#had no idea what to do for the background

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Seven

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, more angst (IM SORRY IT'LL GET BETTER SOON I PROMISE).

Notes — Welcome to Oracle Red Bull Racing, Amelia Brown.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2020

The office was quiet in the way only offices designed for genius could be; not sterile, but reverent. Drafting boards and CAD monitors hummed quietly in the background, interrupted only by the soft tick of a mechanical clock that someone had insisted on keeping analogue.

Amelia sat stiffly in the chair opposite Adrian Newey.

He was perched on a stool beside a massive whiteboard, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained faintly with pen ink, as though he’d been sketching ideas directly into the fabric of his shirt. His presence was oddly... nerve-racking. 

Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes.

Amelia rolled her golf ball between her hands in her lap, trying not to bounce her knee. Adrian made a few marks on a fresh sheet of paper, muttering under his breath. It sounded like a stream of formulaic gibberish to anyone else. To her, it was almost a lullaby.

He paused. Looked at her. “Do you have any thoughts?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear them.”

Adrian hummed, and then there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I will always listen. I will also always tell you when you are wrong.”

She swallowed, then nodded. Then she gestured to his paper pad. “You’re already sketching the '21 nosecone?”

“Yes. The frontal vortex targets under the new regs are… absolutely maddening. They’ll make cooling a nightmare.” He muttered. 

She shifted forward, almost involuntarily. “Mm. Not if you separate the low-pressure bleed early and feed it into the underside of the side-pod. It could trick the wake into thinking it’s interacting with a full-body airflow.”

He went very still. 

“Interesting,” he said slowly, standing and crossing to the nearest drafting board. He didn’t ask her to explain it again. He just started drawing. She stood too, walking around the conference table in order to stand at his side. Without looking at her, he handed her a pen. 

She made a face at it. “I like red.” 

He didn’t say anything. Just took the black pen back and found her a red one. 

By the time lunchtime rolled around, they had filled three boards, made seven sketches, and the early formation of a concept that wouldn’t just survive under the 2021 regs; it would thrive.

They hadn’t spoken much, not conversationally. Just fragments.

“This doesn’t breathe well at speed.”

“What if we taper the upper control arm here instead?”

“Why does this remind me of the '98 car?”

But somehow, it worked.

By mid-afternoon, Adrian glanced up at her from the schematic they were both hunched over.

“You think in shapes,” he said.

She blinked at him. “You think in sound.”

He smiled, and it was full of promise. “We will make a wonderful pair, Miss Brown.”

She let out a quiet breath. “Oh. Good. I was afraid that you would regret spending three million pounds on me.”

He stared at her for a long moment before laughing shortly. “No regret, Miss Brown. Not a single one.” 

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel anxious. Or lonely. Or burning with the guilt of abandoning McLaren, the team that was synonymous with her family name. 

She tucked the golf ball back into her pocket. “I’ll draw up a more formal aero flow map tonight.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, flipping to a new page. “We’ll build it first. Then reverse-engineer the explanation.”

She grinned, sharp and fast and excited. “We can do that?”

“We can do anything we want.” He told her. 

— 

Christian pushed open the door to the technical office with the kind of hesitant curiosity reserved for someone who was pretty sure they’d told everyone to go home six hours ago.

The light was still on.

At first, he thought maybe the cleaners had left it by mistake. But as he stepped inside, the faint scratch of pencil on paper, the rustle of blueprints, and the hum of two very intense brains in quiet dialogue stopped him dead in his tracks.

Adrian was barefoot now, barefoot, perched on a wheeled chair with one leg pulled up under him like some kind of engineering gremlin, holding a scale model in one hand and gesturing toward it with the other, mid-monologue.

Amelia was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a yellow golf ball tucked beneath her heel, grease-smudged notebook balanced on her knee, jotting notes at lightning speed while murmuring confirmations like, “Yeah, but the boundary layer separation’s going to collapse here—unless we change the outwash angle…”

Neither of them noticed Christian standing in the doorway.

The room was covered in paper. The whiteboards had no white left. Someone, probably Adrian, had scrawled equations on the glass wall. There was a half-eaten croissant on the radiator. Half of the work was done in black ink. The other half was done in red. 

He took one silent step backward.

Paused.

Then slowly, quietly, pulled the door closed behind him.

From inside, he could just barely hear Adrian’s voice, “Did I ever tell you about the time I built a full wind tunnel model out of my wife’s hairdryer and a vacuum tube?”

Amelia sucked in a breath. “Did it work?”

“It blew the roof off my shed.”

She laughed, genuinely, full of lightness.

Christian exhaled and reached for his phone.

—

iMessage — 00:45am

Christian Horner

We are going to become world champions. 

Helmut Marko

How can you know?

Christian Horner

Newey is barefoot. His intern is laughing. 

Helmut Marko

Mein Gott.

— 

The drive home from Milton Keynes had been quiet; just the low hiss of the car heater and the soft murmur of the radio.

It had been her first week working at Red Bull Racing. She’d stayed in Max’s flat, the one he kept in Milton Keynes but only used when he was in town for sim sessions. 

The high of her first week was still humming under her skin; the buzz of purpose, of being understood, but underneath that, exhaustion tugged at her bones. She felt stretched thin. Too much stimulus, too many new faces. 

But the moment she stepped through the front door, into the warm, lemon-honey air of the house she’d grown up in, none of that mattered.

Her mum was in the kitchen, back turned, humming softly to the radio.

Amelia didn’t say anything.

She dropped her bag quietly, kicked off her shoes, walked straight over and folded herself into her mother’s arms from behind, pressing her forehead between her shoulder blades, breathing her in.

Tracy stilled. Just for a moment. Then she reached back, tugging Amelia around until she could hold her properly; one hand at the back of her head, the other wrapped around her shoulders, thumb rubbing slow circles into her jumper.

“Hello, darling,” she whispered. “I missed you.”

Amelia pressed closer, her cheek against her mum’s collarbone. “I missed you too.”

They stood there like that for a long time, the hum of the radio filling the silence between them, a wooden spoon tapping gently against the edge of a pan.

“I saw the article,” Tracy said eventually, voice soft. “And the photos.”

Amelia tensed.

Another piece had gone live, following the Motorsport.com exclusive. Red Bull had shared her official announcement — complete with photographs of her in team gear, standing in the middle of Max and Alex. 

Tracy didn’t let her pull away. “You looked very professional. And happy.” 

“I am,” she said, too fast. Then again, slower. “I am. I just… I’m wishing that he wouldn’t make it so hard.”

Tracy sighed into her hair. “Your father’s not angry with you, love. Not really. He’s angry with himself. He had no idea that you were even receiving offers, let alone considering any.”

Amelia swallowed. Shrugged. “He didn’t want me at McLaren. He never offered. I gave him every chance to.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Tracy pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. “And you were right not to wait forever. You did the brave thing. You put yourself first. I’m proud of you.”

Amelia blinked fast. “I’m not used to that,” she admitted. “Putting myself first. It feels… selfish.”

Tracy brushed a strand of damp hair from her face. “No. Not selfish. It’s how you grow. You’re building race cars with Adrian bloody Newey. That’s something to be incredibly proud of.”

Amelia smiled, weakly. “They call me Mini Newey. All of the engineers. Christian. Max thinks that it’s funny.”

Tracy chuckled, pulling her into a tight squeeze again. “They should call you Better Newey.”

That pulled a real laugh out of her, small and sore and soft.

“Now,” Tracy said, letting her go, “go change into your favourite pyjamas and let me feed you. I bet you haven’t eaten a real meal all week.”

“I’ve been living on machine coffee and stale pastries,” Amelia admitted, already peeling off her jumper. 

Tracy shuddered. “Criminal behaviour. Go on, love. I’ll have dinner on the table in ten.”

As Amelia padded toward the stairs, warmth blooming in her chest, she heard her mum call gently after her. “He’ll come around. He loves you too much not to.”

She didn’t answer, but she nodded once, before disappearing up the stairs.

— 

iMessage — 01:43am

Lando Norris did u leave bc of me like. mclaren it’s okay if u did i just. i just need to know feels like maybe u did and idk. i feel shit also this is prob a bad time. i had like 5 beers and a shot of smth blue was v blue. tasted like acid

Amelia Brown No. Not because of you. You don’t matter to me that much.

Lando Norris ouch ok but like partly bc of me?

Amelia Brown Not everything is about you, Lando.

Lando Norris but some things are

Amelia Brown You started ignoring me. For no reason. Then I got a job designing a future championship-winning car. Those two things are unrelated.

Lando Norris when did u become so meannnn :(

Amelia Brown I’m not being mean. You’re just used to me being quiet when people treat me badly.

Lando Norris i didn’t mean to treat u badly i just panicked everything was getting weird and real and i didn’t know what to say

Amelia Brown So you said nothing. That’s still a choice.

Lando Norris yeah. i know. i’m sorry i miss u sometimes just thought u should know that

Amelia Brown That doesn’t change anything.

Lando Norris yeah i figured ok

Amelia Brown Go home. You are going to feel terrible tomorrow morning. 

Lando Norris already do thanks i guess goodnight mini newey 

Amelia Brown Don’t call me that 

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor with her laptop open in front of her, the Red Bull Racing CAD interface glowing on the screen. Max was half-stretched out on the couch behind her, a bowl of strawberries balanced on his stomach and a bottle of Heineken in hand.

“Okay,” Amelia said, tapping the trackpad. “Front wing redesign is about eighty percent locked. We’re still playing with DRS and airflow under braking, but I think what we’ve got is going to make the car ridiculously sharp into corners.”

Max took a sip of his beer, watching her over the rim. “Ridiculously sharp sounds nice.” He noted. 

“It’ll bite if you get lazy,” she warned him.

He shrugged. “So, just like you.”

Amelia didn’t even look up at him. Over the past few weeks of working with him, she’d learned how to decipher his tones — he was teasing her. “I’m not lazy. You’d die without me.”

He tossed a strawberry at her. She caught it and took a bite.

She turned back to her laptop, sighed, and opened up the email thread that she and Adrian had going. 

Max cleared his throat. “Ah, have you talked to your dad yet?”

Amelia’s fingers froze over the trackpad. “No.”

Max nodded. “He’s still not talking to you?”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’. 

“Your mom?” He questioned. 

“She’s trying. He’s just… stubborn. You know what he’s like.” Amelia exhaled. “He thinks I betrayed him.”

“You didn’t.”

“I know that now.” She rubbed her temple, leaned her head back against the couch. “But I also think I became inconvenient. It was easier when I was just the kid who wanted to build toy cars in the corner. Now I’m—”

“Mini Newey,” Max offered, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She groaned. “Max, stop.”

He rolled his eyes. “You are, though. And you’re building my car, so I’m not complaining.” A pause. “Have you talked to Norris?”

Amelia blinked slowly, then shut her laptop with a quiet snap. “He messaged me two weeks ago. Drunk. Asked if I left McLaren because of him.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Of course not.” She scoffed. What a ridiculous idea. “He just… doesn’t get it. He thinks that everything is about him.”

Max laughed. “He’s nineteen. His brain is still soft.”

“I’m also nineteen,” she muttered, tipping her head back against the couch to look up at him. “I think he’s just emotionally illiterate.”

Max blinked, then grinned. “Tell him that to his face. I’d pay to see it.”

“You’re not a world champion yet,” she shot back. “You don’t get to make demands like that.”

He leaned in, until their faces were almost level. “I will be. And when I am, I’ll buy you a stupidly expensive watch for every podium we get.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You say that now.”

“Mark my words,” he said, puffing his chest in mock pride.

They sat there for a while — not quite friends, not just colleagues. Something in-between. Teammates in the truest sense. Bound by a shared obsession: a championship. A car so fast it betrayed the law of physics.

“I miss him,” she said quietly.

Max exhaled through his nose, slow and even. “He’s a nice boy. Stupid, but nice.”

“I know.” Her voice was barely a breath.

— 

iMessage — 18:15

Fernando Alonso How has your first month at RB been? Do I need to make any angry phone calls?

Amelia Brown It’s been great. Everything’s going better than I could’ve imagined. I’m already making progress. Adrian and I work really well together.

Fernando Alonso I told you so, did I not? You two are very alike!

Amelia Brown It’s a perfect fit, actually. I feel like I’m finally being heard.

Fernando Alonso Good, good. I knew it. You made the right choice. And now, you’re three million pounds richer. That helps too.

Amelia Brown Haha, yes. Very much. I would've probably taken £5, so, thank you for handling the negotiation for me.

Fernando Alonso Mi Nina, for your talents, they would have paid three billion.

Amelia Brown I miss you so much. When are you coming to visit?

Fernando Alonso Soon. I’ve got some meetings in London next month.

Amelia Brown Anything exciting?

Fernando Alonso You’ll be the first to know if there is.

Amelia Brown :)

— 

Lando stood with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched, posture defensive. Across the polished meeting table, Zak leaned back in his chair, arms folded tightly over his chest, eyes fixed on the floor like it might offer him an answer he hadn’t already lost.

The silence had stretched too long. 

“She’s really gone, huh?” Lando finally muttered.

Zak didn’t look up. “Yes.”

Lando blinked hard. He wasn’t sure what he expected; some kind of denial, maybe. Some reassurance that there was still a version of this where she came back. That maybe Red Bull was just a phase. A test. Something to prove a point.

“She left a hole here,” Zak said eventually. “Not just in the team. In the culture. She was…” he paused, trying to find a word that wouldn’t sound too sentimental. “I didn’t realise how important she was to the team. How much she was involved in.”

Lando didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight. “We all let her down.”

Zak looked at him then. Really looked at him. “You liked her.”

It wasn’t a question. Not judgment, either. Just a fact. Like pointing out a flat tire or a burning building.

Lando flinched. “Yeah. I really liked her.”

“You shouldn’t have listened to us,” Zak said quietly. “Any of us. You should’ve fought for her.”

“I couldn’t.” Lando’s voice was sharp, brittle. “I was scared. And stupid.”

Zak let out a rough, humourless laugh. “And I was selfish. I never gave her the recognition she deserved.” He paused. “She was the brain behind the Mercedes deal.”

Lando’s head jerked up, eyes wide.

Zak’s voice dropped, heavy with something close to guilt. “She pulled it all together, handed it to me in a file with start-to-finish instruction. Never asked for credit. I knew she wanted more, deserved more, but I didn’t give it to her. Not because she wasn’t ready. Because I wasn’t brave enough.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I didn’t want to be the one who gave her a shot, because I knew what people would say. Nepotism. Favouritism. They’d talk about her name before they ever looked at her work. And I thought I was protecting her from that.” He shook his head. “But I wasn’t. I was just holding her back.”

Lando stared at him. Silent.

There it was.

The ugly truth of it all.

Lando swallowed thickly. “She was never going to stay.”

“No,” Zak said. “No. I don’t think so.” 

Lando ran a hand over his face. 

She had belonged here once. She had. And they’d both let her feel like she didn’t.

Now she was designing the future with the enemy.

And they just had to sit back and watch it happen.

— 

The paddock buzzed with the usual pre-season chaos; the rhythmic whirr of engines, the sharp sound of tires scraping against the asphalt, and the chatter of team members huddled in tight circles. 

Amelia stood near the Red Bull garage, her posture stiff but her eyes alert, scanning the familiar sea of cars and faces.

It was the start of the 2020 season, and everything felt both familiar and brand new. The sharp smell of fuel lingered in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of freshly waxed cars. But this time, she wasn’t in McLaren orange or one of her father’s old team shirts; this time, she was in Red Bull team gear. Black and dark blue with that iconic bull on her chest, the Red Bull Racing logo proud on her back.

And tucked around her neck, a pair of navy blue Red Bull ear defenders. 

She glanced to her left. Max was chatting animatedly with Christian, the two of them gesturing towards the car as the crew worked around it. Adrian was nearby, bent over a laptop, his face creased in concentration. Amelia would soon be next to him, diving into the data and throwing out her ideas. But for a moment, she lingered at the edge of the paddock, trying to ease herself into this new, new, new. 

Amelia’s gaze drifted toward the McLaren garage, even though she knew she shouldn’t be looking. There was Lando, standing with her dad, his usual smile present but different. Amelia tried not to flinch.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her ear defenders, the cool plastic grounding her, just a little. She had left her golf ball in her office, determined not to need it. 

Her eyes flicked back to the Red Bull car, sleek and aggressive in its design. It was more than just metal and carbon fiber. It was partly her work, her heart and soul poured into something tangible. 

And then, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a camera crew approaching her.

Her stomach dropped. 

The journalist’s voice reached her first, though she barely registered the words. “Amelia, first season with Red Bull Racing. You’ve been working behind the scenes for a while, but now you're here, in the paddock, in full Red Bull gear. How does it feel to be wearing navy blue now, after spending so much time with your father’s team, McLaren?”

Before she could formulate any kind of response, a familiar presence appeared beside her. Max.

He stepped in without hesitation, his body language calm and protective as he leaned slightly into her space. His gaze shifted to the interviewer, who looked briefly excited at the new addition. 

"Need an out?" Max asked her, his voice low enough only for her to hear. His stance was relaxed, but there was something in the way he held himself; a quiet assurance that, if she needed him to, he would get her away. 

The camera crew hovered expectantly, but Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t let the pressure reach her. He stayed right there, like a grounding force beside her.

"Amelia?" The interviewer prompted, waiting for her response.

Max’s eyes softened as he glanced at her. “Say whatever feels right,” he murmured, offering her a smile that was small but understanding. “You don’t owe them anything.”

For a moment, Amelia felt the tension drain from her. This wasn’t a performance. She didn’t have to give them the perfect soundbite. She could speak her truth, on her own terms.

She took a deep breath and, feeling Max still there, solid and supportive beside her, looked directly at the interviewer.

“It feels powerful,” she said simply, her voice steady but soft. It was the truth. For the first time, it felt like she was owning her decisions, not just navigating them. Powerful because this was her journey now. Because, despite everything, she was in total control.

The interviewer didn’t push for more, probably sensing the finality in her words. But the moment lingered for a second longer, like they were all collectively taking a breath.

Max gave her a subtle nod of approval, his lips twitching into a smirk. 

And, just as quickly, the two of them turned and started walking away, the cameras still rolling behind them, but it didn’t matter. Amelia’s shoulders relaxed, a weight lifting, and her feet carried her toward the garage.

— 

iMessage — 19:51

Lando Norris I’m sorry. I know that’s not good enough but I am I’m really sorry. And I want you to know that I’m happy for you. I’m not being sarcastic. You looked beautiful on camera. I’m glad Max was there with you. I wish it had been me.

Amelia Brown Congratulations on the podium finish, Lando.

— 

The morning sun was bright over the circuit as Max and Amelia walked into the F3 paddock. Amelia was wearing a denim dress. Max, in his typical laid-back skinny jeans and plain shirt, had his hands in his pockets and a baseball cap perched low over his eyes. He was always eager to watch the younger drivers, always curious about who might be the next big thing in motorsport.

She was more used to the engineering side of things, but she’d been a fan of motorsport in general since she was a child. The thrill of being here just to watch was amazing. 

They settled into the VIP viewing platform. The race kicked off with an energy that seemed to buzz in the air. Engines roared and the young drivers raced past, navigating the tight turns and high-speed straights with a determination that made Amelia feel the thrill of the sport she’d always loved.

As the race unfolded, Amelia’s eyes were drawn to car 81; Oscar Piastri. The young Australian was carving through the field with an almost eerie calm, moving up with a precision that belied his years. He raced like someone who had been here for ages, his every move instinctive yet calculated, as though he had been born for this.

Amelia felt that familiar pull. It was the same feeling she had gotten watching Lando in Formula Renault all those years ago — a sense that she was witnessing something special. Piastri surged ahead, eventually crossing the line first, claiming the win in the season opener.

“Damn,” Max muttered, impressed. “Kid’s fast.”

Amelia leaned in closer to the barrier, watching as Piastri celebrated with his team, their joy radiating from every hug and high-five. She turned to Max, who was watching her closely, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Don’t get too attached,” he teased. “He’s not yours to claim yet.”

“I’m not trying to claim him,” she replied, her tone steady, though there was an undeniable certainty in her voice. “But I will. When the time comes. And I think...” She trailed off, watching Piastri for a moment longer. “It will come for him very soon.”

Max grinned, shaking his head fondly. “Always thinking ahead, kleine zus.”

Amelia’s eyes remained on the Australian driver, a quiet feeling settling deep in her chest. She couldn’t quite place it.

“His manager?” she asked, her gaze still on Oscar as he laughed with his team, the world around him seeming to pause for a moment.

“Mark Webber,” Max replied, his voice neutral, but his expression unreadable.

“Ah.” Amelia’s lips tipped upward into an amused smile. Mark Webber, who had been central to Red Bull's rise in the sport. She glanced sideways at Max, then back at Oscar. “Mark Webber,” she repeated, her voice soft. “It’s strange, isn't it? Fernando and Mark; rivals. And now, I’m working at Red Bull thanks to Fernando, and Oscar is under Mark’s wing.” She looked at Max, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Formula One is a funny place.”

Max grinned, clearly entertained by the thought. “You can make connections out of anything, can’t you?”

Amelia let out a soft laugh, her gaze returning to the young driver in the distance. “I guess I do,” she said, her voice quieter now, a subtle sense of realisation setting in. “And somehow, they always seem to circle back to Red Bull.”

It was funny how Formula 1 worked that way: legacies, rivalries, and new beginnings always intertwined.

—

iMessage — 00:42am

Amelia Brown

Are you in Woking?

Lando Norris

Yes…?

Amelia Brown

I’m home alone. Come over. I am still angry at you, but I’m ready to talk to you now.

Lando Norris

Ok im omw like right now

[amberinn]

I cannot write more than. ummmm um um. hmmmm hm hm hm. ....like maybe 2,400 words. It takes 4 days (fanfiction)

The stylisation is hard, and I forget the words that I need in order to perfectly capture the vibe of the sentence.

I overthink whether a certain word should be there or not

I edit, I reread it

(I need a word i dont have :(. I go through articles in order to get someone to describe the thing (bowler's glove) to me and no one does this good and i get soso frustrated, because ONE WORD QUEEN!!!!! ONE WORD. AND IT TAKES DAYS TO ACQUIRE THEE)

I write scraps, and I have emberrasing melting puddle moments, because AAAAAAAAA NNNONO

I get super HEAVY ANXIOUS about my works resembling that of anothers to the point where just avoiding writing my idea altogether seems wayyyy better than writing it, publishing, and then having anxiety for the next two days (I could cry and if I was 11 yo and still this. chaotically unkempt there's a chance I could have a panic attack. I dunno, my first one was about ??? something to do with people. I was 11)

Writing tires me out and takes like. Sosososooo much effort I'm genuinely exhausted after like.

900 words. So SOOOOO MUCH THINKING goes into writing good stuff.

Because you have to keep yourself together and paint out a scene from your mind and recount the rule of five (smells, vision, hearing, taste, touch) then if you don't know what to write go for emotion, or the background environment and words flows really freely sometimes

and other times it's a logical puzzle. sighhhh.....

and it's FANFICTION im talking abt rn.

writing essays is not even fun, I have 300 word essays and I can write them for a D without even preparing beforehand

But I

1. Do not know the author names

2. Do not know the character names

3. Struggle with arguing shit

4. Sometimes struggle with summing up shit

5. Struggle with remembering when to get cut outs (I write L in front of a sentence, because I usually remember mid-essay those exist)

It's like RANDOM BULLSHIT GO 🎇

Definitively do-able, but pretty hard

like 3/5 hard and 4/5 taxing

God forbid my essay word count had to be 600 letters.

Horrific.

im still losing it over the "how did high schoolers write 600 word essays before chatgpt" post. 600 words. that is nothing. that is so few words what do you mean you can't write 600 words. 600 words. this post right here is 45 words.

[lieslab]

When there's monsters on your ceiling, I'll keep you safe

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: og8 x gn reader

Summary: Your first live stream without the guys and management turns into a disaster.

Genre: 9th member AU

Word Count: 2.6k

Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide, dieting culture, skipping meals, and bullying.

Depression and eating disorder resources

A/N: I'm really on a roll with requests. Remember to be nice to idols (unless they're twats) Requestee, you really hit the mark with this one

_ _ _

“You think so?” You laughed at one of the comments someone sent through the Instagram live stream you hosted. “I was thinking the same exact thing, it’d be hilarious.”

You were used to doing live streams when needed. Every so often, your schedule announced you were up to bat. Today, management was lenient with you. Your first official solo stream took place in one of the empty JYP meeting rooms. 

You slipped the company phone in the camera holder before pressing the button to start the live. Today, you didn’t have a specific plan. You had beads, a roll of leather lace, and a dream. Once you started, you couldn’t stop. 

For the past half hour, you’d been making friendship bracelets for the guys. With the help of fans, you were determining what colors to make each person’s bracelet. Not only did it feel like a chance to relax, but you enjoyed speaking to the fans one-on-one without your manager silently trying to get you to avoid a topic in the background. 

“So what do you think of Minho’s bracelet?” You held it up to the camera and placed your palm behind it. Pushing it closer to the camera, you held it steady so fans could see. “What do we think?” 

You pulled back after a few seconds, reading a few live stream comments off your phone. You clicked on your own stream and muted the phone to read responses. A smile appeared as you responded to a few comments. 

“Okay, so now I have to make Han’s, obviously. What do we think?” You glanced back up at the camera. “I was thinking about maybe orange, or red? What about both? It reminds me of his song, Volcano.” 

You went back to the comments. “You should make it red and green for Volcano and Alien.” You pulled back and laughed. “I mean, it’s a good idea, but those two colors together remind me of Christmas. I can do red and orange!” 

Seeing that most comments agreed, you reached out for the string to start to measure how much you needed. You were about to cut it when the comment came through. The moment you read it, your heart fell to your chest. 

‘Hey, here’s an idea. How about you leave all the guys alone and leave the group? You’re the weakest member and ruin everything.’ 

You knew you should have sat there and ignored it, but you couldn’t. Anger swelled up and you blinked rapidly, trying to force it down. “Leave the group, huh? Maybe I should. It’s people like you that make idols give up on all their dreams and kill themselves due to all the pressure.” 

You shouldn’t have said the words, but they came out like a free-flowing spout. What does it mean to be an idol? Really. What does it mean? 

It means giving up bodily autonomy to a company. Skipping meals is expected when the scale’s numbers start to go up. When an interview catches you at an unflattering angle, expect a lecture and a new diet spreadsheet. 

Going through dances over and over and over again. Sweating until you’re breathless and assume you’re going to topple over at any moment. Shaking knees and unsteady steps as you try to push yourself up to find the strength to do it all over again. 

Spend hours learning formations and completing sound checks, trying not to give in and read the hate online. When you’re an idol, everything is placed beneath a microscope. Your flaws, your short-comings, your inability to act the right way, or say the correct thing. It’s all televised for the masses to see. 

And god, are they hungry. The razor-sharp teeth of fan-folk on twitter. The faceless comments and nameless profiles that equip themselves with emojis. They beg for new content, but it’s never enough. Treat their favorites with respect, but if they can get away with bashing another group to bring their favorites up, they’ll do it. 

The dark side of the k-pop industry has always been there. They never try to hide it. The collapsing at concerts. The hidden injuries. Companies bowing down to fan requests, even when the idol’s livelihood is at stake and they’ll do it, too. Because in the heart of the idol world, money is the only god being worshipped and there is no bigger god than greed. 

Comments shot your way, trying to understand what happened. Not everyone caught the comment you did, but they heard the words. They caught your empty-eyed gaze into the screen. A brief glimpse into the actual reality. Maybe you really weren’t okay. 

Maybe you were tired of putting on the mask and playing pretend. Some say to get over it. It’s what you signed up for. You deserve it. Get over it. Toughen up and ignore the haters. Not everyone has a shield of armor protecting them. Not everyone is equipped to handle the hate trains and the protest trucks. The black oceans, the scorns and scoffs, the hashtags praying on your downfall. The flop era. 

Maybe you were tired and said the wrong thing or maybe you were tired of living it all. A pretty and perfect illusion that crumbled before the eyes of the fans. Everyone knew it, but nobody had the guts to say it. 

The companies surely didn’t. Trying to stay neutral, they’d ignore it all. Ignore the fans surrounding the hotels and screaming the names of the favorites at the top of their lungs, wrecking the idols’ sleep schedules, and souring the taste of regular guest’s hotel stays. 

Ignore the purple bags and exhaustion sticking to idols that follow them like ghosts. Give them chicken and rice diets. Drink more water. Cut more calories. Restrict more. Look at yourself and be ashamed.

Ignore the hate trucks. Blame the idols and don’t hold the fans accountable. Sacrifice them to the wolves and know that your company’s reputation will bounce back, but not always the ongoing mental struggle of the idol. 

How many times did you cry because you missed your family? The sibling you couldn’t watch grow up. The stretching crow’s feet in the corner of your mother’s eyes. The deepening wrinkles on your father’s face. A kitchen chair sat waiting for you in your childhood home, longing for your warmth, but you rarely showed up anymore. 

The industry breaks you and reshapes you. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. You’re dragged through the mud all the time. Dreams are supposed to be hard, but why are some of them so self-destructive? How do you really go about becoming a k-pop idol the right way?

You still remember the shock as you combed your hair one time and found your hair falling out in an alarming amount of strands. Too much stress. Not enough food. Not enough sleep. 

Sometimes your members, they weren’t just your members, but souls tortured just the same as yours. You saw it in the way Chan rambled on bubble, so desperately trying to fix internal fan wars that were never his fault. Always blaming himself, trying to do better. The weight of a fandom was never supposed to fall onto the weight of one man. 

You saw it when Felix drank water and began to heavily restrict before an upcoming photoshoot because he wanted to look perfect. You were forced to confront it after his stomach growled a third time. Hunger lingered in his eyes when he looked your way while you ate your dinner. 

Devastation seeped out of a few members at certain events. They never seemed to get the recognition they deserved. It wasn’t their fault. It was never their fault. It’d never be their fault. 

You blinked rapidly as the tears began to fall. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go.” Fan comments rolled in, but you reached forward and hit the end live-stream button. 

Tomorrow, a lecture waited for you with management, but for now, you just wanted to mourn. 

~ ~ ~ 

“Oh…” Felix’s voice trailed off. He sat staring at the blank screen with a frown. Your live was going great until you shut down towards the end. You said nothing, but you also said everything all at once after that last comment. 

Beside him, Han, Minho, and Hyunjin sat just as stunned. They were enjoying your live stream, looking forward to the bracelets they’d be getting afterwards. As one of the younger members of the group, you were cherished a lot. 

“We need to go find them,” Minho pushed himself from the dance practice floor. “Does anyone know which conference room they’re in?” 

Heads shook and Han pushed himself up to follow him. “Let’s go look. Can someone grab the rest of the guys? I think they went out for lunch, but they should be back at any moment. I think we’re really needed right now.” 

“I’ve got it. If you find them first, call me and let me know.” Hyunjin reached the door first and disappeared. 

Felix rushed after Han and Minho. “This is really bad. I didn’t know they felt this way. Should we be worried?” 

“I think we all feel this way sometimes, but we’ve never said it out loud,” Minho mumbled. 

“Hey, I found them!” 

Across the way, the remaining four members looked just as worried. A unit of eight, Changbin led the charge towards the end of the hall. Hyunjin picked up the end and placed a hand on a staggering Jeongin’s shoulder. 

“We should have noticed this sooner,” he uttered softly. 

“How were we supposed to know, Innie? They always keep to themselves. They’re very good at trying to ignore the things bothering them.” 

“I feel like an awful person for not noticing.” 

“It’s okay, we’re going to fix it together.” 

~ ~ ~ 

In the conference room, your head sat in your hands. The colorful beads and leather string sitting around didn’t bring you the joy that it once had. Instead, you silently cried into your hands. 

All you wanted was one nice live without a troll. Instead, you gave them exactly what they wanted. They wanted your tears and your anger. It fueled them for whatever reason.

You didn’t look up when the door burst open. You tensed up, waiting for a member of management to yell at you, but it never came. Instead, multiple footsteps headed your way. A gentle hand fell upon your shoulder and Changbin softly called your name. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you mumbled. 

“Well, that’s just too damn bad,” Seungmin said. His arms crossed over his chest. “I left my biscottis behind and we all gathered here.” 

Minho shot him a glare, but it didn’t bother him. Chan gave him a follow-up warning look and sighed. “Listen, we just wanna make sure you’re alright. The way you ended that live, it was-” 

“Horrible? Unprofessional and irresponsible?” 

“I was going to say bold, but incredibly true. You spoke about the things some idols stay far away from.” 

“I’m tired!” You pulled your hands away from your face. Tears lined your bloodshot eyes. “It’s always something and I’m trying my fucking best! I’m trying to be a good person and a perfect idol and it’s not happening! I can’t do it! I-I-” You sucked in a shaky breath and a whimper fell out. 

You tried so hard to keep it together, but when Felix appeared and squirmed closer to wrap his arms around you, you cracked. Your head buried into his chest as sobs fell from you. 

How much of your life had you given up being judged in the name of your dreams? There would always be people who hated your guts for one reason or another. You’d always have people that disliked you, but in the k-pop world? People would do anything to bring down the idols they hated. 

Spreading rumors, sending hate trucks, and stirring the pot. Taunting, teasing, and straight up bullying. Stalking, harassment, and belittling. It was always something. 

You couldn’t breathe without doing it wrong. Every time you touch a member for too long, you’re being childish and clingy. When you don't say much during a video, you’re dubbed a stuck-up snob. Too close to the opposite gender of another group? You’re probably dating them.

There is never and will never be any winning in the industry until people change. Companies have to stop dragging their feet. It only stops when the industry calls out bullshit as they see fit. Taking the steps for legal action. Knowing an idol is a privilege, not a right. 

Han wiggled his way to the other side of you, squeezing between Changbin and Felix, letting a hand fall to your head. Another hand and then another. As you cried, they all grieved. Tears sprouted from all of them because they all knew. When one of them hurts, they all hurt, and your reasoning? It all sat within them during their down time.

The industry had been built off of breaking people and trying to build them back better. People are not that durable. When you break someone’s soul, there is no going back. Idols learn to hate their imperfections. Change them. Shape them. 

Slave away in the mirror to develop a perfect routine, so no pores are visible. Some trade away their real personalities, not because they want to, but because companies want to market them a certain way. 

Everything is pre-planned to the extreme. Compete against your favorite friends in the charts because they belong to different companies. Slaughter the competition. Sell more albums. Do the embarrassing requests on fan calls. Have no boundaries because the company said so and unless you want to be blacklisted, do it, or fall victim to the endless abyss of wannabe idols that didn’t make the cut.  

“Ah, this is embarrassing,” Jeongin mumbled after a while. “I’m not supposed to be crying in front of everyone. All these hyungs and I’m- 

“Suck it up,” you mumbled, trying to pull back from Felix’s shirt. “Now you know how I feel.” 

“You have pretty cute tears,” Changbin observed. 

“Hey! Don’t cheat on me! You can’t call them pret-” 

“Shut up, wifey.”

Seungmin’s face scrunched in disgust and Han rolled his eyes. Chan glanced down at you and gently squeezed your shoulder. “Are you feeling a little better?” 

You nodded, reached up, and wiped your eyes. “Thank you for letting me cry. I’m sorry that I-” 

Minho’s hand went over your mouth. “Do not ever apologize for struggling with real emotions.” 

Your nose wrinkled and you pulled away. “Ew. How am I supposed to know where your hand has been? That’s so-” 

“Probably around Jisu-” 

“AH!” Jeongin’s hands went over his face and he shook his head. “Stop! Stop! I don’t want to hear it! Enough!” 

“You’re so cute, Innie. Come here! I wanna pinch your cheeks.” Hyunjin walked around you and hurried to Jeongin. Felix cheered for him as Jeongin began to hurry around the other side of the table. 

“Don’t touch me!” 

“I wanna touch my wife!” Changbin hurried after Hyunjin. 

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Felix grinned and rushed afterwards. “Changbinnie, I wanna touch your muscles!” 

“That’s my cat.” 

“Hey, wait!” Han rushed after Minho. 

“That’s my first-born.” 

“Yeah and I wanna kick the elder’s ass,” Seungmin grumbled, following Chan. He spun around to glance at you. “Are you coming? Don’t you want to throat punch me like usual or something?” 

“How’d you know?” 

“You say it’s always a good day to throat punch me.”

“Sometimes it is.” 

“It’s every day.” 

“Well, stop being a pain in my ass and it won't happen anymore.” 

“You cunt.” 

“Jackass.” 

He huffed and hurried after Chan. You grabbed your phone and hurried up to follow him. In the k-pop world, it was riddled with a lot of issues, but when moments like this naturally happened… 

It was hard to stay upset for long, knowing that the industry brought the eight of these idiots right into your heart; you had a feeling they’d stay there for a long, long time. 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz @ari-hwanggg

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[long-live-aelin]

Unrequited Love

Quick background summary.

Reader is new to inner circle and is secretly in love with Azriel. Azriel is courting Elain and reader is jealous.

This is just something I couldn't get out of my head. It's not a fully fleshed out idea but thought I would post anyway. Enjoy!

----

I was leaning against one of the uppermost railings in the house of wind breathing the crisp air. The laughter and chatter of the people below echoed up to me and it reminded me of this time last year. My first Starfall would be a memory I would never forget.

I had spent the start of the night in exhilaration and excitement to the build-up to the stars falling, hoping that the view looked as stunning as everyone described. My breath left me when I saw those beautiful souls in the sky and it was unlike anything I had ever seen. I remember thinking that I was born to see those skies lit up in the most magical way.

I remember dancing with my friends who were steadfast becoming a new family. I had never had friends that I could call such a thing. I spent the night dancing upbeat songs with Mor and Feyre, songs that’s wild beat felt like it was echoing in my heart. Laughing at Cassian’s dancing, his booming laugh making me laugh. Slow dancing with Azriel at the end of the night my heart beating so loud in my chest I thought he could hear it. Ending the night with my feet so sore I thought I would never walk again, a wild smile on my face. Brightness bubbling in my chest how lucky I was to find Velaris, these people around me.

Tonight felt very different than that. The wild opposite. My chest felt hollow, longing haunting my every step. I didn’t know how long I could live with that hollowness in my chest reaching for something I would never get, it was madness. The moment I had arrived here I had avoided Azriel at any cost. I knew tonight would be tricky, so I convinced myself I wouldn’t have to see him. See him looking at Elain with his own longing showing on his face, so similar to how I knew mine would look looking at him. And I knew I couldn’t bear it, so I escaped up here after saying enough pleasantries to my friends that they wouldn’t suspect a thing. Mor had given me a brief sad look when she saw me, but I quickly looked away looking for the next person to say hello to so I could get away from the pity in her face. I was starting to regret telling her I was secretly in love with Azriel.

The longer I had stayed up here the more my worries seemed distant. The breeze singing its sweet song to me, the cold wind calming my frayed nerves and soothing my aching heart.

“I had a feeling I would find you here.” I started out of my thoughts, twisting around to the sound of Azriel’s voice at the door to the balcony, only a few steps from me. This balcony felt far too small for the distance I had been trying to keep from him the past few weeks. The closest I had been to him in a while. And god did he look good I could hardly stand it. He was wearing his usual black, but it was more tight fitting and smoother than the Illyrian leathers or the thick armored fighting clothes he wore so often. His shadows swirled haphazardly at his shoulders which I knew meant he was unsure.

He studied me, a serious look on his face. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

I shook my head not knowing what to say. I leaned against the railing subtly as much as I could trying to get distance.

His sharp eyes detected it. He looked back up at me his eyes narrowing even more.

He took a step toward me, a pleading look on his face.  “Y/N I just want to talk. If there’s something I have done tell me because I can’t take this anymore. We’ve been close for so long and every time I try to talk to you or even get close you, you back away like you can’t stand me.” He took another tentative step forward like I was a scared cat he was afraid would bolt at any second and he wasn’t wrong.

I shook my head once more. “You didn’t do anything.” I forced a smile onto my face and even its feeling felt too forceful for me. “Everything’s fine Az.”

He arched a brow smoothly. “I’m sorry but I find that hard to believe with how much you have been avoiding me the past few weeks. And then I find you up here hiding.”

“It’s just-“ my words failing me again. What could I say? I found it so hard to lie to him. How could I say the truth? Ever since you and Elain have been spending time together these past few weeks I can't stand to be around you because of my angry hateful jealousy?

“It’s just me Az, you didn’t do anything.”

“What’s just you?”

I made a frustrated noise, looking away from him toward's Velaris below. I was afraid the emotions on my face would reveal all. He was always so good at reading me.

“Please Azriel I can’t. Just not know.” I whispered.

“Than when y/n.” he said softly but sternly, “Because I know how good you are at keeping things bottled up and I’m not going to let it go on for any longer.”

“Oh what and your any better?”

He took an annoyed breath in, his chest expanding before letting it out in a rush. “No I’m not, we’re both great at holding things in. But I can’t walk away without knowing a reason why. Did I do something to hurt you? Say something I shouldn’t have? It’s been driving me mad the past few weeks and I can’t let it go. And don’t say it’s nothing, because I know you and somethings happened between us that I can’t understand. Somethings changed the way you look at me and all I can’t chalk it up too, is that you loathe me.”

My heart broke at his words knowing that I had hurt him. I couldn’t stand to know it. Even though it’s what I had preferred in the beginning when I was avoiding him. I had wanted him to think I was angry at him to hide my feelings. Had been happy to hide behind it. But now the shame of that, the cowardice and shame of everything washed over me. All the emotions I had kept bottled up started to raise to the surface and a cry broke from me. I looked away trying to stop it because I couldn’t stand to look at that pleading look on his face.

“I can’t tell you Az because I don’t want to loose you.”

He crossed the distance between us and turned my chin with one hand so I was looking at him again. And didn't let go so I couldn’t look away from those piercing eyes.

“You could never loose me." And I knew he meant it by the stern look on his face. He truly thought there was nothing that could ruin our friendship, but I wasn’t so sure. Even if he did mean it, things would change when I told him and never go back to the way they were. And I knew he meant what he said but I couldn’t hold it to him. Even when you don’t want it to feelings change and I knew that better than anyone.

“Why do you choose Elain?” I blurted.

His brows furrowed, confusion dancing on his features. “What?” 

“Why do you want to be with someone who doesn’t know what she wants?”

He leaned against the railing letting go of my face in shock.

“Love is tricky sometimes, it’s not always perfect.”

“No Az, love is when someone chooses you completely and doesn’t have thoughts of someone else in their head.  You know she is interested in Lucien. Why do that too yourself when there’s someone out there who will choose you? Want you.”

Az’s face turns angry like I’ve never seen before at least not directed at me. His amber eyes near glowing, his jaw set tight.

 “Oh and I suppose you know this from your experience? You have never experienced what it’s like to be in a real relationship how complicated it can be.”

I laugh hatefully. “I never want to experience love if that’s what it is. Pining after someone who doesn’t even respect you to let you go. Driving you mad to the point that you run to your friend every time she hurts you.”

He stood upright again off the railing and took a step toward me until he was looking down at me with those beautiful eyes so close I had to look up. His chest was rising up and down in angry puffs and as he got so close to me I could see the amber hues in his eyes near glowing. His anger was near radiating from him.

His sharp eyes studied me intently, too intently I wanted to look away.  “Where is this coming from, why are you so concerned by Elain’s intentions toward me?”

“I think I have a right as a friend to be concerned.”

“Answer the question.” He growled.   

"I'm in love with you!" I pushed him and he took a step back. I wasn't sure if it was from the shock or the force of my push. "And your in love with Elain and I can't stand it Az. I can't stand to see you two together because I've been in love with you since we met."

I took a big breath in realizing what I was saying. But I couldn't stop the words that I so desperately needed to get out. "and I know you'll never feel the same. And that's ok." My voice broke at the honestly in those last words, but it was like a weight off my shoulders saying it.

The shock on his face was all I saw before I turned away from him heading to the balcony door. I couldn't bare to hear the rejection from him so I ran away like the coward I was.

[astroellies]

imgonnagetyouback (prologue)

ellie williams x reader

moving somewhere new was never easy. especially in the apocalypse. and especially when you think your crush despises you.

warnings! villianization of cat (i’m sorry). ellie and reader are around 16 in the flashbacks, 18 in the present day. loser reader. loser ellie. miscommunication trope. useless lesbians. slight rivals to lovers. substance/alcohol use. this is kinda just background.

TWO YEARS PRIOR

your parents had been saying for weeks that jackson was finally getting close.

weeks of ten hour hikes, followed by sleeping bags and hard ground or moldy mattresses. weeks of hunting for your meals and eating them burnt. weeks of soggy socks and mosquito bites.

when your parents had heard about the possibility of refuge they didn’t put much thought into leaving the qz. they packed you and your stuff and headed towards wyoming.

what they didn’t think about was the absolute shit show that would stop them from completing their journey.

hordes and infection took them out. now you were left, alone and helpless with no idea where the fuck you were.

a week ago you had manage to find a supermarket to hideout in to sob into your hands and accept death. your food and water supply were nearly depleted. days were getting colder, even if you found game to hunt and a water source you couldn’t fight off the cold with just the clothes on your back.

you curled into the fetal position in a corner of the building. wallowing in self pity and grief, you had no way of getting yourself out of this one, so you cried again.

light muffled voices came from outside of the building and you froze. you strained your ears but couldn’t make out what the voices were saying. you weighed your options, do you reveal yourself and beg for help? or stay put? what if they were enslavers looking for more workers? your mother had told you about large groups that forced their captured to work to the death.

you decided the the latter. you held your breath as the voices got closer. you heard a thud against the boarded off doors to the store. then another and the doors gave way.

“see, ellie, i told you that would work.”

“yeah, yeah. just check for supplies, tommy is gonna to be pissed if we’re not back soon.”

from your spot you couldn’t see the the speakers of the voices. both girls. they sounded young, your age.

“mmm but i like being alone with you.” said the first girl. you could heard the voice drop, low and sultry. gross.

the footsteps closer to you now. you swallowed hard, trying your hardest not to move.

the second girl half scoffed, half chuckled, “seriously, cat, we need to get back so-” the voice cuts as the girl rounded the corner and made eye contact with you.

she clearly wasn’t expecting anyone, infected or otherwise, in here. she has a baby face, cheeks still round and wide green eyes. her chest rises and falls in quick breaths, trying to see if you’ll attack. you stay curled up on the ground.

“ellie you okay?” the first voice gets hers closer then comes up behind the girl, ellie, and says, “oh fuck.”

“i’m not infected!” you say, panicking. they have guns and you really, really don’t want them to shoot. “i- i can prove it!” you’re pulling your clothing to show them you’re clean.

“ellie, what do we do?” cat asks.

ellie has been staring at you the whole time, but she seems to snap out of her daze when she hears her name but doesn’t pull her gaze away from you, “uhh…we take her to tommy.”

“you alone?” she asks.

“yeah, yes.”

she nods then she raises her gun at you, but her finger isn’t on the trigger. “get up.”

you scramble, throwing your backpack over your shoulder and standing on wobbly legs.

“are you armed?” ellie asks.

“just a knife. it’s in my bag.”

“give it to me.”

you hand her the knife and she swallows. no one knows what to do next.

“um…cat you lead, i’ll…i’ll follow to make sure she doesn’t run off.”

cat nods then turns her gaze to you, looking you up and down, “this way.”

the three of you hike, you don’t know if ellie is still pointing her gun at you, but you’re too scared to look back and upset her. so you take in the girl in front of you. a teenager, she was probably a year older than you at most. she has short black hair and you can see tattoos on her arms peaking out from under her jacket.

you follow cat into the suburbs, old rickety houses and some completely collapsed. she leads you into a fenced off yard of one of the houses and you find a middle aged man and a teenage boy.

“tommy! we found a girl at the supermarket. she says she’s alone.” cat yells out.

the man, tommy, and the boy turn towards the three of you. “she hurt?” you know he isn’t just asking if you have any scrapes or bruises, the real underlying question is is she infected?

“no, she’s clean.” cat says, and looks back at you.

tommy looks at you and points with his chin. “what’re you doing out here alone?”

all the attention turns to you and you suddenly feel very small. “my parents had heard rumors about a town, jackson, somewhere out here so we fled from a qz. they uhm…they’re dead now. i was staying in the supermarket.”

all three of the teens turn to tommy, gauging his reaction.

he’s quiet for a long while then says, “jesse, grab the horses. you can come with us.”

you panic, you don’t know these people or their intentions. what if they were slavers your parents had warned you about? or raiders? or cannibals?

“what? where are we going?” you should have lied, should have told ellie you didn’t have any weapons so you could run and hide, curl into the corner of the supermarket and die.

“you’ll see.” tommy hops onto his horse and holds out a hand to pull you up. you look around and the others have all mounted their horses as well. you don’t see that you have much of a choice you you take his hand.

the group rides for a while, all you see is forest and abandon buildings and your heart is racing. who are these people? is tommy their leader?

you’re starting to feel as though they don’t know where they’re going either when you crest over a hill. in the distance a large fence closes off building from the rest of the world, and inside the walls of the fence you see lights.

“is this-”

“jackson.” tommy says, waving a flag above his head, “we don’t let many new people in. you’re lucky.”

when you entire inside the gates you stand off to the side, waiting for the group to put their horses in the stable. the town is different from anything you’ve seen before, it looks like the movies from before. kids run around the town freely and people are laughing. it’s nothing like the qz.

ellie is the first out of the stables. she approaches you from the stables and hands you your knife.

“sorry if we scared you earlier, we’re just cautious of newcomers. i’m ellie. and here’s your knife back.”

“no it’s okay! i mean, this place is fucking insane i get why you’re protective of it.” your fingers brush her palm has you take your knife and butterflies erupt in your stomach. she’s got the cutest mole under her left eye that scrunches up when she smiles.

she’s quiet, as if debating what to say, “i came here a couple years ago, if you need someone to show you the ropes let me know.”

“okay! thank you.” you feel your face warm.

“ellie, we gotta go! we’re going to be late for movie night.” cat comes out of the stables.

“sorry i have to go. i’ll see you around?” ellie says, rubbing the back of her neck.

“yeah!” you say but she’s already turned, walking towards cat. as the two walk away throws a cold look over her shoulder.

the next few months were a blur. lots of questioning from maria about how your parents had heard of jackson and what their intentions were. how they died. then assimilating you into the community. maria often partnered you with jesse, dina, ellie, or cat for patrols. she made you tag along to their hangouts, she told you they’re good kids, most of them had been in your situation once too.

A YEAR AND A HALF PRIOR

it had been six months since you arrived in jackson. winter was coming to a close and it had been gloomy for weeks with no sign of the sun coming out anytime soon.

dina sits across from you in the mess hall, picking at her bread and soup. her and jesse were on a “break” again and she wouldn’t stop talking about how he was ignoring her on group patrol today. you had stopped listening a long time ago.

“anyways! we’re having a bonfire tonight just outside the gates, you should come!”

“i dunno,” you push your heel into the ground, dina had been almost overly welcoming to you when you first arrived in town but you weren’t sure of the others. it just felt like you were bugging them when you tagged along. “who’s gonna be there?”

she lists off people on her fingers, “me, of course, jesse,” she rolls her eyes but continues, “cat, ellie, some others”

you let out a puff of air “why do you say her name like that, dina?”

“because it’s literally so obvious you have a massive crush on her.” she says like it’s common knowledge. maybe you weren’t as subtle as you thought.

“i do not!” you feel your face heat up and you hide your head in your hands.

dina laughs, “yes, you fucking do! you actually listen to me when i talk about her!”

“ugh stoppp. i don’t!” you whine.

she just gives you a look.

“i don’t!” it’s a lie and you know it but you couldn’t handle dina teasing you in front of ellie or the others.

“i’m serious, though. you should come,”

you sigh, “fine, i’ll go.”

that night after dark you meet up with everyone at the northern gates.

nights were still frigid, you pull your coat tighter around you.

“is this everyone?” you ask dina.

“yeah. anddd i stuck into the tipsy bison to get us something to keep us warm.” she winks and pulls the top of a bottle from her back.

“dina! we’ll be in so much trouble if we get caught!” you look around to make sure no house lights turn on.

“we won’t! ellie and i used to throw full on parties at a campground a few miles south. this is nothing.”

you give her a pointed look and wait for jesse to finish opening the gate.

the group makes a hike into a spot on a lake just outside of jackson. there is already a pit for the fire and jesse and ellie get started on lighting it. ellie’s got her hair back in a low bun, pieces around her face falling out. her cheeks and nose are rosy from the cold.

her eyes glow with the light from the sparks, “got it!”

you end up perched on a log between dina and ellie.

“dee, you got any on you?” ellie asks.

“only if you say please.” dina says, already reaching into her bag.

“pleaseee.” ellie flutters her lashes dramatically.

“eugene rolled it and everything.” ellie reaches across your body for the joint, as she retracts her arm it brushes against you and you hope no one notices you freeze up in the dark.

ellie takes lights it then takes a hit, “ah, i was wondering why it looked so nice. you always fuck it up.”

“i do not!”

you giggle and shake your head. the two fought like sisters.

dina pushes you with her shoulder, “you smoke?”

“uh, no i don’t…i haven’t before.”

“oh my god are you serious? do you want to?”

“i guess…i’ve just never had the chance to.”

ellie plucks the blunt from cat’s hand as she brought it towards her own mouth.

“ellie!” she yelps, annoyed.

“cat she’s never smoked before, let her take a hit.”

you look at ellie’s outstretched hand and up at her eyes. she gives you a playful squint, almost daring you to take it from her.

you slowly bring the joint to your lips and suck in but the smoke gets stuck in your throat and you cough so hard your eyes fill with tears. “what the fuck!”

everyone laughs. everyone except for cat, who stares you down. her eyes flicker between you and ellie and lock on yours. you turn away, her gaze too intense.

jesse throws you a bottle of water, “take in easy.”

the rest of the night is filled with giggles. dina shares stories of how joel walked in on her and ellie hotboxing ellie’s garage.

jesse checks his watch, “i hate to be a downer but it’s getting late and some people have patrol in the morning.” he looks at ellie and cat.

“yeah, yeah grandpa, we can head back now.” ellie grumbled.

the group disperses while ellie and jesse take care of the fire and dina picks up her bottles. you stand off to the side, facing jackson, waiting for dina to come back. you hear footsteps approach and look to find cat. she stands next to you, facing out towards the town.

“hey.” you say, giving her a close mouthed smile.

“hi.” she crosses her arms over her body, mirroring your own posture.

“tonight was fun.” you feel a bit awkward, she’s lingering but her presence isn’t comforting like dina or ellie’s.

“mhm.” she turns to look at you and leans in, “just so you know, you’ve been making ellie really uncomfortable with you staring problem but she’s too nice to say anything about it.”

you feel your heart drop down to your ass. you didn’t think she had even noticed your glances, let alone be upset by them.

“what? i had no idea, should i apologize?” you look behind you, ellie’s laughing and shoving jesse away, playfully calling him a dick.

“no, but i’d really appreciate if you stayed the fuck away from my girlfriend.” she says in and overly sweet tone. she looks back to the others.

“guys c’mon it’s late!” she says, already making her way back towards jackson.

ellie rushes to cat’s side and gives her a kiss. you try not to flush with embarrassment, you didn’t mean to upset her.

dina falls into step with you. “you okay?”

“what? yeah.” you laugh, it sounds forced and unnatural, “just tired.”

she side eyes you, “okay, weirdo.”

[fairestwriting]

hello! may I request hcs on how the first years are when they're dating their housewarden's younger sister?

𐙚 Ace Trappola

Oh, you know he’s smug about it. He was kind of averse to the idea of even getting too close at first, thinking Riddle’s younger sister surely would be a rule freak like Riddle himself is, not really someone he’d want to associate with…

But, who would’ve guessed, you two turned out to get along just fine. You seem to appreciate his humor, and Ace appreciates that in return. ”Y’know, I thought you’d be all uptight like your big brother. I guess that gene skipped you, huh?” He jokes one day, and he just keeps on doing his thing, whether he’s under Riddle’s scrutiny or not. What’s he gonna do about it anyway? He’s not breaking any rules by just hanging out with his sister, is he now?

His attitude honestly doesn’t change that much when you two get more serious. He’s totally unsurprised to learn that Riddle wasn’t really that thrilled by you dating a troublemaker like him. Of course he treats you well, but it’s the same sort of treatment you’d get even if you had never heard of Riddle Rosehearts in your life. Maybe he’s a little more generous with gifts, especially snacks, knowing your mother doesn’t let you have them at home. But that’s as “different” as it’ll get.

Whenever you two are spending time together and Riddle is also around, he makes sure to be in his very best behavior just to spite him. It doesn’t always work, if only because of the sheer amount of rules that Riddle remembers summed up to his now actual desire to humble Ace is definitely… a force to be reckoned with. But, well, so is Ace. Riddle never gets his way when that happens either, because Ace is just cackling away when Riddle slaps that collar on him for the third time this week.

𐙚 Deuce Spade

Part of his desperate attempts to become a “true honors student” includes properly introducing himself to any new people he meets, which means asking for their full name and giving his in return. He’s decided he must redouble his efforts to be cautious and polite around you as soon as he heard you say Rosehearts right after your first name. He ends up nervously asking, ”Oh. Rosehearts, like… our dorm leader?” and you confirm you’re Riddle’s younger sister. That just confirms his own thought process to him.

Deuce is honestly genuinely scared. Not of you, of course! Over time he finds that he really enjoys talking to you, your conversations flowing easily. Deuce is surprised he could even have so much fun with another person, even though he has and has plenty of fun with other friends— It’s just that the knowledge you’re Riddle’s sister… never really leaves the background of his thoughts.

He knows Riddle didn’t get the best impression of him, and he doesn’t necessarily regret his own actions from that time. Now though, that he’s starting to really notice his crush on you, and he wants to ask you out properly— Would it really be right to do that when he’s in bad terms with your family? Deuce is conflicted. It’s not a thing of believing you need Riddle’s permission to date him or anything, he’d just feel… kind of bad, knowing his girlfriend’s brother thinks of him as some unserious delinquent. He wants it to be known that he only wants the absolute best for you!

So… he tries. Like Ace, he’s in his very best behavior whenever there’s a chance Riddle might be around, with about the same success rate. Except he really apologizes profusely every time he learns he’s breaking a rule, promising he’ll remember it in the future — He probably won’t, but the same is true for any other normal person, really — in a way that honestly surprises Riddle sometimes? As much as your brother will always be at least a little bit distrustful of any guy that comes close to you, in some situations, even he can’t do anything but admit that yeah, Deuce is nothing if not dedicated to that “mission” of his.

𐙚 Jack Howl

Leona was basically his idol for so long, you know he’s kept up with what little media appearances he had. Nothing crazy, anything more than just watching the few interviews he’s given or the broadcasted Magift games just gets into celebrity gossip territory, and Jack doesn’t like that— But basically, he’s watched just about enough to see you on a screen, and yeah, he always thought you were really pretty, but that was all there was to it for a long time.

He did get… pretty disappointed with Leona when he met him, yeah, but he doesn’t let it affect how he views you. You’re his sister, not an extension of his person, it’d be silly to make assumptions like that. Jack is as polite to you as he is to everyone else, and he’s pleased to discover you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. That it’s actually really fun to talk to you, even though he usually doesn’t like talking to people much.

When you actually get together, Jack starts to get pretty nervous. He’s serious about dating, as we all know. If he’s asked you out, it’s because he really wants to be with you. And that means family gets involved. He’s more than happy to introduce you to his, but yours, well— He’s never thought he’d struggle with a significant other’s family, but you’re a literal princess…

It’s not at all about Leona though. None of Jack’s hesitations over your relationship have anything to do with him, really. In fact, telling Leona that you two are together is something he sees as a sort of “practice session” for the day he meets your entire family, and Leona is just fine with it. You’re clearly happy, and he has no intentions of smothering you, especially when you’re dating Jack Howl out of all people— He knows the guy literally wouldn’t even dream of trying anything funny.

𐙚 Epel Felmier

Epel is out of the loop, even if he’s seen Vil on the TV screen back home, he never used social media enough to fully grasp how much of an influence he had over anyone. And you’re so insanely pretty, so much more than any girl he’s ever met, he ends up blurting out a ”Wow, if I didn’t know you better, I would’ve guessed you and Vil-san are related!”

…So that’s how he realizes the situation he’s gotten into, not too long after you two start talking, and his crush on you begins to take shape. And he’s intimidated, yeah. Anyone would be. But at the same time… Epel couldn’t bring himself to lie about how proud of himself he feels. Like this is just insane to him. He hears more and more about how famous and important Vil is every day, and you, his younger sister, decided to hang out with him out of all people? Wow. He feels so important now.

But, as much as his unease grows as you two get closer, he’s not about to let it stop him. He knows he’s not experienced or anything like that, but if he’s going to be your boyfriend, Epel’s top priority is making sure you get treated right. He’ll still be opening doors for you even months into your relationship. Hell, he’ll even make a good effort at learning all the fancy dining etiquette he hates, so he can have a proper introduction dinner with your family.

Epel figures that, even if Vil was pretty protective, he couldn’t scoff at him for… doing his best to be a good boyfriend to you, could he? He’s heard you mention how picky Vil is with the boys you talk to, most of his issue is when they’re not trying hard enough. That doesn’t apply to him, he’s determined to make it so that it never does too— And he wins on that front. Vil sees how happy you are and how well he treats you. He can’t complain about Epel. It still surprises him sometimes.

𐙚 Sebek Zigvolt

Honestly, he’s scared to do as much as touch a single hair on your head. You’re literally Malleus’ sister. His crush is not recent at all, the two of you having met long before Sebek even considered attending NRC— And Sebek himself having, at some point, quietly decided that he should content himself with a life of (not so) silent, distant pining…

…Meanwhile, you most likely think of him as just a kind longtime acquaintance. A real oddball, for sure, but he’s never been anything but kind to you. Maybe you even see him as a sort of friend. When you both were younger you really didn’t get to meet a lot of people your age, but Sebek was often there, and he always listened to what you had to say— Even though he’d often blurt out lines like ”M-My Lady, I’m simply your family’s servant, we must both keep that in mind…!”

Because of this specific dynamic between the two of you, you’ll… pretty much have to make most of the first moves. And Sebek is receptive to them, despite all his claims that you two shouldn’t get “too” close at all. It’s a little endearing, how flustered he gets over pretty much everything— Eventually, though, he tells himself he has to get it together, it’s clear that you wanted a relationship with him, and he knows very well he wants a relationship with you. As much as it goes against… nothing but his own mentally edited version of the rules related to his position, as soon as he decides to get serious with you, he gets really serious.

As for Malleus’ opinion on the whole thing… well. It’s Sebek. Malleus would usually be very, very protective over his beloved younger sister’s chosen partners but, he knows Sebek. He knows him maybe even better than he wants to— And he knows, even before he sees him insisting to carry your schoolbag while you’re on your way to class together, that he wouldn’t dare to offer you anything less than his very best efforts. Malleus is a little surprised that he actually managed to get over that sort of idol worship thing he had towards your family to the point that he asked you out, but he’s pleased. You definitely have his blessing. And bonus points for keeping Sebek too busy to be as neurotic over him as he usually is, Malleus does appreciate the extra quiet time.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[writeriguess]

Hi Neema!

May I please request Katsuki x Reader, where they'd broken up a few years before because he was so into his work that he accidentally made her feel like she was holding him back, and at the reunion he apologizes and asks her if she's willing to try again? (And of course the answer is yes!) Fluff, maybe hurt/comfort, possibly car smut?

Never Really Over

The reunion wasn’t your idea. If it had been, you wouldn’t be here.

You’d spent the last few years carefully avoiding the places and people that would bring up memories of him. Not because you hated him—not even close—but because it had taken you so damn long to stop hurting every time you thought of Katsuki Bakugou.

But here you were.

The bar was buzzing with familiar voices, old classmates from UA greeting each other with excitement, some already three drinks in and laughing too loudly. You nursed your drink at the edge of the crowd, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might ask too many questions.

And then, you felt it.

That crackle in the air, like the moment before a storm.

You turned before you could stop yourself. And there he was.

Katsuki Bakugou, in the flesh.

He looked… good. Too good. He always had, but the years had refined him, softening some of the sharp edges just enough to make them even more dangerous. His hero uniform was gone, replaced by dark jeans and a fitted black button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing the corded muscle of his forearms.

And his eyes. The moment they landed on you, they widened—just slightly, but enough. A flicker of something raw passed through them before he masked it.

You forced yourself to look away, pretending to be engrossed in the condensation on your glass.

But it didn’t matter. His footsteps were already headed in your direction.

“Hey.”

The voice sent a shiver down your spine. Deep, familiar, threaded with hesitation—something you never thought you’d hear from him.

You took a steadying breath before looking up. “Hey.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. You could hear the chatter of your old classmates, the clink of glasses, the hum of music in the background. But all of it faded because Katsuki was here, standing right in front of you, and you had no idea what to say to him.

He was the one who broke it.

“You look good,” he said, eyes scanning you like he was memorizing every detail.

You gave a small smile. “You too.”

A dry chuckle. “Yeah, right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You been doin’ okay?”

You hesitated. That was a complicated question. “Yeah,” you settled on. “I mean, it took a while, but I’ve been good.”

Katsuki exhaled, looking away for a moment. “Yeah. Same.” His voice was gruff, like the words were hard to admit.

Silence again. It wasn’t awkward, exactly—just heavy.

You sighed, deciding to rip the band-aid off. “Katsuki, why are you here?”

His gaze snapped back to you, and for the first time, you saw it—guilt.

“I needed to see you,” he said, voice quieter now.

You swallowed. “Why?”

He exhaled, jaw tightening. “Because I was an idiot. And I owe you an apology.”

Your heart stumbled over itself. “An apology?”

His hands clenched at his sides before he forced them to relax. “Yeah. For… everything.”

You let out a soft breath, staring into your drink. “Katsuki, that was years ago.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “Too fuckin’ long, actually. But that doesn’t mean I don’t regret it every goddamn day.”

Your chest tightened. “What exactly do you regret?”

His crimson eyes flickered with something pained. “Pushing you away. Making you think you weren’t important to me.” He took a deep breath. “You were the most important thing in my life, and I was too fuckin’ blind to see it.”

Your breath caught.

Katsuki clenched his jaw. “I thought I was doin’ the right thing. Thought I had to put everything into being a hero so I could be good enough. And you—” He broke off, exhaling sharply. “You were always so damn supportive, and instead of appreciating that, I just made you feel like you were in the way.”

He looked at you then, eyes raw and open in a way you’d never seen before.

“I was wrong.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“I never shoulda let you go,” he admitted, voice rough. “I should’ve fought for us. Should’ve fucking seen you instead of drownin’ myself in work like an idiot.” His hands clenched again. “And I know I can’t change what happened, but I just—” He broke off, exhaling sharply. “I just needed you to know that. That it wasn’t you. It was me.”

Your fingers curled around your glass. “Katsuki…”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “I still—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t expect anything from you. I just wanted to say it. To finally tell you how sorry I am.”

You stared at him, feeling everything all at once—the heartbreak, the longing, the years of missing him. The late nights where you wondered if he ever thought about you the way you thought about him.

And now, here he was, telling you everything you had once needed to hear.

You inhaled sharply, gripping your glass. “You still what?”

Katsuki’s gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, he just looked at you. Then, quietly—almost too quiet for him—he admitted,

“I still love you.”

Your breath caught.

He let out a rough exhale. “And I know I don’t deserve shit from you. But if—” He hesitated, eyes flickering with uncertainty. “If there’s any part of you that still feels the same, I—” His jaw tightened. “I wanna try again. If you’ll have me.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

You should’ve been angry. Should’ve told him he was too late, that you’d moved on, that you didn’t need him anymore.

But the truth was, you’d never stopped loving him either.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “You mean that?”

He exhaled sharply. “More than anything.”

You bit your lip, searching his face. He was serious.

Your fingers tightened around your glass. “If we do this… I need to know it’ll be different.”

Katsuki nodded without hesitation. “I will make it different. I swear it.”

You inhaled, your heart screaming at you to just say yes.

And then you did.

“Okay.”

His eyes widened. “Wait—seriously?”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Yes, dumbass. Seriously.”

For the first time that night, Katsuki actually looked stunned.

Then, without thinking, he grabbed you—one arm wrapping around your waist, the other cupping your face as he kissed you hard.

You gasped against his mouth, but it only took a second before you melted into him, gripping his shirt as he kissed you like he was making up for lost time.

When he finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, breathless.

“I won’t fuck this up again,” he murmured.

You smiled, tracing your fingers along his jaw. “You better not.”

He smirked. “Guess I’ll just have to spend the rest of my life provin’ it to you, huh?”

Your heart swelled. “Guess so.”

And as he kissed you again, you knew—this time, you weren’t letting go.

***

The reunion was long over by the time you and Katsuki stumbled out into the parking lot. The cool night air kissed your flushed skin, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from his body beside you. Your hand was clasped tightly in his, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his thumb traced soft, nervous circles against your knuckles—an almost boyish fidget you’d never seen from him before.

He glanced at you, crimson eyes flicking down to your lips. The hunger in his gaze made your stomach flip, and your body responded instinctively, leaning closer.

“Gonna keep lookin’ at me like that all night?” he rumbled, voice low and dangerous.

You smirked, emboldened by the rush of adrenaline. “Depends. You gonna do something about it?”

A growl escaped him, a predatory grin spreading across his face. “Get your ass in the car.”

He dragged you to his sleek black car—an obnoxiously expensive model you recognized from countless magazine covers. The Hero Dynamight’s flashy ride. The moment the doors unlocked, Katsuki shoved the driver’s seat back, giving himself enough space before pulling you in.

The second the door clicked shut, his hands were on you. Rough, calloused palms skimmed up your thighs, dragging your dress higher as he crashed his mouth against yours. The kiss was all heat and desperation—teeth clashing, tongues tangling, a groan rumbling from his chest when you bit his bottom lip.

“Fuck,” he grunted, dragging you closer until you straddled him, knees pressing into the soft leather of his seat.

His hands roamed possessively—one gripping your hip, the other trailing up your spine before tangling in your hair. He tugged just hard enough to force your head back, exposing the length of your throat. Hot lips brushed against your pulse point, nipping and licking, and you couldn’t help the whimper that slipped out.

“Katsuki—”

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice a growl against your skin.

“Katsuki,” you repeated, breath hitching.

His mouth latched onto the curve of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark—a signature of sorts. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers tracing the firm lines of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Missed this,” he muttered against your skin, palms squeezing your hips. “Missed you.”

The admission sent a jolt through you. “Me too,” you breathed.

Katsuki’s eyes burned as he reached for the buttons of your dress, nimble fingers making quick work of them. The fabric slid off your shoulders, pooling around your waist and exposing the lacy bra you’d picked out on a whim. His gaze lingered, hunger darkening his eyes as he traced the curve of your breasts.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he rasped, large hands cupping you through the lace. His thumbs brushed over the peaks of your nipples, teasing until they hardened beneath his touch.

Heat pooled low in your belly, and you rolled your hips against him, dragging a ragged groan from his throat. You could already feel him hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans.

“Impatient?” you teased, breathless.

He smirked, fingers sliding beneath your bra to flick your nipple. “You’re talkin’ a lot of shit for someone already so wet for me.”

You bit back a whimper as his hand drifted lower, slipping beneath the hem of your dress. Rough fingers pressed against your clothed core, feeling the dampness already seeping through.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he drawled, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Heat flushed your face as he pressed two fingers against your slit, rubbing slow circles that had your thighs trembling. He pushed your panties aside, a satisfied grunt rumbling from him when he felt how slick you were.

“Shit,” he muttered, eyes blazing. “Didn’t even fuckin’ touch you yet.”

Your head fell back as he slipped a finger inside, curling it just right. A soft moan slipped past your lips, and he took advantage, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss.

“More,” you gasped, hips rocking against his hand.

He complied, slipping in another finger, pumping them slowly before picking up the pace. The lewd sound of your arousal filled the car, mixing with your soft moans and his rough growls.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it,” he grunted, pulling his fingers free. The slick sheen coating them had his eyes flashing dangerously. He brought them to his mouth, tongue dragging over them as he hummed appreciatively. “Still taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

A whine escaped you, and Katsuki’s lips curled into a cocky grin. “Impatient little thing.”

Your hands found his belt, fumbling in your haste to unbuckle it. Katsuki’s lips found your jaw, trailing heated kisses down your throat as he reached to help, shoving his jeans and boxers down enough to free his length.

You bit your lip as you looked down. He was as intimidating as you remembered—thick and heavy, tip already flushed.

“See somethin’ you like?” he smirked.

You rolled your eyes, but your hands wrapped around him anyway, earning a low, guttural curse. He was hot and hard beneath your touch, and you stroked him slowly, relishing the way his eyes narrowed.

“Quit teasin’,” he growled.

“I thought you liked a challenge?” you taunted.

He shot you a glare that melted into hunger as you lined yourself up, pushing your panties aside and sinking down onto him. The stretch was intense, a burn that quickly melted into pleasure as you took him inch by inch.

Katsuki’s head fell back against the headrest, a strangled groan escaping him. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in as he fought for control.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted. “Tight as ever.”

You gasped as he thrust up, filling you to the hilt. The angle had sparks dancing behind your eyelids.

“Katsuki—!”

He smirked, teeth catching his bottom lip. “C’mon, move. You can take it.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You rocked your hips, setting a rhythm that quickly turned desperate. Katsuki met your movements with bruising thrusts, fingers digging into your hips to keep you steady.

“Always so damn good,” he praised, eyes locked on where your bodies met. “Fuckin’ perfect for me.”

Your head fell back, a broken moan spilling out as he angled just right, brushing against that sweet spot.

“There,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Right there—”

Katsuki’s smirk widened, pace turning relentless. “Yeah? Like that?”

“Yes—fuck—Katsuki!”

His grip tightened as he thrust harder, determined to unravel you. Heat coiled tighter, and your breath caught as the wave crashed over you—pleasure stealing your breath, leaving you trembling around him.

Katsuki cursed, hips stuttering before he buried himself deep, groaning your name as he followed you over the edge.

For a moment, you were both still, breaths mingling as you leaned against his chest, bodies sticky and tangled. Katsuki’s fingers brushed soothing circles along your spine.

“Missed you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You smiled against his skin. “Missed you too.”

He smirked. “We’re not done, y’know.”

You blinked. “What?”

The wicked grin spreading across his face sent a shiver down your spine. “Said I’d make it up to you, didn’t I?”

Heat pooled low in your belly again as he bucked his hips. “Hope you’re ready for a long night.”

You bit your lip, grinning. “Bring it on, Dynamight.”

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

TIMELESS

summary: what if neglected character was well-loved in our universe despite being so hated in her own?

(spin-off neglected reader x batfam)

DC readers were eating up the comic run, but it really got a big hit when Batman, on one of his infamous runs, met this homeless family , neglected character's family, and offered to raise the neglected character till they were 18 out of false pity.

So this HC is essentially us , the readers; the 4th wall is essentially reading comics , specifically those about the Batfamily.

So the Batfamily comics are released by this huge company called DC , where a man named Bruce Wayne tragically lost his family one night and, filled with rage and vengeance, became Batman.

The comic's continued run continues on, and we, the readers, read how he met every Robin and learn about their pasts ,growths, etc, from Dick's tragic start to Jason's demise. Tim's rather conflicting start and Damian's controversial add-in.

The company hadn't expected so many readers (us) to like this seemingly normal person. I mean, come on, the neglected character can barely tie her own shoelaces properly and is literally so socially awkward.

This, of course, backfires immensely since a lot of DC readers really like neglected character because of how easily relatable they are to the big audience .

Neglected character was originally added to the family as, like, a punchline and for filler purposes, especially for Damian and Jason to appear more vibrant and more in touch with the audience and since they were running out of ideas and thought batman saving neglected character could be a moment.

There was also a whole separate run for Bruce and Tim with neglected character—they were talking about some complex time travel whatnots to explain a sudden time jump in the comics, and poor neglected reader was just there as a punchline because she was too 'dumb' to understand what they weee talking about .This backfired on them, of course—it turned into a massive meme about how 'shit is so confusing even our goat (neglected character) can't understand this shii.

At this point in the actual comics, things were getting frisky in the family. The Batfam literally starts despising neglected character so much. She's literally a nobody who doesn't even try to do anything like saving gotham like them, and they're so much better than her, so why is she getting all the love ?

Like, seriously, why would anyone want to like some lowlife who can't solve cold cases in two days, do crazy backflips, and knows ancient martial arts techniques and ancient languages? Oh! Did they forget to mention they can do anything? Side note: they can !

DC really tried to push the Batfam propaganda for a while, trying to manipulate us readers into liking them, but it's so hard too when we as the general audience can't even relate to them.

Thus, neglected character's fanbase grew exponentially—literally to the point where DC had to make their own solo because of the high demand .

Neglected character whose whole solo run was just them trying to find themselves and distance themselves from how hateful and harmful the Batfam are—especially Jason and Damian. Literally, their run was just them helping people, like a close friend getting over a bad ex, to helping this one grandma open a bottle of ketchup.

Their run made a big hit—loads of readers loved how normal and relatable the neglected character is! Especially how she grows to love herself for being normal and just living for herself, which touched a lot of readers' hearts.

Due to the neglected character's striking popularity , the company literally had to somehow mention her name or her existence everywhere in every run they make in order for it to be successful .

Oh, Tim Drake is getting a solo run? Let's put the neglected character in the background of the cover so people can pick it up to read. Oh, Damian and Batman are going on a duo adventure? Let's add a scene in the trailer where they mention the character's name once so people can flock to theaters to actually watch their movie.

Jason and Nightwing are getting their own animated series? Let's have a short ten-second clip of them discussing a plan and name-walking in the background so people can actually care about the series .

Literally the entire Batfam's popularity and relevancy are dependent on neglected character because whenever DC tries not to mention or include them, readers and viewers, respectively, don't engage with it, and it turns into a huge flop.

There are literally a hundred videos on YouTube where they all discuss who the strongest/best hero in the Batfam is, and the neglected character always wins , despite not even being a vigilante, because 'the goat (neglected character) just needs a bad day and a reason to crash out, and ain't no one in the Batfam can stop them' , ' Give my Goat (neglected character) a bat and a reason to crashout and she'd no-diff the entire villains cast in Gotham' , ' Personally if neglected reader was there , this situation would of never happened ' ,' TRUST NEGLECTED CHARACTER IS GONNA SHOW UP AND COOK JUST WAIT ' , ' NEGLECTED CHARACTER PLEASE SAVE US FROM WHATEVER THIS IS '.

Like, the Batfam is really starting to despise neglected character even more because, seriously, what does she have that they don't? And the neglected character couldn't give a damn because they are on their 20th comic issue where they are going to Spain with their classmates and they somehow save their airplane from crashing by accidentally falling into the cockpit and somehow hitting a random button that stabilizes the plane.

Safe to say DC readers and neglected reader fans are eating this shit up while Batfam seethes.

DC might have accidentally fucked up by making a run where Batfam gets so jealous they go out of their way to hunt neglected character and kill them, but due to leakers leaking the run and fans literally rioting, boycotting, and slandering the company, the company literally had to discard the whole issue and release an apology statement .

People took to the net by storm, even those who never read the comics in their life were leaving comments such as 'Ain't no way they tried killing my goat (neglected character),' Ayo bro, what is this ??,' 'LEAVE NEGLECTED CHARACTER ALONE,' and 'Tis pmo, man.'

It's safe to say DC indirectly created a literal icon of a character, and they can't kill them off or make any drastic changes to her character, or her fans will cook them alive.

Batfam slowly starts realizing their mistake in hating the neglected character and begins obsessing with her , trying to earn her favor, while the neglected character is just genuinely confused because since when do they check up on her?

ty for reading , pls comment , like and share !!

Taglist : @1abi

[obaewankenobis]

till forever falls apart; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair x reader (female pronouns, y/n not used)

word count: 10.6k

summary: not quite friends, but not quite lovers; you and finnick odair have been living in a careful balance that always leaves the both of you wanting more. when the third quarter quell arrives, you realize it’s better to be late than never.

warnings: typical hunger games stuff like child murder, forced prostitution, etc... slight mention of like suicidal thoughts but it's brief. smut (fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, i can't remember anything else, pretty vanilla stuff).

notes: there's kind of a lot of plot which i was nawwwt expecting. my bad if you're not into that i guess i know a lot of people look forward to the freaky stuff and it's def not my strong suit so i apologize 😭.

It was a little fucked up, the way you actually looked forward to being summoned to the Capitol.

Yes, they’d tortured your district for generations by killing children for decades upon decades. 

During your games, they starved you, maimed you, and forced you to kill other innocent children when you were just sixteen–a child by any means.

The torture hadn't stopped after the games, either. Even the nightmares were a walk in the park compared to the prostitution that awaited you in the Capitol. The looming threat of your family’s safety being compromised should you dare get any ideas of disobeying. 

So yes, it was a bit crazy to have a smile tug at the corner of your lips when a peacekeeper knocked on your door and told you President Snow had summoned you to the Capitol for the End of Victory Tour celebration. 

The smile, like always, was followed by quiet humming and a little skip in your step as you’d hurried to pack what few possessions actually mattered to you.

The reason for this temporary insanity was simple: whatever despair and destruction the Capitol had thrown at you, they’d also given you something to make up for it, even if it was purely unintentional. The apology came in the form of Finnick, another victor who’d shown you the ropes after you’d been crowned the year after him.

Being from different districts, the only time you were able to see him was when you’d both been called to the Capitol.

Gazing out the window as the station came into view, you sighed and imagined what you’d do upon arriving.

You take in the bright pinks and yellows of the stone streets, the rainbows that glittered against stained glass windows as the sun shone through them. The looming presence of snow-capped mountains provided a dramatic background and suit of armor around the Capitol, a stark contrast from the bright, bubbly city. 

For such an evil, awful place, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Your body had the same reaction it did the first time the train had screeched to a halt: completely frozen in time, so still a breath could not be squeezed from your lungs.

You hated the feelings that overcame you, of such paralyzing fear it made you weak. Hated how your fingers became so shaky it took you several attempts to button up your coat. Hated how your legs were so unsure of themselves you feared you’d collapse if you stood up too suddenly.

All of a sudden you were sixteen again, a terrified  tribute arriving in the Capitol like a lamb for slaughter.

You hated coming back here every six months at the very least — once for the Games, once for the tour, and however many times you were summoned by Capitol citizens. 

The Games were obviously hard–and so was the business you did in the Capitol–but the Victory Tours were a special form of torture. You hated looking at the winner, because they always seemed so lost and terrified, trembling like a lone leaf on a branch as the wind whistled through.

This past year had been a little different — there'd been two Victors this time, and their win sparked something in the districts that you’d never seen in your life. You didn’t hold any hope there would be long lasting change, but you were glad to see this year’s Victors weren’t alone. You wished you could’ve had that.

A gust of wind sweeps through the door as a Capitol attendant opens it, bringing you back to reality, and you force a small smile as the sunlight hits your face.

Waves of bronze hair catches your eye, and it takes everything in you not to jump from the platform and run to greet him.

He’s as beautiful as ever; the sun turning his hair a nice gold. His skin is a little paler and his hair is a little darker, given the winter months, but it’s only noticeable to you because you’ve spent hours running your fingers through it; spent days admiring the way water sluiced off his skin and glistened while he swam. 

You notice him immediately–not just because you’ve been subconsciously searching, but because he’s never greeted you at the station before. It’s then you notice dark circles under his eyes, the way they’re glassy with fatigue, and the rigidness of his posture. Your eyes narrow slightly and you open your mouth to greet him, when his arms open wide in invitation to his embrace. It’s then you know something’s really, really wrong.

Because as much as you care for Finnick, and as much as you know he cares for you, he’s never been so openly affectionate with so many people watching.

It’s part of the agreement you have; around others you’re polite, friendly even, and everything else you actually yearn for is tucked away behind closed doors.

So, when you wrap your arms around his neck, you’re hoping it's brief, because you don’t want to get used to being so close to him in public. And when you begin to pull away, you’re startled to find him gripping you close to his body, lips brushing your ear so he can whisper something without anyone else knowing or overhearing.

“I need you to meet me in my room in half an hour. It’s important. Don’t be late,” he says quietly, urgently, before suddenly releasing you. It doesn’t sound like one of your late night rendezvous, unless he’s wound really tight and that desperate for release — no, this seems far bigger than that.

When he finally leans back, you grasp his forearms and study him, searching for answers in his eyes and only being met with apprehension. 

Forcing a small smile, all you can say is, “It’s good to see you too, Finnick.”

He squeezes your hand in his own for a brief moment before disappearing, leaving you alone with two Capitol attendants who are supposed to just be carrying your bags to your quarters — but you know they’re guards in disguise, making sure you have nowhere to go.

It’s exactly twenty eight minutes later when you appear in front of Finnick’s door, a hand raised to knock when it flies open. 

He’s a little more relaxed, though you can see the tension in the ticking of his jaw and the tight grip he has on the door. Still, the corners of his mouth lift upward in a smile as his eyes land on you. “I was worried you’d be late. Y’know, you’ve never been a very punctual person.”

“I’ve never seen you so high strung before.” You shrug, “Thought I might hurry my ass up for once, in case you had a heart attack.”

He laughs, a lovely melody that makes your insides melt a little whenever you hear it, but you can tell his mind is occupied. “We should get going.”

“Yeah, about that… where exactly are we going?” You ask, though you know deep down you’d follow him anywhere. 

“You’re asking so many questions. You don’t trust me?” He asks teasingly, flashing you a smile, and you’re overwhelmed for a moment because Finnick was like the sun — golden and glowing, blindingly radiant from the smile on his lips down to the tips of his toes.

You do trust him — and as he leads you to an awaiting black car, you reassure yourself that he’s not leading you to your imminent death.

Well, maybe you were wrong. Because the words coming out of Finnick’s mouth–backed by Plutarch Heavensbee of all people–are nothing short of treasonous. And in Panem, treason is inevitably followed by death, or a fate so much worse death seems merciful.

“You’re sure she’s not going to say something?” Plutarch asks, and you think it’s because you haven't said a word since they told you about it all. About District 13, the stirrings of rebellion in the Districts, the plan to escalate into a full scale rebellion with the newest victors from 12 — Katniss and Peeta — being the face of said rebellion.

“No, we can trust her. I promise,” Finnick nudges you with his shoulder, as if urging you to confirm what he’s said.

You look around to the others in the room at the Heavensbee mansion: Beetee Latier from Three, Johanna Mason from Seven, and Haymitch Abernathy from Twelve. They don’t look nearly as surprised as you do, so you suspect you’re one of the last people to be told this news. 

“Yeah— I just… you really think it’ll work?” You cringe as your voice comes out in a dry croak.

“We won’t know unless we try,” Plutarch says, and you wonder why he’s in on whatever this is. He’s just been promoted to Head Gamemaker, and he lives in this mansion that spans the entire street and is packed to the brim with books and priceless art. Surely there’s nothing wrong with his life that would make him want to rebel. “You and Six are the only ones we haven’t talked to… and we need as much unity between the Districts as we can get.”

“Okay,” You say after a moment, willing your voice not to shake. It's less fear and more excitement at the prospect of something better in your future. 

You can hear Finnick’s audible sigh of relief, hear the soft scratch of his chair against the floor as he pushes it back, and feel the softness of his lips against your temple as he kisses you.

You wish he wouldn’t do that. Not because you’re embarrassed that anyone would see it, but because it just serves as a reminder that he’s just out of your reach. Every touch or kiss was on stolen time, and one day, the feeling you got around him would catch up to you in the most devastating way possible.

So, instinctively, you duck down in an attempt to escape him, and try not to notice the slight frown that overtakes his features.

“I’ve kept you all long enough,” Plutarch says in  dismissal, checking his watch. “The victory party is tonight, and I would hate for any of you to miss seeing the little lovebirds.”

“C’mon.” Finnick grabs your hand and tugs you to your feet. “We’ve got to get all prettied up.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff. “I’m perfect just the way I am. You on the other hand…” you look him up and down. “Well, we’d better hurry up.”

He gasps and clutches his chest like he’s been struck. You know he knows it's a joke, because there truly is nothing prettier on this earth than Finnick Odair.

The brief joy you feel when you see Finnick can only last so long.

While they’re not particularly awful, just annoying, looking into the faces of your prep team makes you nauseous. All it does is throw you back to nearly a decade ago when you were a tribute. 

And, sometimes, being constantly reminded of the horrors you endured made you wish you died in that arena. Not all the time, but sometimes.

“Arms up!” Shrills Iris, who resembles a lemon the way she’s dressed head to toe in bright yellow. You obey the command on instinct. Something cool, almost metallic, slides over your body. The dress is made of a thousand tiny silver-white jewels, each rope swishing and clicking against one another when you move. Matching jewelry weighs down your ears and neck, twinkling and making you appear to be a jewel yourself.

“All done!” The woman beams, clapping her hands together and practically shoving you out the door and towards the direction of the car waiting to drive to the President’s mansion.

You’re sure making victors attend every celebration in the Capitol brings Snow a special kind of pleasure. It’s probably the only kind of joy he ever feels in his life, looking at the miserable faces of past tributes and knowing that because of him, their bodies have either been sold to the highest bidder or withered away due to addiction — or sometimes, in the worst cases, both.

You are grateful for the chance to see the newest Victors, though. You want to be in their presence and somehow have them light a spark of hope in you.

“You were right,” a voice behind you says. You turn to see Finnick. 

“What?”

“Earlier,” he continues, his eyes briefly flitting to your dress before returning to your eyes. “You are perfect just the way you are.”

“I—” Stupidly, you can feel a hotness in your cheeks, and know he’s managed to make you blush. He always does that, finds a way to make you stumble over your own words. “Thanks. I think I was right, too.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

“You do look so much better all dolled up,” you tease, using this as an excuse to take him all in. He, of course, looks breathtaking, which is a bit annoying because you’ve never seen him be anything less. He’s wearing a seafoam colored shirt that brings out the green in his eyes. It’s nearly see through, mostly where his muscle strains against the fabric. It gives everyone a glimpse of his body you feel honored to have seen up close, but it also makes you feel sad at how obviously he’s being objectified. His trousers are a light linen, and you frown again at how… Well, conservatively he’s dressed, despite the sheerness of the shirt.

“I haven’t seen you this covered up in years, shouldn’t you be practically naked?” You blurt out, and you’re rewarded with another laugh that makes your heart sing.

“If you want to see me naked, sweetheart, all you have to do is ask,” he grins, the tips of his teeth peeking through his lips.

“I meant,” you clear your throat and will the blush in your cheeks to subside, “Normally you’re a lot more… distracting.” Well that doesn’t sound any better now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Distracting, hmm? I’m free in…” He pretends to check the imaginary watch on his wrist. “Just a couple hours, if you are. Your place or mine?”

“Finnick,” you grit your teeth. You know he knows what you mean, and yet he still teases.

“Ye-es,” he replies in an almost sing-song voice before his expression becomes a little more serious. “I’m not supposed to take away from the lovely couple tonight. Apparently I can be a little distracting. Did you know that?” His eyes twinkle with more laughter you’re dying to hear.

“You? Distracting? Never,” you reassure him, patting his chest as you move past, trying not to notice how his eyes linger on you.

You disappear into the crowd, not only in search of a drink, but some different company. You, Finnick, and alcohol were a deadly mix you swore you’d never combine again. Luckily, there's no shortage of people holding trays of drinks, from bubbling champagne to deep red wines, and you quickly pluck a glass of rosé. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed, all you know is that you’ve just finished your third glass and are reaching for a fourth when your stomach starts rumbling. You realize then you haven't eaten since you’d been on the train. It’s not that there wasn’t any food at this party, there was, in fact, an excess, but it was so rich you were worried it would only further upset your already queasy stomach.

The voice that finally made you understand the phrase butterflies in your stomach calls your name, and you can't help but smile as you turn around and see Finnick holding a plate of shrimp drenched in a red sauce, setting it down on the bar in front of you. Your favorite. 

“Thank you!” You can’t contain yourself as you throw your arms around his neck, nearly brought to tears as you think of how delicious the shrimp would be. “I am sooo hungry.”

Finnick doesn’t even budge at the force of you throwing your weight towards him;he probably knew you were going to do that, just as he knew you hadn’t eaten. He knew you eerily well, Observing you must take up a lot of his time. “I figured you could use a break between all that wine.”

You smell the alcohol on his breath and know he's been doing his fair share of drinking, but that’s not the only indicator — the touching becomes almost second nature when he’s got enough alcohol in him. 

Although you’ve pulled away from him, his fingers curl around your waist to keep you in front of him, his thumb drawing circles on the small of your back. You can feel his chest pressed against your back, feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as you lean into him. He’s a sturdy and comforting presence behind you. You tell yourself as you lean back that it’s to steady your feet, but you know deep down you long to feel his skin against yours, and you’re too drunk to think about the consequences of people seeing you.

“How much longer do we have to stay here?” he whispers, and you suppress a shudder at the tingles that erupt up and down your whole body, starting where his lips touched your ear.

“We haven't even seen Katniss or Peeta yet.” You hate how breathless your voice has become as his hand trails down to rest on your hip.

“I was being serious earlier, you know,” he says, and you're so close to him you can hear his heart race. Why would he be nervous to ask you to come over? It was casual, you were friends. Friends who helped each other out sometimes, but friends above everything. Being anything more terrified you.

“Really?” You pretend not to notice the pounding of his heart or the sharp intake of his breath. “Mine or yours?” It's funny to pretend either of you really have a place here — the training center’s living quarters hardly count as home.

“Mmm, we can decide later,” he says, suddenly pulling away. Cold air nips where his body once stood, and you’re thinking he’s finally come to his senses about being so handsy in public, but then he’s dragging you to the tile platform where people are dancing, and he’s sweeping you into his arms. 

The shrimp is long forgotten, as is the grumbling of your stomach. It’s too busy forming knots as you sway.

“You didn't even ask if I wanted to dance,” you smile, one hand instinctively going to Finnick’s shoulder while the other grasps one of his. His free hand rests on your lower back.

“Do you want to dance?” He drinks in the sight of you, savoring how close you’ve become.

“Yes,” your voice is barely above a whisper. The music is slow and soulful, and all you can do is stare at one another.

“Good,” he says, but you’re not sure how good this really is.

There was a reason you’d created rules for this whole… arrangement in the first place. You drew a hard line in the sand that Finnick kept trying to cross.

When Snow first told you what happened to desirable victors, you hadn’t believed him. And then, two days later, your boyfriend wound up dead. A freak accident at the power plant, they’d said, but you knew. Deep down you knew the timing was too close to be a coincidence, that Snow really did mean what he’d said about everyone you loved dying if you didn't comply.

You were terrified of the same thing happening to Finnick, so much so it was the only recurring nightmare that occupied your brain.

He’d been the one to suggest it be nothing more than just sex, though, probably for the same reasons that had held you back from asking for anything more. And, yeah, that should’ve been what you wanted, but you could admit to yourself that you were a hypocrite. For wanting all the good parts of him, but not the danger that came with it. For wanting him to be able to look past his own fears and want more from you, but not being willing to do the same. 

“When should we leave?” Your palms have grown sweaty at the unspoken desires racing through your brain, so you use it as an excuse to disentangle your arms from his body and rearrange them to clasp around the back of his neck.

To steady yourself, of course.

Now, both of his hands are on your hips and he draws you even closer so that you’re chest to chest, so close your breaths become one.

“Not yet.” His voice is soft, even pleading. “One more song.”

Upon closer inspection you find he’s tipsy, but not drunk. He’s a little looser but still of a sound mind, which is why it’s even more terrifying to look at him, because you can't think of a time where the two of you have acted like this fully sober. Neither of you are under the influence of drugs, or alcohol, or even overwhelming emotion that would make you do crazy things. Except the morning after the first time.

The sexual attraction had always been there, but the first time either of you acted on it had been after a particularly wild night that left the both of you to fill in the blanks as you woke up next to him, naked in your bed.

“I’m so sorry — so so sorry! Things got so out of control last night, it was a mistake,” you’d said hastily before he could say the same. You’d rather not be rejected when your head was pounding and you’d felt so sick. You’d clutched the sheets tight to your chest, suddenly self conscious by how bare you were.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he'd said it so casually you thought you'd misheard him at first. You probably looked as confused as you were, because he continued, “ It doesn’t have to be a mistake. I like you, I like… this,” he gestured to the two of you, and when you said nothing, he added hurriedly, “It doesn’t have to be anything. Actually, forget I even said—”

You'd cut him off with a kiss, and had fallen back against the silk sheets with the intention to burn every inch of him to memory, since you couldn’t remember the previous night and cursed yourself for it.

“Hello-ooo,” Finnick’s voice tore you back to reality. “Did you even hear what I said? The song’s over, we can leave now.”

You don’t really want to leave, but you suppose it’s for the best, so you nod and let him lead you to one of the many black cars that sit outside the President’s mansion. One designated for the tributes and victors that only drove to and from the training center. 

Finnick wishes he could read your mind, especially when you get that glazed over look in your eye, the one that signals you were in a land far away from here.

All night, he’d wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked. 

Glittery, silver eyeshadow made it look like your eyes were really sparkling when you looked at him. In a dress that was tailored to fit you just right, hugging you in all the right places and flowing down to your ankles, yet somehow leaving a tantalizing amount of bare skin exposed.

Your smile completed everything, though. The way it met your eyes when you saw him across the room… he’d do just about anything to make sure you’d smile at him like that again.

When he’d led you to the dance floor in the gardens, it’d been for his own selfish reasons. Not just that he wanted an excuse to hold you close to him, but because he knew you’d look exquisite against the night sky littered with stars. The moon bathed you in a softness that made you glitter and glow, every beam that struck your figure only further highlighting your beauty until he was certain you were from another world entirely.

He’d especially wanted to tell you how you looked then. But like the rest of the night, whenever he opened his mouth, his mouth went dry and his tongue became stuck in the back of his throat, forcing him into silence.

You might think he was the sun, but he thought you were the moon.

He looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky every night just for him.

If only you were willing to see it, instead of whatever twisted reality you’d decided was the truth.

He feels like he’s in somewhat of a daze as he leads you to the car, feels out of his body when the two of you push past his door in a tangled mess of hands and teeth and tongue. 

It’s rough and fast and everything he’s not feeling as your lips attach to different spots on his neck and suck hard enough to leave marks. When he’s sure there’s not a spot left untouched by you, he begins to return every bruising kiss you’ve left with some of his own with enough force to match. His lips detach from yours and dip down to your neck, your chest, until he’s biting at your breasts, sucking your nipple into his mouth with a hunger he hasn’t felt in so long.

He wants to feel you, taste you, hear you — he wants his whole being to be consumed by you. He removes his mouth to continue his kisses down your body, relishing in the soft moans he manages to elicit from you and committing every sound to memory, like he’s never going to get this opportunity again. He kisses between your breasts, down your stomach, and purposely skips past where he’s sure you want him most before settling his lips on your inner thighs, his kisses turning almost lazy.

He wants to continue this slow pace, like you have all the time in the world, but that’s just not how the two of you do things 

It’s not a show, or even a display of real passion — no, it’s just two pathetic people making the best out of a lousy situation, acting like physical pleasure will somehow cure the constant ache of your hearts.

He fears the sweetness he seeks from you is souring at that realization.

It’s not that he doesn’t want this. Oh no, he’s been thinking about this since the moment he saw you in that dress and measured how difficult it would be to take it off. Actually, if he was being completely honest with himself, he’d been thinking about this the moment he saw you step off the train platform.

It’s that he wants all of this and more, but he’s not sure how to go about it. It’s not like they’re being totally subtle, but if Snow found out… he’d likely use it against both of you. You’d be just another thing for Snow to hold over his head, another person for him to worry about, and Snow would probably do the same to you.

So maybe, if Finnick continued pretending this was nothing more than casual sex and you were nothing more than a good friend, Snow would be convinced too. 

“Finnick,” you’re breathless beneath him. “What’s wrong? You sort of spaced out for a sec… we can stop if you want.”

No, he doesn’t want to stop, but it’s probably the first time he’s ever been asked that. 

He shakes his head, both to answer you and to clear his head, and leans over to kiss you again. 

He’s glad you don’t press it further, not as his tongue finally laps at your clit and elicits a loud gasp from you that gives him the self satisfaction to continue.

Your fingers card through his hair and pull instinctively when he adds his fingers. Now it’s his turn to moan, and the vibrations make you shudder.

All this does is spur him on, wanting to hear the little moans and whimpers from you that he’s grown so familiar with. They only make him harder to the point where it’s almost painful, but it does nothing to slow him as he continues flicking and swirling his tongue. In fact it has the opposite effect, he only becomes more earnest and determined in his efforts.

When he adds a finger he feels a sharp tug at his roots and knows he’s doing the right things.

Since that very first night, Finnick Odair had thought you were too good to be true and too easy to slip through his fingers. So he made it his mission to commit you to memory, treating every encounter like it would be the last one. As a result, he knows every sensitive spot you have, every noise you make and what they mean.

When he gently sucks on your clit and lets his teeth graze it, he knows it’s only a matter of minutes before you become undone. Your hips buck towards him, begging for more, and he obliges with sliding in another finger.

He detaches his mouth for a second so he can soak up the memory of you like this. Your head is thrown back against the pillow and your hair strewn in every direction. A faint sheen of sweat has appeared on your face as you pant, eyes are screwed shut with pleasure.

You’re so beautiful he cursed himself for stopping, even for a moment. At that moment, he doesn’t care about his own pleasure, all he can think about when he closes his eyes and returns his mouth is the image of you.

You’re together when the theme of the Quarter Quell is announced.

The day starts out normal enough. You both have your… clients to attend to, but when Finnick walks through the doors of the apartment you’d been given to share with several other Victors who were bought by the Capitol, you can push the awfulness of the day aside to soak up as much of him as you can before one of you is sent back to your district.

When he suggests a shower, the horrors of the past few hours are washed down the drain when the hot water pours over you. It’s so hot that Finnick begins to complain that he’s starting to feel — and look — like a lobster being boiled alive.

“But now I’m cold,” you whine with your back to him, clattering your teeth together for dramatic effect.

“Really?” He’s inched closer, and suddenly you’re not shivering from the cold.

He is all consuming.

When you emerge from the shower you find your fingers pruney and the mirrors all fogged up — you've been in there far too long.

The two of you finally separate to get ready for bed, and when you finally slide into the bed next to Finnick, his arm instinctively goes around your shoulders. 

He’s flicking through different Capitol channels that are all different forms of mind numbing torture, before landing on the official news station where Snow is about to read from a card announcing the twist of the Third Quarter Quell.

“Oh! Wait, stop here, I forgot they were announcing it today,” you say.

“I don’t think it matters that much,” Finnick’s expression is sour, but he doesn’t turn the television off. “It’ll be just as difficult to mentor as any of the other Games.”

“I don’t know… I mean, I couldn’t even imagine trying to train two extra tributes,” you muse, thinking about the last Quell, and almost miss what Snow says next.

In the next moment, you almost wish you had missed it.

“...shall be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

The two of you have vastly different reactions. Finnick immediately springs up from the bed and begins to pace, only stopping when he hears the sound of strangled sobs fighting their way past your lips. 

In an instant he’s next to you, wrapping both his arms around you and tugging you close to his chest. “It’ll be okay,” he tries to soothe, but his own voice is shaky and you suspect the embrace is meant to comfort him just as much as it is you.

I’ve wasted so much time, you realize, and the awful, choked noises you make turn into something so much worse.

You begin to weep, utterly defeated. There’s no fight left in you, and that’s why it’s worse than the short cries, or even hot, angry tears. Realizing the past nine years of torture hadn’t been worth it, and you really should have died in that arena. It would’ve been so much more merciful than whatever this was.

You’re the only living female victor from your district, there’s no hope for you. Finnick, at least, has a chance at not being reaped at all.

“We’ll figure something out,” Finnick continues. “You know… with everything that’s been going on.”

His reference, although vague, makes you think long enough that your cries have paused. Plutarch and Thirteen, you realize. Surely they would be scrambling to come up with a plan right now, because how could Katniss — their beloved Mockingjay — perform for them if she died in another arena? But saving her didn’t leave much room for the rest of you.

“You’re right,” you force out even if you don’t believe him, because you don’t want his calm demeanor to disappear. If he starts to panic you’re sure you’ll lose it completely.

“We should get to bed,” he says abruptly. “I think we’ll have somewhere to be tomorrow.”

There are three of you victors gathered around the dining table in Plutarch’s mansion with him. You, Finnick, and Beetee. You know there are more victors in on it, but you three are the only ones currently in the Capitol, and nobody wants to waste any time. When everyone else arrives for the games, whether as a mentor or tribute, they’ll be informed.

“We have a military, we have political unrest, and we have our symbol. We have everything we need to make this work. Do you know how rare this is?” Plutarch laments. “Thirteen has hovercrafts, so we’ll have a way to get you all out if we can figure out how to work around the forcefield.”

“Which is easier said than done,” Beetee adds. You’re not sure how to feel about him — he’s incredibly intelligent, that’s for sure. He’s such a genius you feel out of place in this discussion, because what could you possibly have to add when he could solve basically anything? 

He carries himself with such palpable sadness, though. His shoulders are always hunched like they’re physically weighed down with emotion, and you’ve never seen him without deep circles under his eyes.

“Can’t you just turn them off?” Finnick asks, turning to Plutarch, “You’re the head gamemaker.”

“I wish it was that easy, but it won’t work,” Plutarch shakes his head. “It’ll give Snow too much of a warning, we need it to be so sudden he’s left scrambling.”

“We have to blow it up,” Beetee squints his eyes, deep in thought. 

“Tell me what supplies you need and I’ll make sure they’re in the Cornucopia,” Plutarch promises. “But do you know how to do that? Can you figure it out?”

“It���s Beetee,” Finnick insists, “Of course he can.”

Beetee brushes off the compliment with a shake of his head. “It will require a lot…” he pauses at an odd place in the conversation, a habit of his you’ve picked up on, “... of calculations.”

“I could probably help with that,” you interject yourself into the conversation for the first time. “With the calculations, I mean. We do a lot of stuff like that at the power plants in Five.”

Plutarch breaks into a smile while Beetee nods his head slowly. “Excellent. Tell me what numbers you need, and I’ll get them for you.”

You nod earnestly, your chest swelling with a mix of emotions you haven’t felt in forever: confidence, pride, and hope. Like it isn’t just the talk of four lunatics around the dinner table, but a feasible option. A better future for Panem was being dangled above your head, just out of reach.

By the time you see Finnick again, that hope has been completely squashed in all the fuss of the week.

Right now, you’re both just tributes changing out of the ridiculous costumes you’d donned during the opening ceremony.

You’re not talking to him though, not after you saw him cozying up to Katniss Everdeen in nothing but a knotted golden net.

Rationally, you know you’re being a little ridiculous. The net isn’t his choice, it’s his stylist’s angle to get him sponsors. And he’s talking to Katniss in that awful persona he takes on when he’s in the Capitol, the personality everyone expects him to have.

Still, bile rises in your throat at the sight of them.

Trying to slip away unnoticed, though, proved to be difficult due to your illuminated costume shining bright against the evening sky. At least your stylist tried to make your outfit unique this time, dressing you up as lightning to represent Five’s industry of power. It’s still a poor imitation of Twelve’s fire costumes though, because they blow everyone else’s outfits out of the water with no competition.

You hear Finnick call your name as you hurry towards the tribute center and ignore him. You reach the elevator alone and turn around quickly, only to see Finnick standing as the doors closed on him.

Well, almost closing. A hand jutted through the elevator doors and forced them open again, revealing Finnick in all his glory — he hadn’t changed out of the net.

“Almost thought you were trying to avoid the pleasure of my company, honey.” His voice is annoyed and the nickname is not endearing but patronizing.

“Why don’t you go ask Katniss to keep you company?” You didn’t want to say anything, because really it’s irrational to think anything could be going on between him and Katniss, which just means that you look like a jealous fool and nothing else. But seeing him with someone so strong and sure of herself, the complete opposite of you, made you realize how quickly Finnick could slip through your fingers. He was so easy to lose.

“Sweetheart…” he begins, and you can tell he’s trying not to sound too amused, “The whole reason she’s in this mess is because she’s with Peeta. And… she’s seventeen. She’s a kid.”

Both good points, which only annoys you even further because it just proves you have no reason to feel the way you do. “Whatever,” you scoff, turning away from him and wondering how much longer this elevator is going to take. Please, let it be done.

It’s like someone’s answered your pleas because the door rings at the level four and it’s Finnick’s cue to steps off. “By the way,” he says over his shoulder. “I didn't know you were the jealous type. It’s cute.”

The door shuts before you have the chance to retort.

In training, it’s hard to do anything at all. The only things flashing in your mind are the faces of the tributes in your games and the tributes you failed to train. All of whom have been dead at least a year, but they haunt you just as much as they did on the first day. 

You’d gotten so close last year. Finch — a clever, redheaded girl — had made it to the final four before she’d died. It was the closest any of your tributes had gotten to victory since you’d been crowned.

She haunts you the most, the way she was little more than skin and bones by the time she died. A direct failure on your part; everyone had been rooting for the star crossed lovers or the stereotypical career from Two that they’d overlooked your tribute, no matter how hard you’d advocated for her and practically begged for sponsors.

“You alright?” Finnick sidles up beside you, holding a thick rope in his hand that’s tied suspiciously like a noose.

“Yep!” You force out a more cheery tone than you’d wished, and cringed at how sharp and on the verge of a breakdown you sounded. “I’m going to help Johanna out.”

Johanna Mason did not need help. She was throwing axes at one of the weapons stations when you popped up behind her and forced out a greeting.

She gives a little shriek and drops the axe dangerously close to her toes. “You see a girl with an axe in her hand and decide to jump her?” She seethes, “Do not do that! Or it’ll drop on your toes next time!”

Her words are furious, but you know she’s harmless at the moment. You know her well under unfortunate circumstances, from two years ago when your tributes had formed an alliance and the two of you had been forced to work alongside one another as mentors. 

Until the tribute from Seven split your tribute’s head open with an axe.

“Sorry,” you huff, picking up an axe and marveling at the weight of it. “I had to get away from Finnick. He’s been freaking me out lately.”

“Freaking you out… how?” Johanna narrows her eyes, and it's then you remember she’s in on the rebel plot to break Katniss out of the arena, and the rest of you if you were lucky.

Your eyes widen as you realize what she’s thinking. “Oh— not about that, he’s just… hovering. I don’t think I’ve spent this much time with him during the daytime since we first met.”

Johanna visibly relaxes and then rolls her eyes. “Please tell me you guys aren’t still doing that stupid friends with benefits thing. Please.”

“It’s not stupid!” You object, a little offended by the way she’s framing it. “I told you, it’s for the best… right now, at least.”

“You guys are such idiots,” she sighs, eyeing the axe in your hand. “Are you actually going to use that?”

With a shake of your head you hand it off to her carefully. “It’s just that… you know, with… Snow…” your voice drops to a whisper.

She cuts you off. “Yeah. I know.”

Oh. Yes, she does know exactly what you mean. A wave of shame overwhelms you and you open your mouth to shower her with apologies but she cuts you off.

“I don’t need you to pity me. Well—” She thinks about this for a moment and changes her mind. “Actually, if it makes you listen to what I’m gonna tell you, then yeah, poor me, all alone. Whatever. I’m telling you, you’re being a fucking idiot.”

“I am not—”

“You are!” Johanna hurls an axe at the board with so much force it breaks completely. “He likes you. It’s kind of sickening, actually, and so obvious. I mean, he’s literally staring at you right now— no, don’t look, brainless!”

“Johanna,” You begin, watching her pick up another axe. “I appreciate this tough love… aspect… whatever you have going on, but—”

“If you want to waste your last week alive pining for a guy you already have… be my guest. But don’t talk to me about it, it’s annoying.”

She’s crude, and mean, but she’s right. All the worries you have will be gone in a week. Either one of you will be dead, or you’ll be freed from the Capitol’s chains and in the safe hands of Thirteen.

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you say abruptly. “How are you doing with this whole Quell thing?”

She snorts and throws another axe, her jaw tight with anger. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”

You’re starting to feel that maybe she hates you when she asks, “Have you ever thrown one of these before? I mean, probably not, judging by the way you were holding that one, but…”

“Yes, I’d love to learn!” You know that’s what she’s trying to ask. It’s her version of trying to be kind, even if it’s laced with insults and sarcasm.

A hint of a real smile appears, and you can't help but admire how pretty she is, behind all the anger.

For the next half hour, Johanna teaches you how to throw an axe, while you chit chat about mildly unimportant things. She soon gets bored of small talk and starts cursing the Capitol six ways to Sunday, and you think how nice it must be to be free about how you feel. 

Not that Johanna hasn’t paid the price for it— no, the Capitol deserves every spitting word she throws their way. You brush off her rants with nervous laughter and look around to see if anyone’s listening, because you still have your family at home, but deep down you agree. 

It’s refreshing though, to talk with a real friend who’s unafraid to speak her mind and actually understands what you’re going through. Your friends back home, however sweet, couldn’t even begin to know the half of it.

“I wish I could teach you something,” you say ruefully, wiping the beads of sweat from your forehead. “Working in power plants doesn't really prepare us for the Games.”

Johanna shrugs. “It wasn’t a trade, I was just helping you out. And… you’re the least insufferable person here, so I'd rather talk with you than anyone else.”

You’re sure it’s the kindest thing she’ll ever say to you, so all you do is grin and hand her an axe back. She catches your arm and pulls you close, like she’s going to hug you, but instead just leans in and whispers in your ear, “Don’t back out. Or I’ll actually have to kill you.”

You know what she’s talking about, and you know she’s not kidding this time.

Now it’s time to find another victim — err, friend — at a different station to continue avoiding Finnick. You spot him with Katniss, again, but to her credit she looks less than amused at whatever he’s saying. You squash the flame of jealousy beginning to burn in your stomach, because you’ve been over this with him already. That, and the fact that you don’t really have the right to be jealous in the first place.

Finnick looks up from the rope he’s fiddling with and his eyes find you, which now means you have to scramble to find a station.

You spot Cashmere at the archery station and make a beeline, relieved to see her brother is not with her, because it makes the introductions and inevitable awkward small talk a little more manageable.

“Hi,” you force out. Cashmere fixes you with an icy stare but says nothing for a long moment, she just observes. She’s terrifying, to say the least. To busy yourself you pick up a bow and fiddle with it a bit, examining the craftsmanship in an attempt to look busy.

“You shoot?” She says after a minute, her voice almost making you jump.

“Not… really…” And just like that, you’ve lost the singular ounce of interest she held for you.

You listen to the instructor as he tries to teach you how to shoot, but it's clear after the first few tries this is not your strong suit. 

You wish you’d been born into a district that gave you a natural advantage in the Games; you’d won yours by nothing more than sheer luck. Everyone who hadn’t been killed by starvation, dehydration, or mutts were too busy killing one another before they paid any attention to you.

You hear him before you see him, the soft chuckle as one of your arrows misses the target entirely. “You should take lessons from Katniss,” Finnick says lightly, but it only makes you frown.

“I’d like to see you try,” you grumble, but you don’t actually want him to try because you’re sure he’s legally required to be perfect at everything he does.

“Why don’t I show you how to throw a trident instead?” He suggests, and that's the last thing you want to do. What you want is time. Time to think about what Johanna said, if all this angst was even worth it when you’d be dead in a week. Time to think about what you actually want. 

Time, unfortunately, is a luxury a victor would never be able to afford, often wasting it locked in a prison of their own minds.

“Okay,” you concede finally. “I guess you’d be an okay teacher… I’ve heard you’re not half bad.”

The training week has come and gone, the interviews with Caesar Flickerman having been the last hurrah before they sent you all off to die. 

You tried, unconvincingly, to remind yourself of the rebel plot to break everyone out, but it did little to soothe your nerves. You suspected they didn’t let you in on everything; that much was clear by the silent communication between Finnick and Johanna.

All of these thoughts are racing through your mind and keeping you from sleeping. The pillows have been thrown around and the sheets have tangled and bunched around your legs as you toss and turn, trying to find a position that would pull you into at least a few hours of slumber.

All of your thoughts circle back to Finnick. Throughout the week you’d spent several nights in his bed, but tonight you’d both agreed you needed your rest to prepare for the day tomorrow. 

Still, you can’t worry about him any more knowing he’s just a floor below you. Throwing on a thin robe you make your way to the elevator, not exactly sure what you want but deciding your mind will be made up by the time you reach him. 

You don’t even have to raise your hand to knock, the door flies open and you’re met with sea green eyes that pierce right into yours. They’re clear of sleepiness and brighten as they land on you, so you know he’s been awake like you.

You walk past him and know he’s trailing behind you, closing the door to his bedroom once you’re both inside. “I want it to be like the first time.”

“What?” 

“You know, the first time we…” you trail off, suddenly shy, and hope he’ll fill in the blanks on his own. 

“Yeah… what about it?” Finnick’s eyebrows furrow into a slight frown, like he’s trying to remember that night, the one that’s hazy with emotions and drenched with alcohol.

“I just… I mean…” You struggle to find the words, because what about it is right. “I guess what I’m saying is I don’t want to think about the consequences.”

Not a whole truth, but enough of one. You want to be able to be with him one last time, and don’t care about the consequences because you're sure to be dead soon. 

There’s a long, drawn out pause as he looks at you. Really looks at you, like he’s staring straight into your soul. It’s so silent you’re sure he can hear the pounding of your heart as blood roars in your ears, sure he can feel the air that’s become suffocatingly thick with tension.

“Okay,” he says simply, and that’s all you need before you close the distance and kiss him.

You’ve kissed him many times before, but this one is different. You’re expecting it to be like the others, desperate and rough like you’d lose each other in a second. 

This one is slow, like you have all the time in the world. For this one night, only two things are really certain: you have Finnick, and Finnick has you. The ones that follow that first one are just as deliberate and calm, so much so that you lose track of time. While it couldn’t have been that long, it was beginning to feel like hours, any pause being reduced to nothing more than short breaks to breathe before you reconnected.

You’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips against yours that you don’t even notice you’re moving until the back of your legs hit the bed and you almost fall back.

He steadies you with a hand on your waist and pulls you back in for another kiss.

“Someone’s eager to get me in bed,” he mumbles against your lips with a smile.

“Am I that obvious?” You ask with a giggle, a little embarrassed at how breathless you sound.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he pulls you closer until your body is flush against his and you can feel everything. “I think I’m a little more desperate.”

Yes, judging by the hardness you feel against your body, maybe he is.

This time you fall back intentionally, pulling him with you and savoring the feeling of his weight pinning you against the mattress.

You never want to stop kissing him like this. His lips are working in a way that’s so sweet and gentle you’re getting dangerously close to blurting out something you shouldn’t.

When he pulls back, propping himself up with his forearms on either side of you, you can really look at his face.

The green of his eyes are barely visible because his pupils are completely blown out, like even his eyes are desperate to get as much of you as they can. His bronze curls are beginning to stick to his forehead from the sweat beginning to dot his hairline.

The only thing that shocks you is that his cheeks are tinted a light pink, and his lips, reddened and glossy from the kissing, are pursed together in…

“Are you nervous?” You blurt out, eyes widening at the realization.

“No,” he mumbles, leaning forward to kiss you again, but you press a hand to his chest that forces him to keep your gaze.

“Why’re you nervous? We’ve done this like, a million times,” you laugh, but he’s not smiling.

Finnick’s answer surprises you so much that your own smile is instantly wiped from your face. “I just want to make sure it’s good for you. I want you to be happy… even if it’s only for a little bit.”

His tone is so earnest and anxious you’re sure you’re about to cry, because no one’s ever been this sweet to you. Except him. “Okay,” you whisper. Those funny three words are jumping in the back of your throat, and you have to swallow hard and kiss him to make sure they disappear.

Still connected by your lips, you roll over until you’re straddling him, his back propped against the headboard. You never want to stop kissing him; when his lips are on yours it’s like you’re in a whole different world. One without all the worries that weigh you down and pry you apart from him. It’s the most relief you’ve felt since your Reaping Day that you whine when his lips leave yours.

He laughs a little at your desperation, his hands sliding under your shirt and raising it above your head before tossing it aside.

Finnick makes quick work of the rest of your clothes and his own, and before you know it you’re both naked.

You’re glad he flips you over because you're a little embarrassed how wet you’ve become — not that it’d be a secret for long.

His hands slide down and gently pull your legs apart so he can settle comfortably between them.

Now it’s your turn to feel nervous, unfamiliar with the position you’re in — at eye level with one another. It’s so different from the impersonal ones you’re used to. 

When he’s behind you, you can almost be satisfied with it being just sex. You’re free to pretend it’s anyone, it doesn’t have to be Finnick.

But now, looking into his eyes and being met with a stare just as intense, you hope he can't feel your pulse skyrocketing.

Just as you feel the familiarity of one of his fingers working its way inside you, you’re hit with a force of emotion so hard it knocks the wind out of you and you have to hide a gasp. You realize, with a stab to your chest, you never want this to end, but know it will. Know you have to make this a memorable goodbye in case only one of you survives.

He makes you feel so good, knows your body so well it’s basically second nature when he pumps his fingers in and out in a way that makes you arch towards his hand, silently begging for more.

He’s just about to slide a second finger in when you know he senses the change in how you’re kissing him. It’s more like the desperate, hungry ones you're both used to. 

In a moment he’s withdrawn completely and you cry out at the loss. “Why’d you do that?” You groan.

“What’s wrong with you?” Finnick demands, holding your chin with one of his hands and forcing you to hold eye contact with him.

“Nothing, can you just get back to—”

“Bullshit.” He withdraws his body from you completely, leaving you cold and lonely as he sits back on his knees. His eyes widen as he looks at you, and you can literally see his pupils returning to their normal size. “You don't want to not worry about the consequences,” he realizes. “You’re just here to say goodbye.”

You want to protest and sit up, but he’s reading you to filth. “Finnick, I—”

“No,” he says with so much force it surprises you, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s in pain. “No, I told you we’re going to be fine, why are you acting like this is the end?”

You can recognize the edge of terror in his voice and know he’s not really mad at you. He’s panicked, because if you don’t believe his words, why should he?

“Finnick,” you say again, gently this time, and he slowly opens his eyes. You reach your hand towards his face and cup his cheek, an act so tender you can feel your own heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach. “I want to believe you. About everything. Really, I do, I just… I just want to do it right this one time.”

And it’s true. You’ve been intimate with him countless times, but they all feel so wrong compared to the rawness of tonight.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he whispers, grasping onto the hand that’s on his cheek and bringing it down to his chest. You feel his heart beating a million miles a minute, thudding so hard against his chest it might just burst free.

You nod, knowing you don’t have the strength to argue. You want tonight to be perfect, just in case it’s the last time, and you’re already missing the feeling of his lips.

Finnick seems to have lost the internal battle he’s been warring against himself, because when he surges forward to kiss you, his words are seemingly forgotten.

His kisses are still tender and steady, but an edge of desperation creeps toward the end. As if when you pull away to catch your breath, it’s the last time he’ll ever feel them.

You return to the position of before and try to fall back into the rhythm that’d been temporarily disrupted.

His fingers find their way back inside you just as his lips reconnect to yours, but this time you’re impatient. You want to be ready and able to enjoy it, but you can’t stand wasting time without him inside you, knowing you only had a few hours left together.

He seems to sense this, too, because his fingers curl inside you and send shockwaves up and down your spine. Blindly, you reach for his pants and fumble with the waistband for a moment before slipping your hand inside.

Instantly you find his cock, hard and practically jumping at your touch as you wrap your hand around it. You’re rewarded with his hips jumping towards your touch and groan that’s immediately swallowed by your kiss.

Just a simple touch has him impatient, understanding your sudden desperation. The brief whine as his lips leave yours is replaced with a moan as you feel the thickness of him pressing at your entrance.

“Wait!” You cry out, so suddenly it startles him into jumping back.

“What’s wrong?” He looks panicked, then grief stricken, like he’s done something wrong.

“Nothing, I just needed to say—” Please, just let me say it, you beg your brain. “I love you.”

Finnick’s features instantly relax and he’s back against you in an instant. The smile that’s overtaken his entire face is the brightest you’ve ever seen.

“I love you too,” he says in between kisses, “I thought I was being pretty obvious about it though.”

He doesn’t even wait for a reply before thrusting into you. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he pauses, letting you adjust for a moment.

“I think you were made for me,” He breathes, forehead dipping down to connect with yours.

“Oh come on, don’t be cheesy— ah!” He’s setting a pace that’s been like the rest of the night, slow and sweet, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you both grow impatient with it.

For a while there’s only the sounds of labored breathing and skin against skin as he thrusts into you, until your gasps and moans grow more frequent and you both know you’re getting close.

He increases the pace to something much more demanding now, not caring about the path of scratches your fingernails are making down his perfect skin, marring his perfection ever so slightly.

“Please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for, because you know he’ll give you the release you so desperately crave. Still, with the coil wound tight at the base of your spine it’s all you can do in your sex-drunken mind.

You both come right after the other, completely in sync, there’s no hesitation when Finnick wraps his arms around you and pulls you onto his chest.

“I meant it, y’know,” you say quietly after a minute.

“Me too. All of it.”

The giddiness you feel at his words disappears at the reality of the situation. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner. We’ve wasted so much time.”

“I know,” he sighs, because that's all he can say.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Both your lives will be on the line for a greater cause, your next breath will not be guaranteed, and neither will his. But for these few sacred hours, before the first cracks of dawn seep through the curtains and drag you back to reality, you have certainty, you have contentment. 

A sigh escapes your lips, and Finnick looks down at you resting your cheek against his chest.

He hopes you can’t feel his heart accelerating when you begin to draw little patterns in his skin.

“What’s wrong?”

The look in your eyes makes him wish he hadn’t asked.

“I’m just going to miss you.”

He could protest. Could point you towards the logistics that favor both your survival, could ramble about how the rebels are going to get all of you out. How you won’t ever need to miss him because he plans on sticking to you like glue until he draws his last breath.

The little part of him that's just as scared as you are stops him from saying any of it. He’s agreed to sacrifice himself and everyone around him to ensure Katniss and Peeta make it out. He could do it without hesitation if he didn’t have to think about you.

Instead, he just presses a long kiss to your temple and pulls you impossibly closer. You think he’d burrow himself in your skin if he could.

“Me too,” is the last thing you hear before the lull of sleep, aided by the warmth and safety you feel in his arms.

You hope tomorrow never comes.

[monacodaydreaming]

Can You Watch my Girlfriend a Sec | LN4

Lando decides that the perfect way to hard launch their relationship is by doing the the trend - can you watch my girlfriend for a second.

“I think that’s potentially the stupidest idea you’ve had yet?” You stated, looked at him blankly with wide - unimpressed eyes.

“I actually think it’s kind of great.” Your head shot to Max who was sat beside you on the couch. Lando stood in front of you both after having presented his ‘amazing’ idea on how to declare your relationship to the world.

“Yes! Thank you Max!” Lando exclaimed clapping his hands together, causing your gaze to shoot from Max to him. “I knew there was a reason we were friends.” Max looked offended by his best mates words.

“You’re both serious?” You deadpanned. “Why can’t you just do a normal post like every other person on the planet.”

“You should know by now that I am not fucking normal Ellie.” He said back shrugging his arms in response. You ran a hand over your face in distress before looking back up to him. He was stood there, face pulled together pleading with you to do this with him. 

“Alright!” You said holding your hands up in defeat. How could you say no to him. He jumped on the spot and your eyes widened.

“Lets do this.” He shouted excitedly before running out of the room. You turned to Max on the sofa who was sat there. Lips pulled together with a smug smile on his face.

“This is your fault.” You stated, eyes narrowed at him before standing up and following Lando out the room.

Max threw his arms up in the air. “How the fuck is this my fault.”

___

The set up was simple. You were sat at your desk, ‘working’ on your laptop and Lando would come in and place the camera against the plant pot they’d placed there for the perfect angle.

“Right you ready baby?” Lando asked from beside you.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” You were sat typing away on your keyboard pretending to work away. When you heard Lando click record.

“Hey guys, can you just watch my girlfriend for a sec.” He walked up beside you and placed the phone down on it’s mark. It was your time to shine.

You didn’t move from what you were doing at first. Only side eyed the camera and froze your typing as Lando walked off behind you. You stared at it for a bit before slowly, very very slowly turning to look behind you where Lando had just walked off.

You stopped in that position again for a second before slowly turning back to the camera. Your face was suspicious and you eyed the camera with near disgust whilst retracting your hands from your keyboard and placing them in your lap as you leaned back in your chair.

You froze like that for a second before twisting your head behind you whist still keeping your eyes on the camera. “Lando!” You yelled, not looking away from the camera. You twisted your head back, eyes still focused on the camera.

You could hear Lando and Max giggling off camera and you were doing your best to ignore them. Hopefully the camera wouldn’t pick them up.

After a few seconds of sitting staring you spoke to it. “Hello?” You questioned cautiously. Your eyes darted around you, as if you were growing uncomfortable staring at the phone too long. You leaned your head closer and whispered. “Is anyone there?” You froze in this position, as if you were waiting for a response, knowing that there wouldn’t be one. You leaned back and continued to stare, your eyes growing more and more concerned. “The fuck is he doing?” You muttered under your breath, just loud enough so that the camera would pick it up before yelling once again. “Lando!”

Then right on cue, Lando came back into frame and appeared beside you picking up the camera from it’s mark. “Thanks so much guys!” He spoke into the phone as the camera was now facing him. 

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” You spoke loudly in the background, no longer in shot just before the video ended.

“THAT WAS GOLDEN!” Max shouted. “Ellie, mate, you’ve gotta pursue a career in acting!” You stared at him with a disapproving look. “Come on come on, lets see it!” Lando and Max marched over to the sofa and began.

“Baby, you coming to see your fine work?” Lando spoke patting the sofa next to him. You smiled and shook your head at him slightly before wondering over and plopping yourself down next to him. You leaned on him, chin resting on his shoulder as he clicked play on the video.

___

“Baby, people are loving this.” Lando said suddenly. 

“Lan are you even paying attention to this?” You sighed as you tried to watch the finale of the White Lotus. It was a little while later since Lando had posted the video to his instagram to announce or ‘hard launch’ your relationship. He was lying down head on your lap as you fiddled with his curls. You had been so engrossed in the show that you’d not noticed his scrolling through instagram comments. 

“No no, I am but baby listen.” He was sitting up now, and you reluctantly grabbed the TV remote clicking pause so he could speak without talking over the show. “This is the best hard launch I’ve ever seen.” Lando looked up from his phone to you. “This is what people are saying - Urgh, I just love them - someone else.” You sat watching him, not even really listening to what he was saying with a small smile on your lips. You were happy to see him happy. 

He’d had a rough time in the media in his last relationship, one of the reasons you’d been reluctant to go public for a while. You knew that once you’d put it out there, you couldn’t take it back and that was scary. But Lando had wanted to let people know that you were his and he was yours and that was more reassuring than anything else. 

You leaned forward on your hands and placed a short and firm kiss to his lips before quickly pulling away and resuming your place on the sofa. He looked up at you, a bit taken aback by your sudden movement.

“I love you.” You then said simply. His hands dropped lowering his phone into his lap.

“Babyyy” he said sweetly looking at you with nothing but love in his eyes. “I love you.” He said back. “Now can I please read you a few more comments.”

You laughed. “Yes, okay.” 

[starsinthesky5]

Do joe and her ever just sit in bed and like…have one of those random deep talks 🥲 like literally about life, aliens, god knows. I gotta know what it’s like

a/n: enjoy my rambling :)

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

they do. all the time. they’re the kind of couple who end up talking for hours without even realizing it—lost in each other, wrapped in the safety of soft sheets and the dim lights of their bedroom, like the world outside those four walls doesn't exist. it’s their own little bubble, warm and motionless, where time doesn’t move unless they let it. it usually begins when the day is winding down. they’re curled up together, bodies fitted like puzzle pieces, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, his fingers drawing lazy circles on her hip. the tv is still on, flickering softly in the background, but neither is watching it. they’re too caught up in each other; too in love with the way these quiet nights always turn into something magic.

it starts off small, almost silly. she’ll say something out of nowhere like, “do you think aliens would find us cute or annoying?” as she scrolls aimlessly through her phone. and joe, blinking sleepily but still so in tune with her, will smile against her temple and mumble, “annoying. for sure. but they’d keep you,”.

“me? why me?” she'd ask skeptically, and his response would both melt her heart and make her giggle until she couldn't breathe.

“you’d sing to them and they’d fall in love,” he'd say.

she laughs, swatting at his chest before shoving at his shoulder like he’s ridiculous. “you’re so dumb, joey,”.

“and you’re so cute,” he says, without even thinking, and it hits her in the chest like a warm wave.

sometimes, though, it turns deeper—softer. heavier in the way that makes your chest ache, but in the best way. she’ll be half-laying on top of him, draped in one of his old college t-shirts, her cheek rising and falling with his steady breaths. and she’ll whisper something like, “do you think we’ve done this before? like…in another life? found each other somewhere else?” and he’ll be quiet for a moment, fingers brushing through her hair, before saying, “i think i’d find you in every one,”.

and it’s so casual. so easy. like of course he would. like the idea of not finding her is impossible.

they talk about everything. their childhoods, the weird quirks they’ve carried into adulthood. what scared them when they were little, what still scares them now. what they think happens after we die. if fate is real. what they’d be doing if life had gone another way. joe once admitted, in that low, gravelly voice he uses only when it’s late and quiet and just them, that he always thought he’d be a high school science teacher if football didn’t work out, completely disregarding the fact that he did an internship on wall street at one point and could be a fantastic businessman. “you’d be a hot teacher,” she told him, nose scrunched, and he rolled his eyes. “you’d be the music teacher with the hoards of dramatic twelve-year-olds worshipping you,”.

“you’re just jealous,” she teased.

“i’m literally in love with you,” he replied, and god the way it rolled off his tongue. so easily, so smoothly. she couldn’t even speak after that. just buried her face into his neck, because how do you respond when someone says it like that? like it’s the most obvious thing in the world?

sometimes the talks are a little more chaotic. she’ll go off about timelines and soulmates and alternate realities with the energy of someone who had caffeine too late in the day. joe will just watch her with this stupidly soft smile, eyes all sleepy and full of awe, and say, “how do you have this much brain power at 1 am?”.

“because i had dessert. and i’m wearing your hoodie. and you’re next to me. i’m thriving, baby,”.

they’ll talk until their throats are dry and their eyes are heavy, until the world outside is completely silent and their room is filled with nothing but their voices and soft laughter. sometimes she drifts off mid-sentence, and joe will kiss her forehead, whisper “we’ll finish tomorrow,” and hold her tighter. and in the morning, she’ll wake up remembering something he said the night before—something like, “home doesn’t feel like a place anymore. it just feels like you,” and she’ll carry it with her all day like it’s precious.

the best part is, they don’t plan these talks. they just happen. like breathing. like gravity. two souls orbiting each other, drawn together by something deeper than love. they don’t need a prompt or a reason. just each other. just a boy and a girl lying in bed with the lights low, asking questions, laughing at dumb answers, getting a little lost in the wonder of “what if” and “maybe someday,”.

and it’s in those moments—those quiet, blinking-between-yawns, head-on-his-chest moments—that they fall even more in love. because loving someone isn’t always loud. sometimes, it’s a soft question at 2 am. a hand in your hair. a smile you can hear in the dark. and the kind of connection that makes you feel like no matter how big the universe is, you already found the best part of it.

[biloverd]

🤍

3 with Billie please

Got a bit carried away… Hope you like it!🫶 Also english isn’t my native language so even though i proofread this it might not be perfect so, sorry for that☹️ Also kinda hate this

billie eilish x fem!reader

warnings: smut domtop!billie subbottom!reader

You and Billie had broken up 2 months ago, everything has just gotten too much for the both of you and a mutual agreement was made to end things. You guys ended on good terms which is never a good idea.

"You're looking good," she said, her voice barely carrying over the din of the party. The lights were low, the music loud, a typical Friday night at Quen’s place. She was a mutual friend, the kind who never took sides, even when the breakup had left everyone else is picking theirs.

You nodded, a tight smile playing at the corners of your lips. "You too," you managed, eyes lingering on Billie's black tank top and baggy jeans. It had been months since you’ve seen each other. Time had a way of changing people, but Billie looked as though she hadn't changed a bit. The same messy hair, the same piercing gaze that could cut through the noise and into their soul.

You both took a swig from your drinks, the cold liquid doing little to ease the heat rising in your chests. The air had tension, the kind that comes from unresolved feelings and unspoken words. The room felt like it was spinning around you, the laughter and chatter of the party fading into the background. You leaned closer, the scent of Billie’s perfume hitting you like a wave, and for a moment, you were back in your old apartment, the two of you tangled up in your bed.

"Come with me," Billie whispered, her hand brushing against your wrist, sending a jolt of electricity up your arm. You didn't need to ask where she was leading; you just followed, your body acting on instinct alone. The hallway was a blur of shadows and colored lights, the bass of the music thumping through the walls like a heartbeat. She pushed open a door and you stumbled into a random bedroom, the door clicking shut behind you.

The room was dimly lit by the glow of a lava lamp, casting a warm, pulsing light over the unmade bed. The walls were plastered with band posters, but none of it mattered. Your eyes were only for Billie, the way she looked at you with a hunger that mirrored your own. The room spun as she stepped closer, and your breath caught in your throat as her hand reached up to trace the line of your jaw. Your heart hammered in your chest, a wild drumbeat echoing the music outside.

Her fingers lingered on your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. "We shouldn’t so this, but i just… I need you." she murmured, her voice thick with desire. You nodded, unable to form words but knowing exactly what she means, as she leaned in to press a gentle kiss against your lips. The taste of her was like a forgotten melody, sweet and familiar. “Fuck” She murmurs as you wrapped your arms around her, pulling her closer, feeling the heat of her body meld into yours. Your hands found the hem of her tank top, lifting it to reveal the smooth, pale skin beneath. Your fingertips grazed the softness of her stomach, making her gasp into your mouth.

The music outside became a distant murmur as you two became the only sound in the room. You could feel the rhythm of her breath sync with yours, the pounding of your hearts in time with the bass that thrummed through the floor. Her hands slid under your shirt, her nails scraping against your back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You broke the kiss to catch your breath, only to find you staring into her piercing blue eyes, searching for answers to questions you didn't want to ask.

Her thumb brushed over your bottom lip, and you felt a shiver of anticipation. "I don't want to stop," she whispered, and you knew what she meant. You didn't either. The whiskey had lowered your inhibitions, but it was the raw, unspoken longing that made you crave her touch more than anything. You stepped closer, pressing your body against hers, feeling the warmth and softness that you had missed for so long. Your hands found the button of her jeans, fumbling slightly with the zipper before sliding them down her legs.

Billie's eyes never left yours as she stepped out of her shoes and allowed you to guide her onto the bed. You followed, hovering over her, feeling the mattress dip beneath your weight. You took a deep breath, inhaling her scent, feeling the heat between your legs grow stronger. You leaned down, capturing her mouth again in a kiss that was both fierce and tender. Your teeth grazed her bottom lip, and she let out a soft moan, arching her back to press her breasts against yours.

Her hands reached for the hem of your top, her nails scraping gently against your skin as she lifted it over your head. The cool air of the room kissed your bare skin, making you shiver. You felt her eyes on you, drinking in every inch of your body. You were self-conscious for a moment, but the hunger in her gaze washed away any doubt. She was yours, just for this moment, and you were going to savor it.

Your lips found hers again, more urgent this time, as your hands roamed over her body. You felt her breasts, the soft mounds filling your palms, her nipples hardening at your touch. She gasped into your mouth, and you knew she was just as lost in the sensation as you were. Your kisses grew deeper, more demanding, as your tongue danced with hers. The taste of her was intoxicating, a drug that you had gone too long without.

With a growl of desire, Billie flipped you onto your back, her body straddling yours. Her hands slid down to your waistband, deftly unhooking it and sliding your pants and the slutty thong you were wearing off. She leaned over you, her hair a dark curtain that blocked out the rest of the world. You could feel her breath against your skin, hot and desperate as she unhooks your bra. "I missed you so much" she repeated, her voice a low, throbbing murmur that shoot sparks to your core.

Her fingers trailed down your stomach, teasing the softness of your belly before dipping lower. You gasped as her hand found your wetness, her touch gentle but firm. She stroked your clit in slow, deliberate circles, watching your face as the pleasure built within you. You felt the pressure of her thumb as she applied just the right amount of pressure, making your hips jerk involuntarily. Your nails dug into the bedsheets, the fabric bunching in your fists.

You reached for her, desperate to feel her skin against yours. Your hands found the back of her neck, pulling her down for another kiss. This time, it was all passion and need, a silent confession of all the feelings you had pushed down since your breakup. Your tongues collided, the taste of alcohol on her breath mixing with the sweetness of her mouth. You felt her other hand slide up your thigh, the smoothness of her skin against yours making you shiver with desire.

Her fingers slid further down, parting your folds, and you couldn’t help but moan into the kiss. The sensation was almost too much, your body responding to her touch as though it had been waiting for this moment. She explored you with a confidence that sent waves of pleasure through you, her thumb circling your clit as she slipped a finger inside. You were so wet, so ready for her.

Your hips rocked against her hand, seeking more, and she gave it to you, adding a second finger and curling them upward, hitting that spot that always made your toes curl. Your breaths grew ragged, your moans louder, as she pumped her fingers in and out of you with an agonizingly slow rhythm.

"You're so wet for me," Billie murmured, her voice a sweet, filthy symphony in your ear. "Tell me how much you've missed this." Her words were a gentle coax, a soft caress against the storm of sensation building inside you. You couldn't form coherent sentences, so you just nodded and manager to babble something about how much youve missed her. Your breath hitching as she picked up the pace.

"I've missed you, baby," she whispered, her thumb circling your clit in a way that made your vision swim. "Missed your sweet pussy, missed the way you taste, missed making you come." Her voice was a soothing lullaby of dirty words, each one sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You moaned in response, your body arching off the bed.

Her mouth found your neck, kissing and biting softly as her fingers continued to play you like an instrument. The room was a haze of colored lights and heavy breathing, the scent of lust thick in the air. You felt your orgasm building, a tight coil in your belly that threatened to snap at any moment. You clutched at her, your nails digging into her back, begging for release. “Fuck bils… please”

Billie’s other hand slid up to cup your breast, her thumb teasing the peak. She pinched your nipple gently, rolling it between her fingers as she watched your reaction, a smug smile playing on her lips. You moaned louder, the dual sensations pushing you closer to the edge. You felt your muscles tighten around her fingers, your body begging for more, for that sweet release that only she could give you.

"Come for me," Billie breathed, her eyes never leaving yours. The command sent a bolt of electricity straight to your clit, making you whine with need. You nodded frantically, your eyes fluttering shut as you focused on the feeling of her hand working you, her thumb pressing into your G-spot, her thumb rubbing circles around your clit. Your hips bucked up to meet her, your body desperate for the crescendo.

And then it hit you, the orgasm crashing over you like a wave. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, as your pussy clenched around her fingers. The room spun, colors flashing behind your eyelids. Her name was a chant on your lips, a prayer of thanks for the pleasure she had given you. You felt her smile against your neck, her kisses gentle as the aftershocks of your climax rolled through you.

When the world came back into focus, Billie was still there, her eyes on yours, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Missed this," she murmured again, her voice filled with satisfaction. You couldn't help but nod, the words sticking in your throat. “Missed you.” The silence between you was heavy, filled with the echoes of what had just happened.

decided to treat you guys with less talking and more freakiness… thank you guys for reading!👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

[spidercatweb]

Perfect Match ★ Spencer Reid x reader

Warnings: fem!bau!reader, a little bit of jealous!Spencer 😊, plenty of nervous!Spencer, fluff, a tiny bit of angst i guess, happy ending, r uses dating apps, Garcia and r are besties!!, umm nothing else!

Description: Garcia's wonderful idea of getting r to use dating apps to find her perfect match is not working very well. Spencer gets a little distant when r mentions her plans for a date. r confronts him about this, which leads to confessions, a cancelled date, and a date to take it's place. <3

Word Count: 1,843

Request: "for spencer x reader? early spencer is too shy to ask reader out but reader starts talking about dating and dating apps and Spencer gets really jealous and ends up telling reader he likes them but hes a stuttering mess the whole time?"

A/n: oh em gee 😈😈😈 i enjoyed writing this... i have no experience w dating apps so uhh idk 🤷‍♀️ but i hope this is what you asked for! <3

You weren’t desperate for a boyfriend, you were just getting tired of waiting for the right guy to miraculously appear. So, per Garcia’s suggestions, dating apps seemed to be the best choice. She had also suggested speed-dating at one point, but that was definitely not your thing. So, dating apps it was.

For the past few weeks, you’d spent around twenty minutes a day on these apps. So far, you haven’t had any luck.

Boring. Gross. Likely to become an unsub.

These were the types of men you’d been seeing on the several dating apps you had downloaded.

Maybe the problem was that you were looking for perfect.

On a slow day at the BAU, you sat in Garcia’s office. Her chair was pulled up close to yours as she peered over at your phone screen. It was fun to look at different men’s profiles with a friend.

“Come on, he’s cute!” Garcia swoons.

“No!” He looks like that enucleator we caught last week.” You laugh, swiping left.

Garcia sighs dramatically, “You’re no fun. If you keep up with that attitude you’ll never find a date!” She nudges you with her shoulder while catching a glimpse of the new profile that appeared on your screen.

“I just have standards! Unlike some people.” You tease.

Your attention flashes back to your phone screen. You swipe through the man’s several photos. Attractive. And none of him holding up a fish he caught, that’s a good start. “Hmm.” You go to read his profile information.

“Enjoys reading, quiet nights in, and… horror movies. Okay…” You nod slowly, “Average height, same age as me. Aww, he has a cat.”

“Perfect! I don’t need to know anything else! Swipe right, give him a chance!” Penelope urges you to swipe right.

“Okay,” you giggle, “But if he’s a creep it’s your fault!”

“Oh if he’s a creep, I’ll find out before you do. I am definitely going to background check every single one of your potential partners. Only the best for my girl.”

Your investigation of another man’s profile is interrupted by a knock at the door of Penelope's office.

“Come in!” She shouts loud enough for whoever’s on the other side of the door to hear.

Spencer enters the room with a slight look of confusion on his face, “Hi. What are you guys doing?” He closes the door behind him.

Garcia cheerily explains the situation, “Well, I’m helping Y/n find her dream man. She’s very picky though, maybe you could help find her perfect match with that genius brain of yours.”

“Oh, um-” he laughs nervously, “how exactly are you finding her perfect match? And, statistically speaking, it’s incredibly rare for someone to find their so-called perfect match. There are too many variables to consider. You’d need a very specific set of traits, and of course, nobody is perfect-”

Garcia cuts him off, something she doesn’t do often, “Ah ah ah! You will not make her feel like this is useless!” She points a finger in his face. “And we’ve got her on a few dating apps, of course. Also, not that I don’t enjoy your company, because I love it very much, but why are you in here?”

“JJ wanted you to see her in her office, something about a new case, I think. She texted you but you weren’t answering.”

“Oh I’m so sorry! I guess I was pretty distracted. I’ll go see her right away!” She hops up from her chair and heads towards the door, “You two lovelies have fun while I’m gone! Don’t touch my tech!”

You both giggle as she leaves the room.

An awkward silence washes over the two of you as you’re left alone. You swivel slightly in your chair, phone in hand, your bright screen shows a photo of a man you and Penelope were looking at before Spencer came in. You catch Spencer staring at it from across the room, so you shut your phone off and laugh nervously.

“I, um- Garcia wanted me to try some dating apps, she thinks I’m lonely.” You laugh slightly, “I really don’t know how people are okay with just dating absolute strangers who they know nothing about. That’s really scary to me, I’d much rather date someone I’m already friends with.” You hope Spencer doesn’t think too hard about that last part. Because it would certainly be embarrassing if he figured out you meant him. You’d much rather date him.

“Romantic relationships started online do tend to have a higher failure rate than relationships started in person. And romantic relationships started with someone you’re already close with have the highest rate of success. I really don’t see how people could form a meaningful connection with someone they’ve never met or even spoken to before. I think I would find it hard, not even hearing someone’s voice.” Spencer fidgets with the sleeve of his sweater.

You nod your head, agreeing with him. “I don’t know why I’m using dating apps. It’s not like I have time to date anyway. I spend all my time here.” You huff out a sad laugh.

“No- you- you deserve to have someone, you shouldn’t say that.” Spencer strides closer to you, leaning against Penelope’s desk. “I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually. I mean, you’re incredibly intelligent, you’re funny, kind, attractive-” He pauses, stopping himself, “It’s really only a matter of time.” A slight blush tints his cheeks, he gives you a kind smile.

You look up at him, mirroring his smile. “I guess so.”

“I’m guessing you haven’t had much luck then? With dating apps, I mean.”

“No, not really. But there is this one guy I’ve been talking to.”

“Oh.” he nods, you notice something in his eyes. Disappointment? He was never very good at hiding his feelings. “What's he like?”

“Well, his name is Nick. We’ve been talking for about… a week? I think? We might go on an actual date soon, I think I’m going to ask him.” You grin, thinking about the kind exchanges you’d been having with the man.

“That- That’s really nice. I hope it goes well.” No extra statistics, straight to the point. Odd.

***

A conversation later that day led to you actually asking Nick on a real, in-person date. You only have so much free time, why not spend it enjoying yourself? So, that was it. You officially had a date scheduled for Saturday night. Only three days away.

***

Nothing of note happened for the next three days,though you did see Spencer acting differently. Less rambles, less conversations in the break room, more silent glances he thought you didn’t notice.

At the end of the day on Friday, you catch him before he gets to the elevator. “Spence!”

He turns around to face you, clearly a little startled, “Yeah?” He clutches the strap of his satchel that goes across his chest.

“Are you- Did I do something? Why haven’t you been talking to me?” You attempt to keep a neutral tone, but sadness seeps through.

“I have been talking to you, what do you mean? We talked about the case today-”

“No. You know what I mean, Spencer. You haven’t- went on a fifteen minute ramble about like- sea urchins and their contributions to the ecosystem- or whatever. You’ve been avoiding me.” You can barely look him in the eyes. He’s been one of your closest friends for years and now he’s acting differently. It hurts.

He rushes to explain himself, “Y/n, no. I- You were um-” He pauses. Lying will only make it worse. “You told me about how you were going on dating apps, and how- how you’re going on a date this weekend and-” He takes a breath, “It just really- I was jealous.” He sighs, his face reddens immediately.

“What?” Did I just hear that correctly? Jealous?

“I was jealous I-” He runs his hands over his face, “I am jealous. I’m sorry.”

“So you… are jealous… that I’m going on a date?” You’re still confused.

He nods slowly, avoiding eye contact with you. His face gets more red by the second.

“Because… you want to go on a date with me?” You feel your cheeks warming up, your tone is soft, you ask the question carefully.

“I-” He clears his throat, “Yes. I really- Yeah.” He sighs like he was holding his breath. “I’m sorry, that’s so unprofessional, and I know I shouldn’t treat you differently because of how I feel. I should’ve been thinking about how it would affect the team-”

It takes you two tries to interrupt his nervous ramble, “Spencer.”

His mouth hangs slightly open, you stopped his train of thought completely.

“If you really feel that way, then I’d love to go on a date with you.” You give him a reassuring smile.

He stays silent for a few moments, processing. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” You nod.

His smile grows, “Yeah?” he huffs out a surprised laugh. “But what about your other date?”

You giggle, “He- I think he’ll understand. I’m also pretty sure Garcia found some weird stuff about him while she was snooping around so…”

“Ah. Okay.” He nods, “So when… When were you thinking? I mean you don’t have to decide right now of course.”

You can’t hold back a giddy smile. “How about tomorrow? Lunch at the cafe by the used book store?”

“That sounds really nice.” He nods again, eagerly.

“Okay, great. Um- does sometime around twelve work? I can text you when I’m on my way?” You fidget nervously with your necklace.

“Yeah, of course.”

You both stand silently for a few moments, both in disbelief that this is actually happening.

“Um- I should-” Spencer points behind him to the elevator doors.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Your face warms even more, you’d forgotten he was about to leave, “See you tomorrow.”

He echoes back, “See you tomorrow.” He grins as he walks into the elevator. As the doors shut in front of him, you both wave happily at each other.

***

Penelope comes running out from the glass doors of the BAU, “What was that!?” She rapidly waves a pointed finger between you and the elevator.

“Nothing! It was nothing! I was just saying goodnight!” You laugh nervously.

“Liar!! I know that face!” She gasps, “You asked him out!? Oh my gosh! Finally!!” She takes your wordless grin as a yes, and catches you in a tight hug. “You two are going to be so cute, I just know it!” she lets you out of her grasp, “And I won’t tell anyone, pinkie promise.”

***

The Tuesday after your’s and Spencer’s date –which went extremely well, ending with a promised second date after your next case– you notice the rest of the team snickering about the two of you not-so-subtly. The next time you see Penelope, you give her a knowing glare, but you don’t scold her. Really, it’s better the team finds out now rather than later, in some horribly embarrassing way. Unfortunately, this means you’ll have to be signing some paperwork soon.

Thank you for reading! <3

Feedback is very much appreciated!

My requests are open!

🪻

[enimsiyobeht]

8 that! (ate that). drabble.

mdni 😼 !! boypussy seonghwa x amab reader. power bottom hwa & service top reader if you squinttt (its obvious). implied 9th member reader. risky setting (they're literally doing allat on the couch but they dgaf), seonghwa. wearing. lace. panties. (#needthat). use of folds, pussy, lips, hole, clit, cunt, and entrance as seonghwa's gential. oral (s. receiving), minor fingering (s. receiving), cowgirl, unprotected sex (in my defense, they ran out of condoms), mention of birth control pill, 1st time raw, minor squirting, multiple orgasms if you think about it.

It started innocently, like most things with Seonghwa did.

A lazy afternoon, sunlight filtering through the curtains, the two of you tucked into the corner of the couch like you had no plans to move for the rest of the day. The drama playing on the TV had been long forgotten, reduced to background noise while Seonghwa half-lay across your lap, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, your hand casually massaging slow circles into his upper thigh.

“Comfy?” you murmured, your thumb grazing dangerously close to the hem of his shorts.

“Mhm.” He didn’t look up. “But your fingers are distracting.”

“You want me to stop?”

He paused. Then finally glanced at you, eyes lidded, lips curling into that subtle smirk he wore when he wanted trouble. “Did I say that?”

You let out a low chuckle and slid your hand a little higher. He was only wearing one of your oversized hoodies—soft gray cotton that hung halfway down his thighs—and you could feel just a sliver of bare skin beneath. No waistband. No shorts?

Your brows lifted. “Are you seriously naked under this?”

Seonghwa gave you an innocent look, like he didn’t know what you were talking about. “They’re lace,” he said, tone light, teasing. “You like them.”

“Oh, you little shit.”

Your hand slipped up between his thighs, and he shifted without protest, letting you explore. Sure enough, when your fingers brushed up against the delicate fabric, they came away wet. A soft patch of slick had soaked straight through the thin lace, and the sight of it—the feel of it—sent heat surging through your body.

“I knew you were acting bratty for a reason,” you muttered, leaning in so your lips brushed his temple. “You’ve been wet this whole time?”

“Maybe,” he whispered, sounding a little breathless now, voice betraying the calm expression on his face. “Thought you’d notice sooner.”

“I always notice, Hwa. I just like watching you squirm first.”

His legs parted instinctively, just a bit, the slow tease between your fingers making his thighs twitch. You slid your palm higher, cupping him through the lace, and he gasped softly—hips pressing up against your touch like he couldn’t help it.

“You're soaked,” you whispered against his cheek. “All for me?”

He looked at you, eyes glassy now, lips parted. “Who else?”

That did it.

You guided him down onto the cushions, the hoodie riding up as he settled into the plush corner of the couch. His thighs fell open easily, confidently—he knew exactly what he was doing, stretched out for you, letting that soaked patch of lace be the center of your attention.

“Wanna show me properly?” you asked, voice low, reverent.

He bit his lip, lifted the hoodie just enough to give you a clear view, and you exhaled like he’d knocked the wind out of you.

“Fuck, baby…”

The lace clung to his folds, transparent now with slick, the fabric darkened where it had soaked through entirely. Your mouth watered at the sight, and your hands trembled slightly as you leaned in.

“You always this cocky when you’re dripping through your panties?”

Seonghwa tilted his head back, exhaling a shaky laugh. “Only when I know you’re gonna take care of it.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

You pressed a kiss over the fabric first, mouthing at the sticky heat beneath. He shivered, fingers already threading through your hair as you pulled the panties aside with your teeth, slow and deliberate.

His pussy was soaked—lips glistening, hole twitching gently like it already missed being filled. You groaned at the sight.

“You taste so fucking good,” you growled, dragging your tongue from his entrance to his clit, slow and reverent.

Seonghwa moaned, high and pretty, back arching against the couch. “F-Fuck—baby…”

You licked into him again, slower this time, tongue pressing inside while your nose bumped against his clit. His fingers tugged at your hair, not to guide you—just to anchor himself as the pleasure rolled over him in waves.

“You always eat like you’re starving,” he gasped.

“I am starving,” you mumbled into his cunt. “For you.”

He whimpered. “You’re such a fucking menace.”

You grinned against him and buried your face even deeper, locking your arms around his thighs and holding him open as your tongue worked him in slow, wet circles—savoring every moan, every stutter of his hips, every time his thighs trembled and he whined out your name.

Your tongue worked him open, slow and deep, letting the taste of him linger on your tongue as you moaned against his soaked heat. Seonghwa was already squirming, trying not to buck up too much, voice catching every time you teased his entrance just to pull away again.

“Fuck—why are you so good at this,” he breathed out, head tilted back, hair sticking to his forehead from the heat building between you both. “You’re gonna make me cum just like this.”

“That’s the idea,” you murmured against his folds. “You deserve to be spoiled.”

He whimpered, a little breathless laugh escaping his lips. “You always say that… but you really mean it when you’re between my legs.”

You smiled, and this time you brought your hand into play—thumb gently circling his clit while two fingers found his twitching hole, rubbing against it, pressing inside slowly. He gasped, the stretch already making his eyes flutter closed.

“God,” you whispered. “You’re so fucking tight… always pull me in like you were made for it.”

“I was,” he moaned, shifting his hips to help you go deeper. “Fuck, baby, right there—”

Your fingers curled instinctively, hitting his spot, and he nearly sobbed. Slick squelched around your hand, leaking onto the couch beneath him, and you just kept going—devoted, careful, focused on his pleasure and nothing else.

Your cock throbbed in your pants, painfully hard, but you ignored it. This was about him. Watching him fall apart, giving him everything he needed—that was enough.

When his thighs started shaking and his walls fluttered around your fingers, you slowed, gently easing off so he could catch his breath.

Seonghwa blinked down at you, dazed. “Why’d you stop?”

You wiped your mouth on the back of your hand, kissed the inside of his thigh. “Because I wanted you to cum like that. Thought I’d deal with this—” you gestured vaguely at the obvious bulge in your pants, “—later.”

Seonghwa stared at you for a second. Then he laughed—quiet and disbelieving—as he sat up and swung a leg over your lap, settling his weight right against your bulge with no hesitation.

“Hwa—wait,” you breathed, hands landing on his hips to still him.

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locking with yours. “You get me soaked, finger me open on the couch, and you think I’m gonna let you walk away hard?”

You exhaled, jaw tight with restraint. “We’re out of condoms.”

That made him pause, but not in the way you expected. He blinked once, slowly, then tilted his head. “So?”

You stared. “So I’m not gonna fuck you without one. I told you I would never—”

“I know,” he cut in, voice low and steady now. “That’s why I’m telling you it’s okay.”

Your heart jumped.

He leaned in, hands braced on your chest. “It’s just you. Only you. I want to feel you.”

“Fuck, Hwa…” you swallowed hard, already pulsing against him. “You sure?”

He nodded slowly, rolling his hips once against you, dragging his soaked pussy along the shape of your cock through your pants. “I’m on the pill. I haven’t let anyone else touch me since we started this. I want to feel you—really feel you.”

That snapped the last thread of your resistance.

You lifted your hips, enough to shove your sweats down fully, and your cock slapped up against your stomach, glistening with precum from the arousal of eating him out. Seonghwa stared for a second, eyes wide and blown out.

Then, without a word, he reached between you, lined himself up, and sank down.

The gasp he let out was sharp, desperate, his back arching as he took you to the hilt in one smooth motion. Your own breath stuttered, eyes rolling back as his bare heat wrapped around you—tight and wet and fucking perfect.

“Holy shit,” you groaned, hands flying to his waist to steady him. “You’re—fuck—you feel so...”

Seonghwa was shaking already, mouth parted in a silent moan as he adjusted to the stretch. “It’s so much,” he gasped, nails digging into your chest. “I can feel everything.”

You didn’t dare move yet—too overwhelmed by the pulsing heat gripping you tight, milking you, like his body never wanted to let go.

He rocked his hips once, shallow and slow, and the both of you moaned in sync.

“I’m never letting you go back to condoms,” he whispered through a breathless laugh.

You almost laughed back, but it turned into a grunt as he picked up the pace—grinding down, bouncing in your lap, sweet pussy swallowing your cock with messy, wet sounds that made your spine tingle.

“Hwa—fuck, baby—” Your grip on his hips tightened. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

“I know,” he panted, flushed and ruined already, moving with confidence. “So don’t hold back. Give it to me.”

You thrust up to meet him and his head fell back, voice breaking on a moan. You were already close—too close from how long you’d been teasing each other. But you wanted him to cum first, to cream all over your cock, to make the mess he clearly wanted.

“Cum on me,” you whispered, leaning up to kiss the column of his throat. “Make me feel it, baby. Soak me.”

And with one more deep thrust, he did—walls clenching tight as he cried out, grinding down hard as he came, making slick gush over your cock and thighs, warm and wet and obscene.

Your release followed seconds later, buried deep inside him, body locking up as you groaned into his neck and filled him with every drop.

yeah i kinda ate that shit up.

[jadekillian]

Part 3/4

Part 1 here, part 2 here

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗔 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 𝗢𝗱𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗼𝗻—𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗔𝘀𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱—𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 (𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘂𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆), 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗴𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶 𝘅 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗼𝘁

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿, 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗗𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸, 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 (𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟭) 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗟𝗼𝗸𝗶’𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗰𝗸, 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵, 𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗿 (𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟭) 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝟯+(?) 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝗻𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸 (𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘆), 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗵

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 𝗟𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝟵𝗸 (𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗹𝘂𝘁𝘀)

Guilt. It is an intense thing—something that slithers its long, crooked fingers around your throat and squeezes until accepting death would be more comforting than struggling to fill your lungs with oxygen.

Hooves dully thump against a dirt path, accompanied by the faint squeak of worn leather and the jangle of a bridle. Your arms tighten ever so slightly around Thor’s waist, your chin resting against his shoulder as he guides the angelic white stallion onward.

The morning sun is warm against your cheek, but shame is like a blanket of ice around your heart. It doesn't help that the very air smells of the younger prince, his scent present in every breath you take. You wonder, not for the first time today, if Thor can smell the traces of your floral perfume clinging to his little brother's skin too.

“We will reach the village within a few hours. Are you faring well back there, my lady?” The God of Thunder breaks the silence with a rumbling, deep voice.

You swallow thickly and nod against him, only to remember a moment later that he can't see you. You clear your throat and say, with as much confidence as you can muster, “I'm quite alright, thank you."

"That's good," he murmurs in a way that doesn't sound particularly convinced. He remains silent for another few seconds before adding on, “And you, brother? You have been uncharacteristically quiet. I am beginning to think that your tongue has been cut out."

Loki snorts derisively from several feet behind you. "Oh, please. There isn't a knife sharp enough to cut my tongue out. If there were, I would have it stuck through your eye before anyone else had a chance to wield it.”

You feel the rumble of laughter beneath your hands, as if Thor is merely amused by the idea. He never did take Loki seriously, always brushing off his brother's threats like they were nothing more than a pesky fly.

"I'd like to see you try, brother."

"Do not test me."

You sigh, your head falling back as the two argue like a pair of children. Their words begin to blur together, nothing but meaningless background noise in the grand scheme of things.

Your mind wanders back to the previous night, remembering how it felt to have Loki's soft lips moving against yours. How his fingertips burned like brands against your skin. You'd been so eager, so willing, but the memory of his touch only serves to make you want to bury your head in the sand and never come out.

What a fool you are.

What a terrible, horrible fool.

You are a lady of the court. A soon-to-be Asgardian, an elven princess. To sully yourself in such a way with the youngest prince of all people was just...it was utterly unacceptable. But it had felt so good. So wrongfully right. That was, you're certain, the part that bothers you the most. Because wanting to be taught a lesson is one thing, but actually enjoying it is entirely different.

“—You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

You blink rapidly, your thoughts scattering to the wind as Loki's voice breaks through. You sit up straighter, pulling away from Thor so you can crane your neck around and glance at the god. His dark horse now trots easily beside you, the stallion's long, midnight-black mane catching the sunlight.

"I’m sorry?” You choke, your heart suddenly fluttering like a trapped bird against your ribcage.

Loki’s brows lift, his eyes catching yours and holding them prisoner. He seems to take note of your discomfort, for his lips curl upward into a devilish smirk. It is the first time today he has looked anything other than bored.

“Dueling, of course. As soon as we return to the palace, I would very much like to settle the score. If only to prove to Thor here that his overconfidence is, indeed, misplaced."

Oh.

He hadn't even been speaking to you.

Your face burns from the tips of your ears to the delicate curve of your neck. Of course that is what he is talking about—how would he possibly have known about any of the other thoughts that have been running amok through your mind? And yet, the amused glint in his eyes claim something entirely different.

You tear your gaze away, focusing instead on the rocky path. Thor merely huffs in response to Loki's remark.

“Using magic is no way to determine skill in dueling, brother," he states matter-of-factly. “Without your childish party tricks, I would best you every time. But, as it is, you are quite fond of cheating."

"I didn't hear you complaining about my 'childish party tricks' when I saved your royal, egotistical arse from those cold monsters," Loki retorts, spitting the word 'monster' out like it's a piece of rotten fruit. “A true fight is never fair. Never honest. To claim otherwise is foolhardy and delusional."

Thor doesn’t miss a beat. “I had the situation under control.”

“If by ‘under control’ you mean that you were about to be skewered through the heart like a piece of meat, then yes. You had everything well in hand."

“If neither of you shuts up right now, you won't have to worry about settling the score, for I will be the one to kill you both." You interrupt before Thor can retort, knowing that this could go on for hours if you don’t intervene. "You are both big and strong and powerful, and I am sure all the nine tremble before your very presence. Please, just give me some peace and quiet. I beg of you both."

“Oh, look at that—the princess needs a nap," Loki deadpans, lazily flipping his hand in your general direction. You're pretty sure he actually rolls his eyes, but you can't see well enough to tell. “By all means, use Thor's shoulder. You wouldn’t be the first maiden to drool on his armor.”

Your stomach clenches and your body grows rigid. There is the Loki you remember. Brash and rude, cold-hearted and callous. The very epitome of cruelty, wrapped in a pretty package. Still, you suppose you should have expected him to use your insecurities as ammunition. After all, his chamber doors were no longer closed. He had promised normalcy outside of his lessons, and he had delivered that promise tenfold.

You expect Thor to speak up on your behalf—to reprimand his brother as any true gentleman would. But instead, he shifts uneasily, adjusting the collar of his tunic.

An awful, cold feeling settles in your bones.

“Speaking of, brother,” Loki smoothly says, ignoring the tensing set of your shoulders—and there it was again. The distaste in his tone when addressing Thor as his kin—a reoccurrence since their latest trip to Jotunheim only a couple of weeks ago.

You're not entirely sure what happened, but something did. It seemed as though something changed within the youngest prince—a darkness began to stir behind those eyes. It wasn't visible to everyone, of course. It was more of a feeling than anything. A subtle shift in his demeanor that only a handful of people noticed.

You noticed.

Thor had been banished to Earth for a week as punishment for leading the group into Jotunheim, leaving you alone with Loki. In your time with him, you noticed his mood souring. He spent more time in his chambers than usual, and you often found him staring at nothing with a distant look on his face.

He continues, “You and Lady Sif spent a great deal of time together this morning, did you not?”

Thor clears his throat. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his hands tighten around the reins. "She and I train together often. What of it?"

There is a deadly silence between them before Loki chimes back in with a nonchalant, "Oh, nothing at all. I was simply curious. It sounded like a rather serious discussion for something as frivolous as sword-fighting techniques."

Your eyes narrow as they drift from the pathway to the golden hair in front of you—the thick neck and brawny shoulders, sculpted from millennia of battles and bravado. You suddenly feel ill, like someone has stabbed a hot poker into your gut.

“Loki.” His name is a warning, a low rumbling growl in the pits of Thor's throat. Whether it is an admonishment to cease his instigating or a plea to not press any further, you can't be certain.

You aren’t even sure you have the right to feel what you're feeling right now—but a strange cocktail of dread and jealousy washes over you all the same.

“What conversation?” You try to sound careless, but even you can hear the catch in your voice. The doubt, the uncertainty.

You don’t like how suddenly quiet it becomes, save for the clopping of hooves and the wind whipping through the trees.

Before you can demand that one of them actually speak up, a horn blares throughout the sky above you. You have arrived at the village market, you realize numbly. How wonderfully convenient timing.

Women, men, and children alike kneel on the roadside as your trio passes, their gazes reverent and heads tilted downward, only rising from their position once your horses come to a stop and the three of you dismount.

There is music coming from somewhere just up ahead, as well as the scents of freshly cooked meats and baked pastries. Already, vendors have begun singing the praises of their wares, each advertising themselves louder than the other. Colorful tents are set up in the main circle, drawing your gaze to where beautiful fabrics are held on display and expensive jewels glitter beneath the sun. Other vendors, you notice, sport potions, weapons, and the occasional book or scroll.

The village looks like many others on Asgard—proud stone buildings and proud citizens. Usually, Asgard's beauty would never fail to take your breath away, but today...today you are finding it a challenge to enjoy the scenery.

“Well,” Thor clears his throat, holding his arm out towards you, “shall we?"

You smile shakily, an ugly mix of emotions clawing at the inside of your chest. Still, you feign politeness and wrap your fingers around his muscular forearm. "Of course.”

Loki—eyes flashing towards the two of you—tenses visibly. He is a shadow beside you, hovering like a storm cloud. What he is thinking, you don't know, but you are certain whatever thoughts lie within his mind are far from friendly. But, rather than cause any trouble (for once), he walks ahead through the crowd, slipping effortlessly from person to person like a snake amongst the underbrush.

Unable to stop the churning of your stomach, you allow yourself to be dragged away to a tent whose banners depict that of an open eye with no color to fill the iris.

***

Several hours later finds you standing in a dimly lit bar, a half-finished, heavily watered-down drink clasped in your hands. The tavern is loud and brash, full of drunkard laughter and off-tune lute playing. There is a small bard in one corner that does an exceptional job entertaining the crowd. His voice, when heard over the clamor, is soft and melodic and wraps around your aching mind like a balm.

You try to focus on it.

You try to focus on anything other than the cryptic reading you'd received from the blind seer that sat cross-legged on the rickety floor of her tent. When you'd entered the dreary little den with Thor by your side, she had tsk'ed as you stood before her. Her wrinkled hands had slowly roamed your face, fingertips cold as death. She'd called you royalty, a woman of two worlds—half in the sun, the other half shrouded in shadow.

"A destiny riddled with sin and secrets," she murmured, almost sympathetically, "your fate shall be forged in the embers of two raging hearts. But whether your ashes shine gold or black will rest solely on your decision."

She'd then taken your hands in hers, clasping them so tight you feared your bones would grind against one another. "It is already muddied, this line of decision," she hissed. "Be certain you've made the correct choice when the time comes."

You had an aching suspicion as to what those words were meant to imply, but you quashed it down immediately. The only choice you had to make was to accept the inevitable, to join Thor and fulfill your duty as a princess. The point of this whole trip, after all, was to assure Odin and Frigga that you were worthy. Worthy to inherit the crown. Worthy to someday become queen. Worthy to continue the royal line.

A bit too late, it seemed. You knew not why this order came so suddenly, but you had a vague suspicion it had everything to do with the look Queen Frigga had given you last night at breakfast. A look of suspicion—questioning. As if she were silently probing into your deepest thoughts, rummaging through the contents, and silently evaluating you. You feared she knew somehow about your betrayal, and that's the reason why she had arranged for a meeting between you and the seer.

Or, maybe you were just paranoid.

You were a traitor. Not only to Thor, but to yourself as well. You were, like the seer said, a woman living two lives. In the light, you were a princess. Dutiful and docile. But in the dark, behind closed doors, you craved something you shouldn't. Something—someone—not meant for you.

You had prepared yourself, or at least tried to, for today to be the end of a road. The milky-eyed woman would deem you unworthy and incapable, and Odin would deny the union. You could return to Alfheim and try to forget any of this ever happened. Go back to your family and your duties, and spend a thousand lifetimes trying to feel satisfied.

But she hadn't rejected you—and you'd never been more confused.

"You will someday make a wise and brave queen." Her breathless whisper was her final prediction, voice cracking from age and abuse, "Though only in one of these worlds will that hold true, my lady. Choose wisely, for once you choose, you will commit."

Her words echoed within your head like the banging of a gong. Made you doubt. Made you question. It seemed simple enough what she was saying—Thor or Loki. Sunshine or shadow. It almost seemed ridiculous, because of course your choice was Thor. It had always been Thor, hadn't it? You loved him. You were grateful for him. Yet you found your traitorous eyes straying, glimpsing the dark prince sitting across the room at a secluded corner, and, gods help you, every part of your being yearned for his touch again.

You sigh into your drink, closing your eyes as the bard's song came to an end. When you peek open your lids, you find Loki watching you. He's angled in the shadows, barely illuminated by the low-burning candles perched atop the wooden tables. He doesn't smirk or leer. He just holds your gaze—like a predator—until you break away first.

"It is rather late." Thor takes your attention briefly. He finishes the rest of his mead and pushes his empty flagon forward. "Perhaps it is best we leave. If we wish to get back to the palace before the celebration feast, then we mustn't dawdle any longer."

"Right… the feast," you murmur, unable to keep the disappointment out of your voice. You down the rest of your mead, the unpleasant taste barely noticeable at this point. You hate those formal celebrations. Hate the noise, the overly extravagant dresses you were forced to wear, and mostly you hated the amount of etiquette that was required.

Thor's face flashes with understanding. He understands you more than you could ever give him credit for. The two of you did grow up together, after all.

"Then again," he drawls, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint smile, "I have had much to drink. So much so that, I'm sure, one can't blame me if I happen to, ah... pass out before we even have the chance to reach the stables. Maybe we should rest for the night? Until my senses return, of course."

A soft sound leaves your throat, a sound that falls somewhere between a huff and a chuckle. "Now that would be awfully irresponsible, wouldn't it?"

He grins at you. "Only just a little…"

Your fingers toy with the edge of your sleeve, your teeth anxiously gnawing at your lower lip. You contemplate it for all of three seconds before finally offering a small nod of agreement.

"I would like that."

"It's settled then," Thor concludes, standing from his chair and, not without the dramatics of course, promptly stumbles as if on cue. He chuckles, bracing a hand against the table for support.

"By the gods," you say, rolling your eyes but smiling. "You're an awful actor."

"I do believe I should request to use the bed. Can't have me sleeping in the dirt, now can we?" He waggles his brows playfully before reaching towards his pocket and laying a couple of gold coins on the tabletop. "Three rooms."

The burly, dark-haired man that had only a moment earlier been conversing with Thor while pouring another round of drinks, gives a nervous grin. His shoulders drop ever so slightly.

"O-oh, of course, Your Highness. But, if I may, the rooms...we only have two available for the night." His voice trembles just as much as his hands do. "I must apologize; if I'd known you'd be stopping by, I would have made arrangements—"

"Two rooms will be sufficient," Thor says, cutting the other man off before he has a chance to launch into a guilt-ridden ramble.

You interject, as if proper decorum suddenly mattered. "Thor, we can not lay our heads in the same place before our nuptials. It simply isn't acceptable."

"Ah," he waves his hand, unconcerned, "there's no need to worry. I am sure that Loki will have no objections to sharing a room with me"

You notice, in the way you can't quite help it, Loki's gaze lift up. His eyebrows draw together, his expression completely and utterly dubious. He had been listening the entire time—not that this revelation came as any shock to you.

Thor strides across the tavern floor and towards his brother. He slaps Loki good-naturedly on the shoulder as he sits.

"And what, pray tell," Loki muses, his tone laced with nothing but boredom as he casually spins the dagger in his hand, the silver blade dancing between each of his long, pale fingers, "would lead you to think that I have any desire to be kept up all night with your incessant snoring?"

"It isn't any different from having to put up with your quiet sulking."

The blade stills in his hand. You find yourself unconsciously leaning forward to better hear their hushed bickering.

"I do not 'sulk,'" Loki mutters. "I simply prefer silence. Something I won't get if I have to share a room with you."

"Well," Thor grunts, arms folded tightly across his broad chest. "My intended and I are staying the night here, and as per per tradition we can not share the same room. Your choice is to either take your horse and ride back to the palace or bunker down here with me for the time being."

It was in that moment you saw the idea formulate behind Loki's narrowed eyes, so perfectly visible his mind's machinations. The sly tilt of his head, the curious set of his brows. It was as if every star within the galaxy had aligned at that single moment of clarity. And the next words to spill from the youngest prince's mouth make your entire stomach sink.

“So I will share a room with her." He nods his chin towards where you sit frozen. "If you don't mind, of course. But she will be family soon enough, and I grow tired of our bickering. It would do good to move past our childish hatred and work towards an actual civil relationship. What better way than to spend a quiet night in each other's company?"

Oh, he was clever. So very, very clever.

And Thor, the poor drunk fool, fell into his brother's carefully spun trap. Hook, line, and sinker. The look of worry on Thor’s face, however, isn't lost on you. For a moment you believe it is due to the obvious—the prospect of you and the Trickster alone, in a dark room, while Thor is unbearably sloshed—but then you overhear his low muttered words.

“What you heard today—"

"-Does not concern me," Loki cuts him off curtly. "That was your conversation, not mine. Let us leave it at that, and we will talk no more of this."

'It sounded like a rather serious discussion for something as frivolous as sword-fighting techniques.'

You gulp back the nerves building in the back of your throat. Tonight was going to be a long, sleepless night.

***

The room is smaller than you anticipated. Much smaller.

In the center sits a singular queen-sized bed, layered thick with pillows and furs and blankets. There isn't much to it apart from that. Only a simple fireplace and a tall wooden armoire stacked in one corner with a dresser settled beside it. The walls are a rusted red color with the paint chipping off the craggy surface. It was the type of room only fit for weary travelers, dirty from weeks of travel and seeking cheap rest.

"Well, it's quaint." Loki shrugs his jacket off and neatly drapes it over the back of a wooden stool as he locks the door shut with a flick of his wrist. "At the very least, it will serve its purpose for tonight."

You can not find it in you to agree.

"Quaint would be the politest definition I'd use," you mutter as you cross the small room and gently swipe your fingers across the bedspread. It was rough and coarse, a contrast to the velvety sheets of your personal chambers.

"Spoiled little elf," he murmurs, humorlessly chuckling at your disapproving frown.

"You speak as if we both did not grow up as royalty," you retort.

"That may be, but I know how to carry on when that comfort is lost. You," he pauses, lips pursing into a thin line, "not so much."

You bristle, straightening your back. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

He sighs, as if he's growing tired of this conversation already. As if he weren't the one to invite himself into your space.

You helplessly wonder if he is talking about physical luxuries or if he is speaking of something else entirely. Something more personal. Either way, you don't care for the insinuation nor his condescending tone.

A deep breath fills your lungs. In and out, slowly. Calmly. "What are you doing here?"

“To teach you.”

It is said with such simplicity, such finality, that you can't help but stare. He stares right back, face devoid of anything you could pinpoint. Emotionless.

“No,” you shake your head, confusion marring your brow. "I mean, why did you come with us today? Only Thor was needed to witness my reading. You had no purpose here."

A pause. Then, "Would you rather I hadn't?"

Yes. No. You didn't know.

The question hung heavily in the air, waiting for an answer. An answer you did not have. Your stomach rolls like a ship in a storm, and you feel as if you could very well be sick.

“I asked you a question first," you insist.

He takes a step forward. You take a step back.

“I wanted to spend time with my brother and his future bride. Is that so difficult to believe?"

Another step towards you. Another step away from him.

“Yes,” you bite, your back colliding with the wall. The coolness seeps through your dress like ice water, and you shiver, though you do not know if it is due to the temperature or the way he was looking at you. Like a starved man eyeing a feast.

You didn't understand it. How could he be so indifferent one moment, then the next look at you like he wanted nothing more than to consume you whole?

“Tell me what you overheard this morning,” you whisper, changing tactics.

His head tilts just the slightest. It's a gesture you've come to learn means he is contemplating something. You can see the gears turning inside his head. Weighing the pros and cons of giving in to your request.

“Do you purposely live life with your eyes closed, princess?" He asks instead. His hand, so suddenly, is touching your cheek. Gently, his fingertips trace the sharp curve of your cheekbone. His touch is freezing, as cold as a winter wind. "Or do you simply choose to ignore what is directly in front of you?"

“Stop with the riddles," you breathe, though there is no conviction behind it. "Just...tell me."

For the first time since you’ve met him, he appears uncertain. It is a look that doesn't suit him. He stands before you, lips pursed tightly together and his brow creased with lines of worry. For once, he actually looks as if he were searching for the correct words.

You hold your breath, waiting.

“He has not betrayed you if that is what you are concerned about," he finally answers, his tone careful. Treading on thin ice. "But he does have secrets. As do you, need I remind you?"

Your pulse races beneath your skin, thudding so loudly you're positive he can hear it too. You want to ask him what he means, want to ask him how he knows, but your tongue is thick in your mouth and you are suddenly too afraid of the answer.

The pads of his fingers trail down your jaw. You tremble beneath the light touch, eyes closing briefly.

"But I am not here to speak of my brother,” he continues, voice soft as silk. His touch leaves your face, only to glide along the side of your neck, and you find yourself leaning into the coolness of his caress. "Closed doors, remember?”

You nod, dumbly, because it is all you can do.

“I want you to look at me."

You obey, much to your own surprise.

He's closer somehow. The heat radiating off his body is tangible, warming you to your very core. It feels nice in contrast to the chill of his skin.

“Tell me, what was our previous lesson?” His thumb sweeps across your lower lip, pressing into the plump flesh. "Be a good girl and remind me."

Oh.

You swallow the lump that is steadily forming in your throat. “Pleasure.”

“Pleasure,” he repeats, a small, approving smile curling at his mouth. "And did you enjoy it?"

It feels like a trick.

A trap, waiting for you to fall right into the jaws of it.

You can't trust him.

You shouldn't trust him.

Yet still the word slips from your lips.

"Yes."

There is no hiding the flash of desire that flits across his face. His pupils widen, nearly taking up the entirety of his iris.

“And?” He coaxes.

It takes you a moment to realize what he's waiting for.

“Letting go of shame,” you whisper.

“Then why are you holding onto it now?" He murmurs. "Why are you hesitating?"

“I-"

"It is simple. Do not overthink it." He leans down, his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. His teeth graze the pointed tip, and your heart jumps inside your chest. "All you were required to do last night was take, but now...now you will learn to give.”

The pressure of his hand presses down onto your shoulder, gentle but demanding. One moment you were standing on shaky knees, and the next you were kneeling.

It is belittling. Humiliating. But the way in which he looks at you, his mouth set and his jaw tense, is almost empowering. Almost.

“Lesson number two,” he bends down until the two of you are at eye level, “is service."

He watches you, no doubt scrutinizing every expression that passes across your face. You dare not look away, despite the anxious churning in the pit of your stomach.

He presses the tip of his middle finger against your mouth, sliding it past your parted lips and onto the slick surface of your tongue.

"Suck." He orders.

You nearly choke at the sheer vulgarity of it. Surely that could not feel pleasurable, could it? All the times you'd overheard the crude stories from drunk men in the taverns, how in-detailed they'd often been with their lewd descriptions of their sexual conquests, you'd never heard anything like this.

Usually it was a...well...mouth on a person's—on their...

The thought alone makes your face burn hotter than fire. Loki seems to catch on to where your mind had wandered, for he is barely containing the smug grin stretching his lips.

“Do not tell me you know not how to press your lips together and suction.” His tone is every bit condescending and patronizing. A quiet rumble of laughter reverberates throughout his chest as his eyes narrow the slightest bit. “If that is is truly the case, then I have much more work ahead of me than I'd originally intended.”

If only looks could kill, Loki would be dying a most horrible death.

You latch onto his digit, hollow cheeks forming around the thin width. You think, just for a brief moment, of biting down and tearing it right from the knuckle. That would wipe that nauseating smirk right off his face. It would put him in his place. It would—

Without warning, he pushes his index finger into your mouth as well, the digits bumping against your teeth. Deeper and deeper they go, until the pads touch the velvety flesh of your throat.

Your lashes flutter wildly, and against your volition they build wet and thick with the threat of tears. What you can see through your blurred vision of Loki is his slack expression, his brow knitted and his eyes rounded with something akin to fascination. Or maybe even wonder.

“No gag reflex," he murmurs, seemingly to himself. "Now, isn't that a pleasant surprise?"

He speaks as if you are some foreign thing to be studied. Locked away within a glass encasement like a curated artifact. A prized possession.

Innocent as you may be, you were certainly no ignorant little girl. You knew exactly what that reaction meant to him. Exactly what he had insinuated in his low, sultry tone. But suddenly your knowledge seems severely lacking. Childish, compared to his experience.

Shame. It was the first logical emotion you felt, and the only one that was apparently forbidden. He didn't want you to have shame, just as he did not want you to overthink. So for now, you had nothing else left but to accept, to let go. Even if you were not so sure of the rules of this little game he was playing.

If growing up in Asgard as an elven outcast had taught you anything, it was to fake confidence, even when you lacked it. To have pride, regardless.

So you do exactly that.

You roll your tongue against the intruding fingers, holding them captive within your warm, wet mouth.

Were you expected to actually suckle? Or did the visual alone satiate him? Perhaps the sight of you, face flushed and on your knees, was satisfactory enough.

Before you could dwell any further, he abruptly slid his wet, glistening fingers from the cage of your mouth. Saliva coats the appendages and links a thin line to your lips until the tension snaps and sloppily drops down your chin.

You quickly wipe the back of your hand over your mouth, glancing up at him under heavy lids. He's watching you with an intensity that makes you clench your thighs together and rub them subtly, your mind taking you back to the way he had touched you the night before.

Slow, gentle, precise.

"Tell me," you breathe, the tip of your tongue darting out to trace the plumpness of your bottom lip. You barely acknowledge the way his gaze follows the motion. "What would you have me do next?"

His expression twists just the slightest, nostrils flaring and jaw taut. As if whatever it was that had formed in his mind, whatever he had wanted to say next, had died before even having the chance to be spoken aloud.

It seems, in the briefest of seconds, an entire debate brews behind his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards before he decides upon, simply, "I will have you will pay me the same courtesy I did for you."

By that, of course, he was speaking of last night.

The incessant beating of your heart thrums throughout your entire body like a thousand small drums. Could you? Could you actually open your mouth and taste him like he had done with you?

To feel him jerk and twitch and come apart on your tongue and lips. What would the consistency be like, the taste of it?

You were about to learn.

He takes your hand and places it over his crotch, curving your palm over the hardening ridge straining against the thick material of his leathers. You gulp, your fingers curling involuntarily over the shape.

He's watching so intently, and a shiver goes up the expanse of your spine.

You look at him for what feels like an eternity. Into those green eyes, murky with desire and flecked with shards of gold. It is easy to lose yourself in those hues. It is easy to forget why you shouldn't want to seek him out.

Thor is in the next room. Unaware and trustingly asleep, blissfully ignorant of the treacherous deed his fiancée and brother were currently committing against him.

'You will not look at me as Thor’s brother, nor yourself as his betrothed. When those doors close, those titles have no significance or power. Only pleasure.'

Loki’s past words echo like a prayer inside the corridors of your mind. And god help you, the guilt that threatened to swallow you whole slowly dissipated.

You were doing this for Thor, after all. It meant nothing. It was merely practice—an exchange of teachings.

That was it.

It didn't matter.

It… it just didn't.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks, interrupting the buzz inside your head. There is nothing mocking or cocky in the question—the inquiry is genuine.

Maybe, if your fingers hadn't been on his rapidly hardening length, if his knuckles hadn't been sweeping your neck ever-so-tenderly, you would've said no. But those circumstances weren't currently present, so you take a steadying breath and reply,

"Yes."

His lips quirk a little.

"Yes, what?" He teases, sliding his thumb along the hollow of your throat.

"I—yes," you repeat, pausing. "I am...okay with this. More than okay. I-"

I want this, you're about to say. Because in truth, you do. A little too much. But the admission burns itself before it has a chance to seep free from your lungs. Instead, you change it into "I want you to teach me."

There is a tick to his jaw as he registers your response, like it took him all of his willpower to not growl the filthiest obscenities right into your face.

He tilts his head, almost thoughtfully. "Such a brave little thing," he drawls. "Are you nervous?"

"Not of you," you say quickly. "It's...it's just new. Unfamiliar."

He brushes away the strands of hair sticking to your cheek, the ghost of his finger lingering on your cheekbone. "Trust your instincts." He hums, "Your body will know what to do."

You experimentally squeeze and are awarded a sharp inhale for your efforts. Encouraged, you continue with a slow and steady friction, delighting in the way the bulge grows larger and stiffer underneath your curious hand. Up and down, up and down, rubbing the hardening length through his ridiculously tight-fitting pants.

Your eyes and mind battle for dominance over where to stare. On the shape of him, straining so deliciously against your caress, or at his reactions.

A soft squeeze, then a firmer press of the palm. You watch his face the entire time, hoping to read something—anything—to indicate your actions are indeed pleasing him.

What feels nice? What doesn’t?

You were playing, and he was letting you explore freely. No rush to your exploration, no expectations.

Within minutes, you have come to learn that his breathing grows the fastest when you follow the natural curve of his length and softly drag your thumb at the very tip. He is the most sensitive there, you determine.

The first time it twitches, you glance at him to make sure you hadn’t accidentally hurt him. The second time it happens, his mouth parts on a skillfully contained sound. You realize, by the third instance, that it is because he likes it.

You feel strangely proud of that.

Feeling brave, you lean in to press a small kiss onto the mound, tentatively flicking your eyes upwards to look for the prince's approval. He gives it to you in the form of an encouraging nod, the veins in his neck tight.

You don’t miss the small sigh that follows as soon as your mouth reconnects with his fabric-clad member.

His fingertips slide into your hair, knotting themselves through the strands. Not controlling or forceful, merely there—anchoring and guiding.

“Norns help me," you hear him mutter under his breath, hissing sharply through clenched teeth. It was so quiet, barely audible and rasped. You think, perhaps, you weren’t meant to hear it.

“Take off the belt," he orders softly, regaining himself. There is no tremor or break in his voice—just control. Like he isn't unraveling bit by bit, a loose string ready to fall apart. “Slowly.”

He draws his hips away enough to accommodate the pull of his belt, the thick piece of leather clanking obnoxiously as you poorly attempt to work it free.

What should have been a two-second task, no longer than five, you struggle with for the duration of an excruciating eternity.

He could have helped you with the buckle, easily disassembled it with a snap of his fingers—but no, it is apparent Loki enjoys watching your awkward squirming as your nails scrape against the bronze piece.

“Do you need a hint?" He remarks dryly, no longer attempting to hold his amusement in. "The buckle goes through—"

“Don’t be condescending," you hiss.

He merely chuckles.

Finally—thank the gods, finally���he places his hands atop yours, stilling your failed attempts.

“Luckily for you, and perhaps all of Asgard, ceremonial gowns are required to be worn before the official union," he quips, effortlessly tugging the stubborn strap through. "Else I fear the entire realm and its guests would be subjected to a rather painfully boring and long night come tomorrow."

“So if undoing a belt isn’t a skill necessary for me to learn, then pray tell, why did you have me attempt it?" You snap, more venomously than needed.

Your comment doesn't earn any of his ire. Quite the opposite, as it merely serves to widen his grin.

Then he is leaning down, nose to nose. His face so dangerously close to yours. For a moment all you can do is hold your breath as his mouth, a hair's width away, ghosts over the plush swell of your lips. You wonder if he's going to actually kiss you. For a single, mad second, you want him to.

He does not.

“Because seeing you get ruffled is quickly becoming one of my favorite pastimes," he whispers.

You feel something cool and heavy slide around your neck. Smooth. Solid. Tight but not suffocating. It only takes a second for you to realize he was fastening the length of his belt around your throat, like a noose ready for hanging.

He slips a finger under the leather and gives a small tug, testing the makeshift restraint before straightening his back once more. All while holding the remaining portion of the belt tightly bound between his closed fist.

“And," he continues, a sharp jerk of his hand causing you to fall forward on your hands and knees, “I did warn you at the very beginning of our little arrangement, didn't I?”

He slowly begins to walk backwards, each step pulling you in tow until eventually he reaches the edge of the bed and sits with legs splayed wide and comfortable.

“I will teach you all you need to know, but the plan had always been to ruin you. To burn myself so intensely into your mind that no one—no matter the touch or the effort put towards pleasure—could possibly ever compare to that which you will receive from me."

You find yourself kneeling in front of the apex of his thighs, face level to his groin. You could only guess you had a ridiculous expression of bewilderment plastered to your visage, mouth parted on silent words.

He had warned you.

What a fool you were for ever doubting his promises.

“What then? Do you intend to—to turn me into a proper whore?" you manage to utter. "To crave you? Crave this?"

You had intended for it to seem more bitter than it sounded, more indignation and not desperate curiosity.

But he sees straight past the walls. Past your intentions and into your soul. The same soul that that seer had proclaimed to be torn in half—half dark and half light—which, right now, was rapidly bleeding into the shadows.

Dark and dank and ravenous.

“Well… it would be a shame to only accomplish one out of two goals,” he grins lazily, completely shameless.

You have nothing more to offer to that remark.

The belt wrapped around your throat is only pulled tighter as he gently ushers you closer to his crotch. So close that the intoxicating smell of musk, leather, and the slight remnants of winter cling to your nostrils like perfume.

With a wave of his hand, he magically vanishes the fabrics and the trappings that clung to his skin, exposing himself entirely to your wide-eyed gaze.

And exposed he is, in his entirety.

Your previous view of him in the baths had been darkened and foggy—too consumed with other things to properly appraise his nakedness. Yet now, oh, how much better everything looks with clarity.

It is so terribly, painfully obscene.

He is lean muscle, all compacted tightly within alabaster skin. Soft, silken flesh covering nothing but firm and well-crafted contours. Scars speckle the surface in different lengths and varying depths, giving testament to the long and often hard years he'd spent training for combat.

Before you can even realize what you're doing, you reach a hand forward and gently trace the faint white marks.

And him?

He lets you. He lets you run the flat of your fingers across every groove and indentation. Lower and lower until eventually his needy cock bumps against the heel of your palm.

Now you had known, due to your many studies of anatomy and the way the human body was formed, what a man's manhood generally looked like. But theory and practice were vastly different experiences, and never have you truly believed that anyone could actually be so well gifted.

Now that you are really paying attention, you take notice of the length of it. Elegantly long and subtly curved, flushed rosy pink at the tip. And the thickness, easily as wide as three of your fingers joined together, was definitely enough to make your mouth feel achingly full just by looking at it.

He really was made for sin.

“It would benefit you well to breathe," he prompts with a twist of his lips.

Only then do you remember to blink, to suck in much-needed oxygen.

He wraps one large hand around the base, lazily tugging up and down its length. You couldn't believe the way your insides clenched at the sight. Couldn't believe the way he was casually—so brazenly—pleasuring himself right before your eyes.

No shame. That's what you see when you glance up at his face. No shame and no guilt whatsoever.

You feel a soft tug at the belt, the sudden force lurching you forward until your hands are braced upon each of his knees to balance yourself and your face is once more leveled to his lap.

“Focus,” he commands, the pad of his thumb smearing the slippery essence that has leaked from the tiny slit. “Not on my face, not on your thoughts. Look nowhere but at my cock. At what I am doing to it."

And like the pathetic, starved thing that you are, you obey.

You stare in unbroken fascination at the way he tugs his length with controlled, measured strokes. Slow and torturously patient. Like this was nothing to him. Just another day of fulfilling his mundane duties and not a secretive rendezvous that could be overheard at any moment if anyone cared to listen hard enough.

Then, his eyes hood, the rhythmic stroking stops, and he looks down at you through a curtain of dark lashes.

“Do as I've shown.” His cold palm engulfs your smaller one, forcing your fingers around his velvety heat and into his preferred rhythm.

Using your hand as his own personal sex toy.

It is a filthy image. Watching the head of his member disappear inside your fist, then slip out again when the stroke ends. Faster. Harder. All done in perfect sync to the dictation of Loki's hand.

“That's it, so good," he murmurs low, the slightest hitch to his voice.

You weren’t sure when you began doing it yourself, but your hand steadily continues on even after Loki removes himself altogether. Your movements were nowhere near as skillful or controlled as his had been, but they had his nostrils flared and jaw clenching so tightly you were sure the bone could shatter at any moment.

“Do not be afraid to be a little more firm," he grunts, “I will not break, I promise you. You will not hurt me."

So you squeeze, tightening your grip around him. You are rewarded with a low hiss and the jerk of his hips.

The motion is repeated again and again, and each time it elicits the same response. It is addicting. The sound, the feeling. Knowing you could make the arrogant prince writhe and twitch and curse.

You wonder what would happen if you were to lick him. To wrap your mouth around him and suck. What would his reaction be?

He said to trust your body. To trust its instincts.

Without further thought, your head dips low and the tip of your tongue flicks out, barely ghosting over the leaking head.

Loki jolts, hissing loudly through his teeth.

You quickly flinch backwards, worried that perhaps you'd actually hurt him somehow. But his hand is suddenly there, cupping the back of your skull, urging you back.

"Norns, no," he growls, the muscles in his neck bulging. "Do not stop."

There is an animalistic quality to his voice, a raw and primal edge that sets your body ablaze.

He guides you forward until the smooth flesh of his cock is sliding past your lips, bumping against your teeth and touching the roof of your mouth.

He tastes...

You have no words for the taste.

You were not prepared for it to be so hot, so smooth, and so soft. You were not prepared for the way your core clenches and your stomach churns at the weight of him on your tongue.

You certainly were not prepared for the toe of his boot to slither up your dress and press itself firmly against the wetness that has pooled in your underwear.

You yelp around him, the sound muffled by the sheer girth stretching your jaw.

The prince groans, the hand buried in your hair clenching tightly and holding you captive to his lap.

You squirm, grinding the wet ache of your cunt down onto his shoe. Pure instinct. You were moving entirely on autopilot. There was no rational thought.

“Such a pretty thing." The heel of his boot rotates, grinding harder against the pulsating bundle of nerves. "My pretty little whore."

My.

The word bounces around inside the confines of your skull.

My whore.

His.

His whore.

The sound you make is a pathetic one. Something between a whimper and a moan—something that was never meant to be heard by Loki, because in the end you were not his.

In the end you were to marry his brother.

His brother, who had secrets of his own, who was not above hiding things.

Who was currently asleep, ignorant to the treachery occurring behind the closed door of the bedroom he'd booked.

“Tell me," he hisses, "do you enjoy this? Enjoy having my cock in your mouth?"

A whimper slips free as his hips give a short thrust, burying himself deeper into the welcoming home of your mouth.

You can't breathe. You can't speak. Yet still you attempt a nod.

He grunts, pulling back out to allow you a gulp of air before sliding back in. This time he nestles himself so far down your spasming throat that his balls graze the underside of your chin.

You are so full.

A trickle of saliva slides past the corner of your lips as you cough and sputter.

“Relax," he murmurs, soothingly massaging the base of your skull. "Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose… yes. Yes, just like that."

And then he is guiding your head up and down, slow and deep.

Wet, squelching sounds fill the air, and you are thankful that the tavern was still at its loudest and noisiest hours.

“I wish you could see how delicious you look right now." He pulls out for a brief second, giving your mouth a moment to collect the dribbling spit that had built up, before slipping back in. “Asgard’s little elven sweetheart with a cock stuffed between her pretty pink lips. Oh, what a sight you make."

You respond by grinding harder onto the boot pressed to your clothed core.

The pleasure is building.

Your body feels like it is on fire. You were burning alive.

Was it even possible to… to finish… like this?

The way your body was reacting—it was a possibility.

“So- so divine," Loki pants, his words beginning to slur. "To have you at my feet yet reduce me to the one worshipping. My, the gods must have a twisted sense of humor."

His breath catches.

He was close, you could tell. You could feel it in the way his muscles tense and the vein in his neck throbs. The way he was losing control, his movements growing choppy and desperate.

"You have no idea the amount of restraint it takes to not simply fuck your pretty little mouth so devastatingly that you can't speak for a week. The thought alone… oh, it would be the most pleasurable form of punishment I could ever think of giving you."

Another whimper. Another grind of the heel.

You were right on the edge.

“If only you knew how often I've thought of this. Dreamt of it," he confesses with a mirthless chuckle, his voice strained. "Every time you've managed to outsmart me with your sharp little tongue. Every time you've challenged me in front of Thor or those spineless, witless buffoons he calls friends. How many times have I had to hold myself back from dragging you to my bedchamber and fucking every single drop of defiance right out of your system?”

The information washes over you like a bucket of ice water.

All the times he had stared at you like he was imagining just how he would break you down. Like he was already forming a plan on how to destroy you. You’d always assumed it was merely distaste that made him glare so heatedly.

Had it all been this?

Desire? Lust?

Had your mouth not been full, you would've told him how you'd thought the same. How you had imagined it more times than you would ever care to admit.

But that would make you just as guilty as him. Just as bad.

This was supposed to be as simple as a teaching lesson. Nothing more. It did not require dirty words or lustful admittances.

And yet, despite your internal protests, you continue to grind yourself shamelessly onto the leather of his boot and grow wetter with every sinful word.

“Yet at the same time,” he groans, his tone taking on an almost somber note. "At the same time, that fire is what draws me to you. I fear if I were to ever put it out, I'd have nothing left but ash in my hands. And what a shame that would be, since you're such a marvel to observe when you're burning."

That was it.

That was what threw you over the edge. What sent you spiraling over the cliff and into pure oblivion. Your orgasm burned white hot and spilled through your veins like a fever, robbing you of the very air within your lungs.

Even the prince shudders, every muscle in his lean physique taut and trembling as he suddenly attempts to wrench himself free.

But you don't allow him the time to do so.

Before your very mind could even wrap around the idea of what you were doing, you were suddenly pressing down on his thighs, rooting him to the spot. All it takes is a single look up at him through your lashes and a purposeful hum. Just a simple vibration of your throat. And it is over.

The groan that leaves him is entirely strained and guttural. His neck cranes backward, exposing the full column of his adam's apple. Just once he gives a strong buck of his hips, and something bitter and warm and salty hits your taste buds.

Saliva, seed, and a mixture of the two dribble down your throat, clinging to your parched tongue in thick droplets. Even as your own vision blurs and your thoughts haze, you work your mouth around the head of his cock, swallowing every hot gush of his release.

Drinking it in until he's wrung completely dry, sated and satiated.

It was… good. Addicting. Instinctively, you find yourself licking the tip clean, like a greedy animal seeking a scrap of food. The action pulls a hiss from his lips, and his whole body jerks as if you've electrocuted him with some kind of invisible force.

How interesting.

You do it again. Again and again, simply because you can.

“Okay,” he rasps, tugging sharply at the belt. This time you did not resist, releasing him from the cage of your lips. "Okay. En- Enough. That is quite enough, temptress."

Slowly, the fog evaporates from your senses, and with it the restraint around your throat. You both sit there for a long while after. Fractured breaths filling the air.

The heat that had once seared your skin had all but burned away, and an icy chill danced along your spine. It is a dangerous chill that sinks in so deep it almost chokes the life right out of you.

So unbearably quiet.

So unnervingly still.

With a single snap of his fingers, Loki returns his proper attire. However, he does not look quite like a presentable prince. Not with the disheveled mess of his hair and the paleness of his sweaty face.

Carefully, he reaches forward, tilting your chin up so you're forced to look him directly in the eyes.

You aren't sure what exactly it was that he saw in your expression. Whether he was trying to decipher whatever was going through your head or simply admire how wrecked you most likely looked. Whatever he was searching for, he didn't seem to find it.

Loki lifts his thumb to your lips, slowly swiping away the spittle that clings to the corner of your mouth.

So tender, so... gentle.

Dangerous. That's what this feeling was. Too dangerous and too tempting.

And gods, why did everything he do have to be so confusing?

Stop looking at me, you scream silently. Stop making me feel so insanely lost.

Stop not being Thor.

Loki leans forward, bridging the gap between the two of you. But not on your mouth. On your forehead, where his lips lingered briefly. When he speaks, his words are barely audible. As if they were meant only for the walls and not your ears.

"What a tangled web we have weaved."

Then, just as quickly as it happened, he was on his feet and swiftly making for the door without ever turning to glance back.

You want to call out to him. Part your lips and beg him to look at you. But he doesn't.

All he leaves you with is the aftermath.

All he leaves is silence and even more confusion.

[bogleech]

So the other guy who associates with these assholes blabbed that "Mr. A" (Avancna) is still associated with hepativore and both hateread every single thing I do online.

Hepa/neurovore's freak stalking only began after I told him off for leaving me this message:

That's 2018, and he has constantly, constantly posted about me on lolcow boards ever since then, seemingly daily, calling me "mentally ill" as an insult, calling my family or friends "troons" and at least once (that I saw, before I couldn't stand to look anymore) going off on a long tangent about what it's like when I have sex???

He still comments on Avancna/Stanton's stuff, and Stanton as stated has been to the same boards, so that's the kind of thing he's apparently cool with.

This is why I don't even talk much about prehistoric organisms, you can't research any interesting extinct invertebrate without Stanton's art being the first or sometimes only illustrated results.

I'm not trying to "cancel" this guy, I just plain wish I had answers as to why he went so fucking overboard for years over one very small disagreement and why he claims I tried to slander him in various ways, when I had never once spoken about him that entire time. I've asked anyone I could if they had any idea where he got that idea from, and nobody has been able to come up with an explanation.

They are also allegedly afraid to ask him much because of how quick he is to drop friends and hold grudges, so that at least explains some things, but it still doesn't explain why he went into such detail claiming that I ever called him a racist pervert, which he isnt and I've never thought, or why he evidently stays friends with or possibly even encourages my absolute grossest stalker.

I've never done anything to these people, nor has my spouse, or anyone else that I know. And I can't think of a reason why any of them decided to make hatereading and gossiping about me into one of their main hobbies for five to ten years now. I'm sick of this going on in the background of my whole life, I just want him to explain himself and stop the lolcow stuff, or tolerating it from his friends. That's really all.

So the absolute creepiest turd who hates on me anywhere is this guy who goes by neurovore on Deviantart, and used to be a normal mild mannered casual follower until one day he screamed at me that he thinks I'm a radical feminist for I guess making fun of gamergate maybe? That's as near as I can figure out his original rants where he says things like I'm "infected by the female gender."

He then went on to spend years (and still continues) posting about me on lolcow sites daily, constantly constantly raving about me being some kind of huge public menace and mentally ill trainwreck for having the occasional opinion he doesn't like.

But here's the weirdest bit: he seemingly got this idea that I'm such a craaaazy extreme liberal stereotype from a friend of his, and that friend is Stanton Fink or "Avancna;" the dude who draws this public domain paleoaert all over wikipedia:

You've seen this guy's art if you have ever googled any prehistoric invertebrate. Due to one single very trivial disagreement we had 7 to 10 years ago about blm protests (he seems to believe I criticized him for just not posting about them, which wasn't it) this artist started telling people I'm evil in increasingly bizarre ways that don't appear to have even happened.

For those asking, this is one of the paleo art guy's rants, posted under an alias "Mr. A" to freaking kiwifarms, in which he claims my spouse outright attacked him for not posting about George Floyd (this was not the point at all, and it wasn't an attack) while repeatedly claiming that I accused him of being a nazi or a pedophile, or that I even went so far as to impersonate him and emulate his artwork to frame him. The thing is we still have tons of mutual friends and followers but not a single one of them remembers any of these events. This tangent is the only time anyone is aware of him mentioning this deviantart impersonator, and not only have I never called him a nazi or pedophile, I have never suspected him of either of those things. I especially wouldn't accuse him of any such shit for "watching cartoons?!"

This is how aggressively and ragingly he hates me for these events nobody can remember or find evidence for. I have never had any lead on what the flying fuck he is actually referring to.