#district 9 reader

[serenefreakgeekao3]

This series is now completed!

Ever in our favour... Masterlist

PEETA MELLARK X GN!READER

You wake up with a migraine, surrounded by forests and kids that are more than willing to kill you. What have you fallen into the middle of? And why can't you remember getting here?

Arena fanfiction, cannon-typical violence, descriptions of blood injuries and death, descriptions of a panic attack, temporary memory loss, mentions of familial abuse, depictions of mutated creatures, established relationship, romance, kissing, fluff and angst, minor character deaths, action/adventure

Table of Contents:

Archive of Our Own

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT (FINALE)

[cece693]

It Should've Been Me (Peeta Mellark x Male! Reader)

I don't know why there isn't much male reader fanfics for the Hunger Games, but I aim to change that. Especially when there are interesting characters such as Finnick and Johanna, but I'm playing it safe and beginning with Peeta.

Summary: M/N Evergreen didn't feel like a victor, especially when it cost the life of his sister, Katniss. Forced to wear a smile and continue living life as 'normal', the only person who seems to recognize his brokeness is the boy with the bread, Peeta Mellark.

M/N Evergreen didn’t feel like a victor, not when winning cost the life of his sister, Katniss. It was supposed to be her. She was the one with the spark, the one who inspired others to believe in something more. But now she was gone, and all that was left was him—a hollow reminder of what should have been. He knew he should be grateful; the Capitol's train pulling into District 12 meant he got to come home. But what kind of home was it when the only person who ever made it feel that way was dead?

Effie Trinket’s voice was a distant hum, urging him to “put on a happy face, darling.” Smile for the cameras, for the sponsors, for the charade of a victory tour that awaited him. He didn’t smile. He didn’t move. Even if he forced the corners of his lips upward, the emptiness in his eyes would betray him. The train doors slid open, and all he could do was stare blankly as the frigid air of District 12 rushed in, filling his lungs with the sharp scent of coal dust. The lenses of dozens of cameras zoomed in, capturing the haunted look that had become a permanent fixture on his face.

He heard Effie clear her throat nervously as she stepped out ahead of him, trying to drum up some semblance of a greeting from the sullen crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, our victor, M/N Everdeen!” Her voice rang out with all the bubbly enthusiasm she could muster, but the words fell flat.

As the Capitol’s cameras continued to click and whir, M/N forced himself to walk through the motions of the victor’s return. He let Effie guide him onto the stage, his limbs moving mechanically, as though they belonged to someone else. He could hear the rehearsed speech forming on her lips, filled with empty praise and hollow encouragement. He heard his own voice, flat and monotone, echo her words when prompted, thanking the Capitol for its generosity and the people of District 12 for their support.

But the truth was, he didn’t feel like a victor, and he never would. He was just another casualty of the Hunger Games—only, he happened to still be breathing.

The days passed in a blur for M/N Everdeen, though he barely noticed the shift from one to the next. Returning to District 12 should have felt like a relief—home, where things were familiar. But the place seemed alien to him now, like he was wandering through a ghost town where all the buildings and people were merely pale shadows of what they once were. Even the Seam, which always bustled with life despite its poverty, felt quieter, as if the town itself was grieving. Maybe it was.

At home, his mother had returned to the land of the living, as much as she could. She moved around the house with a new purpose, cooking and cleaning with a mechanical precision that betrayed the emptiness in her eyes. M/N knew it wasn’t for him; it was for Prim. Their mother clung to her youngest, constantly checking on her and making sure she ate, slept, and stayed warm. M/N could see her fighting against the hollowness, desperately trying to appear whole for Prim’s sake. For him, too, though he wasn’t sure why she bothered.

M/N hadn’t eaten since he stepped off the train. Every meal placed in front of him felt like an insult to Katniss’s memory—he shouldn’t get to eat, shouldn’t get to live while she was gone. His mother and Prim had seemed to silently agree on a pact not to let him waste away, though. If he refused breakfast, his mother would leave it on the table for him to find later. If he tried to hide in his room during dinner, Prim would seek him out, dragging him to the kitchen. They were relentless in their quiet determination to keep him alive.

Today, he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to get out, to escape the house where Katniss’s absence hung like a shroud over everything. He slipped out the back door and walked toward the edge of the district, to the fence that separated District 12 from the woods. It was supposed to be electrified, but the power rarely ran this far out, and he easily found a gap to slip through. The forest beckoned to him, promising solitude and silence—two things he desperately craved. For a few moments, he felt the faintest hint of peace as he wandered deeper into the trees, letting the thick canopy above dim the harsh sunlight.

But he wasn’t alone for long.

“M/N.” a voice called softly from behind him.

He froze, recognizing the voice before he even turned around. Peeta Mellark was standing there, a few paces back, watching him with that same quiet intensity he’d had since the day M/N returned. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t wearing that charming expression he often showed in public. Instead, his face was open, unguarded, as though he’d stripped away all pretense.

“What are you doing here?” M/N asked, his voice raw from disuse.

Peeta stepped closer, careful not to startle him, as if M/N were a wounded animal. “I saw you come out here,” he replied. “I was worried.”

M/N let out a bitter laugh. “You shouldn’t be,” he muttered, turning his gaze back to the forest. “If I don’t come back, I’m sure everyone would understand.”

“Don’t say that,” Peeta said sharply, the sudden firmness in his voice cutting through the quiet. “You don’t get to give up. Not after everything…”

“Everything?” M/N scoffed, spinning to face him. “What did I survive for, Peeta? There’s no victory here. I’m alive, but she’s gone. And now I have to pretend like any of this is okay?”

“You survived because Katniss wanted you to,” Peeta said, stepping closer again. “She fought for you—”

“I don’t need a lecture about my own sister,” M/N interrupted, his voice rising. “You don’t know what it was like! You weren’t there! I should have protected her, but I couldn’t even do that. All I could do was… was watch as she—” His voice broke, the words dissolving into a choked sob.

He turned away from Peeta, trembling as his chest tightened painfully. He had spent every waking moment since returning home forcing himself not to break, swallowing back his grief until it clawed at his throat, but now it surged forward like a flood. He didn’t know how to stop it.

“It's not your fault,” Peeta’s voice was gentle, and when M/N felt a hand on his shoulder, he flinched but didn’t pull away. “You did everything you could.”

M/N shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “It wasn’t enough,” he whispered. “It’ll never be enough. She’s gone because of me.”

Peeta’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him in close. M/N’s legs buckled, and he collapsed into Peeta’s embrace, his sobs breaking free in jagged gasps. Peeta held him tightly, steadying him as he sank to the forest floor. He murmured soothing words, though M/N couldn’t make out the exact phrases—only that there was a calm, reassuring rhythm in the sound of Peeta’s voice.

For a long while, M/N cried in Peeta’s arms, clutching at his shirt as if afraid to let go. It wasn’t fair, not to Peeta, not to anyone, to have to bear the weight of his grief like this. But Peeta stayed, anchoring him through the storm of emotion until, at last, M/N’s sobs quieted, leaving him drained and hollow.

When he finally pulled back, Peeta’s shirt was soaked with tears, but he didn’t seem to mind. He looked down at M/N with an expression so full of understanding it hurt. “You’re not alone, you know,” he said softly. “You don’t have to go through this by yourself.”

M/N shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to keep going.”

Peeta’s hand found his, squeezing gently. “One step at a time. That’s all you need to do for now.” The words weren’t a solution, but they were something—a fragile thread of hope in a world that felt impossibly dark. And for the first time since returning to District 12, M/N didn’t feel completely lost. He still didn’t know how to live without Katniss, but with Peeta’s arm around his shoulders, guiding him back toward the fence, he thought maybe, just maybe, he could figure it out. One step at a time.

[redcherrykook]

──𐙚 think i need someone older (s & f)

olderBoyfriend!Jungkook x inexperienced!reader

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content: some plot first, loss of virginity, age gap of 9 years (he´s 30), thigh humping, little dry humping too, cowgirl, he talks her through it, dom!jungkook, "sweet girl, baby, love", "gguk" lowkey insecure reader, praise, making out, breast play, clit play, creampie, unprotected, hickies on him, big c!ck Jungkook, small karaoke session, he´s whipped and wants to take care of her, short mention of alcohol (bc of that fucking bar he has omg), allusions to reader being short, she's very feminine

note from cherry: i tried to do justice to the people who wanted this, i hope you´re satisfied mwah! sooo sorry if it´s not giving lmao writing this was lowkey exhausting, also sorry for typos as always

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Jeon Jungkook is exactly like his preferred alcoholic beverage; whiskey. strong, rich, smooth, smells like oak and a hint of vanilla caramel. Much like your introduction to the drink, you met this man in a bar.

A real man- none of those barely twenty-year olds that paraded around in their sagged sweatpants and with a bright tap of unlimited unopened snapchats lighting up the dark corners of the bar. Jungkook is pure masculinity, a chest so full with security, so grounded in his abilities that it was practically impossible to ignore how his large, brown galaxy eyes focused on your face, zeroing in on your cupid´s bow while you licked the stinging remains of your moscow mule away- he paid for it, of course.

Once the enticing conversation that felt almost comically easy faded, you expected him to try and take you to his house- mansion, as he revealed in a sidetracked sentence. Although you were looking forward to seeing the small metal pearls below and over his eyebrow move as they crinkle in pleasure, the tight ropes of virginity had not yet been released in your 21 years of living. Shackles that keep you tied down- as promised out of your own, admittedly senseless morality, not to be opened by a stranger. The key to your cuffs belonged to a lover.

It was unforeseeable, nevertheless natural for him to droop his heavily tattooed arm around your waist while escorting you out of the establishment. The sleeve of his white button down folded up along his forearm for you to see the beauty of his skin, wondering just how many more of those carefully crafted works of art he´s hiding beneath the business casual attire.

Once engulfed in the harsh, bitter wind that itaewon possesses, his arm only drew you in closer, so near in fact, you were able to notice a small scar on his cheek, one you hadn´t been able to notice in the curse of a dimly lit place. The more your eyes adjusted to him, so grew your anger at the lighting inside your place of first meeting- it had done an injustice to the man you had already been disgustingly attracted to, stole the wholehearted, inescapable allure of such a mature presence.

The gentleman looks down into your awaiting eyes, only to ask if he may have your number, upon your agreement, he proceeded to tell you that he would be walking you home, wanting you to arrive safely since it must be dangerous for a woman to walk the streets of a party district at 2 am in the morning.

That encounter was four months ago, and only a month after that initial conversation, he had completely taken over you. Swallowed you whole in just how well he treated you.

Insistent of using his black card to buy you anything you remotely showed liking in, dedicated to communication, random flowers that showed up at your office and a constant offer of a ride in his luxurious black mercedes-benz GT63s; no matter how long it took- even if it was a inconvenience, sometimes taking longer to get to you than it would have taken you to simply retort to public transport.

"I told you i´d make it for you, didn´t I baby? hm?" his velvet smooth voice rings, from how he´s standing, with his body pressed against your back, towering over you, you could feel the hardened muscles of his torso meeting you. His large, slim hands reach to either side of your waist, to the glass filled with ice that you´re holding in between your own, gently removing them to resume the task that you were occupied with. Your eyes glance to the bulging of his bicep, that loose, casual tshirt did nothing to hide just how big he had gotten due to his newfound hobby.

you whine- almost, biting down on your lower lip to prevent just that from happening, "thank you gguk" you say, turning to peck the very muscle that´s invading your line of sight. He hums, a low, satisfied sound from the back of his throat.

"c´mere baby" patting one of his muscular thighs, his eyes drift to your figure walking towards him, iced tea in hand, just like he had made it for you. Sweet, light, refreshing, much like your presence in his life. Almost like a sign from the stars that his hearts content was somewhere, bundled in the form of a shorter girl with eyes that could entrance any sailor- far less siren like, no, wide with love and purity. Just what he had yearned for in any women he had met before you-whether tangled in meaningless sheets or involved in a month long, semi serious relationship, Jungkook was yet to cross paths with the one woman that would make him turn so desperate, he would have begged for their happiness on his knees. It might be romantic, even a tad dramatic to admit that from the very first word that left your pink glossed lips, he knew better than anyone else that he was in deep, deep trouble. Upon seeing the curve of your waist, hearing that soft, lulling voice, that embarrassingly obvious fact only intensified after finding out just how delightful you truly were, it made him want to rip his hair out- do anything in the possibility of his grip to see even a glimpse of your smile, of that lighthearted, cheerful giggle you let out regularly. He was drawn in my your feminine nature, by the way you let yourself fall into his caring embrace.

He´s quickly directed back to reality as soon as your legs make it to either side of the thigh he had patted earlier, a familiar position for this equally familiar occasion. Muscle memory sets in for him, grabbing the large karaoke remote to hand to you while he turns the microphone on. "Can you sing something to me first?" the question sets his bunny smile off, nodding instantly "Sure love, chose a song for me" he says. Your mind floods with ideas, but you settle for a song you´ve heard him hum millions of times, mindlessly going about.

"Malibu nights?", jungkook questions excitedly while the instrumental sets in, he knew the answer, but his heart swelled with joy at the notice you took to this song. After all, he loved to sing. Another layer to him that has you melting, growing into the embodiment of love that is endlessly cherishing what little fractions were revealed to your eyes in each fleeting moment. His honey voice reaches beautiful highs and lows you can only compare to something angelically otherworldly in nature.

It made you want to know just how deep he could growl, how far his sounds can drop with the dirty nothings you would love to have whispered in your ear. You felt filthy for letting your mind wander to such extends when all he did was sing, lulling you into drunken harmony with him. Still, you consciously lean back into his body, letting him wrap his arms around your waist, encircling it with his vanilla oak scent.

During the past four months, you were doomed to have to shatter his hopes, reveal the truth that somehow felt shameful ; that you´re fully untouched. Nothing further than a bad makeout had yet graced your skin, it made you feel even smaller admitting something so vulnerable to a man that carries almost an entire decade of experience more. Much to your comfort, his hands found the curve of your cheeks immediately, telling you that there is nothing to be embarrassed about, he would hand you the full control, you set the pace.

Internally, Jungkook drooled at the idea that the woman of his dreams was to have her first, the most memorable, sexual encounter with him. Your body belonged to him, devoted to only remember the touch of his lips, the curve of his cock, how he would mold you to his shape without the intrusion of another man having tried the same. Not that he would have wanted you any less if that had not been the case, but for one time in your relationship, he was oh so selfish to want you all to himself, aroused that your first person induced orgasm was going to be his and his alone. The prophecy fulfilled when on one, alcohol induced night a week ago, two of his long, tattooed digits made their entrance into your tight hole, relentlessly filling you until your soft thighs shook, until after your third high, he licked his fingers clean and let you taste yourself on his tongue.

The tunes get lost in silence, he sets the microphone down, having felt the warmth of your mound beneath the tights while you tried to subtly gain friction, scooting back on him. His palms find your thighs, tightly flushed around his muscle. They´re shamelessly wandering up and down the thin material that prevents his hot, calloused fingers from feeling up your smooth skin.

"Wanna do that again, love?" jungkook mutters, his pillowed lips latch on to your exposed neck, right at the gentle curve that paints the beginning of your shoulder, soft, faint kisses that leave a trail of barely sounding sighs behind.

"Do what?" feigning innocence to avoid internal humiliation, you ask him, knowing he wouldn´t let it go, not until you told him to. The sound of his husky chuckle sounds right on the sweetspot of your neck, he sucks a little harder, encouraging you with the constant rub to your thighs. Instinctively, the heat inside your panties grows as do the intensity of your desperate moans, your hips push back on his thigh, seeking the solidity that grants you the portion of satisfaction your needy button longed for

"that" he simply says, having found an anchor in your hips now, your plaid skirt bunches around his hands, slowly- tortuously so when met with the deliberate little humps he helps you to complete on him. You practically whimper once his tongue glides across your skin, dragging from your shoulder, up your neck, intertwined with his open mouth, loud kisses that don´t seem to stop.

"that´s it... do you even know how cute you sound?" he smiles, and you feel it, you feel the smile rise to his lips with every additional kiss, every noise you grant the hungry male. "gguk, wanna see you" you whine- the high pitched noise has him twitching in his training joggers, semi errect but about to stand stiff, just as noticeably as that night seven days ago, having formed a huge tent inside his slacks, there was no hiding his attraction, no use to conceal his utter need for you.. nor his size, not that he would be capable to anyways.

To your request, he helps you turn around, now facing that dim glow on your slightly embarrassed features, taking note of how you nibble on your lip with every grind forward, "that feel good sweet girl?" he asks, ghosting his lips over yours faintly, just enough to see how much you need it, "mhm.. really good" you mumble back, chasing after his lips that he can't deny you of any longer, the kiss is gentle, but nourishes your heat further

"wanna feel even better?" the pit in your lower abdomen grows at the tone of his voice, something much stronger is seeping through his system, something that screams dominance, you nod- naturally wanting to get lost in it. Jungkook's hands stop assisting you, instead, they take to your shirt, "can i take this off of you baby?" he waits for that little hum of yours before swiftly tugging it away from your form

It's almost frightening how quickly your mind reverts back to wanting to run away and hide, your arms fly across your chest, everything you felt so good doing stops and he stops too,

"don't hide, you're perfect, you're so fucking sexy" his eyes trace your skin, hands wrapping around your wrists to pull your arms away, revealing your chest hugged into your bra, and jungkook almost forgets how to breathe properly,

he groans- groans that delicious deep noise that makes your head spin, even more so when you feel his appreciation for your body, hands pulling you closer by the waist so can bury his head into your cleavage. "so beautiful" he mutters, darting his tongue out to lick the slit between your tits, "wanna touch all over you, make you feel so good" he says, finding the clasp on your back to open it with one hand. a silent reminder of his experience, one you did not have in the slightest but somehow, it felt even better that way

"mh.. feels good gguk" you can't help but moan at the forgein sensation, his lips wrap around your hardend nipple, groaning sweetly while he sucks on it, carefully swiping his tongue over the little nub- your other breast is securely fitted into his palm, thumb playing with it just like he does with his mouth, mirroring every little flick

"feels so good doesn't it? you smell so good baby" his lips move to do the same to your other breast, switching sides with a trail of saliva sticking to his lips,

In that moment you feel so sensitive, so lost in his secure hold and at the same time, so small in his skillful dominance that you simply relish in the feeling, grinding your soaked core into his thigh over and over, long, hasty drags over his muscle while his lips work magic on your skin, squeezing a little tighter, sucking a little harder because every stuttered whimper fuels his urge to take care of you

"that's it baby.. keep going, you're so good" your hands find his dark chocolate locs, threading through it with the need to ground yourself. it feels as though every time your clit meets him, instead of getting you closer to sensational relief it adds to the ache, feeds into your desire to take and take more of him, be consumed by his strength

"want this off please" your excited fingers fiddle with the hem of his oversized shirt, earning a smug grin from your boyfriend as he detaches from you, discarding of his top

Although you have seen him shirtless before, it's impossible not to salivate at the sight, at his toned broad torso that curves into a unfairly small waist, large arms flexing when he reaches for your tits again, massaging them once more,

"like what you see pretty?" he says, teasingly cocking his head and biting at the metal ring on the corner of his lip, you blush- the slick drools out even more between your thighs, "so hot gguk, annoyingly hot" he chuckles, joining the sound with your airy giggle, but he sucks in a breath as soon as you shift in his lap, now fully straddling him, naked chest pressed to his with your head burried in his neck, "hmm.. what are you up to baby?" his hands find your back, soothing himself not to pounce on you because the strain in his pants is staggering his breath, your errect nipples are rubbing against his skin and it´s making him shiver, desperate, oh so desperate for you

but he knows all to well not to overwhealm your sweet, virgin body, to let you take all the time you need until he can feel every breath of your submission

"wanna feel you gguk, can i?" jungkook almost purrs at how innocently you ask, suppressing the need to grind his hips into your heat from below, "of course baby, anything you want. it's all yours"

he meant it, every vein cursing through his body belongs to you, working, pumping blood through him for the sole purpose of loving you, taking care of you. "all mine?" you hum, aroused by the confidence he emitts, your hands trace up his torso, creating a small distance between your bodies to feel up the hard lines on his abdomen with laboured breath of your own, lips finding every small patch of his neck that make him hum, make his sighs of pleasure slowly turn into groans "all yours my love" the answer wasn't necessary, not when you already started to leave traces of you on his skin, faint, red bruises on his neck that he's impatiently waiting to run around with

"you feel so fucking good, need to feel more of you, will you let me sweet girl?" his words are intoxicating, washing away any doubt or fear and replacing it with a intense craving of sexual desire "please gguk i'm so wet for you" the sound reaches his ears and shuts down his entire system, his hands carelessly rip down your skirt and stockings, leaving you in those tiny grey boyshorts that he looses his mind over "baby how did you hide all this from me?" his hands caress your thighs, your hips, up your waist and to the soft flesh of your stomach with hungry, insatiable eyes that long for a taste of your every inch

"all yours" you mimic him, sounding just like him with your sultry, shy voice, already wanting to remove his own bottoms which he catches on, ridding himself of the nuisance "yeah, all mine. this is all mine" he says, smiling softly

Your drenched underwear meets his errection as he pulls you back on his lap, hands sitting on your waist, you look so vulnerable- almost fragile in his grip, shyly moaning because the curve of his cock presses into your skin like it was molded for you, needy folds clinging to your underwear and your clit throbs- throbs begging for another taste of friction

"I don't know how to do any of this" he suddenly he hears you mumble, seeing how you're playing with your fingers that sit on his lower abdomen, your head is turned to them, a slight pout decorates your features

jungkook feels the need to sob- to take away whatever is making that pretty head of yours feel so threatened even though you're the best thing he has ever felt, the only person he ever wants to lay his hands on ever again

"that's okay baby, hey, look at me for a second will you?" you comply, craving his lead, his security to catch you, most of all that gentle, masculine dominance that floods your senses effortlessly

"you're doing so so well pretty, you don't have to worry okay? i'll take you through it, make you feel so good" he says, cupping your cheeks in his palms while sitting up a little to press kisses to your nose, your forhead, your lips and cheeks,

unable to contain your smile, you nod, gaining back the heartbeat in your willing feminity to let him take care of you, "thank you baby" you say with upmost honesty, pressing your lips to his in a kiss of adoration

"mhm.. come on, let's get this off of you love" his whipers lingers on you, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear before pulling it off your lifted legs, he moans at the sight of your bare cunt, slick attached to the cloth and glistening over your feminity

"so beautiful, do you even realize how lucky i am? how thankful i am that this sweet, sweet girl is all mine to love?" he says softly, so softly that your eyes gloss a little bit, feeling so utterly vulnerable in front of him, so sexy in the most feminine way possible. blush creeps up your cheeks, his hands find your inner thigh, dancing around the sensitive skin "you're too sweet gguk"

he returns your smiles, lifting your hand to kiss it before intertwining it with his own, lacing his fingers into you because being apart from your body feels like torture in this moment. but you're eyes are busied elsewhere, locked on the large outline that stands rock solid insides of his calvins, a small, wet patch that indicates his arousal decorating the very top

"go ahead baby, take it off" not needing to be told twice, you help yourself to his boxers, tugging them down in one, slow motion that leaves him biting his bottom lip, he pushes them down to his ankles, kicking them off

both of you sit like this for a moment that feels like eternity, raw, bare and without a chance to hide in front of the other's desperate gaze, comfort, pure love that's inseparable with a pulsing you can no longer ignore, not when he´s so big, so broad and decorated with a vein alongside his curved shaft

he grabs at the flesh of your ass, pulling you to sit your gushing cunt over his stiff length, cursing at feeling how soft you are, how much arousal truly spills from your body

"you're so.. big gguk.. m'scared" your whine makes him coo, stroking your head while a possessive grip that stays on your hip, his left hand tethering to your hair in the meantime, "don't be, you were made for me sweet girl, made for it" your head falls to his shoulder, arching your torso into his body with a small hump to his leaking cock, "that's right baby, feel it, feel how hard i am for you" spurred on by his encouragement, you tighten your hands on his bicep, rolling your hips over his, his entire shaft is coated in your essence, angry pink tip meeting your swollen clit repeatedly, so much so you feel your thighs shake, feel an impending orgasm waiting to flow over your body,

Ripping yourself of that sensation, not yet- you tell yourself

"want it gguk, want it so bad" jungkook hums, kissing your neck messily, cock throbbing beneath you, "want what pretty? talk to me" he says, his own desire to claim you all to himself becomes unbareable with each passing second that you stay put

You shift forward again, whining, "please gguk" he groans, twitching at how desperate you sound, entranced with how needy you've become for him, he didn't even have to make you beg for it, you just did

effortlessly perfect for him, "come on, tell me my love" but he has to hear more, he needs to hear the dirty confession falling from your pure lips

"want your cock jungkook, please" there it is- that submissive, whiny plead for him, it makes him feel alive, throwing his head back on the black leather couch momentarily "good girl, fuck baby you're so cute" he praises, taking the base of his cock into his hand but something stalls him, "do you want me to eat you out first? make it nice and slippery?" his teeth graze your ear, kissing over the shell of it, "no gguk i want it, want it now"- another nibble, "anything for you"

Your hips lift, hovering your tight, clenching hole over his thick manhood, hands sweaty and grasping at his firm shoulders, he spots your anxiety, wishing nothing more but to ease it

"sit down on it baby, it's gonna sting okay? but you're so good, I know you can take it" more, more reassuring words that you drink in, just as you sink down on it, wincing as your brows meet in frustration

"hurts.." you mutter, fingers digging into his tanned skin- you can't bring yourself to move down further, clenching your muscle tightly around only his fat tip that feels like it's splitting your drooling pussy open. his hands find your back again, "ssh baby.. i know... but you'e such a good girl, i know you can take every inch of my cock"

It takes a couple more kisses to your shoulder for you to sink down fully on his length, painfully so- having your hands claw into him, your lips trembling in confusion of why it feels so good to have him stuffed into you so deeply you can feel it inside your tummy, stretching into every crevice of your gummy walls. It's unlike anything you've ever felt before, fulfilling, deep pressure that you could get lost in- bathe in

Jungkooks feelings have synchronized with yours- he's unsure where you end or where he begins but you're clamped down on his cock, your skin already wet with sweat as it sticks to his unforgivingly, moans and shaky breaths fill in the silence, a unspoken question lingers, awaits for you to answer it

until you do, taking his large hands to your hips before pressing yours against his full pecks, a glint of confidence spites your eyes that makes jungkook want to hear you cry out his name over and over again

"oh fuck- baby you-" you whine, rolling your hips forward, mouth parted when you feel him move inside of you, slolwy, deeply "that's it my love, take your time, so sexy like this" his voice is far from stable, you moan again- the grinding becomes faster, assisted by his hands that pull you onto him just the way you like it- just like he said, you have it all, its all yours

"what- what if you can't come?" he needs to contain a laugh at that- the question is so absurd to him, so unimaginable that it makes him slightly angry why you couldn't understand that he could cum from seeing you alone, from one kiss to your chaste lips- he's already twitching at how sloppy, how loud your cunt is around him

"I almost came from seeing how needy that little pussy of yours is, you feel how hard i am don't you? all because of you baby" he mutters in response, you flourish at it, getting familiar with the grinding motion but you need more, you deserve more- so you start bouncing on him- up and down, slamming your own, curved hips down onto him. he's mesmerized by your pleasure, watching how your brows are knitted, how your lips leak with drool and airy moans, how your tits bounce- he gropes at them, cupping them greedily, his hands itch for your skin, for you to let yourself go on him

"good girl.. look at you, a natural at riding my cock- don't even need my help" you shake, exhaustion already growing in your eager hips but you cannot stop, you don´t want to stop taking every inch of his cock back into you, lifting your hips only to take him back in, "you're filling me so much" you moan into his mouth, having formed a unity with his lips that welcome you like home, "just like that pretty, little humps for me" he mumbles back, interlacing his tongue with yours

he tugs at your nipples with his inked fingers, reciprocrating the moaning, he mirrors you, throbs when you clench, explores your mouth when you part for him impatiently. it leaves you to no choice but to become his own reflection, your hips ground themselves in a stable rhythm as your fingertips roll over his own nipples, unexpectedly he whimpers, bites down into your shoulder cautiously

"That's it baby, driving me fucking crazy" he grinds his hips up into you, unlocking a feeling of bliss that leads you to errupt into pornographic moans, your hand flings to muffle them, eyes rolling back into your skull,

Jungkook is making love to you, letting you reach a state you would not have been able to imagine, not even in the slightest when all you have ever felt are your fingers hastily, uncoordinated on your bundle of nerves. still, he can feel you´re holding back, afraid to be loud- to take up space, but he's having none of it

"Dont be embarrassed sweet girl, you sound addicting, so cute, give me every little noise" sinful sensuality floods you with his encouragement, "gonna make you cum for me, deserve it don't you think?" you don't- in fact, you can't think, long gone into pleasure while his hips piston into you from below,

he slaps your clit gently, your walls clench from how good that feels, "i asked you something baby" he repeats, distracted by your droopy eyes that threaten to shut him out at any moment, "answer me sweet thing, do you deserve to cum hm?" he taunts, rutting his hips with a slower but harder motion, force that hits your g-spot- reels you back into the moment, you head moves frantically "yes, yes please i need to cum"

Jungkook groans in satisfaction, "that's right.. best little cunt, all mine" he goes back lapping at your chest, licking his way to any patch of skin that your addictive smell lurs him to- he feels all over your skin, sneaking his fingers to where your bodies morph into one so he can draw tight circles on your clit, stimulating you to cry out his name,

"Jungkook.. i- i can't stop it i-" you stutter, thighs tensing around him, the feeling is so overwhealming that you can't keep your head up, can't warn him more than that since you're already letting your dew sprinkle out- letting the shocks roll over your body

"just like that.. make a mess on my cock baby, you did so well, come for me" he rasps, his heavy balls release into your tightness at the thought that crosses his mind- the knowledge that he had made you orgasm, that your virginity belonged to him solely,

It embraces the both of you, fills you with a sense of euphoria that none of you wish to end

As the high washes over you, you break out into a small shudder, aware of his milky cum that splurts your walls white, aware of the oversensitive area between your legs that jungkook's fingers slowly stop touching, landing to your unstable and sore thighs instead.

his heavy breathing is woven into yours, contrasting how slowly, lazily he manages to caress your naked skin, finding comfort in your warm body

the small whisper of his name catches him off guard, he hums, pulling back to cup your face, "are you okay my love? feel good?" his eyes rank over your tired features, glowing before his very own eyes,

"so okay. I love you" you breathe out, pressing a kiss to his button nose,

"I love you too baby, so proud of you" his nose nuzzles against yours, "you were so so good"

your shy giggle lights up his face like it always does, "thank you.. for taking my virginity... felt so good" you mumble with your bottom lip tucked away between your teeth- it awakens his soft- still nestled cock, his hands grip your ass- feeling the flesh spill beneath his fingers "thank you for your trust baby, but god, you're gonna make me lose it" jungkook says into your neck, nose tracing the delicate line of your shoulder,

"why? is it too much?" unbeknownst to you, Jungkook rolls his eyes in annoyance, how could you be so fucking adorable?

"Let me show you why" he answers, making your head perk up a little,

"Wanna lay down for me pretty? I can give you another one, as many as you want. You deserve it, wanna spoil you, fuck i wanna give you everything you want" faintly audible as he's speaking into your skin, having already laid you down onto the cold cushions of his unreasonably expensive leather couch.

[kithtaehyung]

minted (explicit) | myg

title: minted (explicit) pairing: street king!yoongi x street cart vendor!reader rating/genre: explicit (18+) ; angst , suspense , smut ; haegeum au , gang au summary: all you do is wake up, sell your fruit on the dusty streets below your flat, and go to sleep. but everything changes when a customer you always look forward to seeing turns out to be dangerous. really, really dangerous. note: again, this wasn't on the docket for 2024 until i saw one (1) mint yoongi edit on my pinterest feed💀 anyways, this is dedicated to hali @sailoryooons for ur belated bday, nary @joonary for being a cutie pie and letting me adopt the tangerine cart girl idea in general, and luce @minttangerines for ur url and for being a wonderful friend. love you all! warnings: this series may not be for everyone, language, violence, weapons (guns/knives/chopsticks/etc.), blood/wounds mentions, drugs, alcohol, murder, gang activity, poor reader is just trying to get through the day, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, tension, slow burn, choking, reader suffers from “my cabbages” levels of disaster, slight e2l, fight sequences, multiple future explicit scenes, yoongi deserves his own warning, chains but who is ever ever shocked, graphic depictions of violence drop date: august 5th, 2024, 9:03pm est word count: 9.4k aiyaaa✌ mood playlist: here

—

—

Ever since you could remember, gang activity in your town has run unchecked. 

Anything goes. Rough fights out of nowhere, car chases busting streets, or even random delinquents snatching food on the run, dust kicking up onto stock they left behind. 

And out of all the districts, yours is begrudgingly the second worst. 

Why? You still aren’t completely sure. But you do know that the darkest is reserved for the underbelly that only slithers in rumors. A place in which you will never find yourself. 

But you do wonder what must happen there to warrant the winning title because each day here is a battle to keep yourself afloat. 

All you do is sell fruit. Why are you fighting for your life every week? Why can’t you exchange goods for money in peace? If you could compare it to the movies you grew up watching on an outdated television, it’s a grungy reflection of the wild west.

But through all the shit you’ve chosen to endure, at least one person is always kind enough to buy his wares and go.

And today is no different.

You still don’t know his name. But you yearn to. Because his hair is the color of magic and rebellion, and his tattoos really set off that bright mop of locks. 

If those lethal, piercing eyes weren’t enough.

When he lifts three long digits, it takes all your strength to nod and get his purchase together. This is the part that never changes, either.

Just like always. One, three, or five fingers for tangerines. Never two, never four, and never any other fruits. 

It’s charming, in a way. As if he’s more particular than most about what he wants—a trait elusive to many.

Like clockwork, you would hand his order over in thin plastic, and he would walk away to hitch a ride on a passing cart. Just like he does right now with a lazy gait, white tee billowing from his jeans. 

Another day. Another exchange.

In the wavy heat of summer, you sigh. Wondering if anything is ever going to change, and if you would ever get to know more about your most frequent, most mysterious patron.

After a while, you do try talking to him. 

Those looks of confusion slowly turn into little hums or grunts, then into single words that keep you going for days. Even though you rarely hear it, his voice is just as attractive as he is. 

One day, you offer him a plantain, handing it over and telling him it’s on the house. 

“Thanks,” he says amongst the clinks and conversations of the street, pocketing the food away. 

When he does, you see a flash of black metal, and you already know what he’s carrying. You’re used to seeing all sorts of those around nowadays. In this district, you’d be shocked if he didn’t have an arsenal on his person while traveling through.

Besides. Even you have a couple collecting dust in your own flat, handed down by extended family but never used.

“If you ever need anything other than tangerines,” you start with a point to his pants, “Please buy those instead.” 

He’s unmoving. Blinks are all you get so you have no choice but to explain,

“I’m so tired of eating them with everything.” 

When he huffs in amusement, your heart flutters thrice. There’s no reason for a sheen of sweat and sticky mint locks to be so deadly. 

“Then eat something else,” is all the stranger advises before walking off. 

Well.

Even though you don’t have much of a choice, the guy does have a point. You wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest if his aim’s just as straightforward as his wit.

Once one exchange lasts longer than a sentence, the two of you start little conversations during his visits. Which prove more fatal than normal since he’d rest his tattoos on the top shelf of your cart. 

From what you can make out, there are creatures stretching in beautiful teal and vivid orange, and even striking white on his other arm. They ripple so well with his veins, a canvas that sways and hypnotizes with every drum of his fingers. 

You know what they symbolize, though it’s unique to have all of them together. 

Taboo, even. 

But you can’t hold back your admiration because of the sheer beauty. What would they feel like if you just… 

“You always stare this long?”

Shit. “Oh, sorry. I just… I rarely see anyone’s ink up close.”

To your dismay, he takes his arm back. “I don’t have a lot of time today, princess.”

“Right, sorry. Hold on,” you respond, cringing hard at blurting two apologies in a ten second span. 

Meanwhile, your way too handsome regular cocks a brow, clearly comfortable making you squirm as you hand over his bag. 

Effortless. In your chaotic life, It’s almost intoxicating feeling someone this resolute in their whole demeanor. If only you could be so commanding and assured one day. 

But here you stand instead, pretending to count fruit you one hundred percent know the stock of already. “Your art is really nice, by the way,” you admit to your inventory. “All the high-powers. I like what you picked.”

“Didn’t choose these.”

Ah. Way to assume things. 

Raising your head, you make to apologize a third time.

But he’s already retreating with his tangerines, hand stuffed in a pocket and beautiful waves a little less vibrant than you recall. 

“What.” 

“I worry sometimes.” 

His gaze lifts. “About me?” 

“Yeah.” 

You don’t know why you choose to say that of all things. But it’s honest. You always wonder about him and think about the weapon in his jeans. Does he use it? Does he ever need to? 

Maybe you should pick up a hobby or two.

Fingers resting dangerously close, he asks with a tilt of his head, “What would you do, doll? If something happened to someone like me.” 

Someone like him? What does that mean? 

Great. Now you have even more to wonder about, as if he knew that was your exact predicament.

You stare, roaming along his arms before meeting his eyes—almost. “Find someone else to buy my tangerines.” 

Huffing, his brows tick up with his mouth. “I respect that.” His attention doesn’t leave your face as he slowly takes his purchase. “See ya.” 

“Bye,” you whisper back, watching him go. More thoughts and concerns bouncing around your mind in the sticky heat of midday. 

These little nicknames he’s using also aren’t helping your issue in the slightest. 

It starts when you hear shouting from a block down.

“Here they come!”

“Bunch of idiots this time.”

“What do you mean this time?”

Rough raiders this early? They should know it’s almost time for Dragon’s sweep. Bold.

After you hear the telltale yells, clanks, and bangs, your section of the street braces for impact. 

And it swoops in like a whirlwind, ruffians tearing through, pillaging and stealing and swiping goods into thick woven baskets. 

Baskets? The usual suspects always carry leather bags. You assume because of their sturdiness and inconspicuous nature, but what do you really know.

Here it goes again. 

As your fruit is taken right from your cart, you sink to your toes, mourning the regular loss of your menu.

No use fighting. Like every other time, you all let it happen because there’s no point in trying to protect anything that isn’t valuable. Perishables and small homemade goods aren’t worth getting gutted over. Truly, the worst losses you suffer are when—

Your cart shifts violently before thieves topple it over, cracking one of your wheels and splitting the wooden boards in three places.

Springing to your feet, you douse the perpetrators in anger, “What the hell!”

“Oh, this was yours?” Someone chides while his cronies run past. “Thanks for the oranges, love!”

“They’re tangerines!” you correct at his retreating back, kicking your cart before yelping at your bad decision. “Damn it…”

Back to your knees you go. Head drooping, arms encircling, and disappointment pooling around like a shadow.

More shouts and feet in the road rampage through. Then it gets quieter. And quieter. 

Then it’s done.

After silence swells in the wake of chaos, groans start making their way down the street. 

“What’d they get from you this time,” you ask your neighbor, a charming old man selling anything from bowls to wide, round frying pans. 

Looking over his little wreckage, he blinks hard. “They got my woks. Nothing as bad as yours. You okay?” 

Walking over to help clean his mess up first, you bend down with a sigh, “I’ll be alright. But it still sucks.. My poor tangerines..” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Not much to do about it now,” you resign, all your energy taken from you, too. 

A little bit of time passes as you complete your usual round of help, though this raid was worse than others. As they all give their thanks, you keep thinking about how to make the whole situation better. Moreso for them than you because you’ve always been one of the least vulnerable ones on the block.

“You should find another place to sell, dear.” 

In disagreement, you slip into a saddened smile. “I can’t leave you guys,” you explain to the lady you’re holding pails for. “Who will help clean everything up?” 

“Don’t underestimate your elders now.” 

“Fair,” you respond through a chuckle, handing her one of the metal buckets. “If only better protection was an option around here.”

“You know the rules,” another shop owner drones through lingering spices, “Dragon won’t protect us if it isn’t in their own interests.” 

Unfortunately, he’s right. Every single raid that hasn’t coincided with a gang sweep goes overlooked. Even the city police don't bother coming down your street anymore, which is another issue in itself.

If only Tiger or Crane had been the high-powers in place instead. 

At least they seem to be more fair.

After you finish helping, you finally venture back to your own cart, realizing that the trek is a lot further than you thought. 

Did you really walk so far this time? The damage was dealt for much more than a block at this point. 

Not like you need to sprint back, though. What’s left to steal? Everything you got swept into those woven containers.

Still so odd…

But not as odd as the sight that greets you on your return. 

Because instead of seeing your wreckage of a cart tilted and abysmal, it’s upright and being mended.

By none other than your favorite set of hands.  

What the hell? What’s he doing here? You quite literally have nothing to give so there’s no reason for him to spare a second at your broken stand. 

Fast-walking, you hastily try to halt his help, “Oh, shit, you don’t have to—” 

“Course I don’t.” 

That shuts you up. In your split second of silence, you note with agony that his hair is messily tied in a minted bun. Are his sleeves bunched at his biceps, too? Great. What were you even telling him again? 

Ah, yes. You were telling this mystery of a man that he doesn’t have to literally put your stand back together. “Seriously, I got it.” 

“Don’t sweat it.” 

“But it’s my cart, I don’t need your—”

With one look over his shoulder, your mouth snaps shut. And suddenly can’t move to argue again. 

What the hell is up with today? 

Forget all that. What’s he doing? At least you’re familiar with all the shop owners and vendors on your block, though you can’t say you wouldn’t do the same thing for someone you don’t know. But this guy has always been so standoffish and barely approachable. So how is he lending both hands to help you right now? 

Whatever. If he’s gonna be as stubborn as this heat, you can be, too. 

Scanning the area for scattered tools, you find a sun-warmed hammer and get to work, fixing one end of the cart while he works on the other. When you feel his gaze on your working shoulder, it takes massive strength to ignore him—even if you wanna know what his issue is and why he smells really, really good this afternoon.

Looks like you need more nails for this board to fit. When your eyes find a couple on the ground, you clinch a second piece between your teeth while hammering in the first. 

Sounds stop at your side, but you wait until you pluck the metal nail from your mouth and stamp it in to look over.

Oh. He’s eyeing the hammer. Not you. Obviously. 

You wordlessly hand it over, arm slicked with exertion. Because after the day you’ve had, you don’t feel like everything needs a spoken sentence attached. 

It takes the guy a bit to take it from you, but when he does, he holds your stare. “Thanks.” 

You simply nod, eyes sticking to him as he works on the tattier side wait it looks almost new. Better than it has in a very long time. Did he really get that much done in the time you were gone? There’s been great care taken during his repair if that’s the case.  

Hmm. You finally learn something about your favorite customer. Maybe he’s just been a mechanic or carpenter this whole time? 

Contemplative, you get up on sore legs to walk to your cooler—something thankfully missed by the rough raiders. Digging through the clinkage, you retrieve a local beer you recently procured from the restaurant across the street. 

It’s not much. Absolute bottom shelf. But it’s all you got other than a few pieces of oni-coin, so he’s gonna have to deal with it.

When you offer the glass, your regular eyes it for a moment. More than enough time for you to get a good look at his striking floral top.

Well. Mechanic and carpenter are out of the question because that one piece of clothing looks more expensive than your entire apartment building.

Who even is this guy? Now you feel destitute handing him something so cheap.

Just when you think he’s gonna refuse, he takes the beer and smoothly shucks it open, suddenly making you wonder how a bracelet can do that and why it was so attractive.

God. You need to walk straight to the nearest inlet stream and dunk your head right in.

“Thank you,” you whisper, gulping at his full swigs. “You really didn’t have to do all this.” 

“Got some time to kill,” he shrugs. Standing, the man takes another sip, peering along the street with sunlit eyes. With the bottle near his mouth, he murmurs, “You really need to set up somewhere else, doll. This street’s turning into a hot spot.” 

Squinting up at the long lines of clothes and curtains floating in the breeze, you sigh at the building nearest. “I live close,” you sulk. “And this is the easiest place to get to.” 

Those are excuses. Just tell him the real reason you won’t venture out and plop yourself somewhere more profitable. Well, maybe not all of the reasons, but the main one. 

Leaning back on your cart, you stare at the loose dirt, swiping some with your shoes. “Maybe I’m just used to it at this point.” 

He won’t respond. Or he’ll respond in his own way, which is mostly silence. 

But a bright strand falls over his face before he hums, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Many people have warned you at this point. It’s basically your stubborn and spiteful nature that’s making you stay in the first place. Why would you move when you chose to be here? Why leave a place you actively choose to call home? 

Fighting spirit quelled, you nod right to your stand as you count what’s salvageable. “I know, but I like it here.” When he lifts an unbelieving brow, you look away. “It’s true. But trust me, if there was a way to just make it all stop, I’d take it.” 

He takes another swig, both of you looking into the street and watching things slowly get back to normal pace. Adults and kids alike are back to wandering around, buying what’s left and offering condolences. 

“I’m not fixing another cart,” your patron turned repairman grunts, motioning to your wheel as he steps back. “So don’t fuck this one up.” 

Huh? It wasn’t your fault! All the accidents and chaos that blow through aren’t something you can control oh he’s grinning. Why is he grinning? Why do you feel hot all over? 

His teeth shine in daylight. “I’m messing with you.” 

Ah. 

This version of him is not good for you at all.

When he starts to walk away, you blurt out a quick, “Wait!” 

Shit! Why did you do that? What are you possibly supposed to say right now? All you wanted was to see him a little longer… And while staring at his backside would be more than enough, you kinda wanted to actually talk. 

What do you do? He stopped; he’s waiting. 

And he looks impatient as hell. 

Snapping into action, you round your cart and trot over, offering your name as if you didn’t just give up where you lived. 

Then—without thinking—you ask for his with the most curious, innocent, “What’s yours?” 

Silence has never been so booming.

In the dusty swirls of your street, you wait with a back that’s getting sweatier and colder with each passing second. 

Was that not okay to ask? Did you fuck up with a single question? 

Perfect. You just blew your one good thing about being out here. Wincing, you crush your words so hard you think your teeth will break into dust, drifting off into the very breeze wafting his striking locks. 

After a condescending puff, he only smirks.

Then he takes one step. And another. And another.

The air around you melts, weighing on your shoulders while lighting them aflame all at once. It’s a feeling you can’t describe to anyone else, because they would just need to stand next to this man to believe it. 

Checking to see if the street is clear, your best customer leans over. Slowly. Purposefully. “Yoongi,” he offers with a voice so handsome you’ll think about it for days. “But don’t fucking tell anyone.” 

Oh. 

Why did… you kinda like that? 

Blinking, you swallow. “I won’t.” 

This is when he’s supposed to just leave. He’d walk away, bag swinging with his strides. But ever keeping you on your sore toes, the man just chuckles low before rasping out the most devilish sentence in existence, 

“Always took you for a good girl.”

Then he backs away, turning on his heel and leaving you a statue in the street.

Yoongi. 

For a hardened soul, his name is so… 

Tender. 

For the next sixty days, you don’t get ransacked once. 

But there’s also been no sight of Yoongi. 

As the weeks trudge by, you can’t decide which outcome is worse.

The skies are magnificent today. But obviously at a molten price.

“Thank you for trying,” you say to a lovely wares owner before venturing back out into simmering streets. Exhaling, you wipe sweat from your brow, squinting before choosing to walk left or right. 

Left seems promising. 

You’ve been searching for hours now, perusing through shops, checking out vendors both nice and catty. But after a whole day’s search, you still haven’t found what you’re looking for. 

It’s nothing urgent or pressing. But you would at least like to be prepared. 

Since your initial mission is a bust, hopefully your next one makes up for it before you melt right into gravel and dirt.

Find a meal.

Walking along the busy roads, you pass a few options and keep them in mind, making sure to greet a fellow tangerine cart vendor with a smile. Hopefully they do well today.

A couple steps further, a giant cooler catches your eye. Seafood of all types lie inside along cubes of ice, and you weigh the pros and cons of smelling like fish just to have a cool head.

But before you can make any choices, the smell of spices and hearty soup softly pull your feet inside the restaurant nearby. 

What’s here? Noodles? You’re always down for that. Apparently even in scorching weather.

After ordering, you take your seat at a random middle table in a chair facing the entrance. 

Always facing the entrance.

Damn. You really need to accomplish what you set out to do. But sunset is fast approaching these days, and you aren’t anywhere close to home. All you have time for now is eating and heading out. 

The service here is quick, at least. You’re already thanking the owner for sliding a bowl in front of your sweaty form. 

With a head full of thoughts, you stare into nothing, stirring your noodles and waiting for the heat to die down. 

Maybe you should’ve just walked a shorter distance and checked the shops you originally wanted to browse. If things went to plan, you could’ve been back by now, freshly showered and curling up on a worn down bed. 

But instead, your feet are sore, your head is anything but washed, and you have to trek home empty-handed—on the first day off you’ve had in months. 

Defeated, you sigh, going back to your bowl and watching sliced vegetables swirl in aromatic broth. 

At least the food in this area seems good. And the fading decor really adds to the… 

Ambiance. 

Wait. 

Dragons. A lot of them. 

You can’t pull your eyes away from the crew walking in, bringing heat from the sweltering sun in their eyes and donning their telltale, striking teal. 

But you can only kid yourself for so long because the one that truly has your gaze tethered is the man in front. The one you haven’t seen in weeks. The one looking right back at you with a visage so shadowed you feel like moving tables to let him pass. 

…Yoongi? 

His jacket. The colors.

He’s in Dragon?

Suddenly his hair makes terrifying sense.

As his guys stalk through, you swallow hard, not expecting to see him and having no earthly idea what to do with this harrowing information. There are so many thoughts overlapping each other that they all amalgamate into one huge batch of sludge. 

Aren’t you smack dab in Crane territory? There’ve been white suits peppering the streets everywhere. 

So what the hell is Dragon doing here?

From the slight confusion pinching his forehead, you know Yoongi didn’t expect to see you, either. Which makes it even weirder when he slowly takes your chopsticks right from your fingers. 

Hold on, what—

“What are you—”

A lone, long digit over lips is the only response you get, silencing you immediately before you whip your head around to watch him rush past. 

All of them waste no time tearing up the stairs, a myriad of blues blending with gritty paint and smoke. 

And just like that, your reunion is over. 

Home. You need to go home. Leave, leave, leave, because something is bound to be going down upstai—

A thud faintly shoots out into the staircase, and you spin around again in your chair, eyes snapping to the ceiling. 

Shit. 

Even though you’re on high alert, you realize with a quick sweep that no one else is noticing. Or moving. Or even paying attention to anything else but their own company. 

Does no one else care about the commotion? Do hits happen in this area that often? 

Mind running, you can’t decide what to do. Because even though Yoongi’s guys have plenty of weapons, he clearly had nothing since he needed to borrow your damn eating utensils.

Another crash rains dust on conversations around your shoulders, causing you to look up one last time. 

Go home, go home, go home. In what universe would Yoongi himself ever need your help here? 

With one more look at your noodles, you curl your lips before biting a side. 

Already yelling at yourself for choosing to book it towards the back staircase. 

Shit shit shit this is so stupid. This is probably the worst decision you’re gonna make in your life.

But your gut is churning thinking about Yoongi. Even a seasoned swordsman needs expertise to wield mere chopsticks and win. 

Fuck, if you succeeded in your search today, you probably could’ve been a little more useful. 

Swiping your own set of red from a nearby cup, you hightail it up, slowing as you round a corner and immediately hear multiple clangs and scuffles beyond the last turn.

Stop. You can go back. You can still turn around and go home.

An inhale.

Your feet propel you up and into a dark hall. As you slowly slide along the wall, your gut churns and churns. At a bang, you crouch with a skipped beat of your heart.

This is really, really dumb. But you can’t stop yourself and you have no clue why.

Nothing happens around you. So you keep going. With each careful slide of your foot, you get closer and closer to the noise.

Approaching the corner, you very slowly stick your head out for a peek.

And it’s pure commotion. Pure chaos. Holy shit, what is going on? 

Fuck, there’s already a body lying limp on the floor meters away—

Your chopsticks. You wanna hurl.

But a man flies out of a room ahead before he grips and wrestles with another, and you reel yourself back to avoid being seen by either one.

Where is Yoongi? Is he okay? Did he leave already?

You give one more peek, scanning the long raucous corridor as swift as you can to see any sign of.. Mint.

He’s still here. How’s he just walking so nonchalant as his crew fucks shit up? Crap, he just went into a room and out of sight. 

“Where’d they go?”

“Upstairs!”

Fuck, that was in the restaurant! Get up get up you have no choice but to hide now. 

With pounding steps, you rush forward and book it, entering a large room to dive behind some steel shelving and large, woven baskets right as more Dragons come in behind with fists clenched.

Breathe. Steady. Calm the fuck down.

The grunts rush to the hallway to join the fray, and you wait in the now pungent solitude of your room. With only a still body to accompany you. 

What do you do? What even can you do? 

Just as nerves grip your stomach like a vice, Yoongi strides into the open area, heading right for the exit and not even sparing his kill a glance. 

Go. Go now. Why can’t you move? Why aren’t your hands letting go of your cold confinement? It smells like death and blood and you need to leave with the only person you know—or don’t—so why can’t your feet just fucking—

Someone else slithers into the room. A man in brown with a knife. A knife, a knife, a knife he’s getting faster and Yoongi doesn’t hear him the guy is too quiet fuck! “Yoongi!” 

It all happens before your brain can paint the bloody picture. Shooting out from your hiding spot, you race towards the assassin, slamming into their lanky build just in time.  

Both of you topple to the ground, your target roaring in pain and twisting like hell to fight back fuck you didn’t get him how you needed to he’s got you—

Pain erupts in your hip as you’re grabbed, the room spinning as you’re thrown to the side and your ear hitting concrete right before chopsticks ping down. Thinking quick, you knee the guy as hard as you can, scrambling to finish the job because if you don’t, you’re gone gone gone.

“Bitch!” Your opponent clutches your shirt right as you reach for the nearest red pair, seizing your throat right as you grip and swing them around to stab the other side of his neck with a yell.

Luckiest timing of your life. 

“Hng!” Fuck, he’s still holding down hard and choking, choking, squeezing. “Fuck you!” 

Fight back. Keep the weapon inside he’s too strong finish him finish him. 

Darkness. Ink drops in water. Your vision taints as your grip loosens, and you can only hope that Yoongi got away safe. He had to. At least you… Were able to do… 

This one thing… 

…

Oxygen and life rush back into your lungs, color burning through your esophagus as you gasp for sweet sweet air. Right as you come to, all you witness is the heavy heel of a boot twisting the forearm latched onto you. 

And when the shoe leaves your vision. Lifeless eyes stare back.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck that was close. Oh god. You actually did it. Oh fuck. 

Coughing, you rush up as you get tugged and pulled right against chains and embroidery, your ears ringing with a gravelly command and glass breaking in the nearby corridor,

“Don’t say my fuckin’ name so loud.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Yoongi roughly lets you go before pinning you with pure anger. Not to say thank you. Not to tell you any words of gratitude at all. The only other thing he finds the need to say is simply, 

“You shouldn’t be up here.” 

What the fuck. You just murdered someone for him and this is all you get? Eyes welling, you feel your body slick and sticky with crimson when you turn, coughing and spitting out regret before you wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, “That’s—that’s all you have to say?” 

Dread swirls around your stomach like poison.

But the sternness from before completely vanishes as Yoongi lifts your chin. His eyes scan your throat and chest, and you rip your head away from his touch because he is not excused just yet. 

“It’s not mine,” you snap, knowing exactly what he’s looking for and what you must look like to him. Dirty. Gross. Certainly a far image from the girl selling tangerines.

But your face is gently held again, and somehow this softer turn carries more strength to swivel you forward. 

Why is Yoongi still looking? Now he’s holding your gaze as if he’s never seen you before. What’s that about? You’re still the same, the same, the same.

…Are you?

More crashes and shots are heard down the hall, and Yoongi snaps his head up in an instant. 

God, you smell. You reek. Your nose is tainted and your hands even more so. There’s no way he’s gonna have anything to do with you now. 

But you get the shock of the century when the man commands you to come along. “Let’s go.” 

Absolutely not. This is all you got in you for a lifetime. “What? No, no, no. No way, I’m going home.”

“And they’ll follow you the whole way back.” 

“I—I didn’t mean to—” 

Shots ring out before grunts barrel out into the short hallway. All of them piling out from crevasses and hidden passages. 

You give one more look at the two men now crumpled on the ground, bile rising up and threatening to spill. 

“Tough shit, princess. You did, now live with it.” 

Live with it. How poetic. 

You were protecting him. You did what you had to do. But you have blood on your hands again and now Yoongi will see you as something else besides a fucking street vendor. 

“Are you coming or not?”

You’re gonna puke your guts out.

With a stilted cry, you bend to snatch your weapons up yet again—gagging at the squelches and much deeper red—before following Yoongi’s long steps. 

Your hands. They’re shaking so bad you can’t even pocket the chopsticks properly. But you finally get them down, crushing your palms and squeezing just to stop them from rattling. 

When you wait behind Yoongi checking the corner, you turn around to make sure you aren’t being followed. And seeing the hallway still a moving mass of broken glass and hard swings, you think you’re safe. 

The stairs feel so different on the way down. Is that because you feel completely changed? There’s no coming back from this. Another side of you died right alongside those two people upstairs. 

No time to think about that. You have to follow his lead. And he’s slowing down why is he slowing down? 

Oh. Normal. Be normal to not garner suspicion. You have to do the same. 

Wait. You can’t go down there with a shirt full of stained evidence! Grabbing him and pulling back, you whisper, “Yoongi—”

His growl is so fierce your head spins, “What the fuck did I say about my n—”

“My clothes,” you panic. “I can’t.” 

Yoongi gives you a quick look before gripping the duffle strap. Brows lowered, he grits out while dumping it, “Lose the shirt.” 

“What?” 

“Do it.” 

“Where’d he go?”

“It’s gone!”

Your heads snap up before you lock eyes. And he doesn’t need to say anything to show you what he’s thinking behind those minted bangs.

As you hastily strip, your brain works in weird ways. Instead of processing how you very much need to hurry the fuck up, you lament the bra of choice today. And how sweaty you look. Because of course those are your thoughts of choice right now. 

Something’s dumped on you before your shirt hits the ground, and you think about its warmth before you realize exactly what’s on your shoulders. “You sure?” 

He’s already heading down. Oh god. You’re really putting this on shit shit shit. 

You’re quick to slip into the material before checking for your chopsticks, rushing down the rest of the stairs to meet him. Nerves firing on all cylinders, you follow Yoongi out of the restaurant with a single, disturbing thought. 

This is going too well. 

But you’re passing tables, you’re walking by the fish display, don’t fucking sob you’re out in the street now. 

Relax. You’re walking. His white tee is flawless and people have no clue you left a bloody shirt on a stairwell. Don’t fucking cry.

But suddenly.

Shouting erupts behind you both, just as a cop car rolls past the restaurant only to get surrounded. 

And with one look back, your brain freezes. Right before Yoongi sounds a little too delighted to say something so foreboding,

“Looks like you’re in it now.”

Adrenaline spikes as you burst into motion. Hot summer air stings your lungs as legs propel you forward, with nothing in sight except for your partner in high crime. 

Yoongi’s right. 

You’re in it now. 

And just like the delinquents that you despise, the two of you both kick up dust on the run. 

You’re really doing this. 

Holy shit, you’re really doing this and there’s no waking up, no jolting awake, no pinching yourself to know that it’s all a dream. The only thing pinching is your sides, fresh stings of karma with each heavy footstep through crowded streets, buildings, levels, wherever the fuck you go. 

At least Yoongi is commanding as he leads you through the city—clearly from a heap of experience. Though rattled, you follow him with more adrenaline than questions. Because running is all you know. Run, run, run, escaping is your only objective and you cannot let up even once.

Your feet pelt down a staircase before you leap onto a disposal bin, impact denting as you follow Yoongi’s long strides across the colorful tops. Shouts and metal pings echo behind you as your chasers catch up, and you grit your teeth so hard they rattle as you jump to alley ground. “Fuck!”

Searing, searing pain rushes through your legs as you twist and wind through busy corridors, squeezing into the gaps Yoongi finds as he barrels in front. 

“Get back here!” 

“You fuckers!”

Who’s following you? Are they even Crane? You don’t see a shred of white on their clothes at all so are they working for some random guy Yoongi stole from?

When you watch him turn at the shouting, all thoughts vanish as your gut churns. 

He’s grinning.

You just killed someone for him. And he probably has more blood on his hands than you can imagine. 

And he’s… enjoying this? 

You feel sick, mind blazing with a million red warning signs. How could you ever have had feelings for h—

You bounce off a passerby as you run, grunting at the sudden pain in your shoulder when another person rams into your back and topples you over, dirt scraping into your palms and knees. 

Shit shit shit it’s so dusty on the ground and all you see are traveling shoes where are you? Where is he did he leave did he even see you fall? It’s too condensed here there’s no way he’s not taking the next chance to disappear.

Forget all of that, they’re coming. The chasers are coming and you see them see you down get up get up get up what the fuck get up now.

Ripping out a groan, you rush to your feet as soon as someone swoops in, bashing someone right behind you with someone’s crate of fruit. 

Yoongi? He waited for you?

“Go!” 

Both of you hightail it with you now in the lead, and your eyes buzz as you slip through holes in the crowd. Left, left, right, around, left again, between. 

An intersection ahead. Yes. Lose everyone in the vehicle traffic or hitch a ride with a stranger. Fascinating how the survival tactics that spawn from your block develop in real time on the run.

Almost there, almost there, almost there—fuck! 

Whiffing in front of your nose, a metal weapon smacks the ground at your toes. 

Flailing, you dodge the next swing, ducking before you see a black duffle smack your assailant in the face. 

Keep going. Finish him and get away. As Yoongi shifts left, you lunge forward, sending a swift punch to the guy’s ribs that hurt like hell goddamn oh fuck someone brought a knife!

“Yoongi!” Just as the surrounding civilians yell and clear out, you rush toward his aid before you’re tackled, air whooshing out of your lungs as your back pummels into gravel. Fuck fuck fuck this masked woman also has a dagger. A thick one. Don’t let her win don’t let her win hold on for dear fucking life. 

Did you think you’d find yourself in a grudge match to keep metal from sinking into your chest today? No. Ever? Also no. 

Your arms are shaking. Shots ring out. Sweat is your enemy. The street is in uproar. Where’s Yoongi did he hear you? Fuck, the metal tip is pricking you now this is— 

Mercifully, your attacker yelps as something slams into her side, dark brown clothes crumpling before you’re hoisted upward and dragged back into the crowd. 

“Let me go or I’ll kick your ass—”

“You good?” 

Oh, it’s Yoongi. Again. Okay. Eyes swirling, you lock onto the gun held flush in his other hand before you nod. “I—I think so—”

“Then keep up.” 

Winding between people, you’re only focused on getting away. But when you catch glimpses of him, he’s back to his glint. He’s exhilarated.

If only you were both doing anything else. If only you weren’t so queasy and guilty and loathing of your own self.

Right as you finally burst into bustling traffic, Yoongi boldly stops a taxi at its hood, motioning you to follow him inside. 

Shocked but head reeling, you open the door closest to your sweaty legs and slide in. 

And before you can even greet the shouting driver, Yoongi pulls you to his side and rushes something out in your ear, 

“Kiss me.” 

“I said get out!” 

“What?” 

“Come here.” 

You’ve kissed before. Not many times, but enough to know that this man knows what the fuck he’s doing because you feel like your soul just abandoned you to exist in this car forever. You don’t know why this is happening or where this came from, but his lips feel as soft as his name and as deadly as the gun he’s pulling on your driver—

“Han Station,” he drawls, halting time and space. “Or your papers are burned by morning.” 

Oh. 

You were just… Oh. 

Lips puffed and head swirling, you sit frozen in your spot, marinating in the realization that the best kiss of your life was a mere distraction. And as you watch Yoongi keep his aim straight, you assume he probably didn’t even think much of it, either. 

“…I thought you looked familiar,” the driver slowly grits, hands gripping his wheel before he shakes his head. “You’re a little far from home.”

You think that’s all he’s gonna say. But his eyes are sharp in the rear view mirror, knowing a gun is pointed straight at his dome. “Aren’t you.”

What is he getting at you need to leave fast—

“Agust.” 

…Huh? 

Agust? 

This is the first time you feel a heartbeat against your arm, and you hold a breath as Yoongi tightens his fingers on the gun. 

When he doesn’t reply, the car fills to the brim with tension, and you feel crushed by its liquid weight. 

Don’t you have to go? Aren’t you in a chase? Are you getting a little too hot?

When you go to slide to your own side of the car for some space, the hand around your shoulder squeezes. 

And you’re more confused, exhausted, and thrown off than ever. 

“Han Station,” is all Yoongi—Agust?—repeats, voice ice. “Now.”

To which the taxi driver stares, standing his ground until he breaks eye contact first to obey. 

“Fuckin’ Dragons and their useless whores.”

Oh, fuck that. 

Before you can lunge forward to outright strangle the man, Yoongi does something that has your eyes magnifying into saucers and hands shooting up to your mouth.

He fires the gun straight at the man’s thigh, yelps leaving both the driver's throat and yours holy fuck! 

“You bastard—”

“You’ll live. Drive.”

“Fucking—fuck!”

The car shifts through traffic, swerving left and right and cutting off slower vehicles. When force smushes you closer into Yoongi’s side, you can’t help but notice how fit he is, and how calm he’s being despite the whole chase. Despite that spike in adrenaline. Despite blowing a hole in a stranger’s leg for six words.

He also feels really, really good against your side, but you can’t let that matter anytime soon. There’s absolutely no way you can let this dangerous man in, especially after this entire nightmare of a day. 

So you swallow, trying to compartmentalize because you’ll reach insanity if you don’t.

Does anyone out there know you took a life minutes ago? Or hours ago? You just kissed a criminal five and a half minutes ago. Would they care about that, too?

The window is suddenly much more interesting than any of your wandering, slingshot thoughts. 

Wait. It’s very pretty in this area, and you finally can tell some semblance of where you are. Because you only know of one part of the city that looks like this, and it’s deep in Crane territory. 

Did you both really make it this far? 

Carefully tended to, it’s a lot greener on the sidewalks, and more open on the roads. And it’s on one of these roads that you finally notice the sunset, gold accents shining on sleek street signs and the tops of buildings that seem much more at rest than you do. 

Rest. Sleep. Home. 

With the luck you’re having, it would be a miracle and a half to reach even one of the three. 

Did you get followed? You don’t know how much longer you can run, so you really fucking hope not. 

“Almost there,” Yoongi whispers, voice scratching your ear in the worst and best ways. “When we get out, move your ass.” 

When you watch the wary, heavy breathing driver in his rear view mirror, you bite out, “I know how to get out of a car, thanks.” 

“Just listen to me.”

“Why?”

“Do you trust me?” 

“No.” 

That came out quicker than you could stop it. But Yoongi only lets silence come between you before he squeezes your shoulder. When he speaks, you can hear how carved out his smirk is without even seeing it, 

“Good girl.”

And you spoke the truth. It wouldn’t have come out so fast if it weren’t. But you know to at least follow his advice here because he’s kept you alive thus far. He didn’t need to drag you out and protect you the whole way, so it’s not like he would steer you wrong here. Right? 

Right? 

“Here,” Yoongi orders before the car slows to a stop. 

That wasn’t so bad. You can get out normally now so why did Yoongi say—

Right as your foot hits ground, the taxi peels out, forcing you to throw yourself out of the side before the rest of your body leaves with it. 

Fucking hell that hurt what the fuck was that for? 

Dirt and dust coats your tongue before you do anything to spit it out. Saliva rushes from your glands as you cough and hack, all while feeling every muscle group in your body begging to not stand up. 

But you feel rough, commanding hands on your arms. “You good?”

“Yeah—”

“Then get up. Get up.”

Straining and wincing like hell, you follow Yoongi’s lead yet again. Because you hear cars rolling up with bad intentions and that means you have to sprint again. 

What the fuck did Yoongi steal? And how the hell are these guys still on your tail? Their resources have got to be as good as Crane’s and yet, they don’t feel the same at all. 

You’re hobbling, but you’re going. You’re rushing. You’re going to get through this alive. 

Instead of heading into the underground, you find yourself ascending a flight of steps. Rumbles and rattles hit your ears as you realize exactly what kind of station this is—one you haven’t seen anywhere in your district. 

Han Station is a floating railway? 

Holy shit, where are you?

Yoongi skids around a corner before you plant hard to stop yourself, only to see him clash with someone before something connects right with your stomach, and you crumple before you feel a solid hit to your head. 

Oh.

The world spins and moves as you hear vibrations, slowed sounds that could be shouts. Gunshots? Or maybe songs? You don’t truly know but your head is aching—

Your arm rushes up to block something before your body follows, and you scream before gripping whatever you can and flipping a whole body forward. 

Reality crashes back into your ears as you snap out of your head. 

You haven’t had to do that maneuver in forever. Was muscle memory more than enough?

“Come on!”

Go. Go, follow him, both of you need to get to the rail shit it’s leaving!

The blaring reverberates through the air, pinging off metal and wheels screeching on the track lines as you bolt for the open doors.

Mid-stride, Yoongi swings to look at the people barreling up the stairs. “One more time: do you trust me?”

“No!”

“Good”—his hands grip your waist—“Jump!”

Head empty, you leap onto the railcar right as it starts to pick up speed, and you watch in horror as Yoongi empties his clip behind him until he can’t anymore. 

“Yoo—” Fuck, what was his name? He seems to not prefer the one you call him and that has to be for good reason. What was it?

You’re leaving. He’s gritting his teeth while hitting the bottom of his gun but he needs to get up! What was his fucking name! 

“Agust!” 

Yoongi finally whips his head around, dashing to the end of the train and straining to carry the duffle. 

He needs to launch it or leave it behind. There’s no way he’s not being weighed down so hard. “Here!” you yell, knowing that look is only reserved for people he doesn’t want to trust. It’s normal. But it still stings. “Hurry up!”

After one more second, he swings it around and flings, leaping onto the side handrail after you get blasted by the bag holy fuck that hurt. 

He was running with this the whole time? No wonder his shoulders are so cut this is heavy.

Straining, you peek out into the wind, seeing Yoongi holding on and scooting along thin steprails towards your awaiting hands.

Shit, this is dangerous. Buildings and the city below fly by, and a parallel train whooshes and roars past as you finally tug him inside with shaky wheezes.

Just like that.

You made it out.

What the fuck. You did it. No one else was able to get onto the train. You’re safe for now. 

Finally, finally, finally able to breathe. 

But goddamn, you both stand out like blood on a blank page.

As you struggle to fully stand, you notice everyone else on the train—well-kept, carrying themselves in sleek linens and lush outfits, hair done beautifully and to perfection. 

Which makes it unsurprising that plenty of them regard the pair of you with suspicion and morbid curiosity. While intrigue covers the one with an unfairly handsome face, zings of jealousy and judgment fire your way. 

You feel so out of place. You are so out of place. But that doesn’t give anyone the right to look at you like filth. The words from the taxi driver pierce your brain again, and you feel rage and pain bubble up to your tongue,

“Anyone got something they wanna sa—”

But Yoongi does something that has your brain chemistry altering because he casually bends a knee in front of you while holding the top rail, forcing you back into the side of the train car and only seeing his jewelry. 

When your eyes snap to his, he regards you before peering outside. “Stop,” he mutters. “You're causing a scene.”

“Me?” Oh, he has some nerve. “What did I do, you’re the one—”

“Quiet.”

Ridiculous. Huffing, you let disagreement tug your lips while joining him in watching the world go by. 

Realizing with a pang that you are probably never getting back home. You’re never gonna see your favorite neighbor with his woks and caterpillar eyebrows. All the produce you were planning to sell will only succumb to mold and time. 

Your tangerines… 

When a tear falls, it glints in your reflection before quickly being swiped away. 

No. Don’t do any of that here where people can see—where he can see. No one will know what the hell you just went through today. Be normal, strong, normal. 

The ride lasts a little longer, with people coming and going during each stop. When there are seats open, neither you nor Yoongi move to take them. The two of you stay glued where you stand.

Silent, together, and covered in hidden blood.

The next stop seems to be in a quieter sector of the city. All around you are buildings you’ve never seen before stretching miles into the sky, and the streets are so neatly paved you’re convinced they’re fake. 

“This is us,” Yoongi whispers, hand guiding your hip to move toward the doors.

Skin scorching under his touch, you can only nod.

Where are you now? Where are you getting off? 

You both exit the train with a few others, and you watch with heightened curiosity as they carry satchels and wear shoes that look horribly uncomfortable. As you move down the steps, you keep craning your neck to take everything in, and more questions fill your head than answers. 

But the truth remains even as you and Yoongi stop in front of your destination.

You cannot run anymore. Even if more of whoever those guys were showed up, you may just choose to sit down instead of take another stride. Besides, your body is still running a thousand steps even though you haven’t moved since getting on the train anyway. After today, the chase may never stop.

“We’ll stay here.” 

We? Stay? 

“Here? This place is…” You keep peering up and up, the top of the building so high your neck hurts. It’s so foreign and magical your only adjective is a quiet, “Nice.” 

At your side, Yoongi seems annoyed when he asks, “Expect something different?” 

“Yeah, like… I dunno, a secret lair or something.” 

Air whooshes from his nostrils, but there’s a stark absence of a smile. Looking up at the building, too, he explains something that you’ve never heard of before,

“We’re in a grey zone. No one will follow us here.” 

Right. Because that somehow makes sense to regular civilians like you. Because you are one, are one, are one. “Allegedly,” you scoff, not knowing what to believe anymore.  

Yoongi pauses before heading up, and his agreement makes you look. “Allegedly.” 

Mm. 

After taking the tiny steps to the entrance, you wonder what he must be thinking bringing your haphazard look in tow. 

Because he could’ve left you behind at any point in time. But he didn’t. What does that mean? Why is he keeping you alive and at his side?

While you’re taking in the opulent and vast lobby, Yoongi guides you toward the front desk, shifting the duffle on his shoulder. 

This place is gorgeous. Nothing like you’ve ever seen. How were they able to install a waterfall in a building? What kind of money does this so-called grey zone have? 

Yoongi nods toward the concierge, who quickly nods back and scurries away and into a room.

If you weren’t so tired, you could probably make something of that exchange. But you are very much exhausted so frankly, you don’t give a shit right now. 

Although. You do give a shit about the fingers suddenly interlacing with your own. As your hand is held, you shoot your best client a look so potent he stares back. “What now,” you snip, question low and dripping with distrust. 

Unfazed, Yoongi slowly pulls you into his side, a steady hand coming up to wrap around your tired hips. So nonchalant, so lax, so confusing as he murmurs,

“Just wanted to.”

Your heart trips into the next beat.

On sore legs, you wait until the concierge comes back with a key, eyes swiping over you as if they finally noticed your existence. Which seems to perplex them as they hand over the metal device.

And Yoongi just takes it, not a word said before he directs you across the lobby to what look like elevators.

Even these look fancy as fuck. Wherever you are and whatever this place is, you feel even more out of place than on that judgy train. 

A hotel worker bows before he motions to the opening doors. “Nice to see you again,” he murmurs to the ground, seemingly expecting the same non-response given to the front desk. “Would you like the usual, Mister—” 

“No,” Yoongi clips him off. “Not this time.” 

“Understood.” 

Brows pinched, you’re starting to get a weird feeling. 

How does everyone know Yoongi so well here? He said this was a grey zone, which you’d think would be akin to a neutral or non-threatening one. So why does it feel like he’s got this area on lock? Who exactly are you getting into an elevator with? 

…Who exactly did you save? 

Yoongi was right when he said you’re in it now. But faced with more questions surrounding him than anything or anyone else, you’re starting to wonder what pit of hell you dropped yourself into. 

Especially after catching the look of utter panic from the serviceman. 

Right before sliding doors shut the world out. 

—

—

⟶ what do we feel! | 🥢 join the taglist 🥢 | masterlist

a/n: thank you all for being so patient as i work through this! it was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but i like, need characters to get to know and learn about one another before heading into spice lmao. I NEED PLOT OK. THERE WILL BE LOTS OF SMUT I PROMISE DSHFKDSF we just gotta get through the slow burn first >:)) a/n 2: if there's something you liked about this or a line/scene/whatever thing you enjoyed, feel free to let me know! feedback is never expected, but always appreciated. if the interest level is high, that adds motivation like no other. thank you all for reading! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ minted masterlist

[vrystalius]

💕 Love Languages of the Upper Moons + Muzan

How the Upper Moons and Muzan express their love language for you!

Here is my masterlist for the hashira.

Here is my masterlist for the demons.

Note: I added Daki as a platonic bonus. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Brief mention of being parents in Douma’s part. It’s right at the end and just one sentence <3

Pairing: Muzan, Kokushibo, Douma, Akaza, Gyutaro, Daki x gn!reader

❤️ Muzan Kibutsuji ❤️

Quality Time (intensity: 9/10)

Muzan would call himself a busy man, but he likes having you around while doing his experiments. Just having your presence near him just makes him calm and able to concentrate on his experiments. But besides that, Muzan likes to spend time with you. Over his thousands of years of living, he’s spend a lot of time doing many things, and yet spending his valuable time with you made him the happiest and content he’s ever been. Even if he won’t admit.

Also, Muzan enjoys holding you in bed. He himself doesn’t need sleep, not that he can sleep, but he will hold you and caress you until you fall asleep. He will remain the whole night, just silently laying there watch your chest go up and down, brushing your hair out of your face.

Giving/receiving gifts (intensity: 8/10)

Gifts don’t mean anything to Muzan, but you giving him little trinkets you found on the market, or a new article of clothing you thought would suit him makes him feel happy. Those things have a meaning to him, unlike the other meaningless garbage. Muzan will make sure to wear the clothes or keep the trinkets close to show how much he appreciates him.

But what Muzan loves even more is to shower you in gifts. Thanks to Gyokko and the pot selling business, Muzan is very wealthy. That means he can buy you all the food you like, all the clothes you want, and all the little trinkets your heart desires. That man will spoil you, and he will do it until the end of time.

“Would you like to go to a new restaurant that just opened in the southern district, my light? I heard your favourite dish is server there.”

💜Kokushibo💜

Words of affirmation (intensity: 9/10)

Kokushibo doesn’t talk a lot, but he likes listening to you. You talking about your day makes him content, almost a little envying your simple life. No matter how simple or boring something may seem to you, he’d want to hear it. Not being able to go outside with you during the day kind of kills him.

Also, you complimenting him boasts his confidence and pride, especially when you compliment his skill. He has trained for centuries and always envied his brother for being more talented and stronger, so you admiring something he worked so hard for makes him beam of pride.

Kokushibo also likes praising you for your skill in whatever you’re doing right now. Sketching, writing, training or whatever. Kokushibo likes to admire you and express his affections with compliments.

Receiving/Giving gifts (intensity: 6/10)

Kokushibo used to work with wood, carving small things like animals out of wood. He lost interest in that little hobby shortly after becoming a demon, but picked it back up after starting a relationship with you. You once found a very, very old wooden figure he carved and told him you liked it, so he started carving those things again. It relaxes him, but also he likes seeing you happy and appreciate his art.

He showed you everything he carved, almost childishly begging for you to praise his artwork

“My moon, would you like to see the new project I’m working on? … Yes, it’s a little statue of you…. Do you like it?”

🩵 Douma 🩵

Physical affection (intensity: 10/10)

Douma wants to be near you, preferably on you, on all times. His hand has to be somewhere on your body, may it be on your shoulder, around your waist, on your thigh or just holding your hand. You’re near him during sermons, near him during his free time, and in his arms when you sleep. He doesn’t need sleep, just like the other demons, but he likes cuddling you while you do so. It kind of gives him a power trip, you being all trusting and vulnerable while he, a man-eating demon, cuddles and watches over you.

Just to test your limits, he likes teasing you as well. Pinching and squeezing your skin on all kinds of areas, watching your reactions and laughing at them. You’re so adorable, do you know that? He could eat you right up!

Acts of service (intensity: 8/10)

People serve Douma every day and night, giving gifts from all kinds of people, poor or rich. It’s boring and meaningless to him, because he probably got every gift in the world at least twice or trice (expect the blue spider lily of course). What Douma does like to do, is to “serve” you., instead of being served for once. Massages, kisses, cooking (he’s trying) or just doing little chores for you. The only thing he wants in return is the appropriate amount of kisses, cuddles and praises!

Quality time (intensity: 6/10)

Douma adores spending time with you doing whatever! Sometimes it’s just you sitting with him during the sermons, or sitting together in the bathhouse, or you watching him make his little Douma ice sculptures. He likes making little you’s out of ice and play house with you. His little Douma’s are the papa, and the little you’s the mama. It sounds silly, but it’s adorable and he loves it

“My dear lotus! Where are you going, hmm? I’m not finished kissing and coddling you yet! And don’t give me any excuses this time!”

💛Akaza💛

Receiving/Gifting gifts (intensity: 6/10)

Akaza would occasionally steal things for you from people’s homes, dressing you in nice clothes and beautiful hairpins. He picks up everything he believes would suit you. He also likes stealing sweets and food for you, making sure to grab all your favourite foods. He can’t eat them himself, but he likes sitting beside you while you eat, and it makes him very proud when you wear the things he stole for you.

Akaza also melts when you gift him things, whatever it is. He likes handmade things the most. Whimsy flower-crowns or handmade bracelets make him all giddy and warm inside, and he will wear them with pride (enduring all the side eyes and teasing he will receive from the other Upper Moons).

Quality Time (intensity: 8/10)

Akaza likes being around you. That’s when he feels the safest and most welcome. Something he enjoys doing the most is watching fireworks with you, when another festival comes around. The moment between you two as he holds you close, sitting together on a rooftop just makes him feel… human. It remind him of something he once had once but then lost, and you keep reminding him of it. Akaza can’t quite put the finger on it what exactly it is you remind him off, but he doesn’t really mind. He just wants to savour the moment with you and hold you a little longer, just until the fireworks are finished and the sun starts coming up.

“My, my Akaza-dono!~ What’s this? A bracelet? It looks so colourful!”

“Take your damn eyes of it and then kill yourself.”

💚 Gyutaro Shabana 💚

Words of affirmations (intensity: 10/10)

At the start of your relationship, Gyutaro hated it when you called him handsome or pretty, or compliment anything on his appearance. It makes him feel itchy and dirty, as if you’re just lying straight to his face.

But after a while, he warmed up to them more and more. Now, Gyutaro out right craves your words and compliments. It boosts his pride and confidence, and it makes him feel wanted and cherished for. Just one nice word makes his complete day, maybe even week. It’s like he’s addicted to your praise.

He’ll try to return the favour, but he just can’t out into words how MUCH he really loves you. Gyutaro can’t decide what he should praise you on. There are just so many things about you that are beautiful to him, he just can’t decide and starts stuttering, sometimes accidentally throwing an insult your way.

Physical touch (intensity: 8/10)

Just like praises, physical touch was something Gyutaro resented at the beginning of the relationship. Why do you want to touch him anyway? He’ll just end up ruining your clothes, or worse, make you hate him even more than you probably do!

After a while, a very long time, he starts getting used to it. Now, he’s very addicted to that as well. Gyutaro is very similar to a feral cat that needs to learn how to love and get loved, and when you show him enough patience, he’ll be a cuddle bug. He wants to hold you, cuddle you and be wrapped in your arms as well.

“A-Are you done talking w-with your pretty lips? I-I wanna be h-held now. I-I’m clean, I swe-swear!”

Bonus:

(Platonic)

🩷Daki Shabana🩷

Receiving/Giving gifts (intensity: 9/0)

Daki is used to being spoiled, and she likes giving you gifts as much as you give her some. In her eyes, it’s some sort of competition. You gift her a golden hairpin, she’ll give you a diamond-golden-hand made hairpin. You give her a new kimono, she’ll give you the most high quality silken kimono on the market.

Daki will appreciate your gifts though. She’ll boast it to her brother about it, priding herself in the fact that you gifted her something. You thought about her while you choose the gift! It just makes her very happy.

Quality Time (intensity 10/10)

Daki likes spending time with you. Gyutaro barely comes out of her anymore, so she really appreciates you hanging out with her. You two gossip about the other oirans from the other brothels while Daki paints your nails, or she does your hair while she rants about Muzan and the other Upper Moons. Sometimes Gyutaro joins in, and you two do his make up. He doesn’t like it, put he puts up with it. Since Daki likes you so much, he will tolerate you.

“Those nails look so pretty on you! Not as pretty as on me, but you get it. Oh, oh! How about we do onii-chan’s next?”

💠

I added Daki as a platonic bonus. Hope you guys enjoyed!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!

Take care of yourselves <3

[obaewankenobis]

close to you; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair x reader (afab, rare/no use of y/n, female pronouns are used)

word count: 14.5k (sorry)

warnings: the usual hunger games warnings (violence, child murder, prostitution, etc). also smut (fingering, p in v, oral (m receiving)) mdni -- pretty pls!

summary: you're both victors — him from four, you from eight — assigned to mentor tributes from district nine who lack a mentor. you hate him because he played the role so well, accepting the gifts and glory of the capitol with a wide smile and charming words. unbeknown to you, the feeling is not mutual.

a/n: crashing out because of sunrise on the reaping so i wrote this.

DAY TWO �� THE OPENING CEREMONY

It had been too soon since you'd last seen him, six months ago at your victory celebration in the Capitol. The circumstances were vastly different now, but the routine remained the same.

Physically, you were feeling your very best: strong and healthy, plucked and scrubbed and painted to perfection. But your prettiness, and all the work your prep team had done to your face and body paled in comparison to the unattainable beauty of him.

He, of course, was Finnick Odair, the person next to you subtly coughing and dragging you from your own mind and into the real world. You chose to ignore the cough, knowing who it was from and that he was doing it on purpose.

“I know you can hear me,” the voice said in an almost sing-song voice. No response, you wouldn't give him that. “You’re standing right next to me.” Again, silence. “I know you’re just ignoring me now, I’m not stupid.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” it slips out before you realize you’re supposed to be ignoring him, which only infuriates you further. Defeated, you turn to face the person with a voice so irritating you were about to commit a crime.

“Ha! Knew that would work,” Finnick smiled, showing off perfect rows of pearly white teeth. He was so perfect it was infuriating. You noticed, with an ounce of satisfaction, that his canines were razor sharp, sharper than most, and his front teeth stuck out from his lips ever so slightly when he smiled. It felt nice to know even the great Finnick Odair had flaws. Even if they only added to his charm, it made him imperfect, human.

“Whatever, Odair,” you rolled your eyes, trying to brush off the fact that he knew just how to get under your skin. It worked every time.

“Whatever, Odair,” he mimicked, raising his voice several octaves in a poor attempt to imitate you.

You were going to kill him, you were sure of it. Grab that stupid statue next to you of a soldier with a sword, and fashion it into a weapon of your own.

“Easy there, sweetheart. I can see you plotting already… so just remember, we’re supposed to be working together on this,” Finnick let out a chuckle as your eyes flashed in frustration, not because of what he said, but because he was right. You two were stuck with each other, whether you liked it or not.

“You two!” A high pitched, accented voice snapped, which you instantly recognized as Phaedra Day, the District 9 escort. “Please, come meet the tributes before the parade!”

Immediately you dislike her. Aside from her obvious disregard for her tributes’ wellbeing — that’s obvious from the way she shoves the two children forward — she’s the pinnacle of Capitol excess, and it shows everywhere. All the cosmetic surgery she’s had over the years gives her face an overly full effect, like a stuffed turkey.

She’s got this awful orange hair, not like the lovely ginger color you’ve seen, no, this is as bright as the flames of a house fire.

Her makeup, you think, is the worst of all. It’s hard to pull off orange eyeshadow, orange blush, and orange lipstick, and Phaedra is definitely not the exception. You suppose it’s meant to compliment her hair, but it just looks clownish.

Finnick greets her with a kiss on each cheek, and comes away with two orange splotches on both his own. You decide then you’ll hang back and let them do the talking.

“Well,” Phaedra nudged the two tributes forward. “They're your mentors, they're not going to bite. Introduce yourselves!”

“Hi.” The girl couldn't be older than twelve, with sandy brown hair, bright green eyes, and a smattering of freckles that made her look even younger.

“Eulalia!” Phaedra clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You can’t have expected them to remember you from the reaping, and that is not a proper introduction! What did we practice?”

The girl — Eulalia — straightens her back immediately, the curious, childhood look in her eye fading into something somber. “I’m Eulalia Overfell, I’m twelve years old, and I’m from District 9.”

“Nice to meet you,” you force a bright smile on your face, hoping this girl can't see the sadness in your eyes. You're rooting for her already, she’s your tribute, but you know realistically her chances are so very slim. You introduce yourself and look expectantly at Finnick, who seems like he's busy cozying up to Phaedra instead of paying attention to who actually matters: your tributes.

“Finnick Odair,” he rolls his eyes in a dismissive gesture, as if waving away the pointed glare you'd been shooting in his direction. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

You give him another look that you hope can only be described as shooting daggers.

Then he surprises you — sticks out his hand and greets Eulalia like a proper adult, giving her his undivided attention. “It’s nice to meet you, Eulalia.”

It’s so unlike the eye roll and bored tone he used with you; he’s done a complete switch in a matter of seconds.

“Miller,” Phaedra gives him a pointed nudge, reminding you there’s another tribute. “Go on.”

The boy wears a brooding expression, brown eyes dark with distrust and hate, refusing to open his mouth.

Phaedra sighs, like she’s been dealing with this all day and expecting no less. “This is Miller Keene, he's fourteen. He has yet to learn his manners, so don't mind him.”

She shoos him away like a fly buzzing around her head, and focuses all her attention on the two of you. Or maybe just Finnick, by the way she's batting her lashes and twirling a strand of her hair. “You know, I’m just so glad that I have you two for this year! Old Mazie was absolutely dreadful company! I mean, she could barely hold a conversation. Always muttering to herself in the corner…” Phaedra sniffed in displeasure, then turned back to Finnick. “I look forward to working with you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he flashes her a smile that's borderline seductive. You're about to object that this whole thing feels inappropriate when Phaedra is gone, rambling about finding the District 9 stylists and how they're never going to be on time at this rate.

You feel gross and uneasy in her presence for a number of reasons, however harmless she might appear. One, because of the way she was looking at Finnick, like she’d devour him in an instant. Two, because Finnick didn't even look bothered by the attention, no, he seemed to relish it. Three, because you knew of Mazie, of her story: she’d been driven mad during her games almost fifty years ago from a cumulation of starvation, dehydration, and witnessing multiple deaths right in front of her. Phaedra never had to worry about something every parent’s worst fear in the Districts. She had no idea how heartbreaking it must be, to lose your child once in the Reaping and then twice upon returning home.

Her comment also makes you wonder why Finnick was chosen for the task of mentoring tributes that were not his own. I mean, it made sense they’d give the tributes to you; you had no experience and the Capitol likely didn't care. But Finnick? The Finnick Odair, Capitol Darling? Wouldn't he be of better use mentoring his own tributes?

You zone out a bit, curious to be on this side of the parade — it was only last year you were preening in a chariot just like your tributes were now.

Unfortunately, your tributes didn't stand out in any particular way. You’d been chatting up a storm with as many people you could find, but none seemed interested in taking such a huge risk on two tributes who were not likely to make it past the bloodbath. Finnick had spent all his time with Mags, the aging District 4 mentor, and the Capitol citizens with her, instead of being by your side.

Right now you’re watching him as he talks with what you think is one of his many admirers, though you doubt he’s doing it in favor of Miller or Eulalia. No, her hand is squeezing his bicep and she’s laughing a little too hard for the conversation to be about sponsorship.

You feel a tug on your arm and tear your gaze away from Finnick and down, to find Eulalia slipping her hand into yours. You murmur a quick hello, unsure as to why she’s requesting your attention, when she whispers, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“What— oh, definitely not—” You splutter, your cheeks burning. “No, what would make you think that!”

She shrugs, “I dunno. You just keep staring at him. When my sister had a boyfriend, all she did was stare at him.”

“I—” How could you explain to a child that you were essentially slut shaming him in your head for not doing his actual job?

“Everyone stares at me, Eulalia. She just recognizes perfection when she sees it.” Finnick’s somehow snuck up behind the two of you and overheard everything, which is mortifying. He’s grinning at you, placing his hands on Eulalia’s shoulders while she giggles.

“Finnick’s a little self obsessed, don't mind him,” you say as you tug Eulalia back to your side, intent on leading her and Miller back to the tribute penthouse before he can bother you two any more.

When the two tributes are fast asleep, you whirl around to face Finnick, who has the sense to look a little bit worried at the anger etched into your features, though he still retains the easygoing air about him. His body leaned against the doorframe of his room — coincidentally across from yours — with his arms crossed in front of him. His eyes surveyed you with an air of caution, waiting for whatever storm that's been brewing in your brain.

“This is not something I’m doing alone! They were eating me alive out there, and you were gone!”

“Relax,” he sighs, dropping his arms so they now rest at his sides. “I’ve done this before, y’know. I know what I’m doing.”

“It didn't look like you were doing anything, honestly!”

Your heart is racing now, palms sweaty as the weight of responsibility comes crashing down on you all at once. His nonchalance bothers you even more. You wish he'd show a sliver of actual human emotion, not this cocky, flirty personality that leaves no room for anything else.

But it’s his, “grab a drink, honey, and calm down”, is what really sets you off.

“Look, if you want to do… whatever it is you do with all your Capitol friends—lovers—whatever, do it on your own time! Not when we’re supposed to be securing sponsors!” You whisper-shout, careful not to wake either Eulalia or Miller.

His mild expression melts into something unreadable. You think a hint of anger flashes across his face for a split second, but it’s gone before you can confirm if it’s real or just a figment of your imagination. You’re leaning towards the latter, because you’ve never seen Finnick angry before.

“You have no idea how lucky you are, do you?” He scoffs without bothering to give you a second glance as he retreats into his room.

“You better be here tomorrow at breakfast to help them before training!” You call after him, but he doesn't respond, just slams the door shut behind him.

It felt good to get a reaction from Finnick, but now, in the silence that followed, you couldn't help but feel a bit bad. Confused, but also guilty — your last comment had certainly struck a nerve. But what did he mean by lucky?

Lucky to be in charge of training two children who were bound for death? Lucky for your grandmother to die while you were in the arena, leaving nobody left in your life to care for you? Lucky for your friends to have all but abandoned you once you'd returned, off put by how much you'd changed?

If anything, he was the lucky one. He had Mags, who cared for and loved him like her own son. He was adored by everyone in the Capitol, and had a string of lovers that trailed behind him, ensuring he would never be lonely.

It was time to face it — maybe your anger towards him was misplaced and rooted in something else entirely. You were jealous of how he was surrounded by people admiring and loving him. It was something you yearned for so deep inside your chest it hurt.

DAY THREE — TRAINING

You were up before the first light, dedicated to making today better than the disaster known as yesterday. You were busying yourself before the rest of your ensemble awoke, pressing powders and creams into your skin, tickling your lips with a painted brush, and penciling in details that would make you seem up to date on Capitol trends without appearing too gaudy.

Soon you begin to hear the stirrings of everyone else in the apartment — Phaedra’s loud, obnoxious voice rang much louder than the quiet chatter of Miller and Eulalia as she directed them towards the dining room.

By the time you sat down for breakfast, almost everyone was there: both tributes, their prep teams and stylists, and Phaedra. The only one absent was Finnick, whose empty seat was directly across from you.

“I know you must be nervous,” you began, noticing how neither tribute had touched their food. “I want you guys to go to as many stations as you can, okay? Not just the weaponry — the survival stations really came in handy for me last year.”

Eulalia poked at her scrambled eggs with a fork, face pale and filled with concern, not disinterest. “Everyone’s a lot bigger than me.”

You weren't sure what to say to that, because it had never been an issue for you. You’d been eighteen upon your Reaping, and there were only two mouths to feed in your home: yours, and your grandmother’s. She’d owned a tailor shop, and while the two of you were never wealthy, you never battled real starvation. Compared to the tributes you had faced, you were fully grown and only slightly malnourished, like all district children were.

A scrape of the chair legs against the floor alerted you to the fact that Finnick had arrived and was taking his seat, saying, “Size can only go so far. You’re small, but you're quick. Use that to your advantage.”

Of course he would know something about that; he'd won his games at just 14, the youngest ever victor in the history of Panem.

“What about weapons?” You look towards Miller, surprised that he’s saying anything at all.

“Well… there will be stations that can teach you, find one that comes easier than the rest and—”

“You’d probably be pretty good with a scythe or pitchfork,” Finnick interrupts you like you weren’t even there. “I’m assuming, at least, since you're from District 9. Grain and all.”

Miller nods, sinking back in his chair as if to muse over what Finnick has said.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, shooting a pointed look at Finnick. “You shouldn't count on unusual weapons being in the arena, and tributes are rarely gifted their weapons of choice, even if they’re exceptionally talented.” That last part was a dig at Finnick, and you study him from the corner of your eye, hoping he’s just as annoyed as he makes you. You know it's petty and childish, but you're still upset about last night.

Of course, he doesn't give you the satisfaction. “The gamemakers want a good show more than anything. If you see something in the training center that you think you’d be good at, practice and use it later for your private session with them.”

“Don’t show off your skills in front of everyone,” you interjected. “You don't need to become a target.”

He finally turned to you, his voice laced with displeasure. “Well, they're already targets, sweetheart. They're going to be in an arena full of kids trying to kill them.” He turned back to Miller and Eulalia, who were both staring with wide eyes that shifted back and forth between the two of you. “Listen, the more practice the better. Focus on the weapons, it’ll give you the best chance.”

“Well, I was just telling them to go to all the stations, actually. Most tributes die from natural causes.” You’re trying not to grit your teeth for the children’s sake, but he’s making it exceptionally difficult by going against everything you’re saying.

“Okay, that’s fine and all, but I don’t think—”

“Well, I think they should be heading down now to the training center! Don't want to miss a moment of such valuable time!” Phaedra interrupts Finnick before it can turn into a full scale argument between the two of you, shooing Miller and Eulalia out the door before either of you can protest.

“What's your problem?” You ask Finnick once the room is empty.

“My problem?” His voice is brimming with disbelief. “You’re the one who's had a problem with me since the beginning!”

“I’m so sorry,” you almost let out a laugh at how ridiculous he was being. How could he not realize it? That he was a traitor to the Districts, and you weren't obligated to like him. “Is this the first time someone's ever disliked you? I mean, I know you're probably used to being pampered by all your Capitol buddies…”

“There you go again,” the muscles in his jaw suddenly have his mouth sealed shut with tension. “You make all these assumptions about me, and you haven't even bothered to ask if any of them are true. Do you know what I—” He cut himself off, glancing around the room like he's looking for someone. Or like he's being watched. “Nevermind.”

His fork clatters against his plate as he pushes his chair back abruptly, before heading off to his room.

Well, he was right about that. You did have your assumptions, but they were all based on everything you'd seen the past couple of years on live television.

Dinner is perhaps more awkward than breakfast, mainly because Finnick and Phaedra don't bother showing up, so it's just you, your tributes, and their stylists.

Making conversation is painstakingly difficult, mainly because neither of them seem to have much to offer to the questions you ask them past a nod or a short “yes” or “no”. Not that you blame them — no, that would be entirely unfair.

You’d spent the day alone in the Capitol, chatting up various people who'd sponsored you or were known to be particularly generous in past games. But it seemed like no one was willing to take a risk on a small twelve year old who looked no older than ten, and a brooding boy who wouldn't offer so much as a grunt to anyone.

“You'll have tomorrow and the following day in the training center,” you started. “But the last day is when they start to do the private sessions, so tomorrow’s your best bet to lock down any skills you've been working on.”

Eulalia nods. “The trainer at that foraging station said I was really nifty with plants,” she offers, but in a way that you suspect is meant to try to cheer you up more than anything.

“That's great, Eulalia!” You beam at her, because you remember the worst part of the Games — keeling over as sharp stabs of hunger plagued your body, while your throat turned as dry as sandpaper.

She asks to be excused the same time Miller stomps off to his room, leaving you alone in the living area of the penthouse.

I need a drink, you sighed softly to yourself, finding a near empty bottle of wine from dinner and pouring some into the same glass you’d used.

You turn the television on, flicking through the channels of awful reality shows, Panem news updates, and of course, recaps of previous Hunger Games in preparation for the 70th.

You’ve seen this one before— it's the one where the arena was a snowy forest, the freezing temperatures killing off nearly all the tributes in the first few days. You’re so engrossed in the recap you almost don't hear the door opening.

You do hear Phaedra’s loud laughs echoing down the hall from the entryway, and turn back to see her stumbling through the door. Finnick is right beside her, offering you a tight smile as he guides Phaedra, who has to be drunk, with one hand, and holds her heels in the other.

Not my problem, not my problem, not my problem, you repeat the mantra in your head, hoping your attention will go back to the TV in front of you.

You weren't drunk (you decided you’d want to be shot the day two glasses of wine inebriated you), but you were a little tipsy. Just a little. Enough for your filter, but not your inhibitions, to be gone.

The now empty wine bottle sat pitifully on the coffee table next to your equally empty glass, as if begging to be refilled. Since it’d been almost empty when you'd scavenged it, you weren't too far gone. Not far gone enough.

You happen upon the kitchen in search of another bottle as Finnick re enters it, not sure whether or not to make polite conversation or ignore him.

He makes the decision for both of you, “How’d they do today?”

“Alright,” you shrugged, biting back a jab about him not helping you during dinner. An awkward pause follows before you realize you're meant to give him something back, so you add, “Eulalia’s got a knack for foraging.”

“That's good,” Finnick’s clearly in his own world and paying little attention to you, searching the fridge for something to eat instead of asking for an Avox to do it.

He’s so lost in thought, saying absolutely nothing to annoy you, that you realize, for the first time, how young he is. You’d always associated him with being much older, since he had so many years of experience on you.

But his features were just so quintessentially… boyish. There were no lines on his face like there were so many other tributes, save for the small indents where his dimples popped out when he smiled. He was tall and lanky — not awkward with his long limbs, but like he still had time to grow into broader shoulders. His face, although perfectly chiseled and sculpted to perfection, had a fullness to his cheeks that could only be thinned out with age. The only thing that felt fully grown about him was the deep frown etched into his face at the moment, like he was worrying about something a nineteen year old wasn't meant to.

“I thought we already talked about your staring problem,” his voice is low and smooth, bringing you out of the trance you'd been in.

“I was just… observing,” you say, embarrassed at being caught in the act. You were just curious to know more about him, and whenever you spoke you seemed to stray further and further from that objective.

“Uh huh…” He squints his eyes at you, like he's studying you as well, to figure out what's going on in your head.

“Try to show up on time tomorrow.” It felt foreign to have a conversation with Finnick without it resorting to an argument, so of course you had to ruin the moment. “They’ve only got a day left before the private sessions, and I think… I think they could use your experience. And I think Miller likes you, for whatever that's worth.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. “An insult and a compliment in the same sentence, all wrapped up in a bow just for me,” his teeth were beginning to poke from his lips, transforming his face into a full on smile. “You’re spoiling me.”

There was another beat of silence before you say goodnight and rush back to your room, hoping tomorrow will be better — it seems like that's become a daily wish before you fall asleep. One day it'll get better.

DAY FIVE — PRIVATE SESSIONS

Everyone was fast asleep in their rooms, the house silent save for the low murmur of the television as you watched an interview recap from previous years, a notepad in hand. You were trying to decide if it was a good or bad thing that neither of your tributes had nothing to make them stand out. With mediocre training scores, your job was turning more into an impossible task than ever.

The elevator door dings open, and you know it can only be Finnick, since he'd yet again left right after dinner.

“Why are you still up?” you ask as he passes by, though this time he doesn't bother slowing down and heading straight for his room.

“Just… preparing for tomorrow, I guess.” You notice his lips are inflamed and smudged with a lavender shade of sparkly lipstick, glitter trailing down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. His eyes are just as puffy as his lips, red rimmed and glassy, but all that pales when you see the long, rather deep scratch on his chin. It’s still bleeding slightly and trickling down the same path carved by the glittery lipstick, disappearing beneath his shirt and leaving a slight stain against the white.

Your instinct want you to jump up from the couch and ask what's wrong, any disdain you have towards Finnick melting away for just a brief moment. You're not even sure why, but maybe it's because this is the first night in several days he's left after dinner and not returned until late.

“Are you okay?” It slips out before you can suppress the humanity in you entirely. It had to be the blood that was making you ask.

He doesn't respond, save for a short nod, and slams the door behind him. You're left feeling disgruntled at what you saw. Who’d hurt him?

You went back to your interviews, but your mind remained distracted by what you’d seen. You’re trying desperately to return to the state of engrossment you’d been at before you were interrupted, but it was no use. With a sigh you shut the television off, rubbing your eyes that were growing heavy with sleep. You’d just passed the door of your room when you heard a loud clatter of something against something ceramic, followed by a quiet fuck.

“Finnick?” You called softly, uncertain.

“It's fine, I’m fine,” came the hurried response, though it was accompanied by a hiss of pain.

You decided, against your better judgement, that you were going to investigate what all the commotion was about. As quietly as you could, you opened the door to his room and tiptoed towards the adjoined bathroom, where the soft glow of a light under the door crack gave away his location.

“Finnick? Are you okay? I— I’m coming in.” You wait for any sign of protest, but upon hearing none, take a deep breath and open the door.

“I told you,” he said through gritted teeth, leaning towards the mirror in front of the sink. “I’m fine.” The countertop was scattered with clutter, colognes and lotions and other knick knacks. There seemed to be an array of things that’d fallen into the sink as well, which explained the clatter you’d heard earlier.

“Holy fuck that looks horrible!” You blurt out, then instantly wish you hadn't said anything. The small scar was now oozing more blood than before, dripping down his face and neck. He hadn't bothered to wash off any of the glitter either, so now he just looked… well, horrible. As horrible as someone with Finnick’s face could look, which still rivaled you on your best day.

“Thanks,” he said dryly, not even turning to look at you, still obsessing over the wound on his chin. “You can go now.”

“You’re doing it all wrong,” you blurted out as he wiped at his chin with a cotton pad, which only further irritated it. “Here,” you made your way towards him, grabbing a gauze from the first aid kit he'd opened and carefully turning his head to face you, pressing the gauze gently into to the wound.

He didn't say thank you, but he wasn't protesting, either. Just watched you from the mirror out of the corner of his eye.

“How’d you get this? It looks…” nasty, “...bad.”

The smile that appears on his face is rueful. “Capitol trends have gotten a little wacky lately,” he begins, and then hesitates. “Some people have cat claws instead of fingernails nowadays.”

Oh. So it was one of his lovers? It certainly didn't look like he was okay with it, but what could he have done to warrant such a reaction?

You threw the gauze in the trash, craning your neck to get a closer look at the wound, before reapplying more. “That… that sucks.”

You want to ask him how exactly he acquired this, but something tells you he won't be forthcoming in his answer.

“Yeah,” he huffs, “It does.”

“You’re probably going to need stitches,” you squinted at the cut. It was precariously deep; you wondered why he wasn't more vocal about the pain he must be in. “You can probably go to one of the hospitals in the Capitol—”

“No,” he says abruptly. “Absolutely not, I don't… I don't need that right now.” He pauses, “Can you do it?”

“Oh, I don't think I’m—”

“I’ve seen you stitch before. Saved your own life with it,” he says softly, and you're suddenly embarrassed and flattered at the same time. He remembered your games? Where you’d stitched 17 and a half stitches into your own stomach, passing out before the 18th had been completed, just as the trumpets began blaring.

“But this is your face, this is like…” you splutter, hands beginning to tremble, “... a national treasure! I don't want to fuck it up, they’ll have my head for sure.”

“You just keep showering me in compliments.” A real, genuine laugh passed from his lips, and you're surprised at how different it sounds from the one he gives when Phaedra makes an awful joke, or when a Capitol woman lays her hands on him. This one is sweet, melodic almost.

“Just… are you sure?” You tug at your lower lip, drawing blood by how hard you bite.

He nods, so you lead him to sit on the toilet, and stand in front of him to get a closer view. The circumstances are much better than they were in your arena, but it's still far from ideal. You, a wannabe seamstress with minimal experience, should not be working on a face famous for his exceptional looks. This could all go so wrong, and you didn't even like him as a person, which made it worse, because if you didn't like him, then why were you so nervous to fuck it up?

You get to work soon after, trying desperately to calm the shaking of your hands.

You wet a washcloth under the sink and bring it to the wound, patting it carefully. Gently, you move the washcloth down to his neck, wiping away the glitter that stained his bronze skin. He didn't object, just sucked in a sharp breath as you tugged the collar down, revealing an angry but fading purple bruise and wiping the cloth over that, too.

The silence is so, so loud. Yo turn to grab an antiseptic, the quiet hisses of pain making you pause before he urges you to continue swiping it across his chin. One hand gently cleans while the other rests on his cheek, allowing you to move and angle his face to best suit your needs for the task.

Aside from that, there's nothing, not even an insult or two thrown either way.

Like when he'd been in the kitchen he's zoned out, allowing you to take a closer look at him.

His eyes, glazed over and off into some far off place, were a perfect representation of the ocean; mostly green with a light blue mixing together to form a beautiful seafoam that people always claimed to get lost in. He had that youthful look about him, the frown he wore had melted away into an almost relaxed expression, which was odd considering the situation he was in.

You continued to work in silence, taking an extra long time to clean the wound to avoid the stitching for as long as possible.

He let out a hiss of pain as the needle pierced his bronze skin for the first time, to which you immediately jumped back and said, "I'm sorry! I can stop, just tell me when you need a break. Please."

He shakes his head ever so slightly, in silent approval for you to continue. "It's fine. Just do it."

Your fingers steadied after the first stitch, like a natural instinct summoned all your grandmother's teachings and flooded them through you.

It was over quickly, but you forced him to remain still, busying yourself with preparing a dressing so you didn't have to acknowledge the way his eyes followed your every move.

"Just hold still," you said quietly, pressing the cream to his chin and leaning in ever so slightly to make sure every inch of your stitches were slathered in ointment.

When you step back to take a look at your handiwork, you feel like somehow you're overstaying your welcome.

You didn't like how the bathroom had grown hot and stuffy, didn't like how his eyes had gone from glazing over to staring intently at you and never leaving.

You didn't like how his hands, which had been resting motionless on his lap, had started to fidget with the loose fabric of his pants, occasionally brushing against your legs, which were pressed up between his — as you worked on his chin, of course.

And you especially didn't like how whenever his fingers accidentally brushed against the skin of your legs, you felt like jumping out of your skin.

"Change it tomorrow," you instructed, clearing your throat. He nodded, watching you leave.

DAY SEVEN — THE INTERVIEWS

Today had been no better than the last one, or the one before that. The only thing was different was that you and Finnick had gone an (almost) two full days without getting into any squabbles, which was a big improvement. Even Phaedra commented something about civility at dinner.

He’d also made an effort to help Miller and Eulalia prep for the interviews; he was so loveable in the Capitol it only made sense for him to take the reins on this one.

You’d tried to help when you could, adding in tidbits of information that you thought could be useful. Phaedra even chimed in once in a while, whenever she would wander back to the penthouse in between her very full day of… whatever she did. Certainly nothing useful.

Now, night was just beginning to fall, and only you and Eulalia were sitting on the couch watching the interviews. Miller hadn't even bothered to stay past mealtime, and Phaedra and Finnick were off doing who knows what.

Both tributes had remained entirely unremarkable, and while that was not to their advantage, it wasn't to their disadvantage either. They were brushed off as tributes certain to die in the bloodbath, nothing more, and as much as that angered you, you understood why people thought that way.

“You should go to bed, Eulalia. You have an early morning tomorrow,” you said once the interviews had concluded. You felt that alluding to the fact that she was headed towards her death was a better thing to do than outright say it.

Eulalia nodded her head, though she didn't make any moves to leave. “I’m scared to go to bed,” she admitted after a long moment. “I… I think I’ll have nightmares.”

“I know,” you purse your lips, remembering how you felt the night before your own games. “But you need sleep, you'll regret it tomorrow if you don't even try.”

With a resigned nod she stands up, making her way slowly into her room.

Then, it's silent on the District 9 floor, empty in the living spaces save for yourself.

You’re halfway through a much needed massage of your temples when you hear the door creak open and assume it’s an Avox, until you open your eyes and see Eulalia running out of her room with a terrorized expression frozen on her face.

“Eulalia!” You jump up from the couch and run to her, “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I had a nightmare,” she whispered, eyes as wide as saucers.

“About tomorrow?” You asked, a hand on her shoulder and trying to coax an answer out of her.

She nodded, her bottom lip wobbling for a moment before she immediately burst into tears. “I miss my mom,” she let out with a sniffle, her little body shaking from the sobs that began wracking her body.

You could almost hear your heart smashing on the ground in a million little pieces. You were there in an instant, on your knees to be at eye level with her as you held out your arms. She didn’t hesitate, burying her face in your shoulder and continuing to sob, which only broke your heart further.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” you said in what you hoped was a soothing voice, trying hard not to let a tremor seep in. “It’ll be okay.” Now you’re just lying to her, an evil voice in the back of your head snaps.

She clung to you like a lifeline, her small hands wrinkling the silk of your dress but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

“It was so scary,” she hiccuped, “I didn't even make it past the bloodbath.”

You pried her hands from your clothes so your own could find her face, thumbs gently gliding over her tear stained cheeks. “You are so brave, remember that, okay? And remember what Finnick and I have been teaching you, and you’ll be okay.”

Her sobs turn into small hiccups as she listens to your words, trying to make the rational part of her brain take over. But she's so young, and she's feeling so much, it's only a moment before the tears explode once more, and she's inconsolable.

You wish there was something you could do, but all that comes to mind is helping her back to bed, a proper routine despite it being in the middle of the night.

The door open and Finnick walks in, stopping short at the sight of you two curled on the floor of the living room. His eyes widen when you mouth the word nightmare, Eulalia’s face still buried in your shoulder.

“Hey, look!” You said as brightly and spinning Eulalia around to look at Finnick. “Why don't we both put you to bed?”

Eulalia nods, still sniffling, and says, very meekly, “Okay. Finnick’s strong.” She says it like he'll protect her from her own mind. Then she straightens up. “Can we please stay out here? I hate my room, it's so dark and scary and—”

“Of course,” Finnick spoke up. “You know, the night before my games, Mags made a pillow fort for us in the living room.” He begins to drag pillows from your room, his room, and Eulalia’s room while you tend to her.

You take time to brush her hair before your fingers twist the long locks into two loose braids. Her sobs have quieted down again, her eyes closing on themselves as sleep began to lull her.

The two of you crawl under the couch, which Finnick has done up with pillows and blankets to make a true fort that eases Eulalia’s fears just a bit. Not enough to coax a smile, but enough to quiet her sobs and hiccups.

“Please don't leave,” Eulalia begs, looking slightly embarrassed, but it's clear she's too tired and worn down to fight the embarrassment completely.

“Of course.” You tuck the blanket under her chin, trying not to let the rising bile in your stomach spill from your lips. She was just a baby, with little tear stained cheeks and deep circles under her eyes. Too young to be weighed down with the possibility of imminent death the next morning.

You lay down next to her, still in your finery from the interview day, but you don't even let that bother you anymore.

You’re so focused on Eulalia you don't even notice Finnick’s been by both your sides the entire time, settling down a little ways away from the both of you, with Eulalia in the middle.

She’s fast asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow, even snoring softly as she cocoons herself into your side.

When you wake, the sun is streaming through the cracks in the blinds. Eulalia’s gone, the only trace of her being the dried tear stains on your dress and the mess of blankets and pillows around you.

Your heart is heavy as you go through the motions of getting ready, allowing your prep team to do what they pleased. You’d be in the Capitol all day starting in an hour, watching the games.

DAY EIGHT — THE HUNGER GAMES

The night dragged on without an end to what had been a torturous day, which had passed at a snail’s pace that had only added to its misery.

Despite everything, all your blood, sweat, and tears, Miller didn't make it out of the Cornucopia. Not like you'd thought there would be a different outcome; he'd made it clear he didn't want to give anyone a show, he just wanted to die. He'd been slaughtered by a Career not even thirty seconds into the Games. Eulalia had surprised you, her face not projected onto the sky next to Miller’s, grabbing a pack by her feet and racing for the mountains.

That didn't mean you weren't miserable and drowning your sorrows in a bottle.

“I need another glass,” you decided out loud to no one but yourself, mustering up the balance to rise from the couch and head over to the kitchen and make the drink happen.

“Easy there, sweetheart. I don't think being hungover is a good look for sponsors. Especially since you seem to know best,” a small chuckle sounded behind you, scaring the ever loving shit out of you and causing you to drop your wine glass on the floor.

“Shit— What the fuck, Finnick?” You almost shouted, before realizing you had two sleeping children down the hall. “I thought you'd be out all night again!” You lowered your voice to a hiss as you crouched down to pick up the larger shards, not knowing if there was an Avox around at this time of night.

Finnick had been leaning casually against the doorframe until he heard the glass shatter, and was by you in an instant. “My plans ended early,” he offered little more than that.

You let out a sudden cry of pain as a shard sliced your palm open. The blood, dark and red and warm, immediately sent you into a panic.

Your heart quickened, a strangled cry barely managing its way past your lips as you were thrust back into the arena like you always were. Other people’s blood you could handle just fine, but the sight of your own caused your vision to become slightly blurry, from dizziness or tears you weren't quite sure.

Then, a palm on your shoulder. Grounding you, bringing you back to the present. You’d cut your hand on a broken wine glass, you hadn't just murdered a child. You were in the penthouse as a victor, not as a tribute. Blinking back tears you looked up at Finnick, whose hand was still on your shoulder, and stood up abruptly. You hated the look of pity in his eyes, it made you sick. You didn't need pity from someone who was contributing to the very system that made you like this.

You were about to open your mouth, lash out at him to distract from the pain of your hand, when an Avox melted from the shadow and hurried to clean up the mess you’d made.

“We should fix that up,” Finnick suggested gently, cautiously — like you were a wounded animal — his hand trailing down to the small of your back and gently guiding you to a bathroom. Normally you’d be brushing him away, because in what world would you accept help from him.

But you didn't have the strength to argue. Not when it was the night before. Not when Miller was dead and and Eulalia would soon follow. You simply nodded and let him lead you to the bathroom in his room, your head on autopilot as you stood leaning against the cool marble of the countertop.

You remembered being here a couple nights ago; things had remained the same except now your positions were reversed.

“Didn't think I was that sneaky,” Finnick joked as he looked around for first aid supplies, trying to fill the awkward silence.

“Don't give yourself so much credit, Odair,” you rolled your eyes, the quip making you feel slightly more normal. This was what you did. Show him you hated him through petty jabs and dirty looks. The past few days had been too pleasant for either of it to last.

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, holding your wrist and gently examining the cut to make sure there were no glass splinters. “Then what was so interesting you didn't hear me open the door?”

“My brain. Duh,” you huffed, hoping he couldn't smell the alcohol on your breath.

“Your brain, or the wine?” Finnick’s eyes, that beautiful green flecked with blue that you pretended not to notice, were lit up with laughter.

“Maybe a little bit of— ow!” You yelped, trying to pull your hand away from whatever was making it sting so bad.

“Oh relax, don't be a baby,” Finnick kept a tight grip on your wrist so he could work, gently cleaning the wound with an antiseptic. “I know you've handled much worse.”

“I was so much nicer to you… This shit still hurts,” you grumbled under your breath, trying not to think about the last part of his comment. Yeah. You’d faced much, much worse. But perhaps the softness of the Capitol had grown on you, and you were becoming less and less accustomed to hardship. “Oh my god!” You exclaimed in horror. “I’m turning into you!”

This gave him pause. He had discarded the alcohol wipe and was reaching for a cream when he stopped. “I’m assuming that's not a compliment, coming from you… so tell me, what does that mean?”

You laughed, then hiccuped. “I’m getting soft! I’m letting all this nice stuff in the Capitol blind me from every horrible thing I’ve ever experienced at their hands.”

You’d meant it as more of a lighthearted jab than anything, but he’d gone completely still as he looked at you. His eyes seemed to darken, erasing any traces of blue or warmth, leaving an unreadable expression behind. Your eyes trailed down to his jaw, which was now clenched.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He asked softly. So softly, you thought you’d imagined it. It was then you noticed how close his face had gotten, forcing your neck to crane up and meet his gaze as he towered over you, your back pressed against the sink counter.

“I mean… yeah, sort of,” You shrugged. “People adore you here. I mean, look at all the gifts! All your friends and girlfr—”

“I hate the gifts. And they’re not my friends. Or my girlfriends,” he cut you off sharply. “You don't know… just… nevermind.”

His grip on your wrist tightened as he applied the cream, his movements slow and his eyes glued to your hand as to avoid eye contact.

“I— I don't know,” you admitted, watching his nimble fingers work expertly to wrap your hand. He exhaled sharply but didn't respond, pretending to be absorbed in his work.

“All done.” He dropped your hand and took a step back. Already you felt his body heat disappear from you, but it wasn't a warm welcome. You just felt cold. And mean.

“Wait, Finnick,” you grasped onto his wrist with your good hand, stopping him in his tracks and forcing him to look back at you. “Explain it to me.”

You wanted to know what he meant, and perhaps you felt a little bit guilty for the genuine hurt you'd seen in his eyes. One of the many assumptions you'd made about Finnick Odair was that he was immune to feeling anything but cool and charming.

He looks around for an escape, nostrils flaring and his palms closing and then flexing. Those famous sea-green eyes get that faraway look you've seen only a couple times.

Selfishly, you take time to notice the features you hadn't absorbed before. You observed veins of his forearms that ran up and disappeared behind his sleeves, where the muscle of his biceps were barely concealed through the thin material of his shirt. You even took notice of how his bronze hair seemed to match his skin, the pearly white of his teeth making his sun drenched tan even more striking.

“I won't judge you,” you say quietly, stupidly, because that's pretty much all you’ve done.

He seems to see the irony in your statement too because he laughs, coldly. “I’d tell you if I believed you even a little bit— but all you’ve done is judge me for things out of my control.”

“You're right,” you inhaled sharply, though it pained you to admit you were wrong to his face.

There's a long pause before he speaks again.

“President Snow sells me— my body. To the Capitol citizens. Those gifts… they’re pity gifts from people who buy me. I don't love any of them.”

Out of all the things you thought could come out of his mouth, that arrangement of words was something you could never even imagine.

“Oh.” Think of something better to say, you fucking idiot! You began cursing yourself for such a bland response, but nothing could compete with the overwhelming guilt that was rising in your chest.

Every awful, horrible, vile thought you'd ever had about Finnick Odair was based on the assumption he liked the Capitol’s attention, relished in it. But they were— they…

He took your lack of response as a dismissal. “Yeah, told you. Your hand’s fine now, so I think you can go now.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry!” You hurried to correct your response. “I didn't mean— I just didn't know he did that.”

It suddenly occurred to you that he might be listening in on your very conversation. Finnick sees your realization and shakes his head. “We’re fine in this room.”

“Oh.” Now you can't stop thinking about every awful, horrible thing you'd ever thought about Finnick, every malicious word you’d spat at him was now resurfacing as a bitter bile in the back of your throat. “Oh my god, Finnick, I had no idea, I’m so sorry—”

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I don't need your pity. There's nothing I can do to change it, he’ll… he’ll hurt Mags if I try to say no. I just wanted you to know so you’d stop looking at me like that.”

Suddenly his words make sense. Lucky. Because in a way, you had no one left you cared about, no one Snow could hold over your head. You were lucky, so lucky in that sense, you didn't even know it was a possibility.

“I know you don't want pity, but I really am sorry. Not just for your situation but— for every awful thing I’ve ever said to you. I would've never said any of those things if I knew.” How do you begin to bring up why you felt the way you did? That you were so incredibly jealous he could lead a life full of luxury and companionship?

“Thanks,” he shrugged. “You didn't know. How could you? Everyone you loved was already dead by the time Snow got his hands on you. You’re lucky for that. Once Mags goes…” Then I’ll be free, is what you're certain he wants to say.

There's a lapse in the conversation and you just stare at him, talking him whole in a completely different light. You don't even care that he's staring right back at you, when normally you'd be embarrassed with his undivided attention.

“Well thank you. For fixing up my hand.” You raised your bandaged hand up and saw a slight smile cross his face.

“Just returning the favor,” he responded simply. “Can you let go of my hand now, or are you planning on hanging around all night? Not that I mind—” You dropped his hand like it was a burning coal, much to his amusement.

“Can we… start over? Please?” You asked, feeling like a little kid on the school playground again. “As friends?”

“And here I thought we were friends all along…” He sighed dramatically.

“Forget it! I take it back!” You rolled your eyes and shuffled your feet in an attempt to bypass his large frame blocking the doorway, when his hand slid down to your waist.

“I was being serious! We’ve always been friends, since the day we met. You just didn't know it yet. You had to go through a mean streak.” His eyes bear into yours and suddenly the fingers splayed across your waist feel like burning embers against your skin. His eyes, that always remind you of the ocean, feel like they're setting you aflame with the intensity of his gaze.

“Alright, now you're just being dramatic,” you huffed after a moment, sidestepping him and heading towards the kitchen. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk, trying to focus on the ground in front of you and not the way your heart was beating so rapidly, like it was determined to leap out of your chest and run back towards the bathroom. Towards him. Your mind traced back to that drink you’d been in search of when Finnick scared you.

Every trace of your mess was gone, from the broken glass to the drips of blood that had threatened to stain the carpet. You rummaged around the cupboards for another bottle of wine, sighing in frustration when your search came up empty.

“It’s on the top shelf,” Finnick appeared out nowhere again, causing you to jump.

“You have got to stop doing that!” You whipped around. “Didn't you learn from literally ten minutes ago?”

He put his hands up in self defense, though a ghost of a grin outlined his features. “I’ll try to remember. For next time.”

“Can you grab it for me?” You asked, surprising even yourself as you looked back at him standing in the hallway.

With a nod, Finnick crossed the space between the two of you into the kitchen. Instead of asking you to move, you felt a feather light touch at your hip as his hand ghosted over your dress. You could now feel the heat of his body radiating on to your back, could feel the light, warm breaths he took as he stood for a moment before reaching above you. With a gentle firmness, he scooted you over so he could strain to reach the last of the wine bottles.

You sucked in a breath as you felt his chest against your back, sturdy and warm, and resisted the urge to lean into him. You were so tired of being strong for your tributes. You wanted someone to protect you, tell you everything would be okay.

But you didn't have that. Not anymore. Ever since your grandmother had died you’d been all alone — alone on your Reaping Day, alone on your victory, alone now.

“Red or white?” You felt Finnick’s lips almost brush against your ear, snapping you out of your morose thoughts and sending a shiver down your spine.

“Uh— I— you choose.”

The heat was gone just as quick as it had arrived, and the rest happened in a blur. Before you know it you were one, two more glasses into the newly opened bottle, your cheeks flushed from laughing and your body hot from the alcohol.

Ugh, how did you even hate him? He was so funny. And pretty. Especially his eyes. Had you mentioned how pretty his eyes were?

“I think I’ve heard it from everyone but you, to be honest,” Finnick chuckled.

“Oh— did I really say that out loud?” You hiccuped, now entirely sure you would fully overheat.

“Yeah,” he grabbed the glass from your hand and placed it on the coffee table in front of you. “Not to ruin your fun, but you should probably stop now. It’s… a big day tomorrow. You need to be ready. For Eulalia.”

“Right.” Suddenly the lighthearted atmosphere turned somber, like all the joy in the world had been sucked from the room. Your head was still heavy and dizzy, but you no longer felt as if your lips were so loose.

The two of you take your drinks to the couch, where you see a glimpse of Finnick’s real personality. He's still charming and confident, but not in a cocky way. He's surprisingly sweet, and somehow remembers everything about you. No seriously, everything. Things you hadn’t even mentioned directly to him or anyone around you, but from your interview and the interviews from your former friends once you’d reached the final eight.

In turn, you tried to learn more about Finnick, the real Finnick, and not the persona he put on. You learned his mother and father had died when he was young, just like you, and that he'd trained in the Career Academy in 4 as a poor substitute for finding a family. He found it in Mags, who’d been the closest thing he had to a mother, friend, mentor, and grandmother all in one.

“Does it get easier?” You asked after a particularly morbid joke about the Hunger Games.

Finnick shakes his head. “Not really. You just get more used to it,” he hesitates before continuing. “It's like grief. You just think about it less often, but it's always there. And when you remember…” his voice catches in his throat. “It hurts just as badly as when it first happened.”

“Well that fucking sucks,” you sigh, downing the last bit of your wine, earning a laugh from Finnick.

You chat a bit more about things that don't even matter, but there's something that continues bothering you as you talk.

“I really had no idea,” you blurt out, repeating yourself for what seemed like the millionth time that night. You’d apologize a billion more before you felt even an ounce less guilty.

“I know,” he says simply, and that's what you like about talking with him. He doesn't brush it off, say everything you said is okay, but he doesn't blame you either. He just accepts it as is.

“How'd you get so… okay about all of this?” You asked him.

He ponders for a moment, like he’s never really thought about it himself. “I’m just desensitized, I think. I care about Mags, and as long as she's safe… I can deal with the rest of it.”

“And if something happens?” You can't help but ask.

He shudders slightly. “I don't think you’d recognize the person you become.”

“Evil? Insane?” You half joked.

But he's not smiling anymore, and the glazed over look in his eye has returned. “No. More like damaged beyond repair.”

Oh. Well isn't that a morbid thought. Another question suddenly pops into your mind. “Why are you telling me all of this? I said all those things… I hated you up until like… four days ago.”

The smiles returned, though this one is unlike any one you’ve ever seen before. It's genuine and sweet but it's so, so sad. “I’m lonely, I guess.”

That hits you right in the gut because you’re lonely, too. So lonely.

So the two of you decide, at least for the night, to seek company in one another's loneliness.

DAY NINE — THE HUNGER GAMES, CONT.

Your mentoring had been cut short early into the second day. Eulalia, who'd done everything right, had been killed by a pack of bat mutts, who'd descended upon her while she sought shelter in a shallow cove in the mountains. With their huge wings and even bigger talons they'd dragged her off deeper into the cave system, though not before you’d witnessed them ripping out chunks of her flesh.

It was so bloody and gruesome you’d run off in the middle of a conversation and thrown up your breakfast.

That's why you were in the bathroom stall, leaning against the cool ceramic of the toilet and not caring how disgusting it was. You felt sick, so sick to your very core, wishing that Eulalia’s nightmare had been her reality instead of whatever had just unfolded before your screen.

All you want to do is go back home — not back to the tribute apartments, not your house in the Victor’s Village, but home. The little, shoebox apartment above your grandmother’s tailor shop in 8. It was tiny but it was cozy, perfect for the two of you and always smelling like the home you were now longing for.

But that's not an option. The most you could get away with was showering and retiring for a few hours, returning after lunch. You wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your shirt and force yourself to stand, wobbling a bit on your heels.

When you walk out the door you’re greeted by Phaedra, who’s got a sour expression on her face.

“Oh— there you are. Can you believe this! Day two and I’m already done for the rest of the Games! Why didn't you train them better! Oh, I bet Finnick probably distracted you— not that I can blame you, but you could've been a little less selfish!” You realize now that she's drunk, but that doesn't stop the anger boiling in your stomach at her comments.

She's probably one of the Capitol citizens buying him for her own pleasure. Your lip curls in disgust but you have the decorum and common sense not to make a scene.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” is all you end up saying. This just causes Phaedra to scoff and push past you.

Today is the worse day of your life. So much worse than your Reaping Day, than your victory tour, than anything. Because this time, it's your fault.

When you walk back to the apartment, it reminds you more of a graveyard than anything.

Finnick seems to think the same; you're not sure when he came back but he's sitting on the couch with his face in his hands.

There's nothing you want to say to him. Nothing you can say, really, but he says something that forces you to listen anyways. “It's better this way.”

“How,” you gasp in disbelief he could say something so horrid.

“The alternative would've been worse for her.” And suddenly it dawns on you what he's thinking, he says it at the same time the thought comes to your mind. “She would've turned out like me.”

“She was only twelve, they wouldn't have—”

“I was fourteen,” he cuts you off, though not harshly. If anything he seems pained. “They said they waited until I was sixteen, but they lied. For their own consciences.”

Yeah, now the conversation’s over. You make your way to your bathroom, trying as hard as you can to compose yourself, make yourself feel just the slightest bit human.

It doesn't work; you spend the rest of the day feeling like a zombie, laying on the plush mattress of your bed and not moving. The goosefeather pillows are so comfortable it has the opposite effect you desire, only reminding you more that you’re in the Capitol.

You only know it's become nighttime when Finnick comes in because the sun of midday and sunset have both passed, fading into a deep twilight that remains. All you want to do is sleep, wash away this horrid day with a good night’s rest, but you can't. You remain paralyzed on your bed, studying the intricate carvings of your ceiling, counting how many little birds there were in a row.

“Glad to see you're alive,” Finnick’s voice is grounding and familiar, but also a reminder of what has happened the past two days. Of who you’ve lost and how you lost them.

“Barely,” you groan without lifting your head to look at him, a numbness overtaking your body as you're brought back to reality.

“I told you it'll get easier,” he said, “the first ones are always the hardest.”

The bed dips and you can feel Finnick’s body heat radiating off of him, but you don't move, don’t. even turn your head to look at him.

“I know,” you sigh, defeated. “It just kills me that I can't do anything about this.”

There's a long moment before he responds, “I know. I hate feeling powerless, too.”

It's nice to lay with him, have him articulate every emotion you're feeling without even having to tell him anything at all. It's comforting.

You’re not sure how much time passes before you hear Finnick rustling around, and ignore it until he's tugging on your wrist. “I have an idea.”

You hope he's going to whisk you away somewhere so incredibly far from here, but your journey stops at the pillow fort you’d created two days ago. It feels like a memory frozen in time, too painful to look at but too painful to move.

You’re not even sure why you’re doing this, subjecting yourself to feeling your grief so strongly. When the two of you are comfortably settled into the fort, it's as if you're thrust back in time. It feels weird, but not unwelcome. You’re lying flat on your back like you were earlier, beginning to count each thread in the plush blanket.

“I don't even know why I feel like this! I barely knew them — I spoke like, four words to Miller!”

“Because you're human,” he responds almost immediately, rolling over and propping his head up with his hand. “It would be weird if you didn't feel so bad.”

You suppose he's right. Not mourning them at all would make you no better than the Capitol citizens betting on and cheering for tributes.

You’re burning alive. You pound on the door to the oven, begging and screaming to be let out, until your vocal cords are fried. You try to move, but it's such a tight fit you can't help but squirm uncomfortably, feeling restrained.

Let me out, let me out, let me out! You scream into oblivion, but no one hears you. It's just you, the oven, and a pile of burning embers that crackle and pop as they get hotter.

Stop moving, the oven groans, starting to shake you.

Then let me out, you struggle harder against the straightjacket that binds you.

Go back to bed, the oven grumbles again.

Wait — the oven?

You wake with a gasp with sweat dotting your forehead, desperate to inhale gulps of cool air.

What a weird dream, you think sleepily, the stuffiness around you making you feel as if you’re melting.

You remember, then, that you’re sleeping in a pillow fort, which has to be trapping all your body heat within the confines of the blankets and pillows. All you want to do is fling the blanket off you and strip yourself of the pajamas that stick to your skin like wet paper. And move away from this stupid heated pillow. Who even has heated pillows?

With a groan, you move to throw the blanket off you and sit up, only to find your arms trapped against your body. Now you’re a little more awake, blinking the sleep from your eyes as they adjust to the darkness.

“Has anyone ever told you about your sleep habits?” A very familiar, very human voice rumbles against your ear. “Because they suck. You move around so much.”

Oh.

You were not confined to a straight jacket. No, those were arms you had examined carefully when he wasn't looking, studied the smoothness of the tan skin, the muscles rippling underneath when he flexed to tighten his grip around your waist.

His arms circling your waist, tugging you closer.

His voice, causing vibrations in the chest that was currently pressed against your back, repeating the voice of the oven in your dreams.

“Wh— what are you doing,” you whispered, relieved your voice was working but hating how unsure you sounded.

“Dunno… kinda just woke up like this,” he yawned, not moving. “Think this means I’m irresistible even in my sleep.”

It's nice, but weird. His voice is heavy with sleep, making it sound deeper and rougher than it normally is. That, combined with the way his arms, corded with muscle, don't leave your waist, and the firmness of his chest… it makes your heart beat at an astronomical pace, your breath quickens, your knees weak.

“You’re trembling.” He's propped up on his elbow again, his fingers drawing small circles up and down your arms in a motion that's meant to be soothing, but it just makes you want to squirm.

Every fiber of your being is vibrating, all the emotions of the past week finally catching up with you in this very moment.

You’re not sure when the energy shifted, but it's gone from something warm and compassionate to something far more serious.

He loosens his grip enough for you to roll over onto your back, the breath catching in your throat at the intensity in his gaze. Yet again you’re reminded of the ocean, letting those sea green eyes with flecks of blue swallow you whole.

When you speak, your voice is shaking like the rest of your body, your words muffled with unspilled tears. “I’m so tired of being lonely, Finnick.”

“Then don't be.” Without hesitation, his lips dip down to meet yours, and it feels like you've jumped head first into a frozen lake, then dipped into molten lava the way you're both shivering and on fire at the exact same time.

They're warm and soft and they feel like the home you've been craving, and it’s crazy you could ever think otherwise. His hand reached up to cup your face and glide a thumb over your cheekbone, the rest of his fingers tangling their way into the hairs at the nape of your neck.

As he pulls you impossibly closer, the kiss deepens and you can finally taste him. It’s so new it just makes you hungrier, like you’ve been starving your whole life until now.

It makes you feel alive again.

You whine as he separates from you, then quickly change your tune as his mouth reattaches further down. The sensation of his cool teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your neck, followed by the warmth of his tongue elicits a moan which he quickly swallows with another kiss.

You want him more than anything you’ve wanted in your entire life, you're sure of it.

Still connected, your hands trail down the exquisite planes of his chest to the ridges of his abs, marveling at the hard muscle and how they flex instinctively with each touch.

He's just as touchy, mesmerized by the softness of your skin as his hand slips under your shirt and inches its way up to the underside of your breath, stopping immediately when you let out a soft gasp.

He whispers your name, coaxing the two of you apart just long enough for him to look at you. Really look at you — not just as an enemy, or a fellow mentor, or even a friend. He stares at you like you're the only other person on the planet, the only one that ever mattered.

The intensity of these emotions startle you and you instinctively draw back, because how can you feel so strongly for someone you’ve known for so little time?

“Are you okay?” He asks immediately, his hands leaving your body and leaving you not only cold, but wanting more.

You nod earnestly, “I just got overwhelmed for a second— I’m good. You don't have to coddle me.”

He shakes his head. “I'm not coddling— I’m just making sure this is something you want to do.”

You remember then, the conversation you’d had with him about Eulalia’s death.

And I was fourteen when it started, but they lied about that too.

Suddenly you feel ill— no, selfish. Your hand immediately retracts from its place by his torso. “I’m so sorry, I should've asked— I didn't even think—”

He cuts you off with a kiss, a sweet and gentle thing that eddies all worries from your mind. You doubt he's ever kissed anyone with such tenderness before, especially since he's said his only encounters have been with Capitol citizens. “It's okay,” is all he says.

This time it's you who surges forward and closes the gap, desperate to make up for the lost seconds you'd spent talking.

If you were going slowly and sweetly before, pulled back by hesitation, it's all gone now. Finnick’s fingers unfurl from the back of your neck and trail down to your hips, pulling them flush to his own. You felt his desire for you then and there, evident through the thin material of his pajama pants, and suppressed a shudder.

He continues grasping at your hips until he finally rolls flat on his back with you on top of him, head bumping against the blanket roof of the pillow fort.

One slow rock of your body against his and you know it's all over. “Please—” you beg, your earlier conversation still on your mind though you were desperate not to let it ruin the mood. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

His fingers gripped your hips even tighter, staring at you like you were ethereal. “I don't think I’d ever ask you to do that,” he admits, which only makes you blush harder, on top of the heat you were originally feeling. You kiss him again, desperate for the feel of his lips on your own.

Your hips rolled more forcefully this time, earning a moan from Finnick’s lips that barely escaped past your own. He broke the kiss for a moment, only to tug impatiently at the thin shirt that did little to cover your hardened nipples, which had grown sensitive to the slightest touch. Once the shirt was off and he was in full view of your newly bared skin, he reattached your lips immediately, then broke the kiss yet again to stare. He shifted you easily so that he was more in a sitting position with you on his lap, his back pressed against the bottom of the sofa behind you.

You felt slightly embarrassed at this and the way his sea green eyes roamed your skin, devouring every inch that he came into contact with.

It seemed like he was completely in tune with your mind, always knowing what you were thinking without you saying anything. “You're so beautiful,” he whispered, swallowing hard before bringing his hands up to your chest. They were large, warm and a welcome contact against your breasts, which were aching for something. You arched your back towards him, desperate for more, more, more, and let out a sigh of pleasure as he kneaded them between his hands before bringing his mouth to your chest.

He trailed open mouthed kisses around the swells of your breasts, teasing you as his tongue before taking one nipple into his mouth.

You don't think you can wait honestly. You're certain you’re a wet mess beneath the silk of your pajama shorts, so desperate to feel him you want to skip everything else.

Finnick seems to be keen on taking his time though. When his hands leave your breasts and trail down to the waistband of your shorts, you stop him, shaking your head ever so slightly.

“No,” you remove his hands and urge him to lie flat on his back, wetting your lips in anticipation. “I want to say sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?” he looks at you through half lidded eyes. When you plant a kiss on his collarbone and suck a hickey onto the hard planes of his chest, his eyes immediately widen as he lets out a groan. You can feel his heartbeat increase rapidly as your kisses descend downward, taking your time to kiss every freckle, every scar, everything imperfect that makes him so much more real.

One hand tangles itself in your hair when you reach his waistband and palm him over his pants, while the other fists the blanket next to him as he tries to regulate his breathing.

He can't help it though, as his hips buck involuntarily at your touch. You know it's just his body’s reaction but it makes you feel desired; something you haven't felt in a long, long time.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of his pajama pants and boxers, a little nervous at the sight that awaits you. It's long and thick and already glistening with precum, twitching as you wrap a hand around his cock and truly feel him for the first time.

“You don't—” his eyes flutter shut, like doing anything but moaning requires great effort “—have to apologize for anything.”

“Finnick,” you laugh a little. “I want to.”

He seems to like this answer, his head falling back on the pillow behind him as you flatten your tongue and run it along the underside of his cock.

He’s so obviously into you there’s no time for any insecurities to cross your mind. It's given you a new state of confidence as you take the head of his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue around and lapping up the bead of precum that had gathered. Finnick’s hip twitch, like he's fighting the urge to thrust up into your mouth.

You don't want him to hold back, not even in the slightest. You want to see him completely unraveled at your touch, which is why you squeeze his hip and look up at him through your lashes.

“Fuck,” he gets out through gritted teeth, the hand in your hair tightening its hold as you begin to move, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm, determined to take him deeper with each one.

“You're so— I—” he can't even muster a full sentence as you moan around him, sending vibrations down. It's addictive, having so much power over him while also wanting so desperately to please him.

His hand that's in your hair pulls you back from his cock.

You begin a protest, “I wasn't done—”

“I need to feel you,” he chokes out, fingers still locked in your hair as he brings your head towards him. Your lips crash together in a perfectly synchronized move as he sits up, flipping you over so that your back is now the one pressed against the blanketed floor.

Despite his eyes being so wild with desire, Finnick is so, so gentle as he connects your lips together once again, this kiss being so much more searing than any of the ones you've had before.

He wants you, so bad he thinks he might die if he doesn't get you. But when he looks down at you, eyes wide and wanting, he knows there's no need to rush, because he has you. All of you.

His hands fumble with your shorts before he pulls them down your hips, tossing them to the side before returning his full attention to you. His hands tease you as they pry your legs apart, trailing slowly up your legs and rubbing small circles along your inner thigh.

“Stop— teasing—” you squirm, desperate for something, anything he could give you.

“Patience is a virtue, you know,” he grins, his hands sneaking up further and further until they've just barely brushed your clit, but it's enough to have you whining again.

“Finni—” he cuts his name off with a kiss, this one just as sweet as the rest of them. At the same time, he connects fully to your clit, rubbing slow, tantalizing circles that have your hips bucking for more.

He takes this as an invitation to sink one long finger into you, enjoying how your back arched as you chased his touch. After more slow, easygoing pumping he added another finger.

“That's it,” he coos, his eyes never leaving yours.

You realize at this point neither of you have been very chatty — but that's probably because you prefer to have your lips connected, not spilling out ramblings.

“Please, Finnick— I can't wait any longer, I—” You let out a moan as he adds a third finger, and you can feel the familiar tingling sensation begin to take over.

“You can do it,” he coaxes, “Just a second."

You try, you really do— but when he curls his fingers inside you and presses his thumb to your clit the coil unravels and you're gripping his shoulders, crying out his name as your fingers rake through the soft bronze waves of his hair and tug on them ever so slightly.

You inhale and exhale quickly, trying to regain your composure. He's looking at you with a self satisfied smile, but you're not satiated. You want him, all of him, and you tell him so.

This time he obliges.

He leans in and kisses you once more, tongue sliding past your lips, and you can feel his cock pressed against you. He's hesitating again, half wanting to make sure you're okay, half trying to reassure himself it's not a dream. It's real, he's about to be inside you, and you're practically begging for it.

In an act of finality you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer until in one thrust, he's done it.

It stings, and you gasp, only because it's been a while and his size takes some getting used to. His fingers grip your thighs as gently as he can muster, his lips never leaving yours.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Finnick groans, burying his face in your neck and peppering kisses along your collarbone.

His pace is slow and steady at first. As it becomes more comfortable, his pace becomes more relentless, his hips snapping against yours as he fucked you with deep, powerful strokes that leave you breathless, sending scratches down his back and marring his otherwise perfect skin.

His thrusts increase in both force and in pace as you feel every inch of him filling you.

You're overwhelmed with pleasure, unable to say anything and resorting to just squeezing his shoulders and digging your nails into them.

His lips find yours for the millionth time, and it's then you can feel that all too familiar pressure building.

“That's it, sweetheart,” he panted between kisses. “You’re so perfect — squeezing my cock so good.”

You can't muster a response as the overwhelming pleasure of your second orgasm overtakes you, not even noticing Finnick continuing his pace to chase his own release.

You feel him as he collapses on top of you, pressing a soft kiss to your neck before he rolls off you. You're empty and cold for a moment before his arms wrap around you. Their weight is a welcome presence. It makes you feel protected. Safe.

He falls asleep before you do, and in the pale morning light, not only is Finnick’s face relaxed, it's truly weightless. His arms don't move from your torso, even in sleep. His eyebrows occasionally twitch in response to whatever dream he's having, but overall he looks so peaceful. So much younger, too, without the frown or seductive smile he normally wore.

It's then that you decide you’re no longer as lonely as you thought, because you need to study him for the rest of your life.

You’ve never been inside the President’s Mansion. It’s even more intimidating than the grounds that surround it. The walls are tall and imposing, making the rooms feel empty and chilled and making you feel tiny and insignificant.

They’re decorated with wood paneling, hand carved with so many details it makes you dizzy trying to look at them all. Plush rugs just as ornate as the walls cover the dark wood of the floors, making your steps — and anyone else’s — near silent.

“Your home is beautiful,” you breathe out to the man in front of you. He doesn’t look that intimidating, but you are on the verge of screaming in terror if he doesn’t say something soon.

“Thank you, my dear. It’s a shame you haven’t gotten the chance to visit before now.” President Snow motions for you to take a seat in front of his desk instead of continuing to stand there awkwardly.

You fumble your way into the chair, and you hope he can’t hear your heart threatening to leap out of your chest and explode all over his beautiful carved oak desk.

“Have I done something wrong? Like— am I in trouble?” You force out the question that’s been eating you alive.

He smiles, the corners of his mouth pushing into his puffy cheeks. “How did you find mentoring with Finnick Odair to be?”

The way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes terrifies you, but not more than the fact that he hasn’t answered your question. The way his eyes, beady and cold, are staring at you expectantly suggests he knows everything that happened in the tribute apartment. Everything.

“Oh— it… it was fine.” Your nails are now digging into your palms, probably strong enough to draw blood.

“I’ve heard you and Finnick Odair have come to a newfound… friendship.”

Your blood runs cold, confirming every anxious thought you’ve had since stepping foot into this place. “We…”

He raises a hand to stop you, like he’s not interested in any excuses. “I’m sure he told you how he helps the Capitol,” he began, and you feel sick. Help was a poor excuse of a word to describe what Snow did to Finnick. “And I’m sure you know why you haven’t been asked to help as well.”

Because everyone who loves me is six feet under, you think. All except— no. He wouldn't.

“Well I’m telling you, that changes now. If you have any reservations about this, I encourage you to think of your new friend.”

There’s no way he would harm Finnick to keep you in line, he’s so much more valuable than you are. Surely he’s bluffing, and you want to say that, when he continues.

“If you’re willing to risk his life to see if I’m bluffing, there’s nothing stopping you. I would just encourage you to think hard.”

Panic is rising in your chest, threatening to force sobs out your throat as you nod. “Can I go now?”

He nods, and you try not to sprint out of his office.

Finnick, on the other hand, doesn’t need a meeting with President Snow to be reminded his newfound fondness for you has its consequences.

Once Mags had passed, he was supposed to be free. Now, he’s only extended his sentence to life.

[ktownshizzle]

Honey & Citrus | an myg drabble

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Meet-cute coffee shop!au, to be confirmed if Yoongi is an idol or not

✎ ˎˊ˗  Summary: You haaate your job, but at least there’s this sexy eye-candy at your favorite cafe to distract you from your miserable 9 to forever grind. Your simple, casual nods with him turn into a silent caffeine war when, after his small act of kindness, you buy him his coffee—and he refuses to let the favor go unanswered. Suddenly, you’re locked in a daily battle of who pays first, and just when you think you’ve reached a stalemate, fate (and a very nosy barista) throws in a twist you never saw coming.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: None ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.6k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 13, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Welcome to another unplanned story. Just a little something I whipped up for the boss babes and corporate girlies working in their city's business districts, desperate to find a semblance of happiness in their robotic working days–did I mention this was really self-indulgent? I am not sure if this stays as a one-shot or a series of drabbles? Idk. Anyways, enjoy!~

Series Masterlist | More Yoongi stories this way > Masterlist

There’s a rhythm to your mornings. The kind that makes life feel like a well-oiled machine—predictable, efficient, sharp. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway, as you sidestep a finance bro barking into his phone to push open the door to Honey & Citrus cafe.

Not Coffee Bean. Never Starbucks. Not even Compose—even though Kim Taehyung’s face could certainly make you wanna come (in).

But you don’t need the soulless corporate grind in your caffeine routine when you already live it from 9 to god-knows-when. Honey & Citrus has the good beans, the real baristas who actually know your order and don’t try to be fake-friendly with you, and the quiet that lets you inhale a moment of peace before stepping into the battlefield of bullshit board meetings.

And then there’s him.

“Iced Americano for Yoongi…” 

He’s always there at the same time as you. Every. Single. Day.

A handsome stranger with sharp, feline eyes and an ever-present air of quiet confidence. The very first time you see him, he was wearing a suit. A medium gray set with an interesting burgundy tie. He held a small suitcase, fit for a macbook air, maybe a thin stack of paperwork. Definitely some VC vulture or hedge fund guy, gifted with the face of a luxury brand model.

But then one day he was wearing… a hoodie and black slacks with headphones slung around his neck, the expensive kind audiophiles swear by. 

Hmm. With this look, your previous assumptions did not add up. Now, you couldn’t quite place his profession. 

Since then, it becomes some sort of game you play in your mind. To discover what this dude’s job is.

One day, he holds a notebook filled with messy, poetic scrawls—you catch a glimpse as he flips the pages, and your mind spins wild theories. Another morning, he reads a printout of a Shareholder Meeting report as he awaits his coffee. Then the next day, you spot a vinyl tucked under his arm, and something about that sends your curiosity spiraling further.

Music Executive? Writer? Producer? Who is this mysterious artsy type in a sea of wolves? But maybe is a wolf. Lawyer, City Prosecutor, some Start-Up Founder… who likes to dabble in poetry?

You’re fascinated. Man has aura. And on top of that, he sure looks like he can fuck.

Unlucky for you, your interactions so far are limited to polite nods, the occasional small smile exchanged as you both wait for your respective coffees. Maybe the universe has a sense of humor, slotting you into the same ten-minute window every day with a stranger who intrigues you far more than your own coworkers do. But of course, he is not interested in you.

You wake up with a migraine, and instantly, you know—it’s a morning from hell.

Your alarm didn’t go off. Your inbox is already on fire. Your boss sends a cryptic “let’s talk” email before you’ve even left your apartment, which is never a good sign. You forgot about the afternoon presentation you’re supposed to give, and your deck isn’t even half-finished.

The thought of quitting—of walking into that glass tower and tossing your resignation onto your boss’s desk like a dramatic K-drama lead—has never been more tempting.

This morning has no rhythm. More out of tune than drunk-you in a Coin Karaoke.

By the time you drag yourself into Honey & Citrus, it’s already a god-forsaken Friday. You’re barely holding it together, probably leaving a trail of smoke in your wake. Your hair is frizzy, your face frazzled—it’s just a fucked-up day all around. And it’s barely 8 a.m.

You’re so deep in your own misery that you don’t even clock the fact that your favorite stranger has been looking at you since you walked in.

Not until—

“Fighting~”

You blink.

He’s looking right at you, his dark eyes warm with quiet amusement as he mouths the word again, this time with double closed fists, like a cartoon character summoning energy. And then, just for good measure, he smiles.

A real one.

The disbelief must be all over your face because suddenly, you’re giggling—actually giggling, something you didn’t think you were capable of before noon.

Yoongi—the mysterious, unreadable stranger you’ve been quietly fascinated with for weeks—just gave you the world’s softest pep talk.

And then, as if realizing what he’s done, he quickly looks away, pulling a face mask over his mouth, his pink-tinged cheeks disappearing behind black fabric.

A second later, he’s heading for the door, stepping out into the cold like he didn’t just single-handedly save your morning.

Your eyes follow him until he disappears around the corner, but the warmth he left behind lingers in your chest.

Maybe because you needed to hear it. Maybe because no one’s said it to you in a long time. Maybe because he said it.

You take a deep breath, square your shoulders. And somehow—somehow—you make it through the day.

You survive. Without handing over your resignation letter.

Small wins.

The next Monday, you get to Honey & Citrus first. You don’t even think about it—you just do it. You buy his coffee.

And then you sprint out before he can react, because suddenly, the idea of watching his expression feels too embarrassing to bear. You tell yourself it’s just a small gesture. A thank-you for a kindness he probably doesn’t even think much of.

The next day, though, he beats you to it.

You walk in, and the barista just hands you your usual order with a knowing smile. “It’s covered.”

You blink, turn, and find him already at his usual spot, sipping his drink like he didn’t just declare war.

Because it is so obvious he did this just to one-up you.

You narrow your eyes. He lifts his cup in a silent toast, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement.

And so it begins.

For a week, you play the game.

One morning, you bribe the barista to let you pay first. The next, he somehow convinces them to refuse your card. 

You show up earlier to get ahead, but the next day he shows up even earlier.

Your schedule is screwed. You’re suddenly up way earlier than you like, but you like it.

It’s ridiculous. It’s fun. It’s completely unlike anything else in your day.

Until, finally, one morning, you both arrive at the exact same time.

You grab the door handle—he does, too. His palm brushes against your knuckles. Both of you freeze, eyes locking, realizing at the same time:

Shit. No winner today.

You swear you see his lips twitch, like he’s holding back a real smile. And then—before you can overthink it—you finally, actually, talk to him.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “we could just both buy our own coffee like normal people.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” His voice is deep, lazy, laced with amusement.

“Are you always this competitive?”

“Are you?”

You huff, trying to suppress the warmth creeping up your neck. He leans in slightly, and it’s the first time you’ve really, truly studied him up close—the sharp cut of his jaw, the quiet intensity behind his eyes, the scent of something subtly musky clinging to his coat.

“Since we’re doing introductions before the next round,” he says, “I’m Yoongi.”

Of course, you already know it. You give yours in return, and he nods like it makes sense. Like he already knew it as well. Which makes sense.

As you walk in, the barista snickers, clearly entertained by whatever weird silent war you and Yoongi have been waging for the past week. You’re about to step back, let him go first when the barista clears her throat.

“Actually,” she says, way too pleased with herself. “It’s on the house today.”

Both you and Yoongi blink in unison.

“What?” you ask.

“Why?” Yoongi adds, looking just as skeptical.

The barista leans on the counter, grinning like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Valentine’s Day promo.”

Your stomach drops. Your brain stalls. You look around and Honey & Citrus has little cherubs hanging from the ceiling.

“First couple to walk in together gets free drinks,” she further explains.

You feel the heat crawl up your neck, your face burning so hot it could brew the damn espresso yourself. Beside you, Yoongi makes a tiny sound—like an exhale caught in his throat—and when you turn your head ever so slightly, you see it.

His ears are bright red.

The barista just smirks. You are going to die here.

You should correct her, actually. You should explain. But words? Language? Coherent thought? We don’t know her.

But that’s when Yoongi does something absolutely insane.

He clears his throat, thanks the barista, and then—looking at one of the booths of the cafe, still not looking at you—he says, casually, like this isn’t the most absurd moment of your life,

“How about we have that first date right now?”

Your head snaps toward him, and he finally meets your gaze, and oh, he’s serious. 

Your heart stumbles over itself, but you manage a tiny, shy smile, and a quip, “…you mean this coffee? Here?” Because that’s all your pea brain can compute.

His lips twitch. “Mm. Unless you wanna go somewhere else?”

Huh.

You hate that he’s smooth about this. You hate that you kind of really, really like it. 

You swallow hard, shifting on your feet. “This place is fine.”

His smile curves, small but victorious. “Good.”

The barista practically vibrates behind the counter as she hands over your drinks, joyful even though two drinks are getting docked from her pay that week. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”

With Yoongi, it feels like it's definitely going to be...

:)

A/N: To you, my dearest reader. I hope your heart is filled with joy today and forever. You deserve it!

Want more for our coffee shop couple? Let me know if you’re interested in me turning this into series of drabbles?? Look at me adding more stuff into my WIP list.  Caved! Here's the H&C masterlist

Thank you for reading this you lovely, beautiful human! xo

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Divider by: @cafekitsune (thank you!)

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; a new face arrives in town, and everything begins to shift. something is terribly wrong strange, but no one is talking.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ next

☆ story masterlist

As the first light of dawn filtered through the windows of the apothecary, you buzzed around, busy with substituting half-way empty jars with new ones full of elixirs and various herbs. The heavy scent of sage hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of brewing potions bubbling in the cauldron nestled in the corner. With a flick of your wrist, you lit the candles scattered around the shop, their soft glow casting long but warm shadows around the shop. 

Your familiar Sybil, a snow white Borzoi, twitched from her spot under the counter, slightly raising her head in attention. Not a second later, the bell above the door chimed with your first client of the day. 

“Well, well, still up with the dawn, I see.” The deep, raspy voice was unmistakable.

Alex stepped into the apothecary with his usual long strides, his dark blonde hair a touch wilder than you remembered. 

“And you're still sneaking around at sunrise," you teased lightly. “Here for Farah’s order? I was just about to pour a fresh batch.”

“Yeah,” he replied, as he handed you his usual green thermos for the refill. “She’s been feeling… well, she’s hanging in there. Just a bit more tired lately.”

You hummed knowingly, tightening your apron and moving to get the order ready. 

“Have you heard?”

“About?” You replied absentmindedly, focused on getting the exact quantity of steaming liquid into the thermos. 

“The new girl that Laswell took in.” 

That made you pause and turn to look at him. 

Laswell was a witch like you, and a deeply influential one at that. That made her difficult to approach, but even harder to earn her trust. It had taken you a year of back and forth before she allowed you to set up shop in this part of the city. So to say that you were slightly intrigued was an understatement. 

“Who now?”

He snorted, stretching over the counter to wriggle his fingers down at Sybil, and who in response raised her large snot to meet them in greeting. 

“Apparently a few nights ago Ghost saved this rando girl from the Rose District―”

“What the hell was she doing in the Rose District?” 

“Well clearly she’s not from around here.” He retorted, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, which clearly wasn’t. Even people from out of town knew to stay away from that place, especially at night. She was either from another country altogether or really, really, dumb. 

“Anyways, he took her to Laswell and she offered her a job on the spot. She even let her settle in the loft above her bar and all.”

“Well, that’s….unexpected? But good for her I guess.”

“But wanna hear the best part?” Shrugging you rang him up, throwing in a few stray herbs in a satin pouch as an extra for his wife. 

“She’s magicless, and a total smokeshow.” He was clearly trying to get a rise out of you, and honestly, he was successful. Rolling your cleaning rag tightly, you snapped it against his hand. He yelped in surprise, cradling his hands with mock-indignation. 

“Anything else?” He shook his head and dropped the exact amount for the order into the ornate dish you kept beside the register. 

“You’re no fun,” he pouted, stashing the flash into his bag before pointing at the satin bag. “What’s this?” 

“They should help with Farah’s morning sickness. Just mix them in with her morning tea, a dash of honey will help with the bitterness.” 

He gave you a wide boyish grin. “You’re the best, you know that?”

Waving him off and as if telling him ‘oh I know’, you watched him leave with a spring to his step, clearly eager to go back to his wife. You waited for him to disappear from sight, before reaching for your phone in your apron’s pocket. 

9:15 am

you: hi

you: everything k? alex told me about the rose district

9:17

👻: 👍🏻

9:18

you: lmk if u need anything

you: btw your order’s ready, you can drop by anytime

you: sybil says hi 

(picture attached) 

You didn’t get a reply right away, which was strange, but not uncommon for the half-wraith. In the end, he always got back to you. Telling Sybil to stay put and care for the storefront, you moved to the back to organise the rest of the day’s orders. 

Once upon a time, Ghost’s go-to place had gone out of business (he had personally taken it down after discovering it was a front for a fairy trafficking ring), and as per Laswell’s recommendations, he had appeared one day to commission you with a list of potions and ingredients, each tailored to his pack’s specific needs. He gave you three days, and you had gone above and beyond to deliver. 

You knew you had succeeded in meeting their expectations after he came back the following month with a much bigger and more detailed list in hand. And it was through his monthly visit that you got to know the rest of the pack. 

Simon took care of pickups and never stayed long, but long enough to listen to you rant about lousy customers, all while answering to Sybil's demands for pets. 

You never got much done with Johnny around, but his charm definitely helped you with sales, especially with the older gnome ladies. The werewolf also played tug with your familiar when the shop became notably busy and you couldn’t take Sybil for her daily walkies. 

As the only son of a witch, Kyle liked to help you with just about everything. He especially enjoyed peering over your shoulder whenever you delved into one of your many experiments, smiling like a child whenever you asked for his opinion. 

You got to know John last, a human Hunter and their de facto leader. He never dropped by, but whenever you encountered him outside your shop, he never failed to greet you with a warm smile and ever warmer shoulder-squeeze. The older man also was a worrywart to his core, always asking about you and Sybil, as in have you had breakfast/lunch/dinner yet? Did you get your windows insulated for the winter? He can take care of it for you, and oh he got a good bargain on some chicken, let him share some of it with you. 

Slowly but surely, they each had wormed itself into your stiff-witchy heart. 

10:30

👻: can’t today

👻: sendin’ alejandro

The curt answer made you falter, a mix of disillusion and confusion settling heavily on the pit of your stomach. His lack of response to Sybil's picture was also worrying, that never happened. You struggled not to push him for an explanation. 

And so, you waited. 

Alejandro made his appearance a few hours later. Again, you left Sybil in charge while you greeted him and his partner, Rudy.

“Preciosa, it’s good to see you.” Alejandro enveloped you in a tight hug and kissed you on the cheek, Rudy following right after. 

You returned their greeting just as warmly, guiding them to the back and to the crates stacked neatly and ready for them to take. You watched them work, swaying a little from side to side, before finally mustering up the courage to ask them about Ghost’s unusual absence. 

“Is Ghost okay?”

Alejandro grunted as he loaded the crates into the trunk, hand falling over his hips before he turned to regard you with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah he’s fine, por (why)?”

You shoved your hands deep into your apron’s pockets, a nervous habit. “He has never missed a pickup, and he’s not answering my texts.” 

“Oh, it’s probably that girl.” He acknowledged dismissively. As if sensing your dismay at Alejandro’s lacklustre response, Rudy chimed in. 

“Leah, the new girl working for Laswell.”

Making the most of his receptiveness, you prodded Rudy for more details. “Have you met her?”

He shook his head, tilting his chin towards his partner. “Nope, but Ale has.”

“Well she’s cute, in a mousy kind of way.” He supplied while scratching his chin, and something about his pensive gesture told you that he still hadn't exactly made up his mind about her. 

They were quick to leave however, busy with their own things, plus having to drop off the pack’s order. You watched them go, fingers twisting and turning 

Yes, hopefully this strange episode would pass.

. . .

Things did not pass, if anything, they only got worrisomely stranger. 

A few days later, you found yourself in the supermarket. It was just another part of your routine that you usually enjoyed.  You reached for a jar of honey, when you felt it—a shift in the air, a tingle at the back of your neck. Straightening, you allowed your gaze to wander, searching for the source.

And then you saw him.

He stood a few feet away, staring intently at a shelf of cereals. Your heart skipped a beat, not from surprise but from the pleasant flutter you always felt when you saw him. You  instinctively moved closer, a full smile already settled on your lips.

“Johnny, hi!” 

His head jerked up as if startled, eyes widening when they met yours. For a moment, he looked at you with a strange mix of confusion and surprise, as if he barely recognized you. 

“Och aye! Hello there! Whit ye daein' here?"

“Uh, I always shop here on Sundays?” But you know that, you’ve come with me more than once!

"Oh, dae ye no? Well, anyways!” Johnny’s brows furrowed, and he blinked rapidly, like someone waking from a deep sleep. His gaze flickered away from your face and back to the rows of cereal “Whit dae ye think Leah would fancy the most?"

That caught you off guard, so much so that you couldn't give him a rightout answer.

Suddenly, a second figure came from around the corner. It was Gaz. He walked up to the two of you, but something was off. 

“Mate, stop running off! We need to get back to—” Gaz blinked at you, as if seeing you for the first time. “Oh, hi?”

“Hi?” You parroted back with an incredulous guffaw. 

You just stood there, feeling an unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation—like the ground beneath you had shifted and you were the only one who noticed. This wasn’t right. Your relationship had always been so easy, and filled with laughter. But now, it was like there was a barrier between you and them, unseen and unsettling.

“Is…everything okay?” You asked them, voice laced with a mix of worry and disbelief. 

Gaz looked at you again, but there was no warm recognition in his eyes. “We’re fine,” he said, though his voice was flat. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, Johnny following him like a shadow, a box of chocolate flavoured loops in hand.

He hated that kind, not even bending whenever Gaz tried to coax him into getting them as a treat. 

You watched them disappear down the aisle, dumfounded. The vibrant hum of the grocery store around you flickered slightly as your mind whirled. 

Taking a breath, you forced yourself to stay calm. You should head back to the apothecary and Sybil, maybe even check in with Laswell. 

She’d know what to do, right? She always did.

banner credit

[fatkish]

Alpha Tengen+Wives x Omega Reader

Pt. 2 NSFW

During your time in the entertainment district, you and Tengen got along and bonded. He told you about his past to which you comforted him, telling him that his family’s deaths weren’t his fault and he shouldn’t blame himself

Whilst you guys were talking, Tengen decided to pop the question and ask if you were interested in becoming his 4th mate

You told him you would think on it

During the battle in the entertainment district, you managed to save Tengen’s hand but not his eye

You got hurt quite a bit during that battle but nothing that was life threatening

After seeing him in action and getting to know him well, you decided you wanted more time with him

So you left the battlefield and went home with him and his wives

His wives were extremely receptive to having you stay with them again. Suma begged you to make a giant communal nest for everyone to snuggle in, and you agreed

Then things started to get serious

After you and Tengen were healed up, you knew you were about to go into your heat. Tengen could tell and he decided that he would allow you to chain him down if needed, if you didn’t want to have sex during your heat. But you talked it over with him and decided that you felt safe enough with him

To say Tengen was excited and happy was an understatement. He was so happy that you felt safe enough with him to allow him to take care of you when you were at your most vulnerable

When your heat hit, Tengen was there servicing you and giving himself to you entirely. When he wasn’t having you sit on his face with his fingers and tongue buried deep inside of you, he was stuffing you with his cock, pounding away at your insides

Tengen would alternate between eating you out, letting you rest, fucking your brains out, letting you rest, then rinse and repeat

Tengen is mad skilled with his fingers, you can’t tell me anything different. It would take him less than 2 minutes to finger you into an orgasm

While Tengen helped you through your heat, his wives cooked your guys’s meals and brought you guys whatever you needed

Eventually your heat ended and you both returned to the communal nest to snuggle with his wives

After spending your heat with Tengen, you decided to make it official and you told him you accepted him as your mate

That night Tengen celebrated with you and his wives. Promising to be the best mate ever and to give you lots of children

When it comes to pleasuring his many mates, have no fear, the man has got stamina and isn’t ashamed to let you use him

While someone rides his cock, two of you can use his hands while the fourth rides his face. He’s more than happy to please

When it came time for Tengen’s rut, you were stuck with him and suffered orgasm after endless orgasm. His wives helped by substituting for you when you couldn’t take anymore

This man is tall, so his cock measures at about 9 inches in length and 2 inches in girth. His knot is 3 and a half inches wide. He’s got some thick veins and the head is a pretty pink

While he’s more than happy to dish out, he’s more than happy to receive. If you suck on his cock while he’s pleasuring his other mates, he’ll groan and growl, and if you play with his balls then he’ll snarl as he cums

Eventually you decided to retire to which, Kagaya was actually happy about since he didn’t want you to die before experiencing what life had to offer

When Tengen heard, he decided it was time to settle down and start a family. Well, he gave you 7 children. This man has some potent baby batter. 2 sets of twins, 1 batch of triplets

Suma was so excited at the news of your first pregnancy, she kept bawling her eyes out and hugging you

Makio was excited too but kept her composure. She simply congratulated you

Hinatsuru had started making baby clothes and getting things ready for the babies, she too was excited but decided to use her excitement to get things done

Tengen was so happy to hear the news he immediately picked you up and spun you around before bringing you in for a hug

You weren’t allowed to do anything while pregnant. No cooking, Makio, Suma and Hinatsuru took care of it. No cleaning, the girls are on it. If you tried to do anything, Tengen would pick you up and carry you back to your nest

You were only allowed to do low energy things like sewing or knitting baby clothes

Eventually you would give birth and everyone got to pick a name for at least one kid

Tengen is an excellent dad, he plays with his kids and even lets his daughters dress him up and he even does their makeup

Everyone takes turns with the babies. If the baby cries, don’t worry, cause everyone takes nights in shifts so everyone can get their rest

If you suffer from postpartum, don’t worry, Tengen and his wives will take care of you and the babies, after all, it’s the least they can do after you’ve given them a family

All in all, the Uzui household is hectic and filled with chaos, but it’s full of love too

Tag list: @imagineshazamlokimight

[lostintransist]

Seamstress Masterlist

You run a seamstress business in the manufacturing district. It is not unusual for men who look rough around the edges to pop through your doors. It is even less unusual that they fall asleep in your cushioned chairs while waiting for their minor fixes to be completed. However, one new customer is a bit different as he often will bring in clothes that don't fit him for fixes. Being a smart business woman you choose not to question it. It doesn't hurt that he is nice to look at and fun to talk to.

Series CW: written as a female reader, family drama and honestly bad mother daughter dynamics, mentions of healing from a traumatic experience (John), sexual content (part 9).

This is complete! 😘

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

AO3

Masterlist

Shout-out to @moomoog017 and @drizztdohurtin the cute dividers!

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

may the odds be ever in your favor - itoshi rin

fem!reader

“and the male tribute of district 12 is…”

you watched with bated breath, wiping your hands on your flowy skirt once more. you were wearing your best clothes for reaping day; something you never understood. why would you dress nicely to be delivered to your death? the seam was never known for it's incredible clothing nor hygiene after all.

“itoshi rin!”

your heart dropped.

rin was your best friend; you've known him ever since you were both still only 4 years old, and you were both 17. rin had put his name in for an extra amount of times in the reaping for tesserae. last year was his older brother's sae last year to be picked for the hunger games, and luckily, sae managed to not be picked once by the reaping ceremony.

rin wasn't so lucky.

you watched as rin stalked up the stairs, hands trembling. you watched as he stood next to the escort for district 12, anri teieri. “and now for the ladies!” she said cheerfully; too cheerfully, one might've added. sticking her hand into the bowl of young girls, she picked out a name and slipped it open.

“(y/n) (l/n)!”

your stomach lurched, and you slowly stepped towards the stage, tears wetting your lashes. you stood in front of rin, his eyes widening a fraction as he mouthed your name. “now, may the tributes shake hands!” both at both of your stiffness, anri took both of your right hands and clasped them together, forcefully shaking them.

“and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

you didn’t have any time to meet with your family members one last time, as you were both shoved onto the train to the capitol.

you, rin, and anri both sat around a round glass table. your supposed mentor, julian loki, sat a few feet away from you and rin; as a normal capitol citizen should. there were no previous district 12 winners, so therefore, a student of the academy there would be your mentor.

“now, for the both of you…” loki began, inspecting both of your faces. “you’ve both got good faces. i can imagine many of the capitol citizens would bet on you because of looks alone; especially you, rin. but what about your combat skills? and charisma?”

this whole train ride, you’ve been silent, but finally, you spoke up. “rin’s strong and fast. he’s good at kicking and he’s got good eyes.” you spoke your words like rapid fire but shutting up, rin’s eyes darting to you.

“(y/n)’s funny and likable. she’s good at hiding and good with nature.” rin replied right back. for a moment, you both just stared at one another in silence. finally, loki cleared his throat.

“that’s good. and im considering you both know each other well?” loki asked, taking a sip of his whiskey. you nodded hesitantly.

“yeah. we…we’ve known each other for a while.”

“then you can both be allies for the games.” loki said, taking out a golden pen and notebook, scribbling something inside. “president ego particularly enjoys this sort of stuff, although im not sure what head gamemaker chris prince will say about two people from district 12 allying up…but what can he do?”

anri nodded. “well, eat up. you guys will need to put on some weight to maximize energy. we’ll probably be arriving at the capitol at 9 AM tomorrow.”

a few silver platters were placed on the table, and both your eyes and rin’s went wide as circles when you saw just the amount of luxurious food there was in front of you. there was never this much food in district 12, especially not food that smelled so heavenly.

forgetting about the hunger games for a moment, you stuffed as much as you could in your mouth, uncaring about what food it was. all you could think about was how delicious the food was, and how different it was from the food at district 12. rin dug in as well, his cheeks round like chipmunks as he ate.

loki and anri looked at each other before shrugging. well, this might be one of your last meals after all.

—

you only remembered the names of the tributes might be threats to you and rin.

district one. isagi yoichi.

district two. mikage reo.

dissect three. karasu tabito.

district four. barou shoei.

district five. nagi seishiro.

district six. otoya eita.

district seven. karasu tabito.

district eight. bachira meguru.

district nine. yukimiya kenyu.

district ten. chigiri hyoma and his sister koyuki hyoma.

district eleven. kunigami rensuke.

one week later, you stepped foot into the arena, inhaling deeply to calm your nerves. you are rin both glanced at each other before you gave him a small nod.

5…4…3…2…1.

you and rin both bolted away from the cornucopia, not wanting to engage in a bloodbath. there was a forest a few hundred yards from the cornucopia, and you and rin had both met each other there. sitting down from exhaustion, you glanced at him. “i wonder how many of them just died from the cornucopia alone.”

“i don’t think purple made it out alive. the one from district two? i heard him scream.” rin muttered. “although the hassle guy from district five might’ve saved them; they were close during the training.”

“well, out least we made it out of the first most deadly five minutes of the games alive: the bloodbath.” you grinned. he raised an eyebrow at you.

“that’s not something to cheer about. the people who survive the bloodbath are the most deadly, meaning that the most deadly people are still alive.” rin mumbled. “let’s go find some water. it’s the most important thing to find on the first day.”

you nodded, standing up and following him.

—

it was supposed to just be a search for some berries.

but isagi was atop you, dagger plunged into your stomach, scarlet oozing out of your mouth and stomach. Isagi bit down on his lip, swallowing. tears stained his cheeks as he panted, gripping the handle of the dagger. “im sorry, (y/n), but i had to.” he whispered.

you knew isagi wasn’t an ally, not when he was probably the most dangerous tribute aside from rin, receiving a training score of 11 along with rin. but he always treated you politely, even having wished you good luck before the game started.

“rin!” you screamed, your voice shrill. “rin! where are you, rin?!” tears leaked from your eyes. you wanted to at least see him one last time before you died. isagi sighed before he stood up and walked away and vanished into the forest.

right as isagi left, you finally saw the familiar eyes of sea glass. “(y/n)?” rin asked weakly, before he sprinted over and kneeled down next to you. “(y/n)!” he hollered, tears at his eyes.

“nonononono— no, you’re okay—!” he whimpered, plunging the dagger out before ripping off his jacket and wrapping it around your stomach. you whined from the pain. “you’ll live, you’ll live—“ rin muttered.

“r-rin…”

“stop it. stop talking. you’ll be okay.”

“rin, i…” with the little remaining strength you had, you gripped his hand. your eyes softened as he pressed on your wound, attempting to stop the bleeding.

“i wish we could have lived a normal life together. i wished we could have joked around more often. i wish we could have spent longer together. i wish we could’ve gotten married and had kids and sang together more often with the Covey. i wish we could go into the illegal wired area of district 12 that we were always too scared to go into. i wish we could have gotten that thing called ice cream that the people from districts 1 and 2 and the capitol always have.”

“(y/n)—“

“rin, i love you.”

silence followed, and for a few moments, everything was ghostly silent. it began to rain, the gamemakers way of mocking him, and finally, rin broke.

most of the tributes weren’t there to witness your skin growing cold or your eyes going dark, and yet the dreadful scream that itoshi rin let out at that moment alerted everything that his beloved (y/n) had died.

he cradled you in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. “no, please, don’t leave me. please, don’t go.”

if only you could have responded.

—

isagi and rin were the only tributes left.

both of their knives at each other’s neck, they were both practically already half dead. “prince! they’re both going to die at this point, and this year will end with no victor!” a gamemaker, agi, exclaimed. chris prince hummed for a moment before typing something into his floating keyboard.

“let’s end it here. it’ll be entertaining for two people to have won the games this year and one of them having killed the other’s lover.” prince said. he tapped a button, allowing him to speak to isagi and rin.

“attention! isagi yoichi of district 1 and itoshi rin of district 12 are the victors of the 32th hunger games!”

they both looked up, wide eyed and bloody. a helicopter flew over them, letting down a ladder. they both climbed aboard the ship and were instantly transferred to medical support.

rin had 7 stabs on both of his legs, 3 stabs of his right arm, and one stab on his stomach. isagi had 5 stabs all over his torso and 9 stabs on his limbs in total, although he had received a severe head injury from a large rock being thrown at his head from barou as a last attempt to kill isagi before barou died.

itoshi rin didn’t make it.

—

in 2006, japan, kanagawa prefecture, you saw itoshi rin at an ice cream store for the first time when you were four.

a/n: in honor of the new hunger games book coming out🥹 if you guys didn’t know i love the hunger games, it’s my fav book series of all time; i’ve always been a peeta girl btw

[nevarrhoe]

mea culpa (m.m) - 3

SUMMARY: "mea culpa" (exclamation - noun/legal term)

used as an acknowledgement of one's fault or error.

↪ in which matt murdock accidentally falls in love with the district attorney's daughter.

warnings: smut, angst, swearing, fem! reader

masterlist

(anyone caught interacting w/ out their age in their bio will be blocked)

Part of you was a little nervous to hang out with Matthew. 

You had undeniable chemistry. Undeniable. It was like a fucking nuclear bomb, in fact. But that was in the bedroom, miles away from the real world and in a place where talking - at least the conversational kind - was far and few. All the factors that made you different - age and money and social standing - made things hotter in that sense. It was frowned upon, even forbidden, and you craved it like an addict. Craved him like an addict; the rush, the highs, the feeling of his hand around your throat. 

In real life, though, you were the District Attorney’s rich daughter, fresh out of law-school and Matt Murdock was a small-time lawyer in his mid-thirties. Those things weren’t meant to be compatible; not when your outfits alone were three times his rent and his life experiences made you look fucking juvenile. You weren’t meant to understand his lifestyle. He wasn’t meant to understand yours. And yet, you both begged to try and wrap your head around one another. 

You knocked on his door at exactly 9:15PM; late, but fashionably so. Especially when you had been raised to think that you were always on time, and that everyone else was simply early. Matt had told you to dress comfortably - maybe you had different definitions of that, but you’d tried. Your oversized jumper was Versace but it was casual. It was also the cheapest thing you had in your wardrobe, but somehow still worth more than the average person’s college tuition. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Matt met you with a smile. He looked different out of his work suits, but still charming in a tight shirt and sweatpants. No complaints on your part. 

“Hey,” you replied, following him inside his apartment. “I’m dressed casual, so what are our plans?”

He wrapped a large hand around your wrist and led you to the sofa. “Chinese takeout, since I sort of duped you out of it the other day at lunch-time.”

You dropped onto the couch opposite him; Matt kept a hand on your thigh, thumb rubbing circles as he reached to the coffee table and handed you a menu. The prices were a tenth of what you usually paid at your upscale places - most of them required reservations months in advance, and cost a small fortune for a tiny fucking plate. Your food bill was normally hundreds of dollars alone. 

“You did trick me,” you smiled. “What do you recommend?”

“The kung-pao chicken is good,” he replied. “I have this place on speed-dial. It’s the best restaurant to go to when it’s 3AM and I’m neck deep in a case.”

“Oh, tell me about it,” you said. “When I was doing my finals at Harvard, I would order take-out every night.”

Matt’s eyebrows shot up. “You went to Harvard?”

“Yeah, and I graduated Summa Cum Laude,” you explained. “What? You weren’t expecting that?”

“Honestly? I wasn’t,” he said. “I mean…I assumed you must have had some kind of legal background, with your dad and everything, but graduating Harvard with honours takes…”

He trailed off, pausing. 

“Hard work?” you offered. 

Matt grimaced. “Yeah.”

“Charming, Matthew. Real fucking charming,” you snorted. “You know you sound like every other man I’ve ever met, right?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that,” he gave your leg a squeeze. “You just continue to surprise me is all.”

You sighed, giving him a small smile. “I know I seem like a spoiled little rich girl to you - maybe I am, but I did study my ass for my degree and one day, I’m gonna put it to good use.”

This. This is exactly what you were about: Matt had probably worked a thousand times harder than you for his career. You figured he didn’t come from money - not in a bad way, just in a way that meant he was normal to some degree. His future wasn’t guaranteed like yours. There was no nepotism or family money for him to fall back on so of course he was going to see things differently to you. Everyone did. You didn’t care what anyone else thought most of the time, and you could safely say there were only two people in the world whose opinion mattered right then: your father’s, and for some reason, Matt Murdock’s. 

God, you hoped that Frued wasn’t right. 

“I don’t doubt it,” Matt said. “What about everything before that?”

“What do you mean by everything?”

“I mean everything,” he shot back. “I wanna know about you.”

You smiled. “Okay. I’m the youngest of three; my older sister is married to some guy who’s like 500th in line to the British throne, and my brother is on a party boat in Mexico right now with his boyfriend and Kendall Jenner. My dad’s family earned a fuck ton from oil in the early 1900s and my great, great grandad once tried to fight John D. Rockefeller.”

Matt snorted. “Who won?”

“Think about it, Matt - who has their own skyscraper?”

“Not your own grandad, I’m assuming.”

“Exactly,” you replied. “That’s all the interesting stuff. All the other stuff is kind of boring-”

“- it’s not,” he cut you off. “What about now? Do you also try to fight billionaires?”

“Not fist fights.  I once got into an argument with Anna Delvey at a banquet because we both wore the same outfit,,” you said with a grin. “Honestly, though? I probably just do everything you think a rich girl does. I eat, I drink, and I tell people that someday I’m gonna make a change.”

“What’s stopping you?”

You shrugged. “I got my law degree because I wanted to help people, like Nelson and Murdock do. But that means taking the stand against my father and things get complicated, you know? It’s a big risk to take if I want to stay good with my family.”

Matt pondered for a second - his initial thought was to call you out for choosing a corrupt man like your father over justice. Then he thought about what his own father meant to him. Jack Murdock likely had strikingly different morals to your dad but wasn’t that the common denominator? He was your dad. Matt would have given up everything he had in the world to get his back, if even for just a second. There was so much he never got to say; so much he never got to do. And for that, he couldn’t blame you for choosing family over making a difference. 

“Yeah, I get that,” he replied. “Where did you study before Harvard?”

“Guess,” you said. “It’s not hard.”

“Cambridge?”

“No,” you dropped your head into your hands, letting out a small groan. “Oxford.”

“Ah, of course - how could I be so stupid?” Matt grinned. “I’ve heard England is nice, though.”

“It’s not New York,” you shot back. “That’s enough about me. Tell me about you, Matthew Murdock.”

He paused for a second. “We have lived very different lives.”

“And I want to hear about it.”

“Are you sure? I was happy listening to you-”

“- Matthew, are you deflecting?” your tone was joking, but your actions were gentle as you took his face in your hands. “There’s no pressure to share but don’t avoid it because you think I don’t want to listen.”

“Okay,” he smiled. “It was just me and my dad, growing up. He was a boxer so things were a little tight but we got by. He died about a year after I lost sight and then I, uh, I grew up in an orphanage.”

“Wow,”  you murmured. “That’s a lotta history in not many words.”

Matt shrugged. “That’s the abbreviated version, I suppose.”

“What was your dad like?” you asked. 

“He was my best friend. I know I was probably biased because I was nine but he was the best guy in the world,” he continued. You couldn’t help but notice the way he smiled when he spoke about him. “It was always just me and him. We had very little money and the worst apartment on the block but we also had each other, you know? That was all that mattered.”

He’d said you know? but truthfully, you didn’t. Maybe your father had money and riches and had given you all the material things you could need, but you weren’t sure he’d ever loved you. The man had certainly never said it. Your entire childhood was nannies and boarding schools and the amounting pressure to give your parents more in a world where they already had everything. Perhaps they’d loved you in their own way, but it hadn’t been enough. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Matt gently asked. 

“Yeah, it’s just…your dad sounds amazing,” you replied. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

“I made my peace with it a long time ago,” he said. “I am who I am today because of him and I’m forever grateful for that.”

Then more than ever, you realised just how fucking incompatible your lives were. You’d had the audacity to complain about your parents not showing enough affection when people had actual, real problems. And Matt, a man who was no stranger to those actual, real problems, acted like they were nothing. Like losing his dad and his sight in the space of two years was something casual and flippant. 

You should have gotten up at that point and left. Told Matt that it had been a nice week of fucking and chatting, but now you had to go. You back to your world, and him back to his. Worlds that were supposed to stay separate, and not collide right here on his couch. 

The key word there was should have because like fuck did you get up in leave. Right in front of you was a beautiful man with a complicated past and crystal clear morals and leaving him was a Herculean task. Some part of you wished that he’d been an asshole - at least then you could have set the boundaries at just fucking, and no talking. 

You didn’t half ass things though. Maybe that was a good enough excuse to get emotionally involved. 

“You’re deep in thought,” Matt commented. “Wanna share with the class?”

“We’re so different, Matt,” you said. 

“I had noticed that, funnily enough.”

“No, I’m serious,” you said. “You’re a person with like…actual substance. And if you were a vigilante or something? You’d have a killer backstory.” 

He laughed nervously. “I guess so.”

“I get why you want to sleep with me, I’ll admit that,” you continued. “I just don’t get why you actually want to talk to a girl whose main personality trait is an American Express card.”

Matt didn’t say anything - instead, he pondered for a moment. You made a fair point; you couldn’t have been more different if you tried. Still, he was drawn to you the same way you were drawn to him. It had started with just an exciting fling but the more you spoke, the more it got him thinking. 

“You’re right,” he said. “You are a spoiled little rich girl, but you’re also smart, and funny, and…I don’t know. Every time I talk to you, you surprise me.”

–

You had to leave Matt’s early the next day.

Even though you didn’t work for your father, you still ran the occasional errand for him. It was obvious what his intentions were every time he introduced you to every judge and partner he saw in passing: daddy dearest wanted you to have in on the family law business. If only he knew that the singular reason you bothered helping him with the occasional legal job was for your own sanity. You had to be productive every now and then. 

After slipping out of Matt’s bed around 7AM with a soft kiss, you’d crept back home and gotten changed into something a little more…formal. Black and Chanel was always the way to go, with your red-soled heels and a little more concealer than usual to cover up the hickey on your jawline. 

Tired felt like an understatement. You’d stayed up talking til some stupid hour; your food had gotten cold and by the time you were done chatting, you were distracted by other things. 

You couldn’t help smiling, despite your exhaustion. Any worry you'd had before about Matt - about your age, or social standing, or anything - had gone. There was something there. Something good. You might as well have been the only two people in the world when you were alone together. 

“Once you’ve run the witness statements by Rand’s office, I need you to come back to my office and go over some testimonies for me,” your father was droning on and on. “Nothing too complicated, so you don’t need to worry-”

“- I passed the same bar as you, father,” you cut him off, tearing the papers from his hands. “What am I doing before that? Rand isn’t around ‘til midday.”

“I need you to sit in on a meeting with the defense attorney on the Althorpe case,” he explained. “Again, nothing too hard for you. We just need to reiterate what their point of law will be for their defense and - ah, here he is now!” 

Your dad grabbed your arm and pulled you to the court waiting area. 

“Mr Murdock!” he called. 

What were the chances? What were the fucking chances? 

Matt looked equally as surprised as you. He’d mentioned the night before that he had an early meeting but surely he would have mentioned if it was with your dad. You’d both made an unspoken point to not bring up work too much but it seemed like a huge fucking detail to skip over. 

“Good morning,” Matt gave him a tentative smile. “Sorry if I’m mistaken, but I thought I was meeting with the assistant district attorney-”

“- something came up,” your father cut him off. Gross. “Have you met my daughter? She’s a representative for my office and will be meeting with you this morning.”

“Uh, no, we haven’t met,” you quickly said, pulling Matt into an awkward handshake. They were warm and familiar. “It’s nice to meet you…sorry. What was your name?”

Matt bit his lip in an attempt to hide a smile. “Matthew Murdock, ma’am. Just Matt is mine.”

After exchanging a quick goodbye with your father, you both headed down the corridor and into your assigned meeting room. It was a box room, with a simple chair and table in the middle; grey walls, grey floor, grey roof. A perfect metaphor for the entire legal profession, it seemed. 

If you’d been exhausted before, you didn’t know what you were now. New York City was small at the best of times but that only increased tenfold when you limited it down to a courthouse. How many times had you and Matt breezed past one another before now? How many times would it happen again in future? Were you just meant to act…casual? Because acting like the perfectly respectable man right in front of you hadn’t had his hand wrapped around your throat less than twelve hours ago was difficult. 

“A representative for your father’s office, huh?” Matt teased you, tossing aside his cane as he took a seat. “You told me you avoided his work-”

“- I do!” you cut him off. “Generally speaking, at least. He just needed some help with stuff and I agreed. It’s no big deal. I’m literally just here as a formality.”

“Your acting was impeccable, by the way,” he chided. You could tell he was fully relaxed now, a smile on his face and broad arms folded over his chest. His morning had just become a thousand times better at least. “I don’t think he suspects a single thing.”

You let out a sigh, taking the seat opposite him. “He can’t. It’s over for both of us if he works anything out.”

“Hey,” Matt reached a hand across the table, taking yours. “He won’t.”

“This is very…grounding,” you muttered. 

“Grounding how?”

“Because it just goes to show how fucking small the world is!” you groaned. “We’re going to be running into each other a lot. How are we meant to act when we see one another?”

“If I see you then I would be very concerned. I am blind, after all.”

“Matt, I’m serious. This is serious,” you huffed. “We need to lay out some ground rules.”

He ran a hand over the back of your palm and gave it a squeeze. “The we that we both like only has to exist where we want it to.”

“Your apartment,” you said. “I like your apartment.”

“Okay, fine,” he gave you a smile. “My apartment is our safe space and in the court house, we are strangers.”

“Yeah, strangers,” you nodded. “Unless we find like a closet, or something-”

“- I am not going to fuck you in a court room closet,” Matt lightly whacked your hand. 

“Fine,” you grumbled. “You do realise we actually have to do work now and you have to sign off on these witness statements, right?”

“Right,” he nodded. “Just two strangers, doing some work.”

[xyywrites]

What to Do When the Middle Sags

Ah, the dreaded sagging middle—the place where your story feels like it’s running in circles, or worse, standing still. Many writers hit this wall, but don’t worry—it’s fixable. The middle of your story is the heart of the journey, the place where characters face challenges that set the stage for the climax. If your middle is losing momentum, here are some practical tips (with examples) to reignite the spark.

1. Introduce a Midpoint Twist

Give your plot a jolt by throwing in an unexpected twist that shakes up the status quo.

Example: In The Hunger Games, the announcement that two tributes from the same district can win together completely shifts Katniss's strategy and amps up the stakes.

Tip: The twist doesn’t have to be massive—just something that complicates your characters’ goals and forces them to adapt.

2. Add a Subplot That Intertwines with the Main Plot

Introduce a secondary conflict that deepens the stakes or explores a new side of your characters.

Example: In Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet's subplot involving Wickham creates tension and provides insight into Darcy’s character.

Tip: Make sure the subplot supports the main narrative. It should enhance the story, not distract from it.

3. Escalate the Stakes

If your middle feels slow, it might be because the stakes aren’t high enough. Raise the pressure on your characters.

Example: In The Martian, Mark Watney’s potato crop fails, leaving him with limited food supplies and no margin for error.

Tip: Ask yourself: “What’s the worst thing that could happen to my character right now?” Then let it happen.

4. Deepen Character Relationships

The middle is the perfect time to develop your characters’ dynamics—friendships, rivalries, alliances, or betrayals.

Example: In Stranger Things (Season 1), the kids’ bond with Eleven deepens in the middle episodes, revealing her vulnerabilities and cementing their loyalty to her.

Tip: Focus on moments of vulnerability or conflict that reveal something new about your characters.

5. Introduce a Ticking Clock

Deadlines and time limits add urgency to your story.

Example: In Inception, the middle accelerates when the characters face layers of time running out in the dreamscape.

Tip: The ticking clock doesn’t have to be literal. It can be a metaphorical deadline, like a relationship on the brink of collapse.

6. Force Your Protagonist to Make a Hard Choice

A moral dilemma or a tough decision can reignite tension.

Example: In The Dark Knight, Batman must choose between saving Rachel or Harvey Dent, pushing him into emotional and ethical turmoil.

Tip: Hard choices show growth—or cracks—in your protagonist’s resolve.

7. Change the Setting

A fresh environment can provide new challenges and visual interest for the reader.

Example: In The Fellowship of the Ring, the group moves from Rivendell to the treacherous Mines of Moria, increasing tension and danger.

Tip: Make the new setting more dangerous or unpredictable than the last.

8. Reveal New Information

Introduce a secret, revelation, or piece of backstory that changes the reader’s understanding of the plot or characters.

Example: In The Sixth Sense, the middle is packed with hints and reveals that slowly unravel the truth about Malcolm and Cole.

Tip: This new information should connect to the story’s core themes and drive the plot forward.

9. Focus on Internal Conflict

If the external action slows, delve deeper into your protagonist’s internal struggles.

Example: In The Catcher in the Rye, much of the middle is Holden’s internal conflict about growing up and his isolation.

Tip: Use internal conflict to build empathy for your character or highlight their flaws.

10. Foreshadow the Climax

Use the middle to set up elements that will pay off later in the story.

Example: In Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Harry’s discovery of the Pensieve and his interactions with Barty Crouch Sr. foreshadow the climax involving Voldemort’s return.

Tip: Plant seeds that will leave readers saying, “Oh, so that’s why that happened!”

Checklist for Avoiding a Sagging Middle:

Does every scene push the story forward or develop a character?

Are there unanswered questions keeping the reader hooked?

Have you raised the stakes since the beginning?

[my-my-my]

Haii I would like to request a Shinji x reader, with some spice please please🥹

Sure!! I had an idea tinkling around, so hopefully this suits your fancy 😊

Summary: Coming back to the Gotei 13 means getting a new office, a new lieutenant and of course... a new uniform. The process of moving unlocks dormant memories of Shinji’s past, but not all of them are bad, especially the ones involving you.

CW: MDNI! use of pet names (from Shinji), oral sex (m and f receiving).

Word count: 2713

Read on AO3.

Shinji scoffed at his new captain’s uniform neatly folded on his desk, in his newly renovated office. The Squad 5 barracks didn’t change in the century or so since the Hollowfication Incident, but squad members were different. And he could only thank Aizen for that.

“I got my work cut out for me.” Shinji grumbled, as his mind raced thinking the best way to approach his new subordinates and new lieutenant… but one step at a time. He quickly grabbed some magazines tucked away in the boxes he brought from the World of the Living.

Sighing, he placed the uniform and magazines under his arm and headed out to one of the few places that gave him solace in all of Soul Society, Rukongai district 9.

Shinji was holding his breath. It had been a century since he was here, would the shop even be here still? He walked down the street, seeing familiar stores and unfamiliar names. The Fashion District of Soul Society was alive and well it seemed.

There were various tailors and stores that catered to most of the particular tastes of the Nobles in Seireitei, but Shinji was never to follow their trends. Centuries ago he would bump heads with different tailors for unique pieces of clothing.

Until the day you opened up your shop.

And just like that, maybe out of habit, maybe out of anticipation, Shinji found himself in front of your shop once again. The sign held the same design as before and the name was boldly painted as ever.

As he entered the store, he grinned to himself to see familiar sights. Bolts of various types and colours of fabric were stacked upon each other. Stacks of magazines and hardcover books stacked randomly across the store, and amidst all the chaos, stood one counter.

And you, lost in thought as you concentrated on a commissioned, silk embroidered handkerchief.

“Ya still taking commissions?” Shinji chuckled as he sauntered over to you.

“Shinji! You’re alive!” You gasped, dropping your work on the counter. “I was told you died in combat.”

“That’s what they were tellin’ y’all? It’s been 110 years and they can’t keep their lies straight.” Shinji grumbled and tensed as you immediately wrapped your arms around him.

Shinji looked away as his cheeks grew pink at how close you were to him.

“You have to tell me all about it!” You beamed at him, taking in his lean figure and now short hair. “Also short hair suits you.”

The sincerity in your voice left Shinji uncomfortable. After a century of living in the shadows of the World of Living, to be thrown into your bright, cheery disposition, was enough to unnerve him. Even if coming to see you was entirely self-inflicted.

Once you let go of Shinji, you immediately noticed the now creased uniform and the peeking of magazine covers under his arm.

“Ah, I’m guessing you want me to tailor your haori, Shinji, but what’s this?”

Shinji gave a small grin, “I figured I can’t come here empty handed since it’s been a while. Got to travel to some interesting places in the World of the Living, and thought you’d like them.” As he handed you the magazines. Your eyes went wide as you skimed through the covers, eager to read them in detail. Then he handed you his uniform, “darlin’, do what you do best.”

You nodded your head, smiling at the pet name you missed hearing from him. You took Shinji by the hand and led him to a stack of magazines and books, “well let’s start here, maybe we’ll find something you like.” You bent down to pick one magazine, dating from the early 1970s.

“What do you mean?” Shinji asked, “you don’t wanna tailor it?”

You laughed, “things have changed in the Gotei 13! I think the Captain Commander has loosened the rules a bit.”

Shinji gave you an uncertain stare.

“Some of the other tailors have been tasked to modify some of the captain haoris in particular styles.” You said, as you flipped through the magazine, “and knowing you… I figured you’d like to do something to yours too.”

Shinji chuckled, picking up another magazine off the ground. “Fine, I ain’t gonna say no to that.”

“Perfect! Let me grab my notebook.”

Shinji sat on the ground as he thumbed through the pages, skimming different styles, cuts, and pieces that he saw pass through his time living amongst the World of the Living. You eagerly wrote down all the preferences he noted, asking him about any additional embellishments, trimmings and other oddities he would want.

“I think I have an idea.” You murmured, closing your notebook. “Let me close the shop, and you can go to the back. Let’s take some measurements.” You gave him a soft smile as you pulled out your measuring tape.

 Once you closed the shop, you made your way to the parlour room of your shop. Shinji was looking at himself in the mirror, pulling his bangs from side to side, mumbling to himself.

“Are you gonna cut your hair again?” You asked, as he turned himself around to face you.

“Maybe, not sure yet.” Shinji remarked, feeling uneasy again.

“Shinji, relax! You’ve done this a million times before.” You tried to ease the tension, but Shinji seemed lost in his thoughts. “I know you have a lot on your mind right now,” you murmured, “but for now, I want you to lift your arms out to your shoulders.” You gave him a reassuring smile as you measured the length of his arms, taking note that they were still strong as you remembered it. “Ok, put them down now,” as you proceeded to measure his sleeve length.

You quickly jotted down his arm span measurements, “ok I’m going to measure your shoulders and back now.” You murmured as you went behind him. Shinji tried to relax, but his heart began to quicken as you were so close to him. Your touch was firm, yet gentle, and it was throwing him off. “And now your chest,” as you went in front of him. You were focused on your work, but all Shinji could do was look away and watch you from the side mirror.

“You’re cute when you’re workin’, you know that?” He muttered.

“What was that?” You said, completely oblivious as you thought how his chest had gotten bigger from over 100 years ago.

“Nothin’, don’t worry your pretty little head over it.” Shinji sighed.

“Ok, I think I got your upper body down. I’ll take your lower body measurements.”

Which led Shinji’s mind to stray, as he watched you go on your knees as you wrapped the measuring tape around his thigh, scribbling down the measurement, then the length of his legs. He closed his eyes as he tried not to think about you in this position, before his mind flashed of having you bobbing your head along the length of his cock.

Shit, too late. He thought, but before anything could be said or done. You closed your notebook and got back up.

“Perfect, I think I have everything I need, Shinji. I should have this ready for you in two weeks.” You smiled softly, noticing the way his cheeks were pink. “Are you alright, Shinji? You’ve been a bit cagey today.” You said, sadness evident in your tone.

“Nah, nothing like that. Just like ya said, I got a lot of my mind right now.”

You frowned slightly, “ok, but, and I know I’m just a tailor, but you can come by and talk anytime. My doors are always open for you.” You murmured, wrapping your arms around him again, causing Shinji to tense up.

“I know. I might take you up on your offer, but not today.” He gave you a wry smile, “and besides, can’t leave without paying.”

“Oh for you, it’s on the house! You brought me those magazines.” You laughed, flattered he brought you something to begin with.

“Darlin’, I got a captain’s salary.” Shinji yawns, “I can pay my share and then some. It’s the least I can do.”

“Alright, but it’s only 50% today.” You said, as you tally up the fabric and tailoring cost, “I’ll take the rest when it’s complete.

“Ya got yourself a deal.” Shinji smirks.

The messaging system within the Gotei 13 improved significantly while Shinji was in exile. It surprised him to receive a message on his phone, of all places, that his haori was ready.

But he wasn’t surprised you finished it so quickly. You were always so concentrated with the work he commissioned, but how did you know his number?

He texted you a reply that he would be coming later in the afternoon. He was still wearing his World of the Living clothes, much to the dismay of everyone else in the Gotei 13. He rolled his eyes at the commentary and chiding he would get, as if he didn’t know the rules.

He lazily walked his way around District 9, another gift under his arm for you. Your texted him that your store would appear closed today, but to text you when he arrived.

And with a quick text, you quietly opened the door and led him back to the parlour room.

“I’m so excited to see you wear it, Shinji!” You grinned, excitement rolling off you, “I hope you like it,” as you handed him his new uniform.

“Before I change, have this.” Shinji said, handing you a small box with a light green ribbon tying it closed. “Open it while I go change.” He murmured.

You stared at the box in your lap as you gently unravelled the ribbon. Lifting the lid, your eyes widened as you saw what laid underneath, but before you could say anything, Shinji was done.

You gasped as you saw his new uniform. The modified, white waist coat with a frontal tie feature was tailored perfectly the uniform underneath, but you laughed.

“Your cravat is a bit crooked.” You chuckled, as you went to him. You hummed as you adjusted his cravat, with the custom white gold pins you ordered for him. You took a step back and admired him and your work, but then your brows furrowed.

“What’s wrong?” Shinji asked, as he stared down at his uniform and you.

“I think I need to hem your pants a bit more.” You said, as you immediately went down on your knees. Shinji’s cheeks went pink again, as you quickly remeasured the length.

“Oh I think I was just seeing things. It’s fine.” You said, laughing, but still on the ground. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Shinji?” You smiled, looking up at him.

Shinji sighed and closed his eyes, trying to get his mind out of the gutter with the way your eyes were looking up at him. “Nah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” You ask softly, as you slowly trailed your hands up his thighs, “I can help with other things.” You murmured, your face between his legs.

Shinji took a deep breath, “ok, fine, you can help me with one thing, c’mere.” He murmured, lifting you up. He gently cupped the back of your neck and kissed you softly on the lips. You kissed him back feverently, startling him, before he held you closer. The two of you broke away and panted, before Shinji grinned at you, “that wasn’t exactly what I wanted help with.” He snickered, before leading you to an empty couch. He sat down, spreading his legs, “I need your help with this, but you gotta work for it.”

You smiled and nodded your head as you sat between his legs, hands pulling aside his uniform. Shinji relaxed as he felt your arm hands wrap around his growing erection, gently moving them along his shaft as you began to kiss the tip of his cock. You hollowed your cheeks as you took him down your throat, moaning around him as you felt his fingers in your hair.

Shinji groaned your name, “good girl” he moaned, petting your head as you bobbed your head up and down his cock, running your tongue over the tip and along the veins of his cock. You wrapped your hands around the base of his cock and pumped him in time with your mouth.

Your pussy throbbed at the sounds he was making, as you pulled one hand away, slipping them between your clothes as you rubbed your clit, moaning around his cock.

That was enough to send Shinji over, “Be a darlin’” he gasped, “and swallow for me, ok?” Shinji said, bucking his hips and holding your face down as his cum spurted down your throat.

Once he was done, you pulled away from him, a ‘pop’ as your swollen lips let go of his cock. Shinji panted as he looked down at the sight of you. You immediately got up and went to the gift Shinji brought you, a handkerchief, and used it to dab your mouth clean, giving him a smirk.

“It wasn’t meant to be a cum rag” Shinji complained, throwing his head back into the seat and sighed. “I made it for you to keep.”

“I am keeping it! And I’m putting it to good use.” You laughed, as you sat next to him on the couch. Shinji wrapped his arms around you as you laid against him, your fingers crawling up his legs, close to his soft cock, before Shinji pushed your hand away.

“Darlin, you’ve done enough for me today.” Shinji drawled, sitting up. You looked up at him, pouting, “don’t give me that look.” He scoffed, “I can’t leave my lady alone after all of that.” He chuckled, kissing you again. The two of you tugged down your clothes and undergarments, leaving you bare for him.

Shinji soon trailed his lips down your body, with his long, thin fingers pinching and rolling your nipples. He sank down to his knees as he faced your wet pussy. Shinji smirked as he looked up at you, your body flushed with sweat, panting his name.

“Since you worked so hard,” Shinji murmured, hooking your legs on his shoulders, “my darlin’ deserves another gift.” You cried out as Shinji gave a long lick along your pussy, before flicking his tongue against your clit. Your body jolted as you felt something smooth against his tongue and your clit. But before you could ask, you squealed, immediately weaving your hand through his hair as you brought his face closer into your pussy, screaming Shinji’s name as he buried his face in your cunt.

You held his face close as you felt the same sensation hit against your clit. Your legs twitched as your orgasm was fast approaching, with Shinji increasing the flick and laps of his tongue.

“Shinji – I can’t” you cried, as you felt your body jerk in response. But Shinji didn’t let up and continued, pushing his tongue into hole. A low moan left your body, eyes rolling as your orgasm waved through you. Shinji savoured the taste of your juices as he gently licked away at your slit, before kissing your inner thighs.

You gave him a shy smile as he sat back down on the couch. “Where’d you learn how to do that?” You murmured, as you tried to even out your breathing.

“Learn what? Eating your pussy? You taste good, darlin’” Shinji remarked.

“No,” you laughed, “there was something on your tongue.”

“Surprised it took you this long to notice.” Shinji chuckled, sticking out his tongue. A metal piercing was straight through its centre.

Your eyes were wide, “when did you get that?!”

“A long time ago, but it doesn’t matter.” Shinji yawned, “you’re gonna feel more of it later.”

Blushing, you leaned into Shinji’s body once more, “and thank you for the handkerchief.” You murmured, holding his hand, “you made it didn’t you?”

“I did. I learned somethings while I was livin’ out there ya know.” Shinji responded, squeezing your hand back. “Anyways, how’d you get my Soul Society number?”

“Oh that, I asked Rose’s tailor and Rose gave it to me.”

Shinji scoffed, then kissed you on the forehead, “ya really are resourceful, aren’t ya darlin’?”

Thank you for your request! I hope this is to your liking. I wanted to incorporate his new uniform and tongue piercing, so voilà! I was also inspired by MICHELLE'S Pulse.

[rosy-hollow]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱɪx: The Feast

ᴀ/ɴ: so like - i forgot to kiss the brick before i bashed it into my own head... i was physically crying while writing this, ask @unch4rtedwxters they have picture proof- full series masterlist here!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: cursing, DEATH, BLOOD, A N G S T, I REPEAT, A N G S T (this is me kissing the brick), the hunger games, major character death, murder, anxiety attacks, overall just bad bad bad

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader

Both of you are awoken by a loud, blaring fanfare and the booming voice of Oboro Shirakumo, the head Gamemaker of the Hunger Games, echoing throughout the arena for all to hear.

“Attention remaining tributes - the Feast will begin tonight at nightfall. All of you are in critical need of certain resources. Each of you will find what you require in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The silence that ensues the announcement is deafening. You try to remember who’s left.

13 died in the bloodbath, and you and Bakugou killed the boy from District four. Micah pitches in, telling you that he remembered five other canons throughout the five days you’d been in the arena.

You blink at the reminder, the sound of a cannon booming to mark the death of each tribute. You hadn’t registered the one that sounded when you killed the boy from 4, though you credit that to your crazed and panicked state.

The others… if you’d been subconsciously tuning them out, you seriously needed to step up your game.

The smallest mistake meant death in this arena.

18 dead... that meant there were six left in the arena.

You, Micah, the boy from District 1, the girl from District 2, Toga, and…

Bakugou.

You shake the thought of him from your head, focusing on your younger ally instead. 

You open your mouth to speak.

“It’s not worth going.”

“I think we should go.”

You blink in confusion. 

“You- what? No way, Micah, it’s too risky.” you frown and the boy matches your expression.

“So? You heard him, whatever is in those packs, we need! We could get you medical supplies!”

You shake your head. “No. No way. I probably couldn’t get out of this tree without bleeding out again, and I’m not risking you like that.” you nudge him gently. “I just got a new brother, I can’t lose him yet.”

Micah’s eyes widen as you quote him from before, and he grumbles under his breath. 

“You’re not allowed to use my lines.”

You chuckle, mussing up his mousy brown hair. “You win some, you lose some.”

You shift yourself more comfortably on the branch. “Hey - where did you fill up your water from? You didn’t just survive five days on just your waterskin.”

Micah shakes his head, eyes lighting up. “There’s a contraption I got in my backpack.” he says, pulling out a small mechanical lump of…something? “It might look like nothing, but it’s similar to the ones we use in 9. It extracts the water from inside leaves.”

He plucks a handful of them from a branch in arm’s reach, opening up a latch in the machine to press them into. He positions it over the mouth of his waterskin, and you watch in awe as a small stream of water is squeezed out.

“Holy…cow” you breathe out - catching yourself from cussing. Maybe the blond has rubbed off on you.

Micah raises an eyebrow, teasingly but knowing.

“Cow?”

“It’s a thing we say. …In 11.”

“Mhm, sure…”

“Y-You’re a cow..!”

“What does that even mean?”

“...Good question.”

The day goes by like that, playful banter as you use Micah’s water contraption to fill up his waterskin as well as the empty canteen you had in your pack, while the boy went around picking berries and scavenging for food.

When night falls, you settle down for a hearty meal, finally falling asleep feeling hydrated and full for the first time since you’d entered these cursed games.

It almost made you forget about the Feast tonight.

Almost.

You knew he’d never do it, but what if Bakugou was going to the Feast right now, lurking in the darkness, grabbing the large pack with ‘2’ emblazoned on the front.

You think about his injuries, his injured arm - what if someone attacked him? The Careers coming back from revenge?

The thought plagues your mind - and as much as you try to tell yourself that you don’t care, some stupid, irrational part of your heart does.

Whether you liked it or not - he saved your life. Multiple times.

You didn’t like being in debt.

Back in 11, being in debt meant that other people could use whatever favor you owed against you. It was dangerous.

Which is why the whole ordeal made you so restless.

That’s what you told yourself at least, and you tossed and turned, but the thoughts kept you so paranoid that eventually, you just sit up, sleepy eyes looking for Micah’s sleeping form.

Only for a chill to settle deep into your bones.

He wasn’t there.

Your eyes dart around frantically, your leg screaming in protest and you can’t bring yourself to care.

Panic seizes you by the throat, choking you with such overwhelming fear that you feel like your suffocated, drowning in internal hysteria until one little detail washes over you like someone dunked you in the ice cold ocean.

“I think we should go.”

Oh no.

No no no no no no.

Shit, this can’t be happening! Micah you idiot!

Your aching limbs protest as you clamber down the tree, grabbing your dagger as you grit your teeth, your wounds searing in pain like white hot fire.

Black spots dance across your vision when your boots touch the grass, feeling dizzy from the agony but instead, you let your feet guide you, through the trees, through the bushes.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Your heart pounds in sync with your footfalls, both deafening against the blood roaring in your eyes.

Fuck, you promised you’d protect him.

You promised.

Tears of desperation prick at the corners of your eyes, slipping down your cheeks as you run, ignoring your wounds, ignoring the danger of other Careers that may be lurking.

You had to endure.

Like always.

Your heart stops when you finally reach the clearing, the Cornucopia in the center.

But that’s not what you’re focused on.

Micah.

The girl from District 4.

His small body thrashes wildly in fear as her fingers clamp around his neck to hold him still.

No.

No no no no no.

“MICAH NO-!”

You can only watch as his eyes lock with yours, widening for a fraction before he body stills, trident piercing straight through his heart.

You feel like the breath’s been taken from your lungs.

God, there’s so much blood.

And Micah…he’s just lying there.

Sleeping.

Except he’s not.

Your feet are moving, though you’re not the one controlling them.

A scream rips from your throat, but it’s not your voice.

Your hand pulls your dagger from your pocket, except it’s not yours.

You watch as your body sinks the blade of your dagger into the girl’s neck, her screams ripping through the arena as you yank it out, before stabbing it into her flesh once more.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The monster of rage fills every corner of your mind, chest heaving and heart pumping with adrenaline until all you can see

Is red.

You keep going, stab after stab, even when you hear the cannon go off, you don’t stop; almost like you don’t know how.

A small cry is what snaps you out of your trance, reality slapping you in the face.

Micah.

Oh God. 

Micah.

You collapse onto your knees, not caring about the pain that flares up his leg as you cradle him in your arms.

He’s coughing up blood, and you have to force yourself to not to look at the gaping holes in his body.

You feel sick to your stomach.

This isn’t fair.

Micah doesn’t deserve this - no one deserves this.

“Shit - Micah…hold on kid, you’re s-safe I promise…” you choke out, near sobbing, so distraught that you don't even care about your language now.

You’d apologize later.

If- when - you and Micah go back to the tree. Together.

Micah smiles weakly, his lips stained in crimson. Streams of blood leak from his nose, as tears slip from his eyes as you brush them away with your sleeve.

“...Cow.”

“I- w-what?”

“You meant cow, r-right?” he says, and your heart snaps in two.

Here he was, dying because of you- and yet he still tried to make you smile. 

“M-Micah… p-please just stop talking, I’ll patch you up and we’ll be okay-”

He lets you continue your frenzied ramble as you try to staunch the wounds with your sleeves in a poor attempt to stop the bleeding.

A weak mumble of your name is what quiets you, the boy staring up into your wide, terrified and tear filled eyes.

After all, you were just kids.

Kids who the odds weren’t in favor of, kids with bad luck.

Just…two unlucky kids.

Brought here by the Capitol to send a message.

You had no power in the arena.

Even if you won - you were still losing.

You always would be.

“W-Win for m-me…okay?” he says, his voice cracking as you stroke his cheek, blood smearing against his skin.

You shake your head stiffly, more tears falling from your face. “No, no, no, no, no, don’t talk like that. Don’t talk like you’re going to-”

“W-when you do… tell the Capitol t-to get better bread… the kind from 9 with the golden wheat…s’good..” he mumbles his voice starting to slur.

Panic grips your heart so tightly you can’t breathe, suffocated by anything and everything, with no choice but to sit there and take it. 

“T-Tell my f-family I l-love them… o-okay? A-And tell my brothers that they can’t use m-my room when I-I’m g-gone.”

His words don’t make his face, salty tears running over dried blood that rolls down his neck, and you choke on your own tears, holding him close. His pale is ghostly pale, too pale.

“Micah p-please-”

“I love y-you… y-you were a good big s-sister. B-Best I ever had.” he says, smiling despite the tears in his eyes.

The cannon finally sounds as his eyelids flutter shut - the first one you finally register.

But the sound of the helicarrier coming to take him away is drowned out by the sound of your agonized cries.

You don’t move, even after you watch them - the Capitol - take him away from you.

You’re too lost in your sorrows to notice the pair of red eyes staring at you from the trees.

taglist: @attackonnat @ldk3347 @onlyisaa @luciapiacat @wonubby @snoopyluvrpao @kiromiix @delshmel@nijoll @babypeapoddd@mirajanestrauss1999 @kianatrg @blankk3 @witch-craft-works@midnight-drives-with-sunarin  @samxbaker@xanneeeyyyy@tom-hollands-blog @jazoewazoe @sixxe@poot2234@beabamboo@yiz5uo @ilikeyyouverymuch @hauntedodette@xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx@rosekeu@grimm3r @m4y4wasnthere@eyes4bkg @ghostsoapwhore @sunootzrose @ilovemushroomss @risu-li @kawliflo @jealousmartini

[ruruvxz]

Can you write like a really really loser minji with like uhh a teasing playful and mean flirting fem! reader basically like a baddie reader 😭😭😭 idk how to explain it man so the thing is I saw this dynamic thing like minji is the taller one but gets teased Reader is the shorter but teases minji!! Just some fluff no angst please 😔

“Apple Cider”

Nerd!Kim Minji x Mean!Reader

↳ synopsis: After being kicked out of a house party you found yourself wondering the streets with a pounding headache. It wasn’t all that bad when you suddenly came across a taller woman, and not letting this opportunity through your hands, you ask to get her a drink.

↳ cw: mentions on intoxication, drunken kiss, prudish reader, mentions of language, reader is an ex-f1 racer, pure fluff

↳ wc: 3k

a/n: I kinda wrote this as a prologue of “10:36” but don’t worry it’s all pure fluff and this is basically how you met Minji… anywayssss it was really difficult to write this as I kept having to redo it since I didn’t like all my other proofreads (and the fact I’m a tall girl myself…)

Stumbling over a traffic cone, your head thumped and pounded as you were suffering a major migraine, which added to your irritation as you were leaving the worst party of your life. Everything was beginning normally, you came early as usual to lend a helping hand to one of your mutual friends, watching the people pool into the cramped apartment. How everyone's shoulders collided as you all tried to fit into this tiny apartment made you more irritable. 

It wasn't until someone poured a drink onto your already drunk state and began to berate you, that you finally took your leave. You bit your tongue, you didn't want to start anything so you swung your f1 academy jacket over your drenched shirt to cover the bright stain plastered all over and took your leave. Everything was so disorienting, walking through the crowded streets, you found yourself stumbling across the business district. You loathed this part because it reminded you of your impending doom of being a corpse slave, but at this point, you were too drunk to care.

All that lugging around trying to find a place to camp out wasn't making anything any better, your only saving grace was hauling your way to the nearest 7-Eleven. Thank the stars that you managed to wobble your way inside and pick up 2 bottles of apple cider, a drink you commonly drank to force your way back to sobriety. As you checked out your items you made yourself comfortable on a concrete diver and chugged the first drink down.

It was extremely sour, so you pushed yourself only to take small sips, whilst admiring the stars above you. A little ashamed that you got kicked out of a party so early on, usually leaving by 3 am, but it was only 9 pm. That was beside the point, as you felt your head stop thumping less and less, and finally, your headache dissolved completely. Sighing in relief, you looked at the spare bottle wondering how much of a waste of money it was to buy 2. Before you could return the bottle for some reward points or something along those lines, your ears picked up a large "Oomf".

Your eyes darted towards the noise as you saw a beautifully dressed woman, trip over a traffic cone, similarly to you. She was stunning, her long black hair falling softly onto her face, and with her tall stature, everything about her was so breathtaking. You even took notice of the dark eye-bags circulating under her gorgeous black eyes, she looked so fatigued it even made your partially sober state worry for her. You thought nothing more of her before she tripped once more dropping her glasses right in front of you.

Picking them up worriedly, you walked over to her and reached your hand up to pick her up. She looked up at you wide-eyed as you dragged her bag up, she immediately started apologizing as you handed her the glasses. Not realizing how tall her stature was until you stood right in front of her. As you examined her face closer as she pushed the glasses up from the bridge of her nose, she couldn't help but blush. You chuckle at her reaction a bit before speaking up.

"Are you alright? I just saw you trip on air right now..." You joked as the woman looked even more sorrowful, the idea of someone as dazzling as you watching her make a fool out of herself was humiliating. She grabbed her hand and rubbed her nape as you continued to laugh at her little accident, finally letting it all out she spoke up.

"I'm sorry. it's just I was so tired I couldn't see where I was going." She responded continuing to run the back of her neck while looking down at your smiling face. She wasn't lying though, after a long 3-hour seminar about economic ethics, she was beyond exhausted, especially since this was being taken out of her weekend.

"Maybe it's true, tall people don't have balance." You laughed at her, a part of you still a little drunken as you giggled at her antics before speaking up once more. "I've got some spare apple... drink, I uh, drink it if I want to energize myself— here take it, it's not like I was gonna drink it anyways." You insisted as you handed her the drink forcefully, her response being to weakly snatch it from your hands.

The drink was still cold and she had no problem drinking it, especially since a strikingly young woman, probably the same as her, was offering it to her. Usually, if it was anyone else the black-haired woman would've meekly declined their offer and moved on with her day, but you were different somehow.

As she cracked the cap off, she took a huge swig before coughing out from the sour taste, her eyes bugging out differently that tasted from her expectation. She looked at the bottle's wrapping as it neatly read "Natural Apple Cider", it wasn't bad but it was most definitely surprising. However, the way she spat out everything made you laugh hysterically even more.

"Hahaha, I'm so— hah... I'm so sorry, it's Apple cider." You laughed as she stared at the bottle for a little bit longer and then pried her eyes back to you as you chuckled loudly. "You looked so hilarious! I can't—" You continue laughing at her before gaining your composure once more, "I'm Y/N, sorry about that."

"Wow, uhm..." She was bewildered at your carefree attitude after practically just meeting her, but she laughed with you, your laugh was far too intoxicating. "I'm Kim Minji." She responded as she pushed a hair behind her ear before reaching out her hand to shake yours. You quickly do so as you ogle her height.

"I'll just call you... Tall girl!" Minji was dumbfounded by the nickname, which wasn't much of a nickname as it was just a plain-out observation. She looked around then back at you confused why you sounded so sure about that name.

"Now come on tall girl, let me get you an actual drink as an apology." You beamed as you offered her an actual drink, it wasn't even an offer actually, more of a subtle demand under the pretext of this being a sweet gesture. Minji, who was so hooked, just agreed while you dragged her by the hand and led her to one of your all-time favorite jazz bars. She couldn't help but chuckle at the circumstances she was facing at this moment, a shorter woman she had no prior knowledge about was offering to get her a drink.

As the both of you pushed through the crowded streets of drunkards and other ripped folks, you would mumble incoherent words that she would only understand bits and pieces. Minji would question why you kept mentioning some party and you'd scowl at her wondering why she wasn't listening, how could she? You were practically slurring your words every single sentence? But oddly enough, she found it so endearing whenever you would laugh it off. She was also still surprised how you could be so clearheaded and strut around in such a stunning outfit while not being the most sober person. Everything about you from your face to your minute details made her heart beat out of her chest.

You didn't notice how her hand tightened just a little bit, while she thought of the idea of you leaving her. Even for this midnight, she'd like to give this thing a try. As you headed inside the jazz club, you indicated sitting near the bar top. Minji, who wasn't a big drinker, (actually didn't drink at all before this situation) was a bit hesitant at first but she swallowed her fears and sat down right beside you. You ordered 2 amber ale beers and the bartender delivered, the drinks decorated with a frothy top as you took a large swig. Minji was stunned at the fact you could just coldly drink the bitter drink without any hesitation, making her believe it wasn't all that bad.

She lifted the drink to her lips, the froth coating attaching itself to her philtrum, as she took a short sip before abruptly sitting it out with a cough. It took you by surprise as she continued to cough out her drink, you patted her back to relieve her, thinking she might just be choking. As you leaned into her to make sure the taller woman was okay, your nose picked up her delicious scent of fruit punch. "Oh my! Are you okay?—Woah you smell nice, but are you good?" You repeated yourself as Minji came down from her coughing spree. As she lifted her head back up to look at you, her cheeks flushed red, not wanting to admit that this was probably the first drink she'd ever had in her life. She flailed her hand around trying to indicate she was fine as she continued to let out hiccuped coughs. 

It took you a few moments as you dissected her reaction before connecting the dots, ah, this was the first time she'd ever tried beer, a trashy one at that. "Oh. Is this your first time trying amber ale?" You questioned, she looked even more flushed as she hid her face with her palms, pretty much summing up your theory, you didn't expect that, after all, she looked like she was your age. Even entering the bar she showed the bouncer her ID and everything was checked out, so how could this possibly be her first-ever drink? As questions pilled up in your mind you couldn't help but let out a loud laugh, catching the attention of a few fellow jazz enthusiasts who were just trying to enjoy the music. Paying no mind to the glares of middle-aged men who had nothing to do but "appreciate" the gentle hums of the musicians, you spoke up a little too loud making Minji a tad bit more embarrassed.

"Your kidding! There's no way this..." You laughed, raising the drink higher up to give her a look before slamming it down on the counter. "...This shit! Is your first drink, tall girl." She sighed as you continued to tease her on the fact, before letting out a very long exasperated sigh whilst taking another sip of the drink. Minji wasn't in the mood to deal with you— a complete stranger— remarks on her visible lack of alcoholism. Truth be told, she hated people who drank since it would always lead to confrontation or messy tears, and she wanted no part of that. The fact that anyone would order an alcoholic beverage on her behalf would've made her scoff in disapproval before sending the drink back, but for some particular reason, she wanted to impress the alluring girl right next to her.

"D-Don't call me that, besides, it isn't," Minji said, trying her best to convince the girl next to her that she was much more bold than she was, despite coughing up her drink. "I was just, uhm, surprised that's all!" Was all she could muster up as you continued to laugh your ass off, you should've probably asked her if she drank or not before dragging her to your favorite Jazz Club, but you were paying for her drink, so really, was it your fault.

As the night went on, you both mutually started to order more and more drinks, as the clock struck 2am, you finally decided to wrap up this get-together and head home. It was kind of refreshing meeting someone new though, in the span of 5 hours, you learned more about her than you knew about your closest friends. Of course, not by your own will as it was her turn to babble her head off, she talked way too much about trivial topics she was into you found your migraine resurge for a bit. Things like her favorite romance novels or manhwa titles and synopses that you could care less about were all engraved into your memory, after all for some reason you couldn't take your eyes off of her. But eventually, everything has to come to an end...

That is what you would've said if she wasn't practically clung onto your arm with her head resting on your head as she loomed over your quite tiny build. If you knew she was a lightweight you probably wouldn't have encouraged her to have more drinks than she could handle, especially since you had to pay for each and every one she got. More than that, you wouldn't have agreed under the pretense that you had to drag this not-so-complete stranger back to her apartment. She was quite heavy as she was pressing all her body weight onto you as you searched and probed for directions to her apartment, her words slurred and giggly as you finally found her residence.

It was quite elegant as she lived in the well-off areas of the city, it made you jealous at the thought of anyone ever living so extravagantly, but it was better than having to drag her up the stairs if she lived in an apartment complex like yours. You fished the wallet out of Minji's back pocket to grab her complex's card key and unlocked the elevator for the both of you. As you hauled her into her apartment, you took in the view, everything was so dimly lit and the only light was being emitted by the city's scrappers and other colossal-sized buildings.

You chucked her onto her leather couch as she spewed more nonsense about her economic homework before finally taking a breather on the couch. She was adorable but you're too prideful to admit that to her face, you decided to just grab some water and sober her up a bit before heading back to your place with your roommate. Walking over to her, you handed her the glass of water before carefully monitoring her like a child, making sure she didn't choke. As she sat up, she swallowed the water in one goofy gulp.

"Hey now, don't drink it like that you might choke like last time, tall girl." You chuckle as she looks up at your standing posture with a pout, fixing the hem of your shirt you prepare yourself for your leave. Turning back from her gaze she weakly and fairly loosely grabbed onto your wrist with a hushed plea. "Please stay, Y/N..." Her voice filled with longing as she croaked out, making your heart soften at her state. You let out a playful scoff before taking a seat on the couch right next to her, Minji's eyes lighting up as you do so. She looked like a total lovesick geek right now, but you found her so endearing as you both sat in silence, taking short glances at one another.

"Your hair, it's really nice Y/N, can I uhm, please touch it." She spoke as you nodded softly, letting her delicate fingers stroke the back of your head, feeling your hair strand by strand under her palm. As she continued she looked more and more entranced by how truly gorgeous you were, her breath hitched once she stopped, leaning down to rest your head on her thighs. If it weren't for how dark her apartment was, you probably could've seen her cheeks radiating red, as her blush plastered her whole face. The way you looked so, unbothered, made her heart sink even further, she had never felt this way about anyone, mainly since she's usually cooped up in her apartment, avoiding any contact with anyone other than her close friends. 

Resting your head gently on top of her, Minji's eyes wandered around your whole body, taking in the sight that was in front of her. Her eyes landed on your scarlet leather race jacket, it was tailored perfectly for you, she let out a nerdy smile as she looked at all the patches that decorated your jacket. "That jacket... it's really cool, I like it." 

"Than I shall wear it more often." You responded, reaching your hand out and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, your knuckles softly caressing her heated cheeks. Despite how much you hated being reminded of your past as a failed driver who was promptly kicked off the grid, her words soothed you enough to encourage you to wear it more often. Looking back at the party that happened, you were glad it didn't work out since it meant that you met her. 

You both sat in silence after your little comment as she only let out a snort, her face still burning red as you laid on her. "Hey, do you mind if I sleep over?" You asked, and she nodded responding with a quiet, "Sleep as long as you want." 

"Great, I don't have anywhere to stay." You lied through your teeth, not wanting to go back home and stay by her side. 

"Hey Y/N, do you like me?" Minji asked boldly, still clearly stuck in her drunken state.

"Yeah, but not that much, Tall girl." You teased as you brought your hand back up and pulled her down to your level, your noses inches apart, threatening to touch. "How about you?"

"I like you a lot..." She drifted off, her answer in part to the fact she was quite dazed, before continuing she leaned closer to you. "But not that much."

You laughed once more as you cupped her face, gently pushing her face closer, interlocking your lips together as you kissed, her face was hot, steaming almost as you released her hands from her face. "You look so out of it, come on', I'll go buy you some apple cider to sober you up."

"I prefer fruit punch, actually!"  

"Then let's drink both."