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angeliccss · 2 months ago

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Cleanse Me

Pairing: Joan Ramsey/Reader

Words: 7.6k

Summary: When Joan Ramsey takes you under her wing, she promises salvation. Bible studies turn into confessions, cleansing rituals blur into something deeper, and soon you can’t tell where devotion ends and Joan begins. In her arms, you are pure. In her hands, you are hers — and she will do anything to keep it that way.

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Manipulative Relationship, Dubcon, Murder, Thigh Ridding, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Semi-Public Sex, and a multitude of other things

Read on AO3

AN: I’m still on the pain meds so there’s probably a few mistakes, please don’t mind them. Enjoy! Xx

The church wasn’t large—just a modest brick building nestled between trees that creaked in the wind, like they, too, were always praying. The pews were old but well-kept, the hymnals worn soft at the edges, the scent of lemon polish and old wood lingering like incense. Outside, the world was loud and fast and crumbling. But in here, everything was still. Reverent. Safe.

Joan Ramsey had attended this church her whole life. She had married in it, mourned in it, buried a husband and son under its soil. She sat in the same pew every Sunday, three rows from the front, and never once arrived late. People knew better than to interrupt her routine. She was respected. Feared, maybe. But she called it righteousness.

She watched now as the other women gathered their purses, laughing softly among themselves, their children tugging at their skirts. None of them noticed you. But Joan did.

She noticed the way you lingered at the edge of the sanctuary, eyes scanning the stained-glass windows like they were speaking to you. She noticed the way you didn’t reach for your phone, didn’t gossip, didn’t even glance at the group of boys roughhousing outside near the parking lot.

She watched you and thought—She still has grace in her. Untouched. Unruined. It made something old and warm and dangerous stir in her chest.

She stood near the altar, spine straight as a ruler, watching the congregation filter out with polite nods and empty smiles. But then you passed by—quiet, head slightly bowed, Bible clutched to your chest like a lifeline—and Joan saw something that made her pause.

You were modestly dressed, not just out of obligation, but as if it were stitched into your bones. No makeup, no fidgeting, you were still. You were good. Joan moved before she could think better of it.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice low and gentle, the kind of tone she reserved for communion and confession. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” You looked up, startled. “Oh—I’m new here,” you said softly. “Just moved. This is my first service.”

Joan smiled—small, tight, deliberate. “Well. The Lord certainly has a way of bringing the right souls into His house.” Her eyes flicked down to your Bible. “Would you be interested in studying the Word a little deeper? I host a private group. Or—just the two of us, if you prefer.”

You hesitated for only a second. Then you nodded. And Joan’s smile widened just slightly, like a secret being kept.

The invitation came formally, the way Joan did everything. A handwritten note slipped into your hand after Wednesday evening service, written in immaculate cursive:

“Join me for study and tea. Friday at four. Bring your Bible and an open heart.”

—J.R.

You showed up exactly on time.

Joan’s house sat at the end of a long, quiet street. It was the kind of house that looked untouched by time—white siding, green shutters, hedges trimmed to military precision. The walkway was spotless. Not a leaf dared to fall where it wasn’t wanted.

When you knocked, the door opened almost instantly. Joan stood in a soft beige sweater, pearls at her throat, her hair pinned up in a perfect twist. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Right on time,” she said. “Punctuality is the first sign of discipline.”

She stepped aside to let you in. The house was just as pristine inside as it was out—lace curtains, polished wood floors, not a speck of dust anywhere. The smell of chamomile tea and lavender filled the air. A small table was already set in the sitting room, her Bible already open, a notepad neatly placed beside, and one set out for you.

You sat down carefully, almost afraid to disturb the stillness. Joan poured the tea in silence, then looked at you with that same calm, unreadable expression. “I thought we’d begin with Proverbs,” she said. “There’s wisdom in learning how to live before we concern ourselves with how to die.”

You nodded, grateful for the structure. For the quiet.

But as the study began—her voice low and steady, her fingers occasionally brushing the side of your hand when pointing out verses—you felt something underneath the surface. Something watchful.

She wasn’t just teaching. She was studying you, too.

You read quietly from Proverbs, your voice steady, careful. Joan listened with her eyes closed, her hands folded neatly in her lap like she was praying. But when you stumbled over a verse—“A gracious woman retaineth honour…”—she gently touched your wrist.

“Slow down, dear,” she murmured. “Let the Word settle on your tongue. It’s not a race to the end.” You swallowed, nodded, and tried again. Joan watched you with a look that felt too close, too focused. Not judgmental, not exactly—but something sharper than approval. When you finished the passage, she gave a small nod.

“Beautiful,” she said. “You read like you believe every word.”

“I do,” you said quickly. “I mean—I try to.” That smile again. Tight. Controlled. “You don’t have to try so hard here,” she said. “I can see you for what you are. You’re special. Not like the others.” The words landed heavy in your chest. Praise, maybe. Or something more complicated. You didn’t know what to say, so you took another sip of tea.

Joan opened her Bible, flipping through the thin, fragile pages with delicate fingers. “People like us… we have to be careful what voices we let in. The world has a way of tugging at you, little by little, until you’re not sure what’s holy and what’s filth.”

She paused. “Do you spend much time with boys?” You blinked. “Not really. I’ve been focused on school, and… on God.”

“Good.” Her tone sharpened just slightly. “They don’t know how to treat purity when they see it. Most girls give it away before they even know what it’s worth. But not you.” You shifted in your chair, suddenly aware of the way her eyes lingered—not on your face, but on the slope of your shoulders, the line of your collarbone beneath your sweater.

Joan turned another page. “The Bible doesn’t speak only of sin, you know. It speaks of loyalty. Of devotion. Of choosing what is right, even when it’s not easy. Sometimes, what’s right… doesn’t look the way people expect.”

She looked up at you then, her eyes calm, resolute. “I think God brought you to me,” she said. “Not just for study. For something more.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The next session was quieter.

Joan had dimmed the lamps. The tea was already steeped when you arrived, and she greeted you not at the door this time, but from the sitting room—her voice drifting softly through the hall, calling you in like a hymn.

You obeyed without hesitation. She smiled as you entered, patting the seat beside her instead of across from her like before. “No need to be so formal, dear. We know each other better now, don’t we?”

You nodded, your Bible tucked close to your chest. She took it gently from your hands and placed it on the side table, not opening it. “We won’t need it right away.” You hesitated, unsure. But Joan reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear with slow, practiced tenderness.

“There’s scripture,” she said, “and then there’s understanding. Some truths are too holy to be written down. They have to be… lived. Felt.” She laced her fingers in her lap, voice calm, deliberate. “Tell me—do you pray for me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I—I mean, yes. I pray for everyone in the study. I ask God to give you wisdom and peace.” She smiled again, just a little too wide. “That’s sweet,” she said. “But I think you’re capable of more than that.”

Joan leaned in slightly, her presence overwhelming but oddly comforting, like being wrapped in a thick blanket you couldn’t quite move beneath.

“I think God sent you to serve something greater,” she said. “Some are called to follow blindly. Others are chosen to devote themselves fully—to walk beside righteousness and keep it protected. You’re not meant to blend in with the world, sweetheart. You’re meant to worship truth.”

Her hand brushed yours, cool and steady. “And sometimes,” she whispered, “truth doesn’t come from the sky. Sometimes… it looks like me.” You stared at her, unsure if she was joking—but her expression didn’t waver.

“You want to be good, don’t you?” she asked softly. “Yes,” you breathed. “Then be good for me.” Joan held your gaze a moment longer—long enough for something silent and unspoken to settle in the room like dust. Then, just as easily, she pulled away.

She reached for your Bible with both hands, lifting it delicately as though it were a sacred relic. “Now,” she said, her tone light again, almost sing-song, “let’s turn to the Psalms. I think you’ll appreciate the language in this one.”

She flipped through the pages with familiar grace, stopping on Psalm 91.

“This is one of my favorites,” she said, her fingertip running gently along the lines. “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. Isn’t that beautiful?”

You nodded, your heartbeat still a little too loud in your ears. Joan glanced at you with a soft smile, as though she hadn’t just asked you to worship her. As though nothing had happened at all. “Go on, dear,” she said. “Read the next few verses out loud for me.”

You did. Your voice wavered at first, but Joan listened intently, her eyes closed again like she was basking in the sound of it. Every so often she would hum her approval, or gently correct your pronunciation—never harsh, always firm. Maternal.

When you finished, she sighed contentedly. “You have a gift,” she said. “Not just in the way you speak the Word, but in the way you carry it. So many people read scripture and miss the spirit of it. But you… you let it live in you.”

You glanced down at your lap, flustered, but warmed by the praise. Joan reached for your hand again, briefly this time. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “You’re becoming exactly who God intended you to be.” She didn’t have to say the rest out loud. You felt it anyway:

And God speaks through me.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The gifts began to arrive slowly.

At first, you thought they were just tokens of kindness—gestures of encouragement from a generous mentor. Joan presented them casually, each one accompanied by a soft smile and a scripture to match.

The first was a cross necklace, delicate and gold, with a pearl nestled in the center. “It’s modest,” she said, fastening it around your neck herself, her fingers brushing the curve of your throat. “But meaningful. Like you.”

The second was a pale blue dress—long-sleeved, high-necked, cinched gently at the waist. It reminded you of something Joan might wear herself. “I saw it and thought of you,” she said. “So many girls dress for attention. But you deserve to be seen for your spirit.”

The third was a devotional book, leather-bound and worn at the edges. “It was my mother’s,” Joan told you, pressing it into your hands. “She taught me how to listen to God. Now I’m passing it on to you.” You didn’t question it. You thanked her. You wore the necklace every day.

And you started spending more time with her.

What began as once-a-week study sessions became near-daily visits. You helped her prepare tea, folded napkins beside her as she spoke about scripture and sacrifice. When you bowed your head for prayer, she reached for your hands now, holding them gently in her own. Her thumbs would sometimes trace idle circles against your knuckles, and you never pulled away.

During one reading, a strand of your hair fell into your face. Joan reached over without hesitation, brushing it back behind your ear. “Such a pretty thing,” she murmured. “You were made to be cherished. But not by the world.” She closed the Bible with a soft thud.

“The world is loud,” she said, her voice low and even. “And selfish. It tells you to take and consume and forget. But I can help you stay close to God. With me, you’re safe. With me, you’re seen.”

You didn’t answer right away. But you believed her.

She spoke with such certainty, such quiet power. Every word she gave you felt like a sermon, every glance like a blessing. And the longer you sat beside her, the more you found yourself thinking:

She doesn’t just speak for God. She is God. You wanted to please her. To serve her. To make her proud. And Joan—Joan looked at you like you were already hers.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

It started with a quiet tap on the pew. The following Sunday, as you slipped into your usual seat near the back, Joan turned from her place near the front and beckoned you with two gentle taps against the varnished wood beside her.

You hesitated—but only for a second. Obedience had become instinct.

You wove past the others, eyes dropping as you passed whispered glances and half-hidden smiles. No one usually sat with Joan. People knew better. But she gave you a small nod when you reached her, scooting just enough to make space.

“Good girl,” she murmured, her voice barely above the rustle of hymnals. “I don’t like you sitting so far away.”

The sermon that day washed over you in a blur. Joan didn’t look at the pastor once. Her gaze remained fixed forward, chin lifted, hands folded. But every so often, her knee brushed against yours. She leaned just close enough for her perfume—something floral and faintly medicinal—to settle in your lungs.

After the final hymn, she didn’t let you drift toward the others like you usually did. As Sister Carol tried to flag you down to ask about youth group, Joan’s hand found your lower back, light but commanding.

“Come,” she said. “I’ve prepared lunch.” You didn’t get the chance to respond. Joan guided you out the front doors with such gentle authority that no one dared stop her. Not even Carol.

By the following week, it was expected.

You sat with her during every service. Walked beside her after. Her place at the church became your place—while your friends, your peers, your other obligations slowly fell away. You even moved in with her on the weekends.

She noticed, of course. Joan noticed everything.

“I know it’s hard,” she said one afternoon, setting a plate of lemon bars down beside your Bible. “When people don’t understand what God’s called you to. They’ll say you’ve changed. That you’re too serious. That you’re strange.”

She brushed a crumb from your collar, then smoothed your sleeve with the same touch one might use to quiet a child. “But they didn’t see you the way I did. They didn’t choose you.” Her eyes were calm, but firm.

“You belong with me. And there’s nothing out there that could offer you more than what you’re building here. With me. With Him.” You nodded, too full of something—fear, awe, longing—to speak.

Joan smiled and cupped your cheek in her palm. “Good,” she whispered. “Now finish your reading. I want to hear you say it aloud.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

It truly started when you missed a study.

You’d stayed late on campus—just one hour, just one meeting—and when you arrived home, the tea was cold. The lamp in the sitting room was still on, but she wasn’t waiting with her usual open Bible and warm smile.

She was standing at the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her silhouette stiff and silent.

“I’m sorry,” you said, setting down your bag. “It—it ran long, I should’ve—” She didn’t turn around. “I waited.” The words dropped like ice. You stepped forward, heart crawling into your throat. “It won’t happen again.”

Joan finally looked at you. Her expression was unreadable—too smooth, too calm to be natural. “I open my home to you. I feed you. I guide you. And still the world pulls you away.” Her eyes narrowed, not angry, but wounded. “Don’t you see how dangerous that is?”

You nodded quickly, desperate to make it right. She softened just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re young,” she said, stepping closer, brushing your hair back like she always did. “Easily distracted. But I forgive you. God forgives you.”

That night, you couldn’t sleep. You woke to the sound of movement down the hall—floorboards creaking, the low murmur of a voice. Curious, you crept from the guest room you’ve been staying in and found the door to Joan’s prayer room cracked open.

She was kneeling at the foot of the altar, fingers dug into the edge of the wood, rocking slightly as she prayed. “Protect her,” she whispered, breath ragged. “Keep her clean. Keep her mine. Keep her from temptation. From the serpent’s tongue. From the lies—”

Her voice broke. She pressed her forehead against the altar. “She doesn’t know what she is. What I see in her. What You made her for.” You backed away before she noticed you. But you didn’t sleep at all after that.

The next day, she said you needed cleansing. She said the world left marks, even when you tried to resist it. And she wouldn’t let you carry that filth in your soul. She filled the bathtub herself—lavender oil, rose petals, salt.

She sat behind you, fully clothed, as she poured water over your shoulders and whispered verses into your hair. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, over your body.

“You’ve let something in,” she said. “But I can wash it away. I can clean you from the inside out.” Her breath was warm against your neck.

She guided you back against her chest, her arms enveloping you with the ease of ritual, like it was something you both had done a thousand times in another life. The water lapped gently around your body, warm and scented with lavender and rose—comforting, disarming.

Joan pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Then another, lower this time, just behind your ear. “Shh,” she murmured, her voice barely more than breath, “let go. Let it all go. Let me carry it for you.”

Her hands moved slowly over your arms, your shoulders, slick with oil and reverence. Each touch lingered. She whispered verses between kisses, her lips trailing a path down your neck like benedictions. The words were familiar—lines from Corinthians, Psalms, fragments of teachings about purity and surrender—but they sounded different coming from her, soaked in heat and devotion.

Her mouth found the base of your throat, open and slow, and your breath caught.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” she said, one hand sliding lower, the other spreading gently across your stomach, anchoring you. “God is here. He’s watching. He sees how much you love Him.”

Her voice dropped, breath heavy now, flush against your ear. “He sees how much you love me.” You didn’t know when your knees parted. You didn’t realize how tightly you’d started to grip her wrist beneath the water, only that you needed to hold onto something.

Her fingers slipped deeper, past skin, past reason. “Let me take the sin,” she whispered. “Let me cleanse you.”

The edge between scripture and sensation blurred. Each word she spoke curled around your spine like smoke—sweet, heavy, cloying. Guilt and pleasure tangled so tightly you couldn’t tell one from the other.

You gasped something—maybe her name, maybe a prayer. She smiled against your skin. “That’s it,” she murmured. “That’s it, my sweet girl. Let Him hear you.” Her hand never stopped. Neither did her voice.

And when you came undone, you weren’t sure who you were surrendering to—Joan, or God. Maybe both. Maybe they were the same. Later, in a daze, you wandered into her prayer room while she was on the phone.

You opened her Bible to find your name scrawled in the margins—again and again, in tight, looping cursive. Beneath a pressed flower, tucked into the Psalms, was a photograph of you from church.

It was worn at the edges. The page around it was smudged and softened from touch. Like someone had been praying over it. Or worshiping it. Or you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The next few days, Joan grew quieter.

Not distant—never that—but thoughtful, watching you more carefully, her touch gentler, her prayers longer. She’d cup your hands between hers during grace, her thumbs circling slowly over your knuckles. She’d fix your collar if it dipped, smooth the hem of your skirt with careful fingers, murmur that modesty was a virtue but so was obedience.

You stayed with her more often now. You weren’t sure when the nights away from campus became routine, only that Joan made it feel like the holiest choice you could make. She would smile when you said you felt safest here, like you were being called.

But you noticed something. A tension building beneath her calm surface, like she was holding back from saying something—doing something. Her prayers became heavier. Her eyes lingered longer. The touch of her fingers against your wrist, your cheek, your spine—it all buzzed with a kind of spiritual urgency.

That night, after study, she watched you with a fire behind her eyes. And when she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “There’s something still inside you, isn’t there?” she said. “A stain that hasn’t lifted.”

You hesitated. You felt… calmer, but the restlessness hadn’t left completely. Sometimes, it came back stronger, especially when she touched you. When she prayed over you. “I think so,” you murmured. “It comes back when I’m near you.”

Joan’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something deeper. Possessive. Certain.

“That’s because it knows I can cast it out,” she said, rising from her chair. “But some spirits… they root themselves inside. They cling to flesh. They hide where only a sacred hand can reach.”

Your breath caught. She knelt before you, reverently, like you were the altar this time. “I need to cleanse you again,” she said. “But not like before. This time, it must be deeper. Thorough.” She placed her hand over your heart. “Do you trust me?”

You nodded before thinking. “Yes.” She exhaled like a prayer answered. “Then lie back,” she said softly. “Let me guide you. Let me take what’s unclean and return you to Him.”

The lights in the room were low. Only the glow of candlelight flickered across the walls, dancing over the worn covers of scripture, the rosary strung over the mirror, the water basin beside the bed.

Joan had asked you to undress slowly. Not because it was indecent, she said, but because the ritual required stillness. Reflection. “This isn’t about the body,” she whispered, helping you step out of your dress. “It’s about what’s hiding inside it.”

She’d anointed your forehead with oil, fingers slick and reverent, then down the line of your throat, over your chest, your hips. Her touch never strayed far at first—only enough to leave you trembling, unsure of whether you felt exposed or reborn.

Then she led you to the bed, lifting the sheets like an altar cloth. She kept her robe on. Joan always kept her robe on.

She cupped your face and kissed your forehead, whispering a verse from Psalms, and you tried to hold it in your mind as she lowered herself beside you. But her hand was already sliding low again, trailing the line of your stomach, dipping between your thighs.

You gasped.

“Shh,” she murmured, breath warm against your cheek. “Don’t be afraid. This is what devotion looks like. This is how we fight what’s inside you.”

Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately, coaxing sensation out like a confession. “You’re not impure,” she said, kissing the edge of your jaw. “You’re worthy. Chosen. And this—” her touch pressed deeper “—is not shameful. Not when it’s done in His name.”

You arched into her hand before you could stop yourself, hips stuttering, breath catching. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Let me reach it. Let me take the sin and drown it.” She guided your face to her chest, pressed your palm to her heart.

“Do you feel that?” she asked. “That’s God’s will. That’s where He lives—in me. And now, in you.” You nodded, dizzy, your mind soft with heat and worship.

She guided you back against the pillows, murmuring prayers with each motion, her mouth trailing over your throat again, her hand relentless. The pressure built and built until you were crying out softly into her shoulder, until your body trembled with something too powerful to name.

Her lips brushed your temple, a final blessing. “There,” she said. “You’re clean now.” But she didn’t let go. Not right away.

Instead, she cradled you close, murmuring scripture into your hair while her hand rested possessively on your hip. Her fingers idly traced your skin like she was still drawing something holy into it.

“You’ll never need to feel that ache again,” she whispered. “Not with me. Not with Him. You’re mine now, sweet girl.” And part of you—quiet and buried deep—believed her. After the ritual, something shifted.

Joan no longer asked you to come—she told you.

“If you feel it again,” she said, brushing your hair behind your ear, “that ache, that heat… you come straight to me. No waiting. No hiding. No shame.” Her voice was velvet and iron. “I don’t care where we are or what time it is. You come. I’ll cleanse you. I’ll protect you from yourself.”

You nodded like it was scripture. Because it was. She had made it holy. So when it happened again—on Sunday, during service—you knew what to do.

You were seated beside her, of course. You always sat beside her now. You’d stopped talking to the other girls in the congregation, stopped responding to your old friends’ texts. Joan had told you their voices were too loud, too worldly. That they couldn’t possibly understand the purity you were being guided into.

You believed her. You had to.

That morning, the choir’s voices rose like incense, but you couldn’t focus. Joan’s hand rested on your thigh, a perfectly still weight beneath your dress. You could feel the phantom of her touch from nights before—how it had made you shiver and burn and beg. The feeling crept back again, deep in your belly, low and heavy, curling like a serpent under your skin.

You looked at her. She was already watching you. Her eyes were patient but burning, like she’d known. You shifted slightly in the pew, tried to cross your legs discreetly—but her hand caught your wrist.

She leaned close. Her breath brushed the shell of your ear. “Come,” she whispered. “Now.”

You followed her without thinking, slipping out behind the altar, past the rows of worshipers who didn’t look twice. Of course they didn’t. You were Joan Ramsey’s special project. The good girl. The chosen one.

She led you down a side hallway, through the vestry, into the quiet of a private room. The door clicked softly shut behind you. “Let me see,” she said, voice low. “Where does it ache?” You blinked, ashamed, aroused, obedient.

“Here,” you whispered, guiding her hand. Her hand trailed down, over your throat, down the center of your chest, where the cross necklace she’d given you lay like a brand.

“I think it’s time we tried something different today,” she said softly. “You’ve grown so much. You’ve trusted me. Let me show you a new way to surrender.”

You nodded, not even understanding—but needing to obey. She sat down on the little bench beneath the stained-glass window, the light casting soft colors across her face. She patted her thigh.

“Come here,” she said. “I want to feel how much you need me.” You hesitated, eyes wide. “Don’t be shy,” Joan murmured, voice dipping into that dangerous softness. “You want to be cleansed, don’t you?”

You moved slowly, heart hammering as you straddled her thigh, the fabric of your skirt bunching awkwardly until her hands smoothed it up around your waist. Her thigh was firm beneath you, and she adjusted you with practiced care, guiding your hips down until the pressure made you gasp. “There,” she whispered, pleased. “Now move for me.”

You did. Tentatively at first, rocking gently, the friction dragging across your center until your lips parted in a silent moan. Joan’s hands gripped your waist, steadying you, guiding you. “Good girl,” she whispered. “Look at you—so eager to be made clean.”

You whimpered as the heat built, the weight of her gaze as heavy as her thigh beneath you. And then she leaned forward, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw, her voice curling into your skin. “Next time,” she said, “I’ll take you with my mouth. I’ll worship you the way He would, if He could touch you like I do.”

You nearly sobbed at that—your hips stuttering, the sensation cresting. “Joan—”

“I’ve got you,” she breathed. “Let it go. Let it all go. I’ll take it. I’ll always take it.” You came trembling in her lap, buried in the scent of holy oil and candle wax, her arms around you like the arms of something divine.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The next Sunday, the sanctuary felt colder than usual.

You sat where you always did—beside Joan, hands folded, eyes forward—but your skin prickled with something uneasy. Joan’s hand rested lightly on your knee beneath the hem of your dress, her thumb stroking slow circles. Reassuring. Possessive.

She leaned over once during the sermon, whispering, “You’re glowing today. So clean.” Her breath made your skin burn.

But when the final hymn ended and the congregation began to move—stretching, gathering coats, exchanging soft pleasantries—you caught someone watching.

A woman from the prayer circle. Sister Marlene. Stern and tight-lipped, always in the front pew. She wasn’t talking like she usually did, wasn’t gathering her purse or adjusting her spectacles. She was just… staring.

At you. No—at Joan’s hand on your knee. You shifted instinctively, but Joan didn’t move her hand. Marlene approached slowly after service, her eyes flickering between the two of you. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Lovely service, wasn’t it?” she said, too polite. “Yes, it was,” Joan answered, perfectly calm. Marlene turned her attention to you. “Dear, I haven’t seen you with your friends lately. Are you still attending youth nights on Wednesdays?”

You opened your mouth, hesitated. Joan’s thumb pressed harder against your knee. “I—I’ve been spending more time with Joan. For study.”

“Oh.” Marlene’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “So much time, then?” Joan smiled coolly. “The Lord’s work isn’t on a schedule, Marlene.” Marlene’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Of course.”

She looked like she wanted to say more—but she didn’t. Just offered a clipped nod and walked off, back stiff with suspicion. Joan didn’t speak until the church had mostly emptied. Then she turned to you, smile gone.

“You have to be careful now,” she said quietly. “Some people don’t understand what’s sacred. They see something pure and twist it into something ugly.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Hush.” She cupped your face. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But they’ll try to poison your mind. They’ll tell you I’m not good for you. That this isn’t holy. That we aren’t right.” She leaned in, her forehead pressed to yours. “Don’t let them in. You believe me, don’t you?” You nodded. “Yes. I believe you.”

“Good,” she said. “Then let me protect you. Let me keep you close.” And from that moment on, Joan never let you walk into church alone again. It started small.

A glance. A question. A folded bulletin slipped into your hand after prayer circle with a verse circled in red ink—“Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.”

Marlene didn’t say anything when she gave it to you. Just pressed her lips together in that tight, knowing way and walked off.

You showed it to Joan that afternoon in her kitchen, heart hammering. “She gave me this. I think she knows.” Joan stared at the paper for a long time. Then she smiled—but it was the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.

“She thinks she’s saving you.” Joan reached out, brushed your hair behind your ear, voice low and calm. “But only I know what’s in your heart. Only I know what it takes to keep you clean.” She folded the paper slowly, precisely. Tossed it into the sink and lit a match. You watched as the paper curled black and turned to ash in seconds.

“You mustn’t listen to her anymore,” she said, pulling you into her arms. “Her voice will only lead you away from what’s holy.” You nodded into her shoulder, breathing in the lavender oil she always wore. It calmed you—anchored you. And still, you couldn’t shake the way Marlene had looked at you.

But Joan didn’t give you space to linger in doubt.

She began waiting for you outside your classes, walking you home from school, dropping off fresh-pressed dresses for Sunday service. She texted morning and night—little things, scriptures and reminders:

“The body is a temple. Don’t let the world defile it.”

“I’m thinking about your soul today.”

“If it stirs again, come to me. No hesitation.”

And you did. Because even when it felt like too much, Joan knew how to pull you back—always with that voice like velvet, those soft fingers tilting your chin just right.

You began spending more nights in her home. She said it was safer. Said temptation couldn’t reach you here. You stopped replying to your old friends completely. Joan said their lives were noisy, and yours needed to be quiet.

But not everyone faded away so easily. The next Sunday, after service, you heard Marlene’s voice echo from the back hall—raised, urgent. “She’s a girl, not a disciple. And you’re not a priest, Joan.”

You paused in the stairwell, heart thudding. Joan’s reply was lower, measured. “And you’re not God. Be careful who you judge.” You didn’t stay to hear the rest. You didn’t want to know. Not when Joan would be waiting at the altar for you with open arms and a smile that promised everything could still be pure.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

You hadn’t expected to find Marlene waiting for you behind the church after choir.

She stepped out from the side path like she’d been there a while, wrapped in her brown wool coat, arms folded tight. The late afternoon sun cast the stained glass in fractured colors behind her—blood reds, holy golds.

“I need to speak with you,” she said, voice low. “Privately.” You hesitated. “I—I have somewhere to be.”

“With her?” Marlene’s eyes narrowed. “I know what she’s doing. You don’t have to be afraid.” Your breath caught in your throat. “I’m not afraid.”

“Yes, you are.” She took a step closer. “You’ve changed. You barely speak to anyone anymore. You flinch when someone touches your arm. That’s not normal. That’s not faith.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. You took a step back. “She’s helping me. She’s—cleansing me. I’m better with her.” Marlene’s face broke—part grief, part fury. “That’s not God’s work. That’s hers. And it isn’t salvation—it’s control. You know it, somewhere deep down. Don’t you?”

You shook your head, too fast. “You don’t understand. She—she knows me. She’s the only one who sees me.”

“Then let me help you leave,” Marlene said. “Before she makes you forget who you are.”

But the sound of shoes on stone made you turn—Joan’s figure appearing from the far side of the path, hands folded like always, expression unreadable. “Marlene,” she said, calmly. “You’re upsetting her.”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s chosen.” Joan didn’t raise her voice, but something about her tone stopped Marlene cold. “And she belongs with me now.” Joan turned to you. “Come.” You obeyed without thinking.

That night, Joan locked the door behind you. Quietly. Deliberately.

She turned, and her expression shifted—softness undercut by a steel determination. “This isn’t working anymore,” she murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of her fingers. “They keep trying to steal you away. But I won’t let them. I can’t.” You stared at her, still shaken. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not going home,” Joan said. “You’ll stay here. From now on.” You blinked. “What?”

“I need to cleanse you more often. Not just when the urges come—every day. The world’s gotten inside you too deep. You need consistency. You need devotion.” Your knees weakened under her voice, the authority in it—so maternal, so certain.

“I’ll draw a bath,” she whispered. “We’ll start tonight. I’ll make you clean. Every day. No matter what.” She kissed your forehead like a benediction. “It’s the only way to save you now.”

After the bath, Joan took you by the hand and led you toward her bedroom.

The house was quiet, cloaked in shadows, but Joan moved with purpose—bare feet soundless against the floorboards, her hand warm and certain in yours. She didn’t say a word as she opened the door and guided you inside.

Her room smelled like cedar and lavender, like something older than perfume. Sacred. There were no personal photographs, no clutter. Just a tall wooden cross above the bed, a small table with a candle already burning, and the impression of someone who had made this space a shrine to her own sense of righteousness.

Joan turned to you, her eyes dark with something you couldn’t name. “Come here,” she said softly. You obeyed. She brought you close, her hands resting lightly at your waist, her thumbs brushing slow, deliberate circles against your hips.

“You’ve been good,” she murmured, voice almost tender. “Brave. Open. Willing to be made clean.” You nodded, unsure whether it was because you believed her or because you wanted to. Maybe both.

Her fingers found the ends of the towel wrapped around you and began to loosen it—slowly, reverently. Like she was unwrapping something sacred. Joan pressed her forehead to yours, her breath warm against your lips. “Tonight, I’ll make sure nothing remains. No shame. No confusion. No stain.”

She led you to the bed and helped you lie back, smoothing your hair away from your face like a mother would—except the way her gaze lingered, the way her hands trembled just slightly, was something else entirely.

“You don’t need to understand it all,” she whispered. “You only need to trust me.” And then she knelt at the edge of the bed. She kissed your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher still.

All the while, her voice never ceased—quiet prayer-like murmurs threading through the candlelight and the weight of the room. You were dizzy with it, not quite sure where the ritual ended and the sensation began.

It felt like worship. And you weren’t sure who the god was anymore.

The air in the house had changed. Heavier. Tighter. Joan kept the curtains drawn now, every clock unplugged or removed. Time didn’t matter here—only devotion. Only obedience. Only her.

You barely noticed when your phone disappeared. When your Bible was replaced with the one Joan had marked through, page after page annotated in her careful, fervent handwriting. You didn’t question it when she asked you not to answer the door anymore, to stop speaking to anyone but her. The world outside was diseased, she said. But here—here, you were safe.

Here, you were saved. You were kneeling beside Joan’s armchair, her hand idly stroking through your hair as she read scripture aloud, when the door banged open. “Marlene,” Joan said without looking up, her voice calm, almost bored. “How rude.”

You turned to look, confused by the blur of emotion on Marlene’s face—fear, anger, disbelief. She looked at you like you were a ghost. “What has she done to you?” Marlene said, voice cracking. “What are you doing here?”

You stood slowly, instinctively reaching for Joan’s arm. “She’s helping me. She’s… saving me.”

“She’s hurting you,” Marlene snapped. “This—this isn’t faith. This is control. You have to remember who you were before—” Joan rose, her movement smooth, unsettling. “Don’t speak to her like that. She’s mine now.”

“You don’t own her!” Marlene shouted, stepping closer. “She’s not your disciple, she’s a scared girl and you used that—twisted it. You have to let her go.” Joan’s eyes sharpened. For the first time, her voice cracked like a whip: “She came to me because she was unclean. I made her whole.”

Marlene looked at you again, desperately now. “Sweetheart… please. Come with me. This isn’t love. This is a prison.” But you couldn’t move. Joan’s hand slid into yours, firm and grounding. “She doesn’t want to leave. Do you, baby?”

You shook your head. “I need her. She… she keeps me clean.” Marlene’s face crumpled. “You don’t even hear yourself anymore.” And then—it happened too fast to stop. The glint of something in Joan’s hand. The flash of motion. The scream caught in your throat.

A kitchen knife. From behind the chair. A single motion, swift and silent. Marlene’s eyes went wide, then glassy. She crumpled. You stood frozen, heart pounding in your ears. Joan dropped the knife and caught your face in her hands, forcing your gaze away.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Shh. Look at me. Don’t look at her. She wanted to take you from me. She wanted to ruin you.” Your breath came in shallow gasps. “She… she was my friend.”

Joan’s eyes filled with tears—not grief, but something deeper. Possessive. Holy. “No,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to yours. “I’m your only friend. Your only family. Your only god now.”

And as she kissed you—fervent, desperate—you let her. Because you didn’t know anything else anymore. The silence after Marlene’s fall was so loud it rang in your ears. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Just stood there staring at the dark pool on the floor, spreading slow beneath her like a shadow finally come to claim her.

Joan brushed your cheek with bloodstained fingers, soft as always. “It’s alright, baby. It had to be done. She would’ve taken you away from me.” Your lips trembled, but she pressed a kiss to your forehead before you could ask anything.

“We need to move her,” Joan said simply, as though she were asking you to help set the table for dinner. “Come now. Be strong for me.”

She guided you gently but firmly—gloved hands over yours as you gripped Marlene’s ankles. You moved together like a single body, dragging her across the floor and out the back door, Joan murmuring prayers under her breath the whole way.

The night was humid. The garden was quiet. There was already a hole. You didn’t ask when she had dug it. Your knees sank into the soil beside Joan’s as she laid Marlene’s body into the earth. The blood from her shirt smeared across your hands, your arms, your dress. Joan noticed. Of course she did.

She looked at you like you were the holiest thing she’d ever seen. “My sweet girl,” she breathed, reaching out to cradle your face in her red-streaked palm. “Look at you. Covered in sacrifice. You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

You couldn’t speak, but your body leaned into her hand. “You helped me protect what’s ours,” she whispered. “This was love. This was obedience.” She kissed you again, reverent and slow, while Marlene lay at your knees.

And when it was done, when the earth was packed firm and the candlelit house welcomed you back in like a chapel, Joan led you upstairs and laid you in her bed.

She wiped the blood from your skin like it was baptism. And she smiled as she said, “Now we’re clean again.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The town moved on.

People whispered about Marlene’s disappearance, but no one came too close. She’d always been too curious, too loud. And Joan Ramsey? She was a respected woman of God. Who would dare question her?

The house grew quieter in some ways, and more alive in others. The clocks never returned. The outside world faded like a dream you once woke from in tears, but now couldn’t remember the shape of.

You no longer flinched at the touch of blood. You didn’t ask questions. You prayed when Joan told you to. You bathed when she said you were unclean. You wore the dress she picked for you each morning—long, modest, pale like innocence. The cross around your neck never came off. She fastened it herself.

Joan called you her lamb. Her angel. Her offering.

Each day began with her voice in your ear, her hand in yours, her rules like scripture carved into your bones. And each night ended with her body against yours, whispering prayers between kisses, murmuring about salvation as you clung to her like she was your god.

And she was. Because there was no life before her. Because you belonged to Joan.

Forever.

#patti lupone #patti lupone fanfic #patti lupone x reader #joan ramsey ahs #joan ramsey x reader #joan ramsey #american horror story #ahs coven #angeliccss fics #angeliccss writes

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sunsets-and-crows · 1 month ago

Text

Let The Dead Watch Us Bloom

Chapter 1 - A Prayer and A Price

Words: 4K

- - -

The flowers are dying. The gods are listening. And the deal you made in the dark is already binding. The price is written in blood and bones. How will you survive in a world so unlike your own?

Thank you to my gem @diamondtiger for the cover photo!

Content warnings ⚠️

Hades/Sylus, Persephone/Reader, probably OOC for both, death, grief, eventual smut.

I'll add to this list as we progress through these chapters but let me know if theres something I missed please!

Rain stitched its way down the glass in slow, shimmering threads, carving rivulets through grime and memory. The streets outside were beaten by the heavy droplets that spilled from a sky seethed, vicious and angry. The world was angry. The weather was angry. You were angry.

Your little store sat in ruin. Plants from all around the world, ones you’d nurtured and cared for since childhood, now slumped in cracked pots of dried-up soil, leaves browned and curling where once they had bloomed with lushness and life.

Thunder cracked, and a white flash lit up the shop from the inside out, revealing every dying leaf and frayed edge. The eye of the storm was approaching rapidly.

The wind shrieked through the shutters, its rattle buzzing through your bones.

The sound scraped against your nerves.

The thought of replacing them.

Of the inevitable bill that they would leave you with.

Another one to add to the pile.

Another crack of thunder.

The streets lit up with another rageful flash, quicker this time, illuminating desolate streets outside. Rivers of rain thrashed wildly in the gutters of your little plant shop, more percussion created by the storm that was intent on bringing what was left of your livelihood to its knees.

Only the datura had survived the season. And even that sat alone by the window, in a clay pot spiderwebbed with old cracks. Once, it had been beautiful, ghostly white silky petals folded into horns, a strange, showy thing that bloomed only at night. Now, it was barely a shadow of itself. Green gone sickly. A lone flower still standing, still blooming, white and waxy and reeking of something sweet and dangerous. Of course, the only plant alive would be the one you couldn’t sell. Useless. Poisonous.

One stubborn blossom curled in on itself, like it was waiting for something that would never come.

You pulled down the blinds inside the shop, shutting out the storm and the neon lights of the world outside.

A sigh rushed past your lips as you walked through to the back office, past the decaying walls and vines and flowers.

Everything was dying, or dead.

You could feel it in your chest, a dull ache echoing the slow decay of every green thing around you. Even the ivy that grew across the facade had started to hang limp, leaves yellowing at the edges, its tendrils too tired to reach for anything.

The shop smelled like damp earth and abandonment, the air thick with the sweetness of a flower’s last breath. Rot.

A leak had sprung in the back room through one of the windows, one small rivulet of rain running down the wall and pooling at the tile underneath.

There was no point in crying, no one was around to hear your cries anyway.

No one cared.

A deafening rumble cracked overhead, accompanied by a simultaneous flare of white light and then, you were plunged into darkness.

The electricity had gone.

“This cannot be happening,” you sighed, resigned to your fate. “This place is going to kill me!”

Clambering over stacks of papers, final notices, a debt collector's receipt and plants in various stages of decay, you eventually found what you were looking for.

A birthday candle.

You lit it quickly, the yellow light flickering and throwing dancing shadows across the cramped room. Tall, reaching shadows that grasped and swayed, reaching for something beyond their range.

The light caught on the edges of your grandmother’s old journal, left open on the counter like a relic from times past. The pages, worn from years of thumbing through the cracked and yellowing pages.

The book had been handed down with the shop. The last piece you had of your grandmother in this world and they were both in tatters.

It wasn’t entirely your fault.

You were the last. The final thread in the family’s weave. So it was your burden. Your duty, to sit beside your grandmother as the light left her eyes, to sponge her fevered skin, to remind her to breathe when her lungs kept forgetting. You hadn’t just loved her. You’d given your everything for her. You’d ensured that her every moment was joyous and celebrated.

Flowers by her bedside until the last moment. Sunlight and fresh air to cleanse the stuffiness of the room. And pills. So many pills. Painkillers, muscle relaxers, antiemetics, antipsychotics and more besides. None of them were treatments. They were to keep her comfortable, to keep her out of it enough that she didn’t notice her death creeping up on her.

But you did.

And it carved out its name in your heart. Witnessing her final moments was tough, but knowing that her time was running out was worse.

She seemed to get better, for a short time. You’d come back to the upstairs flat and she wasn’t in her bed, she was cooking.

“Grandmother! What are you doing out of bed?” You couldn't help the way you’d reacted. She hadn’t been able to stand unassisted for months, and suddenly she was chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

She smiled at you, eyes warm and full of love, and you were a child again. Small and fragile and reeking of dirt from the gardens, running inside to find this exact scene.

Your heart broke.

“Your grandfather will be along soon, dearie. He’s taking me on a trip,” she’d said, happy as anything. “Now, come along and help me with these carrots. I don’t want him to have to wait for his dinner.”

You’d understood what was happening then.

Had researched enough about the dying process to realise what would happen. As the exhaustion seeped into her muscles and you tucked her into bed, you knew it would be the last time.

Your tears fell freely.

You hugged her tighter than you ever had before, and held her hand as she slipped away from the world.

After that, everything began to rot.

The shop.

Your spirit.

You couldn’t keep up with anything. The endless stack of bills grew higher and higher. Medical bills. Electical bills. Gas bills. Water bills.

The Balifs had been once. They’d emptied out the pitiful amount of change from the register and taken a few things to cover what they could, but even they could tell it was useless. Their eyes, regarding you with a stare so pitying, you wanted to throw something at them.

The debt, the neglect, all of it, it hadn’t been a choice. It was a necessity. A sacrifice that had to be made. Keeping your last family member comfortable as she passed had meant more to you than keeping everything else together. And now? Now the decay had set in too deep.

You couldn’t fix it, try as you might.

The building was already crumbling, and now it was a hazard. The customers were gone. The suppliers stopped calling. The debt was drowning you. Sometimes, a whisper in your skull said: sell it. Burn it. Walk away.

But you couldn’t.

There was too much of your grandmother left in these walls. Of you.

Every vine, brick, and patch of peeling wallpaper was heavy with memory, love, grief, and time.

How do you sell that?

So that’s why you went there. To the shop. You needed something, something to help you out to try and make ends meet, to breathe life back into the crumbling business around you. It was desperation that urged you to leave your shitty apartment, at well past midnight, and hightail it into the eye of the storm.

Your grandmother was... magical. Not in the cute, fairy-dust way, in the old, terrifying, whisper-to-the-dead kind of way. It suited her too. She could revive almost any flower or plant, or person, with seemingly a mere look. You’d experienced it first-hand as a child.

Her fingers leafing through the pages of the journal until she found whatever remedy she had needed, and using it to coax a flower into bloom in a matter of days.

You hoped you would have the same luck with making the business bloom again.

The pages were completely stocked full of information, scrawled in her signature handwriting. Loops and curves and joins, dancing across the pages and spilling forth generations worth of knowledge.

Maybe you’d been looking at it for too long.

Your eyes hurt from crying and squinting to read in the darkness of the shop, but the writing seemed to change and shift as you read through the journal. The flow of the writing changing, sloping and twisting with each word as you got closer and closer to the back pages and then…

Nothing?

The last sentence trailed off, abandoned mid-thought, like something had interrupted her.

No. That can't be right.

Your grandmother was particular about many things, and this journal was one of them. You weren’t even allowed to touch it until it was passed down to you, until she was so tired and sick that she couldn't manage the shop anymore. That’s when you were allowed to read it. Then, and only then.

She would never leave a page unfinished.

You thumbed over the pages once more. Feeling the ridges and stitching of the leather, the textures of the pressed flowers adhered to each page. And then to that last sentence. Unfinished and unsatisfying.

It wasn’t right.

The birthday candle was nearly out.

You rummaged through a drawer and lit another one. The last one.

The light danced across the pages as you set it onto a piece of Blu-Tack, a makeshift holder for your final piece of salvation.

You looked at the journal closer, there was a…shadow? Something not quite a mark but not not a mark.

There!

Underneath the back binding, the cover, was something.

You pulled it closer, zeroing in on the corners with your fingernail. God, your grandmother would have your head if she knew what you were about to do.

You slid your fingernail underneath the page, the glue giving way to the pressure in places and holding firmly in others. One of those unsatisfying rips that left tears and shreds of paper everywhere, but when you were finished, the sentence was complete.

There, hidden underneath the binding, was something unfamiliar. There was writing. The loops were unfamiliar, the rhythm all wrong, but unmistakably hers. A poem.

If it blooms in darkness, it was meant to live there.Build an altar from the breath of dying things.Offer something rooted. Offer something broken.Speak to Her in the hour before the veil closes.

You read it aloud without thinking. A whisper, just to break the silence.

She’d heard it before. Somewhere. A long time ago, maybe.

When she was too young to retain anything other than the joy of her childhood.

But there were instructions here and diagrams, and all of it made your mind whirr in an ancient and destabilising way.

There was a faint hum in the air, a vibration that trickled through your veins in a way that drowned out the thunder and the rain that was slowly making its way under the front door.

That kind of static that your grandmother radiated when she’d talk to the plants and work her little magic on them to get them to behave.

It was worth a shot.

God, anything was worth a shot at this point.

Even if you felt foolish as anything.

Your hands moved on their own. Old habits and grief coming together with your muscle memory to gether what you could. A broken pot that could still hold anything that wasn’t liquid. A sprig of dry lavender. A pothos that you’d put your all into as a teen, now just wisps and brown and dust. And finally, the datura. With softness and reverence, you pulled it from the soil. The last living thing in the building came away from the pot with ease, its roots barely enough to keep it anchored. You didn’t know how it had stayed alive this long.

Maybe it was waiting for this moment.

Maybe you were losing your mind?

Still, you built the thing, the altar, just as the page had said. Stems arranged with care, and a birthday candle stood in a lump of Blu-Tack to complete the look.

It was pitiful and desperate and mortifying. But you’d come this far, so why stop now?

Your heart pounded as you spoke, to Her.

“Ummmm… hello?”

The flame jumped, and you did too along with it.

“Fucking hell!”

Not, perhaps, the most sacred invocation. You cleared your throat and started again.

“Okay, I’m… I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do here, but I guess I need help?” You sat down crossed cross-legged on the floor, staring into the tiny, flickering flame.

“I… I have nothing left to give. Nothing left to bloom, to grow, I’m just… lost. When my grandmother passed away, I didn’t know how much it would-”

The bell above the shop chimed. Soft. Singular. A sound like a thread snapping in a dark room.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You’d locked it. You had locked it.

It was well past midnight. The roads were abandoned, impassable with the storm and debris. The rain and winds hadn’t let up in hours, and now there was lightning. No one should be here.

No one could be here.

No one with good intentions, anyway.

You turned the corner and stepped back into the shop, voice shaking with nerves and fear. “Sorry, we’re-”

But the rest of your words never made it past your lips; they caught, strangled halfway up your throat.

Because someone was there.

Sanding barefoot on the cold terracotta tiles, between your failing monstera and the shelf of discounted succulents, was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen.

Beautiful seemed entirely the wrong word to describe her. No mortal language had one.

And suddenly, it was hard to breathe.

She didn’t belong in your shop. She didn’t belong on this earth.

She stood in a stillness that didn’t belong to the living. Moonlit marble pretending to breathe. Hair like oil-slicked obsidian spilling over her shoulders and down her back, impossibly, too fluid, too alive. Thin strands of silver threaded through it, shimmering like starlight, as if the sky itself had spilled into her veins. Her skin gleamed, moonlight paling in comparison to the way her skin shone in the light of a singular birthday candle. Glowing, alive and perfect. A woman who could end wars and start religions.

Her gown drifted around her, ancient and weightless. Layers of sheer fabric gathered like fog around her frame, so delicate that it seemed to defy physics. It shifted as she walked around the small space, catching the candlelight in ways it shouldn't, glimmering with something more radiant than diamonds. Silk and ash and spring sunlight. Smoke woven by hands that hadn’t touched mortal flesh in centuries.

You didn't mean to stare, but your body forgot how to do anything else. Your knees felt weak. Your hands were shaking. Your brain had short-circuited somewhere around the sight of her feet not making a sound on the tile.

She moved slowly. Deliberately. As if the world bent around her presence.

She passed you, stepping and brushing her delicate fingers over a wilted rose plant on the countertop.

A slight sigh escaped her lips, and then it bloomed.

Violently.

Stems unfurling in a sudden breath, thorns sharpening to fine red-tipped points, petals bursting open in a flushing cascade of life. The air suddenly alive with the scent of perfect rose blossoms.

You blinked.

Rubbed your eyes.

But nothing changed.

You were wide awake. And whatever this was, it wasn't some hallucination brought on by grief and sleep deprivation.

She looked at the rose plant for a long moment, fluffing the lush green leaves and arranging the flowers with careful attention, until finally, she turned to you.

“You called for me.” Her voice was soft, dangerous, echoing with something ancient and powerful. A voice with gravity. Something carved out of stone and thunder. It rippled through your bones.

Your breath hitched in your throat. “I-I didn’t mean-”

“You wanted life,” she said. “You asked for it,” her gaze flicked past you to the floor. The makeshift altar. “And I have your offering.”

She stepped forward just one step, and somehow the room shrank.

“You gave something broken. You gave something beautiful. You gave something rooted.”

Her eyes rose to meet yours, gaze sharp enough to cut with an unspoken verdict.

“I should be furious,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “But I’m not.”

Her eyes, God. You’d never seen green like that before. It wasn’t just the colour, it was the depth. Speckled with gold like sunlight filtered through moss. Endless and timeless. They held seasons in them. Decay and the miracle of things being reborn.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

“Wait,” you breathed. “Who… are you?”

She tilted her head. A movement so quiet it felt like the silence itself deepened.

“I go by many names,” she said. “But for your sake… call me Persephone.”

And just hearing it stole the warmth from the room.

You wanted to laugh but her eyes told you that this was real, there was no joke, no hidden camera. Nothing.

Just you and a… Goddess?

“…I don’t understand,” you whispered.

“You asked for help. Did you not?”

The goddess’s voice turned colder. Almost amused. Mocking even. “You lit the candle. You made the offering, and now you flinch at being seen?”

She turned away from you, slowly, appraising the space with a faint grimace. As if the presence of so much wilt and mildew offended her on a personal level.

“And gods, what have you done to this place?”

Shame rose hot in your chest. You wanted to snap at her, but she was right and a goddess. The shame was a splinter that had been in you for months now, and her words just twisted it deeper.

“I… I didn’t mean for it to get this bad,” you said, voice cracking. ”But we, I have nothing left.”

You hated how your voice cracked. How small it sounded.

“Evidently,” she said with a sneer, kicking away a fallen leaf from under her feet.

Persephone circled you slowly, the hem of her gown whispering across the floor like fog curling over graves. Every movement carrying a weight, a history; aeons of grace and fury, grief and rebirth. Her eyes never left yours.

“You’re trembling,” she said, voice low, lilting, cruel in a way only someone ancient and exhausted could be. “Is it fear? Or awe?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. You couldn’t tell. Both, maybe. Neither?

The air around her crackled with a pressure you couldn’t explain. Something was about to break, and maybe it was you.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered. The words came out raw, scraped from your throat like they’d been hiding under your ribs. “How are you real?”

Persephone stopped. Tilted her head, and for a breathless moment, all the air seemed to still around her.

“Real?” she echoed, with something like amusement curling in her throat. “Darling… I am the only alive thing that’s in this place and that includes you. Gods look at the state of you.”

The words hit like ice water, and yet, her expression flickered with something strangely triumphant. Cruel satisfaction curling at the corners of her lips, as though she’d been waiting to strike. Waiting for awe. Waiting to be recognised.

“And yet here I am,” she continued, “with you and your pitiful altar and your dead flowers, begging for something you don’t understand.”

You bristled. Were all goddesses this mean?

“I wasn’t- I just-”

“You called,” she said, all softness gone from her tone. You were testing her patience, clearly. “You called, and I answered. Do you know how long it’s been since someone remembered to do that? Since I’ve been able to get ou-”

She took a deep breath, calming herself and taking a step closer to you.

“I’m offering you a miracle, little mortal. Help. Power. Life.”Her gaze darkened. “But that comes at a cost. Everything worth having does.”

Your heart thudded wildly. “What kind of cost?”

Persephone tilted her head in mock thought. “A fair one,” she drawled, and her smile made it a lie. “Think of it as a temporary exchange.”

“Exchange? What could I possibly give you in exchange for your help?” You asked.

“I need time,” Persephone said. “Time you clearly aren’t using.”

You frowned. “What?”

She sighed in frustration “I propose a trade. You will take my place for six months. In the Underworld. A season, really. That’s all.” She waved a hand as if it were nothing. “And I will walk in your world for the same.”

You stared at her. Surely she didn’t mean that literally. Six months in the Underworld? It had to be a metaphor. Some ceremonial goddess-ritual. A symbolic debt. Like fasting for Lent or taking part in some harvest festival, not-

“You’re serious,” you whispered.

“I am always serious,” she said. But her eyes glittered. Amused. Giddy, even. “Oh, the things I could do with six months among the living again. The food. The sky. The chaos. And of course, I would fix up this little…” She paused, swiping her finger through some dust on a shelf before flicking it off her fingers in disgust. “Little shop.”

She was glowing with joy. You felt like prey.

And then, the grin vanished.

“Do we have a bargain?”

You hesitated. Every bone in your body said this was a bad idea. But the other voice, the quiet, desperate one, said: You asked for help. This is help. You can’t back out now.

“I-I don’t understand,” you said. “What does that mean? Take your place? How would that work?”

“We would switch,” she said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I’d take over your body and you would take mine. No one will know that we’ve switched places.”

“So, what? I’m meant to rule the underworld?” You asked, utterly gobsmacked.

She sighed and examined her fingernails, the absolute picture of boredom. If you didn’t already know better, you could’ve easily mistaken her for one of the mean girls at your high school. But this wasn’t Amber and Kaitlin the cheerleaders, this was Persephone, Goddess of Spring.

“Not alone. You'll have my dear husband assisting you, or rather, you’ll assist him. It’s a complicated situation, but during our switch, we’ll each catch glimpses of one another’s memories. So you will understand your role in the underworld, and I will be able to… help you here.”

It sounded so simple. Like she’d thought of everything, like it would be easy.

“That all sounds far too simple,” you said, thinking out loud.

Her eyes flashed with unspoken anger.

“You have no idea what it means to be me.”

Silence stretched between you. She stepped closer again, her gaze no longer cruel, but hungry. Aching.

“You think I chose this? To be married to him? To rot in a kingdom of ash and silence while the world blooms above my head?” Her voice cracked, not with weakness but with fury barely leashed. “I was meant to be more than a wife. More than a myth. I want life back.”

She reached out, and in her palm bloomed a glass, delicate as starlight and rimmed in gold. The liquid inside shimmered with colours that shouldn’t exist. It pulsed like something living.

You stared. The weight of it hit then, her pain, not softened by time, but calcified into something dangerous. She wasn’t just offering you a deal.

She was trying to claw her way out of her cage.

“If I agree…” You said slowly. “If I take your place…”

She nodded. “You’ll be under protection. They’ll think you’re me. You’ll be safe, as long as you play your part.”

You swallowed. “And if I don’t?”

The smile she gave you then was beautiful. Terrifying.

“Do you really want toknow what happens to mortals who fuck with gods? Are you truly so ignorant? The wheel is turning. You’ve already been seen by the fates, which means I will know if you put a single step out of line.”

Your mouth was dry. Your hands shook.

She raised the chalice again. “Drink the ambrosia. Or leave this place in rot and ruin.”

You stared at it. At her. Something in your chest twisted, the voice of reason clawing to be heard over the rising hum in your skull. And yet…

The liquid in the glass shimmered. And her eyes, hard and angry as they were, begged you to accept.

You took the glass and brought it to your lips. It tasted like honey and thunder, sunlight and dreams. The taste flooded your tongue, changing, twisting, morphing into every taste you longed for, smokey and sweet, whiskey and cream, yet still refreshing.

You finished the glass.

Your head was spinning from the taste.

Wait. No. Not from the taste.

You’d gone dizzy. Room fading as black spots filled your vision.

You clutched at your chest, heart beating so rapidly it felt like it was trying to tear itself through your own chest.

It hurt, God, it hurt.

Your knees buckled before you felt them hit the floor. Your vision splintered. Somewhere, you heard Persephone's voice as you fell, light with laughter.

“Try not to ruin everything. Oh, and I probably should’ve mentioned that this might sting a little.”

The last thing you registered was your head clanging against the flooring and her peals of laughter ringing out like a bell.

Then darkness took you, full and blinding.

This idea consumed me so much that I was compelled to write this. DISCLAIMER: This is heavily inspired by Goddess of Spring, one of the books in the Goddess Summoning series by P.C. Cast.

❥ Like, reblog, comment, message me, ask me something, literally anything - I live for your feedback lovelies ��

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chatterbox-73 · 9 months ago

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Kinktober 2024.

Day 8 - Overstimulation.

Kakashi Hatake x fem!Reader

This story is a smut story for Kinktober, I’ll be writing more characters x reader one shots for Kinktober and if you want to see a character please let me know...

You must be 18 years or older to read this...

🔞⚠️NO MINORS ALLOWED⚠️🔞

A/N: this is another edited report…

Also this is a second part to this one-shot.

Summary: After spending so much time together acting as newlyweds of a mission, you and Kakashi fall for each other and in a moment of confidence Kakashi confesses his feelings for you.

Word count: 2.2k

CW: NSFW and adult content, fluff, unprotected sex, oral (f!giving and receiving), fingering, squirting, crying, biting/bite marks, hickeys, bruises, overstimulation, rough sex, slight mention of public sex and slight mention of nosebleed.

Kakashi pressed his clothes member on the side of your face, “let’s make this worth it” he hummed and slipped his sweatpants down his hip, while pulling his shirt up and holding it between his teeth as he held your chin in place, you licked the underside of his shaft and kissed down towards his base, you moaned and licked over his sack, “it’s so tasty” you moaned against his heavy testicles, Kakashi huffed and grabbed a fist full of your hair, “oh shit… that tickles, but you’re gonna have to start sucking” he pulled back before holding your mouth open and slipping his tip between your lips, Kakashi pressed in closer and closer until he was reaching the back of your throat, he gave you a moment to relax and get use to him, but once you moaned around him, he took it as a sign to start thrusting his hips.

It was always so satisfying with kakashi, he’d prioritise your pleasure over his own, though you did get the impression that he greatly enjoyed pleasing his partners, however it was nice finally getting to focus on him, on making him feel good and truly satisfied.

It was like pulling teeth though, convincing him to allow you to focus on his pleasure, however you were able to use the excuse that this was the last time Kakashi would have you as the mission was over, and after much debate and wrapping yourself around him, you were finally able to make him agree.

Kakashi grunted as he looked down at you, his eyes narrowed and heavy with lust, he bit his lower lip, scrunched up his nose and furrowed his brow, “I shouldn’t have waited this long, I was worried you wouldn’t like it” Kakashi grunted and brushed a hand over your head, “you’re so good at this, for it being the first you use that pretty mouth for something over then arguing with me” he chuckled and you reached up, grabbing his butt with both hands and digging your nails in, you hummed around him and he grunted, hips shuttering and head rolling back as you felt his cum spurt into your back of your mouth.

“You looked so cute with a full mouth…” kakashi chuckles as he leant down and cupped your cheeks, before kissing you and lifting you up onto the bed, “I wanna see you on hands and knees” he hummed and watched to turn over.

You sat on the bed watching Kakashi apply concealer to his scar, both you and Kakashi were getting ready to head back to the hidden leaf village. the mission had been pretty easy in the grand scheme of things, however the hardest part, if you were being honest…

…Was keeping both your body’s apart long enough to actually get the mission done…

The constant sex was helpful in selling the newlywed image, although it got to the point were it was like clockwork, after every meal, disagreement, during and after showering or even when you were both out running errands, however after this morning’s moment of delight, both you and Kakashi agreed that was the last time. You don’t particularly feel upset about stopping sex with Kakashi, however you will miss his the company. “Ready to leave?” Kakashi asked now full in his disguise, “yeah let’s go” you smiled as you walk to the door.

The trip back to the village seemed quicker then when you left at the beginning of your mission, and before you knew it you were back in the village, both you and Kakashi, or rather Sara and Ryusei Ito passed your Fake IDs over to the gatekeepers, after the all clear you and Kakashi agreed to meet with Lady Tsunade after a quick shower. Soon enough you were both standing in the hokage’s office, you both handed Lady Tsunade the items she requested and the mission reports, “you both took longer then I expected you would, why’s that?” Lady Tsunade asked while examining Kakashi mission report. “We hit a few small bumps, here and there” Kakashi smirked under his mask, ‘he better not tell her everything’ you think as you side eye him…

You didn’t care if lady Tsunade knew of your and Kakashi’s minor affair during the mission, and it was fine for shizune to know, you’d be telling her everything in detail later on anyway. However the same couldn’t be said about the youngest in the room, lady Tsunade and Kakashi’s student, Sakura…

“And they were?” Lady hokage questioned and before Kakashi could answer, you spoke up, “the weather… it rained more then expected and we didn’t want our disguises to be compromised.” You breath out, “understandable” lady Tsunade answered and when back to reading. After Lady Tsunade finished reading both mission reports and looked over all the items, once seeing everything was there and in good condition she let you go, “alright, you both did really well, you both have a couple days off” she gestured for both of you to leave. Once stepping out of the room, you heard Kakashi chuckle “what are you laughing at?” You said feeling your cheeks heat up. “The weather” Kakashi shook his head and looked in your direction, “well what did you want me to say, hot steamy sex was the problem” you began to walk and Kakashi set after you, “actually I was going to say, you had back cramps for the first few days” you heard Kakashi’s smirk behind his words. “Only because of you” you snapped back, “at least it’s the truth… well not the full truth, but still more true then ‘the weather’.” Kakashi stepped in front of you and leaned down to eye level, “I’m not playing into this” you walked off and Kakashi followed after you.

The walk home was peaceful, you and Kakashi unconsciously took the scenic route, it was mostly silent, just leaving you with your thoughts. You thought about how you’d gotten so used to being around Kakashi and in all that time you both really did feel like a newlywed couple. ‘It’d be a waste if you didn’t at least try to make things work with Kakashi, he had made himself a comfortable spot in your heart’ your heart leaps at the thought but your brain quickly brought you back to reality, ‘you and Kakashi can’t be anything but a memory now, you made an agreement, despite how he makes your day feel brighter’.

Your mind and heart remained in warfare until you reached the apartment complex. Both you and Kakashi live here, and funnily enough you both live on the same floor and on either side of Gei’s apartment. “Well have a good couple of days off” Kakashi smiled and opened his door, but before he could go in you stopped him. “Wait there for a second” you ran into your apartment and grabbed your bottle of shampoo and the pair of fluffy bed socks on the kitchen counter, and back into the hallway. “These are yours…” you pass him the bed socks, “…and can you loosen this, you tighten it too much this morning” you asked holding out the shampoo bottle, while looking at your feet in embarrassment. “Sure” Kakashi chuckled and he loosened the bottle’s lid, “umm… did you want to come in for some tea?” Kakashi asked and you nodded.

You sat at the table with Kakashi drinking tea and talking, “it’s going to be so weird living on my own again” you smile and Kakashi nodded in agreement, “it’s going to be quite lonely without you reading with me” he looked at his cup fondly. “Yeah, I’ll probably miss cooking with someone, you really are so good at it” you smile fondly at your cup as well, “you’ll miss me?” Kakashi looked up at you in surprise “I’m not as cold hearted and unloving at those guy make me out to be” you say referring to the few guys in the hidden leaf village that have tried to ask you out but got turned down and started calling you names because of it. “I know that… it’s just that I…” Kakashi looked at you and suddenly looked away once making eye contact, “you what?” You feel your heart beat fasten, Kakashi stayed silent for quite some time “I think I… ummm… am in love with you” his top lip quivered and your eyes widened.

Kakashi slipped into a rant about how he could get over you, given some time apart, you on the other hand, couldn’t say anything, your mouth just wouldn’t move. You stood to your feet “I understand you want to leave but can we talk about this?” Kakashi asked almost desperately, but when you didn’t sit he quickly stood and moved in front of you, “please hear me out” he begged and grabbed your shoulders. “You love me?” You finally spoke, mind finally comprehending Kakashi’s words, “yes, now please ca-“ Kakashi confirmed but he couldn’t finish talking, because you beamed and wrapped your arms around his neck, “you love me!” You hugged the slightly confused man, “Kakashi, I love you too” you pulled away and light kissed him. Kakashi smiled and pulling you back in, kissing you deeply.

Laying on Kakashi bed, fingers digging into Kakashi hair, trying to push his head away as he softly sucked on your swollen bud while his fingers massaged your g-spot. “Stop, it’s too much… please I need a break” your begs fell on deaf ears, as his tongue licked your clit and soon enough you were cumming again and Kakashi finally pulled away.

“What was that four?” Kakashi questioned with a smile, “y-yes” you whimpered and he chuckled, the man leaned over you and began rubbing his anger tip through your dripping folds. You whined out a ‘no’ and Kakashi hand cupped your face, “don’t worry I’ll be gentle, I want to savour my meal” as he finished speaking his tip slipped in, his throbbing member slowly stretched you. Your walls squeezed Kakashi tight as he filled you, he smirked at you as his tip bumped your cervix and there it was, you reached your peak again. Kakashi didn’t even give you a minute to come down from your high as he began thrusting in you, his thrusts were deep, slow and strong, they made the bed rock into the wall and your breast to bounce with every thrust. Kakashi hands tightly gripped your hips as his face was buried between you breast, and your hands gripped his back. Every time your nails dug into Kakashi skin he’d growl and roughly bite your breasts, which would cause you to dig your nails in harder and squeezed tighter around him. Kakashi move his face into the crook of your neck, “I love you” he grunted his hands tightening their grip on your hips, “you’re mine” he choked. You grasped as you release came seemingly out of nowhere, Kakashi pulled back and looked down at the large wet patch under your ass. “Do it again… I wanna see it” he commanded, “do what?” Your voice trembled. Kakashi click his teeth and began quickly rubbing rough circles on your clit. Kakashi changed his slow pace to a much faster one, he still kept it deep and strong he just increased the speed a lot. Kakashi’s other hand held your waist, lifting your ass off the bed as your legs sat bent over his shoulders, giving him way more control over his thrust.

This time you could feel your release building in you lower stomach, it was tight and it was a feeling you’d never felt before, tears welled up in your eyes and lips quivered as you beg him to stop. You were almost afraid to release all this built up tension, so you squeezed around Kakashi trying to hold it in. Kakashi let out a deep moan that bounced off the walls and shook your insides, “let it go baby” his voice was gentle and his eyes pleaded with yours as tears slipped past your eyes.

That was enough for you to let go, and you felt all that built up tension in the lower stomach gush out of you as your hands gripped Kakashi thighs and your legs shook. the man above you watched you unravel, mouth opening into a silent scream as drool sat at the corners of your lips, tear still running down your cheeks, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back face; neck; shoulders and chest flushed. Bite marks, hickeys and bruised covered your body, Kakashi watched your juices squirt over his lower abdomen, he pushed himself deep inside of you as his cock twitched and he unloaded himself into you, you whimper at the feeling. Kakashi panted and carefully lowered your legs, still inside of you he leaned forward and cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs wiped away any drool or tears. “I love you Kakashi” you whispered and your eyes fluttered shut as exhaustion took over your spent body.

You wake up to the sound of a giggling, and find yourself on Kakashi strong chest, both your naked bodies covered by fresh sheets, you looked up from you placed on Kakashi chest as you see him reading his indecent book, looking closely at his face to see a bloodied twisted up piece of tissue up his nose, you let out a giggle which catches his attention. “You pervert” you smiled, Kakashi chuckled and gently rubbed your head with his free hand. “I’m your pervert now” you nodded at his statement and close your eyes happily, allowing sleep to over come you again.

Kinktober Masterlist

Day 7 - Tetsurou Kuroo: Just sit here.

Day 9 - Katsuki Bakugo: Deep throating.

#fem!reader #kakashi hakate #kakashi #kakashi hakate x reader #kakashi hatake x reader smut #kakashi x reader smut #kakashi smut #kakashi x reader #naruto shippuden kakashi #kakashi sensei #kakashi hatake #kinktober 2024 #kinktober

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roxxyhoney · 28 days ago

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My Loustat/ Jam Reiderson heart is FULL. Like I just can’t be normal right now♥️

“Sam and I were talking quietly and intimately to each other, and we had these leaf blowers going, and there’s a guy pulling ropes outside to slam the shutters, and there’s stuff flying in our faces.”

“We have just built this trust where I implicitly trust him with whatever we must do. I hope that he feels the same way.”

“I’ve never had a work partnership like that, like you could throw us into anything together and we would be fine.”

“We’ll figure it out and we’ll have fun doing it.”

Source x

#jam reiderson #Jacob Anderson #Sam Reid #interview with the vampire amc #iwtv #iwtv amc #interview with the vampire #Loustat #louis de pointe du lac #lestat de lioncourt #I love them so much #I hope he feels the same way like whaaaaat😍😍#ready to see them in s3

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chocsra · 9 months ago

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idk abt others but yes i do eat up every single one of ur hs au bc it's so silly and yes i am looking at you with a chuuya plushie in my hand to ask for a dazai x reader hs au fanfic

✧ "YOU ARE THE CITY OF MY HEART"

☆ synopsis ↺: skipping class with your classmate, dazai yet again. but this time, you explore the ocean of your feelings together.

☆ content ↺: HIGHSCHOOL AU 15ZAI, musical prodigy! dazai, photographer! dazai, introvert! dazai, slightly ooc, fluff

☆ NOW PLAYING ↺: UNDERSTAND — keshi

☆ w/c ↺: 2k

you don't think you have ever lived without noise,

ever since you were a kid, you were talked your ear off by your parents, lectured by several adults, and screamed plentifully with friends. when there was silence, there was music to mask it. good or bad noise, it existed, survived, and was a huge part of your life.

but you,

Dazai Osamu, are probably the quietest person you've ever known.

the only sound you could associate with him was the shutter of a camera taking a picture—the same sound you've been continually hearing.

It was a regular school day, both dressed in full uniform, baking under the bright rays of the morning sun. There wasn't anything particularly wrong about this day. you could pick off the reddening leaves from bark-ridden tree branches and soak in the imprint of tree stumps, looking ever so similar to that of a fingerprint. it was a pretty autumn day; you just so happened to get to see that. you think, taking a withering leaf into the palm of your hand.

shutter.

"osamu, stop taking photos of me." —you chide, gently swatting the pointed camera out of view. the brunette in front of you, currently crouching, laughs boyishly as he removes his face pressed against the camera, gaze now overseeing the autumn sight before him. "sorry," dazai whispers, tinkering with a few buttons to review the photos he took. "you don't have to skip class with me, y'know." he murmurs, eyes glued to his camera.

he was a photographer, a pretty one at that. quiet and mysterious, you were rather surprised to learn that a boy reads fine literature and other classical means. sometimes, he picked up a violin or combined delicate fingers to gracefully waltz with a grand piano. his most prized possession was a camera, freezing the most beautiful of the intricacies of nature and people. but who was he? the boy who read books instead of taking notes in lectures, wavy chocolate brown hair that sun rays adored to find a home in, and a tall and slim build fitted in a school uniform and bandages. to capture the slope of his cheek, the deep hazel in hollow irises, and his olive skin. he was Dazai Osamu, a walking mystery.

so, you'd like to know where you stood with him in terms of relationship and if he even likes you at all. skipping class together, sneaking in your window at night, pretending to hang out with friends if it meant seeing him—it didn’t feel like something close friends did, like he was a secret you wanted to keep for yourself. but you couldn’t tell if that greed was reciprocated, if he was bored, or even considered you a close friend, a best friend. but instead of worrying too much, you only watch how his fingers work with a bulky camera, capturing nature's highs and lows.

“i know,” you twiddle with your fingers, grumbling, “class is boring anyway.” the brunette furrows his brows at the photos, brushing your excuse off, “this is shit. i think i’ve taken enough photos around the school.” he groans softly; you could practically hear his creative mind burning in the process. “did you delete the picture of me?” you question, standing over the lanky boy’s crouched form. “no, that one is good. i mean, the actual background, it's all repetitive.”

you tap a finger on your chim, “ahh,” you hum, pretending to understand his perspective. “winter should be here already.” the teenager grumbles under his breath before letting go of the camera to let it hang off his neck. you pace around slowly, feeling the surface of leaves crushing under your heels. “I mean, you don’t have to stay in school if you’re already skipping class.” you mutter, watching as a boyish grin lights up on his face. “you’re right, [y/n]! let’s go!”

a cold hand wraps his fingers around yours before dragging you to the nearest exit—"dazai!” you whine as the brunette drags you, “it’s cooooolllddddd!” you complain, your scarf nearly falling off as you run and run. hand in hand. this rather rushing feeling brings you a taste of memories you barely remember you had.

no one understood Dazai Osamu,

because he was a prodigy, he was something. something big, something great, something that made other geniuses seethe in envy. the boy had extraordinary intellect but a weak mind. no, dazai wasn't weak. he was just always unwell to a certain degree, and to most, it didn't take much to figure out—wearing long sleeves in summer, loving bandages for the comforting feelings even if he didn't need them, and reading books guiding the suicidal. dazai never hid it—that he was unwell, almost like a cry for help.

but for the genius that he was, nobody understood that.

but you did, in seventh grade. you were sniffling, pacing in remnants of snow as tears blurred your vision. though in your hazy field of sight, you outline the figure of one of your classmates approaching you, his tall frame catching the snowflakes from hitting your face. slowly, a boyish voice calls out.

"...are you okay?"

it was dazai, the stone-faced boy and talented prodigy. he wore a black trenchcoat, a little too big for his figure, and covered one of his chocolate brown eyes with bandages. you shook your head, a throbbing pain added from the tinge of snowflakes collecting in your hair. his stoic gaze never left you, standing there in the middle of a snowstorm, crying. the boy himself couldn't muster a feasible reason for walking outside in a snowstorm at this hour, so out of courtesy and a slight tinge of nervousness, he whispered, "let's go for a walk."

suddenly, nimble fingers reach out to grab yours; your fingers are used to originally wipe snot and cover your face. but dazai had no reaction to anything gross like that—like snot and tears. instead, he took shaky fingers into the cold ones of his own, pulling you gently along the sidewalk. you could barely make out his face or your feelings at the moment, only focused on his broad shoulders covered by that raven trench coat, soaking up snowflakes and the well of your tears.

from there, you walked and walked. hand in hand. soon running together with no particular destination—only feeling your body starting to warm up, sore feet clashing against snow, and his hand that never let go of yours.

Dazai Osamu never knew why you were crying, nor did you know what ever went through his head that day.

but from that moment forward,

you understood him.

soon, you were led by that same hand past pretty autumn leaves and into a foresty meadow, closed off from the rest of the world. several forms of wildlife scrapped by, followed by a murky pond under the sun's wake, surrounded by trees of reds and oranges. it perfectly provided what the school's campus couldn't—a sense of divergence reeling in the soft convolutions of your brain. "pretty, isn't it?"—the brunette chimes, panting from the long distance you two ran. "why'd you do that?" you grumble, rubbing your abdomen from an incoming sharp pain, "don't you have asthma?"

he immediately backtracks, shooting you an unamused glare, "that's.. enough." dazai huffs, before removing the strapped camera around his neck, "here, maybe you can take better pictures than i can." the boy chuckles shyly, a very drastic verbal response than his usual arrogance.

"hmm," a gentle hum slips past your lips, squinting one of your eyes in order to press the machine against your face. "i can try." after scouting the area with his camera for a few seconds, you began to snap a few shots at the darkening lake, carrying several leaves in its wake.

and as you paid full attention to the awaiting winter, dazai's gaze stayed on you, his autumn. his gaze softened and his slightly chapped lips parted in a momentary surprise, taking you in with every breath he took. Dazai himself loved photography; he loved capturing moments that would soon get lost in time. the brunette, with a talent for many things, found solace in photos. he loved to take photos of resting cats, dark sceneries you'd only find in an alleyway of a fantasy novel, and candid pictures of random couples on dates. dazai loved taking photos but detested that he didn't have a camera on hand at the moment—for he wanted to freeze this divine sight of you in the confines of his brain. your face, fingers, the dip and curve of every facial feature, and how the lighting kisses your skin and hair.

"how's it like? being a total genius?"

you were rather familiar with all your classmates, just curiously getting to know the mysterious musical prodigy, dazai osamu. it was a work period, and everyone in class already begun to slack off, especially since there was a supply.

and you knew that the lanky boy was eerily quiet when the school's athletic hotshot, Chuuya Nakahara, wasn't around. so, asking stupid questions won't exactly result in stupid answers, or so you thought.

"why? wanna be like me?" — he smiles teasingly, tilting his sharp jaw in your direction. "don't think someone who cries in the snow can do it, sorry." you freeze up and scoff, slightly embarrassed from the former interaction you had with him. "dick." a peaceful but awkward silence fills the air between both of you before the boy clears his throat awkwardly. "But i'd be willing to talk about it if you let me bother you at lunch.?"

the question itself caught you off guard. looking around at the chattering students, "i—" the brunette backtracked, hiding his face slightly with gauzed fingers. "Actually!—I am going to bother you. you're friends with chuuya, aren't you?" you shrug, eyes fluttering to the ground, "..i guess so, but i don't eat with him or his friends."

A breathless chuckle slips past the prodigy's lips before covering his mouth softly, completely ignoring you, "alright then, see you anyway, crybaby."

he hates himself for not knowing what to do with you, but he loved you more to let hate consume him, like usual. dazai wanted you; he didn't know what yearning was until he saw pieces of you in sunsets, rain and snow. he's felt destiny with his childhood friend, chuuya nakahara. but he's never felt something so desiring, pining — like he wanted to be with you every day. and maybe one of those days he'll feel you without the stupid gauze wrapped around his fingers. maybe one day he can hold your hand without the excuse of dragging you somewhere new. maybe one day, dazai will figure out how to ask you to be his, how to love you, because he's sure you're the one he wants to love.

"ahh, wait.."

you cock a brow at his shocked face, grabbing onto your sleeve as if the prodigy were reaching for the stars.

"I wish I were a painter, instead." the boy pouts, holding your sleeve childishly, pulling a chuckle from your throat, "why is that, huh?"

dazai's eyes, ever so empty and unfilled, now gleam, pretty and gentle. Softly reaching out to part a strand of hair behind the shell of your ear, gazing up at you feverishly. "usually, I'm so prideful about these things, photography.."

The prodigy clears his throat, his fingers threading through soft strands of hair tucked behind your ear. "But your eyes, they are really pretty." Your lips part bashfully surprised, overcoming your ability to move.

The boy continues as if his mouth was switched on autopilot: " So I wish I could paint them instead. I guess just looking works, too, though."

He smiles cheekily.

all you ever knew was noise,

but you, Dazai Osamu, had that kind of silence to keep you awake at night. Whether that'd be holding hands in a snowstorm, or the few moments he'd stare into your eyes.

Little did you know, that was the moment he fell in love. Or rather, the time it took him to realise you don't fall.

That love has grown before you can even realise it.

✧ chocsra™

#chocsra #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai x y/n #dazai osamu x reader #15 dazai x reader #15zai #15 dazai fluff #dazai dark era #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd x you #bsd x y/n #dazai one shot

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uhohdad · 9 months ago

Text

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KÖNIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, Protective!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Abuse, Slow Burn, Konig Pines Hard, Sexual Content, Porn with Too Much Plot, First Time, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Smut, Fluff, Angst

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE WARNING I

While you haven’t let go of him, you and Konig still haven’t shared a word since the dressing room. Savoring the short break on the ride to The President’s mansion, letting Ruby do all the talking as she coaches you on party etiquette.

Neither of you are listening.

You’re both worn out, fixated on your shoes, eyes hollow and thoughts a million miles away. Your headache is pounding, every last muscle in your body aches, and with each blink you have to fight to reopen your heavy eyelids.

It’s when you try to take the crown off your head that Ruby cuts through.

“No, no! What are you doing? Leave that on.”

“But-“

“Oh, no, young lady! The victors wear their crowns - You earned it!”

You release a weighty sigh, too tired to argue, and let your crowned head lull back on the luxurious leather seats.

Once you arrive at the mansion gates, Ruby stops you when you move to open the door, insisting you wait for an attendant to do it. You and Konig step from the limo linked at the elbows, and are immediately blinded in all directions by flashing, white lights.

What must be a hundred cameras snapping photos, Capitol elite overlapping in grating shouts.

You and Konig turn in on each other, raising your hands to block out the harsh flashes from all directions. Ruby skips over and gives you both a gentle shove on your backs.

“Well, go on you two!”

She lightly swats your bicep.

“And don’t cover your face! They’re taking pictures. You’re going to look ridiculous!”

You can hardly hear her over the buzz of the crowd, too busy trying to keep your heels planted on the red carpet and not on your tribute pedestal, deafened by the sound of Eleven’s snapping neck at each shutter of a camera lens.

You cling to Konig’s arm with both hands as you wobble on your heels through the golden gates of The President’s mansion, heart pounding in your chest, wide eyes catching a hundred cheering, smiling faces. You both flinch and draw in a sharp breath at the sound of an explosion, only to look up and see candy-colored fireworks sparkling in the shape of your names.

The President’s garden is so off-puttingly perfect, neatly sculpted hedges and bushes of roses, not a single leaf or petal wilted or brown. A large fountain sits in the center of the garden, the flow of water glowing with a rainbow of colors as they cascade to the shimmering pool below. Soft, twinkling lights seemingly float and bob in the air, casting a dim, ever-changing glow onto the guests. Paths designed with patterns of colorful river stones sidewind around the garden, and a stage hosts musicians, playing a triumphant song on your debut.

Konig’s eyes meet yours, both of you exchanging a look of hesitance as you’re led to the stairs up to the mansion, swarms of people lined up on either side of the riverstone path.

Every eye at this party is trained in your direction. You feel like you’re on display, a prey with hundreds of hungry eyes on you just waiting for their opportunity to pounce. As they clap and cheer loud enough to be heard miles away, Ruby guides you to the mansion’s marble stairs where she gives you a gentle shove and struts off.

Maybe you’d know what the hell is going on if you’d bothered to listen to Ruby in the limo, but you’re guessing you’re both to make your way to the balcony and meet The President, standing tall and towering over the party from his perch.

You cling to Konig’s bicep, keeping careful watch of your shaky heels with each step.

You give The President a weak smile with sloped brows as you near the top of the stairs, a shaky peace offering. The eyes that meet yours are unforgiving and entirely cancel out his perfect smile. You’re too weak to hold his gaze for long, watching yourself kick up your sparkly dress hem with every step instead.

You can still feel it, his stare. It’s burning your skin, piercing straight through to your core and melting your insides to a heavy sludge.

By the time you both make it to the top of the stairs, your legs have turned to gelatin and your muscles are trying to vibrate their way out of your skin.

A Capitol attendant extends an intricately-rimmed silver platter to you both, two long stem wine glasses filled with a yellowish, bubbling drink placed neatly in the center.

“Is this alcohol?” You whisper to the attendant, who gives a curt nod in response.

You and Konig gently pluck your glasses off the tray. You go to take a sip, but stop when the attendant widens his eyes and shakes his head at you.

The crowd laughs from down in the garden. Your head snaps to meet them, brows tight in confusion and cheeks flushing with heat.

Your eyes nervously flick to The President. His smile says amusement, but those dangerous eyes are flickering with a flame of pure hatred.

You swallow and look down to the floor as Konig’s arm sneaks around your waist with a tug into his side.

The music ends in a grandiose flourish, and in its absence you can hear a few straggling chatters and hushes from the guests down in the garden.

You flinch as The President’s slow but powerful words broadcast over the speakers.

“A toast. To a truly inspiring year of the Hunger Games.”

The crowd has their glasses raised, and you follow their lead as discreetly as possible, hoping anyone won’t notice you’re late to your cue or the shake in your fingers.

“And to two victors who beat all the odds, and overcame great adversity.”

The President’s stare flits in your direction without warning.

It reminds you of the snake from Price’s games, like you had thrown a fruit square into his neck, those sharp eyes narrowed and slicing straight through you. You’re worried he might just slither over and swallow you whole.

“May your dedication to each other remain unwavering.”

The crowd gives a one-note cheer, playing a symphony with their glasses, exchanging hundreds of clinks and tinks before collectively drinking. You follow their lead, the drink sloshing and bubbling furiously against the glass in your jittering hands.

The President’s eyes are still trained carefully on yours when he tilts his glass and sips his drink with his wrinkled lips.

His stare seems to paralyze you, you’re unable to look away, in shock from the gashes he left behind with his cutting eyes, your guts spilling out and filthying his pristine balcony.

You finally break the stare when the crowd laughs again, taking a strong gulp of air as you pull away your empty glass to wipe your lips with the back of your hand, smearing lipstick on your skin.

“What? What’d I do?” You ask.

Konig leans into you and speaks from the side of his lips, trying to keep his words discreet.

“I think you were just supposed to take a sip.”

You look down to the empty glass in your hands, and then to everyone else’s glasses, still bubbling with the yellowish drink.

You close your eyes and force a deep breath through your nose, fighting the urge to cover your burning face as you wish for this balcony to swallow you whole.

You can’t bring yourself to check in with The President, afraid you’ll once again be frozen under his surely displeased, no - loathsome stare.

The Capitol attendant has sensed you and Konig have absolutely no idea what’s going on, and wordlessly guides you both to make your way down to the garden once again.

So many stairs, such unsuitable shoes and dress hem. The only thing you can focus on is how terrified you are that you might fall face first down these elegant stairs in front of the entire country.

Oh, and of course, the eyes burning holes in the back of your head.

You take it out on Konig’s arm, your grip on him so tight your knuckles are shaking. It takes you both far too long to descend the marble stairs, but the crowd waits patiently with brilliant smiles and clapping hands.

As soon as your second heel makes contact with the garden’s riverstones, you’re surrounded.

Trapped by a blur of chests and pushing arms and touchy hands, the open air robbed from you and replaced with suffocating drunken breath. They’re ruthless, elbowing each other out of the way to get pictures with you both where you will surely look horrified and confused. There must be ten hands on you, hundreds of voices speaking to you at once.

Grabbing around your arms, your free hand, someone puts their hands on your hip and squeezes.

“Hey!”

You whip around, keeping your grip on Konig as you try to wiggle and shove your way from their hands, but as soon as you swat a pair away, another comes to replace it.

You catch sight of Konig, flinching at your side, trying to get away from much too adventurous touches and insistent questions. He’s trying to shake away the women clinging to his bicep and feeling up his chest.

The rage that engulfs you is instantaneous and red hot.

You bare grit teeth, elbowing to put yourself in front of him and shove away the outstretched hands reaching for him.

Konig’s arms close in on you, though, and with a stiff yank he pulls your front into his in an useless effort to hide you. You gasp and flinch into Konig’s chest when someone’s hand melds far too low on your back.

Before you can swivel to find the culprit, Konig’s arm whizzes over your shoulder, and Titan’s pulpy, caved-in face blinds you when he makes impact. You and the flock collectively gasp, followed by the sound of a body lifelessly collapsing onto the river stones.

Your eyes are screwed shut, trembling fingers clawing into Konig’s suit as Sapphire rips her own spear from your hands with her dead weight.

You snap.

Each flash of a camera, each grabbing hand, every grating voice a build-up of pressure in your skull until it explodes. There is no time for thought, your body moves without permission.

You snatch a long-stemmed wine glass from a guest’s hand, and duck to a squat to smash it against the river stones. As soon as the shards burst in all directions, the drink foaming and lapping up your dress, you’re on your feet to bring what remains of the jagged crystal to Titan’s throat - jabbing Sapphire’s bloody spear at him in threat. With heavy breath you hold your ground, swiveling on your feet and thrusting her spear at anyone who dares to near you.

The circle of heels and dress shoes finally begins to make room, gasps and shouts of horror from all directions. You think a few people have actually fainted.

You can make out Ruby’s shrills somewhere in the crowd.

“What on earth?! What happened?!”

You can see her hair bobbing as she excuses her way through the crowd, skidding on her heels to a stop when she breaks the growing clearing.

Her hand shoots up to her mouth as she eyes up the mess - shattered glass and an unconscious body lying in foaming drink.

“What did you do?!”

As soon as you lock on to her face, you suck in a sharp breath, your face transitioning from rage to horror.

You are not in the arena.

You are at the fanciest party in the country, being broadcasted live to all of Panem, attacking Capitol elite at The President’s mansion.

You choke on a squeak as you meet the silent crowd, staring on with gaped mouths and wide eyes. The wine glass stem is tossed from your hands as if it was burning you, a violent shake in your fingers and tears in your eyes.

You’ve been angry before, but nothing like this. Ever since you left the arena you feel like an rabid animal, teeth bared and relying purely on instinct.

Ruby sees your face, drained of color and mortified, and she forces herself to rid her shocked expression as she smooths two hands over the front of her dress.

Her glossy heels side step the puddle of drink and broken glass before she puts a gentle hand on both your shoulders, guiding you both to turn and walk.

“Excuse us, excuse us for a moment. Yes, yes, you’ll all get your photos, dears!” She says with her charming, bright white grin, ignoring the shocked faces and the humiliation you just know is burning her skin.

Every eye is trained on you, the guest’s murmurs to each other drowned out by the upbeat music.

Your entire body is shaking, face simmering with a nauseating heat as Ruby leads you along the pathways out of the garden, paraded in front of every last guest until you’re out of sight.

She’s trying to stuff it down, but the hysteria in Ruby’s hushed voice is certain.

“What is going on?!”

“They were - they were touching us,” You stammer.

“Of course they were! They want photos with you!”

Konig’s bicep hardens under your clammy palms when he crosses his arms over his chest.

“No touching,” He says, “Or we leave.”

“You can’t leave!” Ruby chirps, “This party is for you! Do you know how rude that would be?”

“As rude as grabbing her ass?” Konig grits.

Ruby’s pacing now, her heels clicking on the ground and her hands rubbing out her temples.

“As rude as downing your glass of champagne during The President’s toast?! As rude as attacking Capitol officials?!”

She shakes her head at you both in disbelief, her eyes wide with bewilderment.

“What has gotten into you two?!”

You sputter, your brows pinching and hands flinging out at your sides.

“We died, Ruby! That’s what happened! We died! And we killed! And you can’t just-”

You cut yourself off with a growl before continuing.

“You can’t just expect us to go back to normal!”

Ruby sticks a ring-adorned finger in the air, and the thick superiority in her voice immediately triggers your eyes to roll.

“May I remind you, the people at this party spent large sums of money to send you gifts, which kept you both alive in that arena.”

“I didn’t get anything from them,” You spit.

“Well, if it weren’t for them, Konig would not be alive - and I seem to recall him saving your life quite a few times.”

“I didn’t realize that meant we were giving them a pass to grope us,” Konig says.

“They’re just being friendly,” Ruby says with a dismissive wave, “You two are victors! The whole country wants a photo with you! And you two are acting like animals!”

Ouch.

“I guess that’s what happens when you’re treated like one,” You mumble, scraping pebbles under your heels.

Ruby sighs.

“Can you play nice for one evening? I told you you’re on strict orders! You’re going to give John a heart attack!”

Your brows immediately pinch, the hostility drained from your voice and replaced with confusion.

“Where is Price?”

You can’t help but feel a little abandoned. You’re certain if he was here this whole mess wouldn’t have happened.

“Oh, who knows,” Ruby dismisses with a roll of her eyes and a smack of her lips, “That brute is probably off drinking.”

Ruby launches into a rant about Price’s lack of respect, and you and Konig both take your opportunity to relish in another breather, prying the feeling of wandering, drunken Capitol hands from your unwilling bodies.

The open air is nice, a moment of respite, even. The air in the theatre was so stuffy, cycled through thousands of lungs and fried by stage lights. The air at the party, while open, is suffocating. Distorted and tight with grating voices and hundreds of prying eyes.

This air, the air outside the gates, - it’s resetting, crisp and begging for your attention. The breeze is soothing on your face and arms, almost painful as it passes through your nostrils with each crisp breath.

“Now can you please show an ounce of decorum?”

“We’ll show them as much decorum as they show us,” Konig says flatly.

You tilt your head up at him, and give his bicep a squeeze. He’s wearing those bored eyes, standing tall with his chest puffed out.

“You’re victors now,” Ruby tutts, “You have a standard to uphold! Please do not embarrass me any further!”

You just sigh.

Tired.

When the three of you return to the party, stiff and so clearly uncomfortable, your crown hangs low. You stare only at your dress hem dragging along the walkways.

The silver lining is everyone keeps their distance, whispering to each other and sneaking glances in your direction instead of crowding you both.

It’s humiliating, and you feel like there’s a spotlight on you, but at least you have free rein of the buffet.

And you are starving.

The food may just be the best thing that’s happened to you all day.

Wait, no - second best thing.

It smells so good.

There are too many dishes, there’s no possible way you’ll be able to taste them all, but it’s not going to stop you from trying. Creamy soups and meats draped in flavored, savory sauces, potatoes cooked in just about any way you can imagine, an entire table lined with only desserts, all of which look more like art to be admired than food to be devoured.

Oh, and the drinks.

You truly thought all booze tasted terrible, so the drinks they serve, fruity and sweet and barely tastes of alcohol, only makes you wonder why Price drinks whiskey.

You and Konig take your assigned seats just in front of The President’s mansion, giving him a perfect view of his aberrant victors.

There’s hundreds of circular tables, each one draped with a pristine, pure-white table cloth. A flame sits in the center of perfect centerpieces, and it must be a fake, because it’s ringed by flowers and a nest of twigs that sit far too close to the realistic flame.

It feels weird to be eating.

Too normal, too routine, so out of place after the nightmare you woke up from. You can’t help but feel like you’re not worthy of it. Like there’s twenty-two tributes sitting with you at this table, watching as you gorge yourself with their lifeless eyes and empty plates.

You push through it.

It helps that the food tastes too tempting for you to convince yourself to put your fork down.

The silence has continued between you and Konig as you eat, too tired, too guilty, too raw to talk. Your chairs could not be closer, though, your thighs flush together and arms bumping as you eat.

You sneak glances at him from your peripheral throughout your meal, and it hurts. Everytime you look at him, it is a new reminder of the horrors - gruesome kills and sacrificial deaths.

It doesn’t hurt to rest your head on his bicep once your stomach is bursting at the seams, though.

Mauve joins you three at some point, and aside from Mauve’s gushing paired with plenty of cheek kisses, and Ruby’s pointers on table etiquette paired with light swats, you couldn’t repeat a single thing either of them said if you tried.

The booze is making you sleepy, drowsy eyelids fluttering shut as you embrace the cozy warmth the alcohol brings to your skin. You give in to its whim, using Konig’s arm as a pillow and forcing yourself to only think of the music and the scents of extravagant dishes.

The atmosphere of the party has lightened by time you’ve both finished eating, the drinks coursing through the guest’s veins and rowdy conversation lending you both a hand.

As the guests get drunker, the more courage they have to near, and one of them finally breaks the barrier and asks for a photo with you both.

When not greeted with punches and shards of glass, the others steadily trickle over with caution, until you’re both swarmed once again.

With every snap of a photo, you have to stifle the image of the boy from eleven. His lifeless eyes stare back at you from the center of each bright white flash, every shutter of the camera lens slurred into the sound of a broken neck.

Your already forced, uncomfortable smile becomes more warped with each photo, and you’re sure you’re yawning in at least ten percent of them.

Konig doesn’t make any effort to keep up appearances. He stares forward, features hardening as the night drags on. He can’t seem to hide his rightful disdain, eyes projecting hatred and superiority. Like everyone at this party is beneath him.

The first person that dared to put their hand on your shoulder made you flinch and instinctively pull away under their hand, launching back into Konig’s instinctive brace as you face the culprit.

And of course, it’s just about the oldest woman you’ve ever seen, hunched at the back and walking on a cane. Capitol elite or no, she immediately evokes pity, and then guilt. It was surely an innocent and functional touch, and the look of embarrassment on the little old lady’s face burns your face with a matching shame.

“No, no,” You assure her, “I’m sorry, just scared me.”

She gives a laugh, showing her perfect, pearly white teeth. Not a single one of her teeth is rotted, missing, or even the slightest bit brown. You can’t help the way your head shakes in confusion, because you’ve never seen an old person with perfect teeth before. Not a whole lot in District Nine can even live long enough to reach the definition of elderly, let alone do so while maintaining perfect teeth.

The old woman puts her fingertips just under her collarbones.

“Oh, my, can you imagine? A little thing like me?”

You can’t find it in you to laugh with her, only able to conjure a weak smile and faint nod.

These people are so out of touch.

After what you just went through, you’d be startled by the blow of the wind. They’re not treating you like someone who lived the past week as prey, entirely glossing over the fact that your two hands have ended lives, that you’ve just woken up from being dead.

And it coming from just the seemingly innocent, tiny, crippled old lady just makes it all the more eerie.

You’re not supposed to be wiser than someone four times your age, but you can’t help but feel as if you are.

Once everyone sees the little old lady get away with touching the victors without getting knocked unconscious or threatened with broken glass, it’s free reign, and the drunker the guests get, the touchier they get.

They don’t seem to notice your discomfort or annoyance, and the only thing keeping you both from wigging out is Ruby, smiling proudly as she sips her drinks and accepts her congratulations a few feet away. And of course, The President, who you can’t see, but know is watching.

You can’t help but feel like you owe it to Ruby, too. Her very first victors. She’s probably been dreaming of this moment her entire career, and year after year of watching her kids die, maybe she should get to enjoy her moment without dealing with insolence and embarrassment. Especially after she gave you her fancy locket.

So you suck it up.

For hours you deal with the hands on your shoulders, on your back, smoothing over your arms and grabbing your hands.

The hardest part is watching Konig get the same treatment.

In most every photo since the little old lady, your stares are focused on each other, faces twisted as you watch each other get felt up.

It’s when someone other than Mauve or Ruby finds it appropriate to kiss you on the cheek that Konig’s fingernails start to dig into your skin hard enough to make you hiss, your interlocked fists trembling with his rage.

He’s about to lose it again.

“Ruby?! Breather!”

Ruby’s brows pinch, a slight confused jerk of her head as she rips her focus from her conversation.

After a moment you add a stiff, “Please.”

It takes her a moment for it to click.

”Oh, oh! Yes!”

She excuses herself from her conversation, sets down her drink, and waves the crowd away in her standard pushy-but-polite fashion, assuring them they will get their photos, just not now, dears!

When it’s just the three of you, Ruby gives you a proud smile and a nod. Maybe for asking instead of exploding, maybe because you actually used the word, ‘please’ for once, or maybe it’s just because you made her the escort of a victor.

“Oh, my victors,” She hums.

You actually smile a little when you notice it.

Ruby’s drunk.

She’s got a slight sway in her upper half, her cheeks are flushed rosen, and her smile is wider than ever.

It’s incredibly endearing, but Konig does not find it so.

His stance is wide, arms crossed over his chest, and the bicep you cling to is entirely tensed. You give him a squeeze, but he can’t seem to meet your gaze, his half-lidded eyes staring off into the distance. His hand does shift on his own arm to graze a finger over your knuckles, but it only soothes the sting a little.

You know your face is a reminder of the horrors he just went through, and the thought makes your throat swell and ache. As you look down and attempt to swallow the thought away, tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

He’s right here, you’re clinging to him, you went through it together, you are together.

But you feel so alone.

Konig’s head tilts towards the ground, and he speaks through grit teeth as he scrapes the sole of his glossy dress shoes on the river rocks.

“Did you see them?”

You perk up, an instantaneous wave of relief washing over you.

Even better that it’s trash talk.

“They’re awful, I wish they’d just stop-“

”No,” He cuts, “On their wrists.”

Your brows furrow as you wait for explanation, but he gives none, continuing to avoid your stare.

You carefully look to the guests, and once you notice one, the others practically scream for your attention. More people are wearing them than not.

Your ribbon.

For a solid five seconds, you stare blankly, bouncing around from wrist to wrist. A momentary calm as you process what the fuck you’re seeing.

That is your ribbon.

You earned that ribbon.

It was your gift.

It was your token to the love of your life.

Turning your gruesome kill, Willow’s suffering, and your parting suicide token into a fashion statement!

You are literally shaking with rage, tears of frustration well in your eyes and threaten to spill over your exaggerated lashes.

When you realize you’ve been holding your breath for far too long, you push a long exhale through parted lips.

You wonder if maybe it’s a good thing. If the ribbons spread far and wide mean that Willow’s pain will not go forgotten. Maybe her suffering is acknowledged through these ribbons.

You know that’s not what it means to them.

But you’re too tired to be angry.

“You have the original anyway,” You croak with a shrug, “That’s all that matters.”

While Konig doesn’t turn his head, he does look at you from the corner of his eye.

After a beat, he lets go of a heavy breath, his arms untensing under your touch.

“You know,” Ruby sings, leaning forward a little too far before she whispers her secret, “If you don’t dance at these things, people will talk.”

Without really meaning to, you adopt a patronizing but soft tone while speaking with her. That of a parent trying to gently let down a child who wants to play outside in the dead of winter.

“We’re not really in the mood for dancing, Ruby.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be good dancing!”

She smiles mischievously and gives a sloppy wink.

You wear a weary smile, another scoff behind your closed grin.

“I don’t think we’re in the mood for bad dancing, either.”

“No, no! Can’t have that! The victors always dance! I’ll show you!”

”Maybe later,” You say.

”Definitely later!” She beams.

She then raises her brows at you both.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this-“

She looks over her shoulder to make sure no one’s listening in on her scandalous advice.

“But the drinks help!”

She bursts into laughter, and when you look at Konig, he looks back.

You didn’t realize how cold your chest was until it floods with a sickeningly sweet warmth. He gives a soft roll of those comforting blue eyes, but your favorite is the grin he bites back.

You’re actually eager to follow Ruby’s advice for once.

You hardly have to move, as soon as you lock eyes with a Capitol attendant they step over to you, a tray of drinks in hand. It’s one of the sweet drinks you tried earlier, and as you take a glass you can’t help but ask - hoping you’ll never have to deal with the repulsive taste of whiskey ever again.

“Hey, what is this stuff?”

The attendant's brows raise, and she transfers her tray to one hand to bring a finger to her lips.

“Secret?” You ask.

Konig gently nudges you with his elbow.

“What?”

His lips are twisted when you meet his face, and after studying the woman for a few moments longer, the realization hits with a heatwave of embarrassment.

“Oh. Oh!” You give a nervous laugh at yourself, “I’m so- I’m sorry, I’m a little-”

You cut yourself off, the hand raised to your forehead begging her for grace. The attendant gives a polite curtsy before scurrying off.

You lean into Konig’s, quieting your voice as your eyes pick out the various attendants in their white and black uniforms, doting on guests.

“Are all of them-?”

Your question trails off.

“I think so,” He says.

“This place is fucking insane. It’s insane. I feel like I’m in- I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“They’re despicable,” he says.

As your eyes dart around, you can’t help but wonder if one of the attendants is the girlfriend of the boy from eight.

You shake away the thought as quickly as you can, but she lingers.

Does she hate you?

She must.

You’re the girl who foiled her boyfriend’s revenge plan, the girl that led a pack of bloodthirsty careers straight to the love of her life.

You try to imagine what it must be like for her - forced to serve the Capitol elite day in and day out, knowing her boyfriend’s back home, but having no way to reach him.

If it had been you - taken away for speaking out about the Capitol, knowing Konig is back in District Nine, but having no way to check on him.

And then to see him for the first time, the boy you broke by leaving, so clearly unwell, lurching forward to volunteer in the games and hellbent on getting gory revenge against the girl that ratted you out.

You have to stop the thought there, it’s making you sick to your stomach, and you find your grip around Konig has turned deathly.

That girl, wherever she is, wins the suffering game.

The drink goes down quickly, and as soon as your glass is empty, an attendant rushes over to take your glass and offer a replacement.

It’s welcomed.

Between sips, you rest your weary head on Konig’s bicep and close your tired eyes.

“I want to go home,” You whine into his arm.

“It’ll be over soon.”

He says this with a reassuring kiss on the forehead, but his hoarse tone betrays him.

“I wish we could be alone,” You whisper.

After a few moments of consideration, his grip tightens on you.

“Want to sneak away?” He asks.

You whip around to face him, looking up to find a goading raised brow and a faint, sly grin.

“Yeah?” You ask.

“Ja,” He says.

Those pretty blue eyes are sparkling with a glint of determined mischief that you couldn’t resist if you tried.

“Okay,” You say.

It’s an incredibly arduous task to sneak away.

Every few feet must be earned by a new wave of introductions, photos, and grabbing hands.

One woman pinches your cheeks, and you’re just thankful it’s the ones on your face.

“Oh, you really are just the cutest thing! I don’t usually, well, you know, but I’d make an exception for you!”

“Hey,” A nervous laugh crosses your lips, “What?”

She just laughs, the pungent smell of alcohol on his breath.

“Such a feisty little thing,” She chimes with a wink, her form swallowed by the crowd before you can get an explanation.

“Did she just make a pass at me?”

You shoot a look at Konig, but he’s too busy trying to placate a gaggle of elite gushing over his size. Hands reaching out to touch his chest, arms, shoulders.

What’d you like to do is start dishing out black eyes, but the booze, and of course, Ruby’s pride, make it easier to be semi-agreeable.

“Alright,” You say with a playful wave, “Step back, he’s already spoken for.”

This is a somewhat effective approach, because the guests seem to adore your ‘joke,’ and plently oblige with their rowdy laughter.

It doesn’t seem to discourage whoever is taking their turn with a picture, though. As if taking a photo gives them a pass to grope you.

When you both finally manage to shuffle your way over to a maid’s closet, you have to wait patiently to cycle through more photos, congratulations, and drunken introductions before there’s a lull.

You’re just about to throw in the towel on the whole thing before the perfect moment arrives for you to both awkwardly slip into the maid’s closet.

When the door shuts behind you, the music and rowdy party chatter muffled the moment it clicks shut, you find you’re nervous to be alone with him. Butterflies in your stomach and a shaky laugh on your lips. Your hands fidget in front of your core, and it’s difficult to make eye contact with him.

He nears with slow, daunting steps, each one making your heart beat a little faster. His hands caress down the sides of your abrasive, sparkly dress to find their home on your waist.

For a moment he studies you with a look in his eyes that you can hardly decipher, an intense stare that pulls a glow to your cheeks and turns your thoughts obsolete. His fingers tighten on your sides as he leans down to press his lips to yours in a long, lingering kiss. Your heart is both pounding furiously in your chest and ablaze with a cozy warmth that blooms throughout your torso and trickles down your limbs.

And suddenly you’re not thinking about the horrors. You’re only thinking about the prick of his stubble on your skin, the strong hands on your waist holding you close, the hint of alcohol on his breath, the vibration of his low hum on your lips.

With little warning, his hands slide down the curve of your hips to the back of your thighs. He scoops you up without so much a grunt of resistance, awkwardly bunching your dress in the front and resting your inner thighs on his waist.

He doesn’t break the kiss even when you gasp into his mouth. He deepens it instead, keeping you firmly on his front with one hand and another pressed to the back of your neck to keep you from losing focus.

He rests your back against the wall, and with a tilt of his head, his eager tongue intertwines with yours. The grip on your thighs is assured, his fingers indenting the soft flesh beneath the scratchy dress.

He pulls away for a moment, his lips inches away and pretty blue eyes staring straight into yours.

“All mine,” He says, low and breathy.

“All yours.”

The front of Konig’s suit pants rock against your front through the layers of your bunched dress, forcing a hitched, breathy sputter from you. You find your nails are digging into the lapel of his suit and tugging him close without thought.

There is little time to react between the jiggle of the doorknob and the door opening, looking over Konig’s shoulder to find Price slinking into the gap just big enough for him to sidestep into the storage closet, wasting no time as steps over to you both.

Konig immediately lets go of the back of your thighs and raises his palms in surrender, backing away from you the moment your heels find the floor with a huff.

You and Konig speak at the same time.

“I didn’t - ”

“Can we have five minutes of privacy?”

“No,” Price says sharply, seemingly not fazed at the display of canoodling he walked in on.

“Where have you been? These people-“

Price ignores you, boring into Konig with stern eyes and pinched brows.

“Did you really knock out a Capitol official?”

Konig shrugs.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you have any idea the amount of work you just gave me?”

Price’s voice is rising, but Konig doesn’t buckle.

“He grabbed her ass,” He says flatly.

Price winces, and for a moment you can see his face go through a range of emotions as he tosses a thought around. He groans, grumbling something at the ceiling before he turns to you, his voice urgent.

“They’re already not happy with you. And you being disrespectful at the interview, at this party - is not helping!”

You go to speak, but Price raises a finger to silence you. His words pour out quickly but as clear as crystal. Intense, careful eyes take turns between holding either of your stares.

“You didn’t play their game, you didn’t follow their rules, and you used their arena like it was a fucking playground.”

“So what?”

Price grumbles again, his shoulders tossing in annoyance.

“You took what was supposed to be a punishment for rebellion - and had fun instead. Get me? Your deaths meant something more than just losing a bet to these people. People aren’t supposed to root for breaking the rules, but they saw you as more than tributes.You were way too human, and Capitol folk are starting to see you for what you are.”

Price shrugs, his voice going soft for just a moment.

“As kids.”

He draws a long sigh and rubs out his beard.

“It probably would have been fine if Romeo took the hit, but you,” Price points his finger at you, “Of course you always have to have the last fucking word. The way they see it, you might as well have spit on the games themselves by opting out of victorhood.”

“You're saying it would have been better if Konig died?”

“No!”

Price grunts in exasperation, his muscles tensing, literally fighting back his annoyance.

“What I’m saying is - the rule is that there is one victor. And two outer district kids finding the loophole, breaking that one rule by rejecting their offer, and getting away with it? Well, how do you think they feel about it?”

“You know what?” You start, “If they didn’t want human, maybe they should have fought roosters instead. And I’m tired of everyone pretending like winning the games is some - “

Price barks your name, and it stuns you in the form of a choke, catching in the back of your throat and fighting you when you try to swallow it.

“This is serious,” He hisses, “Two outer district kids aren’t supposed to be above the rules. You think they wanted to pull you both out of there?”

Price snaps his fingers three times in rapid succession.

“They wanted to let you both die, hear me? You both are a spitting distance away from being rebels as it is - and you telling Caesar to go fuck himself, knocking out officials - “

Price cuts himself off with another frustrated grunt.

“This would have been nice to know sooner,” You mumble, rubbing out your bicep in hopes to relieve the nauseating unease creeping over you.

“This is the first time we’ve been alone and off tape since you both entered that arena. Do you have any idea what this week has been like for me? And you two-”

“For you?!” You snap, “We died!”

“And who do you think brought you back to life?!” Price hisses at you.

“I didn’t ask for that!”

“I remember someone asking me to save Romeo.”

Price jams his thumb in Konig’s direction, and while you blow a huff of air in dismissal, you both know he’s right.

“Isn’t this a good thing?” Konig asks, “If people are seeing the tributes differently?”

“Yes,” Price answers.

Your brows furrow, and Price gives a forced, mocking grin.

“That’s the problem. So do me a favor-“

His tone suggests it’s not a favor, but a demand, and with each sentence his frustration thickens.

“You go out there. You play their game. And you behave!”

You can’t pin why, but the hissed ‘behave’ makes you flinch. Your shoulders tense, your fingers adopt a sudden shake, and blood rushes to your ears in one instantaneous whoosh.

Price sighs, and his eyes find the floor. A hand comes up to his forehead before smoothing over his hair, rubbing out the back of his head.

When he speaks again, his voice is soft.

“One more thing,” He says, “I don’t want to worry you both, but the - ”

Price sucks in a breath, his next word riding a heavy exhale, “Tape.”

“Tape?”

“The tape,” He repeats, “Of you two, uh-“

Price clears his throat and looks away.

“Got it,” You say.

“Well, it-“

He lets out an exasperated grunt.

“It’s popular.”

Both you and Konig share a hesitant glance.

“The, uhm-“

Price can’t make eye contact, can hardly get the words out.

“Look, it’s been passed around.”

“What?” You sputter, “But that- that’s-“

“It’s not like these people have ever been moral.”

Price clears his throat again, and he can’t seem to stand still in his spot, restless in the way you’ve only ever seen him the night before the games.

“So everyone at this party has seen us fuck?!”

“Well, not everyone,” Price mutters.

Your burning face warps under the forceful pinch of your own hand.

“I don’t need this, I really don’t need this right now.”

“There’s a lot that you kids don’t know. And- and I’m hoping they’ll cut you some slack, considering the circumstances.”

Price gestures between you and Konig.

He sees both of your blatant confusion, and another sigh leaves his lips. He looks over his shoulder at the door before finding you both.

“The victors have always been,” He pauses, his eyebrows raising, “Desired.”

“Desired?”

“Desired,” He repeats.

“They want to fuck us?”

Price smacks his lips, his voice lowering.

“They don’t want to fuck us, they do fuck us, you understand?”

You really don’t.

“It’s not like you have much of a choice. The payment is just,” He thinks for a moment, “A bonus, get me?”

It takes you a moment to digest this.

As it dawns on you, you squeeze Konig’s arm a little tighter, and make a baby sidestep to close what little distance there is between you.

“And that tape only got them - More excited.”

The thought of someone forcing prostitution on Konig, the thought of Konig fucking some rich Capitol -

You are at risk of throwing up again.

“So it is crucial that you do - Exactly. What. I. Say. You understand? If we play our cards right, I think I can get you both off the hook.”

His loose wrist swirls in front of you, gesturing between you and Konig.

“The whole - romance thing.”

You nod, and shift on your feet as your eyes find the floor.

Price sighs, a palm covering his forehead.

“I’m sorry, kids, I really am. It’s all bullshit, I know it. But I am trying my best.”

Your brows furrow, and the strain in his voice seems to be contagious.

“I know. Thank you.”

He nods slow, face more than weary, his eyes pinching closed for a moment.

“Now, please - I am begging you both to be good. Don’t make this any harder on me than it already is. Please?”

Price is throwing all sorts of curve balls at you today. Price does not call you by your name. Price does not beg. Price orders.

You give a shaky nod, and find you’re digging into Konig’s arm so tight your knuckles are turning white.

“You’ve got two minutes. Make ‘em count.”

Price turns on his feet, heading for the door. Without looking back, he waves a hand at you both over his shoulder.

“And don’t make me come back in here and drag you both back out. I got enough of a show last time.”

As soon as the door closes behind Price, you and Konig face each other.

His hands find your biceps, sliding down your arms until he tightens his hold around your forearms.

“I won’t let them,” He says, “I won’t let them.”

You nod, quick and assured, your hands gripping his forearms in return.

“I know. I know. I won’t let them either.”

You pull each other into a deathly tight embrace that you’re sure would have lasted the entire two minutes, but it’s interrupted by the door opening again, this time much less gentle. The doorknob crashes into the wall hard enough you both jump, holding each other tight at your sides.

At once you’re both blinded by flashing, white lights, ears assaulted with the sound of camera lenses shuttering and the rowdy chatter of the Capitol folk, squeals and shouts overlapping in a nauseating chorus. You have to pinch your eyes shut, teeth grit, arms raised to shield your eyes.

Blinding sun.

Pure white snow at your feet.

The sound of a broken neck in your ears and Eleven’s lifeless eyes staring at nothing and right at you all at once.

You cling to Konig’s suit, fingers shaking as you bury your face into his chest.

A sharp whistle commands attention, Price’s sturdy arms forcing his way through the crowd, extended at his sides and forcing them away from the door.

“Alright, alright, back it up! Nothing to see.”

He whistles again, and you know that’s your cue to wriggle through the part in the crowd. Both you and Konig hold each other tight as you run, run like you’re ripping through the trees of the fall forest, branches tearing into your skin to escape the gory slaughter, to escape from the boy you love after he killed for you.

Your face is burning, flushed with humiliation and fear, breaths heaving and your pulse pounding against your temples.

“How much longer? How much longer?” You ask Konig, as if he knows the answer.

“I know, I know,” He says, “It’s okay.”

It’s starting to feel like this party will never end.

It’s your hell, your punishment for killing and dying and stealing someone else’s victory. Trapped in this shameless extravagant world with people who don’t get it.

Konig positions himself behind you once you’re steady on your feet, and drapes his arms around your collarbones. He hunches over to rest his chin on your head, and puts a bit of his weight on you.

Just a little.

It’s weirdly soothing. Grounding, something to focus on. After a few minutes you begin to trace little hearts on his suit jacket sleeves as you cling to his forearm.

Throughout the embrace he leaves periodic kisses on the top of your head, and you both ignore the guests not-so-sneaky sneaky photos.

“All mine,” He whispers.

“All yours,” You whisper back.

You stand like this for a while, mostly thinking about how bad your feet hurt, the ache starting to travel up your ankles in an all too familiar fashion.

You’re seriously considering ditching your heels.

Your dress is so long, they surely won’t notice if you walk around barefoot.

“Time to dance!” Ruby chimes from behind you.

You groan as Konig stands straight, his hands finding your shoulders instead.

Ruby gives you both little choice, pushy-but-politely ushering you both to the space in front of the live band, which is unfortunate, because what you crave most right now is some peace and quiet. To her credit, though, she keeps you at the edge of the crowd on the dance floor. The last thing you want right now is to be surrounded.

“It’s easy!”

Ruby is touchy with her demonstration, but you don’t mind it as much as you do the rest of the guests and their touching. You know it’s innocent, and it’s hard to say no to her in this state. Coming from her specifically - her acting like everything is fine is making it a bit easier to pretend like it is, which is weird, because usually her ignorance is nothing but grating.

She takes your hand and practically slaps it on Konig’s shoulder, and guides him by the wrist to put his hand on your waist. She circles you, and on the other side, she prompts you to intertwine your fingers.

“And now you sway.”

“No, no, don't bend, stand straight and use your whole body!”

“I thought it was allowed to be bad dancing,” Konig mumbles.

“Graceful bad dancing,” She corrects.

And so you sway, rolling your eyes and shaking your heads at each other, because this is ridiculous. Dancing after what you just went through just to appease these abhorrent people.

You’re glad he’s connecting with you again, at least. Sharing in the hatred.

And it’s not the worst.

Getting to look at him and not think of what has happened, soaking him in and feeling his touch under your fingers.

At one point you close the distance, resting your head on his chest instead, his silken tie on your cheek. You wrap your arms around him in an embrace, and in return he holds you tight.

You close your eyes and take another break, here in his chest. Breathing him in to ease your nerves, putting a little weight on him to relieve your poor ankles, melting into his strong arms.

“Would you mind if I had the next dance?”

The spine-chilling, unfortunately familiar voice comes from behind you, and immediately twists your intenstines in knots.

You both perk up, and you watch as Konig’s brows raise.

“Ach, of course.”

Konig lets go of you, palms displayed as he takes a few steps back. You beg him with your eyes to come back, but you both know that’s not an option, so he offers a wince of apology.

You don’t have the sense to hide your horror as The President steps in and offers his hands.

A sneaky, stealthy, slithering man he is.

His hand feels dead in yours, cold and sagged, like if you’re not gentle enough the meat might just slip off his bones.

“Congratulations, my dear,” He says.

The President gives a polite nod of his head. Those icy eyes are piercing, staring straight into yours and not so much as blinking. You’re convinced he can see your very soul, every thought and fear and secret binded into a book for him to skim over at his leisure.

“Thank you, sir.”

He gives a hearty laugh that makes your skin crawl, your stomach threatening to send bile to lap at the back of your throat.

“None of that ‘sir’ nonsense.”

His head tilts up, and he looks to the evening sky as he speaks. Slowly. Carefully.

“I can’t help but feel as if I know you personally. As well as I know a friend.”

You have to stifle the sharp inhale you instinctively draw when his eyes meet yours again. The hint of a cruel, cautious smile tugs on the corners of his lips.

“Quite a show you put on for us all.”

Your throat is so tight, if you could find the words, they would surely have come out wavered. You nod instead.

“I have to say I admire that young man’s dedication to you.”

His eyes crinkle.

“Do you think he would still be as infatuated with you if he knew you wouldn’t repay the favor?”

A choke catches in your throat. Your eyes dart to Konig, standing just out of earshot to keep an eye on you. His face is twisted, brows scrunched, asking you with just a look what’s going on.

“I- I’m sorry?”

The President’s smile doesn’t falter. He speaks as if he’s clarifying a step on a recipe, and not drilling you with the most bone-chilling, unhinged questioning you’ve ever had the displeasure of being on the end of.

“If he knew that his dedication was not returned.”

You don’t have the sense to hide your nervous, confused laugh.

The President’s eyes remain locked onto yours. They’re just a little too open, his smile a little too wide.

Inhuman.

“I- I- gave up my life for him. I don’t-”

“Did you?” He cuts with a curious perk of a brow.

You blink twice, your awkward sways coming to a halt.

“I beg your pardon?” You stutter.

“Did you give your life up for him?”

The President lowers his chin, his brow raising.

“Or did you do it for you?”

He leans in closer, his voice just a frosted whisper. While his words are terrifying, his face upholds appearances. Refined and cheerful, as if he were recounting a lighthearted story around his surely exotic dinner table.

“Death is easy, my dear. There is no pain. There is no consequence. There is no ‘aftermath,’ as you like to put it.”

You try to work up saliva into your dry mouth, but it’s no use.

“I don’t understand.”

The President gives a low, calculated chuckle that tapers into a hum.

“Nothing to understand,” He says through a smile, “It’s notional.”

You have to coax the words out, each one spiked and slicing your throat on its ascent.

“Forgive me, for being blunt - “

Your unsure voice takes on an unnaturally high pitch when you find the courage to make eye contact with him.

“Is- Is this blackmail? I - What do I have to do?”

For the first time, the President’s face falls, and his expression finally matches those loathsome eyes.

“It’s notional,” He repeats, “And if you’d like to keep it that way, then I’d suggest you listen to that mentor of yours.”

You look down to your shoes before giving a shaky nod.

He reinstates that perfect smile, and you can tell, even in his perpetually loathsome eyes, that he takes great pleasure at the way you cower.

He hums and finally looks away, watching the evening sky as he slips back into his act.

“That John-“

He chuckles with a shake of his head.

“He certainly is a sentimental man, isn’t he?”

The air being pulled into your lungs is useless, you can’t breathe, bordering on hyperventilating.

“It’s clear he cares quite a lot about you both.”

The President’s face drops suddenly again, and his annoyance is clear.

“A thorn in my side.”

“He’s a good man,” He continues with a resetting breath, “But that big heart of his is going to get him in trouble one of these days.”

The President might as well have Price under his thumb, and he’s deciding whether or not to smush him like a bug or go get lunch.

When the song ends, his eyes narrow dangerously at you.

“I hope you enjoy your evening,” He says.

The President leaves you frozen in your spot, stepping over to him and reaching up to give him a hearty pat on the shoulder.

“She’s all yours, my boy. Not a scratch on her.”

Yet.

The President gives a hearty laugh as he walks away.

Konig all but runs over to you, wrapping his hands around your biceps.

“What was that all about?”

Konig’s brows furrow when you shrug unconvincingly.

“Just wanted to congratulate me, I guess.”

Konig nods slow, a concerned pinch of his face and lips weighed down, but he doesn’t push.

When you go to dance again, you rest your head on his chest. You close your eyes and let him lead, the hands on your back guiding you into a loose sway. Your entire body has gone limp to his, bones made of jelly and a stomach made of lead as you try and make sense of The President’s ominous words and not-so-subtle- subtle threats.

You can’t, and to be honest, you’re so exhausted you’ve turned numb. Once the shake in your fingers goes away, you’ve decided - in the simplest of terms, you’re not going to give a fuck until morning.

“My feet are killing me,” You mumble into Konig’s tie, “And I just want to go home.”

“Want to sit?”

You nod into his chest, and are subjected to another round of photos and touching hands, which is even more unnerving after learning that these people know what your naked bodies look like, have seen you be intimate, and are eager to force you both into their bedrooms to get a live version of the show.

After you quell this round of eager elite, you take a seat next to Konig on the cluster of patio couches along the mansion gates. His arm slings over the back of the couch to invite you to nuzzle into his side, and you happily take his offer, closing your eyes as you cozy up to him. You hope you can sneak in a break, here in the safety of his chest.

Your attempted break is interrupted, though, when Konig squeezes your shoulder to alert you that someone’s approaching.

A sole woman, mid-thirties, you think. A plump build and wavy brown hair.

“Hi there,” She says.

She’s lacking in the Capitol effectuations, and she leaves moderate distance between you as she extends her hand in your direction.

“I’m sure you’re both, uh,” She gives a weak laugh, “Sick of people by now.”

You give a polite but tired hum as you carefully accept her handshake.

“I’ll make it fast, promise,” She says with a quick wave of two palms.

“My name’s Mabel. Just - wanted to thank you, I suppose.”

You eye her with a crease in your brow, brain already scrambling to figure out her intentions. She sees your confusion, and jumps to explain herself.

“I’m - I’m one of the District Eight mentors.”

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping open.

Mabel gives a solemn nod at your horrified recognition, before she carefully looks over both her shoulders. Her gaze flits to the ground, and her lips barely move when she speaks again.

“I wanted to tell you that it’s never easy to do the dirty work. And we thank you for making that sacrifice.”

You exchange a glance with Konig before giving her a hesitant nod.

“Yeah, uhm-”

You’re really not sure what to say to that one, and your brain is too foggy from the drinks and too scrambled with exhaustion to find an elegant response.

“Yeah.”

Mabel smiles at you, and takes a few steps closer. Her core creases when she leans over and sets a rectangular card on the drink table in front of you, and her voice returns to a normal volume.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate.”

She gives the card two taps before she turns and leaves you both be.

You and Konig share another look before you carefully pry the card from the table with your nails.

You flip the card over in your hands, expecting to see contact information, but the sloppily printed capital letters makes your blood run cold.

DISTRICT EIGHT UNREST

Your head shoots up to find Mabel, but she’s disappeared among the party goers.

The world has fallen upon deaf ears, unfocused eyes blur the vibrant colors that surround you into a gross, brown swirl, the music and drunken chatter suddenly a million miles away.

Because of you?

Is it because of you?

If it has nothing to do with you, why would she go out of her way to pass on a message of treason?

She could be executed for spreading district intel, and for her to give it to a strange victor so brazenly, when you are surrounded by elite at The President’s mansion and being broadcasted to the entire country -

Because of you?

It can’t be.

Why is she warning you about it?

If what’s on this card is true - then you know why there’s unrest in District Eight, and it’s not because of you.

But you are the only player left standing from a very recent incident heinous enough to potentially make an already discontent district reach its boiling point.

Because of you.

The flinch that tears through you when Konig nudges your shoulder snaps you back to reality, the music and chattering flooding your ears once more.

“What is it?” He asks.

You just shake your head, an unconvincing croak in your voice as you stuff the card into your bust, right next to his token.

“A contact card,” You say.

Konig’s stare lingers for a moment before he nods slow.

You move to a stand, rushing over to the nearest Capitol attendant, and snatch two drinks from the tray with a quick thank you.

When you turn, you bump into Konig’s chest, apparently at your heels. The bubbling drink sloshes up the side of the glass, splattering and foaming onto the hem of your dress and the river rock path below.

He steadies you by your shoulders with a worried look in his eyes.

You just nod at him as you bring the glass to your lips and down the entire thing, stifling a burp when you finish the glass.

“Oh, phew, sorry.”

You bring the other glass to your lips and begin to down it as well, but stop when you catch Konig’s pinched frown.

“Oh, sorry,” You say, gesturing what remains in the second glass in his direction, “Want some?”

He shakes his head.

You finish out the second glass and take a sharp gulp of air when you pull away.

“Ja?” Konig asks.

“Yeah,” You croak.

“Okay,” He says.

And so you get fucked up.

Everytime feel the prick of Mabel’s card on your chest, everytime you think of The President’s threats, everytime Price’s voice echoes through your thoughts, everytime you wonder if one of these attendants is Eight’s girlfriend, everytime you think of a suicide, of a gory kill, of the injustice of it all -

You take a drink.

It’s not long before your unpleasant thoughts are beyond fuzzy and your cheeks are pooled with warmth.

The drinks make the photos and the touching easier to bear, but it doubles the weight of your already heavy eyelids and drapes your body with a cozy blanket that’s hard to resist.

Finally - finally, the party ends. So late into the night the sun must be close to rising. It takes you an unbearable amount of time for you and the rest of your team to make way to the golden mansion gates.

More photos and grabbing hands and drunken breath.

When you finally make it to the limo, you slip your shoes and your crown off almost immediately, and curl up into Konig’s arm on the leather seats. You even doze off on the ride back to the tribute suites.

You don’t bother putting your shoes back on before climbing from the limo, holding them at your sides as you stumble to the elevators.

Ruby’s in a similar state, and she seems to have gotten over the whole kissing situation, or at least is too drunk to care at the moment, because she has no trouble linking her elbows with Price to keep herself steady while she gushes over the party and all the praise she received.

Price is off.

You can feel it, even through your intoxication. He’s radiating a tense, stiff aura, his features tired and expressionless. He doesn’t even tease Ruby about her particularly rowdy behavior. Just guides her along, silently.

You’re more than relieved to see the sickeningly extravagant suite, knowing you’re mere yards from a comfortable bed and having Konig all to yourself.

Price lets out a heavy sigh behind you as you breach the entrance of the hall.

“Kids?”

He clears his throat.

“A word?”

Konig and you slow, already uneased and hesitantly turning to face him.

“You’re not gonna like this, but ah-“

Price sighs again.

“You’re sleeping in your own rooms.”

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

170 notes · View notes

2-dsimp · 1 year ago

Note

Hey, @2-dsimp!

Idk if you're still doing request for Genshin, but if you are, can you please do Éclair + Devil cake for Albedo (I don't care if this dude is a synthetic human, he still needs some love-)

(Btw I was thinking of Villain!Albedo x Hero!Fem!Reader)

If you don't wanna do it if fine ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

～【Smutty imagines】🍒

→《Ft! FEM READER》

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[🔞] Case study #1 [🔞]—> ft! Villianous! Albedo! NSFW MDNI, Mindbreak, coercion, dubcon, slight bimbofication, praise, unhinged behavior, yandere tendencies, cockworship, deepthroat, male oral recieve! Slight humiliation

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『Albedo conditioning You to be his cumdump』

。Albedo was only trying to help you. Although you may have seen him as an arch nemesis he saw you to be his destiny. Why else would he bother holding back on destroying that worthless city of which he could’ve easily could’ve terminated without a moments notice?

。He was utterly enamored by you and tried his best to persuade that thick skull of yours to abandon those parasites and join his side. But no matter how much he tried to get you to see reason you’d only brush off his efforts. Despite how frustrating it was, that stubbornness of yours was his favorite quality about you.

。He tricked you into coming to his aid under the pretense of helping him turn over a new leaf only to trap you within his penthouse. Making you wear an electronic collar, all the more to help discipline and mold you into the woman he knew you’d eventually become in all due time. His sweet obedient housewife.

。It made him wonder how long it would take to break you.

→ “I’m so proud of how far you’ve progressed my love, haah you’re taking in my cock so well, so willingly…with such eagerness.”

。He’d groan, languidly humping his pelvis against your face. Pulling on your hair so you could properly cater to servicing his throbbing pretty cock adorned in prominent veins from balls to his pink tip. As he suffocates you with his heavy balls that were bench pressed against your nose. Hypnotizing you with his enticing musk of which he infused with certain pheromones to help you become more of a willing participant.

→ “Yes keep it up darling, don’t stop until you make me cum. Don’t You wanna please me? Mmh make your husband feel so wonderful just like the good girl that I know you are?”

。He rasped reaching his breaking point from the sloppy toppy you gave his mushroom pearly tip so reverently and his hips stuttered as he pulled you up by your hair and shoved your face to take his rod to the hilt. Allowing you to feel his abdomen and balls flexing against the cockdrunk expression present against your face.

→”Fuck, I love how you attempt to take every last drop. You’re such a pretty little wife for me when you’re obedient. Now smile for the camera love I’ve got to document how well you’ve grown to adapt to being mine.”

。Albedo praised with a small smile. He felt so complete spurting his hot sticky load into your open mouth. Filming your face in his baby batter while he was content in watching his outload drip from down to your chin. Watching you with satisfaction and pride that you belong to him and no one else. As you tried your best to swallow every bit of his manhood’s nectar.

。Snap!

。The sound of a camera shutter going off echoed throughout the room. As the villain captured your messy face all filled with his creamy load. To mark a corner stone in yalls happy relationship where you acted as his ever so faithful housewife.

→ “You’re so perfect when you’re under my control.”

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A/n: I’m back in business yall! ٩(˃̶͈̀௰˂̶͈́)و

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tsumuus · 1 year ago

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meet cutes | karasuno

a/n so random and not proof read at all. also photographer tsukishima..? idk just seemed like a cute idea lol

characters shoyo hinata, tobio kageyama, kei tsukishima, tadashi yamaguchi

masterlist

shoyo hinata

The bustling city streets were a blur of colors and sounds as you hurried to your next appointment. The air was crisp, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of autumn leaves. Turning a corner, you nearly collided with a vibrant blur of orange hair and infectious energy.

Shoyo Hinata, was out for a jog, his bright smile lighting up the gray morning. His laughter echoed as you both stumbled back, a small leaf fluttering down from your hair. His eyes sparkled with recognition and curiosity, a brief moment of connection in the midst of the city’s chaos.

Without a word, he handed you a stray leaf that had landed on his shoulder, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a silent apology. Your heart fluttered as you watched him jog away, a sudden warmth blooming in your chest.

tobio kageyama

The coffee shop was warm and inviting, a refuge from the chilly winter air outside. You stood in line, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloping you like a comforting blanket. As you reached the counter, a familiar figure in a dark coat caught your eye.

Tobio Kageyama, was intently studying the menu, his brow furrowed in concentration. The barista handed him a cup just as he turned, and the collision was inevitable. Coffee spilled, a sharp intake of breath, and then the warmth of his gaze as he apologized, handing you a stack of napkins.

His intense blue eyes met yours, a flicker of recognition passing between you. With a shy smile, he offered to buy you another coffee, the simple gesture filling the small café with an unexpected brightness.

kei tsukishima

The quiet hum of the aquarium surrounded you, the soft blue glow of the tanks casting a serene ambiance. You meandered through the exhibits, captivated by the graceful movements of sea creatures. Stopping in front of the jellyfish display, you watched the delicate creatures drift in their ethereal dance.

Next to you, a tall figure adjusted his camera, the soft click of the shutter breaking the silence. Kei Tsukishima, an avid photographer, glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable. He focused back on the jellyfish, capturing their fluid motions with practiced ease.

Intrigued, you stole glances at his work, admiring the way he captured the essence of the moment. Sensing your interest, Tsukishima turned the camera towards you, offering a rare, small smile. The aquarium's blue light reflected in his glasses, creating an almost otherworldly effect.

Without a word, he showed you the photo he had taken- a perfect shot of the jellyfish, with your awed expression mirrored in the glass. The quiet understanding and shared appreciation for the beauty around you forged an unspoken bond, leaving you with a sense of connection that lingered long after you parted ways.

tadashi yamaguchi

The small bookstore was a haven of warmth and tranquility, the scent of old books mingling with fresh coffee from the attached café. You browsed the shelves, fingers tracing the spines of well-worn novels. A book caught your eye, but as you reached for it, another hand brushed against yours.

Tadashi Yamaguchi, stood beside you, his shy smile lighting up his freckled face. The moment was fleeting, but his gentle presence lingered as he handed you the book with a quiet apology. His green eyes held a hint of recognition, a shared memory from years past.

As he turned to leave, a bookmark fell from his pocket, and you picked it up, the small gesture filling the bookstore with a sense of serendipity. His quiet thank you and the warmth of his smile left an indelible mark on your heart.

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ranticore · 2 months ago

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does kettle's warren operate under the same buddy system that holly's did? does what happens to a partner kobold when their partner goes to a different rank have some regular precedent? what about finding a new partner if your dies during adulthood?

nope it's different. holly's colony relied on the scavenger class to provide information about the cave (where to find x resource, what tunnels have been overtaken by predators, etc.) as well as your basic gathering and hunting duties. for this reason 'scavenger' was a managed profession, he had a boss who assigned his duties. he and his partner red leaf were matched up when they were young because of their complementary names

in kettle's colony, the population is larger and the resources more strictly managed. there is a gate class, which forms a peasantry band around the exterior wall of the warrens. these guys are primary producers and can move freely into the warrens (built-up area that can be shuttered in case of attack) to sell or barter their goods. the scavengers are outside of society. they trade goods but are unmanaged and ungoverned, banned from entering the warrens without invitation, and more or less left to their own devices. their naming system is different, as well, a kind of breakdown of the "two words describing what i saw in a dream" system that holly's colony employs. scavengers' names are just "whatever phrase i can use to remember who the fuck this person is". Lucky Sting is a guy who got stung, lost an eye, and was lucky to survive. that's how he's remembered.

formal partnerships aren't really a thing in kettle's colony on a systemic level

#dog knight story

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xxsp3llb0undxx · 11 months ago

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Ticking Time Bomb 1/?

Sweet Home Mini Series [1.37K Words]

Disclaimer: Please do not repost my work to other sites or claim as your own, this is purely written from my imagination and from the help of the series. All rights of the main storyline goes to the writers and producers of Sweet Home.

Summary: The world has been overrun by monsters due to our own selfish desires. Pride. Greed. Wrath. Envy. Lust. Gluttony. Sloth.

WARNINGS: SWEET HOME AU // GORE // BLOOD // HORROR THEMES // APOCALYPTIC // HEARTBREAK // MONSTERS // MENTIONS OF DEATH // MENTIONS OF SUICIDE // MENTIONS OF SELF HARM // USE OF Y/N // SHE/HER PRONOUNS // FEMALE READER // UNEDITED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

It had started with a simple nose bleed. Blood cascading down the lower half of her face, caking her skin in a thick crimson layer. No amount of tissue could plug the stream gushing out of her nose, it was never ending.

Soon came the voices and hallucinations. It was different from the usual times she would hear herself talk, this time it sounded disparate - distorted in a sense. Degrading and belittling her, telling her to give in to her sins and to let it cleanse her of all the negative thoughts and feelings swimming in the deep, dark pit of her chest.

Then there was quiet. Peace. Not a single breath could be heard. But it seemed a switch had been flipped, the painful screams ripping from her throat as a burning sensation overcame her body. It was like her body was set alight, fire coursing just below her skin and deep within her bones. It was like no other feeling she had ever experienced.

Soon followed darkness. Just an empty void. Her consciousness was locked away deep inside her mind, like her brain had put her on pause until further notice. Floating weightlessly within the depths of her mind, free from the thoughts and torment her own subconscious inflicted upon her.

Y/n shot up with a gasp, her skin was clammy with cold sweat. Her clothes clinging to her body as she pushed the damp locks away from her face. It was just a dream. It wasn’t real. Or so she kept telling herself. Her eyes were still clouded with sleep, blinking a few times as they slowly focused. The young girl looked around, breathing a sigh of relief once she took in the surroundings around her.

The day-care, on the ground level of Green Home, was packed tightly with the residents from the upper floors, all spread out on the floor sleeping somewhat peacefully. Y/n pushed herself up off the floor, carefully stepping over stretched out limbs as she trudged out of the room. The air was cold, something she wouldn't usually welcome but it was a big contrast to her burning skin. The young girl had sat on the floor of the lobby, staring out of the main doors enshrouded by the shutters as she took in the destruction outside the complex. Monsters roaming around carelessly, cars tipped over on their sides, buildings barely standing. It was the complete opposite of how the city looked a couple days ago.

Shuffling could be heard beside the girl, it was quiet but she still heard it. Y/n turned her head slowly to look at what, or who, was making the noise, only to see the brooding Pyeon Sang-Wook leaning against the wall beside her; a cigarette perched between his lips. Burn scars littered the side of his face, travelling down his neck tucking itself away into the collar of his leaf print shirt. No one knew much about Sang-Wook, he looked like a force to be reckoned with and that was enough for the other residents to steer clear of him, though not the younger Lee sibling. Eun-Yu could be seen trailing behind the man every chance she had, it was endearing in an odd sort of way.

Y/n turned back around, ignoring him like she did with everyone else. She was an antisocial little thing, keeping to herself even while the world ended in front of her very eyes. The only person she seemed to tolerate was Cha Hyun-Su and still, it was to a bare minimum. The pair never really talked, instead she would sit outside the door to the room he had been locked away in, staring at him like he was some kind of science experiment. She didn't care he was part monster, no, she was intrigued by it.

Sang-Wook eyed the young girl, deep brown irises taking in the side of her face that was on view for him to see. Deep purple bags kissing below her eyes, making them look sunken. Her skin looked pale, but maybe that was just down to being locked inside the complex with near to no sunlight. The older man was quiet, observing her like she was nothing he had ever seen before.

"Even if the world has ended, you could still have some manners and not stare." Y/n spoke up, her voice a little gravely. She didn't need to look at him to know the exact look on his face. Eyebrows knitted together ever so slightly, his jaw ticked faintly that even someone with 20/20 vision wouldn't be able to pick it up. Sang-Wook scoffed, taking a long drag of his cigarette though he didn't speak, he never did. It was something Y/n loathed. The young girl huffed, turning her whole body to face Sang-Wook as she stared up at him.

"The scars. How did you get them?" She spoke up once more, this was the first time she had spoken more than one sentence to anyone in Green Home. Her eye's were trained on the older man, almost taunting him as she leaned forward on her elbows. Sang-Wook still didn't answer, just looking at her with a blank expression. The pair were interrupted from their mini staring contest by Lee Eun-Hyuk, the appointed leader of Green Home.

His glasses sat snuggly on the bridge of his nose as he looked between the two with a knowing gaze, his honey brown eyes locking onto Y/n's face for a moment before he looked away. "Why are you awake?" And there it was, the tone of pure annoyance. Y/n looked up at Eun-Hyuk quizzically, her head tilted to the side as if she didn't know what he was talking about. Though she didn't utter a single word, opting for staying quiet as she turn back around to peer out between the shutters once more.

It had been approximately four days since the outbreak. The residents of Green Home all crowding around together in the lobby as Eun-Hyuk explained the buddy system to everyone, telling them they always had to have their counterpart with them at all times in case a monster somehow got into the building. Y/n had the unfortunate pleasure of being paired up with Eun-Hyuk himself, saying something along the lines of "I don't trust you can take care of yourself." Which had earned an irritated grumble from the girl, muttering insults under her breath as she slumped back against the steps leading up to the now blocked stairwell.

It wasn't that she hated Eun-Hyuk, she just didn't believe in his views or entirely like how he lead the group of survivors but like she could do any better. The young girl trailed behind Eun-Hyuk, her hands shoved into the pockets of the dirtied hoodie that barely fit her. She followed the older Lee sibling everywhere, from the security office all the way to the bathroom where she stood outside tapping her foot impatiently, and yet she still didn't talk. That was until she saw fit.

Everyone was chilling in the day-care, opening the packages they had gotten before the lockdown had happened. Chatting away about what they would do once everything was back to normal. Just outside the room though, Eun-Hyuk was talking with Hyun-Su, Sang-Wook and Yi-Kyeong about going down into the garage to see if there was a way out. Y/n was leaning against one of the walls, listening in on the conversation.

"I want to go. I know where they keep the keys to the cars down there." She spoke up, her voice just loud enough for the group to turn around and look at her in shock. "Not happening." Eun-Hyuk was the first to say anything, his eyebrows knitted together as he scowled at the girl. "If you're going down there then I have to too, buddy." Sarcasm laced her tone as she spoke, her eyes glaring at Eun-Hyuk slightly. And just like that, she had been accepted as part of their little group of monster hunters.

#sweet home #sweet home netflix #sweet home kdrama #sweet home 1 #sweet home x reader #sweet home fanfic #cha hyunsu #lee eun hyuk #lee eun yu #seo yikyeong #yoon jisoo #pyeon sangwook #jung jaehoon

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hometoursandotherstuff · 10 months ago

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Cute, pastel 1957 mid-century modern ranch style home in Phoenix, AZ. 3bds, 2ba, $489K.

It looks like they may have painted the original decorative stone front.

You don't usually see MCM homes done in pastels, b/c the colors of the period were bold. The creamy white fireplace looks lovely.

There is a skylight and the living room is quite large.

To the left there's a Tiki room and to the right is a dining room.

The Tiki room is adorable. It's like a little bamboo hut and has nice lighting. There's a large window that would probably look nice with the shade up in the daylight. I think that this room also needs a little bar, especially if it had a palm leaf roof.

I like the shutters in this room. You can probably also fit a table for 6 and maybe some nice wallpaper.

The kitchen is all original and all pastels. I love the pastels, especially the peachy pink and turquoise counter. I would do a backsplash, too.

Amazing original oven, cooktop, and exhaust hood.

This bedroom has a very cool floor. It could use a nice feature wall.

Bath #1 is so cute. Look at the little mermaid decals.

This room has wainscoting and a wood floor. I would probably change out the wallpaper.

Bath #2 has a cute new pedestal sink.

I'm wondering if this room, with the fancy ceiling and fan, is the primary.

The yard can use some some work. It's very drab, but definitely has potential. I know it's hot in Phoenix, but it really needs sprucing up. There's also a nice roof-top deck. This can be beautiful.

There's a 2 car garage, the lawn is probably fake turf, b/c Phoenix. 7,086 sq ft lot. It was reduced $6K, but I still feel that it's a little too high, b/c it needs a refresh.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/8026-N-10th-St-Phoenix-AZ-85020/7790268_zpid/

#mid century modern homes #MCM architecture #houses #house tours #home tour

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thatrickmcginnis · 2 months ago

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DAVID CRONENBERG, Toronto 1990

Director David Cronenberg is a hometown hero. Born in Toronto in 1941, he made his early name with the Canadian version of “video nasties” – films like Shivers (1975), Rabid (1977) and The Brood (1979), and basically codified the horror subgenre of “body horror”. He had perfected this kind of film in 1988 with Dead Ringers, why which point he’d also moved into then then-thriving realm of art house cinema – smart, edgy, low- to middle-budget pictures that attracted considerable critical attention (he was already the topic of academic treatises and book-length overviews like The Shape of Rage: The Films of David Cronenberg), did the festival circuit and had long post-release lives in rep cinemas and on video. This is the point where I met Cronenberg for the first time, when he was my subject for a photo shoot for a long-gone lifestyle magazine.

It would have been perfect if my 1990 portrait session with David Cronenberg had been to promote Crash, his adaptation of J.G. Ballard’s novel about (literal) auto erotica, but that wouldn’t come out for six more years. My assignment was to photograph Cronenberg with a C4 Corvette – a car that the gearhead director had been loaned by my client, Country Estate magazine, to review for a feature in the glossy magazine, a sort of aspirational Canadian clone of Britain’s venerable Country Life. We arranged to do the shoot on Sunnyside Beach, not far from my Parkdale studio, and I showed up early to do some Polaroid tests to make sure I’d placed my single light in the right spot.

My idea for my 1990 portrait of David Cronenberg was simple – to get him near or on the signature bonnet of the C4 Corvette he’d been loaned, and to use my bounced flash to knock the sky behind him down a stop or so; a job made easier by the electronic leaf shutter on my newly acquired Bronica SQ-A medium format camera and a rented wide-angle lens. I apparently had somebody assisting me for this shoot – among the first times I’d ever work with an assistant – and I handed them my Nikon F3 to take some behind the scenes pics of the shoot. (Also the first time I’d ever done that sort of thing. Unfortunately I have no memory of who it was. They even got a shot of the art director of Country Estate checking out my framing – probably the first time I had a client on set.) Thankfully the sky that day was suitably overcast, and I was able to get some ominous detail in the clouds on the slide film I shot. Somewhere at the start of one roll I produced an accidental double-exposure that, though the client had no use for it, still amuses me enough today to want to reimagine it in black and white.

Cronenberg’s career would keep on building (though Country Estate wouldn’t make it more than another year or so into the new decade.) He’d become something like a mainstream filmmaker, with films like A History of Violence (2005) and Eastern Promises (2007), and he has just releases his latest film – a return to body horror called The Shrouds. I’d photograph him two more times (three if you count a press conference for Naked Lunch, which I don’t), but more about those shoots later.

#david cronenberg #director #portrait #portrait photography #photography #film photography #some old pictures i took #early work #bronica #behind the scenes

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rynneer · 1 year ago

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Misty Memories Cold

When you wake in Fíli’s bed with no recollection of anything after an accident in Mirkwood, he’s ready to risk anything, even his uncle’s wrath, to bring back what you had together.

Next >

Chapter One

Cold.

You’re cold. It’s dark. You’re falling. Someone reaches for you. Too late.

The water folds in around you. It floods your nose. It floods your ears. Your limbs don’t work. You can’t swim.

Muffled shouts. You open your mouth to cry back. It fills with water.

Choking.

Drowning.

Drowning drowning drowning dr–

You wake with a jolt, sitting up in bed.

Bed?

You pat the sheets around you. Yes, you’re definitely in a bed, not curled up on the leaf litter in Mirkwood.

“I guess it really was a dream,” you whisper, shoulders slumping. But as you run your fingers across the hem of the blanket, you frown. It doesn’t feel like the old quilt on your bed. It’s thicker, softer.

Something is wrong.

You look around the room as your eyes begin to adjust. There’s a fireplace across the room, the dying embers casting just enough light to let you make out the vague shapes of furniture in the darkness. The walls and floor are stone, adorned with plush rugs. The wind rattles the shutters outside the window, hidden behind thick curtains.

This is not your bedroom… and you are not alone. A dark figure stirs next to you beneath the covers. You scramble out of bed but find the floor farther away than expected. You land hard on your side. “Ow!”

You slap your hand over your mouth, but it’s too late. The figure sits up with a groan, rubbing at its face and leaning to peer over the edge of the bed at you. There’s no mistaking that mustache, those braids.

“Fíli? What… where are we?” And why are we in bed together?

Fíli blinks a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes. “What do you mean?” he asks hoarsely, his voice rough. He rolls out of bed and kneels in front of you. “We’re home. In Erebor? You know, the mountain? Big pile of rocks and snow? It’s rather hard to miss.” He raises an eyebrow, trying to coax a smile from you.

Instead, you scoot backwards, putting space between you and the prince as you process his words. “But we were just in Mirkwood,” you protest. “How did we get here?”

Fíli’s confusion turns to concern. “Y/N, that was a year ago.” He shifts closer and brushes a thumb over your cheek. “Are you feeling alright?”

You stiffen against his touch, heart in your throat. Ever the gentleman, he’s never touched you without permission before. But something about the way his palm cups your face feels familiar. “I don’t know,” you whisper, shaking your head. “All I remember is falling into the stream.”

“You don’t remember the elves? Fighting for the mountain? All the time we spent together?” He uncovers a long braid in your hair. “Our wedding?”

“Wedding?!” It’s true, you’ve harbored feelings for Fíli since the two of you met in Bag End. You’d admired him in the book and movies, and to see him for real… it did something to you. But you never thought he would return your affections—how could he? You’re a plain, young woman from another world, and he’s a handsome prince, heir to the throne.

Fíli searches your face, expression unreadable. Finally, he stands, offering you his hand. “Come on.”

You take it hesitantly. His fingers lace through yours, and he helps you to your feet. Strangely, you find that instead of being taller than the dwarf, you’re just level with his chin. But before you can comment on this, Fíli pulls you out the door and down a narrow hallway.

He leads you to a large sitting room, taking you to the sofa next to yet another fireplace. “Wait here,” he orders softly. “I’ll fetch Thorin.”

“Thorin’s alive?” you breathe. “What about Kíli?”

“Kíli would like to know what the pair of you are doing up and chattering in the middle of the night,” replies a voice from behind you. The youngest Durin leans against the wall with his arms crossed, hair still tousled from sleep.

You tip back your head and close your eyes. “They did it,” you sigh in relief. “Oh, thank God, they did it.”

Kíli raises an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

Fíli pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let me get Thorin first. I would rather not explain this twice.”

“Again.” Thorin paces in front of the fire.

You rub your forehead. “I told you, that’s it,” you groan. “I fell in the water and woke up here.”

Kíli shakes his head. “It makes no sense.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Thorin flashes you a warning look.

“It was no ordinary stream,” Fíli points out. He sits with you on the couch, his hand resting on top of yours. Every once in a while, he gives it a reassuring squeeze. “It had some sort of foul magic. She wouldn’t wake for days.”

“If it’s magic that we’re dealing with,” you glance at Thorin warily before continuing, “it might be a good idea to talk with the elves.”

“Absolutely not,” Thorin snaps. His lip curls in disgust. “I refuse to invite them to interfere in our private matters.”

Kíli’s eyes brighten. “What about Gandalf, then? Where would we find him?”

They all look to you. You close your eyes, teasing and tugging at the cobwebs that cloud the part of your mind where your Middle Earth knowledge is stored. “He’s… there’s no guarantee we even could find him. Gandalf doesn’t have a home, exactly. He wanders. They don’t call him the Grey Pilgrim for nothing.”

“So we don’t know where Gandalf is,” Fíli starts slowly, “but we do know where the elves are.”

“And Gandalf wasn’t in Mirkwood with us,” you add. “There’s no guarantee he even knows about the enchanted stream—but Thranduil definitely would.”

Thorin crosses his arms. “Out of the question.”

“Did you not make peace with Mirkwood?”

“Peace does not mean friendship,” Thorin retorts. His voice, raised in frustration, echoes off of the polished stone walls. Down another hallway, you hear a door slam. Thorin groans at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“And just what in Mahal’s name is everyone shouting about at this hour of night?”

A new dwarf steps into the firelight. In the dim light, she almost looks like a copy of Thorin. But as she approaches, you can see her features are softer, her eyes rounder, her beard thinner. And there’s no mistaking the Durin glare that she levels at Thorin, her blue eyes just as piercing as they are tired.

You glance at Fíli with uncertainty. He squeezes your hand and leans close to murmur in your ear. “It’s just Amad. Mother,” he translates when you don’t seem to understand.

Dís. You nod quickly.

Thorin looks at you, then back to his sister, standing with arms crossed and an eyebrow raised expectantly. As they exchange words in their rough native tongue, Dís’s expression of irritation turns to one of soft, motherly concern. She comes closer to you and gently brushes away a few strands of unruly hair from your face. “You must be tired, natha.”

“Daughter,” Fíli whispers.

“A bit,” you reply quietly, finding yourself suddenly shy with the full attention of a mother focused on you.

“Poor dove,” Dís tuts. She straightens up and pats you on the shoulder. “Fíli, take your lass back to bed. We will speak in the morning.” Thorin looks like he means to protest, but Dís silences him with an icy glare. Planting a kiss on the top of your head, she pushes Kíli and Thorin back down their opposite hallways. Fíli pats your hand and follows her quickly, his words in Khuzdûl fading as he gets further away.

Finally alone, you let out a long sigh. For the first time, you get the chance to look yourself over, to see what has changed. Your hair is longer, brushing the small of your back. When you run your fingers through it, you find braids styled to match Fíli’s. A dwarven marriage custom, perhaps? There’s a thin, gold band on your finger, too, lined with tiny sapphires that sparkle in the firelight. A little smile tugs at the corner of your mouth; at least you kept some piece of your own marriage customs.

And while Fíli has been bare-chested this whole time, you’re wearing a dark green shirt, no doubt one that used to be his. It’s long enough on you to serve as a nightgown. A blush rises on your face when you realize the deep v-neck exposes the dip between your breasts—and has been exposing it to everyone else this whole time.

“Amrâlimê?” Fíli’s voice from the hallway is soft. He pokes his head into the sitting room. “Aren’t you going to come to bed?”

You gnaw on your bottom lip, suddenly very interested in the fireplace. In anything that isn’t Fíli’s too-kind face. “Do you want me to?” you ask hesitantly.

It’s silent for a few seconds. Fíli sighs heavily and comes to kneel before you, taking your hands in his. “Y/N, you are my wife. Of course I want you to come to bed. It is our bed.” His eyes search yours, desperately looking for the light he knows should be there. “Do I not have your love?”

“I mean, sure,” you reply softly. Your voice is strained. “I just… I don’t understand how I have yours. You’re the crown prince, you’re perfect. And I’m just… me.”

“You are so much more than that,” Fíli murmurs. “You are everything to me.” He kisses your forehead and stands. Before you can say anything, you’re swept up in his arms. Startled, you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck to avoid falling, but he carries your smaller frame with ease.

You frown, remembering your observation from earlier. “Shouldn’t I be taller than you?”

“Ah. Well.” Fili’s chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your cheek. “That’s all that we thought the stream did. Make you properly sized.”

“Properly sized?” you repeat in disbelief. “You call this properly sized?”

“You complained about it endlessly,” Fíli continues. A playful smile tugs at his lips. “Until you realized how well you fit in my arms.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re very funny.”

“I’m also handsome, charming, brave…”

“Shut up.” You smack his shoulder lightly, but hide a smile as you tuck your head beneath his chin. Maybe you can get used to this.

But as he kicks open the door to his—your—room, and you see the bed with its rumpled covers, you tense.

“Y/N?” Fíli’s breath tickles your neck.

“It’s… just a lot, all at once,” you mumble.

He squeezes you, then lowers you gently to the bed. “I understand,” he murmurs.

“You really don’t, though.” Pent-up frustration simmers within you. “When’s the last time you fell into a stream, woke up, and found out a year had passed and you’re married?”

“Are you upset that we’re married?” Fíli asks, his face falling.

You feel a pang of guilt for snapping at him. This can’t be any easier for him. Running your hand through your tangled hair, you shake your head. “It feels like one moment, I was a girl with a crush, and then I wake up, and suddenly I’m a married woman. I’ve missed out on everything.”

“It’s in there, somewhere,” he whispers, stroking your cheek. You flinch away, your body unsure of how to react to his touch. Hurt flickers across his face, but he pulls back. “Can I fix your braids?” he asks. There’s desperation in his eyes.

Recognizing his need to touch you in whatever way he can, you nod slowly, and turn. The gentle, rhythmic tugging as he combs and re-braids your hair is hypnotic, and you find your eyelids drooping.

“There,” Fíli says, turning you back to him. He smiles sadly. “Beautiful as ever.”

Your heart aches. Whether it aches for him, the dwarf searching for his loving wife in the uncertain girl before him, or yourself, longing to be that loving wife, you do not know.

After a moment of hesitation, you lean in and reward him with a quick kiss on the cheek. His beard is prickly against your lips. “I’m tired,” you whisper when you draw back.

The kiss brings a real smile to his face, however small it may be. Fíli pulls back the covers and you wriggle underneath them. You settle into a dip worn down into the mattress from hundreds of nights before. Fíli slides into place behind you, his chest against your back. You stiffen slightly, but force yourself to relax.

“Is this alright?” His deep, quiet voice vibrates through your body.

You nod. He can have a little cuddle, as a treat. As an apology.

He takes that as a signal to test the limits further. You can tell he’s holding his breath as he drapes his arm over your waist. “Is this alright?”

“It’s cozy,” you mumble sleepily, letting the warmth of his body overwhelm you.

Fíli lets out his breath, pulling you tightly against him and nuzzling his face into your hair.

As you drift off, you do your best to pretend you don’t notice his quiet tears.

You began to stir, finding your face pressed into something warm and firm. As you tried to pull away to look around, you were met with resistance. You made a disgruntled noise.

“Y/N?!” Suddenly, a hand yanked your head backwards. Wide eyes searched your face frantically. You just barely registered who held you before he pulled you back in a crushing embrace. “I thought we’d lost you.”

“Fíli?” you mumbled, your voice muffled by his coat. “Can’t breathe.”

He released you, finally letting you get your bearings. The two of you were alone in a small, stone cell. Torchlight flickered just outside the wrought iron bars, casting a dim, orange light into your cell.

A shadow crossed over the door. “Oh, so she is alive. Here, then.” An apple landed on the ground in front of you, followed by a waterskin. “That’s the most you get until tomorrow. Make it last.” The shadow retreated, footsteps echoing down a long hallway.

Pieces began to slot into place in your mind. You nodded slowly. Mirkwood, elves, imprisonment. “How long have we been in here?”

“A few days at most, given how often they’ve brought food and water. But it’s hard to tell.” Fíli seemed distracted, eyes scanning your body. “How do you feel?”

You frowned and patted yourself up and down. “A bit sore, but I think I’m fine.” You untangled yourself from Fíli and tried to stand on shaky legs, your knees instantly failing beneath you.

Immediately, he jumped up and grabbed your waist from behind to steady you. “Y/N?” His voice was soft. “Y/N, please do not be alarmed when you turn around.”

“What?” You twisted in his grasp and looked up into his concerned face.

Up. You had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. He was big. You tried to back away but the space was so narrow, you collided with the wall after just a single step. “You’re taller,” you stated, almost robotically. “But you’re a dwarf. You can’t be taller than me. I’m supposed to be the taller one. How did you get taller?”

“I did not get taller,” he corrected you. “You got smaller.”

You just stared at him blankly. Fíli sighed, gently taking hold of your arm and easing you back to the ground. He took the apple from the floor and placed it in your hand. “Eat,” he ordered quietly. “You haven’t had any food in days. It was hard enough to get water into you.”

Instead, you rolled it between your palms absentmindedly. “How long was I out?”

“Just over a week. We were trying to cross a stream, and you fell in.”

“Instead of Bombur,” you interjected.

Fíli raised an eyebrow. “If you say so. Glóin managed to snag you,” he continues, “and when he pulled you out, you were… well, smaller. But you wouldn’t wake up. You even slept through the spiders. I was so afraid that you were gone before I could tell you–” he broke off, his voice thick. He tore his eyes away from yours, a blush rising on his face.

“What?” You reached out and took hold of his chin, turning his face back to you. Yet his eyes still avoided you. You crawled closer, kneeling between his outstretched legs. Your traitorous heart pounded hopefully against your ribs. “Tell me what, Fee?”

He shook his head. “No, no, it’s foolish. I shouldn’t… you wouldn’t…” Finally, he looked back up at you. “I love you?” He phrased it as a question, his blue eyes filled with hesitation. It was strangely endearing, seeing the normally confident prince so bashful. Fíli lifted a cautious hand to your cheek, fingers just barely brushing your skin.

Surprise temporarily robbed you of your voice. Mistaking your silence for rejection, Fíli quickly pulled his hand away. Shame and hurt flashed across his face. “Forgive me,” he blurted out, ducking his head. “I should not burden you with feelings you can never return.” He pulled his legs back in and moved further into the shadowy recesses of the cell.

But you crawled after him, refusing to let him go that easily. “Fíli, why didn’t you say anything?” When he remained silent, you wound your fingers up in one of his braids and tugged, forcing him to turn his head towards you. “Why are you so sure that I can’t feel the same?”

A cautious spark of hope flared to life in his eyes. “Because you’re perfect, you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You deserve so much more than I can give.”

You smiled, eyes tracing his face. The gold locks that framed it, the sky blue eyes, the flushed cheeks. And those soft, pink lips, parted ever so slightly as he awaited your next words.

But words were the furthest thing from your mind. Refusing to hold back any longer, you grabbed Fíli by the collar, lunging forward to claim his mouth.

His eyes widened, then fluttered shut as his hands grabbed at your waist. Fíli pulled you back into his lap and wrapped his arms around you, reaching up to comb through your tangled hair with his fingers.

A rock clanged against the bars of your cell. “Get a room!” came Kíli’s voice, echoing down the hall.

You broke away with a laugh. “This is a room!”

Kíli’s only response was a disgusted groan as Fíli grabbed at your face for more.

#fanfiction #fíli #kíli #the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #dís #fili x you #fili x reader #modern girl in middle earth #amnesia #falling back in love #everybody lives #soft Fíli #angst and hurt/comfort #it gets angstier before it gets fluffier

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