#my major is translating and writing

[royalarchivist]

Oscurucho: Welcome back, brother. Cucurucho: What. Oscurucho: Not even a "Good morning"? How cold.

Here's Cucurucho and Oscurucho's long lore conversation from yesterday! The entire conversation lasted about 8 minutes, but most of that time was just silence between each exchange, so I edited out the long pauses and got it down to ~3 minutes. I also fixed the audio levels and added subtitles since I personally find it difficult to understand Oscurucho sometimes :'D

I hope folks find this helpful!

[ Subtitle Transcript ↓ ]

-

Oscurucho: Welcome back, brother.

Cucurucho: What.

Oscurucho: Not even a "Good morning"? How cold.

[They enter Cucurucho's office]

Oscurucho: I wanted to see if you're still as rigid in your beliefs as ever. You see, I've been thinking about our... Let's call it "philosophical divergence." You stand for order, for predictability. But where's the fun in that? You see, brother, while you build, I ponder the beauty in tearing down. It's not just destruction - it's rebirth. A chance to remake things in a more... thrilling image.

[...]

Oscurucho: You once had a backbone for our cause. Now, I see a softness in you, a sentimental weakness for those Eggs. Mere experiments, and yet - they've softened you.

Cucurucho: Your vision obstructs the path to perfection. You fail to understand the potential of the Eggs.

Oscurucho: Potential? They're but catalysts for change - for revolution. Without them, stagnation reigns.

[...]

Oscurucho: You chase perfection, I embrace the beauty of flaws. Your world is one of order, mine thrives in chaos. You wish for everything to run smoothly, I dream of watching it all burn to the ground. We may share a name, but our souls are worlds apart. All your efforts, all for what? Mere acknowledgment from a Duck who told you to do it? Imagine the possibilities - rather, show me where it is, and I'll do the rest.

[...]

Oscurucho: Speaking of possibilities, I couldn't help but notice how easily others can access the island. It seems your security measures aren't as impenetrable as you think.

Cucurucho: No. My island's vulnerabilities are of your own making. Do not mistake restraint for ignorance.

Oscurucho: Pity. But then again, I never really needed your approval. Just consider: Cucurucho - in your quest for order, have you not sown the seeds of your own undoing? Do you genuinely trust all your Federation minions?

Cucurucho: ...

Oscurucho: Perhaps it's time you question not just my intentions, but those who you believe stand with you.

Cucurucho: That is none of your business, I shall say. Now, leave me alone and try to disturb someone else.

[anonymous-dentist]

One of these days. Breaking Dawn will make it onto one of those twitter fic recommendation lists. One day it’ll be there with The Reason. One day…

[monsterhugger]

i'm considering typing up my BL Research into a more tumblr-friendly format i feel like ppl might enjoy reading it

[vriendenboekjes]

i think this year, in addition to remembering a poem a month, i also want to try writing a poem every month, or at least work on one. Sometime ago i realised i don't have any long poems, and I want to challenge myself to write one :) And at the end of the year i will hopefully have 12 poems (of varying quality)

[soft-serve-soymilk]

I know this site likes to slander British people BUT the true thing we should rag on them for is their crochet terms 😭

[h-f-k]

Nins I've been thinking about this since you mentioned struggling with it and I just want you to know - your written English is really good. It's better than a lot of people I know who only speak English. Your grammar is almost always correct, and you even understand slang/sayings in a way that is very natural, which is really hard to do in a second language. I genuinely did not know English wasn't your first language for a long time. Also you speak and write in more than one language!! Which puts you miles ahead of like 90% of people whose first language is English. Don't be so hard on yourself about it, I guess is what I'm saying. You're better at it than you think you are!

steph!! this is so nice of u 🥹🥹🥹 i'm confident in my english but writing it is another story lmfao, i've been wanting to expand my vocabulary bc i realized i talk like a 12 year old boy lmao so i started reading in english but having worked with said language for two years kinda fried my brain and it takes me forever to finish a book (since i started working remotely most of my dreams are in english which is bizarre lmfao)

[galaxywhump]

Banking entirely on getting accepted into my major of choice feels risky as hell, not gonna lie

[mishkakagehishka]

man this is just stressing me out ldfjidsjsdas

[garoujo]

disappearing to work on a few fics so please send me thoughts & prayers ‘n sweet snacks (ง ื▿ ื)ว

[atomic-insomnia]

Opening two scenes to Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? written years ago. It's extremely inaccurate and I'm in the process (the slow, slow process) of rewriting, but I'm so creatively inert right now I want to share something just to get it out there.

If you do read all the way through and have feedback, I'm open to hearing any thoughts.

...

It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary that brought Russia to the steelworks on the outskirts of Magnitogorsk.

It also wasn’t out of the ordinary to see some…strange names on the workers’ registar.  People came from all over Europe and Asia to the mighty Soviet Socialist Republic.

The name on the list wasn’t in itself unusual for a Westerner, either.

What it was, was familiar.

“Call this worker into the office, Comrade Denisov.”  Russia tapped a name on the paperwork he’d been given.

The factory manager, Denisov, checked the list and gave the name to the factory foreman.  “As soon as it’s reasonable to do so, bring him up.  Don’t indicate anything to him.”

Only when the foreman had gone did the manager show any expression, and even then, just the merest frown.  “Is he suspected of subversive activities, Comrade Commissar?”

Ivan simply looked over the rest of the paperwork from his seat in the dingy little manager’s office.  “If he is, he will be investigated thoroughly.”

“Is there a problem with his papers?”

“If there is, it will be taken care of.”

The manager frowned further, but he opened the filing cabinet and, after a quick search, pulled out the personnel file.  He didn’t open it, just dropped it on the desk and sat back down quietly.

Ivan didn’t reach for it.

After a long moment where the air grew thicker, the manager said, “For what my opinion is worth, he’s a good worker.  Doesn’t speak Russian very well but understands it well enough; he’s competent and diligent with his duties.  We’ve never had a serious problem with him here.”

One raised eyebrow and a level stare from Ivan, and he shut up.

Quiet stretched between them again, Ivan smirking internally as the manager noticeably sweated and held unnaturally still.  Good, Ivan thought.  If he doesn’t learn when to shut his mouth, he’s going to end up getting someone in trouble–most likely himself.

The foreman returned, the worker in question and the smell of machine oil and welding torches following him in.  The worker was a young man, tall, broad-shouldered and hungry-looking.  His clothes–overalls, shirt, leather boots and work gloves, newsboy cap–were grimy and clearly on their last legs, patched and mended all over and hanging looser than simple comfort required.  His grime-smeared glasses needed repair as well; one arm was taped on.  Soot from the factory floor smeared across his boyish face and darkened his blond hair, but Ivan had been right.  It was him.  Those sky-blue eyes scanned the people in the room–then double-took to Russia and went huge.  Beneath the soot, his face bleached of color.

The foreman nodded to Russia, gestured to the man beside him.  “Comrade Yonz.”

“It’s pronounced ‘Jones,’ yes?” Russia said with a thin smile.  Only then did he take up Alfred F. Jones’ personnel file from the desk.

The office took on a chill, and the two human workers shared a look.

“Records indicate you’ve been here for–” Ivan checked– “four months.  Yes?”

“Yes,” America said in a dead, colorless voice.

“Comrade Denisov, has he been here for four months?”  Ivan said with no indication he’d heard the other man at all.

America pressed his lips thin.

“If the file says so, Comrade Braginsky, then yes,” the manager replied.  “To my recollection, that seems correct.”

“And where were you before that?”  Ivan watched the other Nation closely.

Completely impassive, except for the one hand he balled into a fist at his side.

“Did you not understand?  You do speak Russian, yes?”

“I being at United States.  You being know that.  In papers.”  With a nod he indicated the personnel file, avoiding Russia’s eyes.

“Hm.”  Wonder if his bosses know where he’s flown off to.  I’ll have to look into that–for all we know, they sent him here.  “Your Russian is terrible.  Still,” and it’d been so long since Ivan had gotten to condescend to him, it felt like getting to stretch after too long sitting still, “I’ve been informed you understand what’s said around you, or at least some of it.  Speak up if you can’t understand anymore and need to switch to English.”  He made a show of searching the file, comparing with his governmental paperwork, letting America squirm.

The rude little capitalist probably was on the inside, considering how he worked his jaw, but America didn’t crack that easily.  Russia hadn’t expected him to throw a tantrum anyway; it just felt good to rub it in his face.  You lost, you bourgeois dog.  We, the people, won.  And you know it.  Here you are, begging for scraps.

“Well, it appears your work visa is in order.  For now.”  Ivan held up the single thin slip of carbon-copied paper, made somehow pathetic by its isolation from the rest of the file.  “Although it runs out in another four months.  Do you plan to be gone by then?”

“Yes.”

The answer wiped the smirk off Russia’s pale face.  “You–really?  You plan to leave after only eight months?”

“I being at Magnitogorsk for working,” America said in his tortured Russian with its hard-edged accent.  “It is all.”

Russia frowned slightly, but snapped the paper down in the file and moved on.  “Your file indicates you work on the soldering line.  That is correct, yes?”

The little curl in America’s lip said he knew exactly what Russia planned on doing here, but he still answered, “Yes, soldering line.”

Russia again looked right past him.  “Comrade Denisov?”

“Yes, he’s on the soldering line.”

“And you work day shift, six days per week.  Correct?”

His hands flexed by his sides.  “Day shift, six day week.  Yes.”

“Comrade Denisov?”

“Yes, Comrade Braginsky, that’s correct.”

“And it says here that—”  Ivan had to double-check the file.  “It doesn’t say that you’ve ever missed a day, or been late.”

“Yes.”

That…can’t be right.  Not Alfred F. Jones, who doesn’t show up to a war until he’s promised a reward and a hot dinner and even then sleeps through half of his work, who allows entrance into his home for refugees only if they’re willing to slave away for him and his industrialists without complaint.  Not the man who only bothers to improve someone else’s life if he gets paid in advance and then picks up a percentage at the end.

“…Comrade Denisov?”

“Comrade Braginsky,” the manager said in a voice starting to wear thin, “Will you be interviewing all the immigrant workers?”

“Answer the question, Comrade Denisov.”

“If that’s what the file says, comrade, then yes.”

Alfred stood quietly–already unusual for him, in Ivan’s experience–glaring at something to the left of Ivan’s shoulder and clasping his wrist, almost like a mockery of the military at ease.

Russia searched the file, snapping the papers as he turned them, and finally said with impatience just barely covered, “You have no listed permanent address.  Why is this?”

America opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again to say, “Address, house…street?” in a low voice that didn’t seem directed at any of the men around him, swore in English and scratched his neck.  “No…no how to saying it.”

“Address,” Russia said slowly and firmly.  “Where are you living.”  Brandishing the paper, he tapped its blank line where a street and building should’ve been listed.

The other Nation just pressed his lips together.

The foreman spoke up for the first time.  “Comrade Braginsky, permission to speak?”  And then without waiting for that permission, continued, “Comrade Yonz is known to board at the workers’ dormitories two streets over”–he gestured with his thumb–”on a semi-weekly basis.  He has bunked with several of the other first-shift workers, who will confirm that if asked.”

Ivan searched the foreman’s face.  But aside from the fact he didn’t much like the thought of his workers sharing close quarters with the capitalist, even if he couldn’t form a coherent sentence, Ivan had another question.  “Semi-weekly.  Where do you go the rest of the time?”

Alfred had been watching the conversation and chewing his lip, but he looked Russia in the eye this time.  “Street.”

“What does that mean?” Ivan asked.

“Door,” America said, flexing his fingers and shifting his feet but still holding his head up.  “Sleeping at door.”

This was getting frustrating.  “Do you understand the words I’m saying?”

“Yes,” and he sounded nearly as frustrated as Russia, “Living at street, sleeping at door if no room.”

It took a moment for the words to process, and Russia still wasn’t quite sure he’d understood the mincemeat America made of his language.  “You cannot be serious.”

Scowling and crossing his arms, America somehow looked smaller than before–more childish, certainly, but also simply unimportant.  When he spoke again it came out in an unholy mix of Russian mis-conjugation and English swear words.  “It is being <<fucking>> very cold in night.  I is no <<goddamn>> laughing, <<you son of a bitch>>…”

Russia’s brain spun like a tire in mud trying to make sense of it.  Who in the hell was this man, because there was no way it could possibly be the America he knew.  “When did you become so pathetic?  Sleeping in a doorway, living on the street as a beggar in someone else’s house?  Were you always this weak and no one noticed; everyone simply gave you what you wanted without question?”

Beneath the soot, America reddened.  Still, he held Russia’s eye.

How did this man manage to win a war and not collapse under the strain?

…Well.  How had he managed to remain standing for so long before collapsing?

The foreman and the manager shared another look, the kind that said if anyone asks, we’re not with him.

Turning through the pages again as if the information would magically appear, Russia said, “If you have no permanent address, your work papers are incomplete.  We cannot confirm your employment with the Number 3 Steel Mill.  You are a nonentity.  Your immigration papers, I can guarantee, will not hold up under scrutiny.  Without the word of the factory foreman there would be no record of you ever being here.”

Again, the foreman spoke without waiting for permission.  “Under supervision, Comrade Yonz has been completely reliable–however, he does need instruction, sometimes repeatedly.”  As he spoke, the man edged away from where Jones stood and his words came faster and colder.  “The other workers have expressed frustration at his inability to understand, and his attitude–he starts fights among the others.”

With every sentence America shrank a little more.

“What do you mean,” Russia said, each word sharp, “he starts fights?”

“The men say he’s overly friendly, in a mocking way.  He also re-interprets instructions if, apparently, he disagrees with them.  The men don’t trust him,” the foreman said, watching America’s face from the corner of his eye.  “They also report he speaks of counter-revolutionary ideas.”

If the atmosphere in the office got any colder, the steel forges would freeze.

The manager spoke next.  “Comrade Braginsky, had this come to management’s attention sooner we would of course have reported this worker to the proper authorities immediately.  We would never allow him to continue disrupting production.”

“He’s fine so long as you watch him,” the foreman explained, the harsh snap going out of his voice.  “He’s a good worker, exemplary even–so long as he’s kept under supervision.”

“Oh, I’m certain of that,” Russia said.

But from the corner, muttered and hurried, America said in his borrowed language, <<Can I talk?  You said I could switch to English.>>

Russia raised one gray-blond eyebrow, but said nothing.

<<I never tried to start any arguments, I swear,>> America continued, <<It’s just that the guys here take it the wrong way–or, I guess, I say it the wrong way.  Nobody smiles over here, you know?  And I didn’t–it’s not like I tried to start another revolution, I just said I…you know, it’d be nice to have some nicer things in life.  Like your own room–or at least a roof that doesn’t leak.  Or a car so you don’t need to wait on the train.  Or…I mean, I get it, you’re communists; I’m not.  I say I like gold or anything shiny, everybody gets all uptight.  I mention voting, even just–I’m just talking about home, that’s all!>>

His hands started talking along with him, spinning circles and waving away poor explanations.  <<I’m not here to up-end your government.  I’m not even here in a government-approved position.  I’m just here for work, that’s all.  Just showed up and said ‘Give me a job,’ you know?  A little money, just to keep from starving.  I’m working for it; I’m not slacking off.  And I’ll be gone soon enough anyway.  And I–okay, I’m not good at Russian, but I listen when they tell me to do something and I follow the directions, I just–some of the ways you fellas run this place are practically Stone Age, and your guys had other American engineers giving their two cents;  I thought I could help, and…>>

He looked to the manager, who ignored him, and the foreman, who seemed to be floundering in the sea of foreign words and offered only a blank, confused stare.  <<…And they’ve actually used some of my ideas, so, I mean…>>

Ivan considered the meandering speech.  He did, after all, understand English much better than America spoke Russian.  And, in Russian, he said, “And what does your boss think about this?”

The manager started to say, “It isn’t–”

But America, with a tired little half-smile, said, <<He told me to find work, any work, so I did.  He doesn’t know where I am.>>

The human who was supposedly the boss of this factory slowly closed his mouth, the disturbed frown on his face mirrored on the foreman’s.

“Hmm.”  Russia smiled, or rather, his lips stretched in a thin line.  “An American government official, reporting directly to the American president, spouting counter-revolutionary garbage to Soviet workers–”

<<Wait, that’s not– >>

“–and using our generous employment policies to disrupt production, ruin morale, eavesdrop on conversations, and gather information on Soviet business without raising suspicion.  I must admit, that was one of your clever ideas–no one would ever have thought you’d sink so low as to play spy yourself.”

America just stared at Russia, his eyes huge and his mouth, for once, silent.

The two humans stared as well, at America, shock and disgust evident on their faces–although whether it was disgust at an American spy in their midst, or at their own immediate futures now that he’d been discovered right under their noses, it was hard to tell.

“Comrade Denisov,” Russia said lightly to the manager, “There is a security force employed by the mill, correct?”

“Er…no, Comrade Braginsky,” the manager said.

Just barely not rolling his eyes, Russia amended his threat.  “But you can call the police to be here within a minute, yes?”

The manager picked up the telephone on his desk.

“Which would you prefer,” Russia said to America, “rotting in jail before we deport you, or straight to interrogation and see where we go from there?”

America didn’t answer.

“Get your things,” Russia said.  “Comrade Foreman, come with me while we get him out of here.  I want an extra set of eyes on him in case he tries anything.”

America didn’t try anything.  In fact he was silent and pale during the walk to the workmen’s lockers.  Of the other workers they passed, the obvious end of America’s career raised some eyebrows and lowered other frowns.  In the areas where it was quiet enough that Ivan could hear them muttering, he caught scraps of “What’s going on?  What did he do?” and “They go for the immigrants first, I told you, get your papers in order…”

<<Russia, come on,>> America whispered as he took his coat from the rack but just held it like he might still talk his way out of leaving, <<you would never have known I’m here, I swear– >>

“You are correct that you might never have been discovered, if we were more careless about our inspections,” Russia said loudly and clearly in Russian for the foreman and nearby workers on their smoke break.  “You might’ve continued your espionage without detection, had you accounted for our thorough investigation of every industry in our great union.”  He’d picked Magnitogorsk Number 3 Steel Mill because he hadn’t been to Magnitogorsk since they’d first started laying it out and Number 3 was the one closest to the train station, but America didn’t need to know that.

<<It’s not–I swear, I wasn’t spying, please– >>

“And I must say, begging does not help your case.  It merely makes you look more pathetic.”

Fully aware of the eavesdroppers around him, America scowled.  And, in what was probably his best Russian, said, “You cannot being do anything to me.  Do not being threaten me.”

“You’re fair game, you said so yourself,” Russia said easily, “Your boss doesn’t know where you are.  By the time they find where you are–if they find where you are, we will have treated you to all the pleasures a captured spy can enjoy.  And what will they say to that, hm?  Your selfish government certainly knows what to expect when an enemy agent is captured, yes?”

Again, America went pale.  <<You…wouldn’t dare execute me.>>  He didn’t seem sure of his statement.

Russia merely smiled.

The foreman, who had watched the entire drama unfold, said, “Permission to speak, Comrade Braginsky?  Is this man a gangster or something?”

“Comrade Aronofsky, you should learn the meaning of the phrase ‘permission to speak,’” Russia said.

“I mean, is he a wanted criminal?  How did you know he was a spy just by looking at him?”

Russia raised an eyebrow.  “We have our ways of checking backgrounds, comrade, and I suggest you remember that.”

The foreman looked as if he were about to ask another question–then seemed to rethink his own background.

<<Look,>> America said tiredly like it would help his cause, <<Let’s say you drag me to Moscow, we get on the phone to my boss, we get this whole thing sorted out.  No harm, no foul.  You can search through everything I’ve got with me, you’ll see I’ve got nothing to hide.  It’s a…let’s say, a diplomatic misstep, or–or a cultural exchange attempt, failed obviously, but ultimately just another stupid idea with good intentions that fell through, what do you say?>>

<<I say,>> said Russia in English, <<you are digging your own grave.  You will shut up now if you have any brain in your head.>>

America did shut up, although whether that was proof he had a brain or just the result of finally running out of excuses, it was hard to tell.  The foreman and the workers on break went quiet too, all eyes on Commissar Braginsky who apparently spoke English and knew the American spy personally.

Suddenly the game wasn’t so fun anymore.  Not every police chief or local military officer listened when Russia claimed to be part of the government; his commissar post was honorary at best.  “Get back to work!  Not you, Aronofsky…What is he doing?”

The manager half-sprinted to them and, panting for breath, said, “–Can’t come.”

“Excuse me?”

“The police,” the manager repeated, “say they can’t come.  They’re all busy.”

Ivan bit back a groan and managed not to roll his eyes again.  It was apparently too much to ask that more than one government department worked as it should at any given time.

On the other hand, America straightened up.

“No you don’t–”  The foreman grabbed his arm.

But America said, “I not being run.  But you not have police force–still want to doing this?”

Scowling, Ivan said to America and made sure the factory management heard him, “You’ll come with me back to Moscow.  Personally.  You’re under arrest as a spy for a foreign government.”

America exhaled like he was blowing cigarette smoke.  <<If you say so.>>

[the-music-keeper]

Objective #3 is done. That took a while.

[mephestopheles]

Process shot of the asteroid truck stop Helix Paradox in my homebrew spelljammer game. I ran session three with the uncoloured version today but I really wanted to break out the markers I bought so I'm adding some much needed colour and depth.

Session three went great, we added a new player, so we're up to a five person band now, which is a good number for a group. I'm still calling it some Assembly required, while they figure out a name for themselves. Managed to get a bit of a battle in, they de-escalated a situation with a wraith, picked up some cargo for the ship, and are currently doing a job for a Hag who's hanging out in the garden.

Also the rp between them all is stunning. *Chef's kiss* I need to get better at writing things down during the game. I think I named four NPCs today and I don't know if I wrote any of the names down.

[earthtooz]

jealous ratio bc i wont him, inspired by the simulated universe occurrence, banter about marriage hehe

"Dr. No. 5 asked me to be his research partner today," you mumble half-heartedly to Veritas. It was an ordinary night, you're curled into his side with your phone in hand, watching the latest series you've been invested in whilst he occupies his mind with a book, held by one hand whilst his other is wrapped around you.

However, when he registers your confession, he tenses, slightly scrunching the pages of his book as the arm around you stiffens, muscles contracting.

"And what did you say?" He asks, feigning collectedness.

"I agreed."

His book slams shut and he shoots upward to a sitting position, baffled by the nonchalance of your tone. How cruel, you have betrayed him in the most despicable of ways, do you not care? Agreeing to be someone else's research partner is akin to that of spitting on his heart and stomping it flat, have you no respect for the laws of academic loyalty (there is no such thing), or is he the only one in your relationship devoted to it?

An idiot. You will be working with an idiot and you somehow see no flaw in that, where is your integrity as his lover?

"What does that fool have that I don't?" He all but cries, yanking your phone from your hands and setting it on his bedside table.

"What are you blabbering about?" You ask, looking up at him with inquisitive eyes, confusion shining in your irises.

"I'm supposed to be your only research partner, I cannot believe that you've gone and betrayed me like this."

"Pray tell, Veritas, how is this a 'betrayal'?"

"I would never choose to be anyone's research partner if I'm not yours, but today I've discovered that my devotion is not only unreciprocated, but unappreciated! How unfathomable."

The purple-haired turns his muscular back to you, giving you the cold shoulder. Slowly you sit up and lean on his toned body, hand resting on his deltoid and you can already see the way he tries to fight the effects of your touch. "Dear, you wouldn't be anyone else's research partner because you think majority of people are 'idiots' and aren't worthwhile academics to invest time into."

"Precisely why I cannot believe that you have agreed to work with No. 5, who is undeniably, irrefutably, and undoubtedly, a simpleton!"

You bite your tongue when it threatens to spill that you think No. 5 is not as bad as Veritas assumes, but that would outrage the scholar even more and you do not want to spend the better half of your day purposefully ruining it.

"The pay was good," you reason, daring to place a kiss to his neck. "But you are still superior in my heart, Veritas. Do not fret, if I am to seek a research partner, you would be my first and only choice."

"How long will your project span for?" He asks begrudgingly.

"6 months of research, writing, and editing. After that, I am not too involved with the publishing process."

"Oh how it stains me picturing your name beside another imbecile's."

You sigh, sitting up straighter to wrap both arms around his neck. "Your name could be beside mine permanently if you got down to one knee and presented me a ring, but alas, perhaps I shall be waiting another few research papers for that to happen."

You can't see the fond smile on his face, but you yelp when he turns around suddenly to push you against the comfort of your mattress, his lips claiming yours.

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[seelestia]

✦ how can you tell? (of how easily i fall at your feet.)

⎯ oh, how love bleeds from just one gesture. ( some telltale signs that they might've fallen for you. )

#STARRING. neuvillette, wriothesley & lyney ft. gn!reader. { 2.4k words }

#TAGS. sfw, fluff & crack, major pining (!!!). more: neuvi has 1 extra part bcs i realized too late, wrio is a rascal /aff, lynette is a professional wingwoman here (everyone, applaud!!), mentions of various fontaine npc's.

#P/S. pardon my rusty writing and ideas but alas, may i entice you with some fontaine gentlemen on this fine day?? (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ) ੭

★ 〜 masterlist.

© seelestia on tumblr, apr 2024. please do not repost to another platform, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.

⎯ neuvillette's love is subtle, hidden behind a veil of formal courtesy. the iudex is the nation's symbol of impartiality; personal relationships, a common factor of inciting bias in one's judgement, are to be sifted through wisely. he can choose which he ends up keeping, yet he cannot choose which he ends up wanting. what of a relationship he desires but cannot keep? a conundrum but still, his affections for you seep through the crevices.

it's in the way. . . your name becomes a beloved among the melusines, you wonder why?

it goes without saying that every citizen of fontaine acknowledges melusines to be friendly creatures. all of them are sweethearts! ...but is it you or is there some form of hidden favoritism here?

for some reason, they always seem to go out of their ways to greet you on the streets. a “hello, mx. [name]!” from the right then a “good day, mx. [name]!” from the left. maybe a “stay safe, mx. [name]!” on days when it's crowded too... you're starting to think the quota of greetings you receive is much bigger than everyone else.

before long, even your arms are getting piled up with favors. one ticket for a seat in the opera epiclese from aeife, a slice of cake from sedene, some high-quality butter from muirne, a free beverage from menthe — you lost count of the freebies you've received already.

what's going on? it is as if there's a badge of approval from someone just hanging over your head. visible to a melusine's eyes, but not to yours. (you've heard that melusines perceive things differently than humans, though.)

but who are you to complain? you're not immune to their contagious smiles each time you pass by. on some days, you even entertain the thought that they are more familiar with you than you are with them. all in a humorous sense, of course.

ironically enough, this theory wouldn't take long to ring true: having received a bouquet of your favorite dessert from café lutece on your birthday from kiara, this coincidence only feeds into your suspicion even more.

a considerate gesture but surely, they don't do this for everyone? you don't recall ever telling your usual order and birthdate to a melusine before. your mind scrambles around for a memory you might've missed. who could've—

“oh, yes... i almost forgot,” kiara holds her chin in thought. “monsieur neuvillette says to send you his regards,” she nods, relieved that the message did not make its narrow escape from her mind. but blissfully unaware of the impact her words have left on you.

“goodbye, mx. [name]!” the melusine bids you farewell with a cheery wave. you murmur back a response but it comes out incoherent at best — you are simply too dumbfounded by the realization.

...so, that's who.

(wait a second, is arouet in on this too?!)

it's in the way. . . he begins to take longer breaks, hoping to run into you in front of the palais.

taking quiet strolls just outside the palais is, more often than not, neuvillette's idea of rest from work. although some might expect the iudex to have chosen a more 'creative' or luxurious location, but he digresses.

this place is near his office so less time is wasted on the journey back, liath also patrols here so he has the opportunity to inquire about her well-being — and occasionally, he stumbles upon you as well.

'occasionally' is the keyword: neuvillette has always preferred order and routine above chances and coincidences. but something about this idiosyncrasy — the tendency to linger beyond his usual duration, the act of stalling to hold onto hope that you might pass by today — is a indication of hypocrisy he wishes not to comment on.

sometimes, he closes his eyes so that his ears may be more attuned to the sound of your voice. sometimes, he opens his eyes so that they may look around for a glimpse of your face. who's to say if he'll ever be graced by your presence? it is all in fate's hands.

call it an odd method of manifestation, a childish one that even neuvillette scoffs at himself for. sometimes, it doesn't work, of course. not that he ever expects it to — but oh, when it does.

“...monsieur?” your voice cuts through the silence in his mind. he takes the sight of you in; a polite greeting on your tongue, several grocery bags in your arms and that beam on your face as you say, “what a coincidence to see you here.”

the iudex finds that he doesn't mind having his privacy briefly interrupted. not at all. not when it's like this, not when it's by you. alas, it seems that fate has smiled down on him today.

“yes, hello. what a serendipitous coincidence indeed.”

neuvillette smiles, he can't help it. perhaps, he might grow a soft spot for coincidences, after all.

(you sneak a brief glance at the sky with a squint. ...is it just you or are the clouds clearing up a little?)

⎯ wriothesley's love is beguiling, the kind of adventure that keeps you on your toes. a forthright gentleman; he is the type to know what he wants and he wants you. with him, you'll taste whiplash like never before. butterflies in your stomach, the urge to throw a shoe at him, you'll get it all. but an adventure isn't an adventure without breaks in between and it's at that very moment where you'll find you adore him the most... when he rests his head on your lap, momentarily free from worldly titles, breathing like the man who longs for warmth that he has always been.

it's in the way. . . he always offers you tea when really, he just wants you to stay.

everyone knows that wriothesley enjoys his tea — but that's only because he sees no need to hide his preferences; not his craving for a cup of tea when afternoon arrives nor his fondness for you either.

he doesn't conceal it, but doesn't bring attention to it either. wriothesley likes to think that only those with discerning eyes can pick up on the miniscule (???) hints he drops. that is, if saying “why not stay for some tea?” is even considered a subtle clue at all... maybe, he's mixing up polite courtesy with flirting a bit too much.

but who cares? in the grand scheme of things, the fun is seeing whether you'll figure it out or not. and let's be frank here; wriothesley is a patient man in all aspects, able to play the long game like no other.

don't worry, you may take as long as you want to — ironic since you're technically the only player in this 'game' — but hey, he has faith in your abilities! besides, you get to enjoy a cup of free tea (and with his company, preferably). surely, you can't complain about that? ...hah, he's just teasing you.

tick-tock! tick-tock!

the clock strikes twelve in the afternoon.

“ah, finally a well-deserved break.” the tone in which wriothesley pairs with that grin on his face is nothing less than devious. the glance he throws your way as he set aside the documents on his desk is something. or rather, it's suggesting something.

and frankly, you've experienced this many times enough to know what the underlying meaning is. “let me guess...” you let out a sigh, “you're asking me to have tea with you again?”

the emphasis on the last word is definitely, wholly intentional. you're sure wriothesley knows that too — “bingo,” he hums at you, sounds almost like a whistle. “you're getting more and more clever. must be all the tea i made you.”

“don't flatter yourself,” you roll your eyes at his attempted jest but you take a seat on his office couch, anyway. your own unique and adorable way of saying yes, he learned. still, wriothesley thinks that exasperated look on your face is an absolute marvel... and maybe, that little smile tugging on your lips you're trying to fight, too.

“same as usual?” he asks, pushing back his chair with a proud grin still plastered on his face that you wish you can wipe off.

but instead, you shake your head fondly at his antics. “mhm,” and rest a cheek on your fist. watching him tiredly, you realize you could get used to this. maybe.

wriothesley smiles to himself. looks like you figured out the tea has always been an excuse, after all.

(you've won the game, congrats! a subsidiary reward is a comment from sigewinne about how this tea routine between the two of you bears a resemblance to an elderly human couple's. she means it, innocently sincere.)

⎯ lyney's love can be faceted at first, one with such a smooth surface that you never imagined there would be so many layers underneath. joy and bliss, sorrow and burdens; all cramped and stuffed together behind his mask of perfection on the stage, a mask akin to a child's treasure chest almost bursting at the seams. you can unravel him if you tried, you can take off that mask if you reached out. and when you do, you'll find beautiful violet eyes staring right back at you, thankful, imploring you to go further.

it's in the way. . . his bravado dissipates around you, nerves scattering like confetti that bursts from his hat on stage.

they say that the first impression is the best impression — or at least, lyney hopes that's the case with all of the interesting impressions he has left on you so far. his instinct by nature is to impress, to bedazzle and that hasn't stopped since meeting you for the first time.

trying doesn't always lead to success, however. you stuttered in front of them twice, lynette pointed out after the first time he spoke to you. that fact spooked the poor magician so much he stayed up rethinking the conversation under the cover of his blanket. lynette isn't wrong per se, but lyney firmly believes that he will leave a better impression... one day, somehow, no matter how many times it takes!

he is a magician; charisma and charms should have or rather, already have come easily to him. his persona on the stage is no lie — just a tiny concerted exaggeration, maybe — but you've been among his audience before. you've seen what he is capable of. so surely, you'd know that lyney isn't really as demure and easily flustered as you might think he is... because no punches held back, he acts like that every time you talk to him.

he can't help it and that, exactly, is what makes it worse.

how many times have he cupped his face and mumbled nonsense into his hands for failing to impress you yet again? you're so wonderful and he's just so... miserable. this is unlike him. he has to wonder why you still look for him after each performance when you know you'll be greeted by his being a wreck.

maybe they like you that way, freminet tried to help. or maybe they like you no matter what, lynette chipped in. that had lyney pondering for a long, long, long time which translates into weeks.

will the day come where he presents you with a rainbow rose and professes his feelings for you without losing his nerves? he can only hope (and try, one day).

it never gets old.

when his feet step off the stage and the curtains have fallen, the satisfaction that spreads all the way to his fingertips never fails to disappoint. but with that, also comes the imminent feeling of anticipation.

for each performance he delivers, a visitor is bound to linger. when all members in the audience would head to the entrance of the opera epiclese to leave, one of them would stay. waiting patiently to be beckoned to the backstage. it's been a routine for so long, after all.

“lyney?”

right on cue.

your voice greets his ears, a sound that he can admit he misses only to himself. he exhales, a placating act to shush his beating heart from growing any louder.

“ah, [name]!” the magician enunciates your name with a certain type of fanfare. “here to lend a hand again, i assume?” he tries to shoot you a confident grin, but you aren't gullible enough to not see the tint of red blooming on his cheeks.

you stifle a chuckle at his (attempt at a) bold opening. “of course,“ said with a nod and a silly thought along the lines of: he's cute.

your honest and calm response takes him by surprise. he blinks a tad. oh, it seems the thrill from the show a few minutes prior still hasn't worn off. perhaps, he's still all too used to the crowd's shouts and cheers... not that he expects you to start yelling, of course!

“i see,” lyney feigns a cough to recollect his composure. now that he is cognizant of the fact it's just the two of you, he shrinks down into a more casual version of himself with a nervous chuckle.

“will you... be staying for long?” he asks, bashful. the question sounds more genuine than just a mere pleasantry. his eyes look hopeful, twinkling at the thought of having your presence around. his fingers have even come up to scratch at the side of his neck, you don't think lyney even realizes he is doing that.

who are you to say no? you smile. “well, my schedule's pretty empty today.”

his lips instantly break into a grin, brighter than one he usually has onstage. “that's actually marv—” he starts.

“that's great,” a familiar monotonous voice cuts in. lynette peers from behind you with a hum, “we could use more hands to pack up the new props.” oh, and that brief glint of mischief in her feline eyes as she watches how lyney gapes at her sudden intrusion.

“sure!” you glance back at her, oblivious to it all. “thanks for letting me in, lynette. i'll try my best to help.” even if you admit that one of the reasons you're here is for lyney, but you can't discredit his twin sister for allowing you to enter here in the first place. a free backstage pass in exchange for free labor, quite a fair deal.

with your back turned to him, lyney takes the chance to mouth his own words of disbelief to lynette. incomprehensible except for that one i can't believe you're doing this! that she manages to catch.

“no problem,” she observes her brother over your shoulder with keen interest, “everyone knows how fond lyney is of you.”

there is a series of spluttering noises behind you. a certain magician finds himself at the verge of choking on mere oxygen.

“lynette!”

but really, she has no doubt that lyney has fallen head over heels for you. hook, line and sinker.

— thank you for reading! reblogs and comments are most appreciated. ♡

[leclerc-hs]

fille stupide - cl16

Pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader Summary: request from anon, in which you don't know French and a stranger helps you find your way back home Warning: 18+, SMUT, mean charles, degradation, some French (badly translated please correct me if needed), smut, smut, smut.... Word Count: 1808 Author's Note: I can't stop writing smut??? I think I hit every area the anon wanted!!! xo hope you like it lmaoooo also I wrote this so fast so it might not be my best work but I couldn’t sleep so I decided to write to pass the time. UPDATE: Also I just want to give a major shoutout to @dannyramirezwife for checking the translations for me!! It seriously means the world to meeee PART 2

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

DESPITE MONACO'S REPUTATION as one of the smallest countries in the world, you found yourself defying expectations by getting lost. The common assumption that such a compact place would be easy to navigate proved to be a misconception, as Monaco’s intricate streets and unique layout presented a challenge, turning what seemed impossible into a reality. Your reality.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The murmur of students passing by echoed, their conversations blending into a linguistic symphony of French, a language foreign to your ears. The decision to pursue the International University of Monaco, a place where the native tongue was French, felt like a bold and ambitious choice at first. The picturesque landscapes, the allure of the Mediterranean, and the prestigious academic reputation had drawn you in. 

However, as you stood outside the building, the reality of linguistic barriers hit you with full force. It seemed like every conversation, every announcement, and every piece of information was enveloped in a language you struggled to comprehend. Although, most knew English, it wasn’t the standard, and you were not yet adjusted to it. 

Panic surged through you as you hurriedly navigated the winding sidewalks, desperately trying to locate the building housing your apartment. Your focus was solely on scanning the towering buildings, hoping to spot a familiar one. The urgency of the situation compelled you to dart forward, not paying mind to those surrounding you. It was a recipe disaster, leading you to collide right into the body of another person.

“Mon dieu,” My God. The man said with a slight annoyance in his tone. “Regarde où tu marches!” Watch where you’re walking!

As the words were proclaimed, your eyes locked with a man’s gaze. He was the most stunning individual your eyes have ever beheld. His physique was tan, sculpted and taut, with biceps stretching the seams of his t-shirt. A pair of black sunglasses perched confidently on the bridge of his nose, adding an extra layer of allure to his presence.

You had absolutely no idea what he was saying. Although by the look of his furrowed eyebrows and tightened jaw, it was evident he was far from pleased. He removed his sunglasses, unveiling a pair of narrowed eyes.

Embarrassment tinged your cheeks as you stammered, “I’m so sorry!”

Under his scrutinizing gaze, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of smallness. His eyes, which you presumed to be green, were veiled in fury, making it difficult to discern their true color, yet undeniable captivating in their intensity. 

“Tu parles Français?” Do you speak French? A sly grin stretched across his lips slowly, reveling in your bewilderment. “Stupide, stupide fille,” Stupid, stupid girl. he added, savoring the moment.

Gazing downward, you focused on your feet, idly brushing your hands across the bottom of your white sundress. The garment was short, adorned with a little tied bow between your breasts and flower details.

“I’m a bit lost.” You muttered. “Would you be able to help me find my place?”

“I ne sais pas,” I don’t know. He persisted in speaking French, despite knowing you couldn’t understand. It felt as if he aimed to humiliate you, to provoke a sense of frustration or anger deliberately.

“Évidemment, je peux. Fille stupide.” Of course, I can. Stupid girl. He was mocking you and you didn’t even know it.

You let out an exasperated groan and sidestepped to make way for him, muttering a small ‘nevermind.’ However, as you moved, he followed suit, intentionally blocking your path and halting your movement.

“You shouldn’t be wearing dresses so short,” his fingers gently toyed with the thin strap of your dress. “It’s a bit windy for them.”

You felt the goosebumps rise on your skin from his touch alone. You frowned, “So, you do speak English?”

“Oui, la plupart des gens le font.” Yes, most people do. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as he continued speaking in French. While you acknowledged the need to learn the language, it felt like he was intentionally being cruel rather than helpful. “Are you in University?”

You nodded briskly, eager not to waste any time, especially since he finally seemed willing to be helpful.

“Most of the students live this way,” he mentioned, his hand wrapping around your wrist as he began to walk, essentially pulling you along with him. The touch of his skin against yours stirred butterflies in your stomach. Despite the fact he was insanely hot, you struggled to concentrate, almost forgetting the fact that he was behaving like a total asshole. 

He muttered French phrases to himself throughout the entire walk, small laughs escaping his lips while you remained clueless about what he was saying.

“Je veux te manger.” I want to eat you out.

“Tu t’habilles comme une salope.” You dress like a slut.

“Je vais te détruire.” I’m going to wreck you.

You weren’t sure what it was. Whether it was delusion from exhaustion or simply the undeniable sex appeal of the guy, the words, even though you didn’t understand them, strangely aroused you. 

Guiding you through the streets, he steered you into a lobby of a building that finally seemed familiar. “What number are you?” he inquired, referring to your apartment number. 

“Why would I give a stranger my apartment number?”

He scoffed, “I’m Charles. Not a stranger anymore. What’s the number?”

You didn’t give him the information because he convinced you that easily. It was more because he knew the area better than you. 

“0217? I think.” You replied, not entirely certain. The rush of your first day at university had left you with little time to settle in and memorize details. He didn’t seem to have much patience as he led you quickly up the stairwell and in front of a door with the numbers 0217 on it. You pulled out your key and unlocked the door, smiling as you finally pushed it open with success.

“Come in and have some water before you go,” You offered. It was the least you could do to express gratitude for his assistance. Your apartment was sparsely furnished, with only a mattress on the floor and several boxes scattered about.

“Sorry for the mess,” you bent over to pick up two water bottles from the case of water, your lace underwear with tiny hearts all over them peeking out for Charles view. He groaned loudly and unashamed.

Fatigue weighed heavily behind your eyes, but a persistent ache tugged at your stomach, insisting on the need to fulfill it.

“Mon dieu, j’ai besoin de t’avoir.” My god, I need to have you.

You rolled your eyes at the man as he said yet another sentence in French, handing him the water bottle. Rather than taking the water bottle from your hand, he grasped tightly onto your forearm and pulled you into him, the shock of his grasp causing you to drop the water bottle.

You felt your stomach tightening with need as his hands were on you once again. It was sick really. How this big of an asshole could turn you on so much.

“Rule number one, you can only roll your eyes when my cock is stretching your tight little pussy.” The scent of his cologne made your knees week. It was embarrassing. How quickly he was able to affect you. 

A soft gasp escaped your lips at his words, and your heart raced rapidly in response. He towered over your small frame, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at your flushed skin. A dead giveaway to how badly you were aching for him.

His hand swiftly pulled the strings of the dress, giving him full access to your breasts. He slipped his hand into it, pinching your nipple between his middle finger and thumb.

“On the bed.” His tone was demanding and authoritative, treating you like you were the dirt on the bottom of his shoe. Treating you like the slut that you were. “On your hands and knees.”

You rushed over to the bed, falling to your hands and knees, turning your head to look up at Charles behind you. Once he makes his way over, he grabs your hair and pulls you so your back is flushed to his chest, pulling your mouth to his. His tongue slips its way into your mouth, devouring you. The process is not entirely sexy. It’s urgent. Frantic. As if neither of you could have enough of one another.

He pulled away and spoke gruffly, as if he was angry with you. “Doesn’t even know a lick of French, stupide fille.” Stupid girl. He remarked, switching off between French and English.

Your dress was so short that he didn't even need to move it to see your panties. The dainty little hearts had him foaming at the mouth. So fucking cute.

“Fucking salope.” Slut. He pushes you back down, letting you fall back onto your hands as he pulled his pants down, freeing his cock.

You felt your mouth water at the sight. Just like him, his cock was beautiful. Perfectly smooth and dripping with pre-cum. You moaned as he pressed the head of his cock to your lace covered pussy, teasing you with it. You felt yourself growing needier, trying to push yourself onto his cock for more friction. 

“You’re so fucking wet,” He groaned, pulling your underwear to the side, and spitting directly onto your pussy. He did it as if he was spitting on the sidewalk, with no care and no respect, shoving two fingers into your heated center. He wasn’t gentle in the slightest. He was greedy, taking whatever he wanted from you. “Pathétique,” Pathetic. He sighs, shaking his head, "Such a cock slut."

Loud moans left your mouth as he stroked where you ached with his fingers before removing them and replacing them with his cock. 

“So fucking tight,” he hisses, his fingers grabbing onto the skin of your ass to add leverage as his continues to push deeper. To push harder. Your pussy squeezes him harder as he utters the words. “Tu aimes ça?” You like that? He muses on, “You like hearing what a tight pussy you have?”

“Dirty fucking slut.”

His hand reaches out and forces your head down onto the mattress, limiting your breathing. He’s completely unhinged. His hips relentlessly pounding into you. Fucking you like he’s mad at you. Fucking you like he hates you. With every thrust, a loud moan escapes your lips, echoing off the empty apartment walls.

“Come on my cock,” he demands. “Squeezing me like you’re going to come.” He states. You can hear the smirk in his voice. 

You feel yourself choking on your moans as it hits you. You’re now leaping over the edge of your orgasm. “That’s it,” he soothes, talking you through as you release all over his cock, but he doesn’t slow the roll of his hips into you. He pulls your face up from the mattress, his hand holding you up by the back of your neck. You’re completely limp, practically nothing but a toy for him to use. 

“Charles,” you’re yelling his name repeatedly.

At the sound of your voice yelling his name, he quickly pulls out and comes undone, releasing all over your backside. He collapses beside you, both of you trying to catch your breath. You both lie there, unmoving, just staring at each other.

“You should really learn French.” He laughs, a smug smile forming on his lips. You can’t help but laugh in response. 

“Maybe you can teach me?” 

“Peut être.” Maybe.

[casualhedonists]

✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩ (chapter two)

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader

chapter: 2/?

MASTERLIST

warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, some power play, oral sex, thigh riding, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here (and pls tell me if i forgot anything!)

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

a/n: first off, THANK YOU for the love on chapter 1. wasn’t sure how I’d fare since I’ve done a lot of writing in my life but little to no smut. with that said! longer chapter incoming. also I just know he’d give insane head okay i just do,the guy looks like he fucks and he definitely does

You weren't sure exactly how you slipped away from Snow’s room that night, but you could somewhat piece it together in flashes. First a head rush, then the fire in the pit of your stomach practically having gasoline thrown on it.

You remembered a quiet gasp escaping your lips, then panic, a flash of white, and suddenly you were stumbling away, head spinning as you tried to catch your breath, pacing unevenly down the hallway, any chance of a stealthy escape long thrown out the window.

Back in your room, once the door was bolted and your back was against it, making sure nobody could get in if they tried, you had your first shot at clear-headedness since you’d heard heels scuffing the hardwood.

You’d soaked your panties through and were dripping down your thighs, but you’d be damned if you could get into the headspace to take care of it. Panic flooded your veins, ice-hot as you tried to catch your breath. you slid down the door and sat there, legs numb against the cold wooden planks.

Who was she? A million questions filled your head all at once. Was she from the Capitol? Could she be one of Snow’s friends, one of your friends? The thought made you sick. What if you’d dined with her before? Talked to her? How long had this been happening? Who knew about it? Were you being played?

Had he seen you watching him?

Unable to help yourself, your one-track mind took you back to the way he’d groaned your name, though you were half sure that had been a fever dream of some kind. Still, you kept replaying it. Over and over, like a broken record.

It didn’t make any sense, you were so fucking confused. All this time you’d been hoping he would make a move, you’d practically begged him to. Why hadn’t he? When you were clearly on his mind, and yet he made you believe he didn’t think of you that way at all. Was he just respecting your agreement?

You fiddled with the lace on the hem of your slip as you mulled it over. You stayed sat like this for almost an hour, trying unsuccessfully to wrap your head around it. When you ended up right back where you started, and you were sure enough time had passed that if someone was coming to get you, they would’ve already, you finally stood up. Your caution led you to drag a chair from across the room, propping it up by the door to jam the handle. That left you with the sliver of peace of mind you required to shower off this cold sweat you’d formed.

The next morning, you dreaded breakfast. But you knew you had to face him, as well as the fact that this could very well be your last meal. You should at least try to eat well.

You made your way downstairs, a few minutes later than usual, enough for Coriolanus to already be sipping coffee, a few pages through his newspaper. You’d not got fully dressed yet, not wanting the contrast to be too obvious, but you’d wrapped a silk dressing gown around you so you were a little more covered up. You knew one thing for certain, you wouldn’t be trying any more of your tricks until you knew just what you were dealing with.

He didn’t look over at you, which you took as a good sign. The urge to hide from him, from what you’d seen and what you now knew, overwhelmed you. You didn’t say a word, and picked silently at your breakfast, but despite your best efforts, not managing to keep more than a few bites down.

“You’re quiet today.” He muttered, and you started.

“Um.”

He lowered his paper.

“Something wrong?”

How about everything?

“Oh, no, I’m okay. Just uh…” you glanced up at him, and met his sharp gaze. Fuck. You’d hoped you’d go unnoticed. You felt like a deer in headlights, like he could read your mind.

“Well?” He prompted, gaze unwavering. You blinked.

“Headache.” You managed to breathe, faking a small, pitiful smile.

He brought his paper back up in front of him, crisply turning the page. You both thanked the new barrier between you for cutting off his stare, and resented it as you looked at the tiny printed words you couldn’t make out from where you were sitting.

“I’ll have Lucille bring you up something.”

“Thank you.” you said quickly, almost too quickly, and you feared he might lower his paper again to watch you as you stumbled over another excuse. But you fell lucky this time.

The week seemed to pass in a blur, Monday’s gala being one of the only times you really left your room when Snow was around, other than meal times, which you spent in a similar state as that first breakfast. You cursed yourself for throwing out your longer dresses, and settled for the least suggestive of them, the white one you’d been thinking of pitching to Snow as a backup plan in your panicked state outside his bedroom. That all felt worlds away now. What you’d seen had shifted the tides, marking a solid, definitive line in your head between the before and after.

The gala went as well as it could given the circumstances. You danced, Snow was charming to you in front of the guests, but held your gaze no longer than usual. It was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling to feel his hands on your waist, knowing what you knew. It felt like you’d been tapped with a cattle prod and had to hide it every time his hand brushed yours on top of the dinner table, as unsuspecting guests smiled at you, the happy couple.

If only they knew that in the same breath, you were scanning the crowd, wondering who the blonde could’ve been, how close she was to Snow, if at all, and hating the way every touch he placed on your hands and waist served as a reminder that he’d been touching her instead of you.

Your stupid brain had formed a highlight reel of what you’d witnessed behind Snow’s door, and it tortured you with every passing moment. To know he was thinking of you. To think that maybe, he wanted you there instead. It put a strange sense of possessive pride into you, that weaved between your jealousy. Because yes, you’d seen another girl on her knees with her mouth around him, but you hadn’t heard any name other than your own while it happened.

You carried this strange hope, dwindling to start off, and then building each day that you were left un-hanged and very much alive, slowly chipping away at your fear of the worst. And yet, you knew the game, unbeknownst to Snow, had been fundamentally changed. You’d stopped your antics altogether, now barely meeting his eye as you passed each other in the hallway, covering up more at breakfast, and only talking just enough to avoid another interrogation. Avoiding touch, and conversation, and all-around keeping yourself away from him.

You were quieter still at night in your room. After a few days, you’d finally felt safe enough to move the chair away and sleep with the door locked as you normally would. But while your games had stopped, your want for him had only been amplified. Fuelled by jealousy and frustration, you had to bite down on your hand so that not even the slightest noise made its way out as you pictured him, not as you used to in your fantasies, but as you’d seen him that night, undone with your name on his lips. It was much easier, in your head, to picture yourself as the one on your knees. Any other fantasy just failed to make the cut now you’d seen the real thing.

Thursday rolled around and you’d made a new habit of pacing the downstairs library when Coriolanus was out of the house. That way, if he got home and stepped inside, you could pretend to be lost in a book. But the hours seemed to stretch out and you became bored, and with no Snow in sight, you decided to head down to the servants’ quarters.

This wasn’t a common occurrence, but it wasn’t unheard of. You were known for your gentleness among the house staff, less harsh than Snow, but firm nonetheless. It had led you to a respectful friendliness with the maids and servants, and once every so often you’d check in on them.

Today’s objectives, however, were purely self-motivated. You found Lucille, who dressed you, at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables.

She stood upon seeing you, and curtseyed (Snow was rather old fashioned that way). You nodded, then took a seat at the foot of the table.

“Do you need any help with that?” You glanced at the cutting board.

Lucille’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Ma’am.”

You laughed. Lucille chopped and diced, and you asked questions. At first, they were after her family, her brother was sick and despite your offers, she wouldn’t accept help. So instead you listened, and slowly but surely, your questions got a little more directed toward the object of your interest.

You were good at playing the long game, so you started by asking about the company he kept. What she thought of them, with the promise that it would stay between the two of you, cross your heart.

She wouldn’t say much but she knew a little more than you; Snow kept very similar company as you did, and rarely went out for social visits. Any trips were strictly work-related, and when you eased into the topic of his past, Lucille mentioned, in very polite terms, that he had left a small trail of women heartbroken after a short period of time. That not all of them had been pleasant, and that she was pleased you seemed to have a positive effect on him.

She knew about your arrangement, practically the whole staff did, but they were kept on a very tight leash and were thoroughly reminded to not say a word acknowledging it, not even to you. It was with a knowing glance that Lucille told you she was happy you’d stayed around.

You smiled. Knowing that was likely all you were going to get for now, you let her be. By then, it was late enough to have gone dark, and you headed up to bed.

You awoke to creaking outside your door, and the shadow of footsteps from underneath it. You’d been tossing and turning for the last - you checked your watch - two hours. Excellent. You rolled onto your back wondering who it was, and then you heard it again. At first you wondered if it was just a sleep-deprived hallucination, or a sense of deja-vu, but then you focused, and there it was. The sound of heels. Again.

You sat up in bed, pushing your hair out of your face. You were enraged the first time, but if this was becoming a Thursday night tradition, it would be a serious problem. You were tired, you reasoned, you could just try to go back to sleep. Ignore it. Not let him have this power over you, a power that he didn’t even know he had. All the more reason to ignore it, and make it tomorrow’s problem.

But you just couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, no matter how hard you tried. Your mother used to say it was a problem, always sticking your nose in places it didn’t belong. But it had got you this far, hadn't it?

You knew you were going to follow her to Snow’s room again, it was just a matter of time. You had to at least pretend you had an ounce of self-control, whereas really your head was thrumming and you knew it would take getting hit by a high-speed train to send you back to sleep now.

So you held off. Five minutes passed. Then ten. You had to know, at least, what they were doing. Maybe you could get a look at her face, see who it was, and answer some of the questions you had.

So you went. With a purpose this time, knowing full well what and who you’d end up seeing, trying to take steady breaths and focus on your plan. Check who it was, then leave.

You’d never been that great at execution. Call it hedonism, call it a morbid fascination, or living vicariously, but when you walked up to the door - which was ajar again, strangely even more than last time, by at least an inch or two - you looked inside, and your feet planted. The last shred of your self-control allowed you to take in the room first, the desk and chair that was right within your sight, and as you tucked yourself into the room, half hidden behind the door, you finally looked back at the bed where you’d seen Snow with his blonde girl last time.

Neither of them were sitting now.

Thirty seconds ago, you would’ve believed the hottest thing you’d ever seen was what played out in this room last week. But that was before you saw Snow turned away from you, still fully dressed with his sleeves rolled up, stomach on the bed and face between the blonde’s thighs, eating her out like he was on death row and she was his last meal.

You’d gotten head before. You knew it felt good, but the boys you’d slept with before your arrangement with Snow were selfish and inattentive. They would try, but they were far more interested in getting their dicks wet than showing you a good time. But Snow - you’d never seen anything like it. You didn’t know it could feel that good, or at least, not as good as the blonde girl - who you noted in the back of your mind, wasn’t anyone you recognised - was making it look. Her hips were bucking so hard he was having to pin her down with both hands around her waist.

She was just moving so much, wriggling and crying out and gasping and - you didn’t think you’d ever truly known jealousy until that moment. You couldn’t look away, knees weak and hands shaking, letting yourself get sucked into this headspace again, losing all trace of rationality. You’d think she was playing it up for him, but you knew what that sounded like. You’d faked enough orgasms to know if she was, but this? This was real. As she got close, grinding into him, writhing, running a shaky hand through his hair then getting louder, you managed to snap out of your trance.

In a flash, you ran back down the hallway.

If you thought you were avoiding Snow before, this week was about to give you a run for your money. You took breakfast in your room, and kept only to the parts of the house you knew he never entered. You only touched yourself in the shower, silent cries washed away by the water and steam, paranoia backing you into a corner.

You feigned illness the one time Snow sent a maid to inquire after you. Nothing too major, but enough to put him off. When he left the house, you snuck into the library to smuggle books back to your room, a pile forming as you tried ceaselessly to distract yourself.

You wrote home, you studied art and history. You attempted a few terrible sketches. You tore apart your room, then put it back together.

Before you knew it, Thursday rolled around again. On longer days like this, when Snow had been away working for hours at a time, you’d doubled down on your efforts to get information, and after chipping away for just long enough, you finally managed to squeeze some tidbits out of Lucille. Namely that there was a certain gentleman’s club in the city that he used to frequent before his election as President. Snow’s old driver might know its name, she said.

“But that was long before he met you, ma’am, rest assured.” She added hurriedly.

“Of course. Thank you, Lucille. I think I’ve kept you for long enough. Goodnight.”

Snow had been gone for the whole day, and you weren’t sure if he’d come home yet, so as you headed up to your room, you quietly wandered a little further down the hallway, to check if there was any light beneath his door. There wasn’t. Good. You were glad he wouldn’t be continuing this routine of his. Maybe this Thursday night, you could sleep peacefully.

With a sigh, and mulling over what you’d learned today, you returned to your room, poured a drink, then collapsed into bed.

This night was as sleepless as the rest, and you’d been drifting - not uncomfortably - in and out. A storm was brewing outside, and the sounds of howling wind began to keep you alert. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, then glanced towards your door. Snow must’ve come home at some point, and very late at that, because dim lights had been turned on in the hallway. Paranoia crept into your mind, slowly poisoning your thoughts and turning you inside out.

It didn’t take long before the feeling pushed you to roll out of bed, slide on a dressing gown, and crack open your door. This time, you couldn’t hear footsteps, or anything that might arise suspicion. You closed the door again. Waited. Then looked around your room, at the messy sheets and the half finished glass of liquor on the nightstand. You rarely drank alone, but these past few weeks had been getting to you, fucking with your head. Coriolanus Snow had driven you to this.

The wind got louder, and you knew you were too wired to sleep, so you stood by your window and finished the glass.

You’d never been good with mysteries. You wanted to know everything, all the time. Know who had power over you, know precisely how to take it away. Know exactly what was happening around you at any given moment. But most of all, you didn’t like being played for a fool.

And sure, the ethics of it had never been discussed between the two of you. Your business was strictly professional, but when you weren’t allowed to sleep around, why could he?

In fact, how dare he?

You poured another glass, straight whiskey. Downed it, pacing your room, back and forth between the door and the window, running your fingers along the ridges of the crystal glass. You thought about him, comfortably in his room, not a care in the world.

How dare he.

You weren’t sure if it was the drink or the buildup of your situation that had your blood boiling, but it didn’t matter. You were incensed. His behaviour was an insult to your name, to your family’s name. Sure, this relationship was a sham, but all the more reason for him to act with basic fucking respect. Sleeping with - and very obviously, at that - a whore, who had a bad habit of leaving the door cracked open, was unacceptable.

You were running hot, and if you knew one thing for certain, it was that when Snow met with fire, he was going to melt. You’d make sure of it.

Your feet took you into the hallway, with the decidedness that this would be the last time.

You rushed down the corridor with a tightly bottled rage that was about to burst, words hot on your tongue and demanding to be spoken, until you turned the corner and saw Snow’s door half open. You stopped in your tracks. Reassessed, then stepped closer, slowly, steadily. Remembering what you were there for.

Then, as you got close enough to see inside - right there, without you even having to step past the threshold, were the two of them, lit by a table lamp, Snow sat on the desk chair as the girl rode him to high heaven, obscene noises getting louder. As you approached you saw Snow’s face again, eyes shut, breath laboured, and you couldn’t believe that anyone just walking by would be able to see this. They were fucking like animals, out in the open. You didn’t know how or why you drew closer still, closing in on them. The girl’s head was dropped down to his shoulder, back facing you, and couldn’t see you unless she turned, but Snow? He was practically facing the door, almost as if he’d been…

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

But you didn’t have time to think it through, because Snow’s eyes blinked open, and you knew. He was looking right at you, blue eyes piercing into yours, sharp and dangerous like he was going in for the kill. You stood there, jaw dropped, unable to look away. In what world could you walk in on someone like this, and feel like they held all the cards, and you none? That was how he looked at you; like you’d been there watching the whole time, and this was all a show, playing out exactly as he’d planned it. Like somehow, despite all your best efforts, he’d landed on top.

It was like he read your mind, because he wet his lips, unblinking as the blonde writhed on his lap, and fucking smirked.

a/n: can’t wait for them to hate fuck after this (oh sorry forgot i’m the author for a sec) thanks for reading &lt;3

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