#yes more fear and hunger

[bunubunss]

you opened a door that a kid shouldn't walk through

[varpusvaras]

They got all the way to the end of the hallway before they were stopped.

They didn't have much of a choice, really, as there were barricades put up in the middle of it. Multiple, in fact, and Fox recognised them to be barricades and shields they used on the field to do crowd control, just stacked there, as many as possible, to keep people out.

Thire came to a halt next to him, a bit more gracefully than Fox.

"What is going on?" He pushed one of the barricades to the side. "Hey! Bullet!"

Fox squinted his eyes against the harsh lights of the medical wing. They were making his head throb, which in turn was making his eyesight just a little bit too hazy, and it took him a few seconds to focus enough on the form of a trooper standing behind a few of the barricades. Fox had, quite honestly, not noticed him at first, because there was no red on him to make him stand out against the white floors and walls.

Fox realised that it was because he was wearing something over his armor.

"Lieutenant!" It was definitely Bullet. Fox recognised his voice easily. "Stop!"

Thire did stop, his hand still on the barricade. Fox squinted his eyes more as Bullet made his way closer to them, as he was trying to figure out what the hell it was that Bullet was wearing.

Bullet got all the way up to a few feet of them before Fox could see that it was a hazmat suit. In his defense, he really was not seeing well at the moment, and the whole thing looked rather ridiculous pulled over full armor.

The next question that came to Fox's head upon that realisation was much more alarming. Why did he have a suit on in the first place?

"What's going on?" Bullet had not answered to Thire's question, and Fox needed to know immediately. He pushed his way past Thire and almost past the first barricade, when Bullet hauled up the shield next to him and put it between them.

"There are high levels of unknown radiation in the medbay", Bullet answered from behind the shield. "You need to stay away, Sir."

Fox could only stare at him for a moment, his mouth hanging embarrassingly open.

"Radiation?" He repeated. Surely he had heard wrong. "What do you mean-"

"I mean excatly that, radiation." Bullet sounded like he was gritting his teeth behind his helmet. "We don't know what it is exactly and where it is coming from, but we have a whole medbay full of troopers suffering from something that we can only guess is radiation poisoning. So. Stay. Back."

Fox realised that he was staring again only when Thire reached over and pulled him back behind the barricades. The concussion really was making him slow.

Fox wished that he had just stayed in bed.

But, alas, no, and now this was his problem to solve, no matter what Bullet said.

"Index sent us an emergency alert", he said, trying his best to sound as commanding as possible, despite the headache and the fact that it was very difficult to look straight at Bullet. "I need him to report to me immediately."

Index might've been their CMO, but Fox was still the Marshal Commander, and as Fox was not a patient at the moment, he had still command over him.

"Index sent me out here to speak to you about it", Bullet said. "He's too busy now trying to control the situation. He made a list of all the troopers that came in with symptoms before we needed to lock the whole place down. I'm sending it over."

If the troopers had come in with symptoms already, it meant that the possible source of the radiation was not inside the base. That would make Fox's job a lot easier.

He would just need to figure out where all of the troopers had been, in order to find out the source.

His comlink beeped. He glanced at it, and then looked back up at Bullet.

"Are you alright?" He asked. The medics were in danger of getting a good dose of whatever the radiation was, as they were in close contact with the affected troopers.

"No symptoms, we keep checking our radiation levels periodically", Bullet said. "I had just come in to my shift when this happened, so I have been in contact with all the affected troopers the least. Index will update you when he can, but can you now go and figure this out, and also get us proper covers from somewhere? These are not doing much."

He was still holding the shield between them, but it was just a regular riot shield. Fox was pretty sure that it had not been made to hold of possible radiation.

"Of course", he said. He then turned to Thire. "Make an emergency alarm for the whole base and all the troopers on the field. We need to set up checkpoints and check every single trooper in the Guard, immediately."

"Yes, Sir." Thank the Manda that Fox wasn't the only Commander in the Guard. He would've probably just imploded on the spot if that was the case.

Speaking of that. He needed to contact Thorn and Stone.

"What are the symptoms we need to look out for?" He asked as he got to typing on his comlink. It took way too much concentrating to read such small print.

"First notable symptoms are mood swings and irritableness, then general ache and worsening pain, swelling and faintness", Bullet listed. "Everyone who could still speak coherently said that it started a couple of days ago."

Fox stopped his typing as dread slammed into his stomach.

"Kriff." He forewent his typing, and instead opened his calls.

He needed to get ahold of Thorn immediately.

[betheflyinggrapes]

A little scene from @vampireghostlawyer 's fic modern man traditional medicine which you should read because i have. at least twenty times

[artofapeach]

Hi friend! Hope doing this in asks is okay, I saw your post about needing some Thoughts on Funger characters for your comic so I wanted to help out :3 I'm sure you already know about all my feelings on Pav and Karin so instead I'll yap about Marina and Daan if that's cool! I just find it interesting how their views on religion contrast each other (with Marina being an occultist and Daan's past with Sylvian) and as Daan goes on about how he dislikes it (in the church I believe) he says the line 'If your happiness relies on the shoulders of others, then you're screwed', in which Marina goes quiet afterwards. And while it could mean nothing, to me that gives me the impression that she took it personally. Maybe she's a people pleaser and she felt called out? Who knows! Also adding to Daan's dislike of the Gods/Sylvian, when they're at Sylvian's Square and Abella tries to bring up how suggestive the fountain looks, he gets very short with her ('Yes. We get your point'). Usually he has something sarcastic or witty to say, so to be that blunt to someone as nice as Abella tells me that he was VERY uncomfortable and eager to leave. Idk, I just thought that stuck out to me. Meanwhile while Marina is at the square she's just like 'oh yeah fun fact there used to be a brothel here lol' completely unbothered, what a queen haha

HI SAM THANKS FOR REACHING OUT :D

Okay okay okay but Daan and Marina (and O’saa, but this ain’t about him) are my religious trauma family fr fr!!!!

I’m so invested in how they both grew up in super religious households and how they deal with the effects of that differently. Because while Daan is very obviously negative when it comes to religion, especially sexually religion (for obvious reasons), Marina is cheerful but insults it at the same time, almost like a coping mechanism?

Plus, Marina is especially interesting because she’s literally in school studying magic and religion. She probably feels trapped, like who would she without the church and Alll-mer? And and and when looking at a photo of her dad, she mentions how the lineage has to end, but she doesn’t make any comments about what she’ll do instead.

I think that could also tie in with what you said in Daan mentioning “If you’re happiness relies on the shoulders of others”—I wonder if she’s thinking of the idea of letting go of religion even then 🤔

SEGUE-WAY INTO DAAN

Daan cutting Abella off coldly at the statue is actually not the only time he does it! He also does it at the mall, with all the people hanging on the ceiling!

Levi mentions that it seems like the people there are enjoying it (which Daan agrees to), suggesting that the whole thing might be a sexual religious act.

When they go back down and Daan and Abella are there, we get this dialogue:

Those two instances just feel…so similar to me. It’s also interesting that they’re both triggered by Abella djndjfnjsjdnf

Also, while looking for the above pic, I also came across dialogue where he mentioned he’s done enough camping for a lifetime because of his parents, which I admittedly didn’t think about. Religious trauma even ruined camping for him :(

Daan’s the opposite of Marina—instead of leaning into it and making fun (like most of the Termina contestants tbh), he avoids anything relating to the Bunnymasks as much as possible.

It does make me wonder if he could help Marina let go of her past and find something new to strive for—he was able to do it with the kindness of the von Dutches so maybe he can do the same for Marina!—but that’s just me being obsessed with found family at that point 😆

[dovalore]

SLONK THAT SHIT SILLY STYLE 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

[ifuckeduplol]

i judge people so much based on their funger opinions like if you reduce samarie to all her negative traits i would never talk to you

[bunubunss]

"it's your time to bask in the sun"

[beeapocalypse]

getting actual scene ideas for the whole 'the girl still exists in termina as an expulsion of the god of fear + hungers hope+contentment ragnvaldr+friends had instilled in her and is now augusts weird kind of kid who snuck onto the train w him bc she wanted to see le'garde' idea. head in my hands

[familyrantise2003]

Hello guys, I am very sad about our children's childhood which was full of suffering and hardships. They were deprived of all their rights...

The suffering of our children in Gaza increases with the arrival of winter. How can their delicate bodies bear the bitter cold in tents that do not provide them with warmth? What is the fault of these innocent people to live in these harsh conditions? They are deprived of their most basic rights in life, including health care. They also suffer from malnutrition due to the lack of good food availability, and the danger surrounding them due to the lack of a safe place for them. Our children in Gaza are still living an endless nightmare of hunger, cold and fear. Please help us spread the campaign or donate as much as you can.

These are pictures of our children during this genocide.

These are pictures of them before this genocide⬇️⬇️⬇️.

The situation is getting worse and the war of extermination is intensifying against these innocent children. There is no safe place for them. Please help by sharing my campaign. Thank you all for your support.

@paparoach @timetravellingshinigami @deathlonging @briarhips @mazzikaty @mahoushojo @rhubarbspring @schoolhater98 @pcktknife @transmutationisms @sawasawako-archived @a-shade-of-blue @irhabiya @commissions4aid-international @wellwaterhysteria @junglejim432 @kibumkim @neechees   @kyra45-helping-others @7bitter-sweet-blog @komsomolka @neptunerings @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @heritagepostsbot @fromjannah @omegaversereloaded @vague-humanoid @evillesbianvillainarchive @ot3 @amygdalae @ankle-beez @dykesbat @stuckinapril @violentrevolution-blog @mavigator @lacecap   @socalgal @chilewithcarnage @ghelgheli @sayruq @papenathys @slicedblackolives @heritageposts @buttercuparry @brutaliakent

@appsa @jezior0

[nunyabznsbabes]

Katniss is like Lucy Gray this, Katniss is like Sejanus that, and yes fine that's all good and true and lovely but Katniss Everdeen is also a direct parallel to Coriolanus Snow and people NEED to start talking about this because it's driving me crazy.

Think about it: they both grew up poor and deeply vulnerable, losing parents at a very young age, with a matriarchal adult (Katniss' mother and Coriolanus' Grandma'am) who fails to provide for them emotionally and physically. They intimately understand the threat of starvation, even developing with stunted growth because of it, and their narrations in the books share a fixation on food. Throughout their childhoods, both experienced constant fear and suffered a fundamental lack of control over their circumstances. Because of this, they're inherently suspicious of the people around them. They resent feeling indebted to others, especially those who have saved their lives. They're motivated almost entirely by family and deeply connected to their communities. Both are used and manipulated by the Capitol, both are forced to perform to survive and despise every inch of it, both are thrown into the Arena and made to kill. Both have a self-sacrificial, genuinely sweet sister figure acting as their conscience. Peeta and Lucy Gray - performers and love interests with a fundamental kindness and sense of hope about them - fulfill markedly similar roles in their narrative. Both contribute to the development of the future Hunger Games, Snow throughout tbosas and Katniss towards the end of Mockingjay.

It's easy to ignore these similarities because, as mirrors of each other, they are exact opposites. Katniss is from District 12, viewed and treated as less than human; Snow is the cream of the Capitol crop, given the privilege of a name with social weight, an ancestral home, and the opportunity of the Academy despite having no more money than a miner from 12. Katniss has no agency over her life, and responds by being kind whenever she's able, while Snow justifies horrendous evils in order to continue his quest for complete control. Katniss does everything she can to protect her family; Snow does everything he can to protect his family's image as an extension of his own ego. Katniss loves her District and connects with its inhabitants on a meaningful level, but Snow is indifferent at best to his peers - the apparent "superior people" - and only engages with his community for personal gain. Katniss emerges from the Arena horrified at herself and the system, but Snow takes his trauma and turns it into an excuse to perpetuate the violence with himself at the top. Katniss cares for Prim until her death and then snaps at the loss of her little sister, while Snow survives on Tigris' blood, sweat, and tears and then torments and abandons her, presumably because she calls him out on his insanity. Snow actively adds to and popularizes the Hunger Games because of his vendetta against the Districts following his childhood wartime trauma - Katniss briefly agrees to a new Hunger Games (which is arguably a facade to trick Coin), but later definitively stops them from happening by killing Coin and choosing a life of peace and privacy. Snow is obsessed with revenge, but Katniss empathizes with the Capitolites and does what she can to keep them from suffering. He exists in a cruel system and selfishly upholds it; she exists in a cruel system and works to dismantle it for the good of her family and community, at great personal cost. And Peeta and Lucy Gray are incredibly similar, but Katniss and Peeta forge a relationship of genuine love and understanding that shines in comparison to Coriolanus' obsessive projection onto Lucy Gray.

So, yeah, Katniss is Lucy Gray haunting Coriolanus. But I bet you anything that eighty-something year old President Snow looks at her, the girl on fire, and thinks that he sees the ghost of his own past: bright and young and brilliant, emerging from a childhood of starvation with a relentless hunger for success, a talented and charming performer helping her win the Games. And that's why he's so afraid of her! Because if he sees himself in her, then he's up against his own cunning, his own talent for manipulation, his own charisma, his own genius. He reads her wrong, obviously, but it means that in his mind he's up against the version of himself that he could have been, with the nightmare army of his childhood at her back and her star-crossed lover at her side, spewing Sejanus' truths in his own voice. This isn't to say that Katniss ever achieved the level of power and agency that Coriolanus did during her time with the rebellion, but it is to say that Snow was taken down by what truly terrified him - his own morality, come to finish the job.

[artofapeach]

Actually laughing so hard, Pav truly is a poor little meow meow, doomed by the narrative, 100% asshole, fuck your redemption you bitch

[abyssyby]

sylus's little twins — intro

— meet Lucian & Kyros, sylus’s little energy storm! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: hi hi hi! im so excited to get this out hehehe, a formal-ish introduction to the twin boys i've been writing about in my boydad!sylus au. they were initially passing thoughts, but with all of your continuous enthusiasm towards the littles, they'd grown into these darling characters. i hope you enjoy & love them as much as i do! ❀-urs

kyros & lucian highlight | sylus x reader | parenting hcs/scenarios, little twin hcs, mama!reader, soft boydad!sylus 💕 ft. big twins (luke & kieran)!

general info:

☆ Lucian was born first, Kyros 10.9 minutes later 

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

sylus was there for all the check-ups & ultrasounds but only found out you were having twins during the last check-up. 

Lucian has always been more energetic and drawn to the spotlight, even in the womb— Kyros, sleepier and cozier, has tucked himself behind his brother in all their photos. It wasn't until the final weeks that Lucian decided to reveal his first little surprise to his parents— when he shifted and made way for them to meet the second heartbeat. Sylus had to take a seat. "Beloved, breathe," you chuckled, rubbing his thumb with your own as he blinks away the spots in his vision.

sylus barely slept the first three days they were born, watching all three of you like a guard dog 

not so much worried that something terrible will befall something so wonderful 

but just… taking it all in— something he'd never thought he'd have in any lifetime, and yet here you are. giving, giving, giving— his generous heart.

he walked to your side of the bed, pressed kisses to your forehead as you slept. you’d stir awake to him brushing your hair out of your eyes, feeling your cheekbones with the pad of his thumb. eyes soft and teary like melting lava. you yawn, catching his wrist with your fingers. “you okay? is something wrong?”  he smiles, shakes his head. “no. everything’s perfect.” 

he hovers over the boys constantly. quick to pick one up when he stirs.

"hello, little one, shh..." he murmurs. his voice breaks at the volume, unused to being so careful before. but he is trying. he will try everyday. "papa is here. papa's got you."

cant help but poke on their cheeks as they sleep, or ruffle their hair with his finger (they're so small, he can't believe it)

the first twin to grab his finger and hold on is kyros, and sylus needed several minutes to compose himself 

when one or both cries, sylus is always the first to respond. he checks diapers, gas and if it’s hunger, he wakes you gently (he's master of the night shift atp)

tummy time was difficult for him in the start, fearing the baby wouldn’t like it, that he’d run too warm or he accidentally shifts them the wrong way. but once he starts, it becomes his favorite pastime.

he hums to them, sings to them, reads to them. theres always at least one strapped to his chest as he goes about his day in the base.

when they get a little older and they can roll over on their bellies, sylus spends hours on his belly too, studying their faces and expressions. his sole purpose is to make them react. peek-a-boo is a favorite.

when lucian starts to babble (kyros will follow soon after) sylus is over the moon. he loves talking back to them. 

“ahh-ah. ooo-ea-ea.” kyros coos, pulling his legs up and down as if bouncing. “i understand, but mephisto is made of metal.” sylus says, chin resting on the nest his forearms had formed on the edge of the bassinets. “ah a wi wi waaaghu” lucian counters. “i didn’t see it that way. maybe i will try to change his synthetic fibers.” sylus nods. “ji ji aah! ah!” kyros. “and pre-record wheels on the bus, yes.” 

sylus 🤝🏻 nursery rhymes (he sings them in the shower??)

you and sylus both love watching them discover each other— like, they’d just forget the other exists for a while until they glance beside them and see their faces staring back. the giggles, the smiles, the eventual spit up— magical

the big twins (kieran and luke) sob when they realize their names are inspired by their own 

"Luke, hold Kyros's neck steady," you advise as you hand him the baby. Luke sits excitedly on the couch, arms out, nodding enthusiastically. it was an amusing little position he was in— he'd cocooned himself between all the throwpillows in the living room and looked like a bird in his nest. "Yes, got it." he says. he's done his research. he and Kieran practiced on cantaloupes while you were away. "Cradle the baby to support his hips and back." Kieran quotes from the LinkiHow, sitting on the other side of the couch, also cocooned in all the pillows. Sylus gave them tired but fond looks. "This is Lucian." Sylus says, placing his son carefully in Kieran's awaiting arms. It takes a minute, but you can always count on them to make a connection. Luke says it jokingly, "Hey, boss man, they both have our initials." You smile unironically. "Do you like it?" Kieran freezes, getting the implication almost immediately. "What?" It snaps into Luke a second later. "What?!" It's very difficult to cry with newborns in their arms. Good thing the pillows minimized the trembling.

never lets you and sylus hear the end of it

"When Lucian climbs on my shoulders, we're a giant robot called Lu-lu." Kieran snorts. "Lemon?" "Can you shut up for once in your life?"

"Boss man, how's mini me?" "Boss hunter, can we borrow the little twins? Namesakes have to bond." and the famous "Hey, dad," one too many times to Sylus. (sylus never corrects them)

steals them away when they’re able to sit up on their own, stays within the base, but at the sight of the masks, the little twins are sent into fits of happy wiggles 

kieran and luke are first to experience the two playing more intricate pretend scenarios (they're big influences)

the little twins’ first prank is to doodle on sylus’s face (sylus was awake, giggling even, but the little twins were 100% sure they got away with it. big twins supervised.)

Lucian the blinding flash of lightning 

pronounced: loo・see・yan

also called “Cian” (see-yan) 

also known as: angel (mama & papa), little boss (big twins), JAWS (kieran when lucian bit him the first time), little dragon (papa) 

has bright, carmine eyes, forever shining with mischief

socialized very early when he refused to be apart from mama or papa 

first word is “mama”. sylus was very excited for you (“papa” followed soon after)

"Say papa." Sylus coaxes, bouncing Lucian on his knee. His boy's bright eyes focused on his mouth, as he made popping noises to emphasize the p's. "P-p-aaa. Papa." Lucian followed the movements with a gummy little smile. But no sound emerged from his mouth. Sylus did everything in his power to make him vocalize, but Lucian's will was stronger than his father's charm. And then you came. Kyros had just gone down for his second nap, and you plop down beside Sylus and Lucian. "It's mama." Sylus points out. And with his full chest, proud and loud, Lucian booms. "Mama!" You scream. Sylus is speechless for a moment but cheers nonetheless. Showers Lucian with kisses and praise. Maybe Kyros will get his p's right.

always strapped on someone’s chest or back in his early days, wriggling in the carrier and testing the bounce

kieran and luke’s test gerbil— uh, sorry, play buddy 

Lucian, having been exposed more to people and positive reinforcement, was quick to gain confidence to try things without fear or even consciousness of failure 

so he flips over first, sits up first, crawls first, has his first steps first and is running by the time kyros can put one foot before the other without support

but he has more little scrapes and bruises from being so active 

loves mama! loves loves loves mama. mama gives him kissies and sweeties. and mama says “yay! Lucian!” in the most beautiful voice 

loves papa too. is a little intimidated by him— only because papa is the first to see his mistakes when he tumbles and falls. papa makes that “tsss” noise when he picks him up. 

but then papa gives warm hugs. and his hair is soft. and papa is tall, and lucian likes sitting on his shoulders. 

lucian loves the sky. you'd "sun" them often when they were little, just sit outside in the shade for the warmth and the nutrients. it was lucian's favorite thing, having developed a Pavlovian response to the words "sun time!" before he even knew what they meant— he'd be wriggling already.

lucian thinks kyros is a little mouse. he adores kyros, always cheers him on like everyone does for him— “ya! go keewo!” 

but kyros looks so small (theyre the same size) 

and lucian is overcome with the responsibility of protecting his brother 

lucian loves hugging kyros (coined the term "squeezy-squeezes"), learning from everyone around him how to treat his brother

sometimes can get a little too rough

made kyros cry once— he cried harder. 

The twins have been in their little playpen for a while, throwing stuffed-balls that jingle at each other as a game of catch. Kyros catches with your help, his back against your belly. Your arms like wings maneuver his to catch the ball in a gentle clap. "Cat!" Lucian says. He's already mastered the act of throwing down to a tee. But somehow a heavier rubber ball had rolled into their soft ball pile, and he'd chucked it at Kyros's nose. "Oh!" you startle first, bending down to see Kyros's face already puckered up in a silent sob. "Oh, darling." Sylus is already at the door at the sound, taking in the scene before him. Your worried fussing, Kyros's reddening nose and... A wailing, louder than the offended's fills the room. Terror-stricken and horrified, Lucian empties his little lungs at the image of his brother sobbing because of him. "Lucian." Sylus sighs, picking him up and rocking him side to side. Mama and papa danced side to side, soothing, as they sang a painful little harmony for them for a while.

absorbs how you and sylus interact. 

⟢ places both palms on papa’s face to look in his eyes — "papa, shmeeties." (sweeties) ⟢ presses his nose to papa’s cheek when he's in his arms and papa is talking to someone else ⟢brushes your hair back from your eyes when you're telling him, "lucian, no more sweeties, okay?" ⟢ kisses your forehead the most ⟢ pokes papa’s lips when he’s idling or reading

likes sweeties (candies, cakes, ice creams, u name it)

loves to climb! loves going up, up high! 

needs that vestibular input when he teeters on the edge of something (effectively giving sylus daily heart attacks)

does not like hats :( 

drags kyros by the hand everywhere (kyros does this too! learns it from lucian)— one time when kyros couldnt quite walk yet, you find lucian dragging him face-planted across the floor. kyros kinda just went with it

started the trend of running up to you or sylus when you get home from missions and throwing himself in your arms

sensitive. doesnt like being scolded but understands to an extent why. sylus is good at explaining discipline to his toddlers.

“papa doesn’t want you to get hurt. so I'm saying it in a strong voice so you listen and remember,” sylus explains firmly. “love lucian? papa?” he asks, snot and tears running down his blotchy red cheeks. sylus softens, huffing the through his nose and wiping his son's tears away with his thumbs. “of course i love you, angel. just, please stop sliding down the bannister.”  oh, sylus is so very tired.

sleeps with his limbs strewn about

sylus is always hit in the eye when they nap together

Kyros the gentle rumble of thunder

pronounced: kee・ ros

also called “kyro” ("kee-ro" as Lucian so lovingly puts it, unable to get that s sound just yet)

also known as: angel (mama & papa), little boss (big twins), KYYYYROSSS (luke, when they lift him over their head like a presentation to the gods), and turtle (papa)

his eyes are a darker shade of red, like a stormy sea of blood. and so his little baby stares are extra O.O when he’s watching everyone around him

kyros was sickly during his first few months, which led to him being a little less socialized compared to his brother

sylus was very doting on kyros, worried immensely, didnt know a wink of sleep for the first three months of thunderous little coughs rattling such a small, fragile body 

he held him more, gave him the medicine, took shifts with you when you forced him to get rest

but kyros pulled through. he’s healthy by the time the third month rolls in, and so he starts rolling, too

kyros watches lucian do his firsts and copies. less trial, less error— the little owl he is

his babbles were quieter, and so you whisper to him hushed words of affirmation 

"ehh? egh ah!" kyros coos, eyes locked onto yours as if actually making conversation at 4 months. "yes, angel, you’re very handsome." you smile back, exaggerated nods, and a lilting voice. "ah-ooo, oo-eeh." "much muuuuch more than papa." you affirm. and suddenly sylus is right behind you. "hm? sorry?"

he does get his p's right!! but first word is “pito” (mephisto -> phisto -> pisto -> ⊹ ࣪ ˖ pito ⊹ ࣪ ˖), his baby monitor

loves papa. oh, sylus really did a number on him by sticking with him during those sick months. now he’s formed an attachment.

most comfortable with papa. likes being held by him, snuggles his messy little hair in the crook of sylus’s neck, mouths gummy little kisses on sylus’s cheeks.

had a phase where he relayed all his thoughts in a whisper to papa. sylus would broadcast it for everyone else to hear. he'd nod in approval with a little "mhm."

loves mama too, of course. loves mama’s voice. mama’s scent. he almost always falls asleep in your presence. never, ever fussy with you. 

has developed very particular sensory needs— preferring deep pressure hugs, dimmer lighting, and more gentle, quieter sounds

he works through most issues, but in his toddler stage, he’s easily spooked and startled— cries often when he is

loves lucian! lucian is eternally amusing to him. his favorite slapstick. lucian, his walking chatty clone— tumbling over and startling him and making him giggle. he loves Lucian.

lucian's hugs! love that!

lucian's games! so fun!

lucian's attempts to string him along (even if he ends up waxing the floor with his forehead)! owwie, but yes!!

kyros feels his feelings deep and slow. disciplining him is like yelling at a baby duck with too-large eyes and a pouty little lip 

it's very hard to stay mad at him (sylus struggles the most)

“kyros? you understand why papa is mad, right?”  kyros doesnt move. doesn't even look at him. sylus swallows.  “kyros, papa is mad because…” kyros starts hiccuping, choking on silent tears. “papa mad.” sylus digs his nails into his palms. “papa... mad because you almost got hurt. got an ouchie.”  kyros nods. “Papa mad. ouchie.”  on second thought, sylus isnt that good at disciplining toddlers. "kyros, say you understand." "un'tad." kyros weeps. "okay." sylus grabs his baby and cradles him to his chest. he peppers kisses into his hair and holds him tight. “no more. all done.”  “all done.” kyros sobs. sylus has to hold his back too.

kyros likes the nighttime, the outdoors. when he was sick, sylus often stood on the balcony and talked to him about the stars. somehow that absorbed. 

kyros thrives in music. you discovered this, when he was fussy one day, and you were tired and aching, and decided to hum a tune into the crown of his head as you rocked him side to side 

he quieted instantly, and you realize the vibrations of your voice have resonated in his skull— effectively calming him by buzzing like a bee

aside from papa, lucian is his next pillar of support. he tends to grasp onto lucian's hand and tug on his shirt when he gets that little bit scared.

likes the kitchen. happy to be in a carrier as you or sylus cooks. he likes the scents and the chop-chop-chop sounds. 

likes hats :) 

the first to bap! lucian when they got into a little argument. big emotions overwhelmed him easily, so when lucian took the stuffie from his hands, his little fist came down on lucian's thigh— it didnt hurt, but they were both told off and both cried 

kyros clung to lucian all day after that — “sowwi, see-yan, sowwi.” 🥺

the big twins still navigate around kyros more cautiously, trying to learn his subtlety, but they get it eventually. kyros reminds them of themselves when they were much smaller, seeking comfort and a safe space. they do everything in their power to provide that for him (and lucian too) 

kyros asks with little words, speech at a slower & steadier rate of development 

"papa home?" "squash! more?" (uses the little more gesture) "pease?" "hug! hug!" "one, two cookie? pease?" (spams the more gesture again)

uses your and sylus’s pet names for each other to address you sometimes

“ma bub (my love), papple juice, pease?” to papa  “peepie (sweetie), up?” to mama “peepart (sweetheart), pease? pease, peepart?” “na-night dadin' (darling)!” to lucian

likes apple juice 🧃💕

is super mesmerized by mephisto, but still gets surprised at his movements— flinches when mephisto shakes, freezes up when mephisto stretches his wings— but is trying to be friends. likes the jingling windchime sound mephisto does when he shakes his feathers.

loves story books. he appreciates whoever reads to him, curling himself around whoever’s arm, chubby little cheek pressed to a bicep as half-lidded eyes follow fingers hovering over words (will eventually learn to read first)

sleeps in this little kitty loaf position, with his fists in his eyes and his body curled in this child’s pose/fetal position 

sylus has to right him in his sleep so he doesnt ache in the morning

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: if youve made it this far, i wish i could give you a big hug. thank you for reading all about the littles. they're full of life & love, and there will be stories where they bring that out of sylus, mama & the big twins too, and i hope you stick around for that <3 ❀-urs

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here | first little twin headcanon | author's pick: little twins & big twins fic | more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

feel free to send in messages/questions/drabble requests about them in my inbox, I'll be happy to gush about them some more hehe ( ⸝⸝•ᴗ•⸝⸝ )੭⁾⁾♡

dividers by @saradika-graphics

thank you for reading!

[ama3003]

A Pawn Once More

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: For years, Haymitch has kept his biggest secret buried—his love for the one person he couldn’t afford to lose. But when the Quarter Quell announces that tributes will be reaped from the pool of Victors, his worst nightmare becomes reality.

A.N: Scene from Catching Fire. No, I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader.

Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

Part 2: Here

Part 3: Here

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. As you know, in every Quarter Quell, we do things a little differently. To commemorate the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell, we have decided to add a new twist to the tradition."

"The tributes will be reaped from the pool of existing victors."

The air was thick with the screams and desperate cries of your family, their voices echoing in your ears as your own face twisted in horror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

After surviving the 66th Hunger Games, after securing your place in history and your district’s fleeting pride, you were supposed to live out your life in something resembling peace. You’d be called back each year to mentor, yes, but never again would you be dragged into the arena. Never again would you face the bloodbath.

But now? Now you were nothing more than a pawn again.

You had to leave. You had to run. Your little brother’s tiny fingers clung desperately to you, his sobs vibrating through your chest as your mother—your mother—threw things in fury, her heartbreak spilling over. Every instinct told you to stay, to comfort them, but you knew better. You had to leave or you’d lose your mind. Or worse, you’d drag them down into your nightmare.

You ran. The pounding of your feet against the dirt was deafening, a frantic rhythm of escape, but your body couldn’t outrun the reality clawing at your soul. You ran until your legs gave out and you collapsed, crumbling to your knees, gasping for air. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It had to be alright. It had to be. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

You wiped away your tears, your breath ragged and uneven, thoughts spinning wildly. Out of the eight victors from your district, only you and one of your mentors were women. And you weren’t about to let your mentor go through the Games again. There was no chance. You knew the nightmares she’d endured, the scars that marked her body. Like you, she had survived, but she wasn’t as capable as she once was when she won during the 47th Games. At least you still had a fighting chance.

Your mind turned to your family next. You just needed them to promise you one thing. They couldn’t watch. They couldn’t watch you die. It was the only mercy you could give them. You couldn’t let them see that.

Your death would rip them apart, you knew it. Your mother would be left without her daughter. Your brother would grow up without his older sister to protect him. Your father, already a shadow of the man he once was, would be broken, lost in the absence of his “princess.” And Haymitch—Haymitch.

The thought of him hit you like a physical blow, your heart constricting in your chest. He’s a victor too. A chilling realization gripped you like ice in your veins. He could be reaped. He could be sent to fight.

Tears spilled freely, hot and relentless, as you gasped, your breath stuttering. The weight of it crushed you. He could be reaped. And that terrifying thought shattered you more than the fear of your own reaping ever could.

You let out a scream—gut-wrenching, heart-shattering—your body shaking as it tore through you. It was a sound so full of anguish, so desperate, it seemed to rip apart the very fabric of the world around you. Haymitch. He could be reaped. And with that, all your nightmares, every awful memory, every twisted fear, came to life.

-----

“Get me that damn tablet,” Haymitch barked, shoving his way through the train car in search of the device. His mind was a tangled mess, his body still buzzing from the alcohol he’d consumed in an attempt to dull the gnawing pain. 

The last few days had been a blur, but he could still feel the sharp sting of the announcement ringing in his ears. The tributes... the victors... and his own twisted fate. He should’ve been focusing on how he’d somehow managed to cheat death. Instead, his mind was consumed with one thing—and one person—from District 5. You.

When the announcement came about the victors being reaped, he hadn’t reacted with surprise. No, he’d gone into a frenzy. He’d torn apart his house, broken everything in sight, and drunk himself into oblivion. His fingers had clutched his most prized possession with a desperation he couldn't explain—a beautiful gold chain, wrapped tightly around his finger, holding the most precious ring. 

The night before, Katniss had begged him—no, pleaded—for him to volunteer for Peeta during the reaping. He had agreed. Not because he wanted to, hell no. But because he had to be there if you were reaped. And now, as Peeta decided to take matters into his own hands, Haymitch found himself thrust into the role of mentor. It infuriated him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you in the arena again.

The other districts should’ve already been reaped by now, and his mind was frantic, itching to know if you had been chosen. Unfortunately, he’d been trapped in the mentor role, unable to watch the reaping unfold. Now, though, he was pushing everyone aside, his hands shaking as he aggressively swiped across the tablet screen, searching for answers.

“What's his deal?” Katniss scoffed, watching Haymitch swipe frantically at the tablet.

Effie, doing her best to keep the secret Haymitch had entrusted her with, attempted to downplay his urgency. “Oh, he’s just trying to see which victors got reaped. Don’t worry about it yet.”

“I can’t find it. Turn on the damn video on the TV,” he snapped, his patience gone. Effie scrambled, finally finding the footage and flicking it on.

As the video began, Haymitch subconsciously started playing with the gold band around his neck, his fingers caressing it absently as his heart hammered in his chest. The room fell silent as the broadcast began—District 5’s reaping.

"Welcome, welcome," the escort’s overly cheery voice rang out, her ridiculous outfit blinding in its absurdity. "As we celebrate the 75th anniversary and the 3rd Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games, as always, ladies first…”

Haymitch’s leg started bouncing in nervous anticipation, his pulse quickening. District 5 had eight victors, but only two were women—and you were one of them.

He couldn’t help it. His eyes locked onto the screen, unable to tear himself away. You stood there, dressed in black, your face a perfect mask of stoicism. Your eyes were red, your pain carefully hidden beneath a practiced, blank expression—the one you’d perfected from years of surviving. He’d taught you that. How to hide everything. How to show nothing. How to survive.

He watched you hold hands with your mentor, the two of you standing in quiet solidarity. A tiny part of him hoped that it would be you—the one they called forward, so your mentor could volunteer for you. He knew she would. You just had to let her.

The escort’s voice cut through his thoughts, though he barely heard it now. She gave both you and your mentor a small, sad smile before unfolding the slip of paper. “The female tribute of District 5…” she began, and the words hung in the air like a death sentence, “Abigail Winston.”

Effie’s sigh of relief was audible, probably thinking that you were home free, that everything was going to be okay. But Haymitch knew better. He knew you. And that’s why his entire body tensed in an instant. The anger surged through his veins like wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.

And then he saw your movement. The way you stepped forward. No.

Before your mentor could even make a move, your voice steady but fierce rang out, “I volunteer as tribute.”

Time seemed to slow. Haymitch’s heart stopped, the world around him blurring as he felt everything he’d been holding together shatter. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps as the glass in his hand fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. The tablet in his hands followed, crashing to the ground in a violent thud.

Katniss and Peeta exchanged confused glances, unsure of who you were or why Haymitch had reacted like that. Effie’s tears fell silently, a mix of sorrow and disbelief. But before anyone could speak, Haymitch turned away, his mind consumed by rage and heartbreak. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

He stormed down the train, away from them all, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to rip the world apart. Every part of him, every inch of his being, was focused on one thought: You. You had volunteered. You had sealed your fate. And now, all of his nightmares were coming true.

-----

Haymitch wished he were drunk. He wished the alcohol could drown out the aching pain of having you step into that arena again. It wasn’t fair.

You barely had two years together. Two years of being an official couple, and yet it felt like it wasn’t enough. He’d first met you at the end of your Victor’s Tour, when you decided to escape the attention and hide at the bar. You outdrank him that night, which, frankly, was impressive.

At first, he never expected to care for you. You were just another survivor, bound to the same cruel fate as him. But then, over time, as you grew up and proved yourself in ways he never imagined, he couldn’t help but fall in love.

You were 15 years younger, and he had always kept his distance, hiding his feelings behind a wall of friendship. But as the years passed, and you all met yearly for the Games as mentors, one thing led to another. A night full of too much alcohol, too many unspoken feelings—and before he knew it, you had shared a night neither of you would ever forget.

The next morning, you confessed what had been lingering beneath the surface for so long. It took him months to work up the courage to ask you out, battling his own demons of self-doubt and guilt.

And then, for two beautiful years, you two had kept it secret. Notes passed in shadows, stolen kisses, quiet smiles, and letters filled with raw emotion. Two years of sneaking around, being completely, utterly in love.

And now, it was all coming to an end.

Effie found him passed out in the train’s aisle, and without hesitation, she put him to bed, understanding that he needed space.

The next morning, Haymitch tried to seek you out. He wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay, but his duties as a mentor took priority. Effie begged him to focus, to speak to Katniss and Peeta first, and then find you. He was torn between his heart and his responsibilities. And in the end, Effie dragged him to the kids.

He spent that day drinking and half-heartedly trying to teach them about the importance of allies.

“Finnick Odair, right?” Katniss asked, as they went through the list of reaped victors.

He nodded, pointing to the screen. “Yes, he won at fourteen—youngest victor ever. Extremely humble.”

“You're kidding, right?” Katniss scoffed.

“Yes, I’m kidding.” He flipped his hair dramatically. “He’s a... peacock. A total preener, but he’s the Capitol darling. They love him here. Charming, smart, and very skilled at combat—especially in water.”

Peeta leaned forward, glancing at the screen. “What about weaknesses?”

“One person, Mags.” A frail, wrinkled woman appeared on the screen. “She volunteered for Annie. Mags was his mentor, basically raised him. If Finnick’s trying to protect her, it exposes him.”

Katniss stared at the screen, watching the woman bravely volunteer for the young girl in tears. “A guy like that has to know she’s not going to make it. I bet when it really comes down to it, he won’t protect her.”

Sadness flickered in Haymitch’s eyes. “Well, Katniss, I just hope when she goes... she goes quickly. She’s a wonderful lady.”

He pressed a button on the tablet, knowing exactly who would appear next, but his body tensed involuntarily as the screen flickered to life.

"District Five: Mason Cover and Y/N L/N." Haymitch stared at the screen, his eyes locked on you, unable to look away.

"She's the girl we saw on the train," Katniss said, sensing the weight of Haymitch’s reaction. "What's her story?"

Haymitch glanced at Katniss before downing his drink. “She won the 66th Games at 16. The last hour of the Games, there were five tributes left. She killed each one of them single-handedly—arrows, spear, you name it. Extremely skillful, resourceful. And beloved by many of our victors.”

He pointed to Mason Cover, “Mason won the 55th Games at 18. Lethal in hand-to-hand combat. The last 30 minutes of those Games were a triple threat match. Those two are close friends. You want them as allies. And if you trust me... trust them. They're who you should be allies with.” He repeated, his gaze locked on Katniss. “Trust me.”

“Who is she to you?” Katniss asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the tension. “We all saw the reaping. We saw the way you reacted. Now you want to team up with her... why?”

Haymitch squinted at her, his fingers subconsciously playing with the chain around his neck. “She's just a friend. I've known her for years. I know both of them. Good people. Trustworthy people.”

“I don’t believe you,” Katniss retorted.

“Katniss,” Peeta interjected, sensing the simmering tension. "Let it go."

But before anyone could speak, Effie burst through the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she hurried toward Haymitch. "Haymitch, thank God you're here!" she said, voice strained with urgency. She then saw Katniss and Peeta standing in the room, and immediately faltered. "Oh... uh... Haymitch, you're needed outside of this room." She gestured quickly toward the door, trying to keep the situation under wraps, hoping the kids wouldn't notice.

Haymitch caught the hint, and without a word, he practically flew out of the room. Before the door even clicked shut behind him, he was pulled into an embrace. Your arms.

And for a moment, everything around him seemed to stop.

"Haymitch..." you whispered, your voice trembling as tears flooded your face. After days of terror, the weight of the world finally seemed to melt away in his arms. He was here. You needed him more than anything.

"Y/N..." He squeezed you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. His heart hammered in his chest, sobering instantly from the haze of alcohol. The warmth of your skin, the sweet scent of you, and the soft wetness of your tears soaking through his shirt — this was real. You were here, with him... for now.

He pulled back slightly, needing to see your face, his hands gently cupping your tear-streaked cheeks. He smiled at you, the corners of his mouth trembling with something he couldn't quite control. "Hi, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice breaking.

It hurt him to see you like this—eyes red and swollen, your hands shaking, a look of grim acceptance in your gaze. The kind of acceptance that made his heart shatter. What had you accepted? What were you preparing for? That thought alone gnawed at him.

"It's going to be okay. I’ve got you, pretty girl." His voice cracked with desperation, the words pouring out in a rush. "I’ll get you sponsors, and you'll be okay. Then when this is over, we can go back to my district, or yours, and live the rest of our lives together. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever." He whispered it, desperate for you to believe him, for you to feel safe, for the horrible weight of your future to somehow lift.

But then, you shook your head, sobbing. "You can't... Katniss and Peeta are your responsibility. You need to help them. You need to save them." The words broke out in a cry, your eyes locking with his in raw, painful clarity. He shook his head, his heart sinking.

"No," he muttered firmly, "I’m not leaving you alone for this." His hands gripped your shoulders, holding you as if he could keep you safe, as if he could protect you from the arena, from everything.

"I’ll be alright," you tried to smile, wiping away the fresh tears that fell. "You don’t need to worry about me." You forced the smile, trying to push him, to focus on the kids, on them. You knew the truth, knew the game was rigged. Katniss needed to be victorious; you were just collateral damage, nothing more.

Your hand reached up to caress his face, your thumb tracing the rough outline of his jaw. "The kids need you, my love. You have to choose them over me. You have to choose Katniss over me. She... she is important."

"You're important." His voice cracked as he tried to hold on to some semblance of control, but it shattered as soon as he looked at you. "You're everything to me. You're my world. My wife... You don’t know what you’re asking me to do..." His voice broke, the words too raw, too heavy. "I can’t leave you in that arena. I won’t. I will save you."

You stared at him, tears running freely down both of your faces. He looked at you in disbelief, his eyes wide with an agony he couldn't hide. You had accepted your death, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. He had already lost so much. He wouldn’t lose you too. Not like this. Not again.

"You don’t understand," he whispered, his voice raw, breaking with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. He shook his head, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "I can’t let them take you from me." His mind was already spinning, heart racing with frantic thoughts—how could he get more sponsors? Who could he talk to in the Capitol? There had to be a way. Anything to keep you alive. "Why the hell did you volunteer? Why—Jesus Christ, why you?" The words cracked through his chest, his heart shattering with the pain of it. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was losing you, and he couldn’t stop it.

You reached up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing over the rough, scarred lines of his cheek, your touch a silent plea. You saw the desperation in his eyes—the panic, the fear that he couldn’t hide. Your voice trembled as you whispered, "Haymitch... I promise you, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine." The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but you said them anyway, because you needed him to believe it. You couldn’t bear the thought of him falling apart, not when you knew what was coming. You had to be strong for him, even if it broke you to lie like that.

And then, with everything breaking inside him, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that spoke of everything: grief, love, fear, and an unbearable desperation. It was rough and frantic, a mixture of tears and longing. The kiss was an apology, a plea, and a final, desperate act of love.

What neither of you knew was that Katniss, Peeta, and Effie were watching from the crack in the door, their eyes wide with shock. 

Haymitch has a wife.

And she was about to die.

Next Chapter

[hildanasr]

Is My Voice Still This Faint? Where Are the Compassionate Hearts?⚠️‼️‼️😥Although I am vetted like the other supported campaigns‼️

Please take a moment to read these words…

I never imagined I would have to write something like this, but life has become more than I can bear.

I’m a young pregnant woman, living under the horrors of war. Every day is a battle for survival — not just for me, but for my unborn child and for my family, who are exhausted by these harsh conditions.

We live in constant fear, not knowing when we might be forced to flee to the south at any moment. The journey is long and exhausting, and I suffer from anemia. Every step will be painful and overwhelming. I don’t know how I’ll manage to move in this condition — surrounded by fear, hunger, and fatigue. All I wish for is safety for my baby and my family.

What hurts even more is that the donations so far are very few — barely enough to get us through a day or two. I keep trying, writing, reaching out, crying for help… but the response is so weak, as if my voice isn’t reaching anyone.

We have nothing. No safety, not enough food, not even a warm place to sleep. I write to you today with hope in my heart, praying that someone out there can help — or at least share these words so they might reach someone who can.

Any donation, no matter how small, could be the reason we survive. Please don’t ignore this plea. Help us — even with just a share.

👉 Here is the link to my campaign: [https://gofund.me/69d9ed7c]

Verified✅

@90-ghost here

@gaza-evacuation-funds here

@Bilal-sala7 here Vetted Gaza Fundraiser List Number #20

@ana-bananya here

@dlxxv-vetted-donations here

@Khanger here

@a-shade-of-blue here

@feefal @ot3 @afro-elf @tamamita @trawl @strawberry-crocodile @sawasawako @prisonhannibal @magz @mens-rights-activia @littlestpersimmon @sealsdaily @omegaversereloaded @patrochilles-or-bust @postanagramgenerator @sporesgalaxy @3000s @northgazaupdates @apas-95 @punkeropercyjackson @yekkes @rickybabyboy @punkitt-is-here

[dakusan]

F I R S T   B I T E

Vampire!Bang Chan x Reader | blood ritual, silk sheets, first time he finally takes you

🔞synopsis: You weren’t looking for luxury. You were looking for survival. But then he chose you—Bang Chan. Now you sleep in silk, eat like royalty, and bleed for him on schedule. He’s fed from you before. Gentle. Controlled. Ritualistic. But he’s never fucked you. Not once. Tonight, that changes. Because his hunger is showing. His eyes are black. And you’re in that dress he bought you. And when he finally takes his bite—he doesn’t stop there.

💌a/n: OK SO LISTEN 🩸 Yes. I know I answered an ask ages ago about how Chan is so rich. but for this series? i said fuck it. switched it up. because he deserves it. you deserve it. silk sheets and bite marks forever. also no, i’m not making profiles for every member. that’s boring and I’m busy making them FEED AND FUCK INSTEAD 😌 priorities. if you’re not bleeding and shaking by the end, did you even read it? 🔪💋✨ p.s. reblog if it ruined you. reblog if you whimpered. reblog if you said “oh.” out loud. p.p.s. more members coming next Wreck Me Wednesday! p.p.p.s. blood tastes better when it’s yours. ok bye 🖤

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | biting kink | marking kink | blood drinking as foreplay (and during) | fingering + grinding | overstimulation | breeding kink language (explicit) | “mine” possessiveness dialled to 1000 | choking (light, erotic) | mirror of praise + filth | power imbalance | luxury kink | ritualistic aftercare | cum, blood, and luxury bath oils

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Bleed pretty. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Criminal — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:31 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The idea of becoming a Blood Doll didn’t start as a fantasy. It started as a last resort.

You weren’t desperate. Just… cornered. By bills. By bruises you didn’t ask for. By nights too long and mornings that arrived with nothing but guilt and cold toast. Seoul was a city of glass towers and low shadows. You had lived in both.

You weren’t supposed to know about the Veil. About vampires. About what they offered behind silk-curtained doors. But you did. One overheard conversation in a blood clinic waiting room was all it took. A name passed like a secret. A dare:

“LUXE Health. If you’re lucky, someone will choose you.”

So you cleaned yourself up. Not for them. For you. You memorized their rules. Got the bloodwork done. Sold everything else. And when you finally arrived—dressed in borrowed black with lips bitten pink—you didn’t flinch.

Because somewhere beneath the hunger and the silence, you had a single thought: “If I’m going to belong to someone… make it him.”

You saw him before he saw you. Or maybe that’s just what you tell yourself now.

Bang Christopher Chan. The vampire who owns medicine. The one whose name is spoken in hushed reverence at trauma wards and whispered in moans between silk sheets.

Abnormal. Born, not turned. The kind of vampire the Veil fears because they cannot predict him.

He didn’t need to feed from you that night. He didn’t even touch you. Just read your file, looked into your eyes, and said—

“You’ll do.”

Not cruel. Not kind. Just… certain. And that certainty rewired you.

That was three months ago.

Now, you live on the top floor of a private Luxe facility in Gangnam. You don’t work. You don’t pay. You just exist—dripping in silk, gliding past glass, touched only by magic and occasionally by him.

You eat better than royalty. Your scent is monitored for health. Your sheets are laundered daily in blood-neutral detergent. Every book you ever mentioned liking? It's in your room. Your bath oils are imported. Your wardrobe is measured by hand.

But he hasn’t fucked you. Not once. Not yet. He’s fed. God, has he fed.

The first time, you thought you’d die from how soft he made it. The second time, you wanted him to bite deeper. The third time? You whimpered his name. He smiled, lips wet, but didn’t take you. Not then.

And yet—he gives.

A diamond choker with a spell-lock that hums when you're near danger. A dress you only wore once, now preserved in a glass case because he liked how you looked in it. Shoes hand-delivered from a Paris atelier, dyed to match the undertone of your skin. Perfumes keyed to his scent.

He gives like a man who has everything—except you.

Tonight, you had been his date. A Veil-chartered event in an underground gallery beneath Itaewon. Not that you paid much mind, except the fact that you stood by him looking all pretty, dressed by him.

And now? Now you’re back in the penthouse.

Your heels click across imported stone. You’ve just slipped off your earrings when you feel it—the hum in the walls. The signal. Feeding hour.

He’s never missed one.

You turn, heart already pounding.

He’s in the doorway. Loosened collar. No tie. Silver watch still on his wrist. And his eyes…

Black.

“Sit,” he says, voice silk-dark.

And you do, because God, you always obey.

He crosses the room like a secret unfolding—measured, lethal, beautiful. His gaze never leaves yours. Not even as he loosens the first button of his shirt. Not even as he sheds his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. The air shifts around him—cooler, heavier. The scent of cedar and clove curled in hunger.

You sit where he wants you. On the edge of the fainting couch, legs pressed together beneath silk that still smells like his cologne. Your lipstick is still intact. Your throat bare. The pulse at your neck, traitorous.

He kneels in front of you.

Not like a man worshipping. Like a vampire calculating.

His fingers brush your ankle, sliding upward in a touch so light it’s almost imagined—up the line of your shin, over your knee, until he’s nudging the hem of your gown higher, just enough to settle between your legs, kneeling. Commanding.

He doesn't speak right away. Just watches you.

Eventually, he reaches for your wrist. Not to feed.

Just to hold. “You're warm.”

You nod, breath shallow. "I always am. After we go out."

Something flickers across his face. Amusement? Possession?

He leans forward. Mouth hovering over your neck. Not touching. Just breathing. "Do you want the bite here?"

"Yes."

He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t ask again. He bites.

You gasp. His fangs are surgical. Smooth. Deep. You feel it in your blood, in your thighs, in the way your dress shifts against your hips as your whole body arches toward him.

It’s not pain. It’s pressure.

One of his hands at your waist, the other on your thigh, grounding you as he drinks your sweet blood in slow. His tongue flicks once. Just once. Over the wound.

And that’s what makes you whimper.

His groan is almost inaudible. Almost. He drinks a little deeper.

You clutch the shoulder of his shirt and try to stay still—but you can’t. You shift. You rub your knees together. You tilt your head further back like it’ll coax more of him out, like it’ll make him—

He stops. Pulls back. Blood on his lips. Collarbone flushed. Hands tighter now.

You’re panting.

"You should rest."

But he doesn’t mean it. Because his eyes are still black. And his cock is hard under his trousers. And you’re still in that dress he picked—silk, slit high, neckline low enough for his teeth to dip beneath.

“You’re still hungry,” you whisper.

He says nothing. But his hand slides higher up your thigh. Just barely. Just enough.

“Feed again,” you murmur.

He exhales. Shaky. Like he’s fighting something ancient. “If I feed again,” he says, voice wrecked, “I won’t stop.”

Your reply is immediate. “I don't want you to stop.”

His hand grips your thigh harder.

A beat. Two. And then—he snaps. His mouth crashes to yours like it’s the only law he’s ever obeyed.

Hot. Wet. Starving.

There’s no finesse. No restraint. Just tongue and breath and blood—your blood—smearing between your lips as he kisses you like he’s waited centuries. You taste iron and cedar and the slick salt of him groaning into your mouth.

His palm slides up your spine, yanks you forward. You gasp. He swallows it. You moan. He deepens it. Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it open, buttons scattering somewhere onto the marble.

“Chan—”

“Shut up,” he growls, biting your bottom lip, licking where it splits. “I told you. I won’t stop now.”

You don’t want him to.

Because you can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t survive if he doesn’t keep kissing you like that—like he’s drowning in you and wants to take you under with him.

He stands, dragging you up with him, your body flush to his. His hands on your ass, gripping through silk. You feel him—hard and heavy—pressed against your stomach. You grind against him. Shameless. He groans into your mouth like you just handed him your soul.

“On the bed,” he rasps, voice ruined.

You don’t walk. You stumble. He follows, eyes black, jaw clenched, pupils blown so wide you swear they swallow the moonlight.

Three steps from the bed, you spin and grab him by the open collar of his shirt—what’s left of it—and pull.

Hard.

He stumbles with you, low grunt in his throat, and you fall back onto the sheets like gravity’s been waiting for this moment.

Silk against your spine. Chan above you, braced on trembling arms. His shirt ripped wide open from your fingers, chest heaving. Eyes on your lips before leaning in again. Lips on your own. Tongue hot and deep, one hand gripping your jaw like he wants to brand his name there.

His knee shoves between your thighs and you start grinding against it. Moan into his mouth like a sinner under oath.

Your dress slips off one shoulder and of course he notices and his mouth leaves yours—trailing fire down your throat, tongue flicking the half-healed bite on your neck. You arch like a live wire. He sucks. You cry out. And then he speaks against your skin.

“You don’t understand what you’ve just done,” he rasps, voice shaking. “Letting me kiss you. Letting me taste it from your lips…”

He presses his forehead to your collarbone. His breath shudders. So does your body. “I’ve waited,” he says. “I’ve waited—every night. Let you heal. Let you rest. I was good.”

He lifts his head. Stares down at you. “But now you’ve ruined that.”

His hand slides under the slit of your dress. Fingers ghost over your inner thigh. He groans. "Fuck, you're so wet baby."

You whimper.

He leans down again, nose brushing your jaw, lips grazing your ear—

“One more bite,” he whispers. “Then I fuck you. And I don’t stop until your blood knows who it belongs to.”

"Please." You say. Desperate for it.

Chan's lips press against your shoulder, just below the dip of silk where your dress has fallen. He's slow, gentle, taking his time. Before finally, he bites and you gasp, sharp and wrecked.

His fangs in slowly this time. Not like earlier. No urgency. This bite is...savouring.

You clutch the sheets, back arching as he feeds again—mouth latched to your skin, tongue lapping slowly between pulses. Every draw pulls heat to your core. Every sound he makes against your skin echoes between your thighs.

And then you finally feel his hand parting your legs more, fingers brushing over your already soaked panties. You twitch and he groans into the wound.

"Dropping," he murmurs, mouth still on your flesh. "From being bit."

His fingers slip beneath the fabric. Contact. He traces the seam of your folds with two fingers before running them up again, pressing into your just enough to make your hips holt.

You moan out. That moan ripped straight from the center of you.

He chuckles darkly. Fangs still buried. Your blood on his tongue. Your cunt in his palm.

"So sweet," he growls. "Every part of you."

His thumb starts to circle that bundle of nerves. Not fast. Not hard. Just deep, tight pressure—rhythmic, possessive, hypnotic.

You’re panting now. Writhing. Your blood still feeding him as he works you from below.

His free hand grabs your thigh, pinning it open. “This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he hisses, licking over the bite again. “Wet and so so perfect for me.”

Two fingers thrust inside and your head snaps back. A choke moan spills out. You feel everything.

“Say it,” he demands, pulling back from your shoulder, licking the wound clean. “Say who owns you.”

“Y-You—fuck—Chan, it’s you—”

“Say it properly.”

His fingers curl just right.

“You own me,” you cry. “You own all of me—*fuck—*please don’t stop—”

“I told you,” he pants, mouth against your lips again, hand fucking you slow and deep, “I’m not stopping tonight.”

Chan finally pulled back, slowly. Fangs retracting from your skin. Mouth now painted with your blood again. He looks wrecked. Hair falling into his eyes. Chest rising like a storm's behind it. But his fingers? They've started fucking into you, a slow pace.

He sits back on his heels between your thighs, one hand fucking deep, slow, curling into that spot that makes your breath catch and your thighs twitch. The other hand trails up your waist until it cups your breast through the fabric. His thumb brushes over your nipple.

“Aw, look at you,” he coos, voice soaked in dark heat. “Dripping for me. Can feel it, baby girl.” His fingers move faster now—tight little thrusts that make your cunt clench, soak, squeal.

“You gonna cum?”

“Yes—yes, I—”

“I can feel it,” he growls. “All that sweetness pulling around my fingers. Fuck—so tight. So fucking good for me.”

He leans over, tongue lapping at the blood smeared down your clavicle while he finger fucks you harder. “That’s it. Let go. Be good. Cum on my hand.”

You cry out—knees jerking, hands clawing at the sheets, your entire body arching as heat snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you. But Chan doesn’t stop. Not until you’re trembling under him, cunt pulsing around his fingers, thighs soaked and twitching.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “You give so fucking much. You always do.”

He pulls his fingers out slow, watching the mess string between you.

Then—finally—his hands go to your dress. He peels it off of you, revealing every inch of your body to his hungry eyes. "Now," he murmurs, eyes dark again. "Now I take what's mine."

You barely catch your breath before you hear it—

The sound of his belt unbuckling.

Fast. Sharp. Desperate. He’s done waiting. His slacks fall in seconds. Boxers shoved low. His cock now in full view. Heavy, thick, veins pulsing. He is already flushed, the tip angry red and dripping.

Your mouth parts in awe. Your cunt clenches in instinct. “Look at you,” he breathes, crawling back over you, cock resting hot against your thigh. “Already shaking… and I haven’t even put it in yet.”

He grabs himself—gives one slow stroke, tip dragging along your folds as he lines up. You feel the heat of it.

“You want it?” he rasps.

“Yes. Please—”

“Then take it.”

And he pushes in. Slowly, gently, wanting to savour the feeling of your walls around his cock. You arch with a cry—eyes wide, fingers scrambling to hold onto something. But it’s no use. You’re being split. He’s so thick, and the stretch is perfect—too perfect. Your pussy tightens around him like velvet glove, and he groans low, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck, baby girl—so fucking tight—so good for me—”

He bottoms out.

One perfect grind of his hips. You feel everything. But he doesn't move yet, his hips flushed with yours.

"You take me so well," he whispers. "This pussy was made for me. You were made for me."

You whimper, breathless.

"Please—move—”

"I can. Remind me, who do you belong to baby?"

"You—you, Chan—fuck, I’m yours—”

"Good girl." he whispers. Pulling back and then slamming back in. Hard. Deep. Merciless. His thrusts picking up pace. Harder into you. Your body jerks up over the bed. He grabs your waist, pulls you back onto him.

Over and over.

The sound is obscene—skin on skin, soaked and slick. Your name is gone. All that exists is his name—Chan, Chan, Chan—echoing from your mouth, screamed into sheets, licked from your lips by the man breaking you open.

“You feel that?” he grits, fucking you deep, jaw clenched. “That’s mine. This body. This blood. This fucking cunt—”

He slaps your thigh. You moan.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours—yours, yours, yours—”

He groans—fucks you harder. At least for a few more thrusts until he moves again. Shifts. Flips you over. Fast. Rough. Hands firm under your hips. One sharp drag and your body turns beneath him—your chest to the sheets, ass up, knees wide on instinct.

You gasp, caught off guard by the dominance of it. And he just laughs—low, filthy, feral.

“That’s better,” he growls behind you. “Now I can really fucking feel you.”

His hand spanks your ass and you jolt.

Chan drags his cock through your slick folds again. Lining himself up. "Stay still," he commands. "Take it.£

And he thrusts back in. Hard. Deep. Full.

You scream. Into the pillow.

He fills you so completely from this angle, cock hitting new spots you didn’t know existed. And when he grinds in deep—stays there—you feel your whole body shudder.

Chan's hand moves into your hair. Fisting it and yanking your head back just enough that you arch for him. And the other hand? It wraps around your throat.

"You look so pretty like this," he hisses into your ear. "Open. Dripping. Mine."

He starts moving again—fucking you slow and rough, every stroke long and deep and perfectly angled. You’re choking on moans now—your own breath caught in your throat where his hand rests, light but threatening. Possessive.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants, hips slamming into you. “Gonna soak me like a good little blood doll?”

You nod—whimper—beg.

“Say it,” he growls.

“I—I’m gonna cum—fuck, Chan, please—”

“That’s right,” he snarls. “Do it. Let go.”

He pulls your hair harder. His cock slams deeper. And you shatter. Second orgasm—harder than the first—slams through you like lightning. Your whole body convulses, cunt pulsing around him so tight he groans, slams in deeper, loses rhythm—

“Fuck.”

He lets go of your throat. Pushes you flat to the bed, still buried inside you.

And then? He pulls out—panting, ruined—and flips you again.

“We’re not done,” he breathes. “Not until I fill you.”

You’re breathless. Sprawled on the sheets on your back again after being flipped. Skin flushed, throat kissed red, thighs sticky and trembling.

But he’s not done.

Chan climbs over you again—eyes black, cock still hard, soaked with your slick and heat and ownership. He grabs your legs, lifts them, pushes them up high over his shoulders.

You whimper. He growls.

“One more,” he rasps. “You’re gonna take one more.”

And then he thrusts back in. His thrusts never easing up, except this time instead of being fast, they're harder, deeper. Hitting deep inside your pretty dripping cunt.

Your legs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, your hips arching up instinctively to meet his every thrust. He’s so deep now—your cunt swallowing every inch, fluttering around him like it already misses him when he pulls back.

“So tight,” he pants, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucks into you. “So full. You feel that?”

He leans down—body folding over yours, pressing you into the bed. You gasp at the intensity—your knees practically touching your ears, your body caged beneath him. And before you know it, his mouth finds your throat again. Not the old bite. No.

This time it's lower. Right over your pulse. A new mark. A new claim.

He sinks his fangs in—again. But this time? He cums. At the same fucking moment.

You feel it—his cock twitching deep inside you, spilling into you with a primal, guttural growl against your skin. His hips still grind as he pumps you full, fucking it deeper, deeper, until your stomach coils from the pressure and the heat and the ache.

“That’s it,” he pants against your skin. “Take it. All of it. I’m gonna fill you—mark you—fuck it so deep into you it'll leak all night.”

He’s still feeding, slow now—tongue lapping, lips suckling, like your blood is the final part of the ritual.

And you? You’re crying his name.

“Chan—Chan—fuck—yes—yours—”

He lifts his head, face painted with blood and victory and crashes his lips onto yours.

Wet. Possessive. Full of cum and blood and everything he is.

“Good girl,” he whispers, against your swollen lips. “My good little blood doll.”

He pulls out—slow. Your thighs twitch. His cum leaks from between them. He watches it, chest heaving, and smirks before his eyes move on to you. Eyes no longer black, but softer now, sparklier. You’re wrecked beneath him, trembling and flushed, marked in blood and sweat and cum.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, fingers ghosting up your thigh. “You took me so well.”

You try to speak. Can’t. All you can do is breathe—shaky, grateful, undone. He leans down. Presses one kiss to your cheek. Another to your temple. Then the curve of your throat where your blood still lingers.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, so gentle it nearly makes you cry. “You’re mine now. And I take care of what’s mine.”

He moves with eerie speed after that, but never rushes you. One moment he’s gone, and the next—he’s back.

A warm cloth in his hand. Something for your bite marks. A glass of cold water. A square of dark chocolate—your favourite.

“Small sugars after feeding,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Prevents dizziness. Helps the body remember pleasure.”

You nibble it, fingers weak. He watches every movement like it’s precious.

Then he scoops you into his arms. You’re already drifting—high on oxytocin, on safety, on the way he smells like expensive oud and dark cherry blood.

“Where are we going…?” you murmur.

“Bath,” he says, already striding down the marble hallway. “You’re not sleeping with my cum leaking down your thighs onto silk sheets."

You huff a laugh into his chest. "Didn't you say you wanted me to leak all night?"

"I don't remember that. I never said that." But Chan is smiling, dimple smile and his ears are red.

In the bathroom, he takes the time to set you down on the edge of the tub gently while he takes care of filling it up with warm water, adding in jasmine oils. Whilst the tub fills up, Chan steps back to undress fully now, taking off that ripped shirt off.

By the time the tub is filled up, Chan makes sure to ease you in the tub, hands firm yet gentle before sliding in behind you and pulling your back to his chest, arms wrapping around your waist.

"You did so well tonight," he says softly, mouth brushing your shoulder. "I told you id' take care of you."

You nod. Too relaxed to speak.

His fingers draw idle shapes over your stomach, over the curve of your breast, over the softest parts of you that no one else touches.

“Sleep here, if you want,” he whispers. “Stay here. Forever.”

You simply relax, your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttered closed, breathing steady. "Mmm...forever." you murmur.

And Chan leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head.

“Forever,” he echoes. “Mine.”

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie

[puriteenism]

As someone with a fear of pregnancy, I usually hate the "afraid of pregnancy but has a baby anyway for him!!!" trope. I think its misogynistic and reduces the pain and terror and high chance of death that pregnancy presents. Despite this, I love the Hunger Games and its ending, where Katniss ends up happy with her children and Peeta, whereas usually I'd roll my eyes. Heres why I think that is.

My fear of pregnancy is mostly centred around pain/uncomfortability, which is what most main characters think about when the pregnancy trope is involved. They dont want to go through the body and mind altering/often destroying process pregnancy is (and before someone jumps down my throat im not anti pregnancy i just think ppl should be informed its very dangerous). So when the author plops them with a baby at the end bc they just love their lover so much, it feels... ignorant. Like theyre ignoring all the pain that they feel as though love can override it and presenting the only way they can truly be happy is if they have a baby. Its gross and I hate it.

But Katniss' fears arent about that. Theyre about having children who are born into the games, not the inherent horror of childbirth. Its more about bringing children into a world she knows will eat them alive and spit them out broken or dead or both. So when they end the book and theyve taken down the Capitol and there are no more hunger games, that bruden is lifted. Existing, having her children isnt shown as an obligation for her to be happy or complete and it isnt shown as her pushing through the fears of pain bc she loved peeta so much, its more of a screw you to the capitol. She is allowed to have her children, her private and raise them in a world that she is no longer afraid to have them in. And yes, Peeta plays a part in it, because what more to counter your fear of children in an uncertain world than a man you can always be certain will love you and them?

Its not a strong woman being told "you need a family and a man to be complete after telling the narrative repeatedly how you dont want that" its a "we have broken down the barriers that were previously holding you back, and you can be free now to have your family and it will be so radically different than you were expecting and that will fulfil you." They arent just children, theyre a representative of her triumph over the capitol. She fought to have them.

I know this makes no sense, she just means a lot to me.