* disclaimer this is not my work. This is all AI generated. I could not find a story that suited all of my fantasies and so I put it through GPT and it came up with the story and I want to share because I thought it was cute. So just to be clear this is not my work. It is AI generated, thank you. ïżŒ
no smut in this one, but homoeroticism and swearing. enjoy yall!
âwhy are we here?â
âi told you why,â tashi took off her many bracelets into a hotel-issued jewellery box. the room was a dusky cream all over, and smelt of sandal wood. the various lamps cast sloping shells of yellowlight.
art watched, naked and tangled within the duvet.
âyou told me we were seeing a physiotherapist. now weâve come all the way here and he just cancels?â
âi canât control these things art. heâs very popular, something just came up. think of this as a holiday. weâll do something relaxing, fun, tomorrow. you crushed in atlanta, you deserve a rest.â
âi didnât crush. i came second.â
tashi duncan just breathed deeply, not a sigh but something like it. an acknowledgement.
âi know. you work too hard.â
art sniffed and rested his head on the heel of his palm.
âcan you just tell me why weâre here? please?â
âsheâs competing in the open this year. she might win.â
âwho is she?â
he asked, but he knew. you were the she. you were her, hissed in arguments, brushed under rugs. their point of contention. they didnât speak of you, couldnât. not after the way they got together, not after that final match and the injury.
a certain wildness came across her face whenever you came up, even peripherally, in conversation. like he had reopened a wound, pressed on a bruise that was ripening. she wore that look now, the injured bear look.
âher. if she wins this sheâll have won every major tennis competition in the us. in under 5 years. then what? fucking wimbledon? no. not on my fucking watch.â
she took off her necklace, which clattered against the vanity. she then began on her rings.
âhow do you know sheâll win it?â
âi donât know sheâll win it. but itâs really looking like she will. and she canât.â
âwhy canât she win it?â art soothed, âwhat would be so bad about that?â
âshe canât win it art.â
he sighed, and watched his wife as she took off their wedding band to sleep. he kept his on, but each to their own. her mouth quivered, and he knew that that was enough of questions for now. she would only get herself worked up if she thought about it more.
âweâll talk about it in the morning, ok? come here.â
she pressed her long fingers to her temples for a moment, sighed again, and began walking to the bed.
for a moment she perched on the edge, but his pawing hand beckoned her closer. soon enough they were entangled at the legs, and he held her soft head to his chest.
she drew in a nasal breath.
âwe have to stop her. make her lose.â
we. so he was a part of this now. did he think that was appropriate? no. he had left you for her, had harboured secret feelings for her your whole relationship. what he felt for you was real, but tashi was his wife. was always going to be his wife. but now, how could he, in good conscience, try and detract a modicum of happiness from you when he had taken so much in years prior? he couldnât. he couldnât even think about you. the thought of you being happy away from him made him so soul crushingly, unreasonably sad that he locked it away in a place no one would ever see or graze by mistake. the thought of you sad made him feel even worse. in truth, he avoided you like the plague. he followed your matches religiously to know where not to be. consumed trashy tabloids so he knew where you brunched, where you bought your sports bras, all so he could know never to be there. because he had that life he always wanted. that life he tossed two of the most important people to him away for. he had to be contented with what he had, or else he would die. and he was more than contented. he was everything he wanted. he had a wife he loved, a sky rocketing career, a future. a purpose. but there were aches of the heart, sympathies a man couldnât shake, even if he had to.
âwe have to?â
her grip around his torso tightened, and she raised her head to look at him.
âwe have to.â
âwhat could we even do?â
âfuck with her head. get in there and throw her off. and if worse comes to worse break her knee like she broke mine.â
âdonât joke.â
âiâm not kidding art. sheâs not winning. and youâre helping me.â
âtashi-â
âyouâre helping me arenât you?â
and she fixed him with the look. the look she gave when she wanted you to remember that her acl tore and that she will be able to do the thing she loved most in the world, and somehow itâs all your fault. only you can fix it. only you can take the defiance from her eyes and the downturn of her lips, and you can only do that if you go as she says. art had no choice, no choice at all.
âwhat do you need?â
âąâąâą
in, coincidently, the same hotel a few floors up, you shaved your pubic hair. your coach advised you against shaving close to the tournament. he recommended it for your legs, it meant you were more aerodynamic, but pubic hair made no difference. between razor burn and chaffing, it was an unnecessary distraction. but, he also didnât sanction sweaty, time consuming, exhausting sex with a trifling man slut of an ex boyfriend that dumped you once and was ready to dump you again, so today was the day for rule breaking.
he chewed you out pretty nice when you got back to your hotel room. you insisted on showering even though your physio stayed late specifically for you, and now instead of hurrying out and apologising and being stretched into a peppy, sexy, marketable, rubber-band-legged tennis cunt, you were shaving yourself. because winning didnât matter unless you were ready for her.
why did being shaven mean being ready? you didnât know. but patrickâs joy at your bush had sickened you in grim retrospect, and you wanted to spite him. you would always be ready from now on. if tashi duncan was going to try and fuck you over, the least you could do was prepare to be fucked.
you were dry as can be. you hosed yourself down pretty ruthlessly to clear yourself out. evict any traces of that man from your body, scrub until you reached a layer of skin he hadnât touched. you had one tired foot on the edge of the sink, and angled yourself so you could see everything. you would be so smooth that you could see a reflection when you were finished.
patrick had caught you off guard, had used you, but you didnât doubt that he told you the truth about one thing. tashi was coming. she was probably already here. that would be an evil thing to makeup, and despite your outburst you didnât truly believe he was evil. you thought he was weak, slimy and pathetic, but he wasnât great enough to be evil. didnât have the forethought.
what would you do when you saw her? it was early days in the tournament, you could afford to be a little distracted while you picked off the weaker ones. but you couldnât still be this distracted in 2 days time. maybe time would take care of it. maybe you would have to take it into your own hands.
regardless of what happened, the hair had to go. you had shown patrick a soft underbelly, a vulnerability. one that neither tashi duncan or art donaldson would ever experience again. you could never give her the satisfaction.
if she brought art with her, that would give you something to think about. he, like patrick, was a stolen thing. he was the physical manifestation of all she took from you, in itâs fullest form. he was tennis. he was something you had never beaten. tashi duncan pilfered and pillaged, but worse of all she never lost to you. you never looked her in her eyes and beat her, at anything. love, sex, the game, she had never lost. worse, she had lost her ability to lose. a fate worse than death, but a fate that saved her from the shame she so rightfully deserved. while you lived on, you could defile yourself further, could fall out of grace and could become as common as dirt. she however was immortalised as a god, an angel too good, too talented for this world. she was given implicit dignity. you canât beat her if she canât play. the conniving bitch.
semenless, hairless and distantly heartbroken, you set the razor down on the side of the bathtub. you left to dress and be scolded by your coach, who would forgive you tommorow when you won, just like you always did. you won by default.
âąâąâą
your manager had forgiven you as soon as you picked up the racket. apparently emotional turbulence served only to help your game, as you achieved your second win of the tournament in record time. not distracted by a certain ex boyfriend at the end of this particular match, when you won you felt fully able to celebrate. sweat drenched and vagina raw you shook your fist at your chest and breathed deep, victorious sighs. your opponent smiled graciously, and disappeared to cry and fade into obscurity, as all would in the face of your brilliance.
the air smelt new. it smelt fresh and new and made for your design. the felt of the tennis balls glowed neon in your periphery and bounced gleefully with your triumph. you guzzled gatorade, answered interviewers questions with emphatically friendly responses, and certainly spawned some rumours that the performance enhancing drugs you were so clearly on had unprecedented side effects, like mood swings.
yesterday your soul was crushed. today you got a new one. letâs see tashi duncan try to fuck that up. letâs see her bring you down.
boys didnât fucking matter, tennis mattered. and you were great at tennis.
these were all things you believed in earnest, with no trace of sarcasm or cynicism. you believed, right until the second, while walking back to your hotel with your team in front of you, lazily enjoying the world, when a deep, slender, ring laden hand touched your shoulder. you jolted up out of your skin. your head whipped round and there she was. there was satan, smiling like your number was up. stopped in your tracks, you turned your body slowly to face her. as you did more and more of her appeared, and you realised she was really there.
she was so beautiful. such a perfectly set face, everything seemed to match. the attractive broad nose, the full pillowy lips, the eyes, which smouldered on their own, naturally. hair that fell in long stretched curls just as it had all those years ago. she hadnât changed, at least not visually.
you gave her a once over. that fucking body. god, you wouldnât know she had stopped playing, you wouldnât know she could be unable to do anything at all. she was so slender, but so strong, muscle caking her bones in delicate, powerful form. she looked invincible, perfect and impermeable. her loose linen shirt hugged and hung from her frame like a fashion doll, like a mannequin of steel. she was taller than you, by a few inches, and made you feel small, in a way so much more infuriating than patrick. she wasnât suppose to be bigger than you. she wasnât a lumbering brute, she was your equal. she was your equal.
from the corner of your eye, you noticed something sparkle on her finger, but you had already looked back to her face.
âtashi,â you said, in a tinny voice that didnât sound like yours. your throat dried within moments.
âhello stranger,â she said, still grinning.
stranger. funny, thatâs exactly what you were. she said it like an inside joke, like you two were the closest of friends. you were strangers.
âhello.â
âcongrats on your win.â
âthanks.â
you sniffed, and wet your lips. you werenât going to break eye contact, she certainly wasnât going to, so you were locked in silent warfare. what the fuck do you want? you urged every second. wait and see, she replied.
âso,â you say, forming the intentions of a smile on your lips,âwhat brings you to new york? i hear only a few days ago art was in atlanta.â
âwe came up to see a physio guy, heâs supposed to be great. great enough that he cancels last minute.â
âhm. ainât that just the way!â
you smile, with your eyes too, like you mean it. she smiles too, but sheâs awful at being fake. she grimaced more than she smiled, she was always devoid of delicacy, of subtly. everything she was she was overtly. overtly beautiful, overtly talented, and confident. overtly ruthless. why she felt the need to smile if thatâs not how she felt was beyond you, but you could play along.
âwhat hotel are you staying at?â
âthe boro. you?â
âus too! why donât you have a drink with me and art at the bar? it would be good to catch up.â
me and art. you narrow your eyes, deepening your smile to disguise it. she was being so normal, it was strange. what game was she playing? was it something you could win? either way you were in.
âsure! i need to check in with my coach and what not first but ill meet you there at 7, is that ok?â
â7 is great. canât wait,â her voice was mechanical, it couldnât be more blatant this was a ploy, and you would fall for it hook line and sinker. she came here to fuck you up? you would destroy her, the second she gave an inch. you already had a massive secret. she fucked patrick. five seconds around art and her life crumbles around her.
you smirked, nodding, and a dark look befell her eyes.
âoh, and just to let you know,â she said, voice lowering. she stepped closer, leaned down to whisper in your ear. the smell of vanilla over powered you, and suddenly you felt very gross, putrid in comparison. but you didnât have to compare yourself to her anymore.
âi saw patrick zweig in the crowd today. i know you guys had a thing back in college. thought iâd give you a heads up,â her soft whisper tickled your ear. you shivered.
âoh, god,â you said,âthanks for telling me. what the fuck is he doing here?â
âI have no idea.â
âwhat a freak.â
there were several options of why she told you that, and how she might know.
maybe she really did see him in the crowd. you hadnât seen him, but you hadnât seen her either. maybe she didnât see him, but knew he was coming into town, maybe he told her. maybe she got him to come here and warn you. why? to cut you out of the competition early maybe, start the psychological warfare before her feet even touched new york concrete. it hadnât worked, and thatâs why she had been forced to make a face to face appearance. maybe that was it. maybe it was a grand conspiracy in which all parties were mechanised to get you. you would not be got. no way no how.
your paranoia brought the conversation to a screeching halt as your smile became more and more vacant.
âyou look good,â she said after a stretch of silence.
âthank you. so do you. you havenât changed at all.â
âneither have you.â
âwell, i think iâve changed a bit.â
ânah, youâre the same.â
no. youâre different. but how would she know anyway? you wave goodbye as she saunters off, away to a blonde man that she kisses lightly on the cheek. you donât take in anything more than that because you turn around immediately, and stalk to where your coach is smoking a cigarette by a coffee truck. fuck that bitch. you were going to gut her alive and use her intestines as a skipping rope. art would not extend his neck to receive a kiss when you were through with them. fucking drink at a fucking bar. who did she think she was?
fuck that bitch, tashi thought. you were right, you had changed. your backhand was perfect. impeccable serve. you were deadly. you were harder now too. you didnât scowl but there was a coldness about the eyes, a disconnect from face and mind. you were fake as plastic, and just as shiny. you had beefed up, gotten more tight and muscular. maybe tight was the word. tight about the eyes. what were you? you were another creature all together. a beast, an amalgamation of all tashiâs hopes and dreams and all her worst nightmares.
she swayed over to art, knowing you would watch at least for a moment as they smiled at each other and took each otherâs forearms tenderly, and she kissed the side of his mouth. his hair had been cut only a few days ago, and she told him to wear that white cotton t-shirt out and about. he said it was too casual for such a high level tennis match, she said she knew that. he looked very fucking good. she looked very fucking good, as she always did. she had set the trap, now it was time to get you in it, trapped, and to bash your head in with a rock.
she and art watched from the corner of their eyes as they kissed and you sauntered away, refusing to look back. your skirt swished with the aggravated sway of your hips. you swung a metal water bottle with the rhythm of your steps, like you were trying to hurt the air. you were pissed off. art could tell, and his stomach churned. this was wrong. it was mean, and they were adults now. married adults, who should be satisfied enough in their lives that they donât need to plan or scheme. but. here they were. and there he was, embroiled and accomplice to a mean spirited scheme. anything to dry tashis eyes. anything to make up for the fact you were tennis cunt extraordinaire and she was arts coach. a fantastic coach, but a coach all the same. he could hurt you if thatâs what tashi needed. he didnât want to, but he could.
she didnât know if she could, if it was possible rather, but she wanted to. no, she knew she could. she would. you could flick the skirt adidas paid you to wear and walk with a sexy sway and you could guzzle complementary gatorade but she knew what you were and that you were bellow her. you were her subordinate and if she couldnât make the world see it she would make it clear to you.
your feet hit tarmac harder than they needed to as you found your coach, who clapped a hand to your back and sung your well deserved praises. breaking news, tennis cunt is good at tennis. alert the media, alert the national guard, alert nasa. this is earth shattering stuff. fuck everyone, but fuck tashi in particular. fuck that bitch. and fuck art. fuck him. fuck him.
and yet, only a few hours later you were pulling your hair out trying to put together a cohesive outfit that said iâm not trying to impress you but iâm very impressive. iâm very accomplished and polished and if i was you and i had thrown me away i would kill myself for the shame and regret. tashi duncan is nothing.
but it was hard to find an outfit so articulate. not too dressy, but not overly casual as to downplay yourself, to suggest you think dressing nicely is above what you deserve. a dress. a black dress said sex but it was also classic, simple. a black dress meant nothing, and therefore meant everything. your body itself provided the glamour, your form a kind of jewellery. yeah. that was it. eat your heart out, donaldson.
you sit at the bar, perched with your smooth legs crossed over each other. you sipped a coke, that mightâve been a rum and coke on a different night, but you needed to keep your wits about you. you remember getting drunk one night with art, swaying around his house. his parents were away and he invited you back over spring break. his house was so big. you remember kissing him, so wasted. he wasnât as drunk as you. he held your waist, and smiled and said,âletâs get you into bed.â
âbut art. youâre so pretty.â
âand youâre so drunk. iâll still be pretty tomorrow.â
art didnât do drunk. i donât know. something to keep in mind.
they walked in, looked around and smiled when they saw you. neither of them had changed despite having hours. fucking cunts.
âi see you didnât wait for us,â tashi smiles.
âoh, sorry.â
they sit, tashi next to you, art in tow. what was arts role in all this? you knew why you wanted him here, to destroy his marriage of course. but why did tashi want him here? what purpose did he serve for her? he just sort of looked around. you watch him as they settle. art. oh art. you felt something in your chest, and hated it. art. he was just that guy, you know. the guy that you can say you hate, but you just canât. you want to so badly, but being in his presence for even a few seconds has you crumbling. the shape of his nose, the bob of his adamâs apple, the golden dusting of hair on his arm that glints in the boozy light of the bar. he was so⊠guy. so man. so beautiful. he beats his blonde eyelashes and turns to look at you, smiling with only one corner of his mouth. you smile back, unconsciously genuine. fuck him. what a prick.
you look back to tashi, who watches you bemusedly. half smirking half frowning. her deep eyes glow like ambers. she tossed a strand of hair from her face, orders her and art two sparkling waters as she eyed your coke.
âso,â you say, to divert your train of thoughts more than anything,âhowâs life been?â
âletâs drop the pleasantries shall we?â
the smile that had spooked you all day dropped, lips instead set in a line
âwe arenât actually here to catch up.â
âoh. ok.â
that was brief. you understood why she was so quick to give up the falsehoods though, tashi duncan didnât deal in lies. she dealt in hard cold truth.
âiâm here for one thing. i want you to play art.â
you frown with one eyebrow, and your upper lip curls into a look of disgust.
âwhat?â
you glance at art, who doesnât look surprised in the slightest. he looks mournful almost. what a freak. tashiâs face is sullen, serious as the plague.
âyou heard me. i want you and art to play each other. art wants to too.â
art didnât look at you. nodded though.
âand i wanna do it tonight.â
you spluttered a laugh, hands gripping the bar.
âtonight?â
this bitch had lost her mind. you have a tournament, an important one at that, and for her to assert that you should jeopardise that, overexert yourself for the sake of what? assuaging a personal grudge? making her feel better because a significantly larger man beat a woman at a game that tashi hadnât played in five entire years? what crack was she smoking that made that an acceptable ask? did her arrogance know no bounds?
âi have a match tomorrow.â
âyeah, no fucking shit. thatâs why thereâs stakes.â
stakes. what the fuck. you almost wanted to laugh. but this bitch was giving you a proposal, a fucking pitch. for what? what could she possibly have to offer you other than sucking on a shot gun and pissing off forever?
âdo you have any fucking idea how ridiculous this is? after everything you did to me, you think you have any right to saunter up to me and ask me to waste my time and my energy, the night before a fucking match? you and your fucking husband can fuck off.â
âafter everything i did to you? what the hell did i do to you? you broke my fucking knee.â
your confused look fell into seething blankness.
âyou didnât break your knee you tore your ACL. and you broke it yourself.â
âthatâs fine, thatâs fine. you tell yourself that, but know the only reason you have this fucking career is because i wasnât there to beat you down and put you in your place.â
âjesus fucking christ, i wouldâve beaten you that match and you know it.â
âi donât know a goddamn thing-â
âand where do you get off pretending like you never did shit to me? you took everything from me tashi. you took everything and now you travel across the country and stumble up to me to make yourself feel better because i can play and you canât. you want me to try and beat a fucking man? fine. iâm game. iâm in, letâs do it. i would hate to waste your precious time. letâs hear the fucking stakes.â
the gloves were off. both of your backs had straightened like hackles on a cat and your nostrils flared and your chests rose and fell and neither of you broke eye contact for even one second. you hadnât realised but you had gotten closer, so close that your minty fresh breath fanned tashiâs upper lip, and pieces of tashiâs hair tickled your cheekbone. this was fucking intoxicating. being this close to the woman you had hated for so long, getting the confirmation that she hates you just as passionately, knowing you matter enough to her that she needs to destroy you, it all fills you with the most exhilarating feeling. you want more. her deep eyes glowed with fury. fuck.
art sits hunched over the bar, removed. he drank his drink, slowly facing away. he almost looks bored, or he would if his eyes didnât flit about all the time. no, art was anxious. he disapproved of whatever tashi planned, but he loved her too much to tell her no. the thought stings you, spitting in the face of your satisfaction. art. he would always make you hurt no matter what.
âhereâs the stakes. you lose, i leave knowing that i was always better than you, and you give me $4000, for my troubles. you win, you get to fuck art in front of me.â
he didnât flinch. he knew. youâre pulled back by an otherworldly force, stone cold sober. your neck twists back and forth, scanning the bar for anyone to help you, save you, give you a moment to chew on whatever that was. no one was gonna help you. even art, who sat and drank his sparkling water, wouldnât meet your eye.
âwhat?â
she didnât reply, just leant back, arms crossed, satisfied. was she honestly, seriously, really, actually whoring out her husband so that you, a girl she barely knew from college, would play him at tennis so she could prove a point? was she that confident he would beat you? or was she a pervert as well as a cunt?
âare you that confident youâll win? or do you think iâm that desperate? believe it or not, iâve actually moved on from a man i saw briefly 5 entire years ago.â
a tiny white lie never hurt anyone.
tashi widened her eyes. a silent challenge.
âare you sure? are you sure it wouldnât feel good to fuck my husband right in front of me? take something from me? hurt me? give me a taste of my own fucking medicine? if iâm such a bitch, if i took everything from you, take something back. beat me at tennis and fuck my husband.â
this bitch was fucking crazy. and yes, it would feel fucking incredible. but you would also have to touch art again. which would dredge up emotions you didnât know if you could stomach. eugh. no. couldnât. wouldnât. wonât.
âiâll play you. no stakes.â
âno,â art looked at you in the eyes for the first time since that day, that match that ended you two forever. his voice was cold and hoarse. your eyebrow raises involuntarily. look everyone, the puppet can speak on its own!
âagree to the stakes or donât bother.â
you laugh airily, you search arts face for reprehension. thereâs just nothing. you were wrong about him, he didnât disapprove that strongly. where did he get off in this? did he like being used as a bargaining chip in his evil wifeâs evil schemes? was he completely eroded from who he used to be? did you ever even know him? he tongued the inside of his cheek. his mouth curved at the edge. he smiled slightly like he knew you, like this was a game you were all in on. like any of this is funny.
âno. iâll play you, and iâll even cough up the money if i lost. but iâm not fucking anyone. end of story.â
tashi leans forward. her eyes twinkle yellow in the soft glow of the bar. her mouth opens with unspoken hunger.
pairing: audrey x ben, eventual ben x daughter of alice!reader
warnings: none I don't think?? the word biznautch (which is not a word but I'm sure tuco and saul would disagree)
summary: you and ben catch up while you walk around campus. you talk about the isle kids, and ben wishes desperately he could be as close to you as he wants to.
song recs: honey and the bee - owl city, galactic bloom - bee and puppycat ost
a/n: huzzah i am back from the dead!! (sort of). anyway definitely expect a slow trickle of sporadically posted long form fics and regularly scheduled drabbles and asks. love you guys. love that you love curiosity as much as I do. here's a fit. as a treat. :* (also expect things to get real dramatic real quick)
After the next day, things begin to settle down and go back to normal. The Isle kids start their remedial goodness classes, the boys try out for sports, and Mal tags along with Evie as she socializes between class periods. You find yourself running between campus and your dorm where youâd forgotten your report on your desk after the late night before, and end up feeling that youâre quite discombobulated for most of the afternoon. Ben, of course, is as busy as ever. You donât think youâve seen each other for more than two seconds today, and you canât say you like when things get all frantic like this.
After classes, and after your quick detour to Wonderland, and after Benâs meeting with Fairy Godmother and tourney practice, you try to figure out what to do until the junior royal council meeting today. Audrey will be there - if she decides to show up, that is. You also received RSVPs from Aziz, Jordan, Lonnie, and Herkie. The main topic of discussion for this meeting will be to plug in with them and get an idea of how the student body is feeling with the addition of the Isle kids to the school. If there are no major delays, Ben and Herkie should be able to get back to tourney on time to get ready for the match later. Itâs going to be a huge deal - the first big game of the year - and the whole school is buzzing with excitement.Â
You sit at a table outside by the schoolâs hedge maze, sipping some tea as you finish your homework. Itâs peaceful, and the weather is ambient. Your mind zips and buzzes around like a bread and butterfly, flitting between your history of magic worksheet, where youâll explore next time you can sneak off to Wonderland, how Ben is doing - and by proxy, how the Isle kids are doing. A warm breeze passes by you, and you can smell flowers as it swirls around. Hydrangeas maybe? No, lilacs. Definitely lilacs. You hear footsteps approaching down the cobblestone path leading to the gardens and hedge maze. When you look up, youâre surprised to see Ben in his tourney uniform.Â
âBen!â You exclaim happily, standing up and scurrying over to greet him. He opens up his arms to wrap you in a big, warm hug. Heâs a little sweaty from practice, but he doesnât smell bad. You donât think Ben ever smells bad (maybe a little bit like wet dog when he goes swimming, but itâs not overbearing or unpleasant.)
âWhat are you doing here?â You ask, wondering if heâll be able to meet all the tasks on his agenda without running late. He shrugs a little, smiling as he pulls away.
âI was nearby, I thought Iâd stop by for a few minutes before getting changed for the junior council meeting.â
You smile up at him with a knowing, appreciative look. His dorm is nowhere near the gardens, and seeing you was definitely not along the way. But your heart warms that he still took some time out of his blackberry jam-packed schedule to stop by and see you. You know if you donât walk him back to campus heâll never get changed in time, so you gather up your stuff, tucking it somewhat neatly back in your teapot bag.Â
âWell, your timing couldnât be more impeccable, as I was just about done out here.âÂ
Ben chuckles a little, and you walk alongside each other towards the rest of campus.Â
âSo, how did tourney practice go?â You ask. You know the whole team is really excited for this game, but theyâve been putting a lot of pressure on themselves too. Ben takes in a breath before replying.
âI think weâre just about as ready as weâll ever be.â You nod, humming in agreement as he continues. âI mean, running drills and plays is great, you can never practice enough. But unless we can actually apply the plays on the field the way we do them during practice - on a good day, at least-âÂ
You chuckle with him, remembering all the stories of how questionably tourney practices can end up when the other players are more focused on goofing off than improving their skills.
âThatâs when weâll actually see some improvement.âÂ
You nod in approval.Â
âHopefully Chad will learn how to actually complete a pass, too.â
A loud laugh bursts out of Ben. He never would have said it outloud, but you both know you were thinking it.
âYeah,â he agrees with a chuckle, âthat- that would be a very good day.âÂ
He glances down at you, walking close beside him. Just like how you always seem to know just what heâs thinking, heâs gotten pretty good at reading your mind in that same way. He knows the question thatâs rolling around the tip of your tongue, itching to get out.Â
âThe new transfers are doing well, too.â He nods.Â
Youâve both heard countless people calling them the Isle kids, and it seems to be catching on. You and Ben had both hoped that they would be known as transfer students at most - the whole point is to help them assimilate to become part of Auradon, not constantly remind them of the past. But if thereâs one thing you and Ben both know about people and politics, itâs that you canât control public opinion. Or word of mouth. As long as theyâre not bothered by it, you and Ben donât feel itâs any issue, but you still call them transfers out of habit when speaking to each other. You just hope theyâll trust you enough to express any discomfort or upset that might arise.Â
âJay has been⊠crushing it at tourney.â He says with a slight chuckle and disbelieving shake of his head.Â
âI canât believe he hadnât had an opportunity to play before now,â you agree. âImagine how great heâd be if heâd been recruited before now.â
Ben agrees, and a resolute silence settles over the two of you for a moment. If he keeps playing and improving like he has been, Jay could easily land a spot on a pro tourney team after graduating. Ben wouldnât be surprised if he was recruited before then. If he had been given an opportunity to play before now, he would practically have a guaranteed career handed to him. Probably more than one. Itâs so terrible that his talent was wasted before now, and if he hadnât pushed for this proclamationâŠÂ
Benâs mind begins to wander back to the other poor kids stuck on the Isle. He knows theyâre meant for more than that, that there are future doctors and activists and artists walking around there every day. Future friends that he can easily see growing into established pillars and cornerstones of the community. He gets that ache in his chest, that impulse to just say fuck it and bring everyone over at once. He curbs it as soon as it shows up. He knows that the way to make that happen, the way to repay them for all their unnecessary suffering is to make sure he puts in the work right here, right now. If he wants to bring more people over - which he fully intends to do - he has to make sure that the first four succeed.Â
âOh,â he starts, pulling out of his train of thought, turning his attention back to you. âAnd Carlos?â
You look at him, eager to know how heâs doing.
âYouâre never going to believe this,â he starts with a chuckle, âCarlos and Duke have been inseparable for the better part of a week.âÂ
He watches you closely as he speaks, not wanting to miss the moment when you realize how great this is. He watches as your eyes widen and you let out a delighted gasp.Â
âReally?â You exclaim. Ben is already nodding, smiling right along with you, swept up in your infectious joy.
âYeah, I-I couldnât believe it, I mean, he was terrified of dogs - his mother called themâŠâ he struggles for a moment to remember the exact phrase Carlos had used. âRabid pack animals.â
âWhat?â You canât believe anyone would hate animals so much, especially enough to make someone else so deathly afraid of them. âWhy on earth would she-âÂ
âI donât know.â Ben finishes for you.Â
âSounds like-âÂ
Something Audrey would say.
You catch yourself, thinking better of it before completing the thought.Â
âOh,â you pretend to interrupt yourself with a more important thought, âhow is Evie doing? She was having a difficult time in class today.âÂ
Ben nods sadly.
âYeah. I spoke to Doug about it. She, uh- she was reading her answers off of something.â
âSheâs probably nervous.â You add. âI mean, education isnât exactly the Isleâs top priorityâŠâ
Itâs the understatement of the century, and Ben quickly sees where youâre headed with that. If none of the Isle kids were ever in an appropriately challenging or attentive academic setting, of course Auradon Prep would be overwhelming. Ben nods, realizing the same thing.
âIâll work with the faculty- see if I can set them up with some tutors once theyâre a little more⊠settled in.âÂ
You nod, about to say something when you pause in your tracks. Ben stops, looking back at you and wondering what he missed. Before he can ask, you let out a sigh.
âLook at this!â You exclaim, gesturing to a section of brick wall encasing a topiary. Itâs been painted in shades of green, purple, and black spray paint, expertly crafted into a dynamic dragon silhouette. You turn back to Ben, frustrated at all the potential going to waste on the Isle.Â
âPlease tell me sheâs signed up for some sort of art class.â You ask, somewhat rhetorically.
Ben follows your gaze, noticing the paint that now decorates the previously barren wall.Â
Ben chuckles a little, agreeing with you.Â
âIâll be sure to-â
âOh! Did I tell you?â You exclaim, suddenly remembering something youâd been desperate to tell Ben earlier that day. Ben, used to all sorts of interesting twists and turns in conversations with you, simply files his thought away on a little post it note in his brain, and turns his attention back to you.
âI donât know, did you?â He asks, somewhat rhetorically.Â
âDo you remember how I told you about the wildflowers and their song recitals?âÂ
âOf course,â he nods. How could he forget anything you tell him? Especially when itâs about Wonderland?
âThe poppies and the peonies have begun to argue over whoâs going to sing the alto solo in the second verse.â You state as intensely and dramatically as if you were recounting the most mind boggling argument youâve ever seen. As you recount the increasingly petty arguments between the flowers, the clashing of their personalities, Ben realizes this probably is the most mind boggling drama youâve ever seen.Â
Ben listens intently as you describe the clashing personalities of and different cliques forming among the Wonderland wildflowers. His heart sinks a little in that way it always tends to when you talk about Wonderland. He wishes he could go there with you. It breaks his heart that heâll never be able to see it first hand, that youâll never get to show it to him. He wants more than anything to be able see where youâre from, to take it the wonder. He knows how much it would mean to you, which is more than reason enough. Besides, he feels like if he could just go there, if he could stand in the same place where you feel most at home, he feels like he could really, finally understand it. Understand you.Â
But he knows itâs too dangerous. You both do. He just wishes you had someone to protect you, to keep you safe.Â
âIs it dangerous there?â He had asked you once. âNo.â Youâd replied with a coy smile. âNot if you know what youâre doing.â
âDo you?â He had teased. You laughed. You nudged him with your shoulder.Â
âAs much as I know my tea.âÂ
That settled it for him.
He knows that even if you did have some sort of bodyguard with you down there with you, youâd be the one protecting them.Â
âOh, by the by,â your voice pulls him from his train of thought as you approach the school. âDonât worry about those papers for the next council meeting, Iâll drop them off for you.âÂ
He had completely forgotten about that.Â
âAre you sure?â He starts to ask, but youâre already playfully waving his concern away.Â
âPish tosh.â You state.
âOkayâŠâ he concedes, chuckling at your turn of phrase.Â
âI wasnât done.â You state, with a humorously serious expression.Â
âPish tosh, fish wash, bish bosh, coin toss.âÂ
His chuckle has turned into full blown laughter.
âCar floss, hair loss, kiss squash, witch watch, biznautch.â You finish. âItâs bad luck not to say the whole thing.â You counter.Â
âIâll⊠Iâll remember that, bunny.â You nod your head curtly. âHere, uh-â
He fumbles through his bag for the papers to hand you, which you accept happily.Â
âRightâŠâ you tuck them into your teapot, pulling out your messy, worn in planner. It always has a million things sticking out of it and falling out from between the pages. Every time you take it out, Ben thinks it looks so⊠frazzled.Â
âRight right right,â you mutter, making a noise when you find what youâre looking for. âSo. I drop off the papers, check on the party planning committee, then a quick dip down and back in time for the tourney match.âÂ
You look at Ben for approval, making sure you hadnât forgotten something. He nods.
âYes. And I am going to go check on the transfers-â
âText me and update, please?â You ask sweetly. Ben knows you donât have great reception in Wonderland - but more than that, you usually wind up so engrossed that you forget you even have a phone. Despite this, you love coming back up to Overland to be met with a flurry of texts from Ben. Random thoughts, reminders he worried heâd forget, and anything else flitting across his mind between when you left and where you were.
âOf course,â Ben smiles, then continues. âCheck on transfers, meet up with Audrey, warm up and practice with the team, then itâs game time.âÂ
âI wouldnât miss it for the world.â You state, reassuring him youâll be back in time no matter what. You look down at the rabbit hole opening up at your feet, then back up at Ben.
What if the equivalent of a Disney Princess was thrown into the Hunger Games? Sylke is optimistic and has an affinity for all that is gentle and sweet. What happens when she is placed in an arena and forced to kill or be killed?
fluff, angst, strangers to lovers, canon typical violence
part two is out!
The capitol wasnât all that different from district one. It was more modern, more luxurious, but not by much. Sylke thought back to the reaping. This year was a strange one. For some reason, none of the training female career tributes volunteered, either too young or not ready. She was only fourteen, never once had she wanted the life of a career. And yet her name had been the one drawn. Standing on that stage next to a man much older whoâs trained his whole life for this, she felt more out of place than ever before. As the games drew closer, it became clear to her that this was the end of her life. There was no point in trying to survive, the best she could do was enjoy the little bit of life she has left. And she did. Regardless of its seedy corruption, the capitol was beautiful. The gifts she had been offered, the world she got to see from the train window, so much of it was bright and wonderful. And with the little time she had left, she resolved to appreciate it.
The other tribute from 1, Cesare, didnât seem to like her much. He was cold, offered only backhanded advice, and made a lousy excuse for her only companion. Their mentor, Victoria, was sweet, convinced that Sylke could survive with some allies and sponsors. Their escort, Misty, agreed, and was already trying to find some.
When they arrived in the capitol, Sylke was desperate for a new face, a friendly one. There was one person around her age, the tribute from four. She had seen him at the tribute parade, the only other person her age. When they met, she tried to be as friendly and genuine as possible. That was his first instinct as well, to simply be kind, to make a friend, but when the conversation was over, he was swiftly reminded that she wouldnât make a good ally, and that he should put energy into connections with other tributes. And even then, he couldnât keep himself from looking in her direction, from thinking about her and what she must be feeling, how similar it must be to the churning anxiety that raged like a storm in the high seas within his core. She was probably in the same boat, and he was drawn to that. In all honesty, it was likely just because they were the same age. No one else was that young in this Game, and in a different world, perhaps they even would have been friends. That is what kept him lingering in her mind as well. That they could have been friends. Only to her, they still could be even if only for a short while. It was the only friend she might be able to find in this place.
There was a gala one night, a chance to meet people, network, get sponsors. Sylkeâs stylist put her in a long, heavy gown, white and gold with little pearls and jewels, to appeal to sponsors from one as her stylist put it. Something about portraying luxury. As much as she disliked the performance of it all, it had been a while since sheâd been in a gown like this, with the heavy silks that draped off her body like water flowing gently over time-smoothed rocks. Something about it felt authentic, the daintiness and femininity. If she looked in a mirror she looked like herself.
There had been a few times like that in her life, all of them before or during dance performances. The mirror that hung on the wall backstage was where she would check her costume before going up. She was grateful each time that her character wouldnât be be frowning. She wouldnât have to act. It would make her smile like nothing else, to see the dress she was wearing, because the person looking back at her was the girl she would see in her dreams, the princess she always wanted to be. And she would smile, a real smile, and she would go on stage with that smile, and everyone watching would know itâs real.
The gala was different. People were closer, meaner, there was a tension in the air that never truly went away. The other tributes were there, closer to her than sheâd ever seen them before. They were all so strong, so ruthless, merciless. It became clear to her that she didnât stand a chance. They all looked out of place in fragile evening wear, like they belonged in a suit of armor on the battlefield. They could kill her in an instant, rip her apart like silk. This was the way she was going to die. She had a week or so until then, a week that she wanted to enjoy. But how would she enjoy what was essentially her deathbed? She would need to look at the little things, just the details could perhaps keep her happy for a week. She would need to distract herself, take comfort in all the things around her that werenât awful. Those details werenât as rare as she had thought, not if she looked in the right places. The gala was certainly not the stage, but it wasnât that different. Those similarities were what she took comfort in that night. The dress, the lights, the few faces in the crowds that were truly friendly. Her dress didnât flutter like a tutu, it didnât spin the same, but it still made her happy, she looked liked herself in every glass, every reflective surface, she would see the dress, the jewels, and in a matter of seconds, her smile.
She met all sorts of sponsors that night, they loved her. After all, there was no point in trying to appeal to them, and thus she could just be herself. Perhaps they made plans to help her in the arena now that sheâd met them, but it didnât matter. All that she could do was enjoy her night. Bask in the luxury and make some friends. The sponsors werenât really friends. They werenât her equals, they werenât fearing for their lives. Only twenty-three others were like her. One of them was standing alone, at the edge of the dance floor. The boy from four that she had yet to learn the name of. He wore bronze to match his hair and tanned skin, a fairly simple ensemble akin to any other tuxedo or suit. The part that caught attention was the brocade. Just like Sylkeâs jewels, they glittered in the light, adorning his chest and shoulders. There was a heavy patterned fabric that was draped off his shoulder like a malfunctioning cape fit for a prince. It hung still as he leaned against the wall, but Sylke couldnât help but picture it fluttering with every movement of his. He was alone, as though waiting for company of some kind. So she walked up to him, the fabric of her dress swaying with each step.
âHey. Iâm Sylke. â
âFinnick. Youâre from one?â
The question was awkward, like he didnât know what else to say.
âMhm. And youâre from four, right?â
âYup.â
There was a silence. She wanted to ask how he was enjoying the night, if he liked galas like this, if heâd ever been to one before, in fact she was about to when-
âBut youâre not a career?â
There it was.
âIâm not. Just a regular tribute, like you.â
âActually Iâm not. I trained for this.â
âBut youâre fourteen, donât you wait until eighteen?â
âYeah, usually.â
His answer was short, clearly a sore subject. She wanted to ask why, but as she looked at his face it became obvious that he didnât know. So she didnât push.
âDo you feel ready?â
âYeah, I think so.â
His mentor had told him not to show weakness, to portray confidence, never let the image slip, but it still did when he was talking to her. He let it slip, for some reason that he couldnât yet identify. Something in him just wanted to tell her everything, every thought, every feeling, every doubt that floated through his head. Or rather he wanted to tell the world, but the world could not be trusted and so he looked to trustworthy individuals. Something told him she was most certainly one of them. Of course he didnât say everything, but his performance was still weakened by her presence. Mostly by that smile. So genuine it made him want to smile too.
They spent most of the night seated at a table in the corner of the room, occasionally beckoned by a mentor or escort, but always returning to the conversation. That conversation began with talks of the games, but it took little time to expand. Finnick told her about his life back home, and Sylke did the same. They talked about almost everything, from the birds that Sylke kept and trained in her garden to the rigorous dental hygiene Finnick was instructed to keep when he was a boy due to his sweet tooth. He was shocked to learn that sheâd never eaten fish. On special occasion shellfish, but never proper fish. Soon after, his mentor called him to meet a sponsor, and he returned with a plate of some of the fish being served that night.
âHere. I found some at the table, you should try it. Itâs not like I catch at home, but itâs good.â
âIs there a certain way Iâm supposed to eat it?â
He laughed, putting the plate on the table and sitting beside her.
âA fork and knife will doâ
She smiled at him before taking a bite. It was certainly new, but still familiar. Like a heightened version of the shrimp her family would get for celebrations, something meant only for the most celebratory of occasions. It was rich and just salty enough, and perfectly seasoned. Perhaps fitting for the celebration of oneâs life, a good last meal. She made a decision to request this as her final meal before going into the arena.
âSo⊠do you like it?â
She turned to him, swallowing before smiling, with the edges of her lips pulled high and making crescent moons of her eyes.
âItâs really good! If I had that as my last meal, I think Iâd die happy.â
âYeah? Wait until you try mine. No seasoning or capitol kitchen can make up for freshness-catching, cooking, and eating it right there on the sand.â
He spoke with confidence, almost arrogance dripping from his voice, with a pearly white grin to go with it.
âIâll take your word for it.â
They continued to talk and to laugh, exchanging stories and jokes like old friends catching up after too long apart. At some point she had reveled in the dress she was wearing, how the luxury and flow reminded her of costumes she would wear, how she felt more like herself wearing these than any time before. She talked with a massive smile, eyes flitting from his to the fabric to the jewels to the glittering room and then back to him. He said little as she did this, simply watching the joy pour from her every word. It was that genuine joy the pulled him to her, that made his performance slip, that made him content to let it.
âYou glow when you talk like that.â
âLike what?â
âAbout the things you like, the things that make you smile.â
She laughed.
A minute or two later, the music switched to a new song, and Sylke perked up.
âI know this song!â She stood up and took his hand. âCome on, get up!â
âWait, to dance?â
âYeah! What, they never taught you how to dance?â
âOnly a little,â
She pulled him to the dance floor and took both his hands in hers. âItâs a waltz, do you know how to do that?â
He shook his head.
âThatâs alright,â
She brought one of his hands to her waist with her own on his shoulder. It felt nice to have someone so close, someone to trust. They didnât move.
âItâs slow, do you wanna look at my feet and I can teach you?â
He pulled her a little closer, practically speaking directly into her ear. It had been a long time since heâd felt the warmth of another person, let alone someone he wanted to feel close to. The rest of the capitol felt sickly cold in comparison to this. This comforting, trusting warmth. Neither of them wanted to leave.
âMaybe later. Letâs just sway for nowâ
âOkay.â
They swayed in silence, trying to savor this moment of trust. Gold, ivory, and bronze melded together as they moved, like these clothes were made to dance together. The music was soft, a subtle background for their movement.
The night was coming to a close, the dance floor had few people left on it. It didnât take long for Sylke and Finnick to be pulled away for final goodbyes, the last chance of the night to get sponsors before they went back to the apartments.
They spent the rest of the week training. Sylke spent most of that time learning about plants. What was poison, what was edible, and what is medicinal. She didnât care much for violence, which most of the training room was dedicated to. Even if she herself didnât believe in her own survival, it would be strange to never enter that room. So she worked on things that she would enjoy most. Learning, gathering plants. She also learned how to use a friction bow, but that was mostly out of boredom. Her favourite part of the training was the medicinal plants. She took comfort in knowing that with this knowledge she could perhaps help someone stay alive. And that if she taught someone else they could as well. Sometimes she would catch a glance of Finnick, throwing his trident and hitting his mark each time. He was so assured in his ability, a security that would certainly serve him well in the arena. He trained for this after all, his confidence was justified. His kills would be swift and painless, and she had no doubt that was how he liked them to be. He never seemed the type to torture something like that, something about him, the kindness that he offered to many (though not all) was too great for such cruelty.
The evaluations came too quickly. The game was approaching too fast. Cesare was first. Then her. When she entered the room, a small pile of stalks and leaves sat on a table in the centre of the room. In her ten minutes, she separated them into three piles. One she burned, another she ate, and the last she sorted into their different uses. She gave a curtsy before walking out.
She was sitting on a couch in the apartment that night, all eyes staring intently at the screen. The man next to her had gotten ten out of twelve. She got a four. No one was surprised by that. Finnick got an eleven. She hoped he would win. A part of her was sure that he would.
After that was the final show with Caesar Flickerman. Everything was just like back home, just a little more glamorous. There was a mirror just before the entrance to the stage, and in it she fluffed up her skirt before looking at herself in full. She had a tiara too, adorned with little gilded doves. She had once mentioned to a sponsor that doves were her favourite bird, a symbol of peace. Not only that, but the tiara was made to look like branches, with green jewels like olives ready to be harvested. In fact, all of the jewels she was wearing were green, to match the olives and complement the dress as her stylist had put it. And the dress. They had her in a rosy pink ball gown this time. It spun better than a tutu, with even more layers or tulle. It was perfect, everything the little girl inside of her could ever dream of. They were really leaning into the princess thing, and it made her happy beyond belief. The smile on her face was genuine, and everyone in the crowd knew it.
She walked out from the steel doors, stage lights beaming from every direction as she took a seat. Caesar introduced her to the crowd, but all she could think of was music. She could hear it in her head, like she was sitting upstage while the principals danced. Like clockwork, heâd back straightened and her hands folded in her lap. She only caught the last bit of Caesarâs words.
âYou really do look like royalty, sitting so poised like that. Do you know what people have been calling you?â
âWhat have they been calling me?â
âThe smiling princess.â
He looked out to the crowd.
âNow folks, can you think of anything more fitting? Here she is in her royal gown, with a crown on her head, and the prettiest smile in the world. I canât think of a better name for such a lovely young girl.â
âThank you Caesar. I really do feel so lucky to be here and to have been received so kindly. My heart is truly warmed by the kindness you show me.â
âAnd look at that, such impeccable manners!â
His galavanting smile and raucous laugh shifted quickly to something of a pout as the crowd quieted and he took a more serious tone.
âNow of course, manners and sweetness are all gone in the arena.â
âThatâs true. I will be completely out of my element.â
The crowd went quiet as Sylke formed her next words. She wondered if she should tell the audience the certainty of her death, how little hope she had for herself. But she decided against it. Instead, she focused on what she knew, the morals that she upheld and took comfort in.
âYou know, Iâve been taught that the way to live a good life is to be kind, to have mercy, and to offer grace. I know not how that will apply in the arena but I have no intention of abandoning my morals.â
âSuch wisdom at such a young age.â
He took her hands in his and looked her in the eyes.
âWe all know that the arena is deadly. Unfortunately, other tributes are not as kind as you are. But we wish you the best of luck. May the odds be ever in your favour.â
The skirt rippled with her as she stood, walking of the stage with cheers sounding behind her. Misty was by her side immediately.
âThat was good, you did good. A lot of sponsors are really loving the princess image, and that kindness, mercy, and grace speech really turned some heads.â
Sylke watched the rest of the show from backstage. Tributes came and went, each leaning into distinct personalities crafted by mentors, escorts, and stylists. She wondered how many were real. How many were total fabrication? And how many were what she imagined most of them were, exaggerations and oversimplifications, initially based on truth, but dramatised and amplified to make a good show. Thatâs what Finnickâs was. When he came on the stage, he had a big plastic smile. He acted arrogant, confident, but in a peacock sort of way. He had confidence in his own ability and his odds in the arena, and in the interview he missed no opportunity to flaunt it. And that was mostly based in truth. He did carry himself with confidence, and he did come off as arrogant when she first met him at the parade. But he was also compassionate, and that same confidence and security in himself allowed him to be wonderful at helping others, caring for the people around him that he trusted. It meant that he wasnât afraid to step up and protect someone. And Sylke was sorely disappointed when she didnât see that on the screen in front of her. That wasnât Finnick, not all of him. But the audience loved it. They had no idea who he really was, and they didnât care. They cheered and screamed with every toothy grin he flashed. They loved him. If he won theyâd love him even more. Heâd be their golden boy.
âYou know they love him almost as much as they love you.â
She looked up and back to see the speaker. It was Cesare.
âWhat?â
âYou hear the cheering? Itâs almost as loud as when you were up there. Looks like the capitol found their prince.â
He slinked away again, with a smirk, like all he came up to do was tease her. But he was right. She wondered what would become of it all. She would die, and hopefully he would live. The capitol would lose their smiling princess. Would they mourn? What about him? If he died would they mourn him too?
Her thoughts were interrupted by footsteps coming backstage.
âHey! They loved you out there!â
âThey loved you too, princess.â
They began to walk together, with no defined direction, just aimless, something to do with their bodies as they chatted. Finnick noted how regal her dress was, prompting her to revel similarly to the night of the gala at the way she felt wearing the dress. And again, he watched. She spun, the skirt flying up and revealing layer upon layer of fluffy tulle, and he felt a pang of desire to be the one spinning her, the knight in shining armor to her princess. And then he wondered if it was an act. If even around him she was playing up the princess thing, like he would with his playboy image for the cameras and other tributes. But he didnât do that with her. Did she?
âAre you really like this?â
âHmm? Like what?â
âWhen youâre on stage youâre essentially no different than how you are now. Is this just who you are?â
âI-I guess. I never really thought about it.â
They walked without words for a moment. He began to wonder if he made her uncomfortable.
âI try to be honest with everyone. I know my team likes to have a certain image, but when I get to talk I like to just be me. Iâd like to think Iâm always like this.â
Always a princess he thought. Thatâs just who she is.
âYouâre not like that though. You were acting different on stage, I could tell. Did they tell you to do that?â
âYeah. Apparently Iâm becoming a capitol heartthrob.â
He rolled his eyes, drawling though his words with palpable disgust.
âThey said Iâll get more sponsors if I do all that flirty stuff.â
She nodded, waiting for him to say more. There was a question she hadnât the courage to ask, but he knew it, and answered before she asked.
âItâs not totally fake. But itâs icky, like theyâre whittling me down into⊠itâs not something Iâm not, butâŠâ
âItâs not all of you.â
âYeah.â
Stylists and escorts were moving about, organising the tributes to go into the stage for the finale. As Sylke was summoned to line up, Finnick pulled her close just like he had at the gala and whispered in her ear.
âI wanna come to your room tonight. Will they be asleep by midnight?â
Victoria would likely pass out the moment they returned to the apartment, and Misty always took a sleeping pill at eleven. Cesare would be asleep too, getting a good nights rest before the game in the morning.
âYes.â
She was pulled away, and soon after so was he.
That night, she asked for fish as her supper. It was similar to what was served at the gala, tender and perfectly seasoned with a certain luxurious richness that she adored. The meal was quiet. They were always awkward, but usually Victoria, or failing that Misty, would try to make conversation. The table was quiet this time. Cesare was eating with vigor, trying to get as much down as possible before the game. Sylke was eating slowly, simply trying to enjoy all of it. Victoria had said all there was to say, now it was just a waiting game.
As the night progressed everyone but Sylke went to bed early. She didnât enjoy silence. Much more pleasant was to have something to listen to. Sometimes that would be bird songs and wind making melodies in the rustling flora, other times it was an orchestra unpacking and tuning as the crowd settled in. Whatever it was, she always preferred noise over silence. And so when all was quiet and everyone was asleep, she closed her bedroom door and found music to play. It was on the vanity, a turntable next to a selection screen. She chose something soft, classical, to remind her of home. She closed her eyes and for a moment she was back home. All was well, all she needed to worry about was the crowd, the choreography, that was it. Music had a power over her, to bring her anywhere in the world so long as she could hear it. Her feet moved across the floor, gliding and stepping with the music she knew so well. The piece was short and coming to an end. Her eyes came open a long time ago, but they didnât actually look anywhere until the final note, when she would smile and bow to the audience. But of course, the roaring applause wasnât there, and she was back in reality, back in the cold and grey apartment room. But she had enjoyed her escape, short as it was. A quick glance at the clock showed the midnight was nearing. She made her way to the door and kept an eye peering out the peephole. Right on time, she saw him walking, turning to check behind nearly every step. She laughed to herself at his caution, knowing full well that if she were in his place, she likely wouldnât look back once. He approached the door and gestured to knock before stopping. He stood pondering a quieter method for perhaps a second before she opened the door. They tried not to make noise until she had closed the bedroom door again.
âYouâre playing music?â
âYeah.â
They didnât say much for a moment. In the end it was Sylke that spoke first, voicing the question that had stayed at the front of her mind for hours.
âWhy did you want to meet tonight?â
âI donât know. I guess I just wanted to see you again before tomorrow.â
She nodded, understanding and reciprocating his sentiment entirely. Another song faded out, and a lively waltz took its place.
âI never actually got to teach you to dance.â
âIâm still interested.â
She stood up come her place seated on the edge of the bed and placed her hands behind her back.
âWatch my feet. You know how a waltz goes 1, 2, 3âŠâ
He nodded and stood next to her, mimicking her every movement. She took two steps and he did the same. She brushed her leg forward and he followed. With each step she counted, one, step, two, step, three, brush turn. It took him a moment to pick it up, but with time he was able to find the rhythm and it became easier with each turn.
âGreat. Face me,â
They kept their hands behind their backs, not wanting to complicate with arms yet.
âJust waltz, and Iâll be going backwards to match you.â
He nodded again and hesitated before stepping forward. She stepped backwards. When he brushed his leg forward she moved hers back. When they turned it switched. Once again, it slowly began to make sense to him.
âThatâs great! Do you want to try arms?â
âSounds good.â
They assumed a familiar position, with his arm on her waist, and hers on his shoulder. Only this time there was significantly more distance between them. Finnick was too focused on his feet to notice, but to Sylke took note of it, how as much as she loved to waltz with him, she did miss being closer. As the moved clumsily about the floor, she smiled and giggled both when he struggled and when he succeeded, finding joy in anything and everything he did. He almost didnât hear her laugh with his laser focus on taking the right steps. At some point it seemed to get easier for him, but he still kept his gaze fixed on the ground. Upon seeing this, she lifted her hand from his shoulder and gently took hold of his chin to turn his face to hers.
âLook at me. Or to the audience, but we donât have one of those.â
Just as he was told, he didnât take his eyes off her. His steps were a bit messier as a result, but they smoothed over in time. Looking into his eyes, she found herself smiling even more, something he mimicked with a grin of his own. It wasnât the plastic one from the stage earlier, it was different. Genuine. They could hear the song getting closer to its end. Finnick took the hand that was clasped with hers and placed it on her waist as the final phrase played.
âDip?â
She smiled again, and that was all they needed for a response. He lowered her, with one hand at her waist and the other moving to support her back, keeping his head by hers and his eyes never leaving. The music went quiet before transitioning into something softer, slower, clearly in 4/4 as well. Neither of them moved once again. Her smile had gone slightly, now just doe-eyed and looking at him.
âCan I kiss you?â
She nodded. Sweet and slow, they moved closer until their lips met. The kiss was tender, slow and yet fleeting as they pulled apart. With foreheads pressed together, both of them donned massive smiles, eyes thinner than crescent moons. Finnick brought them back upright but kept them close. He didnât want to let her go, perhaps not ever. And for the rest of the time they spent together that night, he didnât. They mostly stayed cuddled on the bed, talking softly because they were too afraid to fall asleep. The conversation was not nearly as lighthearted as other ones. The game was tomorrow, and it weighed heavily on both of their minds. They talked about what it meant to take a life. Sylke didnât like to think about it, but with the game so near, she could not pluck the thoughts from her mind.
âHave you everâŠâ
âNo. No, never. I donât think I want to either. I can, I know I can, but⊠I donât know. Itâs that or die.â
She admired his drive to live. It was amazing, an extension of that security in himself she figured. She was choosing to die, but she couldnât blame him for choosing to kill instead.
âI donât think I could. It takes so much, so much that I donât have. I envy you Finnick. Youâre strong and capable and-â
âHey. Donât do that.â
âWhat, am I wrong?â
âI-no, but⊠donât whittle it down like that. Youâre not wrong, I have skills that serve me in the arena. And with those particular skills youâre not as strong. But thatâs not the whole story. Sylke, Iâve only known you for a week or two but Iâve seen how incredible you are. Iâve seen your kindness and your optimism and your care for the world around you. Those are skills too, even if they donât serve you in the arena.â
By the end or his little speech, there were tears making their way down her face. There was quiet between them once more, but not out of awkwardness or lack of things to say. She moved closer and rested her head on his chest. His hand almost automatically moved to her head to play with her hair, something of an unconscious attempt at comforting her. The flow of tears came to an end. He tilted her chin to look up at him. Her face was still wet, with doe eyes and little trace of a smile. Heâd never seen her look so sad before, and he promised himself to do everything in his power to keep that beautiful smile of hers around.
âYouâre wonderful.â
He pressed his lips to hers, this time quicker, more passionate. Time seemed to fall away, and for just a moment so did the music. When they pulled apart she nuzzled into his neck, taking comfort in his arms securely around her. She felt safe here, like the danger of tomorrow could never reach her here. Some amount of time that neither of them bothered to note passed, and the glare of the clock seemed increasingly present. They were tired but still too afraid to fall asleep. Not here, not like this.
âI should go.â
âYou need to go.â
Nothing moved.
âI donât want you to go.â
âI donât want to go.â
For a moment, all was still. Slowly, they rose, making their way to the apartment door. Before she could reach for the door, he took her hands in his and made a point to look square in her eyes.
âThereâs gonna be a pile of supplies and a bloodbath to get to it tomorrow. You should run, but donât go far. Iâll find you once I get some weapons. Okay?â
âOkay.â
She didnât need to ask anything more, all was understood. He knew her odds, he knew of her intention to die quickly, this was it. He would kill her in the morning, quickly, painlessly, end her suffering before things could get worse. She opened the door and gave him a melancholy smile. As he began to walk away she spoke quietly, just loud enough for him to hear.
pairing: ot5!txt x gn!reader [individual scenarios]
genre: some more angsty, some more fluffy
synopsis: love prevails, no matter how complicated the relationship may be.
noteworthy: some cursing, i got carried away with tae & kaiâs (especially kai?? idk why) respectively for no reason so theirs are actually longerâ oopsie!
word count: 500-600 for choi line, closer to 700 for kaihyun
YEONJUN â your ex.
tick. tock. tick. tock.
the rhythmic ticking coming from the clock on the wall is the only sound disrupting the otherwise tense silence between you and yeonjun. frankly, youâre not sure why you let him inside your home. maybe it was the prospect of closure; of talking everything out without yelling and the endless pools of tears.
or maybe itâs just because you still canât really deny him anything, even six months after having your heart ripped to shreds by the very man sitting right in front of you.
yeonjun clears his throat, his fingers wrapped impossibly tight around the glass of water you had kindly offered him. he canât help but stare at you sitting across from him. the way you avoid looking at him, your eyes fixated on anything but him, makes his heart sting painfully, eyes beginning to get damp.
âitâs nice to see you again,â yeonjun said almost hesitantly, a tight-lipped smile on his face. you look up and your eyes finally meet properly for the first time in six months, the raging bitterness and agitation from last time now replaced with hurt, longing, and so, so much love buried under heaps of regret.
you nod silently because if you were to speak, youâre sure youâd burst into tears immediately.
âiâm sorry,â you note the way his voice breaks, your fingers twitching in your lap with the urge to hug and kiss him, to tell him itâs alright, âfor everything. iâve been so awful to you, and iâm justâŠiâm just so sorry.â
you swallow nervously, mustering up the courage to speak without bursting into tears, âitâs fine juâ yeonjun. iâm not mad at you anymore, andâŠi forgive you, so if thatâs what youâre looking forââ
âno! no, no iâm notâ i mean, iâm glad, iâm glad that youâre not mad anymore butâŠiâm not here for closure or anything like that,â he rambles, his voice a little scratchy from holding back tears. the look of confusion you give him makes him swallow, but it also gives him hope. youâre not immediately shutting him out.
âi miss you, so much,â yeonjun blinks rapidly to keep the tears in his eyes at bay, âiâm sorry for being so stubborn and not reaching out for six months and iâm so sorry for coming back like this out of nowhere but i just canât take it anymore.â
yeonjun looks away, ashamed of himself for letting everything get to this point, for crashing back into your life so suddenly. his head immediately snaps back to you when he hears a sniffle, your face hidden in your hands as you sob.
âiâ..i missed you so much,â you sob, your chest heaving with every sob, âit hurt so bad jun, i want to hate you so bad, but i justâŠcanât.â
yeonjun reacts completely on instinct, and within seconds youâre tightly wrapped in his arms, his hand running along your back while he presses soothing kisses on top of your head, âiâm sorry baby, iâm so sorry. i love you so much, i promise iâll make it all better if you let me, okay?â
you look up at him, your teary stare making his heart clench painfully. âi..donât know, jun. youâve ignored me for so long, just tossed two years together aside like it was nothing and iâm justâŠhurt. so fucking hurt.â
yeonjun swallows, nodding along in understanding. âi know, and iâll do anything. anything to get you to trust me again.â
SOOBIN â your best friendâs brother.
standing in front of your best friendâs house in the middle of the night usually means a late night snack trip with an occasional quick round of karaoke downtown. usually, youâd end up on an empty playground, gasping for air between laughs and giggles, gossiping to your heartâs content. usually, a best friend shouldnât sneak around with their friendâs brother behind their back.
nothing usual is happening tonight, it seems.
a part of you is screaming at yourself while you wait for soobin, berating yourself and refusing to believe you would go behind your best friendâs back like that. another part of you is buzzing with excitement, heart beating in your ears and face flushed with delight at the prospect of spending a few hours with soobin. your soobin.
the nagging, guilty-feeling part of you gets pushed into the background the second your eyes fall on soobin, bundled up all cozy to shield himself from the cold. you canât see his smile behind his fluffy scarf yet you know itâs there, judging by the little scrunch of his nose and crinkle of his eyes and it makes your heart soar.
youâre an awful best friend.
he wraps you into a tight hug once heâs close enough, sighing happily and rocking you both from side to side a little. soobin looks down at you, pulling his scarf down a little to free his lips before he leans down to kiss you, âah!â you shriek, turning your face away in time to avoid his kiss.
soobin looks down at you with furrowed brows, sighing loudly, âi know, i know, âno kissing in a 200 meter radius of your houseâ but, come onnn.â he whines the last part, making you smile at his cuteness, ââm sorry bin, it just makes me feel guilty,â you pout up at him.
âwe have to tell her at some point, you know?â his voice is almost as soft as his gentle touch, brushing a few stray hairs away from your face and cupping your cheek, âsheâll get over it, i promise. sheâll be mad, but she loves you. and she wants you to be happy.â
âyeah, but not with you.â you grumble and soobin clutches his heart in fake hurt. âouch. so mean.
you giggle and the sound makes soobin grin, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, âmaybe we canââ
âCHOI SOOBIN!â a shrill scream startled you both, though you both immediately realise who it is. oh no.
luckily, the combination of a pitch black winter night and soobin standing in front of you meant you wouldnât be recognisable when viewed from the choi residence. soobin could sense your panic, your fight or flight starting to kick in.
you chose flight.
with a hasty kiss pressed to your lips and hurried goodbyes youâre off, hurrying back home by yourself, praying to every god, entity and higher being that your best friend didnât recognise you.
then you got a message from her.
itâs over. she knows. sheâll get mad, sheâll hate you, sheâll hate soobin. au revoir to your years of friendship, all over a guy.
figuring itâs best to get it over with, you take a deep breath and check the messages, ready to cry, apologise, and beg.
just cockblocked soob lol
they ran off too
poor thing
i did them a favour tbh
. . .
oh.
BEOMYU â your friendâs crush.
youâre not entirely sure what hurts more, having to watch beomgyu be clung to by none other than your best friend, or the knowledge that said best friend has been in love with him for years while he has never spared her a second glance, always looking past her and focusing on you instead.
it feels mean to even think, but you pity her. she has been pining over him for so long, practically worshipping the ground he walks on, and yet he always kept her at arms length. sometimes entertaining her for a while just to go cold once again. itâs awful, and you hate to see her in such a deep one-sided love with someone who has no genuine interest in her.
because his interest lies with you.
and you would be lying if youâd say you werenât also interest in him.
but friends come first, always. she has been in love with him since before you even met, and just imagining the hurt and betrayal on her face if she were to find out that youâre also in love with her beomgyu, that he also happens to have been secretly pining over you instead all this time?
sheâd lose it, and in turn youâd lose her.
so you keep beomgyu at a distance, avoiding him and his advances as much as you can. but if thereâs one thing you can safely say about choi beomgyu, itâs that heâs stubborn. really fucking stubborn.
which is why he immediately excuses himself to be able to follow you the second he sees you go outside to get some fresh air, the stuffy air of the party probably getting to you. or maybe you just got sick of watching someone else throw themselves at him, though that might admittedly be just wishful thinking on his part.
the cool breeze feels nice against your skin, a stark contrast to the hot and suffocating air inside the house. sitting down on the curb you let out a deep sigh, muddled thoughts bouncing around your mind.
itâs ridiculous to feel jealousy over this, right? itâs insane to be jealous of someone getting close to beomgyu, especially when heâs not in the least bit interested in them. you of all people should know that.
a shriek falls from your lips when a jacket is thrown over your shoulders out of nowhere, head whipping around to see who it was.
of course it was beomgyu.
sitting down next to you he immediately grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers together. you try to pull back but you know he wonât budge, so you decide to let yourself bask in a little bit of his attention in secret.
just for tonight.
âshe bought that dress just for you, you know,â you mumble and he turns to look at you, pretty eyes meeting yours for the first time tonight, and just studies you face for a bit.
one of his hands comes up to cup your cheek, thumb lightly stroking your skin, goosebumps rising all over your body.
âi wonât fall in love with her just because you reject me,â he says, voice quiet and warm, âso you might as well be selfish with me.â
beomgyuâs face is closer now, and you know heâs letting you decide. itâs a silent invitation, but it will be your call. you swallow nervously, eyes darting all over his face. youâve never seen him so close before, your eyes desperately drinking in every single detail.
and then your lips are on his.
TAEHYUN â your âlove does not existâ-roommate.
the relationship between you and taehyun isâŠan odd one, to say the least. taehyun hasnât been in a relationship in years, his last one leaving him drained and bitter for way too long after it broke apart. thus, he decided to put the idea of love and relationships on the back burner, focusing on his friends, interests and career.
you on the other hand had been dating continuously throughout the years, much to taehyunâs dismay â not because heâs in love with you or anything, but rather because he hated coming home to you and your darling boo making out all the time.
funnily enough, while you did actively date, it never really amounted to much. nothing ever seemed to work out and you started to believe that taehyunâs anti-romantic attitude had begun to rub off on you.
youâve been on somewhat of a dating break for a while now, and taehyun and you began to fall into a certain routine.
grocery shopping together on saturdays, always stopping by the little food stall of that sweet old lady a few blocks away from your apartment. taehyun bringing home dinner on wednesdays, you preparing lunch for him on tuesdays. him always making sure your snacks are stocked up, and you helping him colour his roots every few weeks. taehyun playing with your hair to make you sleepy when you canât seem to fall asleep, you sleeping in his bed cuddled up with him when he spent all day frustrated and finally broke down crying.
occasional forehead or cheek kisses too, but youâre just friends and roomies. with a routine.
a completely platonic, super-appropriate-for-roommates routine.
youâre cuddled up into taehyunâs side, like you are most nights, eyes focused on the drama playing in front of you. his hand was wrapped around your waist, fingers subconsciously tapping against you in an odd rhythm.
you had a witty joke at the tip of your tongue, but youâre caught off guard by how incredibly lovely he looks right now. the lights from the tv hitting his face in the best possible way, his eyes reflecting the light so prettily, his lips looking incredibly kissable.
what?
snapping out of your daze you blink at taehyun, whoâs staring at you with furrowed brows and confusion painted all over his face. âyou okay?â he asks and youâre suddenly hyperaware of his eyes on you, the way heâs observing you so closely suddenly making you nervous.
you, nervous? around taehyun?
you nod at him, halfhearted smile on your face and turn back to the tv, mind racing. youâre so deep in your thoughts that you didnât realise taehyun had paused the drama, realisation hitting you a few minutes to late, ears turning red in embarrassment.
the weight of taehyunâs stare can be felt without looking at him, though you donât seem to have much of a choice when he turns your head with his hand, making you face him.
heâs so pretty.
one minute the two of you are staring at each other, the tension around you rising and the next your back is pressed into the pillows, taehyun leaning over you and his lips on yours.
it makes your insides twist and tingle in a way you havenât felt before, ears ringing and hands itching to pull him closer.
before you have the chance to, however, his lips left yours just as quickly as they had found them. taehyunâs eyes are blown wide, and he swallows nervously.
he scrambles off of you, creating as much distance as possible between you, âi didnât mean toâ we shouldnâtââ and he just shakes his head and rushes into his room, locking his door behind him for the first time since living with you.
completely normal roommates.
HUENING KAI â your best friend.
itâs weird having all your friends insist youâre in love with your best friend, always commenting on how the two of you are attached at the hip, how people stopped hitting on both of you because even strangers can pick up on the chemistry between you.
itâs weird having all your friends insist youâre in love with your best friend, especially when theyâre right.
most people probably wouldnât understand, much less your friends, if you were to try to explain why you and kai arenât dating. youâre both in love with each other, that much is clear even to you.
youâre just both scared. the two of you have an incredible friendship, one youâre sure only exists once in a lifetime. you know everything about each other, youâre at each otherâs beck and call, you always have each otherâs back no matter the circumstances.
youâd just be jeopardising everything if you were to date.
couples fight. couples argue and yell and say things in the heat of the moment they donât mean, causing unnecessary heart ache and tears. what if you break up? there is no way you could go back to being friends.
worrying about losing a lifelong friendship over a potential break up in a hypothetical reality where you and kai are dating seems dramatic â which it is â but itâs a valid fear you two share nonetheless.
so youâre just friends. best friends. forever.
every year you give the other a âwishing ticketâ for their birthday. one wish, to do whatever the other wants without complaining. thatâs how you got him to tag along to the 12 hour ghibli movie marathon at the theatre, and itâs what he used to get you to sign up for an amateur e-sports competition with him.
you ranked 7th out of 10. kai saw this as a win.
âand what did you get your dear boyfriend?â yeonjun jokes, mischief glimmering in his eyes as he plops down next to you on the sofa. you needed a moment to wind down, watching kai joke and play some game with his friends from afar.
rolling your eyes you scoff at yeonjun, ânone of your business, jun.â yeonjun faux pouts at you, throwing his arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to him, âcome on, tell me! i wonât tell the birthdayboyfriend, pinky promise.â
you shrug him off you, âiâm giving it to him later when weâre alone so it doesnât matter.â the manâs eyes widen in surprise, a grin soon taking over his features, âooooh, that kind of presentââ
just when youâre about to hit yeonjunâs shoulder for even insinuating something like that, your attention is ripped away by the birthday boy himself, ây/n! can you come with me for a second?â
youâre in his room while the party for him is still alive and bustling outside, the music and chatter providing a nice white noise. kai searches for something in his pocket, pulling out the wishing ticket and shoving it in your hands.
âalready? what, have you been planââ
âi want a kiss.â
you stare at him, shock and surprise evident on your face while your heart is beating in your throat â out of surprise or excitement you donât know.
âw-what? you have to be jokiââ he suddenly grips your shoulders and youâve never seen this amount of determination in his eyes.
âiâm serious. i want a kiss for my birthday. thatâs all it is. justâŠa measly kiss. nothing more,â he sounded so confident, like he had been thinking about this for ages, and it makes you dizzy.
is this really happening?
you swallow, nodding silently. his hands leave your shoulders to cup your face instead, and when youâre close enough to feel his warm breath fan your skin he takes a moment to just drink in the visual of you standing like this in front of him, about to let him kiss you.
he has to engrave it into his brain, because he doesnât think he will get this chance again.
youâre best friends.
when his lips finally meet yours it feels like being hit by lightening; itâs warm and comforting and feels so, so right.
he pulls away too early for your taste, his eyes dropping back down to your lips and youâre sure heâs going to give you another one.
but he doesnât.
instead he clears his throat, wipes his sweaty hands on his pants, âuhm..see? just a kiss. nothing..more.â
you nod at him, and youâre sure the disappointment is clear all over your face, because you can see the same conflicted look on his face.
