#a date with Masterlist

[ephiesoul]

💝 A Date with… Masterlist

💝 Markiplier Egos

Chibi Murdock

Chibi Jim’s

Chibi Bim Trimmer

Chibi Necromancer

Chibi Noir Mark

Chibi Stan the waterman

Chibi Engineer

Chibi Eric Derekson

Chibi Night

Chibi Author

Chibi Dr. Iplier

Chibi Yancy

Chibi Host

Chibi Bingiplier

Chibi Wilford

Chibi Actor Mark

Chibi Darkiplier

Chibi Markiplier

Chibi Illinois

Chibi Googleplier

Chibi Damien

Chibi…

💝 Jacksepticeye Egos

Chibi Jackieboyman

Chibi Marvin

Chibi Anti 2.0

Chibi Chase 2.0

Chibi Seán

Chibi Anti 1.0

Chibi Henrik

Chibi Chase 1.0

Chibi JJ

Chibi Robbie

Chibi…

💝 Miscellaneous

Chibi Celine

Chibi Unus Annus

Chibi Blankgameplays

Chibi Celci

Chibi Natemare

Chibi Gunther

Chibi Amy

Chibi BB

Chibi Gab Smolders

Chibi Dan Avidan

Chibi Arin Hanson

Chibi Ross

Chibi Blue Mack

Chibi Spencer Charnas

Chibi Ethan Nestor

Chibi Matpat

Chibi Lixian

Chibi…

Back to main Masterlist ↩️

[verstappenverse]

A Fine Line

Requested by anon: "Would you ever do a fake dating fic with Max? I think that could be fun maybe they go to a wedding or have to share a bed or is for PR, you choose :)"

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Forced to fake date for PR, you and Max attend a high-profile wedding only to realise that maybe some feelings can’t be faked. - fake dating / one bed trope / enemies to lovers

Author’s note: Sorry this one took a while anon, it ended up being a bit longer than originally planned! I hope you enjoy 🫶🏼

6k words / Masterlist

The first time you met Max Verstappen you were there on assignment, shadowing a day in the life of a driver for an in-depth feature. Max, already a world champion, was an enigma you’d been eager to unravel—intense, brilliant, and the name on everyone’s lips.

You approached him tentatively, armed with your questions and a cautious smile, but it didn’t take long to realise that interviews were the last thing on his mind that day. Polite but curt, he answered with the bare minimum, his gaze constantly darting back toward the garage as if he had better things to do. He wasn’t rude exactly, just detached, his focus entirely on the next session.

“What’s the hardest part of juggling fame and racing?” you’d asked, pen poised.

He glanced at you briefly before replying, “I don’t really think about it.”

The conversation didn’t improve from there.

You wrote it off as part of his intense personality—laser-focused, unapologetic, and unwilling to entertain distractions. But something about his demeanour irked you, even then. You didn’t know if it was the confidence or arrogance of someone who knew he was the best and knew he had nothing to prove off-track.

The article went to print, and you moved on thinking Max Verstappen would be a footnote in your career, nothing more than an anecdote about difficult interviews. You were wrong.

Over the next few years, your paths crossed more times than you could count as your company expanded into motorsports media. First, it was another feature, this time at a glitzy sponsor event where Max was as uninterested in mingling as ever. Then a mid-season documentary where you were assigned to follow his team for a week. Somewhere along the way, what had started as indifference between you two evolved into a dynamic you couldn’t quite define.

There was a sharpness to your interactions, an edge that didn’t seem to dull no matter how often you met. Max would roll his eyes when you asked questions he deemed unnecessary, and you’d pointedly ignore him when he made sarcastic comments under his breath. But beneath the mutual irritation, there was something else—an understanding, perhaps, that neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt.

You could see it in the way his friends teased him whenever you were around.

“Careful Max,” Daniel had said once, smirking as he leaned against the garage wall. “You two together, it’s better than most reality TV.”

Max had glared at him but didn’t deny it, which only made Daniel laugh harder. He shot back a dry, “At least it’s not fake,” earning a round of chuckles from the surrounding crew.

You gave as good as you got, though. After one particularly grueling race weekend, when Max had snapped at a camera crew for invading his space, you’d quipped, “Does the championship leader need a nap?”

He’d glared at you but couldn’t quite hide the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

The dynamic became part of the paddock lore, your sharp-tongued sparring and his witty retorts, both of you unwilling to back down. Beneath the teasing and the occasional tension, there was a begrudging respect. Max never dismissed your work outright, and you never underestimated his talent.

Deep into the 2024 season your manager called you into an emergency meeting, the kind where the tension was palpable before anyone had even spoke. You’d been sitting across from her in your shared office space, nursing a coffee that had gone lukewarm when she dropped the bombshell.

“We have a potential solution,” she began, choosing her words carefully. Her tone had that familiar mix of optimism and hesitation that always made you wary.

“For what?” you asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

She exhaled, leaning forward with a steely determination. “For the mess after the breakup.”

Ah, the breakup. The one that had been plastered across every gossip column and dissected mercilessly online. Your ex, who thrived on curated chaos, had turned what should’ve been a quiet separation into a public spectacle. Cryptic tweets, veiled Instagram posts, and leaked “insider” information painted you as the villain in a narrative you didn’t even recognise. Brands had started to question your reliability. Followers who once adored you now flooded your comment sections with doubt.

“I told you I’m working on that,” you replied, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“I know you are,” she said, her tone softening just enough to keep you from snapping. “But we need something big, something that shifts the focus completely. Damage control isn’t enough anymore we need reinvention.”

That’s when she said his name. Max Verstappen.

Your coffee cup froze halfway to your lips. “Max… as in…Max?”

“The World Champion himself” she corrected, as if his accolades needed more emphasis. “Look, hear me out before you say anything.”

You leaned back, your stomach sinking as she explained. Max’s team had approached them with an unconventional pitch: a mutually beneficial PR relationship. Max, despite his unprecedented success on the track, had been facing increasing scrutiny in the public eye. His no-nonsense personality and occasional sharp tongue in interviews didn’t exactly scream “approachable,” and attempts to soften his image had largely failed.

“You’re serious,” you said flatly, interrupting her.

“Yes.”

“And they think pairing him with me—” you began, gesturing vaguely, your skepticism evident.

“—Will humanise him while giving you the boost you need to rebuild trust with your audience,” your manager finished smoothly, her tone shifting into the polished confidence she reserved for high-stakes pitches. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the desk. “This isn’t just about optics. It’s about narrative control.”

You crossed your arms, still not convinced. “How exactly is fake dating someone like Max supposed to build trust? My audience isn’t stupid. If anything, they’ll see right through it.”

She gave you a pointed look, the kind that told you she’d already anticipated every objection you could throw her way. “It’s not about fooling anyone. It’s about resetting your image. Right now, people associate you with drama, thanks to that messy breakup. Pairing you with someone as high-profile as Max reframes the conversation. Suddenly, it’s not about your past it’s about this new, unexpected connection.”

You frowned, skepticism still etched on your face. “And Max? What does he get out of this?”

“Max needs to show a different side of himself too,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “He’s known for being intense and unapproachable. This gives him a chance to look more... balanced. Like someone who can laugh, have fun, and be in a stable relationship. You two are opposites, and that contrast is exactly what makes this work.”

The logic was undeniable, even if you hated it. “So, basically, we’re giving the world a feel-good story,” you said flatly.

“Plus you’ve already got chemistry with him.” She added with a small smirk.

“Chemistry?” You nearly choked on the word. “We can barely stand each other.”

She smirked knowingly. “Exactly. People love that. It’s enemies-to-lovers gold, and you two are halfway there already. Look you two balance each other out. Your brand is warm, open, relatable. Together, it’s an opposites-attract dynamic that will have people hooked.”

You stared at her, trying to wrap your head around it. The logistics, the audacity, the sheer ridiculousness of it all. You didn’t even like Max Verstappen. You barely knew him, and what you did know didn’t inspire confidence.

You snorted. “You’re really banking on people eating this up aren’t you?”

She gave you a pointed look. “You’d be surprised how much people love a good story.”

“Why me, though? Why not some actress or model?”

“They don’t want someone who’s unattainable. They want real. Genuine. Someone who can connect with his fans and expand his reach. And frankly, after everything you’ve been through, this could be the fresh start you need.”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your temples. “Okay, fine. Let’s say I agree to this insanity. What makes you think Max Verstappen of all people is going to go along with this?

Your manager didn’t even blink, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, he’s already agreed.”

You froze mid-sigh, your hand dropping from your face. “What?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “He didn’t really hesitate. Apparently, the PR benefits appealed to him.”

“Or he just wanted to see how long it would take before I strangled him,” you muttered under your breath.

You tapped your fingers on the armrest of the chair, the gears turning in your head. “And what happens when this ends? When people realise it was all staged?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” she replied, her voice smooth. “By the time it ends, the focus won’t be on whether it was real or not, It’ll be on how far you’ve both come. This is about resetting your story, not writing it forever.”

Her words lingered, cutting through your resistance. A fresh start. God, you needed one. The idea of pulling yourself out of the shadow of your ex’s antics, of regaining control over your narrative, was tantalising. But still, this? Fake dating a Formula 1 driver?

“I haven’t even agreed, and you’re talking like it’s a done deal,” you said, crossing your arms.

“Because I know you’ll say yes.”

Two days later, after sleepless nights and a long list of pros and cons, you found yourself sitting in a conference room across from Max himself.

He didn’t look thrilled to be there. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room with a mix of boredom and annoyance, his posture relaxed but his expression guarded. He was dressed simply, in a Alphatauri hoodie and jeans, looking every bit the world-class athlete who didn’t have time for PR stunts.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked his team, his Dutch accent making his irritation clear.

“Positive,” one of his PR reps said, their tone overly bright. “We’ve done the research, and we truly believe this will be mutually beneficial for both of you.”

Max’s gaze flicked to you briefly, and you could feel the weight of his judgment. You were used to being analysed, but his scrutiny was sharper than most.

“Trust me, I’m not thrilled either,” you shot back before anyone else could respond.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your attitude. “Great. This should be fun.”

“Look,” one of the PR reps cut in, attempting to mediate, “we know this isn’t ideal, but it’s a short-term arrangement with clear benefits. Public outings, a few coordinated posts, a handful of high-profile events. It’s all very manageable.”

Max leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight. “And what happens when people figure out it’s fake?”

“They won’t,” his manager said confidently. “As long as you both play your parts.”

Play your parts. The phrase hung heavy in the air, a reminder of what this truly was: a performance. Nothing more.

“Fine,” Max said eventually, his voice low and resigned. “But I don’t want this to interfere with my real life more than it already has too.”

“Don’t worry,” you replied, unable to help yourself. “I’m not looking to be a distraction.”

“Good,” he said, his tone clipped.

When you got up to leave the meeting, another Red Bull PR rep caught you in the hallway, his grin far too smug. “Play nice, you two. Or don’t. Either way, it’ll sell.”

You scowled. Max, walking beside you, muttered, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“You’re telling me,” you replied, glancing up at him.

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

The first few weeks were awkward, to say the least. Staged outings dominated your schedules, each meticulously planned by PR teams with an eye for maximum exposure. Charity events, red carpets, a contrived café date for the paparazzi - every encounter felt like a work assignment, not a date.

You’d arrive arm-in-arm, your smiles dazzling and cameras clicking. Max was always impeccably dressed, his hand resting lightly on your waist as if it were second nature.

Between flashes of paparazzi cameras and murmurs of admiration from onlookers, Max leaned in close, his voice low and teasing.

“Did you rehearse that laugh? It’s almost impressive.”

You let out a huff, leaning closer under the guise of whispering something romantic. “You know what’s impressive? That anyone believes you’re charming.”

A low chuckle escaped him quiet enough that only you could hear. “Touché,” he murmured, his face a picture of calm indifference for the cameras, and you found yourself fighting the tiniest urge to laugh.

During a joint Instagram post session complete with coordinated outfits and a faux-candid shot of you laughing at something he’d “said”—he quipped, “If you’re going to post this make sure you get my good side.”

“You have one?” you shot back, narrowing your eyes.

“Rude,” he replied, smirking just enough to make your stomach flip in a way you didn’t want to acknowledge.

The banter became a fixture of your so-called relationship. No matter the setting, you both always had something to say.

“Try smiling for once,” you remarked at a gala, your arm threaded through his as you waved to photographers. “It won’t kill you.”

He turned to you, his lips curling into the faintest grin. “See? This is why they hired you. Full of such brilliant ideas.”

The exchanges grated on your nerves. But then there were the moments when the act became easier. Like when he’d guide you through a crowd with a steady hand on the small of your back or offer his jacket without a word when the night turned chilly.

“This is ridiculous,” you groaned one evening after yet another photoshoot featuring a carefully curated “date.” You tossed your heels into the corner of the adjoining suite, rubbing your aching feet.

Max, lounging on the couch, looked up from his phone. “You’re telling me. Do you know how much I hate wearing these suits, I look ridiculous” He gestured to the tailored blazer he hadn’t bothered to take off yet.

“Oh shush, you know you look good,” you muttered.

His lips twitched in amusement. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you said, flopping onto the opposite end of the couch.

For weeks, this was your routine. The world saw a whirlwind romance, but behind the scenes you were still figuring each other out.

The only time your guard softened was during race weekends. Watching Max in his element was mesmerising. The precision, the focus, the sheer intensity of his drive—it was unlike anything you’d ever seen. His brusque nature made sense in those moments; he wasn’t cold, just singularly devoted to his craft.

“You’re staring,” he said one afternoon, catching you watching him during a debrief.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you replied quickly, though your cheeks burned.

“I’m not,” he said with a shrug, turning back to his engineer. “I’m just used to it by now.”

Despite yourself, you laughed.

The energy between you shifted slowly, almost imperceptibly. Max would catch your eye across a crowded room and smirk, as if sharing an inside joke. And when you fired back with a cutting remark, his grin would linger for far too long.

The turning point came when you were invited to attend a high-profile wedding together. It was one of those events—an invitation extended to only the most influential figures, with a guest list packed with celebrities, businessmen, and the media's who’s who. For you and Max, it wasn’t just an event; it was the test. A high-stakes moment in your staged relationship, where every little detail needed to be perfect.

The location was a sprawling Tuscan villa, perched on a hill with views of vineyards and cypress trees that seemed to go on forever. The air felt thick with romance, but it was the kind that pressed down on your chest, suffocating with expectation.

It all seemed glamorous at first—until the moment you checked in. The concierge, with her polite smile, handed Max a single keycard.

"Your suite is ready," she said, not even glancing at the reservation sheet. "Enjoy your stay."

You froze mid-reach for your suitcase, your eyes locking on the single keycard in Max’s hand. A knot formed in your stomach. “Excuse me,” you started slowly, a smile pulling tight on your lips. “We reserved two rooms.”

The receptionist’s smile didn’t falter as she glanced at the reservation. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken. We have a fully booked weekend, and we only received a request for one suite.”

Max frowned, his frustration starting to bubble. “We booked two rooms,” he repeated, voice low. “Check again.”

But the receptionist only shook her head, her expression unwavering. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing I can do. If another room becomes available, we’ll notify you immediately, but until then this is all we have.”

Max shot you an incredulous look. “Did you know about this?”

You exhaled sharply, grabbing the keycard from his hand. “Of course not,” you muttered. “Let’s just get to the room and deal with it there.”

The hotel room, when you finally entered, was undeniably luxurious—a grand space with marble floors, plush furnishings, and a balcony with sweeping views of the vineyard. But none of that mattered when you saw the bed.

One king-sized bed sat in the centre of the room, its pristine white linens almost taunting you.

“No way,” Max said flatly, his gaze locked on the bed as though willing it to disappear. “This isn’t happening.”

“Like I’m thrilled about it either,” you shot back, dropping your bag onto the bench at the foot of the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll just complain about it all night, and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Well, I’m not sharing the bed,” you snapped, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

And then came the phone call.

Both of your managers had been on the line, in sync as usual, their voices cutting through the tension like a knife. “You two need to make this work, the whole point of this trip is to sell the relationship. People are going to notice if you're seen going into separate rooms. It’ll look suspicious.”

Max’s jaw tightened as he glanced at you, the silent fury in his eyes mirroring yours. “This is getting ridiculous,” he bit out.

“There’s no choice,” they replied their tone unwavering. “We’ve made arrangements. You’re both staying in that suite, and you’re going to make it work. Don’t disappoint us.”

The line went dead.

You stood there, staring at Max, who was now pacing the length of the room. “This is insane,” he muttered, his voice tight with frustration. “They can’t just—”

“They can,” you interjected, “and they just did.”

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up. “Let’s make the best of it then.”

After another few minutes of heated back and forth, you came to an agreement—if you had to share the bed, then there would at least be a line of pillows down the middle, creating a barrier between you. It felt childish, but neither of you were willing to back down.

That night, as the hours dragged on, the tension between you both was palpable. You lay on your side of the bed stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling while Max, for the hundredth time, scrolled through his phone. The silence was deafening, with only the distant sounds of laughter and music from the reception area reaching your ears.

“You could at least pretend to care about this,” you muttered into the silence.

Max didn’t even look up from his phone. “About what?”

“This,” you shot back, turning toward him slightly. “Us. The stupid story we’re selling.”

He set his phone down with a sigh, finally turning his head toward you. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

“Because it’s my job Max,” you said. “My reputation is on the line.”

Max’s lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at you. “And you think mine isn’t?” he asked, his voice rising slightly. “You think I enjoy pretending to be in love with someone who looks like they’d rather be anywhere else…who looks like they hate me?”

His words hit harder than you expected, leaving a sting in their wake.

“I don’t hate you,” you said, your voice quieter now.

Max’s eyes softened. “Yeah, well…I don’t hate you either.”

The room was silent again, but it was different now. The distance between you, both literal and figurative, seemed to lessen just slightly. You tried to force yourself to fall asleep, but the tension that lingered was almost too much to bear.

The night dragged on, and in the midst of it you felt the shift, the moment when everything blurred.

Somehow, in the quiet hours of the night, you found yourself moving closer, instinctively curling up for warmth or comfort, you couldn’t tell which. And before you could stop it, your bodies had aligned. Max’s arm had found its way around your waist, and your face was pressed against his chest.

You woke up the next morning tangled in the sheets, Max’s arm still around you, your bodies a tangle of limbs. The pillows had been kicked aside sometime during the night, leaving the line between you completely obliterated. You couldn’t even remember when it had happened only that you’d woken up wrapped in him, as though it had always been that way.

The reality of it hit you both at the same time, and neither of you moved immediately. His breath was warm against the back of your neck as he shifted.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough from sleep.

“Guess we’re really selling the story now, huh?” you said.

Max smiled, a real one this time. “Yeah,” he replied quietly. “Guess we are.”

And in that moment, the lines between what was real and what wasn’t felt even less clear than before.

The wedding weekend was a whirlwind—a carefully curated mix of elegant affairs, lavish dinners, and champagne toasts in the sun. But amidst the clinking of glasses and the sweeping romance in the air, something inside you shifted. It was subtle at first, but by the end of the weekend, you couldn’t deny that things were different.

The welcome dinner was filled with polite smiles and laughter. You both posed for photos together, Max’s arm draped around your waist in the way that had become second nature by now. He leaned down slightly to speak to you during one of the speeches, his breath warm against your ear as he muttered, “This is getting old huh?”

You smirked, glancing up at him, but before you spoke you found yourself lingering in the moment, the proximity between you suddenly feeling a little more… comfortable.

That night, as you both retired to your suite, the pull between you lingered. There was no escaping it now, the facade you had been building for months was being tested in real-time. Neither of you said much as you prepared for bed, the weight of the situation settling over you like a heavy blanket.

The next morning, after another night spent wrapped up together in the same bed, you both sat down to a quiet breakfast in the villa’s courtyard. The wedding hadn’t yet begun, but the grounds were already bustling with preparations. Max sat across from you, the sound of clinking silverware filling the spaces between your words. You were sipping your coffee, but you couldn’t help but notice how his eyes flickered over to you.

He finally broke the silence, his voice easy. “You know, you’ve been full of surprises this weekend.”

Your heart skipped, but you didn’t let it show. You crossed your arms, trying to hide the warmth flooding your chest. “Oh? So, you admit you were wrong about me?”

His lips curved into a slow, teasing grin. “Maybe I was,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “But you’re still impossible to figure out.”

You swallowed, your pulse quickening. “Or maybe you’re just not trying hard enough.”

Later, as the wedding ceremony started, you both took your seats near the back. Max leaned in during one particularly touching speech about eternal love. "Do you really believe that this whole thing might be real for some people?" he asked.

You blinked, turning your gaze to him. "I don't know," you said slowly. "Maybe it is. Maybe they just know something we don't,” you laughed lightly.

He didn’t respond right away, but you could see the way his expression shifted. There was a vulnerability in his eyes now. "Maybe," he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

As the evening progressed, you found yourself spending more time together. You were seated next to him at dinner, and instead of the usual small talk, there was an ease between you that hadn’t been there before. The jokes that used to feel forced now felt more natural, even the sarcastic quips between you that used to ignite sparks of irritation now carried a different kind of energy. You started to laugh more easily, and Max’s rare smiles seemed less manufactured.

The night of the wedding was in full swing, the dance floor was crowded, you had been standing at the edge of the crowd, holding a glass of champagne and talking to a few other guests when you noticed Max. Without thinking, you found yourself walking toward the dance floor. You were halfway there when Max appeared beside you, his presence immediate, almost magnetic.

“Fancy a dance?” he asked, his voice low.

You raised an eyebrow, catching the slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sure, for the cameras, right?”

Max’s smile didn’t falter. “Whatever you say schatje.”

Max placed one hand on your waist, his other hand holding yours delicately. You couldn’t remember the last time you had danced with someone this close.

His breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in slightly. “You know, you’re not bad at this whole ‘fake dating thing”.

“Maybe you’re just getting used to me,” you said, lifting your chin a little.

Max’s hand tightened around yours ever so slightly, and for a moment, you thought he was about to say something else, but he didn’t.

The music seemed too slow, the moment stretching out, and you found yourself closer to him than you’d ever been, the space between you practically nonexistent your bodies pressed together your head resting on his chest. Max’s thumb brushed over your hand, sending a small shiver up your spine. You could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, the warmth of his body making your own heart race.

“Are you sure this is just for the cameras?” Max murmured, his voice barely a whisper, the question hanging in the air between you.

You swallowed, your breath caught in your throat. You wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck in your mouth. Instead, you simply nodded, though you knew it wasn’t true anymore. The way he held you, the way his gaze never left yours, was real. All the lines you’d drawn between fake and genuine were starting to melt away, and it terrified you.

The song ended, and the spell was broken, but neither of you moved away immediately. You were still pressed up against each other, a heartbeat away from something more. Max pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say something, anything.

But instead of words, you gave him a soft, almost imperceptible smile. “Well, that wasn’t terrible,” you said, trying to deflect the swirling emotions that had settled deep within you.

The night wore on, and as you walked back to your room, the glow of the villa’s lights cast long shadows, and you could hear the soft murmur of other guests laughing and talking in the distance.

When you entered the room, the silence between you felt different. You both stopped at the foot of the bed, the stillness hanging in the air.

Max hesitated for a moment before speaking again, quieter this time. “You know... I don’t think I mind this, us... being like this.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you met his gaze. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I don’t mind it either,” you finally admitted.

The weekend had changed something fundamental between you. By the time you left for Monaco, the lines between what was fake and what was real had blurred beyond recognition. What had started as a contract had slowly, imperceptibly, become something more. And neither of you was ready to admit it—not yet.

As time went by Max started showing up at your place unannounced, claiming he needed an escape from his hectic schedule. At first, it was just an excuse. He’d show up, settle onto your couch, and spend hours scrolling through his phone, not really talking much, but not leaving either. But over time, it became a routine that neither of you could shake off. He’d arrive late in the evenings, wearing that same devil-may-care attitude he always had, his visits felt more natural every time, less like something forced and more like an excuse to simply be with you.

It started innocently enough, he’d show up, flopping down on your couch, kicking off his shoes, and throwing a lazy “what’s shall we have for dinner?” in your direction. You’d find yourselves cooking together, Max teasing you for your lack of cooking skills, and you firing back with sarcastic remarks that now always seemed to make him laugh.

“Don’t worry, Max,” you’d say, stirring whatever you were attempting to make. “I’ll make sure this one doesn’t burn. Unlike your last attempt at.”

Max would chuckle, shaking his head. “You make it sound like it was a disaster. It was edible…”

“Sure it was,” you’d retort, flicking a bit of sauce at him.

What had once been confined to discussions about the weather or small talk about the PR deal shifted into much deeper, more intimate exchanges. You’d find yourself talking about everything from the silliest of topics like your least favourite childhood snacks, to sharing your thoughts on the future. It was strange, how these quiet moments, spent lounging on the couch or taking walks around the city became some of the most genuine conversations you’d ever had.

Watching movies together late into the night became a staple of your routine. You’d snuggle up on the couch, popcorn between you, arguing over the best movie. You’d watch one of his choices, only for him to grumble about how you’d fallen asleep halfway through, your head resting against his shoulder. You never intended to sleep, but his warmth, his presence, had a way of pulling you under.

One evening, you’d found yourselves cuddling on the couch, his arm draped over you as you played a ridiculous trivia game on your phone, his hand brushing through your hair absentmindedly as he caught his breath.

“Okay, I think you’re cheating,” Max teased, shaking his head as you got the answer right for the third time in a row. “There’s no way you knew that.”

“I’m just that good,” you grinned, leaning in closer, pretending to be smug.

Max rolled his eyes, his fingers lightly grazing your arm as you leaned into his side. It wasn’t intentional at first, but neither of you seemed to care. The tension that had once existed—whether because of the contract, the PR, or just the fact that you had no idea how to truly deal with each other—had slowly dissipated. You no longer needed to try to make each other laugh or even pretend to be interested in what the other person was doing. You genuinely enjoyed it.

And then, there was the first time you realised how much you’d changed. You woke up one morning at his apartment, still tangled in blankets on the sofa with Max, your head resting on his chest, and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this content. His hand was resting lightly on your back, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your skin, and you knew, without a doubt, that what you had with him wasn’t just some act anymore.

When he stirred, blinking his eyes open and catching sight of you, a smile tugged at his lips. “You’re still here,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

You smirked. “You mean you didn’t kick me out yet?”

Max chuckled, his fingers gently tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “Not a chance,” he said, leaning down to kiss you softly. It wasn’t one of those quick kisses that had always been a part of your facade. This one lingered, slow and warm, like he wanted to savour it.

That was when you realised it: You’d both slipped into something real. The PR contract was technically due to end soon, but neither of you had needed to bring it up, because you had long stopped pretending. There were no more walls between you. No more games. Just you, and him, and the quiet certainty that this was no longer about anyone but the two of you.

One evening your buzzer rang unexpectedly. You weren't expecting anyone, so you frowned as you walked over to the peephole. You blinked when you saw Max standing outside, holding a small bouquet of your favourite flowers, the kind you’d mentioned in passing months ago. His hair was slightly messy from the wind, and his expression was somewhere between nervous and sheepish. You could practically see the hesitation in his stance, as if unsure whether to knock.

Curious and slightly caught off guard, you opened the door. He stood there for a beat, offering the flowers with that tentative half-smile of his. The sight of it made your chest tighten, and you couldn’t help the grin that tugged at the corners of your mouth.

“For the record,” Max started, his voice light. “I’m not doing this for PR anymore.”

You blinked, the words taking a moment to sink in. You had both danced around the truth for so long, but now, standing on the other side of your door, it was clear that what was between you two had always been real.

You stared at him for a beat. “In case you haven’t noticed,” you said with a playful smirk, “I’m not doing this for PR anymore either.”

Max’s grin widened just slightly at your response, and a soft chuckle escaped him. “Good to know,” he replied. “Because I don’t think I’m ready to stop this just yet.”

With that you stepped aside, motioning for him to come in. Max placed the bouquet on the nearest table, but before either of you could say anything more, he wrapped his arms around you. The kiss he pressed to your lips was hungry and deliberate, different from the ones you had shared before.

You felt the shift inside you too, a deep sense of rightness that settled in your chest. This wasn’t for the cameras or for the PR agents anymore. This was you and him, standing in your apartment, sharing a kiss.

Max pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath warm against your skin. His lips brushed yours again, then he stepped back just enough to look into your eyes.

“I have an idea,” he said.

You tilted your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “Oh? And what’s that?”

He hesitated for a beat, then grinned—crooked and genuine. “How about a real date? No cameras, no PR team, just you and me.”

You pretended to consider it, biting your lip as if deep in thought, laughing softly you nodded. “Okay Verstappen. A real date.”

Max’s smile widened as he pulled you in for another kiss, one that felt like both a promise and a declaration…and it was real.

[bunny-1111]

Masterlist - requests are open.

updated daily

Harry potter:

Theodore Nott:

Post game destress (fluff + angst) 1.2k words Theo is angry about his team losing the game, and accidentally takes it out on his girlfriend.

Amortentia (fluff) 700 words Amortentia has its perks

Moving on is not for the weak (fluff + angst) 1.2k words Theo and reader breakup, and when Theo sees reader on a date and regrets everything

Migraines and get better kisses (fluff) 800 words Through an intense Quidditch match, Theo gets hurt and you comfort him

Dark Marks and Forbidden Hearts (original short) (fluff) 1.7k words Theo x Slytherin reader pairing during the uprising of the second wizarding war, you, your boyfriend and your friendship group are forced to become death eaters and follow in the legacy of your parents. You are faced with a challenge that you never would’ve imagined.

Whats become of us? (fluff + angst) 2k words the ups & downs of Teddy and your relationship, a party almost causes its end

Upon closer inspection (fluff) a deep dive into the magical Theodore Nott

Dry your tears (angst + fluff) (sad ish) 700 words Theodore and reader drift apart leading to an emotional breakup

Doctor Nott (fluff) Theodore takes care of sick reader

Forever is ours (fluff) Pressures of the war cause you to lash out; your boyfriend Theo is right there to remind you what you’re fighting for

Mission Impossible (fluff) 1k words Theodore attempts to ask you on a date until you finally give in

Beg for it (angst+fluff) 1.5k words Before break, you had trouble with Theodore. On the train ride back to Hogwarts, he reminds you of the consequences of your actions. Beg for it Part 2 0.9k Returning to Hogwarts after ignoring Theodore all summer long was so much worse than you imagine; Theodore was starving you of what you so desperately needed.

Mr fix it (fluff) 1.65k words. Theodore is protective over his wife and daughter as they accidentally take a fall into the lake under his supervision.

Blow out your candles (fluff+angst) 1.1k words You hate your birthday, your boyfriend Theodore tries to make it the best day for you, but only makes it worse, until...

Falling behind (fluff) 0.8k words Based on the lyrics of "Falling Behind" by Laufey, where the reader feels like everyone's in a relationship. Too blind to notice that Theodore's been waiting for her all along.

Theo wants to marry you (fluff)

Slytherin party, theos gf edition

One Step Ahead (angst, enemies to lovers) 1.2k words You and Theodore hate each other. Amidst exam season, was the tension and the teasing because of your rivalry or something else?

Theodore Nott Who Theodore Nott Who Part 2 Theodore Nott Who Part 3 (protective edition) Toxic Theo who

Dating Theo headcanons Dating Theo headcanons, Part 2

Dating Theo headcanons, Part 3

Dating Theo mood board

Dark Marks and Forbidden Hearts (Ongoing book on wattpad)

Dark Marks and Forbidden Heart, Theo Nott Fanfic, navigation

Slytherin Boys react:

how they reaction to you getting sloppy drunk at a party

How they would say I love you for the first time

How they would react to you crying

How they would hold/cuddle you

Slytherin boys + Pansy as poetry quotes

Slytherin Boys fan edits together

How they would react to you getting into a physical fight with another student

How they react to Snape catching them smoking a j

Slytherin boys and their romantic tropes

Draco Malfoy

Dating Draco Malfoy mood board

Matteo Riddle

Dating Metteo Riddle mood board

Matteo Riddle headcanons Headcanons Part 2

Us on repeat, Angst Matteo gets possessive after seeing reader at party after break up

Pansy Parksinson

Pansy Parkinson mood board

Tom Riddle

dating Tom Riddle mood board

Lorenzo Berkshire

coming soon

[missnxthingg]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄 - 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 - Lando Norris really messed up on the first time meeting one of Hollywood's newest and hottest stars, Y/N L/N. But when his reputation gets too bad, she might be the only one who can save his career from being completely doomed

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Lando Norris x Actress!Reader (Enemies to Lovers & Fake Dating AU)

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 - Ongoing - Last updated on April 29th

𝐎𝐍𝐄 - 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝐓𝐖𝐎 - 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 & 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 - 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 - 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍* 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 - 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝐒𝐈𝐗 - 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 - 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 - {𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍}

*contains smut

⤳ 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭��� 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

⤳ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[minkieater]

EIGHT FIRST DATES ꨄ︎

you were tired of spending the holidays alone, tired of enduring your family’s incessant questions about your relationship status. from october fifth to november twenty third, you vowed to yourself that in the short eight weeks you gave yourself, you’d show up to thanksgiving with a boyfriend. eight different dates, eight different men, one of them’s gotta be a keeper… right?

THE DATES

000 ⟿ “oh, you still don’t have a boyfriend?”

001 ⟿ HWANG HYUNJIN

002 ⟿ LEE CHAN

003 ⟿ KIM MINGYU

004 ⟿ KIM MINGYU (part two)

005 ⟿ HAN JISUNG

006 ⟿ PARK SEONGHWA

────── more coming soon ...

[myloveharry]

Dating Draco Malfoy Headcanons

Draco is cocky and arrogant, which proved to be a hindrance in your relationship in the beginning.

But when he realised that his arrogance might lead to damage to your relationship, he tried to curb it as best as he could.

He's like a Prince, laden with expensive clothes, shoes and accessories. But when you became his girlfriend, he began treating you like a Princess as well.

If you were being bullied before, now the same bullies refuse to even make eye contact with you, skirting away the moment they see you out of fear of Draco.

Draco has made it clear that if anyone harms you, physically or mentally, there will be hell to pay. If he could, he would enforce a rule which would command everyone to stay away from you.

He's insanely protective, always keeping an arm around your waist tucking you close to him, or holding your hand or sometimes straight up carrying you in his arms in corridors. He can and will kill anyone who poses as a threat to you.

He's also extremely possessive. He's not hesitant to fight for you, and gets jealous easily. Even if he sees you talking and laughing with a guy who's not him, he'll intervene immediately and pull you towards him not-so-subtly.

Once, at a Quidditch game, someone had tried to flirt with you even after you said no many times, even after you displayed your disgust and dislike for the man. Draco crashed his broom into the stands towards that boy for bothering you.

Gift giving is his love language. May it be Christmas, Easter or just another random day, he'll leave a neatly wrapped present at the foot of your bed with a love note.

Sometimes on occasions like your birthday or your anniversary with Draco, he'd prefer to hand it over to you just to see the expression on your face as you see what he has gifted you.

Gift giving for him doesn't mean that he'll give something to you just because it's expensive or he wants to display how rich he is. No, each gift he gives you carries some meaning. Whether it be your favourite colour, your favourite flower, or anything random you said, he'd remember it and plan your gifts accordingly.

Dating Draco means getting jealous looks and taunts from many people around you. In the beginning, all of that intimidated you. But not anymore. Now you can return just about everything people throw at you.

Draco doesn't shy away from showing people who you belong to. Constant physical touches, kisses, and verbal declarations. You act like it's annoying but inwardly, you enjoy it.

What you and he were most worried about, was whether his family will accept you or not.

The Malfoys didn't accept you at first, but Draco had decided that he was going to be with you, whether his parents liked it or not.

Narcissa turned around quite fast after seeing how happy you made his son, she soon turned from a cold, resolute lady to a motherly figure to you.

Lucius took time to turn around, and even tried to convince Draco to look for someone else. But despite having an undying devotion towards his father, Draco had decided that he was yours.

Being with Draco isn't easy, but he makes sure that it's not too hard either. He'll try his best to keep you happy and safe.

You love Draco for what he is and he loves you for what you are, you're both imperfect people, but perfect for each other.

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

Sweeter Than Revenge Masterlist

Summary: A surprise visit to see your brother turns sour real quick when he doesn't share your hopes of mending your strained relationship. Rudely dismissed by Scott, you seek to give your brother the biggest possible middle finger by joining forces with his rival. Yet the more time you spend with Tyler, the more you begin to discover that there are some things sweeter than revenge.

TW: Romance (potential eventual smut), Fake Dating Becomes Real, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Family Drama, Strained Family Relationship, Reader is Scott's Younger Sister, Tyler Picks Up Reader, Brief Description of Reader's Clothing, f!reader, more to come/specific's listed on each part

Status: Completed (with the possibility of one-shots in the future)

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Epilogue

One-Shots:

Coming Soon

Headcanons:

Will Reader go on another chase after everything that happened?

Tyler and Scott's relationship blurb

[devildomwriter]

May I have the 100 facts about ___ character lists in a masterlist? I really want to read the ones other then i have already read but I can't find them all. Love your blog

Absolutely! Here’s what I have so far

Lucifer

Mammon

Leviathan (TBA)

Satan

Asmodeus (TBA)

Beelzebub

Belphegor (TBA)

Solomon

Simeon

Raphael

Luke (TBA)

Michael (50)

Thirteen (TBA)

Mephistopheles (TBA)

Barbatos

Diavolo

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔦𝔦𝔦

summary. a train ride to one's demise alongside an addict and a capitolite. only to be followed by a flowery attempt at beautification as to be flaunted like cattle to your soon-to-be butchers. what a lovely way to go, though, right?

content warnings. mentions of addiction, abuse, exploitation, nudity, and murder.

total wc. 10,802

notes!! i'm gonna so honest rn: i rewrote this entire chapter 5 different times. my writers block did, in fact, return after writing last chapter. surprisingly, the push it took to get my thoughts flowing again was getting drunk for new years. so! yay for alcohol! (im kidding) (no im not) anyway. once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

21:23.

DISTRICT FOUR’S TRAIN.

Seductive. Smart. Dull. Funny. Strong. Fragile.

There are infinite ways one could present themselves to the Capitol prior to the Games. The catch, however, is that whichever of these facades is chosen must be completely reliable; mustn’t be a doubt whether the tribute can withhold the mask. Usually, this is something that the tributes’ mentor is burdened with — figuring out how best to please the Capitol. But your mentor is Ruben and, seeing as you’re not exactly on talking terms, you’ve decided to take matters into your own hands. Plus, nobody knows you better than you know yourself. This should be easy.

Except it’s not. You’re good at wearing masks in front of authoritative figures. You’d done it all your life for your mother. So it’s really just a matter of which of these facades will work best. And you’re coming to realize you don’t know yourself at all. How could you, anyway? To perceive oneself is nonviable. You know how you look and where your mind resides on certain topics, sure, but you’re oblivious as to how others deem you. You’d never really had friends, what with your parents’ belief that other children will taint you. Do people think you’re funny, attractive, strong? You haven’t a clue.

You tear yet another piece of parchment from your notebook, balling it up in your fist. 

I’ll come back to that later. You tell yourself, despite knowing you won’t be doing any such thing. 

The room you’ve been given is rather remarkable, considering it’s on a train. You have your own private bathroom and dressing quarters. The space is smaller than your bedroom at home, but you honestly prefer it this way. You don’t feel nearly as suffocated, despite the irony of the size to tolerance ratio. 

The floors are hardwood, perfectly cleaned by virtue of the Avoxes aboard. The wallpaper is tan with floral designs, small metal windows providing evidence to how unnaturally fast the train is moving. Though you’ve long since shut the curtains, as the speed made you dizzy. You’re currently sitting at a wooden desk, a plethora of papers and notebooks flooding the surface. Your thoughts are running at a speed of which rivals that of that train. You’re trying to puzzle everything out within one night, think it best to have a plan laid out. 

You pick up your pen once more, tapping it against the newly blank page as you ponder on where to redirect your attention. There’s so many things to be solidified — how your stylist will dress you for the parade and interview, how you’ll manage to survive the arena considering, what to think of what Ruben told you regarding the other tributes, what life you’ll lead after returning back home. Will you get married or will you remain a Capitol diamond all your life, forever single in order to remain desirable to them?  

You’re about to resume your mental mania when a knock is heard at your door.

With a heavy sigh, you push to your feet and head toward it. You open it only a few inches, just enough to poke your head out. Alice Reymond is standing in the hallway, a plate of food in her hands and a freakishly white smile on her face. 

You open the door wider to allow her entry. She saunters in, nosily peering around as she takes in the sight of your current living quarters. Her nose is upturned in judgement of the mess, though she doesn’t dare utter a word. Instead, she moves to place the plate atop an open book on your desk. You grimace at the sight of the steaming dish resting on the delicate pages.

“Oh, I hope the meal is up to your standards. I’m sure, as a L/n, you’re fed only the best Four has to offer.” Says Alice Reymond as she begins an unprompted spiel about, well, who knows what. The assumptions she makes about you cause you to bristle, though you remain silent. “I gave very strict instructions to the Avoxes, informing them to make sure the food is as perfected as possible. Though you can never trust an Avox. I mean, they’re made into silent servants for a reason, yes?”

She falls into a tangent following that, one that entails elongated complaints regarding the Avoxes and the loathing she holds for them. You’re forced to bite your tongue so as not to shout at her for withholding such ignorance. But you should’ve expected such idiocy from a Capitolite of ehr standing.

You find yourself tuning her words out, smiling and nodding as she practically talks to the wall. Her chatting flows from one topic to the next like a never ending river of panache. All the while, your meal grows cold with neglect atop your residually blank notebook.

You’re only brought consciously into the conversation when she speaks Ruben’s name. Your head snaps up, now deeply invested.

“—I’ve worked with him for years, you see.” She says. You suppose that’s true as she’s the escort to his mentorship, the two of them working as a pair to train the yearly tributes and attempt to bring them home. Frankly, you haven't a clue how Ruben can tolerate her when she talks so fucking much. “I think I’ve come to know him rather well, due to this. But, in all the lovely years spent in his company, I’ve never since witnessed such seclusion. He’s hardly eaten since the Reaping and prefers to hole up in his room rather than speak with me as he usually does. He’s not taking care of himself and I’ve begun to worry.”

“He’ll come around.” Is all you can think to say in response. 

For some reason, her claim to know him oh so well sparks a sense of irritation in your chest. You’re aware that your irascibility is due to more than her mere claim of rapport with your brother — it’s due to the Reaping, to your mother, and to your lack of ability to do everything yourself. 

But gall is a creature of impulsivity, rearing its head in the most accessible direction possible. And, at the moment, the easiest target is Alice Reymond and her lack of affinity. It takes everything in you to hold that tangible feeling back, gritting your teeth as you bite your tongue. Though, like the dull magnate she is, the woman continues on, completely heedless to your rising temper.

“Perhaps.” She hums, though it’s evident that her worry for Ruben’s recluse remains ceaseless. What she says next plucks the final thread that’d been holding the leash around your animalistic gall. “At times, he feels like a brother to me, y’know? That’s the kind of relationship—”

“Get out.” You interrupt, the tether snapping like a twig. The sharpness to your tone mocks that of your mother’s, only further fueling your rage as you scowl at the Capitolite before you.

Her overly large eyelashes blink dumbly, “What?”

“I said, get the fuck out.” You repeat, lip upturned with disgust as you take a threatening step toward her. Her eyes grow comically wide as she registers your words, surprisingly hasty to put the pieces together.

“Oh, dear,” She bleats, “I didn’t mean—” “Out!” You shout, voice reverberating off the metal walls of the train. You sound so similar to your mother that it makes your stomach churn. You vaguely wonder if Ruben had heard you, possibly mistaking your voice for hers.

One good thing comes out of it, though, and that’s Alice Reymond’s swift exit. She shrieks, turning on her heel and quickly traipsing out the door. 

A week. You’re expected to live like this for a week.

Not always in the train, of course, but always in the company of three people — First of which being Ruben, your mentor, who you’ve yet to speak a single word to. The heavy tension between you two is nigh palpable whilst surrounding your proximity, albeit rare. Second being Alice Reymond, the nosy escort who can’t seem to mind her own damn business. In the past two hours, she’s asked you about fifty questions regarding your family, your financial decisions, and your relationships with certain people. And lastly, Remy Wilson, your fellow tribute. He’s, admittedly, the most tolerable of the bunch. You pity him greatly due to his being Reaped at such a young age. And, despite having nothing in common and not having said a single word to one another, you’re pretty sure the two of you have come to form an alliance of some kind. Wordlessly, of course.

See, after being separated from Ruben in the Justice Building, you and Remy were led to District Four’s train station. There, hundreds of cameramen were buzzing around the both of you, trying to get the clearest shot for the Capitol news. They reminded you of bugs; pestering and obnoxious. Not to mention their appearances. It’s kinda funny, the way the Capitol treats the people of the Districts as less than human when they’re the ones that look like monstrous deformities.

Under the flashing lights, your mother’s voice rang through your mind. “Back straight, chin high, eyes level, brows set.” She’d repeatedly told you this, slamming her cane into your spine to ameliorate your posture. You had been so occupied trying to recall each technique your mother had beat into you that you nearly failed to descry Remy. He was hiding behind your dress. He’d done so with such subtlety that nobody else noticed, this act being made especially easy when you were unintentionally taking up most of the reporters’ attention. 

You glanced back, catching sight of his watery eyes and rapid breathing pattern. For a split second, a voice in your head told you to shove him away. Catering to a kid would be a look of weakness, of vulnerability. But nobody was even looking at him; they’d be unable to deem you weak if they hadn’t seen the act to cause it. Plus, the voice in your head sounded oddly like your mother. And you’ll be damned if you abide by her senseless rules in her absence. 

You then flicked your dress, flashing the gemstones on your waist. The cameramen gobbled it up, taking a million more photos. Though, unbeknownst to them, you’d only done so in order to fully shield Remy from their sight.

Knock knock knock. 

You’re broken from your thoughts at the sound of a second visit to your bedroom.

You’d just begun eating, having returned to your prior endeavor of mapping out every plan for the Games possible. You’re not very hungry, though, so you hardly mind the interruption in regards to dinner. But you’re still irritated at Alice Reymond and don’t particularly wish to see her so soon after your last interaction. Not wishing to stand up again, you simply call out for her to enter. 

But it’s not her whose voice reaches your ears. It’s Ruben’s.

“Alice sent me to tell you that the Reapings are about to be aired.” He says, voice uncharacteristically rough. Perhaps he hasn’t been taking care of himself. “She claims that the two of you got into a ‘squabble’ of some kind.”

You spin your chair to face him. There are bags under his eyes, his lips chapped. Worry settles in your chest at the sight. Though the moment you recognize it, you squash it beneath feelings of distaste.

“I’ll be out in a bit.” You reply, surprised to hear how steady your voice is.

He pauses, appearing as though he wishes to ask you something more. Probably what you and Alice Reymond could possibly have argued over. But he never voices it, instead giving a curt nod before shutting the door.

Upon his exit, you release a heavy breath.

You don’t hate Ruben, despite how much you sometimes wish you did. Frankly, you don’t think you could ever hate him. When your parents were abusive, Ruben protected you. He raised you. And for that, you’ll forever be in his debt. 

When you were six and Ruben was eleven, your father was Reaped. He won his Games, as expected, and thus began the lush life of a diamond. He still lives in District Four, but he’s a full-blown Capitolite in every other sense. He became so obsessed with the life of wealth and riches that he never returned to normalcy.

The closest you’d gotten to having a conversation with him is watching his interviews on the television — which you did a lot as a kid. He was presented to the public as a sweet man and a loving father, wearing that mask so well that you nearly believed it in spite of how he’d treated you.

You and Ruben lived with your mother for two years. She trained you two so strictly than it was more rare to go to sleep sweaty than it was to not. From dawn to dusk, you’d train. Just in case you two were Reaped. This was the height of your relationship with Ruben. You only had each other. 

You’d sneak into his room at night, loathing the vastness of your own bed. You’d stay up until midnight, laughing into the darkness. Then, at dawn, you’d be woken together by your mother and made to train as one. Whether you got food depended on how well you’d performed. If he were to be punished, you’d sneak some bread into your pocket and give it to him when you’d slip into his room at night. And vice versa.

Though that relationship didn’t last long. When Ruben was thirteen, it was his name to be pulled from the bowl. You screamed and cried, the cameramen gobbling up the image of an eight year old sobbing over her big brother’s sealed fate; of a L/n showing such raw emotion. Your mother, however, was not pleased. She threatened to forbid you from visiting him in the Justice Building. Though, as it turned out, she had at least a small ounce of morality in her heart because she ended up allowing you to say goodbye.

“Don’t leave.” You’d pleaded, crying into his chest as his shirt became soaked with your salty tears.

“I’ll come back.” He promised. “You know I will.”

He hadn’t lied then. He did return, though he wasn’t the same. Never again would he be the same. He was distant and oftentimes thrashed out on you when you tried to be around him. One night, two months following his return, you were sleeping beside him when you awoke to a pair of hands around your throat. Ruben was choking you. Luckily, your mother intervened before he could kill you, though you were left with bruises around your neck for a week. 

He was a child; you both were. He could hardly be blamed for having nightmares considering all he’d been through during the Games. To have been forced into killing people at such a young age… it’s no shock what befell him. 

You insisted you’d forgiven him, but he never forgave himself. Because, after that, he moved out of your family home and into his assigned house in the Victor’s Village. He was only fourteen, living all alone in that mansion of a building.

He’d visited home often, though that dwindled as well over time. Then, when his Victory Tour rolled around and he’d visited the Capitol, that’s when he officially became a diamond. They loved him so much, infatuated with all he entailed. And, due to having been so young and so deprived of love from his own parents, Ruben became just as obsessed with the lush life as his father before him. The more time he spent with Capitolites, the more he mimicked their etiquette and behaviorisms. And, at some point along the way, he became addicted to Capitol-enhanced drugs at a young age. One of his creepy “friends” made the drug specially for him, to rid him of memories regarding his traumas.

Nothing that happened was his fault and you know that. 

But you were a child yourself, left all alone in that house of horrors. Alone with your mother, given no explanation to why your beloved brother left so abruptly. To be nine years of age and abandoned twice is no small feat. Not to mention the way your mother spoke of Ruben and your father, cursing them for having left. It gets to a child’s head. And, eventually, you came to resent him.

Whenever you saw Ruben on TV, he was smiling and talking about how much he adored the Capitol. And all you could think of, in those moments, was how vehemently he’d once hated them for having stolen his father away. No, your father wasn’t a good man, but he was still your dad. Even more so to Ruben than you. Due to this, Ruben should know better than anyone how badly his own absence would affect you. 

And that’s what hurt most — he knew leaving would ruin you, and he did it anyway.

“There she is!” Alice Reymond grins as you enter the living room.

Everyone else is already settled in, three couches surrounding the television. Two single chairs and one triple cushioned sofa. Alice and Ruben sit in the chairs, postures perfect and movements impeccably graceful. Your mother would be gushing over her son’s flawlessness. The thought makes you frown. On the larger couch, Remy sits alone in the fetal position. His legs are hugged against his chest as he peers over his knees at the TV. He looks every bit the helpless child that he is. You move to sit beside him, leaving an entire cushion empty between you two.

You seem to have arrived at the perfect time because the Reapings begin playing just as you settle down. They begin with One, going through each of the other Districts until ending on Twelve.

Ruben hadn’t mentioned the tributes of One, causing you to assume they’re unimportant. Oh, how wrong you’d been. Anthea Solace is the first name to be called. A small girl, sixteen years in age, walks up to the stage. Her hair is dirty blonde, her face contorted into one of wonder as she overlooks the town square. Next to be called is Thalia Thatcher. You know who she is the moment you see her as she looks exactly like her older sister, Thea, who was the victor of the 68th Games six years ago. Thalia appears absolutely elated to be Reaped, a viscous grin on her face.

The screen cuts away from One and moves onto the next District.

Ruben told you about the tributes of Two — Lev and Yara. Siblings. Yara is called up first, walking onto the stage with a raised chin. She appears even younger than Anthea Solace from One, though she stands with such valor. This bravery quickly fades when her younger brother’s name is called. Her face drops as he walks up to the stage, taking his place at her side. They look absolutely distraught to have been Reaped. The Capitol must hate that, their humanity. This assumption is proven correct as the program flicks to District Three the moment Yara begins to shout in protest. No shock there, the rush to get away from the pain that the Games induce.

You were informed of Three as well. Sam and Henry. Another pair of siblings. Their Reaping is far more peculiar than Two’s, though. Sam’s name is called and Henry volunteers for him in a heartbeat. Sam screams for his older brother as he’s yanked onto the stage. Though, right after, Sam’s name is called a second time, something unheard of. To have one’s name called twice in a single Reaping? It’s outlandish. Henry’s act of volunteering proves futile by Sam’s second name call. Henry’s eyes are wide with horror as Sam walks onto the stage. The cameras are cut off just as Henry begins screaming at the escort who Reaped them both.

Next is Four. Your District. You watch as Remy’s name is called, the boy beside you hiding his face in his knees as he refuses to look at the screen. Your name is pulled next, the entire square going silent as you walk up to the stage. From this angle, you’re able to see the trepidation that floods Ruben’s face as you exit the mass of people. You hike up your navy dress as you ascend the stairs, careful not to lift the hem above your ankles. As you turn to the crowd, you’re rather pleased to see that your expression is blank, appearing more bored than anything. Good. Had you cried or screamed, the Capitol would know of your agitation. You relish in knowing that they’re clueless to how you feel at this moment.

Ruben told you about Five’s tributes as well. Best friends, Ariadne Evans and Selene Jones. They both seem to be around the age of eighteen. Ariadne is called up first, a woman with jet black hair and bright green eyes. She ascends the stage with a set jaw and darkened gaze. Selene is the polar opposite with platinum hair and brown eyes that glint with something akin to hope despite the situation she’s been thrusted into. They’re the face of perfectly balanced dualism, yin and yang. Though they’re both wise enough to keep their emotions shielded from the cameras.

District Six you heard of as well. They’re the ones in a relationship. Archie Bardot and Roland Jennings. The two men stood side by side in the crowd, hands clasped together. Archie’s name is called first, his eyes wide and glossed over as he’s yanked to the stage and away from his boyfriend. Roland screams, the sounds guttural and ringing through your ears; pure agony, fear. The escort utters not one syllable of the second tribute’s name before Roland is volunteering in their place, yearning to be with his lover despite knowing the pain it’ll bring them both. 

It’s horrible. It’s absolutely horrible that they’re put in this situation, that anyone should be put in this situation. Though, before you’re able to fully register the awfulness of Six’s Reaping, the program moves onto Seven. 

Ruben told you about this pair as well. Another duo of best friends. Riley Abel is called up first, her coiled hair tied back into a low bun at her nape. Her gaze is condescending as she approaches the escort. You recognize the expression all too well; this girl is pissed. Whereas most tributes exude fear, sadness, or even avidity, Riley is irate. The next name to be drawn is Ellie Williams, a girl with short auburn hair done half-up. Her eyes are light green, mocking the hue of Seven’s leaves. Freckles fan across her tanned skin. She’s wearing a wrinkled linen shirt and a pair of worn out jeans. You almost laugh at the sight of such laxity in her outfit. Ellie walks onto the stage with wide eyes, a faraway look to their viridescence. It’s not long before Riley grabs her by the hand and lifts it into the air. 

You instantly wince, knowing exactly the intentions of such an act. To others, this may look harmless. But it’s the very opposite. Tributes are meant to be enemies. Duos are being called together this year, likely in hopes that they’ll turn on each other and provide the Capitol with a good show. But Riley doing this is a direct defiance against the Capitol, a clear way to say ‘Fuck you, your plans to separate us are idiotic.’ It’s smart in the fact that only certain people will understand its gravity. But it’s impulsive and thereby foolish.

The cameras cut quickly after the show of repudiation, flicking over to District Eight. 

The first name called up is Raven Hansley, a girl with frizzy brown hair and doe shaped eyes. She looks so small on stage despite clearly being older than you. Ashley West is the second tribute, a girl with fiery hair done into a braid down her back. She wears something strange on her ear. You only realize what it is when a ginger man — who you assume to be her father — turns to her and does something weird with his hands. Sign language. She’s Deaf. Your heart drops in realization that they’re Reaping a Deaf girl. Is that not immoral? Ashley seems rather strong, though, as she nods curtly to her father and then walks up to the stage with a hardened expression. Frankly, she looks more resilient than half the other tributes. 

District Nine Reaps Elliot Delcan, a blonde boy with circular glasses and dopey hazel eyes, and Whitney Sato, a girl with a slick back bun atop her head. Whitney is quick to shove something into her jacket when her name is called. It looked almost like a game system, though you’re unsure how someone from Nine would get their hands on that.

From Ten comes Nolan Barlowe and Violetta Yaxley. Nolan is huge in the muscular sense of things. His shirt appears too tight for his biceps as he walks to the stage with a wicked grin. Violetta, on the other hand, is nigh impossible to read. She looks terrified when her name is called, though she looks bloodthirsty once she’s on the stage. Perhaps she changed her expression for the camera? Or maybe she truly did have such a hasty change of heart? Who knows.

Eleven offers two children. A small boy named Cooper Whitlock and an even smaller girl named Dahlia Hart. Dahlia has poofy black hair that form two buns atop her head and big brown eyes that are glistening with tears. Her hands fumble together in front of her as her bottom lip quivers. The mentor for their District, who you believe to be named Dina Woodward, reaches forward to comfort her. The show of humanity causes the scene to be cut short.

District twelve, last but not least, Reaps two old men. James, who has a scar down his face and a heavy beanie atop his head, and David, who had a thin beard and huge red nose. You briefly wonder why Twelve Reaps such old men, as they appear to be in their forties, then you see that the crowd is mostly middle aged people. Twelve is the lowest District and thereby the poorest. They barely have enough food to scrape by; it’s no shock if they simply don’t have any kids to offer up.

The program ends with the anthem playing solemnly.

The room is silent for a long time, none of you knowing exactly what to say. There’s so much to address — the amount of pairs, the vicious boy from Ten, the Deaf girl from Eight, the show of defiance in Seven, or, most hauntingly, the two lovers from Six.

With so much to take in and process, one thing rings through your head loudest. The Capitol wants a show this year.  And with who they’ve Reaped, it’s no doubt that they’re sure to get one.

22:00.

DISTRICT SEVEN’S TRAIN.

The program hadn’t even ended when Riley stood from the sofa and stomped off to her room. Eleven’s Reaping was being aired and, upon the sight of such young children being drawn, Riley left. Ellie can’t blame her for this, of course. Seeing such a display of cruelty is rather hard to stomach. 

But, the thing is, Riley has been acting off for a while now. In fact, she hasn’t yet spoken a single word to Ellie since the Reaping. And, considering they now only have each other, this act of neglect is infuriating. What with Cat’s departure and Marlene’s peculiarity, Riley was supposed to be the break in that. The calm to the chaos. Instead, she’d done nothing but add weight to the burden on Ellie’s shoulders.

Ellie only realizes she’d missed the entirety of Twelve’s Reaping when Joel powers down the screen with a huff. 

Joel Miller has proven to be a strange man. He’s easily irritable and drinks a lot — though he claims that he always remains sober enough to do his job as a mentor. Ellie’s not so sure that’s true. Setting alcoholism aside, he’s not too bad. He’s got a country drawl, the Millers having come from the deep South before the formation of the Districts. He’s not talkative, but doesn’t shut down conversation when it’s offered to him. Ellie can’t tell if he hates her or not.

“Fuckin’ Four.” He curses under his breath, tossing the remote onto the coffee table with a scoff. “‘Course one of them had t’ be Reaped this year.”

“And Ruben’s sister, no less.” Chimes in the escort — whose name Ellie has found to be Tilly Reymond. The Capitol woman huffs, nose upturned in displeasure. “Oh, I’m sure my sister is rapturous beyond her wits about this. Not that she has many.” 

Ellie has no clue who Tilly’s sister is, though she doesn't dare ask when both she and Joel appear so vexed.

“Alice is always pleased when one of ‘em is Reaped.” Joel points out, leaning back in his armchair with a distasteful expression. He crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursed. “Only adds t’ her inestimable mountain of wealth.”

The two continue to complain about Four’s tributes, speaking without providing context. Ellie finds herself swimming in lack of information, completely lost on what they’re talking about. Tilly’s sister, some guy named Ruben, some girl in a navy gown, etc etc etc. It’s dizzying. After a few more minutes of cluelessness, Ellie finally cuts into their conversation.

“Okay. What the hell is so special about Four’s tributes?” She asks. She’d watched the same program they did. Though, to her, all she saw was some rich girl and a teary-eyed little boy.

The two of them face her with mirrored expressions of shock. Joel is the first to speak, tone laced with annoyance. “Don’t play dumb, kid. We ain’t got the time for this.”

“I’m not playing dumb!” Ellie exclaims, her own annoyance spiking.

He scowls at her before pushing to his feet And, without another word, he exits the room. Ellie continues to seethe, sitting on the sofa with a glare despite the person of cause no longer present. She scowls at the doorway he exited through.

Tilly turns to Ellie with comically wide eyes. Her hair is green, done up in a star-shaped braid that balances crookedly on the top of her head. Her eyes look upside down, having only the bottom row of lashes made three inches long. A Capitolite, she is. And, even more so than that, she’s terrifying. All of them are, having been shifted into humanoid concepts of people rather than natural beings. The Capitol always has a new style trend, each more insane than the last in terms of unattainability.

“The tributes Reaped from Four are Remy Wilson and Y/n L/n.” Tilly explains. Her voice is so gentle that Ellie nearly feels bad for having judged her for being a Capitolite. “Remy isn’t the one that causes such fret. It’s the girl. The L/n.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of the family.” Ellie brushes her off. “Dunno anything about them aside from the fact that they’re crazy rich.”

“You don’t know why they’re rich?”

“Nope.”

“Oh dear,” Tilly hums, lips thinning as she ponders on how exactly to explain. “The L/ns are Capitol diamonds, you see. Reaped more commonly than any other family in the country, they’ve built a long line of tributes in the Games. The catch, however, is that they’ve all come out victorious.”

“All?” Ellie questions, finding this hard to believe.

“All.” Tilly confirms with a solemn nod. She then holds up a hand to her side, counting on her fingers as she lists off your esteemed relatives. “Ethan L/n, victor of the 32nd Hunger Games. Cassiopeia L/n, victor of the 38th Games. Emiliana L/n, 42nd Games. Lysandra L/n, 47th. Penelope L/n, the oldest of their living lineage, victor of the 50th Games — the second Quell. The Capitol adores her. Yasmin L/n, 54th Games. Elina L/n, 57th. Then, for the 60th Games, Y/n’s father was victorious. Two years following his victory came his son, her brother, Ruben L/n, for the 62nd Games. Theodore L/n for the 64th. And now, for the 74th Hunger Games, ten years after the last one of them was Reaped, there’s Y/n L/n.”

Ellie’s eyes narrow, her mind struggling to keep up with Tilly’s unprompted history lesson. Truly, all she managed to process just then is that this family has a lot of kids. She shoots Tilly an incredulous look. “And you’ve memorized them all?”

The woman simply shrugs, “They’re diamonds, Ellie. Everyone has memorized them.”

“Not me.” She points out.

“Well,” Tilly tilts her head, “You’re the only one.”

God, these Games are even more insane than Ellie has initially deemed them to be. She knew they were malicious, everyone knows that, though some people choose to ignore it. Children are killed and starved for entertainment. Nothing should shock her considering that. But here she is, mind unable to keep up with even more lunatic information thrown her way.

An entire family tree memorized by almost the entire country purely because they’re inherently skilled at murdering people. What the fuck? But yeah, Ellie’s the weird one for not having all of their hundred children known by heart.

And what’s worse is that one of these crazed L/ns will be tossed in the arena with her. With Riley. Does Riley know about this? She probably does, but that doesn't stop the worry from seeping into Ellie’s chest at the thought. Had Ellie not known of this, she’d likely have not thought the navy woman to be any different from everyone else. She would likely have died for her lack of care for the Capitol. Perhaps that’s the point. 

Before she can spiral further down the rabbit hole that is her mind, a soft gasp escapes Tilly’s lips, pulling her attention back to reality. The woman moves toward the window of the train, her upside down eyes impossibly wide as she looks outside. She pulls the window open with a loud thud. She attempts to poke her head outside, though her hair is too large to fit.

They’re in the Capitol now, crowds of people swarming the tributes’ trains as they coast down the tracks. Despite Ellie’s loathing for the Capitol, her curiosity gets the better of her and she ends up walking over to the glass alongside Tilly.

It’s gorgeous, the Capitol. Skyscrapers stretch high above the clouds, built into a plethora of colors, the entire city bursting with vibrance. Below the skyline, is a huge crowd of people. They’re all just as silly looking as Tilly, their hairstyles larger than their heads and their makeup reminding her of  clowns. Their clothes are industrialized, some people wearing literal paper or leaves or other unfathomably odd fabrics.

“Wave!” Tilly says, placing an excited hand on Ellie’s shoulder. Ellie shrugs her off with a scoff, wordlessly refusing to do such a thing. Tilly frowns, “They’re here to see you! One wave or one smile could go a long way, y’know.”

Ellie looks back out the window, scowling at the mass of people. “They’re here to see me before I’m in a casket, you mean.”

Tilly groans, “Is it so hard for you to be pleasant?”

“Yes.”

“They’re clueless, you know.” Tilly says, tone far more somber than that of before. “They’ve been conditioned to enjoy this. Just as you’ve been conditioned into loving the woods as a person of Seven; just as those in Four are conditioned to love water; just as those in Twelve are conditioned to fight for scraps. Everyone is equally as controlled by the president’s thumb.”

“Yet the effects of such control vary in morality.” Ellie points out harshly. “Capitolites are controlled into enjoying the death of children and eating feasts until they puke whereas Districts are controlled into offering their kids to the Games and be well off with eating only a crumb. There’s a colossal difference between the two.” 

Tilly says nothing for a while after that, only frowning. Then, after a few minutes of silence, she says, “Y’know the word Capitolite is offensive,” and walks away.

Her lack of reprimanding in response to Ellie’s entire spiel speaks more than a lecture would have. In her last six words of acknowledgement, she manages to point out yet another thing that Ellie has been ‘conditioned’ into. Something harmless to her yet the opposite to others. Everyone in Seven refers to them as Capitolites. Since when was that offensive? Perhaps it’s always been, Ellie oblivious to it just as they’re oblivious to their malice. 

But she can’t process it. They love the Games, gathering ‘round the television to watch twenty-four innocent people fight to the death. They relish in the gore of it all. Something like that can’t be controlled, she feels. Something so malicious can be altered if one cares enough to do so.

But they don’t. 

8:33.

REMAKE CENTER.

Tributes are to meet their stylist today for the Chariot Parade. Ellie, however, already knows who Seven’s is to be this year. 

For the first time ever, she dreads seeing Cat’s face.

“No need to be so nervous!” Tilly says kindly, taking notice of Ellie’s fidgeting fingers and weary expression. Beside Ellie stands Riley, her face hardened. They still haven’t spoken. “They’re just going to make you nice and pretty. Then you’ll be paraded around as an introduction to the Capitol.”

They're currently in a building called the Remake Center, though it feels more like an asylum than anything. The walls are white concrete, the floors and ceilings both made of shiny tile. There are two rooms on either side of the one they’re currently waiting in. Behind one of those doors is Cat, waiting.

Joel is nowhere to be found, though Ellie supposes that’s a good thing. He’d probably manage to get into an argument with the stylists about one thing or another.

“So you’re saying we’re to be flaunted about like cattle?” Riley asks dryly. “Makes fucking sense.”

Ellie says nothing, her hands continuing to pick at the skin around her nails. Marlene would always tell her to drop that habit because it made her fingers look dirty, but the stylists will probably create her new ones anyway. 

“See, that’s what we’re not going to say.” Tilly replies pointedly. 

Though, before she could say anything more, Riley and Ellie are being pulled into separate rooms by their respective designers. As she’s being led away, Ellie looks over her shoulder. A small ounce of her hopes that Riley will be looking back as well. But she’s not. 

“Here, here,” Says a male voice she doesn’t recognize, “Have a seat.”

The man gestures behind him where a metal table resides. A mini mattress is placed atop the table, pure white in color with a thin, crinkly sheet embodying it. It adds a hospital-like effect to the entire situation, making Ellie a bit uncomfortable. Despite this, she obliges and sits on the mattress. The room is exactly like the rest of the Remake Center, white in every place, made of tile and concrete.

The man stares at Ellie, looking her up and down with intense eyes. It makes her feel like some sort of animal to be tested on. She supposes, in his eyes, she likely is.

“Ah, sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable!” He apologizes. His hair is bright blue, matching his vibrant makeup. “I’m Clay, your designer, aka your stylist’s helper! She should be here shortly. I’m going to prep you, and she’ll dress you.”

Ellie nods, a bit dazed by it all. “Yeah, okay.”

“Perfect.” He chirps, clasping his hands together with a kind smile. “Now, now, get undressed.”

“Excuse me?” She blurts out.

“Hm? Oh! No no no.” He chuckles as he pieces together the reason for her defensive tone. “No need for modesty, Miss Williams, I mean nothing indecent by it. My job is to help you look perfect for the parade! Nothing more than that shall be done. You have my word.”

But Ellie doesn’t trust his word. She doesn’t even trust him. “I’m keeping my underthings on.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable!” He smiles. “That’s fine until you get into the bath. Then, I’ll have to see you at least a bit.”

Ellie does not like this, but she has no choice but to agree. The Capitol has no issue with nudity, they deem it normal. Tributes strip in the arena all the time to bathe, change, or get out of old clothes. Nobody minds. So, she knows this is normal to Clay. He thinks not a thing by it. But, as Ellie is not from the Capitol, she loathes it.

She eyes Clay, taking in his build. He’s thin, his clothes hanging off his shoulders. It comforts her to know she’ll be able to fight him if need be. Ellie vaguely wonders about Riley — is she arguing with her designer or is she silent and abiding? 

It’s driving her crazy. The disregard, the lack of communication. She used to know everything about Riley, knowing her better than she knew herself. And yet.

“I’ll turn away while you bathe.” Clay offers.

Ellie’s grateful for this, though it’s the bare minimum. God, how do other tributes do this? Nobody mentions these parts of the Games — the people she’s expected to just trust. She’s putting her life in Joel’s hands by trusting him with gaining her sponsors, she’s trusting Tilly to manage her schedule and meals and everything else domestic, and now she’s trusting Clay to see her nude. It’s maddening.

She bathes quickly, scrubbing her skin harshly with the floral scented soap. The aroma of the wash is so strong it makes her nose hairs sting. It’s a good smell, though way too pungent for her preference.

When she steps out of the tub, she wraps herself in the robe Clay provides her. His hands remain over his eyes as he passes it to her, though it’s clear he’s unused to doing such a thing. 

She ties the robe around her waist and follows Clay into another room. He does his job within that space, then leads her into another. Then another. Then another. 

By the end of it, Ellie is sure she doesn’t have a single strand of hair on her body. It makes her feel vulnerable, the lack of it. In Seven, where she hunts year-round, body hair is useful in cold weather as it provides an extra layer of warmth. Plus, nobody there gives a damn if you have hair. It’s normal. In fact, Ellie had an abundance of it — much to Clay’s distaste.

Her brows are shaped, her nails are filed, her legs are waxed. She feels like a plucked bird, ready to be roasted and feasted upon. It’s unsettling, the way she’s being prepped for death. The arena would be the equivalent to the butcher shop, the other tributes being the weapons wielded by the president to kill her. 

“You have so many scars.” Clay comments bluntly, once the entire ordeal has been completed and she’s sitting atop the thin mattress once more. “I tried to hide the one in your eyebrow since it’s on your face, but some of them can’t be covered. You have tons on your legs and back. It’s—”

“It’s fine.” She finishes for him.

He nods kindly, though it’s evident he doesn’t necessarily concur. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s— Uh, it’s human.”

She gives him a condescending glance, “Exactly.”

Clay shifts from one foot to the other as he tries to think of what else to say. He inhales deeply before deciding on his next course of action. “I think you’re ready to be dressed, don’t you? Yeah, I’ll go fetch the stylist. You’re gonna love her.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves the room, leaving Ellie in naught but a robe and lack of hair. In fact, it feels like he’d ripped off at least three layers of skin when he waxed her. She didn’t make a single noise of pain nor complaint, refusing to show any sense of pain to the Capitolites people of the Capitol.

The Chariot Parade isn’t something she’s exactly looking forward to, either. It’s where each pair of tributes are stuffed into little carriages and shown to the Capitol. If the tributes don’t stand out, the Parade hardly matters. Though, if they do, it can be a great way to gain sponsors before anyone else. For as long as she can remember, Seven’s tributes are always dressed in odd tree-like gowns or suits of paper. However, since Cat’s rise to diamondcy, the game has changed a bit. She branches out more into unexplored territory — using designs inspired by leaves, wood, textile, and other things that a Capitolite wouldn’t think to use. But, as someone from Seven, Cat appreciates the trees more than the past stylists did.

The one good thing that’ll come out of the Parade, though, is the fact that she’ll be able to catch a glance at all the other tributes. After being dressed, they’re all stuffed into a room together. It’ll only be for a few minutes while the chariots are being set up, but she’ll make the most of the time. She can analyze them, get an idea for each character and their structures. She hopes to analyze everyone, of course, but most of all you. The infamous L/n of whom she’s heard so much. Will you be modest or will you flaunt your wealth and predetermined fame? Will you be kind or rude to the child you were Reaped alongside? 

“Miss Ellie Williams!”

Before she can even turn her head to the sound of Cat’s voice, she’s being hugged. Ellie is taken aback by this, the public show of affection not exactly Cat’s forte — even if it’s only in front of one person who she works with.

But then she’s whispering something in her ear and the odd behavior suddenly makes sense.

“We’re being recorded, don’t say anything about our relationship.” She whispers, speaking fast and almost frantically. Almost like she’s in danger. “Act as though you’d just met me.”

Cat pulls back, hands on Ellie’s shoulders and a wide smile on her face. Worry instantly shoots through Ellie’s chest, but she’s quick to play along.

“You must be my stylist.” She speaks, slowly removing Cat’s hands from her shoulders as though the action makes her uncomfortable. Despite, in all honesty, wanting nothing more than to pull her closer.

Cat laughs, her arms falling to her sides, “Yeah, sorry, I’m an affectionate person. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.”

“Let’s get a look at you, shall we?” Cat says with a smile. She looks over her shoulder at Clay, wordlessly telling him to leave the room. He abides by this, quickly exiting the space and rendering the two alleged strangers alone.

Ellie takes this time to examine Cat. She’s wearing another Capitolistic outfit, dressed in silver head to toe. Her dress has one strap, thick on her right shoulder, and is tight around the torso before turning into a muffin shape past the hips, ending at her knees. Her shoes are just as blindingly shiny, their tall heels adding a significant difference to her height. Her makeup is all silver as well, her eyeliner forming an artistic wing of metallic lines. 

“Remove the robe, please,” Cat asks kindly.

Considering their history, Ellie wouldn’t hesitate. Cat has seen her body too many times to count. But with the knowledge that they’re being watched, Ellie feigns defense. She pulls the cloth closer around her body, scowling at Cat in a way she’d never do outside of peering eyes. “No.”

“I just need to see what I’m working with, ma’am.” Says Cat. “You can cover your chest and private area with your hands, if you’d like.”

Ellie pretends to think on this, considering the thought before nodding in agreement. She unties the robe and quickly moves her hands to shield her body. Cat pretends to examine her, though they both know she doesn’t need to.

“Okay, you can put your robe back on.” Cat says. “Follow me.”

Ellie obliges, trailing behind Cat as they enter a new room. One that Clay hadn’t taken her into. It’s large, the all white interior now feeling more fancy than stifling. There are two couches at the center, clothes strewn about everywhere. Cat sits on one of the couches, crossing her legs elegantly. She looks like she belongs here, among such wealth.

Ellie moves to sit on the sofa opposite her, surely looking far less comfortable than Cat. She fidgets with her hands, looking around the space. She can feel Cat’s eyes on her, raking up and down her body. Had they not been in this particular situation — broken up and forced into roles of formality — Ellie would probably be flustered out of her mind. But she knows Cat’s only analyzing her like this for work, to imagine certain pieces on her for the Parade.

“I’m thinking of putting you and your partner, Riley, into something that matches.” She says. “To highlight the show she’d put on at the Reaping.”

The words are innocent enough, but Ellie knows the passiveness to Cat’s tone. She recognizes it from all the times Cat would curse Riley for her impulsive defiance. Ellie can tell that Cat is pissed. Well, until she sees a hint of something else in her gaze. As though her irises caught the light, her eyes sparkle with something Ellie can’t quite place — amusement, admiration, mischief? But that can’t be right. Cat isn’t defiant. To the Capitol, she’s loyal to a fault.

“What’re you thinking?” Ellie asks casually, trying to hide the way her mind is reeling with confusion.

“Well, as you likely are aware, the Chariot Parade is meant to introduce the tributes to the Capitol. You’re to be dressed in something that relates to your District, rather than to you yourself. That is saved for the interviews.” Cat explains, talking with her left hand as her right reaches for a wine glass sat on the glass coffee table between them. She holds it between her fingers as she continues on. “I hope to bring attention to Seven in a unique fashion, whilst simultaneously making you and Riley to be deemed a pair. An unbreakable duo.”

Ellie thinks back to all the past Parades for Seven. A few years back, the tributes were rendered completely naked, covered only by paint to make their skin resemble the bark of a tree, their hair dyed green to mock the leaves. In short, most Parade outfits are hideous. People expect them to be because they mirror Capitol fashion — which is, well, hideous. 

The catch, however, is that it’s Cat this year. Not some random elder.

“Sounds good.” Ellie agrees shortly, still attempting to maintain a facade of distrust.

Cat smiles kindly, professionally. She takes a sip of wine before standing from the couch with a flourish. It’s unsettling how she moves. The very way she places down her glass and crosses the room is sickeningly Capitolistic. 

Ellie loves Cat, she likely will for a long time following their disbandment, but she’s beginning to see things she’d not noticed when she was blinded by adoration. Like the sharpness to her gaze, the fluidity to her actions, the rise and fall of her voice — all traits of the Capitol. But then again, perhaps she’s only doing these things to keep up their act. Ellie can’t tell and that irks her.

“Come, come,” Cat beckons her toward one of the many overflowing closets. 

And within a half hour, Ellie is dressed. She’s adorned in a suit-like outfit. It’s far too tight around her thrtoat and she feels as though she’s being suffocated. Her pants are forest green and flow around her legs so, at certain angles, it might appear to be a skirt. She’s wearing a blazer, which fits snugly on her shoulders and neck. It’s the color of Ellie’s skin with black lines that mimic tree roots, these lines coming out to cover her chest. It gives the appearance that she’s hardly wearing anything, though she is.

Cat positions her in front of a full-body mirror, asking for her opinion on the outfit. Ellie doesn’t respond, though. She looks like herself well enough, just accentuated oddly. Her face looks too symmetrical, her hair pulled into a half-bun to highlight her cheekbones. Cat is quick to pick up on Ellie’s hesitation to respond.

“You’re an attractive woman, Ellie.” Cat tells her, though her tone remains casual, conversational. She places her hands on her shoulders from behind, a friendly act between strangers. Ellie visibly stiffens at it. “The Capitol loves an attractive tribute. Take Ruben L/n for example, do you think he’d be nearly as successful if he weren’t so hot? No. So, in my choice to dress you like this, I provide the Capitol with thinking they’re seeing your bare skin, whilst also providing you with the consolation of knowing that they’re not.”

Well. Ellie definitely hadn’t viewed it that way initially. She’s right, though. If the Capitol finds a tribute to be appealing, they’ll have a much easier time obtaining sponsors for the Games. This way, everyone gets what they want — the Capitol gets to exploit a young woman and Ellie gets to know that she’s tricking them. In knowing this, Ellie actually kind of likes the outfit. 

She gives Cat a nod in the mirror, “I like it.” She grins, “Oh, I’m glad! Come now, Kenyon Clampitt should be finished with Riley.”

Cat leads Ellie out of the room. As they exit, Clay spots them. His eyes widen with glee as he sees the design. He compliments Cat on her work, trailing behind them as they continue on their way to the bottom floor of the Remake Center where all the tributes will be loaded into Chariots for the Parade. Clay doesn’t stop talking the entire way down, Cat kindly nodding and indulging him.

The bottom level feels like a horse stable, everyone lined up by District as their mentors, escorts, and stylists assist them in readying their chariots. Ellie instantly spots Riley. She’s wearing a long green dress, the same color as Ellie’s flowy pants. She wears fingerless gloves that are the same material as Ellie’s top, root designs tracing up her arms, stopping at her elbows.

Tilly holds out a hand, offering her help to Riley up. Though, expectantly, she declines the offer and hoists herself into the chariot on her own. 

Ellie and Cat near the carriage, Clay in tow. Joel is the first to notice their presence, eyes widening at the sight of Ellie’s outfit. He turns to Cat with a deepened scowl, pulling her aside to reprimand her style choice. 

He speaks lowly, though Ellie can still hear his words. “That’s way too showy!”

“It’s not actually her skin, Miller.” Cat argues back. “She’s completely covered, the fabric is just the same color as–” “It doesn’t matter!” He exclaims. “Fake or not, the Capitol’s reaction’ll be the same. Exploitation. She may be an adult, but she ain’t old enough for that shit!” That’s when Ellie tunes them out. She vaguely wonders if they’d ever met formally before, though the answer is obvious. No. Joel is the mentor, assigned to pass the tributes off at the Remake Center to the stylist. He then waits by the chariot on the bottom floor until the tributes are brought to him, then the stylist leaves without making much conversation. Sometimes, if the tributes come to like their stylists, they can visit their suites in the Training Center. Ellie wonders if that’s ever happened. She can’t imagine it, though. Joel, Tilly, Cat, Clay, and two tributes all eating dinner together. She almost laughs at the mere thought of it. The awkwardness.

Ellie hops into the chariot, standing beside Riley. Riley says nothing, expression hardened as she overlooks all the other tributes. Ellie decides to do the same thing.

She recognizes everyone from watching the Reapings. The people who stand out most to her are Thalia Thatcher, who is the younger sister to the 68th victor; the pairs of siblings — Lev and Yara, who stand shoulder to shoulder, then Sam and Henry, where the latter is giving what seems to be a pep talk to the former; Ashley West, the Deaf girl who is signing with a translator as means to communicate with her mentor; the couple, Roland Jennings and Archie Bardot, who appear to be inseparable and always touching in one way or another; and — who everyone else is already staring at — you.

You’re dressed in a pirate outfit. You’re wearing an overly large linen blouse, a corset atop it that’s a blue so dark it’s almost black. An abundance of belts are secured around your hips, adding layers to the look. Below them resides a few layers of skirts — ranging from light blue to navy. The back of the skirt reaches the floor, the front coming to your mid-thigh. Combat boots are on your feet, heeled to add a few inches to your height.

It’s clever, Ellie thinks, to take such a unique approach to your District’s fishing fixation. Most past tributes of Four wore odd outfits of flowing blue tunics or, three years ago, they wore nothing but seashells to cover their chests and crotches. As it turns out, most stylists yearn to have attractive tributes because they can exploit them to the Capitol and be praised for having as little clothes on them as possible. Ellie is, admittedly, shocked you’re so covered. Not that she finds you attractive or anything personally, it’s just a fact. You’re good looking. Everyone knows it. It’s more than just your body, though, it’s your eyes and hair and— 

Yeah, okay. Moving on.

A young boy stands beside you in your chariot, two feet shorter than you. He’s wearing a pirate hat and a linen shirt the same color as yours. As he’s not wearing a bodice, his pants are the dark blue shade that your corset is. His outfit is much less complex, though still gives off the same piratey feel to it that yours does. 

“Don’t stare at her.” Riley’s voice takes her by surprise, Ellie’s head snapping to face her. “Her ego is probably inflated enough as is.”

“Nice of you to fucking speak to me.” Ellie snaps, unable to help her irritation.

Riley scoffs, not saying anything more. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Ellie turns her attention to where Cat and Clay are retreating back into the building. Joel watches them leave, standing with his arms crossed in disapproval regarding their conversation. Ellie looks around for Tilly, unable to find her. But when she does, she sees that Tilly is speaking with Four’s escort, your escort. They look similar, actually. They have the same bone structure, mouth shape, and stand the same way.

Realization smacks her in the face. That’s Tilly’s sister. That’s why she was talking about her sister being happy for a L/n being Reaped. Because she gets to escort you. Fucking duh. Ellie suddenly feels stupid for not having realized earlier.

Ellie watches the back of your head, not at all heeding Riley’s words. Your head is chin held high, shoulders back. You exude power, wealth, and confidence. Anyone would be a fool not to sponsor you. Ellie’s sure she would, had she been a Capitolite person of the Capitol. Well. For logical reasons, not personal preference. Of course.

Just then, a blinding light stings her eyes. The front wall opens up like a door, allowing the sounds of cheers and screams to pass through the opening. The crowd is already lined up, anxiously waiting to see this year’s tributes. The mentors and escorts back away from their respective carriages, allowing the horses to pull the chariots out. 

First to leave is District One, Anthea Solace and Thalia Thatcher. Directly behind them, Two comes out. Lev and Yara. Then Three, Sam and Henry. Ellie finds it rather odd how many sibling and friend duos there are this year. She’d recognized the peculiarity to it, though she never gave it much thought, as she was preoccupied with other concerns such as Cat and Riley and the fucking Hunger Games. 

Her attention is snapped back forward as the crowd goes wild. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who they’re cheering so loudly for. And, when she looks up, she realizes her assumption was correct. Four’s chariot is being pulled out. Yours and Remy’s faces flood the screens overhead, all cameras pointed in your direction. Ellie watches from within the building as you wave at the crowd, smiling brightly. She wonders, briefly, if it’s fake, your elation. She doubts it. Someone who grew up in the spotlight has to love it. Right? God, you’re probably eating this up.

Before long, Seven’s chariot is being pulled forward. The crowd cheers, cameras now turned to them. Cat was right, the Capitol is loving Ellie’s outfit. They whoop and clap, and it makes Ellie feel sick. They’re cheering, yes, but for what? For their excitement to see her tossed into the arena to be killed?

She then feels Riley grab her hand. Ellie has no time to react before Riley is hoisting it into the air, a carbon copy of what she’d done at the Reaping. The crowd goes wild, loving their show of amity. But now that she’s aware of what it symbolizes, Ellie can’t help the way her stomach churns. Marlene’s words ring loudly through her skull. 

“I’ve seen the Capitol kill people for less than holding hands.” 

She wants to drop Riley’s hand. But she can’t, not when the cameras are zoomed in on their clasped fingers. So she simply puts on a mask, just as she’d done with Cat. She lifts her chin, mimicking the way she’d seen you do it. She hopes desperately that she exudes that same air of confidence that you had. She’s dressed to be attractive so her personality must match that, yes?

Ellie adjusts her expression as to appear more alluring — a sharp gaze that she’d learned from Cat, set shoulders that she’s learned from you, and parted lips that she’d learned from Riley. Ellie isn’t sure how to naturally look a certain way. But she’s observant. She’s able to use people like puzzle pieces to form her own image. Taking features from those she finds most appealing, she’s able to concoct that puzzle of hers. And, when put all together, she looks beguiling. The crowd loves her.

The commotion dies down only when the carriage comes to a halt, Riley releasing Ellie’s hand as she peers up at something. Ellie follows her gaze to see a building that holds people of status — Capitol Diamonds, early victors, and the president himself. His first name left unknown, President Fedra is the puppeteer pulling the strings behind every malicious act that happens within this country. The Games, the deaths, the wars. It’s all him.

The look of hatred within Riley’s gaze is evident as she scowls up at President Fedra. Ellie kicks her in the ankle, subtle enough nobody aside from her would notice. In an instant, Riley has managed to tone down her loathing, though it’s still painfully obvious.

Fedra rakes his gaze over the tributes, all twelve chariots stopped in front of the building for examination. His eyes go to Four first, as expected, analyzing you harshly. Ellie doesn’t fail to notice the way your jaw clenches under his gaze. She wonders if it’s due to nerves, pride, or if you loathe the president as vehemently as she and Riley do. Afterall, you’re a pawn in his games as well, Reaped just as unwillingly.

Then, Fedra gazes at the other tributes, pausing for a brief moment on Riley. Ellie prays that he’s not taken her hatred as a threat, though it definitely is one. 

And, with that and naught more, he turns and walks away from the window he’d been peering out of. As though the tributes matter no more. As though they’re already six feet under his expensive boots.

Following his sudden absence, the carriages pull forward to complete one more circle before retreating to the Training Center. Ellie watches your chariot as it pulls away, your hands holding onto the rail tightly. Beside you, Remy has wide glossy eyes.

It takes Riley kicking her in the ankle to pull her gaze away.

[post] notes!! ellie’s top for the parade is heavily inspired by the root designs that zuhair murad explored in fall of 2013 for vogue. specifically the back of the red velvet dress (idk who the model is, i've been searching for hours & can't find her name). anyway yippee for me FINALLY getting this goddamn chapter out. i feel like i just fought goliath (he definitely won).

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.    @h4-rt3s.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.   

[ravisinghs-wife]

The seven + Nico and Reyna and their red flags ✼

warnings: not proofread, swearwords, lmk if I missed anything!

a/n: okay I'm sorry I didn't post for like two months, ngl I simply forgot that this blog existed😭

notes to the fic: reader is written as gn (one mention off y/n), but pls don't read Nico's part if u identify as female! :)

masterlist

Percy

he's always barefoot during spring and summer

you'll never catch him with shoes on because he things that they are "blocking the fresh air his toes need"

at least they never get that dirty because he can't survive five minutes without jumping in the sea

when he was younger sally had to force him wear shoes to school, to the parkt et cetera and he was always so angry at her after that because he hated it with all his passion

that anger quickly faded after she baked some blue cookies

after growing up he learned that he should wear shoes to school et cetera but the second he is at camp he gets rid of them

after you dressed it he delegated that he always washed them and kept them clean so there was no wrong doing it and that it's actually healthy for your feet

Annabeth

listen, I love annabeth

but she's always mansplaining

Like u could be talking about ur close family that she only met once and she‘d say something like „actually, i had the impression that…“

It’s so annoying

she doesn't even mean it mean or something

but it also could be just a conversasiation that she isn't even involved in and she'll just randomly pop up and mansplain the topic

jason

That boy doesn’t have any basic knowledge

Like he is at camp jupiter since he’s three or something

I‘m not sure if they even knew what they where teaching him

Like that boy doesn’t know algebra

You could be talking about something in history and how deeply that event infected the way society lives now and he‘d be like „what do you mean?“

And he’s serious

Everytime Percy and Leo make fun of him for not knowing something he‘ll run to you and beg you to explain it to him

Most of the time you make a bit fun of him too because a 17 year old boy who doesn’t know what the french Revolution was is kinda funny

He knows that you‘re just joking though

hazel

I love her but she's like one of the extra careful mom's whose world break when their child hears a swear word

every time you are someone near both of ou swears she has this weird shocked and impressed look and looks around the room

you had to stop swearing around her bc she always starts blushing and looks at you in awe

they don't even have to be the "bad" swear words, it could be something like shit and she'd still be shocked

you had to learn to find alternatives like fudge or fox

she made you browse for the alternatives to swear words for around two hours at midnight and made you subscribe to the mommy blogs incase they had "more cool little alternatives"

piper

she's a die hard romance book hater

she always gives you the weird look when you read one or even only look at one at the bookstore

like she doesn't even have a plausible reason besides that they "always have the same ending and are very predictable"

I mean she's right but still

when she was 14 she had an instagram where she just talked shit about romance books because she was bored

it's not even that she doesn't like reading or books that much, she just doesn't like them because they (as already said) have the same ending and because she gor sick of the perfect romantic ending after drew talked night in and out about it

you once convinced her to read your favorite romance book and she tried her best to be nice

she actually didn't find it that bad and liked the ending but she would never admit that to you

leo

that boy either doesn't shower for one week or takes two hour showers

it's a bit better in the summer but especially in winter he never shower because he "would just get dirty later again"

you have to force him too properly shower because he would just forget it again

and when he actually showers for once he takes two hour showers

but especially in summer he's just gonna swim in the lake and call it a day because he basically "got clean already"

frank

I love frank sm but he would 7 in 1 shampoo

he doesn't get why it's bad and insists that it makes his hair shinier

you try to explain it to him once but he just doesn't understand 😪

he also tries to convince you all the time that it's so much better than owning body wach, shampoo and conditioner

nico

is a pop music hater

he always has this annoyed look on his face when you play pop music

he always makes this disappointed dad sigh and says "again?"

nico sounds so disappointed

he secretly loves it about you tho

reyna

she's like a confused mom and never gets jokes

"what do you mean by that, y/n? I never do that"

you try to explain the joke to her but give up after 10 minutes

she's grumpy for the rest of the day because you wouldn't finish explaining it to her

eventually she gives her pride up and asks you again

and after another ten stressful minutes she finally gets it

she kept arguing that what you said doesn't make sense

[temis-de-leon]

Main Masterlist

Masterlist I - Series and Multichapter

Masterlist II - One-shots

Masterlist III - 25 kisses challenge (complete)

Masterlist IV - Replaced MC AU/AU

Follower milestones: 500

My opinion on certain things

.

.

Hogwarts Legacy rewrite (TBA)

[giuliettagaltieri]

Hunt for Glory

Pairing: Young!Coriolanus Snow x Capitol!Reader

Synopsis: After living under the shadow of legacy of your fathers, you and Coriolanus Snow decide it is time to climb to the top, to reclaim what was yours.  You are a convenient ally, a dangerous and sly woman, and to his luck, it seems your heart was tender for him, until it no longer was.

Warning: angst, unrequited love, mean Coriolanus Snow, academic rivalry, fake dating, politics, elitism, manipulation, greed, mentions of death, Capitol cruelty, shooting, blood, injuries, eventual smut, explicit sex, unprotected sex, spoilers

Disclaimer: The TBOSAS characters belong to their respective owners, reader is female. Skin tone and body type mentions were limited for better reading experience. If any characteristics of y/n bothers you, or if any of the warnings does not agree with you, I advise you not to proceed to read the story.

Chapter Count: 6

Status: Completed

Masterlist

i. Fight for Carnage

ii. Duel of Knowledge

iii. Chase for Prestige

iv. Break the Bondage

v. Cry of Outrage

vi. Claim the Heritage

Quest for Happiness

Explaining the District tours

[alphabetboyluvr]

HUSH | MYG - TWO

pairing: rockstar!yoongi x female reader | mutual disdain - lovers (but also strangers - lovers? kinda?)

premise: in which you work for your brothers band by day and accidentally anonymously sext his bandmate on the regular by night! whoops !!

wc: 10k

for more details, pls see the master list (x)

note from holly: if you've read hush over on wattpad, then you've already seen this! sorry!! but this is everything that was on wattpad--the next upload will be 100% fresh hehe

warnings: alcohol, foul language, creepy men in bars, sexting (minimal!! very brief!), yoongi is both an asshole and a good guy, oc and yoongi are dumb!! and argumentative!! we learn a teeny tiny bit more lore for the night that never was!!

the app (x) | the band (x) | part one (x)

minors dni!!!

GOLDEN CLOSET STUDIO Big Hit Ent, Yongsan-gu

"Back again so soon?" Jungkook grins when you traipse into his studio the next morning. 

Slumping down onto the sofa with a groan, you get comfortable like it's a second home to you. Only just gone midday, you're exhausted. You'll tell anyone who asks that you went out for a morning run, but you'll be lying through your teeth.

See, what made you tired may have given flushed cheeks, but sadly no cardio was involved. Just some pixels. Words. Another goddamn video call of a bedroom you know so damn well but have never stepped foot within. From his belly button down, you'd recognise your Damocles boys in a heartbeat. Wonder if you'd be able to tell if you saw him in the wild, fully clothed. 

You doubt it.

No, what's made you so tired isn't the things that get you up in the morning, but rather the things that keep you up all night.

Or just 'thing'.

A singular.

You're not sure you want to classify him as a person, because currently he's just pixels on a screen - but the images those pixels so often make? The dirty words that form in negative spaces just for you to see?

Yeah. You think that he's too good to be true. Can't be a real man.

"Meeting," you mumble into the cushion of the chair. "You know how many logistics are involved in taking you guys on tour? It's mad."

"Logistics?" He snorts, knowing your job has nothing to do with that side of the business.

"I'm shadowing," you reply. "Jinyu sweet-talked someone she knows in that department. Following one of the planners around for the week."

"Really tryna work your way up, huh?" Jungkook asks, before quietly musing, "Hope Jinyu'll sweet-talk me some time."

He's not wrong. About working your way up, that is. Jinyu will never sweet-talk him.

Big Hit is a great stepping stone - an industry outlier, built from the ground up - but you don't want to be in your brother's shadow for too long. 

You fear it'll look like you're complacent; as if you want an easy life that you don't have to work hard for. Get some experience, get a good reference, and get out; that's the plan. Maybe work somewhere overseas, away from the confines of your family name.

You don't entertain Jungkook's musings, instead opting to shuffle a little further into his sofa. It's leather and still smells brand new - not because it is, but because Jungkook is meticulous in his cleaning regimes. Will probably wipe it down after you leave. Is perhaps the neatest rockstar you've ever known - not that you know all that many. 

And that's exactly your issue; even if you want to get out of Seokjin's shadow, you've no idea where to turn to. Bright light saturates everything else. Here, you're hidden. Safe. Comfortable.

Well, comfortable except for one particular thorn in your side.

"Get your song sorted with Yoongi last night?" You ask, genuinely curious about it. You're also incredibly nosey, and Yoongi is a dick. What you'd like to hear is that he's annoyed and frustrated, because that's how he makes you feel. 

It's selfish to think that way. The album cycle is well and truly underway, and the boys are cramming every spare moment into perfecting it. You aren't too aware of the process, you just know that Yoongi speaks to you even less now that the stress is mounting.

They're made for the stage. Would spend all day every day performing, if it was sustainable. Don't enjoy the downtime - but you think it's because the slowness of it all interferes with their live fast, die young bullshit.

Jungkook shakes his head. "It's missing something. Can't figure out what. We're gonna leave it until after the Europe dates. Hopefully will have found some inspiration over there."

You accept his answer without a response. Know that any advice you could give would be redundant. You don't know the first thing about music production, and think it would be a waste of energy to float ideas for a song you've not even heard.

"Think Yoongi needs to rest," Jungkook muses a little mindlessly. "Was here till stupid o'clock last night."

You mumble a response, and Jungkook takes it as an indication to continue.

"Last email he sent was at like, what? Three in the morning? How his brain could've still been working, I've no idea."

"He's a night owl," you hum, as if it's a new discovery. "Works better that way. It's like you work best after a good sleep. He works best a little sleep-deprived."

"Yeah but how?!"

"I dunno. Brain science. Ask Yoongi. He probably knows. Psychology n shit."

Jungkook just rolls his eyes. He won't be asking Yoongi.

Just like he also won't be asking Yoongi if he wants to join you all for drinks later that evening. 

That job? Yeah, that's up to you.

Neither you, Jimin, nor Jungkook wanna ask Yoongi, mainly because you all know he'll just say 'no.' What's the point?

A fierce battle of rock-paper-scissors had been fought earlier that evening, and you'd been the poor sod declared as the loser.

Already half a bottle down, they're drinking in Jungkook's studio (even if Hoseok strictly forbode it the last time they got legless at work (as if his orders have ever stopped them from doing anything they wanted)) when you finally meet them again. 

They're getting a headstart on the evening's festivities.

It's nothing special. Just a chance for them all to hang out properly after the Seoul shows.

They rarely ever 'hang out', 'cause work often feels like that anyway. It's only when they take a break that they realise how much they enjoy each other's company. A few days rest from one another is always welcome - but exceed three days, and they start to get withdrawal symptoms.

"Ready to go?" You ask, but are met with curt shakes of their heads.

Jimin passes you the bottle of beer he's been nursing on. As you take a swig, he reminds you, "You've not asked Yoongi yet."

Lips pressed to the rim of the bottle, you roll your eyes. Have half a mind to backwash in retaliation, but you don't fancy bickering this early on in the night.

Shaking your head, you swallow down the froth. "He'll say no."

"Buuuuut," Jungkook sings, as if he thinks he can serenade you into asking Yoongi. "What if he says yes?"

"Well, one of you can ask!" You whine. Yoongi's studio is the last place you want to go to - especially after the messages he sent you last night, warning you about your relationship with Jungkook. "Give him your doe eyes, Kook. It'll work."

A game of rock, paper, scissors is legally binding, though. Jungkook tells you so. Says if you don't go and ask Yoongi, he'll be forced to take you to court.

"I've got Big Hit lawyers," he reminds you.

"Is this a threat?!"

"Yep. Now go ask Yoongi!"

You argue a little longer. Jimin takes two shots during that time. Jungkook interpretive dances whenever you make a compelling statement as to why you shouldn't be the one asking. You frown whenever he does the robot.

And so, mainly to get away from any more of Jungkook's bizarre hip-gyrations, you traipse down to the end of the corridor, where Yoongi's so-called Genius Lab resides.

The wait at his door is awkward. You question yourself, what you'll say, how you should stand. First impressions are everything, and if he's greeted with shitty energy, he'll give it back in return. You know him well enough to know this for a fact.

After a lifetime of waiting (27 seconds, to be exact), there's a mechanical whir of the lock coming undone.

"Hey," you offer a smile as you're greeted with his typical face of thunder. "Been sent to retrieve you. We're going out tonight. All of us."

He knows the plans. Is in the group chat. Ignored the messages for a reason.

His stare is a little frosty but not unkind. Just uninterested. "Can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both?"

You might be deluding yourself, but you think he smiles slightly when he says that.

"Ah, but you can and you will go to the ball, Cinders," you joke, giving him a small curtsy. "All work no play makes Yoongi a dull boy."

You're joking, but you believe it. He's been miserable the last few months. Keeps himself hauled up in his studio when they're not on the road, and avoids social interaction like the plague. It maddens you. How is he gonna write songs about life and the importance of living one, if he won't let himself do the same?

He's hard to read as he sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Shakes his head, then opens his door a little wider. Encourages you into his space.

A candle burns on his desk, faintly vanilla in its scent, making it feel far cosier than actually is. The room is sullen; dark greys and little else. In fact, it surprises you he's gone for such a pretty cream candle. LED lights that are hidden in the walls glow a deep blue, and it's no wonder he's so miserable. There's no passion in his little pit. No life. Just him, some screens, and the whir of computer fans.

"Will you give something a listen?" He asks, quite clearly seeing you as a last resort - but when you hit rock bottom, the only direction you can go in is up. He knows you're not musical, not like Jin, but perhaps he needs the ear of a consumer, not a creator. "Been wracking my brain trying to think of what this needs. Have listened to it so many times that nothing sounds right anymore. I just- Could you?" He pauses. Looks quite uncomfortable when he adds, "Please?"

You assume the file up on the central screen is the song he's been working on with Jungkook, so you oblige. Kick your shoes off and leave them by the mat. It's been a while since you've been given the luxury of access to the Genius Lab. You used to know the code.

Things with Yoongi used to be different, though.

Not much has changed within his four dark walls since then. He's gained a new painted canvas in the corner of the room, stacked behind the existing ones. It's deep navy blue. Sort of like him, you think. The blue continues. Illuminates his work area. No wonder he never sleeps. The mood lighting is cold. Alert. Is bound to fuck with his brain.

There are more speakers than you can fathom, and switchboards you can't even begin to understand. The programs that Yoongi's running on his computers are familiar, though. You've seen them enough times to get a rough idea of the composition. Can see tabs labelled for Jin's vocals.

Yoongi turns his chair as the door clicks shut, automatic lock whirring into place. There was a time when that sound would have excited you. Not for any lewd, scandalous reason - just for the fact there used to be a time, many moons ago, when you thought Min Yoongi was the hottest man to have ever graced the earth.

And can you blame yourself?

His midnight hair gracefully frames his face, perfectly waved, dark eyes stark against his pale complexion. His skin is dewy, cheeks a little puffy from his lack of sleep and the fact all he has in his system is an iced americano and blue Powerade - yet still, his features are sharp. A white shirt hangs off his broad shoulders, dainty bracelets sitting on his pretty wrists.

Every bit the heartthrob, he's only gotten better with age - but you've grown up, too. Are wiser now. Understand that devastatingly handsome men will always inevitably devastate you, too.

It's for that reason Min Yoongi doesn't bother you in the same ways that he used to. That, and the night that never was.

As you said, devastatingly handsome men will only ever devastate you, too. He's proven that point already.

He points to his chair. "Sit."

The way he's so demanding with his tone annoys you. You shake your head. Choose to stand. "It's cool. Just play the song."

You don't mean to be so sharp. So curt. You're just thinking about how unbearable he's been recently - especially last night. He'd left you on read. Obviously wasn't happy with your response, not that you care.

"Please don't be difficult," he says softly. "Just sit so you can listen properly."

Why your stature could possibly impact your ears and their ability to listen, you'll never know - but you don't argue. As much as Yoongi's contempt for you these days annoys you, you don't want to make it any worse than it already is.

The leather of his chair is warm from his perch. Kind of nice how despite his cool demeanour, he's always a little toasty. He brings the heat of Daegu with him wherever he goes.

"I'm all ears," you tell him, and watch as he presses down on the play button.

"It's not the full song," he says over the melody of an upbeat track. "You'll know the bit I mean though. It's like, not bad, but-"

"Yoongi, shush," you smile, making sure you catch his eye as you do so. Don't want him to think you're snapping. You just wanna hear the sections he's uncertain about in context with the rest of the song.

Quiet as the track begins to echo out, there's an uncharacteristically quaint piano faintly guiding the track. You know he plays, but it's rare for it to be a focal part of the songs he creates.

You understand immediately which section Yoongi's having trouble with - not because it sounds bad, just because the drop before the final chorus doesn't hit quite right. It builds and builds but the arrival at the final chorus is underwhelming.

"Rewind it a bit," you say, wanting to hear it again. Confirm that it's the right part.

Yoongi does as you ask, leaning over you slightly, and says, "Somethings off, right?"

Nodding, you listen for a third time. "Take away the guitar," you say.

He does. It's better, but still not right.

"Maybe you've overcomplicated it?" you muse, thinking that he needs to strip it back entirely, but not wanting to offend him.

"Hmm," he hums. "You think?"

He mutes a few more layers on the track. Plays it again. It's getting there.

"Better, right?" you ask.

He nods as he stands up straight, listening to it over again. Frowns. "Still not quite there."

"I think it might benefit from some distance," you suggest. "Come out with us tonight. Get your mind off this track. Might even get some inspiration."

Shaking his head, he watches as you stand and head towards the door. He's not been out with you since the night that never was. Doesn't enjoy the prospect of risking it all after a couple of drinks inevitably turns into a couple of bottles again - of which he knows it will. If you and Jimin are together, it will be messy. Just how it goes. Throw Jungkook and Tae into the mix? Disaster waiting to happen.

"Look," you sigh. "I know it's not really your thing - but the rest of the boys are game. They all want you there. Just think about it, okay?"

He purses his lips together. Smiles, and turns to face his computer screen once more. "Thanks for your help."

And just like that, you're dismissed. Considering the way he'd messaged you about Jungkook the day before, it went pretty well, you think. Try not to dwell on the fact he couldn't be less interested even if he tried.

It's funny, 'cause as Yoongi stews in his chair, rocking ever so gently, he sighs. Shakes his head. Grumbles to himself quietly: "'they all want you there'... but do you want me there?"

The boys aren't so disappointed when you return with no Yoongi behind you. They all knew what his answer would be, and only sent you so they didn't have to deal with his rejection.

"Took your time," Jimin notes.

You shrug. Deadpan. "Yeah, sorry, got distracted. Too busy shagging him."

"Really?!"

"No, of course not," you laugh, as if it's the funniest suggestion in the world. You sort of think it is. "Nah, he just wouldn't be convinced."

And so it comes as a surprise to everyone when Yoongi shows up at Jimin's place a couple of hours later with a bottle of whisky in hand.

"Shut the fuck up," is all he says as he walks into an absolute commotion, practically everyone in the room elated by his decision to join in. He hides his smile poorly, occasionally letting his teeth show despite his protests.

From the sofa, you catch his eye. Nod. He bunches up his face a little. Nods back - but is quickly distracted by Jimin holding up a clear shot glass filled with fuck knows what. You, too, find yourself distracted by chatter with the rest of the boys and a couple of the girls from the artist liaison team.

In the corner of the room, your phone is plugged into a charger. It's been there since you arrived. You've no need to check it - but you can never leave it too long.

You smile, butterflies kissing your tummy and making their way through your body when you eventually check it.

D4m0cl3s: got a work thing tonight, so probably won't be able to message much gonna be thinkin' about u tho don't miss me too much, clemmie x

The smile is hard to hide. You blame it on the alcohol.

Kind of like how Yoongi smiles half an hour later when he checks his own phone.

Cl3m3ntin3: been a busy bee today, sorry :( all work, no play? :( it'll make you dull, damocles boy x

But then he watches you as you laugh with Jungkook about something trivial. Reads over his messages again. Shakes his head.

Remembers you trying to convince him to join for the evening. How you'd called him Cinders. Told him that all work and no play made him dull.

His heart thuds in his chest. He swallows harshly. Pours a whisky. Swallows that, too.

Breathes a sigh of relief as he taps through a message - 'it's a play thing for work. promise i'll behave x' - and watches your phone after it's marked as 'delivered' in his chat feed.

Your phone is screen-up on the kitchen counter, just within his line of vision. It doesn't light up. Doesn't vibrate. Receives no message.

"Thank fuck," he mumbles, the sinking feeling in his chest lifting as he grabs a fresh whisky.

He quickly walks away from the scene of a crime that never was. Sort of like the night that never was. Is so pleased, in fact, that he's happy to sit beside you on the sofa as Jungkook sets up a drinking game with Jin.

Silly, really, how a few drinks seem to make him forget the concept of 'do not disturb' mode.

"Hey," you smile and he comes to sit down. "Glad you made it."

"Me too," he nods, lips thin, chin dimpling as a shy smile graces his face. He's a little whisky tipsy. Doesn't feel the need to keep such a strict distance from you, now.

"To a good night," you raise your glass to him, and he reciprocates. Clinks them together.

"To a good night."

STAIRWAY BAR Itaewon-ro, Yongsan-Gu

♪ // You First (Re: Remi Wolf)- Paramore

"You're never gonna be this young and this hot again," Jimin slurs after a few too many lemon drops. It's his third time making this point, because it's the third time you've shooed away a guy trying to make a move on you.

They've all been perfectly fine. Nice enough guys, you're sure, but you aren't interested in random hookups. The night really isn't about that. All you want to do is let your hair down with the boys you've known for most of your life.

As Jimin whines about the fact no one is ready to move onto a club yet, bored of the bar, part of you considers the novel idea that one of the men in your rejection pile could have been your Damocles boy. A funny thing to think about, really. He did say he was busy tonight. Said it was for work, but everyone knows how rowdy work dinners can get after the boss leaves.

He could be here. Could have his tail between his legs. Could be looking at you right now, without a clue.

The reality of that wouldn't please you, for it would mean he's out there searching for other women.

While he'd be well within his right to, you selfishly find that that you don't want him to. In fact, all you wanna do is send him a message. Let him know you're thinking of him. That you wish you were at home right now, alone in your sheets with nothing but an internet connection and that damn app to keep you company.

You're with friends, though. Can't open the app without fear of endless ridicule - and not to mention the fact your brother is with you. Not worth it.

As you come to join them, a fresh drink in your hand, you're easily distracted. Are brought back to reality by your favourite people. Neon lights on the ceiling, and relics of time spent in the bar pinned to the walls. Photobooth pictures, foreign currency. Life is embedded into the seams of this place, and it's reassuring, in a way. Makes your dependency on your Damocles boy a lot less intense. You can forget him. Live life. Neglect to check your phone.

"Objection!" Jungkook chimes, following you and Jimin to the corner booth of the bar where the rest of your friends sit. "Older women are, like, so hot. So damn hot. Damn." And then he's thinking to himself. Brows furrowed, pouty lips whistling out a hearty sigh as he shakes his head. Thinks about Jinyu. A couple of the older women at the record company. About Jimin's mother. Laughs. Nods. "Yeah, older women are where it's at."

Both of you look at him with an air of confusion, and yet neither of you question it.

"What did I miss?" Jin beams when he rejoins you, as a member of the bar staff follows him with a bottle of Ciroc resting in an ice bucket. Another staff member will soon bring you cans of drink to use as mixers, but you know damn well these boys will be shotting it down straight.

The bottle won't be on the house, but you know Jin will have charged it back to the company. Will get a bollocking from Hoseok the next time he's in the office. Doesn't care, cause he knows the band makes the record company more money than anyone else on the roster at the moment. The way he sees it, it's their money anyway.

"Jungkook's just declared his love for older ladies," Taehyung deadpans from the sofa opposite yours. "Nothing new."

"Better older than younger," Jin asserts, playfully pushing against your forehead as he walks past you and back to his seat.

As much as you're your own person, you're still his little sister, and the rest of his unruly group of friends will do well to remember that.

Jungkook snorts. Throws a smirk in your direction. "I can make exceptions."

"And I can get away with murder, Kook," Jin assures him - and he's probably right. As much as they like to play into the rock and roll lifestyle, they've got power. Fame. Something that hides them just as much as it projects them. "Don't even think about it."

There's laughter and chatter amongst everyone at such a declaration, but you can't help but wonder if a certain pair of eyes glanced your way upon hearing that.

It's not like Yoongi doesn't know Jin harbours such feelings. Told you the exact same thing, once: that Jin'd murder Jungkook if anything ever happened between the pair of you.

But you also remember what came next.

Even if it's never been spoken about since, you know that remembers, too. The way he refused to reply to your last text is testament to it.

See, he's been avoiding you since long before you got your little job with the company. Would turn down plans if you were in attendance. Declined invites to dinner, and bailed on drinks. Once you started working in such close proximity, it was harder to keep his distance, and so he built up walls.

They're steep, and they're topped with barbed wire. Impenetrable, or so it would seem.

Climbing has never been a strong point of yours, and scaling walls doesn't feel like a pastime you'd enjoy very much, so Yoongi's safe distance from you is kept. He's feline, in that way; how he'll stalk up trees and sit in amongst the branches, peering down at you. Out of reach, holding all the cards.

Flicking your eyes across to him, you find him embroiled in conversation with Namjoon. He's laughing, which admittedly does make you smile. It's been so long since you've been afforded the luxury of witnessing such a thing.

But you're torn from your thoughts by a sudden, sharp tug on your wrist, and don't even realise Jimin is dragging you out of your seat until you're already stumbling behind him. With a shrill yelp and soft giggle, you let him pull you to the stairs that lead up from the basement bar to the earthly realm above.

"C'mon," Jimin calls behind himself, as if you have any choice in the matter. He's got a death grip on you. You're coming along whether you like it or not. "The rest of them are being boring. I wanna dance."

"Maybe I was enjoying being boring!" You argue just for the sake of it, tapping at your pockets to make sure you've still got your phone with you. Not for any particular reason. Just to be safe. Totally not because you fear losing your only contact with your virtual lover. Nothing like that at all.

"Tough," Jimin asserts, not caring where you both end up just as long as there is a dancefloor and a dark corner.

It isn't for any sinister reason, but just because he isn't looking to be the life and soul of the party. His face isn't recognised in the same way that the other boys are, but it doesn't matter. He attracts attention regardless. Goes with the territory of having a face like his. Irresistible to men and women alike. You're yet to meet anyone who doesn't think he's the most beautiful man alive - though Jin certainly does take issue with such a title being awarded to anyone else but him.

But just like Jin, there's a magnetism about Jimin. Moths to a flame, the rest of the boys follow suit and head up towards the street. The entire area code is a cluster of bars and hole-in-the-wall food joints. It's made for this time of the night, when the clouds are shielding the eyes of the moon from all sorts of sin, just a few stray stars guiding the way.

Light pollution bleeds upwards and out. Even if you know the stars are there, you can't see them - and it's not like you get the chance to check either way, for Jimin's already pulling you down the stairs to another basement bar.

This one is larger - two stories. Quieter on the first floor, it's the second level where he wants to be.

A planner in both professional and personal life, even though he seems erratic and all out of order, Jimin has everything under control. Knows the managers of most (if not all) of the bars on this street. Called a favour in this afternoon for one of the downstairs booths, just adjacent to the dancefloor, to be roped off & reserved. Knew that some of the boys would, in his mind, be 'boring', but still wanted everyone together. It's the best of both worlds. He can dance, and they can talk, or whatever they wanna do.

♪ // Desert Eagle - Silica Gel

Min Yoongi doesn't dance. He drinks. He observes. He watches the debauchery unfold from a safe distance, much like he does with you. Sometimes - not always - he thinks. Ponders. Wonders if maybe he's wasting his time by not indulging in the same way other people do. If he's missing out. Considers perhaps his friends are right to revel in such mindless frivolities.

He doesn't debate his choices often, but as he gets comfortable in this new place, he can't help it. Thinks word must have gotten out about their planned attendance, 'cause he notices far more eyes on them than normal. Far more women vying for their attention. Men, too. Whether it be sex or status, their intrigue is always fuelled by something.

The rest of the boys revel in it.

Yoongi doesn't care for it - but there's a reputation to uphold. A brand image that being spotted in clubs and getting up to no good only helps. Seals them as the real deal. Gets them out of the bracket of 'posers' or manufactured, not that it really fuckin' matters.

There are two girls to each of them. Supply and demand. There aren't enough of The Scouts to go around, but people will share. Will take all they can get. Sharp eyeliner, pretty hair, the girls all have their wits about them, and it's potentially the worst part of it all - they're making the conscious, informed choice to lower themselves to a standard well beneath their worth.

The club stinks of sticky liquor and smoke, but beneath the veil they're all wearing the same perfume. Whatever's currently being marketed as 'irresistible' to men. Was vanilla a few years ago. Yoongi is certain it's something muskier now, but isn't sure what. Makes no difference to him.

There's only one perfume he knows he really likes, and has trained himself to despise it by association.

It's a shame that he hasn't trained himself to stop looking in your direction whenever he thinks of you. Is part of the reason he doesn't like drinking around you. Makes such stupid mistakes. His malevolent mask fails to hide him. The facade slips.

Tongue resting in the corner of his mouth, he doesn't realise he's staring. Eyes dark as they watch you with Jimin, Yoongi wonders if you've always had that tattoo just above your elbow. It's small, and dainty. Hard to make out from where he is, but when your arms are in the air, he's fixated on it. Thinks it must be new.

But then your arms drop to rest on Jimin's shoulders, and he's reminded of what you look like when you're all hot and bothered. Reminded of that night. The one that never was. Haunted by the rivulet of sweat that had trickled down your skin in a sauna that neither of you had any business being inside; just you and him in a silent descent into sin, and the smirk on your lips as his eyes had followed the droplet down your body.

His attention is yanked from you when an ice cube lands in his lap. Glacing across to the direction it came from as he pushes it to the floor, Yoongi scowls at Jungkook. "The fuck was that for?"

"Remember the rules," Jungkook smirks. "Look, but don't touch."

"Wasn't fuckin' looking," Yoongi sneers, completely ignorant of the women vying for his attention. "Was just thinking Jimin needs to to sober up. Man's a state. And unlike you, I wouldn't touch her if humanity depended on it."

"I'm a man of the people," Jungkook teases. "If repopulating the earth was my duty, I'd do it. Can't believe you wouldn't."

"She's got where she is today through sheer nepotism and audacity alone," Yoongi counters. "Doesn't have the kinda genes you'd wanna repopulate the earth with."

"Foul," Taehyung laughs. He's the only one of the boys without women hanging off him. Is stern and authoritative in his rejection of their advances; not yet married but wears a ring around his finger to let them know he's deadly serious. Landed himself in hot water a few months back after photos of him talking to a girl outside a bar - no matter how innocently - circulated online. A bad angle and misrepresentation of events had almost decimated the one thing he cares about more than the band: his relationship. Refuses to ever let it happen again. "Absolutely foul, Yoongi. You know you don't mean that."

"He just needs to get laid," Jungkook chimes in. "Has been celibate for so long he's forgotten how good sex is. Used to be a time he'd fuck anything willing with a pulse-"

It's not untrue. He was reckless in his youth - but aren't we all?

"Yeah, and then I grew up, Kook," Yoongi says with little to no emotion, getting to his feet. Taps his pocket to check for his phone, and then taps the other for his wallet. All there. "Should try it."

When Yoongi looks back up to the crowd, you're gone. He rolls his eyes. Shakes his head. Is almost mentally berating you, as if you've done something wrong - but you haven't, and he damn well knows it.

Perhaps that's the most frustrating part of it all: everything falls back on him. The awkwardness. The cold shoulders. The night that never was. If he would have just made more sensible choices back then, things could be easier now.

It's not that things are hard, as such - just that they aren't how they used to be. Rose-tinted glasses, and all that.

Over by the bar, there's a haze around you: clouded judgement, misted intentions.

The smallest things put a smile on your face, thanks to the alcohol in your veins. Could be the song that's already been played three times coming on yet again. Could be witnessing some random guy get pied by every single girl he approaches. Could be the way your vodka orange takes like juice. Anything and everything feels light. Airy. Breezy.

"What's so funny?" Some guy asks, leaning in a little closer to you - and just like that, your mood is soured. You're not here to make friends, but rather spend time with your pre-existing ones, and judging by the look on his face, he's hoping for a little more than friendship.

"Oh, nothing," you smile politely, crossing your arms over your chest as you angle your body away from his. Hope that he'll get the message.

He does. Just doesn't like it very much.

"No need to be a bitch," he sneers under his breath just loud enough for you to hear.

Normally, you'd leave it. Let him have his little tantrum. Be a big baby.

But you were in such a good mood, and you're annoyed that he's ruined it.

Wanna ruin his, too.

Snapping back to face him, you're about to launch into a tirade, but you come face-to-face with a chest that looks far too good in a simple T-shirt and find yourself faltering, instead.

Yoongi looks down at you, eyes dark, scowl ever-present. Says nothing. Just nods. You think he's asking if you're okay - so you nod back. Won't get into a debate over the fact you were perfectly fine, and have no issue asserting your boundaries with strangers.

Shoulders broad, the guy who had been bothering you is entirely eclipsed by Yoongi.

Glancing across to the bar staff, Yoongi nods. "Hibiki." Glances down at you. Checks the colour of your glass. It's obscured by the bar lights, but he knows it isn't dark enough to be coke, and remembers your order from before things got complicated. Figures some things haven't changed. Looks back towards the server. "Vodka Orange." Passes over his card. Says nothing to you. Just keeps his eyes on yours.

There's a subtle blush dusting his cheeks. The heat, you think. It's unnoticeable for the most part, but sometimes the lights hit him just right, and you're reminded of how warm he can be. How inviting.

He's always been impressive. Taller in sheer presence than he is in stature. Even back in high school, his nature was domineering. Respected. Lips gently parted, you're unable to move. Suddenly, nothing is funny anymore. It's heavy. Thick. Suffocating. You're deaf to the bass of the music that thumps through your body. Ignorant of the people moving around you.

But then Yoongi's being offered his card back, and Jimin bounds on into you like a lost puppy finally finding its owner.

"For me?!" Jimin exclaims as the drinks are slid across the bar, passing the vodka orange to you and picking up Yoongi's whisky for himself.

Shaking yourself from the shackles of Yoongi's stare, you look down. Realign your mind. Glance back over and nod a silent thank you - but then you turn and leave the drink by the bar. Head for the bathrooms. Refuse to look back, so utterly perplexed by what on earth just happened.

In a frank, factual recount of the events, Yoongi just stood beside you and ordered a drink.

In your hysterical, deluded mind, Yoongi just stood beside you and opened the skies; let a flood of water torrent down. Drowned everyone in the process save for you - except you're the one gasping now as you stare yourself out in the bathroom mirror.

Phone still on don't disturb, you pull it from your pocket and check just in case he's thinking of you.

Not Yoongi, no. You push him out of your mind. Think of your Damocles boy. He's the one you wished had joined you at the bar. The one you've been yearning for all night.

And sure enough, he has been thinking of you, too.

D4m0cl3s: there are some weirdos out and about tonight, clem keep yourself safe for me, okay?

It's strange, how guilt needlessly creeps in so silently that you don't even realise it's there until an invisible hand is over your mouth. You're suffocating again, or so it would seem. Drowning, maybe. Perhaps Yoongi wasn't saving you at all; he was dragging you down instead.

You wish you were at home. Wish you weren't so drunk. Wish you could think straight. Wish your balance was a little better - but it's not, and as you try and think of a response that goes beyond 'i miss you' or a 'you should be here', you stumble a little. Lose your footing. Grab onto the sink to stop yourself from falling over entirely, only to send your phone crashing to the floor.

"Fuck," you curse, scrambling down to get it, only to be greeted with a fracture splintering right over the top of your front camera. Pulling up the app, it's very quickly clear that the camera absolutely ruined - but for the most part, your screen is okay. "Fuck."

You think it's a sign: go home.

Even if you're drunk, and you're in the business to make some bad decisions, you know that your Damocles boy is right. There are some weirdos about tonight, and as fucked up as it all seems, 'safe' feels a lot like a message thread with a man you've never met.

Instead of replying to him, you open up your thread with Jimin. Let him know you're going home. Make your way up the stairs and out of the bar without looking back. It's rare for you to cry when you drink, but it kind of feels like you will now, and for no good reason. Just had a little too much, that's all.

The light around fades from the invasive red of the club into the murky blue hues of the streets.

And yet, there's a lovely little red flag waiting by the top of the stairs, unaware of your decision to head home, too.

"You leaving already?" You chirp in surprise upon realising who it is.

The sound of your voice, and the fact it's addressing him, seems to take Yoongi by surprise when he turns to face you.

"I, uh," he pauses. Looks down. Seems to be a little flustered. You wonder what's going inside that head of his, but when his eyes meet yours again, you decide you're better off not knowing. "Can't be home too late. I'm sorta seeing someone. Gotta get back for them."

"Oh," you say quietly.

I'm seeing someone.

"Yeah."

It's not like it matters, it's just that you never expected to hear him say those words. He's married to his music. Always has been. Spends his nights in the studio, not sleeping next to someone else.

Or perhaps he doesn't anymore. Just goes to show how little you know of his life these days.

"That's nice," you chirp, swallowing down your surprise. "Yeah. That's really nice, actually. I'm pleased for you."

In a way, it makes sense. Perhaps his strangeness lately has been less to do with you and more to do with himself and the fact he genuinely doesn't care about the past anymore. Thoughts of the night that never was are genuinely reserved for your brain, and your brain alone. Have no place in his. His warning about Jungkook was due to lessons learned by him.

"And you?" He asks, noticing the slight discomfort in your tone. He wouldn't normally entertain such frivolous conversations with you, but he's only human. Alcohol still gets him a little loose-lipped, too. "What's new in your love life?"

You laugh, now. Good fuckin' question. Genuinely don't know how to describe your Damocles boy, or if you even want to.

"Nothing new."

"No?"

"No," you smile in such a way that Yoongi knows you're not telling the whole truth - but who is he to pry?

"Well," he says, then coughs to clear his throat. Look out to the street ahead of you both. It's full of drunk revellers, and you're certain at least half of them will have The Scouts in their playlists. Yoongi's position in the band means he's never front and centre, so no one notices him like this. If they do, they're being incredibly discreet about it. "I'm sure you'll meet someone soon."

"Maybe," you shrug, knocking your shoulder against his arm. "Be easier if you didn't stand in front of every guy who shows an interest in me."

"It was one guy," he laughs, knowing not to take you too seriously. "And you know he was a creep. Was just standing in for your brother."

"Yeah," you nod, not caring to counter him, or to remind him how fucked up it is to refer to himself like that. Folding your arms over your chest, you're regretting the lack of a coat. Had left it back at pre-drinks, because a little bit of liquor and you suddenly think you're a child of the sun. "You're right. Thanks for that."

"No worries," Yoongi shrugs. Is about to offer you his jacket, when a taxi rolls up. "This yours?"

"Yeah," you nod, recognising the number plate from the taxi you'd ordered via an app when you'd been in the bathroom. "Want a lift?"

He shakes his head. "Gotta head to the studio first."

"Yoongi, you're drunk," you laugh. "What did I tell you about all work?"

"Yeah, yeah, dull boy," he laughs too - but it's not you he's thinking of as he recites it. It's the girl he's heading home for that enters his mind, and how she'd said something similar. Shaking his head, he's confused at how easily thoughts of her intertwine with how easy it can be to joke with you. Puts it down to the alcohol. His head's a mess. "Inspiration doesn't wait. Let Jimin or someone know when you're home."

"Get in the cab," you insist at his need to be difficult. "I'll route it past the studio. Inspiration doesn't wait," you imitate a little childishly, which does get him smiling. "Better to get to it quickly, no?"

He looks around. Looks a little uncomfortable. You don't take it personally. He looks like this a lot of the time around you. Even before it all got weird.

Eventually, he sighs. Relents.

"Route it to yours," he says. "I'll carry on to the studio."

"Studio is closer," you tell him, knocking your head to the side, pulling open the door. "C'mon. The driver will leave if you don't hurry up."

"And Jin'll kill me if you get stolen," he reminds you, as if that would be likely to happen. Even if the taxi driver was a creep, there are cameras everywhere in places like this. You're as safe as can be. "You first. Non-negotiable."

"You're a tough bargainer," you hum with narrowed eyes. He is at least here, and not walking in the cold. Would have to cross the river to get to the studio, and the thought of any of them drunkenly walking along it alone scares you. "Fine. But you better not get stolen, either. Twitter would have a meltdown- no, Twitter would kill me if you get stolen."

"Shut up," he laughs. Knows The Scouts have a fanbase that could scare even political leaders into submission, if they really wanted to. "They don't even know who you are."

But Yoongi is forgetting who your brother is. Forgetting that there's a good reason why Jungkook has 'look but don't touch' etched into his brain. Forgetting that there are Twitter accounts dedicated to posting updates from your socials, just for a glimpse of The Scouts.

And as you let silence simmer into the taxi, not caring to keep up a conversation, you're none the wiser that those exact fan accounts are currently screaming into the void.

The Yoongi-dedicated update accounts, too.

In fact, the entire app is on fire - and it's not gonna be an easy one to put out.

03:31AM

D4m0cl3s: you still out, clem?

Cl3m3ntin3: why? miss me?

D4m0cl3s: never

Cl3m3ntin3: hmmm well in that case, yes i am x

D4m0cl3s: i think you're lying you answered far too quickly

Cl3m3ntin3: i think you should just admit that you miss me and u just caught me at a good time :/

D4m0cl3s: but i don't? and ur nose must be soooooo big pinocchio

Cl3m3ntin3: yeah you do you've missed me sooooo much tonight, havent you? bet you've been all mopey just thinking about me aaaaaaall night me & my proportionally sized nose x

D4m0cl3s: dunno what you mean

Cl3m3ntin3: well, are you home?

D4m0cl3s: almost

Cl3m3ntin3: not even home yet and already texting me... but you don't miss me? you're lucky you've got such a nice cock i wouldn't let your lies slide so easily if you didn't

D4m0cl3s: so you're only with me for my cock?

Cl3m3ntin3: i'm not with you

D4m0cl3s: ouch noted

Cl3m3ntin3: you're the one who refuses to have me, remember?

D4m0cl3s: you know it's not like that, clem

Cl3m3ntin3: i know, babe i'm just fucking with you figuratively (sadly) i'm with friends though - i'll let you know when i'm alone, alright?

D4m0cl3s: don't worry about me enjoy your night trouble message me in the morning, yeah?

Cl3m3ntin3: if this is a ploy to make me message you first, it wont work

D4m0cl3s: finei 'll message you

Cl3m3ntin3: keen

D4m0cl3s: you love it

Cl3m3ntin3: suuuure i do

D4m0cl3s: stay safe, babe drink water before bed

Cl3m3ntin3: you wanna drink some clementine juice before bed?

D4m0cl3s: i dont think they make clementine juice and no you know the rules sleep off the alcohol first then send me pictures of that gorgeous cunt in the morning, yeah?

Cl3m3ntin3: and what will i get in return?

D4m0cl3s: the video i've just taken of myself stroking my big hard cock just for you

Cl3m3ntin3: fuck send it now? pls x

D4m0cl3s: keen and no x

Cl3m3ntin3: c'monnnn :(

D4m0cl3s: in the morning, baby just know that i'm a little drunk but so fuckin' hard

Cl3m3ntin3: no whiskey dick? i'm impressed

D4m0cl3s: i'm thinking about you nothing will ever stop me from getting hard when im thinking about you

Cl3m3ntin3: watcha thinkin about? gimmie specifics x i wanna touch myself

D4m0cl3s: that pretty cunt of yours how fuckin' wet you get god i wanna fuck you nice and slow NO FUCK STOP TEMPTING ME YOU SIREN

Cl3m3ntin3: 🙁

D4m0cl3s: in the morning

Cl3m3ntin3: you promise?

D4m0cl3s: i promise, baby go spend time with your friends message me if you need anything

Cl3m3ntin3: your dick?

D4m0cl3s: anything other than that you'll get it in the morning, clemmie promise x

D4m0cl3s is offline

GENIUS LAB Big Hit Ent, Yongsan-gu

"All good?" Yoongi hums as the door to his studio clicks shut. 

He'd left the door on the latch so you could get back in when you went to the bathroom. Could have just given you the code, but he didn't want you to think he'd be making a habit of this. It's a limited-time offer. Not one that can be redeemed whenever you like. It's now, and now only.

"Yeah, yeah," you nod, pulling on the back of the spare desk chair Yoongi had rolled up beside his. You don't look at him, just at the screens as you tell a little white lie. "Just let Jimin know I was okay."

Yoongi grunts some sort of agreement, but doesn't vocalise a response as such.

It's not like a complete subversion of the truth. A text has been sent to your group chat. The one with just Jungkook and Jimin. No one else needs to know your business, as far as you're concerned.

It's just that a few more texts have been sent to your Damocles boy—but that's none of Yoongi's business. You're sure he wouldn't care to know.

You're also sure he's regretting the request for help bestowed upon you on the ride back. He'd mentioned the song he was going to work on, and you'd offered to lend an ear again. 

It's not an unheard-of thing. There are a couple of tracks on the last album that have been tweaked as a result of your ear, including their biggest single. You're not listed in the credits, but you never asked to be. Was just helping out a friend—even if said friend then decided to become an asshole when they started making a name for themselves.

You're tipsy, and so is Yoongi. It's easier to forget how fraught things have become when you're like this. You wouldn't be here right now if you hadn't had a few too many drinks. 

You also probably wouldn't be trending all over twitter, but you're still blissfully unaware of this.

"Same track as before, right?" You ask, kicking your shoes off to get a little more comfortable on the chair.

Again, words fail Yoongi. You're forced to decipher his small noises, 'cause it's all he tends to offer you. It's not like it's a uniquely you issue—the boys have learned to speak in Yoongi-code, too. 

"Okay, play it from the start," you tell him. "Show me what we're working with."

There's a cautious nature to the way Yoongi works. So preoccupied with creating perfection, he hates letting people hear his work before it's reached his self-imposed arbitrary standards. There's only a very small circle who gets the privilege of seeing how his brain works.

Despite his ever-present disdain for you, it seems like you're one of the lucky few. He'll never acknowledge this. Never admit that he favours your opinions, because he genuinely doesn't think he does.

You're frank with him. Will tell him how it is. Don't sugarcoat it. Aren't seeking his approval, so don't care to lick his ass just to keep him happy—not that he ever wants you to lick his ass. Could think of nothing worse. Not because he isn't into it, but because the thought of being with you repulses him in a way he can't quite describe. Even thinking about it makes him shudder.

But maybe that's the issue. Maybe the shudder is indicative of something else entirely.

"Yoongi?" You ask, drawing him from his thoughts. The song has finished, but he doesn't even really recall listening to it at all.

"Hm?" He hums. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"The lyrics," you say. "What's the song about? 'Cause at the moment, musically, it sounds like a heartbreak song and love song all at the same time, and I think that's what's confusing about it. It can't decide what it wants to be."

Yoongi frowns.

"It's not really either," he supposes.

In the dim lighting of his studio, Yoongi is at his very best. Focused, he's shrewd in his astute calculations. Can put together different sounds and construct melodies you wouldn't even be able to dream of. For all of his issues, there is one undeniable truth: the man is a musical genius.

It's why this is all so perplexing to him. He hates not knowing how to make things right. This is his job. It's what he excels at—and yet he's failing.

"Well, what's it about?" You softly ask, turning to look at him. "Do you have the lyrics?"

Guard clearly up, the way Yoongi looks at you is puzzling. Whatever he's written isn't something that he wants to share.

"What?" you laugh, trying to not make a big deal of things. You know how quickly he closes up, and can already sense it happening. "You told me you're seeing someone, remember? God forbid you accidentally expose the fact you're a human being with real feelings."

You half think he might smile.

He doesn't.

Instead, he reaches across his desk for a small black notebook. A little weathered, it's clearly seen a lot of thoughts in the past. The leather of the cover is tarnished, and there's a faded sticker from some instrument brand wrapping around the spine.

"Just don't ask any fuckin' questions," he grumbles.

Rolling your eyes, you gladly accept the book. Tuck your thumb between the pages where a natural divide occurs. It's testament to how long Yoongi has spent agonising over the same words.

His handwriting never changes much. Always messy. Always hard to decipher.

Or at least, it's hard for other people. You've never found it to be too taxing.

What's curious this time are the little doodles on the page. Blossoms and small fruits.

"Cherries?" You ask, chirping with a little curiosity. It's hard to work out exactly what they are, but cherries seem like the most likely thing.

Yoongi just grunts.

Getting anything from him is like getting blood from a stone.

"How the fuck do you have a functioning relationship?" You mutter, casting your eyes back down to his words. The way he refuses to converse with you is infuriating.

"I said no questions," he curtly reminds you.

The way you roll your eyes this time is far less kind. Tossing the book back down on the desk, you reach for your shoes and get to your feet without a word.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," you tell him, as your hand reaches for the door handle. "You asked me for help, Yoongi—but I can't do jack shit if you won't let me."

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask for critique on my relationship, did I?" He snaps back. Feels his skin get all hot. Clammy. Relationship. That's not how he'd define what he's got going on. He doesn't know why he did call it that. Doesn't know why he didn't just ignore you, when you're clearly trying to wind him up.

"You're impossible," you tell him, patience thin. The alcohol made it easier to be friendly with him, but it also makes it easier to fight, too.

"And you're unbearable!"

"Me?!" You say with such offense it almost surprises Yoongi. Turning around to fully face him, you let go of the the door handle. Let it whisper shut, the lock softly clicking into place. You're willingly trapped in the confines of his studio. Could just leave. Instead, you choose to fight. "Oh, you have some fucking nerve—"

"I thought you were going?" He cuts you off, responding to your change in position by getting to his feet too. He's not one for confrontation, but there's something about you that just gets under his skin. Makes him wanna fight right back. "So why don't you just fuckin' go?"

"I am," you assure him. You should have known that this would end in disaster. "But maybe if you channelled some of this pent-up frustration into your music, maybe you'd actually get somewhere."

"I don't need you telling me how to do my job," he sneers. "If you hadn't noticed, I'm doing perfectly fine without your unsolicited advice."

Unbelievable. Was he not the one who asked for your help? Repeatedly?

"Holy shit," you scornfully laugh. "Listen to yourself, you deluded prick! You asked—"

"Yeah, well if you didn't insist on sticking your big fuckin' Pinnochio nose into everything—"

"My big nose?! Oh, you are such an asshole."

"You're no fuckin' daisy, either," he snaps. Doesn't even really know why he's being so rude. Just knows he doesn't want to back down. Doesn't wanna let you win. "Just do us all a favour and quit before the tour. No one wants you there."

It's never been a secret that Yoongi harbours contempt for the way in which you got your jobs, but you know damn well that you've proven your worth. If it was anyone else saying these words, you'd probably be offended.

Instead, you just shake your head. Laugh. Walk a little closer just to piss him off. Encroach upon his personal space.

"Tell me, Yoongi," you say quietly, picking off a little dust from his shirt just to see how he reacts. To your surprise, he lets you. Just looks down at you. Watches to see what you'll do next. Eyes flicking up to his, the air between you is frightfully thin. "If I quit, how would you explain it to Jin? Hmm? Would you tell him the way you speak to me?"

"I've got nothing to hide," Yoongi replies just as quietly. There's an intimacy to be found somewhere hidden between your mutual disdain and heated anger. The kind of coldness that can only come from someone you once knew to be warm. "He knows you're a piece of work."

This does make you laugh. "Nothing to hide, huh?"

"Nothing," he says. His jaw is tense, and his eyes are even more so. "Nothing happened that night."

"Yoongi, I didn't even mention that night," you remind him with a smirk, pleased at your ability to get under his skin. 

That night has lingered with you both: the scent of damp cedar wood and the sensation of sweltering heat against your clammy skin. It's not the kind of thing you forget, even if you never speak of it. Not with Jimin, not with Jungkook, and especially not with Yoongi.

"Just get out of my studio," he growls, eyes centred on yours. He's unwavering in the way that he stares you out; unashamed and uncompromising.

"Gladly," you say as you pull away from him.

You're not gonna beg him to be cordial with you. This atmosphere is a product of his own creation, and as miserable as it is, he's gonna have to be the one to fix it. Both as stubborn as one another, you know damn well it's gonna stay like for a while.

The door slams shut. No amount of soundproofing can obscure the way Yoongi curses into the void left by you.

But right on time, as you reach the door that leads out onto the street, your phone vibrates in your pocket. It's a little longer than the vibration of your other apps, so you know exactly what it is. Who it is. Solace is found in the form of notifications from him. Satisfaction, too.

D4m0cl3s: fuck it i need you, now, clem

D4m0cl3s added new media to the chat!

end of part two

[lovetei]

I'm Tei, the owner of LoveTei

I just like writing as a past time hobby and to relieve stress.

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED UNTIL DECEMBER 27!!

For further elaboration I'm like "Oh shit... That seems like something this character would do." and I'll open this app, write it then post it.

And this page is 18+

That's all, thanks!

♠️ - Fluff

♥️ - Smut

♦️ - Angst

♣️ - Crack

✴️ - Dark

◾ - Demon Brothers

◽ - Side Characters

♠️ ◾◽- Things that the citizens of the Devildom witnessed that will prove that this Human have the characters at their beck and call

✴️ ◾◽ - What are the most toxic thing they will do in a relationship just to make you stay with them?

♠️ ◾◽- The characters comforting you after you experienced an extremely frustrating day

♥️◾◽- Their reaction to Sheep!MC turning into their human form, naked, in front of them

✴️♥️◾◽ - Are you the Ex because you're MC or are you MC because you're the Ex?

♦️♠️◾- Mammon consulting MC after he tried to do the did with her but she refused and he went to ask Asmo and he found out MC is actually insecure

♥️◽- Mephistopheles as your everything because he's my everything

♣️ ◾◽- As bad students

♠️ ◾◽ - Comforting a MC that broke down in the group chat and what are specific things they'll do to comfort you

♠️◾◽ - Their reaction when they found out their MC can sing

♠️♦️◾◽ - Them sending you a letter after you had a fight

♠️♣️◾◽ - MC playing filp the bottle except if they landed it, they go make out with Solomon

♠️◾◽ - Their reaction to Sheep MC changing into their human form at the end of the exchange program

♠️♣️◾◽ - MC taking the brothers in Disneyland and everything is already paid

♥️✴️◾◽ - MC and their boy toys or the characters with a toxic MC

♥️◾◽ - Sheep!MC turned back into their human form meaning they have their human throat again

♠️◾◽ - MC who thinks Cerberus is just a giant puppy that derives love cause he's a good boy

✴️♦️◾◽- The characters meeting you in their own wedding, and the bride was not you

♠️♣️◾◽- Their reaction to finding out MC is Solomon's spouse and they find his cooking edible

♥️◾◽- MC was affected by this mysterious potion that makes them crave for some back-breaking fuck

♠️♦️◾◽- Soulmate-reincarnation universe in where they've lost you and won't let it happen again

🌑 - Heartslabyul 🌕 - Pomefiore

🌒 - Savanaclaw 🌖 - Ignihyde

🌓 - Octavinelle 🌗 - Draconia

🌔 - Scarabia

♠️♣️🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗 - Everywhere I go I keep his picture in my wallet like: Take a look at my boyfriend

OBEY ME: Royal Universe

Scenarios: Introduction

PART 02: How did you turn them from hostile wolves to meek lambs of hell?

OBEY ME: Idol Universe

Scenarios: Introduction

PART 02: If you had been there, if you had seen it! I bet ya, you would have done the same!

TWISTED WONDERLAND: Purge Universe

Scenarios: Introduction

OBEY ME: Swapped Universe

Scenarios: Introduction

OBEY ME: Lillian Universe

Scenarios: Introduction

🕛 - Lucifer 🕞 - Diavolo

🕧 - Mammon 🕓 - Barbatos

🕐 - Leviathan 🕟 - Simeon

🕜 - Satan 🕔 - Solomon

🕑 - Asmodeus 🕠 - Mephistopheles

🕝 - Beelzebub 🕕 - Raphael

🕒 - Belphegor 🕡 - Thirteen

OBEY ME

What type of bottom are they?

🕛-🕧-🕐-🕜-🕑-🕝-🕒-🕞-🕓-🕟-🕔-🕠-🕕-🕡

"Baby, can't you see? I got everything you need." Only a genius can love a human like me!

🕛, 🕜, 🕔, 🕟, 🕞

--------------------------------------------------

TWISTED WONDERLAND

🕛 - Riddle Roseheart 🕧 - Floyd Leech

🕐 - Trey Clover 🕜 - Kalim Al-asim

🕑 - Cater Diamond 🕝 - Jami Viper

🕒 - Deuce Spade 🕞 - Vil Schoenheit

🕓 - Ace Trappola 🕟 - Rook Hunt

🕔 - Leona Kingscholar 🕠 - Epel Felmier

🕕 - Ruggie Bucchi 🕡 - Malleus Draconia

🕖 - Jack Howl 🕢 - Lilian Vanrouge

🕗 - Azul Ashengrotto 🕣 - Sebek Zigvolt

🕘 - Jade Leech 🕤 - Silver

"Baby, can't you see? I got everything you need." Only a genius can love a human like me!

⚫ - I might not write requests that includes disabilities or illnesses, not because I'm against them or anything but because I'm not knowledgeable enough and might offend people who's experiencing them...

⚫ - When asking for an alternate universe, I'll first write an introduction and you can ask again what you want to see in that universe like "How would Royal AU react to this scenario?"

⚫ - I'm open for requests

⚫ - #🖤 tei talks is my tag when answering non-requesting asks you can block it if you want

[obeymeshallwedateaddict]

Master list

Last updated: 11/02/25

———————————————

Sorted by:

Unofficial season 4 Obey me Nightbringer: Masterlist

Prompts:

FLUFF:

The love letter

Accidental first kiss

Love and water - slight NSFW included!

Shower heat - NSFW mentions included!

The unexpected rainfall

Devildom 'I love you' day

Beach day and 7 kisses

You're beautiful - contains NSFW mentions

You're beautiful part 2 - contains NSFW mentions

The first 'I love you'

MC reacts to the brothers carrying a reminiscent of them.

Nervous Satan cutting MC's hair

Lucifer, Satan and Barbatos reacting to MC choosing the bear in the trend man vs bear.

MC reacting to the dateables + Luke carrying a reminiscent of them.

A devilish attempt

Hold my hand

NSFW:

Your clothes, my body, shared passion

You're mine

Demonic rumbles and desire

During a heated argument

ANGST:

Simeon's troubles - contains: Angst/Fluff

When souls collide

Be careful what you wish for

Lost what once was mine

A letter to Lucifer - contains: Angst/Fluff

I was supposed to protect you - brothers

I was supposed to protect you - dateables

Others:

The apple doesn't fall far away from the tree

The secret to Lucifer's happiness

MC's inner dominance

It was never different

MC is an unpopular idol

Demonopoly night

The ring of light (Nightbringer)

The brothers' reactions to MC being an actor in a movie

The dateables + Luke react to MC being an actor in a movie

Solomon's cooking

The snack incident

MC in Nightbringer

Romance? Not for me!

Mammon-the raccoon

Fell in love/fell from heaven?

One in 700 - contains Angst/Fluff

The fantastic three Vs MC's attraction to butlers -contains Fluff

MC and Lucifer are becoming parents???

Santa-Satan?

MC is the king???? Again??

Christmas activities

Obey me characters' thoughts/quotes

Brothers hcs

Father Vs Daddy

Barbie is a cutie patootie <3

Characters:

Brothers:

Lucifer:

A letter to Lucifer - contains: Angst/Fluff

Mammon:

Barbatos x Mammon relationship hcs - contains: Fluff

Leviathan:

Thirteen x Levi relationship hcs - contains: Fluff/NSFW (slight)

Satan:

Hold my hand - contains: Fluff

Nervous Satan cutting MC's hair -contains: Fluff

Dateables:

Barbatos:

Barbatos x Solomon relationship hcs - contains: Fluff

Barbatos x Mammon relationship hcs - contains: Fluff

A devilish attempt - contains Fluff

The fantastic three Vs MC's attraction to butlers - contains Fluff

You're mine -contains NSFW

Simeon:

Simeon's troubles - contains: Fluff/Angst

Solomon:

Barbatos x Solomon relationship hcs - contains: Fluff

One in 700 - contains Angst/Fluff

Side characters:

Thirteen:

Thirteen x Levi relationship hcs - contains: Fluff/NSFW (slight)

[tsukii0002]

My demons' periods cycles. By Mc Masterlist

Hi, I've decided to make a list about this series because I hope to be adding extras and situations and I'd like to have it all recapped and organised.

How it all started

The talk

The First talk

Lucifer, Mammon & Levi

Satan, Asmo & Beel

Belphie, Diavolo & Barbatos

Simeon & Raphael

Solomon's reaction

Return the favour

(If for some reason someone wants me to tag them to keep up to day with the updates leave me a comment to add them here 😶‍🌫️)

@eliciana, @little-lost-lamb, @hymnboo, @annexblogs. @chinuneko, @roseenhance3890

.

.