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@theoresteia
private, highly selective 1x1 blog — dni unless directed to this blog by me or i've interacted first <3 ty
it’s all too much and not enough at the same time, dainty fingers tightening through his hair as an attempt to keep him closer. she feels his mouth against her neck, goosebumps arising on her skin and shivers cascade down her back at the unfamiliar feeling. it’s pleasant and she wants more, more, more. she welcomes it. there’s a blissful smile across her face, head tilting back slightly – like a silent invitation of where she wants his mouth to be. she’s acting like she’s done these maneuvers many times in the past, knowing the way to pull a man close and get what she wants without words. briar knows exactly what she wants though, forgetting that there was a whole outside word on the other side of the door when her mind can only supply the feeling of charles’s weight over her. she feels free, shameless, like someone could somehow walk through that locked door and catch the two tangled together, lips red and swollen, and the pink tinting her cheeks wouldn’t be from the embarrassment of being caught.
briar melts into the mattress beneath her as if she wasn’t playing a different version of herself, her hair fanning over some random frat guy’s bed. there’s nothing romantic about this moment, but she’s restless when charles pulls away, laughing breathlessly at the profanity and absolutely giddy that she’s able to wrap her legs around charles’s waist, squeeze her thighs against his sides like she knew she’d get the right reaction from him. he’s no longer the charles she was confronted with down at the kitchen. no, instead he’s the man she hasn’t been able to keep her eye off of, heart fluttering whenever he so much as looked her way and gave her any sort of attention. she feels a bit possessive, almost too needy to have his time spent on her. briar is practically trembling under his touch, despite the fabric of her dress being the one thing that separates the warmth of his hand from the heat taking over her body. she doesn’t hide the way she reacts to his touch, licking her lips as her gaze follows his hand until all she can do is look up at his handsome face. instead of shying away from his stare, she reaches for him. it’s not enough, she needs him closer.
she blinks at him, only confused for a second, hanging on to each word charles said. her lips press together to hide the laughter bubbling within her chest, feeling relieved that while he fumbles with words, maybe she can feel at ease with fumbling with movements. briar is comfortable, though she's still out of her element. “i was about to be honored that you were giving me the holy right to be your first,” she teases, the rest of her words getting lost in her throat with his hands grasping at her thighs, the warmth of his skin against hers causing it to go ablaze instantly. “i want you,” she tilts her lips toward charles, fingers finding the hem of his shirt and giving it a small tug. “want this off first.”
A FLUSH PAINTS THE TOPS OF HIS CHEEKS, an almost contradictory look on him — imagine him an angel, half innocent and half tainted with lust. his eyes are unfocused, drinking her in under the dim light. his lips tilt in a lopsided manner and he presses himself against her, core to core, worrying his lower lip between his teeth at the feel of her. he's hard enough to hurt, pressing against her with a roll of his hips. charles' hands slide up to her hips, manuvering her over him while she speaks. he's so dazed, completely taken by the movement that he almost forgets to listen to her ( like he's asking lilith what to focus on — the sound of her voice or the temptation of her body ), but at the brush of her fingers against the skin beneath his shirt, he lifts his eyes from the rise and fall of her breasts to her eyes ( so fucking cliché — her eyes are up there ! ). “ and then what? ” he teases her before lifting his shirt over his head and tossing it behind him. his fingers are quick to reach for the hem of her dress, pressing it between his fingertips to feel the fabric — like he might be able to rip it apart, or peel it off of her in one fell swoop. what color underwear is she wearing? what kind of bra? his hands drift upward absent mindedly, abandoning the hem to reach for her chest, barely grazing over them. “ would you let me touch you? ” he pulls at the neckline gently, exposing her skin by mere centimeters. tantalizing. temptating. his tongue pokes out to wet the corner of his mouth, lifted into an esculent smirk. “ would you let me touch you here? ” his touch ghosts over her chest again, drifiting downward. “ down here? ” he leans over her then, pressing his chest to hers, pushing her into the mattress. charles holds himself above her with one hand while the other reaches between them, his fingers dancing over the gusset of her panties, tracing the edges of it, playing with the heights of her thighs. “ or, should i decide? ” he asks against her throat, his tongue playing with the column of it before he starts to descend her body, pressing open - mouthed kisses against her skin. it's all wet and sloppy, tasting the space where her neck meets her shoulder, then her sternum, then the tops of her breasts. he inhales deeply against the dress while snaking down to her legs, pushing them apart with his hands until he's face to face with her cunt — separated only by the thin fabric — flimsy and surprisingly lacy. “ i'm going to die here, briar, and i'll die happy. ” he inches closer to the apex, his hands following suit.
CLOSED STARTER .ᐟ @ VAGUE FRAT HOUSE, sometime past midnight — a frat bedroom, sort of musty but private ( the door locks ), the bass line of the music can be felt from the bed but maybe that only adds to the senses
THE ROOM SMELLS LIKE SWEAT, or a brand of cologne that's so expensive that it bleeds into everything around it, or like @prettyyou, writhing beneath him with his nose pressed to her throat, breathing her in while suckling on her collarbone. honey and sweet nectar, like ambrosia — his tongue eases over her skin as if he'll be able to taste her that way, a man left starving to be saved only by peach and a lingering vetiver, or the feminine sweat stuck on her skin, the saltiness that makes him groan into her, trying to burrow itself deep in her bones. he manages a sorry and pathetic, “ fuck, ” when he comes up for air. his hands are everywhere. truly, charles can't fathom that he isn't dreaming ( again — he's not too proud to admit that half of his fantasies involve her beneath him, but, maybe he won't divulge such information at such a precarious moment ) as he drags his touch over her body. she's lithe and wonderful and warm, her legs spread over his hips, welcoming his exploration with her soft puffs of air and want. she's wanton beneath him, her skin smooth and soft, thighs tight around his body. charles' head is spinning and he sits up to catch his breath, bringing his hands to her waist, unable to remain still. he wants to touch her — everywhere. his palms have brushed over the sides of her chest and he's managed to reach her backside ( he can probably die now, having lived such a bountiful life ), but moreso he wants to feel her intimately. run his hands over her collarbones, littered with evidence of his desire, press his fingers to her ribcage, draw constellations and wishes upon her legs. charles, staring down at briar, hardly knows where to begin. peel off her dress or rid her of her shoes — or leave everything on while he buries his head between her legs in a delightful attempt of self - suffocation. he says, dumbly, “ i don't know what to do, ” and lets the moment hang between them. charles shakes his head. “ not like, i don't know how to — have sex — but like, ” he tapers off into a long pause. charles shakes his head again and grasps at her thighs, his thumbs drawing patterns on the insides of them, creeping toward her panties. he laughs, a breathy sound, and leans over her again. “ forget it. i'll make you feel good, ” he tells her, kissing the corner of her mouth. “ only if you want me to. ”
she finds a safe spacing hiding in the kitchen.
briar blends into the walls, becoming one with her surroundings and more than likely remaining unnoticed by the crowd of party goers who actually want to be there. she's in a kitchen she's never seen before, attending a party hosted by a fraternity she's never met, and she's clutching a cool plastic water bottle as if it's her lifeline. her gaze would constantly jolt from the clock hanging above the entrance to a throng of college students in hopes that she would find a familiar face among them. she avoided eye contact with others as much as possible, knowing she did disappearing well yet still feeling like everyone's stare fell on her. why was this awkward student doing at a party like this anyway? what kind of weirdo attends an event just to hide and be alone?
she's an adult — a grown woman so she wasn't forced to be here. however, briar never knew how to say no, especially to her twin sister. unlike the kitchen she currently stood in, the place she knew best to exist in is in LILY'S shadow. it had never been a competition between the two and how could it when briar is destined to lose from the beginning? the two lived completely different lives, yet her sister always wanted briar to be a part of her world, regardless of how the piece never fit with the puzzle. lily is sunshine personified, beautiful and kind, lighting up the room with her personality and leaving everyone in awe and a little obsessed with her.
lily is briar's best friend, but briar isn't lily's best friend.
it's proof in the way briar is alone at this party that lily begged her to attend with her, an empty promise briar so foolishly believed that the two wouldn't split up. there's a bit of resentment hanging between the two that only she can feel despite how it's her own fault for even hoping it could all be different. her sister dressed her up, helped briar with her hair and makeup and the effort still wasn't enough to not be backed up in a stranger's kitchen with her feet shifting back and forth in anticipation she get away.
her heart hammers in her chest when she's suddenly making eye contact with CHARLES MCVIKAR, immediately standing up straight. his presence is both unwanted and an annoyance, wishing she could make herself even smaller so he could no longer see her. his comments give her whiplash, unsure what emotion she's meant to feel from his words. is she supposed to feel like more of a loser? flattered? is her cheeks meant to heat up and tint with a faint shade of red over his backwards way of complimenting? he's handsome and charming and popular and he's got bad news written all over him all the time.
she knows better. she should walk away and not give him the time of day. use this as a chance to go back to her room and never agree to go to a party ever again. just because he's gorgeous and giving her attention instead of anyone else doesn't mean that she needs to ⸻
"so which one is it?" she asks, taking the cup from his hand before quickly putting it down. she doesn't need the liquid courage to talk to him. briar can't let her mind become foggy when a very bad decision is in front of her — not that she's expecting anything out of him, but it's more than likely she'll feel comfortable to the point of humiliation. she hasn't drunk enough to handle her alcohol well. "am i pathetic or are you ready to makeout with the person who dressed me tonight?" her snark is unappealing, her mother's displeased voice already in her head scolding her, finger pointed at her as she exclaims the million reasons why briar will end up alone. "if i give you the name of whose dress i'm wearing, are we done here?"
she regrets it. she won't give him lily's name.
the bite makes the game more fun. charles imagines that if he had approached any other girl, the task would have been easier. less herculean. no trials but instead, zeus appearing as golden dust to descend onto a wanting neck ( really, charles should have majored in classics like he wanted to, but there isn't any money there — and his father wouldn't have ever let him, maybe mom would have, if he had asked ). his lips tilt, spreading into a wider grin and he, for a moment, lets his eyes wander over her figure — again. “ you're killin' me smalls, ” he says to her ( quoted from the sandlot, not his favorite movie, of course, because that would be ... the godfather, or something ) and leans into her ever so slightly, caging her in by placing his hands on either side of her, palms against the counter. at this distance, he can smell her; the perfume, strongest by her neck; the sweat, which makes the hair on the back of his neck raise; the beer — abandoned by her by her side. charles pulls away before he can let his mind wander, but keeps his hands in place. “ was it your sister? ” charles' grin widens again, winsome to some, he hopes especially to briar. they're twins, briar and her sister, and they're alike in many ways but charles could never like lily. he can't even see her when they're together, or when they're apart — and when briar first mentioned she had a sister ( a twin, she had said while they were looking for a history book in the stacks — they is a generous term, but she was talking and he was following ), she told him to stop pretending that he didn't already know lily, but he didn't. charles can't remember how he noticed briar in the first place, but he knows that she's always been by herself — just her, just briar, just — her. and he can't explain it. amelia knows, she's noticed that he's noticed briar, but she won't say anything. all she does is elbow his ribs when they're on campus and they see her ( and sometimes amelia will point her out and it'll be lily, and charles doesn't know lily — doesn't care to, really — and will ask amelia if she's blind ), or shake her head at him when he looks at her direction during class, or make ridiculous dares that she knows he won't back down from. charles' eyes drop to briar's lips. his grin falls to a smirk, to something different, almost genuine. he should really go kiss someone else, fail the dare, fuck someone else in the storage closet beneath the stairs. he makes a show of standing straight then, removing his hands to stretch his arms up, his elbows cracking and his shirt rising just so. a hint of tanned skin peeks out from beneath his hem, his abdomen tight in his stretch, leading down to the front of his trousers. charles looks over his shoulder at the rest of the kitchen, half empty. “ i guess if you give me the name of who's dress your wearing — your sister's, maybe not — i'll go kiss them instead of you. ” for a second, he means it, but his eyes catch on hers when he's turning back to her and — charles is just a man. he gives her a smirk. “ or, limited time offer, i could make you look not pathetic — the president of this frat has a really cool bedroom. you want to go see it? ”
CLOSED STARTER .ᐟ @ VAGUE FRAT HOUSE, sometime past midnight — a lively party, drunken co - eds celebrating a victory over a rival school ( an excuse to get alcohol poisoning and feel a consenting stranger up in a dirty frat bathroom ), the corner of the kitchen where time and space folds in on itself — and it's easy to be overlooked.
the curious thing is how easy it is to find @prettyyou at the house — considering the task set before him is herculean and the odds, handed to him by his friends, his lovely, wicked friends, are favored against him. for starters, this isn't his house ( he would never be caught dead as a brother in this fraternity — his father would never allow it ) and he only barely knows the most basic layout because of his teammates. then, she has always been impossible to find in places like this. this girl, the one he's supposed to find ( and makeout with, give or receive a hickey, make sure someone else sees it — otherwise, the entire athletic department, particularly the figure skating team, the ice hockey cheerleaders, yes, the one with ava - rose young, sees how pathetic you are when you're absolutely pissed, said to him in one breath by his horror of a best friend, one amelia brown, love of his life, thorn in his side ) can usually be found in places opposite of this. quiet places. undisturbed places. places not tainted by drugs and sex and alcohol and books that aren't being read. he thought it odd that she came at all, and then started wondering if she had gone to the game, and then fucking amelia noticed. fucking amelia. but, curiously enough, she's easy to find. she's tucked away in the kitchen corner, out of reach from other party goers, stepped out of traffic as to not garner attention. charles would think it more adorable if he were sober, but half - tipsy and half - scared and half - watched, all he can think about is how he's going to kiss her. he hasn't kissed her before. he doesn't know if she's been kissed at all. they talk in the library sometimes when he pretends to need help with his homework but he hasn't gotten to the illicit activities section, yet. have you been kissed? have you been touched? have you been loved? or liked? she scares him, a little bit, because he thinks he actually cares about whether she's been kissed before, or touched before, and mostly because he wants to. though, charles mcvickar is a man of wide tastes and standards, and he wants to kiss and touch many people. he tells himself that this girl is not special. she helps him feed his ego and sometimes solves a few problems for him. the fact that she's pretty doesn't change anything. there are a thousand pretty girls. so many beautiful girls that will let him kiss them and touch them and— “ wow, you look pathetic. ” he walks toward her, pausing at the island to pour a cup that he hands to her. “ who got you to come tonight and how can i possibly thank them? ” his eyes run over her frame unabashedly, his tongue poking the side of his cheek as his lips turn upward into a lopsided grin. “ scratch that, who dressed you? i'm going to go kiss them for putting that dress on you. ”
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﹡› @prettyyou .
when last they met, he hadn't known what she would be traveling into. when last they met, the times were gentle and soft, the sunlight was always golden and the hills were always green. though he spent half his time worried she'd contract smallpox or influence and the other half missing her, he had spent all of his time loving her. they bathed together and ate together and laid on the floor of his study to look at the stupidly painted ceiling together; he daydreamed of a future in which all of his days were stained with her color and her soul; he felt her breaths on the skin of his cheeks and imagined having the privilege of waking up to her every morning. they sat at the tablet together on her final evening and pretended they weren't crying into each other. leander memorized the shape of her shoulders and the way she fit against him. he gave her a kiss on the forehead and said goodbye to her beneath the stars she taught him so much about. he went inside to mark the next time they would meet. at the time, the date had seemed insignificant ( insignificant to everyone else, for him it was when they'd meet again ). now, he's anxiously staring at his pocket watch, waiting for her arrival. it's been decades since he's last seen her, but it might have only been a few weeks for her — maybe a few days, even. a sliver of resentment rests in his jaw and he bites it, breaks it into a thousand pieces, swallows it when he puts his pocket watch away. his leg bounces impatiently. and then — and then, he sees her. leander sees her. his hands go limp and his legs still and leander is breathless. he gets up from his seat and waves to her. despite their situation, he smiles ( because it is impossible to not smile when he sees her, how can one not smile in the face of love and beauty? ). oh, his heart is crawling up his throat, his lungs are stealing all of his air, she is in his arms in a second, holding him as tight as he is holding her ( don't leave me again, don't leave me again ) and he says, "zoya, you have to go." he looks around. "it isn't safe here — shouldn't you have known this? being from — from, where you're from."
﹡› @prettyyou .
she must have loved him at one point. it is a known fact that tomas has never been a settling down kind of man, but for a moment in their golden, honeymoon days, he might have considered it. he likes to dream about his future, of all the things that he can have in the palm of his hand; a beautiful partner, a handful of beautiful, adoring children, a beautiful home in a beautiful place. he does like beautiful things, after all, quite obsessively, in fact. it's the only reason he liked her in the first place — because of her hair and the way it flowed down her neck, because of her lips and the way they pursed when she came to a pause in her sentence, because of her eyes and the way she looked up at him. she is beautiful — painfully so — and tomas, sometimes, when looking at her, wants to devour her whole. but, they broke up for a reason ( he can hardly remember the reason, really. maybe the season or his prudish, traditional family or the tabloids or his endless chase for the next beautiful thing ). she broke his heart for a reason ( or, maybe he broke her heart. he truly, really cannot remember and he won't be the one to go back in time to review the memory ). they stopped talking and visiting and ceased all romantic activities to move on and explore their better paths. until they didn't ( tomas is delighted ). he enters her trailer without her permission, his own dinner in his hands with none for her. his lips are numb with want and remembrance, his hands sore from forcing his fingers stiff whenever she brushed past him during the day. he could touch her for the rest of his life, kiss her and have her and show all the cameras and the fans that she's his beautiful thing to have. she'll come around, she already has, partly. he says, "cozy little trailer," and walks toward the couch ( where the incident took place ). "do you only kiss your beloved co-stars here, or can we roll around on the bed soon?" a smirk plays on his lips. "you know, if you're done avoiding me."
﹡› @prettyyou ﹕ PUBLIC — inside the stall of restroom in a bar.
tw ( zing mentions )
Alice Pagani
FAKE TWEETS feat. @prettyyou
﹡› 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 ﹕ ˛ @prettyyou
because the plan is his, the plan is flawless; many people can say many things about nereus vizcaino, but they will never be able to say that he is a poor planner, a less than perfect mastermind, a terrible leader. of all things he is ( exceedingly handsome, wonderfully intelligent, a small bit arrogant but who can blame him, really? ), the thing he is most is prepared. if one of his team is caught, he knows how to get them out. if a door is locked, he knows at least two other exits. the largest part of being a mastermind, after all, is making a plan and a thousand more based off of it.
and still, his team hardly respects him. amber is flirting with a billionaire, edgar is getting drunk at the open bar, percival has decided that this night ( originally designated to gather intelligence and scope the museum out ) is better fitted for his own original agenda of actually staring at art for sale. his in - ear piece is filled with the voices of his team actively ignoring him and his orders. how annoying. and completely expected, but still annoying and very rude. he turns at the sound of the museum doors being pushed open, ready to plaster a pained smile at whoever it is, but scowls when he sees chan - woo ( bane of his existence, worst person ever, excellent criminal, literally the worst person nereus has ever met ). he grimaces. “shouldn’t you be on the upper levels with percival? if he’s not going to pay attention, at least you should.” nereus turns back around with a shrug. “or not. it’s your exit.” he will never leave a teammate behind ( security purposes, not out of the goodness of his heart ), but chan - woo doesn’t need to know.
﹡› YARRO .
those who watched the games had little idea of how much the games could change a person. even when he was younger, catching a glimpse of the bright eyed tribute coming out of the games alive as an emotionless and cold victor, didn’t shed a fraction of a light on the drastic changes. the victor had won. why were they no longer smiling? he hadn’t realized the trauma and turmoil heavy on their shoulders, someone else’s blood staining their hands and no matter how many times the victor would scrub underneath their fingernails, the blood couldn’t be removed. alliances were broken – only one tribute was able to stand in the end. everyone knew the reality of the games, but bonds were still made strong. they dared to be different, they assumed they could be the forces that shifted the games once and for all. he hadn’t understood the point of befriending other tributes. it was about survival. he saw the way it backfired on his brother so he couldn’t grasp why anyone would worry about someone else, but it changed with mies. she could’ve easily killed him, put a knife to his throat and slice it without a second of hesitation. somehow they were working together – worked together well despite how opposite they were from each other in terms of personality and districts.
maybe his downfall would be how he trusted her. maybe in the end, the games didn’t harden his armor enough and his softness made him vulnerable to threats – an easy target to anyone with common sense. he just doesn’t think that mies would suddenly turn her back on him, not after everything they went through and how she was still by his side at that moment. while the two victors may be different from each other, no one else could understand his experience as close as to what mies can and that meant something to yarro.
he listened to her speak, mindful of her words without interruptions or dismissing what she believes because it doesn’t fit the narrative he hoped she would feel instead. they were different people from different backgrounds, lifestyles and goals set in their brains the moment they were born. how could he deny what mies felt? how could he make assumptions when he doesn’t know what truly lies within her heart and mind? “maybe when this is all over, i can finally teach you how to swim,” he states it as a fact, lightens the mood and hopefully puts it into existence. the rebellion wasn’t the end for them, whether partners in crime or people who once knew each other barely crossing paths again. it would be nice if what they were fighting for benefited the two of them too. “i sometimes wonder what it would be like to be born into the capital,” he admitted, hands sliding into his pockets. “it’s hard to picture it though.”
yarro shrugged, schooling his face the best way he could when she spoke on the possibility of turning on him – almost as if she was reading his mind earlier. she wasn’t wrong and he wasn’t going to fight her on the statement. he too was taking a chance on her, whether foolishly or not. “maybe, but at least i would die by your hands knowing that i tried to do something,” he felt almost embarrassed to speak it out loud. the sentence was childish and naive, he knew better than to use his words so carelessly, but there was no turning back time now. “also i think you had many chances to use the trust i have in you to your advantage, or at least, this is what you wanted me to think all along.” he smiled over at her playfully, letting his words linger in the air and stay there.
during her games, there was a moment of dread that overtook her, a second where she was so sure that her dread was death itself coming to take her. everyone thought she was brutal and vicious for how she won, but she had cinched her victory out of desperation. one moment, her heart was in her throat and the next, there was a blunt object in her hand and blood in her mouth. killing had been sweet when the odds were in her favor — when she thought she was doing an honorable thing for her district — when she stood on the high ground with the training and the experience and everything in between. killing tasted much worse when death was looming over her — when the last tribute left had her hands around her throat — when the edges of her vision had gone black and she was fading. victory was won with bloody hands and her district clapping her on the back, unaware of how cowardly she had been in the moments that mattered most.
it isn’t necessarily cowardice that she swallows now as the lights of the capitol glitter around them — no, definitely not — but she can recognize the dread. death came to collect her once and it is back again, she doubts she’ll escape again.
mies puts out the cigarette and flicks it over the railing. it lands against the barrier and fizzes out. her jaw cinches and she presses her lips together. “yeah,” she agrees. “maybe i’ll finally learn how to float.” but, she says it in a way that she knows he’ll understand. these are the games. twenty four people go into the arena and only one walks out — and this is a rebellion, there are a handful of them who have agreed to lay down their lives so that the one who lives is the mockingjay. a lump begins to form in the base of her throat, thinking about a life in which she gets to laugh with yarro while he teaches her how to swim. it seems like a peaceful life, one with lots of warmth and — and — love, perhaps, one where they’re together because they want to be together, not because the rebellion needed them together. “don’t picture it,” she concludes. “you aren’t crazy like them, too good to ever have been born here.”
after he speaks, she gives him a smile — as genuine as she can muster. she tries to swallow down the lump in her throat as she gets to her feet, pulling him up with her. if the feelings were real ( read: if she believed she were capable of feeling them ), she’d kiss him, cameras and audience and terrible hunger games editing be damned. she would wrap her arms around his neck and tell him that no matter the outcome of the games, she was glad to have met him. but, the feelings aren’t real. she looks at him and instead of her heart racing and skipping in her chest, it sinks. her palms go dry, her knees steel, she wants to take his hand and break it beneath her foot if it means he’ll distance himself from her. mies settles for a short hug, pressing herself against him like it’s the last time she’ll ever get to ( which, it is, but she tries not to think about it ). she inhales his scent and relishes in the feel of his arms around her shoulders. she blinks back her tears and steadies her breath. mies pulls away, and in a strained voice says, “don’t ever die for me or by me, okay?” she sniffs. “one of us has to survive this for panem. i’d prefer it to be you.” mies’ throat tightens. she robs him of the chance to respond, turning on her heel and re-entering the tribute tower.
END.
﹡› ORION .
maybe in another lifetime – a different kind of circumstance, orion would be a little angrier that a knife was pointed in his direction, one wrong move and it was a dagger at his throat. in another reality, maybe he would try to fight back and defend himself against the person who expressed their obvious dislike toward him and would hurt him without hesitation, without a sudden blink or flinch. the truth of the matter was he and maëlys were trapped together in a random classroom, unknown beings loitering around the campus and entering the buildings to cause destruction and death. orion couldn’t deny his agitation that the first thing the other student thought of doing was attack him as if he was the one at fault for the end of the world crumbling down around their feet. he saved her after all and he wasn’t looking for an award or even a thank you from them, but the last thing he expected was someone to dislike him so much that even saving their life, even if the two were doomed within an hour, would end with a knife pointed at his throat.
he kept his calm though, not because he believed maëlys would let their guard down, but there was so much chaos that the last thing he wanted to do was fight with someone who was going through the same nightmare as him. he was relieved when she put the knife down, straightening up slightly to keep his own walls up because maybe the two could work together, but maybe maëlys would find a plan that would only protect herself. he rolled his eyes, turning his back toward them as they finished their ramble. a paper? he was almost positive the professors belonging to this specific classroom were gone – whether from a zombie or running off to protect themselves. who cared about a paper at a time like this?
“i’ve managed to hide out,” orion confessed, staring out the window, but out of focus enough to not catch anyone or any zombies’ eye. “i’m sure we can find more students – i’m just taking advantage of hiding out while i can. no use screaming and running around. it’s attracting them,” he doesn’t say anything about watching one of his friends fall and being split up from another. no one had wanted to listen to orion. he was loved and praised until it came time to use his brain. “why are you worried about a paper? don’t think anyone’s gonna grade your paper in a while.”
he looked away from the window to look at maëlys, almost uttering the words to make an alliance together and maybe – just maybe the two could get out of this alive. an alliance didn’t have to mean a friendship, however, it was all out the window with the zombies dragging their feet behind them when maëlys once again opened their mouth. “you found out my master plan?” his voice was deadpanned, a sneer to his lips while his gaze found the window interesting once more. “i finally made my zombie army come to life so i can take over the world. do you think you’re the main character of a show? be serious.”
they deserve the vitriol, they know this, but maëlys immediately feels familiar white hot anger knotting her chest. of all the things that they were, perhaps the most notable thing about them was that they were always prepared for everything. pop quiz? easy, they already studied everything. extensive research project? no problem, they lived for research. the thesis they would need to complete in five years as part of their graduate schooling? they had already begun outlining it. maëlys bell is prepared for everything — but for the first time in their entire life, they’re staring a problem in the face and they have no solution for it. there is no red button to press that would reset it, nor is there a test they needed to pass to collect a golden star so the zombies would cease to exist. there’s nothing but their knife, their rival, and a handful of random classmates all staring at the confrontation as if it’s the most interesting part of their day.
maëlys lowers the knife. they scoff ( half-heartedly, but really, who can tell when half of her vocabulary is scoffing and ‘tsk’ing’ at others ) and says, “i’m worried about my paper because i worked hard on it. you have no idea the effort that i put into it — and the risk! i’m using a new citation system!” and then they manage a weak laugh. “and — and — don’t say that. this is a freak accident, surely. someone’s going to come get us, this is probably just some weird reaction to some stupid drug on campus. are there any new drugs? you’d know, right?”
it isn’t meant to be an insult, but they know it sounds like one. there’s no other way that they can speak to orion. once, they were partnered on a paper and maëlys tried to be civil, but ended up asking about his family like they were going to kill them. they spent very little time speaking after that. they try again to sound civil. their jaw shifts. “you are the source of most of my problems, if you haven’t noticed. maybe, this is all some terrible elaborate prank that you’ve put in motion so you can pull ahead in ranking!” their accusation is weak. someone else in the classroom actually giggles.
﹡› KUDZAI .
his face was repressed of any emotion that might give way of his true feelings. he smiled when he was meant to – guest eyeing him as a newfound statue rather than a future crowned king, he bowed his head out of respect when older noblemen walked his way with praise on their tongue, and he fought a stubborn eye roll when his father stated how proud his late mother would have been. it left a sour feeling within his stomach, wanted nothing more than to escape the event taking place and trap himself in his own room, hiding under the covers where he left unseen and safe. it was all very dramatic and he was sure if he spoke on his thoughts to anyone, they would scoff and assume he was a jester of sorts suddenly. though, there was an ache somewhere as he watched his two younger brothers have the time of their life at a party they held no responsibility in. and that was the cliche part about it, wasn’t it? he put all his power into not disappointing, put his soul into becoming the next crowned king so his brothers had more freedom than he.
it wasn’t as if his brothers held no responsibility. they weren’t completely free of their prince-like duties. there were times all three harrison boys were standing together, gazes only needed to linger on one another briefly before they were able to read each other’s minds. the three of them were born into the wrong family, not taking a liking to anything regarding royalty or their duties, however, kudzai took the brunt of everything. his brothers weren’t looked upon as often. they were able to drop their mask and be themselves. they could marry who they wanted, no frequent discussions who what two heirs would make their kingdom stronger with an alliance. maybe it will come back to bite him in the end, holding his head up high and spreading himself too thin. but he has to make his parents proud, he has to take the burden off his brothers – no matter how foolish it may be.
he does his best to hide the smile on his features when wulfrun comes into view, though it doesn’t take long for him to push down a grimace and a frown at her harsh words. his hands are held behind his back, clasped together and remaining poised. kudzai and wulfrun looked like two royals having a friendly conversation, nothing out of the ordinary – if only the others knew what real history the two royals shared. “you left your own husband behind to make eyes at my own spouse?” his tone doesn’t bite the way wulfrun’s does, unsure if the words were inflict any damage the way hers does. despite their past, she should know he didn’t want to get married by choice, at least married to the person his father picked for him. the rumors floating around about how well they are together is strangers witnessing friendly moments. he couldn’t be cruel just because it wasn’t something he wanted. “and you know anything about the wife i want?”
to write her emotions off as something as simple as jealousy would be doing the great princess a terrible disservice. her brothers like to jest when they sup together, nudging each other with their elbows and grinning over their cups of aged mead and ale, poking the soft flesh of her cheeks as she scowls at her dinner before her while taunting her with words that they only use to describe women. they call her envious, green with it; say that she’s lovesick — a pink fool swinging her legs and doodling hearts onto precious pieces of paper. they snicker and belittle her anger, turning her rage into nothing more than a sweet summer heat, taking her rage and transforming it into something useless.
no, wulfrun is not jealous. she is not lovesick. she is filled with indignation at the matter of her very birth, of her sex, of her family and her blood. she wakes up in the morning to the faces of her handmaidens staring at her in wait and wants to dig her thumbs into their eyes. her father sends her to her quarters for daring to speak during court and she wants to fling every priceless piece of furniture and art out of the window and into the sea. kudzai shows up with his betrothed ( who’s an amazing, beautiful person — which makes everything all the more infuriating, because kudzai does deserve his betrothed and she’s sure that love can grow from their joining, but he shouldn’t. he should be betrothed to her and he should love her for all her wickedness and he should see the face of her envy and recognize her heart of hatred — but, ) and she wants to scream until her throat is bloody. she wants to swallow her own teeth after chewing off her tongue and tearing out throats. she wants to tear her hair out of its styling and scalp herself clean, break her ribcage open and give her bloody heart to her father, her lungs to her brothers, her organs to the kingdom, all to ask if that is finally enough for them. in her wildest of dreams, she burns the city with its own fire and tears love away from every living being with her bare hands. is that simply jealousy? is that the simple green monster of envy? is it the musings of some lovesick fool?
her tongue clicks. she manages a short, humorless laugh ( more a breath than anything ) and her face falls flat. it only ever bares itself to him, her true face and name; her facade, whether she wants it to or not, always disappears when she’s in his presence. she should kill him for it — no, she shouldn’t ( shouldn’t she? ). “does it not please you to have your betrothed complimented by the princess?” she asks dryly. “it’s an honor to have caught my attention, even more so to be complimented. you should be informing your betrothed so that you both may find me later and thank me for my kindness.” her words still bite, coated in arrogance and inherited haughtiness. “and i care little for the wife you want, only for the politics that come from such an advantageous match. i’m well educated enough to know that you’re being cheated out of someone much better, — again, you should be thanking me.”