pleasant. This, more than the intricate design of the apartment itself, excited her.

Before she knew it Coriolanus was standing in front of her. While another tuxedo-ed man took her coat, he walked up to her. “Welcome,” he greeted, his grin proud and wide. His eyes scanned over her and he was evidently pleased. “You wore the outfit.”

He acted as if she had said the correct answer.

Her smile was warm, and performative to a degree. “I’d be a fool not to,” she cooed.

He was pleased with her, showing it in the way he extended an elbow for her to take. She wrapped her hand around his bicep and he walked them through the long corridor, closer to the sounds of chatter. “Is there anything I should know?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing that I can think of,” he answered.

When they walked into the main room, everyone’s eyes turned in their direction. Coriolanus took to the attention, wearing a cordial grin. One of the women sitting on the multitude of cream chairs hopped up, eyes widening in excitement. “Oh Coryo!” she gushed, pushing through the small crowd to get to them.

She was a stunning woman, lithe, tall, her hair as fair as Coriolanus’ and cascading in loose curls down her shoulders. She reached her hand out in greeting. “I’m Tigris. Coriolanus told me wanted me to make an outfit for someone but he didn’t tell me how beautiful the model would be,” she gushed.

Her cheeks tinted, unused to be fawned over with such earnestness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she responded, smiling warmly. “Thank you for the outfit, it’s truly stunning.”

Coriolanus patted the hand she had on his bicep and beamed. He was showing her off like a prize, flaunting her. If she didn’t so much like the company of Tigris, she might ask him what he was getting at. But she did like Tigris, quite a lot even though this was their first meeting. Unlike Coriolanus, she was…kind. Nothing disingenuous, not so far as she could see. There was no air of haughtiness to her, no ulterior motive. She reminded her of her mother, in a way.

“I wanted her to be a surprise, Tigris. I knew you’d think she was lovely,” Coriolanus said softly. Tigris looked at him gratefully, cupping his cheek with a gloved hand affectionately.

“You’re sweet, Coryo,” she said. “Why don’t you go introduce her to the rest of the party, maybe feed her–” she looked down. “Sorry, I don’t mean to talk like you’re not here. There’s food in the kitchen and more drinks on the counter if you’re interested. I’m certain everyone else will be very excited to meet you. It’s not often Coriolanus brings someone to my parties.”

They both watched as Tigris returned into the mix of individuals. All of them were stunning, model good-looking—even the ones with more exotic appearances. Their bright hair colors and lavish makeup only accentuated their beauty. They were, to put it simply, ethereal. Not at all like the people she would expect Coriolanus to consort with.

“She’s my cousin,” he said as if reading her thoughts.

“And what does she think I am to you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A friend, I suppose.”

“That doesn’t make her curious?”

Coriolanus laughed. “No. Tigris stopped asking me questions long ago and it’s best that way. Now come.” He pointed to another open space across the room. “If I don’t get you something to eat she’ll be angry with me.”

“Is this all you wanted me here for?” she asked once they were secluded from the rest of the party. “To make your cousin happy?”

He handed her a plate and smiled his typical confounding grin. “If it was?” he taunted, tossing a berry in his mouth.

“I’d say I wasn’t an escort,” she responded.

This response made his grin stretch. “Of course you’re not,” he assured.

He followed her down the line of food, watching as she selected bits of fruits, meats, the fanciful little hor devours. Something about Coriolanus made her feel more transparent—like he knew the game she’d been playing and was waiting for her to acknowledge how clever he was for catching on. But of course he knew the game. Wasn’t he the one who sought her out?

“It’s no lie that I’m hungry, Coriolanus,” she finally submitted. Her admission made him hum delightedly around a grape.

“So eat,” he encouraged, taking a step forward. He raised a grape to her lips. When she didn’t take it from his fingers, he smirked. “Not a fan?” he teased, plopping it in his mouth. “Well, no worries. There's a lot of food here. And—“ he lowered his voice, “you can have as much as you like for as long as you like. That’s the nice thing about working with me: you don’t go hungry.”

Her eyes turned into slits. “I’m here, aren’t I?” she snapped.

He nodded, his carefully styled coif of hair bouncing. “You are, but there’s still more for you to decide. When we walk back out there, Tigris’ friends will grow interested even if she doesn’t. They’ve never seen you and you’re objectively good-looking—of course they’re going to want to know where I found you.”

She took a sip of the wine, not understanding where he was headed. This didn’t seem to bother him. He continued with a crooked grin. “When they ask you what you are, you're more than welcome to be honest. The future is what you make it.”

He took his own sip, his eyes full of meaning. She hated him. He was thrilled at her undoing, thrilled at the fact that he could control her in even the subtlest ways.

“And if I say I’m a whore?” she challenged.

He wetted his lips, setting the glass on the counter behind him. “Then a whore you shall be.”

“And if I tell them I’m your whore?”

He regarded her with an uneasy calm. She shifted uncomfortably beneath his unblinking gaze.

“Then my whore you’ll be,” he answered.

The finality of it sent her into a reflective quiet.

—

As Coriolanus predicted, Tigris’ friends were inquisitive.

After he’d let her eat in quiet, he’d guided her back out to the party where everyone was positioned in a circle. The room was made that way, adapting the Snowflake design of the house itself, each of the chairs orbiting one lone glass table in the middle. It was clever, helping facilitate conversation, but intimidating for whoever had the floor.

“Coriolanus, what does your little dove do? You’ve both spoken so little tonight and I think it’s safe to say we’re all dying to know,” one of them, who she thought was named Otho, said.

Tigris smiled ruefully. “I’m sure she speaks for herself, Otho.”

She smiled, having remembered the name correctly. It wasn’t until a second later that she realized they’d all turned their attention to her expectantly—including Coriolanus. They shared a glance before she eased back in the chair. He was nervous, perhaps just as much as she was.

“I don’t do much,” she evaded, bringing the glass of wine up to her lips.

Otho pressed on. “Oh, and how does one as young as yourself get on with doing nothing? Don’t tell me you’ve got one of those adoring Capital husbands. I mean, you’re pretty enough, but it’s just terribly unfair. I hate meeting them.”

It was a welcome lie. She didn’t look at Coriolanus as she eased her way into it. “I’m sorry to say I do,” she responded. They all leaned forward in their chairs, interested, so she continued. “He’s off in District 2 at the moment. I got one of the patriotic ones; he signed up to be a Peacekeeper not too shortly after our wedding.”

“Was he poor?” one inquired. Tigris poked them with her finger, shaking her head in disappointment.

“It’s quite alright, I don’t mind saying he wasn’t. He thought it was the right thing to do, being fit and young as he was—as he is.”

“Coriolanus was a Peacekeeper,” another one said. She didn’t remember their name either. “Is that how you met him?”

Coriolanus took hold of the conversation. “No. We go back a little farther than that,” he answered. Everyone’s eyes shifted to him.

“Do you?” Tigris asked. She seemed hurt by the idea of not knowing this. It struck her that Coriolanus and Tigris were rather close, like siblings, friends, maybe.

“As children we studied together.” Coriolanus shrugged his shoulders flippantly. Tigris nodded, but looked away.

“That’s true,” she added. She was hitting her stride. It was easy to perform, to be others, almost simpler than to be oneself most days. Coriolanus underestimated how much practice she’d had at that. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d known all along. It was hard to tell with him. “When Coriolanus and I were children I had such a massive crush on him. He was beautiful.”

She looked over at him. He wore a tight grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t you remember how I used to fawn over you?” Her fingers grazed his wrist, and she laughed. He did too. To an outsider, they made quite the jovial pair.

“I can’t say I do, but I’m flattered.” He took another sip of his drink, looking back out to their audience.

“Well, never mind that you don’t remember. I do.” She looked back at them, too. Even Tigris, who seemed wounded by what she didn’t know, stared longingly for more as she plunged into the story. She did remember Coriolanus as a little boy. It was easy enough to supply this information.

“Coriolanus was one of the more considerate boys in our grade. At that time boys made up terrible sing-songy rhymes about how girls were ugly and stinky or what have you, but not Coriolanus. Not that I heard at least.”

Everyone laughed and she looked wistfully at him. He did not look back. Instead, his eyes were captivated by the liquid in his cup. She didn’t let it bother her or take away from her story. “I remember on my sixth birthday I invited him and insisted he sit beside me. He got me a doll. I remember it very clearly. It looked a little bit like me and I thought it was very thoughtful.”

Tigris smiled softly. “That sounds like my Coriolanus.”

Coriolanus rose from his seat. He held up his glass, now empty. “I’m going for a refill,” he informed.

Everyone looked to Tigris as if searching for answers. She guided them towards another topic, smiling brightly as if unbothered. But it was in her eyes, the hurt, the confusion. After a little everyone seemed to forget the absence of him, though. Everyone almost seemed to blossom during it.

She was beginning to suspect that perhaps she’d bit off more than she could chew as she watched them all chattering away like that. Who was this man, she wondered, And why did he hold this much power even over people he seemed to love?

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #coryo snow #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow imagine #president snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #tbosas fanfiction #tigris snow #coriolanus snow fanfiction #tom blyth #tom blyth fanfic

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l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft · 5 days

Text

MICHAEL DISTORTION THOUGHT

“Spiral pantsuit” this “spooky pastel businessman” that YANO WHAT DISTORTION DESIGN I GO CRAZY FOR???

give me a lightly distorted version of the last outfit he wore on the way to Sannikovya

give me a blue or green parka just sliiiiightly not a normal shade of either colour

give me a now BRIGHT yellow scarf that stands out just too much against the thick sweater and white snow pants

Give me a WARPED and CORRUPTED version of the same thing he wore on the last day of Michael Shelley’s life

GIVE ME MICHAEL DISTORTION IN AN OUTFIT HE CANNOT FULLY CHANGE, DESPITE HOW MUCH HE HATES EVERYTHING HE HAS MANAGED TO REMEMBER ABOUT IT

#micheal shelley #michael distortion #tma #tma podcast #I think about spooky snow explorer Distortion #He hates Gertrude #But he’s stuck in the outfit he wore when she betrayed michael shelley #The tragedy #the d r a m a

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bodydoublegame · 9 months

Note

What do the ROs look like?

AGENT BECK Real Name: [CONFIDENTIAL] Physical Description: They have amber-brown skin, brown eyes, and snow-white hair. f!Beck's hair falls down her back, but it's usually in a sleek ponytail that falls over her shoulder. m!Beck is cut short at the front but curls longer at the neck. They usually wear the standard Cypress-issued uniform: a matte black armored suit. While their hair is white, their brows are black, suggesting they dye their hair. They're 6'0. Mixed Race. 30 years old. Personality: Beck can be described as cool, calm, and collected and has been honed under years of training that makes them skilled, mildly approachable, and fairly level-headed. With that said, they have a tendency to get irritated easily.

CAI [CYPRESS AI] Physical Description: They have honey-brown skin and gray eyes. For m!CAI, severely cut black hair in an undercut and nb!CAI and f!CAI's hair is cut into an equally severe and blunted length that stops right below the chin. They usually wear the standard Cypress-issued uniform for all AI models, which is a straight, high-neck black button-down shirt and pants with a single color strip on the lapels denoting their position. 5'8. Modeled to look 29 years old and mixed race. Personality: CAI is whatever they are set to be, but this Cai is blunt, honest, fairly emotionless, and one-track-minded due to being modeled to be a field agent. Most AIs who break out of their intended programming are quickly discarded and replaced. CAI would prefer to avoid that.

HAWKE Real name: [CONFIDENTIAL] Physical Description: He has olive skin, brown eyes, and his head is buzzed. He is dressed in armor, half of his body enhanced with Cypress-issued assets. A series of lines cross the side of Hawke's face, leading to his left eye where a digital enhancement chip is. He uses an exoskeleton and his suit colors are silver and matte black. 6'5. Asian, specifically South Asian. 36 years old. Personality: Despite his menacing reputation and the fact that he's a mercenary, Hawke is fairly lighthearted...when he's not on the job. Comedic, sarcastic, and arrogant, Hawke is not taken very seriously off the clock. It's a far cry from what people expect from him.

SOLANA Real Name: [UNKNOWN] Physical Description: Solana has dark brown skin and brown eyes, a lavender bob that stops midway at her cheeks, the ends swept up in what present times would call a French cut. She can be seen in clothes considered simple for the standards of their city: a pantsuit, though it does come with its own enhancements. She also has the enhancement microchip implanted, though not Cypress-issued. 5'5. Black. 26 years old. Personality: Solana is a charmer, a smooth talker, and an extrovert. She knows how to work a crowd and knows how to get people to fall for her suave words. With her personality, Solana has managed to build an empire, and she has no intention of losing it.

AXL CROWE Physical Description: Axl has pale skin and light brown hair, their eyes a startling and unnatural shade of blue. Axl keeps their hair short and shaggy, one side of their hair tucked behind their ear and clipped to their head. No matter what Axl may be dressed in, they always wear white from top to bottom. Their family's color of choice. 5'0. White. 25 years old. Personality: Axl is angry, grieving, and quick to anger. It seems like their fuse is always getting set off. They're emotional, untrusting, and prefer to isolate themselves. They tend to be a bit prissy and naive due to growing up in excessive wealth and comfort.

MAV REEDS Physical Description: Mav has light brown skin and shaggy black hair, cut unevenly in what resembles a wolf cut. Sporting perpetual dark circles from endless night shifts around their brown eyes, Mav is either scene wearing the fugly IT uniform or a sweater and jeans. They don't have much money for all the fancy things Cypress has to offer...5'11. Mixed Race. 28 years old. Personality: Mav cares less about working and more about gaming, and they're usually always up to tag along with MC's shenanigans. Though they're friendly and approachable, Mav is tired so often that they appear sluggish and exist with a perpetually weary demeanor.

Skintones of the ROs from left to right!

Beck - CAI - Axl

Solana - Mav - Hawke

Mav and Cai are similar, though Cai is a shade darker! (Failed to find a chart that picked up on that but yeah lol)

#inbox #RO descriptions #using ths ask to describe them lol #MC is 28 btw !

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cress-meadowforge · 4 months

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This time, it was Cress' turn to approach. Another ball, another opportunity to debase herself by quelling the violent fury simmering in her core. And here, with Zelena's minions on the hunt, and Snow's Peacekeepers haunting the corners like ghostly shadows, she needed to be even more convincing than before.

"Link, darling!" Cress cooed from far enough away that it would draw attention, a few curious eyes sated by the view. "Oh, Snow, look at you." The outfit was very Link: a pantsuit, nicely hemmed, just festive enough to feel intentional without being egregious. Celebratory, but not political. “Here, I brought you a drink,” she offered out the glass, matching her own, except that hers was lacking any spirits. “I thought it would be a terrible shame if we didn’t share a toast this evening.”

@linkcache

#134 #vb134 #link #p: link

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jacksgreysays · 1 month

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Primadonna Girl (needs papers, tickets, nerves of steel), (2024-03-25)

some additional lighter(-ish) additions to the bleak!primadonna AU (but still with some politics sprinkled in)

Primadonna Girl (fills the void up with celluloid)

“We’ve heard you’re the best blacksmith in town,” says the blandly smiling woman wearing a professional pantsuit that really shouldn’t work in the desert but somehow she’s pulling it off.

Even though Areki isn’t trying to hide the skepticism on her face, the woman’s bland smile does not budge an inch.

Sarcastically, she scans the vast, empty horizon that this tiny, nameless town barely interrupts. There is only one blacksmith in town. Frankly, this town is so small it shouldn’t even have one at all. It's not even big enough to be on most maps. Which is why Areki chose to set up shop here. Her response is as dry as their surroundings, “Thanks.”

Behind her manager, identity and amusement not at all concealed with her massive pair of mirrored sunglasses, is the best actress of their generation. What Kako Heijo is doing out in the middle of nowhere isn’t hard to guess—filming a movie, no doubt, with a ludicrous amount of explosions—but what she (or rather, her blandly professional manager) is doing talking to Areki is a mystery.

She sighs. “Can I help you?” she asks, because Areki isn’t keen on wasting time and it doesn’t seem like the other two women are in any rush to move the conversation along.

“Yes,” says the manager, words chosen slowly, as if she doesn’t have the full sentence yet, “we need…” She looks at Kako Heijo.

“Props,” says the most talented actress alive. Not too far away, Areki sees their film set—practically dwarfing the town—and the veritable army of production assistants unloading endless boxes of props.

“Props?” Again, Areki does not even bother trying to hide her skepticism.

Even her manager blinks, askance.

“Props,” repeats the international star of stage and screen.

“… yes. We need… props,” her manager confirms.

The silence is palpable.

Well, a commission’s a commission, and she has a child to feed. Areki sighs again, “What kind of props?”

—

(When the script allows, it really is best to film in the desert. An infinite sky, minimal scheduling and permit conflicts, and the Wind Daimyo is always eager to host globally acclaimed celebrities.

The fact that she chooses different areas of Land of Wind’s vast deserts, filling in the gaps of a long ago failed and abandoned search for the Godaime Kazekage, is just a coincidence. A matter of cinematography, really.

Anyway, only Shikako Nara would know that and she doesn’t exist anymore.)

—

“Kazekage-sama.”

“What now?” Kankurou snaps, looking up from the mountain of paperwork on the anchor of a desk in this prison of an office.

Jinzo, the secretary who actually runs the Kazekage’s office, shoots him a disapproving look. Well, whatever. Jinzo has never approved of Kankurou’s reign with the hat, only staying out of loyalty for the previous wearer, and it’s not like Kankurou even wanted the job anyway.

Behind Jinzo is the tiniest messenger genin, trembling as if they were in Land of Snow. Shit.

“You’re dismissed,” Jinzo murmurs to the messenger who flees with all haste, before he turns back to Kankurou, envelope in hand.

“What is it?” He doesn’t bother softening his tone, there can be no yielding from the Rokudaime Kazekage.

Jinzo doesn’t bother with it either. “An invitation.”

Ugh.

“Ugh, which councilor wants me to meet their suspiciously single, eligible daughter or granddaughter?”

“None of them.”

“None?” As if Jinzo hasn’t been tossing out the most audacious offers on a weekly basis.

“What I mean is,” he clarifies, “this particular invitation has nothing to do with that.”

There is an uncharacteristically hesitant pause.

“It’s for a movie premiere.”

Another uncharacteristic pause.

“A Kako Heijo movie.”

—

(There was a time when Kankurou was the least scary of his siblings, a mere puppeteer dreaming of show business, of reviving the dying arts of his culture. In comparison to his sister—eldest scion of the desert, Wind Mistress unmatched in the skies—and his brother—jinchuuriki and Wielder of the Cascading Sands—where was the threat in a fast talking, comedy relief?

But Kankurou doesn’t have siblings anymore, just like he doesn’t have any patience for people who think he’s the one at fault for his ascension staining Sunagakure a furious, ferrous red.)

—

“I’m not questioning your decisions,” Riku prefaces once she and her ward are in the relative privacy of their penthouse suite.

“That sounds like you’re about to question my decisions,” says the woman known world wide as Kako Heijo. Her eyes are sharp, but she gestures for Riku to continue anyway with an almost lenient air.

“I would never,” Riku says, blandly professional as always, “but I am curious about your reasoning behind the most recent addition to your retinue.”

“Our retinue,” corrects the preeminent multinational media darling.

“Kako Heijo’s retinue?” Riku counteroffers.

A considering hum, a nod, then another hand wave prompting Riku to continue.

“Do we really need a permanent props master that travels with us? One who has a child that also needs to travel with us?”

Riku’s responsibility shrugs. “I like knowing who makes my equipment. And I’m shocked, Riku, absolutely horrified,” she says, placidly, “I never took you for someone who would separate a parent from their child for financial reasons.”

She does not break in her professionalism.

“I am also wondering about your choice of VIP guest for the premiere.” Usually she never specifies anyone, letting Riku fill out the guest list based on her complex web of favors, social investments, and potential allies.

“He’s an important patron of the arts that resides in Land of Wind. What is there to wonder about? Surely it would be ruder not to invite him.”

She will not break.

“And plus,” adds the bane of Riku’s existence, “I heard he used to do stuff with puppets? Maybe I should introduce him to my prop master.”

She sighs, resigned. “And her child?”

“What a fascinating suggestion you’ve come up with, Riku!” says the exiled Nara clan heiress. “Yes, let’s do that.”

Riku is going to die from rage induced stress.

—

(Riku Sato used to go by a different name as well, but her duty has always been the same regardless.

If she knew forswearing the Genin Corps for advanced training in the Yamanaka clan arts would lead to this, she would rather have put up with a thousand D-rank missions to catch that fucking immortal hellcat)

A/N: I know as an artist you’re never supposed to point out the flaws in your own work, but I realize I should have had that middle section from Jinzo’s POV in order to make it… symmetrical? balanced?… with the other sections from Areki and Riku’s POVs. Really make it secondary characters looking in on the situation. But I just love writing Kankurou’s POV so much, I couldn’t help it TT_TT Also, this is roughly inspired by Mergen’s comments in response to the (this and that and everything, etc) installment of the ao3 port. Specifically, a brief theory that Souichi might be Shikako and Kankurou’s child, but the ages/math doesn’t really work out. BUT that did remind me of Shikadai’s cousins-that-aren’t and how, sadly, some of them wouldn’t exist. Or some of them would exist but not end up his cousins. However, one cousin in particular COULD have some interesting political ramifications (which is, you know, the whole point of this series) given he has Magnet Release and that was a major reason for Shikamaru being assassinated to begin with. I was considering Shikako finding Shinki when he’s recently orphaned (at nine, according to my Dreaming of S(haring the World) Shinki installment which ALSO has Kankurou) and then the two of them secretly training him in a sort of Anya to Anastasia (from the titular animated movie) type of con (that is less of a con and more a legitimate claim)… but that seemed pretty sketchy and also, like… surely SOMETHING in this bleak AU has to be better, slightly? So I made it such that one of Kako Heijo’s movies is filming near that town in the middle of nowhere before Shinki is nine which means Shikako can sense that there are TWO someones with Magnet Release, one of them being Shinki’s still alive mother :) Basically, this kind of solves the problem of Kankurou not having any children (thus making Shikadai his default heir) but it also adds some other problems in the sense that… well… both Areki and Shinki are untrained civilians and if some councilors who maybe didn’t fully internalize or maybe might have forgotten The Incident decide they’d rather be the power behind an untrained civilian Kazekage than one who is clever and bitter and suspicious of them… well… And then I figured I might as well flesh out Kako Heijo’s totally a civilian, blandly named manager since she’ll probably continue to make appearances in this AU. OVER A YEAR AND I CANNOT PUT THIS AU DOWN.

#jacksgreyson #fanfiction #writing #primadonna girl (says no thank you)#dreaming of sunshine #naruto #shikako nara #sabaku no shinki #sabaku no kankurou

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shiningdesignersreflections · 4 months

Text

Vermillion Snow: Midnight Neon

Designer's Reflection: Midnight Neon

Obtained: Welfare

Rarity: SSR

Attribute: Green/Fresh

Awakened Suit: Midnight Spotlight

Story - transcripts from Designer's Reflection

Chapter 1 - Wine Party Invitation

Chapter 2 - Assistant Experience

Chapter 3 - Unexpected Challenge

Chapter 4 - New Year's Eve

Story - summarized

Vermillion is decorating her dorm for the winter break when Chi Xiaoyu offers her a chance to take her place as Helz's assistant for the Designer's Cocktail this year. It's a huge opportunity to network with other designers and learn insider secrets. Naturally, Vermillion is excited to go.

A week before New Year's Eve, she and Helz land in Lodden Airport. Everything is still festive for Starsnow as they get ready for the conference at the hotel. It's hard work being an assistant, but Vermillion Snow takes careful notes and pays attention to the hottest designers.

One of them is Caroline, who works for a brand under Mercury Group. She prefers flashy, modernist styles, and she sees fashion only as a status marker. But worst of all, she berates her assistants for even things so small as a color palette she disagrees with.

Vermillion approaches an assistant that Caroline had just screamed at, and offers kind words and encouragement. Caroline hadn't gone far, and she scolds her as well.

Helz finds out about the incident, and he suggests that Vermillion Snow get three letters of recommendation so that she could attend the finale party as well and prove Caroline wrong with her own design. He signs the first letter, and Sonya (the carousel-dress girl) signs the second. A mysterious third designer signs the last letter.

By the start of the Cocktail's finale party, Vermillion has a dress styled and finished: fresh, simple, yet breathtakingly stunning. As soon as Caroline sees the dress, she falls into silence. It's clear that Vermillion Snow wins this challenge - even better, she wins best design at the party. In her speech, she thanks Helz and Sonya, as well as the third person "who inspired this design."

She figured out that Caroline sent the third recommendation letter. Caroline began as a lowly assistant as well, and while she still thought herself above the assistants, she wanted to give Vermillion a chance.

Bells ring in the New Year, and Vermillion Snow has emerged a more confident indie designer with contact cards from famous designers all across the continent.

Connections

-You first meet Sonya in her Reflection for Carnival Scene. Just like in her memories there, she has no character art here. The given reason in-game is that she is shy.

-Helz used to be an assistant, too, but in Morning Mist, his boss, Mr. Doge, was a lot more abusive than Caroline, going so far as to trigger eating disorders.

-Vermillion Snow may not design a lot of Apple clothes, but she is from Apple herself. She and her parents had to leave Apple during the revolutionary war, as explained in her memories in Flowery Silhouette.

-It's fitting that Vermillion would be Helz's assistant, since both are passionate about fashion and seek to reveal the true self, like when Helz designed the wedding pantsuit in Romantic Visit. And both of them earned praises and got contact cards from other famous designers.

-It's actually good that Chi Xiaoyu didn't go as Helz's assistant. While she loves designing, she doesn't like doing extra work... probably because she has bad memories of Jiang Xitong giving her lots of extra work in Early Summer Shower.

-You've seen Lodden before in Vol. 1 Chapter 6 with the auction and the Lodden's Night SSR gacha. Thankfully, no one gets hurt this time.

-Vermillion Snow and Helz land "seven days before New Year's Eve." That means they get into the airport on Christmas Eve, which makes sense with the Night of Twin Queens still performing at the theater. You've seen one queen's Reflection earlier this year in May (Erika) and a couple week's ago you met the other queen, Erinka.

Fun Facts

-This is Vermillion's only Apple-themed suit. All her other ones are Cloud-based, since she considers that country her home and inspiration.

-Chi Xiaoyu knows that Vermillion hates the name "Reddish," but she still calls her that to this day.

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jessicatredes · 4 months

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The town square was packed tight with people, corralled this way and that by Peacekeepers, dependent if you could be reaped or not. Livestock or spectator. Children moved slowly through the lines, fingers pricked and papers blotted with blood. The southern sun already high in the sky, clothes specifically worn for the reaping showing signs of sweat and dirt already. Banners with the Capitol emblem shifted with the soft summer wind. While the nearby processing plants were closed for the holiday, the smell of leather still lingered in the air.

The front of the Justice Building had been transformed into a makeshift stage. Several sets of chairs lined the outside of the building, each separated by a tall vase filled with native bluegrass and wild flowers. Two glass bowls sat on either side of a microphone. Thousands of slips of paper filled them, each adorned with a child’s name in identical print. A small tapestry hung over the stands the bowls were on, embroidered with a cow skull and Ad multos annos; a wish for a long life.

Once the area had become claustrophobic and the cameras were rolling, the mayor’s family and living victors emerged from the building. All look defeated, except for the woman following up the rear in a gaudy, bright outfit. A pantsuit in deep navy, with what looked like tinsel running through the fabric, matched the woman’s hair, pulled into a high ponytail.

“Sit! Sit! We’re beginning soon everyone!” The woman fretted, flocking between the two sides of the stage. “Everyone! Good posture and big smiles!”

Cordelia Poverly, Capitol Escort assigned to District 10 for a second year in a row. Her anxious behavior was probably due to her opening year as an escort ending within the first ten minutes of the game. Two twelve year olds reaped, killed in the immediate bloodbath. In an interview alongside their mentors, Cordelia chirped that not all debuts were stellar; no indication of remorse for the dead.

Another handful of minutes passed before the Justice Building’s belltower rung out ten times, signaling the hour and start of the reaping. The Capitol woman threw her ponytail over her shoulder, a bright smile on her face before stepping up to the microphone.

“Welcome, welcome! What a glorious morning to celebrate the start of the 68th Hunger Games,” She paused for a small clap, looking back at the others on the stage. They followed suit, though less enthusiastically, before she continued. “As we all know, the Hunger Games are a solemn reminder, brought forward by the Treaty of Treason, to never repeat the Dark Days.”

The many screens dotted around the square, presently broadcasting Cordelia’s introduction, flickered to a film all were familiar with. Scenes of war and disarray, narrated by President Coriolanus Snow, shifted to peaceful clips. Prosperity. Joy. Families together and clear skies. As it came to an end, the screens switched back to Cordelia.

“Wonderful,” She sang. “And now, before selecting our brave tributes, let’s remember our living victor’s who proudly represented District 10 in prior games.”

Turning slightly, she faced half to the crowd, half to the right of the stage. Six chairs lined this side, with four occupied. Two instead had a small card embossed with the district’s emblem. Cordelia listed off the living, clapping as each briefly stood and waved to the crowd.

“Falabella Hackett, 43rd Hunger Games… Colter Barlowe, 39th Hunger Games… Lusitano Whitlock, 27th Hunger Games… Valencia Camacho, 22nd Hunger Games…

“Fantastic! Now,” Cordelia said, turning back to the front and clasping her hands together. “For the main event.”

The tinseled woman moved away from the microphone, standing behind the bowl on the right side of the stage. She slipped her hand in. Dug around the slips. Pulled a lone paper out. Moved back to the center. All this done while the spectators looked on, holding hands and breath. The late morning sun baking the already restless crowd.

“For our brave young lady…” Cordelia paused long enough for a true hush to fall over the district. “Marlo Hackett!”

There was a second of stillness as the name settled over the crowd, creeping across their minds. The last name, just briefly said moments before, began to register. Hackett. Prior victor. A startling and hysteric cry was let out on stage. Falabella attempted to stifle her outburst, hand covering her mouth as she turned away from the cameras that would be focusing closely on her.

In the last rows of the pack of children, a small girl, only thirteen, stepped out. She looked pale. Wiped the sweat from her brow as the sun continued to beat down on her. She half-tripped, caught by another girl before they released her just as fast, like they’d somehow be reaped as well. Eventually she staggered up the stairs. Ushered by Cordelia to her spot on the stage. Marlo looked to her mother, tears streaking her cheeks.

“What a reaction from our latest victor,” Cordelia said, placing her hands over her heart in faux pity. “As always, after a tribute has been selected, a volunteer may step forward. Do we have any valiant girls in the crowd?”

A beat. Stifled crying was all that could be heard at first, little Marlo rubbing her eyes constantly. Another. Falabella racked with sobs. Cordelia surveyed the crowd, preparing to move on to the boys. Then, before she could speak, only a few rows away from the stage, a single hand raised.

“I’ll volunteer,” a seventeen year old called. Her eyes briefly met with Falabella’s, before looking back to the Capitol woman. The front rows parted. Staggered away, confusion on their faces. Volunteer? This was a girl from one of the community homes. No relation to the Hacketts, and little to no reason she’d feel the need to replace Marlo. No reason to sign herself to certain death.

The teenager walked forward, back straight and head high. She reached the top of the stairs. Her vision felt tunneled despite her attempted confidence, sunspots dancing in her eyes. She copied Marlo, wiping the sweat from her face in an attempt to look more put together. During this, Falabella had rushed to Marlo, yanking her daughter away from the front and back towards her chair. Clutched her to her midsection.

“Lovely, I don’t believe District 10 has had a volunteer in several years!” Cordelia said, pulling the new tribute towards the microphone. “Please, introduce yourself.”

The girl cleared her throat. Eyes danced to the cameras closest to her, ignoring the harrowed faces across from her. A cold dread seeped into her. The reality of what she’d done sinking in. She stepped closer to the microphone, voice not betraying her nerves.

“Sutherland Acosta.”

#myocs*#oc: sutherland acosta #mywriting*#this was sooooo fun to write #and i have more >:-) tho idk if i want to post everything on here #just cause this is very self indulgent LMAO #ik how sutherland fits into her own game & partially into her time as a victor up until the 75th game #however based on that idk how exactly i want her role in mockingjay/district 13 to be #i want her to have weird complicated deep relations w capitol people that leave her like. who am i and what am i doing.#anyways!!!! posting this late & will reblog in the morning lol #if you see incorrect uses of tenses pls know im rusty and wrote this in one sitting & then edited on my phone lol #also i like alliteration & talking w hands ✋

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