#cheekbones sharp enough to kill a man

[defyinmavity]

most recent consequence of my tod!willemijn brainworm

[writeriguess]

Hi Neema! Can I request please, Katsuki being his usual brash rude and loud self around others, but behind closed doors he becomes Luke a puppy around reader when the have sex and she treats him very sweetly and praises him a lot and he just melts around her. I have a feel in because of his family dynamic he didn’t get much earnest praise and folds like a chair for it.

Melt for Me

You barely have time to take your boots off before Bakugo starts barking.

“Dumbass, you’re gonna get yourself killed if you keep throwing yourself into fights like that,” he growls, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. The front door slams behind him, his heavy boots thudding against the floor as he tosses his gauntlets onto the couch. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You sigh, already used to his dramatics. “I had it under control.”

“Like hell you did,” he snaps, stepping in front of you, his crimson eyes burning with frustration. “If I wasn’t there, you would’ve been fucking toast! You don’t have to do everything by yourself, dumbass!”

You roll your eyes, shutting the door behind you. “Oh, so I’m a dumbass now?”

“You’ve always been a dumbass!”

He’s so loud, so worked up, pacing the small space between the couch and the kitchen like he’s too wound up to stay still. His hands clench and unclench, the lingering adrenaline from the mission still pumping through his veins.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe, watching him huff and mutter under his breath. He’s always like this after a tough fight—angry, fuming, spitting insults like a feral animal. He keeps his walls up high, tough and unbreakable, never letting anyone see past the rough exterior.

Except for you.

You push off the doorframe and step into his space, placing your palm flat against his chest.

“Katsuki.”

His whole body tenses.

Your voice is gentle, nothing like the sharp edge of his. It’s enough to make his breath hitch, his anger stuttering mid-sentence. He looks down at you, his jaw still tight, but his eyes flicker with something softer.

You smile. “You worried about me?”

His lips part slightly, like he wants to snap back, but he doesn’t. His hands twitch at his sides, itching to grab you, to pull you in, but he hesitates.

“Tch.” He turns his head, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. “Shut up.”

You giggle, sliding your hands up to cup his face. His breath catches in his throat. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his muscles stay tense under your touch.

“You did really well today,” you murmur, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

His hands tighten into fists. His mouth opens, then closes again, his brows knitting together.

“Katsuki,” you continue, “you protected everyone.” You press a soft kiss to his jaw. “You kept me safe.” Another kiss. “You’re so strong.” Another. “So amazing.”

His breath shudders out of him, his body deflating just a little. He grips your hips, but it’s not possessive or rough—it’s almost hesitant, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

“You really think so?” His voice is quiet now, hesitant in a way that’s so unlike him.

You pull back just enough to look into his eyes. “I know so.”

And just like that, he folds.

The mighty, loud, brash Bakugo Katsuki is gone, replaced by the man who melts at the sound of your voice, the warmth of your touch. His forehead drops to your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist as if shielding himself from the world.

“I—” His breath is warm against your skin. “Fuck, baby.”

You guide him toward the bedroom, fingers threading through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He shivers. By the time you reach the bed, the fight in him has completely drained away.

He sits at the edge, looking up at you with half-lidded eyes, his hands gripping your waist like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. You straddle his lap, and his breath hitches, his fingers pressing into your sides.

“You like it when I praise you, don’t you, Katsuki?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. He nods slightly, but it’s not enough.

“Use your words.”

His grip tightens. “Y-yeah,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I—fuck, I love it.”

You smile, pressing another soft kiss to his lips. He chases after you, desperate for more, hands roaming up your back like he needs to feel every inch of you.

“Good boy.”

The sound he makes is downright sinful. A shaky exhale leaves his lips as he buries his face in your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your skin.

You giggle, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging lightly. He groans, hips jerking up involuntarily.

“So desperate,” you tease, scratching lightly at his scalp. “Such a needy thing, aren’t you?”

His nails dig into your waist. “Shut up,” he mumbles against your skin, but there’s no bite behind it. If anything, he sounds wrecked.

“Why should I? I like watching you fall apart like this.” You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. “You’re so beautiful like this, Katsuki.”

His face burns, and he looks like he wants to protest, but you don’t give him the chance. You press your lips to his again, swallowing any argument he might’ve had.

His hands wander up your back, trembling slightly, and you can’t help but feel your heart ache for him. He’s always been so strong, so independent. But here, in your arms, he’s something else entirely.

He’s yours.

And you’ll make sure he knows it.

[rawjutsu]

“off the record”

pairing: leon kennedy x afab journalist!reader

cw: canon-typical violence, minor blood references, mild degradation, fingering, piv, rough sex, creampie, mild possessiveness, no real aftercare 

a/n: IN CELEBRATION OF RE9 BEING ANNOUNCED HERE IS A LIL SMTH FOR MY FELLOW LEON ENJOYERS! you can choose whichever leon to put in here but i thought of damnation leon…

you’re not sure what hurts worse—the gash on your thigh or the fact that leon kennedy is the one stitching it shut.

you’re bleeding, tired, and pissed off. which makes leon’s face the perfect thing to hate right now.

he’s crouched between your legs, tactical gloves peeled halfway off, blood on his cheekbone and shadows under his eyes, jaw tight, a needle in one gloved hand and thread in the other. you’re perched on an old military supply crate, pants cut off at the knee, bare thighs sticky with blood and dirt. the wound on your upper thigh pulses with every heartbeat—but you’re too stubborn to flinch. especially not in front of him.

"you don’t have to be gentle," you mutter, breaking the silence. "i’m used to getting fucked over by government dogs."

leon doesn’t flinch, but the line of his jaw tightens.

“you’re welcome for saving your life,” he mutters, knotting the thread with a little more force than necessary.

"you only saved me because your orders said i was valuable." you lean back on your elbows, wincing slightly. "or maybe you just like watching me bleed."

his eyes flick up—sharp and blue and furious. “you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

"then explain it to me, agent kennedy. off the record."

he says nothing.

“this isn’t your job, kennedy,” you continue. “you’re not supposed to care.”

that’s what finally makes him look up. his eyes—ice blue, bloodshot, way too tired for someone your age—lock onto yours. he’s crouched between your legs with his hands full of thread and tension, and you think: this is a bad idea.

he says, low and tight, “if i didn’t care, you’d still be out there bleeding in the street.”

"maybe i should’ve stayed out there." you lean back on your palms. "better than being locked in here with a government lapdog who thinks silence is a virtue."

his hand shoots out—fast—and grabs your jaw. not hard, but enough to tilt your face to his.

“you want to keep pushing me, sweetheart?” he says, voice quiet and sharp. “because i promise you, i’ll push back harder.”

you exhale through your nose. challenge accepted.

“then do it,” you whisper. “push me.”

and maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the pain, or the weeks of crawling through ruins with a man who looks at you like he wants to either kill you or kiss you—but you’re the one who leans forward first. your hand curls around his vest, tugging, and your mouth crashes into his like it’s war.

but it’s not a kiss. not really. it’s a collision. teeth clash. lips bruise. his hands—rough, gloved, bloodied—are on your waist, yanking you forward, slotting your legs around his hips like he’s trying to crawl inside you. and fuck, you let him. you kiss him like it hurts. like you’re angry to want him this badly.

he kisses like he fights—dirty, desperate, all teeth and frustration. his hands are on you instantly, one gripping your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops touching you. when he groans against your lips, it’s like he hates the sound coming out of him.

“you’re such a fucking brat,” he hisses, dragging his mouth to your jaw, then your neck. “always running into danger. always thinking you know better.”

“you’re obsessed with me,” you breathe, dragging your fingers through his messy, sweat-damp hair. “just admit it.”

he lets out a sharp laugh—almost bitter. “obsessed? you’ve been bleeding out for an hour and still haven’t shut up.”

you grin. “and you’ve had your hand between my thighs for twenty minutes without complaining.”

“trust me,” he growls, slipping his hand higher, fingertips ghosting over the damp heat of your underwear, “i’m done complaining.”

his hand slides up your thigh, rough callused fingers dragging over sticky skin before pressing between your legs. you're already soaked—humiliation blooms hot in your chest—but leon’s smirk is worse. like he knew.

“christ. you get wet mouthing off like that?”

"maybe i just like knowing you’d fall apart if i died."

he growls something low and inhuman. he circles your clit once, twice, just to watch your breath hitch, then sinks two fingers in without warning. his fingers slide through your folds—hot, wet, swollen from adrenaline—and he lets out the filthiest little groan, like the feel of you makes him weak. you cry out, back arching off the crate, and he grins. that cocky, asshole grin you want to slap off his face—and maybe ride at the same time.

“still think i’m just a government dog?” he rasps, fucking his fingers into you hard enough to make the crate creak.

“if this is how you beg for praise,” you pant, “you’re doing a shit job.”

he curls his fingers just right and you go silent.

you can’t stop it. the high hits like a gut punch—your whole body tightening around him, muscles locking, mouth open in a silent scream as you ride his hand and see stars. leon groans again, this time like he’s losing his mind, and drags his fingers out slick and shaking.

“i should leave you here,” he mutters. “let you chase your little exposé and bleed out in the dirt.”

"then why haven’t you?"

he kisses you again before he can answer—filthy, possessive, like he’s trying to shut you up and taste you all at once.

he pulls back, breathing hard, face flushed. “turn around. now.”

you blink through the aftershocks. “wait—what?”

“i said turn around.” his voice goes dark. strained. “unless you want me to fuck you on your back and make you cry for real.”

there’s something feral in his voice—commanding, close to breaking. you do as you’re told, hands braced against the crate as he rises behind you, unbuckling his belt one-handed while the other yanks your hips back.

he doesn’t waste time. you feel the head of his cock slide against you, thick and leaking, and then he thrusts in with a brutal snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt. you scream—half pleasure, half shock—and he grips your hips like a man possessed, like the only thing anchoring him to this shitty collapsing world is the feel of you pulsing around him.

“you feel fucking unreal,” he mutters, voice ragged. “i hate how much i think about this.”

he fucks you hard—like he’s punishing you for staying alive, for being a liability, for making him feel something. every thrust is a reminder that the world is ending and your bodies don’t care. you cry out when he angles deeper, hitting that spot that makes your legs go weak, and he groans like he’s about to lose it.

“you gonna write about this?” he pants. “gonna tell the world how the government’s dog made you come screaming in a bunker?”

“only if you keep talking,” you choke out, dizzy with heat and fury and the stretch of him.

“goddamn it,” he groans, thrusting hard. “why does it have to be you?”

you’re too far gone to answer. all you can do is take it—each punishing thrust driving you closer to the edge, his hand sneaking around to rub your clit again, rubbing tight circles, pushing you higher and higher until your body clenches around him like a vice.

"that’s it," he growls, hips snapping into you. "come on, cum for me again. i know you can."

and fuck—you do. with a choked cry and a full-body tremor, you cum hard on his cock, and leon curses, hips stuttering, before he follows with a groan that sounds like your name torn in half, burying himself as deep as he can go, hips stuttering, heat spilling inside you in waves.

you both collapse into the silence—your body trembling, his chest heaving against your back.

after a moment, you murmur, voice hoarse:

“off the record?”

“…yeah?”

you twist to glance at him, lips bruised, heart still racing. “bet you’re gonna follow me into the next mess too.”

he scoffs, eyes falling shut as he pulls you close again. “yeah. and next time, i’m bringing duct tape for your damn mouth.”

[cruel-seduction]

Tom Riddle Headcanon || 18+

(୨୧) 6’3 | Tall, intimidating, and he knows it. He’s tall, but not towering—it’s the kind of height that lets him loom over you just enough to make you uncomfortable in the best way. His presence is magnetic, commanding, like he’s taking up more space than he actually does. (You think you can hold eye contact with this man without second-guessing your life choices? Good luck.)

(୨୧) Lean, but it’s that sharp, calculated kind of lean. Like he was sculpted out of pure ambition and dark magic. His cheekbones? You could slice your finger on them, and his jawline looks like it was chiseled by Salazar Slytherin himself.

(୨୧) He doesn’t have He’s not bulky—oh no, Tom believes muscles are for people who need to physically overpower others. His strength is in his mind, but don’t mistake that for fragility. He’s all sharp edges and taut sinew, like a blade just waiting to cut. Tom has power. Subtle, unassuming strength that hits you when he casually pins someone to the wall or clenches his fist during an argument, making every vein in his forearm pop. (And suddenly you’re wondering if you enjoy being terrified of a man.)

WE LOVE A MAN WHO COULD STRANGLE US WITH ONE HAND AND STILL LOOK PERFECT DOING IT!!!! 

(୨୧) Abs? Oh, he has them. But they’re not flashy gym-bro abs—they’re carved out of years of silent rage and perfectionism. You’d only see them under candlelight, the shadows teasing you just enough to make you question every moral fiber in your body.

(୨୧) Tom doesn’t work out. Ever. He’s too busy reading ancient texts and rewriting the definition of “overachiever.” Yet somehow, he has the kind of body that looks like it was sculpted by dark magic itself. His posture is impeccable, every movement deliberate and precise, like he’s constantly two steps ahead of everyone else.

(୨୧) Long fingers, veins visible, nails always perfectly kept. These are the hands of someone who can cast a killing curse with chilling accuracy—or caress your skin like you’re the most fragile thing in the world.

(We LOVE a man who could both destroy and cherish us with the same hands!!!)

(୨୧) His face? The blueprint for the resting evil smirk. He doesn’t even have to try to look dangerous. One glance, one slight quirk of his lips, and suddenly you’re doing whatever he wants without thinking twice. (You: “Why am I holding this cursed object?” Tom: “Because I asked nicely.” …And now you’re smiling like an idiot while the Horcrux slowly sucks away your soul. Love that for you!)

(୨୧) Hotness Level: Nuclear

Tom doesn’t just walk into a room—he owns it. His hotness isn’t in your face; it’s insidious, sneaking up on you until suddenly you’re wondering how you got trapped in his web.

His energy? He doesn’t need to ask for your soul. You’d willingly hand it over while thanking him for the privilege.

And when he’s angry? Oh, you feel it. That piercing stare, the slight tilt of his head, the way his voice drops an octave just to let you know you’ve made a very, very big mistake.

THERE’S HOT, AND THEN THERE’S TOM RIDDLE HOT—THE KIND THAT MAKES YOU WANT TO APOLOGIZE FOR BREATHING TOO LOUDLY.

(୨୧) A Walking Manipulation Manual Tom doesn’t ask for things. He makes you want to give them to him. Every glance, every word is carefully calculated to pull you into his orbit. He’s not just charming—he’s dangerously compelling. (One conversation with him, and suddenly you’re questioning your entire moral compass. Like, “Oh, you want me to help you break into the Restricted Section? Sure, Tom. Anything for you.”)

(୨୧) Validation is His Drug Let’s be real: Tom craves approval like it’s oxygen.Tom will deny it to his last breath, but he needs to be the best. He doesn’t just want to succeed; he wants to be the only option. It’s not enough for him to win—everyone else has to lose. (And don’t get me started on how he reacts to praise. Compliment him in the right way, and you’ll see that flicker of pride in his dark eyes before he schools his face into that unreadable mask again. We love a secretly vulnerable king.) He’s spent his whole life proving he’s better than everyone else, and it’s not just for pride—it’s because he doesn’t know how to not seek validation. He thrives on being the teacher’s pet, the top student. Maybe it’s because he never got his parents validation. But trust me when I say he is a bitch for teacher’s validation. (But let’s be clear: the second you start overshadowing him, he’ll knock you down a peg faster than you can say Avada Kedavra.)

(୨୧) Control Freak Everything about Tom screams precision. His desk? Immaculate. His spells? Flawless. His plans? Perfectly executed. He doesn’t just like control—he needs it. Chaos makes him itch, which is ironic considering he’s the embodiment of quiet destruction. (And He will make sure you’re oriented too) 

(୨୧) Manipulative but Subtly Possessive He doesn’t say you’re his. No, Tom makes it clear in subtler ways—like the way he rests a hand on your back just as someone else looks at you too long. Or the cold, sharp glare he gives anyone who dares speak to you without his permission. (A man who makes you feel like a queen while also terrifying everyone else around you.)

(୨୧) Unyielding Ambition Tom doesn’t just want success—he wants power. He wants to be remembered, revered, and feared. He’s the guy who’ll smile sweetly at a professor while planning to steal their research for his own gain. He has a goal. He will do anything to get there. Anything can include from threatening someone to killing someone. He is, as poet says a psycho. 

Tom Riddle | The Duality

(୨୧) The Charm is a Weapon His voice? Silky smooth, with just enough edge to keep you on your toes. He’s polite, refined, and utterly disarming. But behind that charming smile is a predator watching his prey. (You’re falling for him, and you don’t even realize it until it’s too late. And honestly? You don’t even mind.)

(୨୧) Dark, Brooding, and Mysterious Tom’s the guy sitting alone in the library, surrounded by ancient tomes, quill scratching quietly against parchment. He’s untouchable, aloof, and yet somehow you can’t stop staring. (You just know he’s plotting something, and you want in on it. Even if it’s dangerous. Especially if it’s dangerous.)

(୨୧) The Possessive Gentleman He’ll hold the door open for you, pull out your chair, and offer you his arm as you walk. But don’t be fooled—this isn’t just gentlemanly courtesy. This is Tom Riddle subtly marking you as his. (Imagine him offering you his coat and then hexing anyone who dares comment on it. THAT’S the energy.)

Tom Riddle|| Personality 

(୨୧) He’s the Most Dangerous Kind of Asshole—Polished and Calculated Tom isn’t like Mattheo, who might yell across the hallway for a laugh. No, Tom is refined, cold, and deliberate. When he doesn’t like you, you won’t hear him shouting about it—he’ll make you feel it. He’ll dismantle your self-esteem with just a few carefully chosen words delivered with a sharp smile. (“A shame you couldn’t understand the assignment. I suppose not everyone’s meant for greatness.” Translation: You’re an idiot, and he’s better than you.)

(୨୧) He’s Addicted to Control Every aspect of Tom’s life is planned. His work is immaculate, his appearance is flawless, and his ambitions are unshakable. He thrives on structure because chaos reminds him of what he came from—something he’s desperate to leave behind. Don’t ever try to surprise Tom; he’ll take it as a personal offense. He hates unpredictability because it’s the one thing he can’t manipulate.

(୨୧) A Master of Masking His True Self Tom can charm anyone. Teachers adore him. Classmates admire him—or at least pretend to, because who wants to get on Tom Riddle’s bad side? He wears his “perfect student” persona like armor, and it’s nearly impenetrable. (But let’s be real, you know he’s sneaking into the Restricted Section at 2 a.m., whispering spells under his breath like it’s his birthright.)

(୨୧) Unhinged Beneath the Surface Tom doesn’t snap in loud, dramatic outbursts. No, his anger is a quiet, simmering thing, so much worse because you never see it coming. He’ll stare you down with a look so cold you’ll swear the temperature dropped, and then suddenly— “I suggest you choose your next words carefully. You won’t like what happens otherwise.” (And when he does lose it? You better pray you’re not in the blast radius because that’s some “destroy-everything-in-sight” level fury.)

Tom Riddle | Relationships and Obsession

(୨୧) Emotionally Unavailable, But Intensely Possessive Tom doesn’t do feelings. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He views relationships like he views everything else in his life: something to control. But when he does fixate on someone? It’s all-consuming, suffocating, and terrifyingly intense. He won’t shout “you’re mine” from the rooftops. Instead, he’ll show it in the way he glances at anyone who gets too close to you, the subtle squeeze of his hand on your waist, the icy calm he maintains when someone dares flirt with you. (“You’re being watched, princess. I’d think twice before entertaining fools like that again.”)

(୨୧) Manipulative in the Most Beautiful Way Tom has mastered the art of making you think his darkest ideas are your idea. He’ll twist your words, your emotions, until you’re second-guessing yourself and believing that he’s the only one who truly understands you. (“You don’t need them. They’ll only disappoint you. I’m the one who’s always been here, haven’t I?”) (Yes, it’s toxic, but are we complaining? Nope. Absolutely not.)

(୨୧) Softness is Reserved for You and You Only Tom is cold to everyone—except you. When it’s just the two of you, he lets his walls down just enough to show you glimpses of the boy beneath the monster. He’s still composed, but his voice softens, his touch gentles. He’ll sit beside you in the library, his hand brushing yours as he murmurs, “You’re brilliant, you know. Far more than they deserve.” (That’s right. You’re his weakness, and we’re eating that up like it’s our last meal.)

Tom Riddle | Dark Habits and Quirks

(୨୧) Obsessive Overachievement If Tom gets less than perfect marks on anything, he’ll lose sleep over it. He’ll re-study every detail of the assignment until it’s engraved into his mind. (If you try to comfort him, he’ll glare and say, “Mediocrity is unacceptable.” …Okay, Tom, calm down.)

(୨୧) No Time for Fun or Friends Tom doesn’t “hang out.” He doesn’t do parties or casual drinks with the boys. His version of “fun” is solving an ancient magical riddle or perfecting a spell no one else has dared attempt. (Though I imagine he secretly finds your mundane activities fascinating. He’ll pretend he’s annoyed, but he’s watching you decorate a cake like, “How… how does one enjoy this?”)

(୨୧) Petty in the Most Refined Way Tom won’t call you out in public, but he will ruin your life in ways you don’t even realize until it’s too late. (“Oh, did you fail the test? Strange. I suppose all that time gossiping didn’t leave you much room to study.” Cue his perfect grade plastered on the board.)

(୨୧) Refuses to Eat Like a Normal Human Being He’s the type to skip meals because he “doesn’t have time for such trivialities.” When he does eat, it’s methodical, quiet, and eerily polite. (You could be scarfing down chips, and Tom’s over here delicately slicing his food into perfect pieces. Honestly, it’s infuriating and hot at the same time.)

(୨୧)  When Tom Realized He Was in Love Tom was the last person to admit he was capable of love. He didn’t need it. In fact, he despised the very idea of vulnerability. At first, he simply enjoyed the control, the power he had over you, the way you seemed so easily ensnared in his web. But then something changed.

It wasn’t dramatic. No hearts aflutter, no sudden epiphany. Instead, it was little moments—the way your laugh made his heart tighten, the way his thoughts lingered on you when he was supposed to be focused on his next conquest. It started to feel like something deeper. The first sign? He found himself doing small things for you, things that felt personal—that were not for his image, but just for you.

Like when you were late for a class, and Tom “accidentally” got your notes for you—notes he knew you didn’t need but knew you’d appreciate. Or when he made sure the books you wanted were always ready for you in the library, despite the fact that he despised wasting his time on “mundane tasks.” He would act as if it was no big deal, but his eyes would linger on you a moment too long, watching you with a touch of something he refused to name.

(୨୧) When He Realized He Loved You

Tom didn’t have some grand epiphany. It was a slow, torturous process of denial. But the moment he knew? It was after you smiled at him after a particularly heated argument about something inconsequential. You stood your ground, refused to back down, and still looked at him like he wasn’t the monster he feared he was. He walked away, but later that night, when the castle was silent, he whispered the words into the dark, testing them out as if saying them aloud would make them feel less… dangerous. "I love her."

(୨୧) His “Confession” Was Terrifyingly Intense

Tom doesn’t stumble through his words like Mattheo might. No, when Tom confesses, it’s calculated and deliberate—but still deeply unsettling.

“You’ve done something to me,” he said, his voice dangerously low, his gaze piercing. “I don’t know what it is, but I can’t stop thinking about you. And I won’t. So you’re going to stay by my side, because that’s where you belong.”

(Translation: We are gonna stay together forever. And we belong with each other. )

(୨୧) Tom’s Denial and “Caring” Moments When Tom started feeling what people call “love,” he fought it. He refused to let himself admit it, convinced that emotions were a weakness. He never said “I love you”—not in the way that other people did. Instead, it was subtle. Insidious. He’d show his affection in the smallest, most frustratingly subtle ways. He wouldn’t bring you flowers or offer grand gestures. No. Tom’s “love” was found in the way he’d drag you into the darkness of the restricted section when no one was watching, the way his fingers brushed yours for a split second before he pulled away, pretending he didn’t want to touch you.

And he definitely wouldn’t say “I love you” unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t need to. His actions spoke louder.

But then, one evening, it just… slipped out. You were sitting together in his private little corner of the library, your laughter echoing in the otherwise silent space. Tom, for once, seemed genuinely relaxed, his usually tense frame at ease. He was looking at you, his gaze dark but softened—something that wasn’t there before.

“You... make everything easier,” he muttered, almost to himself. When you raised an eyebrow, he didn’t immediately elaborate. Instead, he just leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he added, “It’s ridiculous how much I care about you.” and you just smiled and pecked his lips.

There was no "I love you," not in so many words. But you heard it, and it made your heart do something strange—flutter, maybe? But you weren’t sure if you were imagining it because Tom's voice was still so casual. Like everything he said was just... a matter of fact.

(୨୧) Praise Where It Matters Most

Tom doesn’t throw compliments around lightly. When he says something nice, it’s like being struck by lightning. His words carry weight.

“You’re brilliant,” he’d murmur, his voice low, his gaze intense. “More than anyone else here. Don’t ever let them make you think otherwise.”

(And yes, you’d be a puddle on the floor because Tom’s version of praise feels like a rare, precious gift.)

(୨୧) Tom’s Trust and Relationship Dynamics Here’s the thing: Tom doesn’t get jealous. He’s above it. It’s not in his nature. If you’re his, you’re his, and no one dares to get in the way. He doesn’t need to question your loyalty, because in his mind, the moment he chose you, he is gonna trust you more than anyone. For him you’re never at fault but the other person is gonna die. It’s not that he’s insecure—it’s that he knows you would never cheat on him. Why would you? You have everything you could ever need in him.

He doesn’t even feel the need to keep tabs on you, though don’t get it twisted—he is watching, but he does it from the shadows. If you’re not at his side, he trusts that you’ll come back. You always come back. And if you don’t, well… that’s where things get a little interesting.

He’s not showing you off like Mattheo might; he’s staking his claim.

If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, you’ll feel the shift in his demeanor immediately.

“Do they think they’re worthy of your attention?” he’ll whisper, his tone deceptively calm. “They’re not. Let me remind them.”

(Spoiler: He will. And it won’t be pretty.)

(୨୧) Acts of Service, But Darker

Tom will do things for you, but it’s always with a hidden motive. Did someone upset you? He’ll “take care of it.” Did you want something rare or hard to find? He’ll get it for you, no questions asked.

“Consider it handled,” he’ll say with a ghost of a smile. But you know better than to ask how he handled it.

(୨୧) The Gaslighting Is Unreal

If you ever try to put distance between you and Tom, he’ll make you question everything.

“Why would you leave? After everything we’ve built together?” His voice will crack just enough to make you hesitate.

And when you falter, he’ll pull you back in with a kiss so intense it leaves you breathless, murmuring, “I can’t lose you. Don’t you see? You’re my weakness.”

(୨୧) First Kiss

It happened in the library, of course. You were studying, lost in your notes, and he was pretending to read while stealing glances at you. He didn’t plan it, but you looked up and caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head with that infuriatingly perfect smile.

He leaned in before he could stop himself, his hand cupping your cheek as his lips met yours. It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was intense, consuming, like he was staking a claim. When he pulled back, his expression was unreadable.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he murmured before returning to his book as if nothing had happened.

(୨୧) The Reality of Tom Riddle’s Love

With Tom, everything is earned. He doesn't just give his heart away, and certainly not without demanding something in return. But for you? You’ll always have his trust. You’ll always have his attention. You’ll always know that beneath that cold exterior, he’s obsessed.

Tom Riddle | Intimacy and the Smut

(୨୧) With Tom Riddle, intimacy is an art—meticulous, calculated, and suffused with a dark intensity that leaves you trembling in its wake. He isn’t one for rushed encounters or fleeting passions. No, when Tom takes you, it’s deliberate, almost ceremonial, like he’s claiming something he already knows belongs to him.

(୨୧) The Build-Up Foreplay with Tom is a slow burn, a game of control that he always wins. He knows exactly how to make you crave him without even laying a finger on you. His voice, low and commanding, is enough to send shivers down your spine. He has this way of leaning in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs things that are simultaneously a praise and a promise.

“You look exquisite when you’re begging, darling,” he whispers, his hand ghosting along the curve of your neck, stopping just short of touching you fully.

Tom thrives on anticipation. He’ll spend what feels like an eternity trailing his fingers across your skin, watching your reactions with a sharp, almost predatory focus. Every gasp, every arch of your body—it’s all cataloged in his mind, stored away for when he decides to unravel you completely.

The way he kisses you is enough to leave you breathless. It’s not hurried or frenzied; it’s controlled, methodical. He tilts your chin up with a single finger, his lips slanting over yours with a precision that makes your knees weak.

When he finally touches you, it’s overwhelming. His hands are strong, commanding, but there’s a certain reverence in the way he holds you, like he’s savoring every inch of your skin.

(୨୧) The Act Tom is not gentle, but he’s not reckless either. He knows exactly how to toe the line between pleasure and pain, how to push you to the edge without ever letting you fall. He’s all about control—his control over you, your body, your mind.

His stamina is almost otherworldly. Where others might falter, Tom thrives, his focus unwavering as he pushes you past your limits. He doesn’t stop until you’re completely spent, your body trembling beneath his, your voice hoarse from calling his name.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his tone laced with dark amusement as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Falling apart so beautifully for me. Are you even aware of how perfect you are?”

He loves to whisper things into your ear, things that make your cheeks flush and your heart race.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice rough and commanding. “Every part of you. Do you understand that?”

And when you nod, he smirks, his lips ghosting over yours.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm.

(୨୧) Pet Names and Praise Tom isn’t overly creative with pet names, but the ones he uses are potent.

Darling: His go-to, spoken with a dark edge that makes your knees weak.

My love: When he’s feeling particularly possessive, usually whispered against your skin.

Good girl: Said in a way that makes your heart race and your mind spin.

Perfect: Because to him, you are, and he never lets you forget it.

(୨୧) Roughness and Domination Tom doesn’t shy away from being rough. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises, his teeth graze your neck in a way that makes you shiver, and his pace is relentless. He loves the way your body reacts to him, the way you cling to him, desperate and needy.

“You can take it,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. “I know you can. You’re stronger than you think, my love.”

And when you finally break, when you can’t hold back the cries of pleasure that spill from your lips, Tom smirks, his satisfaction evident in the dark gleam of his eyes.

“Such a good girl for me,” he whispers, his lips pressing against your temple. “Always so perfect.”

(୨୧) Aftercare Despite his roughness, Tom isn’t cruel. Once the heat of the moment has passed, he softens ever so slightly. He doesn’t say much, but his actions speak volumes. He’ll run his fingers through your hair, his touch surprisingly tender, and press soft kisses against your forehead.

“You did well, darling,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “Rest now. I’ll take care of everything.”

And he does. Because while Tom Riddle might be a lot of things—manipulative, calculating, and intense—when it comes to you, he’s nothing short of devoted.

[pome-seed]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 10

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: They know. And the reality of it is so much more painful than you could imagine. But left to feel it, and now knowing how little time you have left, all that's left is each other.

Warnings: Captivity, Canon-typical violence. Heavy violence. Angst, mention of torture and death, helplessness. Intimate sadness between reader and Bucky.

Authors Note: Please enjoy, comment and be kind! I love the comments and interaction. ALSO, if you want to be apart of the taglist, let me know :)

Song Rec: Fable by Gigi Perez

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

You woke to a bright light shining in your face. You yelped as a wad of your hair was fisted and yanked at, dragging you out of your pile of blankets. You blinked through the haze of sleep as adrenaline flooded your veins. “W-What’s-”

Hot breath spit close to your face. “Get up.” 

“I-” The sting that swept across your cheek shocked you awake fully, fear twisting in your gut. The grip on your hair yanked harder, dragging you across the floor. “Wait- ah! Please!” You cried out, your feet scrambling against the cold stone floors. 

“You were warned.” Rumlow shouted above you. “You had one job. And you’re stupid enough to risk everything on- on what?” He was almost laughing as he kicked open a familiar door. 

“Please-” your hair was released with a rough throw, sending you rolling into a stack of crates to the left. The wooden grooves cut into the knobs of your spine through your old shirt. You froze, your body going into shock at the sudden impact. 

Before you could scramble away, a large boot was sending a swift kick to your stomach. Your throat closed up on the gag that was forced by all the air leaving you. You flung your arms over yourself, your eyes squeezing shut as you struggled for air. 

“Fix him, that was your only job. What did you think you were gonna do, huh?” Rumlow yanked you up by your arm, dragging you to your feet. 

You couldn't breathe, you couldn’t think. The pain was so intense and so mind numbing. You heard ragged breaths to your left as you were dragged closer to your charge. You blinked up from where you sagged against Rumlow. Wide, shadowed blue eyes met yours. 

He was wearing his muzzle again. 

You blinked. “I didn’t- I wasn’t-”

“Oh save it, with everything we’ve given you to work with here, you really thought this room was private?” Rumlow yanked your arm up, sending a sharp pinch through the nerves in your shoulder. You couldn’t stand, your legs were failing you. “You thought you were the only person in this building that knew what they were doing? Are you stupid?”

Knuckles connected with your cheekbone with a resounding crack. You grunted as you hit the floor. Your skull bounced off the concrete where you fell at the Soldiers feet. Your arms slithered around your stomach, but not fast enough- or strong enough- to block the strong blow to your gut.

The soldier's shoes pressed against your spine, ragged breaths muted by the muzzle. A muffled sound buzzed against the metal.

Rumlow paused, tilting his head at the man. “What? Is this bothering you, big guy? Huh?” He taunted. “Huh? You mad that your pretty little doctor is bearing the consequences of her actions?”

You cried out as another strike attacked your bruising stomach. Your eyes rolled back, bile rising in your throat. You couldn’t breathe, you needed to breathe but the air was lost to you. 

The soldier tensed in his restraints, his glare flickering between the girl and the abuser. “What? Soldier, I’m gonna need better than that. Because from where I’m standing,” he swung his foot again, “she’s surpassed her use.”

Saliva pooled on the floor, your stomach empty but clenching from the abuse. “Come on, speak up! I don’t think we need her. Say something if you think differently.”

“Mmh-!” The soldier grunted against his muzzle with urgency, his gaze a furious glower at this point. He could kill him, it wouldn’t take long. He knew this. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

Rumlow stilled, a twisted smile pulling at his lips. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.” He chuckled. “Good dog.”

You laid there, deaf to the condescending talk happening above you. A ringing pierced your head, followed by the thumping of blood rushing through your brain. 

Rumlow pressed the toe of his boot to yourcheek, tilting your head back to look at him. “This was a warning. What comes next was brought on by you, and you alone.”

When the door slammed shut behind him, you finally felt your body slump fully. You laid there, twitching and struggling for breath as tears streamed down your temples. 

A rough grunt came from above. You could hear him twitching against his restraints, if it weren’t for the sickening pain twisting in your gut, you would feel flattered that he seemed to care for you. 

It took you a long time- longer than you wanted to admit- but you successfully were able to turn over. You curled your fingers into the Soldier’s pant leg, just over his knee. You used all the strength you could muster to pull yourself up into a sitting position. 

You took a moment to breathe, your teary eyes glancing up at the man. You tried not to cry harder looking at him. With your last grasp of dignity, you reached up and gripped the man's shoulders. You were able to slowly climb the man's body, pulling yourself up from between his spread legs. You slumped against him as you fumbled with the buckle of his muzzle. You finally yanked it free and tossed it away behind him. 

He sucked in a heavy breath before steadying you with his hard stare. “Are you okay?” Your body sank against him as you slowly sank back down. You rested your back against the side of his calf from between his legs. 

“I guess-” you swallowed, licking your dry lips. “I guess they know.”

“You need to stop, whatever it is you’re doing, you need to stop.” He urged. 

“What’s the point?” You chuckled dryly.

“They will kill you-”

“Come on,” you interrupted, blinking up at him. “They were always going to kill me.” You bit down on your cheek, willing the tears away. “There was no end to this situation that I make it out of here alive.”

He watched you, his sorrowful gaze sending a shiver down your spine. “If you keep doing this, they’ll just make it worse.”

“And if I don’t then it was all for nothing,” you whispered, rolling your head back against his thigh. “If they’re going to kill me- then I want to at least screw them over, just a little bit.” You smiled. 

He shook his head at you, strands of black hair falling into his face. 

“If I’ve gotta die here, then I want you to get out. I want to have done something.” You wiped a stray tear from your cheek in frustration. “I just- god it wasn’t supposed to happen this way.” You laughed, wincing at the twinge in your stomach. “I was supposed to help people- I was supposed to apply for a grant and get funding for my research and- and-” you shook your head. 

“I was supposed to help people.”

The Soldier watched you, his fingers twitching from where he was restrained. “I’m sorry,” his voice was soft, guilty, as he whispered to you. 

“You’re a victim too.”

“I’m not,” he whispered. “I’ve-”

You opened your eyes, listening silently.

“I’ve done things.”

“Willingly?”

He paused. “No. But I’ve still done them.”

“I know. I know what you are.”  You admitted. “A part of the fear tactic when they first took me was telling me about how easily you could kill me, if need be.” You smiled wryly. “I know you still could, and would.”

“I don’t want to.” He admitted. 

Your smile softened. You reached up a hand, the tips of your fingers brushing a lock of black hair. “I’m glad to hear that.” You released the strands. “Sadly,” you paused, sucking in a shaky breath. “That isn’t enough, not yet.”

A/N: The craziness starts here.

@rafesgurl @pleasecallmeunhinged @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff @cherryandsugar @a-world-with-pure-imagination @unicornqueen05

[bvidzsoo]

Haunted me, haunting you

⁀➷ District 12 ⭒ District 12 was the smallest and poorest of the thirteen districts of Panem; their main industry is coal mining; victors: Lucy Gray Baird, Haymitch Abernathy, Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark

Author: bvidzsoo

Pairing: victor!Song Mingi x female reader

⁀➷ Warning: cursing, ptsd, panic attacks, violence, blood, mentions of death, hunting, injuries ⁀➷ Word count: 19.7k ⁀➷ Rating: mature, nc-17 ⁀➷ Genre: Hunger Games!au; acquittances since childhood to lovers!au, set before Katniss and Peeta became victors ⁀➷ Summary: After the 72nd Hunger Games, Song Mingi wasn't the same. The spark in his eyes was gone, his once bright smile disappeared and his face became ashen, cheeks hollow, he was merely a shell of the man he once used to be. It hurt seeing him lose himself to the trauma he was forced to endure in the Arena, still haunted by memories...memories of killing someone you both cared about, someone who meant the world to you. Will you be able to help Mingi before it's too late? But most importantly, will Mingi be able to let you in when you bear the very same face he was forced to murder in the Arena in order to become a victor?

A/N: Y'all! My lovelies, it's here!! My thesis was about The Hunger Games and I actually came up with the plot back in like...May?? Uh, anyways, no more gatekeeping this story too lmao, let's all thank Choi San for his appearance this weekend at fashion week, because his outfits inspired me to finally write this oneshot and also come up with a story for him, so, stay tuned! ^^ This piece is actually so very dear to me, I absolutely loved writing it and I just really want to hug Mingi in this, so I really hope you'll love it and enjoy it as much as I did while writing. If I forgot to mention any warnings, let me know so that I can fix it, and sorry for any mistakes, they do slip through sometimes when I proofread. Let me know what you thought of this oneshot, your feedback is always greatly appreciated! Enjoy now! ^^ divider

            His hair was outgrown again, black strands fell into his small and sharp eyes, obscuring them from the world. He had a certain crazed haze in them, irises shaking as the warm brown was overtaken by darkness, a never-ending blackness. The meadow was silent apart from the breeze rustling the leaves, twigs snapping underneath the weight of our feet if we didn’t watch where we stepped. It was quiet apart from the surprised sound I had made and his pants, hurried and frantic as if he was still trying to catch his breath, as if he was frightened by my mere presence. And perhaps he was as our weapons pointed at each other. My hideout had been behind a large bush while his had been behind a tree, wide enough to hide his tall and lanky form. You wouldn’t be able to tell he had lost weight due to the excessive clothes he always wore, but if you knew where to look, you’d spot his sunken collarbones and sharp cheekbones, hands decorated with veins that popped out and a jawline that seemed unnaturally sharp.

My body finally relaxed as it registered no danger, my arm going lax as I lowered my bow and arrow. It took a few more seconds for the man standing in front of me to mirror my actions, eyebrows furrowed deeply with conflict on his face. I knew why he was looking at me like that, a striking reminder of the crimes he was forced to commit, but I didn’t let that deter me from the kindness I always showed to him.

“Hello,” I spoke up softly, mindful of the animals around us and the fact that he was here to hunt too, “I’m sorry for startling you.”

He didn’t speak up, he rarely did when he was in my vicinity—not that he spoke much around people ever since the Games—but that didn’t throw me off from continuously treating him like a human being, something he was, had always been, will continue being. I knew many didn’t treat him like that anymore, everyone threw him glares and spat harsh words at him, but the absent look in his eyes never changed. It was like he wasn’t really there.

“Are you just starting your hunt, by chance?” I questioned, placing my arrow in its holster as I continued holding onto my bow. Despite having lowered his weapon—a bow and arrow, as well—his fingers still curled tightly around the butt of the arrow, almost as if his body refused to relax in my presence. I understood why.

“No.” I tried not to show my surprise when he answered verbally, his voice a low rasp and a deep rumble in his chest. It hadn’t always been like that, when we were younger, his voice used to be squeaky almost like a mouse and oftentimes shrill when he giggled or laughed.

“I have just come out to hunt,” I continued, keeping the soft smile on my lips, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore as I watched him struggle to release his arrow, “Would you like to join me?”

He stiffened again, and I knew why, but his movements became frantic all of a sudden, the arrow slipped in its holster and the bow was back around his wide shoulders. He looked up, face almost pained as he stared at mine deeply, then he shook his head. I didn’t move nor say anything as he suddenly took off, feet tangling in weed and almost sending him flying onto the floor of the forest, but I didn’t help him. I knew he’d hate it, he didn’t let anyone touch him, so I just stayed put and willed myself to watch him as he just barely regained his balance. I wanted to help, but he didn’t allow me, he never has and never will. The meadow was wide, covered in lush green weeds, trees, bushes and colourful flowers, fallen twigs and leaves, logs and rocks, but he still came towards me, not avoiding my body. It was new, most of the time he’d walk around me and not even spare me another glance, but today his eyes were piercing and his stance held more confidence than I have seen in him ever since the Games. My smile didn’t slip off my lips, I was grateful that he wasn’t so keen on avoiding me anymore. But still, almost as if he realized what he was doing, his steps veered away and he went around me just last minute, the fabric of his forest green jacket brushing against my knuckles. I swallowed, nervous for no reason as I turned my head to look after him, “Goodbye, Mingi.”

He flinched when I said his name, he always did and perhaps always will, but instead of ignoring me he looked back too, jaw clenched, but he offered a silent greeting with a nod of his head. My smile widened and his eyes did too at the motion, then he paled, body visibly shaking as he suddenly took off in a sprint, leaving my heart aching and hands trembling as he disappeared from view, my legs giving out as I sat on the muddy floor of the forest. I couldn’t blame him, I never did and I never will, but he made it infinitely harder to cope with the pain of having lost my twin sister because of him.

            The hunt had been successful, I managed to catch four wild ducks, which meant plenty of good coins for a tasty dinner for three. I have started training to become a nurse around a year ago, right after losing my sister, and that meant we were tight on money. I couldn’t say my family struggled much despite being from District 12, but after my sister’s death, it felt like things had slowed down. Money started coming in rather scarcely and it made me realize that she had been an important contributor to our income. Unable to sit back and watch my parents struggle, I decided to follow her path. It had been her dream to become a nurse, to reach the Capitol and become a great doctor, but the Games took both her and her dream away from us. It was a hard blow, it was hard because Mingi could’ve sacrificed himself for a woman who had a whole future planned ahead of herself unlike him, who failed to finish school in his last year and was supposed to work in a mine for the rest of his life. He was selfish, scared, and desperate to remain alive, all reasonable emotions when you’re faced with the choice to kill someone or be killed.

I never blamed him for killing my twin sister, I never hated him for being selfish and shooting his arrow straight into her heart. At least she left this terrifying world quickly and painlessly. I never wished death upon Mingi when my mother wailed while my father held her in his arms and rocked her, sobbing just as loudly as her when the camera span on my sister’s lifeless eyes and face. I never blamed Mingi for her death because he sobbed just as hard as us after the kill, holding her frail frame in his arms as he screamed towards the sky, words unheard as the cameras didn’t record audio too. I didn’t blame him when I found refuge in the meadow my sister loved so much, curled up in a ball in the tall grass as I cried loudly, chest aching and ears ringing until nightfall, when I finally felt empty and numb. And I still didn’t blame him when he returned home, crowned as the winner of last year’s Hunger Games, rewarded with so much money it would last him generations and a house at the Victor’s Village so big three families could fit inside. And despite the pain I felt when the train came to a screeching halt and he got off with empty eyes and sunken cheeks, our eyes meeting for a brief moment, I couldn’t hate him or blame him because the Song Mingi once everyone had known was gone.

The sky had turned darker as the sun hid behind the trees, the moon taking its place in the sky as mist settled upon the forests that surrounded our district. And despite the nightfall, the Hob was alive and buzzing with people who were desperate to trade their goods in exchange for some coins in order to survive another day. The four wild ducks I had caught, I had cut up and taken their feathers off, were displayed on the small table I managed to fetch from behind the building that has seen better days, and I set it up next to an old lady who sold trinkets and jewellery that looked older than even her. I have promised to give her the smaller duck in trade for a silver bracelet that had one pearl. I had never seen a pearl up close, and despite knowing that I’d never wear it, I’d figure out eventually what I wanted to do with it. Perhaps I’ll give it as a gift to my father, since it looked way too big for a woman’s wrist, or perhaps I’ll bring it to my sister’s grave and leave it as a gift to her. I didn’t dwell on the thought much.

The Hob was well-lit despite the old lamps that hung above our heads, and the late summer chill had settled inside, prompting everyone to wear their warmer clothes. I had accepted the battered blanket the old lady handed me when she saw me shivering, and promised to return tomorrow with ointment for her cut-up hands. I couldn’t tell whether she had nobody to look out for her or if her family had simply abandoned her, but I have promised myself after my sister’s death that I would help those who needed help yet couldn’t pay with coins for my services. A flower, cheese and bread, or even a small trinket would be good enough for me, I’d make use of it if it meant I helped a soul that needed attention and care.

Three ducks still sat on the table in front of me and I smiled warmly at everyone who wandered towards me, hungry eyes fixating on the ducks. The man that stood in front of me was a mine worker, I knew him because he worked with my father numerous times before.

“Hello, sir.” I greeted him and his eyes briefly looked up at me.

“Your father must be proud of you for helping out,” He muttered under his breath as he scratched his already irritated neck, “he speaks of you a lot on our breaks. How much for one duck?”

“Five coins will do, sir,” I answered him politely, but as he looked inside his pouch his face had turned ashen, then furious.

“Five is too much, child, who do you think can pay so much?” His voice turned harsh, and the lady next to me cast a glance our way.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I risk my life stepping outside the boundaries of our district, five coins are cheap for my sacrifices and the duck.” I didn’t let him waver my resolve, I knew how people were here. They would try to trick their way out of paying the worth of the items, and I wouldn’t fall for his manipulations. But the man seemed displeased as his fist came down on the table, making me jump. I wasn’t a violent person, but I was glad for the knife that was hidden underneath my clothes, pressing against my hip as a reminder that it was there. The old lady now looked at us, eyebrows furrowing.

“Maybe you should return to your little nursing school and fuck off to the Capitol like your sister had—”

“If you cannot pay five coins, walk along!” The old lady snapped next to me, eyes hardened and voice raised as it turned heads, curious eyes watching the tense exchange. The man threw her a glance and scoffed before he reached inside his pouch and retrieved the coins I had asked for, throwing them on the table as he grabbed one duck and stalked off. I sighed but gave the old lady a thankful smile and collected the coins, crouching down to retrieve one as it had tumbled to the ground. The cacophony of the market seemed to quieten at once until it turned into just murmurs, and I stood back up with a confused look on my face. I was a bit far from the entrance of the Hob and couldn’t see far ahead due to the number of people inside, but when the crowd started parting for a certain person, I understood their reaction.

Despite the camouflage he tried wearing, his clean and thick clothes managed to make him stick out like a sore thumb, his small eyes sharper now that the lower half of his face was concealed by a black silk scarf. He still wore the same jacket as earlier today, a satchel bag sitting against his hip as he wandered further inside the market. People whispered behind his back and stepped aside when he came too close, and I watched as people glared at him behind his back, pointing fingers and no doubt throwing insults at him. I wondered if people from other districts treated their Victors the same way people here treated Mingi. Maybe it was because my sister was a beloved figure in our district, a professional healer and always kind to everyone, maybe it was because Mingi had lost himself halfway into the games and murdered those who crossed his path viciously. Behind all the stares, glares and whispers lay something deeper. It was fear because people were reminded of their animalistic side, of who they could turn into when faced with the question of whether they wanted to live or die. They were scared because everyone knew they would do the same Mingi had done, kill an innocent and kind person in order to survive.

It was almost as if the market had frozen over when Mingi finally reached my humble table, silence so loud it irked my ears as everyone watched on edge our exchange. His eyes didn’t settle on my face for long, reluctant to look at me when so many were watching us, but I just smiled and looked at him with kindness, “Good evening, Mingi.”

I could hear gasps even, mouths hanging open as the Victor halted in front of the ducks I managed to hunt, eyes sweeping over them as if he did a quick count in his head. Even if minuscule, his eyes conveyed surprise and somewhat admiration when we looked up at me again, but upon seeing my smile, his eyes steeled, becoming devoid of any emotion. He nodded his head once in acknowledgement, then swiftly walked off, eyes set on a table that was littered with old and new weapons alike. Mingi had the money to buy the best of the best, but he always came to the Hob, late at night, probably hoping fewer people would be here. He could afford luxuries, but he preferred helping out those in need. He never said anything when they demanded more of him, he just wordlessly handed them the coins and left with a quiet ‘Thank you’. People catalogued him as selfish and ruthless, but he was deeply caring and rather selfless. It all mattered on the perspective you had of him and whether you wanted to spot the good in him or not.

Once Mingi was on his way towards other stalls and tables, the market seemed to regain its liveliness while remaining aware and alert of his presence amongst the crowd. Nobody approached him and nobody spoke to him, the vendors gave him second glances and seemed reluctant to acknowledge him despite the money they knew he could offer them. My eyes remained on his tall form, his shoulders hunched forward, as people passed by my table, sometimes stopping to inquire about the price of the wild ducks. A girl, too young to be here, bounced towards my table as she held onto her mother’s hand, eyes stuck on the ducks. My heart ached at the sight of her frail frame and the ghastliness of her mother’s face, and when she tried to veer her daughter away because they barely had any money, I cleared my throat and stepped around the table.

“Hello,” I greeted them kindly, and smiled at the girl as her eyes shone with enthusiasm, “Would you like to buy some wild duck?”

“We don’t have enough money, sorry.” The mother muttered embarrassed and I quickly shook my head.

“Well, you’re in luck tonight then, because I’m not looking for money.” I have acquired ten coins as I have sold two ducks, and while I still needed at least ten more, everyone had to make sacrifices and I wasn’t about to let them walk away without the duck in a bag and in their hands.

“But—”

“Come.” I beckoned the little girl towards myself, disregarding the mother as her eyes widened, “Which one would you like?”

I crouched down to be at the same height as the girl and she smiled widely at me, eyes sweeping over the two ducks that have remained on the table. She stuck her tongue out as she seemed to analyse both, then pointed to the larger one and I grinned back at her.

“That’s a good one,” I said with a chuckle and the girl shyly ran back to her mom to hide behind her skirt. I grabbed a paper bag and carefully placed the duck inside of it as the mother’s eyes followed my every move.

“I cannot accept this.” She tried to refuse but I was having none of it as I handed the bag to the little girl instead.

“You can.” I said with a reassuring smile, “My mother is looking for a seamstress, perhaps you can help her out sometime?”

I knew the woman was a seamstress whose business wasn’t flourishing anymore, but she was still clinging on to it, trying to do her best as she raised her daughter. Nobody knew who her father was and they had been treated harshly ever since she was born. Tears sprung into the mother’s eyes and she bowed her head deeply, “Thank you, I’ll make sure to do a good job. Bring in your clothes too, if they need fixing.”

“I sure will, thank you.” I bowed back and looked at the little girl, “Do you like pies?”

“I do!” She exclaimed happily and I chuckled.

“Well, then, I’ll see you two sometime next week with a pie and three dresses.” The mother bowed her head again and thanked me as a tear fell down her cheek, then she veered her daughter towards the exit as she blabbered on about how she loved duck meat the most. With a content smile on my lips, I walked back behind my table as I felt eyes on me. The old lady had a thoughtful look on her face as I faced her, and then she looked towards the crowd and sighed loudly.

“Your parents have raised you well, both you and your sister.” The old lady said and I nodded, agreeing with her, “She was kind too, but you are kinder, my dear. You have never expected anything in exchange for your actions, ever since you were little.”

“If we don’t stick together, then who will help us out?” I asked, eyebrows furrowing and my mood souring, “Surely not President Snow and the people from the Capitol, right?”

The old lady gave me a long look as she hummed, eyes looking back onto the crowd as I heard someone yelp. Curious, I turned my head and tried to pinpoint whoever had called out in fright, but the crowd was big and I couldn’t see anyone.

“Be brave and honest, but careful, even the walls have ears, my dear.” The old lady advised as men started shouting, the crowd crying out in fright again as suddenly it started dispersing not far from us, the people hid behind tables and next to vendors as another man exclaimed in pain. My eyebrows furrowed as I perked up, walking around my table as the crowd was clearing and I could almost see what was happening up ahead.

“What is the matter—” My eyes widened when I realized someone had Mingi’s torso pressed against a table, face down, wrists held behind his back as he struggled to break free as he hissed and glared viciously. My eyes widened as suddenly he kicked his leg backwards, and the man holding him folded over in pain as he released the Victor, scrambling back as Mingi whirled around with a wild look in his eyes, hands held out protectively in front of himself. The crowd steeled for a second, my heartbeat quickening as I realized he had the same look in his eyes as earlier today. Then, almost at once, three men jumped forward and tried to restrain him as Mingi pulled a knife from his pocket, sneering at whoever jumped at him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I didn’t know what led to this altercation, but something felt wrong. Mingi was inoffensive, he never attacked first and he wouldn’t even hurt a fly even if it bothered him. Someone must’ve done or said something that made him so defensive.

But the men didn’t care as more women screamed, and I gripped the edge of my table as they jumped towards him, trying to take him down. Mingi was alone and despite being strong, he couldn’t defend himself against three men who were stronger and really angry. The way he held his knife was obvious enough that he didn’t intend to harm anyone, it was obvious enough to me that he was scared. My heart leapt into my chest as a man jumped at him from behind, unseen by almost everyone, an arm going around Mingi’s neck as the one to his right slapped the knife out of his tight hold. Then, his knees were kicked out from underneath him and he fell with a terrified cry, trashing around as the men tried to restrain his frantic movements. I took off without realizing my legs were taking me in their direction, heart beating fast as my ears rang, head aching the more Mingi’s cries started sounding less aggressive and more scared, but nobody seemed to hear them or care about them.

I pushed people out of the way, unapologetic and frantic, running around tables and jumping over crates as they were in my way, the only goal in my mind to reach him. Held down like that, his eyes were wide and filled with helplessness, the same look had been reflected in my sister’s when she had been shot in the heart. Mingi was still trashing around but his body was trembling now and it was audible that he was struggling to breathe. My body was lit with deep anger as I realized everyone was feeding off of his fear instead of realizing he was having a panic attack. The last person I pushed aside gave me a look and went to grab at me, but I threw them a menacing glare before I broke free of the crowd finally, panting as the attention was on both Mingi and me now. The men who held him were smirking and mocking him, but a look of confusion crossed their faces when I stood in front of them, frantic and desperate to stop this.

“Stop it!” I snapped, voice a lot more high-pitched than I expected it to be, “Let go of him!”

“He’s like a rabid dog,” One man hissed, “Like hell, are we releasing him. He’ll hurt us—”

“I said,” My voice held danger as I itched to grab my knife and hold it threateningly towards the men, “let him fucking go!”

And if my scream didn’t chill the onlookers, then Mingi’s helpless whimper did as his eyes screwed shut tightly, even his head shaking as he struggled to breathe. I didn’t wait for the men to listen to me as I scrambled towards Mingi, falling to my knees with a loud thud as my knees shook from the impact, but I didn’t care as he was finally released. He flinched and tried to flee, but my cold fingertips traced his forehead as his eyes snapped open, wide and shaking as they bore into mine.

“It’s okay,” My voice was quiet and gentle, assuring, “I’m going to take this off.”

I gently grabbed the scarf that covered his nose and lips, and a strong hand suddenly grabbed at my bicep. The men tried to touch Mingi again, but I threw them a warning look.

“You’ll be able to breathe better, Mingi,” I said with the same softness as the grip on my arm continued to tighten, but Mingi didn’t object as I slowly pulled the scarf off his lower face. He gasped and clung onto me with both hands now, lips trembling as his body shook. He looked smaller than he was, he looked on the verge of passing out. With a shaky breath, I traced his thick eyebrows and brushed his long bangs out of his eyes as I offered him the smallest smile.

“Mingi, what we’ll do next is easy, alright?” He gasped as he was hyperventilating, but his eyes were stuck to my lips, “We’ll breathe together, alright? We inhale big and exhale long, good? You’re safe, Mingi.”

I didn’t know how much my words managed to reach his mind, but I started taking big inhales and long exhales, hoping that he’d soon follow my lead. People gawked at us and murmured, horrified that I was helping the man who mercilessly killed my twin sister. I didn’t care, Mingi was human too and he was suffering. It was right in front of their noses, the fact that he was still struggling and paying the consequences of his actions, but nobody seemed to actually care that he wasn’t just a rich and scary Victor now.

“In,” I inhaled, holding Mingi’s cold face in my hands as his fingers dug into my cardigan, “Out.”

And he was slowly catching on to how to breathe in and out, his chest expanding and then falling back as he emptied his lungs. His body was shaking and he would still whimper or become smaller when someone made a sound too loud, but I was here, and I was determined to help him regain his senses, regain himself. It took him a few good minutes, but his frantic breaths have found a new rhythm, much calmer and quieter than before, inhaling and exhaling at the same time with me. A small smile crossed my face when I realized he was slowly returning to himself, my thumbs gently rubbed the skin under his eyes, trying to bring the smallest form of comfort. His grip relaxed around my biceps and his body leaned towards mine as if it was trying to drink in my warmth, I let him nuzzle his face into my hands as his body finally stopped trembling. The people around us went quiet and I gulped, trying to keep my composure in front of everyone. I was mad, I was angry and I wanted to scream at them for treating him like an animal, for caging him in and making him feel like he was in danger, like he was back in the arena once again, triggering a panic attack and probably unwanted memories that he tried to bury deep down.

“You’re safe, Mingi.” His eyes snapped open and bore into mine, irises expanded and still alarmed as he took breaths through his mouth, hands slipping down from my biceps to my wrists. His grip was painful and I understood that he wanted my hands off his skin, so I pulled them back into my lap, but he didn’t let go of me just yet. His eyes were shaking again, tears sprung into them and he gulped, subtly shaking his head. He had become paler than he was before, and I knew the crowd was too much, the eyes and the whispers, the fingers that were pointed at us and the sneers, the judgemental stares. I gripped his wrists back and stood, looking down at Mingi as I silently asked him to stand as well.

His eyes continued boring into mine, face ashen, but at least he knew he was safe as long as he didn’t let go of me.

            The petals of the soft pink flower felt dainty underneath my fingertips as I gently traced them, a small smile on my lips as I inhaled their scent before rearranging the bouquet in the vase. I had brought them in from the meadow just yesterday, so they were still fresh and flourishing. The meadow was full of the pinkish coloured Musk Mallows which was my twin sister’s favourite flower. She’d always gush about their softness and beauty, collecting a small bouquet for herself to decorate her grim side of our shared room. I wasn’t fond of the flower at first, its smell irritating my nostrils, but with the passing of years and sneaking to the meadow before sunset, I started loving their familiarity. The meadow was peaceful, quiet, and far away from the Peacekeepers and the grey haze of District 12. It was a reminder of what our Earth must’ve looked like before the nuclear war destroyed it and forced it to become what Panem is today.

The pink flowers reminded me of freedom and of my sister, of a dream that was possible to achieve if you never gave up and fought for it. It reminded me of love and laughter and the look on my sister’s face whenever she cradled it to her chest, of the chastising of our parents for sneaking out once again, but the fondness on their faces when my sister and I would sprint to our rooms giggling and talking about going to the meadow again tomorrow to make flower crowns for our mother and father. It reminded me of tender touches and a quiet love that you didn’t have to talk about or scream it out into the world for everyone to see it or understand it, it reminded me of a toothy smile and small eyes that once used to laugh, of sneaked glances and shy looks passed between classes.

The deep voice of my father's and my mother’s gentler one carried outside of their room, all the way to the kitchen as I changed the flowers’ water, my parents’ murmur gentle and warm. The water was cold against my skin and it made me shiver despite the warm summer breeze that came inside through the open window, and I smiled when I heard footsteps coming into the kitchen. My father was dressed in his overalls, his tools in a handbag and a cap low over his eyes as my mother came following him outside, fussing about the hole in his jacket’s arm. Their love had always been quiet and subtle, it was always about noticing the small things, about doing something quietly for the other one.

“Don’t worry, a small hole won’t make me feel cold down in the mine.” My father’s voice held amusement as he grabbed the jacket out of my mother’s hands. I rearranged the flowers in the vase once I was satisfied with the amount of water inside the glass, and chanced a glance in my parents’ direction.

“But it will seem like your wife is unable to sew it for you,” My mother’s eyebrows were furrowed and I chuckled quietly, picking out seven pink flowers from the bouquet.

“And isn’t that true?” Teasing bordered my father’s tone as he gave my mother a cheeky smile, and she looked away with an embarrassed huff, “Don’t worry, nobody will notice it. It’s rather dark down there.”

“Do you remember the small pink and purple boutique at the square?” I perked up, gaining my parents’ attention as if they were oblivious to my presence.

“The lady who has a daughter now?” My mother asked as she fixed my father’s collar, remaining close by his side.

“Yes, hers.” I nodded, then crouched down to place the flowers I picked out of the vase inside my basket, “She owes me a small favour, we should bring our faulty clothes to her.”

“I heard she’s been struggling,” My father trailed off as he looked at me, but not for too long, then grabbed my mother’s hand, “well then, why not? Everyone needs some coins to make due.”

“Right.” My mother nodded with a smile as I grabbed my basket and mentally prepared myself for a good enough excuse, “We should visit her, then, sometime this week—Y/N, where are you going, honey?”

I froze in front of the front door and tried to look as innocent as possible, “I’ll stop by at a house before I head to the Nursery, one of my patients was sick lately.”

“In the middle of summer?” My father asked with confusion, eyes straying from my face when I looked at him sadly.

“Some old people are barely hanging on, dad.” I muttered but shook off the grim thought, “I’ll see you tonight, right?”

“Sure, take care of yourself.” He said gently and I nodded, eyeing my mother as her fingers curled around my father’s arm just a bit tighter. Working in a mine had always been dangerous, it had always taken away lives way too abruptly and painfully.

“See you, then.” I waved at my parents and they smiled, proud but with sadness bordering their eyes as they never looked at me for too long. I understood why. The face which was mine hadn’t always been just mine, it had once been my twin sister’s too, even if slightly different. I didn’t blame them like I didn’t blame Mingi, and I never got angry at them like I never got angry at Mingi. Everyone suffered and coped in their own way with loss, and when things got too difficult to bear anymore, I knew I would find solace in the meadow that reminded me so much of my sister.

The walk to the Victor’s Village wasn’t too long, but it was midday and the streets were littered with people going on about their day. I greeted those who offered me smiles and I stopped to talk with those who needed my advice as a nurse. Young children laughed and screamed in the courtyard as I passed by the school, pleasant memories flooding my mind as a young girl clung to the gates and waved at me with a giggle. It reminded me of when I tried to scale the gate in order to prove that I was strong, only to fall and twist my ankle as I tried not to wail, but instead swallow the pain and smile when my classmates started fussing over me. It had been—an already—tall and lanky figure that pushed everyone aside with worry on his face as he came to kneel next to me, thick eyebrows furrowed as he clumsily grabbed my leg, applying pressure where it hurt most. I cried out, scaring everyone, and they started shouting at the boy, trying to pull him away from me as they accused him of hurting me, but I didn’t want him to go. His touch was warm and gentle, scared but willing to help, and I only stopped throwing a fit when the other children left him alone and made him pick me up and carry me to the Nursery that was close by. His voice was still scratchy back then, but it was soft and friendly, “You’re safe, Y/N.”

Nervous for no reason, I readjusted the collar of my lavender-coloured dress and then knocked against the perfectly white door, the air a bit clearer over here. The Victor’s Village was just by the borders of District 12, meaning that it was closer to the forest and meadow I loved so much. It was always silent here, and it smelled of flowers and baked goods whenever the Song’s front door was open to let the fresh air in. Only two houses were inhibited inside the Village and at night it could seem eery, almost haunted by all the lives lost in the Hunger Games. But my irrational nervousness came to a stop when the front door opened and an elderly smiling face welcomed me on the other side.

“Oh, my dear,” The elder woman, Mrs. Song, had a surprised look on her face, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon!”

After everything that’s happened at the Hob last night, I wouldn’t have abandoned Mingi, leave him alone to deal with the aftereffects of his panic attack. I stuck to his side and walked him back to the Victor’s Village as no words were exchanged between us, but the fact that he didn’t shuffle too far from my body was the confirmation I needed that he appreciated my presence and persistence. I was a nurse in training, after all, and he was just a person fighting against the demons inside his mind.

“It was due time I brought you a new ointment, Mrs. Song.” I said with a smile as Mingi’s grandmother beckoned me inside, “And I picked fresh flowers yesterday, I figured they would look nice in your kitchen or living room.”

The old lady’s face lit up upon hearing about the flowers, and I had just barely stepped out of my sandals when her hand gripped my wrist and pulled me after herself. Despite the house being managed by an elderly couple and their grandchild, it was in perfect condition and always pristine clear. I have offered to help them out more often, but Mrs. Song had always said that they were doing fine and capable of handling the huge house on their own. I didn’t want to push them or make them feel incapable since they had Mingi back now, thankfully, and they wouldn’t need another pair of hands to help out. While my sister and Mingi were in the Games, I frequently stopped by the Song’s small house to help the elderly couple with anything I could. Sometimes I cooked for them, other times I helped scrub the house clean, and when their legs hurt too much, I would sell their baked goods at the market and bring back the coins for them.

“You’re so sweet,” Mrs. Song mused as she directed me towards the large table in the kitchen, “Take a seat, I made some apple pie just this morning, it’s my Mingi’s favourite. Would you like some too?”

“I wouldn’t want to take it away from him, then, since it’s his favourite—”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Song waved her hand, hurrying to take a plate and fork, “That boy is so tall but so skinny. He barely eats anything lately, my dear, what should I do to bring back his appetite?”

It’s been almost a year since his Games, and sometimes I found myself throwing up after eating, my sister’s lifeless eyes flashing behind my eyes, a constant reminder that she wasn’t here anymore. That she wouldn’t go to the Capitol and that she wouldn’t become a nurse, never to hunt again or lay in the flower field at the meadow.

“Just be gentle and patient with him, Mrs. Song,” I placed the basket on the table and opened it, “I can’t guarantee he’ll ever be fine, but he’s doing better. I can see it in his eyes.”

“He’s still haunted by memories,” Mrs. Song whispered defeated as I grabbed the flowers and the tin can of ointment for her leg, “but he doesn’t wake up from nightmares so often anymore.”

“He’ll get better with time, he’ll eventually stop blaming himself.” I whispered as I headed towards Mrs. Song, who had paused and had her head lowered, “He’s lucky to have you and Mr. Song, and you’re doing everything you can for him. It’s good, I am glad he has people who love him and support him.”

Mrs. Song hummed and turned her head to look at me, taking the items from my hands. She smelled the flowers and grinned, placing the ointment by the sink as she went to fetch a vase for the pinkish flowers, “I had always been able to tell whether it was your sister or you, you know? Remember when you brought my Mingi candies when he helped you with your homework? Your sister never quite liked him, I once watched her kick him in the shin because he refused to carry her to school on his back.”

I blushed and looked away feeling embarrassed as Mrs. Song started laughing quietly, amused by the recall of a longtime memory, “You’ve always been soft-spoken and calm, you always looked at my Mingi with admiration and understanding in your eyes. I know he’s not—he appreciates everything you’ve done for him since—since that day, and he’s trying to mend your once bond.”

“It was her who volunteered to take my spot,” My throat felt a little tight, like something was bothering it from the inside, “she knew what she’d have to face, she chose her fate willingly. Mingi only did what everyone else did before him and will do after him, I just wish he was …more willing to receive kindness and love.”

Mrs. Song hummed and gave me a long look before she walked back to me, grabbing the curtain of the small window as she pulled it to the side. She had a big smile on her lips as she gazed outside, and I followed her line of sight, stunned by what I saw. Mingi was outside in the back garden with his grandfather, crouched down and digging up the soil as a half-empty sack lay next to him. His grandfather was fanning himself and holding a bottle of water as his mouth moved, telling Mingi something that made him smile. It was small at first, barely a twitch of the corner of his plump and red lips, but then it expanded slowly into something wider. Something which pulled at the corner of his sharp eyes and softened them up, the brown in them brighter and warmer as his smile only became bigger, crooked front teeth on display, boxy and warm. It lit up his sharp face and made him look kind and friendly, so easily lovable, so easily approachable. The smile made his eyes so small you almost couldn’t see them as they creased, long and tall nose scrunching up as his chest started shaking. It looked like when he was sobbing, but now he was laughing, loudly and joyously, and it made it harder to look at him than at the blazing sun.

My breath hitched and something dormant stirred in my chest, something that made my heart pump my blood faster and my palms ball up into fists as my eyes widened, lips parting in surprise the longer I watched the joy expand on his whole face, making him throw back his head, his black hair not obscuring his eyes for once. His skin was pale despite its tan complex, making it obvious that he didn’t spend much time outside anymore, but under the warm rays of the sun, it made him glow brightly and breathtakingly. He looked casual in his white shirt, which threatened to fall off his right shoulder, and his dark blue trousers were dirtied by the soil his knees dug into. He looked gorgeous, beautiful and mesmerizing, and I have just realized I never wanted to see him cry or frown or tremble in fear ever again. I wanted Mingi to be happy, to be joyous and grateful that he was still alive. I wanted him to smile and laugh every day, his warm eyes trained on me—on my face—without pain or hesitance lingering in them. I wanted Mingi to see me and not my dead twin sister in the reflection of my features.

I gulped, suddenly aware of the tears in my eyes when Mrs. Song placed her wrinkly hand on top of my fisted one, gently squeezing it. Her eyes bore into the side of my head and I sniffed once, trying to gather myself and blink the tears away. Mrs. Song remained silent, but she hummed and gently helped my hands relax as I uncurled them, pressing them into the cold countertop, “He smiles like that from time to time, when he’s able to let go of everything and just be in the moment. I know you miss my grandson, and I know you miss your sister even more.”

“I was never meant to lose both of them,” I whispered, voice strained as I forced my head to turn, Mingi’s laughter and happiness burned into the forefront of my mind, “The Games were never supposed to take away the sister I loved with my whole being, and they were never supposed to take away the innocence and light in Mingi.”

“Life isn’t always fair, my dear,” Mrs. Song said as she let the curtain fall back in place, “Sometimes unexplainable things happen and if we dwell on them trying to find an explanation, whether ordinary or divine, we threaten to lose ourselves in an impossible quest. You’re stronger than anyone has ever thought you’d be, don’t let the darkness get to you like it gets to most of us. You have no idea how much it means that there’s someone who views Mingi like a human being besides me and his grandfather, I was afraid he’d end up like Haymitch, but he’s still fighting and trying to do his best.”

“Mingi’s stronger than he gives credit to himself,” I said with conviction as I walked towards the sink to fetch the ointment I brought, “He’ll never end up like poor Haymitch. I’ll have to check on him soon.”

“He’s still breathing, if you’re worried about him.” Mrs. Song’s tone was sour as she knocked on the window, “I went over today, brought him some pie too. It was the first time since we moved here that he didn’t slam the door in my face, I suspect apple pie is also his favourite.”

Mrs. Song and I chuckled to ourselves as we heard the front door open and then close loudly, manly voices conversing about whether the new seeds they had planted would grow out fast or not. I opened the tin can and handed it to Mrs. Song so that she could smell it and realize I had infused some cinnamon into it since it’s her favourite scent. Her eyes lit up and she grinned just as the men appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, Mr. Song’s laughter gruff, followed by a scratchy cough. I let my eyes fall on the grandfather and grandson, their eyes and noses very similar, it seemed like the traits had carried over to Mingi too. His grandparents weren’t tall people, but judging by the small fragments of memories of Mingi’s parents, I could remember his father being an intimidatingly tall man. Unfortunately, he died in a mining accident when Mingi and I were barely five years old, and his mother unfortunately died not even two years later due to an incurable sickness.

“Oh, Miss Park, what brings you our way?” Mr. Song asked in surprise as he tried to stand up straighter, dusting off his pants and making soil fall onto the clean floors. Mrs. Song’s eyes narrowed but she didn’t say something as Mr. Song acted like he was innocent.

“I wanted to bring Mrs. Song a new ointment for her leg, hopefully, this will work better.” I tried to act like it didn’t hurt when Mingi’s expression fell once he realized it was me who stood in their kitchen, “Is your chest alright, Mr. Song? Do your lungs still hurt when you cough?”

“Ah, no, don’t worry about me!” He quickly brushed my concerns off, but my eyes were stuck on Mingi as he shuffled on his feet, shoulders hunching as if he was trying to look smaller. He didn’t look my way, sharp eyes pointed to the floor, but his face was void of any expression. I could still see his smile in front of my eyes, I could even imagine what his deep laughter sounded like—probably higher-pitched because it had always been breathy—but it remained as an unfulfilled desire because Mingi would never look at me like that, just with anguish and pain in his eyes, “And are you well? I hope our Mingi didn’t inconvenience you too much last night—”

“Helping him, or anyone for the matter, is never an inconvenience to me, Mr. Song.” I didn’t mean to cut the elder man off, nor to sound too snappy, but I couldn’t help myself. The anger and rage I felt last night for the treatment Mingi was forced to face at the Hob still simmered just underneath my skin, making me sensitive, “It wouldn’t have even happened if people stopped seeing him the way the Capitol has painted him, I—I can’t just stand and watch them torment him, I’m sorry. But I’m glad you’re feeling better today, Mingi.”

The Victor flinched when I said his name, gripping his left arm as he started scratching it through the fabric of the loose white shirt he wore, but he nodded his head and briefly looked up at me, a glimpse of gratitude visible on his face, “Thank you for stepping in.”

“Anytime,” I said, and then Mingi was looking anywhere but at me, my presence in his home clearly making him feel uncomfortable. Realizing that despite his grandparents always welcoming me eagerly with open arms, Mingi still didn’t feel comfortable nor keen on seeing me in the one place where he was supposed to be safe from everyone and everything. I understood why, so I didn’t let the thought sour my mood or bring my spirits down, instead, I went and gathered my basket with a smile on my face and glanced at Mrs. Song, “Thank you for the apple pie, but I’m needed at the Nursery, I’ll have it some other time perhaps. Mr. Song, don’t exert yourself too much and if you’re feeling unwell, let me know.”

The men stood aside so that I could leave the kitchen and despite making sure I didn’t walk too close to Mingi, my knuckles still brushed against the soft fabric of his shirt, just barely but it felt soft and warm. My body stiffened, but I didn’t stop despite Mingi’s head turning to look after me, eyebrows furrowed as he looked conflicted.

“Goodbye!” I called before I was out the door, forced to take deep breaths as my heart was hammering against my chest. I had thought I could do this. But the longer he looked at me with disdain, reluctance and pain in his eyes, the more my chest ached and my lungs constricted, trying to call out for the man I was missing, for the boy who always smiled when he saw me and averted his eyes shyly if he looked for too long. But I wasn’t giving up, I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t treat him like the monster the Capitol made him out to be.

            The Hob once was a place filled with laughter and good disposition, a place where people went to dance, listen to music and enjoy their evenings. Now, after the war that destroyed District 13, the Hob became a mere warehouse that was worn down by the passing of time, destroyed by harsh winters and scorching summers. With its missing windows and hollow insides, the people of District 12 made a place out of it that would host illegal night markets, a means of trying to earn more coins in plus despite it being illegal. The Peacemakers knew of it but they never interfered as long as those guarding it got something out of it too. But with the disappearance of what the Hob once used to be, it needed a replacement, a place that would bring people together still, bring some light into their dark every day. The Hut was that place, an old house of a family that have long died since, in a slightly better-off part of District 12. As expected, the Peacekeepers knew of this place too, but they rarely came to bother people as it was close to the mayor’s house, thus leading to fewer displays of aggressive behaviour. But there were exceptions, there always were exceptions.

The people of District 12 couldn’t be considered hostile or unfriendly, but they knew how to hold grudges, and they weren’t afraid to show their hatred toward one another. It’s this reason why they so blatantly mistreated Mingi, swearing and cursing at his face, brave to lay their hands on him without thinking that it could trigger memories from the Games, making him lash out. At the Hob, when he had a lapse of judgment, his panic attack was induced by something that triggered a terrible memory from the games, leading to the altercation. But people seemed to not understand this, ignorant and unwilling to hear me out and realize that they were hurting him more by their attitudes towards him, ostracizing him even more. My friends, who had always known how I felt about Mingi, were just as ignorant at first, blaming him and mocking him, but they’ve gotten better at accepting him and leaving him alone. They weren’t children anymore, I wouldn’t be held accountable for their actions and words, but I could at least try and open their eyes to reality.

The Hut was almost overflowing by the time me and my friends had arrived, rushing inside as the summer breeze bit at our exposed skin. The long-sleeved dress I wore was dark green, like the forest I’d go hunting at, and I had a dainty brown belt around my waist that my sister had gifted me a long time ago. It was made of leather and it must’ve cost a fortune to her, but she smiled widely and clapped her hands when I opened the small gift box, my eyes widening at the expensive clothing item. Now, knowing that she loved it when I wore it, I made sure to wear it as often as I could even if she wasn’t here to see me. It’s the thought that mattered, and I knew she’d be elated if she were here.

We managed to catch an empty table, just about fitting for seven people as we settled in our chairs, voices raised as the live band played their upbeat music, gathering dancing couples close by the scene and cheering everyone on to come and dance. My friends wanted to grab each a pint of beer before we’d mingle with others our age, so I volunteered to walk up to the bar and order us drinks as three Peacekeepers off duty had approached our table, obviously trying to charm the single ladies who sat there. I wasn’t keen on them, they were ruthless in their practices and unforgiving and fake even when they didn’t wear their uniforms. I had no interest in men like them, men who chose to serve the Capitol and earn a paycheck by asserting violence on others.

I pushed my way through the crowd and tried to dodge every drunk person that came my way, but someone had pushed me from behind just as I neared the bar, making me fall forward and crash into someone’s back. The person stiffened instantly and before I could panic, the familiar scent of the person reached my nose. The fabric of his sweater was soft underneath my fingertips, obviously being a gift from someone wealthy as nobody from District 12 could’ve afforded it. It was beige and had an intriguing black pattern knitted into it, making the sweater look even more cozy. I stepped back and up to the bar, cheeks flushed from the heat inside the place but also from stumbling so clumsily into Mingi.

“I’m sorry,” I spoke up as our eyes met, his widening as mine looked away, “someone pushed me and I lost my footing.”

Mingi didn’t answer, but his hand curled around his pint, knuckles turning white as he squeezed it. His eyes remained stuck on me, though, something unusual as I fumbled with my small purse to find enough coins for my order. I threw him a quick glance and he quickly averted his eyes, staring ahead as his eyebrows furrowed. His hair, surprisingly, was brushed out of his eyes and his cheeks were tinged pink, finally not so pale and sickly looking. His plump lips were chapped but Mingi didn’t seem to mind that as he took a small sip of his own beer. I leaned over the bar and motioned towards the one managing it that I needed seven pints. I wouldn’t be able to carry them to my table, but someone would help, I didn’t worry about that. Now that I had to wait, I turned my body to face Mingi’s, and watched as he stiffened when he realized I was looking at him.

“Are you here by yourself?” I asked with a small smile on my lips and he nodded, picking at a thread of his sleeve as they were longer than his hands and covered them. The sweater created the illusion that it swallowed Mingi’s broad and tall form, giving him a cosy look that oozed safety. I fought against the pull to step closer, to touch his sweater to feel its texture, to compliment him about the way he had styled his hair, finally not obscuring his beautiful eyes. Mingi remained silent, eyes pointed forward as the men standing by the bar gave him irritated looks, as if his mere existence was an inconvenience to them. I sighed and leaned back just a bit, throwing them a warning glare until they turned away, looking uncomfortable.

“Would you like to join me?” I tried with an innocent offer, my smile slightly widening, “I’m here with my—”

“No.” But Mingi’s answer was quick and almost frantic as his eyes widened a bit, his head turning just a little to look at me. He looked almost appalled by my offer and I felt bad for making him feel uncomfortable, but lately, I felt like I didn’t know what to say to him, what was appropriate and what was triggering.

“Right, sorry,” I muttered an apology as the host appeared with my pints of beer, a younger boy trudging after him with a grimace. He looked like he didn’t want to be here, and by the baby fat on his cheeks, he probably wasn’t even supposed to be here.

“Here, help the lady!” The host announced loudly and grabbed the coins I pushed towards him, pushing the younger boy around the bar. Mingi’s eyes fell on the boy, who seemed to pay Mingi no mind other than a quick glance, and I offered him a smile as I grabbed four pints.

“I’ll be here, Mingi.” I ignored it when he flinched, instead smiling wider, “In case you change your mind or need me.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t let my surprise show as he thanked me, quietly and almost hesitantly, but our eyes met and he nodded his head, eyes unsure as they remained stuck to my face. I lingered for a second, wishing to say more, to look at him more, but the young boy was already walking off with the other pints and I couldn’t stay by the bar forever. I nodded my head and swiftly walked off, not without looking back and realizing Mingi’s eyes were following me. It made my chest constrict, a lump in my throat rise as I forced a smile onto my face once I reached my friends’ table, which was filled with laughter and joy.

It felt nice breaking away from the monotonous days, from the grey mood everyone in District 12 seemed to have, it felt nice to spend an evening laughing and enjoying myself. Music seemed to always uplift my mood, and I loved watching people dance, eyes stuck to the way they twirled and moved, sometimes laughing, sometimes looking like they were concentrating too much. I loved to watch the gentleness they held each other with, the spark in their eyes and the ease with which they knew how to follow one's lead. The evening had turned into the late hours of the night, my stomach ached from laughing, but my feet still felt fine as I hadn’t danced just yet. Nobody had approached me and I didn’t want to dance with just anyone, so I also didn’t try to find a dance partner. Despite laughing and conversing with my friends, my eyes often strayed towards the bar, unable to focus on the conversation as I gazed at Mingi, wondering what was going through his mind. He didn’t move from the bar but he did find a seat on a stool, and he didn’t drink more than two pints of beer, but he did eat a pie that looked to be with apples. Nobody approached him and he didn’t approach anyone, he remained alone and stuck to himself as he often would look towards the dancing crowd, picking at the skin around his nails.

Mingi had once used to love to dance, whenever we came here, he wouldn’t sit down for even a second. We never came together, our friend groups were different, but we always somehow stumbled into each other. He had once tried to ask my sister to dance with him, but she gave him a disgusted look and stomped on his feet before storming off towards the boy she was head over heels. Taking pity on Mingi, whose lips were downturned and his head hung low, I told him I really wanted to dance but nobody wanted to dance with me. The joy was back on his face as he took my hand and led me towards the dancing people, blabbering on about his favourite songs and how he had tried playing the guitar before but failed. After that, Mingi always seemed to save me a dance before we’d head home. Perhaps there was one person, after all, that I expected to ask me to dance tonight, and it was Mingi.

I was sat at the table with just two of my friends as they drunkenly tried to ask about how my nursing school was working out, but I barely paid them any mind as I saw two men creeping towards Mingi. They seemed to be drunk too, but they had vicious smirks on their lips and narrowed eyes as they spoke between each other, pointing at Mingi’s back. My jaw clenched when one grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backwards, startling Mingi who almost managed to fall off the stool. The other leaned in uncomfortably close, spatting words in his face as Mingi’s eyebrows furrowed, face falling slowly as fear coated his eyes. Sitting up abruptly and alerting my two friends, I paid them no mind as my legs carried me over to the bar, storming up to Mingi and the two idiots without paying mind to anything else.

“Excuse me.” My voice was loud and harsh as I snapped, jaw clenching when only Mingi seemed to realize I was there too, “Get your hands off him, now.”

And then I grabbed the man’s wrist who still held onto Mingi tightly, making sure to dig my nails into his skin as he yelped, turning around with fury on his face. I didn’t release him, not yet, as his face got red and his chest puffed up, prompting Mingi to slide off his stool, standing tall as he watched the exchange.

“You failed to hear me the first time,” I said, then pushed the man back by his hand before I released it, “surely a woman’s grip didn’t hurt you?”

The man scoffed as his hands balled up into fists, and suddenly Mingi was moving, making me gasp when I felt my back pressing into the bar, body shielded by his much taller and bigger one as he stood in front of me, gripping the other man’s forearm with a sneer on his face, “Don’t touch her.”

Mingi’s voice was low and threatening and it only took seconds for the man to start trembling as he tried to yank his arm free, looking towards his companion with a helpless look. But the man didn’t seem like he wanted to help as he watched Mingi with an open mouth.

“Mingi.” I whispered, scared that this would turn into a really bad scene, something I couldn’t help him get out of like at the Hob, “Would you like to dance with me?”

Mingi froze, dropping the man’s forearm as he turned around, eyebrows furrowed and body too close to mine. I looked up at him, finding myself breathing harder when I felt faint fingertips brushing against my knuckles, making my heart somersault.

“Yes.” And before my mind could register that Mingi had accepted to dance with me, a large hand on my waist was gently veering me around the crowd, leading me towards the dancing one, where the band’s music was louder and everyone was smiling and enjoying themselves. My heart raced in my chest as Mingi led us into the middle of the crowd, coming around me as his eyebrows were furrowed, hands hesitant to touch me anywhere despite having led me here by a hand on my waist. I gulped and raised one hand, deciding to make the first step and offering him a gentle invitation.

I didn’t think he’d actually take me up for a dance, I only said that to de-escalate the situation and to have an excuse for us to walk away from it. But Mingi seemed to take it seriously, his warm and large hand hesitantly slipping into mine. His hand was calloused from wielding a bow and arrow and from working in the back garden too, but his touch remained gentle and mindful. He didn’t wait for me to hold onto his shoulder as he pressed his other hand flatly against my lower back, guiding my body closer to his, but leaving a small gap. I gulped as I looked up, eyebrows furrowed as I fought against the tears that wanted to fill my eyes.

It felt like the world had stopped moving around us, as if the Games never existed, as if the old Mingi was back and my sister was watching us from the sidelines with a displeased look on her face. The tension eased from Mingi’s body and he looked at me with less guilt in his eyes as we made eye contact, but he still swallowed hard, lips parting as his voice was gruff and raspy, “Why are you so kind to me?”

“Because you deserve kindness,” I answered without hesitance, gripping his shoulder and clinging onto him too tightly, having little care about the fact that perhaps this was too much for Mingi, that maybe he didn’t want us standing so close, touching each other in familiar ways. But he remained silent as his body further relaxed, shoulders lowering as I felt his fingers jab into my lower back, with a tug on my belt he closed the gap between our bodies.

I couldn’t breathe all of a sudden, what was supposed to be a dance position felt an awful lot like an attempt at a hug, and I couldn’t breathe as I drowned in Mingi’s closeness, warmth and safety, letting my forehead press against his collarbone as a tear rolled down my cheek.

I hadn’t cried since my sister’s death.

            The days went by quickly here, people were used to their routines and they followed them diligently. Nothing ever interesting or intriguing happened, life was mostly grim and grey. Our District wasn’t well off and there were days when even the wealthiest had to sit back and consider whether throwing out money for luxuries was truly necessary or not. The Hob was filled with more and more people trying to earn a little more in plus, desperate as hungry children hid behind their mothers and hollow-cheeked men tried to be louder so that they’d attract attention upon their stalls. It was a hard-to-swallow picture at times, but it was what I grew up seeing my whole life. I still took pity on everyone, never getting quite used to seeing all the suffering these people had to endure, frequently reminded that I was one of them too, struggling at times to get by. Training to become a nurse had made me realize that I felt fulfilled helping others and that it made me find a purpose other than trying to survive day by day. It gave me hope that if I was capable of helping and healing others, instead of harming them and taking their lives away, then others were capable of taking me as an example to become better and more helpful towards their peers. District 12 had always been forgotten and misjudged by the public—hence why it came as a shock to the Capitol that Mingi was strong and perfectly capable of handling a weapon and defending himself—if our people didn’t stick together, then who would vouch for us?

Helping others, even in the smallest ways like bringing them water or even a slice of bread shouldn’t have been considered something impossible, offering a helping hand to an elderly couple shouldn’t have surprised others when they found out about it. That is why helping the Song family had never seemed like a nuisance to me. Before the Games, it didn’t feel wrong to anyone, but after Mingi returned as a Victor it wasn’t just him who was shunned, his grandparents were too, treated poorly by those who once had happily visited their small patisserie, looking out for the elderly pair who have raised a small child into a fine young man. It was disheartening to watch how the people treated the family, only to realize my own family viewed them the same way. My parents stopped asking about their well-being, about whether Mingi would’ve liked having dinner with us, whether I would go hunt with Mingi and bring back flowers for my sister, they acted as if he never existed. I understood their reasoning, but I couldn’t accept it. They couldn’t blame him for something that was out of his control, for something he was forced to do. That is why I never cared what others thought of me, what they said about me behind my back, whether they judged me or not for keeping in touch with the Song family. Only I could change my mind about them, nothing anyone else said about them could influence me in any way.

That is why I continued to stick around, that is why I visited them weekly to make sure the elderly couple was healthy and Mingi wasn’t cooped up in his room all the time. Today, just shy of a week since Mingi and I had danced at The Hut, I stopped by to see whether Mrs. Song needed help with house maintenance. I memorised the days she liked to clean the house, opening all windows and dusting off all shelves, moping the floors clean and baking something delicious for her husband and grandchild. The blueberry muffins were in the oven, their aroma making my stomach churn as Mrs. Song was perched on a chair, rearranging a shelf of books as she carefully cradled their spines, smiling whenever she opened a book, flipping through pages that were yellow already. I was sat on the windowsill as I cleaned the hinges of the window with a green rag, humming to myself as the birds outside chirped loudly, making me smile. Mr. Song had ventured inside the District, looking for trinkets as he was building a small jewellery box and needed something to decorate it with. If Mingi wasn’t home during the day, he most certainly was out hunting, so I didn’t have to ask Mrs. Song about his whereabouts.

“The Capitol people are coming next week and they’ll be here for a few days,” Mrs. Song spoke up as I felt her eyes on me, “you shouldn’t come over, for your own safety. They are curious people and they always ask questions, they always pester Mingi whether he has someone or not. There’s—bad people in the Capitol who tried to buy him but Haymitch didn’t let them, it’s a dangerous world. Mingi wouldn’t want you involved either.”

I gulped, gut coiling upon hearing people tried to buy him as if he wasn’t a living person with a will and control over his own choices, it didn’t sit well with me, “Is something the matter?”

“No, the Reaping is getting closer and President Snow wants to showcase last year’s Victor.” Mrs. Song sighed and carefully got off the chair, sitting on it instead, “Update the public about what he’s been up to lately and how he’s doing, it’s all for show, really. But Mingi hates it, he’s been more—silent and avoidant, he doesn’t leave his room so often anymore. I know he’s scared, he’s dreading the Reaping. He will probably have to go as a Mentor this year and he doesn’t want to. The nightmares are back too, I don’t know how to be there for him anymore. I don’t know what to do to reassure him anymore.”

A feeling of sadness permeated my whole being as I closed the window, shiny and as good as new as I faced Mrs. Song, “He knows you’re trying your best, and he’s trying his best too. Just let him be and offer him a shoulder to lean on when he comes to you, I think he’s gotten better at coping. I can make a tea for him, to sleep better and have less nightmares, if you want me to.”

“I’ll ask him about it.” Mrs. Song smiled and stood, bringing the chair back to its spot in the kitchen. I drew the curtains together and grabbed the rag to bring it to the bathroom and wash it clean, but as I stepped into the hallway, the front door opened and Mingi stepped through the threshold. His black hair was dishevelled and his attire was completely green, his jacket undone and t-shirt underneath muddy as he kicked his dirty shoes off by the door. He hadn’t noticed me yet as he held a wild duck in his hand, an arrow still lodged in its heart.

“’Ma, I’m—” When he looked up his body tensed, eyes stopping on me. I stood up a bit straighter and offered him a small welcoming smile.

“Hello.” I greeted, holding the rag with both hands in front of me. It’s been a week since we danced together and he hadn’t been as tense around me as before, he spoke a bit more, but he still kept his distance. He didn’t look at me for too long, but his eyes looked less haunted whenever he did, “How was your hunt?”

Mingi swallowed then his eyes looked down at his hands, the dead duck wasn’t dripping blood on the clean floor at least, “Short, but I caught something at least.”

“That’s good,” I smiled a bit wider, “your grandma will make a delicious stew out of it, I’m sure.”

Mingi hummed as his eyes were stuck on the arrow that went through the duck’s heart as if he was unable to look away. His thick brows furrowed and his jaw clenched, but he abruptly raised his head, eyes hard and body alarmed as I tried to stand as unthreateningly as I could. I didn’t want to trigger any memory if able, so I looked to the side as Mingi’s eyes continued boring into the side of my face, “Would you—would you like to—if my grandma makes stew, would you—the duck I caught, I—I’m sorry.”

Silence stretched between us as I sighed, not annoyed and neither tired, just feeling defeated when I chanced a glance at Mingi. He looked disappointed as he chewed on his bottom lip, shoulders hunched forward again as his bangs fell into his eyes, “Would you like me to come over for lunch if your grandma makes stew, Mingi?”

He stiffened, flinching slightly, but he wordlessly nodded slowly, looking at me through his eyelashes. I chuckled and nodded, feeling like we had just taken an immense step towards finding common ground again, towards reestablishing what we once had, “Alright, I’ll come over if you still want me to.”

“I will.” Mingi said hurriedly, I had barely finished talking, “I won’t change my mind.”

I felt my chest slowly warm up as my smile slightly faltered, forcefully ignoring the need to walk over and hug him, inhale his earthy scent and thank him for trying to mend our lost relationship. I nodded, eyes boring into his as Mingi nodded back, shifting on his feet as if he didn’t know what to say more or what to do next. But to his luck, Mrs. Song had just walked out of the kitchen, eyes widening in delight when she noticed her grandson, “Mingi! You’re back! Go wash up, you can take care of the duck afterwards.”

Mingi nodded and walked further inside the house, making sure to avoid touching me when he passed by me as I pressed myself up against the wall. I watched him press a quick kiss against his grandmother’s cheek and then disappear inside the kitchen before he raced up the stairs without looking back. Mrs. Song chuckled before she looked at me with a knowing look in her eyes, then pointed towards the bathroom, “Were you headed in there?”

“Yes, do you need anything?” I asked as I approached her, trying to stop my eyes from gazing up at the stairs as Mingi’s loud footsteps thudded against the floorboards as he entered his room, closing the door loudly.

“I will hang up the laundry, can you bring Mingi’s clothes up to him after you’ve washed the rag?” Mrs. Song had a sweet smile on her lips as I nodded, setting into motion as I headed inside the bathroom, “My knees are old, my dear, they don’t function as well as yours or my grandson’s…”

I heard Mrs. Song mutter to herself as I chuckled quietly, nearing the sink as I looked up, met with my reflection in the mirror up on the wall. I turned on the faucet without looking down, my eyes a dark colour but under the sunlight a blazing amber—if I believed what everyone has always told me—and my short hair was braided behind my ears as that’s how far I could actually braid the strands. The two ponytails that sat at my nape were small and sometimes managed to tickle me, but I didn’t mind them, the hairstyle was practical and looked cute. I didn’t like my hair getting in my eyes when I was working with my patients, and today had been a rather packed day at the Nursery before I could leave to help Mrs. Song out.

The water was warm against my skin as I rinsed the rag out, carefully hanging it on the side of the bathtub, eyes looking around the bathroom in search of Mingi’s freshly folded clothes. They were placed on top of a low stool behind the door and I went and grabbed them, fingers curling into the soft fabric of the shirt that was at the bottom of the pile. They smelled fresh, devoid of the earthy scent Mingi usually carried with himself, a tinge of citrus could be smelt in the fabric as I brought it up to my nose, taking a deep inhale. Realizing that what I was doing was probably inappropriate, I stopped myself and rolled my shoulders back, trying to stop the blush from spreading widely onto my cheeks.

Mrs. Song was outside in the back garden as I headed for the stairs, the double doors opened and the curtains fluttered as the wind blew inside, Mrs. Song’s pleasant singing voice carried by the wind made me smile. I carefully walked up the stairs, which were made of marble like the rest of the ground floor’s flooring, and was met with pictures hung on the wall of the Song family. There were some older ones, black and white, and some newer ones where Mingi was small and smiling widely as his parents held his hands, his mother’s smile a perfect replica of Mingi’s. Mingi was the perfect mixture of his parents’ traits, but he seemed to take slightly more after his father, who had the same small and sharp eyes as his son, his nose long and tall. I was familiar with the pictures, I’ve seen them numerous times in the Song’s old house, but it brought comfort seeing them once again. The Victor houses were devoid of colours and any life, they exuberated coldness and stripped the home of any cosiness. It felt nice to see Mrs. Song trying to bring it more life with the pictures, her favourite paintings that were family heirlooms and carpets that she and Mr. Song had inherited over the years, with flowers littered around every part of the house.

I knocked on Mingi’s door, his bedroom was the last in the hallway and faced towards the forest, unsurprisingly, but there was no answer. Trying again, not intending to intrude on his privacy, I knocked some more but there was still no answer. I grabbed the doorknob and whispered his name as I poked my head inside just a little, only to realise he wasn’t in the room. Eyes widening, I pushed the door further open and froze, taken aback by what I was seeing. I had never stepped foot inside Mingi’s bedroom ever since he moved inside this house, but upon one glance, it was a replica of his old bedroom. Even the way his things were positioned was the same, his furniture the same, the only difference being the white walls while in his old bedroom, they were grey and the paint was chapped, falling off in some places. It smelled like musk and something citrusy inside, perhaps oranges, as I let the door close behind me, a single lamp lit on his desk despite it being daytime. His blackout curtains were drawn together, but based on the volume of the birds chirping, I could tell the windows were open. Walking further inside, I noticed a small notebook opened on top of his desk, a pencil on the floor and the beginning of a sketch that looked an awful lot like the meadow.

There was a thud behind me and as I turned around, I just realized there was a door inside the room, closed but light flooded out from underneath it. Deciding to place the clothes on Mingi’s bed, I took off towards it just as the door opened and warm steam wafted outside of it. Freezing, I opened my mouth to quickly explain myself but was caught off guard by what I saw. Mingi, still oblivious to my presence fumbled with the light switch as he stepped outside of the joint bathroom, hair dripping wet and torso bare as a black towel hung low on his hips. His cheeks were flushed and the water from his hair dropped to his wide shoulders, quickly trailing down his broad chest, between his pecks until they disappeared into the towel. The beginning of a happy trail started just where the towel concealed his lower body and I gasped, turning my head away when I felt my whole face on fire.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were showering!” My voice was high-pitched, flustered and sounded embarrassed too, “Your grandmother asked me to bring up your clothes and I—I knocked, I really did but you didn’t answer and I—I’m sorry. I really am, I’ll go, I just—”

My heart was beating so fast and loud, I was sure Mingi could hear it too in the silence that followed my frantic explanation, hands slightly shaking as I placed the pile of clothes on his bed, clumsily knocking some over. Letting out a frustrated huff, I fumbled around as I grabbed them, folding them again as I tried to ignore Mingi’s frozen form in the room, dark eyes trained on my body, watching me wordlessly.

“You can leave them, I have to put them away either way.” Mingi’s voice was deep, tone light despite our predicament. I gulped and stopped, closing my eyes as I took a deep breath, steeling my nerves before I stood up straight, letting go of the short-sleeved white shirt I was about to fold.

“I’m sorry.” I apologized again, keeping my eyes glued to the floorboards, “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” It was unlike Mingi to cut me off, especially with so much understanding in his voice. He hadn’t talked to me like that since the Games, he hadn’t kept his eyes so insistently on me ever since the Games. My cheeks were still burning, not because I caught Mingi half-naked, but instead because he wasn’t looking away, he was trying to catch my gaze as he lowered his eyes, “Thank you.”

My muscles became tense, eyebrows slightly furrowing as I licked my lips, not quite understanding what he was saying thank you for so earnestly. I hadn’t done anything of great importance, I just merely brought his clothes up for him because his grandmother was old and probably struggled scaling the stairs so many times a day. Willing myself to look up, to tell him that he didn’t have to thank me for something so simple, the words got stuck in my throat as we made eye contact. His face looked relaxed, wet strands falling onto his forehead in a way that didn’t obscure his vision and he wasn’t hyperventilating and neither looking uncomfortable. I gulped, opening my mouth to say something, but my eyes slipped and landed on his left arm where a big red gash stood out strikingly against his tan complex. My eyebrows furrowed as I continued looking at it, and when Mingi realized, he hid his arm behind his back.

“When did you get that?” I asked, concern lacing my voice.

“Yesterday.” Mingi’s answer was short, voice once again void of any emotion.

“Did you treat it?”

“Washed it with warm water.”

“That’s not good enough,” I muttered, eyebrows furrowing in worry as I looked back up at him, “you need to disinfect it and put ointment on it, you should also probably wrap it up with gauze too.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve survived worse.” I knew he didn’t mean to sound so aggressive as he said that because he flinched, his right hand balling up into a fist as he averted his eyes, turning his head to the side.

“I know,” I whispered, but I wasn’t about to let him walk around with a fresh cut, “but you need to treat that. I’ll be right back.”

“Y/N, you don’t have to—” But I was out the door before he could finish his sentence, hurrying down the long hallway and then skipping down the stairs as Mrs. Song remained outside, now sitting in a chair as she watched the bees that flew onto the flowers in her garden, a content smile on her lips. I rushed towards the downstairs bathroom and opened the cabinet above the bathtub, grabbing the distilled water, saline solution, a soothing ointment I learned how to make from my sister, and some gauze. As I left the bathroom and raced back up the stairs, I heard the front door opening, meaning that Mr. Song had also returned home. In my rush to get back to Mingi and treat his fresh wound, I forgot to knock to warn him that I was heading in, but thankfully he was fully dressed and sitting on his bed, left leg bent while the right one hung off the side of the bed. He looked up alarmed as I heaved a sigh, closing the door behind me and placing everything on the bed in front of Mingi as I neared him.

“May I wash my hands in your bathroom?” Mingi didn’t hesitate to nod and I quickly went inside and washed my hands thoroughly with soap, letting them dry on their own as I walked back inside his room, pulling the bathroom door closed with my foot. Mingi watched me, neck craned as I stopped next to him staring down at the bed as I debated whether I should ask him to turn around or sit opposite him. Deciding that he looked comfortable and I didn’t want to bother him, I got on the bed across from him, sitting on my knees as I lowered myself on my legs, looking down at the solutions I brought, “May I see the wound?”

Mingi froze for a second, but he didn’t stall for long as he extended his arm, shuffling closer when he realized we sat too far from each other. He gulped, loudly, but I ignored it as I grabbed his arm and pulled it towards my lap, eyebrows furrowing as I inspected it. The skin wasn’t red around it, thankfully, but the wound seemed rather irritated. I looked at him for a brief second, surprised to find Mingi looking at me intensely, “May I touch you?”

“Yes.” His voice was low and raspy as he answered, and he tensed when I hummed, looking back down at the wound. I sighed and gently traced the skin around the wound, making sure there were no bumps or smaller cuts before I grabbed some gauze and poured distilled water on it. Mingi helped me uncap the bottle and then held it for me as I placed his arm back in my lap, gently tapping the gauze on the wound, knowing that it probably wouldn’t hurt him. He remained silent and I didn’t speak up despite wanting to ask questions about how he got this wound, I just handed him back the lid and he lidded the bottle before putting it aside.

“This might sting a bit,” I warned him as I grabbed the saline solution and opened the bottle, pausing to look at him, “did the soap sting?”

“Yeah, yesterday,” Mingi mumbled and looked away, lowering his head as his shoulders were hunched forward. His hair was damp, but at least water wasn’t dripping everywhere from it anymore. He wore fluffy trousers and a white t-shirt which was a bit tight and clung to his body, enunciating his scrawny but broad form. I hummed and tapped his wrist to warn him that I would pour the saline solution on the open wound now, which thankfully didn’t need stitches as it wasn’t deep enough. The muscles of Mingi’s arm tensed when the solution reached his wound, but he made no sounds. I made sure to pour only as much as was needed to disinfect the wound and glanced up at him, finding his jaw clenched and nose scrunched up as he stared down at his lap. Closing the saline solution bottle, I grabbed a clean gauze and folded it so that I could tap it against his skin. We remained silent as I worked slowly and carefully, not wanting to cause more discomfort. I felt Mingi’s eyes on me when I placed the bottles aside and grabbed the small can, my hand falling next to his as I paused.

“This won’t sting, it’ll help ease any discomfort and soothe the burn.” I informed him and then opened the can, taking a copious amount of ointment on my fingers before I started rubbing it into the wound, not pressing it too much as I knew it would hurt, “You should use this three times a day until it fades into a scar, and if you go hunting, you should wrap it up with gauze for some extra protection. If anything gets into it, it might get infected. I should check up on it in two weeks, but if it starts bothering you in any way, let me know as fast as possible, okay?”

I looked at Mingi with raised eyebrows and he nodded wordlessly as I sighed, glad that I could help. I closed the small can and placed it next to his knee so that he’d put it away somewhere where it was close by, and prepared to grab the dirty gauze and bottles, when long and thick fingers curled around my right wrist, halting my movements. I froze, staring ahead at Mingi’s chest as it was rising and falling rhythmically. His head was still lowered, eyes obscured as his big hand felt cold against my skin, the hold gentle and not bruising.

“Thank you.” I smiled and nodded with a hum, letting my eyes rest on his face, which he was trying to hide.

“Of course, Mingi.” But maybe I said something wrong because his head snapped up, eyebrows furrowed as his eyes searched mine, lips pursed as he looked confused and even annoyed.

“Why are you so nice to me, Y/N?” He asked, voice shaking as his fingers uncurled from my wrist, dropping down between us, accidentally brushing against my knee.

“Because you deserve kindness,” I wanted Mingi to understand that he wasn’t different than anyone else, that he was a person who deserved to be treated well and with love and tenderness, “Because you’re a human being with feelings and thoughts and struggles just like everyone else. You don’t deserve to be treated badly for what you were forced to do, everyone would’ve done the same if they were in your place, Mingi. You’re gentle and compassionate, you’re easily spooked and you’re clumsy despite being tall and strong, you listen to others and you help them. You’re kind and you’re a good person despite what others might think and say now about you. You’ve always picked me up when I fell, you never laughed when I didn’t know something, you waited for me when nobody else did, and you never seemed to forget about me when everyone else did.”

My breath hitched in my throat when Mingi’s hand raised, warm and hesitant as it cupped my right cheek, his fingers burning my skin as I continued speaking, “I’m not scared of you Mingi, you’ll always be the shy little boy to me who carried me on his back when my feet started hurting and pulled on my hair when I threatened to fall asleep in classes. Nothing will change that, not even you pushing me away.”

I watched as Mingi’s eyes got teary, his bottom lip shaking as his hand fell from my cheek, making me miss his warmth as I almost grabbed onto his hand to press it back against my skin, yearning for his touch. But he only hunched more into himself, shoulders shaking, and I knew he wanted to be alone, with nobody to see him as he became vulnerable and emotional. Gathering the things I brought with myself beside the ointment, I left the room, leaving him alone to mule over the words I had said to me.

I could only hope he would start believing them

            And maybe my words did get through to him because the next time the two of us were out in the forest to hunt, we ran into each other and instead of him running away like always, he stopped walking and waited for me to reach him. He was just about to jump over the fence when he glanced over his shoulder and spotted my approaching form. I smiled widely at him and waved as I hurried my steps, holding onto the bow that was around my shoulders, ten arrows sitting in the holster by my hip. Mingi’s bow was around his shoulders too, but his holster was next to it instead of it being on his hip, and he wore his green jacket and black-coloured pants. It was a sunny day today, so I didn’t wear my usual hunting gear, just a light blouse that had to be laced up at the chest and trousers that once belonged to my sister.

“Hello, Y/N.” I froze when I heard him greet me, usually not being the first one to acknowledge my existence. My smile became wider as I had to look up at him, shielding my eyes with a hand as the sun shone down on us brightly.

“Mingi, hi!” My tone was laced with enthusiasm, and despite Mingi not smiling, I could tell by his expression that he wasn’t in a displeased mood, “Did you just arrive?”

“Yes, I planned to hunt for a few hours today, it’s too warm to sit by the house.” It was a long sentence, a longer answer, something that hadn’t happened in a long time. I tried to tell my racing heart to calm down, to savour the moment while it lasted. In his eyes, which were lighter under the bright sunlight, I recognized the spark which was always present in the Mingi before he left for the Games.

“I agree, it’s even worse further into the District,” I nodded and grabbed the fence, “Would you…like to hunt with me?”

It was a bold offer, I knew it could sour Mingi’s mood rather quickly, but I could only hope he wouldn’t turn me down. I missed hunting with someone, I missed the dynamic that came when you had someone next to you, how much more silent you needed to be, more careful and more vigilant. I used to hunt with my sister almost daily, we’d sneak out when our parents were busy and would only return by nightfall. Once, we ventured further into the forest, far from the meadow, and discovered that there was a small but beautiful lake an hour away. We rarely went out there, out of fear of the Capitol watching over it, but I cherished the memories we shared there with my sister.

“Yes, we could hunt together.” Mingi’s answer was unexpected, and my eyes widened as I looked up at him, trying to read his expression but it didn’t say much. He nodded more to himself before he gripped the fence and pulled himself up halfway, jumping over it and landing with precision, it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Knowing that I’d never be able to jump over it, I crouched and pulled on the fence just underneath the sign that warned us of high voltage, creating a gap where I could go through. Mingi watched with surprise as I came up next to him, pushing the fence back so that it wouldn’t be visible that there was a passageway.

“Was that always there?” Mingi asked amazed, still looking at the fence as I readjusted my blouse.

“Yes,” I said with a chuckle, taking off towards the trees, “I’m too short to jump over the fence, did you think I did the same as you to get out?”

“Yes?” Mingi asked as he averted his eyes, cheeks dusted pink as he made me chuckle. I bumped my shoulder into his as we walked further inside the forest, covered by the shade of trees which brought me instant relief as sweat had broken out on my forehead and temples. I patted them off with the sleeve of my blouse and grabbed onto my belt as we walked around bushes and stepped over fallen logs, hiding behind a boulder as we spotted a deer. Our breaths were synchronised as Mingi and I peeked out above the boulder, watching the pretty deer as it remained oblivious to our presence. Mingi’s fingers tightened around his bow as he exhaled, and I turned my head to watch him curiously. We had to remain silent in order not to alert our prey, but I couldn't help myself.

“Will you claim it?” I whispered, the sound quiet as Mingi took his bottom lip between his teeth, his head turning. Our faces were close as he exhaled, the warm air brushing against my cheeks, but he shook his head.

“I don’t hunt deer anymore, they are too beautiful,” Mingi answered, voice less cautious as the deer’s head snapped up and looked around, aware that it wasn’t alone anymore. I didn’t say anything for a second, just savoured our closeness and Mingi’s musky scent combined with the earth around us, as our eyes bore into each other. I hummed and faced the deer at last, watching as it continued eating once it decided that it wasn’t in danger.

“Should we head further in, then?” I raised an eyebrow, a friendly smile settling on my lips, “Find the wild ducks?”

Mingi and I made brief eye contact as he nodded, and then we both straightened up and stepped around the boulder, alerting the deer and making it run off in fright. My eyes followed it, remembering the one time my sister ruthlessly hunted down one of them, telling me that an animal was a source of food no matter how pretty as I started crying while I watched it die. I didn’t join my sister for a week after that incident, and I felt warmness spread through my chest that now I knew Mingi didn’t like hunting them either. Wild ducks were a little bit easier to hunt, at the beginning I wasn’t keen on capturing them, but famish was horrible and it made us do things we didn’t want to.

I followed after Mingi in silence as he jumped over rocks and logs, navigating his way around the forest as if it was his second home—which it might’ve been at this point—watching closely the way he moved, the way he carried himself. His shoulders were pulled back and his back was straight, he moved with elegance and confidence as he pushed the branches of a tree to the side, waiting for me and holding it for me as well. His muscles weren’t too tense and he seemed to be at ease as a small smile played at his lips, probably subconsciously, as his sharp eyes surveyed the place every other minute, looking for the wild ducks but also to spot any other possible prey. A red fox jumped in front of us and made me gasp as I didn’t expect it, and once Mingi’s initial shock was gone and he lowered the protective arm he’d put in front of me, he grinned at the fox and stomped his foot once, making it run off. I curled my palms into fists when our knuckles brushed together as we walked side by side, trying to fight the urge to hold onto his hand and intertwine our fingers. I missed holding his big hands, feeling their callousness and the few silver rings he wore dig into my skin.

Mingi slowed his steps when he spotted the wild ducks and I made sure to remain quiet as I watched mine too. He motioned behind a tree and we lowered ourselves behind it, peeking out at the ducks from both sides of the trunk. Mingi faced me with a questioning expression and I nodded once as I moved slowly and silently, taking my bow and an arrow as I hooked it, getting in a better position to pull it back. Mingi watched me closely as my muscles tensed and my arm pulled even further back, lips brushing against the arrow as Mingi hummed once, throwing a pebble to make the ducks fly off. I sprung up and locked onto my prey, letting go of the arrow at once as we watched it shoot straight at a wild duck, hitting it and making it fall onto the forest ground. My heart was beating fast, making my body warm as my blood flowed faster, cheeks tinged red as I smiled widely, pulling another arrow to shoot another duck that wasn’t spooked and remained behind. I hit that one too, and wondered when Mingi would shoot his own shot, but when my head turned to look at him, he was frozen and his eyes were wide. His knuckles were white as he had grabbed onto the tree tightly, breathing faster than before.

Realizing that something wasn’t right, I lowered my bow and scootched closer to him, “Mingi?”

My voice was quiet and cautious as Mingi mumbled to himself, seemingly stuck somewhere inside his mind as his body shivered, “No.”

I realized he was having a flashback when he gasped loudly and stood up straight abruptly, shaking his head more feverishly, “No! Stop, no!”

I let my bow fall to the ground as I stepped closer, trying to stabilize my breaths, “Mingi, focus on me. Listen to my voice—”

“No, she’s dead!” He screamed, voice raw and raspy as he faced me frantically, his body shaking, “I—the arrow—I killed her, she’s—she’s bleeding, I—”

“Mingi!” My tone was higher as I grabbed his wrist tightly and stared up into his eyes, “Snap out of it, it’s not real. We’re in the forest—”

“No, I killed her. She’s dead, you—you are dead, I—” Mingi gasped loudly and tried to yank his wrist free, but I grabbed onto his arms and yanked him closer to myself, forcing him to remain by my side.

“I’m not her.” My voice was harsh, eyebrows furrowed, “It’s me, Y/N, we’re back in District 12, in the forest, hunting. It was a wild duck, Mingi.”

It took him a few seconds to realize I was saying the truth, that the face which was talking to him wasn’t that of my dead twin sister’s, but of the girl he left behind when he left for the Games, the girl who he abandoned when he returned, “Mingi.”

“Why?” His voice was shaky and he suddenly stepped closer, all up in my personal space. I had to crane my neck back to look up at him, “Why are you doing this? Why are you still here? Why do you talk to me? Why don’t you hate me? Why don’t you—just kill me?!”

His tone rose with each desperate question, his bottom lip shaking as his eyes filled with tears, his chest rising and falling rapidly, “What do you want from me? Just let me—hate me, Y/N, shun me away, scream at me and slap me, I—I don’t deserve any kindness. I don’t deserve you anymore, I’m a monster. I’m a criminal, I murdered her, I shot the arrow straight through her heart. I have no future, I’m a nobody, I don’t deserve to be alive, why are you still with me?!”

“Mingi!” I screamed, making him flinch as I shook his hands off my arms and cupped his cheeks instead, pulling his head down to be eye level with me, “Look me in the eyes, Mingi.”

But he didn’t, he looked at the ground and shook his head, sniffing loudly as my jaw clenched, “Look me in the eyes, I said, Song Mingi.”

I had never spoken to him harshly, I had never demanded anything of him before, and upon hearing my tone and words, his eyes snapped up, wide and shaking, “Look at me. My eyes are dark, just like yours, hers were light like the sky during the day. My hair is short and wavy, hers was long and straight, always in a perfect bun while mine is almost impossible to tame. I’m tall, she was shorter and always complained about it. My voice is higher-pitched and warmer, more comforting, hers was raspy and always demanding, always ordering something. We smell different, she loved flowers and smelled like them, and I hate flowers and would rather cover myself in mud than smell like it. My body is covered in moles and hers barely had three, all on her face meanwhile mine has none. I like to read about nature and birdwatch as well as stargaze and braid hair, she hated reading and she only watched the night sky because she knew I loved it, she never braided her hair because the strands were too thin and would constantly fall out. I want to heal and help people because I love our humanity and I’m conscious that we are here one day and the next maybe not, she wanted to heal people because it made her feel like she had control over life, because she never got to control her own life, Mingi.

“She was mean to you and she didn’t like you, she pushed you around and made fun of you whenever she could. I never did, I always wanted to be by your side, I wanted to talk to you and listen to your stories, I wanted to shield you from her harsh words. You wanted to dance with her, but she always refused, so I took her place hoping it’d make you happy since I looked like her, I hoped you’d be able to imagine it was her and not me. I help your grandparents because I want to and because I care about them, not because our parents sent us over to your house to help you out, I didn’t do it because I knew our mother would buy us new dresses. I don’t want to see you in pain and agony over having killed my twin sister, Mingi, I have never hated you for it, and I have never resented you for what you had done, so please, stop seeing her in me and look at me. See me, Mingi, please.”

Mingi was crying by the time I was done talking, his body shaking as he forced his eyes shut, his tears wetting my hands as I rubbed the skin under his eyes as his arms no longer lay limply by his side but circled my waist and pulled me into him, embracing me in a tight hug as I let him burry his head in my neck, heart-wrenching sobs leaving his mouth as I ran my fingers through his smooth hair, allowing him to let out all the grief and pain he’s felt and tried to push down.

“I forgive you, Mingi,” I said it because I knew it was what he needed to hear and not because he had anything to be forgiven for, “for everything.”

He nodded his head frantically as he continued crying, fingers digging into my blouse desperately as his loud sobs echoed around us, a few Mockingjays picking up on it and carrying it further inside the forest. I hugged him closer to my body when his muscles started easing up and I massaged his scalp when his sobs started vanning, hiccups and sniffing following it, tight embrace turning into comfortable body warmth that screamed out for companionship.

And I knew he’d get better, he was strong, and he was no pawn of the Capitol.

2 months later

            The sun had lost some of its warmth now that autumn was approaching and I didn’t feel ready to let go of the lush green scenery, of the forest that brought such huge refuge and safety. The meadow was full of blooming colours, of flowers that made me sneeze, of bees that were loud and made Mingi jump every time they flew past him. I had my eyes closed as I played with the petal of a Musk Mallow, the person lying next to me fidgeting every few seconds as he was afraid of bugs. I had a smile on my face as he finally sighed and gave up, sitting up as he pulled his knees into his chest. The Reaping was tomorrow, the Peacekeepers were getting the square ready, and the train bringing the Capitol people would arrive tomorrow. Effie Trinket would act like picking a boy and girl for the Games was normal and Haymitch would be probably black-out drunk while Mingi would stand on the podium shaking and looking sickly pale.

“I’m scared.” As if hearing my thoughts, he whispered, “I’m not ready to return, I don’t want to go back, Y/N.”

“They will never make you go back into the Games.” I tried to remind him.

“I know, I just can’t watch a child I know attempt to train for something that will lead to their dismay.” Mingi’s voice was defeated as I blinked my eyes open, raising my hand to shield them from the sun.

“Perhaps District 12 will have another Victor, Mingi, have more faith in them.” I tried to sound encouraging, but I knew it was of no use. Mingi and my sister got reaped when they were eighteen, what was supposed to be their last year participating in the Reaping. The odds were rarely in our favour.

“I can’t be a mentor, it’s too soon.” Mingi pressed his forehead against his knees, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. I sighed and followed him, sitting up as I pulled something out of my pocket.

“You’ll be fine, you won’t be alone and you’ll be a good mentor, Mingi.” I said with an encouraging smile as he turned his head to look at me, “They won’t hurt you at the Capitol, they can’t. Remember, you are your own master and you can’t let President Snow get inside your head. You did well when they came to take the interview all those months ago, you’ll be able to ace this too. I believe in you, Mingi.”

He bit his bottom lip, eyes searching my face before they settled on my own, our gazes boring together as I looked down at my hands, playing with the single pearl on the bracelet. Taking a deep breath, I looked back up at Mingi and smiled at him softly, extending my hand with the bracelet towards him, “For you, as a token of good luck and trust, because I trust you and I—I’ll be here, home, waiting for you to return to me, Mingi.”

Gaze softening as he straightened up, he took the bracelet from me, his warm fingers grazing my palm as they curled around the bracelet, a small happy smile spreading onto his lips. He looked at it for another long moment, inspecting the pearl just like I had done after I brought it home, and then he looked up again, turning his head to face me. His voice was barely a whisper, “I’ll miss you, Y/N, so much.”

I smiled and released a quiet breath as Mingi leaned closer, supporting himself with a hand as my eyes fluttered closed, his plump lips hovering just for a second before they pressed against mine firmly. They were warm and not as chapped as they usually were since I had made him an ointment to use, and they were soft and tasted of the chamomile tea his grandmother made us drink before we headed for the meadow. I kissed back with passion, hoping it would convey all the unspoken things, all the words I wasn’t able to say yet, but would say when the timing was right. His kisses were always careful and gentle, like him, hesitant until his brain registered that I wanted him just as much as he wanted me, only becoming firm and demanding when he couldn’t withhold himself anymore. I smiled as we pulled back, our lips making a funny sound when Mingi chased after mine and pressed a loud quick kiss against them again, making himself blush and giggle as he turned his head, gazing out towards the trees and shade.

“I’ll take care of your grandparents in your absence,” I promised as I offered him my hand, heart leaping in my chest when his longer and thicker fingers slipped between mine, intertwining with confidence and conviction.

“Thank you, they’ll probably ask you to sleep over sometimes.” Mingi said, his thumb rubbing my knuckle as I squeezed his hand, “They don’t like the quiet when it’s just the two of them.”

“I’ll make sure to spend the night from time to time,” I promised again with a smile on my lips as Mingi and I glanced at each other, settling into a comfortable silence as I helped him wear the bracelet before we scooted closer to each other, hands still intertwined and gazing forward at the serene nature, the deer that played around oblivious to our presence, the leaves that were moved by the wind.

There were days when things were harder to cope with, when Mingi couldn’t get out of bed and when he didn’t want to see anyone, but there were days when Mingi couldn’t stop laughing, when he cradled me against his chest and told me he loved me, when he promised to marry me if our world miraculously changed for the better. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to remain by his side, that we’d both be faced with challenges and hardships, judged by our people and by the Capitol, but we didn’t care. Something that we both loved and cherished had been ripped from us by tyrants, my sister and his innocence, we’d stop bowing down to the pressure to live a life that we didn’t want.

And, sometime in the near future, we both knew that dire days were coming before a bright and free future,

“And the Tributes from District 12 of the 74th Hunger Games are…Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!” ~ Suzanne Collins

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[risingoftime]

WHERE HE WAITS | LOUSTACK |

I heard your hearts dancing ᝰ.ᐟ

synopsis: Stack Moore is the man standing between Louis and Lestat. Blood, business, and something far more dangerous than desire.

The smell of New Orleans was different than Chicago. It was sweet with rot and jasmine, steeped in music and magic. Stack didn’t like it at first. The way it made his cigarette smoke hang longer. But the city grew on him, like moss, like a wound you stopped minding.

Tonight was different from most nights for Stack; Mary had just left him, and he was on the hunt for the vampire responsible for the dent in the food supply. He was following blood. Not fresh blood, old blood. The kind that clung to walls long after the body was gone. He’d been in juke joints, card rooms, even back alleys behind brothels. But tonight, the trail led him to a narrow street with no name, where the gaslights flickered like they knew something was coming. And there he was.

All dressed in his Sunday's best, like mourning never left him. Candlelight spilled from an open window, catching on the edge of his cheekbone. He looked less like a man and more like a question with sharp teeth to Stack.

"You following me?" Louis asked, not turning his head. Just spoke it softly, like he already knew.

"I don’t follow. I hunt." Stack didn’t blink.

Louis let out a slow, bitter laugh. "You think I’m a meal?"

Stack stepped closer. "No. I think you’re what’s been leaving bodies all over the city. Just wanted to see if the bloodsucker wore silk."

"And if I am?" Louis turned then, his eyes were dark like the night sky.

Stack’s grin curled. "Then maybe I’ll let you teach me something." They stood there, the tension between them like a loaded gun. Louis stepped forward, hands behind his back like he didn’t need them to kill.

"You’re like us. The only way I was able to figure it out was now. I could feel your presence from a mile away," he said. It wasn’t a question.

Stack’s voice dropped an octave. "Well, I ain’t go flaunting it around like you do."

"Then you haven’t been paying attention."

And just like that, the street seemed quieter, waiting to see who would flinch first.

Louis’s eyes dragged over Stack slowly, like he was trying to read him, and his expression shifted between amusement and disdain. "I’ve heard of you, you know," Louis said, finally breaking the silence.

"Stack Moore. The man turning sweat and sound into gold. You manage that juke joint down the street."

Stack raised a brow, a bit taken aback by Louis's knowledge of you. "So you’ve been tunin’ to the gossip."

"Yeah, it seems my brothels are rather quiet these days. Yours, on the other hand…" Louis let his voice trail off, his gaze lazily roaming over Stack's imposing figure again with an interest he hadn't had in a while. The frustration building within him, courtesy of Lestat, needed an outlet. This moment felt like the perfect escape for the night.

He took another step forward, now chest to chest, close enough that Stack could smell whatever cologne Louis wore; it was undoubtedly rich and expensive.

"… is anything but."

Stack didn’t step back. “Business booms where people feel safe enough to do what they like to do in the dark.” Stack let out a small chuckle at the innuendo. "I’m just good at what I do. "

"I don’t doubt it," Louis said softly, "I’d like to continue this conversation somewhere less… uncovered."

Stack has heard of Louis de Pointe du Lac as well. It was a mouthful for him to recount his name, the Black people here were so pretentious 'bout shit like names. Where Stack came from, you just hoped that you would wake up to live another day. Stack leaned in slightly, testing the tension between them. "This is where you lure men into your lair, pretty boy? Talk numbers and slip in a little neck?"

Stack ran a hand into his pockets to grab a cigarette and a lighter. He lit it with ease, exhaling smoke from the corner of his mouth before continuing. "Just to let you know, I don’t usually take invitations from men in prettier shirts than mine."

"You think I’m trying to charm you?" Louis smiled, faintly at what Stack was hinting at.

"I know you are," Stack said, lips curling. "But let’s get one thing straight. I like pussy."

Louis walked deeper into the alleyway, his back turned as if Stack’s declaration didn’t bother him.

"And yet," Louis said, not looking at him, "you still stalk me!"

"Curiosity’s a hell of a thing." Stack laughed more to himself, as flashbacks of that night last year. The last time we could watch the sun, the last time he was with his brother. If only he hadn’t been so easily swayed by Mary.

"Temptation’s a hell of a thing too," Louis added. Stack was now trying to be in step with him; this wasn’t the point of his finding Louis. He was supposed to be telling him to get off his territory, not striking up a conversation.

"I live just a few blocks from here," he said without looking back. "One drink! You owe me for lost revenue."

"Just so we clear, I don’t owe you nothin’, not a damn thing." Stack hesitated momentarily, habitually brushing his thumb over his belt where his revolver was. "You always talk business this late?" he asked.

"Only the dangerous ones."

That got a grin out of Stack. "You think I’m dangerous?" Stack continued matching his pace, not because he was curious or cautious. But because Louis wasn't what he expected, and it's been a while since he ran into someone similar to him in more ways than most.

"I know you are," Louis murmured, stepping closer. "I can smell it on you. Violence, ambition… the kind of hunger that doesn’t die easily."

Stack’s jaw twitched. "You ain’t exactly soft yourself."

Stack hadn’t expected the vampire’s house to feel like this. The inside of Louis' house looked like a museum. Filled with decor that seemed as old as time itself. Velvet red drapes covered the windows, and the self-portraits of Lestat and Louis bore into Stack's soul with their inhuman stares. Their gazes followed them like hounds on a scent, sharp and unblinking. Candlelight flickered against skin, and the wineglasses glinted like blood.

Louis stood near the fireplace, his presence a strange blend of elegance and quiet threat. Stack swallowed hard. Something stirred behind his eyes, resentment maybe? Or was it desire, confusion, or interest? He looked at Louis, really looked. The way his mouth curled around danger, at the elegance wrapped around centuries of grief.

"…Fuck it," Stack muttered. "One drink."

Louis handed him the glass, their fingers brushing. "Good," he said. "Just one."

They both knew it was a lie.

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[90slavenderh4ze]

“if i ever go to azkaban, will you still write to me?” - sirius black

pairing: bit of marauders era!sirius black x reader in the beginning, post azkaban!sirius black x reader mainly.

summary: a dumb joke he made in seventh year. you didn’t think it would become your reality. you wrote him every week anyway. he never replied. now he’s back.

warnings: none that i can think of; slight angst, hurt/comfort, soft ending.

a.n: finally wrote something after over a month lol had to be post azkaban!sirius.

He had said it like a joke. Of course he had.

The fire had been low that night in the Gryffindor common room, casting honey-colored flickers on his cheekbones, and he’d been bored—lazy-limbed and draped over the arm of the couch like a prince exiled from his own throne. James had been arguing about something, Remus trying to shush him with a book pressed to his chest, and Sirius—he had looked at you. That stupid, sharp-eyed grin crawling across his face.

“If I ever go to Azkaban, will you still write to me?”

You’d scoffed, not bothering to look up from your book. “Only to gloat.”

“Cruel,” he said, dramatically clutching his chest. “Heartless. I bare my soul and this is what I get.”

“You’re not baring anything. You’re being an idiot.”

He had leaned in, just a little. Close enough that you could see the mischievous glint in his grey eyes, the hint of something softer tucked beneath it—something too fragile for a boy like him to admit. “So you’re saying you would write.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers had gone still on the page. “Don’t flatter yourself, Black.”

“You’re not denying it.”

“Goodnight, Sirius.”

“Goodnight, love.”

It was nothing. A throwaway moment between teenagers who didn’t know anything about war or loss or cages of cold iron and madness.

And yet, you remembered it.

You remembered it the morning the news broke. The headlines burned themselves into your vision:

Twelve Dead. One Man Responsible. Sirius Black Arrested. No Trial.

You remembered it when you held the letter in shaking hands, rereading it as if the words might reorder themselves into something that made sense.

You remembered it as you sat on the floor of your flat, back against the kitchen counter, and wrote your first letter with a hand that wouldn’t stop trembling.

November 2nd, 1981

Dear Sirius,

What the fuck happened?

No signature. No softness. Just raw disbelief.

You didn’t think he’d get it. You hadn’t even known if they let prisoners receive mail in Azkaban. But you sent it anyway.

And then you wrote another. And another.

Every week. Rain or shine. War or no war.

You didn’t stop.

—

By the third year, your letters had changed. Less fury. Less confusion. Just little updates. Things he wouldn’t care about. Things you needed to say.

March 18th, 1984

I saw a dog today. Big. Black. Shaggy fur. I almost thought…

Never mind.

Hope the Dementors don’t get in your head too much this week. Bastards.

You joked sometimes. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you wrote three sentences and tore up four pages before settling on the fifth.

October 31st, 1986

I lit a candle for James and Lily.

Harry looks so much like James. He’s even got the same shitty smirk when he knows he’s being clever. He has Lily’s eyes though.

Still, no response.

The owl came back empty every time. But you kept writing.

You didn’t even know why anymore.

—

Years passed.

You stopped telling people you were doing it. Remus had disappeared after the war. The Order scattered. Nobody really checked on each other anymore. You learned to make your peace with silence.

Until Dumbledore wrote to you. Until the words Sirius Black has escaped Azkaban landed in your lap like a ghost resurrected.

You didn’t know what to think. The Prophet screamed murder, but your hands didn’t shake with fear. They shook with hope.

That hope almost killed you.

And then—one night, long after the world had gone quiet again— him.

Stepping in like death incarnate. Pale. Hollow. Wild-eyed and soaked to the bone, like he’d swum through every nightmare just to knock on your door.

You didn’t speak at first. Just stared at him.

He looked like a man on the edge of disappearing.

“Sirius?”

His throat moved when he swallowed. “Hi.”

Your breath caught, and you crossed the room without thinking. Hands on his face, fingertips tracing the hollows beneath his cheekbones like you were trying to map the years that had stolen him. “You’re real.”

He laughed, soft and dry and a little broken. “Barely.”

And then you pulled him in.

You held him like he might collapse, because he might’ve. You felt the ribs through his shirt, the way his heart pounded beneath thin layers of muscle and fear and grief. He didn’t speak. Didn’t pull away. Just let himself breathe you in like it hurt.

When you finally let go, he looked at you like he was afraid to ask what came next.

“I got your letters,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You stared. “You… what?”

“They didn’t let me keep them. But they let me read them. Once a week. Maybe to mock me. I don’t know. I read every single one.”

You stepped back, blinking hard. “You never replied.”

He shook his head, eyes cast low. “Didn’t know how. Didn’t think I deserved to.”

“Sirius.”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “You were rotting in a cell, and you thought you were protecting me?”

He looked up. “I didn’t want you to wait for a dead man.”

Your voice cracked. “I wasn’t waiting. I was remembering.”

The silence between you stretched, full of ghosts.

“I thought about you,” he said, quietly. “All the time. More than anything else. You were… the only thing that didn’t fade.”

You didn’t say anything. Just walked over to the desk and opened a drawer.

He froze.

You pulled out a box. Set it down. Opened it.

Inside: copies of every letter you’d ever sent.

“You kept them.”

You nodded. “I didn’t want to forget what it felt like to believe in something.”

His voice wavered. “You believed in me?”

“I still do.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You thought he might shatter.

“Tell me I’m not too late,” he whispered.

You stepped forward and placed his hand over your heart.

“Feel that?”

He nodded.

“You never left.”

And that was it. The dam broke.

He kissed you like he’d been starved of warmth for twelve years. Like you were the only thing he remembered how to want. You held him like you’d been waiting a lifetime, because you had.

You’d never meant to wait.

But you had.

And now—finally—he was here.

Not a ghost.

Not a memory.

Real.

Yours.

[beanxiv]

ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 — something about you : eyedress, dent may

he’s so pretty.

percy jackson, son of poseidon— one of the most powerful demigods to step on gaia’s green earth—

— is pretty.

his dark brows that you cleaned up around the edges for him whenever he had enough patience, his even darker hair that fell into wind-swept waves and loose curls, his sharp nose dotted with freckles that reached the height of his cheekbones— you could go on and on, and on about your boyfriend's beauty.

how he’s a son of poseidon and not aphrodite bewilders you. gods, he certainly looks like he was sculpted by the goddess of beauty.

it's what you thought about almost every time you woke up next to him. he looked so peaceful, as if he hadn't been to hell and back (literally), and saved the world on numerous occasions (also literally.)

it’s a breezy summer morning and his cabin window is open so the wind is gentle and sweeping the curtains this way and that. the abalone walls reflect light from the sun, casting a nearly transparent rainbow across his freckled cheeks.

you reach out and brush your fingers against it, and he nuzzles into your hand even in his sleep.

and even in his sleep he’s the prettiest thing you've seen.

even when he drools.

speaking of,

“what, do i have drool on my face or somethin’?” he murmurs and his morning voice makes your stomach do a little flutter akin to the way it always did when you first started dating.

your grin is an answer enough and he groans, turning over to look at his alarm clock and wipe his cheek in the process. “it's noon,” he groans again, sliding a hand down his face. “we missed breakfast, and we’re definitely late to activities.”

“it's not my fault you slept like a rock,” you hum as he pulls you back against his chest.

“well, it's your fault we were up all night,” he retorts playfully, poking you in the side and making you yelp. “b’sides, you could've woken me up, jerk.”

“aw, but you look so pretty when you're sleeping,” you tease once you recover, “and even better when you’re silent and not bothering met.”

“you love when i bother you,” he rolls his eyes and pulls you closer, nipping at your nose. ever the sassiest man you know.

you hum in faux consideration, as if debating  on his words, “i guess.”

“you know,” he corrects, brushing your hair back with gentle fingers. the same hands that had killed so many monsters, the same hands that nearly put misery out of her misery.

 the same hands that held you, comforted you, caressed you, gentled, and loved you. hands that would never lift to harm you.

you take that hand and kiss his knuckles, and he quite literally melts into your touch, with a soft sigh thst comes out almost as a hum.

he pulls his hand back, pulling you toward him in the process, and kisses your forehead, then your brow, then your nose and cheeks, until he's peppering feather-light kisses around your face.

“good morning, pretty.” he murmurs against the corner of your lips. no matter what, he never fails to give your a proper ‘good morning’ greeting (so what if it is half past noon?)

“good morning, percy,” you grin back, waiting for him to just kiss you.

and so he does.

and it's soft, with his hand sliding to rest at your nape in order to pull you close enough that he hums against your lips, and you reciprocate the sound.

your fingers card into his hair and he all but shudders against you, lips parting enough for you to brush your tongue against the seam.

his free hand moves to brush against your waist, fingers cool underneath your shirt. it starts creeping lower and before he makes you both even more late, you pull back.

he chases after your lips with the same pout that always tugs at his lips when you pull away too soon for his liking.

you push him back, fingers planted on his lips, with a grin. “brush your teeth first, sleepyhead. then we have to scour the kitchen for whatever is left from breakfast— if it hasn't already been sacrificed or given to the harpies.”

percy sighs before planting a kiss to your fingers and pulling back to slide out of the warmth of his bed, “aye, aye, captain.” he half heartedly saluted and stalks off to the bathroom, boxers low on his hips and back muscles and biceps flexing as he lifts his arm to rake his fingers through his hair.

you follow after him after stretching, after all after only a few sleepovers, you’d started leaving spare toiletries and clothes. since it's just percy (and occasionally tyson) in the cabin, you're always more than welcome to stay night. even chiron turns a blind eye (mr. d doesn't care enough to even notice.)

percy’s already got his toothbrush in his mouth when you walk in so he runs your toothbrush under the water and squeezes some toothpaste on before handing it to you.

you brush your teeth next to him, and it's quiet save face for the usual camp sounds— kids and counselors shouting, the sound of the tether ball, volleyball, newer campers screaming when they realize the climbing wall isnt just a climbing wall—

the usual.

percy finishes brushing first and washes his face, dragging the water into his hair and slicking it back a bit in the process.

again, his biceps flex as he does, and they're just so bite-able. if you didn't have a mouth-full of foamy toothpaste in your mouth, you would bite them. but you do so you don't.

instead you spit out the toothpaste and rinse your mouth then toothbrush before setting it in the same cup percy’s is sitting in. 

“so i brushed my teeth,” percy looks at you, and you're confused at first as to why he’s stating the obvious until he steps forward making you step back into the counter.

he swoops down and catches your lips in a kiss that toes the line between soft and demanding. his hand lifts to cup your jaw, tilting your head up toward his.

you think to pull away, remind him about breakfast.. but maybe being late isn't that bad. maybe you can be just a little more late.

and maybe — no, you definitely have perseus jackson completely wrapped around your finger and he's definitely proud of it.

© beanxiv — all rights reserved. copying, reposting, translating, and modifying on any platform or by any means is not allowed.

[michanvalentine]

I don’t remember where, but I think it was right here on Tumblr that I read about a sort of challenge a while ago—to say why we like Spawn Astarion.

Well, since I think it’s a really nice thing to do…

Here are all the reasons why I love Spawn Astarion.

He’s an elf. I’ve always had a weakness for those elegant, slender, and ethereal creatures (no, not you, Halsin, lol). High elves, wood elves, wild elves, drow—love them all. And Astarion is a high elf with the most wonderful stuck-up attitude. I adore him.

He’s a beautiful man. Or at least, I think he is. I love his physicality. Sure, he’s got a great body, but what I especially adore is his angular face. Sharp ears, cheekbones, nose, jawline, chin. I love the elongated and captivating shape of his eyes, and those curls on his head. His hair is gorgeous, and even if he hates poetry (well, after having one carved into his back by Cazador, it’s understandable), I find it absolutely beautiful how his curls wrap around his ears! And also at the nape of his neck and on his forehead! xD

The way he moves and speaks. Of course, this is also thanks to the brilliant performance of Neil Newbon—props to him! I could watch Astarion for hours, talking about this or that, gesturing with those elegant hands and tilting his head from side to side. And when he puts his hands on his hips? Aww. And how can we not mention the expressiveness of his face, shifting incredibly between moments of vulnerability and defensiveness, especially in Act 1. In any case, he’s hugely entertaining, as well as just visually stunning to look at—he truly belongs on a stage, as Shadowheart would say (though maybe not the one with the noose, please!). And those abandoned puppy eyes? End of the world. I can’t resist him.

His sarcasm and dark humor. Lol. He kills me. Sometimes he’s inappropriate, idiotic, or downright an asshole—but apparently, I’m a terrible person because I laugh anyway. He’s such a fun companion, and he never fails to entertain me during the game, especially in his banter with the other party members, which is often hilarious.

His disapproval. Oh yes. I still remember my first playthrough— the more he disapproved, the more I wanted to understand why. And I felt personally attacked, thinking: “Look at this bastard, nothing ever pleases him.” But it added just the right amount of spice to my adventure and my relationship with him. It pushed me to ask questions, to want to engage with him, to understand his reasons and have him understand mine. Like a real person you disagree with. That dynamic always fascinated me—our differences.

Our arguments. I loved arguing with him, even when we saw things differently. I enjoyed playing along when we joked about how we’d prefer to die or which of our companions to feed on. It was fun. And it was even more engaging when things got serious—when we talked about Cazador and how cruel he was, or Astarion’s hunger for power, about bending others to his will, the heroes who never saved him, his willingness to deceive and doom his siblings… I loved every word, every clash, every sharp line, every time he made me grit my teeth. And I especially loved how it made me feel—the patience, the attention, the caution with which I picked every single reply, never backing down just to please him, contradicting him whenever I felt it necessary. And at the same time, the fear of losing him for good if I made the wrong move—because I had sensed how fragile he really was.

The surprise! Yes, when he proposed spending the night together despite all the times we had been on opposite sides. I didn’t expect it, and it made me curious. And sure, at that point in the story there’s a personal motive for Astarion—but we know that the offer only comes if he trusts Tav/Durge enough.

The contrast between the monster and the elf. I think this is one of the most beautiful aspects—his duality. The unbearable dichotomy he’s trapped in. Astarion suffers from being seen and treated as a monster. On one side, he leans into his vampiric nature—his thirst for blood and power (the latter driven by fear as well). But on the other, there’s this deep desire for redemption, for connection, to be understood and accepted, for real intimacy, to belong, to have a place in the world. And all those internal battles make him incredibly dear to me.

He’s morally complex. His view of the world—and the people in it—is very dark, especially early on. Personally, I’m not a fan of the spotless hero type—I usually find them flat and boring, especially when they’re not well written. The Gary Stu kind is just unbearable. Thankfully, that’s not the case with Larian’s characters—the writing is top-notch. But when you combine a well-written character with moral grayness, that’s my perfect character. Again, I love the contrast between good and evil, right and wrong. And Astarion is always walking that razor’s edge, constantly pulled between those two forces that often leave him conflicted. And to be honest, I also believe sometimes the ends do justify the means. Within limits, of course. xD

His backstory. I love characters with tragic, tormented pasts—especially when they manage to reach some form of a happy ending. And even more when they’re written as well as Astarion, with such deep themes and psychological complexity that make him feel incredibly real.

Projection. I won’t go into details, but I’ve been to dark places too, and I’ve had even darker thoughts. I’ve hurt people as well—even if I didn’t know or wasn’t able to do better at the time. I just didn’t have the tools. The positive note is that, like Astarion in the Spawn ending, I’ve managed to accept a whole series of unpleasant events, emotions, and feelings—and learned to live with them. Whether I like it or not, they’re mine, they make me who I am, and I keep them with me. And now I’m in a much better place—safe, loved, and seen for who I am, flaws, strengths, and all. And I love being able to offer my pixelated vampire boyfriend that same opportunity.

The breakdown after Cazador’s death. My God, that scene. That release. The moment where Astarion stabs and screams is already powerfully raw—you feel the rage, the tension, the bottled-up hatred. But then—he collapses to the ground and cries. Fuck. That moment is everything. A whirlwind of emotions so deep and intense I could almost feel them as my own. A cathartic release of everything he had held in for too long—pain, sorrow, grief, relief, hope. God, how I love that moment. And I wish I could hug him, wrap him up, comfort him—but it wouldn’t be right. Because that moment is his. He earned it. And he needs it. Anyone who has suffered that much deserves a moment like that—when it all comes out and slips away, leaving emptiness in its place, as terrifying as that may be.

“This is a gift. Thank you. I won’t forget it.” What can I say? This is a conversation that begins in Act 1, with the first act of trust Tav/Durge offers Astarion, and concludes at the end of his quest—in the good ending. Tav/Durge never saw him as a monster. They always trusted him. They knew he still had so much to give—he could be different. Better than Cazador. And the way I played it, constantly clashing with Astarion from the start over our differing worldviews—hearing those words wasn’t just satisfying. It was everything. Because just as I wanted to know him, understand him, and he became a part of me—he also knew me, understood me, and I became a part of him. And we met in the middle. That, fuck, is the perfect simulation of a healthy relationship between two people. And it’s beautiful. Just thinking about it makes my heart race.

“I feel safe with you. Seen.” It’s pretty self-explanatory, but I’ll say just a couple of things. These are powerful concepts. Especially when we’re talking about someone who has been through everything, and finally finds someone who makes him feel safe. Someone who won’t hurt him. That’s huge. And the concept of being seen? I think that’s the most fundamental desire every person on this planet has. And Astarion waited 200 years to feel that. It’s moving. And so deeply fulfilling to hear.

Spawn Astarion’s kisses. The sweetness. That soft side of him that comes out. The way he looks at Tav/Durge as he leans in—his face relaxed, his eyes shining, that smile on his lips. Love, in its most tender form.

Unique dialogues from Spawn Astarion. I’m referring in particular to the confrontation with the Gur after Cazador’s death, and to the moment when Durge wants to leave him out of fear of causing him harm. I find the way he handles these situations absolutely beautiful—it perfectly shows how much he’s grown, and how willing he is to open up to others, to consider their feelings. Even those he once saw as old, despised “enemies,” to whom he spares the pain of watching their children turned into ravenous vampire spawn. That line always moves me—I think it hits incredibly hard, especially given the context and his history with the Gur tribe. And then, of course, there’s the confrontation with Tav/Durge after the betrayal involving Mizora, which again shows how much he’s grown—even in terms of self-perception, understanding his limits, and asserting his right to say no. And what he says at the top of the Netherbrain, when Durge tries to claim it for Bhaal, perfectly reflects how his priorities have shifted since breaking free from Cazador’s mindset.

Self-acceptance. It's such an important, healthy concept. Astarion is perfect just the way he is. He has nothing to fear in that regard—he can simply exist and express himself. He doesn't need more power; vulnerability is okay, being fallible is okay, being full of flaws is okay. Being afraid is okay. You're still worthy of love. And the world isn't this terrible place where you have to crush others to survive—you can find your place among others, with others, and live with others. And it's beautiful to see how Spawn Astarion begins to internalize these ideas.

Facing his fears instead of indulging them. I’ve done the opposite for so long that I can honestly say—it’s usually a terrible idea. Because most of the time it means running away and giving something up. But Spawn Astarion doesn’t do that—he fights. He chooses the hard, uphill path of self-discovery and acceptance. With all the consequences that come with it—no matter how painful, like losing the sun or dealing with the gnawing hunger. It’s an act of immense strength and courage.

He takes responsibility and makes amends. That’s called redemption. And yes, he couldn’t refuse to obey Cazador’s orders—he had no choice—but when the ritual is within reach, the choice is entirely his. The lives of his former targets and his brothers and sisters are in his hands—an enormous burden on his shoulders. And in the moment he gives it up, he rights a wrong both suffered and inflicted. He saves himself and all the other vampire spawn, freeing them from Cazador’s influence and from the path the vampire lord had laid out for them.

He becomes an antihero. Yes, Astarion is better than Cazador. He’s become kinder, more open toward others, more willing to help, and more optimistic about life. But he hasn’t become a saint—he’s still a bloodsucker, and deep down he’s still the lovable rogue I fell in love with, always ready to say something inappropriate, foolish, or even cruel. And to take advantage of situations when he can. I adore him! But he’s still a charming scoundrel with a whole world of possibilities to explore, and plenty of room to grow—both in his relationships with others and in the one he has with himself.

There’s probably more, but I think I’ve written plenty already—and I’ve got a real life and a family breathing down my neck, lol. Let’s just say these are the main reasons why I love Spawn Astarion, why my relationship with him has become so precious to me, and why it’s so damn hard to romance any other companion in camp when that damned vampire is around. Lol.

[sugardollcurse]

Hi !! You know I’m so obsessed with you and your writing .. do you think like famous actress reader with either like George or John !! Just stolen moments keeping it a secret and hiding 💕💕

𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡’𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑓, 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒 | george harrison x fem! reader

𐙚 summary ; it’s not supposed to be real, or public. so it’s secret smiles, hotel rooms, and the way he holds you like the world doesn’t exist.

𐙚 note ; hey you!! i'm pickin' george for this cuz i need to write him more... enjoy!!

He wears sunglasses inside like he doesn’t care how obvious it makes him. You do. You sit two tables away at a charity gala in Mayfair, pearls on your neck and your heart in your throat. He hasn't looked at you all night.

That’s how you know he’s dying to.

You smile politely when photographers aim at you, one hand folded over the other, just enough sparkle to play the part. Across the room, George pretends to sip his drink. The rim hasn’t touched his mouth in ten minutes. His fingers are twitching.

Later, in the dark stairwell that smells like varnish and old London plaster, he catches your wrist before you make it to the second floor.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” he asks, quiet and low, like a challenge. His thumb rubs the inside of your wrist. He hasn’t even taken his bloody glasses off.

You breathe out hard through your nose, fighting the grin. “To the loo.”

“Liar.”

You shove him, gently, and he presses you back into the wall with a growl in his throat. His mouth is on yours before you can speak again. Velvet lapels brush your collarbone. His hand cradles your jaw, calluses rough from his guitar and sweet against your skin. Your fingers fist in his shirt.

“You’re such a brat,” you murmur between kisses.

“Y’love it.”

You do. You love all of it, the thrill, the secrecy, the way he slips into rooms where he doesn’t belong just to look at you. How he tugs you into corners, into coat closets, into his car after awards shows and says mine like it’s a prayer.

He presses his forehead to yours. “Haven’t seen you in six years.”

“We were just in the same room together.”

“Yeah, and you were workin’ the whole time. I had to sit next to some film bloke who kept tellin’ me how much he fancies you.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Almost.”

His mouth is back on yours before you can answer. It’s hot and possessive and a little desperate. You realize, with a thud in your chest, that he needs this more than he lets on.

In the room upstairs, someone’s giving a speech. The applause is thunderous. Neither of you move.

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Do you ever want to go public?”

George swallows. His jaw ticks. “D’you?”

You hesitate. It’s complicated. Your studio would throw a fit. His fans would burn your photo. Everyone would ask if it’s real, or just another headline.

But the truth is, you love him. Wildly. Secretly. Loud in the dark and soft in the silence. You love the man who sleeps in until noon and reads mysticism books in the bath. You love his quiet looks, his jealousy, the way he writes your name in the corner of lyric sheets no one will ever see.

“…not yet,” you whisper.

His thumb runs over your cheekbone. “Good.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Good?”

“Means I get to keep you to myself a little longer.”

He kisses you again, slower this time. Like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than hidden in a stairwell with your lipstick on his mouth and your perfume all over his coat. And maybe he means it. Maybe the hiding makes it sweeter. Maybe it makes it feel more like yours.

You let him take your hand and lead you upstairs through the staff exit, avoiding the lights.

The flashbulbs go off behind you. But they’ll never catch this, the way his fingers curl tightly between yours like he’s scared to let go, the way he opens the door to the hallway with his shoulder but keeps his body between you and the world, the way he glances down both ends of the corridor with sharp, calculating eyes. You're still pressed up against the inside of his coat, scent clinging to you both: hotel soap, musk, a bit of that cinnamon tea you drank before sneaking down here.

He walks you slow. Like a bodyguard. Like a thief.

“I’m not just your secret, y'know?” you murmur, teasing, though your throat’s still thick with heat.

“No,” he says. “But I’m not sharin’ you either.”

The hotel suite is quiet when he shuts the door behind you. A gold slit of city light spills through the curtains. Neither of you turn on the lamp.

You kick off your heels and feel his arms snake around your waist from behind. He kisses the slope of your neck once, twice, three times. Light. Tender. His breath smells like mint and longing.

You twist around in his grasp and grab the collar of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. “I hate pretending I don’t know you.”

His eyes search yours, dark and soft all at once. He doesn’t answer at first. Just lets the coat slide down his arms in silence, the velvet brushing your knuckles as it falls.

“I hate it too,” he says finally, voice low and tight, like he’s holding something back, frustration, maybe, or want. “You sittin’ next to some actor with his arm behind your chair. Me starin’ down at me hands, pretendin’ I’m not burnin’ up inside.”

You breathe in slow, chest rising against his. “We could stop hiding.”

His hands come up to cradle your jaw, thumbs brushing just beneath your ears. “We could,” he says, tilting his head, pressing a kiss to your cheek, not quite the lips. “But again, I’d have to share. And I’m not that generous.”

You grin, heart full and aching. “Jealous boy.”

“Only for you.”

The moment stretches, eaning closer, mouths nearly touching again, your hands flat on his chest now. Your eyes flutter shut, breath trembling at the edge of a kiss-

Knock knock.

You both freeze.

A beat of silence. Then, again, a polite but firm: “Room service.”

George sighs into your neck, forehead dropping against your shoulder. “You ordered food?”

“I-I forgot.” You start laughing, helpless, forehead to his. “Maybe? I don't know? We just got here! I didn’t think-”

“I did not leave a party for this,” he mutters against your collarbone, but he’s smiling. That quiet smile that starts in the corners of his mouth and climbs slow, like a secret.

You pull away, breathless. “I’ll get it.”

“No, I will.” He’s already grabbing the coat off the floor, trying to shake off the wrinkles, half-buttoning his shirt like he’s been up reading and not minutes from devouring you against the headboard. “Can’t have anyone recognisin’ you in this state.”

You look down at yourself, half-out of your dress, bare feet, one earring gone. “Fair point.”

He peeks through the peephole, mutters, “Young lad. Not a threat,” and opens the door just enough to slide the tray inside.

“Ta,” he says with the practised weariness of a man who tips too well to avoid questions.

You’re standin’ in the middle of the suite still tryin’ to right your dress, cheeks hot.

“Saved by cheese,” George says, shuttin’ the door with a little click.

“I’m not even hungry anymore,” you huff, crossin’ your arms.

He raises his brows. “I am.”

“Of course you are.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince

[daylighted]

( -_•)╦̵̵̿╤─ ㅤ ─ ㅤ- ㅤ the gun goes off. ( d.w ) ³

cw. pre-established relationship. unhinged!dean. sweet!reader. graphic depictions of blood & death. mentions of child abuse.

no one ever tell me i dont finish stuff i finished this in 2 days !1!! sry if the conclusion is crazy bonkers i thought of it while manic. LMAOSKJ ALSO SORRY ITS RUSHED. IM JUST A GIRL.

THEY SHOULDN'T HAVE looked at you. their eyes beady and cruel, their mouths curling and snarled. they were going to hurt you; he'd never forgive himself if he let them get away with it. he wouldn't.

so it was reckless, this time. he didn't have his knife, left it back at home ─ he usually never started the slaughter until you were tucked into bed, and the screams blended in with the nighttime darkness. so already he was agitated, worked up more than he should have been. this was out of routine. this was desperate.

he hated the werewolves. they took longer to take down, you know? fought back. vampires went easy, their blood coated all over his skin, fell quick and hard.

it was date night. took you somewhere sweet, a little more high-end than usual. wanted you to know that he cared, even though you knew, of course you did, but what was a little more showing of it? what could it hurt to get to spoil you a little more, when he could?

you were in this little black dress. no wonder it drew attention. he thought it'd be vampires, maybe, was already on the lookout for their piercing gazes locked onto the exposed curve of your neck. but it's always what dean doesn't expect that ends up being the problem. like blood stained pink on his hands, or your dainty fingers rummaging in places they shouldn't.

he'd gotten a little carried away this time. he was agitated, alright? he was... he was scrounging for excuses for his behavior, but they wouldn't come, because there you were.

you'd gotten up to go to the restroom. gave him a couple of minutes. he'd followed one of the waiters into the kitchen, the one with the salivating mouth and the sharp canines, a steak knife clutched in his fist.

by the time he'd realized where he was again, and what happened, the cooks were already scrambling. had to take care of that, too, didn't he? couldn't leave room for mistakes. dean had made enough already.

he's content, in a way, to kill the whole staff one by one. one wolf in sheep's clothing meant that someone had to know, or they were all in on it, and that made them guilty too. today was judgement day, dean was the executioner.

of course, when the door swings open again, it's not a member of staff, it's you.

you, looking so shocked that the knife immediately falls from his grip, like that'll lessen the intensity of what you see. like his suit, your favorite on him, isn't splattered with crimson. like his hands weren't dripping with it, splotches on his lips. like the room wasn't painted red, and their waitress wasn't torn apart at his feet, and the cooks were in various states of muddle.

"sweetheart," dean breathes, like the room might shatter if he talks too loudly, like you might. his sweet, sweet girl. you'd understand, wouldn't you? you'd pull him into your chest and tell him it's okay, and that you get it... "sweet girl, c'mon, eyes on me."

but you don't move. not even an inch. your eyes are locked on your waiter, and he thinks, maybe you knew. maybe you knew, because you were so, so smart, that he was a monster.

"they would have hurt you." his mouth moves for him, making the choices to speak when he couldn't vocalize a single word. "they were... they're monsters, baby, you get that, right?"

of course you wouldn't, though. of course not. he's already formulating the story that he grew up on. monsters were real, in between his father's punches to the cheekbone. you are a one of them, dean.

he wasn't. no, dean wasn't. everything else was. he'd killed his dad the second that sammy moved out. if dean was a monster, than so was the man who created him. plus, dean never liked how john winchester looked at him. like he was some kind of fucking feral animal, bound to lash out at any moment. he wondered sometimes if john was scared, or if it was just catering to his expectations, what dean did.

always a good soldier. always what dad wanted him to be.

"you did this?" you ask, and your voice is shaking. he's a monster, he can say it now, because look at how you're looking at him. anyone would think the worst of themselves with that devastated fear burning into them.

dean doesn't have words. he feels like he's going to crawl out of his own skin and deposit it with the rest of the gore on the tiled floor. all he does is collapse onto his knees into a pool of blood. "they were going to hurt you," he repeats, like maybe if he says it enough, it'll stick, and you'll hold him. please, god, hold him.

"i'd never hurt you, honey, i'm─" he runs a bloodied hand through his mussed strands of hair, "i'm trying to protect you."

it's all starting to sink in now. monsters weren't real. his dad's cruel words manifested into this sick, snarling image in his head that came out whenever his safety net felt threatened. they weren't real; not unless you counted him, anyways. he was a monster. he'd put that terror into your eyes.

your eyes narrow in on him, the fear morphing into something cruel. it looks so foreign on your face; twisted lips, knitted eyebrows, squinting, dark eyes. hell, dean might have found it pretty, mesmerizing, if it didn't look so similar to─

"you figured it out, didn't you?" you ask, and in a second, your eyes shift again, into that soft, terrified expression that he can't stand. can't. he'll collapse to his knees any moment.

"i never meant to..." he feels the need to confess to all of his sins, to you. his baby. his precious, sweet baby. he never meant to become this, never meant to, in turn, become something unworthy of your love, all for things that... "this isn't real."

your eyebrows bounce. "what's not real?" you take a step, callously walking around and dodging the bodies littered on the ground, until you're right above him. you look so beautiful like this. dean wants to worship you. dean wants to wrap his arms around your middle and plead for forgiveness. "this is all very real, dean. you've made quite a mess of yourself."

he hates the words coming out of your mouth. hates that this part is real. he did this. but what he hates more is how cold you sound. this was not his sweet girl.

your lips bounce, a little attempt at a smile on your calculating face. "you reek of death and destruction, dean winchester. you always have." your hand comes up to trace your knuckle lightly down dean's cheekbone. "that is why i chose you, my sweet angel."

angel.

dean had never been called that in his life. it sounds so condescending in your mouth, like it doesn't quite fit, either, when it came to talking about him. his eyebrows furrow, and he can't stop looking at you, trying to figure out what, exactly, the shift in your demeanor was.

"i cannot wait," you say, a bright, genuine grin tugging onto your mouth now ─ he loves those dimples, wishes to live in them, "to make a mess of you."

dean opens his mouth to question it, confusion wrapped tightly around his tongue and pulled tight, silencing him. your eyes flash black, fully black, unnatural and cruel and inhuman, and he barely has a moment to process it, to understand how wrong he'd been, before the world went black, too.

. . . tags.

@whyyouegg @sthefferrete @cevansbaby-dove @titsout4jackles @cosmicanakin

@bluestrd @ultravi0lence14 @mccartneyqp @poughkeepsie99 @depressionbarbie2023

@im-bili @ariasong11 @chevroletdean @angelblqde @ostaramoon

@deansbite @lyarr24 @psyches-reid @reynas13 @momoewn

@deanswidow @jasvtsc @figthoughts @beausling @frosttbitessam

@aileenunfiltered

[kiwiaok]

I love andrew. I love every andrew. gimmie big arms andrew. and big titties andrew. sleeper build andrew with tummy. and emo andrew. and skinny sickly victorian child andrew with eyebags that take up half of his face and skin that has never seen sun. and andrew that smiles with all of his teeth. andrew with cheekbones sharp enough to kill a man. and andrew with a gun. I really want andrew with a gun.

[marigold-hills]

your hands; mine (stalker Remus AU) part 3

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 4

Sirius lives in a first floor flat in a building with no lift. His body is a weight Remus struggles to carry - tall, broad-shouldered, large enough to contain the presence that is Sirius.

“Knew you’d find me,” he mumbles as Remus manhandles the pockets of his jacket looking for keys.

“Always,” Remus tells him, locating the keys and holding Sirius up with one arm as he pushes the door open. It’s utilitarian, too similar to how he held the body that was no longer a man just ten minutes earlier. He doesn’t let himself think I am touching Sirius. Doesn’t let himself think I touched someone dead. 

Stays right clear of I killed him. 

“You’re a fucking creep.” Sirius’ head rolls to Remus’ shoulder. A bastardisation of an embrace.

Sirius isn’t beautiful right now. His eyes are unfocused and half closed, the lines around them more pronounced with the effort of keeping them open - maybe the effort of keeping himself awake. There’s an unhealthy blush across the bridge of his nose and the sharpness of his cheekbones. His face is slack, mouth parted and his breathing shallow.

Remus knows the flat. Not from this angle - it’s strange from this angle. He knows it through windows and planning permits and building regulation applications. From the doorway, the dimensions seem distorted. Remus feels too tall here, too unwieldy. Like a weed growing through pavement cracks, fast and unwelcome. To be pulled out, roots and all, and discarded.

“Almost there,” he tells Sirius, whose body is no longer cooperating. “Just a few more steps.”

The sofa stands one and a half metres away from the door, backed onto the wall connecting to the bedroom. On its other side is the window facing the bins. Remus has countless photos of Sirius lounging here. Hungover mornings and late night drinks, lazy afternoons. Coffees and dinners and pints of ice cream.

Sirius slumps onto his side as soon as Remus sits him down. Remus has seen him asleep here, but even then he didn’t look as vulnerable as he does now.

There’s always a strength to him. It’s as much a part of Sirius as his very name. 

Ancient Greek: Σείριος, romanised: Seírios, literally: ‘scorching’.

Bright and blazing and alive. 

Remus thinks of the man who took that strength away. For one horrible second he wishes he could kill him again. Slower. Agonising.

But that’s not the kind of man Remus is. Remus knows this of himself: he returns his library books on time. He’s never had a speeding ticket. His cat relies on his strict routines. Now, he has to add another to the list: murderer. He can never think of himself again in the same way as he did before.

He fixes the pillow underneath Sirius’ head. His legs are hanging off the sofa awkwardly so Remus moves them up. Takes the shoes off, left first, laces loosened and then pulled off. Sirius tries to fight him, tries to kick him away. All he manages is a faint spasm of his foot.

“It’s alright,” Remus tells him and hopes it’s reassuring. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. Just let me make you comfortable.”

Sirius’ pupils are blown out. “Get out of my home,” he hisses through an uncooperative set of his jaw. There is the strength. Even now. Even like this. He’s still himself.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. Really.” Remus stands by the sofa. He’s towering over Sirius. It feels wrong, so he sits down. “You could have a reaction. You’re in no state to be by yourself. I could try calling James or-“

“No. Don’t get him involved.”

“Then I can’t go.” An awful, awkward silence stretches between them. “I’ll make some tea,” Remus speaks into it and his voice sounds too loud, too grating. “Would you like a cup?”

Sirius doesn’t answer. He looks like he might no longer be present enough to do so.

Remus closes the blinds on the way to the kitchen. He doesn’t want to look at the bins. Sirius closes them sometimes, but not very often. Mostly Remus has free view into the flat. He used to think maybe it was a sign, an invitation. By now he knows better: Sirius isn’t someone to let others dictate how he lives.

The kitchen window looks out onto the street. There’s a little park on the other side, a bit of green and a few benches. Remus sometimes sits there when his knee plays up and he can’t face standing for too long.

Sirius’ favourite mug is on the draining board, where he left it after breakfast. The teabags are in a little moss-green tin. Sirius takes two sugars. Remus takes one. Neither of them take milk.

Sirius is asleep when Remus comes back into the room. His breathing has evened out and deepened. Remus sits down on the floor by the sofa and reaches for Sirius’ hand. Finds his pulse point. Keeps his fingers there, holding out for changes in the steady beating. More Highway to Hell than Stayin’ Alive. 

Remus drinks his tea. Sirius’ goes cold. Time passes.

NEXT PART

✨✨✨✨

Notes:

I cannot overstate this enough do not do this. Your stalker would not be Remus Lupin 😂

tags!

@hoje--aqui

@tealeavesandtrash

@rae-lune

@wickedcoeur

@shunstanpike

@floretissogay

@remoonysiriusly

@lunalovegoodsgirlfriend

[ruewrote]

𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑒.

PAIRING: josh washington x gn!reader WARNINGS: josh breaks down to you, no use of y/n GENRE: angst but more fluff SONG INSPIRATION: lay it all on me by rudimental WORD COUNT: 2k REQUESTED: yes

navigation | ask | josh washington masterlist

it was well past midnight when your phone rang, disturbing the silence of your apartment. you groggily fumbled for it on your nightstand, squinting at the screen. josh. your heart dropped into your stomach.

he never called this late unless something was wrong. the sound of his name, even in the dead of night, was enough to pull you out of sleep.

“josh?” you answered, sitting up, suddenly wide awake.

he didn’t respond immediately. you could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven, like he was struggling to catch his breath. it was enough to send a spike of worry straight through you.

“josh, hey, what’s going on? are you okay?”

“i–” his voice cracked, and the sound broke something inside of you.

“i need you. please… can you come over?”

you were already moving, tossing off your blanket and grabbing your coat from where it hung on the back of your chair. “i’m on my way,” you promised, your voice firm despite the fear creeping into your nerves. “hang tight, okay? i’m on my way right now.”

the drive to his apartment felt like it took hours instead of minutes, the city lights blurring past as you pressed harder on the gas. your mind raced, a thousand scenarios playing out, each one worse than the last. you knew josh had been struggling lately.

old memories resurfacing, the weight of the past dragging him down. but he rarely asked for help, let alone called you in the middle of the night sounding so... broken.

when you finally reached his building, you sprinted up the stairs two at a time, barely pausing to knock before pushing open the door to his apartment. it wasn’t locked, and that only made your chest tighten with worry.

“josh?” you called out into the darkened space. the only light came from the city’s glow through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. you found him in the living room, curled up on the couch, clutching his head in his hands.

he didn’t look up as you approached, but you heard the sharp intake of breath as he realised you were there.

“hey, hey, it’s okay,” you murmured, dropping to your knees in front of him. your hands hovered over his, not wanting to overwhelm him but aching to touch, to comfort. “i’m here now. what happened?”

josh’s head snapped up then, his eyes wild and glassy. “i saw them,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. “they were right here. i swear i could hear them screaming... i can’t–” his words dissolved into a choked sob, he squeezed his eyes shut as if that could block out the images.

your heart clenched painfully at the sight of him like this, so raw and vulnerable. you’d seen josh put on his bravado before, cracking jokes and averting how he was feeling by making sure everyone else was okay. but this was different. this was the real him, laid bare and hurting, and it killed you to see the man you loved like this.

without thinking, you reached out, cupping his cheek in your hand. he flinched at the contact but didn’t pull away, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

“they’re not here, josh,” you said softly, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “it’s just us. you’re safe.”

he shook his head violently, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. “no, i can still see them. it’s like they’re… they’re blaming me. i can feel it.”

“look at me,” you pleaded, moving closer until you were almost nose to nose, your other hand finding it’s way to his shoulder, squeezing gently. “it’s not real. it feels real, i know, but you’re here with me now. you made it through, josh. you survived.”

“i shouldn’t have,” he rasped, his eyes welling with fresh tears. “they didn’t, and i did. why do i get to be here when they don’t?”

“because you deserve to be,” you said sternly, letting the words hang in the space between you. you swallowed thickly, the love you held for him swelling in your chest, making your voice tremble. “i know you don’t believe that right now, but i do. and i’m not leaving you to fight this alone.”

his eyes searched yours desperately, looking for something to hold on to. “why are you here?” he asked, the question slipping out so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “why do you keep coming back?”

you exhaled shakily, the truth sitting heavy on your tongue. you’d been hiding it for so long, burying your feelings under layers of friendship and concern, but now, looking at him like this, it felt right to tell him the truth.

“because i love you, josh,” you confessed, your voice breaking. “because i can’t stand to see you like this and not do anything about it. i love you, even when you’re hurting like this, especially when you’re hurting like this.”

for a moment, everything went still. you could hear the rain pounding against the windows, the distant murmur of the city outside. but between the two of you, there was only silence, a tense, fragile thing that felt like it might shatter with the next breath.

something in his expression softened, and his hands reached out, grasping your wrists like he was afraid you might slip away. “you love me?” he whispered.

“i do,” you nodded, feeling tears stinging your own eyes now. “and i’m not going anywhere. not tonight, not ever. i’m here, josh. i’ve got you.”

he let out a strangled sound, something between a sob and a laugh, and before you knew it, he was pulling you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you. you clung to him just as tightly, feeling the way his body shook against yours, the way his breath hitched as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“you’re too good to me,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin.

“no,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple, lingering there as you stroked his hair. “i’m just what you need.”

for the first time that night, you felt him relax, the tension slowly draining from his body as he melted into your embrace. you held him there, rocking gently, whispering soothing words until his breathing evened out, his grip on you loosening but not letting go.

“i’m here,” you repeated, the promise sinking into the silence of the room. “i’m not letting go.”

and you meant it, more than anything you’d ever said before.

the tension in josh’s body slowly faded away in your arms, replaced by a heavy, exhausted weight as the last of his sobs quieted. he clung to you as though you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the present, to reality. 

his breathing was still ragged, but it had started to even out, the frantic edge fading into something softer.

you shifted a little, your fingers still tracing up and down his back, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. “let’s get you to bed,” you murmured, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

josh tensed for a moment, he wasn’t ready to let go, but when you started to pull back. he released you reluctantly. he wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, sniffling. “i’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice small and raw. “i didn’t mean to–”

“hey,” you cut him off, cupping his cheek and guiding his gaze back to yours. “you don’t have to apologise, not for this. you needed me, and i came. that’s all.”

he nodded, swallowing hard, his eyes glistening in the dim light of the room. you took his hand, squeezing it gently as you helped him to his feet. he swayed a little, unsteady, and you tightened your grip, steadying him. his fingers intertwined with yours almost as if he was afraid to let go, and it made your heart ache.

“c’mon,” you said softly, guiding him toward his bedroom. you led him to the bed, pulling back the covers before easing him down. he sank into the mattress, looking up at you with a vulnerability that made you want to wrap him up and shield him from everything that had ever hurt him.

you tucked the blanket around him, smoothing your hand over his chest as if you could soothe away the remnants of his panic. his eyes fluttered shut at the touch, a shiver running through him.

you slipped off your shoes and climbed into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. he rolled onto his side, facing you, and without thinking, you reached out, your fingers threading through his hair again. you combed through the soft, messy strands, gentle and rhythmic, he let out a deep sigh, finally letting himself start to relax.

you began to hum quietly, the familiar tune of a lullaby you knew he loved. a song you’d sung together on countless road trips, or played during quiet moments when the world outside didn’t matter. you felt the tension melt away from his body bit by bit, his sniffles becoming further apart, until they were just occasional, quiet sounds.

josh’s eyes fluttered shut, his breathing slowing, you thought he might be asleep. you kept stroking his hair, even as your own eyes grew heavy. the love you felt for him was a tangible thing, filling up the space between you, wrapping around him like a blanket.

you pressed one last, lingering kiss to his forehead, lingering just a moment longer than you probably should have.

“goodnight, josh,” you whispered against his skin, your voice filled with a tenderness you could no longer hide.

you waited a beat, your heart squeezing in your chest, before slowly beginning to pull back. you slipped out from under the covers, careful not to wake him as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. you had just managed to stand up when you felt a hand wrap around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

“don’t go,” josh mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. his grip on your wrist tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you there, to keep you from leaving. “please stay.”

you turned back to him, your eyes meeting his. he looked up at you, his face half buried in the pillow, his eyes glassy and pleading. “i… i don’t want to be alone.”

your resolve crumbled in an instant. how could you possibly leave him when he needed you like this? 

you squeezed his hand in return, you nodded. 

the way he looked at you, the raw plea in his voice... you couldn’t say no.

“of course,” you whispered, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. “i’ll stay as long as you need.”

you crawled back into bed, settling beside him, and this time when you wrapped your arms around him, he pressed closer, tucking his face into the crook of your neck. his breath was warm against your skin, a soft, steady rhythm that matched the beating of your heart.

he let out a contented sigh, his entire body relaxing against yours. “thank you,” he breathed, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

you kissed the top of his head, your fingers resuming their soothing pattern through his hair. “you don’t have to thank me,” you replied. “i’m right where i want to be.”

he didn’t say anything after that, just nuzzled closer, the last of his sniffles fading into silence. you felt his breathing slow, becoming deep and even, and it wasn’t long before you could tell he was asleep.

you kept combing your fingers through his hair, even as your own eyes grew heavy, the sound of his steady breaths lulling you into a peaceful drowsiness.

you’d meant to stay awake, to make sure he was okay, but the warmth of his body against yours, the comfort of having him so close, made it impossible. you pressed one last kiss to his forehead, a silent promise that you weren’t going anywhere, before letting your eyes flutter shut.

and for the first time in a long time, you both fell asleep easily.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ @joshwashingtonmybeloved

© ruewrote 2024.

[glitterforashes]

𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐩 ; 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

>>> drabbles for the main sally face boysss, sal fisher, and larry johnson. sal’s is inspired by bubblegum by clairo, larry’s is inspired by east liberty by partnextdoor.

𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫 —

mildly obsessed with the uncertainty of ghost hunting.

too curious for his own good. literally curious george. the curiosity that killed the cat.

laid-back, doesn’t give a damn about most things.

has a very deep voice for a teenager. sounds like a literal grown man.

sometimes you can’t tell if he’s even awake.

“sal? sally? sal??” he’s just staring into the void.

“what?” he had to sneeze. that’s why he paused and went radio silent for two minutes straight.

you spend most of your time in his room, curled up on his bed reading while he sits on his bean bag chair and plays video games.

sometimes turns around to make sure you’re still awake / doing okay.

one time you put a toy rat next to him. he nearly shit his pants when he noticed it.

“(y/n)?” “hm?” “you’re fuckin’ ugly.”

doesn’t mean it. apologizes right after. he thinks he’s so funny.

grew comfortable enough around you to lift up his mask far enough to eat.

whenever you sleep over, he’ll take off his mask once all the lights are off.

loves watching movies with you, especially when there’s snacks involved.

will listen to every sanity falls album over and over again with you.

you had been switching between reading, doing homework, and playing video games for close to five hours, well into the twilight era of the night. it was 10pm when you decided to start getting ready for bed, being as both of you had school in the morning. you showered as sal brushed his teeth and combed through his hair, then switched. sal showered as you did your skincare and brushed your teeth and put your hair up. you both fell into his bed after he switched the light off, taking your respective sides. you liked to sleep next to the wall for the purpose of putting your body against it if it got too hot, and sal liked sleeping closest to the door for emergency purposes. you wore his tshirt and boxers, and he wore boxers. you turned over to face him, propping your arm underneath your head. he laid with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. “sal?” “hm?” his gruff voice always soothed you in a strange way. “can i.. touch you?” you heard the movement of the sheets as he turned his head. even in the dark you could tell he was looking at you. “what?” “can i touch you? like, your face?” sal had never let you see his face up to this point. he preferred to keep it hidden, only sometimes letting you see his lips. he was silent. “you don’t have to.” “okay. you can.” you looked at where you assumed he was, breathing in deep. “are you sure?” “yeah.” he whispered. you slowly reached out, feeling out for where his face was. you found it, your fingertips pressing lightly against his cheeks. he flinched under your touch, a sharp inhale sounding through the little space you had between your bodies. “are you okay?” you whispered, starting to retract your hands. “yes. it’s fine.” you nodded, swallowing a lump in your throat that wouldn’t go away. you loved sal. you knew vaguely of his past and understood where the roots of his insecurity started, but societally accepted face or not, nothing would change your love for him. you gently ran your fingers over the expanse of his skin, feeling his lips and cheekbones, and the dips. the missing flesh, the scars. and you loved it. loved him, loved what made him so unique. you pulled your hands away slowly, grinning to yourself. you could hear the quiet sniffle. “sal? are you alright?” “do you think i’m.. gross?” he asked. your heart broke. you moved closer and wrapped your arms around him, resting your head against his chest. his arm slung over your body naturally, pulling you closer. “no, sally. i could never. you’re beautiful.” he turned his head, resting his face on your hair. you felt the very slight puckering of his lips as he kissed the crown of your head. “thank you.”

𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 —

his mom LOVES YOU. absolutely adores you. you two have girls nights all the time.

took you to the sanity falls concert tour for your birthday, kissed you in the rain, and took you home sopping wet. your dad wasn’t pleased.

“uh— we got caught in the rain, sir.” “i see that.”

apologized for weeks. it still makes you laugh.

smokes so much weed it’s a miracle he remembers his name.

“hey man, how’s my driving?” “…i think we’re parked, man.” vibes

you’re constantly sleeping over at his place, you have a drawer in his dresser dedicated to your belongings.

is very meticulous with his hair. has a hair care routine. refuses to cut it for any reason.

has painted you on multiple occasions. boudoir shoots happen often.

“paint me like one of your french girls.”

loves watching horror movies with you.

is surprisingly very gentle and sweet, especially when you’re upset. unless it’s with travis. fuck travis. all my homies hate travis.

“hey, girl. what’s the matter?”

holds you until you feel better and is very patient

listens to the sanity falls albums constantlyyy it drives you crazy.

“larry— stop. you’re gonna green out.” he exhaled a huge cloud of smoke directly into your face, smirking. “greening out is a make-believe concept made up by losers who can’t handle their marijuana.” you swear larry only knows big words when he’s high. when he’s sober, he has the articulation of the average seventh grader, but when he’s high he turns into fucking shakespeare and it’s crazy. specifically because if he’s high, there’s a good chance you’re high, and you won’t understand half the shit he says. the sound of the tardy bell rattled against your skull as it rung throughout the entire school, screaming at you and larry to get to class before the dean came hunting you down. you took one more big drag from the blunt you two had rolled during study hall before stamping it out and throwing it in the toilet, flushing the evidence. you two shuffled out of the tiny bathroom stall, looking at each other proudly. “sniff me.” you stepped closer and sniffed his shirt, him doing the same for you. “nah, i think we’re good.”

ya’ll were not good. both of you smelled absolutely rank, so it was truly no surprise when you ended up in the dean’s office, but it surprised you to see larry sitting in the office waiting area with a bloody nose. “oh, hey man.” you fist bumped him as you plopped into the chair next to him, manspreading the entire seat. “what happened to your face?” “fuckin’ travis wanted to run his mouth. kicked his ass, but when i turned around he clipped me in the nose. kicked his ass again, now i’m here.” “word.” you were so faded it was humorous. “what about you? what’d you do this time?” “ms. fat tits sent me out because i was ‘stinking up the room’ and if i ‘wanted to smoke pot and ruin my mind’ i needed to do it at home.” you cackled, larry joining in.

“is something funny?” the principal asked the both of you. you straightened up and held your breath, shaking your head no. you and larry looked at each other from the corner of your eyes simultaneously and you exploded with laughter. long story short you both got suspended for three days. did you give a fuck? hell no. hence why you were now in larry’s room in nothing but a sanity falls tshirt and underwear, rolling up another fat one. “you’re my favorite person, y’know that?” “(y/n), shut the fuck up.” he shook his head, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “you’re my favorite person too.”