can i humor you guys with another thing from my capitol oc guy ok thanks. his whole thing is reason is and ought to be the slave of the passion basically
Allow me to set a few things straight: I thought that you deserved it. You brought it upon yourself. But we were both fools, we were blind, immature, childish and does anyone deserve death for their immaturity? You, me, we were brought on this world wrong. If I cared a little more, I could have fixed [you] it.
A part of me wished I was there to lay you down into that gentle good night. I couldn’t find any gentleness in you before, not until your eyes were already closed. The night doesn’t lie: it blinds and conceals. Perhaps you needed its embrace.
I envy you sometimes.
I don’t blame you, of course. There was no use blaming a dead man and there were no hopes for either of us. I- [crossed out].
This city I call home is rotting under her beauty and no one cares to witness her slow death. Only your passing opened my eyes. It is my duty to bear this burden.
et circenses, the audiences
are actors, are to be tied
to strings and cut down to shreds and see
the glamor,
the horror,
the glamor,
the horror,
follows after one another even as
the curtain falls another follows and
the show must go on
all in life and all in death
i mourn for them the morning after
i mourn for them the night before
catching their flickers
the parody of my sorrow is clean,
white, hollow
today: 3 attempts to write porn and pull horny out of sad and failed all three
(1)
As Alex leans back and slides his hand down Haymitch’s thighs, he feels the force of those hands curling in on his shoulder blade, holding tightly, urging him. Alex eases himself into Haymitch. The gratification is instant- he is already wet, already willing, and when he lets the soft gasps overflow his stomach, a warm breeze rising up his chest and out, Haymitch locks eyes with him. Alex can never get too used to those irises that are blue and gray, so bright and so sharp, glinting just as Haymitch flashes him a grin. His heart clenches at this. Haymitch catches him and rams in, softly, sweetly, in his gentleness Alex drowns.
How did he deserve this? He doesn’t deserve this. How useless it is that he fought for this. How desperate he was to be seen. To be accepted. That it made him vulnerable. His shield is his biggest weakness. He longs to be cared for, he loathed it.
Even though people accept him as a man it comes with conditions. That one can never fully be seen. That it makes his life miserable. That he lives in a shadow and he constantly has to earn the validity of his identity again and again and so he finds it horrifying, harder, still, to embrace the fear all his that is soft and scared and all feeling all hurting, the part viewed as feminine.
“Easy,” Haymitch whispers to him, even as he thrusted into Alex his movements are slow, controlled, careful- Alex can quite feel it. His voice is rough, quiet, pleading, and Alex pushes back, gripping him, crawling onto him. He's a puppet, a doll, he's State property, because he wasn't born with his gender he owes it to everything else. He wished he was either a woman or a man so badly and it wasn't supposed to change anything about it but it changed everything.
“Easy. It’s alright. I’ve got you,” and Haymitch pulls him back, he doesn’t know. Pleasure erases pain while it is supposed to hurt. But he feels good, he feels alright. Alex starts to cry.
(2)
Games follow principles. Rules and limits that force the hands, whereas its chaos harbored and birthed all lie within grasp if one looked hard enough, paid enough attention. At the back of his mind Haymitch already knew that his life is never a Game, still he pushed too far and now he pays for his arrogance with blood. Haymitch wishes he can stop himself, but the more desperate he becomes for control the further it slips away from him.
Once again.
“You’re alright.” Haymitch rasped and he touched Alexandrite Mitchell’s cheek and brushed his hair aside. They clung to his forehead, dampened with sweat and blood, the smell of rose covering poignant and present. “I’m here. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m sorry,” was the other man’s response. Haymitch’s blood went cold. In everywhere he was weak, and his voice was always too soft, too inaudible. Haymitch had to lean in to hear him and he ended up pressing his forehead at his own. What a fruitless apology. Mitchell’s vain pointless words truly had no bound. Haymitch cursed, and he was about to fire back when Mitchell continued. “For thinking of you like this. For- ah-”
“What are you talking about?”
Alex only chuckled. Haymitch pulled back, the words finding themselves before he thought about them.
“Mitchell. Talk to me. What are you trying to say?”
“Mmm…never called me that before. Even Mother didn’t call me that...”
Haymitch swallowed. He tried to play along.
“It’d be impolite for me to use your first name. Your mother would call you Alex.”
“No. That wasn’t what she called me.”
“Then what did your mother call you?”
“I don’t remember. I’m sorry. It didn’t matter, anyway, my name is Alex.”
“Why did your mother call you a name that wasn’t yours?”
“Because she didn’t know.”
Haymitch noticed in an instant how Mitchell was for once willing to give up something to him. Is it a desperate attempt to stay in touch with what he already lost, or
(3)
Khăng khăng là vậy, Minh Anh chưa bao giờ làm chuyện đó với Mitchell mà lại đi nhắm mắt lại và tưởng tượng ra Clementia cả. Tiếng rên rỉ ỉ ôi của Mitchell nghe mà ớn, chẳng giống Clementia gì hết. Thế mà ả vẫn thích treo những lời đó trên đầu Mitchell như một lời đe dọa, vừa dúi mình mớm cho nó tình thương vừa nhắc nó nhớ rằng: mặc cho những gì ả làm với nó, nó vẫn chỉ là một đứa bù nhìn thay thế cho Clementia mà thôi. Rằng nó không bao giờ bì được với nàng, một nửa, một phần tư cũng không.
Nhưng đấy là xưa rồi. Ngày xửa ngày xưa khi hai đứa còn một chút chia sẻ nào đó giữa hai đứa, có lẽ ít ra ả còn có thể thấy bức bối thay cho lòng tự trọng của Mitchell. Nó giết Clementia rồi. Nàng là người duy nhất đáng sống rồi nàng lại đi chết dưới tay nó, nên giờ nó phải trả giá. Ả bảo nó thế. Ả bảo có khi ả giết nó luôn ngay được, nhưng mà thế thì dễ quá, nhỉ? Mày không muốn gặp chị mày đâu ý, eo ôi, đồ hèn.
“Rồi ai bảo mày cứ thích đi trốn chui trốn nhủi đi.” Minh Anh nói với nó, giọng lạnh băng. Ả thích đọc cái bản án không hồi kết của Mitchell và nhìn cái cách nó run rẩy. “Làm chết người ta rồi, giờ không ai cần mày nên mày kẹt với tao. Hay không? Tao là tao thấy đáng đời lắm.”
“Ừ, đáng,” Mitchell lầm rầm, mất đâu cái bản mặt trơ trơ giả tạo của nó.“Tao đáng. Mày kẹt với tao cũng vui thật, nhỉ. Xin lỗi nha.” Nhưng nó vẫn không khóc. Hình như Mitchell chẳng bao giờ khóc nữa. Minh Anh dường như chẳng ghét nó được hơn thế, ghét nó tận xương tủy.
“Ừ. Thế sao mày không chết luôn đi?”
Mitchell nằm ngửa, còn chẳng thèm nhìn Minh Anh. Mắt nó nhìn đăm đăm lên trần nhà như giấu một cái gì đó kinh hoàng, thú vị lắm. Minh Anh không gằn. Giọng ả nhạt, chán chường, mệt mỏi.
“Mày phải đợi tao giết mới chết được à? Đấy. Tao để đồ đây. Muốn làm gì thì làm đi.”
“Nếu mà tao biết gì hơn cái mạng tao thì chị tao đã vẫn ở đây…”
