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wife-of-all-dilfs · 1 month

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the five stages | f. odair

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summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It’s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

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riaki · 5 months

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knitted hearts | kento nanami x reader

pt.3 of christmas event! i wrote this for u genie ily 🤍 cw: established relationship, he (over)works at that financing company from before, two (2) petnames

the lights are still on.

that's the first thing kento immediately notices when he gets back; the office clocked him overtime, and so he's late. regrettably, again.

in the past, whenever that's happened, he'd have sent you a text beforehand and came home to a dark apartment; eaten something quick before getting into bed and slipping beneath the soft covers where your resting warmth melts away the stress of the day between his shoulders and his eyebrows.

tonight is different, it seems. the city buzzes with a quiet hum, light snowfall blanketing the roofs and muffling the sound. the holiday season is in full swing; normally, he wouldn't care to know. or remember. if not for the lame decorations around his workplace and the chocolate advent calendar you've been diligently (force) feeding him every night, he wouldn't've noticed at all.

he closes the door quietly behind him, careful not to make excess noise in case you're asleep as he slips his shoes off and hangs his jacket up. after all, you might've just been absentminded or tired, and forgot to switch the lights off. and you blame him for being lost to time.

it's quiet in the house; not dead silent, though. there's soft, ambient winter jazz flowing from somewhere in the house, and the faint sound of the fridge humming, paired with something that's baking in the oven. the scent of soft vanilla and orange settles gently over his shoulders, as if to welcome him home. his half finished coffee sits in a porcelain mug on the stained counter; you'd accidentally made too much for him, leaving you with a puddle of bitter caffeine that couldn't even be finished with your combined efforts. you'd promised him you would chug it over text, but clearly that didn't happen.

he's ready to go through the motions of a quiet night spent unwinding alone when he hears your voice— after endless hours of aching at a desk, clacking away on a mechanical keyboard in the dreariest environment imaginable, it soothes him like no vacation fantasy he's ever known.

"nami? is that you?" you called. your voice is coming from the shared bedroom; you sound tired, and kento can just imagine the sleepy look on your face. he's never been inclined to use the words 'cute' or 'pretty' to describe someone before, but if he had to choose, then he'd use them for you.

he walks down the length of the hallway, undoing his tie and gently tugging it off his neck as he reaches the threshold to your room. the air is warm and soft; it seems so much easier to breathe the closer you are. like the crushing weight of work he puts on his lungs dissipates into a cloud of melting frost.

"i'm home, sweetheart." he's surprised at how rough his own voice sounds; it's almost unfamiliar. he needs your rejuvenating touch; at least, that's what he decides the instant he sees you. you're sitting right in the middle of the mattress, something lumpy, tacky, red and green bundled up in your lap. with something between a sinking realization and a fluttering in his chest he recognizes it as the sweater you've been making for him. you're finishing it up, it seems, from the formerly-wide bundle of soft thread that's been reduced to a meek little crimson string on the white sheets.

it's one of your new interests. you seem to be taking up a lot of those, lately; kento feels as though it's his fault, for never having the time to take you out. yet you're always so patient despite his busy schedule, adjusting to portion out a chunk of time from your own just to accommodate for him. it's unfair, and so one night he vowed to do more for you over a glass of red wine and a fancy white table cloth, freshly cleaned and pressed. that was one of the rare times he'd been able to take you out like you really deserved. "and don't call me by my last name. you're allowed to use my given," he sighs, rather exasperated, but you both know there's only affection behind it.

you perk up, a bright look in your eyes that melts the last of the frost buried in his chest and beneath his eyes. he crosses the room to stand at the foot of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt a few to let himself breathe. and he doesn't miss the way your eyes linger, so he clears his throat, and you spring to action.

"i finished your sweater, ken. can you put it on?" you ask eagerly, and he's briefly reminded of a young boy with pink hair like raspberry chocolate and a golden retriever demeanor. a soft feeling pushes at the back of his heart, sending mushy gushiness through his veins at the sight.

you scoot close, holding it up for him to examine. in all honesty, it's not terrible; you get an A for effort, at the very least. the five reindeer look more like those urban folklore creatures, and the tree looks as though it could use seven more centuries under the sun-- but other than that, it's a perfect first try.

"i'd love to, darling, but i..." he doesn't get to finish, because you seem to wilt a little, and it already feels like that crushing burden over his diaphragm is back, but this time it's exceedingly and guiltily unpleasant, so he retracts his words.

"alright." he succumbs with a tired sigh, letting his eyes flutter shut and removing his glasses to rub the spot where the frame has been digging into his skin; normally you'd do it for him, but you're busy adjusting the fluffy pom poms (he didn't see those before) on the sweater's cuffs, so he does it himself.

he hears the tell tale shift of the soft bedding and he opens his eyes again, only to be met with a very expectant look on your face.

"put your hands up."

"...pardon?" a small amount of resistance to your antics is always present, at first. by now he knows you expect it. but this time, it may be much worse.

"you heard me! arms to the sky." he likes your laugh, a lot. it jingles like a gentle wind chime.

"i can put it on myself. i'm not a child," he says, a little cross, but you're undeterred. as per usual. not like he minds.

"please?"

kento doesn't particularly view himself as a man with a great many ambitious, or zealous ideals. still, he isn't a pushover and has a strong resolve. unfortunately for him (fortunately for you), when it comes to you, it doesn't take much for him to crumble. if you willed it, he'd get down at your feet.

with resignation, he kneels down on one leg, as if you're about to knight him. he waits patiently, holding his arms up, and he can practically feel your giddy smile.

soon enough, you're slipping it over his tangled blonde hair— with a little bit of effort and a lot of scratchy fabric. it's too big here and too tight there, hanging off his shoulders oddly and the sleeves are uneven. but it's cute, too-- in the way that a toddler's crayon doodles are endearing, so are your amateur efforts. what matters to him the most, is that you've handmade it for him.

nothing an industry company factory could achieve.

"so? how do you like it?" you prompt as you start to mess with the collar, pinching and pulling the fabric so that it suits his form appropriately. he doesn't ever remember you asking for his size, but you seem to know it anyway.

"it's warm," is his only input. he knows you'll complain— but it's fun to hear you whine.

you frown. "is that all?" there it is— a small, sweet little pout; the minute down tilt of your lips. your fingers dance over his collarbone as you pull the collar of his button up over the rim, and his breath hitches in his throat. kento wonders if you can feel his heartbeat or notice the way his adam's apple bobs when he swallows.

before you— or he— knows it, he's pulling you down to sit on the knee that's still propped up, catching you by the rest and meeting you halfway to press a gentle kiss to your lips. he's met with a muffled sound of surprise that quickly melts into a laugh; he can feel you smile against his lips and he wants to devour it.

"so i take it you like it?" you whispered as you lean in, hands leaving the unwieldy sweater to thread through his hair, messing it up to your heart's content after he slicked it to the side. you taste sweet, like chocolate and caramel-- he must've missed the advent sweet for today.

his only response is a small hum— you can feel the vibration, so you chuckle again and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling away breathless from the kiss to knock your forehead against his, gazing into his eyes. there's an undeniable well of warmth behind your gorgeous irises; if he had the time, he'd get himself lost in them.

"good, because i have socks on the backburner and you'll be getting a scarf next."

whenever the lights are off, kento knows you've gone to bed already, without him. but he thinks he could get used to scratchy, hand-knit clothing if it means they'll always be on and waiting for him after a long day of dreaming in front of a desk, all about your smile.

not proofread my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !

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mognamon · 1 year

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What if-

Jade winglet as Lackadaisy cats

ID: A character lineup with the Jade winglet as anthropomorphized cats from Lackadaisy. They are wearing 1920s clothing. From left to right Peril is a ginger tabby cat with sharp features, wears her hair is an messy eton crop style. She is wearing a blue coat over a teal striped dress and brown brogue oxford shoes. Turtle is a gray tabby british shorthair with round features. He is wearing a green sweater vest over a long sleeved button up shirt topped with a dark green bowtie. He has brown pants and dark leather slippers. Moonwatcher is a black/dark gray cat with white markings around her eyes, wears a blue cloche hat with moon decor over her Charleston bob. She wears a cardigan and dark teal sailor dress with two tone edwardian button boots. Kinkajou is a fluffy abyssinian cat and she wears a pink floral headband misplaced over her red dyed windswept bob. Wears a fuschia sailor dress with fuchsia mary janes shoes. Qibli is a brown tabby cat with curly hair that's covered by a blue newsboy cap. He wears a button up with suspenders and patched up denim pants and cowboy boots. Winter is a gray tabby point maine coon with slicked back hair. Wears a black coat over a waistcoat and white dress shirt with dark work pants and black wingtip shoes.

#wof #wof art #wings of fire #wof au #lackadaisy #wof fanart #wof peril #wof turtle #wof moonwatcher #wof kinkajou #wof winter #wof qibli #go watch the lackadaisy pilot its so good #fanart #lackawof

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tainted-liquor · 7 months

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'Perfect Fit !...ft 42Miles ( ⸝⸝⸝ ̫⸝⸝⸝)◦♡︎

...⸝˚₊‧꒰ა ꨄ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚⸝

ingredients: sugar, kisses, n a lil bit of smiles!

TWs: Nothing? Heatwave? Idk

A/N: short luh fic

Silence. What better noise to bask in than the sound of your own thoughts and the actions of those around you? You weren't rude, or disrespectful in any capacity. But you preferred not to speak or avoid long conversations with people you weren't close to. It proved beneficial in analyzing people around you and their behavior, slowly but surely revealing their true intentions and personality beneath the six-foot grave they'd bury it under around certain crowds. One girl would compliment and play in her friend's hair, but turn around and grunt and gag when talking about the same young lady only an hour later when given the chance. So you found yourself to be quiet, and nonchalant when it came to unfamiliar faces.

As of now, you were outside with Miles, perched up in the nook of a tree with both of your guitars stationed on each other's lap. The air was finally beginning to warm up after a frigid ass winter, the pale blue and ghost white morphing into golden orange and vibrant greens. Your school sweater had been discarded somewhere across the school grounds, and the 'prestigious' Brooklyn Visions tie loosely wrapped around a nearby tree branch. "This heat got me mad tight...I can't even play in this fucking heat" you grunted, promptly resting your painted dark-oak guitar on the grassy soil. You looked over to see Miles, your boyfriend, half dead and with his shirt halfway on.

"Nah deadass...and they act like they can't turn the fuckin air on in the building" He groaned before tossing his guitar on the ground, barely wincing at the hollow thunk it made. You side-eyed him, glaring through his soul with a low "I hope you got money to replace that...since you think it's a damn toy." Miles rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to form a rebuttal before getting cut off by an unfamiliar presence. "Hey, guys!" some girl you'd seen a couple times around exclaimed, pulling her hair back into a high pony as she came to lean on the tree. You both nodded simultaneously, going back to your silent and stoic demeanor as she continued to climb up the tree trunk, squishing herself next to you on the already too-small branch. You grunted, feeling yourself grow hotter against her already warm body heat.

You cleared your throat, shooting the girl a stern glare and gesturing for her to get down. "Can you move? It's hot and I really don't wanna be all up on you..." You grunted, attempting to lean further away from her without falling on the floor. You groaned when she gave you a glare, actively staring her down silently before she hopped off your branch. Miles rolled his eyes, immediately leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head as he got comfy on his side again. He chuckled just barely above a whisper, muttering to himself "No reason for you to be pushed up on me in this heat..."

You giggled before lowering yourself down off the tree to collect your things. It was 3:19, and all you really wanted to do was sit under some cool air and chill with an icee. "C'mon. We finna go to the store. 'N put your shirt on you hoodrat." you spat, giggling as you put your guitar off to the side next to your bag before setting off. Miles glared at you, fixing his white button-up with an unamused scowl across his features, but nonetheless still pecked your forehead with the same gentle grace of a baby bird.

"Aight remember that"

Taglist below 🤍

@ashsostrange @chessbox @janaeby @faeriesoiree333 @fivestardior @an1bara @bachirasegoist @milesnanana77 @niaurluv @sp1derw1re @ban-al3x @we-loveebony @kae2kaee @dxrlingcc

#atsv #across the spiderverse #into the spiderverse #miles morales #miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles #e42 miles x black!reader #e42 miles #earth 42 miles morales x reader #earth 42 #earth 42 miles morales #earth 42 miles fluff #earth 42 miles morales x black!reader #earth 42 miles x you #prowler miles #miles g morales #miles 42

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maracujatangerine · 5 months

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The Gift Exchange, part 1

CW: institutionalised slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation

“Miss Lydia, Miss Lydia, what do you think about this?.”

Coriander jogged into the kitchen, brandishing a roll of wrapping paper patterned with abstract swirls in silver and dark green. The silver accents glittered in the pale winter morning sunlight falling in through the windows.

“It is really pretty!” Miss Lydia smiled, brown eyes warm. “Good choice, Cory!”

The blonde pet ducked his head, but smiled back from underneath his bangs. He wore a soft, green sweater with leather patches on the elbows that matched his chestnut trousers.

Lydia was dressed in a dark grey, knitted dress with red leggings. She leaned over the table to move the pot with the red and white amaryllis out of the way.

“Should we wrap everything into one present, or should we wrap each gift separately, do you think?”

“T-this pet thinks we should w-wrap one gift for Colton and one for Linden, b-but that all their gifts can be wrapped together.”

“That’s a good idea, let’s do that.”

Coriander spread out several seed packages on the table and studied them thoughtfully. Closest to Lydia was a packet with a picture of lush, green sugar snap peas labelled: ‘Mangetout, pea seeds 'Norli' ORGANIC’. Then, there were two packets both marked ‘Thunbergia alata, Black-eyed Susan’, the first one called ‘African Sunset’ in shades of red and apricot, the second one ‘Alba Oculata’ in brilliant white. The final was a handwritten envelope simply marked in Cory’s neat handwriting: ‘Chili, mix’.

“Are you happy with those seeds?”

“Y-yes, Miss Lydia. C-Colton will be able to grow them on the balcony, and i-it will be fun that we both can try to grow the same seeds. P-perhaps we can compare notes.”

Cory gathered the seed packets and tied them together with a neat red bow. Meanwhile, Lydia grabbed a hardback book. The blue dust jacket had brightly coloured leaves scattered all over the cover. The title stood out in bright white: When we were birds, by Ayanna Lloyd Banwo.

Opening the book, she wrote on the inside of the cover. ‘To Linden. Merry Christmas and best wishes for the new year.’ Signing it, she handed it over to Coriander to add his name too.

“‘It is a bit of a risky gift,” she admitted to Cory, “since I haven’t read the book yet, but it seems so good. I got a copy for myself too, and I hope I will get the chance to read it over the holidays.”

They added two bags of homemade butterscotch candy in green paper cups, and two reused milk cartoons filled with gingerbread cookies, the result of last night’s baking spree.

Lydia and Cory put their joint efforts into wrapping the gifts into two neat packages. The dark, red ribbon a nice contrast to the green and silver wrapping paper.

“Let’s go for a walk and send it off this afternoon.” Coriander nodded.

“Y-yes, Miss Lydia.”

Linden wiggled the pen between his thumb and index finger, deep in thought. Leaning back in his kitchen chair, he looked over at Colton, who was working diligently at the end of the table. With wholly unbroken concentration, he was pulling strips of sellotape from the dispenser and sticking them in a neat row along the table’s wooden edge. When Linden had done the altogether far more fiddly task of wrapping a gift up, Col could pluck a pre-cut piece of tape and stick it in place. It was, as Linden had said about fifty times, excellent teamwork.

“Hey, Col, have you ever seen this before?” Linden asked, lifting his hand for Col to see. With the pen held right in its middle, Linden wiggled it gently, until it looked as if the pen was bending at the edges.

Col’s eyebrows twitched, and for a beautiful second Linden thought he was going to burst out laughing. Instead, his mouth curved upwards into a tiny smile. “Yes, Sir. I have.”

“Ah, not too impressive then. Haha, no matter.”

“Do you need any tape for the envelope, Sir?” Col asked, eyeing the Christmas card laid out in front of Linden.

“In a second… I’m just trying to figure something out.”

“Ah, okay, Sir.”

Col took another breath, as if to speak, then stopped himself. Linden prided himself on reading Col well enough by now to know that it was because he wanted to ask a question. Probably what are you trying to figure out?

“I’ve written my part of Lydia and Cory’s card, but I’m not sure how to do yours. I’m not going to make you try and hold a pen. I was thinking - do you want to just dictate it? It doesn’t have to be much, just a little festive greeting sort of thing. I can be your text-to-speech robot.”

Linden was always cheery around Christmas time. Something about winter setting in, dark and long and rainy, and then being cut through by glittering lights, gifts and music. Today, he felt like he was on a veritable warpath to make Col smile.

“That sounds good, Sir… I can do that.”

“Great!” Linden said, overjoyed that Colton hadn’t taken issue with the idea of ‘dictating’ something to his owner, hadn’t overthought any possible rule-breaking that could come with speaking and forcing his Master to write it all down. “And instead of you signing the card the normal way, I thought you could do a fingerprint?”

“That’s a good idea, Sir, thank you for c-”

“Wait, no!” Linden said, making Col flinch. “Sorry, I’m sorry love. I just realised. We’ll both do our fingerprints. That’ll be nice. Then we’re the same.”

There it was again, the coveted half-smile. Col’s cheeks glowed. “Thank you, Sir, that’s really kind. I think- I, uh…”

“Go on,” Linden said warmly. “I want to hear what you think.”

“I think Lydia and Cory will like that, Sir.”

“I agree. Now, here’s what I’ve written.”

Linden pushed the card over. He’d written a short message making light of the strange way they first crossed paths, saying how glad he now was to know the both of them, wishing them a peaceful and happy holiday. He waited patiently as Colton gave his message some thought, then wrote it down exactly as dictated on the left hand side of the card.

Linden found some stamp ink in the back of a drawer, and the two of them rolled their index fingers in it until they could leave two bold prints, one below each message.

Once the card was sealed, it was time for the gifts. Lydia’s gift was a specially-made book embosser, which had EX LIBRIS - LYDIA WINTERTHORPE printed onto it. The embosser itself was a satisfying, weighty thing, and Linden hoped she’d get great pleasure out of stamping all of her most beloved books.

Cory’s gift was also a bespoke item: a brass door sign with his name, Coriander, printed on it. It had ornate rounded corners which gave the thing a rustic, rather stately look, and although Linden had never seen Lydia’s house he guessed it would fit right in. He had run the gift idea past Col first - would a pet such as Cory be okay with claiming the bedroom as his in this way? Col had given it a fair share of thought, ultimately telling Linden, in a way that sounded more like a sinful confession, that Cory would like it very much.

The two men performed their well-honed wrapping ritual, with Col sticking down the final piece of tape with a flourish.

This is a collaboration between @whumpzone and @maracujatangerine.

We would like to wish you all a Merry Christmas!

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

#lydia and linden #lydia and coriander #linden and colton #whump fic #pet whump #pet whumpee #bbu #box boy universe #box boy multiverse #box boy whump #writers on tumblr #original writing #christmas whump #chirstmas

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joannaliceevans-fanficblog · 4 months

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Evermore: Part. 2

A/N: Hello! I just wanted to thank everyone who has read and commented on the last chapter! That truly means a lot to me.

Warnings: There aren't many warnings, but to have tissues ready. It's been hard to write without crying every sentence.

Before I shut up, I just wanted to thank my lovely besties here. @hollybee8917 ! She made this wonderful mood board and edited this chapter! So thank you, babes!

Your alarm clock buzzed, and you moaned. You barely gotten any sleep and you didn’t want to get up. But you had to, because today wasn’t just an ordinary day. Today was a big day. Before you could even get up, the door opened and the sounds of tippy taps were heard. You smiled, and the sound of sniffing and then the 80 lbs. Alaskan Malamute/German Shepherd pup jumped onto the bed.

“Alright Sarg!” You said as he gave you wet kisses. You then pushed Sarg off, and he jumped off. It was a chilly, winter morning, so you grabbed your sweater and the moment you placed it on, you smiled. The scent of Bergamot and Vanilla filled your nose.

“In a few more hours, honey.” You said to yourself and wondered what he was up to.

And on cue, your phone rang and you quickly grabbed it and slid the green button.

Hi angel.

You smiled to yourself, “Hello Mr. Levinson, did you sleep well? And I thought you weren’t supposed to call me sir?”

You heard Ari laugh and you let out a giggle. He replied, “I did, surprisingly. And I know, I know. Andy forbade me from calling you. But I can’t go a day without hearing your voice. Even if it’s just for a brief moment.”

And that is true. Ever since you were 16, Ari would have called you. You weren’t dating then, but him being your best friend since you were teens, nothing could sway him from talking to you.

You scratched your head, “Is everything okay, Ari?”

“In all honesty? No. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Aww baby, is everything alright?”

“No, because you’re not here.”

A sad sight slipped from your lips, “How do I make everything okay?”

Ari laughed, “Oh angel, it will be in a few hours when you become Mrs. Levinson.”

The sound of that made your heart jump for joy. That is true. You heard Andy in the background, and you laughed.

Well, Mrs. Soon-to-be Levinson, I’ve got to go. But I’ll see you in a few hours. I love you.

You smiled, “Love you too, Mr. Levinson.”

You hung up, and Sarg jumped onto the bed, giving you a bark.

“Alright! I’m going, I’m going!” You said, getting up and heading out.

A few hours later…

You stood in front of the mirror, making sure that everything was in place. Your hair was perfect, makeup was just the way you wanted it. A knock was heard and you turned around to see your college best friend Holly. In her hands was your bouquet of white, dark magenta pink, and baby pink Roses.

“You got something new and borrowed. But something is missing.” Holly said, as she placed your bouquet down and a small box appeared. You had curious eyes as your friend strolled towards you. The box opened, and you gasped.

A diamond pendant.

“I told Ari no expensive gifts!” You say, running your fingertips against the necklace.

“He knew you would have said that,” Holly said and handed you a small card. You placed the box down and opened the card.

I had a feeling that you would say something about the gift. I know we decided not to give expensive gifts, but you deserve it. Hell, you deserve everything in this world. I love you, Mrs. Levinson.

-Ari

You smiled and sighed.

“Let’s put on.” You say. You took the necklace and placed it around your neck.

The limo pulled up in front of St. Cecilia Catholic Church. The car came to a complete stop, and you took a deep breath and sighed. Then the door opened, and your best friend Holly came out, then your parents. You handed Holly your bouquet and got yourself out. It’s only been 30 minutes, and your feet are already hurting from the heels that you are wearing. You hated them, but Holly and your mother insisted you wear them. Thank the lord you brought your flats, and you would be changing into them after the ceremony.

You fidgeted nervously as you stood in front of the double doors. With your dad next to you and your arm linked to his, he looked down at you, “Ready, Squirt?”

You giggled, knowing that was your nickname since you were a kid.

“I am daddy. And dad?” You asked.

“What is it?” He asked.

You placed your hand on top of his and smiled, “Thank you for everything.”

Your dad smiled and patted your hand. And with that, the doors opened, and everyone stood up. Your hands started to shake as the music started playing Yiruma’s Moments and you started to walk down the aisle. You shook a little until you looked towards the altar and your beloved Ari was looking back at you. The way he smiled at you made your heart soar. He was looking mighty fine. He wore his Army uniform, with his saber by his side. His thick beard and the way his long fluffy hair brought a smile to your face once more. (You had only a few months with him before he was deployed back to South Carolina for training new recruits)

When you reached the front, your dad released your hand and placed it into Ari’s. You then stepped forward and faced Ari.

“Hi Angel,” Ari whispered.

You wiped your tears and smiled, “Hi, Ari Bear.”

Wandering around the venue with a glass of wine in your hands, you spoke with guests. As you did, you looked over to the other side of the hall to see your now husband heading towards you. You handed your glass to Holly and by the time you did, Ari was in front you with his hand out. You placed yours into his and he took you to the middle of the dance floor. Ari gave the DJ a nod and a familiar tune came on. You looked up at Ari and he smiled. Your heart skipped a beat, “Is this-“

“Me and You?”

Ari said, “Yes it is.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks and you placed your head against his chest.

“Everyday I live

Try my best to give

All I have to you

Thank the stars above

That we share this love

Me and You”

“You looked so beautiful walking down the aisle.” Ari whispered into your ear.

“You knew that I liked your thick beard.” You said, as you still both swayed to the music.

Those are the exact words he has always said to you when he would write you letters, or send you flowers. But hearing him singing them to you made it even more special. You thank the stars that he came into your life. You then looked towards him and reached up to kiss him, “I love you.”

Ari kissed you once more, “I love you more.”

You strolled with Sam by your side as you went towards Ari. Everything around you seemed like a blur, and nothing existed. Your heart was beating and breaking all at the same time by the time you got to his casket. You let go of Sam’s arm and stood for a moment, looking. But the second you placed your hand on top of the flag, everything went south with your emotions. Your tears, your feelings, your love for Ari, it all hit you. You placed your head down onto the coffin and balled your fists tightly.

“Ari, I’m here now.” You whisper.

You felt a hand behind you, and you knew that it was Andy.

“Y/N, they have to retrieve him now,” Andy told you.

You placed a kiss on top of the flag, and you stepped back, even if it was hurting. You held on to Andy, tears still coming down, and you watched on as your husband was being placed into the Hearst. The moment the door closed, Andy led you back to the car so you could go to the funeral home.

Good evening. I'm Jason Austel from NBC Boston. We start this evening with some upsetting news. A local hero, US Army Captain Ari Levinson from Concord, died today. He was deployed overseas and was in the Humvee when a bomb exploded in the car in front of them. He is survived by his wife and his 5-month-old daughter.

#andy barber #andy barber x female reader #andy barber x you #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson x female reader #chris evans x female reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson angst

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hazenllas · 4 months

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"I Wish You Were A Boy" II Hazel Callahan

Pairing: Hazel Callahan x fem! Reader

Contains: Angst, Fluff, homophobia, and i think thats it

(Apologies for any spelling mistakes, English is not my first language)

A/N: so this story takes pace in the 80s where relationships and Romance of the same gender were not very common, and is not allowed.

Summery: Your whole life you were told loving a girl was not right and bad. But when Hazel Callahan came along, all of those thoughts dissapeared.

It was a slow, bright day in 7th grade year, you lay down on the school's bleachers watching the winter sky's clouds hover over the bright yellow sun. It was very cold out today and you decided to wear a dark blue sweater to keep you cozy, but it was not helping very much. You sigh and close your eyes before you hear a soft voice grab your attention. "Hi, um im Hazel. Hazel Callahan. Do you mind if i sit here with you?" The girl says looking down at you. "Of course! Im Y/n by the way. Its really nice to meet you Hazel!" You respond to her. She just smiles at you and sits down beside you. You sit up putting your hands on your lap. The first thing you noticed about this girl was her cool rocker hair. It was nicely cut and sat just above her shoulders. You and hazel begin picking up a quick conversation and that is how you both became best friends. You and Hazel never were really ones to attract to boys in your grade like other girls did. There was one time at a sleep over at Hazel's house where you were both talking about random topics where your eyes went to her lips. that was the first time you ever felt something. it was a weird feeling that since that day you could never get out of your head. You knew it was wrong to like hazel. she was a girl afterall, but a little voice in your head kept saying it was not.

Years later, here you are laying in your bed with hazel, watching The Breakfast Club. "Hey, im going to go change into something comfy. I'll be right back alright?" Hazel says making you look at her. You were both comfortable in each other's houses so she already knew where the bathroom was. You nod your head and bring your attention back to the movie. After what felt like 10 minutes, you wonder what was taking Hazel so long, so you peek into the restroom next door to see Hazel's back facing you as she takes her shirt off to reveal her white sports bra. You blink fast and you notice even how flawless her back was. She had tiny freckles that looked like little sprinkles against her milky skin. You feel yourself staring too long and then hazel turns back around. But the thing that caught you off guard was that she only wore a sports bra and some green sweatpants. You gulped and turned back to the TV. Why were you feeling nervous? Why did you continue staring? Why were you staring at your best friend who was a girl that way? You look at the clock and realize it's past midnight. "Haze, we have school in the morning, let's go to sleep." You say looking into her bright blue eyes. "Yeah alright, you go change too, you can't wear jeans to bed silly." Hazel giggles. You nod and get a pair of fuzzy pink pj's and go to the restroom to change. Once you get inside, you look at yourself in the mirror. Are you really inlove with your girl bestfriend? No no this is wrong. You thought. You start crying as you look at your reflection. Mascara starts smearing down your face and you wipe it off. You look at your night cloths and put them on. After, you walk back to your room to see Hazel already asleep on the other end of your full sized bed. "Good night Haze." You whisper, kissing the girl on the head.

Then comes the day of Prom. You of course had no interest in boys so you or hazel did not have a date. You both decided to go together and wore matching outfits. You wore a light blue dress with little diamonds across the chest, while Hazel wore a light blue Suit with diamonds all over the tie. You both got ready at her house. You were fixing up hazel's dark brown fluffy hair. "Y/n I don't know, do I really look okay?" Hazel asks looking at you both in the mirror. "Hazel. You look amazing. I mean you look beautiful! Look at yourself!" You shout, taking her face in your hands and facing her head towards the mirror. If you could look a little closely you would be able to see a light blush on her face. She rolled her eyes and scoffed. After Hazel, you decided to put on some makeup. You were putting on some light Mascara when you see Hazel in the corner of you eye. It seemed like she was checking you out but you brushed it off. After finishing up, Hazel's mom took photos of you both for "memories" . Hazel drove the two of you to the destination but sat there in silence. "Y/n, it's okay. You look great. Don't be nervous and besides you will have me if you need a dancing partner." Hazel encourages as you pats your head. You nod and continue to look ahead of you.

When you both got inside. You and hazel immediately walk to the empty bleachers. After a while of you and Hazel giggling about random things, you feel the sudden urge to want to dance on the dance floor. "Uh haze?" You look at Hazel. She hums and looks at you with her big blue eyes. "Wanna go dance? Its alright if not. " You ask looking towards the crows of people. "Yeah sure Y/n cmon!" Hazel gets up grabbing your hands. You both arrive to the dance floor and then a slow dance song comes on. You look at Hazel to see her already looking at you "wanna dance m'lady?" Hazel asks in an English accent. You laugh at her and put your arms around her neck. She immediately puts her hands on your waist and you both look at each other. You see Hazel quickly look at your lips and then back into your eyes. "Y/n, I love you. More than a friend. I want to be with you." Hazel quickly says. Your eyes widen and it's like your body takes control over itself and you kiss her. She immediately kisses you back passionately. "Hazel, can we go somewhere, private?" You ask quickly. "Mhm yeah come on." You both start running to any empty room you can. As soon as you both find the janitors closet and as soon as you lock the door behind you she pushes you up against the door and kisses you with much hunger. You hum into the kiss and put your hands in her hair. "Hazel. Hazel please tell me this is wrong. Tell me I'm not supposed to be doing this. "You say into the kiss tearing up. "Shh sh it's okay baby. Relax." Hazel replies putting her hands in your blue dress. "Hazel. I wish you were a boy." You cry, breaking from the kiss and hugging her tight. She shushes you and calmly rubs her hands against your back. "I love you Hazel. I love you so much." You look up at her with dazed eyes. "I love you more my love." Hazel whispers kissing you on the head.

#hazel callahan #hazel callahan fluff #hazel callahan x you #hazel callahan imagine #bottoms movie 2023 #hazel bottoms #ruby cruz #bottoms movie #bottoms hazel #bottoms 2023 #wlw #sapphic

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 1 year

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last christmas, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: Last Christmas, she gave you her heart, wrapped up with a note saying, I love you. She meant it. This Christmas, you give her back the stuff she left at your place and run into her next-door neighbor that knew all about your love. Somehow, you end up explaining why it went wrong.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; mentions of previous w/w relationship; pansexual reader; mentions of bad parents and discrimination / prejudice; reader def needs a therapist and Jeon Jungkook is not a therapist; JK is also reader's ex-gf's next-door neighbor; pining; awk tension; I cannot shut up about JK's big peepers; smut (fem reader, a lot of making out [both lips and bodies], light scratching, so much grinding, cowgirl); motorcycle-owning!JK takes you on a ride, whee

inspired by Wham!'s 'Last Christmas'; you are the shitty ex, don't read this unless you're okay with that and, yes, some decisions are made

You handed the bag over.

“This is it.”

“T… Thanks.”

The cold stung your cheeks. Around your neck was a dark green and black plaid scarf, thick layers shielding your heart that was exposed to the winter thanks to your open parka. Your hands returned to their tucked position in your fleece-lined pockets. You smiled, ever so slightly.

“You look pretty. The short hair suits your face well.”

She reached up to touch the tips of the chin-length bob, wispy front bangs framing her gentle eyes, not quite looking at you. You noticed her short nails were painted a light shimmery gold, suiting the holiday season. Her lips pursed and she breathed in deeply, looking straight into your eyes.

“Don’t say stuff like that. We’re not together anymore,” she said decisively.

“Ah… right.”

You left the smile on your face.

Right, because you could no longer compliment a person after dating them and then breaking up with them. Rules of some code apparently you didn’t get the memo for. The breeze whipped around your body, chilling moments as you stood at the doorstep of your former lover, feeling a strange kind of satisfaction seeing in her shiver in her fuzzy cream sweater and fleece pajama pants, complete with ivory fur slippers. But those thoughts were cruel to think and so was the bitterness.

She glanced at you.

You felt bad, seeing the glisten in her eyes.

In a box labelled donations in your apartment, there was a knit scarf, checkered peach and cream, the note included long gone, probably in a trashcan. Last Christmas, that scarf had been in silvery wrapping paper with a white silk ribbon, the package shaking in her hands and accompanied by a nervous smile, handed over for you to open, seeing the note first and then the handmade gift.

I love you above the handiwork of love.

It wasn’t the very next day, but you were still giving it away.

“I hope you have a nice holiday,” you said, bowing lightly.

“A-Ah, yeah,” she stuttered, clutching the brown bag of the few sweaters and joggers she had left at your apartment, all laundered and folded neatly the way she usually folded them. You had remembered, and this would be the last time you needed to remember how to delicately tuck sweaters into themselves like cake rolls. “I’m going to see my mom and dad. You should…” And she trailed off, knowing full well you weren’t going to see your parents. “You should eat something nice.”

You nodded.

Smile.

“I will. Take care.”

You took a step back and bowed again, taking your graceful exit from the front porch of that apartment that you would never walk into again.

You headed for the stairs, being careful when it came to the snow-slicked stone steps. Good thing your black boots had sturdy, thick treads. You reached back and pulled the hood of your parka up, fleece blanketing your head and ears, instantly warming your cold hair. It was already getting dark. You barely saw the sun these days, with work and all. There was something nice about the winter evening though, not as thick as the humid summer nights. Crisp and chilly, sure, but maybe you could argue that was all you were anyway.

Shit, holding a pity party for yourself? That’s rich.

The voice was inner self-loathing was nice and loud tonight, huh.

You heard your name being called from the garage at the bottom of the stairs. You looked up to see a familiar resident of these apartments.

Your ex-girlfriend’s next-door neighbor, in fact.

“Jeon Jungkook?”

He smiled and waved, jogging over, something large and round under his arm. Black leather jacket, his gloves matching his jacket. Black jeans. Heavy-duty boots. You took a couple steps towards him, and then you spied the parked motorcycle, and finally recognizing that it was a motorcycle helmet he was holding. The sweater underneath with the somewhat tacky, bright red-and-white candy cane print didn’t quite match the rest of his ensemble.

He looked down when he realized you were staring at his chest and laughed. “Ah, yeah, I came back from a work party. Christmas lunch before we go on break. Theme was ugly sweaters.”

You blinked. “You could have tried harder.”

He grinned. “Yeah, my co-worker Jimin said that too, but I told him he was ugly enough for us both.”

You shook your head with a sheepish smile as the young man looked way too proud of himself burning someone who wasn’t even here to defend themselves. Well, supposedly he burned them publicly already. Poor Jimin. You had never met this Park Jimin Jungkook occasionally talked about, but they seemed to have a brotherly friendship, complete with Jungkook providing shithead younger brother quips.

“I haven’t seen you around lately,” Jungkook said, tilting his head.

Oh. Right.

You pointed up and prepared yourself to say it again and again until everyone knew.

“We broke up.”

“Oh…” His expression fell, big round brown eyes and the downturn of his lips. Man, Jeon Jungkook looking sad was not something you realized you needed to brace yourself for until now. It almost made you sad seeing his expression. “I’m sorry to hear that. I liked watching movies with you two, since you like Marvel stuff.”

You chuckled. “I’m not banned from going to the theater. I can still go to opening nights with you, if you want.”

He scratched his cheek, nodding slowly. “She wouldn’t feel weird seeing you with me?” he asked.

Oh.

Right.

If it was only you and Jeon Jungkook going to the movies, then, of course, people would think certain things.

You answered him honestly.

“I don’t know.”

You didn’t need to give answers, but Jungkook was your ex’s next-door neighbor and you had made friends with the guy before she did. Would be odd, considering she had proximity on her side, but, as it turns out, she was the lesbian and you were the pansexual. She had other priorities than the man living next door. He was not that interesting to her.

You shrugged. “I don’t know how she would feel, but what’s done is done and life goes on.”

Jungkook blinked at you.

You puffed out your left cheek and then exhaled heavily. “As you can expect from my reaction, it was me who broke up with her.” You clicked your tongue. “It wasn’t her. It was me. I have issues when women try to take care of me, even if they only have good intentions.” You reached up and pushed your parka hood back, letting the cold wind pierce your skin again, eager to feel something else. “Doesn’t really happen to me when it’s men, but women? Hah... I tried to tell myself that that wasn’t it, but facts are facts. In the end, I didn’t like her anymore and it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.”

Sounded awful coming out of your mouth.

Truth was ugly.

“I thought I would feel like shit not being with her during Christmas, but actually I feel worse because I’m actually glad I’m out.”

You glanced at Jungkook, whose was staring at you with those big brown eyes. For his part, he simply accepted when you introduced his neighbor as your girlfriend back then. Didn’t pry much. It had come up in conversation about representation in movies, and you both clarified your sexualities. Jungkook’s reaction was, oh, cool. But, of course, you hadn’t specified about the differences of various romantic relationships for you personally, until now.

You winced. “Sorry. Kinda dumped all that on you.”

He shook his head quickly, his long black hair flying about like floppy puppy ears. “No, no. It’s okay. Have you talked to anyone about the breakup?” He held up his free hand, pulling it back a little. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. It’s just… I mean, I knew you two a little bit, so… I can listen, if you wanna say stuff.”

You opened your mouth, ready to say, yeah, I’ve talked about it, but then you realized, no, you haven’t talked to anyone about the breakup. You didn’t really have friends outside of the ones related to your previous relationship, and, well, he was standing right here. You certainly weren’t going to tell your parents about dating, least of all dating outside of the heteronormative. They already didn’t like you for various reasons and being anything but heterosexual was probably going to lead to full-on pitchforks and chasing. Not your idea of a fun Christmas, you had to admit.

Mostly because you were the one that had to do the outrunning.

Jungkook rubbed the back of his head, screwing up his face. “Uh, well, a friend much smarter than me told me once that good and bad is relative to who you’re talking to and that most of the time no one is good or bad because there are too many ways to judge.” As he spoke, his eyebrows became more knitted together in increasing confusion of unsure recollection. “Um. Something like that.”

You half-smiled. “Hm, ever considered becoming a therapist?”

Jungkook frowned, looking displeased. “Sounds complicated.”

You laughed. “Don’t worry. You would totally suck at it.”

He harrumphed. “Anyway,” he concluded gruffly, chopping the air, his Busan accent coming out with the flourishment. “I’m saying you don’t have to be sad or feel anything in particular.”

You nodded.

Awkward silence.

Jungkook suddenly perked up and pointed to his bike behind him. “Oh! Did I tell you? I got my motorcycle license over a month ago.”

No, he didn’t tell you, because at the point you had already broken up with your now-ex and stopped coming to this apartment complex. But you glossed over that detail and shook you head, cocking your chin to the metal monster. “Yours?”

He grinned, bouncing like the Energizer bunny. “Yup! Mine! I bought it as soon as I got my license. I always wanted one. Want a ride? I have an extra helmet upstairs.” He pointed up excitedly. “It’ll only take me a second to grab it.”

He knew you didn’t drive here and usually walked here from the train station because it was easier. You looked at the silver and black motorcycle and then back at him, seeing the bubbling eagerness and childlike joy in those sparkly big peepers. What the hell.

“Sure.”

He grinned.

You always liked Jungkook because he had such an expressive face.

He hurried past you and reached out to nudge your arm towards to the stairs. You stood steadfast, your head following his face as you saw his changing expression.

Time slowed.

So did Jungkook, stopping, standing beside you, his motorcycle helmet and arm in between your bodies.

You looked up at him.

Eyes connected.

Your hands lifted and you took his motorcycle helmet from him, ticking your head upstairs.

“I shouldn’t go back up there,” you softly said.

For a moment, he didn’t understand. You knew what he intended, you to follow him up to help carry the extra helmet so he had a hand free to lock the door again. But he hadn’t quite thought about why you were here in the first place, days away from Christmas, after months of not seeing you, and now the comprehension was creeping into his eyes, the wheels of his brain moving in real time right in front of you. You nodded slowly as his lips formed a small ‘o’ accompanied by quick, sharp nods as he bounded up the stone steps two at a time.

“I’ll be fast!”

“Don’t break a leg,” you scolded, rolling your eyes as he completely ignored you, but he held onto the railing, so at least he wouldn’t tumble down and squash you if he tripped.

That left you standing there in relative silence, holding Jeon Jungkook’s helmet and staring at his fairly new motorcycle, only a couple floors underneath your ex-girlfriend who you recently gave back all her things that she had left in your home, the only trace of her now being your memories that would fade in time.

You felt a bit weird, not minding too much about it.

Also felt a bit weird realizing in a few minutes you would be holding onto her next-door neighbor’s waist, your chest to his broad back.

I’m an asshole.

You sighed, remembering the apprehension you had felt embarking on this relationship. Maybe you should have listened to it, but, then again, hard to say. No one wants to believe they have issues. Also, she was quite cute and convincing at the time. Unlike in past relationships, she was already secure and didn’t make you feel ashamed about not being strictly lesbian or heterosexual. It made you think that this was right, this was how it should be, and then it started getting a little too serious.

You kept thinking, I’ll get over it.

You did not get over it.

Then you realized what you really meant was, I must get over it to prove that my shitty upbringing didn’t affect me but all I’m doing is pretending that I’m over it when I’m not.

Yeah, well.

You ended up breaking up with a nice, pretty girl that you weren’t really in love with. She had just made you feel secure because she actually accepted your sexuality, which was awesome but not enough.

So, why did you feel like a complete and total jerk, like you wasted her time, as if you weren’t worthy of it?

Don’t know.

You stared at the motorcycle in front of you.

He must feel free when riding it.

“I got the helmet!”

You didn’t even turn around when you heard Jungkook’s announcement. You were too busy transitioning out of your reflections. “Don’t you know motorcycle accidents are much more likely than car accidents?”

Jungkook popped into view, holding out the other helmet in his hands. You exchanged the one you were carrying with his, and he shrugged. “Everybody dies.”

“Morbid.”

“At least I wouldn’t die knowing I never got to ride a motorbike like I wanted to when I was a kid,” he pointed out, revealing a bit of his inked skin under his leather sleeve. “Same reason I got tattoos.”

“Bet your mom loves that.”

“My mom just has to love my personality,” he laughed. “And I got defiance from her, so she’s doomed.”

You shook you head with a smile. Jungkook showed you how to put the helmet on.

“Just stay safe.”

“Don’t you mean drive safe?”

“It’s not just you on the road, dude.”

Suddenly, his hands stopped moving after you put it on. Now you were staring at Jungkook through the opening, about to close the visor, but then those brown orbs found yours. There was a strange intangible ripple between you and him. He tilted his head.

“Why are you talking as if you’re not here about to get on the bike with me?”

Everybody dies.

You pointed to the helmet. It felt heavy and odd. You were unaccustomed to the tightness. It smelled clean though. “I am. Why else would I put this thing on?”

Maybe I’m already dead because I don’t feel bad about what I did.

You wondered if you should feel bad, even though you did the right thing, even though you knew there were no real villains and heroes in this situation, even though you knew you both were only people that chose how to live their lives. How were you supposed to know if you were dragging things on or running away? The only thing you knew was that she deserved someone who really loved her as much as she loved you. It wasn’t her fault you didn’t. You just had to be honest about it.

Right?

Jungkook nodded and stuck on his helmet, fitting it snugly and climbed onto the motorcycle, unlocking it as signaling you to get on behind him.

“Hold onto me here. Set your feet there. Yeah.”

He was warm and solid and present.

He even smelled nice.

You didn’t think about it too much. What was there to think about? Life was complicated. You could spend countless hours analyzing why you made certain decisions, if they were wrong or right and in which eyes that mattered, and then all those thoughts blew away when the mechanical monster underneath you roared to life, loud and vicious and pure power wielded with skillful hands, and you held on tighter to Jungkook, startled by the sound, yet not scared for some reason.

Just fascinated as Jungkook pulled out of his parking spot and zoomed out of the garage, onto the road.

It was fuckin’ cold.

Layers of green-and-black plaid between Jungkook’s back and your sweater, shielding your racing heart, wind and speed and thrill shooting throughout your veins, the winter night flashing past, blurring streetlamps and stoplights, forgetting the cold, your hands tucked inside Jungkook’s jacket, fingers fanning over his waist and ribcage, feeling his muscles under the tacky sweater.

You closed your eyes.

At least I wouldn’t die knowing I never got to ride a motorbike like I wanted to when I was a kid.

You used to think about riding a motorcycle when you were in middle school, although you had been looking at those smaller, zippy Japanese models, not a Harley-Davidson. You always assumed only loud obnoxious Americans rode that kind of stuff.

What?

Movies didn’t help.

Unfair stereotypes aside, it had been only a passing thought for you. One among many rebellious teenage desires. Cringe. That was hard to admit. But apparently for Jungkook it was a dream that he had turned into a reality and, while someone could view it in whatever negative light they wished, you saw it as walking the walk. You could respect that.

You leaned against him.

Felt the cold but there was something hot under layers of green-and-black plaid.

This is what joyride means, huh?

You were slowing down. Opened your eyes and saw Jungkook turning, seeing a parking lot and, across that, a field of white covered in a walkway of colorful lights. Oh. That was right. The park over here had put up this light display called Festival of Lights, where local artists had created wire sculptures covered in Christmas string lights which were displayed along a walkable path.

You went her last year, holding her hand.

You got off and took off your helmet, entranced by the bright twinkling displays, barely making out a gingerbread man doing a handstand.

“Wanna walk?”

You glanced at Jungkook. “What about this? Should I carry it?”

He laughed, waving to the sudden open top-box behind the seat. “Put it in here.”

You handed the helmet to him and watched in fascination. “Oh. I didn’t know there was a space to put stuff.”

He grinned. “Come on, let’s go.”

You following his bouncing jog with a loose stride, closing your fingers into your palm and remembering the feeling of his solid body in your hands only moments before. Furrowed your brows and shook your head, approaching the entrance, seeing a family several meters ahead, tired parents with a couple of loud kids pointing excitedly at a lit-up snowman holding six candy canes like Wolverine claws.

“Have you been here this year yet?”

“Ah, no,” you absentmindedly replied, seeing Santa and his reindeer. Classic, and well-done. “Haven’t had the time.”

“There’s one at the end I think you’ll like,” Jungkook was saying excitedly. “But I think the food vendors went home already. There was a hotteok truck and another one that sold roasted sweet potatoes, mmm, but maybe you can come back some other time.”

“Uh huh.”

You knocked into Jungkook’s back and bounced, vigorously shaking your head. “Ow.”

“Sorry, there’s ice. Careful.”

“Oh.”

You realized Jungkook was looking at you and you let go of his arm, not even realizing you had grabbed it out of instinct so you didn’t trip. A weird moment of muteness. You looked past him to see three chipmunks flashing in red, blue, and green scarves.

You looked up at Jungkook, who had followed your eye line to the three cuties.

“Jungkook.”

“Huh?”

“Why didn’t you ask your neighbor why I wasn’t coming over anymore?”

Those brown eyes looked away from the twinkling artificial stars to your eyes. There was a little bit a guilt. They shifted away and came back and you realized Jungkook didn’t know how to lie but he also wasn’t sure if he was about to be out of line either.

“I… I heard her crying. A lot. And it’s none of my business,” he mumbled, frowning. “My mom told me not to be nosy,” he added under his breath.

You almost snorted. “You told your mom that you were worried about the lesbian couple next door?”

Jungkook squinted at you, annoyed. “No, I told my mom that I was worried that my friend might have broken up, so I asked her if I should do anything. Something nice?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It seemed weird especially when Black Panther: Wakanda Forever came out, and I was going to ask if you, I mean, you both were going to the midnight release but…”

The kids were yelling in the distance and you didn’t even hear them.

You were just staring at Jungkook and noticing that his ears were turning bright red.

All the adrenaline from the speed and, now, everything slammed on the brakes.

“I didn’t cry.”

He blinked slowly. “What?”

You breathed out, looking around you, at snow and lights and white, and then at Jungkook, wearing all black and that candy-cane sweater, at yourself and your dark monochrome outfit, and then you admitted it again. “I didn’t cry, and I feel kinda shitty for it.”

“Oh.”

You stepped past Jungkook and walked down the carved-out path, following footprints and hard work. He followed and you acknowledged him, looking from one festive decoration to another, admiring the creations and spinning through the inner workings of your mind. “I felt frustrated. I know sexual attraction and romantic relationships are two different things, but I wanted to believe they weren’t. I wanted to believe that enough time had passed and I was okay, but I wasn’t okay and maybe I’ll never be okay, and I don’t know how to feel about that.”

You glanced up.

Jungkook looked confused and thoughtful at the same time. “I think you said before you don’t talk to your parents?”

“Yeah. They’re assholes.”

“Oh.”

That wasn’t very descriptive so you gave a brief explanation. “They looked at me like a product they made. A child was an object that they could program to do things they weren’t able to do, like make lots of money, marry rich, and in general sacrifice all my autotomy for their every beck and call.” You shrugged. “A dog would have more grace than their child.”

“Ouch.”

“Also, they would not understand that I’m pansexual. I think I’d be shot on the spot.”

“Don’t talk to them,” he puffed heatedly.

“Mmm,” you hummed in agreement. “And, yeah, I’m sure that kind of upbringing affected my romantic relationships.” And lots of other things, but that wasn’t the point right now.

“Everybody goes through stuff like that.”

You looked at him.

Jungkook shrugged. “My last girlfriend said all I care about is myself and there’s a reason why all my friends are older than me and called me irresponsible, selfish, and childish.”

“Are you?”

He frowned. “I don’t think so? I do the dishes and always fold my laundry.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Only fold?”

“Okay, sometimes I leave it on the table for a little while,” he grumbled.

You chuckled. “How long ago was this?”

“Um, couple years ago? Maybe five?”

“You were barely an adult,” you commented, seeing a face-down figure with white hair in a bun and something that looked suspiciously like deer tracks on the back of that red coat. Uh. You decided not to comment and move on. “Still learning.”

“Learning to be a dick, she’d probably say now. She would tell me not to get a bike for sure.”

“Thought the whole point she was dating you was because you had a dick.”

Jungkook laughed, loud and vibrant, the lights making his cheeks glow. “Well, she’s married now so I guess she found a better one.”

“Or settled.”

“Damn, you would think you were the one who dated her,” he snickered. You could tell he was enjoying this though, those brown orbs sparkling a little too bright. There was a little bit of a jealous streak in him, you could sense. “I think I was dating the wrong kind of girl though. I think I have to date someone who shares my interests more. I like being with the person I like all the time. I don’t want them to be sick of me.”

“Mmm. I can see that. Pretty childish of you.”

“Hey!”

You laughed, nudging his side. “As long as you know you are the problem.”

He narrowed his eyes.

You grinned. “I didn’t say you weren’t a fun problem to have.”

Jungkook leaned closer, squinting harder.

You grinned wider.

Then you realized he was so close and he realized he was so close, both of you backing up at the same time. A little too fast, simultaneously darting your hands out and grabbing each other’s forearms, you grasping his right with your left hand and his right hand on your left sleeve, squeezing hard, immediately regaining balance.

You let go.

He let go.

Speed under a green-black plaid scarf, something hot and moving fast under all those layers.

“Sorry.”

“Ah, no, my fault. Sorry.”

You jerked your head towards the light displays and started walking again, trying to move past this sudden weirdness. You pointed out the various ones you liked. Yellow pill-shaped Minions decorating a Christmas tree. A curtain of lights programmed to look like falling snowflakes. Penguins sliding down a light-up hill. Slowing down. Breathing. You glanced at Jungkook.

He looked somewhat ashamed.

“Hey.”

He tilted his head, inquiring with his big eyes and pink nose. “Hm?”

“I’m glad you took me here. I don’t think I’ve done anything festive this year.”

“O… Oh.” He looked sheepish, rubbing the back of his head. “I thought it might be cool. Cheer you up a bit.”

“Yeah. It’s funny. A lot of people think I don’t like this season.”

You saw Jungkook rub his nose, realizing it was cold. “Huh? Why?” he asked nasally.

You glanced down at your dark color palette. “Well, you know me, I like Halloween most, but I actually enjoy Christmas quite a lot. Not because I have any particularly nice memories around it,” you mused. “Ah, I mean when I was a kid. But, I don’t know, maybe that made me appreciate the spirit of the holiday time more than all the capitalistic stuff surrounding it, since I didn’t participate much in that.”

Jungkook blinked, puzzled. “You didn’t get gifts?”

You thought about it. “Hmm, not until I was an adult and only when I was dating someone who gave gifts.”

He pursed his lips and then reached out, taking your elbow and pulling your along, to the corner.

“Come on. This can be your gift.”

You stumbled behind him, craning your head in confusion. “Huh?”

“Did you watch Wakanda Forever?”

“Of course, I did. You know Black Panther is my favorite.”

“Then, look.”

Your eyes widened as the bright display of Black Panther, black lights complete with the purple highlights and signature action pose loomed among the other creations, slightly out of place because it wasn��t holiday-themed or even remotely Korean, but apparently none of that mattered and it didn’t matter to you as you admired the craftsmanship of the wire structure underneath, obvious it was specifically Chadwick Boseman’s T’Challa from the violet details.

“Oh, shit. That’s sick,” you breathed, staring at the display for far too long and probably burning it into your eyeballs.

“I knew you’d like it right away.”

“That’s so random that it’s here.”

“I mean it’s not Christmas, but the movie did come out a month ago, so I guess they made an exception ‘cause it was so cool.”

“I mean this feels like Christmas to me. Put a Santa hat on him and call it a day.”

Jungkook laughed. “Okay, I’ll sneak one on in the night.”

You whipped your head to him, wiggling your eyebrows. “I mean…”

“It turns off automatically at midnight to save power…” he trailed off, putting on a scheming face.

“Would you go to jail for that? Is a Santa hat vandalism?”

“I didn’t commit a crime if I don’t get caught,” he countered.

You gave him a look. “Sounds like someone belongs on the naughty list.”

Jungkook scrunched up his face.

“Naughty or nice depends on who’s asking.”

He stuck his little pink tongue out.

You poked the tongue tip sticking out of his lips.

Instant wet warmth on your index finger. Jungkook jumped, startled at your quick action and even you snapped back, surprised at yourself. Why had you done that? A wave of fluster, and you froze, hand hovering in the air, and Jungkook rapidly blinking, cheeks turning bright red. Silence. Couldn’t even say sorry, too stunned at your action to try to double back to apologies. Big brown eyes framed with windswept black locks, something unsaid hanging between you and Jeon Jungkook.

A casual friendship.

Kept at a fixed distance for… reasons.

Well, it had been.

Nobody was stupid, but time and place meant something.

Fast lane, not feeling the cold, racing pulse, lowering your hand, and you could feel it. You knew it was there, but time and place and all those other things.

“Sorry,” you finally said.

Jungkook’s eyes started darting in all directions. “It… It’s okay.”

“It’s kind of not. No one should be touching other people’s tongues without permission,” you pointed out.

He wasn’t really looking at you. “It’s okay… I forgive you.”

“Stop pretending I’m not a bundle of walking problems.”

Now those brown orbs finally scooting back to you.

There was no getting around that.

“That doesn’t mean you’re not a fun problem to have,” Jungkook mumbled softly.

Yeah, especially not after this irresponsible, selfish, childish guy said something like that.

There was a lot of shit you could say, but none of it seemed right. They sounded like excuses, or lame roundabouts, or too much too fast, like getting a whole sleeve of heavily-inked tattoos in a little under two years and a bigass motorbike after passing your motorcycle license exam. They sounded like feebleness in what was pretty clear, and you didn’t believe in saying something that wasn’t the truth.

“Um...”

Jungkook continued staring at you like a lost reindeer even though his nose was quite red.

You decided it was best to give a response. “Yeah?”

“You… You’re not doing anything on Christmas?” he asked.

“Ah, no. Nope, I just get a day off work.”

An extended silence.

You verbally approached very carefully. “You wanna… uh… hang out at my place?”

“Oh…” Man, this conversation sure was something. “I can bring some food and stuff. I can cook.”

“Me too.”

“You… like pork belly, right?”

“Yeah. It’s my favorite.”

Good fuckin’ gracious.

You couldn’t stand it anymore and exasperatedly put your head in your hand. “Just…” You saw Jungkook peering at you, looking worried. You put your hand down, resolving yourself quite quickly. “Okay. Give me your number. I’ll text you the address.” You didn’t think about it too much. Just yanked your phone out of your inner pocket and furiously typed down the numbers that came out of Jungkook’s mouth, your frozen fingers needing to press more than once, but you eventually got there.

After you pressed send, you immediately jerked your head up and looked at those big brown eyes very seriously.

“I… We… What happens, happens,” you finally said.

Jungkook nodded determinedly. “Yeah.”

It was pretty obvious what was going to happen but, then again, there were children around.

Last Christmas you received a gift with a note that said I love you.

This year, you would receive…?

“You think Die Hard is a Christmas film?”

Jungkook shrugged. “Sure?”

The actual movie didn’t really matter. Mostly because you fell asleep on top of him and woke up to a black television screen, wrapped in a fuzzy red velvet blanket, and Jeon Jungkook staring at you in the darkness. You blinked slowly. Could barely make out his face in the faint light of the open window, seeing the shape of his parted lips, the shine of his large eyes, the waves of black hair that cradled his cheeks.

You had animated conversation over dinner, funny stories of Jungkook’s friends and viral videos you had both seen on the internet, so natural it was almost frightening, complete with weird tense moments of silence that you or he pushed along, resolute, knowing how you got here, and yet.

Chills all over despite the warmth under the blanket.

He was not wearing a tacky sweater now. Just a simple black and white plaid flannel and a white t-shirt under, paired with loose black pants. Oversized and cozy to go with your fleece red-and-black checkered long pajamas. He smelled the same as he did the other day. He didn’t bring anything with him but a large glass Tupperware of food and his motorcycle helmet, saying he forgot to leave it by his bike. His heavy black coat was hanging in the hall closet by the front door.

You stared at Jungkook, saying nothing.

Stayed close.

He leaned in.

You closed the distance.

You were pretty sure you had a soul of ice.

Then again, Jungkook had said earlier in the night that he had been told in his fortune that he had too much fire in him, so maybe it canceled out or something.

You wanted to say you had an entire, deep discussion of, is this a good idea, or perhaps even, what is courteous and respectful but also fulfills the personal desires of the very obvious between us, but there was only heavy making out and lip-locking and breathless gasps and your hands around his waist again, warm and solid and present, and you shuddered, breathing him in, pulling him close, pressing your body to his.

Jungkook didn’t waste time.

His hands were on your hips, his wispy moan trailing over your lips.

Oh no. You tried to resist the addictive sensation that demanded to be chased, your lower body rolling into his, feeling was what very real and very apparent, his shaking breath tickling your lower lip and chin, whine shimmering in his throat. He liked it. Pulled you closer, increasing the pressure, your clothed pussy practically riding his clothed dick.

You caught his moaning mouth and felt the electricity of his arousal enter your lungs, your hands tangling into his hair, pulling his head back, first lightly and then when he didn’t relent, harder, tearing a moan from his throat, loud and vicious and pure power of his vocal cords vibrating under your kisses, nipping at his neck and leaving small possessive marks that he encouraged with gasping, don’t stop, don’t stop, please, falling apart in your skillful hands, tracing the crown of his head, his ears, his jaw.

You ran your tongue over his collarbone and then softly trailed back with kisses.

“O-Oh, fuuuuck me…”

That was the idea, yeah.

He was unbuttoning your pajama shirt.

“Wha… Why are you wearing a bra?”

You guessed that was not supposed to sound whiny but then again Jungkook was pouting in frustration.

“I generally wear bras. You know, to hold my tits.”

He puffed his cheeks. “Don’t ladies usually not wear bras at home?”

“I imagine the situation might change if there was a hot man involved.”

An involuntarily shiver travelled all over Jungkook and the only reason you could feel it was because you were basically humping his dick.

“Also, we can’t talk much if you are distracted by my nipples,” you added.

You felt an agile hand creeping around to the back clasp. “What if I want to be distracted by your nipples…?” he trailed off experimentally, giving you a curious, mischievous look.

You raised your eyebrows.

“Sounds like someone belongs on the naughty list.”

He tilted his head, sending dark strands over one eye and his cheek.

“Who’s asking?” he purred, his silvery voice low and deep.

Well, shit.

The man knew how to be sexy.

You raked your fingers through his thick black hair, feeling him tremble under you.

“Leader of the naughty list herself,” you breathed back, leaning in to kiss him again.

While it was true that Jungkook had not come with some last-minute wrapped trinket, he had brought a hard dick and abundant horniness, and that was a pretty good gift in your book. You showed him your boobs and those nipples he was so keen about – well, technically, he showed himself and audibly gasped when your bra tumbled off. You weren’t sure if he was acting or not, but that question was answered too, because he lifted you by the waist and ran his tongue over your cleavage and then started making out with your chest.

“Oh…!”

Your turn to be surprised and you clutched his head, gasping, pushing him to suck, and he didn’t need any more signs, circling his tongue around the hard nab and then his eyelids fluttered, moaning deep in his chest. Hot shivers at the feeling of his warm mouth and gentle insistence, your body pressing into him, matching his rhythm and sound, holding his free hand to your neglected breast while his other hand splayed over your lower back, strong and secure. Your thighs squeezed his waist, feeling his desire melt into yours.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know.

You just didn’t act on it and neither did Jungkook, other than the occasional puppy eyes because he was terrible at lying. He had made a conscious effort to stay securely in the friendzone out of respect. You had appreciated that, really. But then there was that chance meeting, and, even then, you knew he took you to the Festival of Lights just to cheer you up, not to put you in any complex or awkward situation, but, again, he was bad at lying and there was no getting around this very intense attraction between you and Jeon Jungkook.

Hence the current kissing down your stomach and you leaning back, slow cascading moan falling from your lips as you felt his dance around your bellybutton and he pulled down the waistband of your pajama pants, following your hip line.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking sexy…”

Your fingertips grazing the lines of his legs, nails applying dainty pressure that made him quiver under you, his breath hitching as you placed your hands on his thighs and pressed your fingers inward, lifting yourself back up. Leaning down to kiss him again, tasting traces of you on his lips. Slowly peelings his clothes off, tangling him in them just to see his eyebrows knit in frustration, so cute, but you didn’t say, not yet, and then your clothes were in a rumpled pile on the living room floor. You in your panties and him in his boxer briefs, and you straddled his waist, kissing him repeatedly, rubbing your chest into his, feeling him under you.

Hot.

Shivering.

Overwhelmed with sensation, rolling his hips and hard cock into your covered heat.

He liked the feeling of your fingernails running down his chest. You did it once, just to test, and he reached for your hands, pulling them back up, more, and you watched his body writhe and fall apart under your touch, his head tipping back and lifting up his torso to add more pressure, moan hiking when you scratched down his sides and kissed his chest, licking his nipples, traveling to his back, earning a stronger reaction and his fingers sinking into your ass, his erection throbbing in between your thighs that squeezed his tense hips.

“Fuck, oh, fuck…”

You could feel the dampness occurring, both from you and him.

“J… Jungkook…”

You couldn’t stop kissing him, continuously telling yourself last one, but that was ages ago, lips locked and drunk on foreplay, on his body and his sound, vibrant and carnal, a mix of cute and sexy that was practically illegal. Couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop whispering to him how nice he felt, how nice he tasted, careless, absorbed in the strength of his lust.

“C-Can I fuck you…? I brought condoms in my coat, j-just in case…”

“Naughty boy,” you scolded and didn’t mean it, and it was dangerous, so dangerous the way Jungkook desperately moaned as you placed your hand over his damp, pulsing hardness and rubbed him through his underwear, too dangerous with the way he looked at you and gasped, you wanna sit in this naughty boy’s lap?

Thankfully, that was the extent of that.

Also, you didn’t bother going all the way to the hall closet when you had plenty of condoms in your bedroom.

And, yeah, you sat in his lap.

”Oooh, wow, y-you feel soooo fucking good…“

Could have been either of you or both of you saying it. You wouldn’t remember if you thought about it later, because you were too busy rocking your hips and trying to find the correct rhythm again. It was easier than you thought, maybe because of Jungkook’s roaming hands on your thighs, hips, breasts, his fingers pinching your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure across your torso that matched the satisfying fullness deep inside, and, right there, finding the correct depth and forcefulness, chasing it immediately, building the steady pace with the condom wrapper tumbling down your sheets and hitting your knee.

You snatched it and chucked the foil wrapper over the side of your bed.

“Oh!”

“Forget about it, fuck me, Jungkook, fuck me.”

He angled his hips up and you rode him, relentless pleasure and waves of need satisfied by thrusting, clenching around his thick, hard cock, losing yourself in the shocking bliss.

You closed your eyes.

Felt the heat, so intense it sent chills up and down your spine. Couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop, hands on his chest, tense and vibrating under harsh smacks and craving more, your name in Jungkook’s breathless voice addicting. His sound, intoxicating. His body, telling, unable to lie and you could be nothing but be honest, so good, fuck, feels so fucking good, speeding in the fast lane and soaring from the feeling.

There was no doubt that Jungkook was someone special.

You looked down, just for a moment, catching those brown eyes, glassy and fucked-out and watching you like you were everything and more.

I need him.

The thought was so intense and raw that you felt something inside you snap, your breath cutting off, torrential crash and orgasm seizing you by the throat, throwing your head back, your hair sweeping your shoulders, and you came around him, jerking your hips to bury him deeper, oh, fuck, yeees, suspended in the blissful, powerful rush, feeling your liquid honey leak out and down, covering him with it, the scent of sex rising between your bodies.

Jungkook lifted his hips and your body by doing so, his hands strongly grasping your waist, moaning with you, thrusting hard and fast, fucking your through your orgasm and you immediately tumbled into another peak, back-to-back intensity, feverish pitch of your joined voices as he came too, rock-hard and twitching inside your pulsating tightness, holding both of you up by a miracle.

Or sheer lust.

Nice or naughty, right?

For a moment, mute, stunned silence at the shared feeling between you and him.

Sure, it was pretty damn obvious you were going to fuck.

You just didn’t expect it to feel this good and this right.

Down, down, down. Slow, serene, subliminal, the way he sank down and both your gazes left the ceiling, sinking into your sheets, your eyes and his eyes connecting, quiet but an entire conversation humming between your bodies.

“J… Jungkook.”

He was panting hard, sweat glistening on his chest and forehead, his long black hair a mess your pillows. “Y… Yeah?”

“It’s… It’s a bit late…”

Well, actually, you had no idea what time it was.

“Y-Yeah, it kinda is…” he breathed, caressing your hips with his fingertips, relentless energy under you, eyes so big and brown that you could drown in that comforting darkness.

“Can you just…”

A pause, racing hearts beating together.

“Stay?” you asked, tentative and unsure.

Jungkook squeezed your thigh, reassurance in his touch.

“I wanna stay,” he stated, nodding determinedly.

So, he stayed, the start of many Christmases to come.

masterpost

#jungkook x reader #bts smut #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #jeon jungkook smut

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ramcharantitties · 4 months

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Can i get some reassurance from RRR Ram? Your other women fic broke me. Please 🙏😭

HAGSHSJS My late night thoughts are heartbreaking sorry.

Other Woman part 2

You couldn't sleep. It was freezing. The blanket provided no warmth, no matter how many times you wrapped it around your body and cuddled in. It was about to be six, the sunlight gone two hours ago. You wished winter to go away. Why does winter have to come anyways? You wished it would be summer or fall or spring the whole time, the golden Sun always evident and the clouds white and fuzzy. The green trees or brown leaves swaying, and you didn't have to huddle under heaps of clothes to feel a tad bit warm. You sniffled and coughed, feeling dizzy. A flu in winters, it gives you enough body pain. But there was no more pain in your heart. It has been four months since that... incident. You sneezed, blowing in your small towel. There was no one around to get you any tea or soup, to give warmth.

You won't stop shivering, your teeth clattering. You knew you would settle down in a while, but still it was too cold to even peak your finger out.

Neighbours asked when Ram didn't come home for days. It was easy to lie, "it's something confidential, I don't understand his job" and a fake laugh. For the first few weeks, all you did was cry. You'd fall crying when making lunch, you slept late and woke up later, dark circles prominent. You'd start crying as you bathed, warm tears settling on wet lips. You lost your appetite. You haven't opened your gates, or went out in days, only when the milkman arrived. You went out to the market, once, but you didn't want to be there. You felt uneasy and since then, you secluded yourself to your room. How could your own husband do that? But then the fog settled and the cold mist formed around the leaves. It happened because you weren't enough. Because Ram might be an ideal husband, but your selfishness drove him away. It was better to be alone.

There was a numbness in your heart and the cold brought that numbness in your fingers. Ram knew that cold was your biggest enemy. He'd pamper you by getting you all sorts of hot dishes and never let you out of blankets without proper sweaters and socks on. You never, ever had a flu or cold when Ram was here. There was a special blanket he kept above the cupboard that instantly warmed you, but Ram wasn't here anymore. You pulled your blanket up, your only source of warmth.

You weren't sure if you heard the gate creaking. It was locked from inside, so anyone with a key can open it. Since there were only two keys, one with Ram, it must be the cold wind. Even thinking about it made you shiver.

The cold wouldn't go away, but there was nothing you could do. Losing the battle, you surrendered to the only blankets you had over. Until you hear the plastic and zipping noises in the room. You shot straight up, only to see him, opening the plastic cover that held his special blanket.

All the shivering left your body, as you zoomed out of your blankets. You pulled the sweater closer. "What are you doing here?" You kept your distance, hugging yourself closer. Ram left the packet on the bed, his fingers ghosting the cover. He stared at you, up and down. "You've gotten thinner."

Your jaw dropped at his statement. There are things more important right now. "Ramaraju, what are you doing here?" You asked again. Ram physically winced at his full name being taken, especially by you. Ram continued unzipping the blanket, and pulled the heavy cloth out. You stared at him in disbelief. A cheater can't come home and act like nothing happened.

"Y/n I came to get you back. It took me two months to realise that I made a mistake. That the woman I loved will always be the one for me and I should have been there, fighting those wrong feelings and protecting you like a good husband instead of giving in to the immoral desires."

Ram's voice was heavier, and it broke. He was trying hard to not cry. Ram opened the blanket up and spread it over the blankets on the bed. "I know you are upset and want me to leave, but you seem sick and weak. So I'm not leaving until you get better" Ram finally looked in your eyes.

They were, aloof of any emotions. Your face showed confusion and disappointment, but your eyes, they didn't have anything. Absolutely blank. It was a new sight for Ram. Even when he left, those teary eyes had an emotion of betrayal and hatred. That was still better than, this. He firmly believed that eyes are the soul of the window, and this looked like the house that used to be lit by candles was now burnt and left in a handful of ashes. Ram wasn't considerable when he committed the sin but even if it costs him his own happiness, he will make sure to not let you lose yours. He knew you had a fragile heart, no matter how strong you were. He had to do something.

"I don't need you anymore" you spat it. It was a plain statement with, again, no emotions. "I know" he said. He packed the empty cover and put it on top of the cupboard. "And I know I don't deserve a chance, after cheating in a marriage. But this is still my house and you're still my wife-" "what?"

You couldn't fathom what he said.

"Still your wife? Ram you cheated on me! You lied to me about everything then you suddenly showed up and said you want to take care of me and I'm your wife? By what sense? I should have given you divorce by now!" You breathed heavily, the scratchiness in your throat audible in your voice.

Ram stared in your eyes. Still nothing.

"Why would you divorce me? I finally came to apologise and you want to divorce me? I know I made a mistake but that doesn't change the fact that we are married and we are going to be together now. You are my wife. How is that not making sense?" There was a change in your eyes. Ram breathed, whatever works.

"Stop, just stop talking." You put your hand up, sitting on the bed. Ram moved closer to you. "Are you doing a favour apologising? I have all the rights to leave you for what you did and you ask me why I divorce you? We are lawfully wedded, and that's it. And who are you to say that we are going to be together or not? You leave by your choice and you randomly saunter in one day saying you're my husband? I have no feelings or any connections towards you or that word!" You coughed heavily, bending over, in the pallu of your saree. You could see Ram staring from the corner of your eyes.

Letting it all out was difficult, especially when you said the last line out loud. You thought you didn't, but there was still a hope and betrayal growing in your heart since he came back. He's asserting his place in your life, which is wrong, but if he actually decides to have common sense and apologize, maybe you'll give it a chance. The Ram you remembered was smarter than this, this Ram looks like he's forcing you to say things you don't even want to.

Ram saw a wave of emotions in your eyes when they glossed over. And the fact that this was his first time seeing you so sick, even if it was just a flu. But when you said the last line, his heart broke. He accepted his fate, but that didn't mean he will leave you hurt. He wanted you to feel something, anything against him, so you're not left with such a clean slate, even if he has to leave.

Ram bent down in front of you, his hands, hesitantly on your shins. There were dark circles under your eyes and your body hair stood in the cold. He wished to wrap the blanket around you but he hadn't reached there yet. You looked at him, finally. His beard grew and his hair was tied. He was not wearing his own kurta pajama, you could tell. But you looked away before you could melt. Ram had to make you realise it wasn't your fault, and he is the reason for all your devoid of emotions.

"Y/n, I don't think what I did is enough for you to forgive. I don't ask you to either, and I don't mean to force myself here and make you uncomfortable." You looked at him, "but just let me take care of you. I don't force you to talk to me or take me back. I'll be quiet. I'll do everything you wish, and I'll leave if you want me to. I thought that woman was infutiating, but it was all just a lie. I don't understand why I fell, but I blame it on me. That I was a feeble man. Because it was never you, y/n, and I know that, when I realised that you were the only one I ever loved and wanted to take care of. When I saw you in the market it was three months ago and you looked so weak, then I never saw you again. I left her two months ago and I didn't know if I should even come here or not, I stayed with a friend till now. I was scared of coming here to you, where I was once happy and excited to be. That's when I realised I needed to mend things up. It was unsettling that I was scared everyday after I saw you in the market that something had happened to you." Ram licked his lips. You sighed. Your head hurts and you don't want to listen or think about anything. Ram saw the slump in your shoulders, the tired, drained eyes. He has done that to you.

"Do you want some soup?" You looked at him expectantly. You loved when Ram made soup, it was tasty, but soothing that it didn't hurt your throat. The flavours rushed in on your tongue. "Does that mean I'd forgive you?" The question caught Ram off guard. Would it? He shook his head in no. She shook hers in yes.

Ram carefully tucked you in the spread of blankets, despite your attempts to do it yourself. You knew not to settle back in habits. On the other hand, Ram was astonished by the pantry in the kitchen. It was as if nobody lived there now. A few eggs, milk, bread and just some old vegetables. There were missing spices and condiments. Ram remembered that you wanted all sorts of fancy ingredients, so this was a surprise. It was about 15 minutes later when Ram came with a bowl and spoon. You were finally warm and toasty in the blanket and with your favourite soup, when he placed it on your lap, and grabbed the spoon to feed you. You wordlessly stopped him, taking the spoon back from him. Ram sat in silence as you quietly ate your soup, sniffling.

"Are you taking any medicine?" Ram asked, getting up from the bed and heading to the drawer before you could answer. He pulled the box out to see that there was no paracetamol in there, but the box with pain killers was empty. He knew better not to ask anything. Ram came back to see the soup halfway finished. "Why was the first thing you did when you came here was to get the blanket?" You didn't want an answer, even you were not sure why you asked that.

"I knocked and called out your name but you didn't respond. I thought I was too late so I came in, I was panicking. You were under the blankets, you were shivering, and that blanket is the only one that helps. I'm sorry if I scared you." Ram looked down, you didn't say anything.

He left to get a packet of paracetamol and cough syrup for you. After a long time, Ram felt good. He missed doing things for you, getting scolded by you. The love that seeped from your anger and when you ask him to do something. When you ask him things randomly and he replies gently, when you make him do chores you could have done and when he gets to take care of you or make you happy and content. Ram missed it. He returned with a smile on his face, carefully opening the gate and coming to the warmth of that house.

You were fast asleep, slightly snoring under the comfortable blankets. Your hair was a mess, but you were taking a rest so carelessly after a long time, that you didn't care if Ram came back or not, but you were sure that he would. That he finally returned. It was to be decided later that you would forgive him, or pester him like he did to you.

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S/n: I'm. I literally PUKED all the fantasies I've had of after break up scenarios like. This was so fun to write thank you so much anon.

Tagging: @chaanv @ramayantika @vijayasena @phoenix666stuff @yehsahihai @nerdreader

#ghungru #ram charan #rrr #rrr movie #desi tag #fanfic #ram x reader #ram x wife!reader #rambheem #rrr tarak charan

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