#Paper Parade Event

[cozycornergamingofficial]

Hello Kitty Island Adventure 'Paper Parade' Event

2 minutes It’s time for the Paper Parade event in Hello Kitty Island Adventure. Tuxedosam already has a special frame built for the Paper Parade Float. It just needs some snazzy decorations to make it even better. It’s your job to collect Paper Crafts to help decorate the Paper Parade Float on Friendship Island. Learn more about your friends as you participate in the Paper Parade and celebrate…

[iliveinprocrasti-nationn]

i think the taylor swift tour could be studied as one of the biggest if not the biggest superspreader event of 2023

[inkskinned]

in the time loop the only way out is to leave her there but you don't ever leave her there, never in the roughly one thousand years you have been in the same day. it is probably like "50 first dates" but you haven't stooped so low as to watch "50 first dates" yet. (but who is to say what another thousand years of the same media will bring to you, maybe you will develop a new taste).

you spent about 200 of these years sulking in a bathtub or on the couch or staring at the seaside. 300 of them have been spent slowly mapping the geographical distance you can actually get before the time loop restarts. you have a list of favorite places: one library in Western Massachusetts called "The Bookmill", which has weird hours and has never raised an eyebrow to you arriving out-of-breath and panting, asking to see a specific book on a specific shelf. There is one beach without a name in North Carolina; it is an accident of geography and ownership title disputes - and it is pristine, untouched, warm and cozy. you've taken her on a lot of picnics there. Acadia National Park. One specific birdhouse in the mountains.

you were stuck in the time loop with the money you entered it with: not enough to rent a private jet. you've robbed a bank a few times, you don't like the way it ends. maybe next century you'll get the hang of it. you don't like the look on her face when you say hang on i have to stop at the bank.

you just have to leave her, and you can go back to being a person again. you took 5 years just catching a flight and sitting in the Grand Canyon. if there's one thing you regret more than anything, it's that you hadn't gotten your passport renewed before this fucking time loop. maybe you should spend some time learning forgery - but also, like, you look like an english teacher. nobody is going to be cool about you asking to see their paper printing machines.

the world is very big. that is one of the things groundhog day gets wrong. there are no consequences, so you have literally all the time (or none of the time?) in the world. in groundhog day, he does a lot of very cool things, but in reality - your muscle memory never gets better. you can't necessarily learn how to play piano or sculpt ice, because your hands never remember the practice. but hey - maybe you'll try violin next. drums. synth.

you can open any door and walk into any conversation. money isn't really an object. you can try every meal off every menu, forever. take her on helicopter tours and into every museum and on every event that is happening right-now at-this-moment. parades and funerals and calligraphy classes.

but you are somewhat trapped by the limitations of your body. if you were reading a book, you still need to get up and go back to the library and find that book again when the day resets. (thank god for the internet). it still takes like 2 hours to board a plane, and then takeoff and landing and traffic. you've gotten off to run around on the freeway. one of the little thankful things: since your brain isn't actually developing (it's a muscle too), the days thankfully don't feel shorter to you. that would be agony.

all you have to do to leave the timeloop is let that man get away with it. that's all. in every version of yourself - forever - you have stopped him.

the problem is that this experience has convinced you of the existence of the human soul. after all, how else are you forming memories? your very cells reset. information has to be transferred somehow. and if timeloops are real, you can convince yourself other magic exists. so you have two choices here: this hell, or the next. there might be a millennia where you have been worn down to the point you can accept fate's decision. this is just not one of them. ironically - she is the one thing you have left.

and besides! if you can't always find something new in your partner, aren't you failing them? there is something new about her, every day with the same morning. every brutal day with the same orange sunset.

after all, you wanted to live with her in heaven, in eternity, and, well - isn't this second-best.

[beloveds-embrace]

duke au angst, but könig isn’t a knight. He’s either not in it and reader just sinks into a pit of depression and withdrawals so much that rumours start speculation around the ton that reader is either dead or murder and it starts to take a toll on john reputation (they start going after why him, simon, johnny and kyle are so close) or a könig is an Austrian duke/way closer to royalty and when he’s over for business with John and/or simon, he and the reader hit it off (much to the boys dismay) and reader plans on leaving without a word, leaving nothing more than a vague letter that details why and a set of divorce papers (helped achieved by könig) and by the time they realise their mistake readers already living the high life in austria

….okay but the first one’s got me downright obsessed, anon 😩 second one too and i feel like i will absolutely end up caving and writing it later but for now, have this!

Angst dukedom post

Non-angst dukedome post(no konig in this one)

No but seriously, there is only so much you can take. Between everyone’s dismissal of you, the lack of any meaningful company, the loneliness- it was only a matter of time before you just… can’t do it anymore.

The change, though it starts slow, is impossible to hide. You stop having dinner with John, finding no solace in the taste of lukewarm, half-heartedly prepared food. You tell yourself it’s not worth it- the stilted conversations, the empty looks, the way his eyes always drift to anything but you. He’s too busy sharing hidden glances with Kyle, exchanging quiet touches with Johnny when he hand delivers the food, speaking to Simon with an intensity that has never been for you.

You stop attending the endless galas and balls you are meant expected to attend as the Duchess. You withdraw from the tea parties, from every suffocating event where you were paraded as nothing more than an ornament on Duke Price’s arm. You withdraw from the public eye itself.

Instead, you drift through the duchy, through the rooms that are suddenly empty when you arrive. You drift to and fro, in a haze of lonelinthat and slow-setting exhaustion.

The maids whispered of you before, but it used to be out of your earshot; now, you can hear them clearly, none of them afraid of being punished when not even your own husband can stand your sight. They mutter about how sickly you look, how your eyes are dull and lifeless.

She’s wasting away.

Maybe it’s for the best.

No one can love someone who fades into the walls.

But of course, the whispers aren’t just within the duchy. Rumors ripple out beyond the duchy’s walls-

The Duchess has gone mad, they say. Locked away by her husband, for her own good.

She ran away in the dead of night, they say. Couldn’t bear her husband’s coldness. Maybe he drove her to it.

He’s always with Duke Riley, isn’t he? Or the butler. Or the chef.

Poor thing. No wonder she vanished.

All of it gnaws and bites at John’s reputation, at yours, but he never comes to you and it doesn’t surprise you at all. He would rather find a way to bury it all then simply check on you. The facade has always been more important, and he keeps it with half-hearted excuses half-believed by some and dismissed by others.

But they are relentless, and soon they taint every interaction he has. No one meets him without a hint of suspicion in their eyes. How much of it is true, they seem to ask. What did you do to her? Is she really gone? She was a good woman, how could you do that to her? There is more scrutiny now on the time he spends with Simon, with Kyle, with Johnny. He starts to avoid public events himself, unwilling to face the relentless gossip that hangs over him now like a dark cloud.

Eventually, you stop dressing for the day, leaving your hair unkempt, your gowns crumpled and out of style. No one comes to check on you, the maids happy at having less work, and you tell yourself that you prefer it that way. No eyes to judge. No lips to lie. The solitude is nothing new, even if it’s never been this severe before.

Time blurs, too. You stop looking at the newspapers when they stop being delivered. The days mean nothing when every morning brings only a new kind of numbness, and some days you spend entirely in bed, too tired to even think about taking a step outside.

Yet, even with your noticeable absence, nothing changes. No one knocks on your door, not even once. No one checks to see if you’re eating, breathing, surviving. You feel so achingly lonely.

John doesn’t approach you once. You have become a specter, more distant than ever. And though he and the others feel a creeping sense of guilt- Kyle finds himself lingering outside your door, only to turn away with clenched fists; Johnny’s jokes die in his throat when he hears your name; Simon stares at the spot you used to take during the dinners and lunches he’d join; John stares at the very few portraits of you that line the walls and wonders how he’d even go about approaching you- none of them move to truly mend the gaping distance between you. They regret their neglect, but they do not know how to fix it. Or maybe they are simply too late.

dukedom au masterlist Part Two: Fix-it

[smileysuh]

good & bad

🌙 staring. Kim Mingyu & Jeon Wonwoo x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. “My new therapist says it’s healthy behavior to let Wonwoo do what he wants to do ever so often,” you explain, watching Wonwoo beat Seungcheol at the arm wrestling and proceed to down two shots in celebration. “I’m not sure how she can think him coming to frats, getting drunk, and getting into pissing contests is healthy, but hey, it’s not my job to counsel power holders.”

tw/cw. Threesome, unprotected sex, dirty talk, fingering, dry humping, horny!gyu, dom!wonwoo, Wonwoo tells virgin!Gyu what to do, hand job, Wonwoo using his power to help y/n ride Mingyu, manhandling, size kink, groping, nipple pinching, praise, degradation, voyeurism, pussy stretching, cream pie, multiple reader orgasms, etc… I pet names: (hers) gorgeous & baby.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 8.8k

🍭 aus. superpower au, uni au, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. I was thirsting for another Meanie fic and I came up with this super power, I'd never seen it before and I thought it would be fun :)

Prologue:

“We thought she just had an active imagination,” your mother explained, reaching over to grab your hand and give it a soft squeeze. “Most kids show signs of powers when they’re six or seven, she’s ten now, so we just thought maybe she wouldn’t have any. Her father is a none-supe, so we came to terms with it years ago.”

The doctor was looking over your family file, and she nodded softly, looking up at your mother, then to you. “When did you first see signs that these imaginary friends of hers weren’t just in her own head?”

“There were little things,” your mother admitted. “I was cooking one night and she was drawing. When I looked again, the paper next to her had this image on it- a completely different art style to what she had been doing. When I asked her who drew it, she told me that Mingyu had.”

“Mingyu is one of her imaginary friends, correct?”

“Yes, she has Mingyu, who at first was described as the ‘good’ one, and Wonwoo, the ‘bad.’”

“Something akin to an angel and devil on your shoulder,” the doctor nodded. 

“Exactly.”

“After the art incident?”

“She was outside one day, tossing a ball around, and the ball bounced back to her, like some invisible person had thrown it back. At first, we thought maybe she had some sort of telekinesis, but she told me she was playing catch with Wonwoo.”

“So this was the first instance you saw proof that one of her imaginary friends could actually manipulate real-life objects, correct?”

“Yes.”

The doctor leaned back in her chair. “Are there any other events that have happened that push you to believe these imaginary friends of hers are real and it’s not a telekinesis power?”

“Well, y/n fell off her bike last week. Her knee was all scraped up. I was about to run and get bandages when this soft glow appeared over her knee. The scrape disappeared and she told me that Mingyu had healed her.”

“Very interesting.” The doctor had looked at you then, rolling forward on her chair. “Can I see your knee, please?”

You lifted the hem of your dress, showing your leg. There wasn’t so much as a scratch where Mingyu had healed you, and your ‘imaginary friend’ leaned over the doctor's shoulder to inspect his work. 

“Can one of these imaginary friends move an object in the room for us?” The doctor had asked next. “Perhaps, a book on the shelf over there?”

“Wonwoo can do that,” you’d nodded, gazing over at the boy your age who was leaning by the door, a disinterested look on his face.

With a sigh, he’d approached the bookshelf, reaching for a copy of War and Peace. The book had clattered to the ground.

“I don’t like being paraded around like this,” Wonwoo had mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Very interesting,” the doctor nodded. “It appears there might be some power at work here. I’ve never heard of a power like this one- two imaginary friends, one of which has healing abilities. I’ll make a note of it, and we will see how the power progresses with age. It’s possible as your daughter grows, so will the strength of these friends of hers.”

“Do you mean…” Your mother looked down at you nervously. “Is it possible we’ll ever see these friends ourselves? Or do you think they’ll stay invisible forever?”

“It’s anyone’s guess on that. As I said, I’ve never seen a power like this one. All we can do is wait and see what happens.”

one 

You’re seated on a musty old couch in the middle of a loud frat party, and a large part of you really doesn’t want to be here. Even with your friend Joshua keeping you company, you’re not here for yourself, and that always feels obvious to those around you.

Your gaze keeps shifting to Wonwoo, who’s having the time of his life. He’d done a keg stand the moment you’d arrived, and now, he’s in the middle of an arm wrestle with Seungcheol, the frat president, who, like your dark protector, also has a strength power variation.

Dino, a new pledge approaches you, handing a fresh cup of alcohol to Joshua. Like you, Dino’s eyes are locked on Wonwoo. “Tell me again why that dude isn’t part of the frat? I’ve never seen anyone go toe to toe with Seungcheol like this.”

“Should I tell him, or do you want to?” Joshua grins, bumping his shoulder against your own.

“You can tell him,” you sigh. In the past ten years since you found out you had an unusual power, you’ve gotten tired of explaining it.

“Dino, this is y/n, y/n this is Dino. Dino, y/n has a power where she has two imaginary friends, except, these days, they’re not so imaginary,” Joshua begins. “Wonwoo is one of y/n’s imaginary friends-”

“Wonwoo prefers the term companions,” you quip.

“Right, one of her companions,” Joshua corrects himself. “He’s got super strength like Cheol does. The reason Wonwoo’s not in the frat is because he can’t go more than a ten-meter radius from y/n, he’s tethered to her.”

“That’s a weird power,” Dino muses.

“Don’t be rude,” Joshua snaps, smacking the pledge’s arm. “Anyways, y/n’s not a huge fan of frats, so Wonwoo can’t join because she won’t be caught dead here more than once, maybe twice, a week.”

“My new therapist says it’s healthy behavior to let Wonwoo do what he wants to do ever so often,” you explain, watching Wonwoo beat Seungcheol at the arm wrestling and proceed to down two shots in celebration. “I’m not sure how she can think him coming to frats, getting drunk, and getting into pissing contests is healthy, but hey, it’s not my job to counsel power holders.”

“You said you have two uh… companions, where’s the other?” Dino asks, looking around.

“Mingyu’s staying inside tonight, he doesn’t agree with this sort of thing,” you sigh.

“Staying in?” Dino’s brows furrow in confusion. “I thought you said there was a radius thing?”

“Staying in here.” You tap your head. 

“He’s… inside your head?” Dino’s face scrunches up in something like disgust. “You have a dude in your head right now?”

Before you can answer, another frat boy comes running up. Seungkwan looks frazzled, his shirt haphazardly buttoned, eyes wide. “Y/N!” he bellows. “Quick, I need Mingyu! Some kid is greening out and puking in the bathroom upstairs!”

In an instant, your light protector appears next to you. Mingyu stands up quickly, face already shadowed with concern. “Show me where.”

“Jesus-” Dino jumps from the sudden emergence of the six-foot-two brick wall of a man. 

“Come on,” Mingyu urges, grabbing your hand to pull you from the couch. You let out an annoyed groan as he drags you through the crowd after Seungkwan, leaving Joshua and Dino in your wake.

You arrive to the second-floor bathroom, and you wait outside while Mingyu goes to investigate. Ever since the frat found out Mingyu has healing powers, they call on him for any sort of drunken mistake, including greening out. One touch from Mingyu can clear nausea, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to his powers.

You’re at a university dedicated to helping people train their abilities, and yet, you often feel like an outsider. It had been clear that you’d been struggling when you arrived, after all, you yourself don’t have any overt powers other than being connected to two men with astounding abilities, and that’s when you’d been assigned a therapist.

This whole ‘do things for Wonwoo and Mingyu’ idea has been a lot to wrap your head around, but you’re trying to make it work-

Wonwoo bounds up the stairs, his eyes alight with anger. “What are you two doing up here?” he practically growls.

“Mingyu’s helping some kid who greened out,” you explain.

“Of course he is, fucking knight in shining armor. Doesn’t he know this is my night? He’s ruining it with good deeds- pulled me away from beer pong.”

You sigh. “Discuss this with him.”

“I will,” Wonwoo states, pushing past you to enter the bathroom.

Releasing a deep breath, you sink against the wall, listening to the two men argue. Their words are muffled by the loud music that thrums through the house, and you don’t particularly care to know the details of their heated exchange.

You’re exhausted, and after looking at your phone for the time, you decide enough is enough. Pushing your head into the bathroom, you find Mingyu and Wonwoo holding each other by the front of their shirts, and their argument stops the moment you appear.

“It’s past midnight, I want to leave,” you sigh.

“But-” Wonwoo begins.

“That’s a good idea!” Mingyu grins.

“Wonwoo, I know this is your night, and I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this right now.”

Wonwoo frowns at your words, then releases Mingyu. “Fine, whatever. Let’s just go.”

two

“You seem agitated,” the therapist notes, watching the way Mingyu is fidgeting on the couch.

“It’s just…” he casts a sideways glance at you and Wonwoo, seated next to him with noise canceler headphones on, “I worry that they can hear me.”

“I can promise you they can’t. The noise cancellers are playing loud music. This is your time to talk with me.”

“Still…” Mingyu frowns, “it feels weird.”

“We can ask Wonwoo to go back inside y/n’s head if you’d like.”

“I don’t want that either, Wonwoo prefers to be outside.”

The therapist looks down at her notes. “Tell me more about that. What does being ‘inside’ feel like.”

“It’s dark,” Mingyu explains. “I can’t really explain it. Wonwoo and I don’t sleep, so I don’t know what sleep is like- but I’m pretty sure it’s not just dark boredom the way being inside feels.”

“Do you both have a preference for being ‘out’ then?”

“I mean… it’s a whole lot nicer than being in.”

“Have you ever discussed this with y/n?” The therapist cocks her head, and it’s clear she’s trying to understand, but Mingyu’s still not used to her.

“No. She has enough on her plate, especially now with the whole ‘give Wonwoo time to do what he wants to do’ thing.” Mingyu looks down at his hands, and he picks at his skin.

“I take it you don’t enjoy doing what Wonwoo wants to do.”

“No, and neither does y/n. My night in control is all about good food, relaxing, and watching Netflix. Wonwoo’s night in control is frat parties, keg stands, and getting into fights.”

“Sounds like comfort versus destruction.”

“Destructive is a good word to describe Wonwoo,” Mingyu admits. 

“Aside from your feelings on frat parties and keg stands and fights, do you think you each having time to choose what’s happening has been beneficial?”

Mingyu thinks about it for a moment. “Wonwoo has been less of a dick lately.” 

“That’s good news.” The therapist jots down some notes. “If I may, from the way I understand y/n’s power, you and Wonwoo are both parts of her. Opposing parts, but parts nonetheless. Do you think it’s possible that seeing as you’re both parts of her, there’s some part of y/n, perhaps even some part of you, that enjoys frat parties?”

Mingyu only shrugs.

“From what I understand, you mostly stay in during Wonwoo’s controlled times. If you weren’t so focused on disagreeing with his morals, or whatever it is you do disagree with, are there things about frat parties that you might like?”

“Maybe.” Mingyu picks at his skin again. “I do like to dance.”

“What if I challenge you to be out more at frat parties, to let loose and give it a chance?”

“I’ll do it because you’re asking me to, but I’m not sure how good it will feel.”

“Maybe that’s something to discuss at our next one-on-one.”

Mingyu can only shrug. He’s been tied to Wonwoo for over ten years now, and he doubts much could change the destructive, obnoxious way he views your darker half.

three

When you’d been accepted to a superpower-focused university, you’d been enrolled in things that would benefit both Mingyu and Wonwoo’s powers. For Wonwoo, you have to go to the gym with him and watch him lift obscene amounts of weight. The gym isn’t your favorite place, but at least you can get a workout while he trains. For Mingyu, on the other hand, he’s doing healer training in the hospital, and due to doctor-patient confidentiality, you’re stuck sitting in the hallway outside the exam room where he heals people. 

It’s quite boring. 

The one shining grace is that Wonwoo often sits with you, and the two of you watch anime on your phone together. Although Wonwoo doesn’t complain as much as he used to about being bored, you can tell from his slouched stance and heavy sighs that he’s just as tired of this whole thing as you are.

“You know,” you say, nudging him between episodes, “you don’t have to sit with me.”

“If you have to be here, I have to be here.”

“You can go back inside, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I’m entertaining, you’re less bored when I’m here,” Wonwoo insists. “Waiting for Mingyu is boring. You weren’t bored at the frat though, because frats are infinitely more fun than hospitals.”

“It might be boring,” you admit, “but… either way, it’s nice to see you both thriving. I think this therapy thing has been helpful with seeing all sides of this power.”

“As long as you’re thriving too,” Wonwoo notes, casting you a sideways glance. “It will be girls' night soon- you can have a whole night without us.”

“For real this time?” You narrow your eyes at the man who had ‘popped out’ during your last girls' night. While you enjoy Wonwoo’s company, both he and Mingyu make it very difficult to have female friends, who always get caught up in a sense of longing for the gorgeous men. 

“For real,” Wonwoo sighs. 

“Good, because if I get propositioned by one of my friends again for them to get a chance to sleep with one of you, I might just poke my eye out with a fork.”

Wonwoo lets out a soft chuckle. “Maybe that’s something you want to talk about with the therapist in your next session.”

“Maybe it is,” you huff, hating whenever Wonwoo says something that’s actually valid.

Your eyes turn back to your phone, where the anime has progressed through its recap and intro. As boring as sitting in a hospital for hours is, Wonwoo does make it a little bit easier.

four

Wonwoo appreciates Mingyu staying inside your head for his therapy sessions. It’s less stress having only you seated next to him, your noise cancellers on, your head leaned back, eyes closed. He thinks you might be sleeping, and he’s happy you can rest while his psyche is getting poked and prodded by the therapist. 

“How are your classes going?” 

“Fine,” Wonwoo murmurs.

“Elaborate on the word fine.”

He shrugs. “Fine. Not good, not bad. Just… fine.”

“What’s the not good aspect of that?”

Wonwoo looks up at the therapist. He doesn’t want to open up, but you’ve encouraged him that this is the place to do it.

With a loud sigh, he leans back against the couch. “I guess… last week we had a class about prospective jobs for people with strength powers, and I don’t know… all the other guys have options. They could join superhero teams, make a difference- and I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“No, I can’t,” Wonwoo repeats. “I’m tied to y/n. Anywhere I go, she has to be within a ten-meter radius. I couldn’t run into danger and worry about her getting hurt. She’s my priority, not anyone else. No matter how much I want to do more with my power- I can’t.”

The therapist cocks her head at him, assessing him with analytic eyes. “It sounds like you’re saying you feel like perhaps your skills are being… repressed, in a way.”

“I guess you could say that.” Wonwoo looks down. “I just… it’s not as bad for Mingyu. He could get a job at a hospital and y/n would be safe there. She’d be bored out of her fucking mind. But she wouldn’t be in danger. I’m starting to think that’s the best path forward, as much as I hate to admit it.”

“Do you think y/n would prefer that path?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t talked about it with her.”

“For three people so closely tied together, it seems as though there’s not as much communication about the important things as there could be.”

“We talk,” Wonwoo insists.

“When was the last time you all talked about something important?”

Wonwoo can feel hot anger bubbling up inside of him, but luckily, he has a quick example. “We talked about how we feel about this whole sharing time thing.”

“And?”

“Mingyu and I both like it, but… as much as y/n says she’s okay with it, I’m pretty sure it’s draining her to be bored all the time.”

“Earlier you said being tied to y/n has restrictions, do you think being tied to the two of you has restrictions for y/n too?”

“Clearly it does.” Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “Some days, I think she’d prefer to be powerless and be at a regular university.”

“Has she ever voiced that to you?”

“She never would, even if she felt it. No matter what it might look like to outsiders, the three of us care about each other. Or… well, I care about y/n, and so does Mingyu, and she cares about us.”

“You and Mingyu still haven’t been getting along I take it.”

“Nope.”

“And yet, Mingyu is inside right now. He’s giving you space to have a private conversation, which is a grace you don’t return when it’s his chance to talk with me one-on-one.”

“I hate being inside her head.” Wonwoo has never told you this, but most nights, when you go to sleep, he waits for you to be fully passed out before coming out again. He sits on the couch, watches anime- Mingyu’s gotten on his case for it a number of times, but Wonwoo hates boredom like he hates sand, hot weather, and the way Mingyu hums to himself when he cooks for you. “I don’t like being inside,” Wonwoo states again, more firmly this time.

“If you had your preference, how often would you be out?”

The answer comes quickly, “A hundred percent of the time.”

“And this is not something you can talk about with y/n?”

“It would make her uncomfortable,” Wonwoo says. “She never talks about it, but- she’d never had a proper relationship, she can’t with two dudes in her head or hanging around all day. I bet she can’t even touch herself without worrying me or Mingyu will pop out- I can imagine it would be very uncomfortable, and if I asked to be out all the time, it would put even more pressure on her. I don’t want that.”

“You care about her a lot.”

Wonwoo doesn’t see the need in responding.

The therapist clicks her pen. “Do you often think about these things? About… y/n’s sexual restrictions due to you and Mingyu?”

A wave of heated anger flashed over Wonwoo’s skin at the question. “I’m not a fucking pervert.”

“I never said you were, I’m just trying to understand the way this unique power affects that aspect of y/n’s life, of your life. Humans are sexual beings, and repression of desires like that can lead to anyone being pent up and frustrated.”

“If you’re asking if I’m a virgin, I’m not.”

“No?”

“Y/N’s had sleepovers with other girls since coming to university. More than one of her friends has propositioned me.”

“How frequent are these… encounters?”

“Not at all now. Y/N was getting upset with her friends falling for me, and sometimes I felt it was unfair to the girl. I can never have a relationship. On top of that, I felt bad keeping it a secret from y/n.” Wonwoo lets out a sigh. “It’s better for everyone if I keep it in my pants.”

five

Girls' night is going very well so far. You and two friends have already watched a movie, and now, while checking for your next rom-com, you’re all chatting about classes.

Jenni has ice powers, and she’s progressed an astounding amount already with how long she can use them. Yeji, on the other hand, can manipulate sound waves, and there have been all sorts of weird ways she’s adapted that for offensive and defensive situations.

It sucks sometimes to listen to them gush about their powers while you don’t really have any of your own. Besides Mingyu and Wonwoo, you feel like you’re just y/n. You yourself have no super strength or healing, no mind reading or telekinesis- you’re… just y/n, and in a university surrounded by amazing power wielders, it can be hard to hold your head high.

“Anyways, enough about us,” Jenni says, turning her eyes to you, “How are Wonwoo and Mingyu doing? I heard Mingyu’s one of the top healing power students this year.”

“Yeah, they’re doing good,” you shrug. “We’ve been spending more time at the hospital, Mingyu seems happy to be helping people.”

“He’s definitely the good one,” Yeji nods, flashing a grin at Jenni. “Are they gonna pop by tonight? They’re both uh… really hot.”

“I don’t think so… this is girls' night.”

You don’t miss the way Yeji frowns or the way she exchanges a glance with Jenni. 

“Anyways,” you turn to the TV, “should we start our movie?”

The girls nod and you begin to watch your next rom-com. You try to enjoy having just girl time, but soon, you start to get hungry. 

“How do you feel about ramen?” you ask.

“Oooh yum!” Yeji’s eyes brighten at the idea, and you immediately stand to go to the kitchen.

You haven’t even reached for a pot to boil water when you feel a presence beside you, and you turn to look up at Mingyu.

“You guys need a cook?” he grins. 

You let out a sigh, turning to see if Yeji and Jenni have noticed Mingyu, but they’re leaning together discussing classes.

“Gyu,” you whisper, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“But I thought maybe you’d wanna relax and I could cook?”

“Wait-” you narrow your eyes at him, “this is the second time in two weeks you’ve popped up at the exact time something was convenient for you. First with someone getting sick at the frat, and now with cooking-”

Mingyu looks guilty, and you cross your arms over your chest, waiting for him to explain himself. “Look… my uh… my power has been getting a little better and I kind of have a general sense for your thoughts when I’m in your head now.”

“What!?” You can’t help the way your voice raises, and you see Jenni and Yeji whip to look at you from over the couch. “Since when!?”

“Just for a bit-” Mingyu raises his hands in defense. “Look, I especially didn’t hear anything about Yeji calling me hot like two seconds ago.”

Now you’re mortified, and one look at your friend’s pink face shows you she is too-

Before you can say another word, Wonwoo appears, and he gives you a once over, then Mingyu. “I uh… sensed a disturbance in the force.”

He’s such a nerd, and in an odd way, he actually calms you down a little. “You know what? Fuck it. Mingyu, you can cook for us, but when you’re done, you’re both going to my room and wearing headphones and not eavesdropping on my girls' night!”

“Okay, you got it.” Mingyu turns to begin making the ramen, and before you can go to join your friends, Wonwoo grabs your arms.

“Uh, sorry about this,” he apologizes, and you’re shocked he’s apologizing for Mingyu’s behavior. “Neither of us really like being ‘inside,’ I think… he was just looking for an excuse not to be cooped up.”

“I’m very sorry,” Mingyu says over his shoulder.

“Look- we can talk about all of this later,” you sigh, trying to process what Wonwoo just said. “Please just- this is my night, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Wonwoo nods. “We’ll try not to be a bother.”

six

At this point, you’re pretty sure neither Wonwoo or Mingyu can hear you talking to the therapist, after all, whenever you have the headphones on, everything else is muted by music. Even so, if they were to hear you, part of you wouldn’t care.

“It was girls’ night,” you state. “Girls’ night. My night. And even though I asked them to stay inside and not interrupt, they still popped out! And it turns out, their powers have been getting better, so now, even when they’re inside, they can sense my thoughts?! I have no privacy! It’s a disaster!”

“Deep breaths,” the therapist encourages you. “I can see why that would be frustrating.”

“Very frustrating!” You let out a deep sigh, and you’re shocked when it helps calm you down. “The thing that really bugs me though- is Wonwoo said they don’t like being inside.”

“What about that bugs you?”

“Because now I feel bad- now I feel like I’m being a bad friend whenever I ask them to go back inside- but, a girl needs alone time. She needs girl time- without two hot guys walking around and making her friends drool and go all googly-eyed!”

“What about your friends ogling Mingyu and Wonwoo frustrates you?”

“I guess- it’s more than the fact that they’re both hot,” you admit. “I think- sometimes I think I feel lesser to begin with because I don’t have any overt powers. I feel powerless in a university of power holders. It’s hard to make friends if you can’t do anything flashy- I never know if girls are friends with me for me, or for them.”

“Let's touch on that feeling of being lesser for a moment, then we can circle back to everything else,” your therapist suggests. “You said you feel powerless, although, the way I see it, you have two top-tier protectors. Mingyu is the highest-ranked in his healing classes, and his professors say he’s extremely gifted. And Wonwoo is strong, he’ll protect you no matter what.”

“But those are their powers, not mine.”

“They only exist because of you. Have you ever thought about your future after this? After school?”

“Not extensively,” you admit.

“How would you feel about being outside an operating room, about Mingyu being the main breadwinner and using his powers to take care of you?”

This isn’t something you’ve ever considered, and the notion takes you by surprise. 

“Many people use their powers to make a living, Mingyu is no different, and since he’s an extension of you, allowing him to use his power to take care of things would be moral, it would be natural even, don’t you think?”

“Are you suggesting I be a pretty little stay-at-home powerless tether to a healer?” you ask.

“It’s one possible outcome if that’s something you’d be interested in.” The therapist cocks her head at you. “You enrolled in this university, obviously you care about Wonwoo and Mingyu furthering their powers- I would find it difficult to see you go through all of this only to get a regular job that doesn’t utilize them.”

“I really have not thought that far ahead.”

“Think that far ahead for a moment. Tell me your ideal situation.”

You sit there, thinking. The Mingyu outcome she’d just painted was interesting, so you dare to consider a Wonwoo option. Could you go with him on hero missions? No. He wouldn’t let you. The Wonwoo path wouldn’t be good for anyone. Wonwoo gets distracted enough about your safety when you try new weight machines.

“Maybe… maybe going forward with Mingyu’s healing career would be good.” 

“Healers with the aptitude he has go far in this life,” your therapist notes. “You wouldn’t have to worry about money, or getting hurt.”

“But what about…” You bite your tongue. When Mingyu and Wonwoo had first become visible to others when you were fourteen, it felt like a dream, but when you’d been sixteen and unable to spend time with boys for fear of one appearing- you’d started to realize the downside to having two constant protectors. You try not to think about having a relationship too often, but now that you’re being asked to consider your future, you know you’d be happier to have someone in your life five years from now- even a week from now if that was possible.

“What are you thinking?” the therapist asks.

“Just that… as years go by, I feel like my hopes for getting a boyfriend diminish more and more. If we’re talking about my future, the one thing I know for sure is that I want someone to share it with.”

“You have someone. Two someones, in fact.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “Are you suggesting…”

The therapist shrugs, sending you a girlie smile, one Yeji has sent your way multiple times before. “Are you interested in either of them that way?”

“I mean… sure… look at them.” You cast a sideways glance at Wonwoo, then Mingyu. “But… would it be weird to do that? They’re part of me, aren’t they?”

“Self-love and acceptance is the most important part of life, or so many Yogi’s say.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t know, I’ve always thought maybe that would be crossing a line.”

“What line?”

“An invisible one?” you suggest, not quite having the words to explain it yourself. 

“Listen, I understand why this might be daunting. It would change the dynamic, as I’m sure you know, but, if you are looking to be romantic with someone, or two someones, I know that it would be hard to find a man who would care about you and want to take care of you the way Mingyu and Wonwoo do.”

“Is it okay for you to be suggesting this?” you ask.

“My job is to further your development, to straighten out any roughness in this dynamic. I’ve not shared this with you yet, but my power is to see auras. Whenever you talk about Mingyu or Wonwoo, your aura lightens, it’s a sign of love. Theirs lighten when they’re talking about you too. Wonwoo’s in particular is quite dark, but whenever you come up, he’s shockingly thoughtful and candid. Mingyu’s easy to read, as I’m sure you know. They both care about you, and you care about them.”

“I guess- if they feel that way, why haven’t they ever said anything?”

“You’re the boss, y/n, I think sometimes maybe you forget that.”

seven

If there’s one thing all three of you can agree on, it’s anime. Nights spent watching shows together are always very civil, and you enjoy the peace of this, even as you begin to get a little sleepy.

When you yawn for the third time, Mingyu turns to you. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“Nah, not bed, I think I just need a nap,” you explain. “But don’t worry, you don’t have to go back inside, I can just… curl up here and rest for a bit.”

You and Mingyu are on the main couch, with Wonwoo on the solo seater just next to you. You lay down, but Mingyu’s so big and takes up half of the space, so your feet end up haphazardly on top of his lap, and it’s not the most comfortable position.

“Do you want me to be the big spoon?” Mingyu suggests.

“That would be nice,” you admit.

You don’t often get that close to Mingyu and Wonwoo, but on rare occasions, when you’re feeling an extra need for protective energy, you’ve found yourself as a little spoon.

Carefully getting behind you, Mingyu opens up the space so you can stretch your legs. A soft sigh escapes you as you curl up to the pillow, with Mingyu’s warmth heating your back. 

You close your eyes, and while you are able to rest, you aren’t able to fall asleep.

Your mind is too full of thoughts about your last therapy session. Now that a professional has given you the go-ahead to explore things sexually with your two protectors, it’s frequently at the forefront of your mind. Having Mingyu’s strong body behind you isn’t helping any of these dirty thoughts, and you do your best to readjust slightly, trying to get into the most comfortable position in the hopes that you’ll pass out.

“You good?” Wonwoo asks. 

“You seem fidgety,” Mingyu notes. 

“Just thinking,” you sigh. 

Wonwoo casts you a glance. “About?” 

“Just…” Should you tell them? “I guess I had a kind of weird chat in therapy yesterday.”

“Our therapist is definitely a little unconventional,” Wonwoo agrees, and from the look on his face, you can tell he’s had an interesting chat or too as well.

“Do you want to tell us what happened?” Mingyu asks softly, his hand soothing against your arm.

“We were talking about the future,” you explain. “She asked what I wanted with my life. I hadn’t thought about it much before, but… I did tell her that one thing I’ve always wanted is a relationship. I don’t see myself getting old and being alone, you know?”

“You’ll never be alone,” Mingyu assures you, wrapping his arm tight around you to pull you close to his chest. “We’ll always be here with you.”

“And that’s the thing,” you let out a small laugh. “I’m out here wishing for a life partner, when I already have two.”

The room goes quiet, neither of your protectors say anything. You hear Mingyu take in a sharp breath, and Wonwoo looks at the man over your shoulder. There’s an unspoken communication between the two of them, and then Wonwoo’s eyes meet yours.

“What are you saying, y/n?” he asks.

“I guess… what I’m saying is…” You take a deep breath, mustering up your courage. “What if… what if we gave it a try?”

“Gave it a try?” Mingyu repeats.

“You know, it.” You look at him over your shoulder, willing him to understand.

“I think you need to spell it out for him,” Wonwoo chuckles. “He’s such a goody toe shoes he doesn’t get that you’re propositioning us for sex.”

“She’s what?” Mingyu’s lips part in confusion, and he looks between you and Wonwoo.

“I mean, unless you don’t want to-” You’re quick to try to back out of this, feeling anxious that you’d ever even brought it up.

“We want to,” Wonwoo assures you. “Mingyu’s been in love with you since we were sixteen.”

“Have you really?” you ask, blinking up at your bright protector. 

“I uh… well…” Mingyu stammers, his skin turning a cute shade of pink.

“And what about you, Wonwoo?” you turn, looking at the stoic man. “Are you in love with me too?”

“I’m the bad one, remember?” Wonwoo smirks. “As if I’d get sappy like he does.”

“I feel like that’s a yes,” you grin, heart thundering in your chest at this new development. “How come neither of you ever said anything.”

“We’re not big fans of putting pressure on you,” Mingyu says softly.

“It would also change things,” Wonwoo notes.

“Yeah, but, part of me thinks it would change things for the better,” you admit.

“So…” Wonwoo pauses your show, turning to face you and Mingyu. “Are we going to do this?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, giving a quick nod.

“Yeah?” Behind you, Mingyu presses closer, his hand caressing your arm again, his breath hot along your throat. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I think he wants to hear you say it,” Wonwoo grins. “We both do.”

“I want…” your words falter, but you’re quick to steady yourself even as Mingyu rubs his clothed cock against your ass. “I want you both to fuck me.”

Mingyu presses his lips to your neck, it’s a soft kiss, but it sets your body on fire. You let out a sigh of delight, tilting your head to give him more access. Tingles of pleasure erupt across you as he continues to press his gentle lips to your skin, his hand slipping down to cup your hip.

He squeezes you, almost enough to hurt, and it’s a rough motion from your generally gentle giant- it betrays how he feels, how deeply he wants you, and it makes you moan in excitement.

“We should move into the bedroom,” Wonwoo directs, standing from the single sofa. “Come on,” he reaches down for you, easily lifting you from Mingyu, who lets out an annoyed whine.

Sometimes you forget Wonwoo has the power of strength, and he carries you like you weigh nothing. His gaze is forward, his intentions set on getting to your bed, and it’s so incredibly sexy you think you might die.

“How do you want to do this?” Wonwoo asks softly.

“Hmm?” You’re a little shocked at the question, and it takes you a moment to even register it. “Oh, uh… no anal?”

Wonwoo laughs, looking down at you with those pretty eyes of his. “Yeah, that feels a little advanced for you.”

“Fuck you, I can be advanced!”

“Sure you can, just not tonight.” Wonwoo places you on the bed, and Mingyu, who had been following the two of you, is quick to big spoon you again, his lips returning to your throat.

Your eyes are on Wonwoo, and after a moment of watching you, he gets onto the bed too, facing you.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks, cupping your cheek.

“Uh huh.”

Wonwoo only laughs, shaking his head slightly before he brings his mouth to your own. It’s a soft kiss, and it takes you off guard. Behind you, Mingyu is getting more and more restless, all hands and tongue- but Wonwoo, in contrast, feels as cool, calm and collected as a cucumber.

At this point, Mingyu is practically dry-humping your butt, grinding his front against you and moaning. His sounds are awfully distracting, and you break your kiss with Wonwoo to look over your shoulder at the man who immediately grabs you to bring your lips to his.

Wonwoo lets out a chuckle again. “I’ve got good news and bad news. The bad news is, Mingyu’s a virgin. The good news is, that means he’ll be easy to teach.”

“I’ll be good,” Mingyu murmurs against your lips.

“Wait.” You turn to look at Wonwoo again. “He’s a virgin… you’re not?”

“I’m the bad one, you keep forgetting that,” Wonwoo laughs. “It’s not like you’re an angel either.”

That’s true, so you choose not to dwell on it. Instead, you grab Mingyu’s hand on your hip, guiding it down to your abdomen, then bellow the waistband of your sweatpants. 

“Do you want to direct him, or should I?” you challenge Wonwoo, who cocks a brow at your change in tone.

“Touch her pussy, Gyu. Tell me how wet she is.”

Mingyu moans in your ear as his hand explores further down, his fingers brushing over your clit then between your pussy lips. “Fuck, she’s so wet, and so warm-”

“Tease her a little. Her clit is at the top, it’s this small, pearl-shaped bud. Girls love it when you play with that. She’ll be dripping by the time you’re done.”

God, hearing Wonwoo talk like this is taking your breath away, and you squirm as Mingyu does as he’s told, his touch lingering on your clit.

“I found it,” Mingyu groans, pressing his cock against your ass again. “Does this feel good, baby?”

“Feels so good, Gyu,” you whine, your hands reaching out to grab Wonwoo’s broad shoulders like an anchor. 

Wonwoo watches your every expression. “Once she’s wet enough, you can try to slide one of your fingers into that tight pussy of hers. It’s important to stretch her out since I know you’re packing.”

A shiver runs through you now. Mingyu’s big- you know it in your bones, you feel it against your ass- 

“Can I?” Mingyu asks, sucking on your ear lobe. “Can I put my finger in your tight, wet pussy?”

You nod. “Please-”

He teases your opening, and you wait with bated breath for him to finally push in. When he does, you both moan loudly.

“Fuck her like that for a bit, then see if she can handle another finger,” Wonwoo instructs next. “While you’re doing that… how do you feel about stroking me off, gorgeous?”

You swallow thickly, nodding. Then you reach down for Wonwoo’s pants, helping him shift them down to his thighs. His cock slaps up against his abdomen, hard as a rock and glistening with precum. He’s big, on the longer side more than thick, but you don’t mind. You grasp him, rubbing your thumb through the precum to spread it across his skin.

“Do you need direction too?” Wonwoo grins at you.

“Don’t even try it,” you warn him.

“I was just teasing, you don’t seem to mind Mingyu’s teasing.”

“That’s cuz he’s-” Your words are choked off as Mingyu thrusts his finger in your pussy. “He’s doing a different kind of teasing.”

“Can I add another?” Mingyu groans in your ear, seemingly oblivious to the bickering between you and Wonwoo. 

“Yeah,” you nod, stroking Wonwoo faster while you wiggle your hips as an open invitation to Mingyu. 

Two fingers drag through your pussy lips, and when Mingyu pushes them into you, you swear you see stars. You throw your head back, eyes closing in ecstasy-

“If you crook your fingers, there should be a soft, spongy spot. That’s called the G-spot, girls like it when you apply pressure there,” Wonwoo tells Mingyu.

You feel Mingyu’s fingers beginning to explore inside of you, and you let out a whimper when he finds the spot Wonwoo is talking about.

“Looks like you found it, Gyu,” Wonwoo grins. “See? What did I tell you? A quick learner.”

Mingyu applies more pressure to your G-spot as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you. Soon, you can hear how wet you are, and Wonwoo’s eyes darken.

“I think you’re just about ready for him, don’t you?” he asks.

“Yeah- fuck it, yeah,” you nod quickly. “Let's all get naked.”

Mingyu’s hand is out of your pants before you can even finish your sentence. He licks his fingers off, groaning at your taste, before he rips off his pants and shirt.

Your clothes are quick to follow, discarded onto the floor. “I’m gonna ride him,” you announce.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Wonwoo nods. 

You swing a leg over Mingyu’s hips, your hands flat on his chest- when you look down at Mingyu, you’re overwhelmed with a feeling you quite can’t explain. Bending down, you press your lips to Mingyu’s, capturing his cock between his body and your pussy. You grind against him while you make out, a flurry of tongues and whimpers of pleasure. 

“He might not last long, so I’d be careful if I were you,” Wonwoo warns, and you feel his body behind yours, his hands trailing up your sides.

You pull away from Mingyu, grabbing his cock and lining it up with your pussy. He’s so big- and his tip stretches you out as you slowly seat yourself down onto him, your wet hole taking inch after inch until you’re full to the hilt. 

“Fuck-” Mingyu whimpers, his hands settling on your hips.

“Feels like heaven, huh?” Wonwoo asks.

“Even better than heaven,” Mingyu breathes.

Wonwoo’s lips find your throat, and you arch your head back, enjoying the way his hands capture your breasts, massaging you. His thumb and pointer squeeze your nipple and you gasp, your pussy clamping down on Mingyu, who groans loudly.

“You should start riding him,” Wonwoo says, his mouth hot on your neck. “Here, I’ll help you.”

Wonwoo’s hands find your hips, and he lifts you off of his fried before pushing you back down. You let out a whimper of pleasure, closing your eyes and resting your head back against Wonwoo’s shoulder. 

With his super strength, he can easily lift you up and put you back down on Mingyu’s cock, effectively taking away all the leg strain so you can enjoy every moment of Mingyu filling you up.

“I might be bad, but I can be nice,” Wonwoo coos. “Look at me doing all the work.”

Mingyu lets out a grunt, and he begins to thrust up to meet you, driving his cock even deeper into your pussy.

“Fuck-” you gasp, reaching behind you to thread your fingers in Wonwoo’s hair.

“He feels good, doesn’t he?” Wonwoo asks. “Hey Gyu, rub her clit. Wonder if we can get her to cum for us.”

Mingyu’s thumb finds your sensitive bud and you squeal with delight, pussy throbbing around the massive cock impaling you. 

Each circle of his digit on your clit drags you closer and closer to the edge, your sounds filling the room-

“She’s gonna cum,” Wonwoo announces. “Tell her how badly you want to watch her cum.”

“Wanna watch you cum,” Mingyu moans.

“That’s not very original,” Wonwoo tuts.

“Fuck, you look so good bouncing on my cock. We both wanna see you cum. You’ll cum for us, right?” Mingyu looks so desperate. Lips puffy and parted, skin a soft pink, dark hair curled with sweat by his strong brow-

“Okay, okay- fuck,” you groan. “I’m gonna- fuck, I’m close-”

“When a girl tells you she’s close, don’t change anything,” Wonwoo tells the man below you. “Don’t add pressure or take pressure away from her clit. Don’t change your pace- the only thing I’d say you can change, is you can fuck her harder, but since you’re the bottom right now...”

Wonwoo’s grip on you tightens, and he bounces you even harder onto Mingyu’s cock, which makes you nearly cry from how good it feels. “Oh my god, oh my god-”

“How about you cum for us?” Wonwoo suggests. “I’m sure you’ll get Mingyu there too.” 

“Are you gonna cum with me, Gyu?” you ask, looking down at Mingyu from under heavy lids. “Please- I want you to cum with me?”

Mingyu lets out a grunt, his brows furrowing in concentration. You’d bet he’s holding off his high now, waiting for you, waiting for the moment you say it’s okay-

The cord in your stomach coils tighter and tighter, and when Wonwoo leans over you to whisper the word, “Cum,” in your ear, you can’t even help yourself.

Your pussy tightens like a vice on Mingyu’s cock, all the tension snapping as waves of pleasure throb from your core outward to the rest of your body.  The moan you let out is obscene, and the one Mingyu echoes is even worse, in the most sinful, sexy way.

“Fuck-” Mingyu grabs your hips, forcing you down on him completely, unable to move while the contractions of your orgasm milk his cock for all he’s worth.

“Look at you two cum whores,” Wonwoo breathes, and for some reason, the degradation doesn’t phase you in the slightest. “Bet you both needed that, didn’t you?”

You can only whimper a sound of affirmation. 

Wonwoo’s hands smooth along your back, helping your body calm down from the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Let me know when you’re ready for more,” he says softly.

“Now,” you respond without hesitation. “Fuck me now.”

“You’re that eager?”

“Eager- plus the moment we’re done, I think I might pass out,” you admit. 

Wonwoo only laughs. “I’m going to help you off of him, then it’s face down, ass up. You good with that?”

“So good with that,” you grin. 

It’s easy enough for Wonwoo to help you off of Mingyu. He sets you next to your gentle giant, who’s still trying to catch his breath. 

You immediately push your butt toward Wonwoo, arching your back and looking at him over your shoulder.

“Wow, you really are ready,” he muses, hands gliding over your ass. “Don’t fall asleep on me or it might bruise my ego.”

“Sleep after you cum, so don’t worry if it’s quick.”

“What if I want to take my time?” Wonwoo asks, dragging his cock up and down your slit.

“Then I’d say you have so many other opportunities in the future to take your time, but right now, I just want to be full, and then I can pass out between you and Gyu.”

“You know what? That doesn’t actually sound that bad.” Wonwoo presses his cock into your wet hole, Mingyu’s cum acting as a kind of lube that makes it all too easy for Wonwoo’s length to glide against your walls.

“Fuck-” you groan, grabbing at the bed sheets. 

Wonwoo isn’t as thick as Mingyu, but somehow he reaches deeper. Two hands spread your ass cheeks so each rough thrust has Wonwoo’s cock going as deep as possible, his tip kissing your cervix and making your toes curl.

“Taking it so good,” Wonwoo muses, digging his fingers into your flesh.

“So pretty,” Mingyu whispers, pushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

He leans in, and you find yourself kissing Mingyu while Wonwoo rails you from behind. You can hardly help your moans as Mingyu’s tongue glides over yours.

“It’s kind of hot watching you two make out,” Wonwoo admits, his thrusts slowing so he can appreciate the view in front of him.

“Yeah?” You kiss Mingyu even harder and he shuffles closer, groping your breast.

“Rub her clit for me Gyu,” Wonwoo instructs. “If she wants this fast, we’ll have to get her to cum first.”

Your body tingles- you should have known Wonwoo would want one of your orgasms for himself if you gave one to Gyu. You have no problems with them providing you pleasure and you providing them with a view of your high in return.

You simply relax while they work you up together, acting in unison. 

Mingyu’s fingers are rubbing your clit in rough circles, and the feeling of Wonwoo filling you up has you going crazy. You’re doing your best to hold onto the moment, but you can feel yourself getting close to the edge again.

“You’re getting tight, gorgeous,” Wonwoo muses. “Gonna cum for us?”

“Yeah- almost there,” you whimper, arching your back even more so when Wonwoo drives forward, he hits a specific spot that has you seeing stars. “Fuck-”

“You feel so good, want to feel you cum on my cock, wanna feel your perfect pussy get all tight and creamy with my cum-” Wonwoo grabs your ass tighter, and the slight pain paired with his dirty words is enough to throw you over the edge.

Your entire body tenses as the cord of pleasure snaps, erupting through you like a volcano of white, hot intensity. “Fuck-” you whine, and Wonwoo echoes the sound as your pussy grips him harder than ever before.

“Shit, I’m cumming,” Wonwoo warns you, his thrusts faltering as he shoots his load deep inside your throbbing core. 

He lets out sinful groans, and you love the way he sounds as he rides you through your orgasm, roughly ramming into your gspot with shallow thrusts that feel like heaven.

Wonwoo finally comes to a stop, and you can feel him breathing heavily against your bare shoulders. 

“Clean up time, then bed,” Mingyu reminds you before you can close your eyes and fall asleep then and there.

“Right-” you whisper lazily, resting your cheek against the comforter.

“Here, I’ll help you, but only if I get to be your big spoon,” Mingyu suggests.

You nod. Wonwoo pulls out of you, and Mingyu is quick to bring a warm cloth to your aching core, wiping up the cum and getting you situated. He helps you lay down, disposing of the towel before joining you at your rear. His lips are soft against your shoulder, his hand gliding the expanse of your arm.

“We love you,” he tells you. “Even if Wonwoo won’t say it cuz he’s a jerk.”

Wonwoo only laughs, laying on his back in front of you and Mingyu. You’re too exhausted to say much other than, “I love you guys too,” and with that, you fall asleep next to your two lifelong protectors.

You don’t know what the future holds, but one thing is clear; as long as Mingyu and Wonwoo are protecting you, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.

☀️ mlist + an. Thank you so much for reading! this might be low key my hero academia inspired- I've been going through the anime's like an addict lol

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🔮 preview. It’s been interesting learning about yourself and your sexual tastes with Mingyu and Wonwoo

cw/ tw. Threesome, unprotected sex, dildo use, pussy eating, oral (m/f receiving), deep throating, Mingyu monster cock agenda, spitting, spanking, dirty talk, dom!wonwoo, multiple reader orgasms, cream pie, Eiffel tower/spit roasting, double penetration, cumming on y/n’s face, masturbation, etc…   I petnames. Baby & gorgeous. 

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 145

🌙 starring. Wonwoo & Mingyu x afab!Reader

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“So,” your therapist grins as she looks amongst you and your protectors, “I’m guessing things are going well?”

You can only smile, squeezing Wonwoo and Mingyu’s hands.

“It’s never been this easy,” Mingyu says wistfully, bringing your knuckles up to his lips to kiss.

“How are you two getting along?” your therapist addresses Wonwoo and Mingyu.

“Shockingly,” Wonwoo sighs, turning to grin at Mingyu, “I feel like we’re pretty good. Once Mingyu started listening to me, for once, things got easier.”

You nearly choke at Wonwoo’s words- reminiscing about how well Mingyu listens to Wonwoo’s instructions in bed.

“This is a good step,” your therapist smiles. “I’m proud of all three of you.”

No one’s ever told you they were proud of you for getting railed like a whore in heat by not one, but two, men- but hey, there’s a first time for everything.

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[raytoroapologist]

i think when putting together a timeline of events here it's important to remember that the black parade music video takes place 10 to 15 or so years before the patient dies, it's a flashback to his childhood when he went to see the parade, and he's not lucid at the moment the music video starts. we can assume that the planes and more scary/decrepit imagery is not from his childhood trip, but is influenced by what he's seen in the war, or the noise of the warplanes overhead while he's in the actual hospital room (correct me if im wrong, but i believe the war isn't yet over when he dies)

the imagery we have from the welcome to the black parade music video is not what the landscape of the country actually looked like, in contrast to the very real and grounded feeling the dictator trailer had. it was the last hallucinations of a dying man. a distant and dim city, war planes, a childhood memory, drawn curtains, nurses, and the beeping of medical equipment.

I think it's also worth noting the similarities between the ashes falling on the black parade and the papers/confetti falling in the new promo. you could definitely argue it's just to take up visual space, but I think the comparison is interesting nevertheless.

Here are some more obvious parallels between visuals, specifically the skylines, in chronological order. War and decay, shiny new fascism, and the ruins of (presumably, although the differences in window shape and the neons throw me off, so it may be unrelated) that same city.

the visuals of welcome to the black parade are very very inspired by german expressionist film movements, especially the cabinet or dr caligari, and the last things i wanted to point out here were the nods to that in the set of the wwwy shows with the vignette/spotlight overtop a single figure

but yea! just very excited to break down any imagery to come and finally put my art degree to good use

[retrowitchy]

katniss & peeta vs haymitch watching the 50th quell replay, 25 years apart (a textual comparison)

sunrise on the reaping:

"The recap opens on the reading of the card, which I watched from home with Ma and Sid in the spring. A little girl all dressed in white, the picture of innocence, lifts the lid on a wooden box filled with envelopes. They widen the shot to include President Snow, who intones, "And now, to honor our second Quarter Quell, we respect the wishes of those who risked all to bring peace to our great nation." He leans over and carefully selects the envelope marked with a 50 and reads the card inside. "On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district will be required to send twice as many tributes to the Hunger Games. Two female and two male. In this doubling of reparations, we remember that true strength lies not in numbers, but in righteousness,"" (SOTR, pg. 340)

catching fire:

"After the anthem, they show President Snow drawing the envelope for the second Quarter Quell. He looks younger but just as repellent. He reads from the square of paper in the same onerous voice he used for ours, informing Panem that in honor of the Quarter Quell, there will be twice the number of tributes," (CF, pg. 221)

sunrise on the reaping:

" "Maysilee Donner!" There's Maysilee, Merrilee, and Asterid clutching one another in the crowd. One of the tearful good-byes captured by Plutarch." (SOTR, pg. 340)

catching fire:

"...and then I hear the name "Maysilee Donner". "Oh!" I say. "She was my mother's friend." The camera finds her in the crowd, clinging to two other girls. All blond. All definitely merchants' kids. "I think that's your mother hugging her," says Peeta quietly.

And he's right. As Maysilee Donner bravely disengages herself and heads for the stage, I catch a glimpse of my mother at my age, and no one has exaggerated her beauty. Holding her hand and weeping is another girl who looks just like Maysilee. But a lot like someone else I know, too. "Madge," I say.

“That's her mother. She and Maysilee were twins or something,” Peeta says. “My dad mentioned it once.”" (CF, pg. 221 )

sunrise on the reaping:

"Incitatus Loomy could not have masterminded a finer parade. The frantic backstage prep never makes an appearance, just a amjestic, orderly rollout of the tributes. There's a final aerial shot of all twelve chariots cruising along the route in perfect sync, which ends about fifteen seconds before that blue firecracker exploded, sending the whole event into chaos. This is all the country saw anyway. You had to be there in person to know about the crrashing chariots and me holding Snow accountable for Louella's death." (SOTR, pg. 341)

catching fire:

"The chariot rides — in which the District 12 kids are dressed in awful coal miners' outfits — and the interviews flash by." (CF, pg. 222)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Lou Lou's reduced to a girl wearing live-reptile fashion, Maysilee's and Wyatt's memorable turns are entirely ignored, and I get one snarky exchange with Caesar:

"So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"

"I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."

The audience laughs, and I give them this grin that confirms me as a stuck-up, selfish jerk. No mention of my support of the Newcomers. No silly interplay about making booze for Peacekeepers. The rascal's just a jackass." (SOTR pg. 342)

catching fire:

"There's little time to focus on anyone. But since Haymitch is going to be the victor, we get to see one full exchange between him and Caesar Flickerman, who looks exactly as he always does in his twinkling midnight blue suit. Only his dark green hair, eyelids, and lips are different. 

“So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?” asks Caesar.

Haymitch shrugs.

“I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same.” The audience bursts out laughing and Haymitch gives them a half smile.

Snarky. Arrogant. Indifferent. “He didn't have to reach far for that, did he?” I say." (CF, pg. 223)

sunrise on the reaping:

"The jackass, meaning me, grabs his gear and hightails it out of there and then we get to watch the bloodbath, where eighteen kids are killed in excruciating detail." (SOTR, pg. 342)

catching fire:

"The beauty disorients many of the players, because when the gong sounds, most of them seem like they're trying to wake from a dream. Not Haymitch, though. He's at the Cornucopia, armed with weapons and a backpack of choice supplies. He heads for the woods before most of the others have stepped off their plates. Eighteen tributes are killed in the bloodbath that first day." (CF, pg. 224)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Up until this point, I think the recap's been a fair record of what occurred in the arena. However, on Day 2, things start to go wonky. At some point, Maysilee, on her own, kills the boy from District 1, Loupe, which I believe to be true because she told me this. There are a lot of tributes still recovering from the poison and the Career pack's hunting Newcomers. That, too, seems likely. But the recount of what happened in the woods, my tale, begins to deviate almost immediately. Timelines are twisted. Connections misleading. It's less flat-out lying than lying by ommission. For instance, I see myself fighting squirrels, although they weren't around until the third day when I fought them to save Ampert. But we haven't even met up yet, so I seem to be trying to save my own life. They show Lous Lou gasping in the flowers, only I'm nowhere in sight. Later, I'm just running from the butterflies without even a glimpse of my feeling with her body, hiding in the willows, and bringing on the shockers as punishment." (SOTR, pg. 343)

catching fire:

"Others begin to die off and it becomes clear that almost everything in this pretty place—the luscious fruit dangling from the bushes, the water in the crystalline streams, even the scent of the flowers when inhaled too directly—is deadly poisonous. Only the rainwater and the food provided at the Cornucopia are safe to consume. There's also a large, well-stocked Career pack of ten tributes scouring the mountain area for victims. Haymitch has his own troubles over in the woods, where the fluffy golden squirrels turn out to be carnivorous and attack in packs, and the butterfly stings bring agony if not death. But he persists in moving forward, always keeping the distant mountain at his back. Maysilee Donner turns out to be pretty resourceful herself, for a girl who leaves the Cornucopia with only a small backpack." (CF, pg. 224 )

sunrise on the reaping:

"In fact, our picnic, the campout, the bombing of the tank, my rampage, and the arena going haywire- not a bit of that appears. The horrors of the volcano take center stage. The tributes experience the flame-shooting eruption, asphyxiation by the ash cloud, burns from the chemical lava. Twelve die." (SOTR, pg. 343)

catching fire:

"With the mountain spewing liquid fire, and the meadow offering no means of concealment, the remaining thirteen tributes — including Haymitch and Maysilee — have no choice but to confine themselves to the woods." (CF, pg. 225)

sunrise on the reaping:

"With the tank plot erased, my whole agenda seems to have been about getting to the end of the arena, which was, I guess, my cover story. It rains, but they've concealed all the bombing's damage. The arena's as perfect as ever. I get trapped in the hedge, follow the gray rabbit to freedom, and run into Panache and company." (SOTR, pg. 343)

catching fire:

"Haymitch seems bent on continuing in the same direction, away from the now volcanic mountain, but a maze of tightly woven hedges forces him to circle back into the center of the woods, where he encounters three of the Careers and pulls his knife." (CF, pg. 225)

sunrise on the reaping:

""We'd live longer with two of us." Oh, Maysilee. I am mortified to be sitting here." (SOTR, pg. 344)

catching fire:

"“We'd live longer with two of us.” “Guess you just proved that,” says Haymitch, rubbing his neck." (CF, pg. 225)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Is it Day 4 or 5? Maysilee and my attempts to carve our way through the hedge have merged into one big sequence that involves the ladybugs and blowtorch. We're on the cliff that looks down on the treacherous rocks, but they steer clear of the generator. They've edited out the cannon announcing Maritte's death and with it the part where Maysilee says she's just going back for the potatoes, so it looks like we've really decided to split up." (SOTR, pg. 344)

catching fire:

"When they finally do make it through that impossible hedge, using a blowtorch from one of the dead Careers' packs, they find themselves on flat, dry earth that leads to a cliff. Far below, you can see jagged rocks. 

“That's all there is, Haymitch. Let's go back,” says Maysilee. 

“No, I'm staying here,” he says.

“All right. There's only five of us left. May as well say good-bye now, anyway,” she says. “I don't want it to come down to you and me.” 

“Okay,” he agrees. That's all. He doesn't offer to shake her hand or even look at her. And she walks away." (CF, pg. 226)

sunrise on the reaping:

"The pink birds attack Maysilee and she screams. For the first time, I look like I might be redeemable because I run to her aid. Oh, no. They haven't turned this into a redemption story, have they? Selfish rascal learns to care about others? Please tell me no." (SOTR, pg. 344)

catching fire:

"The alliance is over and she broke it off, so no one could blame him for ignoring her. But Haymitch runs for her, anyway. He arrives only in time to watch the last of a flock of candy pink birds, equipped with long, thin beaks, skewer her through the neck. He holds her hand while she dies, and all I can think of is Rue and how I was too late to save her, too. " (CF, pg. 227)

sunrise on the reaping:

"I appear to have finally remembered that I belong to a wider alliance so I'm going to the rescue, when the cannon sounds and I come upon Silka, Wellie's head in hand. Smash cut to the golden squirrels stripping Maritte to the bone. No matter that she's been long dead by this time." (SOTR, pg. 345)

catching fire:

"Later that day, another tribute is killed in combat and a third gets eaten by a pack of those fluffy squirrels, leaving Haymitch and a girl from District 1 to vie for the crown." (CF, pg. 227)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Silka dies, her cannon fires, and I'm hanging on by a thread. The sunflower bomb, the quartz, the flint striker- there's no record of any of them. All of them gone or tucked away from sight. The hovercraft removes Silka's body. Trumpets declare my victory. A claw closes around me." (SOTR, pg. 345)

catching fire:

"The cannon sounds, her body is removed, and the trumpets blow to announce Haymitch's victory. Peeta clicks off the tape and we sit there in silence for a while." (CF, pg. 228)

[p0orbaby]

Your Turn to Bear the Burden was amazing!

Maybe a part 2 or a blurb with Alexia asking R, "Are you still mad?" And making it up to her by bringing her to one of their daughter's football games and just rubbing it in everyones (shiny hair's) face that they are indeed happily married even with their constant loving bicker

something small that follows on from this

-

The pitch smells faintly of damp grass and overcooked hot dogs, the kind you find at community sports events, their red plastic wrappers binned but somehow omnipresent in spirit. Alexia holds your hand as you weave through clusters of other parents, her grip firm, almost possessive. You know this isn’t just about Aina’s match. This is about her. About Shiny Hair, who you’ve recently discovered is actually called—of course—Catalina.

You’re here because Alexia asked you to come, her tone as careful as if she were handling a volatile substance. She didn’t have to spell it out. You knew. This wasn’t just a casual Saturday morning family outing. It was an event. A declaration. A parade.

And you’ve made up—well, you’ve reached a state of détente, which is close enough. The argument about Catalina was settled with a lengthy, painstaking conversation at 11:32 p.m. two nights ago, during which Alexia’s “I don’t even like her!” was met with your razor-sharp “Good. Then she’ll be thrilled to know I’ll be coming along to training drop-offs from now on”

“Don’t be weird today,” Alexia mutters under her breath as you approach the sidelines.

“I’m never weird,” you reply, your tone saccharine, squeezing her hand in a way that’s more threatening than reassuring.

The parents’ section is crowded, folding chairs scattered in half-hearted rows, some people standing to get better views of their kids. And there she is—Catalina, of course, already perched in the best spot, laughing at something someone just said. Her hair shines in the morning sun like she’s auditioning for a Pantene ad.

“Did you see? Aina’s already warming up,” Alexia says quickly, drawing your attention back to the pitch, where your daughter is stretching with the kind of seriousness only a six-year-old takes into warm-ups.

“She’s a professional,” you say, watching her. Aina has Alexia’s determination, her unrelenting focus, and probably her taste for grudges, too. You love that about her.

Alexia stands beside you, taller, proud, her other hand shoved in her jacket pocket. She’s wearing that cropped burgundy Nike YOON cardigan she’s kept all these years in an attempt to maintain her youth. Though you have to admit, she looks better than anyone here has the right to look, which you suspect is deliberate.

“You’re staring,” she says, without looking at you.

“You like when I stare at you”

“I do,” she admits, glancing at you briefly, a triumphant smirk tugging at her lips.

The game kicks off, and the next twenty minutes are a chaotic blur of small children running with alarming intensity. Aina, predictably, is everywhere. The ball seems magnetised to her, and you can’t help but feel that Alexia’s genes are showing off today. She scores twice, both times with a little fist pump that makes your chest ache with pride.

Catalina claps politely. Alexia doesn’t. She cheers, loud and clear, her voice slicing through the sideline chatter like a knife. “¡Bien, Aina! ¡Muy bien!” She throws an arm around your waist as she says it, pulling you in close. You’re not sure if it’s for your benefit or Catalina’s, but you let her have it.

At half-time whistle, Alexia makes a point of leaning in to kiss you She keeps it casual, but the timing is far too perfect to be anything but calculated. Catalina looks over. Alexia doesn’t notice—or pretends not to. You, of course, do.

“Subtle,” you say as she hands you a paper cup of coffee she must’ve queued for while you weren’t paying attention. Or burning holes into Shiny Hairs head.

“Why would I be subtle?” Alexia replies, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re my wife”

Catalina drifts closer during the second half, probably to position herself nearer to the action on the pitch, but you can feel her presence lingering. When Aina scores her third goal, Catalina lets out a low whistle.

“She’s incredible,” Catalina says, beaming at Alexia as if she wasn’t the one who taught your daughter how to feint past a defender.

“She gets it from her mothers,” you say, smiling sweetly. Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, and you’re almost certain she’s trying not to laugh.

When the game ends, Alexia spends twenty minutes chatting with Aina’s coach, with her arm slung over your shoulders the entire time. It’s less a conversation and more a public exhibition of marital bliss.

In the car, Aina babbles from the backseat about how she’s the best on her team, and Alexia sneaks a glance at you, her expression softer now, almost shy.

“Still mad?” she asks, knowing full well your annoyance with her lasts as long as a sugar cube in water.

You take your time answering, watching the houses blur past the window. “No,” you say eventually, “but next game, I expect you to wear a shirt with my face on it. Maybe one that says, ‘She’s my wife, and she’s always right.’”

“Always right?” she echoes, and you notice a slight lift of her eyebrows under her sunglasses.

“Always,” you reply, deadpan. “That’s non-negotiable”

[spencersmopbucket]

No Papers Served | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: A few years back, you and Finnick separated in your marriage. When you reunite in preparation of the Quarter Quell, you're hit with a quick reminder that it wasn't legally bound. Warnings & Themes: violence KINDA, yearning, mostly light hearted, tension, kind of angst with resolution

He saw you before you saw him. He always did.

The Tribute Parade was always an affair designed to dazzle and distract. Smoke curled from the torches lining the avenue, wafting upward into the Capitol sky as cheers thundered from the balconies above. The light of hundreds of flashbulbs flickered like heat lightning across the square. Gold and crimson banners fluttered from windows. Music throbbed like a heartbeat beneath the surface of it all.

And you stood still at the center of it.

Glitter shimmered across your bare shoulders and collarbone, catching in your lashes as your chariot rolled forward. The stylists had outdone themselves. You were dressed to intimidate, wrapped in sleek fabric the color of ink and dark forests. It hugged your form like a second skin, whispering of elegance and violence in equal measure.

You could feel his eyes. After years of him admiring you, you knew exactly what it felt like when his eyes heated up your skin. You refused to look back.

The crowd loved it.

They always did.

Because your persona, the one you crafted from survival and smoke, was made for this moment. Silent. Cold. Deadly. A mystery dressed in deadly grace. You didn’t wave. You didn’t smile. You didn’t need to.

You just stared ahead, chin lifted, eyes like cut glass and the Capitol roared for it.

Your district partner stood beside you in the chariot, stiff and sweating under the lights, trying to look like they belonged there. You didn’t offer them comfort. Not because you were cruel, but because comfort made things worse. You knew that firsthand.

Up ahead, the circle of the Avenue of the Tributes widened. Firelight danced across the giant Capitol seal. You passed by chariots from the other districts -- flickers of silk, armor, feathers, fire. Every pair a tragic story, rewrapped in glitter and spectacle.

It was a horrific event, at least in your eyes. This was when it became real. Your name being called on the stage to ride back into war hadn't hit as hard as you being served up to President Snow on a silver platter, wearing your finest clothes.

Every step of the horses pulling your chariot forward echoed in your bones. Every cheer from the crowd reminded you that they didn’t want to save you -- they wanted to remember you.

And that was the Capitol’s favorite illusion: that this wasn’t a massacre. That it was theater. Entertainment. That it could be gilded enough to hide the blood.

Your spine was straight. Your gaze unflinching. But inside, your stomach churned with every passing second.

And somewhere, in another chariot, under the same false lights and fire, was the man you hadn’t touched in months, the man whose name still twisted something sharp and unspoken in your chest.

Finnick Odair.

You didn’t look for him. Not yet. Simply because you could feel him looking at you.

You'd married him. You'd spent years in love, years preparing for a future that neither of you knew would never happen. As things heated up in the Capitol with Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, it became harder to see each other. Your expectations and loyalties to the Capitol became more demanding. Snow didn't care about your union, though of course he'd televised it and made it a huge deal -- the union of two districts.

But it was just that. You were from Seven and he was from Four. Two different districts with two different expectations from the same overlord.

Snow didn't love you as much as he did Finnick. Finnick was more useful.

He started coming home less and less until it was months in between. And finally, the last time he came home, you weren't there.

You were tired.

Tired of waiting in empty rooms. Tired of seeing your love turned into propaganda. Tired of waking up to a world that always wanted more than it gave back.

So you went home. Back to Seven. Back to the trees. Back to something real.

No papers were served. No separation announced. Snow wouldn’t allow it -- the Capitol didn’t like broken fairytales.

But the silence was enough. The absence was enough. It was unspoken, but the citizens knew. It was a tragic love story of two Victors broken up.

And now… now, you were both here again. Painted and packaged and paraded through the streets like gods on a pyre.

You didn’t look for him.

Because you didn’t need to.

Your partner's voice interrupted your thoughts.

Blight smirked beside you, casual in the way only someone long used to horror could be. His arms were folded over his chest, eyes scanning the crowd like he was counting exits instead of cheers.

“You’re doing well,” he drawled, leaning just slightly toward you. “Lover boy? Not so much.”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at Finnick either. Not yet.

But something flickered in your chest. That name. Lover boy. Like it wasn’t more than that. Like it didn’t still sting. Like the burn didn’t still linger in the softest parts of you.

“Is that so?” you murmured, keeping your face placid, your smile frozen in place for the Capitol cameras. “Shame. He always did love a good performance.”

Blight chuckled low. “Well, he looked like he’d seen a ghost when he caught sight of you. Or maybe a dream. Hard to say.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Because Blight knew you well enough to read the smallest shift in your jaw, the flicker of tension behind your eyes.

“He’s not gonna be your problem,” he added, more gently now. “Not unless you let him be.”

Nodding, you glanced up at the Capitol citizens. “I know he's not. He's smart. He wouldn't put us in any compromising positions. Drawing extra attention.”

Blight raised an eyebrow.

“Name. He looks about ready to jump into this carriage and make himself noticeable.”

“Ignore it,” you said under your breath, adjusting the fall of your costume. “We need them to believe it’s all dead and gone. Love stories don’t win wars. They win sponsors, which I've never even needed.”

Blight chuckled quietly, the sound lost beneath the cheering crowd. “No,” he said, “you haven't.”

You exhaled slowly, staring straight ahead as the chariots rolled forward. You wouldn’t give them a show. Not yet.

Not until it mattered.

Days passed. Training ensued.

It was what people wanted to see. The training room was where you revealed your skill, your tact. You were always the most interesting to watch. Your coldness, your ferocity when sparring, your wordlessness. This gained you sponsors. It also gained the Gamemakers' support.

You zipped your training suit up, tucking your braid into a bun. Then, you pushed through the doors of the facility.

It was less intimidating than it was the first time.

The training facility was large. Cold. Echoey. It was full to the brim with deadly weapons and survival scenarios, making it the ideal place to train a killer.

You already were one. But it always helped to brush up.

You'd learned quickly, through the experience you'd had and watching other tributes for years, that you couldn't rely on weapons. They were hard to find if you were looking for the special ones, the ones with the true advantage.

So, you trained in hand-to-hand and wielding knives.

It was muscle memory, by now. The way your fingers curled around the hilt of a blade. The way your feet shifted just slightly before a strike. You moved like someone who had nothing left to lose but everything to protect.

The rubber mat was cold beneath your boots as you stepped into the sparring circle. A boy from District 2 was already waiting -- broad-shouldered, cocky, and clearly amused by the sight of you. That amusement lasted about ten seconds.

The second the bell rang, you struck.

Fast, clean, efficient. You dodged the first swing and landed a quick blow to his ribs that knocked the air from his lungs. When he staggered, you hooked your leg behind his and sent him crashing to the floor. Then you knelt, knife at his throat, not even breathing hard.

You held it there just long enough to make your point, then dropped the blade beside him and walked off. Cold. Quiet. Controlled.

You were sweating. You sat on a mat on the floor, opening your water bottle and taking large sips. Heaving, you put it down and looked around, thinking. Strategizing.

You hadn't even seen him coming until he settled beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat down beside you like no time had passed. Like you hadn’t spent years apart. Like you hadn’t almost died thinking you might never see him again.

Finnick Odair.

Still golden, still carved from the sea and salt and charm that made the Capitol swoon. But there was something different now. Tired beneath the tan. Hollow under the easy smile he offered as he nudged your water bottle gently with two fingers.

“You always push too hard on the first day.”

You didn’t respond. Not at first. Your throat was tight, pulse thudding too loud in your ears to form words.

So he kept going.

“I saw the fight. That move at the end? Brutal. Clean.” A pause. “You’re even better than I remember.”

You turned your head slightly, eyeing him. “I had to be.”

He analyzed your face like he didn't want to forget it. Like you'd walk away and disappear for months again. His eyes were just like you remembered -- easy to fall in love with, easy to stare at. Like seaglass. Aquamarine.

“I was surprised you called to explain yourself. You know,” He said quietly. “After you left.”

Your breath caught -- not at his words, but at how gently he said them. Like he wasn’t accusing you. Just remembering.

“I owed you that,” you said after a beat, staring ahead. “You came home and I was gone. I didn’t want you to think I vanished without a reason.”

Finnick’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t interrupt. He just listened. But you didn't continue. You avoided the conversation like the plague every time it was brought up by anybody. Finnick had noticed that, like he noticed every single other thing about you.

In interviews, you declined to comment on your separation. In your televised interview with President Snow, you simply told the man it was a "mutual decision." Bullshit.

“Bullshit,” Finnick echoed under his breath, like he couldn’t help himself -- like the word had been sitting in his chest for years, and now it had finally clawed its way out. He hadn't meant for his thoughts to leave where they originated.

You glanced at him. Surprised. Not angry. Tired.

“What?”

Now that it was out, he couldn't go back on it.

“What you told Snow last month. It was bullshit.”

You stared at him, stunned into silence for a moment.

The fluorescent lights above hummed. Somewhere in the distance, someone grunted as a blade hit a target. But here, beside him, it was quiet. Still. The space between your bodies felt tight -- not in proximity, but in weight. In memory.

Your voice was thin when you finally answered. “You think I didn’t know that?”

Finnick shook his head, eyes still fixed on the floor. “I think you knew. I just don’t think you cared that I had to hear it like everyone else. That I had to sit in some Capitol suite, with Snow watching me watch you, and pretend it didn’t fucking hurt.”

The words hit hard. Not loud -- he wasn’t yelling. But they were worse that way. Softer. Realer.

Your jaw clenched.

“Finnick--”

“You haven't even divorced me. You're too much of a coward to make it official, but you're telling people on TV that it was a mutual, peaceful decision,” he continued. Letting it all out. Finally. “Why'd you lie, huh?”

His eyes were full of frustration now. Anger.

You met his gaze, feeling it like a knife pressed to your throat -- not fatal, but sharp enough to make breathing hard.

“I didn’t want them to know they broke us,” you said quietly. “I didn’t want to give them that. If I told the truth, it would’ve been a spectacle. They would’ve twisted it into a new love story, or a tragedy they could sell. Something shiny. Not something real.”

Finnick scoffed, shaking his head. “So instead you made me the villain? The distant husband. The Capitol’s whore who left you behind.”

Your eyes flared. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you didn’t disappear, Finnick.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” he snapped. “You think I wanted to be passed around like a prize? You think I liked being pulled from you every week to satisfy the Capitol’s idea of loyalty? I did what I had to, just like you did.”

You looked away. Your throat ached. “That’s exactly why I couldn’t talk about it.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, softer: “So you didn’t divorce me because you still loved me. But you lied because you were ashamed of how we ended.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

“I needed to know if it meant anything to you,” he continued. “All those nights you stayed gone. All those months you didn’t call. But it's clear to me that I didn't mean a thing.” He hissed.

Something snapped in you. Glaring, you grabbed his hand in a tight grip, yanking him behind you. Out of the training facility. Out of the corridor. Into a lounge room, slamming the door and locking it.

Finnick barely had time to register what was happening before he was backed against the wall, your chest heaving, eyes alight with fury.

“Don’t you dare say you meant nothing to me,” you growled, your grip still firm around his wrist. “You think I went back to District Seven and lived some perfect life without you? You think I slept at night without waking up to the ghost of you in my bed? I burned for you, Finnick. Every damn day.”

His breath hitched, sea-glass eyes searching yours -- but you weren’t finished.

“You stopped writing. You stopped fighting. You let them rip us apart piece by piece, and I kept my mouth shut so they wouldn’t do worse. So they wouldn’t put a fucking target on your back. I lied because it was the only way I could protect what was left of us.”

Finnick was silent for a beat, lips parted, his chest rising and falling fast. His eyes narrowed.

“So you're blaming me? You're blaming me for you leaving when things got hard?” He hissed.

You faltered.

He stepped forward, looking down at you with a heated gaze.

“You're just as frustrating as you have been forever. And just as stubborn.” He huffed, grabbing you by your waist. He quickly switched your positions, backing you into the wall instead, pressing you closely.

You gasped, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud, his chest flush against yours. The air between you sparked like flint to steel, searing and volatile.

“I fought for us,” Finnick growled, voice low and shaking. “I fought every way I knew how. But there’s only so much fighting a man can do when the woman he loves won’t even let him in.”

Your heart was pounding, fury and grief and longing all crashing together inside your chest. But you didn’t push him away. Couldn’t. Not when his hands were gripping your waist like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. He was so close -- he smelled the same as he had when he was yours. His signature cologne, the faint smell of sea salt, and clean linen.

“Finnick--”

“No. It's your turn to listen. You're still my wife, you never sent me a damn thing saying otherwise. I never asked you to protect me. I never asked for you to save our reputations. All I asked for was you.” He said steadily, his nose almost touching yours.

Your breath hitched, the heat of his words igniting every nerve ending. You swallowed hard, caught between the ache of truth and the desperate want swirling in his eyes. He lifted a hand to grip your jaw, to force you to look into his eyes, to see how much he meant it.

His wedding ring glinted. He was still wearing it.

Your fingers trembled as they brushed lightly over the ring, tracing the smooth metal like it was a lifeline back to a past neither of you wanted to let go of -- but neither had dared fully hold onto either.

“You still..” You trailed off.

He nodded, his hot gaze still resting on your face.

“Of course I do. I'll wear it until the bitter end.”

Frustrated tears started to meet your eyes. You threw your head back, huffing.

“Why can't you just hate me like a normal person would, Finnick?”

“Because I don't want to. Because I can't. Because you belong with me,” he hummed. “And I won't pretend that you don't.”

His voice was velvet-wrapped steel -- soft, but unyielding. It rooted you in place. Unraveled you. Broke through every defense you’d rebuilt since the day you walked away.

You stared up at him, throat tight, lip trembling. “Finnick…”

But he didn’t give you space to run. Not this time.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling with yours, as intimate as any kiss. “We were never done, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Your fear just tried to convince us we were.”

You closed your eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb.

“We’re in the Games again,” you murmured. “We could die.”

“Then I’ll die wearing your ring and loving you. And if we live,” he said, voice low and firm, “we fix it. For real this time.”

You opened your eyes. And he was right there waiting. Always had been. While your fear of abandonment consumed you, while you hurt him repeatedly, while you ran from him, he'd always been there. Waiting.

Instead of speaking, you leaned forward, giving into your desires. You kissed him.

It was like coming home after a long trip. It was like sinking into warm sheets after a sleepless night, like exhaling after years of holding your breath. His mouth met yours with the same ache, the same urgency -- not rushed, but hungry. Like he’d been starving for you.

Finnick’s hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you flush against him, like if he didn’t hold you close enough, he might lose you again. Your fingers found his jaw, your hand scraping softly against his stubble as your lips moved in tandem.

You broke the kiss only when air became necessary, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together, your hands still clutching each other like lifelines.

You weren’t done. You’d never been.

[truthdogg]

It’s fitting and inspiring that trump’s ridiculous birthday party was not only attended by troops who clearly did not want to be there, but was heavily overshadowed by regular people holding their own better-attended marches all over the country.

Putting personal profit aside for a moment, there has been one primary motivator for Trump’s actions in his second term: obeisance.

Every move he has made, every speech he has given, every order he has signed, can be traced back to his desire for people to bow down to him. It was the point of his unauthorized tariffs, it was the point of illegally calling up the national guard and marines, it was the point of his recent “you spit, we hit” speech, all of it.

“No Kings Day” was aptly named, and it was motivating. Remember that it typically takes only 3.5% of people protesting to effect a major social change. That’s it. If you’re out protesting, you’re punching way above your weight.

Despite the paltry coverage of protests by US media (we have to read foreign papers to even find out about them), and the subsequent overcoverage of isolated property damage, it’s possible that this weekend could wake them up.

There’s a market for honest coverage, and I believe that the 3.5% number is key in making them aware that this market exists. In our hyper-capitalist society, it’s sadly essential for them to internalize that before their stories will reflect it. Perhaps we are getting there.

[autumnleaf1111]

🌈 Pride Month with the BSD Gang:

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Atsushi, nervously holding a tiny pride flag: Um…do I have to do something special for Pride?

Akutagawa: Yes. You must wear something that makes Mori cry and Dazai choke on his iced coffee.

Yosano passing by: So crop tops it is.

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Fukuzawa, reading a memo: Why is there a pride parade forming inside the office?”

Ranpo, wearing a bisexual flag as a cape: Because I’m gay, bored, and unsupervised.

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Mori, watching Kouyou and Yosano drunkenly slow dance at 2 PM: Why does Pride Month feel like a month-long wine aunt rave?

Fukuzawa, sipping tea: Because it is.

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Kyoka, holding up a rainbow knife: I made it gay.

Kenji: Can I eat it?

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Yosano, organizing a “Pride Month Wine & Violence Night”: Entry fee is either a confession or a bottle of wine.”

Kouyou: Or both. Be dramatic, darlings. It’s Pride.

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Fukuzawa: I’m too old for this rainbow foolishness.

Ranpo, wearing a rainbow cowboy hat: You literally married a man—the enemy—and then refused to sign the divorce papers because it ‘felt too final.’

Fukuzawa, turning his head away: ….What divorce papers

Ranpo: Don’t even—

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Mori: I signed up for the ‘Over 40 And Still Emotionally Repressed’ float in the parade. Want to join me?

Fukuzawa: We’re not even together.

Mori: You still wear my ring on a chain under your uniform.

Fukuzawa: …Shut up.

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Yosano: Why do Mori and Fukuzawa always stand next to each other at every pride event?

Kouyou: So they can say ‘I’m not here with him.’ Which is gay code for: ‘I’m in love with this man and have been for 20 years but won’t acknowledge it.’

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Kyouka, 14 years old and tired: Okay, someone kiss Poe in front of Ranpo and see what happens.

Tanizaki: What?

Kyouka: This is for science.

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Dazai wanting to cause some drama: Ranpo. If Poe kissed you right now, what would you do?

Ranpo, sipping soda: I dunno. Probably ask him to do it again?

Poe, crossing his arms: …sigh

Ranpo, suddenly blinking mid-sip: …Oh my god.

Entire ADA from behind the wall: FINALLY.

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Kenji (innocently): If you’re not divorced, does that mean you still kiss each other goodnight?

Kyoka (deadpan): Or do you choke each other out like foreplay?

Entire room:

absolute horrified silence.

Dazai: What the fuck….

Fukuzawa, blinking slowly: …We do neither.

Mori: Not anymore.

Tanizaki: Why did that somehow make it worse?

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Ranpo (writing on a whiteboard):

Alright, welcome to the Annual ‘How Will Soukoku Finally Confess?’ betting pool.

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕥𝕤—

Yosano’s bet: During a mission. One of them gets mortally wounded, and the other screams something like ‘DON’T YOU DARE DIE BEFORE I TELL YOU I LOVE YOU, YOU DRAMATIC SHIT!’

Kouyou’s bet: During an argument. Dazai says something awful, Chuuya screams back, and then they kiss mid-yell because of course they do.

Tanizaki’s bet: They get drunk. One of them says ‘I used to love you, y’know?’ and the other says ‘Used to?’ and then boom—confession, followed by sobbing.

Tachihara’s bet: Chuuya’s choking Dazai out, and Dazai’s like ‘Harder, darling’ and Chuuya short circuits.

Atsushi’s bet (very nervous): I think… maybe Dazai thinks Chuuya died and confesses when it’s too late and then—he’s alive! Happy ending?

Akutagawa: That’s disgusting. I’m betting on Chuuya trying to kill himself. Dazai dragging him back. Calling him an idiot. They both cry. They both kiss.

Everyone: Jesus Christ, Akutagawa.

Yosano: Wait— Why Chuuya? Dazai is the suicidal one?

Akutagawa: At this point, I’m not sure he is. If he really was, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.

Everyone: ……

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Random homophobic NPC: What’s with all these rainbow flags? Sounds like a circus.

Atsushi (deadpan): If you find love to be a circus, I recommend staying out of the ring before you get trampled.

Akutagawa, somewhat impressed: Damn—

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Kyoka and Kenji’s Pride Month Commentary

Kenji: I don’t get why Pride Month needs so much drama. Isn’t love just love?

Kyoka: That’s the stupidest and smartest thing you’ve ever said. And also sweet.

Kenji, not understanding but is happy that he did something nice: Thanks!

♥︎✩⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎⚔︎✩♥︎

Happy pride month yall

[mandalhoerian]

(2) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Eight years ago, during the worst summer festival of your life, you cross paths with a certain seal for the first time.

genre: fluff, comedy | wc: 4K | read on ao3

< previous | next >

note: YES, THIS IS A SERIES! I hope you'll bear with me as I'm not actively editing/proofreading my writing and am going with the flow for the most part. Rafayel will also stay as a seal in the next chapter which centers around how he came to be smitten with the reader, so PLEASE PLEASE HANG TIGHT WE'RE GETTING THERE. I hope you enjoy!!!!

Ah, sweet summer festival. You're fifteen.

The entire archipelago is in motion tonight — a grand spectacle brought to life in the unofficial capital Salverna, which is also where you were born and raised, by throngs of locals with visitors pouring in from the mainland for an evening of festivities. Decorated boats crawl like jeweled beetles across the bay beneath a moonbeam sky, torches flickering like amber blossoms amidst colorful lanterns suspended overhead, painting faces in warm splashes of light. Instruments are tuned to perfect pitch, ready to launch into jigs and reels once revelers spill into dancing rings. Children sprint around bonfires with cheeks flushed by sugar, laughter ringing like silver bells in the breeze. Farther along, games fill the streets — prizes stuffed inside balloons perched precariously atop slender sticks, targets waiting to be pierced by dart tips, bobbing heads eager for coins — competing for attention with the delectable aroma of spiced sausage, roasted meat, skewers, sticky cinnamon treats, and fresh fruit piled high for sampling. Even the night's salty breath tastes like sunshine, and despite everything feeling faintly familiar, somehow still manages to seem entirely fresh.

If only you'd been there from the beginning.

No, you were here. The whole day.

At the docks, which is the farthest away from the main event.

Hauling seafood and chasing down lost tourists like some unpaid festival guide.

The family ferry business consisting of multiple vessels is the only one making direct trips between the mainland and the archipelago. Usually, things run smoothly — your parents know this route like the back of their hands, and during normal weeks, the boats run on a fairly consistent schedule with only the occasional minor detour to accommodate delayed travelers. Renting smaller boats out to tourists helps maintain some steady income for maintenance expenses during quieter months, although the real money comes from transporting passengers year-round.

But big events like this summer festival change everything. The mainland port is overflowing with people packed like sardines in a tin, and everyone scrambles for transport space like sharks smelling blood. It's impossible to accommodate every arrival simultaneously, even though Dad doubled the ferry service to operate nearly nonstop — one boat shuttling incoming guests while its twin carries locals back and forth between islands, and even then it isn't enough. People are forced to wait hours for passage, which inevitably leads to chaos erupting.

And the locals ferry doesn't just transport passengers. It hauls festival supplies — crates of seasonal produce shipped to the islands via mainland distributors, stacks upon stacks of boxes labeled FRAGILE in thick black marker, paper fans for the parade, props for the pageant, a seemingly endless list of necessary items for the vendors, bands, food stands, street performers, the barrels of festival cider rolling onto the deck, stacks of pastries needing careful hands to avoid toppling, baskets of flowers meant for decorating stalls that nearly got crushed in the shuffle — you name it — the list of deliveries keeps growing by the hour. And no one has extra hands to spare to deliver all this cargo to its final destinations.

Well, actually, one person does. Namely, you.

It started small. Mom catching you right as you tried to slip away this morning, asking to help with boarding real quick, and if you could take some packages along the way... It was easy to agree, at first — help a few elderly tourists steady themselves as they stepped from the ferry, answer questions from confused festival-goers trying to navigate between islands, toss a sack or two over your shoulder for the vendor working nearby. But an hour later, you were hauling half a crate uphill when one of the wheels broke loose, scattering fireworks across cobblestones in glittering disarray, leaving you running through town chasing them all down under curious gazes of the locals who saw the explosion...

And the moment the ferry docked, suddenly it was all hands on deck. One trip in, another out. Then, next thing you knew, you were the one handling tickets and guiding stragglers toward their destination, organizing groups, shouting helpful tips about what to avoid and what not to eat so you are not about to have people get sick on board and clean off their vomit, answering questions about local attractions and restaurant specialties, calling out to Dad who drove the ferry like it was child's play, warning the older folks and kids not to fall off because the last thing your family really needs is to be sued by someone stupid falling overboard...

And the entire time, you were in the dress you'd picked out specifically for the occasion. Thinking one more trip, and you could finally join your friends in the festivities...

A whole shift later, there are no celebrations awaiting you. No bonfire parties with the music so loud and joyous you could feel it thrumming through the ground, no crowded bars filled to bursting with cheerful singing and dancing, no raffle stalls offering chances to win souvenirs and free meals for years, no fireworks bursting across the night sky so brilliant they chased away the darkness.

Just you with your dress ruined and ripped because someone couldn't watch where they were going while drunk and collided straight into you and left you soaked in cheap beer, and the hem of it torn apart from you desperately trying to fix your mistake after misplacing the boxes of merch you were supposed to haul, again. Your friends probably already enjoying every aspect of the event, laughing their asses off in pure delight without caring for what you missed or had endured all day, knowing you were supposed to arrive with them to witness the greatest part of the summer celebration together.

With angry tears gathering at the inner corners of your eyes, you let the bags drop onto the dock with a harsh thump, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Maybe you're expecting an argument. Maybe you want to pick a fight because the frustration had been stewing ever since you woke up today and demanded release. Or maybe you hope your father would give you permission to go enjoy your own life, rather than force you to suffer his. But none of those comes to pass. Instead, he merely glances up with a tired look, holding your resentful stare before sighing heavily and scrubbing his face wearily with calloused, wrinkled hands.

“You said it would be quick,” you snap, voice shaking. “You said I could go like hours ago. The day is over!"

You choke back the wobble in your tone, biting harshly into your lower lip, hoping it'll prevent tears from leaking out even though it hardly hurts enough to distract you.

"Look, we're in the middle of peak season..."

"Which means peak profit for our business! Couldn't you have just hired someone extra to fill in?! Why did it have to be me?!"

"No other staff is available on such a short notice, especially during a big event." Dad shrugs weakly in apology, the gesture lacking any defensiveness or remorse. He looks drained, exhausted. And still, his priorities remain firmly fixed elsewhere. "Sorry, honey. Next week I'm hiring additional staff permanently, but for now — just one more hour, okay? You know we don't extend our services after the night falls and that's why—"

“No!” The frustration spills over before you can swallow it down. “It’s never ‘just a little longer.’ It’s always one more trip, one more errand, one more thing! I’m always the one stuck here!”

Dad frowns and straightens his spine slowly like a looming anime villain, wiping sweat from his brow. "Don't raise your tone on me like that, I'm not one of your little friends. This is nothing. When you become captain, you'll have to endure far more work."

"I did everything you ask and suddenly my tone is the issue?!" You gesture wildly at your ruined dress, at the damp stains and torn fabric clinging to your skin. “Look at me! I was supposed to be there with everyone else, and now I can’t even show up like this—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Dad's voice turns sharp, exasperated. “It’s just a dress.”

"And now everyone probably hates me because I've skipped yet another celebration and ghosted them!" you huff and puff like an enraged bull despite his interruption.

"What's going on?" Mom hurries over from the harbor shop, stepping between you and your father before tempers flare even further. She takes in the scene at a glance and sighs deeply — though whether out of disappointment or irritation, you can't tell — carefully setting aside several stacks of receipts. "Are you two seriously bickering about nonsense when you should both be working?"

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m sick of this!” You throw your hands into the cold, humid sea breeze as though casting your complaints upon the tides, unable to keep the tremble from your fingers or the tears from streaking down your face. Hot drops patter against the faded wood planks beneath your feet. "“I work just as hard as you do, I never say no, but the second I want something for myself—"

Mom immediately gets what's going on, and alerts you to lower your voice by pointedly widening her eyes and thinning her lips. The entire dock is witnessing the argument and turning their heads to listen in at this point, but you don't care. Everybody should hear about this injustice.

"Yes, honey, I know," Mom hisses, "And we appreciate how hard you're trying, believe me. But — just one more trip, alright? Your friends will wait a bit longer for you, won’t they? Don't forget this isn't just about you. The archipelago depends on us running our business steadily and reliably."

And there it is. That unspoken expectation, that quiet assumption that you’ll always choose responsibility over what you want. That you’ll always understand.

Your throat tightens, choking back the bitterness burning in the pit of your stomach, and for a long moment, neither you nor your mom break the silence, and her stare remains fixed somewhere above your shoulder. Only Dad says anything, grunting a vague affirmative that tells you nothing more than your mother did; work must come first, whatever personal sacrifice must be made for that to happen.

You step back. “Forget it.”

“Honey—”

“I said forget it!”

You're running hot and cold, the rush of blood in your ears don't let your parents' protests in as you rush into the only place where you can be alone right now, the ticket counter cabin with the "CLOSED" sign on it, slamming the door shut behind you loudly and letting the cool glass barrier isolate you from the rest of reality. It's just you inside. There's a desk, empty paperwork piled neatly at the corner, a cash register. An old computer screen covered by dust. Shelves crammed with stacked-up folders and manuals. A window overlooking the harbor. This is also the place to leave your belongings at before clocking into work, just beside the locker of where the attendant usually leaves theirs.

On a whim, you snatch up your jacket and backpack before fleeing out into the crowd again. It's so easy to lose your parents along the wharf because of the teeming masses.

Your phone is buzzing rapidly in your bag with Dad and Mom both probably threatening to drag you back by your ear, so you take it out and switch to airplane mode before tossing it back in with a grimace. You're not allowed to be out this late without supervision (much less sneaking away from work), but right now, there's not an adult in existence that could compel you to walk willingly back into this mess. Screw it. Being grounded for life isn't any worse than being imprisoned on this stupid island forever anyway, you think, huffing quietly in protest as you stomp down the street. Besides, if worst comes to worst, you can spend some time with Aunt Leen. At least she wouldn't judge.

The festival feels a million miles away. You can’t go there, not in this state, stains everywhere, smelling like fish and sweat and regret, dress ripped apart. So, instead, you end up wandering along the rocky beach near the outer edge of town, in parallel to the protected seal rookery islet offshore and well beyond the boundaries of the town proper. The bright, swirling glow of the firework display across the water glints in the dark, mingling with distant stars and overshadowing the full moon, reflecting off rippling waters like flickering embers dancing across a glossy obsidian surface. The waves roll gently across sand and stone in soothing rhythmic whispers whooshes that pull you onward through the night like invisible ribbons drawing you back into the present.

This was always your favorite place as a child — wild and beautiful. An unclaimed stretch of wilderness stretching beyond the public access point, filled with coves and tide pools that felt like hidden kingdoms tucked away from the rest of the world. Here, among the jagged rocks, washed smooth by centuries of ebbing currents, you sit on one flat boulder, bare feet lapped at by the high tide and shoes by your side, frustrated tears dropping into the sea, staring absently off towards the seal islet floating peacefully in the distance.

You remember trying to swim out there years ago, despite having been strictly forbidden from venturing close to not disturb them. What would it be like, to be out in the open sea instead of tied to this isolated little community? To see something other than the same faces, places, and names repeated ad nauseam for all eternity, as though nothing changed no matter how many seasons passed? What would it take to break free?

"Ugh!" The sound bursts free before you can clamp your jaw shut, a ragged groan against clenched teeth as your palms scrub fiercely across your damp, salty cheeks.

Before you can start ranting into the night like a madman, your turmoil is shattered by a sudden, piercing cry like metal scraping stone ripping through your tangled thoughts. Your head jerks upward, pulse quickening into a painful drum-beat. Something is terribly off. Someone's hurt, panicking—or worse—maybe drowning?

But where?

You blink frantically, scanning the surrounding coastline, but the thick curtain of night refuses to offer clues. So you rely on your ears and follow the keening through the beach, stumbling hastily across damp sand, uneven rocks and slippery seaweed patches alike, nearly slipping on slimy barnacles embedded in the crevices between each massive stone and fighting hard to balance every step, all the while ignoring the scrapes accumulating on your soles from sharp pebbles digging into tender flesh and flaring in protest at every bit of impact.

Then, unmistakably—

A high-pitched, squealing shriek erupts out of the ocean — like the frantic deflating of a balloon twisting violently apart in midair.

Your stomach drops. The sound is frantic, terrified. Unmistakably animal.

And it's coming directly from the water.

At last, you spot the source of the commotion — about fifty feet offshore, just beyond a tangle of blackened driftwood clogging the shallows: Moonlight catches on slick, gray fur, the seal’s body bobbing helplessly, its hysteric movements hampered by the thick snare of a fishing net and heavy with debris, the tangled mess constricts tight, dragging it downward each time it fights to resurface.

Seals can drown. You know that much. You’ve heard Elias muttering to Dad, thick with disgust, after cutting loose yet another pup ensnared by abandoned traps — relics of poachers who refuse to acknowledge sealing was banned around here nearly thirty years ago.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

Your mind stutters, paralyzed for a breathless instant. What do I do? What do I do?

There’s no time to think.

You’re moving before reason catches up, scrambling over slick, uneven rocks as brine stings the scrapes blooming across your bare feet. Your pulse slams against your ribs. In one frantic motion, you strip off your windbreaker, fling your bag aside, and plunge into the waves without hesitation. Salt explodes in a cool rush over your skin as you kick off from the seafloor, paddling hard, muscles burning with every stroke.

Next thing you know, your arms are locked tight around the drowning seal, grappling to haul it toward shore as it thrashes wildly, overwrought beyond reason and twisting all it can to land a blow with brutal strength you wouldn't expect from a round and inflexible body like that. Flippers beat against your chest, claws scrape at your arms, and its ragged cries tear through the night like something feral and furious. It doesn’t understand you’re trying to help — it only knows fear.

Somehow, impossibly, you make it.

Every muscle in your body screams in protest as you drag the tangled pup onto the shore, collapsing beside it in a gasping sprawl, limbs weak and trembling. Your lungs gulp down air that tastes like victory, the sweetest breath you've ever taken.

And then—

The seal’s shrieks reach a fevered pitch. It flails vigorously, flinging itself against the unyielding net, snapping, fighting, tearing at the fibers with blind desperation.

That’s when you see it.

The moon-desaturated dark liquid pooling beneath its body, sinking into the wet sand in sluggish tendrils.

Blood.

"No! Stop that, stop!"

You scramble upright, stomach at your throat, hands grabbing frantically at the writhing seal to keep it from thrashing itself into worse injury.

"Hey, hey — settle down! Stop moving — please! You're making it worse!"

It doesn’t listen. It fights harder.

Panic and instinct are what fuels its every move, and the more you hold on, the more fiercely it resists, wails cutting straight to the center of your chest, high and desperate, feeding your own fear in a vicious cycle. Its pulse is hammering beneath your hands, a wild, terrified beating of a bird's wings matching your own as its breaths come fast, erratic, interrupted by harsh snorts and shuddering yelps. The pup is almost one singular muscle beneath your grip, trembling and taut with the primal need to flee.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," you chant, the words spilling out in a frantic loop, cracking under the weight of utter desperation of not knowing what to do even as you're repeating you're there to helo. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just let me help — please — fuck, what do I do — ow!"

Pain explodes up your right forearm before the scream even leaves your throat.

Teeth. Deep. Sinking into muscle like fire.

Your body jolts with the instinct to yank away, but you don’t. You can’t. One wrong move and you’ll scare it even more, maybe make it clamp down harder. Tears blur your vision, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bite your own molars together, forcing yourself to go still.

And then — so does the seal.

The aggressive lashing out ceases, replaced by eerie, frozen silence. Its nostrils flare against your skin, warm breath feathering across the bite, making the hairs on your arm stand on end. Your pulse pounds between your teeth, the sting of the wound dulling under the weight of something more pressing — its eyes.

Two inky pools, round and bottomless, reflecting your fractured likeness like tiny mirrors.

"Please," you whisper, shaky, but soft. "I just want to help. You're safe. I won’t hurt you."

The grip on your arm doesn't tighten. Doesn't loosen. The only thing left between you is the weight of your words and the fragile, fragile stillness.

"Let me go," you murmur, swallowing hard. "And we’ll fix this. Okay?"

There's a pause, a single, terrifying moment suspended in time. Then, the seal's jaws relax, and he releases his painful grip on your throbbing arm, and as quickly as the assault began, it ends. Blood rushes forth in a thin rivulet down your wrist and between your fingers. It doesn't really hurt, not compared to the dull ache in the rest of your exhausted body, and the relief that washes over you is so profound that you're momentarily dizzy from it. And yet... The fact that the seal has calmed down means everything.

"It's okay, it’s okay, don't worry about it," you say hurriedly, intended for yourself more than anything so you wouldn't freak out about it. "You were scared, that's all. It's not your fault."

But the pup isn’t looking at the net.

Its gaze is locked onto your arm, the blood pooling at the wound, round, ink-dark eyes impossibly wider, focused in a way that makes something in your chest tighten.

You stare at him, and for a fleeting, impossible second, it feels like he understands. Like he knows what he did. Awe prickles through you, pushing aside the pain, the exhaustion, everything.

Seals are intelligent — you’ve always known that — but this is so magical to experience how emotionally aware they are.

"Hey. Hey, I’m fine, buddy," you insist. "Look at me, look. I'm good, it’s just a scratch. Let's focus on getting that net off, yeah? Can't have you swimming away in that state. You’ll drown."

As you lean in to inspect, the pup shies away initially, clearly wary and distrustful, but eventually allows you to examine the tangled mess of knots and lines ensnaring his sleek, streamlined figure. The heavy, dense debris he's wrapped in like a blanket is making it impossible to unravel anything, and the more you try to remove it, the tighter the bindings grow. Your injured arm is growing numb, which is probably not a good sign, but there's no time to dwell on that now.

Frustrated and increasingly anxious, you search frantically for something in your backpack to use as scissors or a knife, but the jerky movements make the pup tense up, its tail slapping nervously in the sand, and you have to take several calming breaths to prevent scaring him further.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you. I'll be gentler," you promise in a rush. "Just bear with me, okay?"

All you can find is your nail clippers, but they'll have to suffice. With painstaking care, you snip away at the individual strands binding the pup's limbs together, pausing every few moments to reassure him that everything is alright, that it will survive and go back to the rookery islet. Its fur is wet and matted with blood beneath the ropes, and the sight sends a fresh surge of anger through your veins at the thought of whoever abandoned such a careless trap in the ocean.

"Almost got it, buddy, almost, you're doing great," you sniffle, working steadily to free its front flippers. They're the most delicate and prone to injuries, according to Elias. "One last cut and..."

With a soft pop, the final strand gives way and the net falls loose, the release of pressure causing the seal to scramble sideways and flop awkwardly onto his belly in a clumsy roll. It lies there motionless for a brief second before letting out a piercing, mournful wail that stabs at the pit of your stomach.

You drop your tool and fall to your knees beside him, hands hovering uncertainly over its body. You don't dare touch, afraid of hurting it further. In a burst of energy, the pup pushes itself upright, body wiggling and coiling to propel it forward in a frantic dash towards the safety of the sea. You watch helplessly, unable to move or think or react in any way, until it pauses halfway to the shoreline and glances back at you, a low whine emanating from his throat.

"Go on, get out of here," you urge him, waving it onward. "Stay safe and take care of yourself, alright? You've had enough close calls today." A pang of dread hits you, realizing how much danger the pup was already in and how lucky it had been that you happened to be nearby to save it from a terrible fate. But now, all you can do is let it return to its natural environment. "Be free, cutie," you say quietly. "Live well and happy. You deserve better than this."

The pup hesitates, still watching you with those soulful, inscrutable black eyes. Then, in an act that leaves you speechless, it turns and galumphs back to your side, lowering its head and nudging its muzzle against the bleeding gash on your forearm. When it pulls away, his whiskers are slick with red, and a strange sense of gratitude overwhelms you.

"Oh, you angel," you manage, a lump forming in your throat. The urge to viciously pet his head is strong, but this isn’t a cat or a dog. Your arm really might get bitten off from the elbow socket. "Now scram. I'm sure your mama is worried about you."

This time, the seal does as instructed. It slides gracefully down the sandy slope and slips into the waves, vanishing from view in an instant. Only a small trail of blood remains, mingling with the foam and seawater that wash over the shore, evidence of the ordeal endured by this remarkable creature wiped away in an instant by the protective hands of the sea.

The shock of it all, of the stress and adrenaline, finally catches up to you and you collapse backwards in the sand, the pain in your arm flaring once again and only now feeling the cuts on the bottom of your feet.

Shaken to your bones in a way you can’t quite name, your fingers fumble to switch off airplane mode before you even realize what you’re doing. The moment the call connects, you’re babbling into the phone, voice thick with tears, words tangled and frantic. Mom struggles to make sense of you, but it doesn’t take long for her to find you — half an hour later, sprawled on the ground, your windbreaker haphazardly draped over your shoulders, backpack wedged beneath your head. The gash on your arm is wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet, one of your old bandanas knotted tightly around the wound.

If Dad’s ferry hadn’t been stuck in the harbor, he would’ve been here too. No doubt about it.

You get an earful the moment she kneels beside you. Irresponsible. Reckless. Running off without telling anyone. Dad would’ve had a heart attack if things had gone any worse. Yes, yes, yes. You let her words wash over you, nodding at the right moments, too drained to do anything else. Her hugs and kisses make up plenty for it. 

Neither of you bring up the fight. Neither of you need to. Some things are easier left unspoken.

She doesn’t mention the festival, either. But you both know what kind of rumors will be swirling by morning.

For now, you're taken to the local clinic and given a rabies and a tetanus shot, and a lecture from the nurse who treated you, warning you to never approach a wild animal again because the next time, you might not be as lucky.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter twenty-one, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, everything that happens after katniss n peeta win, announcement about the quarter quell !

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

the capitol hasn’t been quiet since katniss and peeta won the games. there are celebration parades, commemorative fashion drops, parties thrown in honor of “true love,” and new candies named after their kiss. the capitol is buzzing with affection for them. but for you, everything feels off.

you haven’t seen finnick in weeks. you haven’t heard johanna’s laugh in even longer. not at a party, not on a screen, not in a passing car or a balcony three floors above yours. and it’s not like they’re avoiding you. it’s like they’ve disappeared. the only victors you’ll ever see are the ones in district two.

since the suicide pact, everything has changed. most people haven’t noticed, not the way you have. but you know.

it wasn’t an act of love. it was an act of defiance. and snow saw it, clocked it immediately. same as you.

you’d felt it before, long before this.

when you were a kid, like five, maybe six, you remembered a riot outside your apartment. there were signs, a lot of yelling, peacekeepers had to come in and shut it down. when you asked your dad what it was for, he told you to keep your eyes down and never talk about it again.

when you were eight, there were whispers about a lot of “accidents” in the training academies, like explosions, deaths, or weapon malfunctions. the adults would call them accidents at least, but in retrospect, you would wonder if some may have been sabotage or staged to cover up conflict within the ranks.

even when you were ten, a merchant girl at the edge of the market slipped you a small roll of paper with no words, just a black circle with a line drawn through it. you still don’t know what that meant. but she was gone the week after.

even back then, the undercurrent was there. district two isn’t known for open rebellion. you would wonder over time if people would throw down subtle, coded, or hushed signs of dissent.

so now, when katniss and peeta refuse to play the final card of the games, you know what you’re watching. you know what it looks like to people with nothing left to lose. it’s hope. and hope, to snow, is a dangerous thing.

but snow doesn’t lash out at them, at least not publicly. not yet.

he uses you. both you and rafe.

your interviews drop off, your sponsors grow cold. you still show up at events, still wear the gowns they send you, still wave from the balcony, but your presence feels like something half-forgotten. they don’t promote you like they used to. they don’t glamorize your victories. you wonder if this is a good thing.

but rafe notices it too. the cameras stay on him longer than before, but only to watch. not to admire or to celebrate. they’re there to monitor.

it’s like you’re being measured, like they’re waiting for a misstep. like a conversation too long with the wrong person, or a word out of place. one breath of rebellion in your lungs and they’ll close the cage door for good.

you haven’t heard from your dad in months.

your mom sent a message a few weeks ago, said someone was following her when she walked to work. said it was probably nothing, just her imagination, but she locked the door anyway. she told you not to worry. told you to stay quiet, just like dad did when you were younger. everything just feels wrong.

you don’t sleep well anymore. you check the windows too often. you don’t go out unless you have to. and when you do, you wear the persona the capitol gave you.

rafe’s been thinking about moving his family into victor’s village. he brought it up once in passing, said it might be safer. said they’d have better food, better medicine, more warmth. but he didn’t do it. he wouldn’t. not because he didn’t trust you, but because he did. and too much. said it wasn’t your job to carry his family too. said you shouldn’t have to bear any more weight than you already do.

you didn’t argue. but you would’ve said yes in a heartbeat.

and through it all, you’ve never met katniss or peeta once. you’ve watched them on television, seen them in the crowd at events you’re both required to attend, you’ve even sat rows away while they stood on the victory tour stage and spoke about cato and clove with scripted grief.

you’ve wanted to speak to them and reach out. just something, especially now that you know what they’ve gotten themselves into. you just wanted a nod, a signal that they’re not alone, that you see them. that you understand.

but you never do. rafe told you not to.

it wasn’t to be strict or control you, but he said snow doesn’t want the old victors mingling with the new ones. he doesn’t want the stories overlapping, the connections forming. said if you talk to katniss or peeta, it’ll be taken as something more. like something dangerous.

because if one victor defies the capitol, it’s a fluke. if two do, it’s a pattern. and if four start talking?

it’s a movement.

but now the quarter quell is coming. the seventy-fifth games. it’s a milestone and a warning at the same time. every person in panem knows what that means. every twenty-five years, the capitol chooses to remind the districts just how deep their control runs. not just with the games, but a twist. it’s a message. a punishment.

you’ve lived through regular reapings before. hell, you literally survived one, but this is different. this has history in it. every person in the country who’s lived long enough has witnessed or participated in a quarter quell. everyone has their story about where they were when the last one happened. your father once told you he watched the fiftieth games from the square, saw haymitch’s face flicker across the screen, bloodstained and unrecognizable. there were twice as many tributes that year. twice as much death.

you remember what they taught you in school. the twenty-fifth quell required the districts to vote on who to send into the arena. some thought it would breed solidarity. it didn’t. it bred silence.

but now, it’s your turn. your generation’s turn. the seventy-fifth is coming. and you can’t help it, you’re nervous. the capitol is being tight-lipped, which only fuels the rumors. everyone’s got a theory.

some say this year, they’ll reap out of the usual age range, like nineteen-year-olds, twelve-year-olds. others whisper about siblings being reaped together—brother and sister, side by side, one heart breaking twice over. you’ve heard one that says the capitol might reap descendants of those who participated in the first rebellion. it's far-fetched, but not impossible. the capitol collects blood samples every year for the reapings. you wouldn’t be surprised if they already had the family trees mapped out, tucked away in some database, ready to be unsealed the second president snow snaps his fingers.

the weekend arrives quiet and slow. rafe’s family pulls up to victors village just as the sun dips low, and snow’s announcement looms.

you've been nervous, but you welcome the distraction.

his dad is the last to show, as expected. he’s the kind of man whose presence is like a winter gust. it’s cold, sharp, and calculated. he doesn’t say much when he arrives. just a nod at rafe, a once-over at you, and then he disappears into the guest room like he owns the house. the visit isn’t really about him, anyway. it never is.

rafe’s stepmom spends her first hour pretending to be helpful, offering to dust shelves you already cleaned, to organize cabinets you know are spotless. sometimes you think she thinks you can’t take care of yourselves sometimes, as if she actually gives a fuck. you catch her peeking into the laundry room when she thinks no one’s looking. rafe pretends not to notice. you let her do her rounds. eventually, she gets bored or satisfied, whichever comes first, and starts talking about her neighbor’s new garden and the rising price of bread. she’ll definitely be gone by tomorrow night. ward will be too. they just do their routine check-in and call it a day.

but his sisters . . . they’re different. they always are.

sarah and wheezie come barreling in like the house belongs to them, arms full of overnight bags and snacks. sarah wraps you in a hug before she even says hello, and wheezie flops dramatically onto the living room couch like she’s home from war. rafe watches it all unfold with a smile, muttering something about regretting this already, but you can tell he’s happy. this is the version of him you like best: soft-voiced, gently bullied by his sisters, just a little bit easier to breathe around.

you and sarah talk in the kitchen while rafe sets up extra blankets and pillows. it’s always the same, sarah asking about your hair, about food, about the boy she’s been secretly seeing and isn’t quite ready to tell her dad about. she asks how you’re doing in that quiet, honest way only sarah can. and you smile, trying to dodge the real parts. you tell her not to worry, that it’s nothing she needs to carry. and sarah, like she always does, believes you, but not entirely.

when the house quiets hours later, it’s wheezie who shows up at the door to the living room, voice small and curious. she doesn’t knock. she just leans in and says your name, like it’s a secret.

“what’s it like?” she asks, standing at the door. “being a victor.”

you look at her in the low light. she's smart, sharper than most, and too observant for her age. you can tell she's been thinking about it for a while now. maybe she saw something in your eyes, something no one else caught.

you want to lie. you want to make it sound like something glorious, something she can point to and dream about. but your silence says more than words could.

wheezie frowns. “is it bad?”

you run your fingers through your hair. “it’s just . . . not what people think.”

she just nods, doesn’t really ask anything else.

rafe finds you both asleep like that in the morning, wheezie’s arm draped over your side, your face smushed up against the pillow. he doesn’t say anything. he just watches for a second longer than necessary, then goes to make coffee.

the announcement comes tomorrow.

the house is quiet now. by nightfall, sarah and wheezie are tucked away in the living room again with half-finished cups of tea and a blanket fort they never finished building. they’d both fallen asleep mid-conversation, heads tilted toward each other on the couch.

you smile softly, easing the blanket up around their shoulders before shutting off the light and tiptoeing down the hallway.

rafe’s already asleep. or he looks like it, at least.

his back is to you at first, covers tugged high on his shoulders. you close the door behind you and move to your side of the bed.

you slip beneath the covers gently, careful not to shift the mattress too much. but the second you settle, pulling the blankets up to your collarbone, rafe exhales low and turns. he rolls onto his side, one arm finding your waist like it’s muscle memory. the other slides beneath his pillow. you end up pressed against his chest, nose brushing his sleep shirt, his breath warm at the top of your hair.

you smile, so he hums, and that’s all it takes. you know he’s awake.

you whisper, “i thought you were asleep.”

“was trying,” he mumbles, voice still rough from whatever half-dream state you just pulled him from. “but my nerves suck.”

you nod slowly, letting out a breath through your nose, the same way he does when he’s trying not to think too hard. “yeah. i get it.”

you don’t say more. you just lie there, but when you finally tilt your head back to look at him, he’s already watching you.

he’s beautiful. even in this light, maybe especially in this light. his lashes are unfairly long, the lines of his face softened by sleep but still so sharp it hurts to look at sometimes. his hair’s buzzed now. he said it was for “low maintenance,” said it like a joke, like he was some high-end model who couldn’t be bothered with styling products. but you remember him saying once, just once, something quiet about how hair holds memories. and then he shaved it all off two days later.

it suits him. really suits him.

your hand comes up to touch the side of his face. he leans into it automatically, eyes slipping shut. your thumb strokes over his cheekbone, and then you reach higher, fingers dragging across his buzzcut. it’s soft and bristly. your palm settles against the top of his head, and you sigh.

“are you nervous about tomorrow?” you ask, still looking at his hair.

he opens his eyes and stares at you, like he’s waiting for the punchline. “uh, yeah. obviously.”

you huff out a breath and roll away from him, burying your face in your pillow with a quiet groan. he watches you, something soft pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“hey,” he says. “don’t. c’mon, we don’t even know what it is yet.” you don’t move, but he keeps talking. “it’s probably gonna suck, yeah. but we’ll get through it. we’ll mentor the strongest ones, right? that’s how this works. we save one kid. maybe two if we’re lucky.”

you know he’s joking but a part of you wants to correct him. president snow will never let that happen again.

you shift slowly, turning back over to face him. he’s already there, one hand resting lightly on your hip, fingers draped over the curve of it.

“we’ve done it before,” he says. “just don’t think about it tonight. not until they say it out loud.”

you know what he’s doing. it’s distraction. he’s not wrong.

you narrow your eyes at him a little, then roll them, leaning in until your lips find his. the kiss is slow at first, just a press of mouths. his fingers curl against your skin, and then his hand comes up to cradle your face as he deepens it, tongue slipping past your lips, pulling you closer.

but you smirk and grab his jaw, grip firm, and pull him back before he can really get carried away. he blinks at you, eyes heavy-lidded and dazed, lips parted like he was in the middle of a sentence.

you raise an eyebrow.

“did you brush your teeth?”

there’s a pause, like his brain short-circuits. his eyes narrow just slightly like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking. the realization washes over him slowly, that weird cocktail of she’s kind of serious, but also . . . not really. because of course you’d ask something like that. because you do care—but also? you don’t. not enough to pull away for good.

his grin starts lazy, crooked. he leans back in, nose brushing yours. “you’re so stupid,” he murmurs.

you smile too, lips already parting to meet his again, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s deeper, slower. his hand slides down, finding the hem of your shirt where it rests at your hip, fingers curling there like he’s memorizing the shape of you. then he moves, hand slipping beneath the fabric, palm warm against your skin as he drags it up, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

the morning comes later.

you make your way into the living room with the tea kettle still steaming in your hands. you step barefoot onto the rug, your eyes flicking up to take in the rest of the room.

sarah’s already curled into one corner of the couch, legs tucked up beneath her, palms wrapped tight around a mug. she looks nervous, biting at the inside of her cheek every few seconds. wheezie’s leaned forward at the edge of the opposite couch cushion, elbows on her thighs, eyes locked onto the television with a kind of intensity that practically borders on obsession.

rafe, meanwhile, is pacing behind the couch. you can tell by the way his jaw is clenched that he’s been upset for a while. his fingers twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them as he mutters something under his breath.

“they should be here,” he snaps, a little louder now, stopping in his tracks. “this is the kind of thing wh— where families are supposed to show up. ours should be here.”

sarah looks up slowly. “rafe . . .”

he doesn’t look at her, but he hears it in her voice.

“you know dad can’t be here. he’s not allowed to leave base anymore for—”

“i know that,” rafe says, “i know. but rose? she could be here. but she’s not. again.”

sarah’s lips press together, the argument already finished in her mind before it begins. there’s nothing left to say that she hasn’t said before.

you quietly refill both your mug and sarah’s.

you don’t speak either, not yet, but when you lean forward to place the kettle down, your shirt pulls slightly. you don’t notice, but rafe does, his eyes catching on the thorns etched into your spine like they’re blooming right out of your skin. it pulls something in him, stops him mid-step. he exhales through his nose and slowly rounds the couch, not saying anything as he drops down into the cushions between his sisters.

he’s just there to be close. wants to be there.

“some guys at school were saying they think this year they’re gonna make it, like, career tributes only,” wheezie says suddenly, almost like she’s been waiting to say it, like she needed to fill the silence. she’s still flicking through channels on the remote way too fast for anyone to follow.

sarah gives her a sharp look. “that’s stupid.”

“is it, though?” wheezie counters, not even glancing her way. “they haven’t done that before. would probably make a good show for the capitol.”

“they’re not gonna do that.”

“you never know,” wheezie says, clicking to yet another static-heavy channel. “they do something worse every time.”

“they’re going to show it on every channel, wheeze. stop it.”

wheezie gives her one of those deadly little sister looks and tosses the remote at sarah’s lap like fine then, you do it. sarah rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything else.

you settle down onto the floor in front of the couch, nestling in between rafe’s legs without needing to ask. his hands find your shoulders like it’s instinct, thumbs pressing slowly into the muscles there. you lean back against him more fully as you watch the screen.

it’s like right on cue: the screen flickers. all the channels go dark for half a second before one clean hologram feed takes over.

the crowd is massive, packed into the grand capitol square where they usually hold the tribute parade. you can barely make out the edge of the platform, the massive podium in the center. the camera zooms in until all that’s visible is the upper half of president snow.

his voice comes in smoothly, already mid-introduction, like this has been planned and rehearsed more times than you could count.

“—thank you for coming out to join us here today,” snow says, smiling just enough for it to be unsettling, “we are reminded of the sacrifices that have shaped panem. of the victories. of the blood that feeds our soil. and of the peace we now enjoy.”

you feel rafe’s thumb pause on your shoulder blade. wheezie’s entire body is still. sarah leans forward, her tea untouched, and you just stare at the screen.

“ladies and gentlemen,” snow finally begins, “this is the seventy-fifth year of the hunger games.”

you don’t blink or breathe. your knees bend slightly as you rest your forearms against the tops of your thighs.

“it was written in the charter of the games,” snow continues, face beaming like he’s reading holy scripture, “that every twenty-five years, there would be a quarter quell to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died in the uprising against the capitol. each quarter quell is distinguished by games of a special significance.”

sarah’s breath hitches next to rafe. wheezie’s lips move without sound, mouthing the words like she’s trying to read them ahead of him. meanwhile your heart skips, because something about the way snow says special significance doesn’t feel procedural.

“and now, on this, the seventy-fifth anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third quarter quell as a reminder . . .”

his pause is calculated. his breath easy.

“. . . that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the capitol.”

your stomach folds in on itself. your brows furrow as you tilt your head slightly, mouth parting like you’re about to whisper something to rafe, like you’re about to ask what does that mean? but the words never come, because then he says it.

“on this, the third quarter quell games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped . . from the existing pool of victors!”

the sentence hits like a body blow.

your vision goes quiet. there’s no ringing in your ears, no sound at all. your face doesn’t change at first. you’re not even sure it can. it’s blank, stuck in this space between disbelief and knowing exactly what was just said.

your fingers twitch as you feel rafe’s hands slip off your shoulders.

you’re trying to sit up straight but your body won’t move the way it’s supposed to. your palm reaches out for the coffee table like it’ll help you remember how to breathe again, like if you just touch something real that you’ll wake up from this. but nothing wakes you up.

sarah’s sobbing openly, no hesitation. her hand flies to her mouth and she leans into the couch cushion as if she might pass out from the force of it. wheezie just stares at the screen, stunned.

you’re on your feet, though you don’t remember standing. the room tilts.

“y/n—” rafe chokes out, voice low and shaky. it’s not really a plea. it’s a reflex, like he can’t help himself. like saying your name out loud might stop you from walking away. but his throat closes around it.

you don’t look back. you can’t. the nausea builds so fast it’s like your stomach turns inside out. your hand covers your mouth but it’s too late, your legs move before your brain can even catch up, bolting through the kitchen doorway. your feet skid against the floor and you barely make it to the sink in time.

you throw up hard. your arms brace against the metal of the basin, body jerking forward with each heave. your mouth tastes bitter. your knees threaten to give.

you spit, cough, then hang there, trembling and breathless. everything smells like mint tea and bile. everything hurts.

you can’t go back.

your mind says it like a chant.

you can’t go back. you can’t.

you survived, you did your time, and you paid. you promised your mother you’d never—

a sob catches in your throat and tears rip down your face before you can even register the burn. your hands grip the edge of the sink tighter, knuckles bone-white, until that too gives out. your palms slide and you fall down to the floor, your hip knocking the cabinet, back curling up as you pull your knees to your chest.

you cry painfully, the kind that shakes your ribs. from the other room you hear rafe shouting your name again.

“rafe,” sarah’s voice tries to hold him back, “just stop—!”

and then something shatters in the living room. glass, probably. maybe ceramic.

you flinch at the sound and tuck your face deeper into your knees. you don’t care what broke. because the only thing that really matters—your life, which has already been taken from you—is already in pieces.

between you and enobaria, one of you has to go back into those games.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[grandline-fics]

hi! could i request for mihawk and anyone else of your choice reacting to their usually modest s/o wearing something scandalous and getting a lot of attention and they feel jealous or try to hide them away from prying eyes? thanks love you

DESCRIPTION: You’re normally modest and get a lot of attention from others when you wear something scandalous

WARNINGS: a little suggestive but nothing explicit at the end

CHARACTERS: Mihawk

WORDS: 1,285

A/N: Thank you for this request! I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you enjoy what I came up with for it

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

MASTERLIST | PROMPT LIST

———————

“Another gala, Crocodile?” Mihawk asked dryly looking at the small decorated piece of paper in his hand. “Is my presence truly necessary for this?” His golden eyes looked at the information blankly and held back the glare to see it would be taking place on the island they were at. Any other time these events were held, Mihawk would refuse to travel so far for a measly party or would take up a bounty mission that would take him in the opposite direction so he couldn’t attend. 

“Oh humour me for once, Mihawk.” Crocodile urged, frowning around his cigar. “I can’t keep bringing that liability of a figurehead. If we want to convince those nobles and backers of our legitimacy I need someone who can actually manoeuvre in these circles. If we want to see Cross Guild succeed and be profitable you’re going. You’re not getting out of it this time.” You bit back a smile to see your lover’s eye twitch. He hated going to these kinds of things. Quickly you acted, stepping behind his seat to place a hand on his shoulder and offer him a smile. “Oh come on, might actually be fun. At least this time you’re not going under Marine orders, it’ll be different. I can go with you if that makes things easier?”

At that Crocodile let out a small scoff, making you and Mihawk look at him in annoyance. The gala invitation was an open one so he couldn’t say you weren’t allowed to go but it was clear you going had irked him in some way which was odd seeing as you and the other founder of Cross Guild were on relatively good terms. You would’t say we was a close friend but he wasn’t someone you loathed. You remained silent as Crocodile stubbed out his cigar into the ashtray on the table and slowly looked you over, his scrutinising stare showing his critical assessment. “No offence, but you’d be more out of place than the clown. Like I said, we need to make a positive impression with these people.”

Your fingers flexed against Mihawk’s shoulder in a silent way of telling him not to react to Crocodile’s remarks. You were more than aware that your appearance was vastly different from his rich fabrics and perfectly tailored style. You’d always preferred simplistic and comfortable over anything else you wore. This wasn’t the first time someone pointed out your modest and almost drab fashion and it never bothered you. At least not until you felt you’d be letting Mihawk down. You knew how important Cross Guild was to him. Quickly you placed a kiss against Mihawk’s cheek and smiled at Crocodile as you left the room, if it was a positive impression he wanted, then that’s what he’d get. “I’ll meet you both at the gala.”

————

Mihawk hated having to interact with people he thought nothing of, he hated having to practically parade himself around in front of rich people like something to be gawked at in order to fulfil their own boring curiosities. He would much rather be in his own quarters with you, enjoying each others company and peace. Sharply he glared at Crocodile for what felt like the hundredth time today as he stepped into the banquet hall of the mansion the gala was being held in. While you’d shown no hint of annoyance for his earlier disrespect, Mihawk was still pissed and no amount of expensive wine was going to change that. 

As he took the glass of wine offered to him, he cast his gaze across the filled room in search of you. Though it was hard to search each face properly especially with the group that had already congregated near the centre of the room, fawning voices spilling from their mouths in a strange chorus. Mihawk and Crocodile shared a look of confusion, as far as they were both aware Cross Guild were the main attraction. While Mihawk was more than happy for someone else to take the attention, Crocodile was less than impressed. Then a familiar laugh sounded from the middle of the group making both men freeze.  

The pair watched as one person moved slightly and it gave them a window to clearly see you talking to the group, allowing the host of the gala lift your hand to press an adoring kiss against your knuckles. Mihawk remained the outward image of calm but inside he was a mess, looking you over intensely. Gone were your usual clothes of comfortable layers of soft and understated fabrics, in their place was the richest material adorning your form like a second skin coloured a deep wine red. Your outfit highlighted your body’s attributes that were usually hidden and accentuated the allure and attractiveness that previous only he was worthy of seeing. 

“Well…”Crocodile managed out with a firm clearing of his throat, even he was caught by your makeover. “Seems I was very wrong.” Mihawk snapped his head away from your direction to throw the fiercest glare yet at his business partner. Oh how he wished he had Yoru with him to slash all of your admirers in one go. Moving briskly he wove himself through the sea of pests buzzing around you and snaked an arm around your waist smoothly in greeting. Upon seeing who you were attending the gala with and felt the murderous aura rolling from his frame, those that had been desperately vying for your attention in the hopes of getting more, promptly became stuttering messes as they made hurried goodbyes and dispersed, scurrying away like the rats Mihawk knew them to be. 

“Hello, love.” You greeted with a pleasant smile. “Something wrong?”

“I despise seeing lesser beings try to sully works of art.”

“Aww, as sweet as that is just say you’re jealous.” You laughed softly, smiling up at him as you let him direct you smoothly away from the centre of the room and away from the appreciative stares you were still getting. “So, have I made a positive enough impression?”

“You know you have. You could wear anything and would be the most attractive person in the room.” Mihawk told you smoothly and you smirked. 

“Then why are you trying to hide me with the edge of your coat?” You asked, looking down to see the hand around your waist also held his coat around your body in an improvised shield. Mihawk didn’t answer. He lowered his gaze down to you once more, fully taking in just how much more enticing you were to him. He thought suffering this gala would be torture enough but to be here with you, looking so ravishing and drawing so much attention was unbearable, even for his resilient will. 

Acting quickly he pulled you close for a kiss and bit back the satisfied smirk when you flinched at the sudden feeling of the wine in his other hand spilled against your shoulder. You pulled back to throw him an accusatory stare while he merely set the now half-empty glass down on the tray of a server walking by and stared at you blankly, completely unapologetic. “Oh, how clumsy of me. Looks like we’ll have to go back and change.”

“You really are childish sometimes you know that?” You muttered with a slow roll of your eyes, walking with him towards the exit. 

“We’ll have to be careful.” Mihawk continued, ignoring your comment, his hand releasing his coat so he could drop his hand to your hip and give you a quick squeeze. “With material this expensive we’d have to make sure it’s taken care of properly. Could take all night.”

Well who were you to argue with that?

-----------------------------------------------

TAG LIST (If I've missed anyone or if you want to be added just let me know) @3v37773, @tsaaps , @i-am-all-love-puns-and-lazy , @sanemisnonexistenteyebrow , @fiery-captain-spider-santa

[mafuyussweater]

My favorite SVSSS fics

>my favorite non-bingqiu focused fics.. I have a bingqiu specific fic rec list that is much longer hah<

Be sure to read all the tags!

Leave authors kudos (and comments)

Enjoy ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ (to be added to as I read more)

Bros before... well everything I guess by: icannotthinkofapenname

Teen+ • Canon Divergence (found family)

Shen Yuan and Shang Qinghua find out they are both transmigrators as soon as Shang Qinghua visits him after he recovers from his "fever". They cope with the crazy world together and end up closer with the other peak lords than either of them ever expected.

(This is a bros fic, binghe is barely even here (sorry binghe))

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Master of Dual Cultivation by: esama

Explicit • Time Travel (series!! not complete)

Shen Qingqiu gets sent back to the beginning by the system when he fails to save the world during the events at Maigu Ridge which leads to his and Luo Binghe's death. He is haunted by the events of his past (and potential future) and decides to do things differently this time around. It doesn't always mean things are better.

(Hint of Shen Qingqiu with others! Also he is a mix of Shen Yuan and Shen Jiu in this in such a delicious way)

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Wild Wild Heart by: Thy_glorious_death

Explicit • Canon Divergence (series!!)

At the edge of the Abyss Shen Qingqiu makes the impulsive decision to follow Luo Binghe down into hell. Liu Qingge sees them fall and spends all his time trying to find a way to them.

(This is Shen Qingqiu (yuan) harem so skip if it isn't your thing but he is very well loved here heh)

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Paper Faces on Parade by: TheChocoChick

Teen+ • Canon Divergence (identity reveal)

Two years after Luo Binghe began his journey through the abyss, Shen Qingqiu gets a system notification with the objective to talk to Yue Qingyuan. They both learn a lot about each other and become even closer friends. (It's still a bingqiu fic but it focuses on the friendships that Shen Yuan develops in his time without Binghe)

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A Pairing of Souls by: muzu

Teen+ • Canon Divergence (series! not complete but just one extra/continuation)

After self detonating, Shen Yuan discovers Shen Jiu has been existing in a weird liminal space and has seen some of what has been going on while Shen Yuan took over his life. They both make it out together when Shen Yuan's soul hops into the mushroom body which is ready very early. He discovers that giving Shen Jiu his old body back is going to be much more difficult than planned because Luo Binghe is currently protecting it... aggressively.

(This is still bingqiu endgame but it focuses more on Shen Yuan and Shen Jiu than any Bingqiu romance)

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returned tenfold by: lavenderandrue

Explicit • Post-Canon

While Liu Qingge visits Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu in the demon realm, the three decide to play a game. Anything that Luo Binghe receives he must give back to Liu Qingge in return (and vise versa). Liu Qingge is not prepared to receive a hug (and things escalate from there.)

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Sittin' in a Tree by: armyoftoads

Teen+ • Post-Canon

Liu Qingge confronts Luo Binghe on his awful looking kissing skills after seeing too many kisses between him and Shen Qingqiu for his liking. This evolves into the two of them begging Shen Qingqiu to choose who of the two of them is the better kisser.

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What I have and what I ache for by: Kosmostill

Mature • Post-Canon

Liu Qingge laughs and Luo Binghe is wholly unprepared for how much that makes his heart leap out of his chest. He can't help but think 'was he always this beautiful?'

(Bingliushen pre-relationship)

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The Thorn of Secret Desires by: lavenderandrue

Explicit • Post-Canon

Shen Qingqiu gets pricked by a plant that, when he is aroused, makes him reveal his deepest (horniest) desires. This leads to many discoveries and eventually involves seducing Liu Qingge to join the couple in the bedroom.

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the horns of dilemma by: lavenderandrue

Explicit • Post-Canon

Shen Qingqiu decides to walk in and watch Liu Qingge and Luo Binghe while they do it. He sees many things he was not expecting but finds he wants to experience. Unfortunately Luo Binghe takes his shock as disgust so in order to really show how much he wants all of it, Shen Qingqiu drugs himself with truth revealing mushroom tea.

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Today, and every day after by: summerdays_winternights

Explicit • Post-Canon

Mobei-Jun makes Luo Binghe aware that Liu Qingge is courting him and his husband and that if he delays to accept, there are many who would be more than interested in courting Liu Qingge. Luo Binghe won't let that happen.

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a not-so-idle flirtation by: airplanelanding (The CourtSorcerer)

Mature • Post-Canon

Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu attempt to seduce Liu Qingge

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something you don't give much attention by: brosnyaa

Explicit • Post-Canon

During a sparring match between Luo Binghe and Liu Qingge, the former makes a mistake and loses the match. Liu Qingge can't keep the smug smile off his face and Luo Binghe finds he needs to make him smile again (and again)

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Universal Simps by: chaoticgoodlawyer

Mature • (Temporary) Reverse Transmigration

The System helps out The Protagonist by sending Shen Qingqiu, Luo Binghe, Liu Qingge (and moshang) back to Shen Yuans original world with the objective: Relationship Building

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Petrichor- The smell of earth after it rains. by: xnemone

Explicit • Getting Together

Liu Qingge starts having dream that make him question how he feels about Luo Binghe along side his already existing feelings for Shen Qingqiu.

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Manger à Trois by: buryyourgaydar

Teen+ • Getting Together

In an attempt to seduce Liu Qingge, Luo Binghe finds himself frustrated by how hard it seems to please his Shishu. At Shen Qingqiu's suggestion, he spends a little extra time observing all the subtle ways Liu Qingge shows his likes and dislikes with the hope that all this effort will be worth it.

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Son Boy Allowed by: Cour104

Gen • Child Acquisition

Shen Qingqiu (the original) finds a child at the Warm Red Pavilion. The kids name is Zhang Yuan and he was abandoned by his father after the boys mother died. Shen Jiu tells himself he won't get attached but he does.

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supernova by: tskmo

Explicit • No Transmigration

Shen Yuan and Shen Jiu are both disciples of Qing Jing Peak. They get sent on a mission together and Shen Yuan makes a life threatening mistake that gets him sex pollened.

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To Walk Unburded by: Ehann

Mature • Age Regression

Mu Qingfang is called to the Warm Red Pavilion because Shen Qingqiu Qi-deviated and regressed to his childhood self. Mu Qingfang takes Shen Jiu back to help him recover and discovers he really likes the idea of being a father.

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Regardless of the Hardships by: Ehann

Not Rated • Alternate Transmigration

Shen Qingqiu qi-deviates and Mu Qingfang (actually Shen Yuan) comes to check on him. Except, he can tell that something is off about his Shidi, he is somehow more gentle and kind.

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Providence by: Aledono

Gen • Canon Divergence (series)

On the way to Cang Qiong Mountain, Liu Qingge and his father stop by many nobles houses for reasons only his father knows. While visiting the Qiu household, they both realize something sinister is going on and help get Shen Jiu out.

[childhood friends to lovers]

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By Any Other Name (Is This....a Shixiong?) by: Ehann

Teen+ • Mistaken Identity

Mu Yuan doesn't know who the person in Qing Jing robes is and doesn't care. He just wants them to cooperate and let him heal. Shen Qingqiu decides he likes this bold disciple who would dare be casual with a Peak Lord and lets him believe he is a mere disciple too.

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Plucking Leaves, Flying Flowers by: CarpeNox

Teen+ • Canon Divergence

One night when airing out his troubles with the ladies of the Warm Red Pavilion, they help him realize he doesn't need to stay at Cang Qiong Mountain, he can leave and find his own happiness.

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you're not coming home? by: jumpinginmuddypuddles

Teen+ • Alternate Transmigration

Shen Yuan wakes up in the body of a very young orphan. He makes his way to the Qing Jing Peak kitchens, being worked and beaten almost to death just to not live on the streets (and maybe see a glimpse of Luo Binghe.)

[whump!! It gets very bad before it gets better]

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Gift Giving and Other Acts of Affection by: Godotfound

Teen+ • Getting Together

Shen Qingqiu gets sex pollened and Liu Qingge doesn't take advantage, just pours qi into him all night. As a thank you, Shen Qingqiu brings him a box of tea. Not one to be outdone, Liu Qingge gives a gift back and the two keep exchanging gifts.

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

More European Renaissance Art Vocabulary

for your next poem/story

Halo - The gold circle or disk placed behind the heads of Christ and saints, a symbol of their sanctity or the light of God.

Hatching - The drawing or engraving of fine parallel lines to show shading. When the lines intersect each other, it is called cross-hatching.

Horizon Line - The line where the sky and earth appear to meet. The horizon line is drawn across the picture at the artist’s eye level.

Hue - A particular variety of a color, shade, or tint.

Lunette - A semicircular shape.

Magus - A member of the ancient Persian priestly caste, skilled in Eastern magic and astrology. In the New Testament, the Magi are the three wise men who came from the East to pay homage to the newborn Christ Child.

Majolica - Tin-glazed earthenware.

Palazzo - An Italian word used to describe a large building. It may be a mansion or palace, or an official government building like a town hall, court, or embassy.

Passion, or The Passion of Christ - The events surrounding the Crucifixion of Christ; a popular subject for religious drama, painting, and sculpture.

Perspective - A technique that artists use to represent the three dimensional world on a two-dimensional surface, such as a piece of paper, canvas, or wood panel. Using perspective, an artist can create the illusion of depth or space and show the proper proportion between objects. Without perspective, a painting or drawing will appear flat.

Pictorial Space - The illusion of three-dimensional space created on a two-dimensional surface.

Predella - An Italian word for the series of small paintings that form the lower section of large altarpieces. It usually has narrative scenes from the lives of the saints who are represented on the main and side panels of the altarpiece.

Putto - From the Latin word meaning “male child.” In 15th- and 16th century poetry and painting, putti are depicted with wings and connected with the god of love, Eros, also known as Cupid.

Red - In Christian paintings, a symbol of the blood of Christ or the Passion.

Relief - A raised surface; for example, sculpture that is carved or modeled and which projects from a background.

Star - In Christian paintings, a symbol of divine guidance or favor. The Star of the East guided the three Magi to Bethlehem.

Triumph - An ancient Roman tradition honoring the return of a victorious general, who paraded his soldiers, prisoners, and spoils through the city streets.

Tromp L’oeil - French for “fool the eye”; a style of painting intended to trick the viewer into believing that the minutely observed objects shown are part of the viewer’s three-dimensional world.

Vanishing Point - The point where parallel lines appear to meet on the horizon line.

Source ⚜ More: Word Lists ⚜ Part 1