#and that is. a lot of what being a president. would feel like

[authorchariot]

> ENTRY: FIAT_LUX_FIAT_SANGUIS

RATING: mature

CATEGORY: the line (2023)

PAIRING: todd stevens x ftm!reader

EST. READING TIME: 36m 29s

INDEX TAGS: assault, blood and violence, cigarettes, fraternities and sororities, general toxic masculinity, hate crimes, hazing, heavy drinking, homophobia, hurt/comfort, mentions of vomiting, not beta read, pov second person, public humiliation, references to drugs, slurs, trans character, trans male character, transphobia

SUMMARY: sumpter university wasn't built for people like you — working-class, quiet, unremarkable — but, against all odds, you're here; a freshman nobody in a sea of legacies and power suits. you never expected to catch the eye of todd stevens, the golden boy president of the university's most elite (and most ruthless) fraternity. perhaps it would've been better if you didn't. welcome to the lion's den

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You aren't supposed to be here. Not really. At least that's how it feels sometimes.

Sumpter University always felt like something meant for them; for the kids whose last names hang from buildings and show up in glossy alumni brochures. The kids with summer homes and old money and internships they didn't even apply for. The ones who drive sleek cars and never check their bank balance, who treat tuition like a toll on the way to their daddy's law firm. You're not one of them.

You're just you; smart, stubborn and damn lucky. The scholarship helped. Your good grades helped. Your application essay about resilience and working three jobs in high school probably helped too. But mostly, it was your parents. Who cried when your acceptance letter came and insisted they could take out the loan to cover what aid didn't and hugged you too tightly when you boarded the Greyhound with secondhand luggage and three crisp button-downs.

They call once a week; your mom always pretending not to cry, your dad asking if the dorm's too cold, if the other guys treat you right. They ask about classes, about professors and you lie sometimes; say it's all going great, say you're fitting in just fine. The truth is; you're holding your head above water. And barely that.

Your life at Sumpter is measured in small, quiet rituals.

You wake up early; before your roommate, who still thinks 9 am lectures are a cosmic punishment. You brew black coffee in the shared dorm kitchen and then throw on your shirt in the bathroom. You head to class, sit near the front and take notes like your life depends on it.

When you're not in lectures, you work. The coffee shop down the street hired you during orientation week. It's clean, locally owned and far enough from campus that most frat guys don't wander in unless they're desperate or hungover. You like it. You can vanish behind the counter, sling drinks and listen to playlists over the steam of milk. It doesn't make much but it covers your books and the random expenses no scholarship accounts for; laundry, cough medicine, notebooks you burn through like firewood. The job doesn't pay much but it pays for things not included by the grant; phone bills, T shots, stationary.

You also study. A lot. The library is where you go when the dorm is too loud. You tuck yourself into a second-floor window seat with your laptop and flashcards and let the quiet soak in. You like being invisible. It feels safe.

You don't see the point in applying to a fraternity. You're not a legacy. You don't drink. You've never been good with crowds. They've started posting signs; bold fliers about rush week and mixers and off-campus retreats that sound more like retreats from responsibility. You pass them on the quad and don't look twice. That world isn't for people like you.

You don't know that someone's watching.

He sees you at work first.

You don't notice him; why would you? He's just another tall, confident pretty boy with a jawline carved like a statue's, dark hair swept back and a suit that probably cost more than both your parents' salaries put together.

But he notices you.

You're behind the bar, working the espresso machine, steam rising in clouds around your face. You're not smiling but you're focused; calm and efficient, brow furrowed slightly, headphones dangling from your collar. You hand a drink off to a girl in a tennis skirt and duck your head to avoid her thanks, already back to rinsing pitchers before she even turns away.

There's something about that. About your stillness. About the quiet intensity you carry, like someone who's trying not to take up space but can't help radiating something honest. It intrigues him. He watches the way you finish your shift and sit in the corner afterwards with a textbook and a half-empty mug, biting your lip while you underline notes with colour-coded pens.

He watches you the next week too. And the next.

Eventually, he asks around. Not openly, of course. Quietly. Strategically. A name passed to a friend. A nudge to the registrar's office through a connection. A glance at your class schedule. Nothing that would look like interest. Nothing that would look like attention.

He learns that you're a freshman. No affiliations. No family money. Smart; very. Works part-time. Top scores in your courses already. The kind of guy people overlook because he's not loud, not shiny. But the kind of guy who tells the truth, who tries his best, who lasts.

He wonders if you've even heard of his fraternity. He wonders what you'd look like out of that uniform of hoodies and jeans; dressed in something finer, darker, more dangerous. Lit by firelight instead of fluorescents. Staring up at him across a marble floor, music vibrating through your chest.

Maybe it's time someone showed you what Sumpter really is.

You're in the library again, sifting through heavy textbooks, armed with your arsenal of brightly-coloured stationery from Walmart. It's the little things that keep you happy; pastel highlighters, erasers in amusing shapes and lazy, lo-fi tunes on your headphones. You don't ask for much. You never have done.

There's not much to really study just yet but you're getting organised; making sure everything is labelled, colour-coded and filed away in its rightful place. You're in your own, little world; quiet, content, yourself.

There's the muffled sounds of shoes on the thick carpet. People don't tend to venture into this part of the library all that much but it's not new so you don't look up. The footsteps stop and you assume the person must've taken what they needed and headed back to their table.

It isn't until you hear someone clearing their throat that you lift your head, your eyes snapping to the man standing a couple of feet away, leaning against a bookshelf. He's at least six-foot, slicked-back hair, piercing blue eyes, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to the elbow, exposing strong forearms. He looks to be a mature student; maybe twenty-eight? Possibly even pushing thirty?

You start slightly, partially from the interruption and partially because the man standing barely a couple of feet away looks like he could be carved out of fine marble and displayed in Galleria dell'Accademia di Firenze.

"Hey." His voice is low, smokey, cutting through the music still drifting in through your headphones before you pull them off.

"Hi!" You immediately lower your voice, reminding yourself that you're still in a library. "Umm... What can I do for you?" You don't know him. Maybe you've seen him once in passing but his presence has you on edge for a reason you can't quite put your finger on.

He smiles slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. There seems to be this energy to him; something that commands respect, something that speaks to something inside you, something that probably has something to do with your father but you don't want to unpack right this instant.

"Nothing. Just taking a break from studying." He pushes off the shelf to sit in the chair across from you. "Mind if I join you?"

"Uhh... Yeah, sure." You reach over to move some of your books out of the way as he sits down. He's graceful but holding this coiled tension, like a wolf stalking a startled hare. He settles into the chair, just watching you, as you try to bring some kind of order to the chaos you've spread out across the table. You can smell him from across the table and that's definitely not a bad thing. Hyacinth, cedarwood, amber; from an expensive brand, no doubt.

"What're you studying?" He asks suddenly and you stare up at him owlishly. Is he genuinely interested or is this some joke? It wouldn't be out of character for one of the SU nepo babies to pick on one of the few poors on campus. They probably think of it as community service. Still, what's the saying? Never look a gift horse in the mouth? That's what brought down the Trojans, wasn't it?

"Psychology." You reply with a stiff smile. "It's not been too bad so far." He nods, brow furrowing slightly.

"You like it?" He continues, his tone gentle, encouraging even.

"Yeah."

"Good." He settles down further in his seat, seemingly having no intention of leaving. His eyes keep you pinned and you find yourself wriggling under his gaze.

"So ��� umm... — did you...want something?" You ask cautiously and his smile widens. It's kind enough but you get a feeling he knows something that you don't. You don't like it.

"Just wanted to check if you were settled in okay." You don't want to ask how he knew you were a freshman. It's probably obvious; wide-eyed, nervous, nose buried in textbooks, taking pleasure in your fucking cherry blossom-pink and seafoam-teal highlighters you got before arriving. You try to play it cool.

"Oh, yeah. Tough being away from home but all freshmen get that, I guess." You laugh softly but he doesn't reciprocate, just studying you from across the table.

"True." He agrees, lips still quirked into that little smile. "You signed up to any clubs yet? Frats?" He asks and you shake your head, trying to subtly tuck away your stationery.

"Uhh... No? I'm not really big on parties or anything." You tell him honestly as if he couldn't read you like an open book. Because you absolutely seem the type to be out drinking every other night, right?

"Right." He murmurs. A long silence settles over you as you feel cold sweat prickle the back of your neck.

"A-Are you in a frat?" You decide to ask.

"Mhm." He replies smoothly, a hint of pride in his voice. "Kappa Nu Alpha; oldest fraternity on campus." God, of course. He's one of the top nepo babies. Doesn't stop him from being undeniably gorgeous, though...

"Wow. How long have you been there?"

"Since I was a junior. It's been a big part of my college experience." He pauses for a moment. "We're pretty selective about who we let in." Then why is he talking to you of all people?

"What kind of stuff do you guys do?" If it was literally anyone else, you'd be making your excuses and leaving but there's something about him that glues you to the spot and forces you to listen and forces you to like it.

"Community service, charity events, academic support for our members. And, yeah, we throw some parties too." He admits with a small chuckle. "But it's more than that; it's a brotherhood."

"Cool. Sounds fun. Supportive." You say and he leans forward, expression turning slightly more serious.

"Mhm. We look out for each other. Speaking of which, you seem like you'd fit right in." His voice is low, conspiratorial, you feel it rumble through the table, where your hands are collected rather meekly in front of you. Your eyes widen before you look away, fiddling with the zipper on your pencil case.

"Oh... I don't think so." You reply, trying your best to sound polite. That draws a soft chuckle from him.

"Why not?" He presses gently.

"I'm just...quiet and not really all that fun at parties and... Y'know, the usual stuff." You explain and he waves a hand dismissively.

"Quiet's underrated. And who says you have to be the life of the party? We have plenty of brothers who are more than capable of that." He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table. "No, what we value most is loyalty and character." As heat rushes to your cheeks, you look away, desperate to find some excuse, something to drag you out of this.

"B-But surely applications are all closed, right?"

"No." He says easily. "If you wanted to apply, the deadline's the end of this week." If he was doing this just for laughs, surely he wouldn't be pressing you so hard on this, right? Surely he would've had his fun by now... You nod slowly.

"Do you...really think I'd fit in?" You ask hesitantly.

"Absolutely." He says without hesitation, almost too quickly. You don't know how to read this guy and it's throwing you off. "You seem genuine and down-to-earth. Those are qualities we value a lot more than someone who can just throw back shots all night." He leans back, giving you a reassuring smile. Something seems terribly off about this but... God, he's charming and pretty and he's actually talking to you like a person, unlike a lot of the students you've come across in your limited time here.

"Okay..."

"If you want, I can send the application link right now." He pulls out his phone. "Just think about it, okay? No pressure."

"Won't I need to talk with the president? Just to see if I'd even have a chance of getting green-lit?" You ask, unconsciously reaching for your phone.

"You're talking to him." He replies easily, thumbs flying across his phone screen until your phone buzzes with a notification from the university intranet.

Oh, Jesus... So not just an uncharacteristically pretty nepo baby. Not just a top nepo baby. But the president of the top nepo babies, who just so happens to be the most flawless man you've ever seen in your life. This just gets worse and worse, especially as his gaze and his voice get you hotter and hotter under the collar.

Your face goes bright red, heat flushing from the base of your neck to the tips of your ears and he laughs softly, genuinely. It's a nice, warm sound and your toes curl in your worn-out Converse as you suppress a shiver. "Just think it over, yeah?" He stands fluidly, passing a hand through his hair and straightening his shirt before adjusting his watch.

"Yeah, okay..." You manage though your throat feels tight.

"Good, I'll see you around campus." He says warmly before striding away.

As soon as he's out of sight, you let out a huge sigh, collapsing onto the desk, your head in your hands. The last few minutes felt like you just fought in the hundred-year war, your heart thumping against your ribcage like you just ran a marathon. You have to get back to your dorm. You have a lot to think about and a lot to process.

The end of the week comes and finally, in a moment of weakness and curiosity, you fill out the form and send it back over. As soon as you send it, you feel a rock settle in the pit of your stomach. You may have just made the best or worst decision of your life. Only time will tell which.

About a week later you're turning up to the first formal meeting. It's a retreat to one of the existing brothers' family estates, the kind of place where they should probably have a butler wipe the poverty off you before you step inside.

You stand on the ground floor with the rest of the hopefuls as the existing members judge you from the balconies on the floor above. You feel terribly out of place. The other hopefuls are dressed in jeans, t-shirts shirts and sneakers but they still feel miles above you in your best; which just so happens to be a dress shirt and pants you got at the thrift store before you moved away. It's clear to everyone that you're not on the same level as the rest of them, even the other hopefuls, and you find yourself trying to shrink away from the intense scrutiny of the many looking down on you. Welcome to the lion's den.

Todd Stevens — a name that popped up when you went to read up about the fraternity — seems right at home, stood on a balcony on the upper floor, addressing the room. A pressed, blue button-down stretches across his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tucked into black slacks that seem practically made to fit his slim waist and strong thighs. Looking up at him like this is intimidating, yes, but not unwelcome.

His eyes sweep across the group below him, lingering on each face for a moment before moving on until landing on you. He pauses slightly, for just a beat too long, before leaning back to start his speech.

"Welcome, prospects." His voice echoes in the large room; easily, naturally, as if he was born to do this. "You're here because you want to be part of something bigger than yourselves, something that will shape your future. Let me be blunt." His eyes are sharp and assessing. "Not every one of you will make it through the pledge process. We have gold standards, here, at KNA because we reflect on the college and on one another." You swallow hard. "We're looking for leaders; men who can handle pressure, make tough decisions and uphold our values. We think you might have what it takes, you have potential." He leans forward, large hands finding the wrought-iron railing in front of him, fingers flexing. You shuffle nervously on your feet.

His voice drops lower. "Let me make one thing clear; loyalty is everything in this house. To the brotherhood, to the legacy and to me." You look down at the floor anxiously as you hear some of the existing brothers snickering amongst each other. "Tonight marks the beginning of your journey." His voice raises slightly to cut through the murmurs. "Some of you will be tested in ways you never imagined. But remember this; if you're here today, we saw something in you."

You spend the rest of the weekend on the sidelines of conversations and hanging onto walls at parties. You're made the butt of plenty of jokes and it soon becomes apparent that what Todd said about you fitting right in couldn't have been further from the truth.

During the parties, you're encouraged to grope hookers and bump lines with some of the pledges but you turn them down sheepishly, only to be ridiculed further. You spend more time roaming the vast grounds of the estate than with the guys at the house; watching football and getting high. All the while, you feel eyes on your back, judging, assessing. The only respite you get is in the bathroom, where you get dressed every morning. You need to keep that under lock and key. God knows what these assholes would do if they opened up that Pandora's box.

You were right. This was never a place for you and you made a terrible mistake submitting that form. But you made a promise and you'll be damned if you're about to give up because of 'boys being boys'. You've seen worse. Much worse.

You have to prove to yourself that you can make it through this.

And, for some bizarre reason, you want to prove it to Todd. He extended this olive branch to you. Whether that was out of genuine hope, pity or some twisted sense of humour, you won't know, but his words echo in your head; 'you have potential'.

So you'll show these rich, daddy's boy pricks what a real working-class man can handle.

Well. That's if you make it past the first round of votes.

The night for voting arrives and you and the other hopefuls are taken to the living room. They drink and watch baseball and shoot pool but you're just sat in the corner, watching them, and wondering what the brothers are saying about you and the other prospects in the secretive, soundproof den.

In the den, only lit by the bright light of the projector on the coffee table, the existing brothers laugh and drink and toke up as Todd takes them through a slideshow of the hopefuls.

When the slide containing your photo appears on-screen and Todd announces your name, a hush falls over the crowd before a groan resounds through the room.

"Kid's a joke." One of them sighs, taking a long pull of his beer.

"He kills the vibe, man."

"He's such a pussy."

"I think he might be gay. I don't wanna live with a faggot." Todd keeps his expression neutral as he glances around, watching the other brothers nodding in agreement, their faces twisted in disdain.

"Yeah, what if he tries to, like, blow you in your sleep or something?" One comments as another one elbows the other in the ribs. They make jokes and sling slurs around, teasing each other.

"Okay but he kinda looks like a girl so like... I dunno."

"Yeah, put a bag on his head and get him fucked up. Maybe then he'd be half-decent company." One snickers.

"Looked him up. His dad is, like, a founder of this shitty, small-time IT company and his mom is retired. Ain't that a load of shit?"

"What made this kid think he'd even have a chance?"

"Like what? Are we running a day-care now?"

"Or a homeless shelter?" The room erupts in laughter as they grow more rowdy, laughing and throwing half-empty beer cans at the projection of your face on the wall, staring back at them, wide-eyed yet exhausted. Todd finally clears his throat, commanding the room's attention. He waits for the laughter and jeering to die down before speaking.

"Guys, I think we might be missing something here." He pauses. "You all know how tough it is to deal with the Dean sometimes, right? He's always breathing down our necks about rules and regulations. Now, this guy?" He jerks his head toward the projection. "He might be exactly what we need; clean background, no diciplinaries. He could be our 'good boy' face when we need to talk to the higher ups."

"Shit. So a good, little bitch to wheel out when shit hits the fan?" One of the brothers asks.

"I mean, he'll be quiet, at least. Won't throw parties without invites. Won't get caught pissing in the quad."

"But will he cover for us?" One asks seriously and the room grows quiet again.

"He's loyal. Just needs someone to hold his hand." He scans the room, meeting each brother's gaze firmly. "We give him a chance, show him what it means to be part of KNA. Hell, he might even be a decent guy if we get to know him. But..." His voice drops dangerously low. "If he messes up or screws us over, we pin it on him and then kick his ass to the curb." The brothers seem to like the idea of having a scapegoat. After all, no one would care if some poor, no-name, little bitch got kicked out of Sumpter.

Todd steeples his fingers. "But, until then, we keep him in. He'll follow the rules, keep his nose clean and be our golden boy when we need him to be, got it?" The brothers nod in agreement, their initial hostility replaced with cautious acceptance.

They have their reasons for keeping you but, for now, you're safe.

Over the next week or so, you take part in the initiations on campus, playing their stupid games and falling victim to their stupid pranks. They shave your head. You get a couple of bruises and scrapes in the annual KNA pledge versus brothers capture the football game. You give your pledge. You face every stage of the initiation with stoic endurance but the tension only grows more and more palpable as hazing night approaches.

Once again, there's a retreat to one of the brothers' family estates for the hazing. You stand with the other pledges, in front of the other brothers. You have a black eye, the bruise already turning a sickly shade of yellowish-green. Todd stands before your group, his expression stern and unyielding.

"Alright, listen up." He commands, his voice echoing through the grand hall of the estate. The other brothers stand behind him, their faces equally serious. "You all know why we're here tonight." You swallow hard. This is the last hurdle. You've come this far. "This is where we find out if you're truly KNA material." His eyes, almost black in the dim light, linger on you for a moment but show not an ounce of favouritism. "You've taken your beatings, swallowed your pride...but tonight's different." He pauses, running a hand along his clean-shaven jaw. "Tonight, you face your final test. It won't be easy and it won't be pretty. But it's all part of tradition."

Todd folds his arms across his chest. "You have two choices. One; you go through tonight, take whatever we throw at you and come out the other side as a true brother of KNA." He flicks his eyes across the pledges. "Two; you walk out now. No one'll hold it against you...but you won't be a brother. You'll be nothing. You will have squandered the potential we saw in you." You see the brothers shift impatiently behind him. "Well?" The room remains silent save for the ticking of a grand clock in the corner. He smiles proudly. "Good. Now, Collins prepared a keg for you to empty within the next..." He checks his watch. "Hour. I'd drink as much as you can, boys. The more you drink, the less it'll hurt. Go."

You're herded into a small study, a large 7.75-gallon keg sitting on the floor. The pledges instantly start guzzling down beer and you join them as the brothers leave to prepare everything they need for the proper hazing, the fraternity-branded paddle making its grand entrance in the harsh, fluorescent lights of the garage.

You drink cup after cup, desperately trying to keep up with the other pledges to drain the keg before the hour chimes. You feel ill and the room spins but you push through it, working on the sheer motivation that you need to show these assholes that you can do this. You remember the way they look at you, the way they talk about you, push you around, and it only strengthens your resolve. You down drink after drink after drink.

You will do this.

Finally, the hour chimes and every single one of the pledges is trashed, including you.

The brothers come back in and the first pledge has a pillowcase pulled over his head before he's yanked to his feet and pulled out of the study, the door locked behind them. God know what awaits you beyond that door but it can't be good.

A growing sense of dread drills into you, a pit forming in your stomach, as the pledges are led out, one by one. It seems like they're saving you for last, enjoying watching you squirm whenever they come in to get another one of the group, bagging their head and then dragging them out of the room.

Eventually, there's just you. Two of the brothers barge into the study, pull a pillowcase over your head and yank you from your seat. Your hands curl by your sides tightly as they lead you through the house, spinning you several times and laughing at your disoriented attempts to keep your balance. Anxiety grows in your chest as they manhandle you, pulling you forward until you stumble into the garage. It's clear the brothers are still in high spirits from the hazing as you hear their laughs and cheers from under the pillowcase.

Finally, the pillowcase is ripped off your head and you instinctively hold your hands up in front of your face to shield your eyes from the blinding light shining directly on you in the dark garage. When the spots in your vision clear, you find yourself surrounded by the KNA brothers, all grinning wickedly, high off the adrenaline of their previous victims. Todd steps forward, tapping the paddle against his palm.

"Well, alright. You made it this far, sunshine." He announces. Despite the nauseating nervousness eating away at you, the pride in his voice has your chest swelling slightly. You made it this far and you took it like a champ. Just one more step.

"First, though." One brother chuckles lowly. "We need to strip him down."

Your heart stops in your chest, your ribs tightening around your lungs. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no—

You barely have time to turn around to bolt for the door before the garage is filled with laughter, the brothers rushing you, hands outstretched. You manage to make it to the door only to find it locked and, by the time the realisation hits you, they're on you like a pack of wild dogs. The world tilts on its axis as they drag you to the floor. You try to curl in on yourself, smacking away their hands, but they only grow bolder, jeering and whooping as you cry out.

"No, please!" Your voice is lost as they mock you, dragging you back under the harsh spotlight. Rough hands tear at your clothes as they ignore your protests and pleas. Cold sweat prickles at your skin as tears well in your eyes. You flush in embarrassment, hands trembling as you try to pull away. They hoot and yell, joking about how feminine your figure is, about how weak you are, as you fight fruitlessly against them. They pull off your shoes and socks, tossing them against the wall. Your shirt comes off with a sickening riiiiiiiip before it's thrown to the floor in a crumpled ball. Huge hands, more like bear paws, unbuckle your belt before dragging your pants down along with your boxers, your drunken state making it impossible to fight back effectively.

Finally, they stand. The garage is silent save for the soft sniffles as you curl up on the floor, sweat and tears leaving damp spots on the concrete. You try to hide but you know it's useless. You hope this is just a nightmare but you know it isn't. This wasn't the worst part for the other pledges but it seems this has broken you. The humiliation, the shock, the fear, it makes your body tremble as you hide your face.

The bright light of the spotlight leaves nothing untouched. Silvery scars glisten under the harsh light, moulded to the shape of your chest, jutting up in the middle before circling your nipples. Between your legs, there's no cock where there should be one, just a thatch of wiry hair, and, nestled between them, the pure, irrefutable fact that this was never a place for you, that you never had a place in their ranks and you were kidding yourself when you told yourself you could carve a space for yourself here, despite who you are and where you came from. They see you now, small, shivering, naked, afraid. No one speaks and a deafening silence falls over the garage as the brothers stare from your body to one another and then back down.

Finally, one of the brothers steps closer, a scowl curling at his lips. You hear heavy footsteps behind you. This was supposed to be fun. They didn't want you here in the first place and you had the gall to bring this to their doorstep. They should've gone against Todd and kicked you to the curb when they had the chance. But no.

"Fuck you." A voice snarls, low and dangerous. "Think you can just walk in here and ruin everything for us, huh, tranny-faggot?" A sharp kick drives into your lower back and you arch instinctively, letting out a pained yelp.

"You're not welcome here, fucker." There's another hard kick to your stomach and you cough, whimpering, as more of them join in.

The garage erupts into a frenzy of violence and more and more of them decide to get in on the fun, punching and kicking your helpless, naked body. The blows rain down on you, each one sending pain lancing through your legs, stomach, ribs and head. Blood spatters across the floor and they cheer as you're nose and mouth drip crimson onto the concrete.

"Die, you piece of shit!" One of them spits on you as insults and cruel laughter echo around the space. Your body contorts as you try to get away but they hold you down, landing hit after hit. A particularly hard kick to your stomach has you wounded and gagging, emptying the contents of your stomach — predominantly beer — onto the concrete. They cheer but don't relent. There's a sickening crunch in your chest but it doesn't make any difference.

Something clatters to the floor before some of the men are shoved away from you, the instigator torn away from your body and onto the floor.

"ENOUGH!" The yell pierces the air and the other brothers pause, stunned into silence by Todd's sudden intervention. Given the chance, you weakly drag yourself across the floor, trying to get away, leaving a trail of sweat, blood and tears in your wake. You manage to huddle up in a corner, your body throbbing, chest aching but still heaving from the adrenaline. "What the fuck is wrong with you? This isn't what we do!" The one he threw to the floor staggers to his feet and points at you, his face red with anger.

"Why do you care? It's not even a real man!" He spits on the ground in the direction of where you're curled up. "If anything, you should be leading this shit, Todd! It disrespected you. Is this what we are now? Some retarded, pussy-whipped gay bar for freaks and fags?"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" He yells back. You hang your head and lift a hand to your face, leaving a trail of red as you try to wipe your nose and mouth. "He went through all the same shit the rest of the pledges did, right?" The brothers seem to lose steam now, nodding slowly, though none of them seem convinced. "Then he deserves the same fucking respect." You draw in a wet, shaky breath and pain stabs through the left side of your chest. His voice softens slightly. "Anyone have a problem with that, they can say it to my Goddamn face."

Silence falls over the garage like a thick blanket. None of the brothers look at you, their faces twisted with disgust and...possibly guilt? Though that may be hopeful.

Finally, Todd turns toward your broken figure huddled in the corner, deep bruises blooming across your skin, blood dripping from your nose and mouth, seeping onto the floor. Anxiety clenches painfully around your chest again and he holds up his hands. "Hey, hey, easy..." He approaches slowly. "You alright?" He crouches down beside you. You open your mouth to speak but no words come out, only a choked gasp as a sharp pain slices into your side again. You're struggling to breathe. It hurts.

His eyes widen. "Shit." He mutters, voice filled with concern. He quickly turns to his brothers. "Someone call 911!" He turns back to you, hands hovering over your body uncertainly. The injuries only seem worse up close; deep violet bruises spreading across your ribs, stomach and thighs, cuts and scrapes scattered across your body from where you were thrashing against the concrete.

When none of his brothers move, Todd pulls out his phone and dials. Thankfully, they pick up quickly. Your vision is swimming, tunnelling. Every inch of your body, inside and out, feels like it's bleeding. Words sound so distant as Todd tries to keep his voice calm. "I... I need an ambulance? This guy... Uhh... He's beat up pretty bad. He's not breathing right." It's true; your breaths are fast, wet and wheezy but still you try to curl up, trying to hide away. Maybe they can at least let you die in peace.

You're struggling to keep your eyes open, the pain and shock threatening to overwhelm you. Todd gently shakes your shoulder, trying to keep you awake. "Hey, hey, look at me." He watches your eyelids flutter weakly, trying to obey. "That's it. Keep your eyes open for me, sunshine." He takes off his shirt, leaving red smears on his undershirt, and drapes it over you. "You'll be okay."

You don't know how long it is between him dialling for an ambulance and one arriving but he leaves your side to open the garage doors, flashing lights casting harsh shadows across the floor and walls.

Paramedics rush in with a stretcher, faces set as they take in your condition. None of the brothers have moved since Todd stepped in, staring, wide-eyed, at the EMTs. One kneels beside you, checking you over, as another talks to Todd. You don't hear much of the conversation, especially not as they move you onto the stretcher and cover you up with a blanket, leaving the bloodied shirt discarded on the floor.

They take you out to the ambulance and load you into the back. You barely register Todd trying to step forward but being stopped before he can reach you. The EMTs pile into the ambulance, slam the doors shut and flick on the sirens before driving away, leaving Todd and his brothers at the scene of the crime.

The house is eerily silent as the ambulance sirens fade into the distance. Todd stands there, hands clenched into fits by his sides. He turns on his heel, expression cold and furious.

"Someone explain to me how this happened." No one speaks, all of them averting their gaze only to see more evidence of their cruelty. One of them swallows hard, looking at the spatters of blood on the concrete. Another winces as he sees the pool of regurgitated beer. Another looks at Todd's shirt on the floor, stained with blood and sweat. No one speaks.

Todd suddenly turns and storms out of the garage, his brothers following reluctantly behind him. He bursts into the lounge, snatching the pillowcases off the initiate's heads without a word. They're afraid. They heard the screams. They heard the sirens. He turns to his brothers. "Get them dressed and drive them back to campus." Though stunned by the whole event, they soon nod and start ushering their new brothers away.

Todd stands alone in the suddenly empty living room, hands shaking with rage and something else; guilt. His mind races through the events of the night; the blindfolds, the tearing of cloth, the savagery, the sounds of your shallow, wheezing breaths. It echoes, bouncing around the space.

With shaking hands, he reaches for his blazer, tossed carelessly over an armchair earlier in the night. A fresh pack of cigarettes calls out to him and he tears into it desperately, slipping one between his lips and lighting it as gravel crunches under tyres outside. He takes a shaky breath but the nicotine doesn't help as he leans heavily on the back of the armchair.

He watched you go through every trial they threw at you without question, without complaint. You were the best of them and yet he let this happen, stood stock-still while those he called 'brother' pummelled you down. He feels sick to his stomach. Takes another drag of his cigarette.

This was never what he planned for, never what he wanted. Maybe he should've just left you alone.

A few days — and packets of cigarettes — later, Todd finds himself at the hospital. He didn't even mean to but he was pulled here. He's unsure if it's guilt or worry but he lingers at the door to the main entrance, watching them open and close. He stubs out his cigarette, steels his nerves and heads inside.

It's quiet and sterile. He strides up to the desk and asks the nurse for your room number. She looks at him pointedly before giving him the information and sending him on his way.

He walks through the hallways, heart pounding in his chest. It all looks the same. It's all a blur of clean white walls and laminate floors. You're out of the ICU, at least, he supposes but that doesn't grant him any relief.

Finally, he stands outside your door, hearing the faint beep of a heart monitor. He places his hand on the door. Hesitates a second. Moves his feet to walk back in the direction he came. Then slowly pushes the door open, needing to face the reality of what he dragged you into.

You lay in bed, hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV. Your chest is bare, a tube lodged in your chest cavity. Your breathing is steady but the full extent of the beating is now apparent. Your skin is a mottled, black and purple mess of bruises, bleeding into one another. A gash in your lip has healed over somewhat but the lip itself remains swollen and sore. The tube in your chest makes his stomach turn.

Your eyes meeting his snap him back to the current moment and he steps inside quietly.

"Hi." You say, your voice barely a whisper, small and soft. Vulnerable. It breaks something inside him.

"Hey." He steps closer but not too close. He doesn't want to scare you or hurt you more than he already has. Finally, he settles into the armchair beside your bed, keeping his hands squarely on his knees.

"So...I take it I'm not...welcome in the frat then?" You laugh weakly.

"Don't. Don't joke about that." He says flatly. "None of us should've— We went too far." He looks down at his hands, seeing blood under his fingernails; your blood. "They're... They're all sorry." He lies. He knows they're probably back to normal now. He's likely the only one who can't stop thinking about you lying in this hospital bed. "I'm sorry." He adds genuinely. "I didn't— Jesus, I didn't mean to force you into this. I didn't know they'd— That we'd..." He trails off, not knowing how to finish that sentence. He didn't think his brothers were capable of this level of violence. "I'd...understand if you didn't want to come back. I wouldn't blame you, not in the slightest, but..." He slowly reaches out, sliding his hand into your own. It's so small compared to his; small and fragile. You squeeze slightly and his breath hitches. "But you've more than earned your place." You pause and he runs his thumb gently over your knuckles.

"I'll come back. If that's okay."

"Of course." He says quickly. Too quickly. He wants you in the house with him s he can watch over you, protect you. "You're part of the family now. You're one of us. Fuck, you deserve to be there more than all of us put together." You smile slightly, leaning your head back to meet his gaze.

"Todd?"

"Yeah?" He leans closer, brushing hair away from your face carefully.

"Why did you come up to me in the first place? I'm guessing you don't personally walk up to all the prospects, right?" You ask and he pauses, his hand lingering near your face.

"Because you stood out. You didn't kiss ass or try too hard... But that's not the only reason." He says, trying to gather all the words he needs. His voice drops to almost a whisper. "I wanted you there."

"Why?"

"Because you seemed like someone worth having around." He tells you quietly, his thumb brushing your cheek.

"Do you still think that?" You ask cautiously and he smiles.

"No. Now I know that." You flush sweetly though it's difficult to tell under all the bruises. "You come back and I'll take care of you, okay, sunshine? Anybody touches you again and I'll tear their Goddamn head off, understand?"

"Yeah." He heaves a heavy sigh, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

"You won't have to worry about a thing."

TAGLIST: @ingoldthewizard @judeval @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

[zorishy-reblogs-your-posts]

@ghosts-and-blue-sweaters

This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote with their own Blorbos in minds

[102ki]

🪽 the very first time i met ruri-chan was when she moved in next door when i was in kindergarten. how nostalgic! i wonder if she's grown a lot since then

🔋 i have!!!

🪽 i see! i think it was when i saw her again at hasunosora that i realised how much ruri-chan had grown. when she came to my room! knock knock!

🔋 yeah! i had joined the school idol club, but i was really surprised megu-chan wasnt there, so i went over to see her

🪽 thanks for everything you did back then, oosawa rurino-san!

🔋 you're welcome, fujishima megumi-san!

[jvzebel-x]

🦋

[lizardho]

Before I knew I was bisexual I was just insanely dramatic and weird around guys I liked. I had a crush on this guy in my ward - he was older than me, he played bagpipes and had a cheerful dog and an old Volkswagen bus that he worked on all the time. He also had nice scruff and unnaturally attractive hands and a good sense of humor, so I was like FULLY smitten.

I talked about him a lot and about how he was just so dang COOL, dang it, because he was so frickin’ cool. And I really liked him. I thought he was funny and smart and interesting and cool and fascinating and a bunch of other weird feelings I barely had the attention span to think about (I think my ADHD may have prevented me from coming out for a while tbh).

One day, I’m like 14-15, his dad is called to be my Sunday School teacher. His dad is this ex-military hardass with a chip on his shoulder for absolutely no reason and unattainable standards for his children. He spent most of Sunday School talking shit about his eldest boy and how he was rebellious and didn’t listen to him and how that was going to make him a bad adult and a bad son forever. How his son was too lazy and unmotivated to be successful because he didn’t listen to his advice on how to read the scriptures. He complained about how our generation was too weak to do things right and that our generation would surely be the one that brought the world’s downfall because of our laziness and sin.

And like, first of all, that guy can already go fuck himself for that. To clarify, that’s already stupid. BUT. He was talking about the man I had uncomfortable dreams about at least once a month. I couldn’t stand it. I’d get so mad I’d go home shaking sometimes because how fucking DARE he insult his hardworking stunning son by calling him lazy? For not reading the Bible the way his dad wants? When he’s already spending his time learning bagpipes? And fixing cars? And being cool? And cute? Who the fuck even cares if he uses the footnotes in the Book of Mormon? Who gives a rotten rat’s ass if he doesn’t use the scripture study manual his dad uses? He’s so cool he doesn’t even need it? So fuck off?

And eventually I got fucking Sick Of It and decided to mutiny. And by mutiny, I mean skip class. I’d just not go. And after a bit, adults started noticing and bugging me about it. At first, this was put off by small talk and excuses, but as my absence from Sunday School became more well-known, my excuses began to be rejected.

“Oh, Lizard, why aren’t you in class?” Uhm idk because my Sunday School teacher is mean to his kid and that makes me so mad wtf do you want from me? 🫠🤔

“Where’s your class, I’ll go with you!” Oh no ty I’d rather peel my own eyes than have my taste in men critiqued tyty 🩷

“Lizard, you should go to class, I’m sure they miss you!” And I miss the innocent days where my stomach didn’t hurt when a cool boy I knew was being belittled but unfortunately for us both those days are LONG gone and all that’s left is a budding psychosexual clusterfuck that will render me almost fully incapable of functioning for the better part of a decade so Bye Bye, sister Smith 🙂‍↕️

It had gotten to the point that ward leadership was involved. I was being approached by members of the Young Men’s presidency and the Bishopric to try and make me to back to class. They were telling me God had told them to find me and instruct me on my rebelliousness. This is where I implemented my secret weapon - women. Mormons are weird as hell about a lot of things, but especially about women. And I was GREAT with women. So to combat the leadership’s attention, I started helping women.

Our ward had a lot of new moms with babies who were, as babies tend to be, fussy. But for Mormon women the church is often their only social outlet, so they try to power through as long as they can even if it means enduring the exhausting ordeal of taking care of a fussy baby at church.

For what it’s worth, I have a lot of sway with babies. I got baby street cred. Me and babies have a rapport. I have always known this. I have always loved this. And in this crucial gay time in my faggot life my baby mind powers came in clutch - Every time I saw a member of the bishopric getting close, or a young men’s leader giving me side-eye, I’d start walking slowly towards class, passing by relief society. I’d wait until a mom’s baby had gotten too fussy and needed to leave the room, and I’d swoop in like a knight. “Oh, don’t you worry sister, I’ll bounce him a bit. You go back and hang out with your friends in class. You deserve a break.”

If it was a diaper change or something they’d tell me no. But if it was just some good old-fashioned baby fusses, I mean, they’d be moved almost to tears. They just got their social time back AND a free babysitter who is renowned as the Baby Whisperer. And because I was holding a baby as a favor for someone else, I of course could not reasonably be bothered to return to class.

So just like that, I was out of everyone’s sights. This went on for about a month before the straw that broke the camel’s back, which was that without my class participation the classes were quiet and awkward. I’d often take the brunt of Sunday school lectures by answering questions impulsively and over explaining myself enough that the clock could run out without anyone needing to do or say much. My absence meant everyone else was getting hit with the full unpleasantness of this guy’s bullshit. And so slowly, one-by-one, I had a group of about 8 kids on baby-holding duty. These new moms were so overjoyed, they and their husbands were both so actively in our corner that now chastising us was untenable. Now we had bargaining power. So the Bishopric approached us, confused beyond confused and uncomfortable beyond uncomfortable, and said,

“What’s it gonna take to get you back to class?”

The POWER I possessed in that moment was addictive. By being kind to the women of the ward and ignoring the Mormon de facto Rule of Law of following rules en-masse so the rule breakers feel left out, there were now so many people breaking ranks that we had effectively enacted a church boy labor strike. And they crumbled so fast it was almost like we had swayed God himself to our cause.

“I want brother assholedad gone. He sucks at teaching.”

I didn’t even have to say it. One of my rebels said it for me. I just nodded sagely and said “Yes, his class is not edifying. It’s better to not go and hold babies.”

And just like that, with a snap of my limp-wristed, Christ-wounding, bottom-brained fingers my faggot will was enacted. God’s revelation that brother shitdad was his chosen Sunday school teacher flipped on a dime. Suddenly brother shitdad was asked to be an usher and the fun dad of another one of my crushes was called in to teach us. I still stayed to hold babies a lot, but the rest of the class returned and all was well again.

Although I didn’t recognize it then, I think that was a formative moment for me in a lot of ways. I learned that being really persistently annoying will get me what I want from authority eventually. I learned that God’s will can be swayed by going in strike. I learned that ignoring men’s made up authority forces them to level with you as a person. I learned that caring for women, especially vulnerable women, can make a whole world happier. I learned that letting women rest can help them feel more love for the things that matter in their life. I learned that social bonds make everyone stronger and happier. And I learned that loving others in a gay way can change the world.

Be gayer. Read Terry Pratchett. I love y’all 💕

[cynicalbisexual]

no 'cause genocide is the most evil thing you can do and y'all STILL think we would be better off with a woman who REFUSED TO STOP SUPPORTING A GODDAMN GENOCIDE?

i will never get over this i will never stop being stunned seeing people think kamala harris was gonna make anything better.

she has explicitly shown who she is and you choose to look away, you pretend you do not see it. it's incredible. i wish i could ignore reality too. but i have this thing called a soul and a moral compass where i refuse to support anyone who supports a GENOCIDE. like oh my god.

you guys think we would have it better if harris was president? lmfao? she is not the girlboss slay queen you think she is and i need yall to get real. wake up. look around you. the democrats are not prioritizing the people in usamerica, they are, and always have been, prioritizing money and power. wake the FUCK. up.

[fluffairy]

.

[traegorn]

while i completely agree with your assessment of realistically what a trump vs harris presidency will look like, i think the issue me and a lot of other leftists have is that there is no need to tell people (and effectively tell harris) that oh ofc we are gna vote for her despite these issues because trump is THAT bad and if you say you don't want to vote for her because her party is pro-war, pro-genocide, then you are condemning americans to a trump presidency. we know trump is worse! i don't want him to win AT ALL, but why would harris even consider even changing the language she is using (i'm looking at the absolutely stupid speech she was giving in michigan, given the large arab & muslim-american population there and given its a battleground state) if she thinks she is going to win on a not-trump basis? i know who i'm voting for on nov 5th if it comes down to it, but we need the democrats to THINK they are going to lose until the very last minute, we need them to feel like they can't just rely on being the lesser of two evils if we want any chance of a shift on palestine. because they very well might lose, for this exact reason (and i'm speaking again more to the votes of the arab & muslim-american population which is far more demographically meaningful than the votes of leftists) and if that happens, they have no one to blame but themselves.

So I'm going to tell you something important: You don't have the leverage you think you have.

Political campaigns are a machine that's been operating the same way for a long time on the Democratic side. The Republicans may have abandoned a lot of the old ways of doing things, but the Democratic party hasn't. And you've got people running these campaigns who are steeped in the "wisdom" of how you win.

And when a block of voters says they're not going to vote for their candidate, they tend to believe them. So they decide to go court the people who they think will vote for them. That's why you've seen the Harris campaign trying to court moderate Republicans who might be iffy on voting for Trump a third time.

Right now one of the reasons Netanyahu is refusing to commit to a cease fire is because he thinks Trump can win. If Trump wins, he has no reason to ever agree to one. One of the reasons he thinks Trump can win is because the polling is so close.

If you want to know why they've gone to the right recently, it's because they think they've lost the left. And since a lot of those leftists are claiming there's a line in the sand that they don't have the power to appease (because -- again -- they can't get Netanyahu to do shit right now), they're going to go for the centrist Republicans.

Also, there seems to be this weird notion that the only way to move the Democrats is during the election. That's not how you move people. You keep pressuring them during their term and it works. Like Biden is continuing to work on forgiving student debt even though he doesn't have an election ahead of him. Because they know that what he does reflects on the future of the party. Voting doesn't end this game, it's the start of it.

But none of it will matter if Trump wins.

[smileysuh]

camera man

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader 

🔮 preview. He’s this big, strong, business major and frat president- but right now, he’s putty in your hands… and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t feeling extremely powerful from this.

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, cam girl reader, mentions of alcohol/drugs/porn, masturbation, use of sex toys, multiple reader orgasms, oral (both m/f recieving), blow job, pussy eating, overstim, multiple sex positions, dirty talk, praise, etc… I pet names: (hers) baby.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 6.3k 

🍭 aus. Svt cam boy au, frat au, university au, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. This is part 2 of a 3 part cam boy svt au. Each story can be read as a stand-alone, but exists within the same universe :) Wonwoo is April, Seungcheol is May, and Mingyu will be in June. The complete masterlist is here. 

Prologue:

It’s a generally unspoken secret amongst the frats and sororities at your university that some of the students within the ‘Greek system’ are a part of the adult entertainment camming industry. When notorious gaming streamer ‘No Face’ had made his debut in the more erotic style of video making, there had been whispers about Sigma Veta Tau’s Jeon Wonwoo being the man behind the mask. 

“I swear to God,” your friend Kelly says one night as you’re all watching Legally Blonde for the tenth time, “No Face had another cam show last night, and I’m like a hundred percent sure he was talking to someone behind the camera.”

“So?” you sigh.

“So… everyone knows Wonwoo has that new girlfriend! I would bet my scholarship that Wonwoo is No Face, and he and his girlfriend are into some weird in front of camera and behind the camera masturbation type of shit.” 

“If they are, that’s their own business,” you shrug. 

“I wonder how much money they make,” Kelly frowns. “Like… No Face is huge- I wonder if he makes like… thousands every month.”

Now your friend's words draw your attention. It’s one of those weird things, you’re aware of camboys and camgirls, aware of the porn industry and everything, of OnlyFans- but with so many easily accessible free porn sites, you’d forgotten that a lot of content creator’s have switched to behind paywall options in order to make actual income on their work.

“I heard he’s making over ten thousand a month,” another sorority sister pipes in. “There are rumours that Sigma Veta Tau’s frat president, you know, the business major one, supports the whole thing and helps with marketing and style and all sorts of stuff so that it’s more profitable.”

Your skin is prickling now… ten thousand a month? Just for… diddling yourself on camera? Wearing a mask would make you anonymous, and as a female, if you did a wig, it would be even better…

You shake your head at yourself, you can’t actually be considering this… can you? 

One:

It’s been about six months since you started camgirling, and it’s going alright. It had been a definite learning curve, as you don’t have some business major to talk you through the ropes, and unlike No Face, you didn’t start with a preexisting following from being a gaming streamer- no, it’s slow going, but sometimes with things like this, it just is what it is.

Being an anonymous camgirl doesn’t stop you from having fun though, and tonight, you’re with Kelly at a Sigma Veta Tau frat party. 

There had been talk about frat president Choi Seungcheol being a mastermind behind the possible camboy ring in this frat, notably No Face being the most famous, but you push that aside. You’ve been into Seungcheol since you first saw him, and, expertise or not, you’d do anything for a chance with him.

The two of you know each other in passing; you’re both in the ‘Greek system’ after all, so when you get to the party, you zero in on Cheol by the beer pong table.

He looks up as you approach, a smirk working its way onto his mouth. 

You’ve had near misses with this man, misses that you’ve since dwelled on incessantly.

There had been that time your sorority and his fraternity were doing a bake sale together, and the two of you had been stuck at the booth all day due to scheduling conflicts with other volunteers. The booth had been small, and there had been numerous moments of contact, you trailing your hand along his shoulders as you moved behind him to grab cupcakes, his hands on your hips to gently guide you out of his way so he could access the cash box-

Christmas had been interesting, with the two of you stuck under the mistletoe only to be interrupted by first-year Dino, who had come to warn Seungcheol that Hoshi and Seokmin had spiked the punch with LSD by accident- how had it been an accident, you might ask? Well, the jury is still out on that one.

Seungcheol is definitely your ‘maybe’ man, the man you maybe will kiss, the man you maybe will fuck, the man you maybe will fall for… if the situation allows it. 

“How are you doing?” Seungcheol says, immediately wrapping his arm around your shoulders to pull you in.

It’s a forward approach, but you don’t mind as you snuggle up to the big, muscular frat boy. 

“Doing good, you?” 

“Been drinking,” he notes, holding up his red solo cup for you. “Promise there’s no LSD in this one.”

You laugh, accepting the liquor. It’s a mixed drink, something strong, and now you know why Seungcheol is so relaxed. This is pure giggle juice, and if you’d had a whole cup of this, you’d be just as forward with Seungcheol as he’s being with you right now.

“What did you put in this?” you ask.

“I don’t know, Dino made it.” 

Sometimes you forget that Seungcheol is one of the older men here, and he’s the president, so he has a whole house of dudes ready to do anything he asks. It’s funny how often he picks on Dino, but at the same time, you know Seungcheol loves the kid and sees him like a little brother.

“Are you sure there’s no LSD in this, then?” you tease.

Seungcheol chuckles. “Dino’s more of a weed guy, and Vernon only sells the flower shit, which would be hard to hide in a drink, so you don’t have to worry.”

You love the inner workings of this community. Hoshi and Seokmin are the trouble makers with a thing for getting too messed up on alcohol or anything they can get their hands on. Seungkwan, their bitchy mother figure/younger cohort who always runs around with them, or with Vernon - the resident weed seller - even though Seungkwan is a total musical theater kid and hasn’t touched any drug in his entire life.

Then you have the likes of Jeonghan, Joshua, and Seungcheol, three of the older members, the business majors. Woozi and Wonwoo are more on the quiet end of the spectrum, avoiding parties. There are Jun and Minghao, who can have a crazy streak, but also prefer to seclude together rather than come to big gatherings. Mingyu and Dino are both just puppies, and they’re constantly running around and getting into trouble.

No, you love this frat, and regardless of the camboy rumours, you’re happy that they’re the brother frat to your sorority. 

You continue to sip on the drink, standing with Seungcheol while you watch Seokmin and Hoshi versus Jeonghan and Joshua in beer pong. It’s a riveting game, with all sorts of fake-outs, crying, screaming- Hoshi pretending to sip his drink, then doing a trick shot that fails, only for him to sprawl onto the floor in disappointment. Seokmin laughing at his teammate’s antics can probably be heard over the music throughout the whole house.

Jeonghan and Joshua end up winning, and the ‘evil twins’ - as some call them - celebrate accordingly with shots.

Seungcheol can only laugh, turning to look at you. “How’s that drink working out?”

“Are you trying to get me drunk, mister Choi?”

“Just a little tipsy, not drunk,” he smirks.

“And why would you want me to be tipsy?”

“So you’ll dance with me,” he admits, and for the first time, he actually looks kind of shy. This big, beefy, muscle-head businessman who always fills out his suits - or his blue jeans - is shy about asking you to dance… You couldn’t be more into him than you are in this moment.

“Cheol, you need to be more confident,” you tell him, grabbing his hand to lead him onto the dance floor.

“I am confident,” he argues. 

“Yeah? I don’t believe you.”

Seungcheol swallows thickly, and then he grabs the back of your neck. He tugs you to his chest, closing the distance between your mouths. You kiss him back eagerly, latching onto his plain white t-shirt as your tongues begin to clash deliciously. 

Seungcheol groans, his hand slipping from the small of your back to your ass, and you realize that maybe this man wasn’t being shy at all, maybe he just wanted your first kiss to feel right. After all, there have been so many near misses-

No, this is perfect, and you get lost in the taste of Seungcheol as he kisses you on the dance floor.

You don’t feel exposed even though you’re in a crowd like this- you know no one is paying attention to you, and you also know you’re not the only couple making out on the dance floor right now.

Your heart is racing when Seungcheol finally pulls away, and he looks down at you with a grin.

“My room?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

He grabs your hand, pulling you off the dance floor.

Your heart is still thundering as you follow him. He takes you up two flights of stairs, all the way to his back corner room. 

Lots of frat boys have double rooms that they share with others, but there’s a select handful that have solo lodging like Cheol’s.

You’ve never actually been in his room before- most of the frat boys keep their doors locked, and you’re shocked at the neon blue hue created by many panels of mood lighting along the walls. There’s a massive gaming station in the corner, a desk, a big bed- it looks like a room that suits Seungcheol, but there’s something about the aesthetic that’s throwing you off.

The neon blues are No Face’s colours- but you know Cheol is not No Face, he’s much too big to be the lean, thick anonymous gamer turned OnlyFans celebrity. 

“You good?” Seungcheol asks, closing the door behind you.

“Yeah, just never been in here before,” you lie, shaking your head as you grab Seungcheol again, pressing your lips to his desperately. 

He wraps you up in his large arms, leading you over to the bed. You fall onto the mattress as gracefully as gravity allows, looking up at Seungcheol.

His expression is one of complete lust, you can tell you’ve both been waiting for this for a while.

“Here,” you offer, undoing your jeans and lifting your hips so you can shimmy out of them.

He immediately grabs at the fabric, helping you tug it off. Next is your shirt, and you remove that too-

Then you notice Seungcheol staring at you, but his expression has shifted to one of confusion.

You look down and realize he’s staring at a faint birthmark on your inner thigh.

“Wait…” he shakes his head, “are you camgirl BabyDoll246?”

Two: 

Seungcheol’s whole world has stopped. Things had been a little fuzzy from drinking mixed booze for a couple of hours, but now, the world is extremely clear. He can’t stop looking at the mark on your thigh, the tiny mark- so small you could miss it, so small it would likely be insignificant in every scenario- except Seungcheol has been looking at that mark nearly every night for the better part of two months.

As someone involved with unofficial guidance in the camming industry, Seungcheol has made it his job to keep an eye out for competition… but at the same time, Seungcheol’s not about to watch all the male camboys. No, he’s taken to watching the girls, seeing what works, what doesn't-

And then he’d found anonymous, mask and wig-wearing camgirl BabyDoll246, and he’d become obsessed.

You… you can’t be camgirl BabyDoll246… except, it’s your mark, on your thigh- and now that Seungcheol thinks about it, other things are starting to fit too.

“Y/N,” Seungcheol repeats, “Are you camgirl BabyDoll246?”

“Cheol…”

“I’ve got so many business tips for you!” Seungcheol belts out, his grooming as a businessman taking over, without the aid of his usual charming lines, which are blurred by his tispy countenance. 

“What?” You blink up at him in confusion. “You’re not mad that I’m a camgirl?”

“Why would I be mad?” Seungcheol asks in shock. 

“Because, uh… well, some men are very controlling and protective over the girls they sleep with?”

“Some men need to grow some balls, and also, we haven’t slept together yet.”

“Which brings me back to the fact that I’m in my bra and panties on your bed, so are we doing this, or what?” You chuckle, but there’s a nervousness to it.

Seungcheol gets the impression that the whole camgirl thing is a touchy subject for you. Not many cam people are proud and loud about what they do for work, and Seungcheol knows it’s hard to face the judgment that comes with being an adult entertainer while also trying to get a university degree.

His mind is spinning, and Seungcheol does his best to push it all down.

He thinks maybe he’d had too much to drink earlier, and Seungcheol’s the kind of man who struggles to get hard when he’s been excessive with his alcohol consumption. But he’s not about to pass up this opportunity, not when his mouth still works.

The frat president sinks to his knees, hooking his fingers in your panties to remove them.

“Eat you out now, talk business another time, when I’m sober,” he promises.

“You’re not going to fuck me after eating me out?” you question.

Seungcheol would normally be open about his failings as a man, but now that he knows you’re camgirl BabyDoll246, he doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of you. So instead, he tells you, “I don’t want to rush things,” then he pulls your core to his tongue.

You don’t question him further, your head lolling back, a whimper escaping you.

God, you sound even prettier in person, and it encourages Seungcheol to go harder, giving you everything his mouth has to give.

He’s watched you cum on toys of all sorts, and he’ll be damned if he can’t make you cum on his tongue. 

Three:

You can’t believe you’ve agreed to a ‘buisness meeting’ with Choi Seungcheol- but after he’d made you cum on his tongue three times, you hadn’t been in the mindset to argue with him about anything.

So here you are, after dinner on a Tuesday, walking through the nearly deserted library until you find the frat president in a far corner on his laptop.

Seungcheol waves you over, and he even stands to give you a lingering hug.

“Missed you,” he whispers, and if he didn’t sound so sincere, you might find it laughable.

By now, you’ve worked it out that Seungcheol is a major fanboy of yours. What had felt like a push-pull power dynamic ‘maybe’ relationship has been flipped on its head, and now, you’re acutely aware that you hold all of the cards. 

“I made a PowerPoint,” Seungcheol announces as you both sit down next to each other.

“What?”

He opens his laptop, and you find yourself staring at a Google Slides document with the apt title ‘BabyDoll246 - rebranding prospects for financial gain.’ In tiny font at the bottom, there’s a ‘by Choi Seungcheol’ note, and you find yourself laughing.

“You can’t be serious,” you tell him.

“Deadly serious,” he warns you. “Now, if I could have five minutes of your uninterrupted time, I can present this for you.” 

You sigh. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“I wanted to start my presentation today by discussing my qualifications,” Seungcheol announces - as if this is some sort of job interview - as he clicks the next slide. “Although I should be maintaining client and marketing manager anonymity, I need you to know that I’m the mastermind behind streamer No Face’s success on OnlyFans. I helped guide him into the world of adult content by keeping his brand simple and focused, which is what I can help you with too.”

He hits the next slide, but pauses momentarily.

“I also want you to know that I think it would be a lot easier for you to get big on OnlyFans because more men watch that kind of shit than women do.”

“Do you have the statistics on that?” you tease.

“In a recent study, OnlyFans estimated that seventy-nine percent of their monthly traffic came from male users, as opposed to twenty-one percent for female users.”

“Oh, you actually had the stats.” You blink at him in shock.

“I’m a business major, I come prepared,” he reminds you. “Anyways, there are a few avenues for growth when it comes to you. First, we need to get your brand narrowed down. I’ve noticed you switch a lot between masks and wigs and lighting, there’s no set mood or colour, which makes it hard for repeat watchers to realize it’s you and not one of the many other anonymous camgirls.”

You consider his words.

“So… you mean like No Face has his whole blue thing, and one mask, and that’s it- you always know it’s him,” you clarify.

“Exactly, you need to find your brand, and stick to it. You can mess around with outfits, but one mask, one wig or wig colour, and one lighting set up.”

“That could work,” you admit.

“I also think it would be interesting for you to have a…” he hits the next slide, which just says, “Camera man.” 

You laugh, but then you realize he’s being serious. “Cheol, this is camgirl stuff, it’s not real porn with a real director-”

“But a lot of male audiences like the whole ‘pov’ style of thing, and also, as a man… if I were your camera man, I could help direct you with things your audience would want to see.”

“Oh, so you’re my cameraman now?” you chuckle.

“I think it would help your platform. Not always camera man videos, but sometimes… I’ve also found it helps some cam performers to have a partner behind the camera, someone to talk to, to make the dirty talk more real.”

“Like Wonwoo and his girlfriend?”

“Wonwoo?” Seungcheol’s skin turns pink. “I never mentioned Wonwoo- Wonwoo’s not No Face-”

“Cheol, you don’t have to hide that Wonwoo is No Face, I’m pretty sure everyone knows.” You release a breath and look back down at his PowerPoint. “If I’m being honest, these aren’t the worst ideas in the world.” 

“Then think about it,” Seungcheol says. “You don’t have to agree to anything right now, but just… think about it.” 

Four:

You’ve taken some of Seungcheol’s suggestions to heart. Getting ready with a pink wig, a pink purge mask and pink lighting, you can’t help but think you might be ripping off No Face- but to be fair, Seungcheol had helped Wonwoo’s marketing, so you’re not stealing anyone’s ideas of Seungcheol’s the one who told you to do this.

If this whole thing works, then it works. You know Wonwoo’s not about to sue you for ‘copyright of camming aesthetics’ or something stupid, so you take a breath and turn the camera on, inspecting yourself on the screen. 

One of the good things about the mask is that you can just stare at yourself. There’s no awkward eye contact since no one can see your eyes… however, the mask and wig do get stuffy. 

Pushing the uncomfortable sensation aside, you relax against your bed.

You’ve worn a pink babydoll-style lingerie set, and when you spread your thighs, it shows off your crotchless panties.

“I’m so wet already,” you murmur, playing it up for the camera. In the back of your mind, you consider what you’d be saying if Seungcheol were with you right now, so you draw on that for inspiration. 

“I’ve been wanting you inside me,” you groan, reaching down to rub your clit. “Want to feel your tongue again, want to feel your thick fingers and your massive cock.”

You can see donations coming in, and you realize Seungcheol was onto something with upping your dirty talk game by being in the moment.

“My little fingers just aren’t enough,” you continue, pushing one inside of yourself. “Maybe I should add another.”

You continue teasing yourself and dirty-talking to the camera until you have enough donations, and then you reach for your vibrator. 

Thinking about Seungcheol is making you wetter than than ever before, and as you bring the toy to your clit, you know you’re not going to last long tonight.

You throw your head back, deciding to moan and whimper instead of dirty-talking further. You imagine it’s Seungcheol holding this toy to your clit- and thinking about that brings back the memory of him eating you out, which only makes you more turned on.

God, his tongue had felt so good that night- 

You’d gripped his hair, riding his face for the third orgasm, your chest heaving, heart racing, skin clammy from exhaustion. 

You get lost in the memory, the tension building in the pit of your stomach. Soon, you’re falling over the edge, your pussy clamping down on nothing while desperately aching for Seungcheol to be filling you up-

You ride out your orgasm, waves of pleasure surging through you with each wiggle of your hips.

Seungcheol’s voice swirls through your head, and as the show comes to an end, you realize you want to take him up on his offer.

Five:

It’s been all of ten minutes since you turned off your cam show, your wig is off, and you’re resting in bed just trying to collect yourself, when there’s a knock at your door.

“Uh… busy?!” you call, thinking it’s a sorority sister.

“It’s me.”

Seungcheol’s voice makes you sit up abruptly. “One second!”

You wrap a robe around your body, nearly falling on your face in an effort to hop off the bed. You unlock your door, opening it to find the business major standing there.

He looks disheveled, frantic even, and he immediately pushes into your room.

“You took my advice,” he says.

“Hmm?”

“I just watched your stream. All pink monochrome colours and aesthetics- of course you’d choose pink, fuck you look so good in pink.” Seungcheol is practically pacing in front of you, and you wrap your rope tighter around your naked body.

“Are you alright?” you ask.

“I got too caught up in drinking and business last time, I should have fucked you, but I didn’t, and you have no idea how much I’ve been regretting that.” 

You realize he’s still hung up on the night of the frat party, and you also realize maybe Seungcheol’s been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. 

“I’m not used to this,” Seungcheol admits, taking a seat on your bed and running his hand through his hair. “I’m a business major, I’m supposed to keep a level head, but fuck- I found out  you were BabyDoll246 and I think it just made me feral.”

“You’re cute when you’re a fanboy,” you tease, sitting next to him.

Seungcheol groans, but he accepts it when you open your arms for him, and he cuddles close to your chest, breathing in heavily. You stroke his hair, giving him space to speak.

“I want you,” he says finally. “I want you so fucking bad. I offered the cameraman thing to be close to you, and I’ll still do that for you, I’ll help you with your brand, but- even before I knew you were BabyDoll246, I’ve been into you for months.”

“So why did you never make a move?”

“I’ve got a porn addiction,” he admits. “Well… maybe not an addiction. I’m pretty ingrained in the OnlyFans industry, not personally, but… I’m involved, and I know that can be rough on partnerships in this day and age-”

“So this situation is kind of perfect, huh?” you grin. “Can’t microcheat on me by watching porn if I’m the one you always want to watch.”

Seungcheol chuckles. “Guess that’s true.”

“What if you only like me because I’m BabyDoll246?” you joke.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “I’m going to simp for you so hard.”

“I think you already are,” you grin. “Making me cum three times on your tongue, not even fucking me yourself- how were the blue balls after that party?”

“So bad.”

“And how are they right now after watching my show?”

“Maybe you should take my pants off and see for yourself,” Seungcheol teases.

You stare at him for a moment, and then you sink to your knees next to the bed. You push open his thighs, hands reaching for his button and zipper.

“Shit,” Seungcheol cusses, letting out a shaky breath as you begin to tug his pants down. 

“Didn’t think I’d actually do it, did you?” you grin.

“I guess not,” he chuckles, swallowing thickly. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am, are you?”

Seungcheol nods. “Yeah, but uh… no pressure.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, and you pause to look up at him. “Seungcheol, you made me cum three times with your mouth, I think you deserve this in return.”

“I don’t uh… keep track like that,” he says shyly.

“Then don’t keep track. Sit back, relax, and let me do this.”

Seungcheol nods, watching you carefully as you hook your fingers in his underwear, tearing them down his legs.

God, he’s so thick. His shoulders are broad, his thighs are juicy, and his cock looks like something out of a fever dream, all hard and big-

He might have the biggest cock you’ve ever seen, and when you wrap your hand around the base, you realize you’re already practically drooling.

“Try not to choke,” Seungcheol says, and you flash a glare up at him.

“For someone who seems shy at points, you’re actually pretty cocky aren’t you?” 

“I mean…” he bites his lip, “I think I’ve got a lot to work with.”

You have no response to that, because it’s true. You simply shake your head, taking a breath before leaning forward.

You start by licking at his tip, teasing it while he groans above you. You like his sounds, and they prompt you to take more of him into your mouth. You continue to suckle on him, paying attention to the sensitive mushroom head.

Men always want more, they always want to see how much you can fit inside your mouth- so to start like this, well, it will tease Seungcheol and make him even more eager for you than he already is. 

His hand finds your hair, and he strokes you as you suck on him.

“Feels good,” he groans, shifting a little so he can lean back, his other hand now pressed against your mattress.

You moan a sound of affirmation, sinking down on him further.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol breathes. “You’re so good at this.”

You’re a glutton for praise, and you do your best to hollow your cheeks, moving up and down on his length.

When it comes to sexual activities, blow jobs aren’t usually at the top of your preference list, but there’s something about pleasuring this man- about hearing him come undone for you.

He’s this big, strong, business major and frat president- but right now, he’s putty in your hands… and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t feeling extremely powerful from this. 

You’re practically slurping on him now, your mouth starting to make obscene sounds from the effort, and Seungcheol echoes the noises with groans and grunts of his own.

“Fuck, baby, I don’t want to cum from this.”

You pull off of him. “Then don’t cum?”

He lets out a shocked laugh. “It’s not that easy.”

“No?” You trail your tongue from his base to his tip. “Can’t control yourself?”

Seungcheol meets your gaze, and you see something harden in his eyes.

“No, I can’t.”

He grabs you suddenly, lifting you off the ground and tossing you onto the bed.

Then Seungcheol stands up, tearing off his shirt so he’s now naked for you. God, he’s so gorgeous- he’s all big and muscled and-

Seungcheol reaches down, opening your robe with one motion, and just like that, you’re both naked.

“Condoms?” Seungcheol asks.

“I’m protected, as long as you’re not some STI-riddled frat boy.”

“I’m clean,” he laughs.

“Me too.”

“So… you’re okay with this?”

“Stop talking and fuck me,” you whine, opening your thighs to expose yourself to him.

You’re wet already, and it’s not just from the orgasms you’d had on cam half an hour ago. No, you’re more turned on than you ever have been before, your pussy already practically aching for something- anything, to lessen the feeling of complete emptiness.

Seungcheol joins you on the bed, and your thighs wrap around his hips.

He presses his lips to yours eagerly, your tongues immediately clashing in a passionate dance.

Your hands grab his strong shoulders, and you love the feeling of your chests pressed together like this. Seungcheol moans, rutting his hips so he can grind down against your wet core.

The sensation of his hard cock teasing your clit has you whimpering, and the kiss deepens.

You’re eager for him, but just as you’d played around by making him wait when you sucked him off, it seems Seungcheol is intent on making you be patient as well.

God, each grind of his hips has your core tensing, your clit nearly throbbing with need.

“Seungcheol,” you whimper, breaking the kiss so you can gasp at the feeling. “Please-” 

His lips move down to your throat, and he teases your sweet spot there, making you moan even louder.

“Please!” you say again, with more force.

This time, Seungcheol does as you ask, his hand slipping between your bodies to grab the base of his cock. He lines himself up with your core, slowly sinking into you inch by inch.

You gasp at the stretch, loving the feeling of his big cock as it splits you open.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol groans. “So fucking tight.”

You can’t say anything in response, you can only writhe against your bed, your core finally appeased. The sensation of his thick length working every inch of your inner walls- it has you feeling dizzy already, and when he begins to thrust, your mind goes practically blank except for the pleasure that washes over you.

Seungcheol adjusts your thigh, spreading you open so he can sink even deeper. He hits every spot perfectly, and you feel feral as you lay there, taking everything he can give while moaning like a whore in heat.

“You look so good like this,” Seungcheol tells you, panting from the effort. “Could fuck you for hours.”

“Cheol- I’m sensitive!” you warn him.

“Came a few times on cam, but you can still take more, right?” He lets out a small laugh. “What would be the point if you can’t take more?”

“I can cum,” you tell him, nodding enthusiastically. “Just- don’t break me.”

“In one of your shows, you came five times, I think that’s your limit. You just came three times on your show tonight, so I think that gives me two to work with.” 

Your muscles clench at the idea of cumming two more times tonight, but you’re not about to argue with him, so instead you just whimper, “Please.” 

“Anything for you, baby.”

Seungcheol pulls out of you suddenly, and you look at him in confusion, only for his lips to wrap around your nipple. He gropes your other breast, and you can’t help but moan, tangling your fingers in his hair desperately. 

He gives your chest the attention it deserves, and then his mouth continues its descent.

Seungcheol is lying on the bed now, his hands adjusting your thighs so they’re braced over his shoulders. 

“Been thinking about eating this pussy every fucking day,” he tells you. 

“Me too,” you admit.

“Yeah? Bet you were thinking about it during your show earlier.”

“I was,” you whimper, wiggling against the bed, your clit stimulated from his breath alone.

“Guess I shouldn’t make you wait.”

Seungcheol dives in, not holding anything back as he pushes his tongue into your core, rubbing his nose against your clit at the same time.

Your thighs are already beginning to shake, and you grab at the bedding, trying to keep yourself anchored while your muscles begin to tense.

Neither of you needs to say anything else. It’s clear Seungcheol has a goal in mind, and he’s quickly approaching the finish line. There’s something so sexy about a man who’s messy while eating you out, a man who clearly enjoys himself and doesn’t hold anything back.

“Shit,” you whimper, feeling the build up as it begins to tingle through you.

Seungcheol groans against your core, turning his attention to your clit. At the same time he shifts so he can push two fingers into your wet pussy, crooking them so he can stimulate your g-spot.

“Just like that!” you cry out. “Don’t stop!”

Seungcheol has no intentions of stopping, and he works you all the way to your high. 

“Cumming!” you announce, core clamping down on his fingers as intense throbbing errupts through you. 

You know enough about Seungcheol from the last three times he made you cum with his mouth to know he’s not the type of man who stops the moment you orgasm. No, he’s the type to work you through it, to eat you out with even more vigour until your legs are shaking, your heart is racing, and you’re physically pushing him away.

You’re still sensitive from cumming on cam, so it takes very little for you to reach the point of being overstimulated.

One push to his head makes Seungcheol pull away, and he looks up at you.

You’re both breathing heavily, and you watch him lick his lips, his pupils blown as he stares at you.

“That was one of two,” he warns you, and you would find it comical that he’s keeping track like this if you weren’t so overwhelmed from that orgasm.

You open your arms, a wordless urging for him to join you again.

But Seungcheol doesn’t comply, instead, he moves to sit next to you, his back against your headboard.

“Come here,” he says softly, helping you up. You straddle him, and he guides you down onto his cock, which fills your still aching core deliciously.

You both groan from the sensation, and you simply cockwarm him while you get your bearings.

He begins to kiss you, soft kisses that tease your skin.

One of his hands begins to massage your breast, and you let out a sigh of pleasure, throwing your head back.

You grab at his shoulders to anchor yourself, beginning to circle your hips so you can feel how deep he is inside of you.

Seungcheol wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer, his lips now moving to your throat.

“You look so good like this,” he tells you, and your core throbs from his words. 

You take a breath, steadying yourself so you can begin to move.

Bouncing is effort, and you know you’re not going nearly as fast as Seuncgheol can go when it comes to fucking, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He lavishes on you, kissing your body, groping your breasts, all the while moaning, which turns you on even more. 

Soon, he’s grabbing your hips, helping you bounce on him. You love how fucking strong he is, the way his biceps bulge with effort.

There’s something so slow and sensual about this, for you to be on top but still controlled by him. It feels amazing, and you feel very close to Seungcheol. There’s no rush; it’s simply an enjoyment of each other, and it allows you to lose yourself in the feeling.

However, soon, you can’t help yourself.

Your hand reaches for your clit, and your entire pussy clenches around Seungcheol as you begin to rub your sensitive bud.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol groans, moving you faster on his cock.

“Want you to cum with me,” you whimper, eyes closed as you focus entirely on the feeling beginning to build inside of you again.

“Let me know when you’re close,” he tells you, continuing to bounce you on his cock. 

You give yourself grace to enjoy the build-up, there’s no pressure or time constraints, and soon, you’re nodding. “Okay, I’m almost there.” 

Seungcheol nods, and with one motion, he flips you onto your back so you’re in missionary again. Now he has full control, and Seungcheol begins to fuck you fast and hard. It’s a contrast to the slow way you’d been moving on top of him, and the new change of pace feels amazing.

You rub your clit even harder, your eyes clenching shut as you get closer and closer to the edge-

“Cheol!” you whimper.

“I’m almost there, too,” he tells you, panting against your throat.

“Fuck, fuck-” Your entire body tenses, and then you fall over the edge. Your pussy clamps down on Seungcheol like a vice and he groans deeply, signalling his own release as he fucks you through your shared high.

You’re both gasping, panting, and clutching each other desperately, with Seungcheol all but burying his face against your throat. You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close as his motions start to slow.

The pleasure is surging through you, all the more amplified by the sensation of closeness with Seungcheol.

Soon, he comes to a stop, and you hold him tight, both of you just trying to catch your breath.

You feel Seungcheol swallow, and he pulls away from your neck, looking down at you. “That was amazing.”

“It was,” you agree, teasing your thumb across his cheekbone. “So… you’re my new cameraman.”

He chuckles. “Going to be hard to watch you do any solo things.”

“You’ll just fuck me right after, like this,” you say simply.

“Fuck, what a life.”

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! If you're interested in Wonwoo's chapter about No Face, find it here

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below! 

🔮 preview. Seungcheol has been learning your body, inside and out, and you love that he’s taken the time to understand what makes you tick.

cw/ tw.  Unprotected sex, cam show/ porn, dirty talk, multiple sex positions, multiple reader orgasms, cum kink, creampie kink, sexual catering to audience, use of vibrator toy, spanking, ‘pov’ video filming, Seungcheol is her mute fuck toy for the cam show, overstim, squirting, hand job, masturbation, edging, etc…   I petnames. (hers) baby.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.1k I teaser wc. 130

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader

bonus

It’s been a few months of Seungcheol being your cameraman, and your streams have definitely improved.

It helps to have a businessman with a vision in your corner, and when he’s behind the camera, it’s especially helpful for your content. Seungcheol brings realism to everything, because you can almost act as if there’s no camera at all. It’s just you and Seungcheol, and that taste of reality has brought in a ton of new subscribers. 

He’s your official boyfriend now, but you know he’s been whipped for you from the start. Any man who’s willing to help their girlfriend succeed in the adult content industry is a bit of a simp, but you kind of love that about Seungcheol. In fact, you wouldn’t want it any other way.

☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.1k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

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[fashion-runways]

hiii new pinned post again because the last one was outdated, there are links to the previous ones in that one as well. unfortunately there are no real updates re: my dad's wrongful imprisonment. at this point, they might be waiting until the statutes of limitations happen and it's over, i don't know. he has a therapist who's kind of expensive but we have to pay for and he has to go weekly because of all the trauma he has left from being in jail and from losing his job/not being able to find a new one because of this. his health got worse in there, too, so there are a lot of different doctors he has to go to, medications, etc. he's doing better every day, though, but that takes a lot of money of course.

i used to have a redbubble account that helped me get afloat alongside this blog, but it got suspended without notice and never got reinstated no matter how many things i've tried, so... that's another source of income that we lost. i used to make around 30/40 dollars a month there, now i make like 1/2 dollars on teepublic monthly, that's a huge difference. argentina's economy was always bad but it has been an absolute disaster since the current president got elected. prices rise literally on a weekly basis for everything from basic groceries to public transportation, power, water, phone bills, etc. my laptop's keyboard broke at some point and i almost had to buy a new one with money i literally didn't have, just going into negative numbers, but i managed to find a guy who replaced it for as cheap as he could. it was still expensive, but it was better than having to buy a new laptop entirely. would love to get a stable job, but that's always been impossible in this country, even more so lately. for updates on argentina in english, this person on twitter makes very good informative threads if you're interested.

on top of that my dog passed from cancer a few weeks ago, that was really expensive for us too, meds and appointments and special foods and everything that we could do to keep her happy until it was her time to go, and she was. i also started therapy around the time she was diagnosed (thank god) but my therapist had to rise her rates because of the economy mess i already mentioned, so... yeah. everything is exhausting and everything is expensive, and this is literally my only source of income. it's also the thing that i love doing the most and the thing that keeps me sane in all of this mess, so hey, never leaving. in fact, if anything ever happens to this website, you can always find me under fashion_runways on twitter or probably anywhere else. some of you guys mentioned not seeing my posts lately too, so if you can/want to, you can turn notifications on!

anyway yeah, all that to say i love this blog, i love fashion, and i love showing you guys new cool things and giving you guys ideas for art, or writing, or your own style, or just interesting stuff to look at. so if you can donate any money, that would help me more than you think. even a single dollar can change what i can do with my day sometimes, i swear. as usual, my kofi link: https://ko-fi.com/fashionrunways and my teepublic link: https://www.teepublic.com/user/dinah-lance. thanks for being around and sharing and reblogging my posts, thanks for asking questions about fashion, and of course thanks for helping to the ones who can, and thanks to the ones who can't too, i know how that feels like, don't worry about it. i love you 💖

[missimaginx]

CELEBRITY CRUSH | KA12

pairing: kimi antonelli x f!brazilian!tennis player!reader

plot: where kimi needs to introduce the paddock to you, his celebrity crush.

warnings: narrated in first person (kimi's pov); female reader; italian-brazilian female reader (but you can just ignore that); female tennis player reader; kimi being a nervous and lovesick mess around the reader; possible grammatical errors; english is not my first language :).

a/n: images taken from pinterest. this is my first time writing a one shot 🥹, hope you like it (wc: 3k)

remembering that this is just fiction, all the people portrayed here have their own personalities and their own relationships.

MIAMI GRAN PRIX — 2025

I’m sweating.

Like, a lot.

And I’m not even wearing the race suit yet.

“…and it would be great if you could show her around the paddock, Kimi. She’s Mercedes’ special guest because of the shared Adidas sponsorship, so be nice. Engaged. Natural.” The Mercedes PR finishes with that professional smile that, at this point, feels like the devil’s grin.

I nod. That’s all I can do. Because, honestly? I’m speechless. In shock.

Y/N L/N is going to be here.

THE Y/N L/N.

The girl who lives in my head like she pays rent. The tennis prodigy. The one I watched playing at the Australian Open when I was sixteen and became absolutely certain she’s the love of my life—even though she doesn’t even know I exist.

I’ve seen her on TV. On Instagram. On TikTok. In interview replays. I’ve read articles from Brazilian sites in Brazilian Portuguese and tossed them into Google Translate. I know what brand of racket she uses. I know she likes passion fruit juice and has a superstition about a red hair tie.

And now she’s going to be here.

With me.

Getting a paddock tour.

And I HAVE TO BE NATURAL.

“You’re pacing.” Ollie says, sitting on the press room couch with the most bored expression in the world. “Again. You’ve literally circled the table three times.”

“I’M SHOWING HER AROUND THE PADDOCK, OLLIE.”

“Yeah, you said that. Three times. In different volumes.”

“She’s going to look at me and think ‘who is this idiot?’ And then I’ll stutter and trip over myself and maybe even throw up! Ollie, I MIGHT PUKE IN FRONT OF HER!”

“You’ve raced in torrential rain with zero visibility. You can handle a girl.”

“She’s not just any girl! She’s Y/N L/N!”

“Right. The love of your life you’ve never said ‘hi’ to. Got it.”

“You don’t get it! She’s incredible. She’s focused, determined, elegant, funny—she laughs with her head tilted to the side, and when she’s concentrating on a match she wrinkles her nose in this way that—”

“Okay. That’s it.” Ollie throws his head back, laughing. “Kimi, for the love of God, breathe. You’re just going to show her around, and if it all goes terribly wrong, you’ll never see her again.”

“NOT HELPING!”

“But… what if it goes right?”

I freeze. What would ‘going right’ even mean? She noticing me? Laughing with me? Following me back on Instagram? Calling me ‘Kimi’ with that cute Italian-Brazilian accent?

“You should ask her out,” Ollie says.

I turn to him like he just suggested I break into the FIA president’s office.

“Are you insane?”

“Why not? You’re the same age. She’s an athlete, you’re an athlete. She’s Italian, you’re Italian. You’re both young, rich, good-looking… basically an Adidas commercial couple.”

“I won’t even be able to say ‘hi’! You want me to ask her out?”

“Get ice cream. Ask her out for ice cream.”

“I’M NOT ASKING Y/N L/N OUT FOR ICE CREAM!”

“Why not?” he crosses his arms, laughing. “You think she’ll say no? That she’ll laugh in your face?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know!”

The door opens and Gabriel walks in, energy drink in hand and looking like he was dragged out of bed.

“Good morning to you too,” he says, flopping into the chair next to me. “Everything okay? Kimi looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

“He has,” Ollie replies before I can defend myself. “Or, well, he’s about to. The love of his life.”

Gabi frowns. “Huh?”

“Kimi’s had a crush on a girl for like three years and just found out she’s gonna be here today. In the paddock. As a Mercedes guest. And he has to give her the tour.”

Gabriel blinks, processing. “For real?”

“Totally. He’s already planning his escape through the Williams garage.”

“Who is it?”

“Y/N L/N,” Ollie says.

“Y/N?”

My stomach drops.

“You know her?” I ask, trying to sound casual. (Failing completely.)

“Of course. We’ve known each other since we were twelve. Her parents are friends with my uncles. And she’s INSANE on the court. Just won the Miami Open, did you see?”

“I DID,” I answer with something close to religious fervor. “I watched the whole match. Twice.”

My world tilts.

Gabriel Bortoleto knows Y/N L/N.

GABRIEL. KNOWS. HER.

“What’s she like?” I ask before I can stop myself. “I mean, off the court. Does she like music? Movies? What’s her favorite ice cream flavor? Is she talkative? Quiet? What’s her favorite color? Has she ever dated? Does she—”

“Mate,” Gabi laughs, slow. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

Ollie laughs out loud. “Told you it was serious. He’s had a dossier on her since 2022.”

“I just want to be prepared!” I protest.

Gabi looks at me like he’s finally getting the full picture.

“Mate. You’re in love with her, even though you’ve never met?”

“Not in love in love. Just… maybe. A lot. Since forever.”

Ollie grins, the smug smile of someone enjoying someone else’s drama way too much.

“And you still think you shouldn’t ask her out?”

I sink into the chair.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

And Ollie, beside me, pats my shoulder. “Or it’s going to be the beginning of a story we’ll laugh about at your wedding.”

“Not helping.”

“But it’s true.”

And, for the first time, I let that wild thought creep into my brain.

What if… it’s not a disaster?

I’ve only been waiting for two minutes.

But it feels like forty-seven years.

The Mercedes hospitality is quieter now… or maybe it just feels that way. There are still people around. An engineer leaving a meeting room, a kitchen staff member switching trays at the buffet, a couple of marketing folks talking quietly on a corner sofa. But to me, everything seems in slow motion. Like the whole world has faded into background noise while my thoughts race faster than my W16.

I’ve done all the interviews. Talked to more journalists than I can count, answered the same questions so many times the words lost all meaning, and even smiled genuinely when asked about the race. Now there’s just one thing left…

Her. Y/N L/N.

I shift in my seat for the fifth time in two minutes. Run my hand through my hair. Zip and unzip my jacket. Try not to sweat. Fail miserably.

The PR said she’d go get her and bring her here. Told me I just need to be polite. “Natural.” As if that’s possible when I’m about to meet the girl who’s lived rent-free in 90% of my brain since I was sixteen.

I rest my elbow on the armrest, trying to look casual, but my knee’s bouncing. I force myself to breathe—and that’s when I hear it.

A laugh.

Light, crystal clear. With an accent. That kind of laugh someone gives when they’re being polite but genuinely kind.

And I know it’s her.

It’s ridiculous, but I know. The sound hits different. Like the universe has been waiting for her to show up so it could finally be in color.

I hear the PR’s voice along with hers, getting closer every second, and something inside me switches on. I straighten up. Run my hand through my hair again. Try to remember how to say “hi.”

And then she walks in.

And nothing—absolutely nothing—could’ve prepared me for it.

She steps in beside the PR, eyes wandering curiously around the room, and my brain shuts down. Like, literally. Total blackout. Blue screen.

Y/N L/N walks through the door like the universe hit pause so she could have time to exist. The mint green dress—yes, mint green, because she once said in an interview that it’s her favorite shade of green—looks like it was made for this soft lighting. It matches her white sneakers and the dark green lanyard hanging around her neck. It brings out the warm tone of her skin, the insane green of her eyes, the waves of dark brown hair I’ve seen in so many videos—but live, it’s different. It’s better. Everything is better. Every detail.

She smiles, a bit shyly, and glances around like she’s still adjusting to the new environment.

And me? I’m frozen.

She’s… smaller than I imagined. For some reason, in pictures and videos, she looked taller. But now, standing a few steps away from me, her shoulders slightly hunched like she’s shielding herself from the attention, she looks… real. Human. Beautiful in an almost unreal way.

“Y/N, this is Kimi Antonelli. Our driver, and your official tour guide today,” says the PR, lightheartedly. “Kimi, this is Y/N L/N, who you probably already know, but just to remind everyone—she just won the Miami Open.”

But I don’t hear any of that. Or, I do, but it’s all background noise behind her image. I’m too busy… existing in a trance.

She extends her hand, smiling.

“Hi,” she says, with that adorable Italian-Brazilian accent that makes me want to write poetry. “Nice to meet you. And thank you for having me here.”

I look at her hand. Then her face. Then her hand again. Then—

Do something, Kimi.

I shake her hand like it’s made of porcelain. The touch is light, but it feels like a shock. Not the bad kind. The kind that wakes you up.

“It’s… it’s a pleasure,” I say, voice slightly higher than usual. “Like. Really. A lot. I mean—welcome.”

Y/N smiles. God help me, she smiles.

“Thank you,” she says again, with a tiny laugh that makes her nose scrunch up. Just like I love. “I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I’ve never been in a paddock before. Everything looks so… serious.”

“It’s… yeah. It is. But not always. I mean, yes. But also no. It’s fun. Sometimes.”

STOP TALKING, KIMI.

She laughs again, and by some miracle, she doesn’t seem to think I’m completely insane.

The PR chimes in, all cheerful:

“I’ll leave you two to walk around and get familiar with the place. Y/N, anything you want to know or see, Kimi can show you. He knows every corner of this paddock with his eyes closed.”

I nod. Maybe too quickly. Y/N smiles again. And for one whole second, there’s just this.

Her.

And me.

And the suicidal mission of not falling even harder.

The PR leaves us there and vanishes before I can beg her to teach me how to be a functional human being.

Y/N looks at me expectantly, a slight smile on her lips, like she’s silently asking, “So… what now?” I try to remember what the PR said. Show her around the paddock. Right. Easy. I know this place like the back of my hand. I’ve walked through here half-asleep thanks to jet lag more times than I can count. But now, with Y/N by my side, everything feels different. Bigger. Brighter. More… paralyzing.

“So… uh, welcome to the paddock,” I begin, trying to sound casual while gesturing like a school trip tour guide. “This is the Mercedes hospitality. It’s where we eat, have meetings, drink bad coffee, and try to pretend we’ve got our lives under control.”

She laughs. She laughs. And I feel like I’ve gained +10 confidence points… and -15 coordination points because I almost trip over one of the couches.

“It’s a lot calmer than I expected,” she says, looking around. “I thought it’d be, like… chaos. Loud. People running around with tires on fire.”

“Oh, that’s more outside, in the garages. In here we only lose it mentally.”

She giggles again, and I decide I could listen to that sound on loop for the rest of my life.

We start walking slowly, and I steer the tour toward the one place where I feel safer: the team garage. My territory. Maybe here I’ll seem less like a clumsy idiot.

“This is the team’s garage,” I explain, pointing like I’m showing her a sacred temple. “That’s where the cars are, over there’s the tires, back there’s the engineers’ station, and in the far back is where I pretend to understand everything Toto says when he starts throwing quantum physics terms around.”

Y/N watches everything with genuine curiosity. Not the polite kind of interest people fake just to be nice — she actually wants to understand. It’s real. And that somehow makes her even more perfect… and me even more in love.

“Wow… so this is where it all happens,” she says, almost reverently.

“Yeah. And also where it all goes wrong sometimes,” I add with a crooked smile.

“What’s the top speed again?”

“Depends on the track… but in Monza, for example, we can hit 350 km/h.”

“Three hundred and…?” She blinks, stunned. “You’re kidding.”

“I swear.”

“What’s it like?” she asks, her big green eyes—bright, locked on my very average brown ones.

The question catches me off guard — not because it’s rare, but because of the way she asks it. Like it’s magic. Like, for a second, I’m not just the Mercedes driver… but someone she truly admires. Someone she wants to understand.

“It’s…” I take a breath, searching for words that do it justice. “It’s like flying, but with the ground really close. Everything becomes instinct. You feel every movement of the car, every curve in your body. The adrenaline is insane, but at the same time… there’s a weird calm in the middle of the madness. Like time slows down for a few seconds.”

She stares at me, fascinated. A small smile forming.

“That’s… beautiful. And kinda crazy.”

I shrug, unsure what to do with the heat rising in my ears. She thinks it’s beautiful. This. Me. Help.

We keep walking, passing behind the garages. Some teams are organizing equipment, others just killing time. The sounds of tools and conversations blend into a kind of soundtrack.

At one point, we turn a corner and — of course, obviously — we run straight into them. Ollie and Gabriel, standing by the dividing wall between the Haas and Sauber garages, chatting, until their attention shifts to us.

“Look who finally showed up,” Ollie says, flashing that smug teen villain smile. “Our very own Romeo.”

Gabriel takes a bite of the sandwich he’s holding and raises his eyebrows when he sees Y/N.

“Y/N!” he says casually. “Long time! You good?”

She smiles—warmly. “Hey, Gabi! I’m good. You? Still cheating at Uno?”

Gabriel gasps in mock outrage. “I never cheated!”

Ollie laughs. “He cheats at rock-paper-scissors too, Y/N. Watch your back.”

Y/N bursts out laughing, and I smile… but there’s that tiny twist in my stomach. That annoying little reminder: they’re friends. She and Gabi have a kind of closeness I don’t have. Yet.

“Well, we don’t wanna interrupt the date,” Ollie throws out, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not a date,” I say—way too fast.

“Of course not,” Gabriel says, smiling. “But if it were, you’d be killing it.”

Y/N glances sideways at me with that knowing smirk that makes me trip over my own thoughts.

We keep walking.

“Sorry about them,” I mutter, slightly embarrassed.

“Don’t be. They’re funny.”

“They’re insufferable.”

She laughs again. And this time, it’s freer. Unrestrained. That’s when I realize: she’s relaxed. The Y/N who was tense and reserved when she got here isn’t here anymore. Now it’s just her — and me, desperately trying to look functional next to the girl of my dreams.

We reach a more open part of the paddock, with a side view of the track. The sounds of drivers rushing between interviews, photographers clicking away — it all hums in the background, a reminder that the world out there keeps spinning.

“Tired?” I ask.

“No. I’m enjoying this.” She looks ahead, then at me. “It’s cooler than I expected.”

“You seem more relaxed now.”

“I am. You made it feel… lighter.”

And that’s when the moment shifts. It turns quiet. Intense—in a good way. In a way I’ll remember forever.

We stop near a low wall. The wind plays with her hair, and she tucks a few strands behind her ear, absentmindedly.

“Sometimes I feel kind of lost,” she says softly. “Like… everything happens so fast I forget I’m still just an eighteen-year-old girl.”

I get it. More than I should.

“Yeah… I feel like that too. Like I have to be a grown-up all the time. Responsible. Flawless. Representing the team, Italy… and deep down, I just want to be playing video games. Or… having time to figure out what I feel. To fall in love. Without it feeling like weakness.”

She turns to me. Her green eyes — beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel real — lock onto mine with something careful. Something interested. Something I don’t want to name yet, because maybe it’ll hurt if it’s not real.

And that’s when it hits me: this? This walk, this moment, this smile?

It might be the only chance I get to be like this with her.

I remember what Ollie said earlier. Ask her out.

It’s crazy… but what if?

If it’s a disaster, at least I’ll have a reason to drive like a maniac on Sunday and forget this ever happened.

Y/N’s phone buzzes. She checks the screen.

“My agent. I’ve got to go shoot with Adidas.”

No. Wait. I still—

“Ice cream,” I blurt out, stumbling over the words. “I mean, like… maybe… you… get ice cream with me, I mean, go out— we could— if you want, of course…”

She blinks. Then laughs. Tilting her head slightly, just like I’ve seen her do a thousand times on my phone screen. And for a second I consider quitting F1 and becoming a stand-up comedian if it means making her laugh like that more often.

“Are you asking me out or ordering dessert?” she teases.

“Asking you out,” I manage to say, finally like a functioning human being. “With me. Ice cream. Later. Someday.”

Her smile grows. Slowly. Beautifully.

“I’d love to.”

My brain reboots. Three times.

When my soul finally stops spinning at the speed of my heartbeat, I realize Y/N is pulling a pen out of her purse—one of those permanent markers fans bring for autographs.

“You got any paper?” she asks, uncapping the pen, looking at me.

I get lost in her eyes for a second. Here, in the golden light of sunset, they look more hazel than green. Gorgeous.

“I…” I blink a few times, trying to return to the realm of functional humans, patting my jeans for paper. “No… but…”

Her phone buzzes again, and from the way she groans, I know it’s her agent texting again.

“You can write it here,” I say quickly, holding out my hand.

Y/N blinks, looking at me. I blink back, looking at her. I feel the tips of my ears burning—and I see her cheeks turn pink.

She blinks once more and smiles before stepping closer and touching my hand. The lightness of her touch is already familiar since I shook her hand earlier. And it sends the same electric shiver up my arm, straight to my heart, making it pound even faster.

I watch as Y/N writes her number on my palm with the black permanent marker. And this is one of the rare times I thank the universe for my good memory—because I know I’ll remember how the wind kept tousling her hair, how the orange sunset lit up her focused face, and how her brows furrowed slightly as she tried to make the numbers as clear as possible.

When she finishes writing, I don’t know if it’s my lovesick mind playing tricks on me, but I swear her fingers linger on mine a little longer than necessary before letting go.

“Text me,” she says, smiling and blushing again. “And don’t take forever.”

Before I can come up with a reply, she leans in and presses a quick, warm, perfect kiss to my cheek.

“I honestly thought you weren’t gonna ask me,” she whispers, like it’s a secret.

Then she turns with a soft “see you soon” and disappears down the corridor.

And I just stand there. Frozen. Dazed. Touching the spot where her kiss landed like I’m trying to save it forever.

And for the first time all day, I think:

Maybe Ollie was right.

Because this… definitely wasn’t a disaster.

[sxorpiomooon]

RANDOM THOUGHTS THAT PEOPLE HAVE ABOUT YOU - A PAC READING

Paid readings

$5 readings

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pile 1-

"she's so brave" I think people admire your ability and courage to follow your heart and your passion and love for art or beauty. A lot of you are very creative people and people love that about you. Your ideas might be very shocking to people I also keep seeing clouds and paintings? A lot of people might attach you with the colour blue or see you as the colour blue. I also think this pile has a lot of secret admirers? This is very random but your juniors might like you a lot. You guys might be the type of person to have the "beauty and art is everywhere" sort of mentality I heard "the ability to make beauty out of nothing". People might also feel as if you take too much responsibilities onto yourself? I heard "how much can you really tolerate" and "burned out". You might also have the tendency to doubt yourself for no reason and people find it very confusing as to why you would do that

Pile 2-

my pile 2 the first thing I heard was "always ready to open new things" and then "venture" i think this pile is very determined. People might automatically open up to you or look up to you. I also see people being ready to start new adventures or do new things in your presence automatically. It's like if there is something new that needs to be started you are the person people will look at to do that. You guys have that leader or president personality. Very self sufficient on your own. "Oh she's rich rich". People might also think that you have a very strong background? Whether it's family wise or education wise. "The one to start the new era" is what I heard as well.

Pile 3-

I think this pile might have a really interesting life or just a very interesting fate. "How the tables turn" "how fate works" is what I heard. I'm sort of also getting royalty kind of vibes from this pile? For some reason you feel untouchable it's almost as if the thoughts that I'm channeling of people are by the people who are not even near you? "So close yet so far away" right when I said this the line "I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you" played out of nowhere and it does match. Maybe it's people from your past or you are just really popular but to me it feels as if these are just speculations of people and not even one confirmation by you? People are extremely curious about you it's like watching a character from a tv show? Or watching a celebrity so close yet so far away

[bytemee]

RECOVERY — YU JIMIN.

“learned a lot through trial and error, tryna make it right.”

synopsis. karina’s been holding onto her pride for so long, but seeing you with someone else? it hits hard. and she doesn’t know how to handle it.

pairing. mean!sorority!karina x loser!gp!reader

warning(s). angst, jealous!karina, she's very toxic, miscommunication, mentions of drinking, and um let me know if there's more

words. 3.6k

authors note. jealous karina!!! everyone celebrates in sync while jumping up and down

navigation. main masterlist. series masterlist. prev. next.

being wrong? yeah, karina would never admit it. she always had to be right, even when the evidence clearly proved otherwise. it was frustrating trying to have a rational conversation with her because she would never back down from her stance, no matter how illogical it seemed.

it was the way she crossed her arms and set her jaw like a locked safe. or the way her eyes narrowed into slits and her nostrils flared. it was the way her lips pursed and the way her body stiffened, like she was preparing for a fight.

but with you? you were different. you didn’t argue for the sake of winning. you wanted understanding, compromise. that’s what made it all worse. you had been patient with karina for so long, more patient than she ever deserved. and now, after everything, after all that patience, she had finally managed to chase you away.

who she chased you away to? that was the worst part.

karina saw you walking into the sorority house after months of silence. her heart nearly stopped. you hadn’t been back here since the last fight—the one where everything between you had shattered.

but now you were back for her, right? obviously.

karina’s lips twitched into a smug smile. you finally came to your senses. you must have realized you’d overreacted, that you couldn’t stay away forever. maybe you were here to apologize. maybe you were here to grovel.

her chest filled with anticipation when your eyes locked across the crowded room. that familiar ache bloomed inside her chest—the look you used to give her, the one that made her feel like the only person in the world. she felt her confidence returning.

but then, just as quickly, the air brushed past her.

wonyoung’s dark hair bounced as she skipped up to you, throwing her arms around your neck. she laughed before her lips pressed against your cheek in a kiss that karina felt like a dagger in her chest.

you didn’t pull away. instead, your eyes softened, and your hands came to rest on wonyoung's hips, pulling her close. you spoke, but the music and the distance were too loud for karina to hear what was said. all she could do was watch, helpless, as she laced her fingers with yours before leading you down the hall.

now wonyoung had you.

karina’s sorority sister. the same wonyoung who had run against her for president last year, who always seemed to be just one step behind her—or, depending on the day, ahead. they’d made peace for the sake of appearances, for the sake of the sorority. but there was always an underlying tension. a competition.

you had been karina's loyal puppy for quite a while, and she'd thrown it all away. she was too stubborn to realize what she'd had until it was too late. and now, as karina watched you and wonyoung together from afar, her heart twisted in her chest.

she missed you. she was furious at you. but more than anything, she was jealous. jealous that wonyoung had been the one to steal you away. jealous that wonyoung would be the one who got to keep you.

karina hated feeling out of control. and jealousy? that was the worst kind of chaos.

the next morning, she walked into the kitchen of the sorority house to find you standing at the counter with wonyoung.

you were chopping fruit—distracted, slow, like your thoughts were somewhere else. wonyoung stood beside you, leaning against the counter with her head tilted, watching you with a lazy, amused smile. she kept nudging you with her shoulder every few moments, drawing small chuckles from you.

karina's heart squeezed in her chest. this wasn't fair.

her gaze darkened when wonyoung reached out, snagging a strawberry from the bowl you’d just filled. “hey!” you protested, but she simply grinned before popping it in her mouth. “i spent, like, a whole minute cutting that.”

“and you can cut another,” wonyoung teased.

“morning.” she didn’t mean to sound curt, but the word came out harsh. your eyes lifted, and her heart stopped. you looked good. really good. like the months away from her had done you some good.

then, you went back to cutting fruit like she didn't even exist.

that hurt more than she expected.

“hope you didn’t ruin the kitchen,” karina said tightly, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and leaning into your personal space. your shoulders were tense, your eyes were focused on the cutting board, and your mouth was pressed into a thin line.

wonyoung arched a brow. “you mean we’re not allowed to eat strawberries in here? i must’ve missed the rule.”

the two locked eyes for a long, tense beat.

“i don’t remember anyone asking you to be part of this conversation,” karina shot back.

your brows furrowed, and you turned to wonyoung.

a smirk twisted her lips. the brunette took a step closer to you, her hand coming up to play with a strand of your hair. her voice was light and playful. "do i need permission from the president?"

karina’s eyes narrowed. she had no time for this little game. not today. not ever.

karina turned her gaze back to the fridge, grabbing the juice and pouring herself a glass. then, without a word, she swept past the two of you, leaving the kitchen.

later that week, karina saw you again. this time, you were sitting on the sorority house’s front porch, stretched out on the bench swing with your laptop open. wonyoung sat next to you, head resting on your shoulder while you scrolled through whatever was on the screen.

karina tried not to look. she really did. but her feet refused to keep moving, and her eyes refused to leave the sight of you.

it was supposed to be her sitting beside you.

supposed to be her fingers brushing against yours as you scrolled through playlists, talking about which songs to add to your shared playlist.

wonyoung wasn’t part of the picture. she shouldn’t be.

her fists clenched again, and before she could stop herself, karina stormed over.

"what the hell are you doing?"

you glanced up, confused."i'm not supposed to use the front porch?"

"don’t play dumb," karina snapped, her eyes darting between you and wonyoung. "i’m talking about this."

wonyoung slowly lifted her head from your shoulder, arching a brow. “last i checked, we don’t need your permission to sit here.”

you looked between them, clearly confused.

karina didn't care.

"well, this is the official property of our sorority. and i'm the president. so, if i say no, no one gets to sit here. not even you."

wonyoung leaned back, rolling her eyes. "so, you're the president, and therefore the dictator. is that how it works?"

karina ignored her, crossing her arms over her chest. her eyes landed on you, and her throat tightened. "get up."

you blinked.

"excuse me?"

"did i stutter? i said get up. you're not supposed to be here."

you exchanged a glance with wonyoung. a look that said, what's gotten into her? she knew that look. she'd seen it a thousand times before.

"this is the best spot for wi-fi," you argued, closing your laptop and rising to your feet. "and no one said we can't be here."

"well, i'm saying it now," karina bit back.

"oh, come on."

"i'm serious."

wonyoung rose too, taking a step toward karina. "no one's making you stay. go be the president somewhere else. you're ruining the mood."

karina's lips curled into a smile. "that's cute, that you think you can tell me what to do."

you stepped between them. "look, let's not do this. i'll go inside, okay?"

"no," wonyoung cut in. "i'm not letting her walk all over us like that. why are you letting her tell you what to do? the way she’s bothered is so pathetic.”

your eyes widened.

"pathetic? you have no idea what pathetic is. you've had your foot on my back since the day we met, and now that you finally got the upper hand, you can't stop gloating." karina snapped back.

wonyoung tilted her chin up, defiant. "if i'm so far below you, then why can't you just let us be?"

the words caught in her throat. she didn't have an answer. she wanted an excuse. an explanation.

because this isn't fair.

because y/n’s mine.

but the words never came.

instead, karina felt her cheeks burn. she was humiliated. again. in front of the one person she couldn't afford to look weak in front of.

karina’s silence was louder than any retort she could have thrown back. wonyoung’s question hung heavy in the air, the weight of it pressing down on all of you.

you shifted uncomfortably, watching karina’s face twist with emotions she couldn’t seem to hide. for once, the perfectly composed, untouchable sorority president looked completely lost.

“karina—” you started softly, but she cut you off with a sharp shake of her head.

“don’t,” she said, her voice raw.

before you could say another word, she turned and stalked away, disappearing back into the sorority house. the slam of the door echoed across the front lawn.

“she’s used to getting what she wants,” wonyoung muttered. “let her walk away.”

but you weren’t sure it was that simple. you weren’t sure karina wanted to walk away at all.

the confrontation came two days later.

the study lounge was quiet, save for the soft hum of music in your earbuds. you sat at a small table, flipping through notes and tapping your pen rhythmically on the edge of your notebook. occasionally, you hummed along, lost in thought.

that is, until the chair across from you scraped against the floor. you didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

karina settled down in the chair, tossing her bag on the table. you kept your gaze on the papers spread out in front of you. you couldn't avoid this forever. you didn't look up or say anything.

but she did.

"i thought you were better than this."

her words were sharp enough to pierce through your focus, but you didn’t react right away. instead, you finished writing the sentence you were on, letting the silence stretch out.

"better than what?" you asked, voice carefully neutral.

"wonyoung." karina’s tone turned brittle. “why are you still hanging around her?”

you finally looked up, your brows knitting together. “not that it’s any of your business, but we’re hanging out.”

karina’s eyes narrowed. her leg bounced under the table, restless and agitated. “you think i don’t see what you’re doing?”

your head tilted slightly, incredulity rising. “what i’m doing?”

“yes.” her jaw tightened as if holding back something explosive. “you’re parading around with her like—like—”

your expression flattened, unimpressed. “like what, karina? just say it.”

karina was quiet for a moment. it wasn't like her to hold her tongue. when she spoke, her voice was low, and her eyes flashed dark. "you're trying to get back at me."

it’s funny, you said the same thing to her on that fateful night. and she’s finally beginning to understand how you felt.

“unbelievable,” you muttered. “you can’t stand the idea of not being in control, can you? you pushed me away, karina. you didn’t want me—”

she scoffed, but you continued before she could interrupt.

“—and now, just because someone else might actually give me the time of day, you’re throwing a fit.”

her face twisted. “it’s not like that.”

“then what is it like?” you challenged. “explain it to me.”

karina paused, her hands curling into fists. she looked conflicted. like she wanted to say something but was struggling to get the words out. finally, her gaze dropped, and her voice softened. "i miss you."

you froze, eyes widening. that was not what you expected to hear.

"i miss you, and i want you back." this was the closest karina had ever come to admitting that she'd made a mistake. her confession hung heavy in the air, waiting for a response.

you stared at her.

"oh, you miss me? how long did it take for you to finally admit that?"

karina's expression hardened.

"are you still mad about the videos?"

"how could i not be?"

"it's not like it meant anything," karina snapped.

"it was humiliating," you shot back.

"i was drunk."

"no excuse."

"you disappeared," karina retorted, her eyes narrowing. "you left without a word. i needed you, and you weren't there. what did you expect me to do?"

your throat tightened. "i told you it was a family emergency. i thought—" you stopped, shaking your head. "it doesn't matter. we're done, karina. you made sure of that."

karina's nostrils flared. "don't act like you're the victim. if anyone's the victim here, it's me."

"you're unbelievable."

"i'm the victim," karina insisted, her voice rising. "you're the one who abandoned me when i needed you the most. you're the one who walked away and decided to start over with someone else. i never asked for any of this."

your anger faded, replaced by a heavy, tired sadness. “you treated me like a toy, karina. i was always there when you needed something. and when you didn’t, i was discarded like trash.”

“you were never trash,” karina said through gritted teeth.

“yeah? well, you made me feel like it.”

karina’s anger simmered, but there was something else beneath it now—hurt. “how dare you say that. i never treated you like trash. you’re the one who left me. you’re the one who chose wonyoung.”

“i didn’t choose anyone,” you shot back, slamming your hand on the table. “i left because i was hurt. i’m not going to take responsibility for your decisions. i was done being treated like shit. you have no idea how much it hurts to love someone who turns their back on you.”

you grabbed your bag, throwing it over your shoulder. “i’m done with this conversation.”

she stared at you, speechless.

the valentine’s day movie night was supposed to be a tradition. last year, it was one of karina’s favorite memories—the two of you sharing a blanket, fingers laced under the covers, sneaking kisses when no one was looking. now she was walking into the same room alone; well, she had a bottle of wine in hand to keep her company.

when she spotted you walking in with wonyoung, something inside her cracked. wonyoung was practically glued to your side, her arm looped through yours and her head resting on your shoulder.

she couldn’t even focus on the movie.

all she could see was the way wonyoung snuggled into your side, the way you whispered in her ear and brushed a strand of hair from her face. the way wonyoung reached out, tracing a fingertip over your jawline, drawing a small, private smile from you.

it was almost too much. so she drank.

one glass. two. three.

by the time the movie ended, wonyoung leaned over to yujin, murmuring something about their plans for the next day. the crowd thinned out, but karina stayed glued to her seat, her eyes fixed on the paused ending credits. she stared, unmoving, lost in thought, her shoulders drooping, and her cheeks and glassy eyes made it clear she’d had too much.

it didn't take long for someone to notice.

“karina.” you approached cautiously, your eyes lingering on the empty wine bottle. you didn’t mean to stare, but it was a stark contrast to the poised, controlled karina that everyone else knew. the sorority president blinked, raising her gaze. it took her a moment to recognize you. she didn’t respond.

you stood in front of her, studying her face. your expression was unreadable. she tried not to wince.

karina cleared her throat, straightening up.

"what?" she croaked, her voice rough from disuse.

"you look like you could use some help," you said, reaching a hand out. she didn’t know why, but the gesture felt like an olive branch. her eyes darted between your face and your hand. she hesitated, then nodded, taking your hand.

her body felt heavy, but the touch sent sparks up her arm. your skin was warm—soft, familiar. karina stumbled slightly, and your other hand instinctively wrapped around her waist, steadying her.

her breath hitched.

you guided her to her room, careful to avoid the rest of the girls scattered throughout the house, drinking and celebrating. the lights were off, the room shrouded in silence. karina sank onto the bed, her body slumping as exhaustion weighed her down.

without a word, she reached out and grabbed your hand, her fingers trembling. then the tears came.

“i’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice breaking. “i—i’m so sorry. i was wrong.”

her sobs wracked her small frame as she clung to your hand. “i was selfish. i pushed you away because i didn’t know how to handle how much i needed you. and then i saw you with her, and it hurt so much, but it was my fault.”

you sighed again, softer this time. “karina—”

“please,” she interrupted, her eyes pleading. “please forgive me. i know i messed everything up, but i can’t stand this anymore. i miss you. i miss us.”

before you could even think about leaving, she stood up and buried her face in your shoulder, her sobs muffled by the fabric of your hoodie. your hand instinctively found her back, rubbing slow circles as she tried to steady her breathing.

"please don't go," she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper.

you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. the silence stretched out, and for a moment, you were tempted to pull away and leave her. it would be easier that way. but when you looked at her face, her tear-stained cheeks and red eyes, you couldn't find the will to walk away. “come on,” you murmured gently. “let’s get you cleaned up.”

leading her to the bathroom, you turned on the tap, letting her wash her tear-streaked face. she winced at her reflection in the mirror, eyes swollen and red, but didn’t say anything as you handed her a towel. you stayed beside her while she brushed her teeth, holding her steady when she swayed slightly.

when she finished, you helped her sit down on the edge of the sink counter. for a moment, neither of you spoke. karina stared at her hands. her throat was dry, and her head was still fuzzy from the wine.

“i’m not…with wonyoung,” you said finally, breaking the quiet. “we’re just two people who happen to spend time together. there’s nothing romantic going on.”

karina’s head snapped up, her eyes filled with both surprise and relief. “but you—”

“she’s a friend,” you cut in firmly. “that’s all. no one ever took your place.”

her lips trembled, but she didn’t cry again. instead, she reached for your hand once more. “i’m sorry i hurt you. i never meant to do that. i was scared. i am scared. i don't want to lose you. not to anyone else."

"karina—"

"i'm serious."

"i know."

she squeezed her eyes shut. "i'm so stupid."

"yes, you are." you nodded slowly, if karina wasn’t so tipsy she would’ve shot a glare your way. then you exhaled, “i left because i was hurt. i needed space to figure things out. and i still need time, okay? but… i'm not going anywhere."

her shoulders slumped. "promise?"

"promise." you leaned forward, brushing her hair behind her ear. your thumb caressed her cheek. her heart fluttered. "you're too pretty to cry."

her face flushed. she couldn’t meet your eyes, but she didn't pull away. her gaze dropped to your lips. you could smell the alcohol on her breath.

"come here." you reached out and wrapped her arms around your neck.

"what are you doing?"

"putting you to bed. you need to sleep off the wine."

"but i don't want to sleep," she whispered. her hands slid under your jacket, her fingertips trailing along the bare skin of your lower back. the feeling sent a shiver down your spine. "what do you want?" you asked softly.

"for you to stay," she murmured.

your eyes fluttered closed. "i can't."

"why?"

"because it's not a good idea."

"it's always been a good idea."

you chuckled lightly, opening your eyes to meet hers. they were wide and pleading, and she couldn't hide the hope in them. her gaze softened, but you stayed firm. "sleep first, karina. we'll talk more when you wake up."

reluctantly, she nodded. you helped her lie down, pulling the blanket over her. she shifted slightly, watching you as you slid into the bed beside her. without a word, she scooted closer, resting her head against your chest. her hair tickled your skin.

"this is what you want, right?"

"yes," she murmured, closing her eyes. she snuggled into your side. her body was inviting and light. her fingers trailed lazily across your stomach, drawing patterns on the fabric of your shirt. "can you hold me, please?"

your hand traced along the curve of her spine, coming to rest on her hip. she hummed quietly, nuzzling her cheek against your chest. your heart pounded. her breathing slowed, evening out as sleep finally claimed her. you stayed there, your fingers tracing absentminded patterns on her skin, until the softness of her body against yours and the rhythmic sound of her breathing lulled you to sleep.

when karina woke up, the sunlight streaming through the window made her squint. she reached out, but her hand met an empty space. her heart dropped for a moment, panic settling in—until the door creaked open.

you walked in, hair messy from sleep, wearing a loose shirt and boxers, two steaming cups of coffee in hand. "morning," you greeted softly.

she sat up, pushing her hair back. "you stayed?"

"of course i did." you handed her a cup, settling on the edge of the bed. she took a sip, her hands still a little shaky.

“wonyoung texted you,” you mentioned casually, setting your coffee down on the nightstand.

her brow furrowed. she grabbed her phone. sure enough, there was a new text waiting for her.

wonyoung: she was my stray :(

karina: you must’ve been feeding her cheap treats. she’s back where she belongs. hope you’re doing well!

she rolled her eyes. "stupid."

"hey."

"not you." she smiled at you.

you stared at her for a few moments before humming. “so…we should talk."

she nodded.

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[obaewankenobis]

till forever falls apart; finnick odair

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

word count: 10.6k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To steady yourself, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is all consuming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door shuts before you have the chance to retort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She cuts you off. “Yeah. I know.”

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

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

“I am not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why’re you nervous? We’ve done this like, a million times,” you laugh, but he’s not smiling.

Finnick’s answer surprises you so much that your own smile is instantly wiped from your face. “I just want to make sure it’s good for you. I want you to be happy… even if it’s only for a little bit.”

His tone is so earnest and anxious you’re sure you’re about to cry, because no one’s ever been this sweet to you. Except him. “Okay,” you whisper. Those funny three words are jumping in the back of your throat, and you have to swallow hard and kiss him to make sure they disappear.

Still connected by your lips, you roll over until you’re straddling him, his back propped against the headboard. You never want to stop kissing him; when his lips are on yours it’s like you’re in a whole different world. One without all the worries that weigh you down and pry you apart from him. It’s the most relief you’ve felt since your Reaping Day that you whine when his lips leave yours.

He laughs a little at your desperation, his hands sliding under your shirt and raising it above your head before tossing it aside.

Finnick makes quick work of the rest of your clothes and his own, and before you know it you’re both naked.

You’re glad he flips you over because you're a little embarrassed how wet you’ve become — not that it’d be a secret for long.

His hands slide down and gently pull your legs apart so he can settle comfortably between them.

Now it’s your turn to feel nervous, unfamiliar with the position you’re in — at eye level with one another. It’s so different from the impersonal ones you’re used to. 

When he’s behind you, you can almost be satisfied with it being just sex. You’re free to pretend it’s anyone, it doesn’t have to be Finnick.

But now, looking into his eyes and being met with a stare just as intense, you hope he can't feel your pulse skyrocketing.

Just as you feel the familiarity of one of his fingers working its way inside you, you’re hit with a force of emotion so hard it knocks the wind out of you and you have to hide a gasp. You realize, with a stab to your chest, you never want this to end, but know it will. Know you have to make this a memorable goodbye in case only one of you survives.

He makes you feel so good, knows your body so well it’s basically second nature when he pumps his fingers in and out in a way that makes you arch towards his hand, silently begging for more.

He’s just about to slide a second finger in when you know he senses the change in how you’re kissing him. It’s more like the desperate, hungry ones you're both used to. 

In a moment he’s withdrawn completely and you cry out at the loss. “Why’d you do that?” You groan.

“What’s wrong with you?” Finnick demands, holding your chin with one of his hands and forcing you to hold eye contact with him.

“Nothing, can you just get back to—”

“Bullshit.” He withdraws his body from you completely, leaving you cold and lonely as he sits back on his knees. His eyes widen as he looks at you, and you can literally see his pupils returning to their normal size. “You don't want to not worry about the consequences,” he realizes. “You’re just here to say goodbye.”

You want to protest and sit up, but he’s reading you to filth. “Finnick, I—”

“No,” he says with so much force it surprises you, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s in pain. “No, I told you we’re going to be fine, why are you acting like this is the end?”

You can recognize the edge of terror in his voice and know he’s not really mad at you. He’s panicked, because if you don’t believe his words, why should he?

“Finnick,” you say again, gently this time, and he slowly opens his eyes. You reach your hand towards his face and cup his cheek, an act so tender you can feel your own heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach. “I want to believe you. About everything. Really, I do, I just… I just want to do it right this one time.”

And it’s true. You’ve been intimate with him countless times, but they all feel so wrong compared to the rawness of tonight.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he whispers, grasping onto the hand that’s on his cheek and bringing it down to his chest. You feel his heart beating a million miles a minute, thudding so hard against his chest it might just burst free.

You nod, knowing you don’t have the strength to argue. You want tonight to be perfect, just in case it’s the last time, and you’re already missing the feeling of his lips.

Finnick seems to have lost the internal battle he’s been warring against himself, because when he surges forward to kiss you, his words are seemingly forgotten.

His kisses are still tender and steady, but an edge of desperation creeps toward the end. As if when you pull away to catch your breath, it’s the last time he’ll ever feel them.

You return to the position of before and try to fall back into the rhythm that’d been temporarily disrupted.

His fingers find their way back inside you just as his lips reconnect to yours, but this time you’re impatient. You want to be ready and able to enjoy it, but you can’t stand wasting time without him inside you, knowing you only had a few hours left together.

He seems to sense this, too, because his fingers curl inside you and send shockwaves up and down your spine. Blindly, you reach for his pants and fumble with the waistband for a moment before slipping your hand inside.

Instantly you find his cock, hard and practically jumping at your touch as you wrap your hand around it. You’re rewarded with his hips jumping towards your touch and groan that’s immediately swallowed by your kiss.

Just a simple touch has him impatient, understanding your sudden desperation. The brief whine as his lips leave yours is replaced with a moan as you feel the thickness of him pressing at your entrance.

“Wait!” You cry out, so suddenly it startles him into jumping back.

“What’s wrong?” He looks panicked, then grief stricken, like he’s done something wrong.

“Nothing, I just needed to say—” Please, just let me say it, you beg your brain. “I love you.”

Finnick’s features instantly relax and he’s back against you in an instant. The smile that’s overtaken his entire face is the brightest you’ve ever seen.

“I love you too,” he says in between kisses, “I thought I was being pretty obvious about it though.”

He doesn’t even wait for a reply before thrusting into you. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he pauses, letting you adjust for a moment.

“I think you were made for me,” He breathes, forehead dipping down to connect with yours.

“Oh come on, don’t be cheesy— ah!” He’s setting a pace that’s been like the rest of the night, slow and sweet, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you both grow impatient with it.

For a while there’s only the sounds of labored breathing and skin against skin as he thrusts into you, until your gasps and moans grow more frequent and you both know you’re getting close.

He increases the pace to something much more demanding now, not caring about the path of scratches your fingernails are making down his perfect skin, marring his perfection ever so slightly.

“Please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for, because you know he’ll give you the release you so desperately crave. Still, with the coil wound tight at the base of your spine it’s all you can do in your sex-drunken mind.

You both come right after the other, completely in sync, there’s no hesitation when Finnick wraps his arms around you and pulls you onto his chest.

“I meant it, y’know,” you say quietly after a minute.

“Me too. All of it.”

The giddiness you feel at his words disappears at the reality of the situation. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner. We’ve wasted so much time.”

“I know,” he sighs, because that's all he can say.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Both your lives will be on the line for a greater cause, your next breath will not be guaranteed, and neither will his. But for these few sacred hours, before the first cracks of dawn seep through the curtains and drag you back to reality, you have certainty, you have contentment. 

A sigh escapes your lips, and Finnick looks down at you resting your cheek against his chest.

He hopes you can’t feel his heart accelerating when you begin to draw little patterns in his skin.

“What’s wrong?”

The look in your eyes makes him wish he hadn’t asked.

“I’m just going to miss you.”

He could protest. Could point you towards the logistics that favor both your survival, could ramble about how the rebels are going to get all of you out. How you won’t ever need to miss him because he plans on sticking to you like glue until he draws his last breath.

The little part of him that's just as scared as you are stops him from saying any of it. He’s agreed to sacrifice himself and everyone around him to ensure Katniss and Peeta make it out. He could do it without hesitation if he didn’t have to think about you.

Instead, he just presses a long kiss to your temple and pulls you impossibly closer. You think he’d burrow himself in your skin if he could.

“Me too,” is the last thing you hear before the lull of sleep, aided by the warmth and safety you feel in his arms.

You hope tomorrow never comes.

[sirfrogsworth]

So, I did know the basic psychology of this. Or I have a good guess at least. But I was too tired and just needed a way to end the post quickly. I am running on fumes nearly all the time and sometimes I just do whatever I need so I can publish something and feel like I accomplished a goal.

But a few people are having issues with what I said.

They mentioned that autistic folks find comfort in repetition and feel like I am calling that sad. I definitely see that as a possible interpretation and I appreciate them mentioning feeling that way.

But I just wanted to use a little bit of energy to address why I don't think I was referring to these normal, healthy coping mechanisms. I mentioned in a reply that my father actually needed to watch the same show over and over because he was too sick to concentrate on something unfamiliar. I get why it can be helpful.

Firstly, I don't know many autistic people who trap everyone they know at a party and play the same 12 songs over and over.

By and large, that aspect was what I found most sad.

But aside from that, I see this repetitive behavior as a very different thing.

In fact, I would say it isn't the behavior itself... it is the *reason* for the behavior.

I see Trump's repetitive behavior more as living in the past, stuck in his ways, being stubborn, and unwilling to try new things. Something I see a lot with elderly conservative folks. They yearn for a better time in the past when they forgot all of the shitty things and only remember happy times. They say music was better in the good old days and refuse to consider any good music could be created outside of that golden age.

Trump is stuck in the 80s and 90s. He was young and healthy and grabbing pussy and fucking models (with and without consent) and going to parties of important people. He was invited to celebrity weddings and was literally Regis Philbin's best friend. Society generally liked him. He was just the goofy rich guy with the hair and many of us thought he was really good at business. Something enhanced by The Apprentice which was heavily edited to make him seem like a business genius. He likes people thinking he is good at business more than he likes being president.

I actually think he hates being president and only ran this time to stay out of jail.

Trump is not well liked as he used to be. No matter how many cult members love and praise him, he remains deeply unhappy. His wife refuses to touch or even kiss him in public. She does this little hand escape thing every time he tries to hold her hand. And when he tries to kiss her she makes him do that French thing where he has to kiss the air near her head.

Every one of his current "friends" is just playing the game. They are hoping their fealty will help them climb the ladder. I doubt he has a single genuine friend left. Except maybe Rudy Guiliani, who turned into a fucking nutball.

He was traumatized from being inches away from death and I think that was the real reason he moved his inauguration inside. A life long New Yorker is pretty well adapted to the cold.

He probably has erectile dysfunction. He is said to need a diaper. People say he smells really bad. Getting old sucks for everyone, but it is devastating to a narcissist of Trump's caliber.

Trump is in a psychological prison of unhappiness and all he has left is his rallies and his parties where he tries to trigger memories of better times. He has the world's thickest nostalgia glasses.

Why do you think he says "Make America Great AGAIN"?

He says he is going to restore the US to its "former glory."

Almost every personal and political goal of his is based on restoring how things used to be. Which is why he so easily fit into the regressive Republican party despite being a New York Democrat for most of his life.

Trump has elderly nostalgia brain and he is stuck in a loop. He is desperately trying to recreate his glory days.

I get why people had an issue with the caption. And I should have waited until I had more energy to clarify.

In the end, this man is stuck in his ways and stupendously uncurious of new things.

And those are terrible traits for a president.

[flightlessribbons]

I take every single opportunity to project my sensory issues/neurodivergence on every character with perpetual headphones- Nino included.

Some headcanons about the main 5 and their persona changes under the cut!

Each protag has something that changes when they're in either one of their personas.

The main two's are obvious and fairly cloae to canon but the other three are a little bit different since they pertain a lot to this AU'S headcanons.

- Marinette's biggest is her confidence and decision making that doesnt always come through in her civilian form.

-Adrien's is his carefree attitude and agency that he doesn't have in his everyday life.

The more headcanony ones:

- Alya is always mediating between her older sister, parents, and little siblings. With her older sister and dad butting heads a lot, and the twins being the pranksters they are, Alya's patient and calm front to the situations helps keep everything under control. Constantly emotionally aware and trying to monitor everyone's moods, but doesn't abuse the influence she has in her family. D O E S however manipulate the FUCK out of her enemies when transformed. Makes the trickster part of her miraculous proud.

Also does gentle parent her teammates when there's a dispute. Only Carapace has noticed.

- Chloe in this AU is like Jane Austen's "Emma": constantly helping her dad keep things in order. Has been the one honestly running the hotel business since she was 10, at least in every aspect but on paper. She sees her dad and his bouts of depression, and tries her best to ease his workload at home at least. She's not perfect, but she's trying. As class president, she tries to please everyone and lead with a firm, but fair, hand. In comparison to the busy mayor's daughter who's tried her best to clean up her image and ebb her temper, Queen Bee is a harsh critic. Chloe feels her emotions much more freely when transformed, and is the most willing of her teammates to do the dirty work that needs to get done.

- Nino's grew up entertaining his brother while their mom would work late, taking on a more upbeat attitude longer than he would actually be comfortable with. This behavior moved into school too, where he got into habit of pushing his social battery past what it should while trying to make everyone comfortable. Doesn't mask as much with the class and his main friend group, and always puts his headphones on as a "do not disturb sign" that everyone in class respects. Carapace is the complete opposite. Since there's no need for a social buffer between the heroes and Carapace was the last to join and was welcomed warmly- Nino stays mute/speaking when necessary and has his gear help buffer his senses. Incredibly observant since he's not draining himself, and is the best defense and tank the team could ask for.