#((Time to not be stubborn about SELECTION.))

[yilingbee]

firstprince hunger games au where henry is a career tribute that comes from a family line of victors (most notably his brother and grandmother), he volunteers bc that's what's expected of him and tbh he thinks dying in the arena might be the only way to escape his grandmother and alex is a tribute from district 12 who's mother is the mayor from the merchant class and dad is a miner from the seam (who died trying to start a revolution after ellen divorced him when alex was 11 and who alex blames for abandoning them bc why would you be a rebel when you have kids? don't you know what happens to rebels?) they meet in the arena by accident, all throughout the training period henry never shows up and it gives him a reputation that he thinks he's better than everyone and doesn't need to show off - a true asshole that even the other careers don't want to align themselves with, so when they bump into each other in the arena alex thinks this is the way he's going to die, but henry doesn't do anything and alex is so confused and doesn't know if he should try killing henry or run but something in henry's eyes stops him from doing either and they become reluctant allies bc both refuse to kill the other and throughout the games they grow closer and eventually fall for one another, but only one can live or can they find a way to be together beyond the arena?

[foldingfittedsheets]

The mattress company I worked for the first time no longer exists. It was long ago eaten and assimilated by a bigger company. But when I started it was an incredibly intense five weeks of training. I was told I was extremely lucky to be selected, and I was. From a pool of a hundred applicants only fifteen of us made the cut to entering the training program.

The course covered how to talk to customers, how to ask open ended questions, how to close a sale, and product knowledge. I learned a lot, and truthfully my greatest takeaway was a lot of social scripts that I could use in other areas of my life.

We also had a midterm exam and a final. Both included a roleplay element with a trainer and a written portion. They told us when we started that the course was challenging but it was still a shock to come in after the midterm and realize half the class had failed.

I was named valedictorian of training- a dubious honor as it meant I’d done the best in the class, but popular lore had it that valedictorians struggled the most on the sales floor. Lo, I struggled.

Not because I wasn’t good. I was. But because my manager set out to systematically destroy my self esteem. Every sale, every interaction I had was scrutinized and criticized.

If I sold a bed with protectors, moveable base, and pillows he’d ask why I hadn’t managed to sell pillow protectors too. His first trainee had thrived on being challenged and he’d never bothered to learn a different way to coach.

It was wretched. My performance started strong but nosedived after a few weeks with him. My trainer, a man I loathed for stonewalling me in my interview, came in to inform me I was on new hire probation. If I couldn’t get my sales numbers up I’d be let go.

His actual phrasing was, “When you have a bandaid do you like to rip it off or pull it slowly?”

Since it was eminently obvious why he was visiting and because I thought it was condescending I sweetly informed him that I liked to soak my bandaids in hot water so they come off on their own.

He was briefly startled at this derailing but then got on with the bad news. I signed some forms stating that I understood my job was in peril.

I went home furious. I thought long and hard about why I wasn’t succeeding and how frustrated I was with my manager. I came in the next day and my anger had crystallized into a cold sharp edge.

My manager opened his mouth to address the probation and I snapped, “Just leave me alone. Go in the back if I have a sale. If you must address a serious issue then you will give me praise on two things I did right and present it as a compliment sandwich. Otherwise just say good job and shut up. Your constant nitpicking just makes me anxious and I do worse. Back off.” Belated and begrudging I added, “Please.”

He raised his eyebrows in dim surprise but I’d gauged him well. He backed off. Dutifully he’d meander into the back when I had a sale and praised me when I closed it. I resented knowing it was only because I’d demanded complimented but they still boosted me up. My numbers skyrocketed, I landed my first split king sale, and I exited probation with flying colors.

The trainer came back in to congratulate my manager for turning things around. To my gratification he gave me credit for setting him straight and said I’d taught him a different way to lead. My manager would often genuinely praise that moment when I’d stood up to him, impressed with my stubborn refusal to fail and my insight into what would help.

My biggest takeaway from the whole thing was just that people need positive reinforcement to succeed. Praise people for doing a good job. If you’re ever in a position where you need to criticize someone put it in a compliment sandwich instead of just saying the negative.

[sixeyesonathiel]

clanhead!satoru, who grew up behind paper walls and formal greetings, thinks he’s doing fine. he doesn’t need warmth. doesn’t need partnership. definitely doesn’t need you. not your voice. not your gaze. not your hands reaching out in that quiet way they always do, halfway between anger and hope. he doesn’t need softness, doesn’t need mornings spent with knees brushing beneath the table, or nights curled around shared exhaustion. he doesn’t need any of that.

he keeps telling himself that.

you were arranged. names selected. lives assigned. there was no falling in love, no whirlwind romance. only obligation, and a shared contract, and two people who didn’t know each other at all. the clan called it a bond. satoru called it a sentence. and maybe, so did you. maybe you still do. but you're both too stubborn to say it out loud.

and yet, here you are. somehow, sharing a home that isn’t quite a home. circling around each other like bored cats, passive-aggressively polite, trading jabs like candy wrappers. it’s a miracle neither of you has murdered the other in your sleep. though, sometimes, it’s close. last week you slapped his shoulder with a ladle because he said your miso soup was “a little too philosophical.”

every morning, he wakes up alone in the house you both live in. passes your closed door, always closed, like a wall he isn’t meant to climb. makes his own coffee. glares at your mug next to his like it’s mocking him. sometimes he touches the handle like it might give him a sign. sometimes he almost washes it and puts it away, but doesn’t. not yet. not when you might still come down. not when the ghost of your presence still lingers in the air like perfume.

he starts narrating your morning habits in his head like he's in some tragic sitcom. “there she goes. my legally wedded stranger. master of mug placement. destroyer of peace.” he doesn’t say it aloud. mostly because you’d probably throw a pillow at him and then he’d have to feel something about that.

you’ve filed for divorce again. that’s five now. seven, if he’s honest. twice were his. he still doesn’t know why he ripped them up. they sat on the edge of his desk for days, heavy and clean and final. and then one night, he came home soaked in rain, looked at the envelope, and tore it to shreds like it meant nothing. it meant everything. he couldn’t breathe with it there. couldn’t sleep. couldn’t stop hearing your voice, even when the house was dead quiet.

maybe he’s just tired. maybe it’s the quiet way you look at him when you think he’s not paying attention. maybe it’s the way you always buy him those god-awful sunglasses, even though he hasn’t worn a pair in years. he lines them up on his desk like trophies. he doesn’t know what he’s competing for.

he doesn’t eat unless you cook. says the clan's food makes him sick. lies through his teeth. you roll your eyes every time, muttering, “go starve then.” and he almost does, until you slide a plate across the table an hour later. he stares at the food like it might vanish if he breathes wrong. he doesn’t say thank you. you don’t expect him to. but sometimes, he finds himself eating slower, like the warmth might linger longer that way.

“i’m not your maid,” you mutter once, shoving a bowl of miso soup toward him without looking.

“could’ve fooled me,” he replies. you hit him with a rolled-up magazine. he deserved it. he actually smiles into his spoon.

he didn’t know how to be with someone. he still doesn’t. no one taught him gentleness. no one told him how to reach across the silence and say something that mattered. he grew up with expectation in his bones and solitude in his chest. you grew up dreaming of something else. something soft. something kind. he wonders what version of yourself you had to kill to become the one sitting across from him now.

on bad days, you don’t speak at all. the tension hangs like wet fabric, clinging to everything. the walls feel closer. the air feels thinner. you text like strangers. argue like enemies. sleep like strangers, too. and yet… you still leave the porch light on when he’s out late. he still puts your laundry on the drying rack so it doesn’t wrinkle. you refill the coffee beans. he folds your sweaters when they’re left on the couch. no one mentions these things. maybe because if you said them out loud, they might count as hope. and hope, in this house, is more terrifying than anger.

sometimes he wonders if you even remember the day they told you. the day they said, “you’ll be marrying gojo satoru.” did you cry? did you laugh? did you try to run? he doesn't know. never asked. maybe he didn’t want to know. maybe he was afraid the answer would make him hate himself more.

he remembers the first time you touched him. it wasn’t romantic. just a hand on his wrist, steadying him when he almost tripped on the temple steps. but it lingered. it stayed with him longer than it should have. maybe because it felt real. because it was the first time in years he didn’t feel like a ghost inside his own body.

the first time you made him laugh was when you shoved a whole rice ball in his mouth mid-argument just to shut him up. he nearly choked. you didn’t apologize. he thinks that might’ve been the moment he fell a little in something with you. not love. not yet. but something dangerously adjacent.

he started doing small things too. placing your phone on the charger when you fell asleep watching dramas. hiding your favorite snack in the cabinet behind the protein powder because he knew you’d never look there. writing your name on his calendar, next to his meetings, like it was just as important.

this isn’t working. he knows that. it’s not love, not the kind that grows with laughter and time. it’s something else. something quiet. something fragile. it’s the way you both keep showing up, even when you have every reason not to. like a game of chicken no one wants to lose.

but for some reason, when the elders ask about the paperwork, he always shrugs and says, “she must’ve lost it again.” and when you’re alone in the same room, you always say the same thing. your voice is flat, practiced—but your hands tremble when you pick up the mug, and your eyes flick to his like they might say something your mouth won’t.

he wonders if you’re lying too.

and if you are, he wonders what it means that he hopes you are.

[mariasont]

That anon was living under a rock because your smut fics (all of your fics tbh!) I reread wayyy to many times, lol. But if you’re taking smut requests, I’d love to see more bimbo!reader and Hotch! I can’t get enough.

I’ll take anything!! But more specifically, their first time, all of that built up tension (that you write so perfectly!) finally breaks!

Anyways, I never send in requests but I saw a window of opportunity and had to take it, haha.

Third Date Rule - A.H

summary: the third date proves to be worth the wait when you and hotch experience your first time together. pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, sexy time, fingering, oral fem receiving, p in v, they did not in fact wrap it before tapping it and it's not really discussed so yeah idk about that one, aftercare wc: 7.7k

This was so overdue.

Technically, it's only been three dates. Technically.

But if you count all the years you'd known him, the months spent daydreaming about this moment, the weeks of waiting while he played the world's longest game of restraint, then really, you should have had him naked ages ago.

And if Aaron (which still feels like a thrill to say — Aaron — because you're dating now and you can freely call him that) wasn't so stubborn and noble and insufferably gentlemanly, you would have.

But tonight was finally the night. The third date. The sacred, hallowed, much-debated, universally accepted gateway to getting into the sheets. And yes, okay, maybe you barely survived the wait without jumping his bones, but that's hardly relevant now. The point is, you did it.

And now you're in his lap, his tie wound tight around your fingers, his tongue deep in your mouth, and gods, if this night didn't end with him inside you, you might actually die. 

Like, literally. Heart failure. Sudden death.

This was premeditated. At least, for you. You moisturized like your life depended on it, doused yourself in perfume that could be classified as a controlled substance, and selected a bra that made your tits look so insane, it might actually be illegal in some states.

And then you spent an embarrassing amount of time picking the perfect dress that says oh, I'm classy, but also please take me home and rip this off with your teeth.

You pull away, just enough to see him. To take in the slow bloom of pink trailing from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, the way his pupils are so wide they’ve all but erased the brown of his eyes. And his lips — swollen and red from kissing you — part like he was debating how bad it would be to drag you right back in. You wouldn’t mind.

“Aaron,” you sigh, fingers burying into his hair, marveling at how absurdly soft it is, how freely he lets you have this piece of him. “We should go to bed.”

For a second, he locks up. Not hesitation but calibration, a body processing desire so sharp it might break him. You feel it in the way his chest expands, in the quiet exhale through his nose.

"This wasn't my plan for the night," he murmurs, voice softer now, not strained, but steeped in something much gentler. Something careful. "I wasn't —," He shakes his head, like the whole concept doesn’t sit right in his mouth. "I don't want you to think this is just —,"

"Sex?"

You can see the way he wants to argue, like he wants to carve the word out of the air and replace it with something that means more.

"Yes."

You can’t stop the stupid, lovestruck smile pulling at your lips. Maybe it’s the wine from dinner finally working its magic. (It’s not.) Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, all serious and earnest, like you’re the only thing in existence, and if he blinks, you might vanish. (It definitely is.)

A laugh bubbles up, light and giddy, body not knowing what to do with all this adoration. You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, just to see if he’ll let you. (He does.)

“Are you serious? If you just wanted sex, you wouldn’t have spent actual years pretending my very dedicated, very expertly executed attempts to seduce you weren’t happening.”

His brow arches, but you see it for what it is — a stall. “Expertly, huh?”

"Remember that heatwave last summer? When I just had to eat a popsicle at my desk every afternoon?"

His eyes darken like the memory is playing in high definition behind his eyes.

"I remember."

"Do you?" Your fingers slip beneath his color. “Because —” You tilt your head. “I always seemed to finish them standing in front of your office —"

You don't even get to finish your sentence. 

One second, you’re speaking, the next, you’re airborne. Lifted clean off the couch, legs locking around his waist automatically, arms thrown around his shoulders like you planned this all along.

You didn’t, but you wish you had. 

Not that it matters, because he’s already moving, already walking straight to the bedroom.

You bury your smile against his jaw, letting your breath tickle against the shell of his ear as another giggle slips out. It couldn’t be helped.

"I really hope you know," you whisper, “that I am, like, stupidly excited for this. Like, counting down the days excited.”

Aaron sets you down on the mattress gently, but his body doesn’t follow right away, hovering over you.

"You're not making this easy for me."

You ignore him because you’re much more distracted by how insanely soft his sheets are. That was your first thought when your back hits the mattress, hair fanning across the pillows.

For a fleeting second, you wonder if he’ll catch the scent of your perfume tomorrow. If he’ll notice the ghost of you when he lays down alone.

Your second was that this is so not the time nor place to get emotional. 

But this is his space. His bed. His room.

It’s tidy, but somehow not sterile, everything having its place, but not afraid to be used. A book sits on the nightstand, a book mark sticking out mid-thought. A photo frame faces the bed, though from this angle you struggle to see what’s inside.

There’s his suit jacket from yesterday, draped over the back of a chair, a little rumpled. 

And maybe it's silly, but you feel weirdly honored to be here.

You should probably be processing this moment, what it means to be here, with him, like this. Instead, you take a second to admire the view.

The lamp softens the sharp lines of his face, making him look almost gentle — which is funny, considering how you hoped to be thoroughly destroyed by him.

Something expands inside you, stretching against the walls of your chest, something too big, something that terrifies you.

So you do what you do best. You deflect.

“I can’t believe I’m about to sleep with my boss.”

He doesn’t even try to hide his exasperation, his forehead dropping into the crook of your neck. “Sweetheart—,”

"What?" You giggle, letting your fingers slide through his hair, letting your nails rake lightly over his scalp. "It's true."

His sigh is nothing short of pained, but then he kisses your cheek anyway, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. You were starting to feel like each was a thinly veiled attempt to tame you.

"Please don't phrase it like that."

"Yes, Mr. Hotchner." 

Every self-satisfied thought evaporates the moment he kisses you – really kisses you.

It’s not just a meeting of lips but a focused intensity, tongue sweeping inside your mouth and suddenly nothing before this mattered, because clearly, clearly, every kiss you’ve ever had was just practice for this one. 

Your body responds before your mind can catch up, spine arching and he doesn’t stop you, just kisses you with a hunger that makes teasing obsolete, that makes breathing secondary to the way he’s taking from you, giving to you, all at once.

His lips wander, dragging across your jaw like he’s leaving invisible ink behind, pressing something permanent into your skin.

You hope you’ll wake up tomorrow and still feel him there.

Your hands move to the nape of his neck, drawn by craving, by the need circling inside you like a ribbon of fire.

It stretches outward, licking at your skin, threading through your veins. His hands hold you still, spanning over your rib. His breath fans over your pulse, and you swear he can feel how fast it’s racing.

You should be gloating right now. This is, after all, exactly what you wanted, what you worked for. A biting remark sits on the top of your tongue, but then his mouth moves, and he finds it.

That wicked, traitorous little dip beneath your jaw that turns your entire brain into pink, glittering static. He pauses, listening, feeling, before sealing his mouth over it again, tongue dragging over the sensitive skin like he’s testing a theory that he already knows the answer to.

Your fingers clench in his hair, a startled sound choking in your throat before you can stop it. And then, the bastard laughs. Not sweet, not kind, but low and sharp and smug because he knows exactly what he’s done. 

You had the upper hand. Past tense.

"There it is," he murmurs, pressing another kiss there, his tongue flattening over it just to make you squirm. "You want to know how I figured this out?"

You hum, or try to. But it’s pathetic because you’re barely conscious, every cell fried to uselessness by his mouth.

He mimics you, just to be an ass about it, mocking the dazed little sound like he hasn’t just reduced you to it. "You always reached for it when I looked at you too long."

Your mouth opens. Closes.

"Or," he continues, "when I stood too close to you at the coffee machine. You'd fidget, tuck your hair behind your ear like you weren't thinking about it." His exhale burns against your pulse. "Cute."

You gasp, a little offended, mostly turned on. "Oh, wow. Profiling me? At work? That's, like, wildly unethical."

"Didn't need to," he murmurs. "You were practically begging me to figure you out."

His mouth is perfect in the way lightning is perfect – striking, searing, and completely out of your control. It’s perfect enough that you can pretend not to hear him.

He sucks, slow and hard enough to tear a sound from your lips before you even know it’s there, something that feels like vulnerability in its purest form. Something you would never willingly give him.

His laugh is quiet, wrecking, as he pulls back, lips slick with your skin. "That good?"

His mouth makes quick work, over your collarbone, down, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, down, branding every inch of skin he can reach. 

He stops at the neckline of your dress, and suddenly, you can't think about anything except how it's still on.

You want to strip it off, want to offer yourself up as a willing sacrifice, but you’re well aware that if you try, if you even reach, he’ll stop you. Or worse, he'll make you wait. He'll slow you down, draw it out just to watch you squirm because patience is his weapon of choice, because he lives for making you suffer.

His teeth graze the swell of your breast, just enough to sting, and whatever fragile grip you had on yourself disintegrates on impact. Your hands fumble blindly for his face, fingers shaking, needing to see his eyes.

"Please, Aaron.” It’s an exhale, a prayer. “Need you."

You see the ripple of tension along his throat. And for one tiny, blinding second you think this is when he finally snaps, abandons his tolerance and just takes you.

"You don't know how long I've wanted you like this," he rumbles. "I'm going to take my time."

You whine, frustration bleeding from your fingertips where they clutch his shoulders, fingers digging in like you can physically push him into moving faster.

He does not move faster. 

His hands slide up to the straps of your dress, as he drags it down with all the urgency of a leisurely Sunday stroll. 

Your mind is halfway through an exceptionally justified complaint about how slow he is moving when he folds the dress.

Folds it.

Sets it aside. Doesn't toss it.

And that may be the hottest thing he's ever done.

Because you know he knows. He’s always known. Known that your things aren’t just things — that your dresses, your heels, your overpriced lip glosses aren’t frivolous, aren’t some shallow indulgence, but tiny, curated pieces of you.

He has listened to you decide between two pairs of shoes that are, for all intent and purposes, identical. He knows jasmine is mysterious and vanilla is flirty, knows that you’ll debate your right to own the same three shades of pink. 

And instead of dismissing it, instead of rolling his eyes (though he does that too), he folds your dress. As if it matters.

You stare at him, somewhere between melting and spontaneous combustion, and he simply raises a brow. “Something wrong?”

"No." You shake your head for emphasis, voice a little too weak to get the point across. "Just thinking I might have to marry you."

His hands settle at your waist, fingers tracing over the pink lace like he’s trying to process it, like if he touches it enough times, it’ll confirm that this is actually happening and not some cruel illusion. His thumb brushes the scalloped edge, breathing shallow. You were pretty sure he’s currently having a full-scale existential meltdown over lingerie.

"Agreed," he murmurs, distracted, hooded eyes still glued to your chest. "I think the courthouse opens at eight."

Your giggle stutters, hiccups right out of you, because his hands are suddenly everywhere, roaming with no clear plan, just a man in crisis over how much of you he wants to touch first. His palms skate over your stomach, down your thighs, up over your breasts.

"So, this is all I had to do to convince you to do what I want?"

His mouth follows, retracting the path of his hands, rewriting, reworking, perfecting – because apparently, the first time wasn’t good enough, wasn’t thorough enough. 

"You think this is what did it for me?" His voice is hushed. "You could've walked into my office six months ago and told me to get on one knee.” A kiss, open-mouthed, starving, just below your navel. “I would've done it."

Six months ago. You don't know if you believed that.

Except now you're spiraling, backtracking, rewinding, piecing together little details like some lovesick conspiracy theorist with red string and a bulletin board. Every interaction, every loaded glance, every time he let you get away with high-level flirtation without so much as a blink. You thought you were testing him, but what if he was never fighting at all?

And before you can even recover from that, before you can file an official grievance about why no one told you sooner, his hands squeeze at your thighs, his mouth so close to exactly where you need him, and his voice —

"You're so beautiful."

His nose presses into the damp center of your panties, and your hands fly to his hair so fast it’s practically reflex, breath stalling in your chest like your body forgot how to function for a second. 

This is everything. What you've wanted, dreamed of, written in the margins of notebooks (hypothetically, of course).

It should be perfect, but suddenly, it isn't.

Uncertainty slips between the cracks, heat turning into something less solid. You don’t have time to find it, to name it, because he’s already there, already sensing it, already fixing it before you even know what’s wrong.

"Hey." His voice hooks into you, gently reeling you back from wherever your brain was about to go. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

"No, I—," The words come out far too fast and desperate, and you can't decipher why it's so hard to say. "I do want to. Obviously." The nervous laugh that follows is definitely not your usual flirty confidence. "Have you met yourself? Because if you haven't, I would love to introduce you. Tall, devastatingly handsome — you'd love him."

His move curves, but his eyes stay patient and focused, giving you a second to breathe.

"It's just..." Another pause, another frustrated sigh. "I haven't been with anyone in a while."

"That's okay, we can take it slow." He moves so that he's hovering above you again, brushing a strand of hair out of your face, his smile just amused enough to leave you flustered. "How long?"

"May."

"May?"

"Yeah, like, May. Three years ago."

Aaron just stares at you, processing. You can see the gears turning, the little mental loading wheel spinning, his expression caught between stunned and deeply interested.

His fingers creep up, sliding under your ribs, just close enough to the heavy swell of your tits to remind you exactly where you are. What he was doing to you before you so rudely derailed this into actual conversation.

"Really?"

You pinch his arm. "Hey! That is not an absurd amount of time."

"No. I know. I didn’t say that," he says quickly. "I'm just... surprised."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

His lips part and he immediately shakes his head, exhaling like he's physically trying to dispel what just ran through your mind, knowing exactly where your thoughts were.

"I just mean — I don't know how every man you meet doesn't immediately worship the ground you walk on."

"Oh, well, they do." You smile. "But I was only ever planning on letting one of them take me to bed."

You reach for his dress shirt buttons, tugging insistently, but your hands refuse to cooperate, not properly communicating with your brain.

It's his fault, you decide.

He looks too good, and it was extremely hard to focus on anything but that.

You have no idea how you survived dinner. Or the car ride home. Or even the eternity it took to get past the door, because that was definitely a struggle considering your mouth was all over his, tasting the whiskey he’d barely touched, before he could even get the key in the lock.

You spent all night picturing this, the way his hands would feel in you, the way his mouth would taste, the way his suit would look crumpled on the floor.

Which, in hindsight, probably meant you were a pretty terrible dinner guest. Nodding, smiling, pretending to listen, all while barely holding back the need to ride him in public.

Aaron laughs, clearly entertained by your struggle, and then, because he’s nothing if not arrogant, he starts undoing the buttons one-handed, to be a show-off.

It’s rude, really. Because now all you can do is watch, helpless as he peels himself open to reveal golden skin, dark hair dusting over firm pecs, trailing lower, disappearing beneath his belt. 

Your manicured fingers glide over the broad expanse of his shoulders, pushing his shirt away like uncovering some lost Renaissance painting that scholars would kill to get their hands on — something that should be in a temperature-controlled glass case, not just here, sprawled above you like he belongs to you. Which, he does, because he’s just letting you do this, letting you look. And you look. He is art. No, better than art. Art is stationary, lifeless, some brushstroke interpretation of what beauty should be. But this, him, he is warmth and breath and muscle.

Museums wish they had something this valuable. They’d burn down in despair if they knew he existed just for you.

"May," he muses, letting the word roll off his tongue, turning it over in his mind. "That's an oddly specific answer."

You make a vague sound of agreement, mostly just to acknowledge that yes, technically, he did say words, but you’re too busy to actually care. Too busy with spreading your hands over the planes of his chest, with grabbing at his belt.

"You were hired in May three years ago."

Your hands freeze. 

"That's... um weird." A slow blink. "Weird that you know that. Weirder that you noticed."

You work his belt loose, tugging it free. It’s meant to be a distraction, a well-placed touch to shift his focus from his revelation.

But then your plan backfires spectacularly because he’s hard, thick, unreasonably big and suddenly your fingers feel useless.

Aaron makes a sound — half a hiss, half a laugh — and his hands snap to your wrist, catching you before you can explore further, like he knew you were going to do that. "It’s okay, honey."

"I—I don't—," You blink up at him, floundering, desperately trying to sound casual. "That's, uh, I don't know what that's supposed to mean."

Aaron’s smirk deepens, his grip on you slackening just enough to trick you into thinking he’s going to be nice.

But then his other hand moves, slipping between your bodies, sliding beneath the heat trapped between your thighs, finding the neediest part of you, and pressing.

Your whole body jerks, a startled gasp catching in your throat as sensation flares — hot, sharp, mercilessly good.

His fingers start to move, rubbing tight circles against you. Your hands cling, one locked onto his bare shoulders, the other pressing against his dick, desperate to make him feel even a fraction of what he's doing to you.

It earns you a groan, low and gritty, hips twitching against your palm, his breath is hot against your lips, his mouth hovering just barely out of reach.

"I won't tease," he promises, but the way he bites at your bottom lip feels like a lie. His tongue is quick to follow, flicking over the welt he’s just left, soothing the burn before sealing it with a kiss, just this side of messy. “Three years… that’s a long time.” His lips skim yours again. “For both of us.”

A pleased sound bubbles up from your throat, slipping between his lips, that makes it obnoxiously clear just how much you love those words. That is a sentence you’d like embroidered on a pillow. Maybe cross-stitched into a nice, elegant frame for your future shared bedroom. 

"Oh," you sigh, a smile stretching against his lips. "I really, really, like knowing that. That's, like, incredible news."

Your brows scrunch, and you pull back just an inch. 

"Just to be clear, though, you do mean in a wow, you've ruined me for other women way, and not in a I've been to busy for a sex life way, right? Because those are two different things, and I need to know which one we're working with here—"

Aaron huffs a laugh and instead of answering with words, his hands slip into your panties, fingers finding your clit without prelude. Skin to skin now, no fabric, no flimsy barrier. Just touch.

His fingers dip lower, dragging through the slick, indecent in how easily he moves through the mess of you. He makes a noise — nearly a groan, mostly a hum of appreciation, of possession — before he spreads it, smearing your own arousal over your clit, rolling circles.

"Oh, wow, sweetheart."

Your thighs fall open like you have no say in it — because you don’t, because every instinct in you is reaching for him, needing it like a fix.

And maybe, maybe that should be embarrassing — the obvious, shameless way you seek him out — but it’s a gorgeous kind of humiliation, a flush that spreads lower.

"Well," you gasp, chest rising in stuttering little pants. "Y—you kept me waiting forever."

Aaron hushes you with a soft tsk, his fingers pressing, stroking, coaxing you into sweet, mindless submission. Every movement feels preordained, like he already knows your body, like he’s a man who’s spent years thinking about this.

"I know, sweetheart," he soothes, murmuring it against the fragile skin beneath your ear, punctuating it with a kiss. "But I think I'm making up for lost time pretty well."

"I guess," you manage. "Th—that's acceptable."

Aaron chuckles, the vibration traveling straight into your skin. His lips descend, an idolization thing, but it’s the kind of devotion that sets you on fire.

His hands spread over your thighs, parting them gently.

Your underwear drags down, slipping over your thighs, grazing the curve of your knees, and then off. And suddenly, there's nothing separating you from his eyes, from the way the air licks over you, cool against the sticky heat between your thighs.

His lips part like he wasn't expecting to fall apart so easily. Like he thought he'd have more time, more control. And the power in it, the sheer, intoxicating power of knowing he's just as affected as you are, that this is breaking him open, makes your skin fizz, burn, ache for him even more.

If someone had told you a year ago that Aaron Hotchner, mister all-business-all-the-time, would be between your legs, staring at you like he's never seen anything more perfect, you would have said something nonsensical. Something about fate. Or destiny.

And you would have been right. Because you always knew this was a definite.

"Oh, honey.... You're gorgeous," It's almost a whisper, like the words were dragged out of him against his will, stolen straight from his lungs the second his eyes landed on you. His gaze drinks you in, head tilting, lips parting, tongue skating over the swell of his bottom lip. “I knew you would be, but…”

A sharp, sizzling spark races up your spine, white-hot and unbearable, but when it should tip over into relief, it withers into frustration. The kind that makes your body revolt against the absence of touch. Your hips buck, thighs squeezing as if you can somehow force the friction you’re being deprived of.

"Give me a second, baby," he teases, caressing his nose along the inside of your thigh. "Just wanna look at you."

His mouth moves in decadent passes, open-mouthed kisses pressed into your inner thigh.

Another kiss. Then another. So close.

Then he detours. Veers off, pressing his lips into the dip of your hip instead, dragging his tongue along something that is not your clit.

"So perfect."

His fingers prod through your folds, parting you, fingertips wading through the slickness pooling at your entrance. The sound that spills from him is sinful.

All of your muscles coiling tight, every inch of you scorching with unmet need and just when you think you're going to have to beg him, just when the words start to form —

He gives in. 

His tongue is there first, dragging a flat, broad stripe through your center, licking over every hypersensitive inch of you before looking up at you through hooded eyes. You swear you nearly come from the sight alone.

"Knew you'd be sweet."

Aaron doesn't waste another second, burying himself in you, mouth moving like he's been ravenous for this. 

His grip is firm as he spreads you wider, keeping you at his mercy. His lips wrap around your clit for a split second before he moves again, tasing, licking, humming, lapping up everything you're giving him.

It's messy. Wet. Dripping. His mouth moves as he tries to wreck himself on you. Each second convincing you that he wouldn’t mind suffocating here if it meant another taste.

His nose nudges against you, the angle so cruelly perfect it sends another violent tremor through your body, legs jumping against his shoulders. Your fingers grasp blindly for purchase, gripping the sheets, tangling in his hair, at anything you can reach. 

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs into you, words muffled by your pussy. "Let me hear you."

"Oh — " The sound falls from your lips, your eyes squeezing shut like you can block out the overwhelming pleasure if you just try hard enough.  "Oh, that's — "

Your hips stutter, thighs tightening around his face.

Aaron chuckles darkly, and you feel it more than you hear it, the sound pulsing through your core.

You’re not sure you have a body anymore, not sure you exist outside of this moment. You’re just sensation, just trembling atoms held together only by his hands, his breath, his voice. There’s no past or future – just now, just him.

If this is what it means to transcend, to be unraveled and rewritten in the same breath, then let it consume you whole. You could die like this, and it would be the kindest death you could ever ask for.

A single finger ghosts over your entrance, teasing but never quite committing. He dips in, just the barest of intrusion, and you shudder, clenching around nothing because it’s gone just as fast. 

He waits, just long enough to hear the next breathy fussing before finally spearing back in. Your eyes flutter shut, breath breaking apart in little puffs.

The sounds coming from your cunt should embarrass you, sticky, so shockingly loud that if your brain was working, you’d be mortified. But it’s not working. Not even a little. 

His hand flattens over your stomach and suddenly the pressure doubles, triples.

"Tell me, baby," he murmurs, "feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yes, yes, oh my gods, Aaron, I—"

Your normal senses have left the building. Packed its bags, hit the road, abandoned you to whatever dark magic this is. Because this —this isn’t how your body works. This isn’t how guys work. You don’t come from this. 

But here you are, hurtling toward it at full speed and all because he decided you would.

It’s happening too fast, the pressure stacking. Your thighs shake open, stomach clenching so hard it aches. Your mind is lagging behind, still reeling, still trying to rationalize but it doesn’t matter because your body has already made its choice, has already given in, has already decided this is happening, whether you’re ready for it or not.

"Aaron, I think—,"

Aaron just groans, finishing your sentence for you, lapping up your confession with his tongue,

"I know, baby." Hot air blows against your swollen clit. "Let me feel it."

It crashes over you, back bowing off the bed. Your body splinters apart, thighs trembling so hard you couldn’t stop them if you tried. The edges of your vision smear into nothing as the pleasure consumes everything in its path. 

His mouth stays on you, tongue and fingers pushing you through the aftershocks until you’re clawing at the sheets, until that pleasure tilts so far into oversensitivity that makes you unaware if you’re pulling him closer or pushing him away.

Your limbs feel like liquid, consolidating into every inch of your body, melting into the mattress as Aaron moves to be face to face with you.

He's looking at you like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to this planet, and maybe he is, because when his lips get close enough, you tug him the rest of the way down, crashing your mouth into his in a way that's all sloppy desperation.

You can taste yourself on him, can feel the way he groans into it when you sigh against his mouth, all soft and dreamy and drunk on gratification. 

When you pull back, your fingers card through his hair, fixing nothing but feeling everything.

"Oh my gosh," you gasp, dissolving into giggles, toes curling as you flop back against the pillows. "I knew you'd be good at that, obviously, but I wasn't expecting all that. Like wow, you should get a certificate of excellence or something."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you sigh dramatically, "Or like, a trophy, a raise, a sash that says best head giver in gold letters—," You pause for a breath, sucking in air like you just realized how winded you are.

"— and I mean, I've never come like that before. So. You should probably put that on your résumé."

When Aaron presses against you, you feel every inch of him. Thick and unfortunately still restrained. His slacks are a cruel barrier, the rough drag of the fabric catching your clit in a way that rips a whimper straight from your throat.

His teeth scrape along your jaw, then he's mouthing at your neck, sucking, teasing, marking you.

"Firstly," he murmurs. "I hate the idea of anyone else touching you."

An involuntary shiver rolls through you.

"And secondly," he continues, "the fact that they didn't even know how."

Your hands are frantic as they fly to his waistband, fumbling a bit, the last hindrance between you offensive in its existence. 

"Well, yeah," you sigh, looking up at him through fluttering lashes, glossy lips parted just for him. "I mean, you're literally the only one who's ever known what to do with me. That has to mean something, right? Like, cosmic destiny or whatever."

Aaron shoves his pants and briefs off, barely sparing them a second thought, and then he's back, fitted between your thighs.

"You already know the answer to that." His lips brush your temple. "I'm the only one who knows how to handle you. And I plan on proving it."

"Yeah, okay," you say, squirming beneath him. "Not gonna argue when that sounds like the best idea ever."

You've seen a lot of versions of Aaron. You've seen work Aaron, serious and bossy, looking at crime scenes like he can hear the evidence whispering just to him. You've seen grumpy Aaron, glaring over his coffee when you talk too much at morning briefings (but you know he likes it, he just won't say). You've seen soft Aaron, the one who lets you steal his jacket even though you definitely don't need it.

But you've never seen this Aaron. This post-kissing-you Aaron. Lips slick, still damp with you, evidence of where he’s been, what he’s done.

His eyes flick to yours, and there’s no shame, no rush to wipe it away. If anything, he tilts his head, letting you see it from a better angle.

"You're so handsome, Aaron." Your voice trembles. You don't even know if you said it out loud or just thought it so hard he must have heard it anyway.

"And you,” he murmurs, tracing his thumb over your cheek, “are so damn sweet, honey."

You beam at that, overwhelmed, so unbelievably happy that your thoughts are practically spilling out faster than you can catch them.

"Okay so I just need to say — this is so exciting, like, you do realize I've had a crush on you for years, right? And now this is actually happening, and that's just — wow."

You suck in a sharp breath, nails dragging over the thick muscles of his arms, across his shoulders.

"I mean, it's us, Aaron. Can you believe that? Like, I feel like this has been building for so long and now I'm just — gods, you're so hot, this is actually distracting me. I can't even finish my own thought —,"

You laugh, because you already feel so full of him and he isn't even inside you yet.

"And I know you're being all careful and slow because you're sweet and romantic and, like, the most perfect man alive, but also —,"

You grind up, chasing friction, his cock sliding just right over your clit. Your breath stutters, hands fisting at the nape of his neck as you try to remember what you were saying.

" — I'm literally at your mercy right now, so you should probably take advantage of that before I —,"

"You talk so much, baby."

And then he shuts you up. Hard.

His mouth rams into yours, ingesting the comment, the breath, everything.

He doesn't rush. 

The head of his cock nudges at your entrance before he finally, slowly, pushes inside.

It knocks the breath from your lungs. Your mouth parts against his, lips catching on his as a little sigh slips out. Your nails dig into his shoulders, helpless against the way he's opening you up. 

He stills, a sharp, fractured inhale slicing through the air, fingers digging into your hips — hard. He is struggling. You can feel it. The way his cock twitches inside you, like his body is screaming at him to move.

"I-I'm good." Your laugh wobbles, catches at the edges, barely disguising how badly you want him to believe you. "You can keep going."

"You're tensing because it's been a while." You don't mean to, but your body reacts before your brain can tell it not to, stiffening. Stupid, stupid. His exhale is shaky, and his lips press against your cheek. "I know that. I expected that."

You swallow, but it doesn't help.

"I also know that you think if I notice, I'll stop." His forehead rests against yours. "But I need you to hear me, baby. I'm not stopping."

His lips graze yours.

"I'm going to work you through this. Just let me in, princess."

And the second you do, the second you finally give in —

He groans, pushing deeper, stretching you completely, filling you to the hilt. 

"There we go," he breathes, wrecked with praise. His hand presses to your lower belly, feeling how deep he is, how well you take him. "That's my good girl."

Your head tilts back, lips parting, body doing the melty thing that feels really, really nice but also really, really dangerous because you swear you're seconds away from levitating straight out of your own skin.

"Okay, so I did think this would feel good —," Your fingers twitch against his chest, nails raking lightly over sweat-damp skin as another sharp moan tumbles free. "— but, um, wow, this is like — this is so —,"

Your words taper off, get lost somewhere between your psyche and your mouth, because oh. Oh, wow. He's so deep, so heavy inside you, pressing into places you didn't even know existed.

"Go on, baby," he murmurs, a smirk plastered across handsome features as he dips his head. "You were saying?"

"You know," you gasp, words all flimsy and loose, like they've been shaken up inside you, "I kinda always wondered how big you were —"

Your breath hooks halfway through, hiccups on a moan, brain scrambling to keep up with your mouth, your mouth scrambling to keep up with — him.

"Not that I, um — I stared at your pants or anything —" Another sharp inhale, another desperate moan, your walls fluctuating and squeezing around something too thick. "I mean, I try not to because I'm a professional —"

An involuntary clench makes him curse, makes his fingers dip into your hips, makes his head plunge forward hard against your shoulder.

"Honey, shit—,"

Your lashes flutter. "What?"

"Sweetheart, if you keep squeezing me like that while you ramble about my cock, I'm not going to last."

Your mouth clicks shut promptly.

"That's what I thought."

Hotch rocks his hips, just once, a sharp gasp fissuring from your lips like you weren't expecting it. 

"Jesus, sweetheart. You're trembling." He cups your cheek, his thumb skimming over your bottom lip, eyes dark and aflame. "Does it feel that good?"

You nod, and he hums, dragging his cock almost all the way out before pushing back in. 

His hand drags down your waist, spans over your belly, fingers pressing like he's charting the way he fits inside you.

"I used to tell myself I wouldn't do this," he admits. "That I wouldn't touch you. Wouldn't ruin you like this."

Your head lolls back, eyes fluttering, lips parted prettily, gasping as he rocks into you again, and again, and again. You shake your head, or at least, you think you do.

"You don't —" You try to shape words, but they liquefy on your tongue. "Don't ruin me, Aaron, you — oh, you make me —"

Hotch's throat bobs, his pupils blown.

"You make me so, so good, so soft, so perfect."

His hand cups your jaw. "You're already all of those things, sweetheart."

"Not before you," you sigh. "I've been waiting so long, Aaron, so, so long —"

"I know, baby," he groans. "I know."

His hand veers between your bodies, his fingers finding the swollen, neglected bundle of nerves.

“Aaron — oh, wait, wait, wait —,” Your hands shoot up to his shoulders. “I don’t know if I can, I mean, I can, but it’s just —,”

His cock throbs inside you, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he finds it again, harder this time, his fingers matching the pace.

“Too much?”

“Yes, no, kind of? I don’t know, I can’t—,” You choke on your own breath as another thrust knocks every last rumination from your head. “I can’t think.”

“Good.” His forehead presses against yours, his lips parting against your mouth, panting, his control slipping. “I don’t want you thinking. Just feel me, sweetheart. Feel what I’m doing to you.”

Your body is shaking, shaking so hard that you don’t even know if you’re moving or if he’s just pushing you through it. 

“I know, baby. But you can take it, can’t you?”

“Y-Yeah,” you stutter, body twitching. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises, groaning as he grinds into you, stretching it. “One more, honey. You can give me one more.”

It hits you slowly, unwinding through your organs like smelted honey.

“Oh, oh —,” Your breath falters, mind going blank, the pleasure overwhelming every nerve in your body until you can’t do anything but let it consume you.

“Christ,” he groans, feeling you clench around him so tight it nearly undoes him.

You barely register the way you’re gasping, twitching, babbling out breathless little moans, vision blurring, and for a second you think you might black out.

“That’s it, princess,” he rasps, fucking you through it the reverberations. “So, so good for me.”

His pace turns shallow, sharp, chasing the tight, perfect squeezing of you still thrashing around him.

“You’re so tight, honey,” he grits, hands bruising your hips, your breath still catching from your own orgasm.

You’re too gone to respond, too wrung out to do anything but whimper as he takes you, using your body to pull himself over the edge.

He groans, low and deep, his fingers tangling in your hair, his mouth ghosting over your cheek as he finally breaks.

A shudder, a muttered curse, his body jerking, hips slamming into yours as he spills inside you.

He doesn’t mean to collapse, you know that, because even as his body gives out, his arms brace, still trying to be careful, even now. You want to cling to him, lock your legs around his waist, but you barely remember how to move, so you just let out a sleepy sound, nuzzling blindly at his throat. 

He murmurs something low, something that sounds like praise, maybe worship.

His lips press to the side of your face, half-gone and still recovering, and then his muscles tense, trying to lift himself off you.

Your arms wind around his neck before he can get too far. 

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, “I’m crushing you.”

“Don’t care,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse. “Feels nice.”

“You did so good.”

When he finally pulls out, you feel the loss and everything that comes with it, his release sticky and warm beneath your thighs. 

Aaron disappears into the bathroom, and you barely have time to miss him before he’s back with a warm cloth in hand.

You giggle, squirming before he even touches you, already restless, and the second he presses the cloth to your inner thighs, you jerk, laughing helplessly.

“Oh, wait —,”

Aaron sighs, one hand pressing against your hip to keep you still. “Sweetheart. You have to let me clean you up”

“But it tickles—,”

He smirks and continues his work. “How do you feel?”

“Like I saw god actually,” you ramble, kicking your feet against the sheets. “Or, like, like, if I had to describe it, I’d say I transcended reality for a little bit —,”

Aaron just chuckles, pressing a kiss to your knee as he finishes cleaning you up. Each swipe reminds you that your legs might not be on speaking terms with you tomorrow.

When he’s done his mouth finds yours again. It’s easy to kiss him. If it were physically possible to stay attached to him, twenty-four hours a day, you’d gladly test the theory.

“Worth the wait,” he breathes into your mouth.

“Well, yeah,” you murmur, smirking up at him. “I figured it would be for you.”

He laughs.

“Yeah, baby, you were good,” he mutters, kissing right over your stuttering pulse. “You were so good.” Another kiss. “So good I’m already thinking about the next time.”

Your heart hasn’t even slowed down, and you’re already thinking about the next time. Already plotting, already ready to drag him back down and see just how quickly that next time could turn into right now. But before you can so much as tug at him — Aaron is rolling out of bed, pulling on his pants, disappearing into the kitchen.

You mean to protest, to demand why he left you alone in a post-bliss haze, but then he’s back, pressing a glass of water into your hand, watching you drink it like it’s his personal responsibility.

Then comes food, something light and something he feeds you between kisses, between lazy murmurs about nothing. 

At some point, the blankets are back over you, his lips pressing against your forehead, his voice saying something about getting some sleep before you got any ideas, before pulling you against him.

You hum, content and drowsy, shifting a little, rolling over to get more comfortable —

And then your eyes land on that photo frame from earlier. You had a clear view of it now.

It was you.

It takes you a second to place it, but once you do, you almost laugh. You know this photo — because Garcia took it. She printed it out months ago, probably as some ridiculous gag, and stuck it to Aaron’s office wall with a bright sticky note that read your favorite obviously. You’d rolled your eyes at the time, called it workplace favoritism, but he’d never taken it down. 

And now, somehow, it’s framed. On his nightstand, like he’s been looking at you every night for —

You don’t finish the thought.

Instead, you just smile, huge and uncontrollable.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you don’t need him to.

Because you already know.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST

Summary: Coming back from a theater night with your friends only made Rafe hornier for some reason

Warnings: smut, eating out, fingering, p in v.

Word Count: 3.3k

Aliyah's Notes: this is kind of all over the place but wtv. it's a cute little extra that i thought was fun

You: "Where the fuck are you?" You: "This is why you’ve never had a girlfriend." You: "I hope you guys tripped and fell into a river." You: "I’m serious, Rafe. Are you okay? I’m starting to worry."

You stood outside the cinema with Kiara and Sarah, arms crossed as the chilly New York breeze bit at your skin. Despite the gray hoodie you’d stolen from Rafe draped over your white crop top, you still felt cold, silently cursing Sarah for convincing you to wear such a thin outfit. Sure, it looked great, but it definitely wasn’t warm enough for a night like this.

The three of you had been waiting for what felt like forever while the guys—Rafe, JJ, and John B—vanished into the snack counter abyss. You hadn’t even decided on a movie yet, and deep down, you knew that when Rafe showed up, a heated argument about which movie to watch was inevitable.

It was almost tradition at this point: the two of you bickering over the movie choice while everyone else groaned in frustration. But like always, you were confident you’d win. You always did. Rafe would put up a fight for the sake of it, but in the end, he’d cave, and you’d get your way.

Kiara sighed loudly, tugging you out of your thoughts. "What’s taking them so long? Are they buying snacks or building them from scratch?"

“With the time they’re taking, I’m starting to think they’ve decided to move in back there," you muttered, shoving your hands into the hoodie pockets.

Kiara snorted, throwing her hands in the air. “Seriously, what’s their deal? Did they forget we exist?”

“Knowing JJ and John B? Probably. They’re probably debating over candy, and Rafe’s just stuck there, pretending to care," Sarah chimed in, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“And he’ll come out looking all innocent,” you added, smirking. “Like, ‘What? It wasn’t me.’”

Kiara grinned, brushing her hair out of her face. “Meanwhile, JJ’s going to show up with enough snacks to feed a small country.”

Sarah laughed. “Honestly, we should’ve started a timer on them. This is ridiculous.”

"Or a betting pool," Kiara added with a mischievous glint.

You chuckled, glancing at the glowing movie posters plastered on the walls. Your gaze lingered on the title of the movie you’d been determined to watch all week. It was calling your name, and nothing—not even Rafe’s inevitable stubbornness—was going to stop you from seeing it tonight.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the guys emerged, balancing an obscene amount of snacks between them. JJ led the charge with a sheepish grin, precariously balancing a tray stacked with popcorn, nachos, and candy.

“We’re back, ladies!” JJ called, panting as he reached you. He flashed Kiara a grin and casually slung an arm around her shoulder. “Took a little longer than expected.”

Sarah raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “A little? We were about to send a search party.”

JJ waved her off, popping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. “You just don’t appreciate the art of snack selection. It’s a process, Sarah. You can’t rush greatness.”

“Greatness, huh?” Kiara deadpanned, staring at the tray in his hands.

“Absolutely.” JJ puffed out his chest but immediately backed down at Kiara’s withering look.

As John B mumbled an apology and tried to lighten the mood, Rafe sauntered up, his gaze locked on you. His blue eyes seemed to search yours, scanning your face for any sign of annoyance—or maybe forgiveness. Without a word, he slid his arm around your waist, pulling you close in one smooth motion.

"Are you mad?" he asked quietly, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Hmm, let me see... You disappeared for ages, left me out here in the freezing cold, and probably picked the most ridiculous snacks. What do you think?"

Rafe's lips twitched, fighting a smirk. "So... that's a yes?"

"Obviously,” you crossed your arms, feigning a pout, though the warmth of his arm around your waist made it hard to stay committed to the act.

“C’mon, baby, it wasn’t that bad,” he teased, leaning closer. “You had Sarah and Kie to keep you company. I bet they were super entertaining.”

“Much better company than you,” you sassed, though the corner of your mouth twitched in betrayal.

Rafe’s smirk grew, and he leaned in even closer, so close you could feel his breath fan against your cheek. “How about I make it up to you?”

You quirked an eyebrow, your heart skipping a beat despite yourself. “Oh? And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

“I’ll let you pick the movie,” he said, as if it was a monumental sacrifice.

You blinked, staring at him. “You were going to let me pick the movie anyway.”

“Yeah, but now I’m offering,” he countered, his grin widening.

Kiara’s voice broke through the moment, her tone dripping with mock exasperation. “God, will you two just kiss already so we can pick a seat? It’s freezing out here.”

Sarah snorted. “Seriously, you guys are worse than an old married couple.”

Your cheeks burned, but before you could respond, Rafe turned his head toward the girls, his expression smug. “Jealous much?”

“Of what? Your inability to tell time?” Kiara shot back, unimpressed.

Rafe chuckled, then turned back to you, ignoring their comments. “So, are we good?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your smile. “Fine. But you’re holding all the snacks, Cameron.”

“Deal.” He winked, stealing a quick kiss on your temple.

As the credits rolled and the theater lights slowly came on, you stretched your arms above your head, trying to shake off the stiffness from sitting for two hours. The group shuffled out of their seats, JJ loudly debating with John B about the "most iconic moment" in the movie while Sarah and Kiara chimed in with their own opinions.

You weren’t paying much attention, though. Your focus was on Rafe, who’d been surprisingly quiet during the movie, his hand casually resting on your thigh for most of it. Every now and then, you’d caught him glancing at you instead of the screen, though he played it off whenever you turned to meet his gaze.

The cool night air greeted you as you stepped out of the theater, the city alive with its usual buzz. You pulled Rafe’s hoodie tighter around you, already feeling the chill sink in.

“You cold?” Rafe asked, stepping closer.

“A little,” you admitted, rubbing your hands together for warmth.

Without another word, he slid his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. The gesture was so natural, so un-Rafe in its quiet thoughtfulness, that you almost didn’t know how to react.

“You’re lucky I let you pick the movie,” he teased, his voice low and warm against your ear.

“You didn’t let me do anything,” you countered, glancing up at him. “I just won, like I always do.”

“Debatable,” he shot back, though his grin betrayed his amusement.

The group paused near the sidewalk, debating where to go next. JJ was rallying for a late-night diner run, while Sarah and Kiara wanted to head home. You stood back with Rafe, content to let them figure it out.

Rafe nudged you lightly. “What’d you think of the movie?”

You smirked. “I loved it, obviously. It’s called having good taste. You should try it sometime.”

“Careful,” he warned, his tone playful. “Or I might change my mind about letting you pick next time.”

“Yeah, right,” you scoffed. “We both know you’ll cave again.”

Rafe stared at you for a moment, his smirk softening into something gentler. His arm slipped from your shoulders, and before you could protest, he reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You were right. It was a good pick.”

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. “Is this your way of saying I have good taste?”

“Don’t push it,” he said, though his grin gave him away.

Before you could respond, JJ called out, breaking the moment. “Ayo, Rafe! Quit making googly eyes with your wife and help me convince them to hit the diner!”

Rafe groaned, rolling his eyes. “This guy…”

You laughed, tugging on his hand. “C’mon, we should at least hear him out. You do owe me for taking so long earlier.”

His eyes lit up. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Never,” you said with a grin, leading him toward the group.

As the group finally parted ways—JJ still grumbling about the lack of a diner stop—you and Rafe headed back to his car. The ride was quiet, the city lights casting soft glows through the windows as the hum of the engine filled the space.

Rafe rested one hand on the steering wheel, his other hand perched casually on your thigh, a touch he hadn’t bothered to remove since the movie started. You glanced at him, his profile sharp under the streetlights, and felt your thighs rub against each other. You hated how effortlessly sexy he looked, even when he was doing something as mundane as driving.

When he pulled into the parking garage of his building, you expected him to make a teasing comment about how you’d owe him for letting you win the movie argument. Instead, he turned off the engine, sat back, and looked at you, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“What?” you asked, feigning nonchalance, though your voice betrayed the way your heart had started to race.

“Nothing,” he said, though the way his lips curled into a slow, dangerous smirk told a different story. “Just thinking about how much I want to fuck you right now.”

Your breath hitched, but you rolled your eyes, trying to play it cool. “Is that your way of saying you’re admitting defeat? Again?”

“Defeat?” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned closer, his hand still warm and steady on your thigh. “Baby, you have no idea who’s about to win.”

Before you could reply, he closed the distance, his lips crashing onto yours with a mix of urgency and purpose. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that made your head spin.

You barely registered the sound of the car door closing behind you or the way he guided you toward the elevator, his lips never leaving yours. By the time the elevator doors slid open to his penthouse, you were breathless, his hands gripping your waist as he walked you backward into the living room.

“Rafe,” you murmured against his lips, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“What, baby?” he hummed, his lips moving to trail kisses along your jawline and down your neck.

“We—” Your words dissolved into a gasp as he nipped at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “We’re home,” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Exactly,” he muttered against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip your hips and pull you flush against him. “And no one’s here to interrupt us.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but Rafe silenced you with another searing kiss, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of the hoodie you were wearing—his hoodie. The warmth of his touch against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, and any coherent thought you had vanished entirely.

His hands on your body were all you were thinking about. It was so addictive. 

He was laying you down on the couch, taking your—his—hoodie off your body, then your crop-top. “You’re so fucking pretty. My wife,” his thumb ran over your hard nipples as he rapidly took your black bra off, throwing it god-knows-where in the living room. “Mine to fuck,” he bit down on your nipple. “Mine to ruin.”

His hand slid lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants, fingertips teasing the edge of your soaked panties. A shiver raced through you as his touch lingered, deliberate and torturously slow. By now, you couldn’t bring yourself to care how desperate, how utterly undone you sounded. Each broken moan and shaky breath betrayed how much you craved him, how badly you needed him. Nothing else mattered but this moment.

“Please, Rafe… please…”

“What, baby? What do you want?

Before you could even muster a response, his hand was already slipping beneath your panties. His fingers found your sensitive bud effortlessly, stroking it with deliberate, teasing motions that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through you. A soft moan escaped your lips, your body instinctively arching into his touch as if it was second nature—a dance the two of you had performed countless times before.

He watched you intently, his eyes dark and smoldering, drinking in every gasp, every shiver you gave him. Slowly, he brought his glistening fingers to his lips, tasting you with a deliberate flick of his tongue. 

“Fuck! I could taste you for a thousand years and still be so obsessed after all those years,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, his gaze never leaving yours as he savored every bit of you like it was a privilege. “You got no idea how fucking obsessed I am with you, baby.”

He didn’t waste a single moment, his hands working to tug your pants down before tearing through the delicate lace of your panties with a sharp rip.

“Rafe!” you exclaimed, a mix of frustration and disbelief in your tone. “Those were expensive!”

He only smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief as he let the ruined fabric fall to the floor. “I’ll buy you a dozen more,” he promised, his voice dark and dripping with desire.

Without hesitation, Rafe’s tongue found your swollen folds, his movements deliberate yet desperate, as if savoring every tremor of your oversensitive body. The sharp gasp that escaped your lips was like music to him, fueling his obsession with every intoxicating second of pleasuring you.

“God, Rafe!” you cried out, your voice trembling as the tension inside you threatened to snap. “I-I’m so close… gonna explode!”

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core as his tongue flattened, dragging languidly across your slick heat. His rhythm was unhurried, teasing yet relentless, each stroke chasing away the weight of the outside world, grounding him in this moment with you. “You taste so good, babe,” he murmured, his lips brushing your sensitive skin.

“You like that, huh?” he rasped, his voice heavy with need as he nipped at you softly, savoring your helpless writhing. “You like riding my face, don’t you, sweetheart? Taking what you need like this?”

Your hips bucked involuntarily, and a broken moan escaped you. “Y-yes! Fuck, yes!”

A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest as he held you tighter, his grip possessive. “This is all I could think of while we were watching the movie,” his hand tracing a path down your chest, he brushed over your nipples, a deliberate pinch causing a sharp gasp to escape you. “The sound of your moans, the way your pussy tastes, imagining myself between your legs... I couldn't stop thinking about it.”

Your body was writhing beneath him, every subtle arch and tremble betraying just how close you were. The way your breath hitched, your cries growing sharper and more desperate, told Rafe everything he needed to know—you were teetering on the edge. His voice dropped into a low, coaxing growl, his lips brushing against your ear.

"That's it, baby," he murmured, his tone both commanding and soothing, a mix of rough encouragement and deep affection. "Let go for me. Cum for me, beautiful."

And just like that, hot pleasure ran through you like lightning, body trembling as you came all over your husband’s pretty face. As the blood roaring in your ears bates, and you blink back your vision, the first thing you see are those familiar blue eyes gazing up at you. Holding you steady, lips brushing gentle kisses along your inner thighs. 

You must have done something right in your past life to have him as your partner.

He pulled back, his lips glistening with the evidence of what he’d just done, and gazed up at you with that trademark smirk—the one that made your heart race and your blood boil in equal measure. As you struggled to catch your breath, he chuckled low in his throat, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

"The only time you stop running that smart mouth of yours," he drawled, his eyes dark and playful, "is when I’m buried between your thighs. Not so sassy now, huh, baby?"

Your chest heaved as you processed his words, heat flooding your cheeks. Rolling your eyes, you shoved at his shoulder with your foot, a laugh bubbling past your lips despite your best efforts to stay annoyed.

"I hate you," you shot back, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you, curving into a smile.

He shook his head slowly, the smirk softening into something dangerously close to fondness as he leaned in. Pressing a trail of lazy kisses along your body, working his way from your navel to the hollow of your throat, he murmured against your skin.

"Sure you do..."

You’re catching your breath, trying to steady yourself, when Rafe begins to undress. His gaze doesn’t waver from you as he pulls off his clothes, revealing his sculpted muscles and toned physique. Every inch of him is perfect, his body chiseled and taut, like something crafted from stone. Even the sight of his cock, already leaking with arousal, makes your breath catch in your throat. He’s so hard, it almost feels wrong—like you should apologize for how badly he wants you.

With ease, he spreads your thighs apart, his hands firm yet gentle. "Missionary, so we can keep arguing?" he repeats, teasing you about something you’d said earlier on social media. The words echo in your ears, and a blush rises to your cheeks.

His body leans down toward yours, and his hand grips your hips, holding you in place as the other strokes your cheek with tenderness that contrasts the raw hunger in his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he sinks into you, inch by inch, a steady rhythm that makes your heart race. You’ve been with him enough times to know the feeling, but each time is different—he stretches you just right, filling you completely, making you gasp.

Perhaps it was because he knew exactly how to touch you, how to make every moment feel electric, or maybe it was the deeper connection you felt with him that stirred something inside you. The way your feelings for him took root and grew, so intense. It was as if he wasn’t just a man you were with—he overwhelmed you, consumed you completely, leaving no room for anything else.

“Shit, Rafe! It’s too much,” you whined, nails raking down his back. 

Rafe’s pace slowed just enough for you to feel every thrust in excruciating detail, and you couldn't help but moan at the feeling. But then, as if on cue, he smirked. "You know," he started, his voice low and teasing, "this whole ‘too much’ thing? Kinda sounds like you’re not enjoying it."

You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back a grin despite the rising heat between you. "Are you seriously talking about this right now?" you shot back, the words almost slipping from your lips in frustration. "You’re the one who—"

"Who what?" He cut you off, his thrusts picking up again, harder, deeper, forcing the words to die in your throat. "Who made you this wet?" He grinned at your flustered expression. "I think you’re enjoying it just fine."

“Y-you’re so… ah… full of yourself," you muttered, though the words come out weaker than you intended.

Rafe chuckled darkly, brushing his thumb over your lower lip. "You love it," he said with that same smug smirk. "You can’t get enough of me, can you?"

"Shut up, Cameron," you snapped, trying to push past the wave of pleasure that clouds your thoughts. "You think you’re so perfect, but—"

"Perfect, huh?" He suddenly stopped, his eyes narrowing playfully. "You really want to keep arguing while I’m literally inside you?"

The tone of his voice shifted, becoming possessive, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten as he pulled you closer, forcing you to feel every inch of him. "I’m not—fuck—perfect, but I know what you want."

You exhaled sharply, trying to suppress a moan. "You’re annoying," you bit out, though there’s no real malice in your words.

Rafe laughed, his lips brushing your ear. "I know." He gave you one more slow, deep thrust, and you couldn’t help but gasp. "But you love it." 

You glared at him, your body still trembling from his movements. 

[gojover]

SOFT AS IT BEGAN ⋆ 01. THE REAPING.

district four’s only victors—satoru gojo, dazzling and deadly, and you, cunning and stubborn—are dragged back into the arena for the quarter quell. with the capitol watching and a rebellion brewing, the hunger games are no longer just about survival. they’re about trust, betrayal, and the unresolved past that still burns between you.

— pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader — tags: romance, angst, eventual smut, action, slow burn, hurt/comfort. the hunger games!au, dystopian!au, enemies to lovers!au. this chapter contains: alcohol consumption, profanity, death & violence, blood. — word count: 6.2k

series masterlist ⋆ next

District Four didn’t have much to offer, but there was always the beach, and the sun, and the sand. Satoru could collect seashells if he wished—he had a pile of them already, in the corner of his bedroom. He didn’t have to work. The Capitol provided him that luxury, at the expense of twenty-three lives.

He could spend his days ambling over the soft, golden sand of the strip of coast right outside the Victor’s Village and drink himself to oblivion. If Satoru lived alone in the Victor’s Village, he might’ve. 

Small joys in such a cruel, cold world.

He wasn’t the only victor District Four had to its name. There was you, who won the Hunger Games right after he did. He had mentored you, taught you all the right ways to play the Capitol crowd and win favours. He had honed your cunningness and cleverness, and helped you survive in the arena. You weren’t his favourite tribute—the twelve districts had to send one boy and one girl, each; he had favoured your fellow tribute—and truth be told, Satoru had had no idea what he was doing. It was his first time being a mentor, after all. 

Your victory was a fluke.

It had been five years since your Hunger Games, and six years since his. This year marked the 75th Hunger Games—a grim anniversary draped in spectacle. Seventy-five years since the thirteen districts of Panem had dared to rise against the Capitol. Seventy-five years since the thirteenth had been razed to ash and silence. The thought was droll, in a bleak, bitter sort of way. Nothing in Panem ever changed. Only the methods of punishment grew more inventive.

On the morning of the Reaping, Satoru rose before the sun did and made his way to the beach.

He could’ve slept in. Reaping Day was the one day the people of the districts were granted a few extra hours of sleep—if they could manage it. The ceremony itself wouldn’t begin until the afternoon, when the Capitol’s cameras were in position in the district square and the selection of the tributes was broadcast live to all of Panem. But Satoru knew that sleep rarely came to anyone on this day. Not to the children. Not to the families who might lose them. And not to the victors who knew exactly what it meant.

He walked barefoot down to the shoreline, sand still cool against his feet. The sea stretched endlessly before him, indifferent and eternal, like it had been watching all this time and simply chose not to intervene. He envied it, sometimes—the sea’s freedom. Its refusal to care.

The Victor’s Village sat far enough from the rest of District Four that the sounds of waking life didn’t reach him here. Satoru could almost believe, if only for a moment, that there were no Hunger Games; no Capitol; no Reaping. Just the salt air, the breeze tugging at his shirt, and the slow pull of the waves crashing onto the shore.

He was crouched in the sand, fiddling absently with a broken piece of sea glass when he heard footsteps.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked dryly, not looking up.

Your voice came from just behind him. “Didn’t even try.”

He stood slowly, brushing the sand from his hands and tucking the sea glass into his pocket. The two of you hadn’t spoken much in recent months—not since the last Games. He didn’t like you much, though it was a stupid thought to entertain. You’d done what you did to survive, the same as he had, and yet, every time he closed his eyes, all he could picture was his best friend lying prone on the arena’s ground, while you stood over his dead body.

You stepped closer, the crunch of sand underfoot sounding louder than it should’ve in the morning hush. The wind carried the scent of salt and seaweed, tangling through your hair and tugging at the hem of your jacket. You stopped beside him, arms crossed. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. You looked older than he remembered, but so did he. The Hunger Games did that to a person.

“I ran into Pearl last week,” you said. “The new Peacemaker whose husband works for the Gamemakers.”

Satoru resisted the urge to snort. A Peacemaker, in charge of maintaining discipline in the districts, married to a Gamemaker who lived in the Capitol and worked on creating the Hunger Games, was an odd pair, at least by his standards. 

Instead, he exhaled slowly, dragging a tired hand through his hair. “You’re going to have to be more specific. This new batch of Peacemakers is nothing more than a bunch of rich bastards with too many opinions.”

“She was drunk,” you continued, ignoring his jab. “I think she told me something I wasn’t supposed to hear.”

“Go on.”

“It’s the Quarter Quell—”

“I know that,” Satoru snapped. 

The Quarter Quell, held every twenty-five years, was a special edition of the Hunger Games. This year would be the third Quarter Quell. In the words of President Snow, they were designed specially to keep the memory of the districts’ rebellion fresh in each generation’s mind. 

“Just get to the damn point,” he said.

“She said that the Quarter Quell would be different this year. Something symbolic.” Your lips curled into a sneer at that. “A return to the Games’ original purpose. A reminder that no one’s truly safe—not even us. She said that this time, they’d be reaping from the pool of victors.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s just Capitol talk. They love theatrics.”

“Do you really think the Capitol would joke about this?”

Yes, he wanted to say, but truthfully, it was hard to decipher between what was true and what was a lie when it came to the Hunger Games. Like trying to differentiate between poison and nectar when both looked the same and smelled sweet.

Satoru finally turned to face you, the morning light catching the pale glint in his eyes. You didn’t flinch—or perhaps, didn’t allow yourself to—but he suspected that it had always unsettled you, the way he looked at people like he was trying to peel back their skin just to see what was underneath.

“So you think it’s real,” he said.

“I think the Capitol would never waste a good opportunity for cruelty,” you said.

He stared at you for a long moment, like he was trying to find a lie in your face. He wouldn’t. Not about this, at least. A gull cried overhead, its shadow skating across the sand. You shifted your weight, arms tightening around your frame. The breeze whipped your hair into your face, but you made no move to push it away.

You both knew the rules. District Four had only two victors. If the Capitol wanted a show—wanted irony, cruelty, symmetry—then of course they’d make you two fight. Mentor and tribute. Killer and survivor. The boy who taught you how to win, and the girl who used it to kill the person he loved most.

“You should’ve let me die,” you murmured, turning to the sea. Your eyes scanned the horizon like the ocean might offer a different reality. Foolish, Satoru thought. The sea was unforgiving, no matter how adept you were at staying afloat.

“I tried,” Satoru said.

“Not hard enough,” you said.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You weren’t worth the effort.”

But the venom in his voice wasn’t convincing. You both knew what it was: guilt, calcified into something meaner over time. 

The sun rose higher, casting everything in amber. Soon, the district would stir. Faces would fill the square. Two names would be drawn, and for once, no children would be volunteered as tributes.

Satoru didn’t often indulge in alcohol during the day. The numbing haze it offered was tempting—too tempting, most days—but he liked his senses sharp. A victor inebriated was about as useful as a tribute dead. And dead was something he still wasn’t ready to be.

He’d left the beach not long after you’d spoken. The words still sat heavy on his chest, like water in his lungs, refusing to drain. That was three hours ago.

Now, he sat in one of the Victor’s Village’s garishly upholstered armchairs—Capitol chic, which was to say it was both uncomfortable and absurd. Deep maroon with golden trim, stiff in the wrong places, and far too elaborate for a man who still slept on the left side of the bed, because the right side used to be occupied by somebody else.

Shoko dropped a packet of nicotine patches onto the glass coffee table between them. The foil crinkled; it landed beside his half-finished glass of dark liquor, casting a warped reflection in the amber. Their ritual was familiar: Capitol alcohol for black market medicine. She never asked why he drank. He never asked who she was patching up in the alleys near the docks. 

He also didn’t have the heart to tell her that he wouldn’t have any use for her exchanged goods after today.

“You should be getting ready,” Shoko said, pulling back her brown hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. 

“For what? A glorified roll call?” he said.

“For someone who’s about to be paraded in front of the entire district, you’re unusually morose.”

He picked up his glass and tipped it towards her. “Must be the company.”

“And here I thought we were friends,” said Shoko, deadpan.

They were. Or, at least, they were what passed for friends after the Games: two people bound not by warmth or laughter, but by the quiet understanding of what survival cost. Shoko hadn’t set foot in an arena, but she had pieced enough broken bodies back together to know the rules didn’t end when the cannon fired. If anything, they only got worse. She was the last thread tying him to who he was before—before the arena, before the fame that stank of blood and nightmares, before he lost his best friend.

Satoru, for all his evasions and sardonic grins, hadn’t dared cut that thread yet.

He didn’t respond, just leaned forward to pour another finger of liquor into his glass. The liquid sloshed slightly, but his hand wasn’t trembling. He couldn’t allow it to. Shoko’s gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the cobbled streets of Victor’s Village gleamed under the Capitol-mandated maintenance—fresh flowers, freshly-polished plaques, marble clean enough to reflect light. An illusion of peace, gilded and enforced.

“Where’s the victor girl?” she asked.

“Do I look like her babysitter?” he snarked.

“I’ll never understand why you can’t forgive her,” Shoko said slowly, shaking her head. “Poor thing.”

Satoru stayed quiet. If he said something now, it would be only out of anger, and he didn’t want his last words to Shoko to be something he didn’t mean. He lifted his glass and drained it in one gulp, then stood up just as the first of the district bells began to toll.

“You ought to go,” he told her, “or they’ll punish you for being late.”

“And they won’t punish you?”

He smiled faintly. “Victor’s privilege.”

Shoko didn’t move. She stared at him with the same expression she wore when inspecting a wound she knew she couldn’t stitch closed—measured, resigned, maybe even a little angry at the fact that she cared at all. 

“You keep hiding behind that title like it protects you,” she said.

“It does,” Satoru replied. 

The second bell rang, lower than the first, echoing across the district. Outside, the shadows of Peacekeepers could be seen filing into position, lining the walkways between the manicured hedges. It was a parade for the Capitol cameras, all pageantry and propaganda. The returning victors, the new tributes, and, hidden underneath them all, the reminder: you can survive the Games, but you’ll never leave them.

Shoko stepped around the coffee table, retrieving the nicotine patches. She tore one open and handed it to him, hesitating only a little. “Here. In case you decide you want to live a little longer.”

He took it without a word and slid it into the pocket of his jacket. Their eyes met once, briefly, the tiniest amount of affection they would allow themselves to show to each other.

“Don’t let them twist her into you,” she said quietly, turning around to the door.

Satoru didn’t reply.

He waited until the door shut behind her, until her footsteps disappeared down the pristine path. Then, slowly, he turned toward the tall mirror by the fireplace. The Capitol had commissioned it, of course—tall and ornate, trimmed with a frame of curling leaves and thorns dipped in gold. His reflection looked out of place in it. Older than he should be. Less victorious than they claimed.

He tugged at the collar of his jacket and stared himself down.

Forgive you? No, not yet.

The third bell chimed, sharp and final.

Satoru Gojo stepped out the door with a smile plastered on his face.

The streets of District Four were deceptively beautiful.

Stone-paved and sun-warmed, they twisted lazily along the coastline, lined with whitewashed cottages and storefronts draped in netting and dried coral. Bougainvillea climbed the walls, fuchsia and silver-white against the salt-stained brick. Wind chimes made of driftwood and shell danced in the breeze, their soft clatter mingling with the distant crash of waves. Wooden boats bobbed in the harbour, their sails furled tight, hulls painted in colours once bright but long faded by the sun. If someone passed through the district quickly enough, they might even call it peaceful.

Satoru knew better.

Every flower was trimmed for the Capitol’s cameras. Every cottage window was scrubbed clean; every storefront was made to look quaint but never poor. It was curated beauty, scrubbed clean of anything that might offend the Capitol’s delicate sensibilities. 

Every child was trained for the sea, and then—inevitably—for war. District 4 was a district of fishermen, yes, but it was also a district of Careers. A place where kids learned to wield spears before they learned to read, where swimming and fighting were taught in the same breath, and discipline came in the form of bruises and bent knees.

There was pride here—too much, perhaps. Pride in strength. Pride in surviving. Somewhere along the line, that pride in survival had turned into pride in bloodshed, and now it was hard to tell one from the other.

And yet, for all their training and tradition, District 4 had only two victors to its name. Two, in over seventy years of Games. It was a quiet disgrace, a smudge against the reputation they’d worked so hard to polish. The Capitol never said it aloud, but the resentment was there, simmering beneath their sugar-sweet praise. Their tributes were supposed to be killers, paragons of grace and brutality, but most died with their throats slit in the first few days.

When the Capitol looked at you and Satoru, it looked with expectation. Pressure. Hunger. You weren’t just victors; you were proof that District Four could produce something lethal. The Capitol wouldn’t let you forget it, and it was evident in the way the Peacekeepers trailed you and Satoru as you made your way to the square.

So, no. He didn’t buy the pretty picture. He’d come to loathe it and love it, in equal parts.

“Is it weird that I feel… relieved?” you asked, looking down. Your boots scuffed against the cobblestone.

“Relieved that no kid has to die this year?” Satoru said, his voice low. “No. That’s not weird.”

Last year, it was Junpei and Mai Zen’in. The year before that, the mayor’s daughter and the butcher’s son. The year before that, it had been the twins from the cliffs, Reika and Ren. They’d held hands as they climbed into the transport, matching defiant stares fixed on the cameras. Satoru may not have seen eye-to-eye with you, but in this, as the only mentors your district had to offer, you were jointly determined. It was cruel, the way the Capitol spun the twins’ narrative. There was nothing more tragic than siblings being put in a bloodbath and forced to kill each other. 

You and Satoru did all you could to ensure their survival. They’d died anyway—Reika on the second day with an arrow to the heart; Ren lasted three more before he threw himself off a ledge rather than be cornered.

Ten tributes in the five years since yours, two more since his. Satoru remembered them all. Names, faces, screams. He kept them catalogued like wounds, sharp and painful. You didn’t forget your district’s dead—not when their ghosts walked the streets in the form of little siblings, grieving mothers, empty chairs at dinner tables.

He glanced sideways at you, eyes catching the tremble in your jaw. You didn’t say anything, but he could tell this wasn’t just about relief. It was guilt, too. You’d won. They hadn’t. Satoru knew perfectly what that felt like.

You exhaled. “They always look so small when they’re called. Doesn’t matter how tough they act, how many knives they’ve trained with. They always look like kids.”

“Didn’t we?” Satoru said.

He didn’t mean for it to come out as cruel as it did. You flinched, just barely, but he saw it: a crack in your composure, hairline thin, quick as lightning. Satoru looked away. The breeze picked up, bringing with it the sharp tang of brine and the distant screech of gulls. Somewhere in the harbour, a rope hit a mast with a dull clack clack clack, rhythmic and lonely. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You did,” you said quietly. “But it’s fine.”

It wasn’t, not really. But what else was there to say? You had looked like kids. You’d been eighteen—too innocent, too young, bruises blooming purple down your arms after weeks of Career training. Satoru remembered seeing you on stage beside him, hands clenched into fists, mouth pressed into a line like you’d rather spit than smile. It had been his first year as a mentor, and despite his Games having left him shaken already, it was your Games that truly wiped any traces of joy from his mind. 

“The twins’ mom still leaves candles by the pier,” you said. “Every month. Two. One pink, and one blue.”

“Yeah. I know,” Satoru said.

The hill began to slope downward, toward the square. The stage always felt out of place here—too polished, too clean. Like someone had taken a piece of the Capitol and dropped it into the heart of District 4 without bothering to see whether it fit. The wood was sanded smooth, gleaming under the afternoon sun, and the Capitol banners draped behind it fluttered; red silk, gold trim, all show. Two glass bowls were placed on pedestals, and normally, they’d be filled to the brim with narrow slips of paper. This time, there was only one piece of paper in each. A microphone was placed between them, tall and thin.

Children were already gathered below, arranged by age, corralled behind thick ropes like livestock awaiting auction. Girls to the left, and boys to the right. The youngest looked terrified, faces drawn tight with fear at their first ever Reaping. The older ones stood stiff-backed, trying to appear braver than they felt. To the side stood those who had outgrown the age for the Games: men and women with sunburnt faces and wind-bitten hands who stood with their arms crossed tightly.

The Peacekeepers led you and Satoru down the path, in between the girls and boys. The children looked at him, wide-eyed and stricken; the older ones stared at him with more wariness. He looked away, fingers curling into fists inside the pockets of his jacket. The Head Peacekeeper—the new one, who’d inadvertently let slip the secret about this year’s Hunger Games—nudged you both up the stage. Satoru stood with his hands behind his back, the bitter taste of judgement and expectation lodged in his mouth like rot.

The metallic clatter of heels against the stage broke the silence. The Capitol’s escort for District Four ascended with a flourish. 

Coral was her name, and she’d been the conductor of the Reaping since Satoru was born. She was dressed in seafoam and pearl, hair coiled into a towering spiral that mimicked the curl of a nautilus shell, the tips dipped in shimmering silver. The strands were woven through with glinting beads and wire shaped like sea creatures—delicate crabs, jewelled anemones, and a single translucent fish pinned just above her ear. Her lipstick was the same shade of a coral reef just before it bleached. Her lashes batted with forced warmth, eyes bright beneath a mask of powder and paint.

“What a fucking clown,” he heard you mutter under your breath. Satoru snorted and disguised it as a cough. There was no love lost between you both and Coral. Your disdain for each other only seemed to multiply with each new Reaping.

The Capitol, he thought grimly, had a twisted sense of humour. A woman named Coral for the district by the ocean. It was almost funny, if it weren’t so cruel. Everything about her was an imitation of the sea—costume over understanding, performance over truth. She smiled as if she hadn’t just flown in on a private hovercraft to announce death in front of children.

“Welcome, welcome!” she trilled into the microphone, loud and obnoxious, in that strange Capitol accent of hers. “District Four, it is always a pleasure. Happy Hunger Games—and what a special occasion this year’s Reaping promises to be!”

The crowd murmured. You cursed at her quietly once more. Satoru bit back his smile; you were providing some amusement, at least, before Coral announced the inevitable.

“This year marks the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games,” she continued. “And as you all know, every twenty-five years, we celebrate a Quarter Quell—a commemorative twist designed to remind us of the sacrifices that brought us peace.”

Her voice lifted slightly on the word peace, as if it were something alive, fluttering in the air like the Capitol’s gaudy banners. Satoru fought the urge to look at you, because if he did, he might laugh, and if he laughed, he might get shot.

Coral stepped back from the microphone, flourished a glittering envelope from her sleeve, and held it up. 

“With the approval of President Snow,” she announced, “it is my honour to read the card that was sealed in this envelope seventy-five years ago by the original founders of Panem, to be opened today.”

She opened the envelope with a dramatic flick of her fingers.

“On the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games,” she read, “as a reminder that not even the strongest among us can overcome the Capitol… the tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

Gasps rippled through the square. Some of the children whimpered. A few of the older teenagers exchanged wide-eyed looks of disbelief. A boy—not even thirteen, probably—turned to the boy next to him and whispered something frantic, something like what does that mean? only to get knocked on the back of his head by the nearest Peacekeeper.

Satoru didn’t blink. The performance had begun.

Coral gave the crowd a moment to process. She nodded solemnly, as if she actually gave a shit, and spread her arms. 

“As District Four has only two living victors, there will be no draw today,” she said. “No need for names. By default… our tributes for the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games will be Satoru Gojo—” she paused, smiling as though his name was something to be treasured—“and…” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, and, grabbing Satoru’s hand, you stepped forward, nudging Coral out of the way.

“What are you doing—” 

“People of District Four,” you said loudly, ignoring Satoru’s flabbergasted glare and Coral’s protest. “We are your victors. We survived the Hunger Games. We were supposed to look after those who were sent in after this, and in this—in this, I regret to say, we’ve failed.”

Coral’s mouth opened in shock, but no words came out. Her wide eyes flicked between you and Satoru, who still hadn’t moved, his hand slack in yours. The crowd had quieted, like someone had pulled a thread too tightly—and now, everything was still, holding its breath.

You stepped forward once more.

“We failed them,” you continued. “We smiled for the cameras and waved from our trains and made speeches written by people who never saw a child die. We survived—and then we disappeared into the Victor’s Village, and the comfort and silence it gave us.”

Satoru could feel Coral’s fury simmering behind you, the way her breath turned short and shallow. She was probably already thinking of how this would look to the Capitol. What it would cost.

He didn’t care, and neither did you.

Satoru looked out at the people of District Four—his people. He saw the girl in the front row with the callused hands and the storm-coloured eyes. He saw the old man with the limp, gripping the hand of a child too young to understand what you were saying. He saw Shoko, standing to the side, her eyes wide and her mouth parted slightly. He saw grief.

He saw fear.

“We’re not proud of what we’ve become,” you said. “We were kids when they threw us into the arena. But we came back. And I—I can’t live with pretending that what’s happening now is normal. I won’t.”

There was a rustle behind you, the shift of fabric as Satoru finally stepped up. He raised his free hand—not waving, not saluting. Just open, trembling slightly; he was unsure what gesture could ever be right here.

“I—” he started, then stopped, and cleared his throat. “What she said. All of it.”

Someone in the crowd let out a choked laugh, but it was the kind that came too close to crying.

“I used to think,” Satoru said, steadier now, “that surviving was enough. That if I could just get through it, I’d earn the right to be left alone. But the truth is, we’re not alone—and we never were.”

His hand squeezed yours.

“And maybe we don’t have power,” you said. “Not compared to the Capitol. But we have voices. And I think—I think we should start using them. Before it’s too late.”

It was the old man with the limp who acted first, his eyes fixed on you both. His hand, weathered by time, trembled as he brought his thumb to his lips; then, slowly, he moved his hand across his chest before lifting it outward, palm open, towards you and Satoru.

The old sailors’ farewell. Satoru remembered being a child and playing at the docks when some of the older fishermen taught him about it. It was the gesture made to those who were being sent to sea, with long voyages ahead—a gesture for them to come back, safe and sound, with tales of joy and abundance. No one had ever used it since Panem was created.

Like a stone being dropped into still water, others in the crowd began to mirror him. One by one, people raised their hands to their lips, then pressed them to their hearts, before lifting them towards you. It spread like wildfire, like the way a spark can catch in dry grass. He didn’t know if it was a sign of solidarity or defiance, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. 

It was a rebellion all the same.

The crack of a rifle split the air like lightning. 

The old man, his back straight despite his age, crumpled to the ground in a spray of blood. His limp body collapsed as a single shot rang out from a Peacekeeper’s rifle. His grandchild, confused and scared, began to wail, covered in his grandfather’s blood.

The child’s wail cut through the stunned silence like a blade, sharp and raw and impossibly small. For a second—maybe two, maybe ten—no one moved. You were frozen behind him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like you couldn’t believe what you’d just seen.

Neither could he.

The blood seeped quickly across the stone, impossibly red against the grey, reaching the child’s shoes.

Screams tore through the square. People surged backwards, pushing and tripping over one another. Mothers grabbed their children, elders stumbled, younger ones shouted in protest and disbelief. Some tried to run. Some simply stood there, lost in horror.

Satoru tried to jump off the stage, acting before he could think,  arms outstretched towards the child, towards the body, but strong arms grabbed him and held him back.

“Get off me—let go—” he snarled, teeth bared like an animal. You were shouting too, your voice cracking as you fought the Peacekeeper trying to drag you away.

“You killed him! He was unarmed!” you screamed, writhing, kicking, doing everything you could to make them hurt. “He saluted us! That’s all he did!”

“Let go of her!” Satoru roared, lunging towards you, twisting violently, only for the butt of a gun to slam into his gut. He doubled over with a groan, teeth clenched, and still, they carried him away.

The Peacekeeper holding Satoru grunted, pulling his arms behind his back with bruising force. “Enough.”

“No,” Satoru spat. “Don’t you dare fucking tell me that. That was a child’s grandfather—”

“Stand down or we shoot again.”

That made Satoru freeze.

You were still thrashing behind him, a wild thing burning in the sunlight, but when he said your name—just once, low and urgent—you met his eyes, and you stilled. Not because you were afraid, but because you understood.

They would kill someone else. A child. You. Him.

“Take them,” the Head Peacekeeper barked. 

They dragged him from the platform. Somewhere in the distance, someone cried for help. Somewhere else, someone shouted murderer.

But he wasn’t allowed to look. He wasn’t allowed to stop. Your feet caught on the steps as the Peacekeepers forced you down them. Satoru was only a few feet behind you, but it still felt like miles. His hair was falling into his eyes, his back bent slightly where the rifle butt poked into him. Still, he fought against every hand that tried to hold him still, even if it was more subdued now.

The child’s sobs followed him like a phantom.

The doors of the Justice Building yawned open before him, all pale marble and clean lines and hollow promises. The air inside was colder than it had any right to be, and it swallowed the sunlight in an instant. 

You were shoved into a corridor, Satoru beside you now, guards on either side. You looked at him. Your lip was split where one of the Peacekeepers had hit you in your struggle. Satoru was sure he didn’t look any better; the scratches nicked on his cheeks stung.

“I saw it,” he said, hoarse. “I saw his hand.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “So did I.”

“He was saying goodbye.”

“He was hoping we’d come back.”

The guards didn’t care. They didn’t speak; they merely kept moving you forward, step after step, deeper into the building, deeper into the Capitol’s grasp.

Satoru closed his eyes and imagined the frail, lifeless body of that old man. He was going to be sick. He thought about the years they’d all lived through, about everything that had brought them to this point. All those people who had died before them, who had given up their lives just for the chance of a better one.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You and he weren’t supposed to be this.

He turned to look at you again, and for the first time in five years, he felt that familiar feeling creeping in—the feeling that no matter how much he wanted to fix things, he couldn’t.

“You’re okay,” he muttered, more to himself than you. But it felt like a lie. He didn’t know what was happening anymore.

The Peacekeepers shoved you inside a room. “Sit,” one of them ordered gruffly. “We’re receiving orders from the Capitol soon.”

Satoru had forgotten that the Reaping was always being broadcast live to everyone in the country. His head hurt. Numbly, he moved to the nearest chair—some old, stiff wooden thing—and collapsed onto it.

Did you know what you’d done?

You didn’t sit. Your arms were still trembling, and the moment the door clicked shut behind the last guard, it was like all of it—everything he’d swallowed down to keep from screaming—came clawing its way back up.

“You shouldn’t have said anything,” Satoru said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You shouldn’t have—you shouldn’t have said anything about using our voices, or—” He was staring at the floor, hands pressed against his mouth like he was trying to physically hold back everything he wanted to say. “We should’ve just let the Reaping happen like it always does.”

“He was shot in front of us. He saluted us, and they shot him—”

“Because of us!” Satoru exploded, finally looking up at you, eyes wild and bloodshot. “We incited this! You think President Snow won’t twist this into some Capitol propaganda? You think he won’t use that child’s face?”

You shook your head. “So you’d rather we be their good little Victors again? Keep our heads down while they murder people in the square?”

“I’d rather you stay alive!” he snapped. “I’d rather not be left alone, all over again.”

The silence that followed was thick and ugly. He dropped his gaze again, chest heaving like the fight had drained him of all the air in the room.

The door opened once more.

“What an entertaining little lover’s spat,” a voice sang out mockingly, clapping slow, deliberate hands. “Really, I should’ve brought popcorn.”

Satoru’s gaze snapped up.

Coral pouted, sickly sweet, leaning against the doorframe. “Unfortunately for you both, the fun’s over. We must leave immediately. President Snow wants to see you.”

Neither of you needed to ask why. Both of you already knew.

Satoru rose slowly from his chair, his shoulders stiff and aching. You walked out first, following Coral out of the Justice Building.

“Chin up, darlings!” Coral tossed a cruel smile over her shoulder. “After all, it’s not every day you start a rebellion on live television.”

After the Reaping—if it could even be called that—the crowds had emptied. What remained were scorch marks on the stone, drops of blood already dying in the last light of the day, and the haunting echo of that child’s sobs still ringing in Satoru’s ears.

You walked ahead of him, shoulders squared, back straight, silent. Peacekeepers flanked you both, rifles in hand, boots smacking against the concrete.

The train that would take you to the Capitol loomed just ahead, lacquered ink-black. It wouldn’t be his first time boarding this very train, but, with his pulse pounding in his throat, Satoru desperately hoped it’d be his last.

“Satoru!”

He turned instinctively. He knew that voice. It had raised him, fed him, scolded him. He’d known it since he was a boy too small to reach the docks without running.

Reiko and Ren’s mother, Midori, was pushing her way through the barrier, eyes glassy. A Peacekeeper stepped forward to stop her, but she ducked under his arm and threw herself in front of Satoru.

She looked older now, greyer and more wrinkled than he remembered. The toll of losing both her children at the same time had not failed to leave its scar on her. Satoru felt a lump form in his throat; he’d been too ashamed to look her in the eye, ever since he had broken his promise of keeping her children safe. But her hands were still strong when they grabbed his, shoving something into his palm, curling his fingers around it before anyone could see.

“You listen to me,” she hissed, close enough that only he could hear. “This was your mother’s. She would have wanted you to have it.”

Satoru opened his fist. A golden pin, drawn in the shape of a mockingjay—a muttation created by the Capitol—rested in his palm, warm from her hands.

“I kept it hidden all these years,” she whispered. “Don’t let them take you too.”

A Peacekeeper barked something unintelligible and shoved her backward. Before Satoru could react, the Peacekeeper who’d tried to stop her from reaching Satoru stepped forward and struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand. The sound echoed down the platform like thunder.

She crumpled to the ground, blood at the corner of her mouth.

“No—” Satoru lunged forward, but two Peacekeepers grabbed him, dragging him towards the train. “Let me go! She didn’t do anything!”

You were screaming now, too, struggling against the grip on your arm, reaching for him.

The doors were already sliding open.

The last thing Satoru saw before he was shoved into the train was Midori’s body being dragged away, her feet scraping against the concrete. The door slammed shut behind him.

“Fuck!” Satoru twisted away from the Peacekeepers holding him, chest heaving, eyes fixed to the window. His hands were shaking. He tucked the pin into his pocket, trembling. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck—”

You wrenched him by his shoulders, forcing him to face you instead. Your lip was bleeding again. “Look at me.”

“They—”

“Get your fucking act together, Satoru,” you said.

He nodded once. Again. Closed his eyes, and hid the shaking of his hands by fisting his fingers together in his jacket pockets. 

The Capitol was waiting. Satoru found himself hoping—perhaps  foolishly—that the odds, no matter how bleak, would be in his favour.

a/n: thanks for reading! sorry for such a short first chapter, but i wanted to use this as a prologue of sorts. rest assured that all the future chapters will be much, much longer :) thank you to @mahowaga for beta reading & letting me ramble about this fic with her ♡

art credit: _3aem

[cutehoons02]

We don’t pray for love,we just pray for cars!

Fast Hearts: Hyung Line F1 series

*pairing: Park Sunghoon F1 Red Bull driver x sports Journalist

*trope: Enemies to lovers/Forbbiden love

*driver: Park Sunghoon=Max Verstappen

*synopsis: Sunghoon is the synthesis of the journalist hater. He respects their work but when a young girl without fears and a little cheeky enters the world of F1 and Sunghoon for him is a disaster. This journalist loves to tease him, sometimes ask inappropriate questions just to make fun of him and drive him crazy. Sunghoon every time he sees her would like to put it in his place because he hates her but at the same time is attracted by her but the problem is that he should not be distracted by anything because he is fighting for the world championship for his first time with Red Bull.

*tags: At first they can’t stand each other, Hoon is really asshole with her (at first) but she also teases him always, kisses, 2 sex scenes (doogy style-normal sex) unprotected sex (don’t horny ppl) fingerings, masturbation (f.m) sucking, the list of races is random (there are not all races of a season of F1) pet names (baby doll) (hoon,hoonie)

11.8k (💙) *English is not my native language

You were in your final year of sports journalism, and with your top grades and a way with words that had already made more than one professor uneasy, you were lucky enough to be selected for an exclusive internship with F1 TV. Not just any TV, but the official platform of Formula 1: young, viral, fast-paced. Interviews, exclusive content, and, most importantly, social media. It was the first race of the season in Bahrain, and you were already at the center of your first post-race conference.

Jin – the undisputed king of Mercedes – had just won. Again. The seventh time in a row, and no one even raised an eyebrow anymore. But your attention wasn’t on him.

To his right, in second place, Park Sunghoon seemed like a shadow just about to explode. His dark eyes fixed on the Red Bull can in his hands. A hard face, clenched jaw, raven-black hair slightly tousled. He was gritting his teeth with elegance.

From what you knew, he had been with Red Bull since he was 17. A prodigy, a winner, stubborn. He’d come close to winning the championship the previous year. This year... he wasn’t accepting any compromises. He had to win. And today, a single mistake at the start had cost him everything.

It was at that moment that you raised your hand with the microphone between your fingers. Everyone turned to look at you, including the content creator beside you who was filming for social media channels. Your voice, clear and calm, was the one that made him raise his eyes.

“Park Sunghoon, the car this year seems more balanced, more aggressive in the corners. So, if you don’t win the championship… can we say that maybe it was never the car’s fault, but yours?”

Silence.

A brief, icy silence.

Jin gave a small smile and lowered his face. Jay, third on the podium, made a soft “oh” with his lips.

But it was Sunghoon’s gaze that took your breath away for a second. He looked you up and down slowly, with surgical precision. Narrowed, dark eyes, full of contained disdain. You felt them slide from your hair down to your legs, where they lingered just a bit longer than necessary.

He slowly ran a hand through his silver hair, then responded.

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

His voice was low and sharp, like a thin blade.

“You see, in your line of work, asking smart questions is the first step to staying in it for the long haul. Next time, try harder.”

You bit your smile.

“Oh, so if you lose, we can say the car wasn’t the issue and you made a rookie mistake at the start? Or should I ‘ask better questions’ even to the telemetry data?”

The crowd let out a small “ooooh.” Jin coughed to hide a chuckle.

Sunghoon clenched his jaw. He gave you a long, penetrating look, then stood up with a swift movement of the chair, leaving Jin and Jay still seated.

Without saying anything else, he walked off.

You watched him go, your lips slightly curved in a smile.

Welcome to Formula 1.

The Red Bull plane had landed a couple of hours ago, and as was customary before every race weekend, Sunghoon had decided to cycle along the entire track. It was one of his rituals: silence, asphalt, and a visual analysis of the circuit before the data and telemetry took over. He was accompanied by Jake and Jay. The three of them were known in the paddock as the 02z: all born in 2002, growing up together on karting circuits, adolescent victories, fierce rivalries, and shared dreams. Now they were professionals, but their friendship – though rough and competitive – was still alive.

Jake, the McLaren driver, was the kind of guy who smiled too much, even when he lost. He loved afterparties, Twitter memes, making TikTok videos, and his dog Layla, who followed him everywhere. He always had a joke ready, but he was also a fierce driver when it came to racing.

Jay, on the other hand, was the "rockstar driver." He played guitar before races, had a philosophical air about him, and had a cover-worthy smile, but when in the car, he was as determined as few others. He was supposed to be Sunghoon's teammate at Red Bull, but he had chosen Mercedes, aiming for a long-term plan. He was balanced but stubborn. Once he made a decision, no one could change his mind.

And then there was Sunghoon. Cold, calculating, focused. He lived only for F1. The only one who skipped F2, catapulted directly into Formula 1 thanks to the Red Bull Academy. The previous year he had come second. This year… everything revolved around the championship. The rest was noise. The sun was setting behind the Jeddah skyscrapers, painting the track in orange and pink hues. They cycled in single file and then in parallel. No one spoke for a few minutes until Jay broke the silence.

-You know, I’m still recovering from that press conference.- Jay said, his tone amused, sharp, and cheeky. Jake chuckled and said, 'That stuff is already in the best moments of the year. I mean, it has meme potential for sure.' Sunghoon didn’t respond, but his jaw muscles tightened slightly. -The scene: you shutting up a newly hired intern… and her schooling you in front of Jin.- Jay said, and Jake chuckled, looking at Sunghoon, repeating the words you had said a week before: 'Can we say it was your fault, not the car’s?” Boom. Mic drop.' Jake mimicked the gesture with his hand, pretending to throw a microphone. “It was a stupid question,” Sunghoon said, annoyed. -It was the truth, said in a bold way. Maybe that’s why it hurt you so much.- Jay said, staring at Sunghoon, who gripped his bike handlebars tighter. 'And anyway… she’s cute. I looked her up afterward. There are clips everywhere, even in Layla’s profile reels.' He laughed at his joke, while Sunghoon slammed on the brakes and stared at him with the coldest look he could muster. “Don’t start with this too,” Sunghoon said with an icy stare. Jake raised his hands and laughed, 'I’m just saying the pictures turned out well, and she seems like a nice girl…' “I don’t want to hear that name in my presence again. Got it?” Sunghoon said, his voice firm, sharp as a blade. -Damn, you’re more sensitive than a diva at the Met Gala,- Jay said. 'Admit it, she made an impression on you.' Jake laughed. “No.” -Mhm. I’ve known you since you used to steal new tires at karting. If you say no with that voice, it’s a brutal yes disguised as an excuse.-Jay replied with an arched eyebrow. Sunghoon began cycling again, faster. But the two easily caught up with him. 'I can’t wait for you to interview me. I promise I’ll answer with 'Yes, miss,' but only if you say it.' Jake responded, glancing at Jay. 'Come on, Hoonie, maybe she’s exactly the type you need. You need someone to break your facade now and then. You know, someone human. With emotions.' Sunghoon didn’t speak, but his hands were gripping the handlebars as if he wanted to break them. His gaze was fixed on the asphalt in front of him, but the images of the press room were still in his mind: full lips, nerdy glasses that couldn’t hide the cheeky attitude, the voice that didn’t shake in front of him. The voice of someone who didn’t kneel. Not even in front of someone like him. Jay (whispering to Jake) -Do you think he’s already thought about it while taking a cold shower?- Jake (laughing) 'Yeah. But he says it’s hatred. Some lies he tells himself really well.' Sunghoon slammed the brakes abruptly. He turned to them with a fiery look. “Whoever talks about her again… will walk the track on foot. On an empty stomach.” He shouted, annoyed by the bickering behind him. -Shit. Sorry, boss.- Jay replied, laughing, but under the threat, Jay and Jake were laughing. They were laughing hard because their cold, cynical, icy friend… was finally distracted. And that could be far more dangerous than any rival on the grid.

Qualifying had been like dancing on the edge of a knife. In Jeddah, to set a good time, you had to brush against the wall. Literally. Not centimeters. Millimeters. And Sunghoon had done it. Not a scratch, not a smudge. But the clock had spoken clearly: P2. Jin, once again, was faster than him. That evening, in his motorhome, Hoon had consumed himself with the data, the telemetry, every line of the racing line. His engineer knew him well: when he was like this, it was best to leave him alone. No music, no chatter. Just Jin, Red Bull, and obsession. Sunday – Race Red light. Three. Four. Five. Go. Perfect start. Millisecond reaction time. Jin kept the lead, but Hoon was glued to him. Less than 0.3 seconds for twenty laps. At Turn 22, he got so close he could see the carbon fiber on the Mercedes quivering under the pressure. Then, at the end of the straight after the second DRS zone, he did it. He dove in. Fake left, entered right. Jin closed too late. Contact? Almost. But he made it. P1. The pit crew exploded. His heart was pounding in his chest like a tribal drum. But Jin wasn’t the type to back down. After six laps, he was back. Right behind him. 0.4. 0.2. 0.1, and then it happened. In the second sector, amidst the chaos of walls and blind corners, Sunghoon suddenly lifted his foot. He braked. For just a moment. That was enough. Jin launched at full speed, and couldn’t react.

BANG.

The Mercedes hit the diffuser of the Red Bull. A piece of carbon wing flew onto the track. Screams on the radio.

Jin (via radio): “Is he f*cking insane?!”

Sunghoon (via radio): “What the hell was he doing?! I was letting him through! He knew that!”

It was a dirty move. A trick. A provocation. Soon after, Jin passed him again. He still had enough pace, despite the damage, to close P1. Sunghoon, P2. Again. But this time, with the taste of blood between his teeth.

Post-race – Parc fermé He got out of the car as if he were stepping on broken glass. His helmet still on, his fists clenched. The crowd cheered, but he heard nothing. Just anger. Frustration. And shame. Jin approached him immediately. Taking off his gloves, visibly agitated. 'Are you crazy? What was that?' Jin said, disappointed. “If you wanted to pass, you could’ve. I left you space.” Sunghoon said coldly. 'You braked suddenly. In the middle of the track. This isn’t karting, Hoon. If you want to win a championship… do it like a man. Do it clean.' Jin said, staring at him with those severe, veteran eyes. He was in his eighth championship. You didn’t play games like this. Not like this. Cameras were everywhere. Microphones even more so. But no one dared to interrupt them. That’s when he saw you. Dressed in a long paddock outfit, beige sand, soft and light like the wind blowing from the Gulf. Big sunglasses, a little smile on your lips. The F1TV microphone in your hand, but no question. Just a fixed gaze on him, in silence. A mute challenge. A reminder. He hated you. And yet… he just wanted to rip that outfit off you. Sunghoon via radio, entering the pit box: “Tell the press office I’m not going.” PR (via radio): “Hoon, there’s the mandatory press conference.” Sunghoon (cutting): “I’m not going into that room. If needed, fine me. I won’t talk to anyone. Especially not her.” The Red Bull garage door slammed shut with a thud.

The press room was cold. But the adrenaline from the race still burned on the skin, like the Saudi sun. Jin was sitting composed, his gaze focused yet relaxed. Next to him was Heeseung, but the second-place seat was empty. Sunghoon hadn't shown up. No statements, no comments. Just silence and the usual arrogance. You, with the microphone in hand and your heart still racing from the race, asked the routine questions. Precise, professional. But inside, you were seething. That guy was getting under your skin. And beneath your surface.

With your team, you'd just closed a piece that you knew would explode like a bomb in the paddock. Headline:

“Park Sunghoon: pure talent or just ego in a helmet?”

Subtitle:

“Today’s move on Jin was a gamble on the edge of safety. When ego surpasses adrenaline, risk turns into a threat. And Sunghoon is playing with fire.”

The article ended with:

“Respect is earned by acknowledging your mistakes. But perhaps that kind of respect doesn’t interest Sunghoon. Not for now.”

The sky was turning pink, the Arabian sunset descending like velvet over the team tents. You were walking near the Red Bull motorhome, ready to wrap up the weekend… when you saw him. Sunghoon. Leaning against the back of his motorhome. His eyes are down on a tablet. Your article opened in front of him. He had his hair pulled back with a band, a Red Bull in hand, and his jumpsuit pants slung low on his hips. He had that lone wolf look. Or maybe, a hunted animal. You stopped. “Are you out of your mind?” you snapped. “That move… You both could’ve been out. What the hell were you thinking?” He slowly lifted his eyes. Started at you with that dark, sharp look. “I don’t need a babysitter. And certainly not a nosy journalist who gets excited writing about me.” He raised the tablet. “What’s this? Now you’re pretending to be a moral judge?” “You risked someone’s life.” “My life, and mine only.” He chuckled. Cold. Cynical. “That piece of yours is crap.” And that was when your vein popped. Without thinking, you shoved your hands into his chest and pushed him against the wall. He didn’t move an inch. He just blocked you with one hand on your side, hard. Too hard for just a defense. His fingers dug into the lightweight fabric of your dress.

“Christ. But this… this drives me crazy. The way she challenges me. The way she touches me. I want to shut her up, not with words. But with mine. And I shouldn’t. I’ve got a damn championship to win. And yet I’m thinking about what she looks like under that dress.” Hoon thought as he shot you a glance.

He looked at you with pupils slightly dilated. A flash crossed his gaze. “Watch out,” he hissed, inches away from you. “You’re not important enough yet to use those words.” But you didn’t back down. “No?” you whispered, your heart in your throat. “But enough to get a reaction from you. Mentally… and physically.” He slowly released your side, but he did so with deliberate slowness. He turned to leave, but muttered something through clenched teeth: “Next time… choose your words better. Or you might find yourself having to swallow them.” And disappeared into the motorhome, but you knew that wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning.

The Australian sun had just set, but Albert Park still shimmered with the glow of victory. Sunghoon Park had finally won. First win of the season. First time ahead of Jin. He had driven like a demon straight out of hell. Surgical precision, aggressive yet clean overtakes. The Red Bull was flawless—but he was more than that. You’d followed him all weekend, like always. But this time, the story had changed. And you knew it. So, with your heart pounding in your throat and your brain lit up like an engine pushed to its limits, you wrote an article. For him.

Title:

"Sunghoon Park: Fueled by Hate. And Finally, a Win That Burns."

He drove like he had fire under his wheels. Like every corner was an answer to every word written, every look given, every laugh behind his back. Did he finally show a human side? No. Thankfully, no. Sunghoon Park is as cruel to himself as he is to others. But tonight, Melbourne trembled for him. Because when he wins... it hits you. Like a wound that burns. And damn, it leaves a mark.

Well done, Park. Keep going. Maybe, in the end, someone will love you for this, too.

Click. Published.

And you knew he was reading it. You felt it, under your skin.

That evening, you wore a knee-length black dress with a modest neckline but sensual style. Your hair was down in soft waves, and you wore a floral perfume with warm undertones.

You weren’t looking for him. But you weren’t avoiding him either.

You rode up to the eleventh floor alone. But when the elevator stopped at the sixth, he stepped in.

Black shirt, collar open, eyes cast down but fully aware. You turned your head to speak.

"Just wanted to say... nice job today. You finally woke up."

He didn’t answer right away. Closed his eyes for a second, then slowly turned to you.

"Your piece. I read it. Poison in the shape of praise.

You’re good with words. Almost as good as you are at playing with me," he said, voice hoarse.

"And you’re good at reacting when I mess with you. We work."

He took a step closer. Too close. The elevator kept rising, but time stopped.

"You provoke me. Always. You wanna know the truth?" He brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers, speaking just inches from your lips.

"It turns me on like hell." And he said it with a smirk that promised nothing good—then he kissed you. It wasn’t sweet. It was violent. Fiery. An implosion.

His lips were hot, and hungry. His hands grabbed your waist and the back of your neck. Your body hit the elevator wall with a dull thud—but you didn’t complain.

You couldn’t. You were too far gone.

Sunghoon’s tongue pushed into your mouth with force, weeks of restraint pouring out in one breathless moment. His kisses were rough, and dirty. He bit your lower lip too hard, then moved to your ear.

"I can't take it anymore. Pretending. Ignoring you. You drive me crazy and I don't know if I want to kiss you... or shut you up with your hands tied behind your back."

he whispered, panting.

He bit your ear—first gently, then harder—while lifting you slightly against the wall, fingers digging into your sides like he wanted to leave a mark. You scratched his shoulder blade. He chuckled. A low, wicked laugh. Bastard. And god, so sexy.

"I thought you needed focus, Park," you said, moaning.

"Apparently, you are my focus," he murmured, trailing his hand along your thigh—and your whole body shivered.

DING. Floor 11.

He pulled away. His eyes were glazed, but clear.

"This isn’t over," he said darkly.

"It hasn’t even started," you whispered as you stepped past him, legs shaking—but the fire? That was just beginning.

Barcelona.

The circuit where it had all begun.

Where Park Sunghoon, just seventeen years old, had won his very first F1 race as a rookie—blowing away every prediction, every doubt, every insult hurled at him online.

That day, the world had dubbed him the Ice Prince. Unshakable. Precise. Ruthless.

But this time… this time, he hadn’t won.

He’d finished fourth. A wrong strategy, an unstable car after the second pit stop, and far too many thoughts clouding his head.

He’d been leading the championship for weeks. Max had dropped out of the top spots. Jin was only a few points behind and yet, something… something was slipping through his fingers.

Jake and Jay noticed it too.

On their days off in Monaco, when they went running along the coast in the morning or locked themselves in the gym, they saw how Hoon trained harder than necessary. How he sometimes drove one of his vintage cars for hours—just to outrun his thoughts. How he studied telemetry in silence, even on rest days.

Jake—with his loud laugh and Layla the puppy always in his arms—tried to make him smile.

Jay, more observant, said nothing. But he watched and now and then, during quiet moments, the two exchanged knowing glances and smiled.

Because they knew something Hoon would never admit:

There was a journalist—with too much light in her eyes—who was getting under his skin.

Barcelona. Post-race.

In the Red Bull garage, the air was tense.

Mechanics worked in silence. No one dared speak to him.

The team principal had simply nodded and said:

"Today wasn’t your race. But the season is long."

But Sunghoon wasn’t listening. He had taken off his race suit, changed clothes, and now sat outside the motorhome, hidden in the shade.

The sun was setting slowly, and the roar of the engines had faded into the distance and that’s where you found him.

In a corner of the paddock you knew by heart. Your heart saw him first—before your eyes did. He was sitting there, the Ice Prince. Only that night, the ice was starting to melt.

You walked over—this time with no microphone. Just your voice.

“You didn’t run away this time,” you said softly.

He looked up slowly. Tired eyes. Angry eyes.

“And you’re still not tired of chasing me,” he replied, voice low and laced with venom. You stopped just a few steps away. Silence. There was no challenge in your stance—only honesty.

You looked him in the eye. He didn’t look away.

“I saw you make mistakes today. For the first time… you looked human.”

His jaw tensed. He gave a small nod. A silent admission.

“It’s not easy, trying to be perfect… is it?” Silence again. Only the distant hum of generators and the pounding in your chest.

Then, he spoke.

“I don’t want to be perfect.…I want to win. I want to deserve the seat I’ve been given and every time I screw up, every time I lose, it feels like I’m spitting in the face of those who believed in me.”

He looked down.

For one fleeting moment, he seemed fragile.

“And me… in all of this… am I just a distraction?” You didn’t ask out of pity. Nor to provoke him. You asked because you wanted to know.

He inhaled deeply. Didn’t look at you. But his voice wavered—barely.

“There’s no room for you. There shouldn’t be room for anything. But you… you’re there. Always. Because you provoke me every damn weekend, and I think about you, I see you—when I drive, when I lose, when I lock myself in the gym, when I race along the Côte d’Azur, even then. And I wish I could rip you out of my head forever. But you’re there. In my thoughts. And you drive me insane.”

His fingers moved—slowly. He took your hand. A gesture that wasn’t like him. A crack. A surrender. A silent confession.

His skin was warm. His grip firm, but not rough. He looked down—like he hated himself for it.

“And that… is the problem.” You didn’t reply right away.

Then, slowly, you knelt beside him—still holding his hand.

“Maybe… you’re not the problem. Maybe the problem is that, for the first time… you’ve found something you can’t control.”

He looked at you. Eyes not full of tears—but of storm.

“If I let you in, I won’t be able to focus. And if I keep you out…I won’t be able to breathe.”

Silence.

“Then choose what scares you more: losing… or feeling something.”

He didn’t answer. He let go of your hand but he didn’t stand. Didn’t walk away he stayed. With you and in the silence of the Catalan night,

for the very first time, it wasn’t the sound of an engine keeping him company—but you.

The sky above Silverstone seemed to barely hold the weight of the tensions built up on track, it had been an explosive Grand Prix. Sunghoon started second, Jin third. Everyone’s eyes were on them. No one was talking about anything else. The battle between them had become the main storyline of the season. And when, on lap 37, Jin attempted the inside pass, Hoon didn’t back down. The two brushed against each other, their tires touched, and the Mercedes flew off into the gravel, ending the race. Sunghoon continued, but the damage to the floor of the Red Bull sent him sliding to fourth place. Zero points for Jin. Just twelve for him. A disaster for both and a perfect explosion for the media.

After the race, the air in the paddock was as tense as a rubber band about to snap. Sunghoon got out of the car with his suit unbuttoned to his chest, sweat on his skin, his face burning. He threw his gloves onto the wall and ignored anyone who tried to speak to him.

But you were waiting for him.

Microphone in hand, posture impeccable, eyes determined.

You had watched the replay several times: the move had been risky, borderline. And you wanted his version but you also wanted to provoke him. You wanted to break through his ice. You intercepted him just as he was about to enter the garage, with two PRs on his heels.

“Park, got a second?”

He turned, saw you, and stopped. His black eyes immediately narrowed.

“What is it now, you want to ask if I tried to kill Jin?”

“No. But if you want to talk about it, we can add it to the interview.”

Silence. The cameramen were already there. The microphone was on.

You took a deep breath, then pressed on.

“You’ve been complaining all season about how Jin is treated like a deity. But today, when you had control, you chose to push him off. Is this the champion mentality you’re trying to show the world?”

Sunghoon stared at you. His eyes turned to stone.

“You know what the problem with this generation of journalists is? You all think the track is a reality show. This isn’t Netflix. This isn’t ‘Drive to Survive.’ It’s Formula 1. And I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“Then why do you seem so obsessed with what we write? Why do you read every single line that concerns you?”

The shot hit its mark. You knew it a muscle twitched on his jaw.

Then, without saying another word, he turned and disappeared into the garage but the look he gave you… was a promise.

The call came less than thirty minutes later. From his PR.

“Mr. Park would like you to come to his office. Room 813. He says he ‘wants to discuss your journalistic skills.’”

You didn’t respond, you just went, you opened the door without knocking.

The room was bright, modern, with large windows looking out onto the now-empty track. Sunghoon was standing there, hands in his black pants pockets, a tight t-shirt that hugged his chest.

As soon as he saw you, he lifted his chin.

“Took you less time than expected. Ready to apologize?”

You closed the door slowly behind you. The blood was pounding in your temples.

“Apologize? For asking a question any journalist would ask? You called me here to hear applause or to confirm that you have thin skin when it comes to criticism?”

He stepped toward you, slowly, like a predator.

“I called you here because what you did was personal. It wasn’t a question—it was an attack. And you know what? You like it. You like to poke me. You like to make me lose control.”

You clenched your jaw.

“Because you’re arrogant. Because you think the world owes you something just because you drive faster than the rest. But you know what I saw today? Panic. Haste. A kid who feels threatened by someone who’s won more than him.”

He stopped just two steps away from you. Looked down at you.

“You’re just a brat. A nuisance. A background noise. And you’re playing with fire.”

You moved closer. Anger, excitement, tension—it was all mixed together.

“And you’re a walking ego with an inferiority complex. But hey, at least one of us has the balls to admit it.”

His gaze burned. He took a step forward. Then another. Now he was too close. You could feel his breath.

“Kneel.”

The word hit like a whip you didn’t back down. Your eyes locked onto his.

“Fuck you.”

He smiled. Cold. Obscene. Dangerous.

“I’m asking you to choose. Either you run like everyone else who can’t handle me…Or you show me that your mouth serves for something useful.”

Time stopped.

There was no noise—only the beating of your heart.

His hands had closed on either side of your hips, not touching you, but surrounding you with the tension of the gesture.

It was then, in that suspended moment between hate and desire, that you realized neither of you would give in first.

Sunghoon looks at you like you're a mistake. But the noticeable swelling in his pants screams the opposite. "What is it, champ?" you say bending your head to the side. "Are you afraid of a journalist who asks uncomfortable questions even with her mouth full?" He doesn't laugh. He never does. But his eyes shine with repressed desire, burning anger. "You talk too much." growl. "And you don't know when to shut up." You laugh, provocative. "Perhaps. But I bet I could teach you to moan my name before you can silence me." At that moment he snaps. He grabs you by the back of his head and pushes you against the wall, his forehead a breath away from his. "Don't tempt me, little viper. I'll break you."

"Promises, promises…" you whisper, biting your lip. Slowly, you kneel before him. Look at his belt, then go back to his eyes. "Can I open the gift?" Silence. Then a dry: "Do it. But no scenes." You unlock it with slow fingers, and you already feel the heat growing between you. When you unbutton his pants and lower them, his black by Supreme "Really Supreme?" raise your eyebrows. "Did you want to impress someone?" "Shut your mouth… or use it well." You laugh slowly, and then you light up. "Oh, don't worry. She'll be busy for a while." Lower the bigboxer, tense, throbbing. You bite your lips. Feel the water rise. "Christ, Hoon … below you are a champion even without a helmet." He looks at you as if he wants to pierce you, but the beating that pulsates on his toe betrays his self-control. You stroke it with slow fingers, going up and down. With your other hand, you stroke his side hard, feeling his muscles contract under your skin. "Let me guess…" whisper, as your tongue grazes its tip. "That's the weakness you didn't want me to find out." "Silent," he grunts. "Suck, now." You look at him, provocatively, and say: "I'm not as good as you think." His hand grabs your hair, squeezing it at the root, forcing you to open your mouth. "Then learn. I just want to hear my moans and the sound of your throat as you swallow me."

You take him between your lips slowly, while he sighs a " Fuck…” that sends a shiver down your spine. Feel his warm skin on the tongue, the tip smooth against the palate. You begin to move, lips tightened around him, tongue working in slow circles. He groans quietly but does not give up control. He guides you with his grip on his hair, and moves you as he wants. "Look how good you are when you stop talking…" he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "Maybe I should keep you like that more often." You cast a glance at him, while your mouth is full of him, and slightly tighten your grip around his left testicle, to challenge him. Sunghoon moans, a growl that becomes a crude groan. He pulls your hair with more force. "You're playing with fire, bitch." With one blow, he pushes it deeper into you. Your hands are clasped, one against his belly, the other pumping him with alternating rhythm to your mouth. You are moving as if you are enjoying a delicious dessert, sucking and licking with ravenous attention. You're destroying it, and you know it. He looks at you like he can't believe how well you're doing. Or how crazy you're driving him. "God, I can't stand you…" he moans. "But I swear you will never find another who fucks you like that." Lift your mouth for a moment, your lips shiny. "Who talked about fucking? I'm here to do a thorough investigation…" "Head down. Mouth open." And push, this time decisively. His hips move, and he penetrates you deeper, while his sighs turn into broken grunts. The salty taste of his skin, his smell, the tension in his voice that's all. He's coming, and you know it. "Take it all, bitch. You owe me." And with one last hoarse groan, you hear it explode in your mouth. His seed invades your palate, salty and bitter, while his hands hold you firm against him. You watch him calmly swallow it, never taking your eyes off his. When it ends, you're still there, satisfied, your mouth licking your lips slowly. "I would say that this …" you whisper, standing up," … deserves an adult-only article." He grabs you by the waist, holds you tightly against himself, and in a low, hungry voice says: "I hope you're not done. I certainly don't."

He lifts you off the ground with one hand behind the nape of your neck and the other on your hip. His body is hot, still tense from the pleasure you just gave him. "Anyone who stands against me… " growls against your neck, in a deep and dangerous voice, "…you have to accept the consequences!" You try to mask the excited trembling in your voice. "I just did my job as a journalist…" Sunghoon pushes you to the desk. Red Bull sheets are scattered everywhere. Strategies, telemetry. And also … your printed article. "This?" he says, grabbing the paper. "Your version of "work"?" You take it and read it aloud, with a cheeky chuckle:

“Has he finally shown the human side? Nope. And fortunately. Sunghoon Park is as cruel to himself as he is to others. But tonight, Melbourne shook for him.”

He looks at you with those sharp eyes and whispers, "You're not as important as you think. But fuck, how crazy you make me…" He folds you firmly on the desk. Paper rustles under your skin. Feel the cold wood on your bare thighs. Lift your skirt up, slowly. "Always in these good girl skirts…" he spits with sharp contempt. "You're a bitch, especially with me." He hits you with a slap on the butt. Strong. It makes you gasp and moan almost reflexively. The pain stings you but immediately mixes with a jolt of pleasure that leaves you breathless. "Oh, Christ…" you sigh. "You like it, huh?" murmur against your back. "Do you want another one?" You don't answer. He moves your panties to the side. And when he looks, he remains silent for a second that seems eternal. "You're already so wet." His voice is lowered, almost fierce. "And I didn't even touch you." With two fingers he opens you, and caresses your clitoris with the precision of those who want to punish and reward at the same time. A groan escapes you, raw, primitive. "Look how you tremble." He sticks a finger in you slowly, then a second. The obscene sound of your wet body makes him smile. "So soaked. For me. Just for me." Then he lowers his pants again. His cock, hard and shiny, leans against your entrance. "Tell me you want it." he orders you. "Fuck me, Park." whispered. With a strong push, he gets into you. It's chunky, hot, and fills you with an impact that leaves you gasping, fingernails sinking into the edge of the desk. "So tight…" he moans. "As if no one had ever taken you properly."

Every shot is deep, and brutal but rhythmic. The desk moves under you, sheets sliding to the ground. One is you. One is him. One is your sharp tongue, and the other is his fierce response. His hands grab your hips. Then they slide up, one to the neck, the other to the breast. He pulls you back against himself as he continues to push in. "Yell at me how much you hate me." "I hate you…" he whispers through his teeth, trembling. "…but fuck, continue." And he does. It takes you stronger, deeper, until your thoughts are no longer words, but moans, cries, broken requests. He fucks you like it's the only way to silence the war between you. When you feel that you are about to come, he whispers in your ear: "Let me feel how a journalist who can no longer use words trembles."

His cock pushes back into you with a force that takes your breath away. A scream escapes from your throat as you feel the pressure inside grows like a wave about to overwhelm you. "I want to come …" moans, the voice broken. "Please let me come…" Sunghoon does not slow down. But he bends over you, his mouth warm against your ear. "And why would I do that? For a bitch who writes articles just for the pleasure of teasing me?" You stutter, confused by pleasure, almost unable to think. "I… I … it was just … part of my job…" He grabs your chin from behind, forcing you to turn your head slightly towards him. His eyes are cold, and hungry, yet full of something darker. "Then pray." he orders you, pushing even harder inside you.

"Fuck you." you spit with a trembling voice, looking for a shred of control. But he looks at you with a sharp grin. "That's exactly what I'm doing, baby doll." Then it almost completely comes out of you, leaving you empty, about to go crazy. You feel the emptiness, you feel the absence, and your body moans in despair. "No … no, please…" he whispers, his voice broken. He smiles, satisfied. "Good girl." He caresses your clit with two fast, precise fingers, and a moment later you come with a choked cry, your moods dripping down her still pulsating shaft, which fills you all the way again with a deep thrust. Your moans mix with his. Every stroke sends you another spasm of pleasure. Feel the orgasm explode inside you like a slow and devastating bomb. "Where… where do you want to come?" he groans, his breath panting. "I'll take the pill…" you gasps. "I'm clean… and you?" "Me too. Regular tests. No girl in months." "Then fill-fill me. In. I want to hear you come inside me." With two final thrusts, you hear it explode. His hot seed invades you, you feel it squirt deep, and then overflow. The threads of his pleasure begin to trickle out of you along your thighs, while he stays there, inside you, panting, his forehead resting on your sweaty back. You both tremble. You both groan. Both of you, for an instant, are alive only in that wild, dirty, sincere bond. He stays inside you a little longer, his hand holding you steady against him. His breath caresses your nape. Then he slowly walks away, and you feel the heat dripping from you as he gently turns you around this time. Rest your head against his bare chest, sweaty, still shaken with pleasure. And he, unexpectedly, slips a thumb on your cheek, calmly stroking.

"You are a damned temptation." he murmurs in a hoarse voice. You look up and, with a weary but cheeky smile, whisper: "You'll see what I write this time. The title will be:

"Pilot under pressure: unexpected explosion".

He snorts, but he has a half-smile. "Don't think too much about me during the summer break." he tells you, the voice returned harder. "And if you even try to date some poor idiot, remember that only I … can take you like that. Only I can make you feel alive." He bends down to pick up his pants and looks at you once again. Then with a silent gesture of the chin, he points you to the door. "Now go. Before I change my mind and fuck you against the window again."

The summer holidays in Formula 1 were the only time of year when you could finally escape. No circuits, no hospitality, no press conferences with arrogant drivers and eyes like ice.

Just your home, the salt on your skin, and your feet in the warm sand of the Mediterranean.

You spent the days with your hands buried in bowls of cold pasta and grilled fish, the evenings filled with ice cream, slow conversations, and light dresses. Yet every time you closed your eyes… there were no seashells or waves to lull you to sleep.

There were his hands.

His pushes.

His killer gaze that seemed to say, “Never try to forget me.” And it worked. Because you couldn’t.

Some guys had asked you out. One with the gentle smile of your father’s pharmacist, another was a Danish surfer you met at a beach party. All nice, available, perfect for a summer fling.

But your body didn’t react. Your mind went blank the moment you thought about kissing anyone else. Sunghoon had branded you.

Not with sweetness, but with that cold fire only someone who never gives anything can make burn and you hated him for that.

Because he didn’t even give you a reason to stop thinking about him.

No paparazzi shots.

No compromising photos.

No mysterious girl appearing in his stories.

He had spent a week in Korea, you had found out by accident from a fanpage post that had spotted a picture of him at Incheon airport. But then he had returned to his kingdom: Montecarlo.

Jake, Heeseung, and Jay were posting stories on luxury boats, laughing with glasses of white wine between their fingers, and evenings by the Côte d’Azur. But not him.

He was like a shadow behind them. He showed up occasionally, with an expression too serious for a man on vacation.

Training.

Silence.

Balanced meals.

Zero clubs. Zero Oisha. Zero Twiga. A championship driver a war monk.

Sunghoon Park seemed to live in selective chastity, as if sex—even the wild kind with you—was a distraction only allowed in the heat of an impulse. Then? Nothing.

Yet you still felt his skin on yours, like a scent that wouldn’t go away.

The way he had taken you, teased you, humiliated you, and made you come at the same time.

The way he had looked at you in the end, while saying in that raspy voice:

“Only I can make you feel alive.”

He had kept his promise.

But now? He had left you to manage that emptiness. And you hated getting lost in emptiness. Maybe that was what hurt you the most: no longer even having the chance to truly hate him.

Sunghoon Park never smiled at Monza. He didn’t answer questions with enthusiasm, he didn’t sign caps, and he didn’t shake hands more than necessary. He had returned from vacation with the same sharp discipline he had left with: trained, focused, unreachable. No gossip, no distractions, no women. The only thing that mattered to him was winning and Monza was his. He could feel it. Every turn, every meter, every gear change seemed to align with his blood. But there was one problem. You. You, with your fluttering skirt and the media badge, wore like a summer bracelet. You, laughing too loudly in the press room, asked questions that drove him mad with frustration and desire. You, who never bent to him and perhaps, for this reason, you had become impossible to ignore.

The sun was beating down on the Monza paddock.

You were talking to two colleagues when one—a British journalist in a too-tight tie and oversized ego—got a little too close.

He laughed at his own jokes, brushed your elbow too often, and then, with a winning smirk, he said:

'Are you sure you’d rather interview those Korean robots than go out with a real man?'

His hand brushed your back, lower than was professional. Before you had time to respond with your usual sharp sarcasm, a cold voice interrupted the scene.

“Get your hands off her.” The tone was so low and sharp that the air seemed to freeze.

You turned.

Sunghoon was there. His suit was half-open, dark hair slightly tousled, sweat on his skin, eyes darker than usual.

The journalist looked at him, trying to laugh it off. 'Relax, champ. We were just talking.'

“I don’t care. You’re two seconds away from ruining your career.” Hoon’s voice was flat. Serious. Lethal.

The colleague made a ridiculous apologetic gesture and disappeared into the crowd. You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. What a knight.”

Sunghoon didn’t laugh. But he didn’t walk away either.

He was staring at you. Eyes locked with yours. As if he were looking for something. As if he wanted to make sure you were okay.

“I don’t need a bodyguard, you know? I can handle myself.” Your tone was provocative but sweet. He tilted his head slightly.

“It’s not for you. It’s to avoid breaking his nose and ending up in the headlines.”

You burst out laughing and that was when you saw it. The corner of his mouth curled. A half-smile and then, for just a second, his gaze drifted down to your bare legs, to your throat as you laughed, to the fingers holding your notebook.

Then it returned to your eyes.

He had been looking when he shouldn’t have.

The moment was interrupted by the roar of engines. The race was about to start.

After the race – Podium

He had won. Sunghoon Park had won Monza in front of the sea of red, the screaming fans, the delirious engineers but when he raised the trophy, his eyes only searched for one thing.

You and there you were. Radiant smile, hair tousled by the wind, eyes sparkling from the sun… or perhaps from something more.

You approached later, at the back of the paddock.

“Congrats, champ.” You said it with a strange tone. Affectionate. Almost tender. Sunghoon slowly turned around. He looked at you and for the first time, he didn’t respond with sarcasm.

He didn’t call you “annoying.” He didn’t roll his eyes.

“Thank you.” Just that. One sincere word. Calm. Real and then, quieter still:

“I missed you.”

You stayed there, suspended between the smell of gasoline and the setting sun and the mask he had always worn… seemed to have cracked just a little.

The humidity in Singapore clung to your skin like a wet dress. Even at midnight.

You’d spent the whole weekend feeling hot, restless, and confused: – restless from the heat, – restless because of the race, – restless because, ever since Monza… things between you two were no longer clear.

Sunghoon had changed. But he wouldn’t admit it. He was still quiet, but now he searched for you with his eyes. He was still cold, but his gaze softened when he spoke to you.

And today, when Jay won with his new team and Hoon came in second… he smiled. A real smile.

You’d asked him, microphone in hand: “First time I’ve seen you happy about not winning.”

He’d run a hand through his sweaty hair, shrugging. “My two best friends were on the podium with me. Doesn’t happen often.”

Then, a quick glance sideways. “And Jay earned it. He pulled off the lap of his life. I respect that.”

It was the longest sentence he’d ever said to you. And maybe the most honest.

That night, the Fullerton hotel was dressed in gold. From the top floor, the track looked like a constellation of artificial stars.

You’d had two rum-and-pineapple cocktails, with something else in them that made you feel both weightless and burning hot.

Wearing a short black silk dress, hair loosely curled, you smiled like a girl who knew she was playing with fire.

Then you saw him. Sunghoon. Suit unzipped, a half-buttoned shirt, collar open, hair slicked back with his fingers. Beautiful. Untouchable.

But your body remembered him too well and your mind hated him for it. You walked up with a little smirk and said: “You know, I thought you were going to kiss Jay on the podium today. You looked so… happy.”

He stared at you for a second. “Are you drunk?”

You pouted. “Just a little… just enough to find you even sexier than usual.” Sunghoon clenched his jaw. A moment later, he grabbed your wrist.

“Come with me.”

“Hey!” you protested, laughing. “I just want to have fun. Can’t you play along?”

He turned to you, eyes low, voice rough. “You will have fun. Just not the kind you’re thinking of.”

With a bold spark, you whispered against his ear: “Are you… my fun, Hoon?”

He placed a hand over your mouth. Not hard—just enough to shut you up. You looked up at him, your tongue lightly grazing his palm.

He pulled it back instantly. “You’re impossible.”

The hotel room was cool with air conditioning, but your body... was burning. The night’s humidity had seeped into your skin. And the tequila into your blood. You were still laughing as you leaned back against the closed door, your bare shoulders brushing the wood.

he black silk dress clung to you like a second skin, slipping lower with each heavier breath.

“Didn’t think you were the type to rescue drunk damsels at the post-race party.”

Your voice was light, tipsy, teasing. But your eyes... wanted him, Sunghoon shrugged off his blazer and left it on the chair.

White shirt unbuttoned to the chest, elegant black trousers eyes down, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t rescue you.”

“No? Then why bring me here?”

He stepped closer. Slow. Controlled. He smelled of aftershave and warm skin. “Because you were one step away from real trouble.”

“Maybe that was the idea…” A smirk played on your lips. You knew you were provoking him. And you loved it. He didn’t answer. He leaned in, took your chin between two fingers.

“You like playing games, don’t you?”

“With you? Always.”

And then he kissed you. Hard. Certain. Without mercy. His tongue claimed your mouth, and you moaned against his lips, grabbing at his shirt.

His hands moved to your hips, then lower, gripping you with force.

“You’re drunk. And too turned on.”

“That’s on you.”

You rested your forehead against his chest.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Silverstone. And I hate that.”

Sunghoon lifted your face with both hands.

“Then hate me better.”

The kiss that followed was slower. Deeper. Then he guided you gently to the bed and knelt in front of you.

“Spread your legs.”

You looked at him with glassy eyes.

“Yes, champ.”

“Don’t say it like that. You know what it does to me.”

His voice was low, nearly a growl as your thighs parted, he slowly lifted the silk, revealing the delicate black underwear already damp.

He looked up at you.

“Always this ready for me, huh?”

“Only for you. But don’t get used to it.”

He gave a dry, sarcastic laugh.

“I don’t want to get used to it. I want to ruin it.”

His fingers brushed against the fabric you gasped right away. Then he moved under it. Slow. Precise. He was learning your body like he studied a track—curve by curve.

“God, you’re soaked already.”

“Stop talking to me like that...”

“Why? Sounds like even my voice gets you off.”

His fingers started moving in earnest. First slow. Then faster. One, then two. Then his thumb joined in, finding your most sensitive spot.

You were about to lose control. Legs shaking. Sweat trailing down your temples.

“Hoon... I’m gonna...”

“No. Not yet.”

He stood, eased you back onto the bed, and came over you. Your clothes still on, but desire naked. Blazing. His kisses trailed down your neck. Your shoulders. Between your breasts.

“You’re a constant temptation,” he murmured, lips hot against your skin.

“And a problem. One I’m not sure I want to fix... or destroy.”

You grabbed the back of his neck.

“Then destroy me.”

He pressed against you—hard, hot, exactly where you needed him. You moaned so real, it made him shut his eyes like it hurt. Then he looked at you—lips wet, eyes dark.

“This is the last time.”

“Are we sure about that?”

You bit his lip. He sighed—but didn’t pull away. In fact, his hand returned to you, deeper, faster. You came for him—shaking, breathless, undone. He held you close, gently kissing your forehead. Then he pulled back and looked at you and you, curled into his chest, whispered:

“You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

He turned, gave the faintest smile.

“And you’re not as a good girl as you pretend to be.”

Sunghoon felt at home. It wasn’t Seoul—no—but Suzuka reminded him why he’d started all this. The Japanese asphalt under his tires had a different sound. Almost intimate and this… this was the turning point.

The title was just within reach.

Jin, his most relentless rival, was only a few points ahead. One mistake… or a bit more courage. That’s all it would take.

You, on the other hand, arrived in Suzuka feeling strange.

Too quiet. Too alert. Something gnawed at your stomach—a mix between a warning and fear. It wasn’t jet lag. It wasn’t the heat. It was him.

You saw him from a distance, in the garage.

That blue-and-black race suit clung to his body like a gladiator’s armor. Head down, focused—but you could read beyond the surface.

You approached under the guise of work, your press badge clenched in your fingers.

“Here to confess you already miss me?”

His voice, sharp as always—but his eyes… searched for yours.

“No.” You bit your lip and handed him a canned coffee.

“I came to tell you to be careful at the start.”

“I’ve been racing since I was four.” He laughed quietly.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I know. But I…”

You hesitated. Then stood on your toes and kissed him—briefly—just below the mole by his eye.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked at you. But inside—inside, something cracked.

“Why did she do that? Why now? Why like this? It was a useless kiss, short…but it left me more exposed than a thousand words.”

You turned quickly and walked away. He stayed there, too still for too long.

The race start was clean then came lap three. The fight was on—Sunghoon and Jin, wheel to wheel through the fast section before Turn 9.

Your voice in the mic had just begun to rise when—CRASH.

Jin tried the inside, Sunghoon closed too late. The contact was sharp.

Hoon’s car slammed into the barriers—hard, direct a front wheel flew off. Carbon brakes burst into smoke. Global broadcast switched to instant replays, you didn’t scream, you didn’t speak, you let the mic fall.

-Where are you going?!- yelled the cameraman behind you.

But you didn’t stop. You tore through the media area, ran through the Red Bull hospitality corridors.

Two hours. Two endless hours then a doctor emerged from the medical room.

“Who are you?”

“His girlfriend.” The words came out without thinking a lie? Maybe but it felt like the only thing true.When you opened the door��he was there.

Laid out. Neck brace. Bandage on his brow.

Alive. You didn’t say a word.

You leapt into his arms—gently—and he pulled you in with one free hand.

Then he kissed you. In front of everyone. Without a second thought and something shifted. It wasn’t just tension anymore. It wasn’t just a game. It was truth.

You pulled back slightly, hands cupping his cheeks.

“You scared me to death.”

“I thought you only fell for the thrill.”

“No.”

You looked him straight in the eye.“You’re not just a problem anymore.”

He smiled. Slowly. Then closed his eyes and whispered against your forehead: “You’re my only distraction.”

The lights of Abu Dhabi didn’t just shine on the track. They lit up an entire season—racing hearts, stolen glances in the paddock, fingers intertwined in the shadows, and words never spoken out loud. The world was watching. And you… you couldn’t stop watching him.

The weekend had started with a tension that felt electric. Sunghoon started P2. Jin was on pole. Everyone knew it: everything would be decided here. The world title was balanced between two frozen flames. But you—deep down—you always felt it. That Red Bull helmet, number 02, would be the first to cross the finish line.

In the final laps, the air was so thick it could’ve been cut with a heartbeat. Lap 53. A crash. Safety car. Sunghoon’s radio crackled.

— “Box, now.” — “Are you sure?” — “Trust us. This is your moment.”

Fresh tires changed everything. Jin stayed out. And you held your breath. The last two laps became the cleanest, fiercest battle of the season.

And when he—at the penultimate corner—found that tiny window, that perfect braking point, when he slipped through like a scalpel and overtook Jin at Turn 9… The world flipped upside down.

Then, over the radio: “Let me hear her voice.”

It was the engineer—he turned to you, handed you the mic.

— “Copy, Park Sunghoon. Go claim your destiny.”

He laughed. He groaned something into the radio. And then he pushed. Pushed like the entire year was packed into those last two kilometers.

Checkered flag. P1. World Champion.

“You’re world champion!” you screamed, voice breaking, tears rolling down your cheeks. You heard him sob. Sunghoon Park. The ice prince. The robot. The boy without a heart. He was crying.

He parked the car like it was a ritual. Jumped out, and before removing his helmet, kissed the car. Then the tires—like he was thanking a partner. Then, the crowd. He threw himself into them, as if needing proof that it was all real.

On the podium, he was unrecognizable. Laughing, crying, shouting in Korean. He sang the anthem with a broken voice and champagne in his eyes. Jake and Jin sprayed him like kids, and for once, he just looked… alive.

And then he saw you.

You were there for work, still wearing your badge, mic in hand. But he didn’t care. He grabbed your wrist, ignoring cameramen, PR, the whole world.

“Sunghoon! I have an interview to—”

“Not now. You’re mine.”

He pulled you through the motorhome, down the still-warm hallways of the garage. Opened the door to his room. Closed it behind him.

Then he looked at you. And the silence hit.

“I can’t play this game with you anymore.” “Me neither,” you whispered. “I thought you’d just be an annoyance. A distraction. But instead…”

He stepped closer. His breath still ragged from the race. The smell of asphalt and sweat, of victory and desire, wrapped around you like heat.

Sunghoon's lips smelled of champagne and victory. And you … you were hungry. Of him, of his body, of his ego that smelled of warm skin and sweet sweat. He held you to himself with almost desperate force, as if he feared that you might vanish, escape, dissolve in the air of the suite. The noise of the party downstairs was just a distant echo. He moaned softly when you sank your fingers into his damp hair. “I can't take it anymore… " he whispered, his voice hoarse, tense. You smiled at him, cheeky. "Poor champion … so impatient.” Slowly, almost to punish him, you let him down the Red Bull suit, then the thermal jersey, revealing that body polished by fatigue and glory. The strained, sculpted muscles smelled of adrenaline. You stooped, sinking your lips to his candid, salty skin, sowing bites and hickeys like a signature. "They'll all see them," you whispered between bites. "Everyone will know that you are mine.” He grabbed your butt hard, barely growling. "Stop it," he admonished you, but the voice was shaken. You answered only with another slow lick on the line of hairs below the navel. You pulled his suit down altogether,and he stayed in bo bo His gaze burned. You rubbed against him, shamelessly, like a cat in heat. He snapped, grabbing you by the hips. “Christ. Look…” His hands, big, calloused, slipped under your sand-colored dress, mercilessly lifting it. "Raise your arms.” You did it, slowly, looking him straight in the eye. "Who the fuck are you dressed up for?” he growled, his gaze lost between your sand thong and the transparent bra. “For you, " you replied, almost chanting. "Just for you.” You rubbed against his erection, and he snorted a sharp laugh. "Keep it up and get on your knees before I get to touch you as you deserve.” He pushed you to the bed, decided, and when his teeth sank into one of your bare buds, your breath broke.

"Oh … Hoon …" you stammered, your voice broken with pleasure, as you tried to get your legs between his. "Do you see it? You're all mine already” he hissed at your skin. He sucked you, tasted you, explored you as if entitled to every inch. Then he stopped suddenly, and in a hoarse, rough voice whispered in your ear: “I wanted to fuck your breasts until you forget your name. But now … now I just want to sink into you.”

He slipped your panties with an almost sadistic slowness, the light fabric surrendering between his strong and impatient fingers. His dark eyes, shiny with desire, rested on your damp center, and the smile that folded his lips was typical of a man who knew he had won. "Look how reduced you are," he whispered, biting his lower lip softly. “All wet just because I'm looking at you. You've always been an arrogant little bitch, but underneath it all… two fingers of mine are enough to make you tremble.” His words made you groan. But it was the tone that broke you: low, rough, loaded with malice. "And now shut up," he added, as his lips glided slowly over your thighs. He began to suck your skin, to brand you with moist kisses and light bites, climbing up, approaching, barely touching you where you wanted to feel it most. You writhed under him, and the words came out to you in sobs, cheeky. "Come on, Hoonie…don't drive me crazy like that … ” "Shut up, baby doll," he hissed. "Dolls don't talk, they get used.” Then he looked you straight in the eye and let his tongue slide against you, with a decisive, expert gesture. The scream exploded in your throat, but he plugged your mouth with one hand, eyes fixed on yours. "You want them to hear you scream my name, bitch?” You nod, moaning under his grasp, and he growls a: “So you ruin me… and I like you crazy.”

His tongue moved in slow and deep circles, then quick and cheeky, while his breathing mingled with yours. When he stuck two fingers inside you, your body rose from the bed, arched like a stretched bow. "Say my name," he ordered. "Hoon… Hoonie, yeah…oh my God … ” "Stop coming without permission," he admonished you, clasping your hips tightly. ”I can't… please…I can't…" He added another, slow, torturing you, making you moan his name like a broken prayer. “You're taking everything so well, " he hissed. “I can't wait to replace these fingers with my cock, baby doll.” Those words sent you further. A warm, overwhelming wave shook you, and you came against his fingers and mouth. He drank it all, slowly, with a hungry and satisfied expression. "He knows about you and victory. Better than champagne.” Then he pulled up, his voice hoarse and his chest rising. "I hate you, bitch. But you're my drug.” And you, panting, with your legs still trembling, smiled at him with a cheeky air. “I know. And that's what fucks you.”

He kept you under him as if you were his all along, and maybe, in a way, you were. His hands clasped your hips with a force that left its mark, while his warm breath crashed against your neck. He was on top of you, hard, tense, ravenous. But he wasn't moving yet. Only the tip of him grazed the entrance to your pleasure, torturing you. "Hoonie…" you groaned, scratching his arms. "Not yet," he admonished you with a hoarse whisper, a threat stifled by desire. “You really are the greatest asshole I've ever known, " he snorted, his lips swollen with desire and his heart pounding. "And you the most unbearable little bitch in the whole paddock," he retorted, the fierce smile opening between his teeth. “But look how you shrink as soon as I touch you.” He bent down and brushed your lobe with his teeth. “Who would have said… the brilliant journalist, always with the answer ready… all wet for me.” “I'm just studying for an in-depth piece, " you muttered, your eyes ajar. "Behind the wheel: the ego of champions.” He laughed quietly, without humor. “You're about to find out how long the ego is.” Then he rotated the pelvis, causing you to tremble under him. You clenched his biceps with force, teeth sunk into the lower lip. "Fuck me, Hoon. Move. Now.” His gaze became more gloomy, hungry. “You're not the one giving orders, baby doll.” And with a sharp, deep blow, he pushed himself into you. A single, devastating lunge that made you scream. "Oh my God … yes … Hoonie, so…” He paused for a moment, just to look at you as you trembled beneath him.

He kept you under him as if you were his all along, and maybe, in a way, you were. His hands clasped your hips with a force that left its mark, while his warm breath crashed against your neck. He was on top of you, hard, tense, ravenous. But he wasn't moving yet. Only the tip of him grazed the entrance to your pleasure, torturing you. "Hoonie…" you groaned, scratching his arms. "Not yet," he admonished you with a hoarse whisper, a threat stifled by desire. “You really are the greatest asshole I've ever known, " he snorted, his lips swollen with desire and his heart pounding. "And you the most unbearable little bitch in the whole paddock," he retorted, the fierce smile opening between his teeth. “But look how you shrink as soon as I touch you.” He bent down and brushed your lobe with his teeth. “Who would have said… the brilliant journalist, always with the answer ready… all wet for me.” “I'm just studying for an in-depth piece, " you muttered, your eyes ajar. "Behind the wheel: the ego of champions.” He laughed quietly, without humor. “You're about to find out how long the ego is.” Then he rotated the pelvis, causing you to tremble under him. You clenched his biceps with force, teeth sunk into the lower lip. "Fuck me, Hoon. Move. Now.” His gaze became more gloomy, hungry. “You're not the one giving orders, baby doll.” And with a sharp, deep blow, he pushed himself into you. A single, devastating lunge that made you scream. "Oh my God … yes … Hoonie, so…” He paused for a moment, just to look at you as you trembled beneath him.

When you felt his body stretch over yours, his breath breaking into a low growl, you knew he was getting there. Her hands clasped your hips tightly, and with a deeper push, you felt full, warm, completely overwhelmed. "Oh f-Hoon…" you moaned, hands scratching his sweaty back. He did not stop, he pushed again, marking you, as his hot seed poured into you in waves, making you gasp for the fullness that made you tremble. "Good little doll…" he muttered in a low, deep tone. “You took it all, like a real girl of mine.” That phrase got under your skin more than his last push, the one in which he sank you again with a muffled groan as if he needed to brand you for real. When he came out, slowly, a warm trail dripped down your inner thigh. He looked at you with satisfaction, then bent down and kissed your forehead with a sweetness you did not expect. You sank your head against his rib cage, still shaken, still sweaty. You hugged him, tight, and for a moment it was all silence. Then your fingers began to play through her damp hair. He relaxed immediately under that touch. You knew him enough to know he was giving up. To you. “That thing from before… " you muttered, your voice tumbled. “That stuff that I'm your girlfriend… was it a stupid joke or are you serious, Hoonie?” He lifted his face, resting on your chest. His eyes looked for you, and when you fixed that wayward tuft on his forehead, he threw you one of those crooked, arrogant smirks that you knew all too well by now. “When I speak, I never do it in vain, little doll, " he said in a hoarse voice. “Even though I hated you, over time you got into me. In the head, in the skin. Every time I saw you walking around the paddock in those provocative clothes and that naughty mouth, I just wanted to take you away. And yes … I like you. And yes … you're my girlfriend.” You giggled a subtle, cheeky sound. “But you didn't even ask me, champ. A little obvious, right?” He rolled his eyes, theatrical, then poked his face against your neck and whispered softly, his voice scratched with desire and tenderness. "You want to be my girlfriend, little dool?” You barely budged, with a defiant smirk. “Depend. Are you going to act like a model boyfriend or do you just want to fuck me until you take my breath away?” He laughed slowly, his chest vibrated against yours. “Both, if you let me.” "All right," you whispered. “I want to be your girlfriend.” And you kissed him. Long. Deep. Slowly, as if it was the first time really. "Ok, but now shower," you muttered, brushing her sticky, hot skin. He sighed. “You're right, but… I don't want to let you go.” You clasped to him once again, fingers tracing circles on his back. "Come on, champ. You won this race too. But it's my turn to drive now.”

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[sh4nksslvt]

I love shanks so much😭😭

Are you able to write a story where reader is a captain of another crew? Their crew isn’t super famous but aren’t weak either. Their crew is staying at some island and a tavern there when the Red-Haired pirates show up and think that they might try to fight, but reader dgaf and decides to flirt with shanks and stuff. Don’t know if your readers are Gn or female, but could the reader be described as “as beautiful as the ocean” please? I thought that would be cute!

Thank you!

🌊

thats interesting! its not much but hope u like this~~

Trouble Walks In, and So Do You

shanks x reader | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, ocs, flirting, chaotic crews

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff a bit cringe, akward, and confusing

word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The tavern on Bellmouth Island had never known peace.

It was tucked into the port side of the island like a cozy scar—weathered, stubborn, and full of bad decisions marinated in rum. But even Bellmouth’s most seasoned barkeep hadn’t seen anything quite like The Siren’s Fang crew.

“Hey, Cap! Tall guy passed out again!” barked Kiji, the squad’s medic, gesturing to a pile of limbs slumped over a barstool.

“Is he breathing this time?” you asked lazily, twirling a glass of rum in your hand. You sat at the tavern’s center table, leg slung over the arm of your chair, adorned in sleek leather and gold-trimmed cloth, eyes half-lidded with amusement.

“Barely,” muttered Azel, your cook-slash-unofficial-grim-reaper, poking the unconscious man with a ladle. “He mistook my hot sauce for syrup. Natural selection.”

“His fault,” you sighed.

You were Captain [Y/N], the woman many whispered about as beautiful as the ocean—mysterious, wild, and just as likely to drown you as smile at you. The Siren’s Fang wasn’t a household name like the Straw Hats or the Emperors, but in the Grand Line’s undercurrent, your reputation had teeth. Rumors swirled of your crew taking down a fleet from Big Mom’s remnants and sinking a marine battleship like it was a toy boat in a bathtub.

Still, fame didn’t interest you. Fun did.

And Bellmouth was fun—cheap booze, rowdy locals, and just enough lawlessness to feel like home.

That was until the door slammed open.

Wind howled through the tavern. Bottles rattled. Even the drunks perked up.

The Red-Haired Pirates had arrived.

You didn’t need to look. You felt it. That magnetic, crackling air of too-powerful people walking into a space too small to contain them.

Shanks led the way, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other resting on his hip as he scanned the tavern with lazy mirth. His crew spilled in behind him—Benn Beckman, Lucky Roux, Yasopp, the works.

Ten seconds passed. Then—

“Welp. Guess we’re fighting,” muttered Neri, your tactician, flipping her dagger.

“Can’t we go one week without a legendary crew showing up?” grumbled Hyun, your shipwright, who’d just managed to tape a window back together.

“Don't break my chairs,” called the barkeep, already ducking behind the bar.

You, meanwhile, took a sip of rum.

And then, slowly, gracefully, rose to your feet.

"Are we fighting?" asked Benn, eyes narrowing slightly.

Shanks tilted his head in your direction, gaze locking onto yours.

You didn’t draw your sword.

You smiled.

“No,” you said, voice like velvet. “But I do have something else in mind.”

The room collectively blinked.

You strolled toward them with the ease of a queen and the chaos of a siren in full swing. “You must be Red-Haired Shanks,” you purred, eyes scanning him with undisguised appreciation. “You're taller than I expected. That’s... hot.”

A pause.

Then—someone from your crew let out a wheeze of disbelief. Probably Toma. He’d bet two crates of rum you’d deck Shanks on sight.

Shanks arched a brow, lips twitching. “Not the usual greeting I get from a rival pirate captain.”

“I’m not your rival,” you said, stopping only a breath away from him. You craned your head up, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Unless you want me to be. Enemies to lovers? That your thing?”

Lucky Roux choked on his drink.

Shanks actually laughed, the rich, boisterous sound of someone genuinely caught off guard.

“Captain,” Benn said dryly, “I think we’re being hit on.”

“DAHAHA I know, right?” Shanks grinned. “This is way more fun than usual.”

Your crew was now in a full-on state of stunned chaos.

“I—she just flirted with a Yonko. Casually. Like she was ordering a drink,” Kiji mumbled.

“She’s going to get us killed,” muttered Neri.

“No,” corrected Hyun, “she’s going to get laid.”

“Pfft—HA!”

Meanwhile, Shanks tilted his head. “So what’s your name, Ocean Eyes?”

You gave him your full title, adding, “Captain of The Siren’s Fang. And yes, I live up to the name.”

“Mm.” He leaned in just slightly. “Should I be worried you’re trying to lure me onto the rocks?”

“I’m trying to lure you onto something, that’s for sure.”

Yasopp nearly fell off his stool.

Benn facepalmed. Lucky Roux laughed so hard he snorted beer through his nose.

“Join us for a drink?” you offered innocently. “Or are you too scared I’ll make you fall in love with me?”

Shanks held your gaze for one beat. Two. Then smiled.

“I’ve done dumber things.”

And just like that, the Red-Haired Pirates sat down with the Siren’s Fang.

Tension left the room like steam off hot rum. Chairs screeched. Drinks clinked. Somewhere, your sniper was trying to discreetly message your ship’s chronicler: CAPTAIN IS FLIRTING WITH SHANKS, SEND HELP.

“...And then the marine tries to arrest me, right? While I’m naked. In the bath!” Shanks crowed, halfway through a bottle of rum, hair falling into his eyes.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, clutching your side. “Please tell me you fought him like that.”

“I slipped! Broke his nose falling out of the tub!”

You and your crew howled.

A few tables down, Benn and Neri were having a quiet intellectual standoff that involved a lot of maps and dry sarcasm. Yasopp and Hyun were arguing over gun specs. Toma was getting arm-wrestled into oblivion by Lucky Roux. It was, in short, a tavern apocalypse.

“You’re fun,” Shanks murmured, voice low, only for you.

You tilted your head. “You expected me to be scary.”

“I expected you to swing first and ask questions never.”

“Ah. That’s just on Wednesdays.”

He chuckled. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like that,” you teased.

“I do,” he admitted. “But be honest. Is this all just to distract me while your crew steals our booze?”

You sipped your drink with a wink. “What do you think?”

From across the room, a yell: “WE’VE TAKEN THE BEER STORAGE!”

“DAMN IT, KOKO!”

Shanks stared.

You said nothing.

He grinned. “Marry me?”

“Buy me a boat first.”

“You already have a ship.”

“Yeah, but I want a red one.”

As the night wore on, chaos bloomed into something almost tender. The two crews, pirates feared across the seas, were now doing karaoke with a broken lute and a guy named Phil.

You leaned against the tavern doorway, watching the madness. The moonlight brushed your skin like seafoam, your hair tousled by the salt-laced wind.

Shanks joined you silently.

“You’re really not what I expected,” he said.

“Disappointed?”

He shook his head. “Enchanted.”

You turned your head to him, eyes soft now. “You’re pretty smooth for a pirate.”

“I’m usually drunker.”

You laughed, then reached up, brushing a lock of hair from his face. “You know, Red, if I weren’t a captain…”

“Yeah?”

“I’d ask you to run away with me.”

He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“If I weren’t a Yonko,” he murmured, “I’d say yes.”

For a moment, it felt like the sea held its breath.

Then someone inside yelled, “THE CAPTAIN AND SHANKS ARE MAKING EYES AT EACH OTHER AGAIN!”

“TAKE PICTURES!”

“START THE WEDDING SONG!”

You and Shanks groaned in unison.

“Back to the madness?” he offered.

“Only if you dance with me.”

“Deal.”

And so the two of you dove back into the tavern storm, laughing, flirting, half-dancing, half-sparring with words, like the sea and sky in a constant, chaotic waltz.

No declarations. No promises.

Just two captains in the eye of a storm they both enjoyed far too much.

[bbokicidal]

Ooh, it's a bad habit. | SKZ [OT8]

synopsis: "Bad" habits the boys have in relationships + in general.

Genre: Fluff I guess? Pairing: OT8 x GN!Reader Warnings: Mentions of arguing but nothing depicted Notes: I just enjoy making these types of posts and I'm feeling inspired at 5 AM (YET AGAIN) so enjoy!~

Chan:

Does not answer text messages. Opens it, reads it, gets distracted, does not come back to it until either eight hours later or until you double text him. Hit his ass with the "????" and he'll apologize but otherwise he'll just "oh."

Leaves his little snack wrappers on the kitchen counters. If you don't get to them first, he'll clean them up when he goes into the kitchen next. He just forgets about it in the moment; Man likes his snackies.

Bites the skin around his nails so his cuticles are Lowkey HORRIBLE but if you get him on a cuticle oil that smells nice, he's gonna be like a bitch with a new lipgloss applying that shit every ten minutes.

Hums a lot. Not a bad habit but not the nicest when you're on a phone call and you can hear him humming next to you.

Cannot control his face. Even grows a habit of making certain faces at you when you're either arguing or talking about something he's uncertain about. It annoys you to no end and he tries to stop but fails every time.

Lino:

Doesn't answer, period. You can talk to him for almost five minutes about a subject and he won't hear a single thing because he's on his phone. Selective hearing, apparently.

Will not do something if he does not want to - which can be good, obviously he shouldn't do something if he doesn't feel like it - but when you've made plans and he doesn't want to go last minute it can be really frustrating. He's also incredibly stubborn when it comes to this, too.

Very irritable most of the time, especially after he's just woken up. He will snap if you pester him too much about something but at this point you've grown to understand it's just how he is. He never says anything mean, he never yells, it's just a light raise of his voice and something along the lines of, "Yes, okay! I'll get to it when I get to it!"

Glances at his watch way too fucking much. Man is constantly keeping track of the time - which leads to him complaining that he looked at his watch earlier and it said 4:50, looked at his watch two seconds ago and now it says 4:51.

Doesn't like being at events longer than he's supposed to be. If y'all have dinner with the group and he was ready to go home forty minutes ago, he's going to be pouting and rolling his eyes those entire forty minutes.

Changbin:

Talks with his mouth full. It's cute, because his cheeks pudge out and his lips are all pursed and pouty - but he does it a lot. Especially if someone argues with him while he's eating, he's gonna be pointing and yelling back and food's gonna be flying.

Not a bad habit but purses his lips and expects kisses from you. You know what it means now and always kiss him when you see him do it but at the beginning of your relationship it confused the hell out of you. Why was he making duck lips at you?

Crosses and uncrosses his legs like no other. Sometimes the man cannot sit still in his seat and the moment you notice it, it Lowkey drives you insane. But he also can't cross his legs at his thighs because they're thicker than Hell AND he's got a third leg in the middle so he's always just crossing his ankles and kicking his feet out.

Sitting forward/slouching. Changbin. Cannot. Sit. Up. Straight. ^ Going off the prompt above, he's literally always sitting forward with his elbows on his knees or sitting back in his seat and leaning. It's not horrible but sometimes if he's in interviews or going to award shows you have to remind him to sit up.

Toys with things that are sitting in front of him. He needs stimulation with his hands so if he's got his phone, he's turning it over in his hands; If he's sitting in front of a candle, he's waving his finger over the open flame like an idiot.

Hyunjin:

Picks at his nail polish. He always does the cutest designs and he knows you love when he paints his nails but five seconds later he's either biting at them when he gets anxious or he's picking at the polish until it chips off. He never gets good photos, either.

Chews on his drawing pencils, which is why he's always buying new art supplies. Luckily he gets gifted drawing utensils from a lot of brands he works with on Holidays and his birthday - but a lot of his pencils go to shit because he gnaws on them while he's thinking about his art piece.

Checks his phone a lot. He wants to see if he has messages from you so he's always peeking at his notifications in eager waiting, but if he's with you he's also checking his group chat notifications from he boys. It's not bad, but gets annoying on dates.

Leaves his clothes everywhere. His room is always messy with little piles of clothes and when you move in together, your shared room becomes the same way. He gets better about it when you get on his ass but up until then he's just throwing his shit everywhere.

Twirls his hair around his fingers. Not a bad habit but funny when you pick up on it. He's doing it all the time when he's listening in on conversations, and while he does it he's pursing his lips. Just a drama queen judging other drama queens.

Jisung:

Talks with his hands. He gets real flappy when he's arguing and bickering with people, and he's come real close to hitting you a few times when he stands up from the couch to argue with Hyunjin on the other end. He always apologizes but it'll never stop.

Rubs his eyes a lot, which you have to remind him is bad for 1) his skin, and 2) the company will yell at him. He's gotten better when he's wearing makeup because he doesn't want to mess it up but when he's at home he's always rubbing his face.

Stuttering/Stammering. Especially if you're bickering or you catch him off guard, he cannot get a damn comment out to save his life. He'll try, say the word four times wrong, and then stop to think and then completely lose the thought altogether.

Constantly apologizing. The man is apologizing for everything under the Sun; Being behind you when you move away from the fridge, bumping into you while you do laundry, saying sorry for cutting you off while talking. Most of the things are no big deals and it can get a little frustrating, but it's also a tad endearing.

His eyebrows do not have an off switch. They are always moving. He speaks with his hands, his mouth, and his eyebrows. Which ties into him, most of the time, not being able to control his expressions. Not that he wants to.

Felix:

Messy eating. Man needs like eight napkins when he's eating chicken wings, he fuckin' flies through them like crazy. He's the type that's got sauce all over his fingers, his mouth, staining his chin. He can't help it though and it is kind of cute. Just don't let him near too many finger foods.

Touches his hair all too much. Sometimes he complains his hair looks greasy or messed up and you have to remind him that every five minutes he's pushing it back with his hands - which is why it grows oily so fast. Always pushing it behind his ears, pulling it down over his forehead, touching the ends behind his neck.

Swears like a sailor. Bro has the biggest potty mouth in the group and cannot control it when he gets angry. Most used words are: Wank, Fuck, Shit, and Asshole.

Claps at everything. Not in the verbal way; He actually claps. He claps when he laughs, he claps when someone does something successfully, he claps when he's tired and ready to go to bed. Has a habit of clapping once before he starts talking, usually a "*clap* Alright, well -"

Winks. Wink, wink. Always winking at people. Not strangers, though - Just you and the guys, and on occasion a security guard escorting him through the airport. An eternal flirt who cannot help himself. A natural charmer.

Seungmin:

Rubs the tip of his index finger against the side of his thumb and subsequently gains a callus from it because he can't fucking stop. It doesn't really matter nor does it effect his daily life but it's a little annoying when he's playing guitar. But it also.. kind of.. helps.

Speaking of ^ Brings his guitar everywhere he can. If he is going somewhere and knows he'll have free time to practice or play, he's bringing it with even if it's taking up space in the car and people are tripping over it. That thing goes with him everywhere.

Has a very bad habit of standing and staring - except it's less staring and more glaring. He's not doing it on purpose, nor is he always mad - He just had a perfect RBF and can't help it. But he's always tipping his head down, his eyes are always dark, he's never smiling unless he's actively like - trying. He's just kind of scary. Scary guard dog.

Taps his foot a lot. Not annoying, not a hinderance - just a habit that ends up making his ankle and the top of his foot hurt because he is constantly doing it. It becomes a game though if you pick up on it - He'll tap his foot to a rhythm and you have to guess the song, which is a lot harder than you expect.

Sniffs. Sniffles. Sniffing everything. One of those people who, if he opens something new, sniffs it immediately - even if it isn't food or something that will smell good. Sniffs it anyways.

Jeongin:

Twists the rings he wears around his fingers. Most of them are higher quality and from fancy ass brands so it doesn't matter, but every once in a while he gets a slightly shittier ring and when he twists it, it turns his finger green. And then he ends up pouting while he tries to wash the stain out of his skin.

Constantly licking his lips but not in the way you're thinking. He does this thing specifically where he pushes the tip of his tongue into the corner of his lips while they're parted and then caresses it. With his tongue. He does it a lot and when you pick up on it, you stare every time he does it subconsciously because it is so sexy.

Pulls at his bottom lip when in heavier conversations. Not even heavy topics - just intense or interesting convos. They could be talking about aliens and if he's in deep and thinking about conspiracies and shit, he'll pulling at the skin of his lip. More of a thinking habit than anything but he ends up using tons of chapstick afterwards.

Sticks his tongue out when he gets scolded or complimented. Anytime a comment is directed at him, he sticks his tongue out briefly before smiling. It's more of a teasing habit because it riles the other members up and flusters you - so. He gets away with it.

Pulls childish moves during arguments; Pouts when you're angry with him for something, rolls hie eyes when he's frustrated, puffs his cheeks out when he's thinking of how to retaliate. And absolutely says "Ooh you wanna kiss me so bad!!" when the two of you are bickering.

Permanent Taglist :

@dwaekkicidal @possum-playground

@thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie

@jeonginsleftcheek @pixie-felix @hwangjoanna

[jarofstyles]

Them at a party like this🙏🏻

I love this, lemme try it!

Check out our Patreon for early access and 270+ Exclusive writings

warnings- smoking/mari Juana

----

"S'a little funny." Harry grinned, acutely aware of how close her mouth was to his after she exhaled the smoke. They looked so fucking pretty. Was there ever a time a person's lips looked so appetizing? He couldn't recall.

"Hm? Sorry, Silver Springs is on n'I was in an imaginary world where m'telling off a lover on stage because he's never gonna escape me being a big part of his past." She spoke slowly but her lips split into a grin which sort of distracted him again.

"Well I hope m'not the one you're tellin' off." He huffed, taking the joint from her. "Only want love songs in your fantasy world, please. Or, m'okay with a song you write about me being stubborn or somethin'. That's fine."

Y/N sighed, leaning her head against his as he took a puff, crossing her legs which were perched on his lap. "Well, you have to do something to earn the love songs. I'm not givin' away the muse privilege so easily."

Harry exhaled the smoke with a scowl, squishing her side to make her squeal. "Enough of that. Y'know you're the muse t'everything I've created since I've met you. Think I deserve the love songs in your fantasy world, brat."

Y/N scrunched her nose as she ran a hand through the messy hair at the nape of his neck, stealing the joint with her other. She could do one more puff and that was her limit, but she was having fun despite that. "Kay. It'll go like, Harrrrrrry, My big headed looooverrrr. Big in both waaaaays. Got a pretty face, covered in ink, Can't handle tequilaaaa but can drinks it anywaaaays."

Her off key singing had him coughing, trying to cover his mouth with his elbow but it did little for him. "Fucks sake. That's the love song I get? Sayin' I've got a big head and can't handle my tequila?!" He barked out a laugh, the giggles effectively getting him.

"I also said you had a pretty face n'a big dick." She grinned, placing the cause of their giggles into the ashtray beside them. "You've got selective hearing and it's negative."

"Shut up." Harry grumbled, cuffing the back of her neck to pull her mouth to his. The kiss was harder than she expected but that didn't mean she didn't like it. A hum of approval vibrated against his lips as she turned in his lap, his hand falling on his bare thigh. "Think we need t'go find a room so I can remind you just how big it is, if it's a topic in your song."

[alexanderwales]

Game Review: Underhill

Note: This review contains no screenshots, because this game doesn’t actually exist.

The dwarves are mining, the bugbears are lumbering through the mushroom farms, the imps are scurrying to and fro, and all the traps at the entrance to the dungeon are armed and ready. From a bird’s eye view, it seems as though everything in the underhill is humming along, but that’s only because the problems are invisible from far away. The dwarves have found a new vein of moonmetal, which they’re taking to their infernum foundries to melt down and make better tools and weapons. Unfortunately, the moonmetal has a waste product, and the imps have been transferring that to the midden rooms. Normally there’s a garbage troll that loves to feast on all kinds of scraps, but the moonmetal byproduct is toxic to him, and in another two days he’s going to wind up in the infirmary, which will cause the middens to overflow. That, in turn, will result in general disorder and work stoppages, and the dungeon will find itself on the verge of collapse.

This is Underhill, the newest and most ambitious game from Kyle Mormont. He describes it as ‘a left turn from Rimworld’ and claims heavy inspiration from Dungeon Keeper, though anyone who goes in expecting their experience with those games to help might find themselves frustrated.

Take the case of the poisoned garbage troll. In a Rimworld knockoff, you might expect that you would designate a midden zone and assign a garbage troll to it, then check a box to make sure that the moonmetal byproducts are sent somewhere else. In Underhill, there’s nothing like that level of information or control, and trying to avoid the poisoning, if you even know that it’s coming, takes a much different sort of work.

Excavation

The game starts with a single ability, ‘Dig’, and gives you a side of a hill to dig into. The UI is essentially non-existent, with only two small Diabloesque orbs in the lower left and lower right to show your mana and power, and a very small selection of powers that accumulate over time, but which stay very small throughout the entire runtime of the game. While the UI is minimal, it’s clearly had a lot of work put into it, particularly in the way that new buttons are added: when there’s a new power, the UI shifts to accommodate it, making it feel slightly uncomfortable, like a mole that you weren’t sure was there the day before. At every stage, it looks as though that will be its final form, but it’s always difficult to be sure if you’ve seen everything there is to offer.

The game is also cagey with the information, especially at the start. You’re not told what to dig, though the hill is the only thing in front of you, and you’re not told why you should dig. But unless you’re particularly stubborn, you’ll dig, and once you have a tunnel dug out, you’ll get your first visitor poking their head in, almost always a goblin, the most basic and least specialized of the dungeon inhabitants. If he finds things to his liking, he’ll make it a home, and the first trickle of power will start coming in.

“The game is meant to be played blind,” explained Mormont, who flagged me down when I joined the game’s small but vibrant Discord. “You’re meant to come in knowing nothing and experiment to figure things out. That’s supposed to be the joy of it. The goblins come in, and you don’t know what they want, so you have to watch them and figure it out. It’s a watching game, a learning game.”

Goblins like tunnels that aren’t much bigger than they are and rooms that are about three goblin heights across. There are no rulers or grids, at least not when you start the game, but the initial option to dig has a standard width, and that’s just about as wide as a goblin tunnel should be. Nothing in the game communicates that this is what a goblin likes except watching what the goblins do. On my second playthrough after an untimely collapse of my dungeon ecosystem, I understood the game a little bit better and did some of the research work that it seems to want, which meant creating eight different rooms of various sizes to figure out which ones that goblins would go to. They prefer to be close to the things they need, which in the beginning means being close to the dungeon entrance, but my notes eventually filled up with details on the proper height, size, and shape of a goblin room.

Mad Scribblings

Underhill loves that sort of thing. There’s an in-game book that’s unlike any I’ve ever seen before, a blank journal that fills in with drawings and details, especially with regards to the ecosystem components, but is completely idiosyncratic. One of the design goals for the journal was that it look like a real journal, something that someone was slowly filling with their own observations, rather than being an encyclopedia with lost pages. For that reason, the journal is dynamic, filling up as you go, the notes stretching across pages. I’ve only had a few hiccups with it when the unseen writer wrote down a detail or two that I hadn’t figured out on my own.

“It’s messy, it’s organic,” says Mormont. “That the aesthetic. There are numbers in the background, but you should never see them, and they should be very difficult to intuit. I want people to be thinking on the non-number level.”

This is one of the reasons given for using a system without a grid, though the trade-off is that it gets difficult to get anything looking nice and ordered. Digging out a goblin home in a square that’s three goblin lengths across is an exercise in frustration. In theory this encourages messiness and a ‘let it be’ approach, but in practice it can be hard to embrace the organic mess that the game is trying to encourage.

Once the goblins have settled in, you can watch them go about their lives and see what they need. The process of discovery is one of the game’s main selling points, and as you watch, you’ll see that goblins form themselves into families, which form into clans. Goblins have biological needs in the form of water, food, and waste, and also seek shelter, which is why they move into your dungeon in the first place. If the dungeon is cramped with goblin families, they’ll throw their trash just outside the dungeon, but if there are enough rooms, the goblins will designate one of them as a ‘midden’ and start throwing their food scraps, broken tools, and other waste there.

The game doesn’t tell you that the room is a midden, just as it doesn’t tell you most things. The midden is one of the things you’ll learn about over time by watching. And it’s from one of those early middens that I got my second dungeon denizen: the garbage troll.

The Age of Discovery

I don’t want to spoil everything in the game, because it’s a game of discovery, but it would suffice to say that the garbage troll took care of one problem and created another. The garbage troll has his own needs and wants, and if those needs can’t be satisfied within the dungeon itself, he’ll either go out into the wider world where he might create all kinds of problems, or conversely, create problems within the dungeon by eating things that aren’t trash — an example being goblin possessions.

The game rolls on like this, with more monsters slotting themselves into place as it goes on. The ability to dig is your only tool for what seems like slightly too long to me, but as more creatures come to occupy your dungeon, your power slowly grows, and new abilities do eventually make themselves manifest. Water is one of the early ones, and comes up more than I had expected from the start, being one of the primary tools you have to shape the dungeon and its inhabitants. There’s a dungeon species that can’t cross running water, which means that it can be kept to one side of the dungeon and out of trouble by having a small stream trickling through. Similarly, water is one of the main ways to keep a dungeon clean, and helps to automate the movement of sewage down into somewhere a colony of garbage trolls are living. When the dwarves move in, they use the water for their own fastidious cleaning.

Part of the joy is in watching all the elements interact with each other. Even right at the start, there’s joy in seeing the goblins go out hunting beyond the range of your vision and come back with food, which they clean and prepare before eating. The animations are crude but evocative, done procedurally, and the game has a lot of clutter even when the dungeon is still developing, whether that’s fast-growing moss that creeps over the rock walls or the tiny mushrooms that grow in the midden (and can be cultivated by a druid later into a permanent food source). Surprisingly, everything is procedurally driven, even when it doesn’t feel like that would be necessary, and this is used to full effect to allow different varieties of creatures to have different motions to them. The goblins come in different sizes and body types, and can even grow from children to adults.

Obsessing Over the Depths

Sometimes, all this work leaves me scratching my head. One of the later game creatures, the nibbler (named after pen nibs, not a Futurama reference), goes around your dungeon and counts things, which are recorded in its notebook and exposed to you through a special button in the UI. In a different game, this would just show you the internal count of everything that the game knows the dungeon contains, but in Underhill, the creature has his own modeled understanding of the dungeon, and will only report on things that he can directly count. If you want to know how many goblins there are, and don’t want to count yourself, you have to wait until the accountant goes to take a peek into the goblin warrens. If the number of goblins changes, you’ll have to wait until he checks again to get the updated number.

I was watching the nibbler take stock of one of the dungeon storerooms, and noticed that he was using his finger to count the boxes, which was a fascinating detail. What was more fascinating was that he apparently lost count and had to start over while in the middle of this. It was such an immersive detail that it seemed like few people would ever notice, and had to have taken a lot of time. But as I watched more, I saw that he was losing his place while counting far more often than I thought he should, sometimes twice a room.

When I asked on the discord whether this was a bug, Mormont responded within a few minutes asking me whether I had dwarves in my dungeon. When I replied that I did, Mormont had an answer ready to go. “The dwarves like to brew alcohol, and if you have nibbler, you’ll see him drink some ale when he stops by there doing his count. If he’s drunk, he has a harder time counting. There aren’t that many mitigation strategies for that yet, since it’s hard to restrict the nibbler’s movement.” When I suggested that the behavior could be triggered a little less often, Mormont had a rant ready to go.

“That’s not how it works,” Mormont wrote. “There aren’t triggered actions. There’s not some variable in the game that passes a certain threshold and says to play a confusion animation and restart the count. The nibbler is actually counting. I had wanted to do a full vision system for all the creatures, but there’s too much overhead, so it’s just simulated instead. It counts with its finger because that makes the process go faster. It gets lost in the counting when it’s a bit tipsy because it can’t see its finger as well and its internal count of how many objects there are is more likely to be wrong.”

The obvious question was why you’d choose to do it that way when you could just have the nibbler report the actual numbers.

“Because it’s funny,” said Mormont.

There was a long pause where I think I was supposed to agree that it was funny, and then Mormont started typing and posted a wall of text five minutes later.

“One of my formative memories in gaming was when I was playing Oblivion,” he wrote. “I was trying to steal from this woman, and she saw me, and that was fair play, but then she started attacking me, so I thought to myself ‘wait, I can just kill her’, and so I did. I went out of the house and into the countryside, then to a major city, where a guard stopped me and asked me to answer for the crime. He had no way of knowing that it was me, and I found it really frustrating, because it didn’t make any sense. Obviously what was going on behind the scenes was that there was some kind of hasMurderedSomeone flag that was triggered, and it instantly went to every guard in the whole world the moment the murder happened. As a game designer, why do you implement things that way? Because it’s easy. But it has an impact on how the game plays, and I think you either have to make that a part of the story the game is trying to tell — psychic guards — or work to make sure that all the little moving parts work together. This is a game of moving parts.”

These are the kinds of rants that Mormont likes to go on. He’s more of a preacher than a game developer sometimes, and it’s the small things that seem to get him going.

Does this make for good gameplay? I think it does, with the right mindset. There’s a risk with the opaque approach to information that a player might not be able to tell quite why something is happening or how to stop it. If you view your job as being that of an investigator and scientist, the oddities are engaging rather than frustrating. However, if you’re trying to build the perfect dungeon that has all the creatures working in concert with each other, it can hurt to have it all spiral out of control and not be able to diagnose the problem after the fact.

The Secrets, Cataloged

After I had put in twenty hours, I opened up a channel on the Discord for veterans of the game, which turned out to be a mistake. I won’t spoil it, but there were entire aspects to the game that I had been missing out on simply because there were some conditions for attracting certain dungeon denizens that I had never thought to try. From reading through the different comments people have, that’s not an uncommon experience, and “there are witches in this game?” is a common sentiment. Much work has been put into cataloging all the game’s secrets, and there are three different spreadsheets that seek to track the interrelations of the different elements.

“I don’t like the spreadsheets,” Mormont says in a post below each of the pinned spreadsheets. “Making your own notes and discoveries is the game. Understanding and watching is the game. The game isn’t about making a perfect dungeon from instructions that someone else left you, it’s about being surprised and seeing what happens, using the scientific method to get an intuitive understanding of what’s actually going on. As soon as it’s all numbers and figures it becomes dead, like a butterfly nailed to a corkboard. This isn’t meant to be a team game. It’s not meant to be a game that you watch someone else play on Twitch. It’s a personal journey of growth and discovery. It’s balanced around a regularity of discoveries, so the average person keeps on hitting them. It’s digging in the science mines and continually hitting new veins.”

I didn’t delve into those documents. Instead, I did as was suggested and added to my notebook, both the one in game and the one that I kept beside my mouse. When Underhill hits, it really hits, and there’s something immensely satisfying about understanding these little creatures that move around in your dungeon, going about their business. By itself, that might almost be enough, but aside from the note-taking and investigation, there are the fresh injections of newness that come with new denizens, deeper depths, and new materials.

(Never) Ending

The dwarves were a turning point in my game, but apparently they come much later for most people. Their habitats need to be square, and they’ll spend a lot of time with chisels making sure there are as many right angles as possible. Dwarves will take over if you let them, because unlike goblins, they can dig on their own and see to all their own needs. They want to live in the dungeon and seal themselves off from the outside world, and so long as you don’t get in their way, they’ll develop their own city that meets its own needs.

My first reaction was that this defeated the whole point of the game, but after some time sitting there watching them work, I realized that it was just another way of underscoring what the game had wanted me to get from it all along: I was supposed to be learning from the dwarves, learning about the dwarves. Eventually, I was learning all the things that dwarves won’t do for themselves, all the ways that they would naturally make a society that was worse than the one I could help them make. It was a variation on a theme, in a way. As it turns out, the game is full of those.

I’m fifty hours in now, and still seeing all the ways that the game is developing its core ideas, stumbling through different lessons and trying to figure out the inner workings of all the creatures, materials, and substances. But if I were a goblin, this would be a hole that was just the right size for me.

[ink-stainedkiss]

Husband Sukuna Ryomen Headcannons

Husband!Sukuna who is completely wrapped around your finger, but would never make it known. He has slaughtered thousands, is feared by his own village, and is a horror story to children. Yet, he enjoys resting his head in your lap and falls asleep peacefully as you play with his hair. As one would expect, Sukuna wouldn’t dare to show the soft side of himself, as it’s reserved for only his adoring wife.

Husband!Sukuna who feels off whenever you aren’t right next to him. No matter where, if you aren’t standing with him, he shifts uncomfortably and ends up calling for your presence. When Sukuna realized he had these unfamiliar feelings for you, it was decided that you could never get rid of him.

Husband!Sukuna who is too stubborn for his own good and can not for the life of him express his feelings. His bull-headed attitude always made disagreements turn into petty fights. You had learned that it’s better to give him space, rather than go back and forth.

Sukuna had done it again. He had killed off an innocent servant without a second thought. You couldn’t help but feel guilty that Sukuna didn’t face you with his merciless personality. There were only a selective few that the King of Curses didn’t wish death upon if they served no purpose. As you got word of why the poor servant was cut into pieces, you felt frustration build in you at the insignificant reason for her demise. You marched to your shared chamber, a deep furrow in your brow, and unsurprisingly, Sukuna was ever peaceful, reading a book on your bed.

“Is something wrong?” He hummed boredly, not looking up to meet your hardened gaze,”As a matter of fact, yes.” The king raised a curious brow, but shared no more interest,”What is the issue?” Standing unwaveringly, you plead your case,”You killed off a servant girl.” Sukuna nodded shortly,”I did. Is that all?”

Your jaw tightened,”You did it with no reason at all.” Sukuna gave you an indifferent look, clearly not seeing why you were upset,”She knocked over one of your vases, I had every right to kill her,” Your hands turned into fist,”No you didn’t. It was just painted clay, we could have gotten another one from the town’s potter.”

Sukuna set his book to the side, anger beginning to grow,”That was a gift. Are you telling me that you show no care toward my gracious offering?” You pinched the bridge of your nose,”No Sukuna. I loved the vase, it was beautiful,” You gave him a desperate look,”But that girl didn’t deserve to die over a simple mistake.” He looked you up and down, his tense expression unmoving.

“I detest your ability to forgive someone so easily.” You felt your hope run out at his heartless response. You exhaled softly, beginning to turn away. Sukuna noticed your change and he felt a sharp pang in his chest. Moving towards the door, you turned over your shoulder,” I apologize for wasting your time,”

Sukuna reached out and tried to call for you, but his chamber door was already shut. The king tossed his head back against the headboard and let out an audible groan.

Husband!Sukuna who replays your saddened voice over and over again and realizes he has to make it up to you. It was clear you were passionate about this topic and all Sukuna did was make it worse. So even if he’s completely terrible at voicing his apology, he understands that’s the only way to make you feel better.

Husband!Sukuna who seeks you out all throughout the estate, rushing past the workers and making them jump at his fervency. After searching for what seemed like forever, he goes to the last place in his mind. The gardens. This place was for Sukuna to rest in and for Sukuna only, that was until he found you. The two of you shared the sacred space often, just whenever you needed a moment of quiet. The garden was fenced off and only a certain few could enter the premises.

Husband!Sukuna who lets out a sigh of relief as he finds you sitting alone near a thin river.

Sukuna calmly walked over, sitting down next to you, and it was almost comical to see this beast of a man resting by your side. The silence between you two was agonizing, but you seem unbothered. The king carefully moved his head, revealing a pure white rose,”I plucked this for you. Its beauty reminds of you.”

Despite your anger, his words made your heart flutter, and you took it quietly. Your fingers fiddled with the delicate petals,”Thank you,” Sukuna wasn’t greatly pleased with your words. His mind ran laps around what he should say and eventually he spoke up,”I will try to be more…pitying.” Your head whipped around, facing your husband in shock,”Really? Would you do that?”

He let out a lenient sigh, giving you a short nod,”If it makes you happy, then I shall.” Sukuna knew you were giving him those pathetic eyes that made him feel all warm and gross, so he didn’t meet your gaze. Before he could continue, your body was leaping onto his, making the King fall onto the grass with a small groan.

His face was decorated in tiny kisses and you thanked him endlessly,”Oh, thank you Kuna. I’m forever in your debt.” Sukuna rolled his eyes, staring up at you as you halted your persistent kisses,”Don’t say such foolish things. You’re in no one’s debt and you never will be.” His words made your smile wider and once again he was smothered in your lips.

It seemed like merely a fable that the King of Curses was letting out belly laughs as his wife showed him so much affection.

Husband!Sukuna who tells himself that nothing, no living or dead creature shall take you away from him, and he would rain hell on the earth if they dared to try.

[leriexoxo]

Pretty Boy, Asshole 2

Husband! Leeknow x Reader (arranged marriage au)

Tags: Arranged marriage AU, Strangers to Lovers, Slowburn, Enemies(ish) to Lovers, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Domestic Feels, Emotional whiplash. Mean Minho, Language.

Word count: 4.6k

Summary: But the thing about sharing a house with a man like Minho? Hate starts to unravel. Fights get personal. Distance gets intimate. And soon, the walls between you start crumbling one argument, one sleepless night, one accidental kiss at a time. You didn’t ask for this marriage. But now that you’re in it, you’ll be damned if you let him walk away before knowing exactly what he’d almost thrown away.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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The phone rang.

Minho answered it quickly, stepping into the hallway.

“Yeah?”

“Boss, it’s me,” his assistant said on the other end. “Everything’s confirmed for tonight. Do you still want the rooftop? The chef just needs a final headcount.”

Minho rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flicking back to the closed bathroom door behind him.

“…Just two,” he murmured.

“You got it. Wine pairing?”

He hesitated. “No wine. Just tea. She prefers tea.”

The assistant hummed. “Noted. I’ll text you the room code and timeline. You should be there by seven.”

Minho hung up with a soft “thanks,” and stood there for a long second.

What the hell was he doing?

He didn’t even know what this was.

Not exactly.

Only that something had changed. In the car. In the bathroom. In the silence that followed. The way her eyes softened, even while her mouth held stubborn fire.

He wanted to get this right. For once.

—

You were already trying to put the morning behind you, curled up on the couch in a robe, scrolling half-heartedly through a book you weren’t even reading. There was something in your chest today—something new. Something almost… unsteady.

And then Minho appeared in the doorway.

Wearing a black button-up and slacks. His sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his forearms. His hair styled but still soft around the edges. Eyes on you.

“I need you to get dressed,” he said plainly.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. “I want to take you out. Dinner.”

Your heart stuttered. “Is that an apology?”

“It’s a… start.”

You looked him over, unsure if this was a joke. “Do I get a dress code?”

He smirked slightly. “Wear something you’d want to be stared at in.”

And then he left.

Just like that.

You stood there for a long moment, brain short-circuiting.

Because this wasn’t the Minho who slammed doors.

This wasn’t the man who flinched when you got too close.

This was someone else.

Someone trying.

And you didn’t know how to feel about it.

—

The rooftop was glowing.

You blinked when he guided you out of the elevator, hand resting lightly at your lower back. The sun was just beginning to set—casting golden light across a candlelit table set for two, with soft music humming from somewhere invisible. The chef bowed once in greeting before disappearing inside.

Your breath caught.

There were flower petals on the ground.

Steam rising from a white porcelain teapot at the center of the table.

And the view? Endless city, kissed with orange and gold.

“…Minho,” you whispered. “What is all this?”

He looked straight ahead. “You’ve done nothing but compromise since this marriage began. This is just me… catching up.”

You stared at him, stunned silent.

He pulled the chair out for you.

You sat automatically, watching as he took the seat across from you, reaching forward to pour your tea first before his own. His hands were steady. Eyes unreadable.

The food was beautiful—small portions of rich flavor, carefully selected. The tea, your favorite blend. Every single detail chosen with care.

“You remembered I like jasmine tea?” you said softly.

He nodded, not looking up. “I notice more than you think.”

Something twisted in your stomach. You were so used to the fights, the coldness, the passive-aggressive silence. You didn’t know what to do with this version of him—this thoughtful, almost-gentle Minho.

“This doesn’t mean we’re suddenly in love,” you said quickly, trying to protect your heart.

He finally looked up.

“I know,” he said, voice steady. “But it means I want to try.”

And something in you cracked.

He didn’t reach for your hand. Didn’t make a move. But the way he was looking at you? Like he was finally seeing you, not just the obligation—you weren’t ready for it.

But god, you wanted more of it.

The dinner passed in a daze. Laughter slipped out where you didn’t expect it. Your feet bumped beneath the table and neither of you moved away. When dessert came, it was the kind of sweet you’d once mentioned liking in passing—and he’d remembered.

And by the time you returned home… the silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was something else entirely.

He paused in the doorway to his room.

You lingered in the hall.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

“…Goodnight,” he said finally, voice low.

You nodded. “Goodnight.”

He waited a beat longer. Like he wanted to say something else.

Then shut the door softly behind him.

And you?

You stood there in the dark, heartbeat wild.

Because for the first time…

You didn’t want the night to end.

—

You couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was the tea. Maybe it was the soft music still echoing in your head.

Maybe it was the way Minho looked at you all through dinner—like you were something to be remembered, not endured.

Your body was humming. Stretched tight like a bowstring.

Restless.

So you slid out of bed and padded into the hall, bare feet brushing cool wood floors.

The baby doll you wore was one of the few things you had brought from your old life—a silly little purchase from a night of wine and impulse. You’d worn it tonight just to feel soft again, for no one but yourself.

It was sheer, barely-there. Lacy. Dangerous.

You didn’t expect to run into your husband.

But of course—of course—you did.

He was already in the kitchen, leaning over the sink with a glass of water in his hand, head tilted down, neck on full display.

Shirtless.

Sweatpants.

Hung so low on his hips you genuinely forgot how to walk for a moment.

He didn’t hear you at first, but when the fridge door creaked open—he turned.

And everything in the air shifted.

He stared.

You froze.

The glass in his hand tightened ever so slightly. His jaw ticked.

His gaze dragged down your body, slow, shameless, and seething.

“What the fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

You blinked. “What?”

Minho took a step closer. One. Measured. Step

“That,” he said, eyes burning, “is what you wear to sleep?”

You straightened, suddenly on edge. “It’s mine. I can wear whatever I want.”

“Are you expecting someone in your bed tonight?”

You scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“Because if you’re not,” he said, stepping closer again, “that’s even worse.”

Your heart was pounding. Your hands were cold but your skin was flushed. “Why would it be worse?”

He stopped just in front of you now—dangerously close.

“Because if there’s no one there to see it, then why the hell isn’t it me?”

The words cracked through the silence like a whip.

Your mouth parted but no sound came out.

Minho was breathing hard, his eyes flicking from your mouth to your thighs, rage and desire locked in a vice.

“You walked out of that room,” he continued, voice low, “looking like this—like a goddamn fantasy—and you didn’t think I’d lose my mind?”

You swallowed.

“It’s just sleepwear,” you whispered.

“Not to me.”

There was nothing but breathing now. The soft hum of the fridge. The near-silent war erupting between you.

And still—you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Minho reached past you suddenly, slow but sharp, and grabbed the water bottle from the counter behind. His hand brushed your hip. Bare skin on bare skin.

You flinched. He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned down, whispered in your ear.

“That thing you’re wearing?” His voice dripped molten heat. “Take it off before I do.”

And then he walked past you, brushing so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

You turned slowly, heart in your throat, breath caught, heat pooling between your legs.

Because for the first time…

Minho didn’t just look at you like a wife.

He looked at you like he wanted you.

Really wanted you.

And you didn’t know how long you stood there after—but sleep never came.

—

You came back from your spa day practically boneless—hours of oils, massages, and hot towels had washed the whole week off your skin.

You stepped inside the house humming, keys jangling, the familiar scent of your perfume still lingering in the air. Something was different, though. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it at first. Maybe it was just the calm…

Then you walked into your bedroom.

Correction: your former bedroom.

Because the room was empty.

As in completely empty.

No bed. No dresser. No pillows.

Not even the sad little candle on the window sill you forgot to blow out the last time you stormed out.

“What the hell—” you whispered, spinning around in confusion.

Your bags were gone. The cozy hoodie you’d tossed over the desk chair was missing. The room was hollow, like you’d never even lived there.

And then you heard it.

A glass clink. A soft exhale. The faint sound of ice swirling in something strong.

You stalked toward the living room, your plush spa slippers slapping the floor with murderous intent.

There he was.

Minho. Lounged across the couch like it was his personal throne. Glass in one hand, half-buttoned silk shirt in the other, looking annoyingly content.

He didn’t even look up at first. Just took a sip.

“Oh hey,” he said smoothly. “You’re back.”

You blinked.

“Where’s my room?”

He raised a brow. “Gone.”

Your jaw dropped. “Gone?”

He finally turned toward you, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “I moved you into the master. Wifey.”

You just stared at him.

He said it so casually—like he hadn’t just erased your entire goddamn living arrangement.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I—What—You can’t just—”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Minho stood, walking toward you with his drink, slow and unbothered. He stopped just in front of you, tilted his head slightly, and murmured:

“You’re my wife. You should be in my bed.”

Your mouth snapped shut.

Your brain rebooted.

Your knees wobbled slightly.

He was still looking at you like this wasn’t even a discussion.

“Unless…” he added softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, “you’re planning to move out entirely?”

You scowled.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.”

And before you could say another goddamn word, Minho turned, finished his drink in one smooth gulp, and walked away—toward the master bedroom.

Where your things now lived.

Where he lived.

Where you would apparently sleep now.

Together. Every night.

And all you could do was stand there.

Stunned. Confused.

A little turned on.

Okay, Maybe more than a little.

—

The room was dim, lit only by the faint city glow filtering through sheer curtains.

You stood there for longer than necessary, staring at the perfectly made bed—his bed. Your bed, now.

Minho was already under the covers, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily scrolling through his phone like this was any other night. Like your entire world hadn’t just been moved, rearranged, commandeered.

You padded over to the opposite side and slipped under the sheets, trying not to let them rustle. You kept your back to him, careful not to even graze his side. The silence was heavy. Not tense—just loud.

You exhaled softly, trying to relax.

It was fine. You were adults. You could sleep beside each other. He hadn’t made any advances. Maybe he just wanted to play house to appease the parents or the board or the whole damn world.

You closed your eyes.

Thirty seconds passed.

Then sixty.

Then—you felt it.

A shift.

The sheets tugged slightly.

Minho moved behind you, inching closer.

You froze.

Another moment of stillness. Then—

A hand. His hand. Curling around your waist.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You weren’t touching before. You definitely were now.

His body was warm, bare-chested against your back, and his grip wasn’t firm, but it wasn’t tentative either. It was intentional.

“Minho,” you whispered, barely able to get the name out.

“Hm?”

Your heart thudded.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” he murmured.

“Like that?”

He let out a slow, amused breath, the sound ghosting across your neck. “You’re my wife. I thought I should start acting like it.”

Your fingers gripped the sheet. “By spooning me?”

Another small chuckle, deeper this time. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

You could feel him now—all of him. His warmth pressing into you. The way his thumb had started to trace a small, infuriating circle just below your ribs.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his jaw in the dark.

“Minho,” you said again, more breath than sound.

“What?” he whispered, voice husky and tired and devastatingly close.

“You’re touching me.”

His lips were so close to your ear now. “I know.”

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Because somehow, without even trying, he’d pulled you into a moment neither of you could take back.

Your breath hitched when he exhaled slow and low against your skin.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured, like a tease. “Or don’t.”

And he didn’t move his hand. He didn’t even loosen his hold.

He just stayed wrapped around you like he belonged there.

And maybe, just maybe, for the first time since this whole thing started—

You didn’t hate how it felt.

—

The morning after your first night sharing a bed was quiet. Almost suspiciously so.

Minho had slipped out early, but not without a glance back—one you didn’t see, but would’ve felt if you’d been half-awake. You stirred a little when the blankets shifted, only to realize with sleepy confusion that his warmth had been there all night. Still ghosted along your back. Still lingering on your skin.

When you finally got up, there was coffee waiting on the counter.

No note. No text.

But there was coffee.

It became a rhythm after that.

Shared space. Shared silences.

Shared bed.

You never talked about it. He just… reached for you now. Without hesitation. Every night. Arm around your waist, your back to his chest, your breath syncing with his. Sometimes you felt his hand drift up to settle under your ribs. Sometimes it stayed firmly at your waist. But he never crossed the line. Never demanded more.

Not with words, anyway.

Days passed. Tension softened into comfort. Walls began to crack. Just a little.

But that night—that night—

Something changed.

You had both just turned in. The city’s glow lit the room again, and Minho’s arm, like usual, found its place around you. You exhaled, feeling yourself fall into that familiar lull, that strange cocoon of heat and muscle and unsaid things—

But then, without thinking, without planning it—

You turned.

In his arms.

Slowly. Intentionally. Until you were face-to-face, your hand resting on his chest, your knees brushing his.

Minho froze.

His eyes locked on yours like he was trying to decipher what the hell you were doing—but more than that, why you were doing it.

The air pulsed with something new. Something electric.

You looked at him, voice barely above a whisper.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brows drew together, ever so slightly. “Doing what?”

“This.” You nodded to the space—what little was left—between you. “The holding. The moving in. The everything.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just stared at you.

Or more specifically… your mouth.

You noticed the exact second his resolve wavered.

“Minho,” you said again, softly. “Tell me.”

And just like that, he lost whatever quiet battle he was fighting in his head.

He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek.

And then— He kissed you.

Not like that night at the bar. Not angry, not territorial.

This time it was slow. Careful. Warm.

So soft it hurt.

And you kissed him back.

Mouths moving like they’d been waiting to. Like they’d been practicing in their dreams.

Your hand found the side of his neck, pulling him closer. His fingers curled around your waist again, only this time there was no more space to close. None at all.

The kiss deepened.

Still gentle, but longer now. More open. More honest.

Breathless pauses. Whispered exhales. The soft rustle of sheets as your bodies pulled together, instinctively.

You didn’t speak again.

Didn’t have to.

Because for the first time since all this chaos began, you both understood one thing—

This was real.

And you weren’t running from it anymore.

His lips were still on yours. Still soft, still slow.

But something shifted.

Somewhere between the way your fingers curled tighter around the back of his neck and the way he exhaled through his nose—like he was starving for this, for you—the tenderness began to burn.

Minho kissed you deeper.

Hungrier.

Your breath hitched as his hand slid from your waist to your back, pressing you flush against him. There was no more hesitation. No more space. Just months of tension unraveling between your mouths, in the shaky sound you made when his tongue swept over yours, in the grip of his hand as it traced the curve of your spine.

He groaned softly into the kiss. “Fuck…”

It was like something in him finally broke loose.

You gasped when he rolled you beneath him, not forceful but urgent, his body settling between your legs as his lips never left yours. His hand found your jaw, tilting your face to deepen the kiss even more, his thumb brushing your cheekbone so delicately it made you ache.

Your hands moved without thought—up his bare arms, over his shoulders, into his hair. You’d never felt him like this. Not in pieces. Not in stolen glances or lingering touches. This was all of him.

All heat and desperation.

He kissed down your jaw, your neck, nipping the skin there until you whimpered.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, lips hot against your collarbone, his voice shaking.

You didn’t. You didn’t even hesitate.

Instead, you reached for the hem of your sleep shirt and tugged it up and off.

Minho stilled.

His eyes darkened as they swept over your bare chest, chest rising and falling faster now.

“Shit,” he breathed, like he was already undone.

And then he was on you again, kissing everywhere—lips on your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach, everywhere his hands had imagined but never dared to touch until now. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t chaotic. It was worship.

Every brush of his mouth was laced with intent.

Every groan was a confession.

He whispered your name like it was something holy.

You tugged at his shirt until he finally sat up just enough to pull it over his head, and God—Minho. The way his body looked in the moonlight, toned and golden and yours. You traced your fingers over the line of his abs and he hissed, grabbing your wrist gently.

“You’ll drive me insane.”

“You already are,” you whispered.

He laughed—breathless and stunned—but it faded fast as he leaned back in to kiss you again. This time it was slower. Deeper. His hand slid between your legs, and when he found how wet you were, he cursed under his breath.

“You want this,” he said, eyes locked with yours. “You want me.”

You nodded. That was all it took.

He kissed you again, hard this time, and soon, his sweatpants were gone, and your panties followed. Every nerve was raw. Every inch of you trembling, burning, needing.

He settled above you again, chest to chest, foreheads nearly touching as he lined himself up.

He paused.

One hand cradled your jaw. The other curled around your hip.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You did.

He pushed in slowly.

You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders, and his head dropped to your neck with a shudder.

“Fuck—baby—” he moaned, voice cracking. “You feel like—God.”

He moved with care at first, deep and slow, every thrust deliberate, like he was memorizing the way you wrapped around him. You held on like he was anchoring you—like you might float away without his weight on you.

Your name left his lips again and again, low and reverent, while you whispered his in return between breathless moans.

It was messy and perfect.

A long-awaited breaking point.

And when he finally came, it was with his mouth on yours, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

Like he finally understood.

And maybe you did too.

—

The scent of eggs and butter hung warm in the air.

Sunlight spilled softly through the kitchen windows, casting sleepy gold over the countertops and floor. You stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing nothing but his oversized black T-shirt—your thighs peeking out with every shift of your hips as you stirred the pan.

It was early, earlier than you ever woke up, but after last night… you needed to move. To process. You needed space to feel what happened between you and Minho in that bed, on those sheets—space to understand why it changed something so deep, so permanent, you were scared to even breathe wrong in case the dream slipped away.

But it wasn’t a dream.

It was real.

He was real.

And unbeknownst to you, he was standing right behind you—leaned against the wall shirtless, loose gray sweats hanging from his hips, his dark eyes locked on your figure.

You, in his shirt.

You, in his kitchen.

You, cooking breakfast like you belonged here.

It short-circuited something in him.

Minho didn’t move at first. He just watched, the tight coil in his chest winding tighter with every second. But then your hips swayed slightly, humming to yourself under your breath—and he was gone.

Possessed.

In a flash, he crossed the room and wrapped an arm around your waist from behind, pressing his chest against your back. You gasped, startled.

“Minho—!” you laughed, elbowing his ribs gently. “You scared me.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say anything.

Instead, he reached forward silently and turned off the stove. You blinked in confusion—until you felt it.

Him.

Thick and hard, already pressing into your ass through his sweats. You shivered.

“Last night…” his voice was rough, low, lips grazing your ear, “was slow. Sweet.”

He pulled your hips firmly back into him. You inhaled sharply.

“This won’t be.”

He pushed your hair aside and kissed the curve of your neck, wet and open-mouthed, and your knees buckled. His grip tightened.

“No running now, baby,” he growled. “You woke this up—now you take it.”

You exhaled shakily, head lolling back against his shoulder. “Minho…”

He kissed down your shoulder, then knelt suddenly, dragging your panties—his shirt riding up your thighs—to your ankles.

And then his hands parted your legs from behind, mouth hot and dangerous against the back of your thigh.

“Oh my—” you gasped, fingers clutching the counter.

You barely had time to register what was happening before he leaned you forward, cheek pressed to the cool marble, and dove between your thighs—tongue licking a long, slow stripe up your soaked slit.

You screamed.

Minho groaned.

“Fuck—you taste like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

He gripped your hips and buried his face in you, eating you like a man starved. His tongue flicked and curled, lips suctioning over your clit, and when you started trembling, he moaned—loudly—grinding his hips against your leg like he couldn’t take it either.

“Oh my God—Minho—” you sobbed, legs shaking.

He growled, arms wrapping around your thighs to steady you as he devoured you harder, wetter, like he couldn’t breathe without it. You came so fast and so hard, you nearly collapsed, but he caught you—his mouth glistening, eyes wild.

Before you could recover, he stood, grabbed your waist, and slammed into you from behind with a single, brutal thrust.

You wailed.

“Yeah,” he hissed, “that’s my good fucking girl.”

The stretch, the pressure, the way his hands gripped your hips—it was everything. He pounded into you over the stove, sweat dripping from his temple, teeth gritted, his pace merciless and unrelenting.

You couldn’t speak.

You couldn’t even think.

The only sounds were the slap of skin, your cries, and his growled praises—so tight, so fucking good, my wife, mine.

Your legs gave out around the second orgasm—he caught you again, wrapped an arm around your waist, and pulled you upright into his chest as he continued fucking up into you with ruthless precision.

“Minho—!” you sobbed, tears leaking down your cheeks.

He kissed your temple and whispered, “I know, baby. I know.”

He chased your release with everything in him, and when he came, it was with a strangled moan of your name, spilling inside you and holding you tight like you were something he couldn’t believe was real.

You didn’t finish breakfast.

You didn’t leave the kitchen.

And when he carried you to bed afterwards, you knew—whatever this was, it wasn’t fake anymore.

—

The bedroom was still dim when you woke again.

Your cheek was pressed against a warm chest, a steady heartbeat beneath your ear. Minho’s arm was draped over your waist, holding you close like he hadn’t let go once during the night—and judging by the way your legs were tangled together, he hadn’t.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

There was no need.

The silence was calm now. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only came after storms, when everything inside had been screamed out, cried out, touched and loved into stillness.

You let your hand trace slow patterns on his skin. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense like he used to. In fact, he tugged you even closer, nuzzling into your hair with a groggy little hum.

“You didn’t run,” he whispered.

You smiled against his chest. “You didn’t push me away.”

That made him pause.

And then, softly: “I never wanted to.”

You tilted your head to look at him. He looked tired, but in the best way—raw and open and stripped of the hard walls he once wore like armor. His fingers were still tracing lazy lines up and down your back. The morning light kissed his face gently, and you realized it all at once.

This was your husband.

Not just the man your parents married you off to. Not just the cold stranger who once hated your presence in his home.

This was your husband.

He saw the thought in your eyes. His own softened.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Minho said, voice hoarse.

You reached up and touched his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“I’m not,” you whispered. “Because now it’s real. Every single piece of it.”

He leaned forward and kissed you—sweetly, slowly. No hunger this time. No urgency.

Just warmth.

And something so terrifyingly close to love, you felt it all the way in your bones.

Later, you stayed curled in bed together, ordering breakfast in and eating it right off the tray, half-naked and laughing at the mess you made of the sheets and yourselves.

He kissed your shoulder mid-bite.

You wiped syrup from his lip with a giggle.

And when he finally pulled you into his lap with a content sigh, burying his face in your neck like he never wanted to be anywhere else again—you knew.

You were exactly where you were meant to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Final part is up!!!! Ahhhhhhhh ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ so so so i’m gonna start a whole ass taglist, if you want out just let me know yeah?

Please like, comment, reblog! I look out for those, and thanks for following, we’re almost at 700!!!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr

[drivebypainter]

I redesigned my SVSSS OC as the start of my mission to create a design/reference sheet for all of the SVSSS characters!

(prev design)

Here’s her lore:

The lore behind He Mixin’s arrival:

Shang Qinghua, wasn’t one for extreme superstitions. However, he definitely believed he must have broken a hundred mirrors for him to have the luck he currently had. He was stuck doing paperwork and taxes not only for the entire sect, but the entire northern palace too! Not only that but it was only his first few years as a peak lord and already multiple disasters had happened!

So in order to to minimize any future problems, Shang Qinghua began praying to a god of luck and fortune. Sure it was probably useless and a waste of time, but it felt nice to do it. Soon the prayers turned into little out of the way tasks to increase his luck. The it turned into whole rituals before he sent a letter or before he went on a mission. It seemed to be working too! His paper work seemed easier and people began to turn in their work on time!

However one day it went all wrong. You see, Shang Qinghua in his rush to save a stack of paper from falling off his desk, he stuck his chop sticks straight up- in his bowl of rice! (Bad luck!)

After that once unfortunate moment, everything went wrong again. Taxes grew harder, people began to be late with their reports, and peaks began to have disasters every week!

Desperate to get back his luck, Shang Qinghua begged the little statue of the lucky and fortunate god for help. Shang Qinghua was surprised when the sound of the system suddenly sung in his head with a new mission!

[User01 has gained a new mission with a grand reward of a permanent buff on paperwork and other peakly duties! Does User01 want to accept this mission?]

Extremely excited, Shang Qinghua selected the yes button and immediately forgot about the mission, after the system only gave a vague [great see you in 12 years!]

Over the next 4 years, Shang Qinghua’s luck slowly increased again.. but it never got to the point from before, and in fact any increase of luck was barely appreciated due to his now PAINFUL headaches that he was getting all the time.

On the dawn of the 5th year, Shang Qinghua could no longer take it, and begged the system to end the mission. There was no way he could handle it anymore! The pain was too much!

The system remained silent so Shang Qinghua ran to Mu Qingfang for help. After a quick analysis, Mu Qingfang found the problem, there was something growing next to Shang Qinghua’s brain! Mu Qingfang went to remove the mass and suddenly out popped a whole 5 year old child! Shang Qinghua was horrified- but the child’s birth(?) aligned with the mission… so was this his buff for everything on his peak?

Shang Qinghua decided to name the child He Mixin, (which means “to celebrate superstition”), as a call back to all the silly things Shang Qinghua did in the name of luck!

As He Mixin grew up, Shang Qinghua gave up his superstitions and instead just relied on giving small prayers to the lucky god in thanks. After all, despite its craziness, Shang Qinghua now had his own little ‘good luck charm’.

He Mixin personality/details/how she interacts with others:

He Mixin is a very stubborn and hard worker. She works hard to get things done and to make her baba proud. (thought she’d never tell him that).

She has a lot of anger issues, resulting with dealing with “man-child” peak lords and annoying fellow disciples (and even more annoying fellow head disciples).

She is prone to bouts of impulsivity, as shown by her horrible hair that she did on a day where she wanted to be free of the excruciating heat caused by summer in CQMS.

She is sometimes called the Princess of An Ding, because she is the daughter of SQH and out of all the disciples on An Ding she is rather weak. (though off on her peak she is considered the most physically strong out of her fellow head disciples- despite that strength she is very much not a fighter.)((A Ding disciples have to be sturdy and capable in order to do the amount of physical labor they do)).

HMX doesn’t like a lot of people due to the fact her opinions are usually clouded by the fact she has to deal with their bullshit when she does paperwork.

HMX is lesbian yay.

HMX is friends with Feng Licheng (the Zui Xian head disciple) and Gao Hongxia (the Wan Jian head disciple). The three of them hang out regularly.

HMX was forced to go on play dates with FLC the moment he joined ZXP.

HMX has a huge crush on GHX (GHX is beautiful, kind and competent! AWOOGA!)

HMX is frenemies with Ming Fan because the guy is annoyingly bossy! No other reason! (MF and GHX are friends- HMX is insanely jealous every time they hang out)

HMX hates Yang Yixuan to the bone because the brat is Bai Zhan and Bai Zhan sucks (YYX is a pure baby who never did anything wrong.)

HMX’s relationship with SQH is sorta like begrudging father/daughter type deal. HMX wants, but then also doesn’t want, a father, and SQH doesn’t know how to deal with children LOL.

MBJ was shocked the first time he met HMX- “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAD A KID POP OUT OF YOUR HEAD???”

HMX was taught embroidery by SQH and now regularly does little embroidery projects on either her own clothes or on little scraps of paper.

Both Feng Licheng and Gao Hongxia belong to @sillygoofyqueer

[chheolie]

dad seokmin forgot to keep his promise

seokmin was having one of those days where he planned to spend the entire afternoon entertaining his son with the most outlandish games he could think of. full of enthusiasm, he turned on the toy fire truck, which started zooming across the floor with its lights flashing and siren echoing throughout the room.

"look at this, buddy!" he exclaimed, excitedly, calling his little one over to watch the toy in action.

but to his surprise, his son, sitting on the floor with a surprisingly firm look, just crossed his arms and put on an expression that looked way too serious for a three-year-old. his little lips pushed out into a dramatic pout, as if he was experiencing the worst day of his life.

seokmin raised an eyebrow, confused, trying to decipher the unexpected reaction.

“is he mad about something? or maybe he just doesn’t like fire trucks anymore?” he thought, watching his son curiously.

determined to keep trying, he brought the truck closer and attempted to get him excited again.

"let’s put out the fire, son!" he said in an upbeat tone, waving the toy from side to side, trying to make it as fun as possible.

to his complete shock, the little boy, still with his pout intact, kicked the truck with his chubby foot, sending it sliding across the rug until it bumped against the couch leg. the kid’s angry face only grew, and the pout? somehow, it looked even bigger.

seokmin had to try really hard not to laugh. he felt his lips tremble with the urge to let out a chuckle, but he held it back. he didn’t want to make his little one any more upset.

"okay, my love… you don’t want to play with the fire truck," seokmin said in a softer, more paternal tone. "how about we go for a walk outside?" he suggested, smiling as if it was the most amazing idea ever.

the boy looked at his dad with a mix of disapproval and stubbornness, then turned his face away, crossing his arms even tighter.

seokmin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling clueless. he tried everything he could think of – he even offered to go outside and watch the “big trucks” his son usually loved to see, but nothing worked. feeling at a loss and a little desperate, he finally picked up his phone to call for help from the real expert: his wife.

with quick fingers, he typed a message, and soon his phone buzzed with a reply.

seokmin: babe, help.

he saw the typing bubbles pop up and then the message appeared.

seokmin: i think i just became our son’s number one enemy. 😩😩

y/n: 🤨 really? why?

seokmin: he won’t talk to me. won’t play with his favorite fire truck, doesn’t even want to go outside…

y/n: did you ask him why? maybe it’s something important

seokmin: babe… he’s only three. how’s he supposed to know how to explain what he’s feeling? 🥺

y/n: 🙄 ASK HIM, seokmin.

seokmin was ready to finally fix the situation, but he couldn’t resist asking his son one more time, now that the little boy seemed a bit less upset.

"son, did daddy do something wrong? why are you so upset?" he gently held his son’s tiny shoulders. "is there anything daddy can do to make you not be mad anymore?"

the little boy looked at him, still pouting, and said in a slightly teary voice, "you… you pwomised… stwawbewwy ice cweam… and you fowgot!"

seokmin had to cover his mouth to hide his laughter. of course, it was about food! and he vaguely remembered mentioning something about ice cream the night before, but with all the excitement and games, he’d completely forgotten.

"oh, son… i’m really sorry! daddy forgot about the ice cream!"

seokmin quickly grabbed his phone and texted his wife, almost as if he needed her to witness what he’d just discovered.

seokmin: babe, he said it

seokmin: i promised him strawberry ice cream after lunch, can you believe it? 😩😩

almost immediately, her reply came in.

y/n: really? i’m a witness.

seokmin: i forgot i’d promised that 😳

seokmin: but… how could he remember that? he’s just a baby!

y/n: he’s your son, seokmin. your legacy: selective memory for sweets and pizza.

seokmin: 😅😅😅😅😅

y/n: give him his ice cream before he packs his bag to run away from home.

laughing at the thought of his son packing a bag and searching for a new home that took ice cream promises seriously, seokmin headed to the kitchen to prepare the long-awaited treat. he grabbed a small bowl, added a few scoops of strawberry ice cream, and went all out: strawberry syrup, colorful sprinkles, and of course, a cherry on top. he carried the bowl back to the living room like it was a trophy, still imagining which uncle his son might ask for refuge with. maybe vernon? surely he wouldn’t forget a promise.

"here it is, buddy! your strawberry ice cream, with everything you deserve!"

the little boy, now with bright eyes, immediately dropped his pout and grabbed the bowl with both tiny hands, amazed by what he saw.

"yummy!" he said, fully focused on the ice cream and visibly happy.

seokmin crouched down beside him and asked hopefully, "so… do you forgive me for forgetting?"

the child nodded, but he was so engrossed in the ice cream that seokmin wasn’t sure if the forgiveness was genuine or just temporary. the ice cream was clearly priority number one.

he quickly sent another message to y/n.

seokmin: he forgave me…

seokmin: but i’m not sure we’re totally okay yet… i think his heart’s still divided between the ice cream and the grudge.

y/n: hahaha, i’m glad for you, babe.

seokmin watched as his son enjoyed the ice cream, and with each spoonful, the little boy let out a happy “mmm!” while seokmin watched, relieved to have made things right.

when his little one finished, he held up the empty bowl and grinned.

"was it good?" seokmin asked, smiling back at him.

"good, good!" he replied with his sweet little voice and eyes shining with joy.

suddenly, the boy got up, handed the bowl back to seokmin without much ceremony, and ran over to the fire truck still sitting on the floor.

"wooo woo woo woo!" he started imitating the fire truck siren with excitement, waving his dad over to join the game.

seokmin wasted no time. he ran to the kitchen to put the bowl down and, in seconds, was back in the living room, ready for the new mission to save the world. he pretended to put on an invisible firefighter helmet and gave his son a salute.

"firefighter seokmin reporting for duty!" he announced with a determined, goofy expression. "what’s the emergency, chief?"

his son held onto the toy truck, looking at him with serious little eyes.

"fire! big fire! daddy, come!" he shouted, running around the room with the truck while seokmin followed, pretending to turn on a siren.

the house transformed into a "fire station," and the two of them spent the next several minutes saving stuffed animals from the imaginary blaze.

seokmin: babe, we’re friends again

seokmin: we’re playing firefighters

y/n: alright, mr. firefighter, don’t make promises you won’t remember to keep

seokmin: 🫡🫡🫡

[gojover]

SOFT AS IT BEGAN ⭑ 02. THE CAPITOL.

district four’s only victors—satoru gojo, dazzling and deadly, and you, cunning and stubborn—are dragged back into the arena for the quarter quell. with the capitol watching and a rebellion brewing, the hunger games are no longer just about survival. they’re about trust, betrayal, and the unresolved past that still burns between you.

— pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader — tags: romance, angst, eventual smut, action, slow burn, hurt/comfort. the hunger games!au, dystopian!au, enemies to lovers!au. this chapter contains: profanity, mentions of forced prostitution, mentions of death & violence. — word count: 9.1k

series masterlist ⋆ previous ⋆ next

The train was too clean.

Satoru hated it: the sterile shine of the floors, the glassy sheen on the windows, the faint scent of synthetic citrus pumped through the vents. Everything about it made his skin itch. It was nothing like the salt-slick wood of his old home, nothing like the creaky floorboards of Reiko and Ren’s kitchen, where the kettle always screamed before boiling and the walls were yellowing from too much sun.

He didn’t remember standing. One moment he was lying on the cot in his cabin, staring blankly at the ceiling, fingers wrapped tight around the mockingjay pin burning a hole in his pocket. The next, he was walking down the corridor, urged by some inexplicable force—resentment, maybe. Or your voice in his head, sarcastic and furious, telling him to go ahead and starve if he wanted.

He didn’t want to starve. But he didn’t want to eat, either. His stomach roiled unpleasantly.

The dining car was draped in Capitol excess, down to the velvet curtains and the marble-effect table. You were already there, face drawn, picking listlessly at a piece of bread. Across from you, Coral was mid-sentence, droning about how dreadfully boring the off-season was in the Capitol. Satoru’s stomach turned.

“Do you never get tired of running your mouth?” he said, tone flat and venomous.

Coral blinked at him, clearly unimpressed. She sat reclined, long legs crossed elegantly, a half-finished glass of crimson wine in one hand. Her curls gleamed under the artificial lighting and her nails—painted a garish shade of turquoise—tapped idly against the crystal. She didn’t stop smiling.

“Oh, Satoru,” she sighed. “Don’t tell me you’re still sulking. It’s so unbecoming. You’ve been given such a rare opportunity. You should be thanking us.”

He stared at her, blankly. “For what, exactly? Watching a man get shot in front of his grandkid? Being yanked from our homes and shoved into this freak parade of a train like pigs on the way to slaughter?”

“You’re so crude. No wonder your little tributes didn’t get any sponsors last time, what with their mentor being so despicably uncultured. It’s a shame even the Career districts don’t seem to—”

“That’s enough,” you interrupted, finally looking up from your untouched plate. Your voice was hoarse; Satoru suspected it had been all day. 

“Oh, you’re both so moody,” the escort drawled. “It’s a wonder they selected either of you. The Gamemakers won’t like that sulking thing you do.”

Satoru watched as you ladled some soup into a bowl and set it down across from you. He looked away. For a second, he thought he might actually lunge across the table and do something truly stupid—punch Coral, maybe. Rip the wine glass out of her hand and shatter it against the floor.

“They shot an old man in front of his grandson,” he said again, like it would make this air-headed Capitol bitch see sense.

“They did,” Coral agreed coolly, dabbing at her lipsticked mouth with a silk napkin. “And now here you are—alive, handsome and controversial. The Capitol eats that up, you know.”

Satoru felt something ugly lurch inside his chest.

Alive. He was alive. And she wasn’t.

Reiko and Ren’s mother was a good woman. She was the only adult who had looked at him after his Games without flinching, who had given him second helpings when he was a child and scolded him like he was her own. She had given him the pin with shaking hands, and said it belonged to his mother. His mother. He hadn’t even had time to ask her how she got it. She’d smiled at him, and then a Peacekeeper struck her so hard, her head hit the stone.

He hadn’t seen her get up.

Satoru gripped the back of a chair hard, knuckles bone-white.

“You should eat,” you said to him, not unkindly.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“Then don’t eat,” you snapped. “Just stop acting like a whiny little piece of shit.”

Satoru scoffed, bitter and humourless, and dropped into the seat. The soup in front of him steamed faintly, rich and full of spices. He stared at it. Picked up the spoon. Put it down again. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

“Do you children always argue like this, or is it just foreplay?” Coral said.

You stiffened. Satoru didn’t bother replying.

“President Snow is going to love you,” she added. “So tragic and rebellious. Just a hint of young, doomed romance. It’s positively Shakespearean.”

Satoru grit his teeth. You hunched your shoulders, tearing the crust of your slice of bread to pieces, over and over. The air inside the dining car was stifling—the cloying smell of rich food, the hum of the train tracks, the faint perfume Coral wore that reminded him of expensive flowers left too long in stagnant water. He still hadn’t taken a bite of his food. 

Coral leaned back again, lazily inspecting her cuticles. “Well, you’d better find your spirit soon. We arrive in the Capitol tomorrow morning, and it will be televised. And unlike your precious little fishing town, image actually matters there.”

Satoru stood up so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor, harsh and metallic. He didn’t say anything—just took his bowl, still full, and dumped it into the disposal chute without a word. Then he turned and walked out, fists clenched at his sides.

The hallway felt colder now. He walked past mirrored panels and velvet-lined walls, down and down until he put as much distance as he could between himself and the dining car. The windows blurred past wilderness and darkness and nothing that resembled home. He didn’t stop until the hallway ended, and even then, he simply stood there, staring at his reflection in the glass.

His face looked like his father’s, who had drowned in a boating accident when he was an infant. His eyes, bright and startlingly blue, were like his mother’s, or so he’d been told. He’d never actually met her. She died while giving birth to him. Satoru had been raised by his neighbours until he was old enough to do odd jobs here and there, helping out the fishermen and earning a livelihood from it. Then, he’d been reaped, and he had to watch his fellow tribute—Amanai Riko, the smartest and kindest fourteen-year-old he’d ever known—get shot through the head.

The Capitol was still miles away, but already, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The pin in his pocket dug into his thigh when he moved. He took it out again, and turned it over in his palm. It was an old thing—worn, with the gold a little tarnished—but unmistakable. A mockingjay in flight.

He remembered the way the pin had felt in his palm: warm from Midori’s skin. And then the crack of the Peacekeeper’s hand across her face. And then the sound of his own scream.

He hadn’t been able to save her. He wasn’t going to be able to save anyone.

“Satoru—”

“Don’t.” He didn’t bother turning around. “You told me to starve, so I’m just following orders.”

You cursed under your breath. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”

He heard you step forward anyway, the hallway narrow enough that even your silence felt like intrusion. Satoru didn’t move, didn’t flinch—just kept his eyes on the blurred lights outside the train window like if he stared long enough, he could will himself out of this life and into another one.

“I was angry,” you said. “We’re all angry.”

“They killed her,” he said. “She was the only person left who gave a damn about me, and they didn’t even hesitate.”

“You think I don’t know what it feels like to lose people?” you said, shifting to stand next to him, hand tightening around the brass edge of the doorway. “To watch them die and not be able to do a single thing?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you meant.”

He turned to you then, finally. His expression was thunderous, eyes rimmed red like he’d been crying—or maybe like he wanted to and didn’t know how. “You think you know me? You think just because we’re stuck on this nightmare train together, you get to play therapist? Screw that.”

Your voice shook, but you didn’t raise it. “You think I want to be here with you? You think I want to be picked as some Capitol pawn, paraded around with a guy who hasn’t said a kind word to me since I was reaped five years ago? You’re not the only one who lost something.”

“Don’t twist this—”

“I’m not!” you snapped. “But you’re not the only person in the world who’s hurting, Satoru. We all are. I’m just not throwing a tantrum about it every five seconds.”

He laughed, sardonic and joyless. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is my grief inconvenient for you? Maybe I should’ve just smiled for the cameras, like a good little martyr.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You sure about that?” he said, voice rising now. “Because you sound a hell lot like Coral right now. ‘Tragic and rebellious’—isn’t that what she said? Maybe I should lean into the aesthetic. Sell myself to the Capitol. At least that way, someone might survive.”

You looked like he’d slapped you. “That’s not funny,” you said, quieter now. “Don’t talk like that.”

But he was shaking, eyes wild. “What else is there to talk about? Do you want to hear about the Games? About how I didn’t sleep for months because every time I closed my eyes I saw Riko’s face? Or maybe about how my best friend got reaped the year after me and I had to watch him die while you stood and did nothing? Or maybe about how Reiko and Ren’s mom died simply because she gave me a pin?”

He was shouting now. You let him.

“I was a kid. I was a kid, and they made me kill for their entertainment. And now they want me back. Again. Again. And you’re telling me to calm down. To eat. To behave. To get it together because the Capitol doesn’t like messy tributes.”

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you said, and he didn’t even realise tears were streaming down your face until he looked at you properly, chest heaving. “Fuck you. They killed my parents, too. They used my body year after year, every single time I was sent with you to the Capitol as a mentor. President Snow made me coerce secrets from their mouths with the use of my hands touching their skin.”

Satoru froze—no more words, no more rage. He simply stood, blinking like he’d walked into a wall.

You dragged in a shaky breath, shoulders taut, fists trembling by your sides. “I did nothing?” you repeated. “You think I had a choice?”

Satoru’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. You pressed on.

“They made me watch,” you said, your voice cracking. “They made me memorise names, families, weaknesses. You were the golden boy—District Four’s prodigy, our great bloody hope. But I was the one they broke open, again and again, year after year, because I had pretty eyes and a warm touch and they liked how easily people talked to me.”

Silence fell like a blade. Only the dull hum of the train beneath your feet remained.

You wiped your face roughly with your sleeve, as though you were angry at yourself for crying. “I did everything I could to protect our tributes. I smiled for the cameras and kissed the sponsors and sweet-talked the Gamemakers. And every time I closed the door behind me, I screamed until my throat bled. But sure, Satoru, tell me again how I stood and did nothing.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know.”

“No. You didn’t ask.”

That hurt, and you knew it. He flinched like you’d thrown something.

“I’m not proud of what I’ve done,” you went on, quieter now, the rage ebbing to something exhausted and spent. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. But don’t you dare pretend you were the only one who lost something.”

Satoru exhaled, long and slow. The silence between you stretched again, but it was different now. He was still breathing hard, eyes glassy, but the fury had dulled into something heavier.

“I just…” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the roots. “I’m scared.”

“I am, too,” you admitted.

Satoru’s shoulders dropped a little. He looked away, ashamed. “I didn’t mean what I said. About you doing nothing.”

“Didn’t mean what I said either,” you said, shrugging. “About starving.”

His laugh was dry. “We’re a pair of fucking disasters.”

“President Snow’s favourites,” you agreed.

The train slowed to a crawl the next morning.

Satoru felt it before he saw it, like the very oxygen shifted the moment the Capitol came into view. The glass of the windows shimmered under the harsh gaze of too much light, too much colour, too much control. He didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing until the screech of metal on metal echoed down the tracks, and the train eased to a halt.

He didn’t move.

Outside the Capitol sprawled like a wound that refused to scab. Towers of glass and gold cut into the sky like knives, their angles too clean, their beauty too deliberate. The streets below swarmed with people in grotesque, glittering costumes—some with skin dyed cerulean, some with implants under their flesh that pulsed like veins full of starlight. Feathers. Jewels. Artificial wings. Faces that barely resembled people anymore.

They were all smiling. Satoru hated that he remembered what it was like to be in awe of it. He hated more that some part of him still was.

You brushed your shoulder against him once, standing by the door. He nodded. He could do this. He had done this. But it didn’t get easier—not with the Capitol’s scent already curling in through the cracks: roses and blood and something chemical, sweet, and sharp enough to sting his eyes.

The train doors hissed open.

The moment he stepped out, the world exploded in colour. Cameras flashed. A Capitol woman shrieked his name from somewhere in the crowd, her voice high and warped by excitement. Someone else held up a sign that read “Satoru: Our Second Coming”, glitter glued in thick, uneven letters.

He swallowed bile.

“Smile, darlings,” Coral hissed through gritted teeth. Satoru tensed. He didn’t know when the escort had shown up, but she was behind him now, trailing that scent of that sickly-sweet perfume she used and her face powdered blue. 

Satoru didn’t turn to look at her. He kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, spine locked into something almost regal—if only to spite her. The cameras loved that posture, and so did the Capitol. The Victor they remembered wasn’t allowed to look small, or scared, or tired.

He was a symbol. A trophy polished to perfection. So he smiled.

Not the soft kind. This was the Capitol smile: sharp at the edges, glittering with menace. His lips curled like he knew something they didn’t, like he liked the attention, like he was their second coming.

Beside him, you didn’t smile at all. He didn’t need to look at you to know this. Coral didn’t seem to notice, or she did and didn’t care. She was already waving, stepping out onto the platform, her dress of coral-pink feathers trailing behind her like smoke.

Peacekeepers flanked the entrance, white uniforms spotless, helmets reflecting the overhead lights like polished bone. One of them nodded once. That was the only greeting they ever got from them.

Satoru scanned the platform. Still, the cameras flashed. He heard his name again. Then again, and then louder.

“Satoru! Look here—just a quick wave!”

“How does it feel to be back?”

“Tell us about the lucky girl! Are the rumours true?”

His stomach churned. Lucky, they said, as if being chained to memory and the Capitol’s golden leash was some kind of blessing. As if winning the Hunger Games hadn’t broken him into pieces he still didn’t know how to glue back together.

He kept smiling. 

He reached the car, which was sleek, black and armoured, though you wouldn’t know it unless you’d ridden in one before. You opened the door before the Peacekeeper could. Satoru ducked his head, and slid in without a word. You slid in after him, careful to avoid Coral’s train, which caught in the door and earned an irritated noise from her throat. She snapped something at you, but you didn’t reply.

The car drove away from the platform like it had done a hundred times before, tires humming against the smooth black road with mechanical perfection. The doors sealed with a hiss, insulating them from the frenzy outside—but not completely. Not even the Capitol’s best engineering could mute the roar of spectacle.

Satoru let his head fall back against the seat. The leather was too soft. The kind that cost more than most families in the districts made in a year. The kind they gave to Victors because comfort was currency here—another way to keep them quiet.

He could feel the static of the cameras still clinging to his skin, like spiderwebs. Like ghost hands.

The Capitol blurred past the tinted windows, too saturated, too symmetric to be real. Every building was a statement; geometry turned violent. The sky split with spires of glass that caught the light like they wanted to blind him, all chrome and gold and shimmering edges. Below, the streets crawled with people like insects in silk, each more grotesque than the last.

One man wore a suit of mirrors that fractured the sunlight into shards, throwing it across the asphalt like confetti. A woman walked a pair of cats with scales instead of fur, their tails split like serpents. A child skipped across a plaza in stilts shaped like wings, her giggles echoing through a speaker embedded in her throat.

Everything was noise. Everything was too much.

And still—God, still—some part of him felt that flicker of wonder. That traitorous, sick little spark remembered the first time he saw it, before the arena, before the blood. When he was just a boy, pulled from a grey world into a place that glittered so brightly, it felt like dreaming.

He hated that boy. He hated that he could still remember what it felt like to hope.

You sat across from him, quiet, your hands folded in your lap. Your posture was tight, controlled, but your gaze drifted—to the window, to him, then back again. He could see it: the calculation, the exhaustion. The way your shoulders sank half an inch lower when you thought no one was looking.

Coral babbled on across from you, scrolling through her Capitol-issued tablet like her life depended on it. She rattled off times and locations with a breathless efficiency, fingers fluttering like the feathers stitched into her ridiculous sleeves.

“Meeting with President Snow at noon. Tribute rehearsal at fourteen-hundred. Full prep schedule locked in by sixteen. We’ll need to trim that hair, obviously,” she added, glancing at Satoru like his pale curls were a personal insult.

Satoru said nothing. Instead, he watched the skyline twist as they turned a corner, the whole city unfolding like a living organism. The air smelled like roses. Not real ones—the chemical kind, the ones that clung to everything in the Capitol like perfume and rot. It was too sweet; too sharp. A scent that made his nose sting. It mixed with something else, too. Smoke. Ash. The faintest hint of ozone.

He remembered that smell. He remembered breathing it in as he watched Riko die.

Outside the window, a billboard flickered. His face stared back at him, a younger version—hair slicked back, eyes fierce, jaw set. A crown of fire had been edited into the shot, curling above his head like he was some kind of deity.

“SATORU GOJO: THE STORM THAT SURVIVED.”

“They love you,” you said flatly.

He turned to look at you, the Capitol’s reflection dancing in your eyes. “They love their idea of me.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you looked out the window again, and your fingers curled into fists.

“Must I remind you to smile again?” Coral sang, catching your silence with the lilt of her voice. “President Snow won’t be pleased if you’re sulking.”

You both ignored her. The car slowed again.

They were approaching the Presidential Tower’s annex. It was all columns and balconies, soft blue lighting and manicured hedges sculpted into the shapes of snakes and songbirds. Satoru thought it looked like a mausoleum.

The car stopped. A Peacekeeper opened the door. Satoru stepped out, and the Capitol swallowed him whole again.

Everything felt thinner here: the air, the silence. Like even the space between his bones had to be approved by Capitol decree. He felt eyes on him already, from the windows above, from the cameras he couldn’t see. From the insects masquerading as stylists and sponsors and hosts, watching from the glittering towers.

Each step towards the building felt like the ground recognised him, like it remembered his blood.

He was back. The boy who won. The man who never really left.

Somewhere behind him, you followed—just as you always had. Just as he had once asked you not to.

But here you both were, again, just like the Capitol wanted.

The elevator ride up was silent. Not the kind of silence that soothed, but the kind that gathered in your lungs and settled like ash. Every second ticked by like the loading of a gun. Satoru stood rigid in the mirrored walls, his reflection splintered from a dozen angles, all of them wearing the same grim expression.

You were beside him, close but not touching. Neither of you spoke. There wasn’t anything to say. The doors opened with a sigh into the top floor of the Presidential Tower, the highest place in all of Panem.

It was colder up here, though Satoru couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the lack of colour. The entire corridor was white—white floors, white walls, white marble polished to an unnatural sheen, as if even dust had been outlawed here. The air smelled of antiseptic and roses, so thickly perfumed that it made Satoru’s throat itch.

Guards lined the halls, motionless in gold and black. Their visors reflected Satoru and you as you walked past, giving him back no expressions or names. Just hollowed-out silence in humanoid shape.

At the end of the corridor, beyond the skeletal archway of thorn-shaped beams, was President Snow, seated like a spider in the centre of his web.

The office around him gleamed with deliberate elegance—glass-paned walls looking out across the Capitol skyline, a blood-red carpet beneath his desk, and behind him, a flowering wall of roses, growing in unnatural white and red, vines crawling like veins.

The president smiled before he even approached.

“Ah,” he said, standing. “Our victors.”

His voice slithered across the room like fog: low, papery, always polite. He gestured with a skeletal hand. “Please, sit. You must be tired after your trip.”

Satoru remained standing. You didn’t budge an inch, either.

Snow tilted his head, still smiling, like someone indulging a pet. “No? Very well. Let’s get to it, then.”

He folded his hands behind his back. 

“You two have caused quite the stir,” he drawled. “Young minds are so… impressionable. All it takes is a single phrase, a single image, and suddenly the Capitol is flooded with whispers. Symbols.” His smile widened. “Martyrs. And you know what happens to martyrs, don’t you?”

Satoru said nothing.

The President turned slightly, studying the Capitol through the glass like it was a snow globe he’d built himself. “I find it… fascinating,” he said, “the way stories spread. A flicker becomes a flame, and suddenly there’s smoke in places it doesn’t belong. District Four. District Eleven. Even whispers from Twelve, and we all know how dangerous whispers can be.”

He turned to face you both, face still smooth, voice still gentle. “You are not martyrs,” he said. “You are actors. You perform. You smile. You play the part we assign you.”

Satoru’s throat felt dry, but he forced his voice to remain steady. “Everything we said was true.”

“Truth,” Snow echoed, amused now. “Truth is irrelevant. Believability is power. You’re lucky. We’ve spun something from this mess. A story the Capitol can digest. A romance. A tragedy. A pair of haunted lovers forced to return to the arena—but this time, together.”

His eyes gleamed. “The people are already eating it up.”

You shifted beside Satoru, the slightest hitch in your breath the only indication that you were listening.

“But I’ll be clear,” Snow said, taking a step closer. “If either of you deviate from the narrative—if you hesitate, or slip, or speak one wrong word—I will end the story myself.”

He reached up and adjusted the rose on his lapel, the petals shining blood-red in the artificial light. 

“And not with dignity.”

Satoru wanted to scream. To lunge. To shove every inch of marble and rose and power down this sick man’s throat, but he knew he couldn’t, because he knew the stakes.

Snow circled slowly back to his desk and sat once more. “You will go to hair and makeup after this. You will hold hands. You will cry, if you must. You will kiss, perhaps.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever it takes.”

Then, almost as an afterthought: “Oh. And remember to thank me during the interviews. For giving you a second chance at love.”

The words stuck in Satoru’s spine like needles. The President turned away, already finished, and said, “You may go.”

The guards didn’t move, but you did: a single step, steady. You didn’t look back. Satoru followed you out into the hall, his feet like lead, his heart a roar beneath his ribs.

The prep team arrived two hours later—or maybe earlier; time didn’t pass properly in the Capitol. It stretched and buckled like melted sugar. One second, he’d been lying stiff on the too-soft bed in the penthouse suite; the next, the door had slid open and in they came, all perfume and sequins and chirping voices.

“Satoru!” cooed Lume, her eyes rimmed with rhinestones and something vaguely reptilian about the way her lips curved too far. “Oh, we’ve missed you so much. Didn’t we say he’d look taller in person, Davi?”

Davi—a man whose eyebrows were replaced entirely by a row of sapphires—clasped his hands together as if seeing Satoru was akin to witnessing the birth of a star. “Taller and paler,” he sighed. “He’s like a marble statue.”

“Mmm, delicious.” The third one—Krin—circled him with a tablet in hand, analysing angles. She had fins today, literal ones, shimmering gill-like extensions curling from the sides of her neck. “Still lean. So perfect.”

Satoru said nothing, because they didn’t expect him to, anyway.

The prep team didn’t speak to people so much as at them, monologues wrapped in cotton candy and electric laughter. They fluttered and hovered and gestured, and eventually ushered him towards the marble-tiled bathroom where the true transformation began.

It started with the clothes. Off, first. They made a show of not looking, but they always did—covert glances as they peeled the shirt from his frame, as they noted the new scars like collectors inspecting a rare coin. Satoru let them. Resistance was worse.

“Still no body hair,” Krin muttered, almost disappointed. “Is it natural, or—”

“Don’t ask,” Lume interrupted, slapping her hand away from his chest.

They scrubbed him raw. Water that smelled faintly of flowers and bleach poured over him, too hot. Hands moved with choreographed precision: one lathering his hair with a shampoo that tingled like mint and metal, another scraping calluses of his palms with something sharp. A third held a mirror up to his face, noting the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the near-imperceptible tremble in his jaw.

“He’s not sleeping,” Davi whispered, scandalised. “That won’t do. Coral will throw a fit.”

“No need to worry,” Krin said cheerfully. “I’ll send for the white drops. They’ll brighten the sclera, just enough to fake vitality.”

Fake vitality. That was all the Capitol ever wanted, wasn’t it?

By the time they were done with his skin—lotions, creams, serums with names he couldn’t pronounce—he felt scraped clean. Empty. A mannequin waiting to be assembled.

Then came the clothing. Today’s look, they informed him, was a study in tragic resilience. His stylist hadn’t yet arrived, but the outfit had been couriered ahead of time: a tailored suit in stark white, lapels lined with metallic thread that glinted like sunlight bouncing off the ocean’s waves. Beneath it, a high-neck shirt the colour of sea-foam. A single silver pin sat in the shape of a rose. Satoru wanted to throw up when he saw it.

“It’s so… haunted,” Lume said breathlessly, helping him into the jacket. “So wounded-boy-meets-iconic-messiah. Very in this season.”

Satoru stood still, arms out, as they fastened the cuffs.

He stared into the mirror.

The boy in the reflection was not a boy. Not anymore. He looked sharp enough to cut—his hair pushed back from his forehead, revealing his cheekbones; his skin unnaturally smooth, his lips touched with the faintest hint of colour.

He looked like someone who could inspire revolutions. He looked like someone they’d shoot on sight.

The prep team was still fussing, adding final touches—powder here, a dab of gloss there. They argued about whether or not to conceal the scar on his temple.

“Leave it,” Satoru said hoarsely.

They all turned. It was the first thing he’d said all morning.

“...Of course,” Krin replied quickly, nodding. “Yes. Of course.”

They said nothing else after that.

Lume smoothed the shoulders of his jacket and smiled too brightly. Davi handed him a small flask of something herbal “for the nerves,” which Satoru tucked into his pocket without looking. Krin stepped back and made a note on her tablet.

They left Satoru alone.

The room shimmered with Capitol excess—dripping chandeliers, crystal vases full of genetically modified orchids, and a wardrobe larger than his old house in the District. Everything smelled like artificial lemon.

Satoru’s mind was somewhere else.

Back in the Victor’s Village. Back on the train. Back to you, with your trembling hands and your resolute voice. The things you’d said. They want a hero, he thought, but he was never that. He was just a survivor.

He smoothed his jacket. Straightened his spine.

Coral would be here any minute to lead him down to the Tribute Parade. The cameras would start rolling. The world would be watching. 

He looked one last time in the mirror, and let them see what they wanted to see. Let them believe the lie.

Satoru stepped out of his suite and closed the door behind him with a gentle click, then stood there for a moment, fingers twitching at his sides. Hearing the sound of soft footsteps, he turned before he even heard your voice.

Your outfit matched his in almost every detail—the same pearlescent fabric, the same oceanic shine in the metallic thread that edged your cuffs and collar. Only yours had a veil. Translucent and whisper-thin, it hung from a small comb tucked behind your ear, falling like frost over your shoulders. You didn’t bother lifting it.

They’d done this on purpose. He could see it now, how calculated it all was. The paired whites, the blue accents, your stupid veil. A wedding aesthetic without the ceremony. The Capitol didn’t need to announce your love. It was already in the details, and anyone watching would assume it. Would need to.

Satoru’s hand curled into a fist at his side, the other smoothing down the line of his jacket, more out of habit than vanity. The tension in his shoulders was a low, coiled thing. 

“Snow has a sick sense of humour,” he muttered.

Your lips quirked behind the veil. “What gave it away? The matching outfits or the part where we’re supposed to pretend to be in love on national television?”

“Take your pick.”

“He’s serious about this,” you said.

“I know.”

You looked over your shoulder down the hall, then back at him. “So. What do we do?”

He opened his mouth to answer. Closed it. His hands found the edge of his sleeves, fiddling with the cufflinks. The hallway lighting threw shadows beneath your eyes. Maybe they’d tried to cover them up. Maybe they’d left them there on purpose, for the tragic appeal.

“We play along,” he said.

“You mean—”

“I mean we pretend,” he interrupted, “until we figure something else out. We’ll give them what they want. They love a good story.”

“Funny,” you said. “You’ve never been much of an actor.”

“Neither have you.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you glanced down the corridor where Capitol handlers were no doubt waiting just beyond the next corner, armed with cameras and microphones. The Peacekeepers would follow soon after.

“Do you think they’ll believe it?” you asked sardonically. “That Satoru Gojo, the Capitol’s golden boy, suddenly fell in love with the girl he’s spent years hating?”

“Hating you was easy,” he said. “Pretending not to will be harder.”

You turned your face to him fully then, veil catching the light as it shifted like water. “Then maybe don’t try too hard. Your disgust might pass for passion if you squint.”

Satoru didn’t know why he stepped closer. Maybe it was instinct, that old, ruthless Capitol instinct to perform—to charm, to command a room, even when the room was empty. Maybe it was something else, something far less useful and far more dangerous. But he didn’t let himself dwell on it.

From this close, he could see the faint shimmer dusted across your cheekbones. He could also see the stubborn glint in your eyes, that familiar spark he’d hated the moment he saw it all those years ago in the Training Center, the spark that said you’d rather go down swinging than even let someone else win.

“Hold still,” he said quietly, almost low enough to be mistaken for tenderness.

Your brows rose behind the veil, but you didn’t move when he lifted one hand and let it hover in front of your face. His fingers hesitated for a heartbeat too long before he gently pinched the fabric near your temple and adjusted the comb just slightly, letting the veil fall a bit straighter. There—less crooked, more symmetrical. Picture-perfect.

He told himself it was about optics. Always optics.

“There,” he said. “Now you look fit to be a bride.”

His joke was in poor taste. You didn’t thank him. Of course, you didn’t. You tilted your head slightly and looked at him through the thin mesh, studying him with the same wariness you always had—like you were waiting for the knife behind the compliment.

He wished it annoyed him. It used to.

Before he could say anything else, Coral’s heels clicked into the hallway. But even after she reached them, even as she began her chirping monologue about camera angles and choreography, Satoru didn’t look away from you.

He didn’t like you. That part hadn’t changed. You were reckless and infuriating and always two steps ahead of him in ways that didn’t make sense. He remembered the first time you’d beat your fellow tribute, Suguru Geto, in a sparring match. You’d won not because you were stronger, but because you were meaner, cutthroat in a way he hadn’t expected. It had rattled something in him. 

That was the problem. You rattled him.

Even now, arm looped with yours, as Coral guided you both down the corridor, he could feel it—the gnawing hum of something pulling taut under his skin. Not attraction, not exactly. More like gravity. Something unpleasant and inevitable.

Satoru Gojo did not fall in love. But he did play the game, and if the Capitol wanted a love story, they were going to get one so dazzling they wouldn’t know where to look.

The elevator doors opened. He let you step in first. As the doors slid shut behind them, sealing off the world beyond, he looked at your reflection in the polished paneling. The veil shimmered. Your lips were pressed into a grimace.

He wondered, not for the first time, if you could put on an act convincing enough to fool President Snow, too.

He hoped so. He really, really hoped so.

The staging hall behind the Remake Center was cavernous and cold, the kind of cold that wasn’t from temperature but from gleaming walls, sterilised floors, and that metallic scent of too much money. Gold and glass chandeliers hung above the waiting area, casting warped halos over everyone beneath them. Like the Presidential Tower in the City Centre, and the penthouses in the Tribute District, it was too bright, too perfect, and too quiet.

Satoru stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed in a way that was entirely performative. He didn’t glance at the cameras tucked discreetly into the corners of the room, but he knew they were there, humming softly, hungry for any flicker of tension or weakness. He’d learned long ago that Capitol cameras didn’t blink. They just watched, and waited.

You stood beside him, slightly angled away like you couldn’t stand to be too close. Not that he blamed you. The veil still hung from the comb behind your ear, and from the corner of his eye, he could see the way it moved when you breathed—shallow, steady. Controlled.

You were always so good at that. Controlled.

There were already a few pairs gathered in the hall—other victors summoned back to die for the Capitol’s amusement in this sadistic Quarter Quell. Some Satoru recognised instantly. Some he hadn’t seen since they stood on podiums with blood on their faces and flowers in their arms.

He saw Kento Nanami, standing near one of the pillars like he’d rather be anywhere else. Satoru wasn’t surprised he was here. District 11 hadn’t produced many victors in the last few decades, but Kento had been a quiet legend in his own right: clever, composed, and ruthless in the arena when it mattered. Rumour had it he’d won his Games with a broken rib and a shattered wrist. The Capitol had tried to dress him afterward, sculpt him into something shiny, but even now, years later, Kento still looked like someone who didn’t quite belong in these rooms.

His uniform was darker than most, muted bronze with a charcoal sash over one shoulder. He was speaking in low tones to his district partner, who Satoru didn’t immediately recognise. Probably a younger victor. A new lamb for slaughter.

“You think if I throw up before the parade, they’ll cancel it?” someone piped up cheerfully nearby.

Satoru turned to see Yu Haibara, from District 7, beaming at him with a sort of unshakeable optimism that made Satoru’s teeth hurt. The kid was barely older than twenty, his brown curls slightly mussed by the stylists, his uniform stitched from dyed bark and deep green velvet. A nod to his lumber roots, no doubt.

“If it’s on camera,” Yu added brightly, “I might get extra sponsors.”

“You’d better empty your guts dramatically then,” Satoru drawled, slipping easily into Capitol charm. “Preferably mid-spin.”

Yu laughed. “Maybe you can catch me if I faint too. Really sell the tragic romance angle.”

Satoru flashed a grin. “Sorry. I only catch people I like.”

“Oh? Then she’s lucky,” Yu said, gesturing loosely towards you.

You didn’t smile. Not even a twitch. Satoru could practically hear the words you were not saying through the veil. But you stepped just slightly closer to him, shoulder grazing his, and for the Capitol’s invisible audience, it was a performance worth millions.

“Do you think Snow’s going to make us dance next?” Yu asked after a beat. “Like, literally dance? Before he lets us kill each other?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Kento said, walking up to you three. He offered a stiff nod to Satoru, then to you. His expression was impassive, but his eyes were tired. “Though if we’re lucky, maybe they’ll send the mutts in before the waltz.”

“Have to keep the pacing up,” Satoru murmured. Mutts, or muttations, normal animals genetically modified in the Capitol’s labs into creatures more grotesque than he could ever imagine, were the least of his worries. “Wouldn’t want the audience to get bored.”

“God forbid,” Nanami replied dryly.

Satoru’s smile faded just slightly. There was a hollow spot behind his ribs that hadn’t stopped aching since the reaping. 

Yu reached into his sleeve and produced a bright red candy. “Want one?” he offered Satoru. “Tastes like synthetic strawberries. Or so they say. I’ve never actually had strawberries before.”

Satoru blinked at him, then took the candy and popped it into his mouth.

“Very sweet,” he confirmed. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d tasted in the Capitol. That title still belonged to whatever poison they called oysters.

Kento’s eyes flicked from Satoru to you. “How long do you plan to keep this act up?”

Satoru tilted his head, smiling like the answer didn’t matter. “As long as we have to.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Kento rolled his eyes, but he didn’t push. Not here, where every word was being catalogued, where even the smallest twitch of tension could be repackaged and broadcast in high definition.

You spoke up then, voice quiet but clear. “It’s what they want, isn’t it? A star-crossed twist. All’s fair in love and war, and whatever other fuckery goes on in their heads.”

“You guys sound fun at parties,” Yu said.

“We used to be,” Satoru muttered.

The doors at the far end of the hall opened with a sudden, echoing click. A handler in Capitol lavender beckoned them forward. The chariots were being prepped. The parade was about to begin.

Satoru sighed once, long and shallow. He extended a hand towards you, palm up. Your fingers were cold. Or maybe his were. Either way, they fit too easily.

Yu winked as he passed. “Try not to upstage the rest of us, lovebirds.”

“No promises,” Satoru said, walking forward with you on his arm, every step a silent, glittering lie.

The Avenue of the Tributes stretched out before Satoru like a burnished mirror, polished till the cobblestones shone. Spotlights hovered above on silent rails, casting pools of white-gold light that tracked each chariot as it rolled through the wide boulevard, flanked on either side by rows and rows of screaming Capitol citizens.

Satoru stood at the front of the chariot, spine straight beneath the pearlescent jacket that shimmered in the light. Every movement made the fabric catch on itself—blue, then green, then silver—like he was wearing the ocean on his skin. At his side, you stood just as poised, your hand tucked loosely into the crook of his elbow, veil trembling slightly in the wind.

Your other hand was hidden between you, fingers curled around his. For balance, you’d said when you climbed into the chariot. You hadn’t let go since.

Cheers echoed through the corridor of lights and screens. The hover-cams whirred softly as they zoomed in, projecting close-up feeds of each pair onto the giant curved panels looming over the avenue. On one, Satoru caught a glimpse of his own face—mask-like, unreadable—and yours beside it, half-concealed by your veil. Together, you looked like the climax of a fairy tale, right before everything fell apart.

Good. That was the point.

“They’re eating this up,” he murmured, not turning his head.

Your voice floated back just as quiet. “You sure it’s not the outfits?”

“I think it’s the misery.”

You let out a faint huff that might have been a laugh. Or maybe a sigh.

Ahead of your chariot, the chariot from District 3 turned the final bend, where the wide boulevard narrowed into City Centre. From here, Satoru could see the Presidential Tower rising like a blade of glass into the night sky. All the light in the world seemed to pool at its base—cold, brilliant, all-consuming.

He hated that tower.

The chariot began to slow.

Coral had instructed him to do something big when they reached the end. “A gesture,” she had said, fluttering her manicured fingers. “Something iconic. They need to fall in love with the idea of you two.”

Satoru had nodded absently. He knew how this worked. He knew what sold.

He also knew that every camera would be trained on you and him in the next sixty seconds. President Snow would be watching from his perch, eyes like twin chips of frozen steel. Every Capitol citizen and every grieving mother in Panem would be holding their breath, ready to believe in the lie if he made it beautiful enough.

So when the chariot began to slow, and the crowd’s screams peaked into something shrill and hysterical, he turned to you.

Your eyes met his behind the veil, and just for a second, everything stilled. He saw the fatigue carved beneath your lashes. The way you held your chin just high enough to not look scared. The way your mouth parted slightly like you were about to say something—then didn’t.

Satoru reached up, slowly, and pushed the veil back.

It slipped over your hair like mist, pooling behind your shoulders, baring your face to the cameras. Gasps rippled through the crowd. You flinched, almost imperceptibly.

Satoru stepped closer, one hand still in yours. The other lifted to your cheek, resting there with the barest pressure.

“This is a terrible idea,” you said, breath brushing his lips.

“That’s what makes it romantic,” he said, and kissed you, not softly or chastely.

He kissed you like he was trying to rewrite the story with his mouth. Like if he kissed you hard enough, the Capitol might forget what this parade really was. Like maybe he could forget, too.

Your lips parted beneath his. You didn’t pull away.

The crowd screamed. Fireworks ignited above the tower in bursts of crystalline white and glittering crimson. Cameras whirred. Screens flashed. Satoru closed his eyes against all of it.

When he finally pulled back, your lipstick was smudged and your expression unreadable. The veil fluttered behind you, untethered. Your fingers were still tight around his. He forced a smile, something charming and rakish, for the Capitol. You didn’t smile back, but you didn’t let go of his hand.

The chariot rolled to a halt in front of the Tower. The anthem swelled, deafening now, but all Satoru could hear was the thud of his own heartbeat and the whisper of your breath against his collar. He stood there, hand still cradling your cheek, eyes on the President’s balcony, where a single white rose gleamed in a crystal vase.

He wondered what the Capitol saw at that moment. Their golden boy and his beloved? Or just two more corpses with pretty faces and perfect timing?

Let them choose, he thought bitterly. Let them believe whatever version of the lie they liked best. He could play this role until the end. He had to.

The applause didn’t fade so much as shift, muted behind the tall glass doors of the Training Center as the chariot peeled away into the underground corridors. The quiet was jarring, sudden, like someone had clamped a hand over the Capitol’s glittering mouth.

Satoru released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The veil was still pushed back, your fingers still tangled loosely in his, a quiet echo of the performance you’d just sold to the entire nation. He loosened his grip before you could pull away first. You didn’t look at him as you adjusted the comb in your hair. He didn’t expect you to.

Coral’s voice chimed in beside him—overly chipper, as though she hadn’t just watched you both broadcast a staged kiss to millions of viewers. “Darlings, you were stunning. President Snow’s aides are going to be in a frenzy by morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if he requests an exclusive interview before the interviews. Now, you two will—naturally, of course—be sharing a suite with a single bedroom. Lovebirds, and all that pizzazz.”

Satoru muttered something noncommittal and let her guide him down the main hallway. The Training Center was the same as always: gleaming floors, ceiling panels aglow with sterile light, the soft scent of something floral piped in to cover the antiseptic undertones. Every year, he remembered it being too quiet. Too polished. Like the building was pretending not to be what it was.

Prison. Vault. Mausoleum.

The elevator opened with a soft chim, and Coral stepped in with you, instructing the Peacekeepers to wait below. District 4’s floor was near the top, just underneath a few high-scoring districts. The doors slid open into a carpeted hallway lined with glass doors, each suite labeled in a metallic script. He hadn’t even reached his assigned room before a voice called out from the end of the hall:

“Satoru! Hey!”

Satoru turned to see Yu again, grinning as brightly as he had back before the parade, his dark curls windswept. He was still in his tribute outfit. Beside him, Kento leaned against the wall, eyes flicking between you and Satoru with a kind of calm interest.

“District Four’s really making a statement tonight,” Yu said, jogging up. “I knew you’d pull something like that.”

“Glad to give the people what they want,” Satoru replied easily.

Yu shot a teasing glance at you. “He always this romantic when cameras are off?”

“Worse,” you said, not missing a beat.

“Theatrics aside,” Kento said, walking over, “it was well-played. You’ll be the Capitol’s sweethearts by tomorrow.”

“Is that a good thing?” Satoru asked.

“Only if you don’t mind being watched,” Kento said. “Constantly.”

Another door opened down the hall.

Yuki Tsukumo stepped out barefoot, wearing an oversized black robe that barely grazed her knees. Her hair was still styled from the parade—loose curls and golden embellishments tucked behind one ear—and she walked with the easy confidence of someone who didn’t mind being the centre of attention in the room.

“Ah,” she said, eyes lighting up as she caught sight of your little congregation. “The lovers of the hour.”

Satoru barely had time to brace before she was in front of him, eyes dragging over the details of his still-buttoned jacket and the faint trace of lipstick smudged near his mouth.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Gojo,” she crooned, tilting her head. “I always thought you were more of a solo act.”

He offered her a smile. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“True.” Yuki stepped closer, unabashed. “But I’d love to find out.”

From the corner of his eye, Satoru caught sight of your shoulders stiffening just slightly. He said nothing.

Yuki’s hand reached up, smooth fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “Nice stitching. Did your stylist tailor it just for you?”

“Yes,” he said flatly.

“I like a man with taste.”

“And I like a woman who doesn’t waste time,” he replied, stepping just out of reach. “But unfortunately, I’m spoken for now.”

He reached for your hand before he could second-guess it.

Yuki’s eyebrows lifted, clearly amused. “Well, how tragic for me.” She turned her gaze to you, lips curled. “But lucky you. If you ever get bored of the Capitol’s golden boy, let me know.”

You smiled. “If I ever get bored, I’ll be too dead to care.”

Yuki laughed and lifted two fingers to her brow in a mock-salute before sauntering back to her suite. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Yu let out a low whistle. “District Two really doesn’t believe in subtlety, huh?”

“She’s just bored,” Kento said simply. “She’s already won once. Flirting’s just another way to stay sharp.”

Coral clapped her hands, clearly uncomfortable with the whole exchange. “Alright! Let’s get you two settled in. Training begins tomorrow, and I’d hate for either of you to look anything less than breathtaking at breakfast.”

You let her drag you towards the suite, your fingers slipping out of Satoru’s grip somewhere along the way. Yu yawned and pressed the button for the elevator, before waving goodbye and stepping inside. Kento, however, stayed where he was.

Satoru glanced at him.

Kento’s voice was low. “Keep your eyes open, Gojo. That kiss was a declaration—not just to the Capitol. To the other tributes as well.”

“What of it?” Satoru didn’t look away.

“You better be careful.”

Satoru said nothing.

When he finally stepped into the suite and the doors closed behind him, the noise of the hallway faded; all he could think of was that kiss, the way your breath caught against his cheek, the soft tremble he hadn’t imagined. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew they were all watching now.

He wasn’t sure he could afford a single mistake from here on.

You didn’t enter the bedroom at all that night.

Satoru padded barefoot into the common lounge, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, hair still tousled from tossing against Capitol pillows that, though soft, offered him no comfort. You sat on the low couch near the window wall, knees tucked to your chest, gaze fixed on the glowing skyline of the Capitol.

You didn’t turn at the sound of his footsteps, though you’d clearly heard them.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

“Didn’t know you were capable of whispering,” you said back.

He smirked, but didn’t answer. Instead, he moved to the opposite end of the couch and lowered himself onto it slowly, stretching one leg out and letting the other rest lazily against the floor. His elbows found his knees. 

“That kiss…” you said. “You really sold it.”

“You kissed me back,” he said.

“We’re playing a role.”

“Sure,” he said. “You still kissed me back. You don’t have to be afraid, you know.”

You turned to him, eyebrows lifted.

“I mean,” he continued, leaning his head back against the couch, “not of me. If you want… I can sleep on the couch tonight. You can take the bed.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You seemed on edge. I figured having someone else awake nearby might help.”

Satoru didn’t have to tell you what he was actually referring to. He thought about your argument on the train more often than he should have, something dark and ugly and twisted slithering about in his chest every time he remembered your words. He wanted to kill all those fucking sponsors who’d touched you, tear their limbs off one by one—he didn’t like you, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to protect you. Suguru would have wanted it.

“I’m fine,” you said.

“I know,” he said. “Just offering.”

a/n: thanks for reading! and thank you to @mahowaga for beta reading :) comments are appreciated!

art credit: _3aem