#just a heads up that i'm muting this post and will no longer see responses to it

[thevioletcaptain]

i genuinely don't care how good a piece of ai generated art or writing looks on the surface. i don't care if it emulates brush strokes and metaphor in a way indistinguishable from those created by a person.

it is not the product of thoughtful creation. it offers no insights into the creator's life or viewpoint. it has no connection to a moment in time or a place or an attitude. it has no perspective. it has no value.

it's empty, it's hollow, and it exists only to generate clicks (and by extension, ad revenue.)

it's just another revolting symptom of the disease that is late stage capitalism, and it fucking sucks.

[sagau-my-beloved]

Oh my god, your writing??? It's so good??? How come I only came across these gems today? Either way, I'm glad I ended up finding your blog.

If you have time, could I request something similar to the post where Venti finds his way to our world, but with either Ei or Zhongli, please?

A New and Foreign Arrangement

Ahhh thank you so much! I like your writing a lot too!!!

Decided to do good old Zhongli for this, also it occurred to me halfway through writing that you might have actually meant the headcanons and not the drabble, so if I wrote the wrong thing please let me know and I can totally do the other—

Warnings: general sagau, that's pretty much it he's pretty tame

-

Zhongli was patient.

He had to be, patience and precision were of the utmost importance when it came to his responsibilities.

So to find himself here, begging so sincerely, offering everything at his disposal for just one chance to see you...

Well, Albedo couldn't very well decline.

And now you were standing in your living room, sitting in complete silence with a quite nervous Zhongli, who had just walked into your house through a very fancy looking door, which appeared and then disappeared shortly after.

There was no mistaking it as him, the dark hair which faded into a soft amber, the same golden eyes which refused to give away anything he was thinking.

If you did somehow have the ability to read his thoughts however, you would find that they were only full of you, so desperately trying to mentally will you to say anything at all.

"So..." You finally spoke, trailing off into another muted silence as he looked directly at you, urging you to say more, pleading desperately with out saying a word.

You took a second to clear your throat before continuing, "You're... here then? Uh, if you don't mind my asking, how exactly?"

You felt something inside you die at the awkwardness in the room, but it was very difficult to even form coherent thoughts when a six thousand year old God was sitting right in front of you, looking no less nervous than someone applying for a job interview they didn't have the qualifications for.

Zhongli straightened himself, sitting up in a poised and proper manner that was all too expected.

"I'm sorry for the sudden intrusion, I just..."

He trailed off for a second, seemingly pondering what all exactly he wanted to reveal.

"You're needed in Teyvat. It would be cruel to deprive your world of your presence for much longer. So, I came to get you."

Deprive your world?

"I'm sorry," you started, shifting your weight as you tried to look away from his incredibly beautiful but serious eyes, "This is all very confusing, but I'm not sure you have the right person—"

"Nonsense." Zhongli cut you off, he was now sitting on the edge of his seat, seemingly holding himself back from standing.

He let out a breath as your eyes went wide, reeling himself back from the sudden intrusion and calming his voice a bit as he spoke his next words.

"You're the creator of Teyvat, the God above all Gods, there is no way I could mistake anybody else for you."

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, as if he fully believed what he was saying.

"Zhongli..."

He perked up at his name, of course you knew it, but hearing you say it like that almost caused him to shiver.

"I can't... I'm not..." You couldn't finish what you were saying, feeling a weight tugging at your heartstrings at the thought of denying him what he was so dead set on believing.

This time Zhongli did stand.

He paced for a moment, resting his chin on his hand as he went back and forth in deep thought, seemingly pondering something important.

"This won't do, to bring you back when you don't believe your own status, to subject your people to that type of uncertainty from their own God..."

You almost felt the need to apologize, as if it was your fault that you didn't meet his expectations.

He looked over at you for a second, seemingly sensing exactly what you were thinking and he waved his head a moment, as if clearing his thoughts.

"None of that is your fault of course, it would be quite unfair of me to put that responsibility on you, so allow me to shoulder it myself."

You paused for a moment, trying to understand exactly what he was implying. Did that mean that he would be leaving you here and take on what he considered to be 'your' responsibilities himself?

"If you'll allow it, it seems I must simply have to stay here and convince you."

You froze, there was a soft smile playing on his lips at the statement, as if it wasn't as much something that he was resigning himself to, but actively seeking out, wanting even.

"Are you asking if you can stay in my house?"

The confidence that was present on his face only a moment ago seemed to falter slightly.

Was that not something you wanted? Was he overstepping his boundaries by even asking?

"Ah, well, when you put it like that—"

"Ok."

You could barely register what you had just said.

Did you just agree to let a multi-thousand year old video game character Archon stay at your house, for who knows how long, while he tries to convince you that, you too, are a God?

It seemed as though that was exactly what you agreed to because Zhongli immediately grabbed your hand into his and thanked you.

"I won't make you regret it, I promise not to cause you any trouble."

His voice was incredibly calm, but you could feel his hands shaking slightly as they held yours.

He felt the urge to thank you properly, to kneel down and fully convey exactly how happy he was, to provide you with luxurious the average person could only dream of ever laying eyes upon. But the fact of the matter was, he was alone in a strangers house with not a penny to his name, in this world at least.

Of course, as he never really thought about currency as is, so the latter part of that statement would evade him for a bit longer.

"Would you allow me to treat you to dinner?"

You didn't particularly want to tell him that if he went out looking the way that he did, he would be recognized rather quickly as 'Zhongli the Geo Archon' from the widely popular game Genshin Impact, so you instead evaded the question.

"Oh, well, I already ate, but we should probably talk about how this arrangement is going to work."

Arrangement? Similar to a contract, right? He could do contracts, and whatever you wanted he would happily give.

"For starters, I don't have a spare bed."

He would be perfectly happy sleeping on the floor, is that all you wanted of him?

"So all I can offer the couch until I figure out something else."

Oh. Yeah, that made a bit more sense.

He could feel that the reality of what you had agreed to was starting to dawn on you, and he felt need to assure you that he wouldn't be anything close to a burden.

"No need to trouble yourself. Anything I need I will happily buy myself, or reimburse you with the appropriate amount of mora, naturally."

"Oh, right, mora..."

You had almost forgotten that his form of currency had absolutely no standing in your world, it looked as though you would have to pay for him after all, at least for the time being, which really wasn't that much different from when you were playing the game-

"So, our currency here isn't actually mora."

You noticed his look of confusion and backtracked, "Well, there is more than one currency, but mora isn't one of them."

More than one currency? Mora not being a currency?? Maybe this universe was more detached from his than he had previously thought, and that did leave the problem of reimbursement...

He let out a hum in understanding.

"I see the problem. Well, it seems I'll just have to earn my stay another way."

The way he said it threw you off, so formal, so detached, as if it was simply a given that he would have to repay you at some point.

You supposed you shouldn't have expected any less from the God of contracts though.

This entire situation had exhausted you, and it was already rather late. Plus, if you saw any more Archons today, you very well might passed out from shock.

"Well, I think I'm going to bed now, so feel free to make yourself comfortable, and I'll see you in the morning."

Maybe when you awoke you would realize that you hallucinated this entire thing, and you really were absolutely losing it.

Zhongli just gave you a patient smile and a small nod, wishing you a good night in turn, and watched as you walked to your room.

You just laid in bed, staring at the ceiling for about fifteen minutes straight, tossing and turning, not able to get your brain to shut itself off.

Of course you were still tired, no matter how much you simply wanted to run over every detail of what had just happened in your head, over and over until it was committed to memory.

So within another five minutes you had fallen into a rather restless sleep, slightly concerned about what you would wake to find in the morning, but also secretly worried about what it was possible you wouldn't find.

After about thirty minutes and a reasonable amount of self debate, when Zhongli was relatively certain that you had fallen asleep, he chose to quietly open your door.

It was only for a look, just to make sure you were doing well, surely all of this would have stressed anyone out.

His eyes softened as they fell upon your sleeping form, you looking just so divine like that.

This was the right decision. Or, at the very least, it was a decision he would stand behind.

Staying away from Teyvat for a long period of time would certainly be a bit stressful, but as soon as he convinced you of your rightful status, you would join him there.

This was his responsibility now, to convince you of what he and hundreds of others already knew, to return you to your rightful place.

He wouldn't go back, not until he was doing it with you.

[queendeeshorrorimagines]

October 14: breeding

Art the clown x fem!reader

Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it peeps), sex with a clown (not my thing but hey, I get some people are down go clown), unrealistic dick (he is a demonic clown?) Fear play, reader is morally grey and is into Art

As an apology for not being able to post this in time, day fourteen and fifteen will be longer than what I've been writing.

The situation you were currently in for the past 24 hours was probably hands down the most fucked up situation you've ever been through in your life. It started out with you attending a Halloween party with your friends even though you didn't feel like going.

Oh how you wished that you would've stayed home instead of going to that damn party. Your friends have been long dead, you knew it too well. The amount of screaming and blood throughout the house was a given.

In the deepest pits of your mind, a dark side of you didn't feel any sympathy towards your friends. They were the ones who decided to fuck around and harass the creepy clown that was staring at you. Although the clowns mannerisms were rather unsettling for you, you couldn't help but to feel the attraction towards him.

The once new and beautiful angel costume you wore became bloodied and tattered- covered with the occasional dried up mud and grass stains. You were hiding inside the master bedroom, inside the walk in closet.

You felt your heart beat out of your chest as you heard the door opened, shit. You swore you locked the door before hiding as you hear quiet footsteps lightly echoed. It was a few minutes before it went quiet, too quiet for your liking.

Just before you were about to leave the closet, you suddenly feel a hand grabbed your waist before the familiar honk of his horn, causing you to jump. The closet door flew open, Art walking you out of the closet.

"What do you want from me? I apologized for my friends earlier..."

Your eyes were doe like, looking at his dark ones. His eyes took in your body with a smirk, sending a wave of arousal down to your core. 'This is not the time for me to be aroused.' You scolded yourself as he moves his free hand to the side of your face.

It wasn't a harsh touch like you expected, it was almost caring as he let's go of your waist, pulling out a black rose from his hat before putting it back on. He handed the rose to you, causing you to blush slightly.

"For me? Thank you.. I'm still confused about why keep me?"

You gently held on to the rose, smelling it with a soft smile. If it wasn't for the fact that he just killed all your friends, the gesture would've made you blush.

The clown starts making mime like gestures. Him moving his hand over his stomach, moving his hand as if he has a pregnant stomach. Then, he moved the hand to his chest in the position of him rocking a baby. The whole thing made you blush more and feel even more aroused at your situation.

"So you want me to be pregnant with your children? You want to fuck a baby in me?"

You didn't realize that you said the last part lustfully until you see him smile wider, giving a thumbs up in response to your questions. Your body suddenly feels warm as he starts roughly ripping the costume off your body.

Leaving you in only your sheer white bra, art undoes his pants before pushing you on the bed. The first thing you noticed was that his pale cock was a lot bigger with thick blueish veins. You sucked in a breath while watching him slowly move over top of you.

Before you were able to prepare yourself, Art suddenly thrusted into you. Your hands grabbed onto the back of his shirt as you leaned up to kiss him. The two of you kissed, smearing his face paint on your face.

His thrusts speed up slightly, causing your legs to wrap around his waist. You gently pulled away from the kiss, you pull him closer to you as you see his mouth parted. Muting out his moans, art leaned his head closer to yours as you panted softly.

"Keep hitting that spot"

You whined out as he thrusted harshly. Arts hands moved frome your hips towards your torso to the meaty flesh of your breasts. You saw art suddenly made a pleasure face, filling your walls with cum.

Art slowed down, his fingers harshly played with your nipples as you groaned out. After a few minutes of slow thrusts, you thought he was finished, art looks at you with a smirk before increasing his pace once again.

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 8💋

I sat on this one for way too long - started it around New Year's and never got around to posting it. Once the idea was in my head, it wouldn't let go and so I've ended up writing an 8k PWP! I'm posting it in two parts and I hope you like it as much as Smoke does 😁 (Smoke/Mute, Rating E, smut: sex pollen/drugs, light oxygen deprivation, ~3.7k words)

.

“Top floor’s clear”, Smoke passes into the comms, receiving acknowledgement from Thatcher in return. The others seem to have drawn the shorter straw as he can still hear gunfire downstairs, and he gathered from a few conversation snippets that there’s several basement levels to raid before they can examine the building complex and its use to the terrorists any further. They did locate a bio-lab early on and came here with a vague idea from the intel that tipped them off in the first place, but nothing concrete. “You lads need us?”

“We could use Sledge, the bastards barricaded themselves in.”

The Scotsman nods in Smoke’s direction and hurries towards the door right away, movements swift and much too quiet for his sheer size. “I’m heading downstairs”, he informs the rest of their team, leaving Smoke and Mute behind in the large storage room littered with crates, lockers, stacks of materials covered with tarpaulins and – a recent addition – several bodies.

“Let’s see if we find something useful”, Smoke addresses Mute who hasn’t spoken (or moved, for that matter) for a minute now, and when he doesn’t receive a response, he adds a prompting: “Alright?”

Mute remains silent for a few seconds longer before letting out a quiet curse, which is very unlike him. He’s glued in place, expression impossible to discern through his mask, and seems to support himself with one hand against a shelf. Instantly, alarm bells begin blaring in Smoke’s head – after years on the job, he can tell when he’s losing someone, and Mute is rapidly drifting away from him, though he doesn’t know the reason yet. He strides over to him, touches his arm and mutters his name in a tone of voice betraying his concern.

“I’m fine”, Mute reassures him, sounding a bit strangled. “I’m just – don’t worry. I need -”

He does not sound fine at all. None of this is fine, and Smoke struggles to keep down the panic. Not him, please not him, he thinks and isn’t even sure what he’s afraid of – Mute is young and spry and somehow escaped most of the horrors and stress the job entails, hasn’t picked up any PTSD along the way, skirted around anxiety, avoided panic attacks and possesses one of Rainbow’s most stable minds. He’s not susceptible to sudden changes in mood like this, especially not on a mission. Which is precisely why Smoke is uncomfortably close to being terrified.

That, and he’s simply worried about a friend.

“Mark”, he tries again, ignoring procedure to emphasise how much he needs a straight answer right now, “what’s wrong?”

At least now he’s not getting more fibs. Though the alternative isn’t any more comforting: Mute is taking off his mask. During a mission.

Granted, they’re done with their part and the others will be soon, too, but still. He reveals a wild shock of hair, flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, a flushed face and glazed-over eyes, breathing heavier than normal, and if it weren’t for the circumstances, Smoke would be unable to keep his gaze on him for a plethora of reasons. He looks… obscene, almost. Like he just -

Moist lips, already parted, blurt out: “I feel weird.”

You look weird, Smoke doesn’t say and tries to keep the alarm he feels from showing on his face. Concerned, he scrambles to pull a glove off, pinching his fingertips more than necessary in the process, and touches his bare hand to Mute’s forehead. He’s burning hot and apparently unstable on his feet, swaying towards Smoke and making a small, pitiful sound as soon as skin touches skin. If Smoke is honest, it’s a relief – a physical reaction is usually easier to deal with than a mental one and this seems to be either an illness or…

Well. Or what?

“James”, Mute says without a follow-up, clearly unable to articulate his needs, and Smoke jumps as hands come up to his face now, tugging on his own mask, slipping under the material, gloved fingertips brushing over the nape of his neck. Mute manages to remove it before Smoke can stop him, and under the soft light of the large room, he appears more vulnerable than Smoke has ever seen him. If he really is ill, it must be serious to cloud his judgement like this, to let his guard down entirely and drag Smoke with him, to lose all bearing of where they are and why.

This is enough. He needs help.

“Smoke to Doc”, he mutters into his radio, “you got a mo-”

And then suddenly, there’s a hand on his throat, pushing him backwards; he almost trips over someone’s leg before his backside hits the edge of a crate and Mute stumbles into him, the grip around Smoke’s neck firm yet without pressure. “Don’t”, he hisses, speaking over Doc’s affirmative response. “It’s fine. Don’t.” Along with his insistent shake of the head, he manages to convince Smoke to at least delay outside help. But he better fess up about what’s going on with him.

Their eyes locked, Mute’s widened and unblinking, Smoke reaches for the handheld again and replies: “No worries, all good. Carry on.”

The ensuing silence stretches on for half an eternity during which a thumb caresses Smoke’s jaw in a gesture much too erotic to be accidental. Paired with the hard stare, it’s disconcerting, throwing him off balance, skewing his own assessment. Mute’s gaze drops a few inches and somehow, that’s what makes some of the much needed blood from Smoke’s brain rush downwards. As their breaths mingle, he knows he better say something soon.

“Mark, be honest now, what’s -”

Once again, he’s cut short, except this time it’s Mute’s mouth on his own silencing him. And… excuse him?

Wait a second.

Hold up.

Muscle memory is what ultimately saves the moment, taking control of Smoke’s body to ensure he actually reciprocates the kiss instead of just standing there with his jaw on the floor like the world’s tiniest whale shark – muscle memory has him tilt his head, lean into what’s happening, open his lips for Mute’s tongue (what the hell what the bloody hell), while his mind is in absolute emergency mode. This… has never happened before. He never expected it to happen. Sure, he’d hoped, hoped with every fibre of his being, but never once did he actually think it’d happen someday.

All kinds of thoughts are racing through his mind, the loudest one a very simple well thank FUCK, accompanied by a more muted what took us so long; his heart sings, his consciousness floats, his stomach flutters. The context matters not, what matters is that Mute is making out with him like he did in so many of Smoke’s dreams (so, so many), which, again, is very unexpected. Because what Smoke figured he’d be like is… more hesitant. Softer. Passive. Instead -

Instead, Mute is shoving his tongue down Smoke’s throat like his life depends on it, and though it’s utterly lovely in countless ways, it’s also bloody hot. He can barely keep up with the younger man, clings to him for support as he melts away, forgetting about the mission, the bodies surrounding them, the odd way Mute behaved before. Every single time their lips move against each other in an attempt to devour, Smoke exerts what little control he still has over his body to stop himself from moaning. It feels so good. It feels so right. This moment is the culmination of months, years of secret pining, of bottling up, of sneaking glances here and there, of the strange duality of wanting to be close but not too close. Just in case. Just in case Mute would get worried about messing up their friendship.

When they separate, Smoke gasps for air, blinking rapidly as he struggles to process what’s going on, and makes the mistake of meeting Mute’s eyes. He’s staring down at him with so much hunger it causes a shiver to run down Smoke’s entire body – Mute looks unhinged, as if something awakened inside him, like he’s going to ravish him any second now. Gloved fingers, still wrapped around Smoke’s throat, brush over his pulse point, causing his crotch to throb in response. He almost doesn’t dare to breathe.

Somehow, he always thought he’d be the instigator between the two of them, that he’d take control and guide Mute, push him wherever necessary and ease off at the slightest hint of discomfort. He saw himself sharing his own experiences to provide inspiration, fulfilling fantasies and providing lots of encouragement. He pictured Mute’s face, full of wonder and astonishment.

He did not think Mute was going to utterly wreck him.

“Babe”, he whispers, voice hitching at the slight twitch of fingers on his skin, a twinge of annoyance visible on Mute’s face for a second at the nickname, “do that again.”

No need to ask twice. It’s sloppy and wet and deep and perfect, the kind of open-mouthed kisses he’d envisioned for their third date. They’re full of determination and Mute’s intentions become crystal clear when he removes his hand from Smoke’s throat to start undoing all the clasps and zips holding his own uniform together.

Wow. Smoke’s brain malfunctions for a second. He wants to – what? Now? Here? Right now??

Not that’s he’s complaining, really, the mere thought of getting to look at Mute’s nude body is enough to make his lower half tingle, but it strikes him as oddly out of character for Mute, when he’s normally the serious one, all professional. They should postpone this until they’re back at the hotel, at least until they’re back in the van in the last row by themselves, back in their normal clothes, but certainly not -

Christ, Mute’s skin is gorgeous. With every inch he reveals, Smoke gets more nervous, and by the time his entire chest is visible, they’ve even interrupted their heated making out so he can ogle the other man better. He’s sculpted beautifully, his smooth skin endless, dark nipples perked up in reaction to the cool air, the bumps and ridges of his abs practically begging for Smoke’s tongue, the thin trail of black hairs leading from his navel to where Mute is currently fumbling with more -

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, babe”, Smoke speaks up, voice uneven. He doesn’t sound convincing even to his own ears. “Why don’t we take our time –”

There go Mute’s trousers. And good heavens, is he ready.

Smoke, conflicted, bites his lip to distract himself from the large bulge in Mute’s pants, the toned thighs, this enticing smell unique to Mute… and obviously fails horribly. Tentative, he reaches out and puts his palm on Mute’s side, brushes his thumb over ribs, strokes soft, warm skin. He can hear Mute’s laboured breathing, the lad terribly worked up already (and dear god, the thought of him psyching himself up for this is both endearing and sexy), the rise and fall of his chest getting faster the longer Smoke’s hand explores the vast expanse of skin. He dips a fingertip into the navel, reaches around to pull Mute even closer to him and rubs gently over a nipple.

Between them, Mute’s barely constrained erection twitches in response.

Alright. Yeah.

That’s it.

Smoke can practically feel something inside him snap at the sight and throws all decency, all inhibitions overboard. Who the hell cares if they get it on now, the others are doing fine and nobody is likely to bother them. Besides, most of them would be thrilled to hear he finally got to… that he might get to… (and his mind isn’t even ready to think it yet, it costs a surprising amount of effort to voice it clearly, even to himself) – he might have the chance to fuck Mute.

So yes. No more half-hearted protesting. He’s on board now. He’s going to worship Mute’s body like it deserves to be worshipped, he’ll go along with whatever it is this madman has in mind, he’ll succumb and -

“Touch me”, Mute mutters with an unexpected amount of heat in his voice, grabs Smoke’s ungloved hand and shoves it down his underwear.

Oh.

Instinctively, his fingers curl around the hard shaft, marvelling at the silky skin, not prepared for how hot it feels against his palm. It’s got a mind of its own, jumping at the slightest touch, pulsing in Smoke’s grip and when he swipes his thumb over the exposed head, Mute whimpers.

At this point, Smoke is worried he’ll end up humping the other man’s hip for a few seconds before coming into his pants, but it’s not like he could stop, ever, not with Mute moving closer and tilting his pelvis to allow for better access while Smoke pets him awkwardly, the waistband cutting into his wrist. To hell with it. He yanks down Mute’s underwear – all inhibitions overboard, remember – and wraps both his hands around the hard erection so he can feel it all.

And, uh. Sure, he’s got comparatively small hands. But Jesus Christ.

Even in the slight panic that follows, he’s aware of how wrecked Mute looks already, empty gaze directed at nothing in particular, expression vacant apart from his wet, parted lips. It only encourages Smoke to keep going. One hand moves further down to cradle Mute’s balls while the other starts stroking him in earnest, and there’s a hopeful voice in the back of his brain wondering whether it’s realistic to get Mute off quickly so he lasts longer for his second round, preferably with Smoke’s dick up his magnificent arse. The thought has his own arousal spike, his cock straining uncomfortably against his uniform in anticipation (and maybe he should jerk off as well, because there’s no way he’d last more than ten seconds buried inside the man for whom he’s been pining for so long now).

A heartbeat later, he’s dying inside because Mute is moaning right into his ear. No sign of restraint, just open-mouthed groaning as he moves his hips in sync with Smoke’s hand and clings to him like he’s his lifeline. It’s getting warmer by the second, Smoke is starting to sweat and unsuccessful in trying to squirm away from this burning body trapping him against the crate behind him, and when a tongue brushes over his earlobe, he moans right back. Good god, the lad must be horribly pent up to react this strongly.

There’s no time to worship him. There’s probably not even time to go all the way, sadly, so Smoke makes a decision – and sinks to his knees. He’s always loved giving head, loves the taste, the texture, the reactions, but his bad gag reflex often interferes if he wants to try any more than that. Right now, Mute looks like he’s going to cream himself any second now though, which means Smoke can safely blow him to completion, drink his sperm and watch him orgasm. A win-win, really.

He wraps his lips around the soft head and smiles at the helpless noise which follows. Mute is big enough that it’s a struggle, his skin slightly salty, but Smoke manages to get a few inches in, pulls off again to lick over the tip, lick the precum off and watch Mute lose his mind. He’s beautiful in his disbelief, utterly dishevelled, breathing deeply and supporting himself on the object behind Smoke, looming over him with despair showing in his expression. He’s flushed, ears bright red, thighs spreading even though Smoke doesn’t need the space, and tense all over – muscles bulge and dance beneath smooth skin. While Smoke bobs his head, swirls his tongue over the glans and presses it against the shaft as he sucks on it, he lets his eyes wander over the man he’s been obsessing about, relishing the sudden intimacy between them. He loves this so much.

But just as he got used to the fuzzy feeling in his stomach and the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest, he notices something innocuous. Well, not really innocuous, not even at first glance, his mind is just so muddled that he doesn’t recognise it instantly; it’s more of a huh, what’s this.

And then it hits him. On his knees, Mute’s dick in his mouth, palms kneading the strong thighs framing his head, he’s suddenly presented with an explanation for what’s going on.

There’s a small object sticking out of the side of Mute’s calf, a silvery thing half-hidden by the uniform which got tangled up around it because it pierces both the fabric and Mute’s skin. A blow dart. They’ve encountered this kind before, it’s one of this branch of terrorists’ favourite weapons and usually laced with poison or similar, except in this case it wasn’t poison at all. It was what they were researching at this location, something to put opponents out of action without doing any real harm. And it all makes sense now.

Bloody hell.

Smoke’s gaze flicks up and all he can think for a hot second is: the poor lad’s not gonna be able to look me in the eye ever again.

He’d be lying if he claimed he wasn’t disappointed, but there’s also some relief in the revelation: he knows what’s wrong now, knows what caused Mute to behave like this, and he knows it’s nothing serious. Nothing serious between them either. Which, sure, is a real downer, but now Smoke doesn’t have to figure out how to navigate all the difficult conversations they’ll have to have, they can just chalk this up to momentary madness, forget about it and go back to the way things were. Because they weren’t so bad, right? They were friends.

Still. That means Smoke should stop this instant, just stop and walk away and let Mute take care of this in peace because he can’t know whether the other man really wants this and he can’t take his word for it either. It’s the ethical thing to do. It’s what he really should do.

Except, well, Mute takes advantage of his brief distraction to shove half his dick into Smoke’s mouth. Not enough to make him gag yet, but enough to cause slight panic, especially when Mute withdraws and does it again with a sound so desperate Smoke feels it in his fingertips. Left with no choice, he opens as wide as he can, digs his nails into Mute’s thighs and braces himself against the supportive crate behind him while his hopeless crush starts fucking his mouth.

He can sense the restraint behind it, and still Mute pushes deep, forces his shaft past Smoke’s lips, leaving him barely any time to suck on it, advancing with every thrust until Smoke struggles to breathe, pushes against the iron thighs, casts a pleading glance upwards but receives no mercy. Mute is gone, lost in the bliss of it all, biting his lip so hard he’s almost drawing blood, staring down at Smoke with such hopeless longing, any noise he makes coming from deep within while Smoke can’t breathe.

It’s impossibly erotic and somewhere at the edge of Smoke’s mind he’s aware of how hard he is, how his crotch pulses in time with Mute’s movements, how close he is to pressing a palm against his clothed erection and rubbing it until he comes. Saliva is running down his chin, dripping down, tears are forming in the corners of his eyes at the rough treatment and he can’t get enough; Mute is a fucking animal, moaning louder every time Smoke gags around him, throat closing around the silken shaft, only allowed brief moments of respite when he’s greedily sucking in air. His nose is coming in contact with the curled hairs at the base of Mute’s cock now, that’s how deep he is, and Smoke feels like he’s going to pass out any second. Hot flesh invades his lips over and over, shoves itself deep and Smoke’s toes are curling in helpless desire.

After what feels like an eternity, Mute’s hips finally stutter, lose their merciless rhythm culminating in a few sharp thrusts until he buries himself entirely in Smoke’s throat, shaft bulging and pulsing as he comes with a low growl, spurting bitter viscous liquid even as he withdraws, the last drops hitting Smoke’s tongue as the head drags over it, leaving behind a bruised and aching throat. Smoke coughs, gasps, pants, too weak even to wipe his mouth as his arms fall to his sides, every point of contact with Mute disappearing. It’s a miracle he didn’t climax himself.

Smoke can’t remember the last time he felt so used and he’s worried his voice will die on him if he tries to state out loud how much he loved it. He’s still drooling. He will never be able to get over the fact that he now knows what Mute tastes like, what he sounds like when he comes, how noisy he is, how reckless he can be. Sure, most of it may be the drug’s fault, but a man can dream.

“I’m sorry”, a broken voice mutters above him. “I’m so sorry. James. I’m sorry.”

With effort, he tears his gaze away from the thick, glistening organ right before him. Mute has never been this beautiful, utterly debauched and rumpled and wide-eyed and Smoke wants to hug him and tell him everything is fine. More than fine. “That was the hottest shite to ever happen to me”, he rasps and hopes his unsteady tone doesn’t diminish his sincerity.

Once again, teeth capture Mute’s lower lip anxiously, the young man radiating unease – and Smoke realises the dick at eye level shows no inclination to deflate. If anything, it’s increased in girth.

Right.

Okay.

Yeah, he remembers the double entendre in the drug’s official report, something about ‘potency’ which turns out not to be exaggerated – that, or Mute has kept this specific aspect of youth entirely too alive. His release seems to have calmed him down somewhat, the agitated urgency has faded, so hopefully his cognitive abilities are returning to allow for more… informed decisions. “Do you want me to leave?”, Smoke asks and is 100% ready to make his getaway in case Mute provides the slightest of nods. He’s playing with fire.

A pause, during which Smoke prays to whichever deity might be listening. Then, slowly, Mute shakes his head.

[sly-merlin]

a little longer | k.dy

Genre :  fluff, doyoung being sappy

@parkjmini requested: sunflower + doyoung ( i can't believe i saved the request for two months 🤍)

Sunflower : longevity, lasting happiness

words : 1k

Summary : after several failed tries of finding a perfect birthday gift for you, doyoung decides to pour his feelings into the paper, sealing his love in a not so conventional way.

a/n : happy birthday my Joyce. I love you so much!❤️you are so sweet and precious🥺i got late due to sudden commitments! but you love me soooo(~￣³￣)~excuse this time.

I apologise to those who are seeing this post for nth time. Tumblr deleted it thrice!

Dear y/n,

Do you remember our first meeting? Hmm you might not. It wasn’t, after all, very pleasant. I was sitting or rather hiding in a secluded corner of the cafe where I couldn't be seen but I knew I was not that well hidden the moment you had found and approached me. Well not me but your coffee cup and sandwich. Your glare had shook me to the core and I must say you had overreacted. Who creates an eye-contact riot at something trivial like an order of coffee? Certainly no one that I knew did! Who knew people were so over-protective over their drinks! After your fuming form had retreated leaving me baffled at your reaction and I had shifted my focus back to the book in hand. I couldn't have wasted the few hours I had to myself on something so insignificant. Only if i knew!

That night, my dreams were painted with the colour of your eyes. Quite amusingly, the sleep that i loved so much had been filled with all the other possible scenarios that could have unfolded, only if my face was naked. Were you a fan? Did you recognise me? Truth be told, I had forgotten your face the next minute you had left the door but why were your eyes so captivating that it urged me to search for you. Of course with the compensatory purpose because initially, it was me who had picked up the wrong order or maybe, I just wanted to see those eyes again.

I went back, again and again for about 2 weeks, at same time, hoping I'd see you there, hoping I'd catch your name being called. Several y/n's had ordered coffee for those two weeks but none was you and then suddenly after those long weeks, right when i was busy drowning my latte with sugar, the bells had chimed and you had entered.

That day, I had tried to register your face in my muddled mind.

That night, I had slept forcing myself to dream of those eyes again. The regret of failing to talk to you had settled down somewhere in the back of my mind and your smile had replaced the jitters of nervousness.

Though three years have passed but the extra receipt of your dear order, stored in the second drawer, never fails to throw me back to the time when the mere thought of your existence was enough to put me to sleep. I hope, if you remember, you also cherish those times just the way I do.

Do you remember the first time we talked? You ought to! That was the most valiant doyoung anybody could have ever witnessed! Good luck had rained upon me that day for I had caught you alone in the same corner of the cafe. You had politely accepted my silent request to keep my presence unknown and that day, I had mutely entered your life. I might be your fan but you aren't more important than my sandwich! The humour haha!

One unexpected meeting had morphed into a spiral of multiple. That one accidental exchange of sugar sweet drink had led to fortuitous trade of contacts and became the highlight of my plain life.  

6 september. Do you remember this date? Maybe you do. That day, for the first time, i had poured all of my unexpressed feelings into three overrated words- i love you. Those words were in no way meaningless for me but I still had failed to recognise the reason for your  overwhelming state and the never ending tears. Until I had heard them from you. It felt odd. Certainly different from how taeyong or others say it. Why did those feel so strange and surprisingly intimate but I was happy, over the moon if you could say!

That day, I had slept peacefully, without a care in the world for mine was already secured in my arms.

You must be wondering why am i repeating everything again like i don't expect you to remember anything at all. For me, those several firsts, those new beginnings were the reason we have travelled so far. And as the clock ticks, my inner voice gets louder with several questions clogging my head and not all of them have responses to ease my worries.

Have I been taking you for granted? I would never dare to answer that by myself.  My job and time had never been kind to us and i can't say if this would ever come to an end but do know that i appreciate you in my life. You are always there at the end of the day and I always find you sitting right where I left. But time scares me y/n. What if one day you pack your frustrations in a suitcase full of your belongings and leave me alone with nothing but memories.

I always have so much to say but I never utter anything. I fear that the range of my voice would end up disrespecting your love for me. The way you express, I could never. Even when I try the hardest, it always falls short of something that I'm not aware of.

I can never love you the way you do and I'm afraid my love would end up being passed as mere infatuation if ever compared to yours.

I know I'm already getting far more than what I deserve and shouldn't be asking for anything but I'll allow myself to be greedy for once. Promise me that you'd never give up on me. Promise me that you'd always be there for me because I can't explain how much I love coming back to you. Let my pace always match yours so I would be able to slip my hand through yours, just the way you love and in return, I promise to make your stay in my life a bit easier.

I love you. Thank you for always staying at the other end of the door. I promise you won’t have to wait too long for me. Thank you for accepting my odd and silent way of loving you.

Thank you for being you. Let me just love you for a little longer.

Today, you are getting a year older. For me, you’d always remain the same y/n i met three years ago. I hope your perception of me won’t change anytime soon.

I’ll be adding this letter in the list of our firsts! I was being lazy so i forgot to buy you a gift this time(or maybe i needed an excuse to write my first love letter). By the time you read this, it’d be afternoon already. I’d be home by 8.

Always loving you.

Your bunny,

doyoung

(p.s do me a favour and please don’t embarrass me by mentioning this letter in the evening)

did i say love you? i love you!

*****************

should i write a reply from y/n?

[maplecornia]

chapter 13

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 2.89K

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: romance | slice of life | fluff | angst | bts x female!reader | ot7

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔞/𝔫: so yeah, i've decided to start uploading every day for this story until i'm caught up with the chapters i have. i'll tell you guys when i'll go back to posting once a week.

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: cliffhangers | angst | fluff | slight mentions of self hatred | depression | mental health illness | self harm | occurs in the year 2024 | set in a timeline where BTS went to the military together | slight language

tags: @kookaine | @fangirl125reader | @kookiebbyxx | @taradevonne | @rae-bear |@mangminnie | @pixiekooo

"Kim Taehyung…"

As you utter the words, he pulls you closer, as though to hide you from the crowd.

There are too many people, too many chances which he can't stand to take.

You blush profusely, trying to ignore the fact that you are so close, that this is real, that you are touching Kim Taehyung.

After a moment, as though making a split-second decision, he drops his arms around you. Quickly, he takes your hand dashes down the bus, towards the open door.

You follow after him almost blindly, hardly noticing the looks people give you as he drags you outside the bus, outside of the crowd, into the safety of the park.

You are still surprised by the feel of his hand around yours, so large compared to your hand. His is surprisingly warm, causing a shiver to go through your body as with a single touch he can warm you from the inside out. Swallowing hard, you stare only at your linked hands, his beautiful artistic ones wrapped around your small cold hands. So distracted by the touch, you hardly even notice as he leads you down the steep steps.

Nor do you expect the pain your foot feels as soon as you step down with it on one of the steps.

As he reaches the floor past the steps, he turns around to you, witnesses as your leg fails you and you cry out half in pain, half in surprise as you fall on him. His eyes widen as it happens and instinctively wraps his arms around you, breaking your fall.

Both of you topple into a pile on the ground, the bus doors closing and driving away with a slight screech on the pavement.

At first, you hardly notice that he’s underneath you, you're in too much pain. However, as you position yourself so that you can sort of crouch into a standing position, your face meets his once more and you freeze in place.

Your hands are on either side of his face, your legs are cradling him, and your hair falls on one side of your face as you stare at him with wide eyes.

You can't move, not for the way he’s staring at you.

Neither one of you can look away.

Part of him wants you to stay like this forever.

Part of you wants him to never look away.

You swallow hard as you realize just how close you are to him, just how your faces are mere inches away from each other.

Almost out of nowhere, an image of the masked man pops into your mind. At the image, the similarities, you flinch off of him, rolling off of his body and onto the ground next to him.

He’s surprised at the action, and looks over at you, a bit confused.

It can't be him….it just….cant be.

But you can't put it out of your mind.

They have the same jawline. The same skin tone. The same muscle in their throat. The same honey doe eyes. The same curl to his hair.

As you stare at the sky, watching the clouds pass by, you can feel your heart pounding incessantly in your chest. You don't dare look at the impossible who has sat up, you don't know how you'd react.

How you'd look at him if you'd see the mirage, the same flash of the man once more.

When his face appears above yours, you find that there’s no trace of the masked man in his face. He's put his hat back on his head, adding that extra shadow in an attempt to conceal himself.

Staring at him with a bemused smile on your face, he glances at you in confusion, something about the look in his eyes making you smile softly.

He smiles back, almost giddily, his heart sparking with the idea of being so close to you, of finally meeting you again.

Straightening, he holds his hand out to you, a small offering.

You take it, after a moment. The action makes you feel safe, secure, as though nothing can hurt you. He pulls you to your feet, his hands steadying you as you sort of bounce to a stop, careful not to step on your foot.

Turning, you glance towards your foot as you slowly place it on the ground. Taking a deep breath, you sigh before resting your full weight on it. A small gasp escaping your lips, you cringe as stinging pain runs from your foot to the rest of your leg. Almost immediately, you pull your foot back up, your hands tightening around Taehyung's shirt.

Groaning, you wince slightly, biting your bottom lip.

Taehyung steps forward, moving his hand from your arm to your back, somehow knowing that you need that extra support.

“Are you okay?” he asks, startling you.

He hasn't talked until that moment, and the sound of his deep accented voice causes you to turn to him. As he raises his eyes to yours, you nod mutely in response, before turning back to your wound.

“I'm fine. I guess it's just bruised--” Your words fall short as you take a step forward, but the leg beneath you fails you once more. Gasping slightly in surprise, you collapse, Tae’s careful arms catching you before you hit the ground.

You cling to him, panting heavily, in a mixture of pain and panic.

What am I going to do?

Catching sight of your foot, you growl, cursing it for acting up. Cursing yourself for falling over that briefcase. Now you're being a burden.

You hate being a burden.

“Why did you lie?” he asks you softly, his voice right next to your ear. You can feel his breath on your neck, sending shivers down your spine. Swallowing hard, you turn to look at him, finding his eyes already locked on you.

After a moment, he turns away, scanning the park for a place to sit you down. As soon as he spies a park bench located a couple of feet away near the entrance, he smiles in satisfaction.

He turns back to you, only to find you trying once more to wiggle out of his grip and walk on your own. Scoffing, he rolls his eyes before pulling you gently in the direction of the bench.

“Let's go.” He gestures to the bench and you follow the movement trying to see what he’s talking about.

You realize what he wants you to do, and you immediately draw back. You don't need to rest. What you need to do is get inside that park, find your field of flowers and finish what you came to do. No injury you may have acquired will stop you from reaching your goal.

As he tries to move you towards the bench, you shake your head, reluctantly pulling back on his secure hold. He turns toward you, a bit confused.

“I'm fine.” You say as you meet his confused gaze, trying to make him release you. “I don't need to rest, I’m okay.”

You manage to break free of his hold, his hand falling to his side. Turning away, you force through the pain, ignoring the stings that continue to snake up your leg with each step. You bite your lip, but refuse to look back, refuse to give in.

Watching you hobble away, he can't help but smile. The fact that you think you can walk with an injury, is comical to him.

Rolling his eyes in amusement and slight annoyance, he shakes his head. You've only covered about an inch of ground since you let go of Taehyung, your injured foot dragging on the ground behind you. He smiles at the sight.

He only has to take one step toward you before he’s close enough to touch you. In one swift motion, he secures his hold underneath your arm, pressing his hand against the small of your back before hooking his other hand underneath your knees and lifting you in his arms.

You give out a small cry of surprise at the sudden motion, and your hands immediately secure themselves on the nape of Tae’s neck. He smiles as you pant from that small moment of fear, but you hardly notice. You're more concerned with the reason as to why your feet are no longer safe on the floor.

“What are you doing?” you cry out, clinging to him out of panic, almost afraid that you are too heavy for him to carry. He doesn't answer you, smiling to himself. For some reason, his expression irks you. It's as though he has just won a fight, and you lost. You sulk almost, slumping in his arms, and he chuckles.

“This isn't necessary.” You mutter under your breath, as he releases you. He places you carefully on the bench, before kneeling in front of you. He looks up at you, patiently waiting for you to meet his gaze.

“You're in pain, so yes it is. I’m not going to let you hurt yourself on my watch.” He replies before reaching forward and brushing your hand with his own as though to capture your attention. You stare at him in surprise, unable to say anything in response.

He’s so kind.

You've heard of his kindness, of his humble nature, but never before have you expected that same nature to be extended to you. Why should he do any of this for you? Why would he want to do any of this for you?

He clears his throat as he stands up, turning around to look for some sign of a food truck or stand so that he can get you some ice to put on your ankle. Luckily, he spies one a couple of ways inside the park, and smiles, relieved. They are bound to have ice or something that he can use to make you feel better.

Nodding decisively, he turns to you. Noticing as you shiver a bit, he reaches for the black coat hanging securely across your satchel.

At the motion, you look at him in wonder, watching his every movement as he gingerly puts your jacket around your shoulders. His eyes widen a bit at the sight of you watching him, but he merely smiles warmly in response.

“I saw a place inside the park where I could get you something for your ankle.” He informs you and you nod, turning your head for a moment to try and peer in the direction he’s gesturing to.

“I'm going to go for a minute so I could get it for you. You better stay here until I get back, okay?” you roll your eyes slightly at his tone, before nodding.

“You don't have to treat me like a child, I won't move. But you should know that this isn't required. I've dealt with worse.” It’s true and you won't get into the details right now, but all that needs to be said is that you fall. A lot.

He smirks almost playfully at your remark, and leans forward, his hand almost subconsciously resting on your knee to steady himself as he does.

“Really? Care to explain?” he teases, leaning forward and on instinct, you draw back, a bit of embarrassed blush beginning to explode in your cheeks.

“No…” you respond, regarding him with half confused, half nervous eyes as he peers at you with his mischievous ones. What exactly is he trying to do?

“Besides, weren't you going to get some ice?” you continue almost indignantly, indicating forcefully with your chin towards the direction which he was pointing before. He glances the way you point with bored, disinterested eyes before turning them on you, leaning forward once more, his face mere inches from your own.

“I thought you said it wasn't necessary.” You don't reply to that, just draw carefully back again, your hands tightening on the insides of your jacket as though it were some sort of protective shield to cover your pounding heart. You swallow hard as he continues to move closer, the elfish grin on his face doing nothing to help matters. After a moment of this, he chuckles softly to himself before pulling away once more.

“Don't worry, I’m going. I was serious about helping you.” You pull yourself back into your normal position staring up at him, unsure of how to react. As his hand leaves the safety of your knee, you find that you hadn't even noticed it was there in the first place. The touch was so comfortable, natural, as though made especially for you.

“It is necessary.” He says, almost out of nowhere.

“I'm sorry?” you ask, not sure if you heard that right, and still slightly confused at what he may mean by that. He looks back at you, half in amusement.

“It's necessary to me that you're alright.” You don't have anything to say to that, as he turns around, disappearing into the few people that have been milling about outside. As he leaves, you realize that you can hardly hear anything but the roar in your ears, and the pounding of your heart.

How can he just say that as though it were nothing?

You watch him until you can no longer see his retreating back nor the black hat he wears above the curls of his hair. Turning away, you smile, half to yourself.

Is this happening?

You aren't dreaming, are you? You look down at your hands, and for good measure, you pinch yourself, wincing a bit at the sharp pain.

“Nope….” you groan, rubbing your wrist. “Not a dream.”

And yet...

You bite your lip at the thought of the memories, of the impossible day you had, of the excitement which has been churning over in your heart, hitting you deep in your soul.

Your hands clutch onto the insides of your jacket as you pull it tighter around your body. Against your will, a small squeal escapes from the confines of your mouth, almost as though you were a schoolgirl again.

All of it is just too good, too good to be true.

Tilting your head back, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath to calm your nerves, get your thoughts in order. Looking to your side, you catch sight of your satchel and are reminded of the reason you wanted to come here in the first place. Smirking, half to yourself, you rummage within your pack, pulling out your sketchbook, a couple of pencils, and your trusty eraser. Looking around for a flower that looks exactly like the one out of BigHits window, you're lucky enough to find one behind you, waving slightly in the wind. Smiling in relief, you pluck it off of the bush, setting it down carefully next to you on the bench. As you flip open your sketchbook, turning many pages of many different creations over until you find the one you have been working on, you let out a sigh.

“Alright, my little model.” You mutter to the flower next to you. “It's time to start working, huh?”

You need no response, even as you glance at it as if awaiting one. You smile to yourself before picking up one of your many pencils and getting to work.

It's as though when the tip touches the paper, everything else around you fades away, and you are lost in the world your mind has created spilling from your brain and landing on the sheet. It's as though you have encased yourself in a little space, a space made just for you. It offers you silence, peace of mind.

In this small space, you can do whatever you like, you can accomplish anything, your mind is the mere limit.

Every sketch, every drawing has a purpose, a story to tell. Everything you write, every idea that comes into your mind, can grow into something more. Every song you sing has some meaning, some purpose behind it. Every dance you have ever performed is made to express the anger, sadness, or pain, or even mere happiness of each song it is made for.

Some more than others, it's true.

The point is, people, make things, create things just so that they can get their message across. Just so that they can tell the world their story.

You want to do the same.

The idea of it makes your heart bud with excitement, the infinite possibilities which are offered to you. There’s only one thing that is missing, one thing that any creator searches for.

Someone to share it with you.

Once you find that, then your work would mean something.

What does it all mean if there’s no one to see the world you have created? If there is no one to recognize just what story you are trying to create, does it even exist?

You want it to mean something, you want people to see it, to see what you long to tell. You want the world to see your creation, you want the world to hear your message, to experience your story. Even if you had one, or a few people who can see it, then you would be okay. Even if only one person understood, and was able to see the world through your eyes…

Maybe then would you feel complete?

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢: so these next few chapters will be a lot of taetae and yen moments so...be prepared

chapter 14 here

check the Infinite Stars masterlist for more chapters

check my BTS masterlist for other BTS content

check out my masterlist for other kpop fanfics

[rainsongdean]

you’re always golden to me

post-mockingjay / pre-epilogue everlark healing together, appreciating the sunset, and maybe even falling in love

"We should head back before it gets dark." Peeta's words rang out in the open air between them, but they were not enough to pull Katniss from her trance-like state.

It had been a rough day. Not enough so to be classified as a bad day, seeing as Katniss had found the motivation to move from the bed to the couch at some point in the afternoon. Now, though, watching the clouds paint watercolors in the sky seemed to bring her back to life. She was encapsulated by the sight.

"Not yet," she eventually spoke, her voice somewhat hoarse from not using it for a while. "I want to stay until it's over. Besides, we could walk home blindfolded from here."

It was true. Katniss had discovered the hill nestled in the woods behind Victor's Village not long after returning from the Capitol. She found solace in being embraced by the wilderness rather than being suffocated in her old home, so when she accidentally stumbled upon the tall mount that overlooked the wide plains and open sky, she knew she had found what she had subconsciously been searching for.

It had taken a few months before she brought Peeta to her secret spot. He'd only returned to District 12 a few days before she had found the hill, and they both needed some time to warm up to each other again. But one day, after suffering through a particularly vivid flashback that ended with him handcuffed to one of Haymitch's spare cages for his geese, Katniss figured it would do them both good to escape into the forest for a while.

That was the first night they watched the sunset from the hill. It had been slightly uncomfortable, sitting inches apart on the dewy grass, no attempt at conversation made by either party. Eventually, Peeta suggested they return home to make dinner before it got too late, but Katniss insisted that she could tell by the shape of the clouds that they would put on an impressive show.

As usual, she was not wrong.

It was the most vibrant spectacle either of them had seen - far more breathtaking than any Capitol party or fireworks display. Sure, they had both watched the sun go down in 12 before, but their view had always been clouded by the thick layer of dust in the air from the mines or obstructed by the cluster of buildings stacked practically on top of one another. Here on their hill, nothing stood between them and the sky. Beyond that, the best part was they got to share it together, just the two of them. 

Since that night, the pair made an effort to hike the two-mile trek to the hill at least once a week, though they typically found themselves there more often than that. Katniss still liked to visit the spot alone, sometimes using the safe space to speak aloud to Prim or Finnick and imagine what they would say back. Other times she just enjoyed the silence.

Peeta, too, ventured to the hill a few times by himself. He had tried on several occasions to paint the landscape, and while he was able to perfect the morning glow and mid-afternoon sun, he couldn't capture the colors of nightfall that he most desired to paint.

Despite the significance that the holy ground held for each of them individually, neither one could deny that they preferred to visit the hill together. Katniss had been unofficially living with Peeta for weeks now, and they even shared a bed most nights, but there was a different breed of intimacy that came with being in the woods, nestled in their own little corner of the universe. 

"Fine," Peeta sighed contentedly, breaking the silence again. "We can stay as long as you'd like." With that, he leaned toward the picnic basket they had brought and reached in, shoving aside the empty containers that once held a selection of berries, cheeses, and breads to reveal a neatly folded fleece blanket he had stashed in the bottom. "I came prepared," he announced with a sense of pride.

Katniss briefly pulled her gaze from the view for the first time since the sun had begun its descent to offer Peeta a small smile of gratitude. The gesture warmed his heart with the blaze of ten thousand sunsets.

Taking care to wrap the soft cover around their legs, Peeta pulled the fabric up to their chests and then eased his back to the ground until he was laying horizontal on the hill. Katniss followed suit so they were both engulfed by the blanket.

Their new angle only served to better showcase the colors stretching endlessly above them. One hue in particular transported Katniss back to a seemingly ancient memory of the two of them.

"Orange. Muted... like a sunset." Katniss didn't break her eye contact with the sky but smirked to herself as she spoke.

Peeta nudged her shoulder playfully in response, easily picking up on what she was referring to. Their conversation on the train about favorite colors was one of the first to come back to him after he had been rescued from the Capitol. Shifting slightly toward Katniss, he reached out and twisted his finger gently around a stray strand of hair that had escaped from her braid. "You're so poetic when you quote me," he mused sarcastically.

"Well, your choice of favorite color is much more poetic than Effie’s choice of wig," she quipped. It was ironic how some of her and Peeta's best conversations had happened in the midst of some of the worst times of their lives. And yet, there they were: safe and relatively happy, just two kids trying to piece themselves back together with some pastel paints, cheese buns, and hidden hills. It may not have been anything profound, but it was living, and Katniss figured that, for time being, that would be enough.

She inhaled deeply, trying to absorb the moment. They had reached the peak of the sunset when every particle in the air seemed to glisten from the giant star's final attempt to remain on the topside of the world. There was only one word to describe it.

"Everything is golden."

And, for an instant, it was.

But as the sun succumbed to the pull of dusk, the raging reds and oranges that had scorched the sky swiftly turned to delicate pinks and purples, paving the way for the black of night.

It was then that Katniss realized Peeta had been uncharacteristically quiet, his sunset commentary usually being much more prolific than hers. When she turned her head to the left to face him, she found he was already staring back at her, still toying with her hair. His deep blue eyes twinkled like he knew a secret and was about to let her in on it.

When they first met, that kind of look from Peeta overwhelmed her. Sometimes Katniss would catch him staring at her like she carried the world in her hands, or spun threads of gold with her words. It puzzled her, annoyed her, and at times even enraged her. But after his hijacking, it had been so rare for that young, innocent Peeta to reappear and give her that look which spelled out his love for her so plainly on his face, and she had grown to cherish it.

"I change my mind." For the third time that night, Peeta's voice sliced open the veil of silence that covered them. 

Katniss abruptly rose to a sitting position, an expression of confusion clouding her face as she leaned over Peeta's resting form. "What do you mean?"

"I change my mind," He repeated calmly, shrugging as if the answer to her question was obvious. "The sunset isn't my favorite shade of orange anymore."

Katniss bit her lip and furrowed her eyebrows, causing the wrinkles on her forehead to deepen. Peeta could tell she was trying to keep herself from challenging him, so he decided not to torture her any longer.

"You are my favorite shade of orange," he reached his hand up to caress her cheek, easing away the signs of worry that had risen on her face. "You, sitting here with the sun reflecting in your eyes, your skin glowing in the light." He lowered his voice to a whisper and retracted his hand, slowly guiding Katniss's head to rest on his chest so she could hear his heart beating. "The way you make me feel like I'm on fire inside, all the time."

Girl on fire. The words echoed in his mind and, although he did not dare speak them, he internally admitted they rang true. And it was in moments like those, as he held her under the night sky with millions of stars blazing above them, that he saw Katniss burn the brightest.

"Oh, shut up," she exhaled, turning away from him in an attempt to conceal the blush that had overtaken her smiling face, but Peeta didn't have to see it to know it was there. "You're so cheesy."

"Hey now," he feigned a hurt expression, "I thought you liked my cheese."

Katniss couldn't hide her outburst at his nonsense and they both fell into a fit of laughter together. They hadn't spoken much about what exactly their relationship status was at the moment, hesitant to put labels on anything, but he still wanted her to know how he felt about her. And while Katniss had never been proficient in using her words to convey her love, the way that she clung to Peeta, burying her head in his arm while gasping to regain her breath from laughing so hard, told him everything he needed to know.

"Come on, we should really head back before Haymitch gets worried." Peeta attempted once again to persuade Katniss to return home after they had both calmed down. His stomach was beginning to growl - the small rations of their picnic earlier weren't nearly enough to tide over his appetite until morning - and now that the sun had set, he'd much rather snuggle up with Katniss on their couch than on the cold, hard ground. And besides, while he didn't really think their mentor would be waiting up for them, he figured the argument might be enough to persuade her.

"Seeing as it's past 3 p.m., I think it's safe to say that Haymitch is passed out on his couch," Katniss countered, but her actions said otherwise as she began to gather herself up off the ground. Peeta knew she had a soft spot for the old man.

It took them a little over half an hour to walk home, leisurely following the path that their own footprints had created over time. Upon entering the house, Peeta made a beeline to the kitchen to heat up some leftover stew from the night before. While he ate, Katniss headed to Haymitch's house, opening the unlocked door to find him asleep in his living room as she had predicted. She pried the half-empty bottle from the arm that hung off the couch and set it on a nearby table before turning the lights out and closing his front door behind her.

She had recently made a habit of checking in on her friend, especially during the weeks when Effie travelled back to the Capitol for work. She knew he had done the same for her countless times. Haymitch never seemed to question why he would sometimes wake up with a blanket draped over him or a pillow propped beneath his head, and Katniss didn't plan on bringing it up. Like most things between the two of them, it went unsaid.

Later that evening, tucked under the covers of Peeta's bed - their bed - Katniss felt more at ease than she did most nights. Maybe it was the serenity of the particularly striking sunset, or maybe it was Peeta's roundabout confession of the feelings he still had for her. Either way, she was pleasantly content. 

On the other side of the mattress, as Peeta danced on the cusp of sleep, his mind dragged him back to something Katniss had said on the hill. Everything is golden. He knew what she meant; that the landscape had been blanketed by the radiance of the sunset. But he felt it was true in another sense, and that maybe this new phrase was an even more appropriate way to describe the true essence of Katniss Everdeen.

Before drifting off herself, Katniss heard Peeta mumble one last line of admiration, causing her to fall asleep with a smile ingrained on her lips.

"You're always golden to me."

[spicycreativity]

Intertwined - Chapter 7

Chapter: 7/8

Additional Notes: IDK if anyone is keeping sole track of this fic on Tumblr but if you are, apologies for the delay in posting 😅 Also do yourself a favor and get an AO3 account

Chapter Content Warnings: Blood, respiratory distress, very brief mentions of alcohol (alcohol use not depicted)

This was getting unbearable. Janus buried his face in his handkerchief and coughed and coughed. His blood was warm against his tongue and lips, streaking the blooms dark red. His chest burned constantly now, his throat always irritated and raw.

To top it all off, Patton had disappeared without a word of warning, leaving Janus with no answers. If anything, he had more questions than ever before. The vase of poppies on Patton's dresser could not have been a coincidence, but there was just no way this was Patton's fault.

So Janus was saddled with a mystery, with flowers in his lungs, and with Remus' awkward attempts at support.

"I'm just saying, you can't rule it out until you try it," Remus said, pausing in his pacing to give Janus a doe-eyed pout.

"For the last time, Remus, I'm not going to huff weed killer." Janus threw his head back against the couch cushions and tried his best to sigh. The effect was somewhat muted by the sputtering coughs that followed.

"I can tell you want to scream," Remus said.

He was right, though Janus would never admit it. "Yes, I think that--" Breathe, breathe, breathe-- "that'll fix me." What Janus really wanted, disgusted as he was to admit it to himself, was Patton. Not that Patton would be able to do anything that Remus couldn't do, but Janus missed him. Quite terribly, if he was being honest with himself. Maybe he would feel better if he cried, not that he'd ever allow himself to do that. He'd have to be out of his mind on hypoxia and poppy seeds.

"I just wish there was something I could do," Remus said, dropping hands to his sides. "Other than just sit here and watch."

Janus hadn't told him about the flowers in Patton's room. He kept things close to his chest by nature, determined to solve his problems on his own. He didn't ask for help. Even if he would have dearly liked another perspective on this mystery, he couldn't put that responsibility on Remus. It would only make him feel worse if he failed.

"You can make me ginger tea," Janus said, forcing a smile. It wasn't right seeing Remus fret like this. "With honey."

A teacup appeared on the coffee table alongside a bottle of whiskey. So much for occupying Remus with busywork. "What I should do," Remus said, brandishing his morningstar, "is go maul Roman until he agrees to fix you."

"As entertaining as that would be, I'm not so sure that's the most efficient course of action, per se." Janus shifted, trying to work out how to leave Remus without making him feel abandoned. He just wanted to go check on Patton, but didn't feel at all up to the task of refereeing whatever confrontation would result in Patton and Remus sharing space. He could always just get up and leave with no explanation…. But Remus didn't deserve that.

In the end, he decided to wait until Remus got bored. There was no guarantee he was even going to find Patton. He had been AWOL for the past two days and Janus had had a near run-in with Virgil last night when he'd gone to look for Patton, an experience he was not keen to repeat.

And if Janus expedited the process of ditching Remus by pretending to fall asleep, well, he'd never tell.

Patton had a distinctly hungover look about him, with his glasses missing and his hair sticking up in the back. He blinked at Janus, bleary-eyed, and Janus' heart started to jackhammer in his chest. How utterly cute, how endearing. He wanted to smooth Patton's hair down and kiss him on the forehead, though he'd have to stand on his tiptoes to reach. Damn the subconscious for making him tiny.

"Where have you been?" Janus asked, planting himself in the middle of the hallway. Patton's door disappeared into white ether, a fact which Janus filed away to think about later.

"Sleeping," Patton said, holding up a bottle of NyQuil.

Well, that explained why he didn't smell like alcohol despite the obvious hangover. "And here I thought you were avoiding me," Janus teased. Despite the awful sting all up and down his chest, Patton's mere presence seemed to lighten the burden and ease his fears. He could bear this as long as he had Patton by his side.

"No," Patton mumbled, dragging hands down his face. "Coffee. Then talk."

He swayed a little, steadying himself on the wall. Janus held out his hand. "Come here, let me help."

Patton nodded and let Janus lead him to the kitchen. Not trusting Patton with the high chairs at the kitchen island, Janus instead led him to the table and turned a chair out for him so they could face each other. Patton coughed behind closed lips and a spike of fear paralyzed Janus' heart. He was already fighting for breath and this new bolt of adrenaline made him dizzy. He took deep breaths (as well as he could, with his lungs all entangled and bleeding) and forced himself to make coffee step-by-step. It was the one thing he regularly did by hand instead of just imagining it to completion, a ritual and a reward.

"I hope you didn't catch what I have," Janus said. Maintaining the lie.

"Doubt it," Patton mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Janus narrowed his eyes. What did that mean? Was Patton coughing up poppies, too? Suddenly, the drip-drip-drip of coffee into the pot, the rich, reassuring smell of the grounds, seemed unimportant. Janus imagined the coffee done percolating, imagined two mugs on the table. He pushed one toward Patton. "Cheers."

"What time is it?" Patton asked before downing half the contents of the mug in one long swallow.

"Around noon, I think." Feeling his diaphragm seize, Janus turned away, shaking his handkerchief out of his sleeve, and gave in to the fit. It was getting harder and harder to swallow the pain. Inhaling was not just uncomfortable now; it hurt like clenched fists around his lungs. But Janus was a practiced liar and tucked the pain away behind a velvet curtain. "I haven't seen you in two days."

"Sorry," Patton said, looking fractionally more alert now. "I was trying to sleep off this… Cold, I guess."

"Mm," said Janus, taking a sip of coffee to keep from having to answer properly. He couldn't decide how he wanted to pursue this, if he wanted to pursue this. What did it matter if Patton was coughing up poppies or daisies or African violets? It brought Janus no closer to solving the puzzle.

"You sound really bad," Patton said. He finished his coffee and blinked hard. "Oh! I'm sorry, but I don't think it's Roman."

"You're sure?" Janus asked, blood running cold.

But a lot of things seemed to be hitting Patton all at once with the introduction of caffeine to his system; he whipped his head up to look at Janus with something akin to panic. "I wanted to thank you, and-- Oh." He looked at their coffee mugs with obvious dismay. "I did it again."

"Did what?"

"I… I let you take care of me," Patton said in a small voice.

"Oh, Patton," Janus sighed, unable to help himself. The breath that ghosted across his lips tasted like blood and black coffee. He wondered if Patton would mind terribly if Janus kissed him anyway. "I really haven't been." That was true. Janus had been deliberately holding himself back from giving himself over to Patton. How little support did he get from the others, that Janus' minor attempts at friendship felt so significant?

"You have!" Patton insisted. "Right from the start. You've been right by my side through all of this, reminding me to take care of myself, spending time with me. You even helped me with that dog puzzle."

"I don't understand," Janus said. These were normal friendship behaviors. Had he been too obvious? Did Patton suspect? "Wouldn't the others have done the same?"

"They would," Patton said. "If I had asked."

"Oh," said Janus, blinking away a wave of dizziness. Even he couldn't begrudge the others their lack of understanding. It wasn't their fault they couldn't give Patton what he hadn't asked for. But what did it say about him that he had?

"You've been a really good friend to me, Janus. Even though I don't deserve it."

"Don't talk about my friend like that," Janus said, nudging Patton in the ribs. It was a soft, familiar gesture, something he'd done to Remus a hundred times before. It was the first time Janus had touched Patton without announcing it, getting permission.

Patton smiled at him, and then they both ruined the moment by dissolving into twin coughing fits.

Janus' lasted longer; he felt Patton's eyes on him as he repeatedly tried and failed to get himself under control-- Was that an entire flower in his throat? What did that mean? He banished it with difficulty, trying to master the animal impulses screaming it hurts it hurts it hurts as if to drown out his rational thought. He should leave, but he didn't want to. So he straightened up and washed away the taste of blood in his mouth with another swallow of coffee.

"Ohhh," Patton whispered. "You really don't sound good."

"I'm fine," Janus said, reflexively bringing out an old standard. It was the one lie everybody told.

"You didn't believe me when I said I was fine," Patton said. "Why should I believe you?"

"There's not really anything to be done about it," Janus said, hating the shallow breaths he had to take between every few words. If he stayed, he would have to pretend he wasn't in agony. But hadn't he been doing that this whole time? It was agony, being so certain that Patton could never want Janus the way Janus wanted Patton, yet unable to crush that sliver of hope that never died out.

Patton brandished the NyQuil bottle and Janus forced himself to laugh. Patton smiled at him, so soft and gentle and honey-sweet. "Why don't you sit with me?" Janus blinked and they were on the couch with two fresh cups of coffee. Patton had left no space between their bodies. "Is this okay?"

It wasn't, really. Janus burned with the contact, burned all over until he could feel it in his face and had to hide behind a cooler mask, though he was sure this one was still pale and pinched with pain. It wasn't fair at all, this horrible parody of romance. It shouldn't have been a problem. He should have been satisfied with friendship, like he was with Remus. It was nothing to sit in Remus' lap or play with his hair because they were both happy with the arrangement. But this? This made Janus want to put a fist through the wall. So of course, he said "Yes" and took his hat off in case he worked up the courage to rest his head on Patton's shoulder.

"Are we still gonna be friends the next time Thomas needs us for something?" Patton asked.

"So it's just a given that we're going to disagree?"

"Janus."

"Okay, okay." Janus sighed as deeply as his strangled lungs would allow. "I promise."

Patton beamed and didn't even question him. He just took it at face value now, that Janus wasn't lying about this. "Oh, good."

"So what are we doing?" Janus asked. "Going to drink coffee and gossip like a couple of old ladies?"

"Whatever you want, really," Patton said.

"Oh, good," Janus said drily. "I want to take shots and play strip poker." Patton blinked at him. "Kidding."

"Oh!" said Patton, shaking his head. "Sorry. Guess the NyQuil hasn't worn off yet."

"How about we watch something?" Janus asked. It was probably a little too early in the friendship to force Patton sit down and watch Perry Mason with him, but then again… He was a practiced hand at being selfish. The TV flashed to life and Janus sat his mug down on the coffee table before leaning back to watch.

"Ha," said Patton, apparently recognizing the show. "Should have guessed."

"Oh, enlighten me," Janus said, feigning innocence. "What's so funny?"

"I should have guessed you'd be into courtroom dramas," Patton said.

Janus would have ribbed him further, had his lungs not decided to turn themselves inside out. He barely got his handkerchief in front of his mouth in time before blood started spilling over his lips. God, this was miserable. His resolve was cracking; he was starting to doubt he could make it much longer without vocalizing the pain. "Maybe I will take that NyQuil," he said, the words feeling like coarse grit sandpaper as they dragged themselves up his throat. He took it from Patton before Patton could take the cap off-- He still had his pride even if he wouldn't have his voice for much longer. The thought loomed so terrifying in his mind that denial smacked it down to nothing before it could get out of control. Janus poured out half a dose of NyQuil. Everything would be fine. He would be okay. The subconscious would set him straight before the flowers could completely take over his respiratory system.

Beside him, Patton coughed a little too, and Janus sincerely hoped that he wasn't suffering the same ailment. Patton didn't deserve that.

The NyQuil kicked in gently, drawing Janus so subtly toward sleep he only noticed he was drifting off when his head touched Patton's shoulder.