#jagged deserved better

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

One last question for tonight: do you think the show should address a mature topic at all if the age rating prevents them from treating it with the gravity it deserves, or do you think that might be counterproductive?

My answer would change heavily based on the topic as there are a lot of very serious things that can be addressed in family-based media. Bluey has an episode about infertility. Avatar discusses war and genocide. Rugrats has an episode about losing a parent. Kids deal with all kinds of shit, so it's not wrong to find ways to address those things in the media that they consume.

Even if the kid in question is living a perfect childhood, it's still good to expose them to complex topics to make them a better person. Studies have found that exposing you to other points of view and cultures helps develop empathy, which is not surprising in the slightest. It's also why it's so important to expose kids to good media when you can. Reading books is especially important for understanding others.

With all that being said, if you are writing a story for young children and want to include a serious topic, but you cannot find a way actually discuss the topic while making the story work or keeping the story child-friendly, then you should not address that topic in your work.

For example, Miraculous has handled the topic of absentee parents in an utterly embarrassing manner. Jagged Stone and Audrey Bourgeois are written like they're just part of the family now without any discussion of what their absence did to their kids even though Jagged's kids didn't even know he was their dad and Audrey is implied to have been gone/rarely around for years. I actually retcon the Jagged thing so that Juleka and Luka always knew about their dad and even have a relationship with him, but it's mostly through phone calls since he's on the road a lot. I do this for two reasons:

This show has way too much drama and I needed to cut it down somewhere!

The way Jagged, Luka, and Juleka are written fits my setup way better than canon's setup. If I acknowledge their canon backstory, I'd have to completely change their dynamic because I have literally never seen a parent reunification go this smoothly.

[astroarcane]

Miraculous Writers trying to convince me these three ugly bitches who look like they snuck on on earth are redeemable fathers/characters but the girl who was literally just a mean 14 year old with an abusive mother is "irredeemable"...alright.

[mochinek0]

Daminette December 2022: 25-Demon/Angel

Damian sighed as he walked into the community center. He had been assigned community service for punching someone at school. The school had thought it was best for the youngest Wayne to see the consequences of his actions and what his actions could lead to. They volunteered him to work in a reformitory.

Damian looked around the room of people. It reminded him of Arkham, just less yelling and screaming. One person caught his eye; a girl staring out the window. She sat perfectly still on the windowsill.

'Who is she? Why is she alone?'

Damian quickly grabbed the clipboard out of the attendant's hand.

"Hey!" they cried.

He flipped through the pages quickly and found her: Marinette Dupain-Cheng. He shoved the clipboard back and started walking towards her. They grabbed his arm.

"I wouldn't go near her." they whispered, "We go told very bad things about her. She's very violent."

'These people are idiots.'

Damian walked up to the sill.

"Hello." he spoke.

Marinette didn't speak or turn at the sound of his voice.

"Not one for words?" Damian questioned.

"Words are filled with lies." she stated.

'Progress.'

"I am told you are violent." he continued.

She sighed and continued looking out the window.

"I do not believe them." he concluded.

Marinette turned and looked at him, shocked. Damian noticed tears build up befre she quickly shut down her emotions.

"So what?" Mari questioned.

"I am sentenced for one month to work here for two hours, three times a week." Damian informed her.

"Lucky you." she declared.

"I would rather spend time with you than with idiots." he stated, "I can tell you are not like the others."

As he turned to leave, he said his name was Damian and left.

It took until the very last day for him to get her to open up once more.

"I was never violent." Marinette whispered, still looking out the window, "Not until the end."

"The end?" Damian asked.

"I snapped." she sniffled, "My parents sent me here because the couldn't 'control' me anymore. That's a lie."

"Why don't you tell me when everything went wrong." He spoke.

She shrugged, "Why not? I get out of here in a week. I'll be eighteen by then and I'm suppose to get my stuff from them. I'm never going home. I grew up in Paris, France and my parents were bakers. Everything started with a new transfer student; she was a liar. I could see through her façade, but no one else could. She lied to people like we breathed oxygen."

"I confronted her. She said she was only 'telling people what they wanted to hear'." Mari sighed, "Nice to know people wanted to think so badly of you, huh. Anyways, she faked disabilities, told lies about going places, made up connections to celebrities. I tried to tell my friends, my classmates, but they wouldn't listen. One of them knew she was a liar and said it was better to let her lie; that everyone would find out eventually. Later, she started to spread rumors about me, saying that I was bullying her, sending her threatening texts, calling her at all hours so she couldn't sleep. It was all over a boy she wanted me to stay away from who was my friend. There even came a point where I got expelled because of her."

"And you proved your innocence." he smirked.

"If only." Marinette answered, "I never got a chance to defend myself. There had been a tip to the teacher that the answer sheet for a test was in my bag. My idiot teacher had already graded the tests with it, but I somehow needed it. When I accused her, we were sent to the office, together. She walked down a whole flight of stairs and then started screaming that I pushed her."

"Did they not check the footage?" Damian growled.

"Nope. The principal listened to people with money and powerful parents more. I was just a baker's daughter. Why would the daughter of an Italian diplomat lie?" Mari waved off, "She wasn't sent to the nurse or a hospital. She then accused me of stealing a necklace that was an heirloom. It was really a Gabriel necklace that had come out five months prior, but the 'evidence' was there. So, I was expelled."

"How were you reinstated?" he questioned.

Marinette laughed, "The bitch claimed to have a lying disease that made her fabricate evidence under stress."

Damian gripped his jeans as tight as he could to stop himself from running off.

"Not sure when it started, but eveyone started telling my parents how 'awful' I was to her." Marinette stated, turning back to the window.

"And they believed them?" he asked.

Marinette nodded, "Soon, it wasn't just her bullying me, threatening me. She got the whole class to do it. They started tripping me, destroying my homework, my designs, spilled coffee on me and played it off on my own clumsiness. One day, she said I chased her until she twisted her ankle."

"What happened?" Damian pushed.

"That was the day I snapped." Mari replied, "I don't remember what happened. I was sitting in the back of the class and the next thing I know, I was being pulled off of her. She had a broken , fractured jaw, and was bleeding a lot. I'm told I just kept callign her a liar over and over, but I don't know. Then, I was sent here. I've been here for....two years, I think?"

'I was right. This isn't a violent girl. This girl is an angel and she plummeted.'

"May I hug you?" Damian asked, suddenly.

Marinette turned quickly. He could see her face had turned bright red and she was shocked by his gesture. Damian leaned in and held her close.

"I do not believe you are bad." he whispered, "I think you are a better person than most."

Marinette shakily brought her hands around him and began to sob.

"What was that girl's name?" Damian probed.

Mari sniffled and pulled away. She wiped her tears, like nothing had ever happened, and turned bac to look out the window.

"Layla Rossi. She went by Lila." she answered, "I don't know if it's still with my things, but I kept a journal about everything. You can read it if you want. I decided to keep it as a reminder to never let it happen again; that I never needed friends, again."

Damian stood up and placed a hand on her head. He smirked as he walked away and explained he had permission to look though her belongings. He found the journal and smiled. Marinette had no idea she had just made a deal with a demon.

Damian sat in front of the batcomputer. It had been easy to find article in Paris about the incident. Marinette's name hadn't been mentioned, but Lila's was everywhere. It had made headlines that Gabriel Agreste's muse had been beaten up and bullied by another girl and had to take time off from modeling. Lila had painted herself as the ultimate victim saying she was being bullied for trying to protect Adrien Agreste from the girl. Other people backed up her statement by saying she had been obsessed with the male model.

Damian looked at Adrien Agreste's picture on file and glared.

'Blonde hair. Green eyes. Clone of his mother. Recently started school at age thirteen. What a joke. He's not even that good looking.'

It wasn't even a challenge to find where everything took place. Neither of their social medias were private. There were pictures of the school on both accounts and they had the same circle of friends. Damian hacked into the school and began to go through the dates in Marinette's journal. It was all there: the bullying, the tripping, being shoved and threatened. She had been right; no one had even looked. He quickly started downloading all the evidence.

"What are you doing, Damian?" Bruce spoke, suddenly.

Damian handed over Marinette's journal. Bruce looked from the pink book to the screens. It was easy to see he wasn't pleased.

"This girl is in the program I was sent to." Damian declared, "I want her here. I want her to work for us. We would have to help her get her GED, but it shouldn't be too difficult."

"You want her in the manor?" Bruce inquired.

"And at Wayne Enterprise." his son answered, flipping to the back of the book, "She's a designer. Her name was mentioned by several celebrities and had backing before all of this. I assume the person let their emotions get the better of them and was jealous. Everything about the bully revolved around her and making her appear better then Marinette. She claimed to know celebrities that the designer knows. The designer was friends prior with the Agreste child and had won a contest. What better way then to take the designer the Agreste turned away than to take her for ourselves?"

"We can have her make suits to the next gala and see how the do as a trial." Bruce declared.

"She gets out next week." Damian replied, "We can get her, then.

"Why wait?" his father asked.

"She'll be eighteen by then." Damian smirked, "Her parents won't be able to do a thing."

Bruce smiled at his son's remark.

Damian arrived with Bruce, next to him. Marinete looked at them confused.

"We are taking you home with us." Damian declared.

Marinette looked between the both of them in shock, "What?"

"We have already made a room for you in our home." Bruce spoke.

"Why?" Mari asked.

"We are going to help you graduate so you can work on your own." Damian answered, "You wanted to be an individual who did not need to rely on anyone, if I remember correctly. Get your things."

Marinette stared in shock at the size of Wayne Manor. Damian helped her place everything in her new room, while Bruce gathered up the rest of the boys for dinner. Mari set her clothes on the bed and turned to Damian.

"Why?" she questioned, "I still don't understand."

"Someone clipped your wings, Angel." Damian answered, "No one should have made you fall to my level."

"What level is that?" Marinette asked.

"Hell." He smirked.

"You, Demon Spawn!" Jason interrupted, "Quit flirting. Alfred says dinner is in five minutes. "

Marinette blushed at the implications. Sure, Damian had brought her into his home, but she doubt that was the reason why. At dinner, Mari found out that Damian was Bruce's only son; everyone else had been adopted. They all had hard lives growing up and Bruce had taken them in without a second thought. The older boys had teased Damian for following in his Father's footsteps in taking in blue eyed people in need. All of them made her feel welcome. They told her they would take her around the city to elp her get use to the area. Alfred was happy to have another person to cook with. That itself had earned some of the boys to look away and find the idea of paint appealing.

"Am I adopted now?" Marinette questioned.

"No." Dick answered, "You're eighteen so you just live here."

Marinette smiled, "Thank you."

Damian walked Marinette back to her room.

"Don't worry, you will get use to the manor, eventually." Damian stated, "We just don't want you getting lost. I have a surprise for you tomorrow morning."

Marinette looked at him confused, but nodded. She wasn't sure what else Damian could give her. He had given her a roof over her head, a place to eat, and a way to get her life back together. She laid down on the softest bad she had felt and passed out.

Damian glared at the screen as he sent the emails and videos to the correct people in mind. He sent everything to the school board anonymously and also to the news outlet in Paris.

"You good?" Jason questioned, "You sort of have an Al Ghul face going on."

"Just.....getting some revenge." he answered.

"You know Bruce-" Tim began.

"Approved." Damian declared.

The three boys looked at each other and then back at their youngest sibling.

"How?" Dick asked.

Damian sighed and brought up the footage of Marinette being beaten and then someone claiming she had started the fight. They weren't happy with what they were seeing. Marinette was docile and now they could see why. It was going to be challenge to get her to speak up.

"How can we help?" Jason demanded.

Lila woke up to the sound of her phone vibrating uncontrollably on her night stand. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. She picked up her phone to see what was going on.

'Did Gabriel come out with the new catalog?'

Lila clicked on social media and was shocked to see that she was being called a liar.

'What is going on?'

She clicked on a link and saw footage of her shoving Marinette down on the floor and then kicking her, while she laughed. At the sound of footsteps, she saw herself rip her own shirt and slap her face. When the adult came into view, Lila ran and hugged her, thanking her for coming to her rescue. She lied and wailed how Marinette started to beat her and she had to defend herself against the bully. She was so scared.

'No! Who posted this? This is going to ruin my reputation.'

There was many videos going around of teacher's ignoring Marinette asking for help. They were telling her to be the bigger person. They were telling her to open her heart and be more forgiving. They told her how it was better to ignore the hurtful words the others were saying about her. There were also videos of Lila walking down the stairs and claiming Marinette pushed her. There was her framing Marinette for stealing test answers and placing them in her backpack. There was evidence of her buying the Gabriel necklace and putting it in Marinette's locker, crying how she stole her family heirloom. Almost every lie she had ever told was being exposed by the news station: traveling out of Paris, her connections with celebrities, and her disabilities. The celebrities themselves were callign the news station and outraged how they didn't know such a horrible girl. Jagged Stone, himself, claimed how Marinette Dupain-Cheng was his personal designer.

"Marinette is one of the sweetest people I know." Jagged Stone declared, "She has always been ready to help me. Whether it's for a CD cover or a rockin' outfit for my shows! Hey, whoever sent this out. Reach out to me so I can talk to my designer and hire her again."

The news caster then informed Jagged Stone and Paris that Marinette Dupain-Cheng was sent to a reformitory out of Europe. As we saw, many people took to bullying her and those bullies turned her own parents against her. They thought they were doing the right thing. Why you ask? We might remember her better as the girl who beat up Gabriel Agreste's muse. They brought up their past headlines of Lila Rossi with a broken nose and being taken into an ambulance. His so-called muse told reporters that she feared for her life, in that moment. The model declared how she was only protecting her classmate and co-worker, Adrien Agreste, from a stalker. Many people agreed with her statement, but we can now see those people were assisting her in bullying this young girl. They lied to hide the fact on who was the true victim.

Her social media was flooded with comments:

"What a fake story."

"I wonder how popular she got from playing the victim."

"I hope she enjoys her new fame."

"LOL"

"Liar"

"Bully"

"Faker"

The news caster smiled, "The only thing the anonymous tipster stated was that they were doing this for Marinette Dupain-Cheng. They learned about everything and it wasn't hard to find. Marinette had a whole book full of detailed notes, every time she got bullied and by whom. They claimed it wasn't hard to find the evidence, only that no one ever looked. People are dumb. No one looked up the obvious lies and the pricipal obviously lined his pockets with richer families in mind. Also, Happy belated birthday, Marinette!"

The backlash from the reveal was gigantic. The school board was pissed about what had happened under supervision and had been brushed off. The principals and teachers were terminated immediately. Their licenses were suspended indefinitely; they would never work with children again.

Layla Rossi was quickly fired from Gabriel. All of her social medias were blocked and so was her phone number. Her mother had been completely blindsided by the news. She had stomped into her room and taken away her phone, until the truth was revealed. It was decided by the school board to expell Lila two months before graduation. When the verdict was given to her mother, she decided it was best to also take her to a reformitory until her daughter turned eighteen, the following year.

Everyone that had initially been apart of Bustier's class was crying. They had been shocked and horrified to learn they had chosen the wrong side. Marinette had told them Lila was lying to them; she had only tried to get them to see the truth. Adrien was hugging a pillow as he watched the news from his couch. He watched over and over as Mari was bullied by their friends and Lila. She was pushed and kicked while she was down. She sat there and did nothing, just like he told her to.

'She never told me this was going on!'

'Why would she ever come to you? This is all your fault! You helped turn everyone against her.'

Adrien broke and sobbed into the pillow.

The big question on everyone's mind was : Where is Marinette now? Her parents had reached out to the reformitory, to get her back, but she was no longer there. Once she was eighteen, she was gone.

It was years until people in Paris learned what happened to Marinette. Her name was trending again, everywhere. Marinette Dupain-Cheng had married Damian Wayne. They could all see she was happy. Several people had reached out to talk with her, but they all failed. No one knew how to contact her other than to call Wayne Enterprise. When they reached the receptionist, they always asked who was calling. . When they gave their own name, they were told their name had been blacklisted by the family and not to pass the call to Marinette. They tried using fake names after some time, but Marinette didn't know who they were so their calls were rejected.

"We know her!" they complained.

"And if she cared, she would call you!" the receptionist retorted and hung up.

TAG LIST: @maribat-calendar-events @animeweebgirl @a-star-with-a-human-name @meme991001 @vixen-uchiha @abrx2002 @alysrose-starchild @fandom-trapped-03 @dood-space @moonlightstar64 @saltymiraculer @marveldcedits20 @09shell-sea09 @icerosecrystal @animegirlweeb @insane-fangirl-of-everything @blueblossombliss @nickristus-dreamer @megawhitleycalderonpaganus

[jennrypan]

So..MLB basically says.

Gabriel, Tomoe, Jagged Stone, Audrey and Andre are ALLLLL worthy of redemption and theyre actually NOT that bad despite one being an actual terrorist and the others being either overbearing to an abusive degree, neglectful and childish or verbally abuse.

BUT NO ITS FINE CUZ YOU KNOW WHOS THE WORST???

LILA AND CHLOE CUS THEY WERE MEAN TO THE MC. THESE 14 YEAR OLD LITTLE ASSHOLES ARE FAR WORSE THAN THE LITERAL ADULT DIRT BAGS SURROUNDING THEM.

Obviously Chloe and Lila are assholes and deserve repercussions for being bullies and treating others like shit, anyone with a brain can see that but to be so heinous and down right stupid to claim these kids are more fucked up than the actual adults who are fully aware of whats going on?? Whos been alive longer?? Seriously?? Make that make sense.

Why does Gabriel get to redeem himself after spending months terrorizing Paris, killing people, neglecting his son and even physically abusing him when he deems it fit?? Why does he get a pass?? Cuz his baby mom got sick doin shit she knows she shouldnt be doing?? Really??

Why does Audrey and Andre get to not see anyone call them out for how they made Chloe?? Why does Andre get to disown Chloe and start over with her nicer copy?? After making her into the spoiled brat she is cuz HE GAVE HER EVERYTHING SHE WANTED, HE COULDVE PUT HIS FOOT DOWN BUT HE DIDNT?? HES A GROWN MAN, and suddenly hes done?? Cuz he wanted to be some dumbass director?? Seriously?? Sir you made your daughter that way and allowed your shitty wife to talk down to her and destroy her self worth, you allowed your daughter to keep demanding things from people and never ONCE tried to speak up, and suddenly you wanna start over with a kid that isnt even yours??

Jagged Stone literally abandons his whole ass kids cuz "kids arent cool" and he KNEW WHERE THEY WERE, KNEW WHO THEY WERE, and likely wouldve NEVER told them unless Luka in his akumatized form actually found him cuz hes a fucking man child going through a midlife crisis

(also lol @ all the salt fics saying hed be there for Marinette more than her own parents. Mf wasnt even there for his own kids, bffr)

I cant really say much on Tomoe cuz we dont really get much on her besides little hints but giving how Kagami is and how she mentions she wasnt even allowed to draw shows that Tomoe is exactly like Gabriel and what do ya know..Kagamis also a senti monster. Its fucked up!

Why do these grown ass adults get passes but Lila and Chloe dont? Chloes apparently a little soulless monster and Lila?? Is a fucking sociopath pulling an Orphan with all these new identities?? What the fuck??

Also lets not forget, Felix tried to make Adrien lose his friends, mocked Adrien for being an abused kid, found out Adriens mother is in the basement and REFUSES TO TELL HIM?? He gave Gabriel all of the miraculous, and instead of helping his COUSIN, he helps this random girl hes now suddenly obsessed with?? What?? But no yeah FELIX deserves to be forgiven despite all of his actions also being just as selfish and terrible as Chloe and Lila but go the fuck off ig, but EVEN STILL HES NOT WORSE THAN GABRIEL

[supermantv]

come on jag, evict matt, i know you want to 🫶🏼 you spent the entire jury phase turning on and unnecessarily blindsiding loyal allies why stop now!! 🤭

[bowiestarzzz]

warriors designs in order of appearance 9/?: Jagged Peak

[image description: a digital drawing of a dark gray tabby cat with a white chest, belly, and legs. His eyes are aquamarine and one of his hind legs is held at an awkward angle. Text above him says "Jagged Peak". End ID.]

[goggles-mcgee]

Too Late: Jagged, Penny & Clara

Latest Chapter in the story for @miner249er 

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Summary: Regret is a funny, ugly little thing and Jagged regretted a lot, but nothing more than not noticing how much Marinette was hurting. He regretted not being there, so he's ready to help in anyway he can, even if Marinette isn't there to see it.  

Random notes swam through the air as Jagged plucked at his guitar string every now and then, his thoughts racing a mile a minute. He wasn’t a man that liked to be weighed down by his troubles, it was what made him a great Rockstar because usually he could put his troubles into notes and make a killer song out of them which in some weird way helped him work through them. But I don’t think all the songs I could write in the world could get me through this…He thought with a grimace. It hurt to move his face much given the amount of tears he had shed since Paris had been “liberated.” What a joke that was. Paris wasn’t liberated. Not really. Sure they no longer had Hawkmoth looming over them like some kind of sadistic twisted talent scout, but they weren’t better. The random bouts of yelling and crying and laughing at inappropriate times were a testament to that. 

No one knew how to feel their emotions healthily anymore so they all came out in these ugly blobs. Jagged felt bad, he really did, especially given he wasn’t in Paris a lot of the time during Hawkmoth’s reign. Sure it seemed like he was but Jagged could only handle so much of Paris before he felt like a balloon filled with too much air and Penny knew that. So they would always go to one of his houses in Daresbury where his mother had lived before she passed. If there was one thing Jagged understood and prioritized with himself, it was his emotions. When he was younger, about mid-teens, his parents fought about his “behavior” and how he was a bad egg. Well that’s what his father said, it was always something along those lines and he always used what he said as an excuse to hit Jagged, to “shape him up.” His father had always said he was ungrateful and lazy and had too much of an attitude, but his mum, God bless his dear mum, she knew something wasn’t okay.

It was when she took him to a doctor to talk about it that his dad really freaked, he never liked to talk about that night but that was the night Bruce Lewis went to prison and Jagged and his mother were admitted to the hospital. That was also the night his mother decided to change Jagged’s last name to her maiden name, so there was no part of him attached to his father in any way. That was the night Jagged became Jareth David Stone and he had cried. Things got better for them and things got a bit worse of course, his mum had to provide for the two of them and on top of that they were doing their best to learn about BPD, specifically Bipolar II Disorder since that was Jagged’s official diagnosis. It wasn’t always perfect but damn it was a happy time for the both of them, of course Jagged still had his ups and downs but his mother was always there to help him or just support him during his episodes. She was a kind soul that always saw the good in people and she was so protective over those she cared about.

Maybe that’s why he liked Marinette so much. She reminded him of his mother in all the best ways and unfortunately all the bad ways too. Both women were too afraid to tell people no or let people know when they themselves needed help. Jagged’s heart hurt at the memories that rushed into his head but it was true. His mum had the weight of the world on her shoulders for so long that when she had the opportunities to ask for help, she never did, and on some levels Jagged understood but then he’d remember that damned phone call that came. That one from a doctor he hadn’t known about told him the words he dreaded to hear most, his mother had died. At first he hadn’t believed the man, he thought it was some cruel joke by some obsessed fan of his that was looking for his attention, or perhaps some tabloid journalist that was looking for a story to make a fool out of him by saying he cried over the phone. Unfortunately it was neither of those things, his mother had well and truly died in the hospital due to a nasty case of pneumonia.

It had torn his world apart. He canceled everything once he was sure, his remaining tour dates, his guest appearances, his CD and record signings, all of it. History repeats itself, he mused. When he heard that Marinette had gone missing he had honest to God felt the World tilt in an attempt to dislodge him. He had been floating in space in this numbness before he had one of his worst episodes, it wasn’t as bad as the one he had when he found out his mother died or when he found out he had been a father of twins and hadn’t been there for them or Anarka but it was up there. The teen had kicked the door to his heart in and basically lived there with all his other loved ones. It wasn’t an exaggeration when he said, even if it was only to himself, that Marinette was like another kid to him. He saw her as a daughter and that made everything so much worse. Jagged knew she had Tom and Sabine but there was no denying that he and Penny saw Marinette as a daughter and they both knew that Tom and Sabine knew. 

He had just gotten back into Paris after going on a small tour for his new album when the world crumbled around him. Penny had gotten them their usual room at Le Grand Paris while they had been trying to close a deal on some property so they could have a more permanent home there as well so they wouldn’t have to stay at the hotel every time they came back to Paris. Jagged had been so excited that he had been back in Paris and that he would be able to spend time with Luka, Juleka and Marinette that he barely slept on the plane ride back so he basically crashed as soon as they checked in and he blamed himself for that everyday now. Maybe if he had been awake, maybe if he had had seen the news he would have been able to call Marinette and maybe just maybe she wouldn’t have been akumatized. No one deserved to be akumatized but if someone had to be he would have taken that possessed butterfly a thousand times over for Marinette. 

Knowing that Luka and Juleka had been akumatized had ripped his heart into messy pieces, knowing he hadn’t been there for them even if at the time he hadn’t known about them but when he knew he made sure both of them knew they could call and that he would be there for them no matter what. They were all learning how to rely on each other, them with their everyday issues and him letting them help and even just see his episodes. It was tough to be so vulnerable in front of his children because he wanted them to rely on him and he had those twisted thoughts that screamed that once his kids saw one of his episodes, that they would turn tail and run. He knew it wasn’t true, they proved time and time again that they didn’t think any less of him, nor were they afraid of his episodes and God…he loved his kids. He loved them so much. Jagged had never understood when parents had said that a parent’s love for their kids was something that could never be described, it was all encompassing, it was … frightening. Jagged had never understood until he did.

Loving his children was as easy as it was heartbreaking. It was easy because there were just so many things about each one that added to his ever growing love of them, and it was heartbreaking because of every hurt they felt and that heartbreak seemed to multiply ten-fold with Hawkmoth. Hawkmoth had managed to akumatize two of his three children and maybe it was awful of him to wish and pray it, but dammit did he wish and pray that Marinette would be spared. Of course he wished Luka and Juleka weren’t victims of Hawkmoth over and over like that pigeon guy, but there was just something about Marinette that made it seem like if she got akumatized, things really were bad. They all found out what that something was he mused as he played the familiar cords of his Ladybug song. It was common for him to make all his songs work on piano and guitar. Piano for his Mum, guitar for him. His Mum adored piano and had come from a pretty well-off family when she was young so she had been classically trained in piano. 

“Have you heard?” The familiar voice of Clara Nightingale crashed through Jagged’s thoughts. 

“Hello Clara.” Penny, ever so polite, greeted.

Jagged sat up on his couch and gently put his guitar down as he gave the younger singer a once-over. It had been a good while since she had ditched her signature microphone so it was no surprise to not see it. What was a surprise was the look of fury on her face. “Heard what?”

“Goodness you haven’t.” Clara sighed out harshly, it almost sounded like a growl as she began to pace. “I…I hate to be the one to give you the latest “miraculous” news but I mean, this might be better than hearing it on the news like I just did. They are planning to make an animated show revolving around Marinette! As Ladybug! The sketches they released look exactly like her! And, and they are basically just making it a biography in cartoon form! With “creative” additions.” 

“I’m scared to ask what those “creative” additions are.” Penny wrinkled her nose, most likely trying to think up what they meant by “creative” and whatever she was thinking was particularly unpleasant. 

Clara continued to pace and Jagged distantly wondered if it was actually possible for someone to wear a floor down so much they just fall through. Then it all caught up to him and his blood froze before boiling. “They must actually be fucking insane. Pen…Pen, get the lawyers. All of them. Mar…Marinette has gone through enough. She doesn’t need this, she doesn’t need people exploiting her life for money. Her likeness for money.”

“I’ll add my lawyers to the pile too if it’ll help.” Clara offered as she plopped herself down on the couch opposite of Jagged. The poor girl looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She hid it well, unlike her heartbreak which Jagged related to all too well. When everything hit the fan, Jagged became quieter and louder, it was exhausting, and Clara…Clara lost her spark. She stopped rhyming. She stopped dancing. She still wrote music, he knew she did because she would come over to either work on said music, collaborate, or just work through the emotions with music. Jagged also knew it was as out of worry for a friend as it was guilt. Clara had confided in him and Penny that she had recently commissioned Marinette for a new jacket and matching skirt for a new music video she was going to shoot just before the teen had gone missing. 

Clara had weeped, wailed, thrown whatever was in reach because she blamed herself for adding stress on Marinette’s plate. Everyone in the room knew the teen had a problem with saying no to others but they had thought they had made sure she knew that she could always tell them no, no matter the circumstances. They should have known that no matter what they said the teen never would have taken it easy if it meant she could help them, Marinette loved helping others even if it meant the decline of herself. Whether that be in time, mental or physical health or even personal care. It reminded him of himself or Clara when they were in a creative rut and felt like they needed to produce something. 

Whatever they pushed themselves to do always could have come out better if they had made themselves relax and take a moment to just breath and exist. That was just the curse of creative people though, or that’s how Jagged felt anyway, and Marinette was a very creative person. She didn’t stop at one medium of art, she excelled in fashion, she loved to do digital art, any crafts she could make with her hands were mastered in no time. It was like she was made from pure creativity. It was insane and it was like if you were near her, you just felt so inspired to create. It was one of the many things that Jagged loved about the girl. She knew how to help bounce ideas around and when too much was too much, sure it would take her a while to find her voice but when she did you couldn’t help but listen. 

Marinette was an inspiration without even being Ladybug. Being Ladybug just added to it all. So it was no surprise that people wanted to tell others about her, it was the way they were doing it that was pissing Jagged off. “I want to talk to the show’s creator, the writers, the works! Pen, we also need to call Tom and Sabine, if they don’t already know we need to tell them, and if they do know then we need to tell them we are calling the lawyers up and what we are planning to do to make sure this show doesn’t do Marinette wrong.” 

“I’ll give them a call now.” Penny confirmed with a soft smile directed at Jagged, one he hoped he reflected but honestly he felt so drained. “Clara, how about you get comfortable? We were about to order lunch and we would love to have you.”

Clara slumped further into the couch and gave Penny a fond smile as she shook her head. They both knew it wasn’t a question to stay and have lunch, Penny was telling Clara she was having lunch with them. “Whatever you say Pen.”

While Penny did that Jagged turned to Clara to really look at her and sighed, “How are you doing kid?” 

“As well as I can be. I’ve been seeing that therapist you suggested. The one in London? She’s been helping.”

“Good. I’m glad. Maggie is always a joy to see when I visit her sister Anna for a session. Anna was the one who suggested Maggie, and maybe it’s a bit of a little sister bias but she did say sometimes it’s easier to speak to people that are closer in age to us. Well for some people.” Jagged shared.

Clara nodded. “Yeah, I think her being closer to my age does help. It feels like I’m just venting to a friend or something which is nice.”

“See? Therapy ain’t so big and scary.” 

“Not if you have the right therapist you mean.” Clara snarked. 

“Okay, fair.” Jagged conceded. 

Penny walked back over to them, plopped herself next to Jagged, and laid her head on his shoulder before she let out a long sigh. He rubbed her back slowly, “Tough call, Love?”

“I just can’t handle hearing Sabine cry anymore Jareth. It breaks my heart.” Penny practically whispered.  

“I know, Love. Me too. But we’re gonna do something to hopefully help her days get a little more bearable.”

“If only we could sue The Followers. They’re doing more damage than anyone.” Clara huffed, her eyes wet with tears. The Followers…they had all been hurt in some way by the group. Jagged’s heart still hurt at the thought of his Eiffel Tower glasses that had been stolen from the very hotel they were staying in. They even got their grubby little hands on a pocket square, the very first thing Marinette had made for Penny. At first, Jagged hadn’t even wanted to stay at the stupid hotel after the pain it had caused due to its lax security, but after watching the footage of the overwhelming rush/attack of the hotel, he really couldn’t blame them. There were just so many of them, and they acted all at once. It was terrifying. 

“Dad!” That one word broke their little bubble and immediately set Jagged on edge. He didn’t even realize he had gotten to his feet until he was already halfway towards the door meeting Luka and his friend Kagami. 

“Luka. What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Is Juleka hurt? Your mom?”

“Dad. Dad, no. We’re fine. None of us are hurt.” Luka said as he put his hands on Jagged’s shoulders that sank when he realized his son, daughter and their mother were not in danger or hurt. 

“Well I wouldn’t say we are fine but we are not in immediate danger.” Kagami said from her place beside Luka. 

“Come sit down. Lunch will be here and you guys can tell us what is going on.” Penny said calmly, Jagged was once again thanking his lucky star that he met her and fell in love with her. She always knew how to keep a level head. 

“Lunch sounds swell, thank you.” Kagami, also someone who knew how to keep a level head nodded before she took a seat next to Clara. Luka was still standing looking more than a bit harried though. 

“You okay kiddo? You look like five different genres of music are blasting at full volume in your ears.” Jagged put a hand on Luka’s shoulder and gently guided him to the couch so he could sit down. Now that he got a closer look, it seemed as though both teens had been running at some point. Maybe even to the hotel and that worried Jagged. 

Luka sighed but gave Jagged a relieved smile, “That’s exactly how I feel. Everything is just…it just feels so…if I had my guitar I’d be able to show it but…everything is just so overwhelming is the best I can put it.” 

“Well, lay it on your old man, what’s going on?”

Luka bit his lip before he took a deep breath in, locked eyes with Kagami and then with Jagged. “Kagami and I had been noticing weird things while we were out…and like at first we didn’t think anything of it, I mean everything has been weird since…since Mar-...well you know.”

Jagged nodded, he did know. Marinette’s disappearance was like Paris’s own Pandora’s box. “Yeah I getcha.”

“It was actually a couple days ago that things progressed but we never thought they would act so quickly or in such a way. Basically, we noticed people watching us at first, which was strange but given everything that has happened we thought we just had to get used to it.” Kagami picked up after Luka. 

“Watching you?” Clara echoed, worry clear in her voice. “How many people?”

“We never got a good enough look at first.” Luka mumbled like he was ashamed they hadn’t been more observant. Dammit they were kids! They shouldn’t feel bad about not being on guard twenty-four seven, and they certainly shouldn’t feel the need to note everything going on around them. “But then it uh, upgraded.”

“Upgraded?” Penny’s voice and grip on the back of the couch was tight.

“A group of people started to follow us. It was small. We thought we could handle it.” Kagami informed them stiffly.

“Kid…” Jagged breathed out.

“We…They weren’t saying anything or chasing us. We thought it-that they would go away. Like a rumor or something.” Luka tried to explain.

“But from there we noticed the groups getting bigger, they were following us longer…” Kagami trailed off as she started down at her lap. “Then we noticed them following us online as well.”

“We thought if we blocked the random people it would help. It didn’t. Eventually we went private, if you noticed that’s uh, that’s why. We didn’t know why they were doing all of this until today…” Luka sounded so small and Jagged wanted nothing more than to pull his kid into his arms but they were still mapping out physical affection and he didn’t want to make things worse in case that was a no-go for Luka. 

“Today they group approached us…” Kagami said, her voice shook. Jagged’s heart broke all over again, this was a spunky girl who usually was never bothered by anything. At the end of the day though, she was just a kid, a kid trying to deal with too much by herself. “I should have brought my sword. I always take my sword but today I didn’t and…The group approached us and started shouting questions. They even tried to get us to sign things.” 

“Sign things?” Clara asked, alarmed.

“Nothing bad, just autographs.” Luka jumped in to comfort Clara.

“Autographs.” Penny deadpanned.

“To be frank,” Kagami began, “They believe that Luka and Myself were Viperion and Ryuuko respectively. Apparently we have…fans. Though some of the questions asked were why we failed Ladybug, or something similar.” 

“They asked us to confirm our “identities.” Other questions were just really creepy. They kept trying to shake our hands.” Luka shuddered.

“Apparently some even run blogs about us. One even knew my favorite drink.” Now it was Kagami who sounded small.

Jagged was burning mad. He was trying his best not to lose it, but FUCK he was scared for his kid! Mad for his kid! Luka and Kagami did not deserve this, any of this. They deserved to mourn their friend, hope for her return, binge eat ice cream and cry. They did not deserve to be stalked. No one deserved to be stalked, and if there was anything that Jagged hated, it was stalkers. “Penny. Clara. I need you both to call up any good bodyguards you know. No Luka, no arguing. These people are stalking you. Stalking you. Stalkers escalate, Son. I don’t want to see you hurt, either of you. So until we can figure out what we can do legal wise, I need to know you two are safe and that means bodyguards.”

Luka and Kagami just looked at Jagged like he hung the moon and he did his best not to cry from feeling overwhelmed himself. He was doing the bare minimum of being a parent he thought. But he would earn those looks, he promised himself at that moment that he would.

Next Chapter

[magnetarbeam]

Well, I still don't have much of a plan for how to proceed from here, but I think this first chapter is done enough to post.

[3-cats-in-a-coat]

The marauders + Regulus (mostly Regulus and Remus) as lyrics from kent songs:

But first, formatting and translation: the original swedish lyrics are in italics and the translations are written one line underneath [like this], a comma will usually signify the break between two lyrics that are right after each other. I will mostly be directly translating them from Swedish, so the syntax might not make a lot of sense.

Dom Andra [The Others]:

En pessimist i sitt livs form, Jag vädrar blod, det luktar sorg

[A pessimist in its life form, I despise blood, it smells like sorrow]

- Reggie and Remus

En utomjordings kärlekstörst, En undran vem som svek vem först?

[An aliens love thirst, a wonder of who let who down first?]

- literally everyone (probably not the alien part tho)

Och jag blir gärna en martyr, Vi behöver nog en ny

[And I’ll gladly become a martyr, we probably need a new one anyway]

- Regulus, but also everyone (other than Peter but it could still work from his own twisted perspective)

Och vi kommer inte längre, Vi är tillbaks på noll, Men ingen kommer sörja, Vi har spelat ut vår roll, Vi glömmer hela skiten, Det betyder ingenting, Vi skulle kommit längre, Men räckte inte till

[And we’re not getting any further, We’re back to zero, But no one’s gonna mourn, We’ve played out all our roles, We’ll forget the whole shit, It doesn’t mean anything, We would’ve gotten further, But it wasn’t enough]

- everyone, once they realized that the whole first war was pointless and that Dumblewhore was a manipulative cunt who used them.

And your old friend waits with the scythe in a swing and how you played when you were kids - Sirius when Bellatrix killed him because no matter what she did or how much he tried to deny it, she was still his cousin Trixie who he played with when they were kids and he still had somewhat loving memories of that, of her.

The sleep came and you were so right in time, the sleep came like tears against your screen, the sleep came like a right twisted opinion, but compared to dollars and yen death can easily become a joke - literally everyone

You’ve lost your war, you’re the last one left, and no one is coming to your defense (coming to your defense) so you stand in a salute with your back straight and you take 400 hits - Regulus realizing that no matter what he does he will never be good enough for his parents and that he should have just left with Sirius when he asked.

Den Döda Vinklen [The Dead Angle]: (the title of this song could be a reference to the whole album it’s from being from death’s POV or it could also be a reference to the blind spot in a car)

I was alone for a long time, an only child, the monster underneath a home built bunkbed - Remus (I want to hug him)

Give me a winter drug, give me all you’ve got. Come now I’m chronically low, the only thing that can be heard is the darkness - Remus after Halloween 1981 begging for Sirius to be innocent

In your eyes there was a storm I saw, like summer snow, from the dead angle/blind spot I see everything you do - Regulus’ ghost watching Sirius fuck up his entire life, eternally destined to facepalm so hard and so much that he would break his skull if he could.

And there they’re coming, I can see them between the trees. Please can you help me escape? - Regulus to Sirius and Sirius to James

(These lyrics are from Den Döda Vinklen [The Dead Angle], this could be a reference to the whole album it’s from being through the perspective of death or it could also be a reference to the blind spot in a car)

And everyone who’s ever loved you has hated me out of fear - wolfstar (this was somehow the only lyric from Palace & Main that worked and I don’t know how)

An icey wind over the water bears an echo from the world of the dead, a greeting from a jealously scornful ocean - Reggie, obviously (for like the fiftieth time because the whole Du & Jag Döden [You & Me Death] album is just incredibly Regulus coded)

And in the bars the wreaks cling tight we mourn a lost burden and the snow helps the debris fall down. Black branches obscure the white of the house, I haven’t been here since all of this was yours. - Remus talking to an imaginary version of Sirius after the first war ended.

Like a Romeo in jeans on your balcony (I want you, you’re mine, you’re only mine) I’m the shadow by your screen door once again (I want to have you, I’m yours, I’m only yours) - Sirius to Remus, either immediately after he escaped from prison or a bit after the prank (I like the first option much more because I don’t like the idea of the prank ever happening)

And your dress is like rags in my hands- Sirius when he found Lily

(All of the most recent lyrics are from Romeo Återvänder Ensam [Romeo Returns Alone])

And you and I hold our breath and hold hands in the leap, it’s not that long till we reach home, and even so there’s still a thousand tears left - Sirius and Regulus while running away together (I might be a bit delulu)

So don’t ever apologize again. And we’re finally passing their borders. Do you remember our blood oath, our law? Our idiotic crusade against an equally stupid town? I remember everything like nails to glass, but you just laugh at me and reduce everything to a joke, but I see in your pathetic demeanor and your hunting look that it feels like there’s still far to go to get home, and soon there won’t be any more tears left - also Sirius and Regulus running away together

And that boy I never knew, that roamed streets I never saw, thought thoughts I never thought, under a thin and frizzy haircut, as all the feelings struck and exploded during a time when nothing happened in a city that never slept, but we were all young once my love. Yes, we were all young once. Yes, we were all young once - Remus, Sirius and Regulus

And I’m scared out of my own life of living and I’m scared to death of dying, but we will all die one day my love. Yes, we will all die one day - Regulus and James

(These past lyrics are from Mannen I Den Vita Hatten (16 År Senare) [The Man In The White Hat (16 Years Later)].)

[mezais]

I know nobody cares about the prequels but I’m still salty

[perlelune]

NDA | Coriolanus Snow

When you get hired as a nanny for President Snow and his wife's firstborn, you’re beyond thrilled and grateful. But quickly, the perfect facade melts, revealing the ugly truth of what actually goes on in the Snows' house.

Warnings: NON-CON, Capitol! Reader, Innocent Reader, Cheating, Coercion, Blackmail, Power Imbalance

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Your worried eyes track the frenzied glide of the woman’s quill over the notepad. You squint, hoping to discern some of the words she’s scrawling that way, but they are indiscernible…just like the stone-cold expression of the bespectacled woman on the other side of the desk.

She catches you trying to peek. Your heart jumps.

As her sharp green gaze zeroes in on you, you clear your throat and shift in your seat.

She puts her quill down and twines her fingers.

“So what do you think sets you apart  from the other applicants?”

You chew on your lip. When you arrived to offer your candidature this morning, you naively believed you’d be early. Instead, you were forced to join the tail end of the massive waiting line stretching far outside the Snows’ estate. It didn’t hit you before that moment, how prized the position is. Each of the women and girls you saw radiated excellent breeding and impeccable manners. Many probably attended the University and could double as a tutor if the need presents itself.

This isn’t your case. Your parents left you and your brother Laertes with nothing when they suddenly passed away in a rebel bombing. You couldn’t blame them. This wasn't the plan. Who plans on dying and leaving their two children to fend for themselves?

Still, you now have a list of bills the length of your arm coupled with a massive mortgage to pay every month. And as Laertes’ sole caretaker, you must ensure you can afford to send him to University once he completes his education in the Academy.

Circumstances denied you that chance. Despite being of university’s age, you couldn’t afford the cost of tuition and had to drop out as soon as you got accepted. You want better for your little brother.

So as soon as you heard the news that President Snow and First Lady Livia Cardew were in search of a nanny for their son Martius, you jumped on the opportunity to apply. You rose before the sun, rummaged through your mother’s closet to find her best dress, and hailed a car to come here.

It’s a long shot, of course. You’re not as polished and impressive as some of the other women. You’re also noticeably younger. But the wages promised alone compelled you to take a chance despite the odds being unfavorable.

Fiddling with your hands, you meet the woman’s impassive stare head-on.

“What sets me apart?” You mull over your answer. You could paint a false, august portrait of yourself, your skills and your accomplishments. Or try to at least.

But what would be the point of pretending to be someone you’re not only to be found out later on? So you elect to tread the path of honesty.

“Nothing,” you say. “But I’m a hard worker. A very hard worker. In fact, I already have three jobs, one at a bakery, another as a clerk in an antique shop and I assist Fabricia Whatnot at her boutique sometimes.” Panic quivers inside you as the woman quickly jots something down on her notepad. You swiftly specify, “...But I’ll quit all of them if I get the position, of course.” You lick your lips as knots tie your stomach. “I can learn everything there is to learn on the spot. I love children, and…” You trail off, gaze traveling to your lap as you muse if you should reveal more. Your fists clench as you add, “I have a little brother who’s a few years older than Martius, and I’m really hoping I get this opportunity so I can give him the life he deserves.”

An unnerving quiet occupies the air. The wait is agony, your nails digging painfully into your palms. The jagged drumming of your heart bleeds inside your ears as she studies you.

Eventually, she leans back in the velvet chair, her face betraying no thought or emotion.

“You’re dismissed,” she says.

Your heart plummets to your feet. You shakily rise, dispirited as you drag your heels towards the door. You steal a glance above your shoulder. The woman’s attention has already drifted away from you as she shouts for the next applicant.

You sourly exit the office. You try to swallow your dejection as you note how many women are still waiting in line, each of them likely more qualified and experienced. It’s obvious you tanked the interview. Shoulders slumping, you take resigned steps through the elegant, palatial hallways of the Snow’s mansion. You get lost in admiring the crystal and gold chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. There isn’t an inch of the house that doesn’t scream excessive, unattainable wealth.

You take your time soaking it in. Chances are you’ll never step foot in such a place in your lifetime ever again.

Distracted, you don’t notice the person in front of you before it’s too late. You bump straight into a hard, inflexible body. 

The sudden collision threatens your balance.

Fingers coil around your wrists as you stagger back, preventing your impending collapse onto the marbled floor.

As your attention drifts skywards, your jaw drops at who fills your vision.

“P-President Snow, my deepest apologies, s-sir,” you stammer, flames licking your cheeks.

As if you didn’t make yourself look dimwitted enough before, you now carelessly crashed into the leader of all of Panem. Just when you thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.

You take him in. It truly is him. Shock fills you. 

 Tall and dazzling in a crisp white shirt and crimson vest that hints at his lean physique beneath the clothes, his signature blond waves slicked away from his face, he looks every bit the important figure that he is.

The flickering TV screen you own at home doesn’t do him justice.

A gentle smirk unfurls on his lips.

“It’s quite alright. I’m not made of sugar,” he jests.

“No…you’re not, your highness…majesty...I mean sir.”

Your blunder expands his smile. His cerulean gaze drags over your frame.

“Are you here for the nursemaid position?”

“I am, sir.” You unleash a deep exhale, his inquiry tossing salt on the fresh wound. The interviewer clearly wasn’t impressed by your less than stellar performance. Maybe you should have tried to mimic the way the girls with whom you attended the Academy behave more. They carry themselves with such confidence, wading through the world with the certainty of their destinies being secure, bereft of hardships unlike district dwellers.

You envy how carefree they get to be. Everyday you wake up worried you’ll come up short on a bill and you and Laertes will be forced to leave your family home. No matter how diligent you are at work, there never seems to be enough money to sustain the two of you. Even with three jobs, you’re barely eking out a decent living for you and your little brother. Many times, you’ve gone to bed hungry just so Laertes would not.

You don’t even realize tears have filled your eyes to the brim until a handkerchief is daintily pressed into your cheeks.

Flabbergasted, you blink up at President Snow. 

“Thank you,” you exhale, stunned by his kind gesture.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

You search his eyes. Genuine interest lights up his pellucid blue orbs.

Without much thought, you confess, “I just don’t think I did very well with my interview.”

As he scrutinizes you in silence, cocking his head sideways, embarrassment rushes through you.

Words anxiously leave your lips in a tremulous string.

“God, I’m so sorry, spilling my problems to you as if you’re not an extremely busy man, sir.”

He shakes his head. “It’s quite alright. And do not count yourself defeated, sweetheart.” Your pulse stutters when he bends over you to whisper, “You may have left a stronger impression than you think.”

He nudges the pocket square between your hands. It’s still damp with your tears. You gape at it in awe. President Snow’s initials are elegantly etched in the left corner of the fabric.

“Here. Keep it. Though I’d much prefer it if you didn’t cry.” He pauses, studying you. “Girls as lovely as you never should.”

His words send your heart into a frenzy. For a while, you’re too stunned to move. You then shake yourself back to reality, noticing you’re now staring at the empty space where he used to stand. He’s gone. You look ahead. He’s already miles away from you, wrapped in conversation with who seems to be an assistant of his. 

Your thumbs press against the soft fabric of the pocket square. Cheeks ablaze, you hold it to your nose. It smells like roses, the same delicate scent that wafted from him a few minutes ago. Your back prickles. You pivot and are astonished to find the envious glares of some of the applicants still waiting in line zeroed in on you. Self-conscious, you rush to continue your exit, fleeing away from the hateful stares. 

As the outside gates come into sight, you can’t suppress an elated smile. It’s not everyday someone meets President Snow and receives such a gift from him. Shoving the handkerchief in your pocket, you vow to place it somewhere safe and always cherish it. 

When you return home, your brother’s already sitting in the living room, his tiny brows scrunched in concentration and his nose buried in his books. Your stomach sinks. Everything you did today was for him. You can’t help but feel you missed out on a huge opportunity, one that’d have changed the course of his life forever. You glance around at the apartment. The walls are crumbling. The wooden floors are creaking. The pipes in the kitchen have been leaking for weeks, a measly bucket you must empty every morning the only thing preventing a flood. And at night, the pitter-patter of rodents’ paws resonates from the ceiling.

Every inch of your family home is in dire need of repairs.

Unfortunately, every penny you earn goes into rent and food, meaning the house falls apart a bit more everyday. Perhaps one day, you and Laertes will awake beneath the rubble of what’s left of your childhood home. Nightmares of that sometimes keep you up at night.

“How was the Academy today?” you chime, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Worry twists your chest. There isn’t much left. You’ll need to make do with cabbage and whatever other veggies are left. Perhaps you could toss in some leftover dried meat and make a stew.

“My teacher signed me up for advanced trigonometry,” your brother announces.

You close the cabinet and beam at him.

“Oh, that sounds hard. I’m proud of you.” It doesn’t exactly surprise you. Laertes’ always been exceptionally smart. Even his teachers noticed how gifted he is from an early age. Unlike you, he breezed through middle school and now the Academy.

It’s why it’s crucial you make sure he can go to the University. A mind like his shouldn’t be wasted.

You brother shrugs, exuding nonchalance.

“It’s fine.”

You rush to him. You wrap your arm around him playfully and hug him in his chair, pulling his cheek like when he was little. You know he hates when you do that but you can’t help teasing him a bit. It’s your duty as a big sister after all.

“Don’t downplay it. My little brother’s a genius.”

He wriggles his way out of the hug, rolling his eyes. 

“Stop it.”

You head back to the kitchen and fire the stove.

“I’ll make you something,” you say, smiling at your brother.

His brows knit. “Make something for yourself first.”

You nibble your bottom lip. You truly hoped he wouldn���t notice, how much smaller than his your portions are. But he’s growing; he needs it. Much more than you. Besides, how can he focus at the Academy and be the brilliant boy he is supposed to be with a growling stomach? You won’t allow it.

“Laertes…”

He shakes his head, his expression firm.

“No. You always do this. This time, we split whatever is left.”

Heaving out a resigned exhale, you nod. You whirl to resume preparing dinner.

You gather a boiling pot from the overhead cabinet and place it on the stove. With the ease of practice, you begin chopping vegetables and tossing them into the pot. You add spices and water. The mouthwatering aroma quickly fills the kitchen. Pride swells in your chest. Your cooking skills have improved so much in the last year since your parents passed. You now manage to bring flavor to the blandest of meals. 

Once the stew’s ready, you pour a portion in each bowl, putting just a little more in your brother’s and praying he will not notice.

You place the steaming bowls on the table and take a seat opposite him.

“No books at the dining table,” you admonish, mimicking the exact tone your mother used with your brother. Admitting defeat, Laertes sighs and sets his homework aside. The tiny victory tugs your lips skyward.

He tells you about his day at the Academy while the two of you eat. You’re delighted to hear he’s making a lot of friends and he’s at the top of his class for most science subjects. He’s struggling a bit more with his poetry and ethics classes, but you encourage him by reminding him he can just ask the teacher for extra assignments to keep his grade up.

“I interviewed for a new job today,” you reveal, stirring the spoon in your bowl while waiting for your brother to eat more of his food.

“How did it go?”

“Well, it pays really well so I’m hopeful.”

The hope dancing in his eyes makes your chest ache. You don’t have the heart to tell him you made a fool of yourself today. You may not be gifted like your brother, but you want him to know he can rely on you at least.

Pursing his mouth, he looks down at his stew.

“That’s great. It’d be good if you didn’t have to work as much.”

Your smile falters. “Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”

“Okay.”

His dour tone stirs your concern. You wish you were better at hiding things from him, making his childhood as normal as possible. But your brother’s twelve now, and that’s old enough to sense when things are wrong.

He rises from his seat. You frown as you note there’s still food left in his bowl.

“Finish your plate before going to your room.”

Annoyance pinches his features but he still picks up his bowl and hastily guzzles down the remainder of his stew.

“Happy now?” he says, wiping his mouth.

“Yes. Very,” you cheerfully respond.

He gathers his books and strides towards his room. 

Your voice rises.

“Don’t stay up too late to study, okay? I love you.”

“I…love you too,” he mumbles.

You bask in the moment as you clean the table. Thankfully Laertes is still at an age where he says it back. One day he might not. So you must cherish every instant. Every conversation, every hug, every ‘I love you’. Because it could all vanish in a second. You learned that the hard way a year ago.

The day of the interview recedes to the back of your mind as you keep living your life. Work is harrowing, as usual, but you tend to your tasks as best as you can. Your arms ache as you knead the dough in the back of the bakery. You give yourself a second to wipe the sweat off your forehead. It’s been a hectic afternoon. There’s a massive pastry order for some Capitol heiress’ birthday due tomorrow. So you’ve been racing between the front desk and the kitchen in the back. A baker called in sick today, leaving you with twice the workload.

You know it won’t take much to crash into your bed and fall asleep tonight.

To make matters worse, the day hits its nadir when you get your pay that day. You peer inside the envelope for the umpteenth time. An anxious chuckle peals out of your lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t want to complain, but…this doesn’t match the hours I put in.”

The owner scratches the back of his neck, a contrite expression etched on his face.

“I’m sorry too. With the new taxes imposed by the Capitol, I had to cut your salary.”

Slack-jawed by the news, no word leaves your mouth as you stare at him. He sighs.

“If it’s a problem, we can find someone else-”

“No, no,” you interrupt, blinking in panic. “Please, I need this job.”

He acquiesces and you’re forced to thank him despite feeling cheated. You actually scaled back your hours for your other part-times since this one paid more. What a waste. 

Dispirited, you return home. As you give the driver a bill for the fare, your insides wrench. Every bill counts. Perhaps you’ll need to walk back home from now on. The streets of the Capitol are notoriously dangerous but you can’t see any other way to save your dwindling wages. You already know you’ll need to request an extension for rent this month. How will you pay it, however?

You suppose you’ll have to figure it out. You always figure it out.

These are the somber thoughts swaying in your mind as you check the mailbox. 

Bills. Bills. And more bills. Your already sour mood plummets even more. But a slim, silver envelope sticking out from the pile corrals your focus. Curiosity surges inside you. It looks fancy and there’s a wax seal with the Capitol’s symbol keeping it shut. You rush to open it, heart fluttering in strange anticipation.

You unfold the neatly folded letter inside. As you read the words, you gasp, dropping the letter. Still trembling from shock and excitement, you bend to pick it up. 

You take a deep slow breath before reading it again. 

This time, a squeal escapes from your lips. 

You read it many more times to make sure your eyes aren’t just conjuring wild fantasies. 

After a while, you realize they aren’t. It’s true. 

Holding the letter to your chest, you toss yourself on your bed and kick your feet excitedly. 

You then place your palm on your forehead. In disbelief, you beam at the ceiling. 

Somehow…you’ve been hired to work for the Snows. You actually got the job. 

Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel.

You fidget before the iron gates, smoothing absent wrinkles on your skirt. It’s one of the best outfits you could find on short notice that wasn’t moth-eaten or visibly overworn. You pray it’s enough. You let your gaze wander. The Snows’ estate truly is majestic. The lush gardens. The beautiful architecture. You feel a little small as you admire the mansion.

Remembering yourself, you pivot to the man who drove you there. You fish inside your pocket for a bill and hand it to him. He stares at you blankly from the driver’s seat.

A weary sigh ripples behind you.

You turn, your eyes widening. It’s the woman who interviewed you that day. She wears the same stern expression.

“You don’t need to pay him,” she explains, dismissing the man with her hand. He nods and drives away. “He’s your assigned driver. He’ll pick you up each day and take you back home.”

“Oh.” You offer your hand. “Nice to meet you…again.”

She gives you a lengthy onceover, completely ignoring your gesture. Then she motions at you to follow her. You let your hand fall to your side. Heat blooms in your cheeks. Perhaps, you were too enthusiastic just then. Straightening your spine, you try your best to keep pace with her quick strides.

“I’m Pandora. I supervise most housekeeping duties for the president. I’ll show you around the estate. Then you’ll meet the young Master.”

She gives you a tour of the mansion. You’re even more amazed than last time though you try to suppress your awe and not stare excessively. She shows you the garden as well. The sea of snow-white roses makes your head spin. She specifies that the only part of the house that is off-limits is the west wing of the mansion, as these are the First Lady’s apartments and she must have rest and quiet.

She ends the visit by taking you to the nursery. A smile spontaneously finds its way onto your lips. A toddler plays with his toy train on the floor. With his blonde curls and bright blue eyes, he bears a striking resemblance to his father.

“That’s him? He’s so cute,” you whisper. Even the stern woman’s expression thaws a little as she looks at the child, softening ever-so-slightly. You send her a questioning glance. She gives you a nod of approval. 

You approach the boy and crouch in front of him.

“Hi. You’re Martius, right?”

He lifts his head and beams at you. You’re immediately endeared. Again, his smile reminds you of President Snow. You suppose one could probably take over the world with a smile like that. 

You turn to Pandora.

“Is his mother around? I should probably introduce myself.”

Her face pinches. “Mistress Livia has been unwell as of late. She is not to be disturbed today as she is quite tired.”

“Of course.” Your lips squeeze shut for a few seconds but curiosity gets the better of you. A question burns on your lips, one that nagged you ever since you got the job. It slips out before you can think it through. “Is this…Is this why the president and his wife require a nanny? The First Lady is sick?”

Pandora glowers at you. You flinch as she steps further inside the room, her searing tone like a whip.

“You are here to do your job, and nothing else. Mistress Livia’s health is no concern of yours. Do you hear me?”

You rise on shaky feet. You forgot yourself.

“I-I understand. I’m sorry I asked.”

“This reminds me. You have to sign this,” she says, handing you a pen and clipboard. A thin stack of papers are attached to the clipboard. The front page spells ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ in bold letters at the very top. You scowl as you flip through the pages.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a contract, one signed by every one of the President’s employees.”

“I don’t understand most of what’s written here…”

A frustrated exhale peals from her lips.

“I’ll make it simple for you then. For the duration of your employment here, nothing you see or hear must ever leave this house. You are here to care for the young master, that is all. Nothing else should concern you. Is that clear enough?”

You swallow thickly. It doesn’t sound hard at all. Discretion is essential in every job, isn’t it? But the way Pandora makes it sound, you’d assume there are bodies buried beneath the Snows’ estate. You’d laugh if her death stare weren’t so disquieting.

You peruse the contract, perplexed by most of the legal mumbo jumbo filling the pages. None of it rings any bell. You understand the gist of it however. You must preserve the president and his wife’s privacy. While you don’t know the specifics of the first lady’s condition, her public appearances have been few and far between in the last few years.

She used to be the envy of every woman in the Capitol. Beautiful, young and married to the dashing President Snow.

She was a fairytale princess come to life.

Then their son Martius was born. And when they held him up from the balcony of their mansion for all of Panem to gaze upon, they truly seemed like the perfect family.

Until one day, Livia Cardew simply…vanished.

She was noticeably absent from all the events of the season, some she even hosted herself. Tongues wagged of course, rumors and wild theories spreading like wildfire. 

But no one knew the truth of what had happened to her.

The matter seems delicate. You promise yourself not to bring it up again.

You click the pen and scribble your name at the bottom of the very last page.

“I’ve…never signed a contract like that before starting a job.”

Pandora lets out a wry chuckle.

“Well, you’ve never worked for President Snow.”

As promised, you quit your two other jobs to focus solely on Martius. You’re hesitant at first. Your departed parents taught you never to put all your eggs in one basket. And it’s exactly what you’d be doing by trusting the Snows. But when you receive your first paycheck, long before the end of the week, every qualm you had fades. It’s more money than you’ve ever had, more money than you expected. Rent isn’t an issue anymore. Neither is food.

Besides, gifts keep coming from the estate. Clothes mostly, for both you and Laertes, but also jewelry, perfume and other fancy things you don’t need. Overwhelmed by President Snow’s generosity, you try to send some of it back, but you don’t have the heart to return everything when you see your brother’s happy face when he opens his wardrobe one day.

You’ve caught the self-conscious glimpses he casts at his classmates sometimes, when not wearing the Academy uniform. Their clothes are always brand new and custom, perfectly tailored while his are stitched back together by your clumsy hands whenever they fray at the seams. You’re not a seamstress but you’ve always done your best. But you know your best doesn’t compare to the access and privilege those kids have.

Other than those blessings, your time with Martius has been a breeze. Only hazy memories of your brother as a toddler linger in your mind, but you don’t recall him ever being as sweet and calm as the little boy is.

It hardly feels like work, caring for the small child. You spend the day playing along with his games, reading stories to him and, as the day nears its end, the two of you feed the ducks in the massive pond behind the mansion. He even gives them names and gets upset when they fight with each other. 

“Lily doesn’t like James anymore,” he whispers to you one day, a sullen pout scrunching his tiny features. 

“And why is that?”

“I think she’s angry that he steals her food.”

You chuckle and ruffle his golden locks. The little boy always has a story for everything he sees. At all times, his world must make sense. So if he cannot find a reason to explain what fills his gaze, he’ll weave a tale that matches it. His stories are each more wild than the other and he sometimes utters words you’ve never heard a four year old use.

But you surmise it is expected from the son of the president. When he isn’t with you, the little boy is often with his private tutor. Even at his tender age, the importance of manners and eloquence is impressed upon him.

Martius tugs at your skirt when you make your way to the door. You look down. His blue eyes are pleading. 

“You’re leaving again?”

You heave out a long exhale. The little boy wasn’t so clingy before but with your bond growing, he’s been expressing more sadness from watching you go at the end of every day. 

You hunker down to his level.

“My little brother’s expecting me.”

His forehead puckers. “Stay…”

“I told you before, Martius. I have a brother. He’ll miss me if I’m not here.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, giving a begrudging nod. Tears already swim in his eyes though. Panic flows through you. You didn’t want to upset him. You pick him up and bounce with him in your arms to try to soothe him.

“Oh, no. Don’t cry, sweetie.” He buries his head in the crook of your neck, nearly squeezing you to death when he wraps his arms around your neck. His loud, tearful sobs swell in the room. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow like always, okay? So I need you to be brave for me.” His grip on you loosens as he sniffles. You put him down and the two of you pinky promise that you’ll return. Your heart twists at the sight of his tear-stained little face. 

You give his hair one last affectionate pat before rushing outside. If you stay, he might throw another tantrum. No matter what, you can never get mad at Martius. He’s just a child. In the absence of his mother, he’s bound to grow attached to any woman filling a role adjacent to hers. You loathe that you’re taking those moments from the first lady. Though it pleases you to have a steady job and spend time with the sweet boy, it feels wrong that she isn’t there. She should get to see her baby grow up. She should hear his inane ramblings and eccentric stories.

As time wears on, you’re dying to meet her and tell her about Martius. Is she truly so sick that she can’t even see him for a mere few minutes? You’re itching to break the rules and visit the west wing of the mansion. Sometimes you hear blood-curdling  screams and wailing coming from the dark halls but you never dared venture through them. You know that if you did, Pandora would crucify you.

Laertes’ well-being matters more than your curiosity.

Humming absently, you halt in your tracks in the middle of a hallway. Confusion has you blinking. A peculiar noise bounces faintly against the walls. Your gaze drifts sideways, where the noise seems to come from. You’re clocking out. Whatever’s going on in the house isn’t any of your business at this hour.

But what if someone needs help? What if it’s something bad? You’d feel awful if you learnt something happened the next day and you pretended to ignore it. So you gingerly approach the wall. Your fingers graze the tapestry covering it. 

Your eyes widen when the wall moves, a tiny crack forming in it.

Your eyes bulge. It’s an ajar door, you realize. A secret door one wouldn’t notice if they weren’t aware it was there. Light spills from the slight opening.

Confining your breath, you bend over the crack in the wall to get a glimpse of what’s behind it. 

The vision crowding your sight makes the blood in your veins freeze. 

President Snow rutting into a maid with his pants down to his ankles. His usually neat blonde locks are tousled, a few damp curls kissing his forehead. His massive cock glistens with the girl’s essence, disappearing into the girl’s spread lips over and over again. Her body is bent over the railing of the bed and her maid outfit is bunched around her hips, exposing her ass, the flesh trembling with each of the president’s harsh, pointed thrust.

Each time he snaps his hips he draws a broken moan from her. One of his hands is around the back of her throat while the other’s on the small of her back. He grunts low in his throat as she clenches around him, thrusting into her even faster than before. 

The obscene sound of their coupling rises, coalescing with the feral grunts spilling from the president’s mouth. In that moment, he’s not the poised gentleman you’re used to seeing, he is an animal in rut chasing his high.

A shocked exhale escapes your lips. Your hand flies to cover your mouth. President Snow’s head snaps up, his gaze landing straight on you.

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

You jump back from the door and push the secret door closed. You dart across the hallway, determined to find the exit as quickly as you can. You don’t glance back, your steps hasty and panicked. 

Pandora was right. It’s best not not to hear or see anything, to become a tomb in which secrets are buried.

You can only hope he didn’t recognize you through the tiny crack in the door. 

Though you’re shaken to your core, you continue your work as a nanny. You still need money. You may have set aside everything you made thus far, but it will only sustain you and your brother for a month or two. Besides, you’ve already handed in your resignation for your other jobs.  The positions have likely been filled. You can’t exactly show up out of the blue and ask for your former job back. 

No. So you convince yourself that it’s alright. You have a good thing going anyway. You’re making more than you hoped. The child is happy. You’re happy. All is well. Or it would be at least.

…If you could conjure the memory of President Snow railing into the maid far away from your mind. 

You want to forget it, bury the moment so deep in the abyss of your thoughts, it can never be unearthed.

But it isn’t so easy. Because every time your mind wanders even a little, you see him again. Skin glistening with sweat and blue eyes alight with lust. The image is tattooed into your brain. 

You wonder if the first lady knows. Perhaps it’s why she’s hiding away. The weight of her husband’s indiscretions may have grown too heavy to carry. It sours your heart. President Snow seemed so kind, good and noble. He was nice to you. You still have the breast pocket he gave you tucked away in a drawer. You loathe to think he’d do that to his wife. No woman deserves this.

You lift your head when your name is uttered. You get to your feet. Adrift in your thoughts, you didn’t realize Pandora was in the nursery. 

“Yes?”

“The president wants to see you in his office.”

Dread wrenches your gut. It’s exactly what you feared. Does he know? Did he see you? Your pulse picks up. What other reason would there be? He never summoned you before.

“Really, why?”

“He didn’t say, but I’m assuming it’s to congratulate you.”

Befuddlement wrinkles your forehead. “Congratulate me?”

Pandora heaves out a weary sigh. “Well, you’ve done much better than we thought,” she begrudgingly admits. “The young master smiles all the time.” She rolls her eyes. “Even if we must deal with his tantrums when you leave.”

A sliver of pride flutters through you with her admission. Pandora made her doubts about your capabilities plain and obvious from the beginning. It gladdens you that you may have changed her mind a little. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” She turns to him, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “It’s a small price to pay for his happiness.”

Your smile vanishes as she adds, “Now let me escort you to the president’s office. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you trail behind her. The entire trek to the president’s office, your stomach’s in knots. You keep wondering if it’s the day you’ll lose your job for being too nosy. You should have walked past the noise. You shouldn’t have peeked. 

You inhale a lungful of nerve as Pandora opens the door to his office and frees room for you to enter. Your clammy hands wrench in your lap. He’s sitting behind his desk. You stagger further inside the room as he motions for you to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk. He looks the same as the first time you stumbled into him, disarmingly handsome in an impeccable shirt and pants that flatter his long legs.

A sharp contrast to the version of him that has plagued your thoughts lately. 

His sky gaze follows you as you take a trembling seat.

“Are you settling in well?” he asks.

“Hm, yes,” you stammer, anxiously twining your fingers. “It’s pretty much the perfect job. I get to be around a cute child all day.”

“I hear my son is very fond of you.”

You bashfully dip your head. “He’s very easy to like. He’s such a good boy, sweet, kind, and curious. You and your wife are raising him well, sir.”

He hums in thought. “I can’t take much credit for that. I’ve tried my best to carve out time for Martius…but work’s kept me busy. As for Livia...” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Well she isn’t quite herself these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He places one hand under his chin, scrutinizing you. You try not to twitch beneath his stare, your insides tight with dread.

“Hm, it’s strange,” he states after a minute that goes by like an eternity.

Your head rises. “What’s strange?”

“A girl like you.” His lips drag upward. “Sweet, nurturing, beautiful. Shouldn’t you be married already?”

Your lips part in astonishment. This isn’t the line of questioning you expected. “I-I’m not.”

“No fiancé?”

“No, sir.”

“A lover then?”

Warmth rushes to your face.

“No…”

He laughs, mirth dancing in his cobalt orbs.

“You must pardon me for being so forward but I simply find it astonishing. No suitors? It’s hard to believe since you’re so lovely, sweetheart.” He tilts his head. You shift in discomfort, his attention making you feel see-through. “I mean, a husband would have made your life easier than it’s been thus far, wouldn’t he, dove?”

A long exhale flows from your lips. “I’ve had offers, after I graduated from the Academy. There was even this boy, he was so kind to me.” The memory draws a small smile from you. “He proposed. I’m sure he’d make a great husband, but…”

“But…”

Your mouth dries.

“I know it’s probably naive and unrealistic but I want to marry for love, that great, life-changing love, like in those romance novels my mom used to love, not money or status.”

His eyes twinkle. “Or financial stability?”

Shame gathers in your chest. You know it sounds silly when uttered aloud. 

“I know, I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. It’s sweet that you still believe in love.” He appears lost in a faraway memory, his gaze hazing over with remembrance. “I used to believe in it too. I used to think, ‘Who needs wealth and success and power when love conquers all?’”

He chuckles but it’s bereft of amusement. 

“Really? What happened then?”

His gaze locks with yours. 

“I grew up.”

Confused, you frown. 

“But aren’t you and the first lady in love?”

Another laugh bursts from his chest.

“God, you’re sweet.” His tone lowers to a dulcet whisper. “It’s like none of the world’s ugliness has gotten to you yet.” He reveals matter-of-factly, “My wife and I hate each other.” His smile widens at your flabbergasted expression. “Always did. It’s best that way, more…efficient. Of course, there was a time, when we had…passion.” He licks his lips, something you can’t pinpoint flickering in his gaze. “But not anymore. She’s far too gone for that.”

He rises from his chair. You stiffen as he circles the desk, making slow steps towards you. 

“Which is why I must…satiate my needs wherever I can,” he mumbles, fingers lurking under your chin, forcing your eyes to fall upon him. “Do you understand my meaning, dove?”

“I…yes.”

Discomfort flares within you. Tension hangs in the air, so heavy it clogs your airways. 

He cocks his head, lips slanting crookedly.

“Do you really? With that innocent look in your eyes, it’s hard to tell.” His thumb sweeps over your shuddering bottom lip. “Men have needs. And am I not a man, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes you are, sir.”

He bends over you to whisper in your ear. “You saw everything that day, didn’t you?” Your heart stops.

Flames lick your face as you bow your head. “I-I didn’t see anything.”

His warm breath ghosts over your earshell.

“Liar,” he mumbles.

Your pulse quickens.

He leans back and nudges your chin upward.

“Since my wife fell sick, I’ve been very lonely. And sometimes…” He looms over you, crowding your space as you peer up at him, fingers squeezing the arms of the chair. “I need something soft and warm to forget that feeling.”

President Snow slowly falls to his knees in front of you. His fingers find your thigh, starting to creep under your skirt. A devilish glint sparkles in his cobalt gaze. He finds your center, pressing the sheer fabric into your folds. You gasp. He chuckles at your reaction. He starts teasing you through your panties, tracing your slit and dragging over your tender bud. Your breath hitches as the air around you grows hotter. You grow slick beneath his finger, your thighs shaking as tingles bloom on your flesh.

“Sir…” you whimper, tears welling up in your eyes.

He pushes further inside you, adding another finger, and you unleash an audible breath. You try to close your thighs. He places his other hand on your knee to keep you open for him.

The air in your lungs grows thinner as he rubs your core through your soaked panties. The friction is a delicious torture. Pleasure pools in your belly causing your face to burn with shame. You’re getting embarrassingly wet with President Snow’s attention.

“I just want a little taste,” he murmurs, his deep timbre bleeding lust. “Just one time and it’ll never happen again,” he promises fervently as his lips graze your ankle. You find some relief when his fingers disappear from your drenched center. But your respite is ephemeral. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs at your panties.

Panic widens your eyes. Cheeks ablaze, you pull at the material between your legs with both hands. But he’s stronger than you and effortlessly drags the fabric along your legs. A wicked smile plays on his lips as tears glisten in your eyes. It’s soon down to your ankles. You squeal when the president yanks the panties off your foot, tossing them aside. Cool air sneaks beneath your skirt, swirling over your bare folds.

Hands over your knees to keep you spread, his wolfish gaze sweeps over your glossy folds. 

Your skin heats, embarrassment gathering in your chest. You’ve never been this vulnerable and exposed in front of anybody before.

“Please, President Snow, s-stop…” 

“But you’re dripping, sweetheart,” he states smugly, sinking a finger inside your weeping core, as if to make a point. Your breath hitches. He takes his finger out sluggishly. You clench when he grazes one of your sensitive spots. “Just as sweet as I expected,” he hums, obscenely licking your essence off his long digit.

Without a warning, he buries his head between your thighs. A sharp exhale leaps from your mouth. His cool tongue traces a wet trail over your folds. President Snow traces maddening patterns over your swollen bud causing your eyes to roll back.

You card your fingers through his silken platinum locks, hoping to push his head away. But the delightful sensations grow too overwhelming. You unravel beneath his sinful ministrations, your limbs twitching as the thread of your thoughts comes loose.

Your grip on his hair weakens. Your belly tightens, your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

You jolt as his tongue flickers over your tender heap of nerves. 

“P-President…” 

He purrs against your folds and the vibrations rock through your core. You squirm in the chair. Your thighs quake. Your vision dims, your mind blank as waves of pleasure swaddle you in their tide. Protests scatter on your tongue, replaced by wanton whimpers and moans.

Electricity ripples through your spine as you cry out.

Bliss engulfs you and your legs turn liquid. Shame swirls in your gut as your juices coat his tongue. He drinks your nectar, elation rumbling in his chest. 

When he lifts his head, you hardly recognize him. The feral glow in his gaze chills your blood.

There is no time to collect yourself, realize what just occurred, as the blonde gathers your limp frame from the chair and places you on his desk. Documents and papers are flung to the ground as he grabs your thighs and presses his throbbing hard-on against your cunt. 

He hastily unbuttons his pants, freeing his hard length. He fists his cock and guides it through your wet entrance. Your back arches, the sudden intrusion robbing you of air. He reaches the hilt of you in a few seconds, giving you no time to accommodate his thick girth. You collapse over the desk, weak whimpers leaving you as your walls are stretched to their limit. He drags out of you, his pupils flaring as they trace the motion of his length in and out of you. Coriolanus leans over you. He snaps his pelvis into your hips, each of his thrusts tearing tearful moans from your throat.

When you turn your head, hot tears flowing down your cheeks, he grabs your chin so you’re forced to meet his lustful stare. Bracing himself on the desk, he reaches between your bodies to pinch your swollen clit. He plucks at your soft bud until you shatter around him with a sob. His throat bobs, a look of sheer bliss flitting across his face when you clench around him.

“I’ve been dying to fuck you the minute I saw you,” he confesses, trailing soft pecks over your collarbone. A sinister chuckle peals from his lips. “The way you looked at me with those sweet, innocent eyes…it made me rock-hard.” He tilts your chin towards him, his thumb skimming over your parted lips.

Satisfaction glimmers in his eyes as they flick over your prone form.

“You should thank me. Those boys at the Academy wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like you…” His cock twitches inside you. Sticky warmth spills from him, painting your walls and dripping past your hole. Drops of his seed leak onto the desk. A throaty sigh pours from President Snow’s throat as your cunt flutters around him.

His teeth nip the skin of your neck.

“...But I do.”

After what occurs in his office, you hope to avoid President Snow. Those hopes are swiftly dashed however. President Snow lied to you. It doesn’t happen once. In fact, you begin to lose count of the actual number.

Every time the president finds a little spare time, he summons you.

Sometimes you end up bent over the desk in his office as he pours the frustrations of the day into your warm hole. Sometimes he prefers you sprawled on your back in one of the multitude of luxurious beds in the mansion while he devours you as if you were his very last meal. And at times, he grows even more impatient and simply shoves you against a wall before ravaging you.

More than once, a maid or footman has walked in on the two of you, and you’ve had to swallow your shame and embarrassment.

As you’ve come to learn, the entire staff is aware of Coriolanus Snow’s insatiable appetite and none of them seems to care.

You feel sick, desperate, trapped in something twisted and awful you never signed up for.

But how does one say no to President Coriolanus Snow? The entire Capitol yields to his every whim. And you are the same. Here to bow and smile and lie back whenever he demands it.

You long to focus on your job, to care for Martius and nothing else. Whenever the boy looks up at you with those innocent blue eyes, eerily similar to his father’s, your stomach wrenches. You pray he never comes to learn what kind of man his father is. You wish he’d stay just as kind and sweet as he is now.

Those are the thoughts drifting through your mind as you watch Martius play with his toy trains. Your eyes wander towards the window. Outside, orange and purple hues are bleeding into the sky, the afternoon nearing its end. Your stomach coils. It’s during times like these that President Snow often seeks you out. You’ve tried to run away from him but it’s all a game to Coriolanus, and he always delights in chasing you through the hallways.

Your brows crumple as you note that Martius has stopped playing. He drops his toy and rushes to your side. Confounded by his behavior, you’re on the cusp of asking him what’s wrong…but your gaze follows what caught his attention on the other side of the room.

You fall silent, your eyes rounding in shock.

“Martius. Come here, my love,” says the blonde woman in a white robe and nightgown, her arms wide open.

Time stands still for a few seconds. It takes you a while to realize who stands before the door. She looks so different, more ghost than woman, her glassy blue eyes hollow and sunken. But her likeness is unmistakable. Even with her graying, limp tresses and ashen complexion, you recognize Livia Cardew. The president’s wife.

You bolt to your feet. Arms still open, Livia takes slow steps towards Martius.

“I’m your mom, sweetie. Don’t you remember me?”

The little boy’s fists clutch your skirt as he hides his face against your leg.

“You’re not my mom.”

A stricken look twists Livia’s features as she shrinks. As if her own son just drove a knife through her heart. Your chest twinges. While her abrupt appearance is a shock, you can’t imagine how she must feel. You place a hand on Martius’ back and try to nudge him forward.

“Martius. It’s the First Lady, your mother. Go on, hug her,” you urge softly.

He shakes his head, tears filling his eyes as he hides behind you even more.

You’re stunned. Has it truly been that long?

“Martius-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, Livia lunging at you, her eyes wild with fury.

“You! This is all your fault,” she hisses. She points at you and scoffs, “You’re his new whore, aren’t you?” Her mouth wobbles as she grips her head. “First you take my husband, now my son.”

Martius begins to sob. His loud cries overlap with his mother’s frantic yelling. You cover his eyes, tossing Livia an apologetic look.

“First Lady, I never meant-”

Before you can explain yourself, she grabs a nearby vase and smashes it. White roses scatter on the floor. Stomping all over the petals and broken glass, she collects one of the shards and races towards you. Terror numbs you. You freeze as Livia aims the shard at you, scarlet droplets dripping on her nightgown as she squeezes her fist around the glass.

Your eyes shut as you wait for the inevitable strike.

You shiver, waiting still.

But it doesn’t come.

“Livia, darling, that’s enough. It’s time for you to sleep and take your medicine.”

The familiar sound of Coriolanus’ voice causes your eyes to snap open. 

You watch him restrain a struggling Livia. She curses at him, fighting him with all her might. It’s a painful spectacle. 

“No, don’t touch me!” Other staff members rush into the room. It takes several people to hold Livia down, colorful expletives pouring from her mouth as she punches and kicks whoever comes close. “You’re killing me! You bastard! Give me my son back! Martius! Martius!”

The child trembles against your skirt, his tear-filled gaze stuck to the floor.

Eventually someone manages to stick a needle into Livia’s neck. She instantly goes limp, arm still reaching for her son in her last conscious second.

“Take her away,” Coriolanus instructs.

The first lady’s flaccid form is dragged out of the room. Still shaken by what you just witnessed, you don’t move a muscle. President Snow approaches you, worry swimming in his blue orbs. 

“Are you alright, dove?” He cups your cheeks, his brows crumpling as his gaze settles on your neck. “I’ll have Doctor Gaul look at you. She has an ointment for that.” He caresses your cheeks, smiling. You gape at him. How can he smile at a time like that? “It won’t even scar. I promise.”

You graze your neck. Your fingers come away bloody. Oh. Livia nicked you with the shard but you didn’t even feel it. Perhaps adrenaline numbed you to the pain.

“Dada,” Martius chimes, lifting his chubby arms.

Coriolanus’ face warms as he picks up his son. He tosses him in the air and catches him. Martius giggles through his tears.

“My sweet boy. That was very scary, wasn’t it?” he says, balancing his son on his hip. Martius nods and wipes his nose. Coriolanus flicks his cheek, beaming at him. “Don’t worry, son. The scary lady won’t bother you anymore in a few months.”

A wave of ice blows through your veins. You wonder why the president uttered those words with such certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Almost as if he knows exactly when the grim reaper will come knock on his wife’s door.

The next day, you hand over your resignation to Pandora. Her expression is skeptical as she gauges the manila folder you give her.

“This is for the president,” you announce.

She unleashes a deep exhale. “You should reconsider, sleep on it.”

You almost laugh. Sleep on it? You can hardly find rest, the picture of a disheveled Livia Cardew crying out for her son haunting your nights. Whatever befell upon the poor woman, you wouldn’t be surprised if her husband somehow had a hand in it. It broke your heart, seeing her like that, her own son unable to recognize her. You also despise the role Coriolanus forced you to play in erasing her memory.

All of it feels wrong. 

And most of all, you don’t want President Snow to use you to satisfy his lewd desires anymore. He took all your firsts, all the moments that should have been beautiful, and made them a nightmare you have to relive every time he touches you.

You respected him; you admired him. Now you can’t be in his presence without dread whispering through you. What will he make you do this time? How will he make you small and powerless again?

“I can’t…I can’t do this anymore. He can hire someone else to care for him.”

Pandora purses her lips and shakes her head.

“It’s really not that simple. The president has developed…a fondness for you.”

You bristle. “I have to go back home. Laertes is expecting me.”

“You won’t like what comes next, trust me.” Her gaze narrows. “No one leaves the president.”

Ignoring the shudder elicited by her daunting words, you pivot and make a beeline towards the exit. Pandora’s voice echoes down the hallways.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Depleted, you glumly make your way to the gates. You enter the car that takes you back home everyday. Your thoughts wander as the Snow’s house grows smaller through the car window. You were thrilled when you got this job. It felt like kismet after the year you and your brother had. A rainbow after the rain. A slice of hope.

How it all went to hell so quickly. You’re still reeling from it. You’ve no idea what you’ll do next. The only thing you know for certain is that you will not step foot into the Snows’ estate ever again.

The car suddenly halts. You bump your head into the passenger’s seat. Wincing, you grip the sides of your head. As you retrieve your senses, you look around. You stopped.

You toss a questioning look at the driver.

But before he can respond, the car door opens and you’re yanked outside. Two pairs of strong arms drag you away from the car.

You take in the blue uniforms of the men. Terror pulses through your blood.

Peacekeepers.

Noting the guns at their sides, you stop trying to resist. There’s no fighting against them, ever. They are the Capitol’s fist and carry the President’s will. You don’t stand a chance. In fact, you likely never did. You slump in their grip, despair thrumming inside you.

They escort you to a black car with tinted windows. Your pulse soars. You’ve only ever seen one individual step out of this car.

The peacekeepers toss you inside and slam the door shut.

Your fearful gaze rises to him.

He casually sits in front of you, his eyes narrowed.

“You disappoint me, dove.” He lets out a weary sigh. “After everything I’ve done for you…you try to leave me. I thought you were smarter than that.”

You twine your hands, sputtering, “I-I’m not the right person for this job, sir.”

He slides his fingers under your chin, tilting it upward.

“Oh but you’re perfect. My son loves you. You’re sweet, dutiful and most importantly…” He smirks. “You are mine. Mine to hold, spoil and fuck whenever I please for however long I please.”

The prospect fills you with dread. He wants you to be his toy again, submissive, available whenever he pleases.

“Sir…”

His jaw ticks, his hold on your jaw tightening.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if your brother could attend the University, free of charge? A bright young mind such as his, I believe he deserves it.” His blue eyes twinkle. “Instead of, let’s say…end up in a District, his name chosen as a tribute in the next Hunger Games.” Your heart sinks to your feet. “That’d be awful, wouldn’t it? So cruel…” he mumbles, stroking your trembling bottom lip.

“No, please,” you beseech, tears swelling in your eyes. Your brother’s all you have left in the world. Nothing can happen to him. 

Coriolanus fondles your cheek, the tender gesture a sharp contrast to the wicked words rolling off his tongue.

“It’s all up to you, then, dove. As long as you behave, I’ll give you the world. But if you act like a little brat again…” A threat lurks in his soft tone, a glint of madness swaying in his cobalt orbs. “I really don’t know what I might do.”

Chills dance over your spine.

“I promise to never do it again,” you blurt out.

He pulls out a square from his breast pocket. It’s identical to the one he used the first time.

But a lifetime seems to have passed since that moment, the world now so different from what you imagined, and the man before you…even more so.

“Good girl,” he lauds while swiping away your tears. 

He shoves the pocket square back in its place. Coriolanus then beams at you as he starts unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his pants.

“Now, I’ve had a long, exhausting day. So how about you get on your knees for me and make it better with that sweet mouth of yours, dove?”

[poetskings]

@jegulus-microfic | April 18: sock | 1.6k

James is sexiled and decides to spend time with Regulus.

There’s a sock on the door knob.

It’s been a long day and James is tired and there’s a fucking sock on the door knob and if he listens close enough he can hear soft grunts.

He’s happy for Sirius and Remus, really, he is, he just wishes that they’d fuck at Remus’ every now and then, and at least keep it to the bedroom.

Sirius and James share a college flat with Peter, Marlene and Lily, so there aren’t many options when they’re all out. Today,  James knows that Peter and Lily have chess club, and Marlene’s training for the women’s boat race, so it’s only him who’d be around.

He sighs and turns around, sending Regulus a text as he goes.

Been sexiled – your dorm free?

He’s walking before he’s received a response – he’s almost positive that the answer will be ‘yes’, and he hasn’t seen Regulus in a week, so they’re long overdue a catch up.

Their friendship was one of the more unexpected things to come out of Regulus bucking centuries of Black tradition and instead following in his brother’s footsteps, choosing Cambridge over Oxford. He settled in nicely to Corpus Christi, flying through his first few years as a history undergraduate while Sirius and James chose Trinity instead.

It took a while but slowly and tentatively Sirius and Regulus attempted to heal their relationship, strained by Regulus’ years at Harrow after Sirius packed up and left when he was sixteen, dropping out and enrolling at a local state school instead. They’re much better now; their barbs at each other aren’t quite as jagged. There’s love there, now, rather than just animosity.

As Regulus and Sirius attempted to mend their relationship, James and Remus had been called in early on to mediate, or sometimes it was Regulus’ friends, Evan and Barty, or even Pandora. From those early tentative meetings in neutral territory, new and interesting friendships bloomed, most of all between Regulus and James.

From early study sessions, it evolved into coffee dates and library outings, and when Remus and Sirius sorted their shit out it became even more frequent – the pair never make James feel like a third wheel, but nonetheless they deserve time to themselves, even if James would prefer for them not to fuck on every and any available surface in their dorm.

Regulus is a comforting presence for James; he doesn’t demand anything of him. James is naturally an extrovert; always the centre of a room, but sometimes he needs to recharge, and Regulus lets him do that. He reminds James of calm waters on a spring day, and whenever James needs to quiet his mind, he finds the youngest Black. He only hopes he offers Regulus some of the same comfort in return.

That, and maybe something more. Maybe he hopes that one day there’s a sock on his door knob, and that the reason is Regulus..

James is drawn out of his thoughts as his phone dings.

Sure – text me when you’re here, will come meet you

It’s a five-minute walk but James makes it there in two, calling Regulus to get him to buzz him in. He’s a familiar figure amongst the second years at Corpus, and he’s pretty sure a few of them will have also texted the youngest Black to alert him to James’ presence.

The college door opens and Regulus emerges, dressed in sweatpants and a Trinity rowing sweatshirt that James left last time he was over. He’s so lovely, James thinks, an impulse he doesn’t know how to control; isn’t sure he wants to control it.

“Sexiled, huh?” Regulus holds the door open as James steps through, falling into step with each other and walking up a flight of stairs to reach Regulus’ dorm. It’s empty, although that isn’t uncommon for Regulus. Barty and Evan hold unsociable hours, and Regulus, Pandora and Dorcas have a frankly insane amount of extracurriculars to attend, so they’re rarely together.

“There was a sock on the front door and I’m pretty sure I could hear noises so I didn’t want to risk it,” James says, settling himself in the kitchen, finding Regulus’ mug and a new one with a deer in glasses; a ‘congratulations’ for James’ performance in the inter-college boat races that’s become a permanent fixture in Regulus’ dorm.

He locates the teabags; Yorkshire for James, organic for Regulus, before turning back to the mugs.

“I don’t blame you – those two seem to spend more time fucking than not – it’s a minor miracle they get any work done,” Regulus chuckles, gently bumping James’ hip to get to the fridge, taking out his oat milk and James’ rice milk.

They settle into the routine like it’s second nature; they’re familiar with each other in a way that’s almost intimate. They stand together waiting for the kettle to boil, perhaps a bit too close for it to be entirely platonic, but James isn’t going to move away if Regulus doesn’t.

He always feels like they’re teetering on the edge of something more than what they are, something better, but for all of James’ bravery, he isn’t sure how to make the next move, and he doesn’t want to wreck this peace that Regulus and his brother have been working so hard on.

“So, how was your day?” Regulus asks, tilting his head to better look at James. He looks unbelievably soft in James’ jumper and James thinks that if he just moves his pinkie he can link it with Regulus’.

“Exhausting. I had rowing first thing and a few readings to do for my supervision that I’d completely missed,” James sighs. He loves his degree but he’s never been as organised as Regulus, who seems to have work done almost before it’s set. “Also, I spent a solid ten minutes looking for that jumper.”

A light blush creeps up Regulus’ cheeks at that. “Sorry, you left it here after practice last week so I washed it but completely forgot to text you.”

A smile falls across James’ face. “You’re fine, Reg, and besides, it suits you. I guess I should get myself a Corpus one to match, huh?” He smirks as the red of Regulus’ cheeks becomes more pronounced.

The kettle whistles and Regulus turns away from James to fill their cups. “James Potter, behave yourself.” He hip checks James again, this time with a bit more force. Except he doesn’t move back. He stays there, leaning against James, and James feels like his entire body’s a livewire.

The tightrope they’re walking is getting more taut, and James finds himself eager for the fall.

“But Regulus, dearest, where’s the fun in that?” He leans forward, entirely too close for it to be platonic, and Regulus is turning, turning-

“Ow! Fuck!” James forgot about the fact that Regulus was holding a kettle of boiling water, and he’s paying for that now. Water splashes over the counter as Regulus rushes to put the kettle down, taking James’ hand and leading him over to the tap.

He turns the cold water tap on, letting it flow over their entwined hands. He is too still, too silent, and James wants to go back to where they were. He wants the tightrope back. He wants to fall.

He can be brave, he thinks, if it means he gets to have something with Regulus.

Regulus is staring intently at their entwined hands, like it’s the most fascinating thing in the universe, and James breaks the silence.

“Reg-”

“What are we doing, James? We’ve been tiptoeing around each other for weeks and it’s driving me insane and I want to be around you all the time and I think I’m already half in love with you so I’d love if you can clear up what this is,” he states, false bravado injected into his tone, but James can hear the tremors. He’s so nervous, but so brave. Regulus Black, the Lion Heart.

It takes a while for the words to register in James’ head.

Oh.

Oh.

James removes his hand from the running water, ignoring the slight sting and the inevitable burn that will be left. He cups Regulus’ cheek, forcing the younger boy to look at him. Regulus is terrified, but so hopeful.

“Reg, I- I want-” James runs his hand through his hair in frustration. He can’t get his words out.

“Jamie?” Regulus’ voice is so soft, as though he’s worried he’ll scare James off, and the only thing James can do is kiss him.

Regulus’ lips are rough, a bit chapped from where he nibbles on them when he’s nervous. He tastes of tea and cinnamon and James wants to devour him. There is nothing soft about it. James’ tongue darts out, soothing Regulus’ lips, and the younger boy lets out a moan that’s pure filth and ecstasy and James is falling, falling, fallen.

He wants to do this forever.

His hands find their way to Regulus’ waist, tracing the skin underneath the Trinity sweater that’s been driving James insane since he first saw Regulus wearing it. It’s his, it’s him.

They break apart to breathe and James attaches his lips to Regulus’ neck, marking, claiming. He can’t think beyond this moment, beyond the boy in front of him.

“Jamie, we should- we need to-” he cuts himself off, broken sighs escaping his lips as he tangles his hands in James’ hair.

James reluctantly removes himself from Regulus’ neck, taking the boy’s face in his hands. “Do you want this, Reg? Do you want me?”

Regulus’ eyes trace James’ face, and whatever he sees softens him.

“Always, Jamie.” And James is lost.

They’ll talk about it later, as the sunlight paints the walls of Regulus’ room, but this is enough for now. For ever.

And if Barty finds a sock on the door knob when he comes back from the library, well, that’s between him and Regulus.

[qlossytbh]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞 - 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐛𝐚𝐮!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 you get your period. that’s the synopsis.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 fem!reader, mentions of lots of period pain, cramps, nausea, fatigue..etc, mutual pining, idiots in love. pretty much just fluff tbh

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1.2k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 guess who just got their period!!!!!

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

An involuntary groan left your lips, elbows perched against your desk and head falling weakly into the palms of your hands. Your forehead was shining a thin layer of sweat, breath short and jagged.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to alleviate the gut-wrenching pain that was pulsating throughout your lower abdomen. Your body felt weak, shaking slightly due to the pain.

This time of the month was the devil's way of making you pay for something you had done in a past life— although you couldn’t think of anything that would bring you anywhere near deserving of this monstrosity.

Penelope eyed you curiously, stopping midway on her trail back to her own little bat cave, as you liked to call it. It would take an idiot not to see how clearly in pain you were.

“Hello my sweet love,” She walked up to your desk, heels clinking against the floor. “You okay?”

You gave your friend a side glance, lacking the vast amounts of energy you needed to dismiss her concerned gaze.

“Just great Pen,” You gritted, teeth clamping together as one more wave of cramps shot through your body. Your cramps came in waves and right now you were trying to recompose yourself from one of said waves. You were failing miserably at the staying cool and collected persona.

Penelope's face fell, mouth curving into a small ‘o’ of understanding. “Oh..”

You slumped over your desk, resting your forehead on the cool surface as your arms snaked around your lower body. She rested a hand on your back and rubbed soft, soothing circles. “That time of the month?”

“Does everyone have such a hard time with cramps?” You groaned from your position on your desk.

“Some people do,” She whispered, voice hesitant. “I had a friend that had to go to the hospital once because of how bad her cramps were and they told her that she—“

You whined, curving your spine impossibly further as an attempt to sooth something, anything. Maybe if you curled up further into a ball it’d hurt less. Penelope could tell she wasn’t helping “Sorry! I thought I was helping with the—“

You were on the latter end of society that suffered period cramps immensely. Back pain, nausea— all of it. It made it impossible for you to come to work the week of your period, but hey, here you were pulling through.

Lucky for you, today had been paperwork day, meaning skimping through countless files was easier than having to run around chasing a serial killer while your uterus was being ripped to pieces.

Soon enough the bullpen's glass doors pulled open and in spilled the rest of the team, Emily chatting along with JJ, Spencer alongside a very enthusiastic Derek and so on.

Penelope continued to rub your back even when you lifted your head and let your chin settle on the desk with a pout that looked as clear as day. Anyone in this building could walk by and notice your clear discomfort— Spencer was no different.

He placed a hand on the back of your chair, ducking down to get a better look at your pitiful state. “Hey,”

“Hi,” You grumbled.

“Should I ask?” Spencer pulled a chair out from the desk beside yours and sat by your side, letting his hands fall in his own lap as he looked up at Penelope.

“I tried helping,” Penelope muttered out. “I get skittish when I don’t know how to help, or what to do and I do this thing with words and—“

You turned your head, laying it flat on its side on your cold desk to get a look at him— a proper one. Your eyes bored more than a million ways to say you were exhausted, and he immediately caught what was up. He always did.

“Doesn’t the fact that I look like a dying corpse give it away?” You complained, face smushed onto the desk

He smiled back. “You don’t look like a dying corpse,”

You blushed. “An already dead one then,”

He shook his head with a huff that left his nose. He scratched at his chin before muttering. “You were a little snappish and grouchy last week,”

Penelope visibly shrinked, thinking Spencer may have just pinched a nerve. “I’m gonna go get you a nice warm coffee, ok?”

It was all she needed to walk away in a hurried movement of heel clicks. You narrowed your eyes at him. Was he insinuating that you had been an utter pain in the ass last week because you were about to get your period?

Noticing this, he half-panicked before quickly jumping into his own defense. “You— uh, I often notice that you get like that the week before which it’s mainly attributed to hormonal fluctuations, particularly changes in estrogen and progesterone levels. They— These hormones can affect neurotransmitters like serotonin and GABA, which regulate mood and emotions.”

“I wasn’t that snappish and grouchy last week,” You knew you had been, because you always were the week before the devil decided to test your limits. You just didn’t really think anyone noticed.

But he did, he always did. And the fact that he did notice was doing funny things to your brain.

He smiled at you. Very softly and almost humorously. “Here—“

You perched up, watching as he reached into his satchel and pushed around in search of— well, something. He pulled out a bag and plopped in on the desk.

You reached over and grabbed the crumpled white paper bag “—I uh, you mentioned wanting a bag of swedish candy a few days ago, especially the sour ones, and me and Morgan walked by a shop and yeah— I figured why not get you some,”

He was doing that very expressive thing he did with his hands where he flared them around as he talked, but you just stared at the bag and then looked up at him.

The pink tint on his cheeks was evident as he avoided eye contact with you. Your shoulders slumped down, bag laying flat in your lap, while trying so hard to keep the tears from coming out of your eyes.

“Can I have a hug?”

Spencer cut himself short from the mumbling, looking up from the floors to study your face. He looked mostly confused, not really being able to pinpoint what was going through your head with your request. He had to be a very, very stupid man to deny your request.

His eyebrows pinched together, probably concerned for you, and that did no better for your upcoming waterworks. His voice came out in the very soft and caring way it always did when he was worried for you.“Yeah, of course,”

He pushed the wheels of the chair he had just pulled out and scooted closer to your own chair. His arms reached out for you, and you slumped forward, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck and burying your face into it.

“Thank you,” You muttered. His hands tightened around your back, giving it a firm rub. He breathed in the sweet scent of you, basking in the strong vanilla that intoxicated every fiber of his being.

Being there for you as a friend, even infatuated as much as he was with you, was hard— but so worth it when he at least was allowed these moments with you.

You wanted to melt into him and not move a single muscle ever again. Why would you when your most comfortable place was in Spencer arms. It could never get better than this.

“You ok?” He mumbled into your hair, and you buried yourself deeper into his neck.

“Yeah, just wanna stay here for a bit,”

He smiled to himself, feeling you cling to him like dead body weight. As long as you felt a little better, he had no room to complain.

[rosemarydisaster]

"Andreil are softies" "Andreil are feral with everyone else but sweet to each other" my brother in Christ their love language is manipulating each other into getting better. They flirt by jabbing their fingers into each other's wounds and double dog daring the other into saying it doesn't hurt.

No, you wouldn't like Andrew nor Neil in real life because most likely they wouldn't like you and they're absolutely nasty even to the people they love. Honestly is so refreshing reading a LGBT story that's not uwubified (not that soft and sweet stories shouldn't exist).

Neil and Andrew are college aged traumatized dudes with zero care for people's feelings, not soft boys. The fact that they still have some softness underneath is what makes it special. They're feral and they've never have had someone else be soft to them and they still try to give softness and allow themselves to receive it (not only with each other, but Bee, Whymack, Renee, Matt, Jean). And the only way they get exponentially better at it through aftg is because they have each other and they viciously push themselves out of their comfort zones.

Andrew enjoyed psychologically torturing (exaggerating for the joke) Neil by referencing his past. They're soulmates not because they are cheesily in love, but because their jagged edges (the ones that hurt most people) fit perfectly. Because they're the devil the other needed to get out of hell.

Nothing against headcanons or fanon versions of the characters (hell, some might say I'm the one that doesn't get it). But to me aftg is really special in the way it doesn't romanticize trauma victims. Society loves perfect victims with submissive soft personalities and aftg says "yeah, some people are like that, especially if they have help or a support net. But survivors that are assholes also deserve love and respect".

Understanding Neil and Andrew doesn't erase all the shit they do and say that's absolutely uncalled for. It contextualizes it. Andreil aren't the most agreeable people not even as a couple. But that's the joy in it. Watching the guy that considers threatening people with knives appropriate behavior carefully taping plastic bags to keep his boyfriend's bandages safe. There's a reason people didn't get they were a thing at first: they're assholes to each other. They're also the most in love people in the world. They can coexist.

(please don't kill me for having opinions feel free to disagree)

[mistiell]

If you’re doing requests and it’s not too much trouble what about Astarion and getting patched up and taken care of by mc

Here you go babes <33 (Also, if he's a little out of character, I apoligize, I really did try my best lol) WC: 1k

---

“Ow! Gods, could you at least try to be gentle?” Astarion hisses at the sting of the salve you’ve concocted, startling you into jerking the cloth you’re using away.

You huff and drop your hands into your lap, brows furrowed in very clear annoyance, “I am trying. If you’d stop squirming, it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“Well, if it didn’t hurt so much, I wouldn’t be squirming, would I?” He quips. You roll your eyes.

Taking his wrist ever so gently, you turn it so you can see the gash on his forearm, fingers deft and kind even despite his whining. He’s being difficult; unreasonable. You’d be justified in being cruel with him.

You’re careful not to press so hard as you swipe the cloth over the jagged edge of his wound, blood seeping into the fabric and staining the off-white linen a dark crimson. Mouth quirked down, your face is drawn tight with a frustration he’s never seen on you before.

He hates it.

The fabric catches with a jolt of pain and he flinches more than he would normally, startling you away again.

You tut at him, stern, “Astarion.”

Sighing, he returns his arm to you wordlessly and glances away with a small, “Sorry.”

“You should have been more careful.” You chastise as you press the cloth against his wound; firm, but not harsh. Never harsh.

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, “So you're saying this is my fault.”

He wasn’t being serious, but it seems you take it as such. Your nose scrunches, and for a split second, you look properly upset with him. He’s expecting you to snap at him, maybe shout and finally leave him to tend to his wounds alone as he usually would.

You don’t. Instead, you take a breath and sigh, looking rather disappointed.

“You know that’s not what I meant. Contrary to what you may believe, I do actually care about you and your wellbeing.” Your voice is void of any sort of humour as you look back at his arm. Swapping the soiled cloth for a smaller, cleaner one, you fold it in half and press it to his arm, not sparing him a glance as you instruct him, “Hold this.”

He does as you’ve asked, and a stifling silence engulfs his tent. As you rifle through some healing supplies, he tries to come up with a way to get you talking again.

“Why-,” His voice doesn’t come out right and he clears his throat to fix it. It comes out wrong anyway, “Why are you helping me? This wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve dressed a wound on my own, you know.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to.” You reply as you begin securing the cloth to his arm with bandages, “No one deserves to suffer alone.”

The sentiment makes his stomach twist. “No one?” He huffs a wry puff of laughter, “Not even someone like Cazador?”

Your face contorts in abhorrence, “I meant good people don’t deserve to suffer alone. That bastard deserves every bit of suffering he has coming to him.”

He barely even registers the second part of what you’ve said, too busy reeling from the first.

Good people don’t deserve to suffer alone.

Good people.

“You... think I’m good?” He asks far too softly.

Finally looking back up at him, you look utterly confused as you nod, “Of course I do.”

He opens his mouth only to find he’s seemingly lost his voice. His gaze flits over just about every inch of your face, searching for any sign that you’re lying; a glance away, a twitch of your mouth. Anything.

He doesn’t find one. His heart sinks and sings simultaneously and suddenly, he can barely breathe.

“Why?” He murmurs. Part of him thinks he’s not equipped to cope with your answer.

There’s a moment where you just... look at him. He’d say staring, but he doesn’t think that’s quite what this is. What you’re doing would be better described as seeing him; all of him. His heart, his soul. Everything.

“Good people can do bad things and still be good, Astarion. And being good doesn’t always mean being a saint.” Your voice is kind; tender. Maybe a little joking towards the end. He guesses you’ve seen the apprehension on his face when your hands slide down his arm to cradle his own. Dipping to catch his gaze, your own is suddenly serious; unwavering, “What happened to you, the things you did. None of that was your fault. You told me what Cazador did to you when you disobeyed him. I’d be just as terrible to deem you a monster for going along with it knowing what would have happened to you if you didn’t.”

Your words strike him like a hard blow to the chest. Perhaps he’s not all that concerned with being a good person, but he’s never truly wanted to be evil, either.

Eyes stinging, he lets out a shaky breath through his nose as he cups the nape of your neck to guide your forehead to his lips. He lingers there for a moment before he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in tight, mumbling against your hairline, “Thank you.”

Snaking your arms around his waist, you squeeze him just as fiercely, “Of course, my love.”

The laugh that escapes him comes out too watery for his liking, but he finds he doesn’t mind quite as much when its only you around to hear, “‘My love’? Isn’t that my line?”

You snort, and he feels you smile against his collar, “Perhaps.” “You do know that reusing material that isn’t yours is in poor taste, don’t you, darling?”

“Hush.” You pull back smiling, shaking your head as you ask in faux exasperation, “Now, will you please let me finish bandaging this?”

He follows your gaze to his arm and huffs dramatically, “I suppose.” “Oh, you suppose, do you?” You sass as you take hold of his wrist again, careful not to wrap the bandages too tight, “Do you also suppose you’ll sit still for me this time?”

“I do.” He grins.

And he does.

[brucewaynehater101]

I need you to stop me from making another Tim Drake centric fic

I got this random idea that won’t leave me alone

like what if the emotional scars and trauma people have show up physically too most commonly as little cracks on the skin and all of the bats have them

they hide them tho with make up and stuff so people don’t question it except Tim hides them from everyone maybe bc that’s what his parents taught him to do maybe bc he just doesn’t want to burden any of the bats

the bats think that Tim is fine so to them he’s invincible which leads them to treat him as such subconsciously or otherwise especially Bruce

it takes a lot for something to be bad enough that they physically manifest and Tim has A LOT bc everyone thinks he’s invincible

:) it won’t leave me alone help me I beg of you

Hmm.... Let's add on, shall we? This is a very rad idea. You should definitely write a fic about it, but no pressure.

Mind if I explore it? Also, feel free to disregard any part below you don't want/disagree with. This is just brainstorming ^^

Alright. Emotional scars are a physical mark on someone's skin.

Similar to regular scars, they can fade as a person heals.

Some may never disappear, and some only appear for a short time.

What would their color be?

Would they look like actual cracks in a person (so black-ish in color)? Would they be gold or multi-colored (different colors represent different kinds of emotional traumas)?

The level of hurt inflicted is directly proportional to the size (length and width) of the scar.

Perhaps more could be deduced from the general shape (is it jagged? A single line? Branching?)

Not all people have these marks

Most of the population manifests them. There's some prejudice against folk who don't [something something they are heartless, incapable of feelings, not able to be emotionally hurt, cold, detached, etc.], but hiding scars is also common. Therefore, it's harder to discern whether someone is hiding their marks or markless. It's a very fine line, so most people allow a smaller mark to show every once in a while. There's even a few trends to proudly display all marks.

Marks appear at the time of the emotional harm

It may not be apparent at the time due to the location, but the individual being hurt will manifest the mark at the very moment of emotional harm.

Anyways, that's the background stuff. Fun, but let's get into Tim specifically ^^

Tim's parents are part of the few who believe that showing off your scars to anyone, even your loved ones, is both a weakness and a way to guilt-trip people. Therefore, through their archeology studies, they managed to obtain magical objects to prevent the showing of emotional marks. It's similar to glamor.

Tim's object can change forms to suit his needs (so a ring at one moment and an earring the next). This ability prevents the Bats from discovering it.

Janet fakes a very small mark on her hand when she wants to discourage any rumors that's she's incapable of manifesting marks. For Tim, though, his parents wanted him to have rumors of being incapable of forming marks. It served their purpose better for him being the cunning Drake heir.

The deception started from birth, so no one but the Drakes know of Tim's ability to form marks [and the Drake parents never see the marks they leave behind on their child].

The Waynes, long before Tim entered their life, were aware of these rumors. Thus, when Tim demands to become Robin, he doesn't correct their assumptions.

Bruce is a callous fucker to Tim at the start. If Tim can't be hurt emotionally, then Bruce's ill-treatment of him is fine (which is flawed logic. The markless can be emotionally hurt, and they still deserve kindness, dignity, and respect even if they couldn't. Bruce was mentally fucked up, but it doesn't excuse his treatment).

Eventually, Bruce comes to the second realization that Tim should still be treated well even if it doesn't hurt him regardless. The man's behavior is better, but he still has the notion in mind that Tim can't be emotionally hurt. He uses this for missions and to downplay the way his other kids treat Tim (specifically Jason and Damian when they first meet Tim).

Tim gets used to a rotation of insult-names: Robot Robin, heartless, markless (said insultingly), cold-blooded, unfeeling bastard, etc.

He's also subject to a TON of misunderstandings. People are more reluctant to love him due to the belief that he can't love them back. He gets yelled at and told off for "masking/faking his emotions" when he's actually being genuine.

Which adds to his hurt :)

He also has to pretend not to grieve his parents when they die :(

Due to how rare markless are, the Bats don't meet "another" one until after the BruceQuest. When they chat with this person, they realize how many misconceptions they have about them (such as the markless being incapable of feelings. In fact, they accidentally offend that person when they tell the other they don't need to fake their emotions in front of the Bats. Safe to say, the markless individual becomes incensed when they realize how they've been treating their own markless family member).

This would be at least four (probably closer to five) years after Tim first became Robin. The entire family has a meltdown.

Tim, on the other hand, is used to the treatment the Bats have been giving him and becomes incredibly uncomfortable with them trying to care for his feelings and whatnot. It's rocky for a long while as everyone tries to seek forgiveness for something Tim bitterly doesn't hold against them (he is lying to them after all).

Tim rarely, if ever, views his own marks. The last time he checked was when he was having his identity crisis after Robin was taken from him. His entire body, from head to toe, had cracks in it. There was a giant, gaping crack on his back for the metaphorical stab in the back it was.

And we haven't even gotten to when the Bats figure out Tim was never markless :)