#I just haven’t been able to get the premise out of my head

[petulant-plants]

Still thinking about a Will Graham that was raised in a cult.

Like I can imagine his father being mildly religious, in the way you are when you’re raised catholic, but don’t actively go to church anymore. He’s too busy with work and raising Will. But hard times befall us all and the wrong person offers the right help.

Will ends up getting pulled out of school and forced into attending their church sanctioned “curriculum”

His dad still works out in town, until one day he’s unexpectedly laid off and the community offers him work doing maintenance for them.

And then they’re in it. They live on a compound outside city limits, rarely going into town. His dad falls hard for it, mostly because of what a lifesaver he thinks it’s been for him and Will. Will kinda hates it, hates the other kids, hates that they don’t go into town, hates that he never feels like he’s alone anywhere. But he adapts pretty well. He’s pretty good at saying the right thing and following the rules.

A few of the members are put off by him, though. They don’t like how observant he is.

[lupinqs]

SAFE AND SOUND (1/2) ━━ pazzi

☆ ━ summary: in which azzi fudd forms an unexpected alliance with paige bueckers as they fight for survival in the hunger games.

☆ ━ word count: 10.1K

☆ ━ warnings: nothing yet really, should all be in the next chapter lol

☆ ━ links: my masterlist, ao3 link

☆ ━ author’s note: if i had a nickel for every time i wrote one of my ships going to the hunger games together, i’d have two nickels. which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice 🧐 obviously this is a hunger games au so if you haven’t read the book or seen the movie or are not familiar with the premise, i don’t know how well you’ll be able to understand. alsoooo this part is lowkey very much buildup and not actual pazzi just mostly azzi; it was meant to be one whole part but it would’ve been too damn long so i split it!

“AZZI FUDD.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, everything stops. The world around her seems to freeze in time. Lucia Bliss, the escort from District Nine, says the name with a certain flair, her voice high-pitched and breathy, as if this is a celebration instead of a death sentence. Lucia’s purple hair gleams under the harsh midday sun, her too-bright smile a sick contrast to the crowd’s silence.

Azzi stands rooted to the ground. Her heart slams in her chest, and her vision narrows as shock seeps through her bones. She can’t move, can’t breathe. Her body is disconnected from her mind, numbness spreading through her limbs. She vaguely registers the weight of the stares from the girls around her—some wide-eyed with horror, others carefully blank. Azzi blinks. Is this real? She swallows hard, but her throat feels like sandpaper.

She never let herself think about this. Never allowed the possibility to take root. She spent the whole week worrying about her little brothers, Jon and Jose, her anxiety circling around them like a storm cloud. Jose, especially. It’s his first Reaping, and he’d been so scared he couldn’t sleep the night before. Azzi had promised him it’d be okay, that the odds were in their favor. She’d lied. And now it’s her name that hangs in the air.

Her legs feel heavy, like they’ve been weighed down with stones, but somehow, she forces them to move. One step. Then another. Each movement is stiff, mechanical, her body obeying while her mind is still reeling. The faces in the crowd blur into a mass of pale colors, and Azzi avoids looking at any of them directly. The sun presses down on her back, making her skin feel tight, suffocating, but she barely registers it. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears, a dull roar that drowns out everything else.

I have to do this. She repeats it in her head, over and over, as if it will numb the panic creeping up her spine. I have to get up there.

The platform is higher than it looks. It looms above her as she approaches, and the closer she gets, the more she feels the weight of the district watching her. Her hands tremble at her sides, but she keeps them balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She can’t afford to show fear. Not now.

She steps onto the stage, the wooden floor creaking beneath her shoes. Lucia Bliss beams at her, all synthetic kindness and hollow enthusiasm, like she’s completely oblivious to the fact that she’s sending a sixteen-year-old girl to her death. Azzi wants to scream, to shout at her, to demand to know how she can smile like that. Instead, she stands there, stiff as a board, staring blankly into the crowd.

She doesn’t look at her family. Not yet. If she lets herself see them—really see them—she knows she’ll fall apart. And she can’t afford to break down, not in front of everyone. Not here. The numbness is the only thing keeping her from collapsing.

“Now, for the boys!” Lucia announces, with that same bright cheeriness, like this is all just a grand spectacle and not a nightmare come to life.

The second name is pulled, and Azzi barely registers the sound of the boy’s name. “Kellan Ryder.”

Her eyes catch a glimpse of him as he stumbles forward—a scrawny boy with messy red hair and too-thin arms. He looks no older than fourteen, maybe fifteen at most. His face is pale, his mouth set in a tight line as he walks toward the platform like a condemned man heading to the gallows. There’s no strength in him, no fire. He’s shaking like a leaf, and Azzi knows his fate immediately. Anyone with a brain should. He won’t make it.

Kellan’s knees wobble as he climbs onto the platform, nearly tripping on the last step. His frightened eyes dart around, but when they meet Azzi’s for a fleeting moment, she sees it—the absolute terror, the resignation that’s already settled in him. He knows he’s dead. And now, she’s tethered to him.

Lucia claps her hands together, looking as if she expects the crowd to erupt into applause, but no one moves. District Nine never claps at the Reaping. There’s nothing to celebrate here.

Azzi’s jaw tightens, her hands still clenched at her sides. What now? What happens next? She can’t feel anything except a dull, creeping fear gnawing at the edges of her consciousness. It’s been less than five minutes since her name was called, but it feels like an eternity has passed. She feels lost, unmoored, floating in a space where time no longer makes sense.

As the anthem blares across the square, she chances a glance into the crowd—just for a second. Her gaze locks onto her family. Her mom is there, her face pale but strong. Azzi’s dad stands right next to her, an arm around her waist. They wear the same firm expressions—like they may actually believe their daughter can make it through this. Azzi can’t find Jon and Jose—they’re somewhere within the rest of the relieved crowd of boys who have been spared this year.

Lucia is speaking again, but Azzi barely hears her. The words are muffled, distant, as she’s ushered off the stage and into the cold interior of the Justice Building. Her chest feels tight, her throat burning from holding back everything that’s clawing at her insides, threatening to break free. She can’t let them see her cry.

Inside the Justice Building, it’s quieter, but the silence only makes her pulse race faster. She’s taken to a small room to wait. The goodbyes. They give her only a few minutes with her family before she’s whisked away forever.

Her mother is the first to come in, and the second the door closes behind her, the stoic mask she’s been holding up crumbles. She rushes forward and pulls Azzi into a bone-crushing hug. Katie Fudd does not shed any tears, but Azzi can feel her shaking against her shoulder. Trembling, but trying to fight it.

“You’re going to come back,” her mother says firmly, as if she’s manifesting it into existence. And then, more choked: “Please, Azzi. You have to come back.”

Azzi stands stiffly for a moment, then wraps her arms around her mother. She wants to promise that she’ll come back, that she’ll survive, but the words stick in her throat. How can she make a promise like that when she doesn’t know if she can keep it?

“I’ll try,” Azzi says instead, her voice hollow. I’ll try. It’s all she can offer.

Her brothers come in next, Jon leading Jose. The second Jose sees her, he runs to her, clinging to her waist like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go. His face is streaked with tears, his breath coming in ragged sobs.

“You’re gonna come back, right?” Jose’s voice is small, broken. Azzi’s reminded that he’s only twelve. “You have to come back.”

Azzi pulls away slightly, brushing the hair out of his face. “I’ll do my best,” she whispers, her voice trembling. She can’t say anything more than that. She wishes she could lie, give him something more hopeful, but the truth is all she has.

Jon is much quieter, and he stands back, his face hard as stone. But his eyes—his eyes are full of pain, full of everything he’s trying not to feel. When he finally steps forward, he pulls her into a tight hug, whispering in her ear, “Please try to come home.”

Azzi nods, her throat too tight to respond.

And then it’s her dad that gets her last, his arms wrapping around her softer, less firm. He rubs a hand along her back, rests his chin on top of her head. It makes Azzi want to cry. But she doesn’t. She keeps the tears in. Tim tells her, “Be smart. Don’t trust anyone.” And then he pulls away, meeting her gaze. His eyes aren’t sad, they don’t memorize the lines of her face as if this is likely the last time they’ll ever see each other. Instead, they’re firm, a fire burning in them, a fire that believes Azzi has enough spark in her to win. “You’re strong, Az. You find what you’re good at, and you stick to it. Just like shooting.”

Azzi nods, though his words don’t truly reach her. She’s good at basketball—great, even. The best shooter in her district. But the Hunger Games isn’t basketball. It’s entirely different.

The goodbye is over too quickly, the Peacekeepers ushering her family out of the room, their voices echoing down the hall. As the door closes behind them, the reality of the situation hits her with full force. This is happening. This is real. There’s no way out of it. In just a few days, she’ll be in the arena, and all that will matter is survival.

Azzi takes a deep breath, her hands trembling. She has to survive. For her family. For her mom. For her dad. For Jon and Jose. I have to win.

But as the cold emptiness settles into her chest, she knows it’s not going to be that simple. Not even close.

THE ROOM in the Capitol’s Remake Center is pristine and clinical—too clean, in fact. The walls are bright white, and the overhead lights are too harsh, casting everything in an almost sterile glow. The faint hum of machinery buzzes in the background, and Azzi sits stiffly on the plush chair in the center of the room, her back straight and hands clenched in her lap. She can feel the cold, unfamiliar air of the Capitol against her skin, a far cry from the familiar, earthy smells of District Nine. The whole place feels wrong.

Azzi’s mind is still spinning from the events of the past day, from the Reaping to the train ride to the Capitol. Everything feels like a blur—one unending nightmare she can’t escape from. The vibrant, colorful city that’s supposed to be awe-inspiring feels nothing more than a glittering cage, trapping her in a world that doesn’t belong to her.

A knock at the door startles her from her thoughts, and she straightens, her heart thudding a little harder in her chest. The door opens, and in walks a tall, slender woman with dark, shimmering hair cut into a sleek bob. Her skin is flawless, glowing in the artificial light, and she’s dressed in an outfit that’s both futuristic and elegant, all smooth lines and shimmering fabric.

She strides into the room with the kind of confidence Azzi has only ever seen in Capitol citizens, her heels clicking against the floor. When she reaches Azzi, she extends a perfectly manicured hand and offers a soft, warm smile.

“Hello, Azzi. I’m Seraphine,” she says, her voice gentle, as though she knows how jarring this experience must be. “I’ll be your stylist for the Games.”

Azzi stares at Seraphine’s hand for a second too long before realizing she’s supposed to shake it. Her fingers feel cold as she grips the stylist’s hand briefly, then pulls away, her eyes flickering nervously to the floor. She hasn’t said a word since entering the Remake Center, and even now, her throat feels tight, like it’s closed off from the weight of everything around her.

Seraphine seems to notice Azzi’s discomfort and doesn’t push her to speak. Instead, she walks around the chair, studying Azzi with a critical yet kind eye, taking in her features as if she’s a sculpture being examined for the first time.

“You’ve got very strong features,” Seraphine says, her voice soft as she moves to stand in front of Azzi. She lifts a hand, her finger tracing the air just in front of Azzi’s face as if imagining her canvas. “A really beautiful face. Great symmetry. Your nose is perfect—straight, but with just a little softness at the tip. And your lips,” she smiles, “plump and well-shaped, the kind people pay for here in the Capitol.”

Azzi doesn’t know what to say. She swallows hard and forces out a quiet, “Thank you.”

But the words feel hollow in her mouth. Two days ago, she probably would’ve flushed at the compliment and grinned at the woman before her. But it doesn’t matter now. Being beautiful won’t keep her alive. It won’t stop a sword or a spear. It won’t protect her when she’s standing in the arena, staring down a tribute who wants her dead. She doesn’t care about her looks. She cares about surviving.

Seraphine seems to sense the tension in her, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she steps back and claps her hands together, her expression shifting into something more professional. “Well, we’ve got a lot to do before the Opening Ceremony tonight. The tributes from District Nine usually get an agricultural theme, but we’re going to make sure you stand out. You’ll need something that catches the eye, something that makes people remember you. The Capitol loves a good first impression.”

Azzi tries to focus on what Seraphine is saying, but her mind keeps drifting, her thoughts pulling her back to District Nine, to the faces of her brothers, her parents, their small home nestled in the farthest corner of the district. She feels like she’s been dropped into an alien world, surrounded by people who don’t understand what it means to fight for survival. Here, everything is about image—how you look, how you present yourself. But in the Games, none of that matters. At least, not to Azzi.

Seraphine motions for Azzi to stand, and she does so stiffly, her muscles aching from sitting so rigidly for so long. The stylist begins to circle her, appraising her figure and murmuring to herself. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, Seraphine snaps her fingers, and a team of assistants rushes in, carrying bolts of fabric and strange devices Azzi doesn’t recognize.

Seraphine smiles softly, her fingers brushing against Azzi’s shoulder. “We’re going to make you look incredible. Trust me, Azzi. I’ve been doing this for years.”

Azzi doesn’t respond. She lets the team of assistants work on her, trying not to flinch as they run strange tools across her skin, smoothing it, shaping it. They tug at her hair, pulling it back tightly from her face, and apply makeup to her cheeks and eyes. She’s never worn anything like this before, and the sensation of it all feels foreign, uncomfortable. The air smells heavily of perfume and hair products, nothing like the open fields and fresh earth of her home.

Seraphine watches closely, making small adjustments as the assistants work. “We’ll keep it simple but striking,” she says as she examines the fabrics. “District Nine is about agriculture, the backbone of Panem’s food production. So we’ll lean into that, but in a way that makes you look powerful. Strong. Like someone the Capitol will want to root for.”

Azzi barely nods, her mind half-absent.

The assistants pull out a long, flowing piece of fabric, the color a rich golden hue that shimmers in the light. It’s embroidered with intricate patterns, resembling the fields of grain District Nine is known for. The material clings to her body, forming into a fitted jumpsuit that accentuates her athletic build. The design is sleek and modern, with a slight flare at the shoulders, giving her the appearance of strength, while the fabric flows behind her like a cape made of golden wheat.

Seraphine steps back, admiring the final look, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. “You look incredible, Azzi. Absolutely stunning. This will make the audience remember you—beautiful, but more importantly, formidable.”

Azzi stares at herself in the mirror, her reflection almost unrecognizable. The girl looking back at her is a Capitol version of herself, someone polished and made to look like she belongs here. But Azzi can see right through it. She doesn’t belong here.

“How do you feel?” Seraphine asks, stepping up beside her.

Azzi hesitates, her eyes lingering on her reflection. She looks strong, she looks like someone people might fear. But the question gnaws at her, the same thought that’s been looping in her head since she arrived at the Capitol.

“Being beautiful won’t help me in the arena,” she says quietly, her voice low, as if the thought escapes her without permission.

Seraphine’s expression softens, and she places a hand gently on Azzi’s shoulder. “It’s not just about beauty. It’s about presence. The Capitol citizens, the sponsors—they want someone they can believe in. If they believe in you, they’ll help you. They’ll send you things you need. And that could be the difference between life and death.”

Azzi doesn’t know how to respond to that. She’s never thought about it that way—never considered that people watching her might care enough to help. She doesn’t know if she likes that idea, though. It feels too distant, too detached. How can she trust that some faceless audience in the Capitol will care enough to keep her alive?

But she nods anyway, her jaw tight as she looks back at her reflection. “I guess.”

Seraphine gives her a reassuring smile, but Azzi can see the flicker of something else in the stylist’s eyes. Maybe a recognition of the bleakness that comes with the Games. Or maybe just sympathy. Either way, it doesn’t change the reality.

And then Seraphine is clapping her hands again, signaling the rush of assistants and stylists bustling back into the room. They tidy up the last few details, adjusting the cape of shimmering gold fabric that flows behind Azzi, smoothing out any wrinkles in the intricate embroidery of her jumpsuit. The noise, the movement, all of it feels overwhelming, but Seraphine stays calm and poised, giving Azzi a reassuring smile before gesturing toward the door.

“Come, Azzi. We need to head downstairs. Your chariot awaits,” Seraphine says.

Azzi’s legs feel unsteady as she follows her stylist. There’s a gnawing anxiety low in her stomach, a knot that’s only been growing tighter since her name was pulled. She walks behind Seraphine, out of the room and down a long, marble hallway that echoes with the click of the stylist’s heels. The air feels heavier here, the anticipation hanging thick in the space around them as they make their way to the first floor.

The elevator doors open, revealing the Remake Center’s ground floor—a massive, gleaming stable. The smell of horses hits her first, a sharp contrast to the sterile air of the upper floors. The space is wide and open, filled with row after row of chariots, each one assigned to a different district, waiting to carry their tributes into the Opening Ceremony. It’s loud, too, with the sound of people bustling around, prepping the tributes, adjusting the horses’ harnesses, and giving last-minute instructions.

Azzi’s eyes dart around, searching for Kellan, her district partner. She spots him off to the side, standing next to one of the chariots, his eyes wide with fear and his shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. He looks terrible, Azzi thinks, her heart twisting in her chest. Kellan is so young—fourteen—the same age as her little brother Jon.

In fact, Kellan could’ve been Jon. Could’ve been Jose. The thought makes her feel sick. He’s just a kid. And now he’s about to be thrown into a fight to the death.

Azzi’s stomach churns as she approaches Kellan, trying to think of something to say, something that might ease his nerves, but nothing comes to mind. What can she say? You’ll be fine? It won’t be that bad? It would be a lie. There’s no comforting truth here.

Lucia is already there, too, flitting around with her usual enthusiasm. Her bright purple wig bounces as she talks, gesturing wildly with her hands. She’s all Capitol—flashy and clueless, too caught up in the spectacle of it all to realize what’s really at stake.

“Ah, Azzi! You look fan-tastic!” Lucia exclaims, clucking her tongue and clapping her hands together. “Seraphine has really outdone herself this year.”

Azzi gives a stiff nod, but her attention is drawn to the figure standing next to Lucia.

Their mentor—Cyrus.

A tall, grizzled man in his mid-forties, Cyrus won the Games when he was seventeen, Azzi knows that. His hair is streaked with silver now, and his face is lined with years of bitterness and loss—an expression she’s come to recognize in former victors. Cyrus isn’t the warmest person, but he knows what it takes to survive, and that’s all that matters to Azzi now.

He steps forward, eyeing her and Kellan critically, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You both look good,” he says, his voice gruff, as if the compliment costs him something. “But this isn’t about just looking good. It’s about making the Capitol love you. You need them on your side, or you’re dead in the water.”

Kellan swallows hard, his eyes darting nervously toward the chariots. Azzi can see his hands trembling slightly at his sides, and again, that pang of guilt hits her. He shouldn’t be here. He’s too young.

So is Azzi. So is every other tribute here.

Cyrus doesn’t seem to notice Kallan’s behavior—or if he does, he doesn’t care. He steps closer, his voice dropping into a low, urgent tone. “When you get out there, you smile. You wave. You make sure they see you, like you’re already a victor. The crowd loves confidence. They love tributes who look like they’ll win, not ones who are scared to death.” His eyes flick to Kellan, lingering for a second too long. “So you both smile. Got it?”

Azzi nods, even though the last thing she wants to do is smile right now. But Cyrus is right. They have to play the game, even here.

She turns her head slightly, trying to shake off the weight of the moment when something—or someone—catches her eye.

Just across the stable, standing next to another chariot with her district partner, is a girl. She’s tall for a girl, like Azzi is, with long blonde hair that’s been braided back into a bun. Her outfit is clearly themed around District Seven—lumber—and it’s made of rich brown leather, like freshly cut wood, with patterns that resemble tree bark. But what stands out most to Azzi isn’t the outfit. It’s her face.

The girl’s features are sharp but soft in all the right places. She has a defined jawline, high cheekbones, and a pair of piercing blue eyes that seem to flicker with something unspoken. She’s pretty—beautiful, even—but not in the overdone, Capitol way. There’s something natural about her beauty, something real.

Azzi’s breath catches in her throat as their eyes meet. For a moment, the noise of the stable fades into the background, and all she can hear is the pounding of her heart in her chest. The girl holds her gaze, her expression unreadable but intense, like she’s studying Azzi just as much as Azzi is studying her.

This girl is another tribute. Another person Azzi might have to kill. But the thought doesn’t stop her from staring a second too long, from letting herself get caught in the girl’s gaze.

It’s only when Cyrus barks something at them that Azzi snaps her head back around, her cheeks flushing as she tries to focus. This isn’t the time for distractions.

She forces her attention back to Cyrus as he continues giving them last-minute instructions. “Smile. Wave. Make them love you. Got it?”

Azzi nods, though her thoughts are still jumbled. She glances at Kellan, who’s biting his lip nervously, his eyes darting around the stable like a rabbit caught in a trap.

And then they’re being ushered toward their chariot. Azzi takes a deep breath, her legs feeling wobbly as she steps onto the platform, Kellan following behind her. The horses, sleek and muscular, are restless in front of them, their hooves clattering against the marble floor. She grips the edge of the chariot tightly, her knuckles turning white.

As the chariots begin to roll out, Azzi takes one more deep breath. She can hear the roar of the crowd growing louder, the excitement building as the tributes are about to make their grand entrance.

The moment they roll into view of the massive audience, the noise is deafening. The Capitol citizens cheer and shout, their brightly colored hair and outrageous outfits blending together into a sea of vibrant chaos. Azzi forces herself to smile, just like instructed, letting her dimples show through as she waves to the crowd, her arm moving mechanically as if on autopilot. She hates it—the way their eyes are all on her, the way they’re watching her as if she’s nothing more than a piece in their twisted game.

She’s never wanted attention like this. The only way she’d ever dreamed of being noticed was by playing basketball, maybe one day making it big enough to play in the Capitol’s professional leagues. But that was a stupid dream—something far out of reach for someone from a District. Even if she won the Games, even if she became a Capitol darling, she’d never be allowed to play. The basketball leagues are for Capitol citizens, not for tributes. Not for people like her.

Azzi keeps smiling, keeps waving, even though every second of it feels wrong. The crowd’s cheers grow louder, their excitement palpable, but Azzi feels nothing. All she can think about is the girl from District Seven—the girl whose eyes she can still feel on her, even now, as the chariots roll forward.

IT’S THE second day of training. Yesterday, Azzi found her strength—throwing knives. It was quick; the dagger was the first weapon she picked up and tried. And it just… worked. It surprised her at first, but as the blades left her hand, spinning in the air before sinking into the target with a solid thud, it felt almost familiar. The motion, the precision, the focus—it all reminds her of shooting a basketball. In her mind, it’s the same concept: aim, release, make the shot. Whether it’s a knife sinking into a dummy or a ball swooshing through a hoop, the goal is the same. And it comforts her in a strange way, turning something deadly into something she’s used to, something she can control.

Now, Azzi stands several feet away from a dummy, gripping a knife, the handle cool against her palm. She lines it up with the target. Her muscles tighten as she flicks her wrist, releasing the dagger. It slices through the air, embedding itself into where the heart of the dummy would be with a satisfying thud. A perfect hit. She lets out a slow breath, allowing a small flicker of satisfaction to cross her face. The trainers don’t miss it either, nodding with approval as they observe her from across the room.

Cyrus, her mentor, has been watching her closely since she got here. And, after Azzi informed him of her successes with the daggers last night and his compliments of her physique, the true muscle she has, it’s been clear he’s placing his bets on Azzi this time around. It seems there’s just no point in trying with Kellan.

As for Kellan, he hasn’t said much of anything since they were whisked away to the Capitol. He’s just a boy, and Azzi has watched the fear in his eyes grow with each passing day. Cyrus has tried to train him, to offer him advice, but Kellan’s barely even listened. It’s as if he’s already given up. Azzi sees it in the way his hands tremble whenever he holds a weapon, the way he flinches during combat drills, and the way he refuses to meet anyone’s gaze. He’s already dead in his mind, and Azzi knows that mentality will get him killed in the arena.

“Focus on yourself,” Cyrus had told her bluntly last night after dinner. “Kellan’s not gonna make it. You need to accept that now.”

Azzi had nodded, the truth of Cyrus’ words sitting like a heavy weight in her chest. She tried talking to Kellan once, offering him a few words of encouragement, but he barely even acknowledged her. After that, she stopped trying. She can’t afford to waste time or energy on someone who’s already checked out. It isn’t like she doesn’t feel guilty—she does—but she has to survive.

She can’t focus on anyone else’s survival but her own.

Today, Cyrus has her focusing on something other than knives. “You’ve got those down,” he’d told her before the session. “Learn how to survive the elements now. Plants, food, water. You need to know what’s safe and what isn’t. Most tributes die from hunger, dehydration—not all of it is blood and guts.”

So Azzi finds herself crouched in front of an information station, its holographic displays showing various plants, fruits, and fungi. She taps the screen, cycling through images of plants she might find in the arena, trying to commit them to memory. Which ones are edible, which ones are poisonous, which ones could be used to heal wounds. It’s not as exciting as knife-throwing, but it’s necessary, and she knows it.

She’s absorbed in her study, staring intently at a particularly nasty-looking mushroom, when she senses someone approaching from the side. Her muscles tense instinctively, and she glances up, prepared to brush off whoever it is—until she sees Paige Bueckers standing next to her.

Paige Bueckers. District Seven. Azzi knows who she is. She’s memorized all the tributes’ names and districts by now—it’s smart to know who she’s up against—but Paige was the first one she committed to memory. Maybe it’s because of the way Paige caught her eye before the opening ceremony, their silent exchange of glances lingering in Azzi’s mind longer than she’d like to admit. Or maybe it’s because she’s watched Paige train over the past two days and realized just how dangerous the girl really is. Azzi saw her with a sword earlier, moving with a deadly grace that sent chills down her spine. Paige might be one of the most skilled tributes here, and that’s saying something.

Paige is tall, even a little taller than Azzi, and her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a thin, black headband resting over it. Her sharp, blue eyes meet Azzi’s as she stops next to her, wearing a grin that seems completely out of place in the tense, competitive atmosphere of the training center.

“Azzi Fudd,” Paige says, her tone casual, as if they’re not preparing to kill each other in a matter of days. “District Nine.”

Azzi glances back at the screen, her brows furrowing slightly. She doesn’t know how to feel about Paige approaching her. She doesn’t know what she wants. This could be some kind of strategy—get close to your enemies, make them lower their guard. Azzi isn’t stupid. She knows better than to trust anyone here.

“Bueckers,” Azzi replies, her voice neutral, not giving anything away. She keeps her eyes on the screen, scrolling through more plant images.

But Paige doesn’t leave. She shifts her weight, bouncing slightly on her heels, like she can’t seem to stay still. The grin on her face widens, and Azzi feels even more confused. Why is Paige so friendly? Why is she smiling like they’re just two normal girls having a chat?

“So, you’re, like, really good with daggers, huh?” Paige says, her voice light. “I saw you throwing earlier. Pretty impressive.”

Azzi doesn’t look up. She sighs instead, her fingers hovering over the screen. “Guess so,” she mumbles. In the back of her mind, she knows she should probably be nicer. Paige might be trying to form an alliance, and with Kellan being a dead end, Azzi could use one. But trust is a luxury she can’t afford right now, and Paige’s enthusiasm throws her off.

Paige doesn’t seem fazed by Azzi’s short response, though. She keeps standing there, grinning like an idiot, her eyes twinkling with some kind of amusement. It’s unnerving how at ease she seems, how… happy. It’s probably a mask. She’s probably as terrified as the rest of them, and she’s just getting through it in her own way.

Nevertheless, Azzi can’t take it anymore. She turns her head slightly, locking eyes with Paige. “Why are you talking to me?” she asks bluntly.

Paige blinks, her grin faltering for just a moment. For the first time, she looks a little unsure of herself. “Um… I don’t really know, actually,” she admits with a small, nervous laugh. “Just… wanted to, I guess.”

Azzi narrows her eyes, studying her. She has no idea if the girl before her is being honest. But the sincerity in her voice catches Azzi a little off guard, and for a second, she’s not sure what to say. This is the Hunger Games. No one talks to someone just because they “want to.” Everyone has an angle. Yet Paige stands there, looking oddly genuine, like she really doesn’t have a reason. Like she just wants to talk to Azzi, no strings attached.

For a moment, Azzi’s walls start to crack. She considers the possibility—however slim—that Paige is just… a good person. It doesn’t make sense, not in a place like this, but the warmth in Paige’s smile makes Azzi’s suspicion waver.

“Well,” Azzi finally says, her voice a little softer than before, “maybe you shouldn’t.” She doesn’t look away this time, her eyes lingering on Paige’s, almost like she’s testing her.

Paige’s grin returns, softer this time, but still there. “Maybe,” she says, “but I’m here anyway.”

Azzi shakes her head a little, gaze returning to the screen. She needs to focus on this, not the girl beside her.

Paige doesn’t seem to be deterred, though, still watching Azzi with that easy smile, her eyes bright. “You’re pretty serious, yeah?” she says, tilting her head, almost like she’s teasing but not quite. “Locked in. I get it. Gotta be. But… we’re all here, y'know? Same boat.”

Azzi shifts her weight, feeling her jaw tighten. “I have to be serious,” Azzi mutters, her fingers swiping across the screen, though she’s not really paying attention to the plants anymore. Her heart beats a little faster under Paige’s gaze. “You can’t survive if you’re not.”

Paige leans in just slightly, and Azzi catches the faint scent of something sweet on her, like flowers. “I know that,” she says, her tone softening for a moment. “But you might need some help in there—if you wanna win.”

Azzi’s shoulders tense. The suggestion makes her uneasy, and her instinct is to push back. Help. From anyone, it feels too dangerous. It feels like relying on someone she can’t control. She barely trusts herself in this place, let alone a girl from another district who, let’s be real, could very well end up as an enemy.

“I don’t need help,” Azzi says, her voice firmer than before. “Especially not from people I don’t know.”

Paige’s smile fades a little, but there’s no frustration in her expression. If anything, she just looks… thoughtful, almost curious about Azzi’s reaction. It’s like she’s trying to figure her out, trying to see beneath the guarded exterior.

Azzi hates that. She doesn’t want to be studied or analyzed, especially not by Paige Bueckers. She’s already doing too much of that herself—constantly assessing everyone, weighing their strengths and weaknesses, trying to predict who’s a threat and who might just fade into the background.

“I’m not trying to get in your way, Azzi,” Paige says quietly, her voice losing some of its earlier lightness. “But, y’know, maybe we don’t have to be enemies. I’ve seen you, and you’re good. Like, real good. And neither of us are Careers and both our district partners are kinda duds, so I just thought…”

Azzi cuts her off, turning to face her abruptly. “Thought what? That we’d be allies? Friends?” She shakes her head, ignoring the strange knot of tension building in her chest. Paige might be trying to help, but Azzi doesn’t want it. She can’t want it. Not here. “It doesn’t work like that. I don’t work like that. Sorry.”

Paige stands there, still watching her, and for a second, Azzi thinks she sees something flicker in Paige’s eyes—disappointment, maybe, or understanding. But Paige doesn’t push back. She just nods once, a slow, thoughtful thing.

“Okay,” Paige says, stepping back a little, giving Azzi space. Her smile returns, softer, but still there. “I get it. Just… keep doin' what you’re good at.”

Azzi feels a strange pang in her chest as she watches Paige step away, like maybe she’s made a mistake. But no—she can’t think like that. She needs to stay focused, stay sharp, stay alone. That’s how she’ll survive.

Without another word, Azzi turns on her heel and walks away, her heart beating faster than before.

THE PINK dress hugs Azzi’s figure, its soft blush fabric shimmering under the bright lights of the dressing room. It’s not something she’s ever imagined herself wearing—not this shade, not this tight. She looks almost like a Capitol citizen now, polished and flawless in her own right.

The dress has a high neckline and delicate straps that crisscross her shoulders, falling in elegant folds down to her ankles. It’s simple, yet the color makes her stand out, glowing softly against her dark skin. Her hair is styled in loose waves, not unlike the Capitol’s obsession with effortless beauty, with the font pieces pulled back into braids. The makeup is light but dramatic—plump lips, accentuated cheekbones, and eyes that pop with a subtle pink shimmer.

Seraphine steps back, admiring her work with a satisfied smile. “You look stunning, Azzi. Like a dream.”

Azzi nods, not fully meeting Seraphine’s gaze. She knows she looks good, but it doesn’t feel like her. The face staring back at her in the mirror is a version of herself she doesn’t recognize. It’s not the Azzi from District Nine; it’s not the girl who shoots hoops with her brothers or helps her dad tend to the crops. It’s someone else—someone made for the Capitol’s stage. Someone for their entertainment.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, though her voice lacks enthusiasm. Seraphine doesn’t seem to mind. She knows by now that Azzi is serious, focused. There’s no time for compliments when the Games are looming.

Seraphine’s assistant adjusts the hem of Azzi’s dress one last time before stepping aside. “You’ll knock them dead,” she says with a wink, though the words sit heavy with the weight of their meaning. Knocking them dead. That’s quite literally what Azzi will have to do soon enough.

As she’s led out to the waiting area before the interviews, Azzi’s mind begins to drift. She thinks back to the training evaluations, how she had scored a 10—one of only four tributes to do so. A 10 is good, she knows that, but the competition is fierce. Both the girl and boy from Two scored 10s and Paige managed a 10 as well. There are other tributes with 9s, plenty who will be formidable in their own right. But Paige? Paige is different. She’s unpredictable, unnervingly skilled. And something about her makes Azzi feel a pang of unease.

As Azzi settles into her seat backstage, waiting for her interview with Caesar Flickerman, she watches the other tributes’ interviews on the screen. The Careers are all flashy and confident, playing up their deadliness to the crowd’s delight. Caesar eats it up, grinning and laughing as they boast about their skills and charm the Capitol audience. The boy from District Four also stands out—tall, muscular, and intimidating. A strong swimmer, no doubt. He’ll be dangerous, especially if the arena is at all water-based.

But none of them hold a candle to Paige.

When Paige steps onto the stage, it’s as if the entire room shifts. She looks stunning, effortlessly cool, in a crisp white suit that contrasts sharply with the frilly dresses most of the other girls have chosen. Her hair is down, styled in soft, wavy locks, with the top half pulled back in a way that highlights her sharp features. She looks more masculine than the other girls, but somehow that works in her favor. It’s not just that she’s different—it’s that she owns it. The Capitol loves different.

Azzi watches, unable to tear her eyes away, as Paige charms the entire crowd. She’s funny, confident, and just the right amount of cocky. Caesar practically beams at her, and the audience is eating out of the palm of her hand.

“You’re quite the swordswoman,” Caesar says, raising his eyebrows in admiration. “I saw your score, Paige—a 10! That’s incredible.”

Paige just grins, shrugging casually. “You know, I try.”

The crowd laughs, and Cyrus begins to mutter under his breath. “Damn it,” he says, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “She’s going to have sponsors lined up around the block.”

Azzi knows he’s right. Paige isn’t just skilled—she’s magnetic. People want to root for her. She’s dangerous, yes, but she’s also got this charm that makes you want to see her win, even if that means she’ll be killing people to get there.

Azzi swallows hard, feeling a knot form in her stomach. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s drawn to Paige, too. There’s something about her that pulls Azzi in—her confidence, her grace under pressure, her ease in the face of what’s to come. It’s not just attraction, though she can’t deny that Paige is beautiful. It’s more than that. There’s something about Paige that makes Azzi feel like she’s… alive. Like she’s not just surviving, but living fully in the moment, despite everything. Ironic, considering Paige could be the one to kill Azzi in that arena—or vice versa.

And Azzi hates that she feels this way. She shouldn’t be drawn to Paige. She shouldn’t be thinking about how Paige’s eyes had locked onto hers back at the opening ceremony, or how Paige had approached her during training, trying to talk like they were friends. None of it matters. Paige is just another tribute, another obstacle standing between Azzi and survival.

But still… there’s something about her.

As Paige’s interview wraps up, the crowd erupts in applause, and Caesar gives her a hug before she leaves the stage. Azzi watches as Paige walks off, her suit practically glowing under the stage lights. For a brief moment, Paige glances in Azzi’s direction, their eyes meeting across the room. It’s quick—just a fleeting second—but Azzi feels her heart skip a beat before she looks away, reminding herself why she’s here.

Just two interviews later, Azzi is taking a deep breath as the lights hit her, stepping forward onto the stage. The crowd is massive, louder than she imagined, and their cheers seem to echo in her chest. Her eyes land on Caesar Flickerman, who’s grinning wide at her as she approaches him, his flamboyant suit sparkling under the stage lights.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Azzi Fudd from District Nine!” Caesar announces, and the crowd’s cheers grow even louder.

Azzi sits down next to Caesar, her fingers resting awkwardly in her lap. Despite the excitement around her, she feels the familiar nervousness bubbling up inside. This isn’t her element—talking, being the center of attention. She’d rather be on the sidelines, unnoticed, but here, there’s no avoiding it.

“Azzi, you look absolutely radiant tonight!” Caesar says, his voice warm and enthusiastic. “Tell me, how does it feel to be here in the Capitol, getting all this attention?”

Azzi smiles politely, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “It’s… different,” she says softly. “I’m not really used to it. But it’s nice, I guess. Everyone’s been very kind.” Very kind because they probably know I’ll be dead in a couple weeks.

Caesar nods, leaning in slightly. “I can imagine it’s quite a change from life in District 9. Tell me, what’s life like back home?”

Azzi pauses, her mind drifting back to the open fields and the quiet days of working alongside her family. “It’s simple,” she says. “We work hard, but it’s peaceful. Most of my days I’m just spending time with my family, doing the chores or playing basketball. It’s nothing like here, but it’s home.”

Caesar smiles warmly, sensing the connection she has to her district. “Family, huh? I bet they’re watching right now, rooting for you. Tell me, do you have a big family?”

Azzi shrugs a little. “Not too big, not too small, I think. There’s my parents, and then I have two younger brothers. And we’re still very close to my grandparents. I just… love my family, they’re very supportive. They’re great.” She feels her throat get choked up by the end of the sentence, not wanting to think too much about her family, how much she misses them. Even though, truthfully, she knows she should be thinking about her family because that is what needs to be her motivation. She needs to win this for them, no matter how impossible it may seem.

The crowd gives a soft murmur of approval, and Caesar’s grin widens. “That’s wonderful. Sounds like you’ve got a lot of people cheering you on back home. And speaking of support…” He pauses dramatically, the audience clearly hanging on his every word. “Any special someone out there you’re hoping to impress? Perhaps a crush back home?”

Azzi’s eyes widen a little at the question, feeling her face heat up. A crush. That is quite literally the last thing on her mind right now. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, not sure how to answer without sounding awkward.

“I, um… no,” she says with a laugh that’s more nervous than she intended. “Not really. I’ve been focused on training, so… no time for that.”

Caesar laughs good-naturedly, waving a hand as if to brush off the question. “Oh, I get it, I get it! Training comes first, of course. But I’m sure there are plenty of admirers in the Capitol who are wishing they could get your attention.”

The crowd cheers in agreement, and Azzi can’t help but smile a little at their enthusiasm, though she still feels her nerves fluttering in her stomach.

“But let’s talk about something fun,” Caesar continues, changing gears smoothly. “You’ve been in the Capitol for a little while now. What’s your favorite part so far? The food? The fashion? The luxury?”

Azzi takes a moment to think, glancing down at her dress. It’s true, everything in the Capitol has been overwhelming—lavish and excessive compared to the modest life she’s known back in her district. But there’s one thing that stands out to her more than anything.

“The food,” she answers with a small smile. “I’ve never seen so much of it in my life. And it’s all so… colorful. I didn’t even know you could make food look like that.”

Caesar chuckles. “Colorful! I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” He hits his knee as he laughs, the audience giggling with him. “But, yes! The Capitol chefs do love their extravagant dishes. Has there been anything in particular that’s caught your eye?”

“Honestly, the desserts,” Azzi admits, her smile widening. “There was this cake we had the other night, and it was shaped like a swan. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was so good.”

The crowd laughs once more, clearly charmed by her innocence, and Caesar claps his hands together. “A girl after my own heart! Who can resist a good dessert, right?”

Azzi relaxes a little more, finding it easier to talk now that the conversation has shifted to lighter topics. Caesar’s friendliness helps, and she realizes that, for the first time, the crowd isn’t as intimidating as she thought they’d be.

“You know, Azzi,” Caesar says, his tone softening just a bit, “you’ve got this quiet strength about you. I think a lot of people are really drawn to that. You don’t need to be loud or flashy to make an impact. And clearly you have made an impact—you scored a ten in the training. I mean, come on!”

Azzi smiles a little bit at the validation, her dimples poking through. “Thank you,” she says, nodding. And then she shrugs, her lips quirking up a little further as she adds, “I try.”

Caesar and the crowd chuckle at the action. “Well, you’ve certainly done well,” he tells her earnestly, before adding, with a wink, “And I have to say, your smile is absolutely infectious. I think you’ve got the whole crowd wrapped around your finger.”

The audience cheers again, louder this time, and Azzi feels her face heat up.

“Well, Azzi, it’s been an absolute pleasure talking to you tonight,” Caesar says, standing and offering his hand to help her up. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re all rooting for you.”

Azzi stands, shaking Caesar’s hand and giving the crowd a small wave as they erupt into applause. As she walks off the stage, back to where Seraphine, Lucia, and Cyrus are waiting, the adrenaline from the interview still buzzes through her.

Lucia beams at her as she approaches, her hands rushing to cup Azzi’s cheeks. “You were perfect, Azzi! Absolutely perfect.”

Seraphine nods in agreement. “The crowd loves you. You’re going to get so many sponsors, I just know it.”

Even Cyrus gives her a rare grin, clapping her on the shoulder. “You did good out there, kid. Real good. I think you’ve got them in the palm of your hand now.”

Azzi lets out a breath, the tension slowly leaving her body as she realizes she’s done it. She got through the interview, and didn’t just survive it—she actually made a connection, made herself heard and liked. The Capitol might not feel like home, but for now, at least, she knows she’s done everything she can to stand out in the best way possible.

THE MORNING is unnervingly quiet. Azzi walks beside Cyrus, the soles of her shoes barely making a sound on the sleek marble floors of the Capitol building. They’re headed toward the hovercraft, the final step before the arena. The place where everything will change. Each step closer feels heavier, the weight of what’s coming settling into her bones.

Cyrus walks just ahead, his brow furrowed in thought. Azzi knows well enough that he’s not the type for overly emotional goodbyes, but there’s a seriousness to him today that wasn’t there during training. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and Azzi notices the faint lines of tension in his jaw. She’s quiet, still processing the fact that in just a few hours, she’ll be fighting for her life.

As they near the docking area, Cyrus stops abruptly, turning to face her. His eyes are sharp, cutting through the nervous haze that’s settled over her.

“Listen to me, Azzi,” he begins, voice low but firm. “This is it. From here on out, it’s all strategy. Everything you do, every move you make—it has to be calculated, smart.”

Azzi nods, her throat tightening as she listens.

“I know it’s not in your nature to trust easily, but in the arena, you’ll need to be even more cautious,” he continues. “Don’t form alliances unless it’s strategically sound. I don’t care if they seem friendly or if they remind you of someone from back home—trust no one unless it gives you an advantage.”

His words cut deep, and she swallows hard. She hasn’t really thought much about alliances, but it’s clear that Cyrus has. He knows this game inside and out.

“And whatever you do, keep your emotions in check,” Cyrus adds, his gaze hardening. “The moment you start caring too much about anyone in there, you’ve already lost. I know you’re good-hearted, Azzi, but that’s not going to save you—not in the Games.”

She doesn’t say anything, just nods again. The lump in her throat grows as the reality of what’s coming washes over her.

“And the bloodbath.” Cyrus pauses, before his voice lowers slightly. “The moment those platforms rise, it’s going to be chaos. Don’t linger. Don’t get caught up in the fight unless it’s unavoidable. Get what you need and get out. Do you understand?”

Azzi meets his eyes, the weight of his words settling deep in her chest. “I understand,” she says softly.

He studies her for a moment, and for the first time since they arrived in the Capitol, Cyrus’s tough exterior seems to soften. His hand reaches out, resting on her shoulder, and the squeeze he gives is firm, reassuring.

“I believe in you,” he says quietly, his voice sincere. “You’re smart, and you’ve trained hard. I’m going to do everything in my power to help get you home.”

Her eyes well up slightly at his words, but she quickly blinks back the tears. She can’t afford to be emotional right now. There’s no space for it.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, barely able to get the words out past the lump in her throat.

Cyrus nods once, and then he’s stepping back, his hand falling away from her shoulder as they reach the hovercraft. Seraphine is already there, waiting for Azzi, her usual cheerful demeanor muted with the solemnity of the day. The metallic hiss of the hovercraft’s door opening sends a shiver down Azzi’s spine. This is it.

Without another word, Azzi steps inside. Seraphine follows, offering a small, reassuring smile as the door slides shut behind them. The hovercraft hums softly as it lifts off, heading toward the arena.

Inside, the sterile, clinical atmosphere makes her stomach churn. A Capitol medic approaches her almost immediately, a small syringe in hand. Azzi barely flinches as the needle pierces her skin, injecting the tracker into her forearm. She knows it’s necessary. They need to know where she is at all times. It’s standard procedure, but it still makes her feel like livestock.

Seraphine sits beside her, her usual flair for Capitol fashion stark against the dull surroundings of the hovercraft. She doesn’t say much, just watches as Azzi rubs her arm where the tracker was inserted. The silence is heavy, filled with unspoken words, and it’s not long before they arrive at the underground facility just outside the arena.

Once inside, they’re led into a small room where Azzi is handed her arena outfit—a black, water-resistant suit that fits snugly against her frame. It’s durable, sleek, and clearly meant for endurance. The material feels odd against her skin, foreign compared to the simple, looser clothes she’s worn most of her life.

She glances at herself in the mirror. The suit is practical, but its design tells her something about the arena. Water. The Capitol is hinting that water will play a significant role in the Games. Maybe a jungle, maybe a lake, or something more treacherous. Her mind races with possibilities, but she pushes the thoughts aside. She’ll find out soon enough.

As she pulls the last of the suit into place, Seraphine watches her carefully, her eyes glassy. The usually confident stylist seems suddenly small, fragile, as if she’s struggling to keep herself together. She steps forward, her hands gently smoothing the fabric of Azzi’s suit, her fingers trembling slightly.

“You’re going to be alright, Azzi,” Seraphine says softly, her voice cracking just a little. “You’ve been so strong. You’re going to make it back—for your family. I know you will.”

Azzi’s chest tightens at the words. Seraphine’s sincerity, her belief that Azzi can survive this—it’s almost too much to bear.

“Thank you,” Azzi whispers, her voice barely audible.

Seraphine pulls her into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around Azzi’s frame with surprising strength. It’s brief, but Azzi feels the weight of Seraphine’s worry in that embrace. It’s like she’s saying goodbye.

When they pull apart, Seraphine’s eyes are red-rimmed, though she’s trying her best to hold it together. “Good luck, Azzi,” she says, her voice shaky. “You’re going to be okay.”

Azzi swallows the lump in her throat and nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she just gives Seraphine a small, grateful smile.

The door to the launch chamber opens, and it’s time.

Azzi steps into the glass cylinder, her heart pounding in her chest. The last thing she sees before the platform begins to rise is Seraphine, standing in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly together as if in prayer.

And then the ground shifts beneath her feet, and she’s lifted upward, the glass tube carrying her toward the surface. Toward the arena.

The first thing she notices is the intense humidity. The air is thick, almost suffocating, and it clings to her skin. As her eyes adjust to the sudden brightness, she realizes why—it’s a jungle. Dense, tangled vines hang from towering trees, their massive roots weaving through the ground like some ancient network. The ground beneath her platform is slick with mud, and just beyond the edge of the platform is a large body of water—a vast lake, its surface calm and unnervingly still. It stretches out as far as she can see, bordered by the dense jungle on one side and the metallic glint of the Cornucopia in the center.

Water. She was right.

Azzi’s gaze darts to the other tributes. There’s movement all around her, platforms rising as the others are pulled into view. Some faces are familiar from the training center, others not so much. She spots the Careers first—the boy and girl from District Two, standing tall and confident, both of them dangerous and ready. Their eyes are already locked on the Cornucopia, clearly prepared to kill anyone who stands in their way.

A few spots down, she sees Kellan. His face is pale, his eyes wide with fear. He looks like he’s barely holding it together, his body stiff as if he might bolt the second the gong sounds. He’s trembling slightly, and Azzi’s heart tugs at the sight. He’s not going to last long, not with that kind of fear weighing him down. But she can’t afford to think about him—about anyone, really. Cyrus’s voice echoes in her mind: Don’t get too close to anyone.

She swallows hard, her gaze shifting back to the Cornucopia. The metallic structure gleams in the sunlight, stacked with supplies—everything they’ll need to survive. Weapons, food, water. But it’s a death trap. The Careers will get there first, and they’ll cut down anyone who tries to take something they’ve claimed.

Azzi’s eyes flick to the jungle behind her. It might be safer to head for cover, to avoid the bloodbath entirely. But then again, if she doesn’t grab something now, she could be left empty-handed, vulnerable. She forces herself to breathe deeply, trying to focus on her strategy. It has to be quick, precise. She’ll grab something—anything—and get out. That’s it. Nothing fancy.

The countdown begins, the metallic voice booming over the arena. Sixty seconds.

Azzi’s heart races as the clock ticks down. She glances around once more at the other tributes, trying to gauge their movements before it’s too late. Some are already tensing, their eyes glued to the Cornucopia. Others, like Kellan, are frozen in place, terrified to move. Far across from her, Azzi thinks she sees a flash of blonde hair. Paige. She wonders if she’s scared right now.

Thirty seconds.

Azzi’s hands ball into fists at her sides, every muscle in her body tightening. The humidity, the jungle, the water—it all presses in on her, but she pushes the fear down. She can’t afford to freeze up. She won’t.

Fifteen seconds.

Her pulse pounds in her ears, the world around her narrowing to just the Cornucopia and the water at her back. She feels the weight of everything—Cyrus’s words, Seraphine’s hope, the Capitol’s eyes—bearing down on her. It’s overwhelming, but she won’t let it break her.

Ten seconds.

The other tributes are crouching now, their bodies taut, ready to sprint the moment the gong sounds. Azzi glances at the Cornucopia again, her mind calculating every possible move, every route.

Five seconds.

Her heart hammers in her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

Three.

She digs her heels into the platform.

Two.

Her hands tremble.

One.

The gong sounds.

The Sixtieth Hunger Games have begun.

[kalims]

⭒ㅤnot gonna lie !

premise. pov prefect opens a ngl, except! the story they shared it from can only be viewed... by one person!

characters. first years

ace

not gonna lie ! smash tbh

unironically pretends that he never sent one when you start bombarding him.

uniquewhere: i didn't even see ur story

shrimp: [attatchment]

uniquewhere: i have no wifi to see that sorry not sorry

vehement denial is actually the most effective defense according to him. even if it bypasses all forms of realism, it's not real if he doesn't believe it to be! <- real life advice from ace trappola guys.

if you haven’t already guessed, he can indeed see the picture you just sent and just assumes his very first form of defense… no amount of proof will remove him from his little ball of: “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

you gotta prepare some kind of miscrosoft presentation, and sit him down. though he will 100% do that thing where he plugs his ears in with his fingers pretending he doesn’t hear anything even though it doesn’t block out you reading out the words.

“here is the real, actual screenshot of my replies—”

“I NEVER EVEN SAW YOUR STORY.”

“ah, good! next slide after this is the views of the story!”

deuce

not gonna lie ! i like you

very demure, very straight to the point is deuce.

he would've written some long ass paragraph in all honesty but he just can't because he sees what he writes, deletes it, then cringes to himself.

atleast with that one he has the excuse for whichever scenario that might randomly ask about it.. (yes, he's thinking that far) weird flex but ok

1. "you ever confessed to your crush?" someone asking

2. "yeah sorta....." deuce

3. "???" someone confused

he was feeling reaaallyyy proud of himself. the anxiousness finally settles down, alongside with his rapidly beating heart. even if it isn't a real, confession it still brings him a bit of peace.

shrimp: I know what you did

tokyodefenders: WHAT?

there goes his heart rate.

like, you did not offer context to any of that but he's still gonna think you somehow, actually do know even if you didn't provide an explanation to... whatever it is you know about him!

tokyodefenders: whaTEVER IT IS IS NKT TRUE

shrimp: please, ur breaking my heart

shrimp: I like u too :(

heart? ascended

he's not even gonna question it. all his braincells got dumped out, and all he can focus on is that particular message. he isn't even gonna remember backtracking about the ngl cause he's gonna be like:

how did they hack my keyboard.. are they tracking it?! LOL

"I'm a mastermind,"

"HOW DID YOU KNOW?!?!" <- deuce, scared for his life.

jack

not gonna lie ! stop getting into trouble. I'm not always there to pull you out

is concerned with how many times you've managed to unknowingly walk into trouble, jack had been lucky enough (yes, him. not you, cause knowing you, you wouldn't be too phased) to be a near constant presence when the shenanigans during the tournament concluded, he stuck to you then.

as in reluctantly following around you like a tail. narrowing his eyes at the less than friendly faces often wore around you, that you were... well, amazingly oblivious to. or maybe you acted like you didn't know, the carriage didn't pick you up for nothing if you were here in nrc.

shrimp: do u rlly think I'm a troublemaker?

iheldheroncejacob: yes

the random topic being brought up went completely over his head. jack probably had forgotten he'd given the link to your story the time of your day, in all honesty

shrimp: well maybe I keep getting in trouble so u can rush in, and pull me out?

iheldheroncejacob: you're a terrible friend then

shrimp: :(

in retrospect jack is able to keep up with joking around, usually. but it's so hard to take you seriously that he takes whatever you say with a grain of salt, you're almost always tipping between flat sarcasm, or calm nonchalance between your words. it almost always has something to do with the people you're with.

the heartslabyul prefect for example, you take a kind, subtle undertone of teasing to (which is crazy, because you're scarily tame in the presence of the vice-dorm head.) and then you're all stony faced when you're with someone you don't like.

^ and you obviously don't dislike jack, if the little selfish, presumptuous nrc part of him would like to claim confidently so... would you really be joking?

only does jack realize the connection between your text, and the ask he sent when he's just finished his laps.

"I'm not your guard dog! why would you even get in trouble for that, next time I'm not even gonna spare you the time cause—"

"what a pee brain."

"what? don't compare my brain to a tiny pee—"

epel

not gonna lie ! CAN I PLS TRANSFER TO RAMSHACKLE AHHHH

you've never met anyone who's disliked being sorted into whatever the dark mirror fitted their 'soul' into as much as epel.

even without the private story only limited to his response, you're sure you could pick out his message and put a face to it.

epel, in his defense, still has savanaclaw as number one in his heart. though upon asking jack if it was possible to transfer there, the latter confirmed but it was... a tedious process, and suggested asking rook, who literally came from savanaclaw!

the boy only spared his friend a side glance before scurrying away. no use traipsing around that...

but of course, getting away from pomefiore is only a goal! always being near your proximity was a biiiiig bonus!

shrimp: hey I need ur files for the dorm transfer

catchwhathands: [escapeplan.jpg]

catchwhathands: I knew u wanted me in ur dorm!!

shrimp: actually I don't. ur the one that asked ;)

catchwhathands: who cares. I'm finally getting out of this hell YEAHHHH!!

shrimp: who said I was gonna use the files you sent?

okay, admittedly the moment he'd sent over the files, epel shut his phone, and quite literally did a victory lap around his room. making sure to frolic so vil has less chances of hearing his chaos...

the dorm leader woke up so easily from noises that you'd think rook was the reason he developed such a habit.

probably.

epel was already planning the plan! he could see the vision! maybe he could plant around ramshackle since it is a pretty big area. you guys would be together for the remainder of the year—and he'd finally bump the adeuce duo from their pedestal!

*ping*

"AGHHHHH STUPID FRIGGIN'—"

"epel!"

"sorry..."

sebek

not gonna lie ! since it is a request for unbridled honesty, I shall deliver what you've requested. you have done so without much thought, clearly! if you've given such leeway for... criticism! you, human, could use a lot more educating in terms of the glory of our eternal lord, the glorious malleus! in accordance to your previous, description of our relationship. the farthest I can give is acquaintance, but I shall only call you a companion (AKA friend) if you are atleast educated about my interests! as the good companion you desire to be!

woo, alright. he really wrote all that...

oh, uh oh.. you just got another ask from him, maybe even longer..?

shrimp: what would that make silver then

rizzvolt: my brother in arms!

shrimp: but hey, actually I do want to know

rizzvolt: ah! finally! I knew you atleast have some common decency, and sense. for that I shall agree for your request in our friendship! these are the most accurate ones pertaining the great lord malleus' biography! [link] [link] [link]

rizzvolt: is that enough? I will send you more, but only if you finish these three. I will test you rigorously to confirm that you are indeed genuine in your interest!

why he has all that, you have no idea.. if only he displayed that much dedication for his studies...

shrimp: I don't wanna learn about malleus

shrimp: I want to learn about you

rizzley: how dare you! the lord's name should only be addressed with a: 'lord', 'the great', 'the

...

sebek stares at his screen, just in the process of finishing his... educating sentence, because even in text, malleus should only be treated with the highest form of respect!

have you no integrity?! he wonders.

only then does he focus on your response, does he make a rather... dubious sound of shock? sebek doesn't know why he breaks into a cold sweat as he runs the sentence through his mind a hundred times in the span of a minute.

what is this... some sort of human illness? or maybe love—

of course he'd never even consider such a thing! (just did bro)

shrimp: sooo.. since you sent me an ask, does that mean you actually like me?

shrimp: sebeeeeekk.. did you actually read?

with the speed of lightning (and the adrenaline maybe, what else could this frantic pounding of his chest explain besides that you are indeed, dangerous!) he opens the story on your media

'send me an ask if you like meeee :)'

sebek promptly falls over.

[the-boy-meets-evil]

you're mine | c.sc

you thought you had finally gotten the upper hand on seungcheol. you were wrong. pairing: idol!seungcheol x fem!reader genre: idol!au | smut, pwp rating: explicit | minors DNI warnings: this is mostly just smut so take that how you will, reader is kinda bratty, scoups is possessive, slight dom undertones (? idk i don't usually write this), swearing, kissing, biting, marking, restraints, sensory deprivation (blindfold), fingering, brief mention of a hand job, slight nipple play, use of a pet name (baby, pretty girl), oral sex (f. receiving), vaginal penetration, protected sex, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything word count: ~3.5k

a/n: idk what to say, this kind of got away from me lol. credit/blame to @seungkwansphd for putting the idea in my head and scoups for whatever bullshit he was on in macao. it was supposed to be a drabble and this isn't what i'd normally write so go easy on me. unbeta'd and mostly unedited. thank you to my baby @playmetheclassics / @classicscreations for the last minute banner and divider!

You’ve never been much of a brat with anyone else. It just isn’t something that crossed your mind. Why would you want to rile someone up on purpose? Why would you want to get under their skin just to see their response? Why would you want to do the opposite of what they asked? So no, it hasn’t crossed your mind.

Until Seungcheol. 

Until you met the man that made you want to cause problems. The man that made you discover a lot of things you didn’t know about yourself. The man that had you from the moment he told you that he was going to go easy on you. You didn’t realize then, but you were fucked. Talk about being in over your head. 

He really did start easy, in hindsight. And he let you get away with things you didn’t even realize. Thought you had the upper hand, actually. How many ways can one person be wrong? You don’t have the answer beyond knowing it’s a lot. 

You love the moments that Seungcheol lets you think you’re in control. You know now that’s all it is. Pretend. He’s always the one actually pulling the strings. And you’re always the one trying to press his buttons, press your luck, gain some ground. 

Today’s test? You want to mark him up. You want to leave your claim on him, but you know you can’t make it obvious. Don’t feel like you can push his buttons quite that hard. So even though you want to mark up his neck, you settle for his chest. You keep telling him that it’s getting too big anyway. Just who is he trying to impress?

Seungcheol is lying in your bed, one arm tucked behind his head and eyes closed. You know he’s not asleep, though, know he’s just enjoying a minute of peace before he has to leave and return to the chaos. And you know now is the best time because he really does have to go soon. It’s the best time to be able to get him and win, even if just for a moment, because there’s a lot of things he’ll do. A lot of things you still haven’t learned. But he’ll never be late. Never miss a schedule or leave his members waiting. 

So you adjust your position under the premise of stretching, not really sure if he buys the act but also not really caring. You push yourself up and quickly swing a leg over his thighs, feel them clench under you quickly as you’re settling on top of them.

“And just who are you working out for?” you challenge, quirking an eyebrow.

“I don’t hear you complaining,” is his only answer as he opens his eyes to look up at you. 

“Maybe I don’t want everyone else to see how good you look,” you pout.

“Maybe you should behave yourself then,” he retorts and you huff.

“I’m pretty sure you prefer it when I don’t,” you say.

You lean forward to kiss him before he can answer, lips meeting softly as his hands move up your thighs to grip your hips. He’s anchoring you to him and you know he’s mentally counting how much time he actually has. But you don’t want to give him that chance, don’t want to give up the tiny bit of control this position and the element of surprise have given you. You get the smallest bit of satisfaction when you break the kiss and he follows your lips. It’s not the time to get distracted, though, not now. So you kiss down his neck, suck just enough to earn a hiss out of him without it being enough to leave a mark. Not there at least. 

When you get to his chest, the muscles in his thighs tighten again. On purpose, you think, to distract you. It’s hard to ignore too, especially when his hands grip your hips harder. When you can tell he’s trying to throw you off.

“Baby,” he whines and you know that whine, know that it’s designed to distract.

All you do is hum against his chest as you continue to kiss across it and down his stomach. His moans are low, the kind that really get to you. The kind where you know he’s enjoying himself even if he’s not fully in control. You kiss back up to his chest and can feel his breaths as you go.

“What are you going to do now, baby?” he asks. You hear the confidence in his voice. The confidence that usually makes you stutter.

Not today, though. You suddenly suck the skin of his chest into your mouth. Seunghcheol hisses in the most satisfying way at the combination of pleasure and pain. His fingers dig into your skin where they hold you in place, making you hum into his skin. It just makes you keep going, managing to suck two marks into his skin before his alarm goes off. 

Without needing to be told, you slide off of him and allow him to get out of the bed. You know he doesn’t want to leave, but you know he’ll be back. Know that he’s got to keep to his schedule or he won’t be able to come over at all. After he’s pulled his shirt back on and gathered his things, he comes to stand in front of where you’re sitting at the edge of the bed. His kiss is soft, at odds with yours from moments ago.

“Listen carefully,” he whispers into your ear in that low voice. “I expect you to be waiting in bed when I text you that I’m headed back.”

“Is that so?” you challenge.

“Yes, pretty girl,” he says.

“And if I’m not?” you press.

“You’ll find out,” he answers.

That alone sends a shiver down your spine. You always want him to come back, never feel like you’ve had quite enough, but this is something even more. You’re looking forward to it. 

The text comes a little later than you’re expecting saying that he’s on his way back over. And it comes without an apology for the lateness (though Jeonghan had texted you earlier to let you know things were running long). No, this text just comes with a reminder that expects you to be waiting for him in bed. He’ll let himself in.

It gives you too good of a chance, one you don’t want to pass up. He’s expecting you to listen, especially after you marked him earlier. But you’ve been waiting for this. And you’re not going to listen. 

Ten minutes later, you hear the key turn in the lock and you sit further back into the couch wearing only one of his t-shirts he’s left behind and underwear. Maybe you’ll get to see a little of his control slipping. 

His eyes are on you the second he’s through the door, narrowing at the open defiance. Seungcheol is serious as he regards you sitting there. It’s like he’s waiting for you to break first and confident you will. It makes you fidget a little in your seat, which seems to be enough for him.

“I asked you to be waiting in bed,” he says.

“I know,” you respond without missing a beat. “I guess I’m not so good at following directions.”

“And what do you think I should do?” He’s more so asking himself the question than you.

“Whatever you want,” you answer anyway. He raises an eyebrow.

“Careful what you ask for, pretty girl,” he warns. 

“I think I can handle it.” It comes out just as bold as you mean for it to.

“We’ll see about that,” he says without missing a beat. “Follow me.”

Every part of you wants to protest, wants to keep pushing him further to see what happens. But your curiosity is also piqued and you really want to see what it is that he’s planning now. That must be why you let the intrusive thought win and follow him back into your bedroom where you find him already reaching into the drawer of your nightstand. The same drawer that he filled so you were always ready.

“Are you going to behave now and get on the bed like I asked?” Seungcheol asks with his back still to you.

“I’m not sure,” you say and smirk at the way it makes him turn around.

“Oh you’re not?” he asks. 

“What’s in it for me if I start listening? Who’s going to rile you up?” you fire back at him.

“You like seeing me riled up,” he notes.

“Of course I do,” you offer.

He closes the space between you in a matter of steps and crushes his lips against yours to prevent another retort. The surprise gives way to desire as you wind your arms around his neck. You’re not even that surprised when he grabs you and lifts you up to deposit you onto the bed, despite the gasp that falls from your lips. He puts a knee between your legs and kisses you hard again before he breaks the kiss to pull off your shirt. You reach to remove your underwear and he stops your hands.

“Leave those,” he says before getting off the bed.

His back is to you again as he looks for something in the drawer. You have to squeeze your legs together when he turns back to you with silk scarves in his hands. But then he’s silently asking your permission before attaching each wrist to the headboard and you’re nodding even as you’re squirming. It’s not until you realize he’s still got something in his hands that you remember he promised you’d find out what happens when you don’t listen.

“What’s that for, Cheol?” you ask as he straddles your lap.

“I told you that you’d find out,” he answers and leans forward so his lips are nearly on your ear. “You don’t get to see what I’m doing. Just remember the word to use if it’s too much.”

That makes you swallow hard. You’ve talked about sensory deprivation and explored it a little, but you’ve never been blindfolded from the start. And part of you thinks that he’s going to leave this on you the entire time. A reminder of who’s actually calling the shots. He’s still gentle when he secures it behind your head, so careful that he doesn’t get any of your hair caught. You blink your eyes when it’s in place without it making much of a difference. You’re not totally blinded, but you might as well be. You can barely make out a shadow.

The next thing you’re aware of is Seungcheol’s lips against your neck, carefully trailing kisses that make you want to press into him. His thumb brushes across your nipple and you whimper, earning a chuckle out of him. Not being able to see is making everything feel a lot bigger. Just making it feel a lot more. There’s no knowing where his hands or mouth will be next and it’s turning you on. Making you want everything all at once.

Seunghcheol drags your nipple between his teeth and you arch into him, careful not to pull too hard against the restraints. The hand he runs down your side as he continues to tease your nipple should tickle, would under any other circumstances. It doesn’t this time, though. 

“Are you going to listen to me next time?” he murmurs against your skin.

“I don’t know,” you manage between a moan. Your nipples are so sensitive.

“What was that?” he asks before he returns to kissing along the underside of your breast while his hand massages the other.

“I said I don’t know,” you repeat, fighting against the answer he wants.

“I guess the blindfold stays on,” he muses. 

With that, he works his way down your stomach, leaving a trail of kisses mixed with goosebumps from the warmth of his breath. Part of you wants to anticipate his moves and you open your legs, just slightly. He chuckles so quietly that you think usually you wouldn’t hear it. Except now everything sounds louder. You feel him remove his lips from your body, feel the bed shift from him moving somehow, and then feel his lips make contact with your skin again. But he’s kissing down from your knee, completely avoiding the place you want him the most. Even your moans and squirming do nothing to make him move on from kissing along your calf.

“Please baby,” you beg. 

“Please what?” he asks, smirk clear in his voice. 

“I need you,” you answer.

“Do you?” is all he asks 

“Yes, Seungcheol, please,” you whine.

“Are you going to listen next time?” he wonders. He runs a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of the material separating you from what you need most.

“Cheol,” you plead.

“Are you?” he repeats. This time he moves your underwear to the side and runs a single finger between your folds. It’s over entirely too fast. “So wet.” 

“Fuck, yes Cheol, whatever you want, I just fucking need you,” you beg again. 

His answer comes in the form of pulling your underwear down swiftly, leaving you naked before him. He runs his finger along your folds again, collecting some of the wetness there. You’re so hyper aware of him that you’re moaning from the barest touch, moaning when you feel his fingers pull away again. But then you feel him move around you and he licks into you without warning, spreading your folds with his fingers to get his tongue deeper.

“Fuck, baby, fuuuuck,” you yell. 

You want to have your hands in his stupid blond hair, the hair he knew was going to drive you crazy. Want to hold his face between your thighs. So you lightly squeeze your thighs together instead and he moans into your cunt. It’s annoying, actually, how good he’s always been at going down on you because just the thought of it makes you agree to damn near anything. 

Everything just feels that much more intense. Usually you love the sight of Seungcheol between your legs. Love to watch the way his head moves, love to see the way his hair falls, love the way the muscles move. Still do. But damn there’s something about not knowing what’s coming that’s making it that much hotter. 

Seconds later his mouth moves up your clit and your back arches into his mouth again. He follows it by sliding a finger inside you and you really think you see stars. Hearing the way he moans into you along with the way his fingers move is almost too much. You don’t need to see anything, he’s setting your entire body on fire. When he slides a second finger in and hooks them to hit you just right, you scream out again. 

He pulls his mouth away. “Oh, do you like that?”

“Fuuuuu- oh my god Cheol, yes yes,” you manage.

“Who fucks you the best, baby?” Seungcheol asks. “Hm? Who does this pussy belong to?” 

It’s honestly into cocky territory and you don’t care. Didn’t realize it was this much of a turn on for him to be possessive over you like this. Didn’t realize how much you wanted to be his, even if it’s confined to these four walls. 

“I’m waiting,” he says, stilling his fingers inside you.

“It’s yours, Cheol, I’m yours,” you whimper.

His fingers start moving again and he doesn’t answer until you feel his mouth on yours, taste yourself on his tongue. He’s catching every moan with his mouth, pushing you to let go, urging you forward. Part of you wants to pull away, knows that he must feel you clenching around his fingers, but doesn’t move his lips from yours. Catches the screams you want to let loose and guides you as you come around his fingers.

Your breathing is still coming back to normal as you feel Seungcheol untying your wrists, massaging each one as he does so. The last thing he does is remove the scarf covering your eyes and you blink even at the low light in the bedroom. His gaze is soft but confident. He knows how hard he just made you come, yet still wants to make sure you’re okay.

“Can we do that again some time?” you wonder and he chuckles.

“I guess it wasn’t a punishment,” he notes.

“Oh no, I’ve definitely learned my lesson,” you tease and he rolls his eyes but there’s nothing behind it.

“Hm,” is all he says.

He’s sitting up on the bed next to you, one hand lightly stroking his cock. You’re not sure when he took off his clothes but just getting you off clearly turned him on. Without even thinking about it, you’re moving to straddle his thighs. His eyes watch you intently as you spit into your hand and move his aside. Your strokes are slow and he lets his head fall back, eyes closing. It’s not often that he lets you set the pace like this, so you’re going to enjoy it while you can. When you run your thumb over the tip, you watch the way the muscles in his stomach contract. And you know his patience is wearing out.

“Enough,” he says and reaches over to the nightstand for a condom. He’s ripping it open with his teeth and then rolling it on the next second.

Seungcheol reaches out to pull you toward him and you realize he’s not planning on moving. No, he’s planning on you riding him. Which is fine by you since you already went this long without being able to see him. You try to lower yourself down slowly because he’s big and as many times as you’ve fucked him, you’re still never quite ready. But he has other plans and pulls you down in one motion.

“Fuck,” you draw out.

“I don’t wanna wait anymore,” he says in that low voice that shoots straight to your core. 

You’re not sure which of you moves first with his hands guiding you as you fuck yourself on him. One of his hands slides up your back and into your hair, pulling it so you arch into him. The new angle has a string of words mixed with moans flying out of your mouth. And it makes it easier for him to pull your nipple between his teeth again. Except this time he doesn’t focus on your nipple. This time he moves to the skin at the side of your breast, sucking hard. Much harder than you sucked earlier. Definitely hard enough to leave a mark. Fucker.

That thought flies out when he snaps his hips into you suddenly, quickening the pace and angling so he’s hitting exactly where you need him too. Each thrust stretches you out and brings you closer to another orgasm. You don’t even register that you’re sensitive from the first. Seungcheol pulls at your hair again and focuses on your exposed neck, a constant contrast of pain and pleasure. He kisses up and down the base before he lands at your pulse point right below your jaw. 

“Cheol fuck,” you yell as he sucks another mark into your skin. Another mark reminding you that you’re his. 

“Are you close, baby?” he asks when he finishes marking you. “Gonna come for me again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes, I’m so close,” you whine out. 

Seungcheol removes his hand from your hair to put both hands on your hips, anchoring you in place while he takes over thrusting into you. You know he must be close too with the way his brow furrows and the way he stutters.

“Fuck baby, come for me, I want to feel you come,” he urges.

It’s all you need and you’re releasing again, a string of fucks leaving your lips as he comes right after you. You try to carefully move through his release before collapsing down on his lap with him still inside you. You lean your head forward onto his shoulder to try and steady your breaths. He kisses lightly along your shoulder, hands trailing absently across your skin.

You like every version of Seungcheol, but you think this version, in the immediate aftermath of fucking him, might be your favorite. The contrast of how soft his touches are does things to your heart that you’re not entirely sure you want to admit. Not to yourself at least.

After another long moment, you gently pull yourself off him and flop back onto your side of the bed. You feel, rather than see, him get off the bed and assume he’s walking off to the bathroom. When he returns with a washcloth a minute later, you’re running your fingers absently along the mark you’re sure he left below your jaw.

“Just in case you forget,” he says before he runs the wet cloth along your skin.

“Forget what?” you question.

“That you’re my girl,” he says. “You can try to be cute and mark my chest or be friends with my members like Jeonghan. But you’re mine.”

“Yes sir,” you say and appreciate the way his eyes darken. Maybe he’s not done with you for the night yet. 

thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts <3

[strawberrystepmom]

1.1k. satoru is feeling possessive and never fails to get his way. f!reader and gojo are in a semi established fwb but this is wayyyyyy before most of my other drabbles with the same premise. let's say they're like 22 and 23 here roughly.

divider thanks to @/cafekitsune

“What are you doing tonight?”

Eyes lifting from the paperwork in front of you, a shrug is your response to Satoru’s question but it isn’t one that he’s willing to accept if the way he is repositioning himself and tipping his head to the side is any indication as to what he’s feeling.

Sighing, your pen falls to your desk with a clatter and you purse your lips.

“Going out.”

You are being intentionally evasive and he can tell even without lifting his blindfold and assessing you the way he likes to - by the way your body reacts to him. It has always told him a hell of a lot more than you do, heartbeat fast or slow, and it’s terribly invasive but he just can’t help it. How else does one solve a woman who insists on being a mystery?

“Doing what?” He asks, sliding onto your desk and sitting on the edge, looking down at you.

You don’t want to lie to him but you don’t want to tell him the truth either, the two of you still in this undefined space dancing around your true feelings. At least you are. You are never certain what is put on when it comes to the man sitting beside you and it makes it harder to be emotionally available, afraid to be a joke at his expense. He’s the most wanted man you’ve ever met and your pride will not allow you to fall victim to his charms despite knowing how deeply you care about him.

“A date,” you finally admit and he chuckles humorlessly. “A friend set me up and I felt wrong saying no.”

“Say no,” he prods. “Because you aren’t going.”

You snort, shaking your head and propping your chin in your hands as you look up at him. Assuming that he’s teasing, you let it roll off of your back without a second thought but seeing the hard set of his jaw makes you reconsider. Tension practically seeps from the usually too casual man and you wonder if you haven’t finally struck a nerve, leaning back in your chair and removing your hands from your chin to fold your arms over your chest.

“Glad to know you’re the person who decides that, Satoru.”

Turning slightly, his body now faces you completely, legs dangling at your side. He looms over you, heads and shoulders above you even while sitting. 

“Just thought you were past this whole seeing other people to make me jealous thing.”

It’s your turn to chuckle humorlessly, mouth agape at his audacity. If any one of the two of you prides themselves on making the other jealous, it’s him. 

Flirting with waitresses and cashiers and passersby without a thought, touting how badly he’s wanted by everyone he meets with an air of ease that you simply do not have the ability to replicate. How dare he accuse you of the exact hustle he runs expertly?

“Bold of you to assume that all of my decisions revolve around you.”

He tips his head to the side and leans down, entering your space and making you lean further back. You won’t let him win this little power play, raising your brow as you look over his smirking mouth.

“Don’t they, princess?” He’s taunting you, face inching ever closer to yours. The closeness makes you anxious and your palms sweat against where they rest on your opposite arms. “Because I know mine do.”

If you had his abilities, you’d be able to see how quickly his heart is beating. You’d be able to see the way his stomach turns having to display himself for you, to show you what has been in plain sight if you’d just look instead of stubbornly refusing to just let it happen. 

“What are you talking about?”

He laughs, for real this time. Nose and chin tipping toward the ceiling, strands of his hair drooping backwards with how far back he’s leaning. 

He can’t believe you don’t see it. 

The dates, the flirtation - it’s to get you to finally commit to more than whatever has simmered between the two of you since you were teenagers. You’re two fully grown adults now, you’ve given Satoru more of yourself than you’ve ever bothered to give anyone else, yet you still deny him. You refuse to give into his affections, refuse to let him adore you, protect you, want you.

It’s maddening and he has been nothing but patient in hopes you’d reward him with your affection in return and still you sit here and insist you don’t know.

“It isn’t obvious?”

The almost desperate edge to his voice makes your hair stand on end and he lifts his thumb to the edge of his blindfold and raises it over his eyes. Anxious to look up, you hesitate for a moment but there’s no avoiding a gaze as intense as his currently is, so you do. You meet his eyes and immediately want to cast yours away upon realizing that he is setting his feelings in your lap with a single glance.

It’s terrifying and he can see your heart speed up in your chest, the frown on your mouth nothing more than posturing. Your body gives you away every single time and it’s hard to fight the smug smile that comes across his face with each hard beat of your heart.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

Dropping your arms from over your chest, you make the first move and reach out to lay your hand over one of his, leaning forward and capturing his lips with your own. He smiles against your mouth and you slide your free hand up his neck and grasp his jaw. The kiss grows in intensity as moments pass and you stop yourself from going any further, backing away from him and letting him wipe a trace of saliva off of your bottom lip with the hand you aren’t covering.

Your eyes meet his uncovered ones and you dare to let a smile flicker across those pretty lips, a sight he devours all by himself. You’ve only ever smiled like that for him, after all.

“You mean it?”

He nods, offering no further explanation. You know it as sure as he does, your heart is already his despite your little games. Backing further away from him, you reach across the desk for your phone and look down, opening the chat with your friend who set you up to start with to cancel. Typing away, you groan as a pang of guilt settles in your gut with your last minute cancellation, but Satoru is quick to draw your attention back to him by grabbing your chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently dragging your face back in his direction. Leaning in, he grins.

“Now what are we doing tonight?”

[iambicpentagon]

I have a very specific idea in my head of a Drarry fanfic premise and I want to know if it already exists before I write it. Please tell me if you’ve ever read anything like this.

Several people return to Hogwarts for their eight year after defeating Voldemort. The Slytherins have been mostly forgiven after it was revealed how they were manipulated and pretty much groomed. Harry and Draco had some trouble in the beginning getting along but eventually were on friendly terms.

Through whatever reasons, Harry finds out that his Patronus is no longer a stag, it’s a new animal (I haven’t decided what animal yet). He figures out that he’s fallen in love with someone, but he has no idea who. He enlists the help of Hermione to find out who is the owner of this new Patronus.

All the while, he’s growing closer and closer with Draco. Harry, out of curiosity because the Patronus charm has been on his mind quite a lot recently, asks Draco what his Patronus is. Draco confesses that he doesn’t know as he’s never been able to conjure one. Harry asks why. Does he not know how? Draco, at this point, shuts down the line of questioning, but later reveals that he’s never had a memory that was happy enough for a Patronus to work. Harry asks him to just try. So Draco does.

His Patronus charm works. He’s in awe of how beautiful it is. Harry is in awe of how beautiful Draco is. He then notices the shape of Draco’s Patronus and how familiar it is.

“Of course it was you.”

“What?”

And then it ends.

PLEASE if there are fics like this, send me all of them. If there aren’t, I will gladly write this.

[ana-chronista]

Meow there 😸💛💛, I hope you are well 💛.

For the kiss prompt i would love bojure 17 ... to distract + 48 ... out of habit, please.

Have a nice day 💛💛💛💛💛

First, sorry for the delay - one of these came easier than the other but I wanted to wait until I could share both! (The one that was harder actually went through a whole premise change...) Secondly, thanks for the prompts - this is my first time writing Bojure! I hope I did it justice.

17 ... to distract

The thing about Jure is that he doesn’t get nervous. Bojan’s certainly never seen that look on him, and he’s fairly sure Jure would need a dictionary definition of the word before being able to confirm that he’s never experienced it in his life. “What time is it now?” No, what Jure gets is impatient. “It’s five minutes after you last asked, Muca.” Right now he’s little more than a vibrating ball of energy, hunched over and drumming on his thighs with his palms. “So why haven’t they called yet?” And Bojan gets it, he really does. The committee had told them they’d call by 11am to let them know if they’d been picked for next year’s Eurovision – because for all that there’s no national selection this year, there’s still a process to follow – and there’s nothing that puts you on edge quite like waiting to hear if you’ve managed to land the biggest opportunity of your career so far or not. Jan and Nace are at least twenty minutes into their stress smoke somewhere outside, and Kris is busy pacing the practice space below, organising and reorganising their equipment while speaking rapidly with someone on his phone in a voice too low to catch. Bojan had retreated to the loft to focus on his breathing, and Jure had joined ten minutes later, muttering something about feeling better from a higher vantage point. The fact is, they’re all more than a little tense as the seconds drag by, and he understands fully, a hundred and ten per cent, what Jure is feeling right now. “They just said around 11. It doesn’t mean they’re always going to be dead on, you know?” But his bouncing on the couch next to him is doing nothing to soothe either Jure or himself – in fact, it’s only agitating them both worse. “You’ve definitely got the volume up on your phone?” Bojan’s not sure he’s ever felt so incredulous as he does in that one moment of looking over at his friend. “Seriously, Jurček?” “Well, I don’t know!” Jure huffs in protest. “You might not.” “Do you not think that’s the first thing I would have checked?” He hates that his fingers are now itching to actually do just that. Irritation flares up white-hot inside of him, gritting his teeth and tensing his muscles. “I don’t know! Knowing you, probably n-” Bojan has moved before he even realises it, the only thought in his head that Jure needs to not be talking right now. Suddenly he’s pulled Jure close by his shoulder and the back of his head, crushing his mouth against the drummer’s to cut him off. There’s barely any time to register anything past the warmth of his lips before he breaks away “Boj-” Before he can start up again, Bojan reels him back in for another kiss, this time less hurried but more forceful. He can take it all in properly this time: how Jure’s mouth falls open for him, how he reaches up to brush Bojan’s hair back behind his ear, how much he pushes right back. Jure’s body has stilled now as though all of his energy is just being channelled into this one point of contact, and Bojan can’t pretend it’s not the same for him. His heartrate steadies and his muscles uncoil. It’s like the whole world has narrowed down just to the man next to him on the couch. In fact, it’s narrowed so much that it takes Kris calling him from the floor below to make him jolt back. “Bojan, answer your phone!” It’s only then that he registers his phone ringing at long last. Cursing, he fumbles to answer the call, answering Jure’s laughter only with a dig in the ribs that makes him squeal and squirm away even as Bojan does his best to sound professional and mature. When he next kisses Jure just five minutes later, it’s in celebration instead.

48 ... out of habit

Bojan can’t remember when, or even exactly how, the whole kissing thing had begun. If he had to guess, he’d put it somewhere within the first few months after Jure officially joined the band, probably at some party or on a night out with the others. He’s not even sure if he made the first move or if Jure did, but one of them must have done, because suddenly the tradition was born. Greeting each other for the first time after weeks apart? A kiss on the cheek. Saying goodbye after a night out? A kiss on the cheek. Congratulating one another after a successful gig? A kiss on the cheek. There were rules, of course, unspoken but still there. It had to be as over the top as possible. Why bother if it didn’t involve sweeping in, grabbing the other one dramatically, and landing the biggest, loudest, longest kiss on the cheek known to man? That was all part of the fun. Then, naturally, it became too funny not to do it all the time. Managing not to misplace a suitcase while travelling? Welcoming each other back to the room after five minutes? Celebrating a win in the never-ending Joker Out Uno tournament? No incident was too small to mark with another kiss on the cheek – jokingly, of course. And sometimes it might evolve to a kiss on the lips instead. Bojan did remember how that one had started, the time he’d come in too quick and accidentally caught Jure’s mouth instead as he turned his head. But the laughter had been instantaneous, and Jure had returned it with even more spectacle, so it was all fine. The rules remained the same for the odd time it happened, though usually it devolved into them wrestling to dip the other one first and laughing too much for them to ever make it to each other’s mouths.

And if anyone had ever asked, he’d have to say he’s never really thought about it. It’s not like he hasn’t kissed each of his other bandmates at one time or another, and he knows they’ve all done the same. They’re all just that tactile with each other, like good friends tend to be. So what if he and Jure have this long-running joke just between them as well? That’s also something that good friends do. And he carries on never really thinking about it – except for maybe the odd plan to ambush Jure in ever increasingly over the top ways – until one night in London. Or early one morning, really. It’s just after three, and while the others had dispersed to their rooms after they all bundled in from the pub, Bojan had decided to sit up for a while to work on the rest of the lyrics for their new song. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the buzz of enthusiasm had long since dried up once the words pinging around his mind decided that they just didn’t want to go onto the page properly. All he had to show for the last couple of hours were pages of increasingly frustrated scribbles and crossings out. “You’re still up?” Bojan jolts at the sudden noise, head whipping up. Jure is in the doorway, dressed for bed and hair all over the place. He’s clearly just woken up. “I thought I heard something.” he explains before Bojan can muster a reply. He nods towards the pages that Bojan had already given up on, torn from his notebook and now crumpled up and scattered by his feet. “Not going so great, huh?” The sound Bojan heaves in response as he buries his head in his hands is somewhere between a groan and a sigh. Caught up in his own frustration, he doesn’t realise that Jure has crossed the room until he feels the couch dipping next to him and a hand wrapping around his, pulling it from his face. All of a sudden he’s aware of just how much his own hand hurts from scratching away with the pen for so long as Jure smoothes out his fingers, kneading at cramped tendons and aching muscles. But before he can say anything – a protest that he should really get on with these lyrics or a joke that Jure should open a massage business as a sideline – Jure brings his palm up and presses his lips to it gently. The touch is barely there but it lingers for a moment longer than a joke should and Bojan finds that any and all words die in his throat. This isn’t something either of them have ever done before, but Jure’s eyes are still locked with his, calm and almost challenging. And then the moment is over. Jure gives his hand one last squeeze but doesn’t let go as he stands.   “Come on. Come get some sleep. This can wait until actual morning.” It sounds so straightforward, so matter of fact, that all Bojan can do is nod and let him pull him to his feet. He’s right – there’ll be plenty of time later, and for now he’s got too many other questions on his mind to be able to concentrate.

[dreamlandforever]

So… I have never written a Stranger Things fanfic, or even a fanfic (beyond a very vague prompt) in over seven years. But, I haven’t been able to get this idea out of my head.

Edit: I have started writing a fanfic on this premise! Part 1

Eddie, who his whole life has thought himself a coward. Who only knows to run, to hide, to lie his way out of every situation. The Munson name is not something you live up to, is something you live in spite of. Back from the dead, recovering from literal hell.

An Eddie who doesn’t know how to explain to Hellfire how or why he became friends with no other than Steve Harrington.

Eddie who hasn’t realized that what he has been doing so far wasn’t running away, it was surviving. Hide the drugs. Hide the weirdness. Hide his sexuality. Hide himself. So when one day, Garrett asks him why the hell are they holding Hellfire for the second time in a month in the Harrington residence, he doesn't think for a second before lying through his teeth.

"Look, man, I know Harrington is an asshole, but I am taking one for the team here. Do we or do we not have a big enough space for campaigns now? And the King even comes with amenities!" All sarcastic, holding the juice box Steve had laid out with the rest of the snacks.

And he meant it as he did most things, a way to hide who Eddie Munson is and protect himself. Except he knew he had fucked up big time the moment Dustin looked furious, but he wasn't looking at him; he was looking behind him. And there was only one force strong enough in this side of the world that could keep Dustin Henderson quiet.

And sure enough, as soon as Eddie turned around he could see Steve Harrington standing behind him, a tray full of nachos in his hands. He looked as calm and collected as ever, even a smile on his face. But Eddie knew that look and that face. It was his Family Video pose. It was his retail worker face. He had never looked at him like that before.

And Steve Harrington, who had learned to trust in the last three years those who he never thought he would. The Steve Harrington who had become the forever babysitter, and now felt more comfortable with a bat full of nails than with a basketball. A Steve Harrington, former swim captain, who now only got in the water if it meant saving someone else. A Steve Harrington who had worked so hard to leave The King behind and become Steve.

The same one who, once he find out Eddie Munson was one of them now, had received him like one of their own. A brother in arms, of sort. A friend, for sure.

Just smiled his customer smile, set the nachos down and said, “That comes free of charge, Munson. No need to pretend to be friends. Please lock the door on your way out.” And just turned to leave.

Steve had never joined a single session of Hellfire, but had started sitting in and listening to the stories, at the children’s insistence. Now, he turned around and left.

Both Dustin and Eddie made to stand up and go after him, but Mike’s voice stopped them. “Let him leave, he doesn’t like the game either way. Let’s just finish this”. And to Eddie’s surprise, the boy’s voice is full of venom directed solely at him.

Dustin turns to Mike and after a short silent conversation just sits back down, not turning back to Eddie.

Steve doesn’t come back. Eddie and the other teens are thrown out almost as soon as the game is over, only the Party staying behind.

….

I am not really sure what comes next. But my guess is Steve plays his part, a gracious Host who is doing Okay. No, he’s not hurt and the kids can stop worrying. And Eddie believes him. Wants to ask for forgiveness still, explain the situation. But Steve was the King of Hawkins, and not for nothing. He will play his part to perfection, while giving Eddie 0 chance to talk to him alone. They are Not Friends, and he needs to come to terms with that (Steve or Eddie or both). So yeah. Maybe I writes maybe I don’t. If someone knows of a ff similar please let me know.

If you read this far thank you. Also, I am sorry.

[karatekels]

Mediation - Chapter 4 - TIGmas Day #9

I was initially worried about this chapter being too short, but we ended up with over 7500 words, so... crisis averted, I guess!

I blame the very fluffy smut. Speaking of which...

TW: graphic sex, oral sex (female receiving), questionable dubious consent (she's rather emotionally vulnerable but I believe she consents)

Enjoy, everyone!

Previous Parts: Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

---

Mediation

Chapter 4: Causation

---

Reader's POV:

You emerge from the warehouse just as the sun is starting to set, the flashing red and blue lights of the cop cars that surround the building casting shadows of the action unfolding.

No one had sustained serious injuries in the operation – officers or suspects. The worst that you had was some bruising across your body and a small cut on your right temple, the bleeding long since stopped. The bust had been even more successful than you and Cash could have hoped for: a dozen thieves, a half-dozen of the supposed brains behind the operation, hard drives and shipping containers full of evidence… this one would go down in the history books.

You catch a flash of movement underneath the underpass next to the warehouse, still on high alert from all the adrenaline. Heading towards it cautiously, you recognize Cash’s silhouette in the shadows. Looking over your shoulder and seeing that everyone is still busy, you dart into the darkness.

“Cash! What the hell are you doing here?!” you hiss, shoving him further out of view. “You know you aren’t supposed to be this close to a crime scene; what if they think you’re in on it?”

“Oh come on. I’m far enough away. Besides, I’m sure the department’s rising star would vouch for my innocence,” he replies casually, unbothered as usual with the potential consequences of his actions. “Looks like everything went off without a hitch?” he asks, looking over the top of your head to observe other officers carting out perps in cuffs.

“It went perfectly,” you breathe, feeling like you’re nearly floating as you ride the high of the operation’s success. “I don’t even think Terry’s stubbornness will be able to hold out in the face of all this. This is huge, Cash.”

“I know. If this works, I…” he trails off, a slightly pained look flashing across his features before he looks down at you with a smile. “I really don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you for this.”

“Well, I do,” you inform him with mock arrogance. “You can get the hell off the premises and stop risking your parole!”

“Alright, fine – on one condition,” he amends, looking down at you with an uncharacteristic seriousness.

“I don’t think you’re fully grasping the concept of showing gratitude; it’s not typically a negotiation.”

“We should do something to celebrate tonight,” he says, ignoring your sarcasm. “Why don’t you come for dinner at my place when your shift is over.”

You mull the idea over. It’s not that you don’t want to accept his invitation; on the contrary, you think you want to more than is wise for your current situation. The two of you haven’t spent time together without the goal of working towards Cash earning Terry’s forgiveness. This would be the two of you, in his home, without the weight of responsibility on your shoulders. You don’t want to betray Terry, but then, who was he to decide who you could and couldn’t spend time with? He could have input as your partner and best friend, sure, but you were a damn adult.

“I’ll order a dozen spring rolls and let you eat them all.”

Well, that settles it.

“You drive a hard bargain, Cash Ewing, but you’ve got yourself a deal.”

He scrawls his address in your tiny notebook before you can change your mind, whistling as he walks away from you – you think you see his truck off in the distance.

You turn and head back to the crime scene without another word, intent on finishing up quickly.

You’re interested in finding out what the rest of the night has in store for you.

---

You arrive at Cash’s place just before 8:00, the Captain letting you off early and with strict instructions to rest for the next few days. You’d gone home to shower and patch yourself up a bit, confirming that the cut to your head wasn’t anything to worry about, and changed into a fresh set of clothes.

Choosing an outfit had taken some time – this wasn’t a date, and you want to make that perfectly clear, but you are still celebrating together. You eventually settle for dark jeans and a pretty blouse; a safe enough option for dinner at a friend’s home.

You have to park down the street, his small driveway not having room to accommodate your vehicle as well as his truck. You walk down the sidewalk to his house, a surprisingly large detached home, and the front door opens just as you approach. You’re struck with devilish inspiration, hiding behind a hedge to try to scare him.

“Yeah, I can meet you there no problem.”

You freeze, confused by his words. Sure, you were a little early, but where could he be going on such short notice?

“Yeah, the plan went off without a hitch. I’m really looking forward to seeing the payoff.”

Your whole body goes cold, and you find it hard to breathe as you watch Cash end the call on his cellphone as he hops into his truck, the engine thrumming to life.

Cash had… he had lied to you? Had this whole thing been a set-up, a way to get another player out of the way so that whatever shady business he was running with would have less competition?

Terry had been right the whole time.

You watch his truck drive down the street, feeling horribly betrayed and used and hurt, like your insides have been cut open and hollowed out. It takes you a moment to regain control of your body, but the moment you do you’re flying back down the street, throwing yourself back in your car.

You start driving before even consciously deciding where you’re going, just trying to push past your numb state enough to be somewhat aware of the road in front of you. When you park, two blocks away from the Deja Vu jazz club, you’re only half-surprised at where you’ve ended up. You don’t even know if Terry is back yet, but if anyone can understand what you’re going through right now, it’s him.

It’s a Sunday night, so the club isn’t in full swing, just a regular bar with jazz playing on the radio. You walk in feeling wooden, trying to keep yourself together for just a little longer.

“You look like you’ve had better days, Y/N,” a voice says from behind the bar. Turning your focus to the man, you give him a weak smile.

“H-Hi, Jake. Is Terry back home yet?” you ask, hoping that your desperation isn’t too evident in your voice.

“No, not yet, I’m afraid,” the older man replies, looking uncomfortable with your obvious emotional distress. “Can I get you a drink?”

You shake your head violently, unable to speak, your lips pressed together tightly to keep from crying. Jake surveys you with pity for a moment, before seeming to come to a decision.

“Right, come with me.”

He walks around the bar, wrapping a fatherly arm around you and guiding you through the bar to the stairs at the back.

“He got home a few hours ago,” Jake informs you quietly as he leads the way, presumably up to Terry’s room. “He’s out grabbing groceries right now, and asked me to tell anyone that came by that he wasn’t coming back until tomorrow if they asked for him. But I’m willing to bet that you’re exempt from that rule,” he says knowingly, and you manage to give him a grimace somewhat resembling a smile. This wouldn’t be the first time you crashed at Terry’s place – it was common to celebrate closing a difficult case with a late night at Deja Vu, and it was no secret that Jake wanted you and Terry to settle down with one another.

He reaches into his back pocket to retrieve his keyring, unlocking the door to Terry’s apartment and gesturing inside with an arm. “Make yourself comfortable, Y/N. He should be back soon, and I’ll send him right up.”

“Okay, Jake. Thank you so much,” you choke out, trying to hastily close the door behind you without being rude.

Turning on the light overhead, you take a look around Terry’s sparse apartment, eyes lingering on his travel bags at the front door. You assume he was only here long enough to bring his stuff upstairs before heading out again; he must be exhausted. You walk to the kitchen to look out the window at the city street down below in the hopes of distracting yourself from the guilt of bothering Terry with your problems that he had warned you about on multiple occasions. But before you can start mentally spiraling down that unpleasant train of thought, a couple of photographs on the kitchen counter catch your eye and, being nosy, you decide to investigate further.

You immediately regret your decision, even as you can’t take your eyes off of the pictures of Cash and Terry.

They could be brothers, with their twin blue eyes and their tall, strong builds. You notice that in one photograph, Terry has his arm wrapped around his partner’s shoulder in a friendly hug as they pose for the camera, a horseshoe ring on his finger just like Cash’s. There is something so beautifully carefree in their expressions, and it makes you ache. You’ve only seen flickers of the light and happiness reflected on both of their faces in these pictures, and you’re again overwhelmed with frustration and sadness at this messy situation.

You force yourself to look away from the pictures, unable to stomach the pain of seeing how much had been lost in this years-long predicament, not to mention where you stand in it all.

Hopefully Terry will be home soon, and hopefully he won’t hate you when he finds out what you’ve been up to in his absence.

---

Terry’s POV:

Terry arrives back home at 9:00, his arms laden with grocery bags. He still has a few days off before he needs to go back to work, and he doesn’t want to have to leave the apartment anymore than he absolutely has to. Working on the farmhouse had been no easy task, and he’s looking forward to a few days of rest before heading back to work.

As he enters the club, he heads over to Jake at the bar. Maybe a nightcap would help him get some restful sleep, or at least ease his aches and pains.

“Hey, Jake! Could I get a –”

“No.”

He goes to glare at the man, not in the mood for his snark, only to see a serious expression on the man’s face. Something is wrong.

“You need to go to upstairs; she’s waiting for you.”

He doesn’t even take a moment to thank the man, jostling his bags as he all but sprints through the bar and up the stairs. You were the only person on earth that Jake would let into his apartment without asking him first; the only person he still trusted or cared about beyond the scope of a typical friendship.

The only one he loved.

He tries not to anticipate the worst as he struggles to fit his key in the lock, opening his front door. He sets the groceries down on the counter by the front door, scouring the room for you and finding you curled up in a tight little ball on the couch, seemingly asleep. His gaze softens as he quietly closes and locks the door behind him, taking off his coat and shoes before slowly approaching you for a closer look.

You’ve taken the small trashcan out of his bathroom and put it in front of the couch, used tissues in and mostly scattered around it. Your eyes are red from crying, and the bags beneath them look like you haven’t slept in a week, but you look relatively unharmed. He can’t think of a time in the five years he’s known you that he’s seen you like this, and he can’t even imagine what has caused you to look like this now. Had someone died? You look heartbroken.

He immediately regrets leaving you by yourself to go work on something as insignificant as renovations, the guilt eating him alive. Desperate to be of use, he gently drapes a blanket over your body; you look like you need the sleep, and he’s not going anywhere.

He sets about tidying the place up, picking up the tissues and returning the trashcan to the bathroom before moving to unload the groceries. His travel bags are mostly filled with dirty laundry, so he doesn’t bother to unpack them yet; that could wait until after he figured out what was going on with you.

When you still show no signs of waking – he knew from experience you were a rather heavy sleeper – he decides to take a quick shower, hoping that it would help him be fresh and alert to help you with…whatever it is you needed. He rushes through the process, not wanting you to wake up without him there, quickly toweling off and changing into some of his last clean clothes, grey sweatpants and a black sleeveless muscle shirt. He’s in the middle of towel drying his hair when he hears you stir.

“Terry?” you call for him groggily, and he flies out of the bathroom, quickly coming over to you. He pulls one of the kitchen chairs over to the end of the couch that you’re curled up on, sitting next to you and hunching down to search your expression, your body for anything that might give him a clue as to what the fuck happened.

“I’m here, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he says softly, watching you blink up at him through your bleary eyes. His hands itch to hold you, but he keeps himself under control. He’s had years of practice, after all.

“What happened, Y/N?” he asks, gently pushing the question when you fail to do or say anything for several long minutes. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong, Terry!” you exclaim, though your voice seems incapable of the volume at the moment. “I fucked up, I was so stupid, and I’m so sorry!” you wail, hiding your face in your hands as you start to cry again. He immediately slides off his chair to his knees, his chest brushing your legs as he wraps his arms around you to grip your shoulders.

“Hey hey, none of that,” he tsks, wishing he could just scoop you up into his arms and squeeze all of your hurt out of you. Instead he stands, quickly moving to the kitchen to get you a glass of water and holding it out for you. You take several gulps, the glass shaking in your grip, and he gently takes it from you to set it on the coffee table.

“Look at me, Y/N, please,” he pleads with you, and after a moment you lift your head, your watery red eyes locked with his. “I promise, whatever you did or think you did isn’t going to be as bad as you think –”

You cut him off, keening loudly in a piercing, heartbreaking note that sends his heart up to his throat and down to the pit of his stomach all at once. Unable to refrain from comforting you any longer, he moves to sit next to you on the couch, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side. You feel uncharacteristically fragile, so different from the fierce, confident woman that he’s come to know and love.

He gives you a few moments, and you manage to get your tears and your trembling relatively under control. He’s not exactly sure when he did it, but at some point his hand had guided your head to rest in the crook of his neck, and was now stroking your hair slowly, feeling you relax under his touch. He tries to stay focused on the matter at hand, but he can’t deny how incredibly natural it feels to hold you like this, to take care of you. Neither of you liked to be vulnerable, especially with one another, but he knows that the two of you had tiptoed around the issue more and more as your time working together had gone on.

“Terry?” you say his name in the quietest, most broken voice he’s ever heard, and it makes his heart twinge painfully. Instead of responding he releases you, turning you both so that you’re facing one another so that he can try to convey just how willing he is to do any-and-everything for you through his gaze alone. You seem to receive the message, taking a deep breath.

“Before I tell you, can you please promise that you’ll let me finish explaining myself before doing anything… rash?”

The request has his guard up, but he nods tightly. He’ll give you whatever you need.

“I’ve spent the last week working on tracking down the crime ring running that operation on scrap metal in the area,” you begin, your eyes watching his for any hint of a reaction even as he does the same to you. “We arrested nearly twenty perps today, and have secured a ton of evidence.”

“That’s… incredible, Y/N,” he says, more confused than ever. Why did this have you so upset? Had you been promoted as a result of your work? Were you leaving? “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you; that’s a lot of progress to make all by yourself.”

Guilt washes over your face, and you break eye contact with him. “I had a team of six with me today during the bust; I was covered, no one was seriously hurt on either side.”

“But?” he presses, losing patience now despite his best efforts to remain calm.

“I… I wasn’t working alone this week. I was working with Cash.”

Your eyes fly up to his to gauge his reaction, but Terry finds that he’s nearly going numb, staring out into nothing. You’d gone behind his back and lied to him? About this of all things? After everything he’d said and done to dissuade you from listening to that corrupt, lying piece of –

“How is that even possible?” he asks hoarsely, interrupting his own train of thought. He doesn’t want to get angry yet. He promised you, and unlike you – unlike everyone else, apparently – he kept his promises.

“Terry, I didn’t go looking for him, I promise. When we talked about it last month, I kept my word. I didn’t speak to him or so much as see him until the beginning of last week. We ran into each other while I was in pursuit of a suspect and he helped me get the guy down. I didn’t even know who he was at first, I swear…”

He bites his tongue so hard that he worries it might bleed, but nods at you to continue. You’re cringing away from him as though you’re worried he’s going to hit you, and while he is very upset with you right now, he knows himself well enough to know that he would never lay a hand on you in anger.

“He came to me the next day with some intel, that he thought he knew where the crime ring’s base of operations was. He wanted to report the crime to me directly, so that I would be able to tell you so you would see he had left all that crap behind. We got to talking and he offered to help me work the case since I was doing it all mostly on my own while you were gone. Everything went perfectly, Terry, until tonight. I thought that together we would be able to prove to you that he’s cleaned up his act, so that you would give him a second chance, but…” you stop, seemingly unable to continue past the lump in your throat.

“What happened, Y/N?” he growls, his temper starting to rise. If that fucker had laid one hand on you…

“We were going to get dinner tonight, to celebrate the break in the case, and I got to his house early. He didn’t know I was there, but he was on the phone with someone else and I overheard him talking about payoffs and plans. He left to meet someone, and then I came here.”

A part of him feels guilty for the relief that flows through him. Cash hadn’t hurt you physically or tried to seduce you – he’s rather surprised, the latter would be fairly par for the course for the bastard – but had deceived you rather similarly to how he had lied to Terry. His anger towards you all but evaporates; sure, he was disappointed that you hadn’t listened to him, but your intentions, as always, were pure and good. You were simply too trusting.

However, he’s still unsure of why the other man’s deception is hitting you so hard. If you were telling the truth, which he believes that you are, then you had only worked with the man for a week. Why was Cash’s betrayal so devastating for you?

“I’m so sorry, Terry! You were right and I should have listened to you. I j-just… I figured I owed it to you to tell you the truth myself, rather than you hearing about it some other way. I understand if you h-hate me, I really do, and I promise –”

He stops listening, his hearing disappearing completely as he tries to process what you’re saying. You were so upset – nearly hysterical – because you were worried about what he thought about you? That he would hate you for being lied to be the man that had done the same to him?

For such a brilliant detective, you could be so oblivious sometimes.

He suspects that that fucker has put it into your head that he would lash out at you for the smallest infraction against him. What other reason could there possibly be for you to be so wary about how he’s going to react to your confession?

“Right, I’ll be back in a bit,” he says abruptly, rising from the couch and moving to the front door. His temper had reminded him of its presence, and this time it wouldn’t be ignored. Cash lying to him all those years ago was bad enough, but doing the same to you was absolutely unacceptable.

“W-Where are you going?” you ask in a panic, clearly confused by his sudden shift in demeanour.

“I’m going to go try to beat some sense into him, at the very least,” he snarls, throwing his coat back on and digging through his pockets for his badge and gun. It couldn’t hurt to be prepared.

“Terry no, don’t! Please,” you beg, stumbling as you try to cross the room to reach him, your eyes brimming with concern. “This was my fault –”

“He took advantage of you, Y/N, of you and your kindness. He knew exactly what he was doing,” he insists angrily, speaking more to himself than to you at this point.

“I gave him the means, the motive, the opportunity!” you babble. “I encouraged us working together to solve the case, I made this mess! I was stupid to trust him, but I did, and I’m sorry. Please don’t throw your career away by confronting him about this. You’re all I have left.”

That gets him to stop in his tracks, frozen between you and the door. He glimpses the photographs of him and Cash on the kitchen counter. The two of them had been inseparable, closer than brothers… He couldn’t let what happened with Cash happen with you.

He doesn’t think he could endure it.

Terry turns back to face you, your small frame visibly trembling from the combination of emotion and fatigue, and he acts on instinct, closing the distance between you and gently taking your hand in his as he leads you back to his couch.

“Sweetheart, you need to calm down, alright? We’ll both stay here, okay? I promise. Just take a few deep breaths for me,” he croons, and sets about spending a few minutes helping you calm down and clean up. Soon you are breathing normally again aside from the occasional stuttering gasp, your eyes teary but dry.

“T-Terry, I’m s-s-so sorry. I should have believed you, I should have listened, I just wanted you to be h-happy again,” you stammer, and he can tell that you’re working hard to keep yourself from sobbing again. You were always so selfless, always prioritized him first. He knows that you’ve seen how affected he’s been from the way people have screwed him over, and he doesn’t like the person that he’s become, but to say he hasn’t been happy is patently untrue. Working with you, getting to know you… it’s been his greatest source of happiness.

He can’t say that he was planning on doing this at all, let alone now, let alone like this, but something is pushing him to be open and honest with you, maybe to set himself apart from Cash.

“You were right too, Y/N,” he says gently, lightly caressing the side of your face, needing to confirm that the small cut he sees is nothing to be concerned about. “We should give people second chances. Maybe if I had, he wouldn’t have gone back to that life, and he never would have hurt you like this. You just have more good in your heart than I do. Hell, you have more good in you than most people do…”

You smile up at him through your tears, and his heart takes off like a hummingbird’s, thrumming against his chest. He’s cradling your face in his hands now, and he doesn’t think you’ve really noticed.

“It’s one of the things I love the most about you.”

Your sudden intake of breath at his confession is the only thing that breaks the silence in the apartment, the two of you leaning in towards one another as though pulled by a magnetic force.

He gently presses his lips to yours, feeling your whole body shudder against him before you gasp into his mouth, kissing him back needily as you wrap your arms around his neck. Moving slowly – he doesn’t want to rush things and spook you, despite the unbridled joy thrumming through his veins as he’s finally able to kiss you the way he’s wanted to for ages now – he lifts you up off the couch, just long enough to sit down himself with you in his lap, your lips never parting. He brushes his lips against yours again and again, wanting to absorb your pain with every kiss, wanting to distract you from your hurt, wanting to do whatever it took to make you happy.

“Terry,” you whimper against his lips, and a part of him wants to interpret it as permission to continue, but he knows from your tone of voice that you’re having second thoughts. Reluctantly he pulls away, checking your expression for an indicator of what you’re thinking. He can’t resist kissing your forehead as he leans back, his arms still locked around you, one at your hip and the other tangled in your hair at the back of your head.

“I – we – should stop before we get carried away,” you breathe, unable to meet his eyes. He thinks he hears reluctance in your tone, and latches onto it with hope.

“What’s wrong with getting carried away, honey?” he asks, curling his arms to press you against him more firmly. “You’re safe with me,” he coos reassuringly. Give him the opportunity, and he would spend the night showing you just how much he cares for you with every single move he makes. He just needs a chance; he isn’t sure he can keep himself from you now that he’s had a taste.

“Terry, I’m exhausted, I’m an emotional wreck…I don’t want to do this if there’s even a chance I could lose you for good. If we go down this road and it doesn’t work out, I...” you trail off, unable to voice even the possibility of the two of you not being in each other’s lives.

“This doesn’t need to be anything but two people that care about each other being there for one another. Just for tonight,” he coaxes, feeling your doubt melt away. So the sex might mean more to him than it will to you; he’s more than okay with that, so long as you don’t regret it in the morning. He’s a simple man; he’ll take what he can get. “But you’re never going to lose me, Y/N. Let me prove it to you.”

He kisses a line from your temple down to your jaw, letting out a pleased growl when you tilt your head to the side to give him access to your neck. He lavishes the sensitive skin between your neck and your shoulder with lush kisses, finding a spot that makes you whine and honing in on it, sucking and nibbling the delicate flesh until you’re moaning his name, writhing in his arms.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he groans, surveying the dark hickey he’s left with a primal sense of dark satisfaction. You arch your body, your hips rolling against him as he runs his hands up and down your sides possessively, wanting – no, needing to feel you. Call him selfish, but he’s going to have all of you tonight, especially since he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to have you again.

“Take me to bed, Terry, please!” you plead with him, and if you only knew the number of times he’s fantasized about hearing you say those words…

He stands, his hands at your waist, lifting you up with him until your arms and legs naturally wrap around his body tightly, your face buried into the crook of his neck as you pepper him with feather-light kisses that have him swearing he’s died and gone to heaven.

“Your wish is my command, princess,” he teases as he carries you over to his bed. He gently lowers you onto it, taking a moment to look down at you: hair fanned out around your head on his pillow, face flushed, eyes gazing up at him with lust.

You sit up as he takes a seat on the bed next to you. Terry watches you intensely, unblinking, his eyes noticing everything as your small hands brazenly trace the muscles of his bare arms up to the back of his neck to play with his still-damp curls, nibbling your lip shyly as you explore his body.

You take a brief reprieve to build your confidence, and he’s happy to grant it, then your hands slowly move down from his neck to his collarbone, your dainty fingers eagerly exploring his firm pectorals. He does his best to stay still, to be calm and patient, but as your hands wander down past his ribs to his abs he can’t help the groan that escapes him, his head dropping to rest on your shoulder. You let out a nervous giggle.

“Sorry, am I moving too fast?” you ask nervously, and he bites back a bark of laughter. Instead he silences you both with a passionate kiss, his tongue seeking entrance to your mouth. He doesn’t let up, intent on kissing you breathless as he lays you down on the bed again, keeping his weight off of you as he comes to lay on top of you.

“It’s been more than five years, Y/N; I don’t think we could move any slower,” he jokes once he’s let you up for air. You giggle, holding his face in your hands as you look up at him with a soft smile. “But I’m here for you sweetheart; have your way with me however you want!” he adds with a lopsided grin.

“So generous of you, Mr. McCain. Always the pinnacle of chivalry,” you tease, twining your hands back around his neck. He tightens his grip on your small waist in return, wanting to memorize this moment so that he can cherish it forever.

“Only for you, doll,” he replies in a husky voice, moving back as you sit up slightly, leaning on your elbows as you rest your forehead against his.

“Terry, I… it feels like so long since I’ve been able to think about us. Just us,” you clarify, and it’s clear you’re referring to Cash. “I don’t want to think about anything except you and me. Please help me forget.”

If he has his way, you’ll never think about Cash Ewing or any other man ever again after tonight.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you, always,” he promises, and he can feel you melt at his words. “Just relax, and let me make you feel good.”

You let out a wordless moan of consent that he captures with his lips, kissing you passionately as he pins you against his mattress. His hands trail down your body to your hips, his fingertips exploring the soft skin of your belly where your shirt has ridden up. You arch against him with a mewl, and he grips the hem of your shirt to pull it up and off of you, his eyes greedily roaming your torso. Your ample cleavage is too tempting to resist, and he buries his face between your breasts, kissing the bare skin of your chest above the cups of your bra. You throw your head back, letting out a wanton moan, your legs wrapping around his hips as you grind yourself against him, your fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“Terry, please!” you cry, writhing beneath him and even in this moment he knows he’ll never forget those words coming from your lips with such need.

“Don’t you worry, babygirl,” he coos, laying kisses all over your collarbone, his hands gently but firmly gripping your hips and holding them down. “I’m going to give you everything tonight, I promise. But let me take it all in, honey – I’ve been dreaming of this for ages now.”

You pout at him teasingly, and he takes the opportunity to suck on your lower lip until you groan at the throbbing ache. Smoothing his hands back up the sides of your body, he slides them beneath you to unhook your bra, tugging the garment down your arms and tossing it on the floor behind him. The instant your hands are free, you’re tugging insistently at the hem of his shirt, making him chuckle lowly as he takes the hint, pulling it over his head. Your eyes darken with lust as you take in his bare chest and you lick your lips, making him growl low in the back of his throat before bringing his hands down to cup your breasts. Your nipples are peaked and prominent against his palms, and he can’t resist the temptation any longer, bowing his head to take one into his mouth, one hand teasing the other.

“Fuck, Terry! You’re way too good at this,” you groan, and that stroke to his ego sends a jolt of desire right to his dick. He redoubles his efforts, teasing your breasts with his fingers and lips and tongue until your voice is hoarse from begging, your hands fisted in the sheets after you realized that clawing at his back wasn’t going to get him to let up on you. He’s feeling dizzy from the way you’re coming apart at the seams for him, his straining erection throbbing with need. He’s never wanted anyone so much.

“God Y/N, you feel amazing. I can’t get enough of you,” he moans, grinding against you as you lock your legs around him once more, pressing your centre against his cock.

“Try,” you demand sassily, looking up at him with a teasing smirk that has him growling and reaching for the button on your jeans and pulling your zipper down before tearing the pants down your legs. You gasp from the rough treatment, wantonly allowing your knees to fall open as you look up at him, breathless with need. His nostrils flare as he takes you in, eyes drifting to the scrap of silk and lace between your legs, the only thing concealing your body from him. He spots the damp patch on your underwear and it shatters his remaining resolve.

Lunging forward, he buries his face in the apex of your thighs, laving his tongue along your slit and up to your clit through your underwear. You shriek with surprise before clapping a hand over your mouth to stifle your cries of pleasure, and he groans against your pussy, dizzy from the heady, musky scent of your arousal. You buck up against him, your free hand tangling in and tugging at his curls, and he grips your inner thighs in his large hands, squeezing them possessively as he holds them spread open.

Your muffled pleas take on a higher and higher pitch as you reach your peak, and he chases after your orgasm hungrily, parting your panties to the side and delving his tongue into your tight channel. Your grip on his hair tightens, and he slips a finger inside of you, moving his mouth to suckle on your clit as he curls his finger up against your g-spot, your thighs clenching around his head as you come hard for him. You’re barely coherent at this point, but he manages to pick out a few words amidst your screams, ‘fuck,’ ‘Terry,’ and ‘so good’ among them. Eventually, he feels your muscles relax, and manages to slide up your body while you catch your breath.

“You taste better than I ever could have imagined,” he purrs in your ear, laying hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of your neck, feeling your pulse thrumming under his lips.

“Oh my God,” you pant, squirming beneath him as he squeezes your hips, wanting to claim ownership of as much of your body as possible. “Terry, that was… you were amazing.”

“Just giving you a taste of the worship a woman like you deserves,” he croons in a light, teasing voice, moving himself around your body to lay gentle kisses on top of every bruise he sees; the day’s events had left you rather battered, though he sees no sign of serious injury. He would happily get on his knees and show you the depths of his devotion every day if you would allow it. He’ll do everything in his power to see to it that you do.

Unfortunately, you seem to have other plans, your hands moving to the drawstring of his sweatpants, one hand trailing down to stroke him over his pants while the other dips into his waistband, tugging him towards you.

“Your turn,” you inform him coyly, and he feels like a teenager again, getting close just from you fondling him over his clothes.

“God, sweetheart,” he groans, hips thrusting into your palm. “Feel how hard you make me,” he commands in a rough voice, and you squeeze his length in a way that makes him hiss with pleasure.

“I need to be inside you, Y/N,” he confesses, and you shudder against him. “Let me have you, let me make you mine, baby, please,” he begs, watching your eyes roll into the back of your head at his smutty words. You nod frantically, your eyes now scrunched shut, seemingly unable to speak. He hooks his thumbs into his waistband, pulling his pants and briefs down in one fluid motion and kicking them off. When he looks back over to you, you’re staring at his cock with hooded eyes, your mouth agape.

“Terry, I…” you trail off, trying to find the words. “You’re so big.”

He can’t help the smug grin the spreads across his face at your words, and you giggle, rolling your eyes at him and rolling onto your side to bury your face in his pillow. He slides himself behind you, spooning you, his length insistently prodding between your thighs. You whimper, grinding your butt against him at the sensation.

“I’ll be gentle, honey; I promise,” he murmurs soothingly, running his hands up and down your arms as he clutches you to his chest. “Let me give you everything,” he coaxes, leaning down to kiss you as you turn your head to face him.

Occupying your mind with his tongue, he trails his hand down your body to your knee, lifting your leg up and back to wrap around his, allowing him to open you up. His other hand slides up your waist to your chest, his palm on top of your heart as he pulls you back against him. Guiding the head of his cock to your slick entrance, he slowly pushes inside you, swallowing your moans into his greedy mouth. You’re so fucking tight; it takes everything in him to keep from pounding into you.

“That’s it, baby,” he croons approvingly as you start to rock your hips back against his, letting out little mewls as you slowly take more and more of him. Your pussy feels like heaven, just as he knew it would.

“Mmmhhhnn, Terry!” you cry out, and he knows he’ll never get tired of hearing you moan his name. “M-m-more!”

“You want more, Y/N?” he asks in a low, harsh whisper, biting back a snarl as he grabs your knee possessively, bending it up towards his chest to spread you open more. “You want to take all of me?”

“Yes yes please!” you beg, and it’s music to his ears. He pulls out of you slightly, hearing you whine at the loss before thrusting his hips forward, sinking his cock fully inside you until he’s pressed up against your ass. He groans, your body gripping him tightly like it was trying to keep him there, sheathed inside of your tight heat forever.

“Oh fuck, baby, you feel amazing,” he pants in your ear, his arms wrapped around your torso as his hips set a slow, deep pace that has you nearly sobbing.

“Oh God, Terry baby, you’re so deep,” you whimper in his ear, still rocking your hips back and forth as much as you can in this position. “Your cock feels so amazing, fills me up like it was made to!”

He fucks you harder, spurred on by your dirty talk, and you let out a wanton wail in response, your fingernails digging into his forearms as you cling to him.

He pulls out before he loses himself completely, sitting up and kissing your ankle before rolling you onto your back. You hook your feet around his ass, pulling him towards you impatiently and making him chuckle at your enthusiasm. He eases himself back into you, resting his weight on his forearms to either side of your head and gazing deeply into your eyes.

Every time he’s fantasized about being with you for the last five years, he’s climaxed to the thought of your face looking up at him the way it is now. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t come in you for the first time while gazing down at your beautiful face, twisted into a mask of ecstasy because of him.

“You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart,” he breathes, looking at you with reverence. “You feel so good, I wish I could stay inside you forever.”

You hold his face in your hands, stroking his cheeks as yours flush from his praise. So innocent and shy, even while he’s balls deep in you.

“I want you to come for me, Y/N,” he purrs, trailing a hand down your body to where your hips are joined to play with your clit, watching every slight reaction you make with fascination. “Come on my cock, sweetheart – let go for me.”

Those seem to be the magic words; your eyes roll back into your head as your whole body clenches and twitches around him. You chant his name like a mantra, and he chases after his own orgasm, pumping his hips into you fast and deep as your cunt flutters around him, releasing inside you with an animalistic grunt of your name.

The two of you stay locked in an embrace as you both catch your breath, every inch of your bodies pressed together. He savours the feeling of bone deep satisfaction coursing through him, pressing kisses to every part of your body that his lips can reach.

Reluctantly, he twists himself free of your grip, smiling softly at your incoherent whine as he pulls away from you. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a warm, damp cloth. You had been so tight, so much smaller than him, and he doesn’t want you hurting in the morning.

Tenderly, he takes the washcloth to your entrance, feeling your body relax under his ministrations. Finished with his task, he lifts you off the bed, holding you with one arm while he bends down to pull the blankets back before sitting you back down on the mattress.

“You’ll stay tonight?” he asks hesitantly, not wanting to push for anything more than you wanted but desperately wanting to spend the night holding you. You give him a shy smile and nod, wordlessly holding your arms out to him. He crawls into your embrace, sliding under the covers with you and taking you into his arms, murmuring sweet nothings into your hair and kissing your forehead.

He’s completely exhausted, but he fights to stay awake until after you’ve drifted off in his arms. The moonlight illuminates your face, and he’s pleased to see a soft smile curving your lips. Unlike when he’d walked in on you sleeping fitfully hours before, you now look completely serene. He feels a surprising amount of pride and pleasure at the fact that he was able to give you exactly what you’d asked for. He’d helped you to forget.

But he hadn’t forgotten.

At least one good thing came from knowing Cash Ewing: he had pushed you right into Terry’s embrace. Now that he’s finally got you, he’s not keen on letting you go.

*boos Anna Gilmour*

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Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Epilogue

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Master List Here

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[biconickyoshi]

I know taatfp come first, but I just want to let you know that your zukaang tgcf au definitely has a waiting audience.

As someone who ship zukaang and is in mxtx fandoms, I remember thinking "what brought this on???" when I first saw your fic but I was and still am curious about the premise. Then months later while brain rotting about how Zuko seriously worshiped Aang, the answer slapped me in the face and I could finally put one and two together.

So yeah, I have a mighty need to see where you want to go with that tgcf au

Aww thank you so much!! :) I’m happy to hear that, especially since that fic is not nearly as popular as TAatFP. I definitely have a lot of interesting ideas floating around in my head for TFoTLA, and I’ve got a whole document with a bunch of stuff brainstormed for how each AtLA character would fit into the world TGCF. I just need to figure out a direction for it lol.

Even though I don’t have any more chapters written yet, here are some of the plot ideas I have so far:

- Instead of butterflies, Zuko can summon silver dragonflies. E-Ming can also be split in half to be his broadswords.

- For the Ghost Bride Arc, Ju Dee would be Xuan Ji, General Fong would be General Pei. Haru would be Pei Jr. “Kya”, “Lin”, and “Bumi” (Katara, Toph, and Sokka) would be sent by Suki (Ling Wen) to help Aang for this mission.

- For the Banyue Arc, Meng would be Banyue, and she and Haru would have been friends long ago. This is where Zuko, appearing as his 16yo scarless self, would first show himself to Aang. This is also where Aang would eventually meet Mai and Ty Lee (Ming Yi and Shi Qingxuan), disguised in their male forms at first.

- For the Ghost City Arc, Sokka, Ty Lee, and Jet (Lang Qianqiu) go with Aang to Ghost City, where Aang sees Zuko’s true form for the first time as The Blue Spirit ghost king, the way he looked when he died at age 19. Aang and Ty Lee find Mai in a dungeon on Zuko’s property, injured.

- Don’t have a lot written down for the Fangxin Guoshi Arc, other than Jet is pissed bc he thinks Aang killed his family. Aang and Zuko meet the Yellow Calamity, Ozai (this story’s Qi Rong lmao)

- There’s a lot of arcs I haven’t written anything down for, but for the Blackwater Arc, it’s gonna be: Azula (the Shi Wudu equivalent, but not related to Ty Lee) sabotaged Mai’s ascension (by somehow making her family go destitute), and Azula and Ty Lee ascend together. In this fic, Azula would have had feelings for Ty Lee and been jealous of her closeness with Mai. Eventually, Mai would die and become a ghost, but like HC in the novel, still be able to ascend even after death. So she does, and Azula is like WTF but she can’t do anything about it, and Mai isn’t aware that Azula was the one who ruined her life. However, Mai eventually finds out and plans her revenge on Azula, but it won’t end as tragically as in TGCF lol. Azula would be the one to get her divine status revoked and banished to the mortal realm following this, while Mai and Ty Lee would remain gods.

Now that I’m reviewing all of my brainstorming stuff, it’s making me want to work on this AU again 😭 But I really need to finish the next couple chapters of TAatFP first lol.

We’ll see if I have the brainspace and energy to work on TFoTLA in my free time once I finish that, though…

[theearlgreymage]

An Ask Game for Writers to Procrastinate Working on Your WIP(s)

Soooo -- The lovely @ic3-que3n decided to tag me in this little game. Because they know I am eternally procrastinating on all my WIPS.

(Original Ask Game)

1. 🦈Tell us the name of your/ one of your WIP(s):

Vogue in Paradis (And I will be using this specific WIP for all remaining questions)

2. 🍄Describe your WIP/one of your WIP(s) in the format of “___ + ___ =___”

Fashion Designer Erwin + Makeup Designer Levi = Rivals to Lovers Office Romance

3. 🌍What tags or warnings will your / one of your WIP(s) need if you intend to share it?

Guys. Come on. This is ME we're talking about - they are going to fuck. Explicitly.

4. 🧭An alternative title to your/ one of your WIP(s)?

This one was originally unnamed when the premise for it was created. I started this a while ago, and then set it on the back burner, but then Lewi dropped this amazing art and it sparked that flame of motivation to continue it -- and gave it a Title.

5. ⚠️Which WIP your most likely to finish or update next?

Either May Their Blood Boil will get an update OR I will finish Vogue in Paradis

6. 💾What is your document of your WIP/ a WIP called? (not the stories actual title but what you’ve saved it as)

Despite how meticulously I keep my Google Drive organized, there is absolutely no rhyme or reason to my Docs Names. Most of the time it is just an extremely vague phrase. But I do keep my Docs ORGANIZED. Each fandom has it's own folder, and within that there are folders for oneshots, series, ideas, and @ic3-que3n (yes - they have a whole ass folder because they put that many ideas in my fucking head.)

7. 🖍Post Any sentence(s) from your WIP.

“Smith.”  At the mere mention of Erwin’s name, Hange starts laughing.   “Stop that,” I sneer at them as I lean back in my chair and cross my arms defensively. Already anticipating where this is going to go – which is why I didn’t want to say anything to them in the first place.  “Stop being in denial then,” Hange wheezes out between fits of laughter.  “I’m not in denial!”  We’ve had this argument before – anytime I bring up Erwin, Hange insists that I have a crush on him. Which I do not.  “Keep telling yourself that,” Hange drawls as they wipe a tear of laughter away from their lash line.  “We’re not having this discussion.”  “And you’re still not getting laid.”  “Hange.” I practically snarl at them.   It doesn’t perturb them in the slightest. “Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong,” and I’m about to answer their demand but then they keep going. “Tell me you don’t think he’s a whole ass meal. That you haven’t thought about what he’s hiding under those bland Oxford shirts and wool pants.”  “I don’t –”  “Or that you don’t think he’s infuriatingly good at his job.”  “That has nothing –”  “Or that you can’t seem to keep your eyes and ears off of him in joint meetings.”  “Well that’s only –” “Or that it’s a damn shame no one has been able to take him off the market.”    The silence that falls over us is uncomfortably tense. And I can’t decide if I want to crawl beneath my desk at the sudden, horrifying, realization that I can’t deny a word they just said – or leap across the table and strangle them for making me realize I can’t.  “That’s what I thought,” they chime triumphantly as they lean back on their hands. Pushing a pencil cup out of its place.  “Get. Out.” I snip between clenched teeth. My hands balled up in fists in the crooks of my elbows to keep from lashing out at this idiot I call my best friend. 

8. ♻️A scrapped idea for your current WIP.

Hmm. No. I'm holding this information incase I un-scrap the idea.

9. 🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

I have a WILD backwards-reincarnation plot cooking in my head right now. I'm going to make the CANON the reincarnation and write a whole pre-canon/part reincarnation for my blorbos. And I am ITCHING to write it like it's no ones fucking business, but I'm determined to get some other projects off my plate first so that I can give it the attention that it rightfully deserves.

10. 🤡How many WIPS are you actively working on?

Hahahahaha...ha...ha... Well. You see...That's not an easy answer. Because I am not good at math and cannot count that high... But. In the last 30 days...Going off of WIPs that I've typed at least 500 words on... 11...

11. 🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

Yes 😎

12. ❤️Not a question, just a second Kudos to send.

Bless. You're too sweet my love ❤️

And now so I can spread the procrastination, I’m tagging...

@artsyunderstudy @shrekgogurt @buffy @j-nipper-95 @aristocratic-otter @cutestkilla @facewithoutheart @fatalfangirl @hushed-chorus @martsonmars @skeedelvee @thewholelemon @wellbelesbian @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @palimpsessed

[ninapi]

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Premise: The last option to overcome the illness that holds you was very much uncertain. A place only known to be a myth became your last chance to survive. Welcome to the fox village, a place full of mystical beings, a place to finally call home, a place where love knocks in more than one door at the same time and choosing which to open might as well change your life forever.

Word Count: 4129

Note: Welcome to the second half of my fantasy story, to understand what’s going on you would need to at least read the chapter 0 of the first part (link here). ✨

Chapter 0: The lost girl

Not the owls nor the bakenekos were able to find a cure to the bird disease that held you captive, your friends from the Tengu clan were succumbing to despair as your condition worsened every day that went by.

After discarding the other possible options, the only one left was to embark in an ill fated quest with not much of a success rate on your own, your decision aggravating your beloved friends and earning you a one way ticket to the land of the unknown.

The way from the east side of the forest down south was a treacherous path, you were told this by many, but you didn’t expect it to be this bad. It’s been raining heavily during the past few days, the path flooded and almost impossible to walk through it, but you had to keep going.

You made a promise, a promise to your friends, the closest thing to a family you’ve ever had. You would survive, you would beat this disease and live the life you were supposed to have, to find happiness. Nothing some muddy water would stop you from achieving.

The days were long, the food your friends gave you was now gone.

You didn’t know where you were or how long you still needed to walk to find this village. They didn’t even know if it was actually real or just a myth. Everyone still alive that knew about it refused to give you word of its whereabouts hoping you would die trying, anything was better than getting the foxes attention.

The sky was finally blue, not a single cloud in the sky. Not being able to eat or drink for three days straight and tired of walking miles without a rest, your consciousness was starting to fail, black dots suddenly in every surface, until black was all you could see.

The fall was hard, you could feel a sharp pain on the side of your head before finally disconnecting yourself from reality, you thought this was probably your end, the village was nowhere near and you haven’t seen any creature of the forest for days now, nobody would find you here. But you had a decent life, at least you were able to spend some more time with your dear feathered friends before passing.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“Tsumu, what’s that?” the youngest of one of the most prominent families in the village spotted something big fall on the main path while he was picking up some fresh mushrooms close by. “What was what?” his twin was concentrated in his task, making sure he wouldn’t confuse the edible mushrooms with the poisonous ones, the beating he took for making that awful mistake once still lives in his skin. “Something fell hard on the road, sounded like something big though, like a person.” he was peeking through the foliage, their village is very well hidden, no human had step on it in over a millennium, could it be hunters? “You’re delusional, Samu. Focus.” but he was certain of what he saw, it also hadn’t move since it fell, should be harmless. So he dropped his basket full of mushrooms and ran over to the road.

You were bleeding, clearly dehydrated. Your feet were full of heavily infected blisters and seemed like you lost a shoe somewhere.

“Tsumu, it’s a girl... I found a girl.” he grabbed a stick, poking your side gently with it, cautiously. You looked anything but dangerous, but you looked human after all and humans were dangerous.

“You found a what? You mean like a human girl? Or from a different clan? Get your ass back here if you don’t want to be kicked out of our village like Aran did.” he was still mourning the loss of his friend who had run away with a girl from the bakeneko clan, he just left like if his clan meant nothing to him. Hundreds of years of friendship thrown in the trash. “I think she's human. Don't be an ass, Just take my basket.” he was carefully lifting you up, trying to get you on his back. “Oh no, you are NOT bringing that thing with us. Put it down, NOW!” his fangs were out, growling at his twin in disgust, “Shut up, I do what I want with my life. You can tell Ma you picked up all the mushrooms. I saw your basket you had like three.” Atsumu scoffed, peeking into his brother’s basket which was full to the brim with high quality picks. “Fine! If she bites you don’t say I didn’t tell you so!” he went back to his mushroom hunt while Samu headed towards the village, drops of blood falling on his shoulder and alarming the young fox.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Once he arrived at the entrance of the village, the gatekeeper and his senior, Omimi was giving him a hard time. “Osamu, we can’t allow strangers in, you know this.” he was shouting all the way up from his post at the watch tower. Your breath was getting shallower, and his anxiety levels were rising quickly, “Can’t you see she’s hurt?? I feel her dying on me, please just let me in, I will take in the consequences.” with a heavy sigh, he let the gate open up just a tiny bit trying to draw as less attention as possible, “Hurry.” Samu nodded to his friend, smiling briefly at him before dashing towards the healer’s house.

“Kurosu-sama, please help me!” he was banging on the elder’s door, hoping he was there. A groan coming from the inside, “Come in, Miya. What is it, that can’t wait for my nap time to be over?” Samu opened his door, kicking his sandals off and rushing inside. “Please help her. I think she’s dying.” he lowered you down on the tatami floor, gently holding your head with one of his hands to accommodate the lack of pillows in his proximity. “Miya, this is a human girl. What have you done…” he was terrified, he hadn’t seen a human in centuries, “I know, but she needs help. Can you do something? I found her not far from here already looking like this.” the older man handed him a pillow to put under your head, hoping to get some space to take a good look at your injuries, “Move, kid. I won’t eat her, if you want me to help her, I need to see what’s wrong.” hesitantly, he moved to the side, providing some space but without going too far in case he had to act if he tried some dirty trick on you, “Fetch me some water, we need to clean her wounds first.”

Lightning fast would not be enough to describe how fast Osamu came back with a bucket full of water and some clean rags, even the elder was surprised, he’s usually pretty slow and lazy, very unexpected of him, “Clean her feet, I’ll take her head.” Samu was doing his best not to hurt you, but your feet were looking pretty bad, you flinched when he touched a deep cut on the side of your ankle, “You’re fine, it’s ok, it’s just water. Kurosu-sama will help you very soon.” his voice soothed the frown on your face, lulling you back to sleep right away. The elder was worried, he’s never seen the kid act this way, Aran’s story coming back to him just as it did to Atsumu. But at least Aran wasn’t stupid enough to bring the girl to the village, this was almost unprecedented, it happened once, and that’s why they were not pure foxes anymore but half breeds, this won’t be seen well by the rest of the village. “Osamu, once I heal her, we are taking her back to the forest before anyone else can see her, you hear me boy?” he was shaking his head, carefully applying a clean bandage on your left foot. “Kurosu-sama, her head. How is it?”

“She took a heavy blow against what I think was a rock, but it’s just a flesh wound, not what made her collapse. She is very malnourished and dehydrated, though. I’m going to make a tonic for her, stay here.” nodding, he looked around for a blanket, it was a chilly afternoon, seemed like it would rain again soon.

Once he was back, he saw you covered with one of his favorite blankets, Osamu had already cleaned your face and there was no sign of blood on you anymore. With a heavy sigh he handed him the tonic so he could give it to you, somehow, he felt like it would trigger the kid if he went any closer to you.

He took the small bowl with one hand and lifted your head carefully with the other, bringing the bowl to your lips. It started spilling all over the place, your lips just not opening wide enough for the liquid to go inside properly. “Kurosu-sama, is the tonic dangerous for me?” he was looking desperate at this point, half of the tonic already spilled, “No, why would it be dangerous for you-“ without letting him finish his sentence, Osamu took the remaining tonic in his mouth and pressed his lips against yours, making sure you would drink all the content as you should.

The healer was more flustered than Osamu himself at his actions, it wasn’t like he was trying to steal a kiss from you, he was just frustrated with the stupid bowl. “C’mon boy, let her rest. Let’s wait for her to wake up outside.” reluctantly, he obeyed.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

It took three full days for you to wake up, Samu never left your side, this causing the entire village to realize something was off.

He was not one to miss his shift at his parent’s owned restaurant, it was the only one in the village, so more than one villager realized he was missing. Atsumu was spotted a few times close to the healer’s house and Omimi was even more quiet than usual, this picked the leader’s interest.

The village used to be run by an elder woman, she was the eldest among all the current population of that side of the forest and had finally passed after a bountiful 5366 years of age. Her grandson was appointed as the new leader, despite his young age, he earned the respect of every single one of them, no one would go against his grandma’s wishes anyways.

You woke up to the feeling of something fuzzy poking your nostrils, making you sneeze. The sudden loud noise waking Samu up, one of his fuzzy ears was just a bit too close to your face. “Finally, you are awake.” he was rubbing his eyes tiredly, looking down at you like if sharing a futon with you was the most normal thing to do, forgetting this was the first time you’ve actually seen him. “Where am I?” all you could remember was the sharp pain on your head which was still present but way less intense. “We are at the healer’s house, I found you almost dead on the road, so I brought you to my village. Miya Osamu, by the way. My name.” you looked at him bashfully, he was handsome, but what had your attention were the fuzzy ears on the top of his head, a fox. “Is this the fox village? Did I find it?” your smile caught him off guard, giving you a short nod, “You were looking for my village? Why?” you were now sitting up beside him, taking in the building you were in, “Oh and I’m (Y/N) sorry, I got sidetracked. Thank you for saving my life, Miya-san. I will be forever in your debt. I was looking for your village because I have a rare bird produced disease. I actually came all the way here from the east side of the forest, my friends from the Tengu clan were trying to help me get rid of it, but not them nor the owl clan, not even the Bakeneko clan could find a way to fix it. I don’t mind dying. But I made a promise that I would try my best to survive. So, they sent me here as the last resort.”

The healer who was hearing everything from the other side of the wall, walked in unannounced, “We can’t help you girl. We might have overly long lives, but we aren’t gods. Our ways wouldn’t help you, we are different species.” your eyes wavered, a sad smile painted your features. Another dead end.

“Unless….” Samu stood up, looking at the healer. “Unless nothing, kid. She won’t receive Inari’s blessing.” you tugged on Osamu’s yukata, silently pleading for an explanation. He sat back down, looking into your eyes, “There’s an ancient legend that says if a human receives Inari’s blessing, they will become one of us. Since we aren’t mortal beings, your disease wouldn’t kill you.”

The leader of the village made his way inside the room where all of you were, having heard the last part of Osamu’s story, “Though, only one human had ever received such blessing, my grandfather, and he is dead, we aren’t completely immortal after all, we all die eventually. So, no one knows how he did it.” you bowed, imitating your new friend, he seemed like someone important. “But leader, the rest of the legend says that-“ Kita interrupted Osamu’s disrespectful outburst, “That true love from a fox and a human can bring Inari’s blessing. Yeah, I know. But my grandfather wasn’t sick, he lived here for ten years with my grandma, very much in love, before he received the blessing. So, we don’t know the whole story.” Osamu deflated next to you; would you even have ten years to figure it out? How long did love even take to flourish? What did true love even feel like?

More people kept coming in the healer’s house, now becoming an audience of some sort.

“I told him he should of just leave her to die on the road.” Atsumu scoffed, his harsh words making you coil behind Osamu.

“I’m not going to side with your brother, Osamu. You did a very noble thing; you have my respect for that. But you know it breaks the village rules, you can’t bring a human here. Not after what happened with my grandfather breaking the rules.” your head poked from the side of Osamu’s arm, looking at two toned haired fox. “What happened?” your voice was nothing but a whisper, but they all could hear you, “We are not a pure breed anymore.” your shaky hand held onto Samu’s strong arm for moral support, “Is…Is that a bad thing?” you were seriously curious, you’ve heard of the Bakeneko clan, they couldn’t care less for the origin of their partner, you actually found that endearing, even inspiring.

“Well, I don’t particularly think that way. But that’s how it’s always been, we don’t mess with rules around here.” the leader looked down at you, frowning, no wonder Osamu took a liking to you, you were just as disrespectful as he was.

“Almighty leader, may I say something?” the sarcastic son of the most prominent house of the village, the Suna family, spoke, coming out of nowhere. “You may.” he made some space for the new face to go into the room and revel on the presence of the newcomer. “All the elders expect our generation to bring pups and to not let our village die. But how are we supposed to do that when there’s only one girl around our age and that happens to be my sister, who’s very much sold to your family already? Wouldn’t it be convenient to have at least one more female around? Or do you expect me to make babies with the twin’s mother? Because I am very opposed to that, not even sure if she can even have more.” Osamu’s fist was clenching hard, placing a protective arm in front of you. “Don’t know what you are even talking about, Suna. Looks pretty claimed to me. What would you get out of this?” the man was now crawling his way over to you to peek behind the massive man guarding your form, a sly smirk on his face. “They just met, that’s not how we do things around here, the Miyas know this well.” he was a bit scary, didn’t give you the sense of safety Osamu did.

“He is right. It’s not first come first served. We would all have the same right to claim her, even you, leader.” Atsumu was now on your other side, making you shrink even more, holding onto Osamu for dear life, “Back off you low lives. You are scaring her.” his canines ready to bite an arm or two off any second now.

Heaving a deep disappointed sigh out, the leader straightened his back, a power display causing the younger foxes to retrieve. “While the claims of the Suna family might be accurate, this must be discussed with the eldest of the clans. We are indeed already a half breed, if we mix it with the same other half, it wouldn’t make the offspring any less pure than we are.” Samu released the breath he was holding at his words, relaxing his clenched fists, “This, however, will not guarantee you keeping the girl, Miya Osamu. And it will also not guarantee she will ever get Inari’s blessing. True love requires two hearts, feeling the same, weighing the same. We don’t need a woman who cannot provide offspring for the clan, so this isn’t up to me. All I can do is grant permission for the time being for her to be here. But you know the rules, she can’t go back to her world, she would have to stay here for good, or we would have to kill her.” he gave you one last look before leaving the house.

Osamu turned to look at you, he thought you would be crying at hearing such harsh words, but you were already destined to die, this wouldn’t shake your resolution. It was a complicated process though, is not like you can force a blessing from a god.

“Shall we go to my house? I’m sure we have enough room for you, at least until the leader dims you worthy of getting your own house.” you got up with his help, getting ready to walk to this new destination.

“Nah-uh. What did the leader say? The girl isn’t yours. Why would she stay in your house?” that blank stare and sly smirk were seriously giving you trust issues, he didn’t seem dangerous, it felt more like if he was desperate, but that was equally scary.

“Back off, Suna. She’s injured, scared and needs time to rest. It’s not time for romantic drama, besides, who do you think she would prefer being with? Someone who actually cares for her and is wiling to get kicked out of the village just to bring her to safety, or someone who’s just after her womb?” he was getting kicked out for you? Why? Why would he go to such lengths for a stranger…?

”So you are telling me that’s not what you’re after? What is it you wanna do with her, bake together? Do you think we are all stupid? I’m not letting the Miya family take the only girl available so easily, not without a fight, besides, we own the only inn in the village. Wouldn’t it be more suitable for a young unmarried woman to have her own room in a public inn rather than compromising her to not only one but two of her courtship options? That’s playing dirty.” he was going to take you away, wasn’t he? Samu could feel your heart rate pressed to his ribs, you were clearly scared and didn’t want to go with the sly fox.

“Hey, hey. Don’t be scared, you don’t have to go with him if you don’t want to.” he was cradling your face with one of his large hands, melting you to your bones. “Hands off, Samu. You’ve been awfully touchy with her, disgusting. I think she should go with Suna too. Even if that means I won’t have my share of time with her right now, at least it would keep you at a distance. Who would have thought you’d be such an intense rival.” you held his hand down from your face and padded your way over to the sly fox. “I…I don’t want to cause you any more troubles, you’ve already done so much for me. I’ll be ok.” the adoring look on your face, causing Samu’s lungs to stop working.

Suna guided you out of the house and towards his inn, a defeated looking Samu left alone to sulk in the now empty room.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you in any way. I’m actually pretty harmless.” his comment startled you but you could see he was just trying to break the ice, “My mother will make sure to give you a proper room and we’ll take care of your meals. Just make sure to rest and recover quickly. I’m usually at the counter on the first floor, you can always come to me if you need anything. I won’t lock you away or anything like that. That’s not how you get someone to love you, I guess.” you gave him and appreciative smile and limped on your own towards his house. It annoyed him to his core to see how you were desperately clinging onto Osamu, almost cuddling him, but you refuse to ask for his help even if you are in obvious intense pain. This wouldn’t be an easy win for any of them.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The Suna family was unexpectedly very warm and kind. They gave you a nice big room with a lovely view of the mountains. The sly fox told you to call him by his first name as in the village many people had the same last name it would just be confusing to all. He brought you a fluffy comfortable futon and dozens of kimonos for you to wear at your own convenience. He was doing the best he could, and you were grateful, you didn’t hate this side of him, he was in all truth very kind and funny even.

The leader of the village managed to convince the elders to give you time, give their protective god a chance. Reminded them of the legend once told by many, the one now hanging from the wall decorating the walls of his office. A prophecy of some sort.

The legend didn’t end there, there was more to it, though this bit wasn’t shared with the common folk, “Time will come when the true heir of Inari is born to humans and will bring happiness and prosperity to the village in decline...”

Kita believed in true love, that’s how his grandparents were able to be together for thousands of years helping to build the well balanced and prosper society they live in right now.

But will there be enough time for that?

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Masterlist

[askbensolo]

Wow man, a novel?! Despite the sucky job that's still super cool. Any chance we could get an excerpt, or a premise? (I'm stuck writing job applications, so we're *both* bored as hell, please, I'd welcome the distraction!) Also I'm good, thanks for asking :)

Heh. Well. I'm a little hesitant to share a whole lot about it right now—both because it's kinda personal to me, and also...because I'm super terrified I'll never actually finish it.

But, it's an autobiographical narrative, and I'm kinda just writing it as I go. It's about me...but I'm still not too sure what it's really about.

...And whether I'm the hero. Or the villain.

Maybe both.

...Sorry. I've been, uh...kind of...in my own head, lately. That's been another function of this project, for me. Processing...things...

...Anyway.

It's, well—also about my girlfriend. We're visiting each other's families this month—you know, like—announcing officially that we're dating (!!!), now—

But...that part hasn't happened, yet, in real life. So...I started out just kinda...writing about how she and I met. And it's really funny, because, what we initially bonded over was not wanting to kiss people.

So—sure, I'll share an excerpt, haha. But...you gotta remember I'm still workin' on it. And it's a little rough around the edges. And it ain't all polished up nice and pretty, just yet.

Maybe...a little bit like me.

---

Most of Luke’s students were teenagers, then. You get a bunch of teens together—stuff happens, you know? And sometimes that “stuff” is weird kissing games. And so, it was a game of spin-the-saber that brought Fannie and I together—not because we were both in attendance, but rather, exactly the opposite. 

I told you: I was homeschooled. I didn’t know what that was. And when I found out, I ran away as fast as I could, and I saw there was a light on in Fannie’s hut, so I knocked on her door, and she let me in.

“My, you look a mess,” she said, looking me over, probably seeing all the trauma on my face. “Are you alright?”

“I…yeah, I just…” I gestured vaguely behind me. “The others were…”

A look of concern crossed Fannie’s face. “Were they being mean to you?”

I shook my head. “No. Not exactly. Kind of the opposite, to be honest. One might say things were getting a little too friendly back there.”

Fannie sighed, and rolled her eyes a little, and stood up on tiptoe and let her heels fall back down abruptly. “What was it this time? ‘Never have I ever?’ ‘Seven minutes in Force heaven?’ ‘Spin-the-saber?’”

“That one. The last one. I mean, I didn’t know what spin-the-saber was! I haven’t been able to practice with a saber all this time—I thought we’d be sparring, and doing cool spinny-tricks, or somethin’—”

Fannie giggled, then, and I looked at her, shuffling my feet a little. I was afraid she was laughing at me.

“You’re not like other boys, are you?” she asked with gentle amusement, her brown eyes sparkling a little.

I interpreted this remark offensively, of course, because I’m great at that. I shot her a nasty little look. “Well, I don’t see you over there.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant; it’s not bad at all to be different,” Fannie assured me. “You’re right; I’m not over there. Why don’t you sit down? I can make us some tea.”

“Thanks. Um…I actually forgot your name.”

Fannie giggled. “I’m Fannie.”

“Oh. Right. Fannie. I’m Ben. Nice to meet you.”

And then I cringed because, well, we had already met, and she already knew my name, and oooooh owie I’m so awkward.

But she didn’t seem to mind.

“Yes, it’s nice to meet you,” she smiled.

The tea was made. The tea was drunk. A half-hour later I was sitting on her bed while she sat on the floor and knitted (Fannie loves knitting and crocheting and other forms of making stuff out of yarn and thread).

“I’ve never liked anyone before. Is that weird?”

“Perhaps you haven’t found the right person.”

“You sound like my mom,” I groaned. “No—it’s not that. It’s not that at all. I just don’t want to be with someone, like that.”

“Ah, I see,” Fannie said. “Well—there’s nothing wrong with that. The old Jedi used to take vows of celibacy. Did you know that?”

“Yeah…I knew that,” I said, tapping my fingers rapidly against the clay mug. “But…this isn’t something I chose. I’m just…like this. I’ve always been. I don’t know why.”

Fannie was quiet for a moment. And I began to worry again that she thought I was weird.

“…I sense that this has been difficult for you,” she said finally, her voice heavy with sympathy. “To feel like you’re different from other people.”

I looked up at her. She was gazing at me with such compassion. My heart kind of…filled up. With something warm, and sweet, and achy.

“…Yeah,” I said. “Yeah…exactly.”

“Hm.” Fannie took my empty mug and set it on the little table by the door. “Well…I can’t presume to know what you’ve experienced or what you’ve gone through, Ben. But, I’ve felt different from other people, too, so I know a little of how it feels. I’m sixteen and I’ve never dated anyone, or kissed, or been kissed.”

I didn’t really know what I was supposed to say. What normal people who weren’t me usually said. That’s okay? You’ll find someone? That’s too bad?

“…Well, I’m seventeen and I’ve never done any of those things, either,” I said finally. Then I grinned. “Maybe Uncle Luke should reinstitute the celibacy rule. Then, everyone would have to be just like you and me.”

Fannie giggled. “I wouldn’t like that. I do want to be married someday.”

“Oh. You do?”

She nodded, and then after a bit I nodded back.

“Yeah, I guess can see that. I s’pose you do kinda seem like you’d end up married someday.”

“What do you mean?”

I shrugged, embarrassed, wondering if I was about to say something offensive. “I dunno. You just seem—kind of—like a mom.” I paused. “I mean it in a good way, this time.”

Fannie beamed. “I have become rather known as the ‘mom friend’ around here.”

I looked at her, the knitting in her hands, the mugs on the table, the kindness in her smile.

“Yeah, I can see that, too.”

“Thank you.”

“Well…I’m glad you don’t like kissing, either,” I said. “I felt like I was the only one. I don’t know. It always seemed gross to me.”

Fannie was quiet.

“What? You don’t think so?” I asked.

“…I’d…I’d like to kiss someone someday,” Fannie admitted, turning a little pink. “But…not while playing spin-the-saber.”

“Really? Why?” I asked—because I was starting to feel comfortable with her, and I’d always wanted to ask, but never felt like I could. “I just—don’t get it. It’s like—your mouths—touching each other—and germs—and spit—”

“Well, when you phrase it that way, Ben Solo, of course it sounds revolting.”

“It is revolting,” I told her, “and I’m just saying it like it is! Well, okay. Okay, okay. Would you—would you do it with tongue and stuff? ‘Cause—that’s nasty.”

Fannie turned even redder.

“Oh, my Force. You’re about to say yes.”

“It…it might be nice,” she confessed. “If…if I liked him very much, and we were very close, and—if we were married.”

“Ewwww!” I threw a pillow at her, playfully—and then I realized we didn’t know each other that well, and I didn’t know if she and I were close enough for me to throw things at her—but she only laughed.

“Goodness, let’s talk about something else now,” she said, then. “My face is burning.”

“Oh my Force, yes. Team No Kissing?” I offered her a high-five.

“Team No Kissing,” she agreed, laughing.

We high-fived. And from that moment on, we were friends.

And—we still are. I don’t think it makes us not friends just because we’re also dating now.

In fact, she was such a good friend to me, that when the thing I call my “mental health crisis” began to spiral out of control, she was the first one I went to for help...

[typicalopposite]

Ack! @windwardstar i was trying to redo the text on the ask and deleted it 🥴🥴 but ANYWAY

It issss the same fic! 😁😁😁😁 it makes me so happy you remembered!! 💕 and it has not been forgotten… it’s just, you see, I was walking along and was violent shoved down the rabbit hole that is RWRB(Red White and Royal Blue, yes I recommend if you haven’t seen/read lol) and I’m currently still falling 😀

BUT since you already know the premise of this fic I’ll give you a lil sneak peak :)

16. practical cultivation

Lan Wangji will never fall in love.

“You are young, Wangji,” Lan Xichen says softly, giving his younger brother a smile. “How can you say you will never fall in love?”

“I won’t,” Lan Wangji insists, fists clenched at his sides and a stern look crossing his face.

“No one can say with certain what the future holds-”

“I can,” Lan Wangji snaps; he regains himself, takes a calming breath, lets his eyes fall shut. “One may not be able to predict the future, but they can choose to not allow themselves to make such a foolish decision.”

Lan Xichen's eyes turn sad, he opens his mouth, Lan Wangji expects to say ‘Love is not foolish’, so he is already tightening his clenched fists more; until his nails are digging into his palms. However, Lan Xichen just lets out a sigh, another — smaller, more unhappy — smile, and departs.

———

A group of students are carrying on a conversation about what they will do when they grow up.

Be a strong, and fearless cultivator. Be a physician and find cures for all the horrible illnesses in the world. One student’s answer stirs up laughter among the others: Fall in love with the person of my dreams, and be a loving, devoted husband and someday father. The other students tease and mock him for his answer, but he seems unfazed by their remarks.

Lan Wangji tries to not eavesdrop — eavesdropping is forbidden — but they are talking so loud. “Lan- er- gonzi what do you think?” One of the students asks, and only then does Lan Wangj realize how obvious his eavesdropping has been. “Are you going to be a loving husband someday as well?” There’s muffled laughter throughout the room.

His fists clench so tightly the writing brush in his hand snaps. The room falls silent; all the students stare at Lan Wangji. He closes his eyes, taking deep grounding breaths as he gets up to exit the room. “Boring,” he mutters as he goes. Once he’s out of the room he hears the others erupt into laughter.

“Boring.” One boy mocks.

“No one could be as boring as Lan - er - gongzi.” Says another student.

“He will only marry if they arrange it. I feel sorry for whoever is forced to marry him.”

Lan Wangji feels heat fill his face. He is moving without thinking, quickly towards anywhere other than their mocking laughter.

“Wangji…” Lan Qiren calls out to him as he storms past his uncle; who is surely heading toward the class he supposed to be in. Lan Wangji has half a mind to keep walking, feeling like he needs fresh air to calm himself fully; he’s not even sure why he’s so upset in the first place.

He doesn’t keep going though, and stops in his tracks, before turning to bow to his uncle. Being disrespectful to the elders is forbidden and Lan Wangji knows he should also respond.

I hope I used the titles correctly! 😮‍💨 but ye! Hope you liked it! 😁😁

[retrieve-the-kraken]

9 favourite books

Thank you @gwiazdziarka for tagging me (and thanks for all those book recs, I’m adding all of them to my list, except for the ones that I’ve already read), and I agree, maybe all of these won’t be my absolute favorite books, but they’re either books that I think about a lot, or books that have a special place in my heart, but not necessarily something that I go back to over and over.

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exúpery

This one is definitely a favorite. It’s a book that I’ve reread many times, because I feel that it has a different feel every time, depending on what I’m going through at that moment. Also a classic. Love it so much that I’ve started to collect editions in different languages; so far I have Spanish (of course), French, Italian, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Euskera (possibly one of the rarest), and Swedish (of course, because I intend to be able to read it by next year).

Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

Also an absolute favorite, classic down-the-rabbit-hole type story that takes place in London Below. Fell in love with it, with the world-building within an already existing world. If i actually had to list 9 of my favorite books, pretty sure the whole list would be Neil Gaiman, but this book is both entertaining and comforting, so I pick this one. The BBC radio drama adaptation starring James McAvoy and Natalie Dormer is also excellent. Still waiting for the book sequel, though…

84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff

The most charming book in history, composed entirely of letters between an aspiring writer and rare books collector in New York and the manager of a rare books bookshop in London. Their relationship is platonic, and yet one of the most romantic things I have ever read. The movie adaptation is equally charming and it has Anthony Hopkins and Judi Dench in it. Read the book first, then watch the movie, then cry endlessly. Rinse and repeat.

Like a Hole in the Head by Jen Banbury

You should know that I get a lot of book recommendations from TV shows, so I decided to hunt down this book when Monica was reading it in more than one episode of Friends (felt like a subliminal message). And it was fucking worth it. Also a book about a book. A dwarf comes into a bookshop where the protagonist works, to sell a first edition of Jack London’s White Fang, and only after he’s gone she finds out just how rare it is. Heist plot ensues. It’s equally strange and exciting, mind-blowing and cathartic.

The Opposite of Loneliness by Marina Keegan

Very melancholy, this book is a collection of essays, poems and short stories published posthumously, as Keegan died in an accident at 21. She was very talented and could write convincingly about many things. Can’t even pick a favorite one out of the collection, because they’re all very good in very different ways. Very bittersweet.

Los Caballos Estornudan en la Lluvia by Dimas Lidio Pitty

Another short story collection (the title literally translates as “Horses Sneeze in the Rain”), from a Panamanian author, from the region where I spent my childhood summers, which still holds a very special place in my heart, and which has a mysticism about it that he helps preserve in these stories. Dimas Lidio Pitty was very good at magical realism. One of the stories in particular is so brief, but it’s incredible how good it is in such a short narration.

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

I’m a huge fan of classic dystopic science fiction, and this one has got to be my favorite. The narrative is interesting, moves along at an excellent pace, and it covers everything. Another book about books too. If you haven’t read Fahrenheit 451, the premise is simple: in this dystopic society, firemen don’t put out fires, they start them… to burn books. Book banning to the extreme. What happens next? You need to read it to find out.

El Misterio del Solitario by Jostein Gaarder

I have been obsessed with this book (The Solitaire Mystery in English) by Norwegian author Jostein Gaarder since I started reading all his books when I was a teen (I don’t even know how I came across him, I just picked one up one day and went with it, it wasn’t even Sophy’s World, it was Through a Glass, Darkly). Of course Sophy’s World is probably the most famous, and it was very good, but this one is so strange and magical that I read it several times ages ago, and it was such a comforting book, and now I would like to reread. Maybe one day soon I’ll read it in Norwegian!

The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum

Another classic and favorite, which I have also read many times. Some people like Alice in Wonderland, some like Peter Pan, I like the Wizard of Oz. I like anything Oz related, the movie, the musical, Wicked (the musical, not the book, tho), everything. But the source material is still where it’s at.

No pressure tags: @makingupachangingmind , @voldiebeth , @raincitygirl76 and @phoebenpiperx .

[canonfatbisexualenby]

Sara hid behind a large oak tree, peeking out to survey the premises. Before she could get a good look, she heard a small voice shout ‘Look out!!’

A sudden blast of cold air whipped near her head, along with the ‘splat’ of a decent sized snowball crashing against her beanie. She heard Pam giggle and turned around.

The other woman dropped her hands when Sara met her gaze and tried to feign an innocent expression. Sara smirked, walking over.

“That was a cheap shot!” Sara laughed, her breath turning to mist. She brushed the bits of snow out of her hair. Pam walked towards her and chuckled, Cece following close behind.

The girls of the family had decided to get in a good snowball fight before holiday shopping later that day. Jim was inside tucking Phillip in for a quick nap.

“I was totally in a compromised position!” Sara proclaimed as Pam grabbed her hands.

“All is fair in love and snowball fights!” Pam laughed. She suddenly looked down and grimaced “You’re not wearing any gloves!”

“Oh, yea, my old pair was super hole-filled. Haven’t had time to replace them.” she blushed slightly.

This was their first December together since The Breakup. Last Christmas season had been a disaster, that was filled with way too many impulsive decisions, including but not limited to flirting with one of her bosses at the time and a heartbreak that had lasted over a year.

She didn’t like to talk about it a lot, but certain items or features (like her old gloves and bottle blonde hair) reminded her of those horrible months. Wondering if she’d ever be able to tell Pam how she felt. Wondering if she’d ever have a family that loved her, like Pam had with Jim.

A sudden caress to her face startled Sara from her thoughts.

“You okay in there, space cadet?” Pam had a mildly worried expression. Sara blinked, composing her own expression. “Yea…just reminiscing.” she chuckled slightly.

Cece grabbed her cold fingers, gingerly, and in that simple gesture her worries floated away.

Sure, their family wasn’t exactly conventional. But it was her family. She was with the woman she loved, who had a husband understanding and openminded enough to accept that sometimes someone is in love with more than one person. And he was willing to include her in their family. She sometimes felt like she’d hit the jackpot.

“Well, we should probably head inside.” Sara smiled widely. She scooped Cece into her arm, grabbing Pam’s hand with the other. Snowflakes scurried over and Sara closed her eyes, enjoying the moment for a few seconds.