@nonscathingbullets Myflixer :)

Not so fun fact, I found out Val died right when the New York Times posted the article and right before that I was smoking. So I literally had a panic attack and greened out.

I think it's kind of iconic that Val passed on April fools day ( such a slay) kinda sucks tho because it's my birthday month...

I FUCKING LOVE THIS 😭😭

Arums

Coriolanus Snow x florist!m!reader

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Anonymous asked: okay such a small ask but I just read your teeth fic and I love it and I want get some brain rot ideas for Tom blyth. So my idea is a florist male reader x snow who hires him to decorate all the events because he just wants him around

Hi!! This got mildly out of hand?? Sorry it took so long! Thank you so much for requesting, I love this idea. <33

warnings: Snow being scary, Snow not taking no for an answer (not sexual), Snow threatening to kill your friends and family, he basically takes over your life, not a lot of mentions of florist stuff (I tried :,>), not proofread

author's note: man, I got a little carried away. I hope this is good! I don't really know a lot about floristry, so it's unfortunately not very prevalent but I tried my best! :> mwah <33

(gn!version coming up)

word count: 3'086

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White, ornately carved columns adorn the walls, stretching high and tall towards similarly decorated curved ceilings. They tower over you, menacing and foreboding, despite their sheer beauty. All these details, and not a single ounce of love to be found in their edges and swirls.

No passion, no pure artistic devotion—just an exchange of labor for money. But it's not your job to critique art; you're here to decorate the banquet hall.

The Capitol’s elite truly are suckers for a good, disgustingly wasteful, and pompous dinner party, and luckily for them, President Snow is more than keen to deliver.

Maybe it’s to keep up connections and create new alliances, or he’s simply trying to impress the gamemakers. Not that he still needs to, of course, but you figure it can never hurt to be in everyone's favor in this sort of political climate.

Not that you know anything about being a politician. You never claimed to, either. 

However, you've heard about the poisonings, the constant backstabbing, and the gossip. Sometimes, when they’re drunk enough, and you’re unlucky enough to be standing nearby, some of the elites like to unload their entire life’s worth of baggage on you. 

Man, the amount of reputations you could ruin if you really wanted to. They’d most likely buy themselves out of whatever messes you’d manage to create, but it’s fun to think about regardless. He’s just keeping them entertained, drunk, and stupid—easy to manipulate.

You're more than happy right where you are, placing bundles of pristine white roses on the table to serve as decoration. 

President Snow adores them more than anything. You wish you could at least work with a little pop of color, but alas, you're not going to complain about going all out on these sorts of arrangements to such an exuberant extent on someone else's budget. If you're being honest, you quite enjoy it.

After all, it's not every day that you get the chance to decorate events of this caliber. But, despite the fact that your team is far from the most prestigious in the Capitol, the President has been favoring it over the others. 

It's actually quite strange.

He has only used your services for his events in the last few weeks; perhaps he simply prefers your work.

It's good money for your boss, of course, and you're happy to work on bigger projects instead of the usual, tiny bouquets.

The only drawback is the way President Snow tends to stare at you as you work. You can always feel his icy blue eyes burning holes into the back of your head. Naturally, you just assume he's making sure everything is done to his liking. 

He's known for being a mild perfectionist, so that has to be it.

Still, you can't help but feel slightly unsettled by it. There's something so cold and haunting about his gaze. And why you, specifically? You always do your job as instructed. 

Where did you put the pearls again?

You’re rummaging around in one of the work bags for the missing pearl containers when you hear your boss call your name and wave you over. There’s something strange about the way he’s looking at you.

He seems confused, almost disturbed, even. President Snow stands in front of him, watching as you scramble to stand up and free yourself of any leaves and loose thorns you cut off the roses. 

Once you’re close enough, he places his hand on your shoulder and sort of presents you to President Snow. An uneasy feeling settles in your stomach, simmering under the intensity of his stare.

"He’s incredibly talented, that much I can tell you." He chuckles awkwardly. "I’d hate to let him go, but who am I to deny the President’s wishes?"

"What?" You swivel around to shoot him a questioning glance. Is he firing you? Did you mess something up? Why would Snow want to get you fired?

"Of course he is; I’m very impressed by his work." Snow’s voice has a certain demanding quality to it—smooth and deep, never failing to make your heart skip a beat in the most unpleasant way possible. Never leaving any room to question anything he says.

"President Snow has graciously offered you a position as his, well, personal decorator." Your boss nods at you, letting his hand slip off your shoulder to gesture towards Snow. 

"Don't worry, your responsibilities won't change all that much. Simply put, you would be in charge of decorating every event I intend to host." 

He smiles at you, but not in a friendly or genuine manner; instead, it's more akin to a predator flashing his teeth. It appears to be more of a warning than anything else.

"Oh." You mutter, your stomach twisting and churning at the prospect of working for this man.

"I’m honored to even be considered for such a prestigious position, President Snow, really, but there are other florists much more experienced and suited for it than me. Forgive me for asking, but why ch-"

"I prefer your work."

The feigned cordiality in his tone from before is now strained, startling you. You swallow harshly, feeling a lump form in your throat.

It's clear that declining is not an option here, as much as you'd like to.

A few moments of heavy, suffocating silence pass, threatening to choke you out along with Snow's growing impatience the longer you don't respond. You resort to a simple, obedient nod, your voice abandoning you in the face of subjugation.

You shake his hand wordlessly, pressing your lips together, when he cracks another tight, bone-chilling smile. Your boss pats you on the back in what you assume is his attempt to comfort you. He may be a little rash at times, but he takes care of you.

Well, not anymore, apparently.

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President Snow is a young man, and you'd be lying if you said he isn't absolutely stunning—almost frighteningly so. Beyond that, there aren't many positive things you can say about him. He's an okay employer, always kind enough, but he's incredibly demanding.

It begins with him insisting on you residing on his property, instead of living on your own. It unnerves you, severely. Under his watchful eye at all times, and he loves to watch you.

He claims it's easier on the both of you, never knowing when he'll need your services. There's always something to do for you, his favorite decorator. Even if there aren't nearly as many big events for you to organize as he so grandly declared.

Instead, you're making sure the various arrangements around the large property don't run out of water, or redecorating the tables for normal every-day meals. Your responsibilities go far beyond those of a regular florist, and you're struggling to understand why he wanted you here in the first place, if not to put you in charge of floral tasks. Isn't that why he hired you?

Yes, you're technically working with flowers, but your job is more akin to a housekeeper's. And you're not trained for that sort of thing. He's never complained, luckily, at least not yet.

Always seemingly satisfied with your work, much to your relief.

But he lacks a certain kind of humanity. You always feel as if you're just one simple mistake away from being mauled by his very hands.

He hasn't really given you a specific reason to worry, but living like this feels like sharing a den with a starving lion nonetheless. After all, you're always here to see his cruelty up close.

The most horrific part is how nonchalant he is about it. So quick and casual in denying others their humanity and rights.

You just sort of miss your friends and family. Surely, he'll have to let you go eventually, or at the very least give you some time off. It's been weeks.

"Where's my flower boy?"

You hear him call out from the adjoining study, your hair standing up at the mere sound of it. Curse that god-awful nickname he's given you.

You take a deep breath, rolling your shoulders back, before making your way from the living room towards the study's doorway. Snow is seated at his desk, countless papers strewn across its surface. You're greeted by an unusual sight. His hair is seemingly unkempt, and his shirt is partially undone with its sleeves rolled up. 

He sighs wearily, gazing up at you with tired eyes.

"Have you finished prepping the dining room? Roses in place?"

You nod. "Yes sir."

He licks his lips, leaning back in his chair and running his hands through his messy, blond hair. Not sure what to do with yourself, you remain glued to the door frame as you take the chance to peer around his office. It's nice and expensive, like everything else in his estate. Full of luxurious materials and woods.

"Can you do me a favor?" He interrupts your little inspection.

"Of course." You mumble in bewilderment, furrowing your eyebrows. Snow isn't the type to ask for a favor; instead, he demands things with no please or thank you.

"Come here."

You must look as perplexed as you feel right now, judging from the way he sighs at your expression. He swivels to the side and pats his lap.

"Come here." He repeats, with nothing in his tone to indicate what his intentions are.

"Are you asking me to sit on your lap?" You'd almost be offended by his audacity, if you weren't more scared of the consequences of not following his orders. He's not above killing people for disobedience, and you're unpleasantly well aware of that. Even if just to set an example.

"No, just come here." His demeanor grows increasingly exasperated, and he rolls his eyes at your question.

Hesitantly, you move around the desk to stand in front of him, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest from the anxiety. You make sure to keep a good arm's length of distance between the two of you, already uncomfortable by the proximity.

He huffs in annoyance, reaching forward to tug on your shirt and pull you closer in one swift motion. The nerve? You tense up at the incredibly bold move, your brain struggling to keep up with what's going on while also trying to rationalize how flustered you're feeling.

It's not anger making your cheeks burn like that, that's for sure.

"Would you be so kind and button my shirt up for me?" In true Snow fashion, he makes it sound as if you have a choice in this when, in fact, you don't.  He's not asking for a favor; he's ordering you to do it.

You open your mouth to protest, only to be met with an impatient head tilt, causing you to close it just as quickly. Alright then, you think.

With trembling hands, you take care of the first button. At least he's gracious enough to not stare at you, rolling down and adjusting his sleeves instead. Then, careful not to interrupt your work, he reaches over the desk and gingerly picks up a single, white rose from a vase filled to the brim with them.

You reflexively smooth your hand down his chest when you're done, promptly letting it fall to your side when you realize what you're doing. Humiliation oozes from your skin.

But he doesn't react, slipping into his wine-red waistcoat to slide it over his shoulders and wordlessly handing you the rose. You blink at it, fiddling with it between your fingers.

"Snap it."

"Excuse me?" 

He nods at the flower, making quick work of the waistcoat's buttons himself. "In half. Snap it."

This entire interaction is so bizarre. It's impossible to not feel completely out of place here; every move you make is like nails on a chalkboard.

You do as he says, splitting the rose's stem in half as cleanly as you can. It takes more pressure than anticipated, forcing you to resort to near violence. Usually, you use a blade to gently cut it. It feels strangely cruel to just rip it in half like this.

He delicately hooks two fingers under your chin, coaxing your head upwards to focus on his face instead of the broken stem.

"Here." He points at the small, metallic clip adorning the right side of his chest. "Be a darling and pin it for me."

You just sigh, understanding that there's no point in arguing at all. It could be worse, you guess. Just let him have this moment and then move on—maybe quit.

So you attach the rose to the clip, adjusting it ever so slightly, before stepping back and giving Snow a timid once-over.

"Well? How do I look?" He raises his brows, amused by your sudden complacency. Seemingly awaiting your judgment as he smooths back his silvery tresses into a more orderly position.

"Great. As always." You nod slowly.

"Great?" He sneers, clearly displeased by your lackluster response.

"Well-..." Sputtering, you scramble to find the right words to make up for your misstep. "And Handsome. You look very handsome and classy, sir."

It's not a lie, either, because he does look good. The dark, velvety fabric of the waistcoat hugs his waist snugly, accentuating his already broad shoulders even further. He looks regal, quite honestly.

His lips quickly contort into a sharp, delighted smile that sends a small chill down your spine. You try your best to hide your unease, returning the favor in a much more tight-lipped, tense manner. No amount of beauty can save this man from his eerie and bone-chilling aura.

Taking a deep, drawn-out breath, he finally gets up from his chair to brush down the creased fabric of his trousers and adjust his cuffs.

"Alright." He huffs, finally moving to get up from his chair and brushing out the creases in his trousers.  He stops mid-action, intensely deliberating your outfit, with pursed lips.

"Do you have anything more presentable in your wardrobe?" He vaguely gestures at your attire.

"Uhm. No, I don't think I do?" You look down, glancing at your simple, comfortable shirt and pants combo. It's not fancy by any means, and you're not trying to impress anyone since you're here to work. So, what's the issue?

He sighs. "Go find my tailor, please. Ask her to find something dinner-appropriate for you."

"I'm sorry?" You chuckle in disbelief. Does he view you as some sort of doll he can dress up and do whatever he pleases with?

"You heard me. You'll be joining me for dinner tonight. We're expecting guests, and I'd like you to look decent." There's a certain commanding quality to the way he says it, as if this is just another part of your job. 

"I don't think I'll be-..."

"Listen." He cuts you off, something sinister in his eyes as he prowls towards you, coming to stand directly in front of you. Far too close for comfort.

"I'm going to need you to understand, that you belong to me now. Whether you realize it or not, I own you. Okay? You don't get to decide what you do or don't do. I don't pay you to disrespect me."

Pure condescension drips from his lips as he towers over you, barely leaving room for you to breathe.

"Think of it as a promotion. From florist to... President's arm piece. Okay?" He coos softly, leaning in so closely that you can feel the heat radiate from his body.

Terror washes over you like a wave of ice-cold water, your senses overcome by the suffocating smell of his cologne. It's muted—such a tastefully small amount, and yet it still manages to strangle you. You feel like a caged animal, your chest heaving rapidly in anger and fear.

He really thinks he owns you, as if you're some sort of property.

"Go fuck yourself." You seethe at him. "You don't fucking own me."

You barely move towards the door, gasping when he immediately captures your arm in a painful, harsh grasp to pull you back. His jaw is clenched, irritation edged into the corners of his mouth as it twists into a scowl.

Before you can even open your mouth to yell at him, he yanks on your collar, causing you to stumble further into him as he talks in a threatening, low voice.

"Yes, I do." He growls. "You're gonna do what I tell you, or I'll pay your family and friends a little visit, understood? I know everything about you, sweetheart. Don't be stupid."

His words pierce your gut like shards of glass, lodging themselves in your heart and throat. Tears prick at your eyes, hot and furious as they blur your vision. His face melts into a pale smudge of dread and doom as they continue to spill over onto your cheeks. 

Terror has rendered your mind completely blank, its vicious roots burrowing deep into your bones to sap all courage from you. Would he kill them? Or would he just hurt them and keep them alive to use them as leverage against you? You shudder at the mental image of your loved ones locked up in some dark cell, beaten and bloody, just because you refused to join the president for dinner.

You gasp when Snow tenderly wipes your tears with his thumb, his expression now blank.

"Just be good for me and nothing will happen to them. I promise."

You feel drained and completely powerless. What are you supposed to do? Sniffling and trembling under his menacing posture, you know damn well he has all the power to kill every last one of them with zero consequences.

He's the president, after all.

"Okay." You whisper weakly. "Please leave them alone."

"Of course, darling." He coos, his demeanor suddenly sweet and affectionate. "As long as you behave, nothing will happen to them. Okay?"

You just nod, not even looking at him as you do so. Snow squeezes your hand in what you guess is supposed to be a comforting gesture. It leaves you feeling disgusted and violated. 

"Go freshen up now. Dinner will be served soon."

And you do. You do it because that's your job. 

You do as he says. His precious little flower boy, always at his beck and call, no matter what.

Oh, how you miss putting together boring little bouquets. 

The only flowers in your life now are those dreadful white roses. Colorless, apart from the dark, red blood splattered on their snowy petals for every kiss and touch he steals from you.

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Please consider reblogging this if you enjoyed it! Likes are very much appreciated but sadly don't do much for writers and artists on Tumblr. By reblogging, you're telling us you'd like to see more and help our work reach more people that might be interested! Thank you so much :> ♡

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28.12.2023

STOP I CANT IM GONNA THROW UP. MY BABY NO VAL DIED.

I can't believe he's gone.

Look at this cute photo I found of Val 😊

Y'ALL IM FUCKING BEGGING SOMEONE NEEDS TO WRITE SOME FRED HECHINGER x male reader rnnnn 😫😫

someone should write a Iceman x maverick beauty and the beast retelling😫🙏🙏

IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH ME, YOU COME AT ME WITH YOUR PROBLEM DONT BRING MY FUCKING FRIEND INTO THIS FUCKING CUNT

Did you just bring like your tranny friend

💀💀💀 guys come on. Where are your parents??

𝙼𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙰𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝙱𝚞𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚎 2 𝚒𝚗 2023 :

𝚅𝚜 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚊 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗 :

....𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎...

(Y’all when I tell you i’m going to write for that man…)