Letters have always been quite the struggle for Aven to get through, but this particular one was hard to read for a variety of reasons. After all, it wasn’t everyday that an avox directly walks up towards you—delivering a heartfelt, handwritten message from someone who had only ever spread half truths about you.
The words are all she can think about, as the red numbers overhead count down: 5, 4, 3, 2. They are several years too late, but even so, they are the words that she has always wished to hear. And yet now that she has it in her hands, she doesn’t quite know what to do; instead of the closure she longs for, what she feels is curiosity. Why? Why now?
So here Aven stands, before a door that yet another avox has guided her towards. She knows it’s late, but she just can’t go another night without doing anything. In one fist is the letter, crumpled; the other one lifts to knock once. “Hello?” An awkward clearing of the throat. “Diose, it’s me. I got your letter.”
Someone once described you as “cool as a cucumber”, and you thought it was strange. Sure, you have stunning beauty, and have the kind of charm that people would kill for, but you’ve never understood how any cucumber could be compared to yourself.
Your parents were prominent Capitol socialites. It was only natural you followed in those footsteps. You had the kind of fame that brought you to a status almost as high as the Victors, it was only natural you started working as a Stylist from a young age. Your parents attention to fashion, it was natural. You’ve been doing this for over twenty years. A child prodigy in fashion. Your outfits being on covers. You’re beautiful, talents, charming, intelligent, people want to kill you. They’ve tried. You’re not stupid. You knows there’s darkness behind the curtain. You’re the kind to stand back, and silently assess. You’ve been doing it for twenty years. You’re just not sure what to do about it yet.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒
SLATE HARDCREEK: The two of you are beyond “friendships”. However, you’re two extremely intelligent individuals, and for many years, you’ve always enjoyed one another’s company, as well as opinion. It’s why you’re such a dynamic duo for victor and stylist work partners. You trust Slate’s opinion, and you have a pretty good belief that they feel the same. But you’re also not afraid to tell Slate when they’ve gone too far. You two are confidants through and through, both inside of working for the Games and out.
VIRGO VALEY: You feel somewhat responsible for Virgo. They’re your sibling, and as plucky and naive as they might be, you do love them. You want to see them grow and become successful. Though maybe that’s in part because you’d like them to take over your legacy. Maybe it’s selfish reasons, but you’re trying to get Virgo to stick around, even if they’re bombing. You’ll help them through it, because you have to.
KAI BURIE: What an odd soul. Whenever you talk to Kai, you wear a smirk on your face, as if there’s a joke that they’re not in on. It’s not that you look down upon Kai, but there’s something so amusing about them, you can’t help but seek them out. They are such an opposite type of glamour to your own. And yes, maybe you do laugh about them behind their back. But in truth, you know they’re completely harmless.
How naive it was, to think no one would figure out what really happened. Aven would hate to assume the worst of these people, more than half of which she doesn’t even know—but what else would explain all the whispering and staring? When she finally hears murmurs of a Diose Valey coming by, she can’t help but feel her spirits rise up just a little bit. “Hey,” she says, watching as the crowd parts and makes way. At the very least, Diose and her Valey fame is something she's had use navigating. “Fashionably late as always?”
En el olimpo se dió una celebración, asistieron todos los dioses dentro de ellos nuestros protagonistas, la diosa de la vida, una mujer hermosa, radiante y repleta de vida, conoce por primera vez al dios de la muerte un hombre fuerte con un aura oscura repleto de tristeza ambos sabiendo que eran tan opuestos entre ellos floreció un amor con la misma belleza de un amanecer, pasó el tiempo y ese amar que con rapidez floreció se fue marchitando, la diosa de la vida no encontraba en el dios de la muerte al amor de su vida, aquello que una vez la cautivó y decidida parte en busca de un nuevo amor,
El dios de la muerte al enterarse estaba devastado, tan perdido aún más que al inicio, toda esa luz que ésta le había traído se la arrebató en el momento en que se fue ..
- Los meses pasaron y el dios de la muerte se acostumbró a su soledad -
Una noche más el dios de la muerte conoció a una doncella llamada la diosa de la Guerra tenían en común una infinidad de intereses con el tiempo su amistad se fortaleció, juntos unieron cada uno de sus trozo y forjando algo de felicidad.
-Se hicieron amigos... o más que eso solo ellos pueden definir eso, en mi opinión-
Al poco tiempo regresó la diosa de la vida insatisfecha con los amores encontrados añorando ese amor cálido que le ofrecía el dios de la muerte, al enterarse sobre el rumor que se encontraba enamorado una vez más esta cayó en una depresión inmensa, el dios de la muerte se sentía culpable y acudió a consolarla… Una vez más el amor de su vida había vuelto, el dios estaba confundido, no sabía a quién amaba realmente...
-debia tomar una decisión antes de lastimar a sus doncellas -
I want to be faithful
I want to be raw
I want to be ignorant
I want to know it all
I want to die someday
I want to live long
I want what I ask for
I get what I want
Lurk -- The Neighbourhood [lyrics]
Diose, apparently. A very fitting song for them, nonetheless.
themoreyoustrex | christopherrose-pa
Fanfic for christopherrose-pa and themoreyoustrex based on some of their RPs that I started reading and became interested in. I ended up listening a song for like hours and writing stuff along to it like I usually do
Uhhhhhh warnings for a lot of things? Abuse, violence, alluded mpreg, alluded gore and a bunch of other bad things. And definitely nsfw.
Christopher Rose lay flat on his back in his own bed, sheets clawed off and kicked to the floor, the circulating air making the hairs on his bare skin rise. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in those discarded blankets and sleep, exhaustion pulling at him strong, but not as strong as the hand wound in his hair and the razor teeth tugging at his skin. Diego was here, had shown up unannounced as usual, and that meant that Chris couldn’t sleep until he had been used to the satiation of Diego’s need. If he could even sleep after that.
Diego bit, harder, on his neck, drawing blood on top of the wounds he’d made not minutes ago, those themselves layered over brown patches of scars that had been too thick and too deep to fade completely. Christopher winced as the barely clotted wounds were reopened and deepened, shining wet with Diego’s poisonous spit.
“Please…” The PA begged, though for what, and why, he didn’t know. He didn’t know why he even tried anymore. With him Diego didn’t do please, he didn’t do stop, he didn’t do no, he didn’t do anything except what he wanted and nothing, nothing less.
More than anything, the quiet little begs and pleas were a conditioned response; the whiny fear in Chris’s voice was part of the aural cabal that Diego relished. He drew them out of Chris as if they were the PA’s bones, his blood, his organs; sometime with the clinical calculating precision of a surgeon, sometime with the furious fascination and bloodthirsty rage of a serial killer.
Chris was not surprised when Diego laughed, low and cold at his plea, but his stomach twisted nevertheless, wound itself up until Chris felt like vomiting. The feeling only augmented when Diego danced his fingers lightly over the slight swell of his stomach, making the PA’s insides wriggle in fear before Diego’s hand dipped and grabbed the man’s hip. A less immediately threatening action but nonetheless savage, failure to ease the fear wound tight in his torso. Chris wished that spilling the meager contents of his stomach on the executive would be enough to make him leave, or at the very least make him mercifully flaccid but with Chris’s luck the results would be nothing more than punishment–or worse, further arousal at the pathetic display of helplessness and fear. Followed by more punishment.
He was trapped–every little action, every little attempt he made to escape the executive’s clutches failed. Everything he did fell back into the realm of what Diego wanted. Submission was what Diego wanted. Fight was what Diego wanted. And if ever he did something that Diego truly, truly hated, he would invariably be punished–which drove the man to ecstasy.
No matter what Chris did, he was wanted.
Diego soon pushed himself inside the PA with very little preparation, very little relaxation on Chris’s part, a deadly little coo of “Christopher~” the only meager care he was allowed. It was the same as it always is and still he sobs, dryly, his insides chafing against Diego as the man thrusts into him, rocking his form, knocking his head back against the headboard until the hand in his hair jerked back, twinging his neck but preventing him from concussing himself against the hard wood, the molded Strex crest inlaid with gold. For a brief moment Chris wished Diego would just bash his head into it, until the crest itself was marked in the blood and shattered bone of the PA’s head. Diego had already branded him in every other way imaginable, inside and out. He owned Chris’s brain, his thoughts, his feelings, his fears–why not the paper thin skull that barely held it all together as well?
Tears crawled down his face as those same kept thoughts bloomed up inside his head, every exit every escape stopped up and smothered by Diego, the man’s hand in his hair, the teeth digging into his thick and scarred and worn skin, the man’s cock ramming deep inside him, the man’s child growing in his middle. Every inch thoroughly marked with Diego, every part of him from head to stomach to cock to skin pulsing and shaking and swollen with reminders that he was owned. No matter what Chris wanted, no matter how much he tried to assert that his life and the life of the child were his own.
Diego finishes–glutinous, suffocating–inside of him, the layers of disgust coating Chris from the inside out, more and more grime stuck to him, more that he would spend hours futilely trying to scrape off, burn off in the searing heat of the shower spray once Diego had grown bored of him and left him all alone to scratch his wounds.
Chris rolled on his side once Diego had finally pulled out and let him go,relieved to finally be able to get into a position with less pressure on his hips and spine. Lately, Chris hasn’t been able to dictate position, and Diego adores looking into his eyes and relishing in his helplessness more than he cares about Chris’s comfort.
The relief was short lived as Diego soon returned to his side, spooning up behind him and wrapping his arms around the PA’s waist because he knew he would hate it. He knew it was suffocating and the arms and that the dark chuckling kisses creeping in the shadows on his neck weighed Chris down more and more than he already was. He knew it, and he wanted it.
The executive doesn’t leave that night, refusing to let Chris strip away the layers of filth and fear that had settled, but even despite that the PA was grateful to have someone there, someone to ease the inflamed and bitten skin, the burning thoughts in his head; even thoughtlessly, even if that someone is the one who has marked them there in the first place.
