#their “I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.”; ��You were a wonderful experience. You were everything.” etc etc

[a-compass-without-a-needle]

This is what happened after 3.1 isn't it?

[imaginesfordifferentfandoms]

In Another Life

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Prompt - ‘In another life, I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.’

Bucky Barnes was nothing if not a man who felt too much. He’d fight fiercely for those he loved, he’d make an idiot of himself to get the attention of the woman he loved. He let himself get knocked around if it meant he could catch a glimpse of her scowl that he’d always manage to turn into a smile.

“Seriously, Barnes?” You groan as you walk into the medical tent, seeing the familiar sight of James Barnes on one of your beds.

“It wasn’t my fault this time!” He lied, watching as you shook your head but there was a fondness to it.

Bucky could read you like his most favourite book at this point. You’d been appointed to 107th to join their medical team and it didn’t take long to capture the attention of the Sergeant. He had fallen for you in that first meeting, watching you boss around men twice the size of you, putting them into place without fear, putting him in his place when he tried to play off a pair of broken ribs as nothing.

Since then Bucky had done anything to be around you, he’d had his nose nearly broken, he’d fractured his wrist, he’d faked more stomach bugs than he could count. You didn’t buy any of them, you never did and yet you still let him take up one of the beds in the medical tent for hours on end. 

“We both know that’s bullshit.” You called him out and he didn’t even try and look guilty anymore, instead he shot you a bright grin and shrugged in a what can you do way causing you to roll your eyes though there was no heat in the gesture. “What is it this time?”

His smile widened impossibly as he lifted his shirt up, noticing the way your eyes took in the sight appreciatively before they widened at the cut across his torso, a blood soaked rag falling down as he lifted his shirt.

“You’re a real piece of work, Barnes, you know that?” You asked, starting to gather your supplies before sitting next to Bucky, the grin still firmly in place, slightly more smug now that he’d seen you take him in.

“Don’t deny it, doll, you love me patching me up.” Bucky said confidently, knowing that you could have demanded one of the other nurses deal with him if you really didn’t like him.

“There’s better ways to get my attention, no need to go get yourself all cut up on my behalf.” You told him, watching as his eyes widened slightly and a smirk pulled at his lips. “Ready?” 

“For you, doll, always.” He smirked and you groaned again causing him to laugh, though it was quickly silenced as you pushed the needle through his skin, slowly patching up the wound and letting Bucky fill the silence, fighting back a blush as he spoke.

“There’s my most favourite nurse!” Bucky called as he stumbled into the med tent, leaning heavily against another soldier, his skin pale and sweaty.

“What happened?” You ask straight away, gesturing for the soldier to put Bucky on the bed closest to you as you get to watch stripping the uniform of the man and frowning at the amount of blood pouring from two wounds on his stomach.

“He got shot, ma’am.” The soldier answered and your frown deepened, looking up at Bucky who’s eyes were half lidded but he was still grinning at you, apparently no injury was bad enough to wipe that damn grin off his face.

“‘M fine, Y/N.” He tried to assure you, seeing the frown between your eyebrows deepen and you could help but let out a soft huff of laughter, moving to get some needles, tweezers, gauze, pads and everything else you need.

“Told you there’s better ways to get my attention, didn’t mean go and get yourself shot, Buck.” You say softly, sitting next to him and cleaning the blood, checking him over and seeing both wounds were clean through, good no need to go digging for bullets.

“Shit, doll, you’re calling me by name. My dying?” He asked, slurring the words out and your heart ached at the slight tremor in his voice.

“Come on, it’s me we're talking about. You really think I'm about to let you die?” You ask him, forcing a smile onto your face and looking up at him assuringly before focusing on the worst of the two wounds.

“Better not let me die, Y/N/N, gotta take my girl out on a date.” He breathed out, looking at you so softly, groaning when you pressed down on his wound. “Fuck, doll.”

“Your girl, huh?” You shushed him softly, keeping him talking, needing him to stay alert for your own sanity more than anything.

You took a deep breath, knowing you needed to stay calm in order to make sure Bucky got through this, to make sure he didn’t lose any more blood than he had. You needed to push aside your feelings aside and focus on the patient.

Even if that patient was Bucky Barnes.

“Best girl around.” Bucky slurred out, a choked laugh escaping him and you let yourself smile. “Fixes me up all the damn time, even though she knows I’m an idiot.”

“You certainly are an idiot.” You agree easily, watching as he glares at you, a dazed smile still firmly in place. 

You had cleaned the wound well enough that the blood had stopped pouring from it and focused on patching it up, keeping Bucky talking the whole time, even as he winced and flinched, his eyes falling shut.

You were fine so long as he kept talking.

The second gunshot wound was much easier to patch up, you had it cleaned and packed quickly and once they were both dealt with you sat back heavily, looking at Bucky’s face, watching as he forced his eyes open and looked at you drained.

“All done, doll?” He asked, voice thick with tiredness and you smiled softly at him, eyes stinging slightly as you swallowed around the lump in your throat.

“All done, soldier. Get some rest.” You told him, your own voice thick with emotion and you stood up, needing a minute to yourself, eyes watering but a hand on your wrist stopped you from leaving.

“Stay, doll?” Bucky asked softly and you couldn’t bring yourself to say no, a single tear slipping down your cheek as you turned around and sat back down, Bucky forcing his heavy eyes open and frowning at you. “M’alright.”

You nodded, you knew he was, you were the one to patch him up and yet you felt like you couldn’t catch your breath now that you were done. Bucky practically lived in the med tent, you were used to him being hurt, used to fixing up his many injuries. This one was different though, this one was serious.

You’d never really had Bucky in your med bay because he needed saving. There were so many factors that could have changed the outcome, if the gunshots had caught Bucky a bit to the right it could have caused damage you couldn’t have fixed, if it had taken them any longer to get Bucky to you he could have lost too much blood. It was the first time you’d had Bucky in serious danger.

It’s not like you were stupid, you knew who he was, what his job was but when it was just the two of you it was easy to forget there was a war going on outside, easy to forget that seriousness of his job. 

“You’re alright.” You breathed out, another few tears making their way down your cheek and Bucky reached down, threading his fingers with yours and bringing them up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand, his eyes closed. “Sleep, Buck.”

Bucky nodded, following the command easily.

After that day you let yourself give into Bucky’s flirting, giving it back just as quickly as he gave it, realising it could all be snatched from you all too soon.

It was a few weeks later, you and Bucky had practically been inseparable. All his free time had been spent with you in the med bay and he savoured each moment he got with you, his little piece of heaven during the war.

You frowned as you walked towards the med bay, hearing one of the nurses raise her voice. It wasn’t entirely uncommon, most of the soldiers looked down at a woman doing a job, sometimes it was called for but when you stepped closer your eyes widened when you heard Bucky.

“Sergeant Barnes-” The nurse tried again but Bucky cut her off.

“No! I want Y/N.” Bucky demanded, like the med tent was the sort of place to be making demands. 

You rolled your eyes stepping into the tent, Bucky not noticing you but the nurse's face filled with relief as she saw you before glaring at Bucky.

“You know,” You say, causing Bucky’s head to snap over to you, your eyes immediately going to the trail of blood falling from his temple. “When your head’s bleeding, people usually aren’t picky about what nurse they have.”

“What can I say? I have my favourite nurse, no point ending up in this place if I don’t get to see my girl.” Bucky grinned at you and you rolled your eyes though there was a fondness you couldn’t deny and you nodded at the other nurse, taking over.

“What happened this time?” You asked, holding a damp rag against the wound.

“Cut my head jumping out of the way of a bullet.” Bucky told you and you sighed, pulling the rag away and seeing the blood had already begun to slow. “Hey, when are you finally gonna let me take you out?”

Bucky had been asking you out ever since he got shot and each time you never gave him a real answer because how could you? There was a war happening, even with his free time he couldn’t just leave to go on a date with you.

“Come find me when you’ve won the war.” You finally told him, watching a blinding grin spread across his face, eyes lighting up as he nodded.

“Doll, I’m gonna marry you once the war’s won.” He swore and the way he said it, you had no choice but to believe he would, you weren’t complaining, the rest of your life with Bucky Barnes seemed like a pretty good life.

“You promise?” You grin back at him, the man unable to help himself, pulling you closer to stand between his legs and closing the distance between you, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your face up to his, his gaze intense, before his lips claimed yours in a fierce, passionate kiss full of promise of a future. You couldn’t help but gasp at the sudden intensity, your hands clutching at his shirt. The world around you faded away as you both lost yourselves in each other, the kiss leaving you both breathless.

“I promise. I’m gonna marry you when this is all over.” He promised and rested his forehead against yours. “On my life, we’re gonna spend the rest of our lives together.”

You hear the tent open and turn around from where you stood sorting through your supplies, rolling your eyes but not stopping the grin that spreads across your face.

“Here comes trouble.” You say to yourself, loud enough for Bucky to hear and he just grins back at you, sitting himself on the closest bed to you. “What is it this time then?”

“Oh nurse Y/N, you gotta help me.” Bucky groans, clutching his heart. “My heart is hurting so bad, think I’m having withdrawals from seeing my best girl, think you gotta cure for that?”

“You’re an idiot.” You laughed at him, swatting him with a rag before going back to organising your supplies, knowing the men were heading into another battle and you’d need everything ready for when they came back.

“Come on, doll.” He pouted dramatically over at you, jumping from the bed and turning you to face him. “A kiss for good luck?”

You rolled your eyes again, something you did a lot in the presence of James Barnes but couldn’t help but smile up at him. Bucky smiled down at you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek in his hand, delicately running his thumb across your cheek bone before he guided you up to him, meeting you halfway and then his lips found yours, gently at first. Slowly, he deepened the kiss, becoming more passionate as he pulled you impossibly closer, his other hand moving to the small of your back and you couldn’t help but melt into him, arms wrapping around his neck, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

“Come back to me, soldier.” You told him when the two of you finally pulled away, foreheads resting against each other.

“I got promises to keep, doll, course I’m coming back.” He said, watching as you blushed at the reminder of his promises.

Bucky stole another handful of kisses before one of the men came in, telling him he had to leave.

“See you soon, gorgeous.” He grinned, pressing one more breathtaking kiss to your lips before running out of the med tent and you sat on one of the beds, watching the spot where he had stood, smiling like a fool in love but you couldn’t deny that’s what you were.

Too much time passed, not enough information was given. You paced holes in the med tent floor, he should be back by now. Something was wrong, there were whispers but nobody would tell you anything, everything was on a need to know basis and it was driving you mad.

It had been well over a week since Bucky left and the ache in your chest grew as more and more days passed without a single word.

When the med bay tent opened your head shot round, there were dark circles under your eyes, your hair was a mess from the amount of times you’d ran your hands through it. You shook your head when you saw the commanding officer step into your tent.

“Don't.” You said firmly, eyes already filling with tears and the man frowned, a grim look on his face.

“Nurse Y/LN,” He started and you shook your head, “I regret to inform you that Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes is missing in action and after our best efforts to identify the location of him and the 107th, we believe he has died in the line of duty. I know this must be difficult news to hear, but please know that you have the full support of the military and all available resources to assist you during this difficult time." 

You felt your legs give out, hitting the floor and sobs wracked your body, the choking feeling you got seeing Bucky shot coming back in full force, head shaking as you pleaded with any god that would listen to bring him back.

The commanding officer left, leaving you a sobbing mess on the floor. 

“He promised.” You choked out to nobody. “He was meant to marry me.” 

You stayed there for a long while, crying for hours for the loss of what could have been. It would have been amazing, a lifetime with James Barnes and now, now you had to miss him for longer than you had known him.

Maybe in another life he came back to you, maybe in another life the war was won and he came back to you, swept you up in his arms and kept every promise he ever made. Maybe in another life, you had lazy mornings in bed, in another life you did the mundane stuff like taxes and laundry together.

Maybe in another life you had more time.

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[hoonven]

❛❛in another life, i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.❞

2.6K ⸺ in another life, you and jaeyun are the lovers who made it, but not in this one

‎PAIRING! singer!sim jaeyun x model!female reader

GENRES! fluff, angst, lovers to exes trope, a little comedy to lighten the mood? everything everywhere all at once au

WARNINGS! mention of a cigarette but no smoking, and a brief mention of food

The rooftop of an exclusive SoHo venue buzzed with subdued chaos. Neon lights flickered in the distance, the city sprawling out like an endless circuit board of dreams and despair. The East River shimmered, black and silver, winding its way through the arteries of the city, holding the secrets of its inhabitants.

You stood near the edge, cigarette in hand. You didn’t smoke—it was more of a prop, something to hold onto when your hands trembled. You gazed over the city, your reflection caught in the mirrored panels of the building behind you. You were radiant, of course. A goddess in Dior, the tabloids had called you earlier that evening. The faint hum of house music from the party below barely registered in your ears.

“Did you ever think you’d make it here?” a voice breaks through the haze, quiet but unmistakable.

You turned, and your heart felt like it stopped—like it was too ashamed to beat in his presence.

Jaeyun.

He looked just as you remembered, only a little older now. His physique had grown taller and more lean, wearing a sleek black suit. His jet-black hair is styled neatly, with strands softly framing his face, the kind of face that made people believe in angels. There was a melancholic look in his eyes that you don’t remember him carrying before, like he was grieving a love he would never have.

“Jaeyun,” you said, his name catching in your throat like a foreign word.

“It’s been a while,” he said, stepping closer. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with the cool night air. “But you’re still as pretty as I remember.”

You tear your eyes away from him, gazing back out into the glittering city to shield the sudden rush of emotion flooding your chest. “Thanks, I get paid for it.”

Jaeyun laughed softly, the sound as bittersweet as the night. “Still as cold too.”

You flinched but masked it with a sharp inhale. “You look like you’re doing well for yourself.” You gestured vaguely at him, the world-famous singer, the headliner of a sold-out tour, standing before you as if you were still the same two teens who once shared takeout on a dingy apartment floor.

“I am,” Jaeyun said. “And so are you. Look at you, Y/N. You're everything you said you’d be.”

You swallowed hard. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Nah,” Jaeyun said with a shake of his head, his voice dipping low. “But you made it look like it was.”

You both stood in silence for a moment, the city filling the gaps between. The hum of distant sirens. A honk from a cab far below. The ghosts of memories neither of you dared to say aloud.

“You seem happy,” you said, finally breaking the tension.

“I sing songs about heartbreak for a living,” Jaeyun replied, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s lucrative.”

“Jaeyun…”

“Was it worth it?” he interrupted, his voice cutting through you like a blade.

You looked up sharply, meeting his gaze. The question echoing in the void of your chest—there was no heart inside there.

There was no kindness or gentleness inside you to offer Jaeyun, because you’re mean, and awful, and selfish. But that’s the only way you know how to survive. Poor you, the girl who spent her life surviving.

“I don’t know,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. But for a moment you wondered, and you imagine that in another life you had a better answer.

In another life, in a cozy bookstore on a rainy afternoon, Jaeyun crouched on the floor, flipping through an old songbook. You were perched on a ladder nearby, your fingers trailing over the spines of novels.

“Jaeyun,” you said suddenly, holding up a book with a faded red cover, “this one’s about us. A rockstar and a model who run away to start a goat farm.”

Jaeyun smirked, tilting his head to look at you. “How does it end?”

“Tragically,” you teased.

“Well, good thing we’re writing our own story,” he replied, grinning as he reached up to pull you into his lap.

In another life, you stood at a train station, your suitcase at your feet. Jaeyun was on the other side of the glass, his hand pressed against it, a futile barrier between you.

“I’ll call you,” you mouthed, tears streaming down your face.

“You won’t,” he mouthed back, his expression breaking.

The train’s whistle screamed, and you stepped back. The glass fogged with your breath as you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

In another life, on a sunny afternoon at the park. You lay on a picnic blanket, your head in Jaeyun’s lap. He strummed his guitar lazily, singing a melody just for you.

“Write that down,” you said, pointing at his notepad.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the best thing you’ve ever written.”

Jaeyun smirked, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “That’s because it’s about you.”

In another life, at sunset, you stood on a beach, toes buried in the cool sand. You leaned into Jaeyun, his arm draped around your shoulders as you watched the waves crash.

Neither of you spoke, but the silence was filled with a peaceful understanding. The world was vast, and yet you had found each other.

In another life, Jaeyun sped down a dirt trail on a tandem bike, with you laughing uncontrollably behind him.

“Jaeyun!” you screamed, clutching his waist.

“Never back down, never what?!” he yelled back, pedaling harder.

“Never give up!”

The bike hit a bump, sending you both flying into a pile of leaves. You sat up, covered in twigs, and burst into laughter.

In another life, in a cramped one-bedroom apartment, you both sat on the floor surrounded by stacks of unpaid bills. Jaeyun’s hands tugged through his hair as you nervously chewed on your lip.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you said, voice shaking.

“I know,” Jaeyun replied, his voice heavy with frustration. “I’ll figure it out. I promise.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “We’ll figure it out.”

In another life, on a rooftop in Paris, Jaeyun pulled out a small velvet box and knelt in front of you. Your breath hitched as he opened it to reveal a ring.

“Marry me,” he said, his voice trembling but his eyes steady.

Your hands flew to your mouth as tears spilled over. “Yes,” you whispered, and when he slid the ring onto your finger, he kissed you like the world was ending.

In another life, the cramped kitchen smelled of garlic and tomato sauce as you stirred the pot, humming along to the music blaring from the tiny speaker. Jaeyun stood next to you, dramatically rapping Eminem’s verse, waving a wooden spoon like a mic.

“His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy—”

“—There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti!” you chimed in, voice cracking from laughter.

Jaeyun struck a pose, pretending to look “calm and ready,” while you dissolved into giggles, nearly spilling the sauce.

“Careful, or our spaghetti’s gonna end up on the floor,” Jaeyun teased, stealing a quick kiss on your cheek before turning back to the pasta.

“Focus, Slim Shady,” you shot back, grinning as you twirled noodles onto a plate.

In another life, under an arch of twinkling lights, you and Jaeyun stood hand in hand, surrounded by family and friends.

“You may now kiss the bride,” the officiant announced.

Jaeyun dipped you dramatically, eliciting cheers and laughter from the crowd, before kissing you like you were the only two people in the world. When you broke apart, you whispered, “I love you.”

Jaeyun smiled. “I love you more.”

In another life, Jaeyun squatted in front of the washing machine, phone in hand, while you leaned over his shoulder, scrolling through a YouTube tutorial.

“Wait, so we’re not supposed to mix whites and colors?” Jaeyun asked, glancing at the rainbow heap he’d already shoved in.

You frowned. “Apparently not… and why is there, like, five kinds of detergent? Which one do we even use?”

The video continued to play, but neither of you seemed to understand a word. Jaeyun sighed, tossing the phone onto the counter. “Let’s just wing it.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s how we turned your white shirt pink last time.”

“Only Riki and Hoon would crash out over that,” Jaeyun said with a shrug, pressing the start button anyway.

In another life, the dining table was covered in papers, receipts, and a laptop that was dangerously close to overheating. You sat with your head in your hands, glaring at a spreadsheet that refused to balance. Jaeyun was on the other side of the table, furiously tapping on a calculator.

“This makes no sense,” you groaned, shoving a pile of receipts toward him. “How do I owe this much when I’ve already paid so much in quarterly taxes?”

Jaeyun glanced up, his hair sticking out in all directions from running his hands through it. “I don’t know, Y/N. I’m not an accountant. I’m just a guy who thought splitting fries was complicated.”

You let out a frustrated laugh. “Whoever came up with taxes was just a hater.”

“Aren’t you a self-proclaimed hater, though?” Jaeyun raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but I'm just a girl.” you deadpanned, gesturing to yourself.

Jaeyun snorted, then sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Okay, new plan. We take a break, grab some coffee, and call an accountant tomorrow. We clearly have no idea what we’re doing.”

You nodded, rubbing your temples. “Fine. But if we get audited, you’re the one explaining why our expense report has coffee runs listed as ‘essential creative fuel.’”

Jaeyun grinned despite the mess. “Deal.”

In another life, the apartment was suffocating with tension. Jaeyun stood by the window, his hands clenched at his sides, while you stood across the living room.

You were both shouting, your words overlapping in a chaotic mess.

“—You never see my perspective—”

“—You always think you’re right—”

“—Stop talking over me—”

“—You’re talking over me too—”

The room buzzed with both voices, neither willing to stop, neither willing to hear.

Finally, your voice cut through. “You know what? Fuck this! I'm done!”

You grabbed your coat, your movements quick and jerky as you stormed to the door.

“I can’t do this right now,” you said, voice cold and distant.

“Y/N—” Jaeyun started, his voice softening, but you didn’t turn back.

The door slammed behind you, the sound echoing through the apartment. Jaeyun sank into the couch, his head falling into his hands as the weight of the argument crashed over him. For a long time, he didn’t move, the quiet of the empty room pressing down on him like a storm cloud.

In another life, in a brightly lit hospital room, Jaeyun cradled your newborn daughter against his chest, his eyes glassy with tears.

“She has your nose,” he said softly, sitting beside you, who was propped up on the hospital bed, exhausted but glowing.

“And your eyes,” you replied with a tired laugh.

Jaeyun leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Each moment captured a glimpse of your love across universes, a kaleidoscope of experiences that are as fleeting as they are eternal.

Jaeyun nodded, as if he'd been expecting that answer. “Yeah, I get it. Can't be too vulnerable right?” he said, his voice soft but steady. “But I’m not like you. You always said I was too nice for my own good. That I’d let the world eat me alive if you weren’t there to save me.”

Your throat tightened. You looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

“But my kindness,” Jaeyun continued, “doesn't make me weak. It's how I fight. In a world this cruel, it’s the only way I know how to survive. And I knew, even then, that I could’ve been the one to leave. Could’ve been the one to hurt you first. But I didn’t want that.” He took a step closer, his voice quieter now. “I wanted to make sure I was the one who got hurt. So you could keep fighting in your own way.”

You closed your eyes, but the tears still pricked at the edges. The weight of his words, of your shared past, of everything unsaid—it was unbearable.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice gentler now, “You’re not a bad person. You're just trying to protect yourself.”

You opened your eyes, and for a moment, it felt like the city fell away. Just the two of you, suspended in the quiet ache of what could’ve been.

“You know,” Jaeyun said, a faint, longing smile curling his lips, “in another life, I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.”

The words struck you like a blow, a montage of moments in this life—of what could've been in this universe, flashing before your eyes—walking hand in hand down quiet streets, mornings spent tangled in sheets, laughing over burnt toast, folding laundry in the dim light of a shared apartment.

And then Jaeyun stepped back. The moment shattered like glass.

He smiled at you one last time, a quiet, knowing smile, and then turned, walking away into the neon haze of the party below.

You stood frozen, your heart aching as you watched him disappear. The city continued to hum around you, oblivious to the pieces of your heart scattering like ash into the night.

You were heartless now, just like you always wanted.

In the reflection of the glass, you saw yourself—the goddess in Dior—and felt the crushing weight of everything you had fought for.

It wasn’t enough.

In another life, you and Jaeyun are in a dimly lit laundromat, late at night. The hum of the washing machines fills the air, punctuated by the occasional beep of a dryer finishing its cycle. You sit side by side on a cracked plastic bench, both staring at the spinning drum of a washer in front of you. A basket of unfolded clothes sits between you.

You break the silence.

“I always thought my life would be bigger than this.”

Jaeyun glances at you, but you keep your gaze fixed on the washing machine. “Bigger than doing laundry?”

You let out a dry laugh, finally turning to look at him. “Yeah. You know, I wanted the world. Lights, stages, all eyes on me.”

Jaeyun nods, he’s heard you say this before, but this time, there’s something heavier in your voice. “You could still have it.”

You lean back against the cold wall, tilting your head toward him. “Could I? I feel like I've spent so much time running toward something I don't even recognize anymore. And now I'm here. Folding clothes and splitting bills. With you.”

Jaeyun looks down at his hands, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. He takes a deep breath, the words hanging heavy in his chest. “Y/N, do you ever think… maybe this is enough? That maybe this—” he gestures to the laundromat, the mundane surroundings “—isn’t just some filler episode of our lives?”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Laundry and taxes? That’s your big dream?”

Jaeyun's lips twitch into a sad smile. “Not just laundry and taxes. Laundry and taxes with you.”

The weight of his words sink in, softening your teasing smile. Your eyes search his face for a moment, as if seeing him for the first time. “Jaeyun, I—“

“I know. You’re not ready to stop running, and I’ll never stop cheering for you. But if there’s a version of us out there, in another life, where we don’t need the lights and the noise—where we’re just… us—I think I’d like that.”

The washer buzzes, startling you both. You blink rapidly, caught between the spinning thoughts in your mind and the sudden, jarring noise. You swallow, picking up a shirt from the basket and holding it in your lap. “In another life, huh?”

Jaeyun nods, leaning back against the wall with a wistful smile. “In every life.”

You don’t say anything, but your hand brushes against his as you both sit in silence, and the hum of the machines continues.

© 2024 hoonven, all rights reserved. i do not give permission to modify, repost, translate, or plagiarize my works on any platform. NETWORK! @kstrucknet

[beauregardlionett]

there is something about "may i simply hold you" there is something about "and if it were up to me, there would be no responsibilities" that hits the same way as "in another life, I think I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you"

[starreyblueberry]

Everything everywhere all at once "in another universe i would have really liked doing laundry and taxes with you" but instead its Cosmo and Wanda saying to Timmy "In another Universe I would have really liked tucking you in bed and watching you grow up.” Or Timmy saying “In another universe I would have liked going on road-trips and staying with you guys forever.”

There’s an inherent tradagy to being immortal all being fairies, and yet not being able to talk to your child/brother ever again. There’s a heartbreak within not knowing why you were always so miserable all you’re life and not knowing what that missing spark is, there’s something so. Distasteful knowing that Timmy is just a human, and that Cosmo and Wanda will outlive him for Eons at end. That they will watch the ends of the universe and think about Timmy, and their family. How sometimes, Peri would confess to his parents that he wish Timmy was a fairy. How he wished that Timmy had little bug wings and a crown just like them, that way he never had to leave, (sometimes Timmy wishes that too) and if you looked deep- deep into Cosmo and Wanda’s mind, you can find small daydreams on what if Cosmo and Wanda were human, and they took Timmy in as their own son. What if they all could stay together forever, what if reality didn’t give them all horrible cards, and they could actually stay forever!

But these are just fantasy’s, wishes that not even the Gods would dare grant. Which is why it’s only possible, that in another universe, fate would be less cruel to all of them, and they could actually be a family. They wouldn’t have to look at the clock ticking, have to have a looming ainxety every birthday, they could all just experience life together. Not in this world though, not in this universe. Oh well, at least they did the best with what they can do!

[chronically-ghosted]

in another life . . .

rating: explicit, 18+

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 7K

summary: Partner. That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. And then he met you and the definition changed again.

warnings: domestic!frankie, marriage kink (if that’s a thing), oral (f receiving) but i think that’s an expectation from every frankie fic, improper use of a kitchen table, unprotected piv, no use of y/n, brief mentions of PTSD, improper use of Spanish, eating in bed 

a/n: requested for my 100 followers event! Anon: hiiii firstly! congrats on the big one hundo you totally deserve it 🥂‼️ secondly wondering if I could rq a Pedro boy drabble with prompt number 12... I wanna do laundry for Frankie Morales :D “did you just wash these sheets?” “I did.” “they smell nice. and they’re still warm.”

🤍Masterlist

. . . I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.

Frankie fills the silence of the house without you in it with music. This house, it had been your choice, even though he never expressly made you choose, or even presented the dichotomy. This house, with its leaky faucet and janky AC unit and finicky pilot light, was what you wanted instead of a diamond ring, and so he gave it to you. First down payment, along with every other red cent you and he had both saved up, went into buying your first home together. This wasn’t forever, you both agreed (with only two bedrooms it wasn’t enough room for a baby, he often thought) but even as the real estate agent glanced around with disdain for the house and your budget, one look from you and it was settled. 

“It has good bones,” you said, standing out on the concrete deck overlooking a postage-stamp-sized backyard. There were weeds in the corners and holes from some unknown animal but he could see the wheels in your head turning, imagining how you, like everything else you did, planned to tackle and wrestle control over it with your bare hands. “It needs work, but I think there’s something special here.” 

“Yeah?” he asked, threading his fingers through yours, the real estate agent no doubt off somewhere inspecting the drains. “Is there something here?”

You grinned and shoved your nose then a soft press of your lips into his denim-shoulder. 

“I’m sure of it.”

All his life, Frankie worked best in a unit. As children, his older brother, his younger brother, and him were practically inseparable, their physical similarities almost presenting as the same person but at different ages, and when that group disbanded because Oscar left for college, he went on to find another one. First, his army unit, then the boys. His boys. Left to his own devices, Frankie was terrible at remembering to eat, sleep regularly – focus on anything other than fixing cars and planes, really – but he’d do it for them. He hated to see that worried crease show up on Will’s brow when Frankie admitted he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hated that Benny had to show up at his apartment to drag his ass outta bed to get him into the sunlight. And he hated when Pope felt obligated to take him out to bars to try and meet women.

“I’m not dating someone just so they can be my mother,” Frankie muttered into the lip of his beer bottle. “I don’t need anyone thinking I need to rely on them like that.” 

“Yeah, but you do better when you have people relying on you.” Pope’s dark eyes flitted from a woman at the bar top to him, with intention and full of force. “And I’m not saying I’m trying to get you to fuck your mother, but you need a partner.” 

Partner. 

That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. 

And then he met you and the definition changed again. 

You are his best friend. You are the woman he wants to fuck every day for the rest of his life. You are the first person he wants to tell good news to and the first person he wants to talk to when he’s had a shitty day. Your voice quiets something inside him that has been far too loud for far too long. You are a relief and a refuge. For all his faults, you love him and sometimes he can’t fathom why. 

You are his partner – in life, in marriage (one day), and forever (he hopes).

“I might not always like you, Catfish,” you said to him in Will’s backyard for Benny’s birthday party. You had been drinking and every sip seems to bring you closer and closer to him. With your face tucked up into his neck, arms up under his flannel and hugging his waist, the only way he could be physically closer to you was if he was inside you – which he was about two seconds away from suggestion when you leaned in close. “‘M not always going to like you, but ‘m always going love you.”

And love him you did. You loved him when he decided to go back to school to get some additional certifications so he could maybe teach flight school. The army would pay for most of it, was a fucking relief to your shared thread-bare, cartoon-spider-web empty savings account. But what the army would not pay for was for you to go to nursing school. You worked in hotels for the events services branch, coordinating everything from weddings to conferences, walking (mostly running) from one end of the hotel to the next. Your sister got you a Fitbit for Christmas one year and after the holiday rush, you walked twenty miles in two days. 

“After that, this nursing stuff should be a breeze,” you said flippantly as you signed your paperwork for admissions. 

Of course you got accepted at one of the better hospitals in the city – he never doubted for a second you would – and as the fresh-faced trainee, you got stuck with most of the night shifts. 

Which meant his days looked a lot like this: wake up at 6AM, drive an hour to the helicopter tour building on the coast, fly rich idiots around all day, eat the lunch you had prepped for the both of you on Sunday night, continue flying rich idiots around, drive home in two-hour traffic, change into his work overalls, go work on some cars Benny’s buddy had at the local garage for some extra cash, then go home, heat up dinner you also made Sunday night, and then attend to the most pressing thing you or the house needed. 

Which could be:

Fixing the AC unit, resealing the back door so it would close properly, re-caulking the shower, building more attic space, repainting the back fence, or replacing the hand towel holder.

Frankie didn’t mind the hard work. It kept his mind and his hands busy. What he did mind was the house silent and eerily empty without you here. 

He didn’t mind the hard work because even for a few hours, he got to hold you while you slept. He got to eat with you at 10:30 at night and it was the highlight of his day.

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Sicker than the rest, there is no test, but this is what you're craving?

Frankie bobs his head, his earphones carefully tucked up under his shirt to prevent the laundry from tangling up in them. He hauls out the latest load and moves onto the washer, fishing out one more sock when suddenly the lights go off. All of them. Total darkness.

And then light and he’s staring down the bottom of the drum.

Then dark. And light.

You. Your code. One you designed when you read that PTSD victims are often triggered into a fight-or-flight response when startled. You, who knew before he did, how to manage the symptoms, create workarounds, and find a pathway through, instead of not at all. 

He takes out one of the earbuds and smiles.

“Hey, you’re home.” 

You lean against the doorway, smiling that smile that is reserved for him and him alone. Sometimes he’s selfish and wants everything of yours to be only for him – all your smiles, your laughter, your sighs – but that’s like trying to capture sunlight in a butterfly net: too focused on the impossible and you end up missing the daytime. 

“How goes this fucking Sysphian task?” You nod at the baskets of laundry at his feet, referring to how you’d often rant and rave about how laundry, the dishes, and grocery shopping were never tasks that could simply be done. He knows how much you hate being unable to cross things off your to-do lists, so he holds your hand during all of these rantings and kisses your knuckles when you take a breath. 

“Good,” he shrugs. “‘Bout to fold your scrubs for tomorrow.”

“Ah, have I told you lately that I love you?” You swing into the room and kiss him on his cheek, on the division where his patchy beard meets his skin – the place that you most often claimed on him. Your fingers squeeze around his bicep as you pull away and your eyes fall to the basket behind him. You gasp with glee. 

“Did you just wash these sheets?” You ask like you’d just uncovered buried gold. 

He smirks, propping his hip up against the dryer. “I did.” 

Without another word, you scoop them up in your arms and inhale sharply.

“Mhmm, they smell nice.” You bury your head in deep. “And they’re still warm.”

In the rare moments when you’re both home and going through laundry together, he never fails to scoop up a load of hot towels and dump them over your head, relishing in the girlish giggle from beneath the clean laundry. “It’s so toasty,” you whimper with glee. 

“They’re not gonna be if you get your hospital gunk all over them,” Frankie tuts, going back to add a new load into the washer as you glare at him over the lump of sheets. 

“Ha, ha. Move over, Mr. Morales, and watch a master at work.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Morales.” It’s stupid but his heart always fumbles when he calls you that. It started as a joke, one that you initiated, but now it’s like berry jam on his tongue, sweet and sugary. He’s thought about calling you that while he’s inside you but figures he should save something for the wedding night. 

He sidles back, giving you space near the dryer as you pick up a basket of t-shirts.

“You know there’s dinner waiting for you in the kitchen.” He shakes his head as you begin to fold the shirts with lightning speed and precision – a side effect of being the oldest daughter in a family of five kids. 

“Yeah, but you’re in here,” you say and bump his hip. He bumps you back and helps with the load. “Besides, it’ll get done faster with two people.”

He can’t exactly argue with that, so he lets the silence grow. But it’s not silence, not really. In the distance, dogs bark. Outside the room, the temperamental AC grumbles, a sound he never thought he’d come to appreciate. Inside the room, fingers tug at fabric, the soft thump as the shirts grow into a continuous pile. Then there’s you, breathing in the lilac-scented air, the scent of his deodorant and sweat and something entirely unique to him– his Frankie-ness as you’ve called it many times without elaborating. I’d bottle it if I could, you told him, bathe in it. You’re kinda weird, he told you, and you know he likes it. 

Every once in a while, his elbow brushes up against yours, yours skirting around his, but never colliding, an awareness of the other always present and attended to, a flow of familiarity and recognition he’s never felt before or known since. 

Bit by bit, you’ve taken pieces of him into you, picked them up, held them to the light and found them beautiful, until a second bit of his soul lives outside of his body. He knows every inch of you, how every atom calls out to him, begs to be close to him, and held tight. It’s not sunlight he’s trying to keep safe, it’s your heart. Your precious, wonderful heart that is somehow so full, it was enough to fill him up too. Gold filling in the cracks. 

Kintsugi, Benny called it, when he got obsessed with anime for three months that one time two years ago. Frankie never could remember the actual name, and maybe that wasn’t the point and maybe it was a little ridiculous, especially when it was explained by a deliriously drunk and bleary-eyed Ben Miller at one in the morning on his brother’s lawn chair. 

Maybe a better way of thinking about it was how separate, disparate, jagged and raw edges came to fit together. How someone like him got a do-over, another chance to be remade in the kiln, and how someone like you was allowed to love unselfishly, to ask for things and never be threatened with reparations of some kind – as if loving you deserved some sort of compensation. 

Pieces, broken and scattered – he looked up and saw you carrying yours, and you witnessed the scars and blood dripping from the shards of his own past, his life, his love, and despite how slippery his pieces were, how dried and empty and wanting yours were, something pulled them together and made them stay. 

Something stronger than light.

Stronger than gold. 

You shook his hand and looked at what you built together, the pieces that came together, and in the end, that was your partnership. A creation of something greater – home, family, love. 

So much fucking love.

In the end, Frankie Morales used love to build his life, not death, and you’re the one who gave it to him.

He drops the last shirt on the stack and he turns, his fingers seeking the drawstring of your pants. 

You know what he wants. You want it too. A singular desire in two separate bodies.

The inherent closeness of domesticity draws you into him, closing the already limited space as hands find waists and lips find skin. He drags his nose against your jaw, somehow already shaking, his teeth grazing your throat, unwilling and unable to press his lips to you, wanting to drag this out as much as possible. He squeezes your hips, thumbs flipping under your shirt to touch, touch, touch, until his fingers wrap around your ribs and you make your first sound of the night. It snags at his restraint, pulling it threadbare. 

“Frankie,” you sigh and he cannot fight the cataclysmic pull towards you – he stumbles, pinning you to the laundry room wall, his tongue cupping your earlobe into his mouth and he sucks. The next noise you make is high and keening and it turns his touch frantic.

Caught between the wall and his broad shoulders, he does with you what he wants. He nips at your cheek, your neck, the dip of your clavicle, as his thumb presses up each knot of your spine, drawing out the tension from your body like draining poisoned blood, and by the time he pinches off your bra, you’re all but hanging onto him. 

“Baby–,” 

He can hear you say, it’s late, we have work in the morning, you don’t have to do this,

I’m not worth this 

With a low growl that is all possession, all anger that someone ever made you feel like your love was too much, he tugs your shirt off, knocking his hat off as he goes. In the drift, he sees your eyes flutter, mouth twisted in pleasure and guilt – you don’t want to be asking for things like this – and so he silences every doubt, every worry that he’s tired or it’s too late or his knees are aching too much to make you feel the way you deserve – he kisses you with enough force to knock out every unpleasant thought you’ve ever had about yourself and flattens you against the wall. 

You let him pry you open, his touch fervent and insistent, tasting of iced coffee and gum. He licks into you, telling you things with his tongue, the way he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth, in the soft puff of breath that escapes him when you cup the back of his neck. Closer, he begs, closer. 

His wide palm arching your lower back into him, he squeezes your ribs, up under your breast, before finally taking your nipple between his thumb and the meat of his hand and twists, just enough to make you break apart from his demanding mouth, gasping as if tapped by a live wire. But it’s him who is electrocuted, who catches fire, who wants to be chewed down and swallowed up. He shuffles and pulls you into him, the throbbing in his pants bordering on painful. He rubs himself against you once and you sigh like you know he hurts. You nod.

Your fingers peel your shirt up and over your head as he cups one thigh then the other until your hips hug his waist, smearing the hem of his shirt up over his skin. He feels the heat coming from between your legs, the slight dampness, against his lower belly and he groans, low, right near that source of warmth he wants to die in. 

You curl above him, tipping his head back, as you dive into his mouth again, fingers twisting into his hair, thumbs brushing his temple right where you know he tends to get headaches. Your tongue brushes against his upper lip, tasting his mustache, and his knees threaten to buckle. 

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he laments, he praises, into the supple wetness of your tongue. You nod, pleased, and press your chest into him. He cannot fucking wait to get his mouth around your tits.

Mouth sealed to yours, hands cupping the meat of your ass, Frankie works entirely on sense memory to carry you into the kitchen, to a long wooden table beneath a wide window, white curtains closed and blinds shut. 

This table had been one of the first purchases for the new house. Tan cedar boards with white knobby legs, it instantly reminded him of the one in his own childhood home, where he and his brothers fought over meals and did homework together. Where he held his mom after his father died and where he dropped his bag after coming home from a life too long spent fighting other people’s wars. 

This table mattered to him and he’d be damned if it wouldn’t mean something to his own child one day. 

That was something you too wanted to give your child, never having a table like this in your own life. You loved the stories he told about the table in his kitchen. How much it meant to him.

And now he was going to fuck you on it, this symbol of stability.

He just wonders how stable it really is. 

His fingers clutching the back of your neck, arm running in tandem with your spine, he lowers you down, shifting your weight onto his arm so you don’t bump your head against the wood. He releases you but you protest, a muffled uh-uh, as he tries retreating. You loop your arms around his neck, tugging him flat against you and he feels your breasts mold against his chest, nipples already tight.

“Baby,” he breathes, sucking up and out of your mouth, “let me make you feel good.”

Behind him, he hears your sneakers clatter to the floor, your heels digging into his back as you toe off your shoes, and you shake your head. 

“I am.” Kiss. A thumb under his bottom lip. “You do.” Breathless, reverent, grateful. 

Grateful.

Grateful that he is kissing you. 

Not good enough. God, he’s going to eat that self-loathing right out of you. 

You whine, frustrated and hot, as he pulls back. He wants to go right for your pussy, but stutters at the sight of your unmarked tits. Smooth, flushed, heaving. There is no part of you he does not love, does not feel the need to worship on his knees. 

But suddenly sour shame strikes him as he realizes enough time has passed since the last time you’d had sex for the hickeys to heal. He intends to amend that right now. 

His thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, to calm himself, he folds himself over you, dribbling kisses along your throat, over the wings of your clavicle, at the barest incline at the top of your breast, and then to the meat of your tit, the heaviness, the sway, and he bites down. Predictably, you yelp, nails scratching roughly into his scalp and that only makes him suck harder. You have very strict rules around where he can mark you, but on the places he can – oh, you beg him for it. 

He palms your other tit, just to feel the goosebumps break out across your skin, to roll your nipple with the calluses on his palm. His teeth release, his tongue laving over that already pink and swollen skin, and he glances up, his other thumb coming to massage that fragile patch. 

Being a pilot, a soldier, a brother, a son, those are the things he is. But Frankie lives – aches, pines, desires – to watch you come apart. 

The purple bruise on your tit shining like a luxurious necklace, your eyes flutter open when you feel him pull up. Your fingers around his ears, your chest wet with his spit, you let him take you in. You give him this, because you know you’re about to get so much more. With your legs still wrapped around his waist, he can feel the soft cant of your hips, the quiet, patient begging, as you thought he needed reminding that you needed this. You rub up him, knees pinned to his ribs, and he lets you pull him into your mouth, grounding him. This kiss is brief, soft, a far cry from the tearing and biting that got you onto the table. Knowing exactly the state you need to be in to ask for what you want, he holds your jaw, thumb against the apple of your cheek and he slips his tongue out of your mouth. Again a protest, an instinctual reaction to the repeated pattern of abandonment, but like all cries for help, he quiets your squirming by sliding his thumb between your lips. 

“Suck,” he murmurs gently. Your eyes flutter shut, your nails carving half moons into his forearm, lips creating a vacuum seal around his knuckle and you obey – you suck – and he rewards you with a trail of kisses across your sternum, over your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach. He nuzzles your belly button and you groan, eyes still shut and his thumb still in your mouth. He bites, softer than before, just above the thatch of hair and you whine around his finger, body going supple for him. He slides his thumb out, dragging a shiny string of spit over your plush lips, down your chin, joining his other hand at the waist band of both your panties and your scrubs. 

Any fast movement will awaken that anxious, overthinking, beautiful brain of yours, now that he has it fuzzy and unfocused, so he keeps kissing, keeps sucking and biting, that spot just above your curls. He tongues your hip, and then the other side, your bottom half wonderfully bare before you can open your eyes. 

His shoulder bumps the back of your thigh as he stands up right, inhaling the sweat behind your knee, the pungent tang of your glistening curls, your almond butter body lotion. It’s hunger, he feels, but not a tangible hunger, one that can be so easily satiated. It’s not painful, or weakening – no, he is made stronger by it. He feels your blood pulse beneath his hand on your inner thigh as he opens you up and he’s made better by it. 

He kneels, a holy servant before the divine meal of their goddess, on shitty linoleum beneath harsh lights in a kitchen he can barely afford. 

Frankie takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and slides your grip into his hair. 

“Recuérdame cómo te gusta, nena.” 

He eats. He consumes. He licks. He sucks. He slurps.

He tastes your dripping wetness on the seam of your cunt, before his tongue ever gets the chance to explore, to open, to divulge. He licks until he feels your breath hitch – a curse in the shape of his name, as if he needs scolding for making you feel so good – and then he opens his jaw and tongues your hole. 

In a lust-drunk haze you once told him he has something better than DSL – he has a pussy-eating nose. He prods you with that nose you can’t seem to get enough of, licking in as far as he can, coating himself in everything as it leaks out of you, and he moans as he can feel it on his chin. You vibrate with the sound and above him, your fingers clench down into his hair. 

“Oh, fuck, holy – fuck, Frankie–,” your trembling shakes the bowl of your hips, spilling his meal, so he sucks your clit in a way that makes your body freeze and then melt. You go limp, pliable, and gushing. He gets a few more moments of twisting and sucking and swallowing, until by the third time he puts his lips around your clit, you open-mouth whine and it’s like his body violently remembers he has a cock. He is seized with such a need to fuck you in this warm, wet place he’s dug out with his tongue, he doubles over and rests his teeth against your thigh. 

“Frankie, I’m so close,” you writhe, chest flushed and brow sweaty. 

Before you, he never knew sex could feel like this, could do this. Sure, he used sex to keep away those circling, vulture-like thoughts from time to time. But this, this drawing out and unthreading, unspooling, of himself and someone else, tearing at ego-drenched threads until all that was left was a being of pure want and desire – he didn’t know this was possible. 

He didn’t know he could feel like this.

One more broad lick, coating everything in what he hope fucking smells like him, and you arch, thighs shaking, his hair in danger of being ripped from his scalp. You gasp as you flatten, the first orgasm of the night rolling through you, sweat making your skin salty, as though you had been breached by the ocean. 

He laps you through it, of course, a nascent smirk on his face. 

You open your eyes to this self-satisfied Frankie, eyes only visible over the top of your cunt, and you whine. 

You reach for him and he goes, smearing your slick over your face, offering it to you in supplication on his tongue. He tastes your rising desperation, the way you sharpen your teeth against his lips, batter his tongue into the corner of his mouth, try to claim what your cunt already has. His hunger is an infection and your fever has reached a boiling point. 

Your trembling fingers curl his shirt up his back, passing over the ruddy scar on his shoulder where he got hit with a stray bullet, the jagged white line over his ribs where a knife nearly split him open. He used to only fuck with his shirt on. He doesn’t now. 

His shirt crumples to the floor as he sits up, you following, eyes dark, and you bite his pec muscle, your love for him twisting you into an anthropophagist. You want to consume him, like your pussy swallows his cock. Having him impale you is not enough; you want intercourse with him on a subatomic level. 

You inch back to give yourself enough space to unbutton his jeans and he sees the wet slick left behind on the table. The heat behind his groin shoots up his spine and he grunts, burying his face into your neck where he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth, hands planted on either side of you.

“Hurry, baby, I gotta fuck this pussy,” he whispers against the curve of your jaw. He wants to leave a giant purple bruise there, this instinct to claim, to mark, stoking the roiling heat at the base of his spine and drawing up his balls. 

But his attention snaps back to your hands when he hears a click, the release of his zipper is almost euphoric. He moans in relief, unable to see through his half-lidded eyes the explosion of goosebumps over your skin as his breath tumbles over your back and down your chest. 

His urgent hands overwhelm yours, one pushing his jeans down his hips, the other palming your stomach, pushing you back and you go willingly, but seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his aching, flushed cock springing up against his stomach. You lie down, but only barely, still on your elbows, as he tugs you by your ankles to the edge of the table. 

Your uneven breathing could mean a lot of things. He thought you were being complementary the first time you told him he was too big, but your eyes always widened at the sight of his cock. 

“Do you need to be opened up some more, cariño?” 

At his rawest, Spanish came out of him like a spilled bottle of molasses, sweet, slow, rich. 

“Hmm? Tell me what you need. Hable mas alto por favor.” He rubs your knees, your thighs, hoping you’ll ask for what he wants.

“F-fingers, Frankie,” you swallow, eyes still latched on to his now weeping cock. You glance up at him, face open and full of trust, and he feels his dick pulse. “Please, Frankie, put your fingers in me.” 

“Fucking anything.” He plants one hand and cups your mound, lost for a moment in the soaked curls, before pushing two fingers inside and thrusting. “I’ll fucking give you anything you want.” 

His hips jerking slightly in tandem with the pulse of his fingers, his slacked mouth an indication of how unconscious his humping has become, as he watches you dissolve with every stroke of his hand. God, he didn’t know they made things this pretty. His hand pushes your knee up and back, finding room for three fingers and your eyes roll back in your head. You scrabble for anything to hold onto, fingers searching for the ghosts of your bedsheets, but finding none, your arms curl over your head and latch onto the other edge of the table. You present your fucking tits to him like you’re letting him admire artwork. 

It almost brings him to his knees.

“Oh, I’m coming, oh, Frankie, I’m gonna –,”

He pulls out his fingers just enough to let you gush down his palm, his wrist, and he licks it up like a glutton. It drips a bit onto the linoleum and he smears it with his bare feet.

Frankie slides two fingers back in, his brain going fuzzy at being away from the clutch of your cunt for too long, when you grab his wrist. 

You can barely breathe, your skin a pale pink, your cunt no doubt must be sore, but your eyes are as hard as diamonds in your skull. He swallows the flush of spit in his mouth.  

“Now, Frankie,” you plead, fingers tight around his wet wrist, the hairs on his arm standing up at the sound of your commanding voice. “Fuck me, now, I need you inside of me.”

It always makes him a bit dumbstruck, the way you beg, the way you let him and only him see this side of you – this side of you that is sick with wanting.

His hand squeezes the base of his cock once, eyes fluttering, to remind himself he cannot blow his fucking load the instant the tip of him is inside you. He taps your clit, once, twice, lubing himself up as if he hadn’t moved around internal organs to make way for himself. He notches, then slides, white-knuckling his impending orgasm in favor of making this good for you. He steps farther between your legs, hands sliding from your thighs, up to your waist. He thumbs your nipple and your pussy twitches around him. He swears his heart flat out stops for a concerning length of time.

“How is a pussy this good all mine? All fucking mine?” He rolls his hips, pushing deeper, movements marionetted by the high-pitched whimpers and moans of your mouth. He could catalog every single one of them, has done so in the deep recesses of his brain, and it takes just a second to know when it switches from pleasure to pain. 

He bends over you, you choking on his dick, and kisses you hard, shattering the tense look on your face.  

“I love you,” he tells you, a secret that despite being well-known to anyone who sees him look at you, still feels precious and fragile. His hand plasters your hair to your sweaty neck as he kisses you desperately, speaking a language only you understand. “I love you so fucking much.” 

You sigh into his open mouth. “I wanna marry you, Fransisco Morales.” 

He is covered in gold. Dripping with it. 

His nails at your hip dig into your skin and you know exactly what you’ve done. 

“Say it. Say it louder, nena,” he snarls, face pressed into your cheek, and he thrusts forward with enough force to rock the table. The table legs squeak as you pin him to you one more time and nip at his ear. The last drop in the well, the rope slipping over the edge, the coil locked into place.

“I wanna fucking marry you.” 

With a breathy grunt, he yanks you down onto his cock by your waist and slaps your ass with his balls. It’s been a while since your cunt has taken a beating like this. You clutch at the edge of the table again, mouth torn open.

He knows you like it when he plays with your clit, and he will, but he needs to get this out of him. 

“Yeah? You’re gonna marry the guy who’s fucking your pussy so good right now?” It’s amazing that words escape at all through his gritted teeth, jaw taut. He watches as he disappears and reappears in you, your lips puffy and pink already but he needs more. He doesn’t want you to be able to walk out of bed tomorrow. 

“Yes, Frankie – oh, god, there, right there – yes, I’m gonna marry you.” He tips your hips up as he pounds down and you arch, crying out at the angle, the depth, how full you feel. He fucks like he’s trying to bruise your ribcage through your pussy. 

The thoughts in his head collide with the others, knotting together, blurring, until the only noise he can make, the only thing he can verbalize is the tight grunts, the hm, hm, hm, as he focuses on chasing this fire. 

He feels it approach so fast, he’s nearly taken under by the intensity of his orgasm so he slows, grinds instead, and with his eyes on your face, he cups himself around where he’s split you open, feeling your lips suck in and out with every thrust. 

He closes his eyes briefly, helpless against the waves of arousal that coat his fingers. He smears your clit with his thumb and his name is a split, jagged thing that burns your tongue. He wants that taste on his tongue again. 

You throb once, a sharp climax warming your pussy, and he backs out, drops to his knees, and licks you up again. He can taste his sweat there this time and he groans. His hands slip over your skin from the sweat in the crease of your thigh.

The cries from your mouth are wet now, on the curve of a salty tongue. You tremble like your orgasm is a physical thing, thrumming under your skin, warming your blood and you claw at his forearm. 

“B-baby, please–,” 

Wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, then licking up the mess he made, Frankie stands. He swats your bottom lightly, tutting. He’s a mad man, he knows it, he can’t tell if it's delirium from the rough ache of his balls or masochistic joy in hearing you beg, but again he rubs himself through your folds. It’s not the same, not nearly enough, but it helps last just a bit longer. 

“No crying until after I’ve made you come.” 

“I’ve already come twice,” you whine as you buck your hips, trying to take him in deeper. “You said I can have anything I want.” 

“And what does princesa want?” Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with him. 

Your eyes flash as your nails dig into his shoulders, that fire he so loves to stoke flaring out.

“I want to come on your cock, Mr. Morales.”

And he unravels, divinity calling his name. 

His pace is slow, then rough, then deep. 

The table is just the right height. He balances on knee on the lip, bending your knees over his shoulders, and fucking down into you. He’s going to snap you in fucking half and maybe he does but he’ll be there to seal you back up again. 

Pour himself into you. Fill you. Make you whole once more. 

Baby, please.

The first drip of tears starts out the corner of your eyes as you come, open-mouthed, throat exposed, a cry loud and in the shape of his name tearing from your lips, your body locking up, cunt squeezing him until he feels himself burst. 

With a shudder and a groan, he spills, hot and flush into you. He comes, and comes, and comes, until his gooey spend is forced out of you and down the crack of your ass. He can’t see anything past the white spark in his eyes, feel anything but you and the tingle of his limbs. 

The excess of you and him is everywhere, leaking out onto the kitchen table, soaking the wood. There’s a ringing in his ears he can’t quiet. 

Your breath is hot on his neck, sweaty skin stuck tightly against his, he knows he’s crushing you, his arms given out at some point, but he really doesn’t think he can stand up right. He kisses your cheek by way of apology and thanks but you don’t seem to mind, your own gaze unfocused on the ceiling. 

“Fuck, Frankie . . .”

He laughs, realizes his legs aren’t working, so trembling and uneasy, he slides out of you and manages to make it to the floor. He blames the sudden dizziness on a lack of food and then blames the dizziness for lying down on the floor. 

His eyes flutter and somehow you’re suddenly curled up next to him, your palm resting over his pounding heart. His fingers find their way up into your sweat-damp hair, thumb gently rubbing against the knot at the base of your skull. 

“Your back is gonna be killing you in about fifteen minutes, sweetheart,” you grumble sleepily into his chest, a grin on your face. 

“I can’t feel anything below my waist right now.” He yawns. “So, we’ve got some time.” 

You nod, absentmindedly stroking the dark hair on his chest. 

“We need to talk about Pope’s birthday party this weekend. Will put us on drink duty . . . but I can’t really focus on anything right now.”

“Good,” he smirks with his eyes shut. “That was some of my best work.” And then he frowns. “You need to eat.” He pokes your side and you huff.

“Okay, if you’re awake enough to berate me, we can at least go to bed.” 

Groaning, you pull him up and he threatens to stumble you both into the wall, but he kisses your cheek and swats your ass, before snagging a tub of ice cream and a spoon. He meets you in the bedroom with the cap off and a smear of chocolate around his lips. 

You’ve got one of his shirts, grinning up at him from the center of the bed, and he’s torn about whether he likes you in his boxers, or nothing at all. 

You take the ice cream from him before he has a chance to flop down on the bed. 

“Not exactly a nutritious meal,” you mutter around the spoon and he turns his face from the pillow to glare at you. 

“That’s the other dinner I made for you, so eat.” 

Your giggle is all you can give to show your thanks.

He rolls onto his back, groaning theatrically, before tucking his hand behind his head, and his fingers coming to rest on his stomach. 

Behind the lids of his eyes, he can feel you watching him.

“What?” He grumbles, feeling around for your foot to pinch your ankle. He hears you move so he knows he’s close. “Not the right flavor, princesa?”

“No,” you laugh and prod his hip with your toe. “It’s just . . .”

His eyes open, finding yours in the half-lit gloom. You’re grinning the spoon in your mouth, eyes bright with something unnameable. You shrug, eying his hand between you both.

“I just never knew Fransisco Morales could be domesticated.” 

He wipes the chocolate off your chin with his thumb.

Yeah, who knew?

[mononijikayu]

"i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you." — gojo satoru.

And now, you realize how human Gojo Satoru was. How normal he was. How tender he was for a world that was not the same towards him. You sighed, parting from him slightly as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He took a look towards you, as though searching for the universe behind your lilac eyes.

GENRE: post hidden - inventory arc (2010s)

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of blood, depiction of killing, depiction of suffering, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

LISTEN: in another life by son lux

NOTE: waiting for my meds to kick in and i saw the clip from everything everywhere all at once where waymond says, 'in another life, i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you' and i just thought of them....thought of genmei (you) and satoru, just enjoying this sort of life. very short but this is one to warm your heart. let's remember satoru as the man he was. as the loving human being who was fun and generous and tender. i'll be doing this for a while. until i get my head straight. in a way, this is how i'll mourn him. by remembering him lovingly <333

masterlist

u s and t h e m

YOU ALWAYS LIKED HAVING SATORU AROUND THE HOUSE. Your husband was if anything — always not at home. Even if he’d like to be, it’s not up to him. And you as much as he does, hated it. You’d always understood that. You could never feel hate for Satoru about things he genuinely could not control. 

In these past few years of marriage, you were lucky if he could get the Sundays off. He’d always made the point to the higher–ups that he would never answer calls on that day. He’d like to focus on being around you, being around Tsumiki and Megumi — to be as present as possible.

But in the past few years, the number of curses had dramatically increased and the number of professional sorcerers had dwindled. Of course, you yourself felt some guilt in that. You yourself have taken a leave for almost two years now, having followed in Nanami’s footsteps. Even now,  principal Gakuganji has been pressuring you for your return each and every day. But you flat out refused each and every turn, every call, every message. Satoru did not fault you for it, he understood.

Considering that you had wanted to be more attentive in giving Tsumiki and Megumi an active presence in their lives. You wanted that for Satoru too. You wanted him to know that there was always someone waiting for him to come home. That there was going to be someone that was willing to stay awake, yearning for him to return every day and every night. He had always been so gleeful about that — smug even. 

Because he had something to live for. He had something to look forward to when the days get rough with the amount of curses he’d have to go through left and right. He didn’t mind that your duties in the jujutsu world became his own. What mattered was that he had Megumi and Tsumiki and you, his precious wife.. He couldn’t ask for anything more.  He’d brag to Shoko and his sister about how he had someone waiting for him to come home. 

"You know," Satoru began, a playful glint in his eye, "I brag to Shoko and my sister about how I have someone waiting for me to come home."

You looked up from the cutting board, a smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, really? And what exactly do you tell them?"

He grinned, leaning casually against the counter. "I tell them about how you're always here, making the place feel like home. How you cook amazing dinners and make sure everything runs smoothly."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "You're exaggerating, Satoru. I'm just doing what anyone would."

He shook his head, his expression turning more serious. "No, you're not. You make all the difference. Coming home to you... it's everything. It makes all the craziness worth it."

Your heart warmed at his words, and you set down the knife, wiping your hands on a nearby towel. "Well, for the record, I brag about you too."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh? To whom? And what do you say?"

“To the mothers at Tsumiki and Megumi’s school,” You grinned at him. "I tell them about how my precious husband always manages to juggle being the busiest person I know and still you always make time for me, even when you're exhausted. And how you make me feel safe and loved, no matter what. How you make Tsumiki and Megumi feel happy and safe—seen and cared for.”

Satoru's cerulean eyes softened, and he reached out to take your hand in his. "I'm glad you feel that way. Because that's all I want—for you to feel safe and loved."

You squeezed his hand, the connection between you palpable in the quiet kitchen. "I do, Satoru. Every day."

He smiled, the kind that lit up his entire face. "Good. Because I plan on bragging about you for a long time."

And so, now that he also gets calls on Sundays, Gojo Satoru makes the most of anything and everything — every moment was important for him to measure up to. Today was one of those rare, precious days off for your husband, and you both intended to savor every moment of it. 

The usually bustling Gojo residence was quiet and peaceful, with Tsumiki and Megumi still out for the day. They were still in school, doing some more club activities. Megumi took up baseball, while Tsumiki took on band music. So you and Satoru wouldn’t have to go to school until 5:30 pm. It was only 4:00pm. And so you were adamant to start prepping for dinner — so that when you all got home, the hotpot would just need some cooking. You were there again in your turf, the kitchen, as you hummed a song that’s been stuck in your head for a while. 

As you sliced the vegetables with practiced ease, you could hear your husband Satoru enter the room. He had taken off his usual blindfold, and opted for his round dark glasses. Your husband had a habit of taking even the round glasses when he’s around you. But you know it hurts his head to even do so. 

He’d pout and he’d stomp all about, saying how he just wanted to see how pretty you were. But you always stood your ground. Still, you could still feel how revealing those striking blue eyes glaring at you even when they’re covered up. They always seemed to see right through you. 

Satoru sighed contentedly, his thumb still gently brushing over your knuckles as he watched you chop. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board was soothing, a small anchor in the storm of your lives. His presence beside you felt like a protective shield, his love and strength enveloping you like a warm embrace. He leaned against the counter, watching you with a contented smile. The quiet hum of domesticity felt foreign yet comforting.

"You know," he said softly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence, "Sometimes I envy the ordinary people. They have no idea about the world we live in, the dangers we face. Their biggest concerns are mundane things like bills and grocery lists."

You looked at him, a somber smile on your lips. "It's the simplicity we crave, isn't it? The idea of living a life where our biggest worry is what's for dinner, not the next life-or-death battle."

Satoru's cerulean eyes sparkled for a moment. "Exactly, y’know? Rare for us to get moments where we can pretend, just for a little while, that we're just like everyone else."

You smiled, feeling a surge of gratitude for the man standing beside you. "And those rare moments mean everything. They remind us why we fight, why we keep going."

He pulls at your other hand, taking it to his own as you gasped. He presses a kiss on your palm. "You always know how to put things into perspective."

“You know, you don’t bring up these things unless you’re thinking a lot.”

He grins. “Oh, but who says I’m thinking a lot?"

“My love, I’ve known you long enough to know you only talk when you feel like you can’t keep it inside anymore.” You say, putting your knife aside and squeezing the hand he occupies with his own. ”Tell me, what's on your mind?"

He hesitated as he stayed silent. He didn’t know how to say it, having to close and then open his mouth. Satoru was just like that too, when you met him. He took a moment before he just sighed deeply, his expression softening. 

"I don't want to be doing this anymore," he said quietly, almost to himself.

You stopped mid–chop and turned to look at him, your heart skipping a beat. "Doing what?" you asked, needing clarification.

"This!" he repeated, gesturing vaguely around him in the empty space like a mad man."Well, not our life. That’s the best part. But I’m…… I’m always away and I miss this, y’know? I miss having to just be here. Enjoying this. I miss it a lot, darling.”

“Satoru, my love,  you can’t help it if you’re busy.” You say to him tenderly, sending him a soft smile. “That’s your job.”

“But what if it wasn’t?” He says as he lowers his gaze, his lips tight in a prominent pout. He sighs, rubbing the back of his head. “I know that it’s wishful thinking but I just…y’know? What if I don’t have to? What if I just left? What if we just got to Hida and hid forever? All the fighting, the constant danger……the weight of being the strongest. It’s taxing, darling.”

You looked at him, your eyes echoing pain at his words. You walked over to him, his bright blue eyes not leaving your own lilac ones. You opened your arms and knowing Infinity is down when he’s with you, wrapped your arms around him. He settles in your touch rather quickly, resting his chin against your shoulder as he wrapped his own strong arms against your own.

“Is that what you want?” You ask him in a small whisper, looking at him as though trying to make sure he’s sure. “Would you not regret leaving it all behind?”

“I want this, I'm sure I am." he continued, his voice taking on a more wistful tone. “I’m sure I am.”

“But what about your work—”

“I just…” He leans against you even more. "This little suburban, quaint type of the normal sort of peace. All I want in life.  I don’t wanna hear the depths of some curse’s stimulation, darling. Just…. Just wanna hear your breath or the rhythm you have when you chop the veggies for the hotpot. ‘miki’s violin strings when she practices before breakfast, ‘gumi’s little chants in secret when he watches the baseball league by himself. Just…..just want this.”

If you hadn’t fallen for him years ago, you think you would have fallen for him now. His words hung in the air, heavy with longing and sincerity. Your heart was enraptured by him, completely. 

It was always hard for Satoru to be honest with his feelings. You’ve known that the first time you met him, when Yaga forced you to check on your new special grade sorcerers. When he first spoke to you, all of his words sounded ever so pretentious. Annoyingly so. But over time, you realized much about him. You learned much about him. You started to embrace him. 

And now, you realize how human Gojo Satoru was. How normal he was. How tender he was for a world that was not the same towards him. You sighed, parting from him slightly as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He took a look towards you, as though searching for the universe behind your lilac eyes. 

"Gojo Satoru," you said softly, your eyes searching for him beneath all that cerulean hue. "I swear to you, my love,  this life or the next — in another life, I would've really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you."

He chuckled, a soft, genuine sound that made your heart swell. His cheeks were red scarlet as he looked at you bashfully. His cerulean eyes seemed to grow even brighter, reflecting the depth of his love for you.  He presses his cheek against your shoulder, resting there for a moment as though to just let his warmth be felt by your own skin. To let you know, even his warmth was for you.

"Me too." he admitted, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "I imagine a life where the biggest worry we have is what to make for dinner or whether we should wash the whites separately."

You smiled, the simplicity of the idea bringing a sense of warmth and peace. "That sounds perfect."

Satoru's gaze softened as he leaned in closer. "You know, I think about that sometimes. A life without all the chaos, just us. It’s nice to dream, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," you whispered, feeling the weight of his words and the sincerity behind them. "But even in this life, come what may, I'm grateful to have you for all of it. I couldn’t have asked for anything more."

His fingers tightened around yours, a silent promise of his unwavering support. "And I'm grateful to have you, darling. You really are my dream, you know?”

You both laughed, the sound mingling with the quiet of the room. The idea of such a mundane life felt strangely appealing, a stark contrast to the chaos and danger that defined your existence now. But at that moment, it was a dream worth holding onto.

"Maybe one day, we’ll have it." you said, squeezing his hand. "It’s not impossible, hm?”

He nodded, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and determination. "Yeah, it’s not.”

For now, though, you both knew your responsibilities were far from over. The weight of the jujutsu world and its relentless demands pressed heavily on your shoulders, but this stolen moment of peace, this shared dream of a simpler life, was enough to sustain you through the battles yet to come.

“I love you, Satoru. Whatever happens.”

He grins at you, kissing your cheek tenderly.

“I love you too, darling. Always and forever.”

You were living the best of life, loving him.

epilogue

The aroma of the hotpot filled the kitchen, promising a delicious meal. You and Satoru were still wrapped in your own little world, working together seamlessly as you finished up the preparations. Meanwhile, in the dining room, Tsumiki and Megumi were setting the table, so that you can eat soon after the hotpot is cooked and done.

Tsumiki hummed happily as she placed the plates and utensils, a bright smile on her face. "It's so nice to see them like this," she said, glancing back towards the kitchen where Satoru was playfully teasing you as you stirred the pot. “its so lovely again!"

Megumi, however, was less than thrilled. He sighed dramatically, his shoulders slumping as he set down the last of the chopsticks. "I swear, Gojo-san is like a clingy puppy. It's like he can't do anything without being attached to her."

Tsumiki giggled, nudging her brother. "Oh, come on, Megumi. It's sweet. They're happy, and that's all that matters."

Megumi rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah, yeah, I guess. But do they have to be so... mushy about it?"

Just then, Satoru's laughter echoed from the kitchen. "Hey, be careful! You almost burned my hand!" he teased, making you laugh in response. “Darling!~”

“Satoru, be careful or the pot will fall!”

“Ah, but I wanna hug you some more!”

“The kids won’t have dinner if I crash on this pot! Satoru—"

"Blegh! Just one more squeeze! Stop pushing me back!"

"Gojo Satoru, if we starve tonight, it would be your fault!"

Tsumiki placed the last napkin on the table and turned to Megumi, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "See? Everything is right in the world when they're like this. Besides, it's good to see Satoru–san relaxed for once."

Megumi sighed in feign annoyance. But Tsumiki was sure that there was a hint of affection in his eyes as he watched Satoru lean over to kiss your cheek. 

"Yeah, I guess you're right……As long as they're happy, I guess…..we’ll be able to deal with it."

As you and Satoru brought the steaming hotpot to the table, Tsumiki clapped her hands together. "Dinner is ready! Everything looks delicious. Thank you so much for your hard work!”

Satoru beamed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "All thanks to my amazing partner here," he said, giving you a squeeze. “We can eat well tonight!”

You smiled in tandem with your blush, playfully swatting his arm. "And the help of our wonderful family."

Megumi shook his head. "Alright, enough with the love fest. Let's eat."

Tsumiki giggled, taking her seat. "Don't worry, Megumi. One day, you'll find someone who makes you as happy as they make each other."

Satoru smirked, ruffling Megumi's hair. "Yeah, and then we'll tease you mercilessly about it.”

Megumi groaned, swatting Satoru's hand away. "Shut up!”

“Darling, our son’s being mean to me again~”

You smiled at both of them. “I’m not getting involved!”

“But darling!”

[toothfa-1-ry]

I WOULD HAVE REALLY LIKED DOING JUST LAUNDRY AND TAXES WITH YOU. -finnick odair

you and finnick wonder about what could have been

based on hunger games catching fire

you and finnick were not lovers, you could never be lovers

Simply because Panem was a country not built for love. It could harvest fear, hatred, anger, perhaps even hope by the looks of it but never love

despite these words, you find yourself resting against Finnick's shoulder at what seems to be the dead of night. Even though he was keeping watch, you choose to remain awake with him, alongside him.

"you should get some rest" finnick whispers but you don't reply, he takes your silence as your response, knowing better to fight against you

"never thought I'd be back here" he looks around the jungle, letting out a low whistle "it's just how I remember it, i still hate it"

The silence engulfs you both, it's obvious how the two of you were not the only ones who hated the situation. None of you had really thought you'd be back in the arena and surely none of you had hoped to

You look over at where Peeta and Katniss were asleep "you think they're really inlove?"

You both talk in low whispers, not wanting everyone else watching to hear your conversation

Finnick pauses, he thinks, "yes, I think so"

"really?" You give him a quizzical glance

"yea" Finnick pauses again "they just don't realise it"

You bite your lower lip, nodding your head "well then paint me green with envy" you mumble softly

Finnick locks eyes with you, confused, puzzles "why you say that?" His voice is ever so soft and gentle

"the entire nation is rooting for their love and turns out, they really are inlove" your words are simple but yet Finnick feels a pang in his chest. He notices the way you emphasize the word inlove.

It's obvious that if any of the other tributes, say namely finnick and you ever fall inlove, then Panem surely won't welcome this news with the same warmth as they did to Katniss and Peeta

You find yourself leaning even closer into Finnick, finding comfort in his warmth "if.." your words hang from your tongue, as if though you were unsure of your words

"if?" Finnick questions

"if things were different, would we have never met?" You hate the way your voice has a hint of desperation, slight confirmation

"you mean if the games never existed? If Panem was simply just another country?"

You nod too quickly, you realise.

"you'r crazy if you think that we'd never meet" there's a slight smile etched in his face "I'd go against the universe if it tried to keep me away from meeting you"

You hold your breath for a second, the same feeling blossoming in the pits of your heart, the same feelings you had always kept hidden in the pits of your heart.

Despite the complication in your chest you continue, ignoring the implications of his words

"universe?" You ask before you could stop yourself "you think there's a universe out there where none of this happens?" You refer to the war, the pain, the games.

"hey, it's you who brought up the topic not me" finnick quips, again silence befalls the both of you,

"if another universe existed" you continue, since you brought up the topic after all "I think you'd be an actor, I can't imagine you anything but ordinary" there's a smile in your voice, a tone of half teasing "you'd live in the limelight, adored by your fans all across the world"

He let's out a laugh "there's nothing this handsome face can't accomplish" finnick retorts, matching your tone, grinning "and you? I can't imagine you anything else but ordinary aswell"

"oh trust me I would love to be just another ordinary person" you say "I would do anything to be a normal person living in a normal place"

Finnick sighs, dramatically "I guess then I'd have to give up my celebrity life for you" he raises his eyebrows as he looks at you " you know I'd love to have an ordinary life with you"

There's a softness to his words, no sharp edges, no tears, no bites. Just pure genuinity, you could almost call it love, you wished you could allow yourself to call it love

"and ordinary life with me would be boring" you shake your head, discouraging the idea

"life could never be boring if I had you by my side"

You didn't want to admit it, you didn't want to admit that maybe perhaps you felt a certain way towards Finnick, maybe he did too.

Your life was all too messed up, beyond repair and broken.

you didn't want to bring yourself to more pain, especially not if it was in the hands of finnick

"you'd have to do boring regular things" you continue to argue, not wanting to believe finnick. It was all too painfull

"I'd love to do boring regular things with you," finnick retorts back "what exactly is this boring regular things?"

"like laundry and...." Your loss for words "and taxes!" Your blurt out the only thing in your mind

Finnick give you a hard long stare, his jaw tightening before he looks away from you, looking towards the blank sky

"well then, I would have really liked doing just laundry and taxes with you"

Again, the same silence engulfs the two of you, finnick still not tearing his eyes away from the sky as you in turn refuse to look away from his face.

you and finnick were not lovers,

because then the Capitol would see that as treason. you and finnick couldn't be lovers because then the entirety of Panem would see that as rejection

But yet you and finnick were many other things. Many unnamed things, a bit too close to be called friends, a glance that lasted a little too long to be considered acquaintances,

you and finnick were all the things, all things but lovers, never lovers.

But right now your leaning against him, your hands caressing his cheek and your lips colliding with his for the entirety of Panem to see,

"I would have really liked doing just laundry and taxes with you too" you whisper

[fanta2y]

The Little Things

a little drabble inspired by @rrairey and her post on sukuna peeling an orange so THANK HER FOR THIS CUTE LITTLE THING

@archive-network (ooo you wanna click it so bad)

cw: none

word count: 697 (very short)

The door of your shared apartment swung open as you walked in, practically dead on your feet from the long and tiring hours of work today. You wanted nothing more than to curl into bed, cuddle with your personal furnace of a boyfriend and sleep for the next week. 

But you knew Ryomen was probably having an equally, if not worse day than you. And being disgustingly in love with him, you would push aside the tired ache that felt bone deep, for him to come home with a hot meal. 

You were stopped in your tracks when you realized that his shoes were already propped by the front door, his nice suit jacket hung up on the rack. 

“Ryo?!” You called out, your voice echoing along the walls. You walked through the apartment, making your way into the kitchen. When your eyes landed on a plate, wrapped in plastic wrap with your name written on it. 

The food looked delicious, the steam getting trapped inside the wrap. It brought a smile to your face as you grabbed the plate and made your way to the bedroom. Where you assumed he would be. 

“Ryo?” You called to him again, opening the door of your shared bedroom. The plate still in hand, you found him laying blissfully on the bed. His shirt no where to be found, his pajama pants hanging lowly on his hips as he flipped through a book. 

He hummed, his eyes flicking up from his book to meet yours. 

“Welcome home.” He said, his voice gravely and soft. The tone only you got to hear from him, the smile never left your lips as you made your way over to where he was laying. Placing the still warm plate on the bedside table, you leaned forward to kiss him. 

“Did you make me dinner?” A teasing lilt to your voice as you whispered the question against his lips. 

“No.” His signature smirk adorning his face, as you giggled. 

“No?” You shook your head at his antics, kissing him once more in a silent thank you. 

This is the way Ryomen functioned. He could never admit that he had done something for you. Either flat out denying it or coming up with some excuse as to why it was easier for him to do it, or why he had to do it instead of you. 

No matter what he said, the warmth that it left in your heart never dimmed. Knowing that the way he showed his love and care for you was not through sweet words or gifts, but through silent acts. Making dinner for you when you come home, folding your laundry for you after hearing you complain about it, making you coffee in the morning before you wake up. 

Its the little things that make you fall so much more in love with him. The silly excuses you both knew were false could never falter the love you shared with him. 

“It was the coffee fairy.” He would say, barely being able to hide the smirk with his book. 

“I don’t even know where your clothes go.” He would argue, both of you knowing that he was the one who helped you organize your closet when he first moved in. Being a stickler for organization and him knowing exactly where everything goes. 

You teased him often by calling him a control freak and he just scoffed and rolled his eyes at you while you giggled away at his antics. 

“Well thank you, whoever it was.” You said, moving away from his side of the bed. Grabbing your plate before getting yourself comfortable. 

Enjoying the homemade dinner thoroughly, and knowing to bring two forks because if you knew Ryomen, you knew he would try and sneakily steal your food whenever you ate infront of him. He said he was simply collecting his taxes from you, like some king of a medivial kingdom. 

It never failed to make you smile. These calm, soft moments with him. Knowing him more intimately than anyone else, filled your heart with sweet joy and satisfaction. Which made your dinner taste all the more delicious. 

authors note: EEEKKK this one is really cute, i love the way it turned out !! i love me some soft sukuna :))) hehehehe i hope you guys enjoyeddd !! and thank you for readinggg <3

[hoseokslefteyebrow]

The Anomaly || JJK

Chapter 14: Right and Wrong, pt. 3

summary : In which you're isekai'd from your (own) parallel Jujutsu Kaisen universe to the canon universe.

wordcount : 2.2k

Pairing: Jujutsu Kaisen X Reader, mostly platonic, you're really just part of the story

Masterlist | Next

" Oh.." 

You, Yuuji and Megumi's eyes are wide as Nobara spills her cup of coffee on Gojo sensei's blouse. You don't doubt that it was most probably unnecessarily expensive.

" Shoot." 

" You've done it now, Kugisaki. This is Gojo sensei's, right? " 

Yuuji's words are not very helpful as he holds the blouse, a sweatdrop on the side of his head as he inspects the stain.

Nobara stares down at it, seemingly thinking about what to do.

A moment later, she's drawing on the white board, some kind of explanation going on.

" On one hand, we have Ijichi, who entrusted us with this freshly dry cleaned blouse-" 

You blink at her words, leaning your head down on your palm.

Where exactly was she going with this?

"- And then there's me who spilled coffee on it. Who's really at fault?"

" You."

All three of you speak at the same time, causing Nobara to pout.

" Really Y/N? I thought at least you'd have my back in this." 

You give her an embarrassed smile. Usually, in any other  situation, you would. But this really was her fault. You couldn't possibly defend her from this.

" Let her be. Don't pressure her because of your mistake." 

You, Yuuji and Nobara blink at Megumi in surprise.

Yes, you were aware that this universe Megumi seemed to be fond of you, but now he was even standing up for you! ( He doesn't even do that for Yuuji.) 

He glances at all three of you in an annoyed manner.

" What?" 

All three of you simply blink in response, not elaborating.

Moments later, all four of you are working to get the stain out of Gojo sensei's blouse.

" You gotta dab it like this. Dab. Dab." 

" That's what I'm doing!" 

It's not working. Roughly 20 minutes later, you're all staring at the blouse, which is positively ruined.

" Does anyone have Dasty? We might be able to get it out with that if we soak it for a bit and then throw it in the laundry again." 

Yuuji blinks at your words.

" Really?" 

You shrug,

" It works for most stains. I'm not a coffee drinker though so I've never had to fix a coffee stain before."

Nobara appears to not be listening, her eyes fixated on the shirt before she suddenly speaks.

" You think it could pass for a Marimekko design?"

" That would be an insult to fashion." 

Nobara huffs, before turning to Megumi with a smirk.

" C'mon, I'm sure it's cheap anyway. Fushiguro, look up the brand." 

You cringe.

" I wouldn't be so sure about that, Nobara." 

It's kind of what you expected, but somehow even more expensive.

Megumi doesn't look surprised as he shows the price tag, seemingly unbothered by it. Nobara and Yuuji both wear grave expressions, while you bite your lip.

¥ 250,000 That's a lot of money for a blouse.

Ouch.

" A-after tax?" 

" Before. Does it even matter?" 

Nobara sighs, before hardening her expression.

" Fine. I'll put in ¥ 90,000. You guys can put in a little more than  ¥ 53,000 each." 

" Hue?!" 

You agree with Yuuji.

However, right at that moment, you hear the doors of the classroom open.

Your eyes widen, before you take the blouse and shove it in Megumi's face.

" Quick, hide it in your zip up!" 

" What?! Why can't you hide it in yours?!-" 

" You're taller! Gojo sensei's here already!" 

To your utter surprise, he actually does it.

You didn't expect him to listen.

" Morning! Ijichi said you guys had my shirt?-" 

Gojo sensei's smile slips off his face, his blindfolded gaze on Megumi.

You pretend to look innocent, while Nobara and Yuuji are working hard to hold their laughter. 

" What's the matter, Megumi?" 

He's shoved the blouse in his zip up so quickly, that it's caused a huge bump to form.

" It's nothing." 

He looks mildly annoyed as he speaks, but he's still not pulling out the blouse just yet.

Both Yuuji and Nobara break out in laughter, and Yuuji can't explain in any other way but to pull out the blouse from Megumi's collar. Their dynamic causes you to grin. Even if Megumi is irritated by what's happening.

-

And now, Nobara is dead.

Tears are streaming down your face as you find yourself rooted to the ground, unable to move.

" Kugisaki..." 

Yuuji is on the verge of panicking, of giving up, of calling it quits. And Sukuna knows. 

However, he finds himself unable to move. The marked boy is stood rooted to the ground, one arm still tight around your waist. You're not calling out to him, but he knows that he's the only thing keeping you grounded right now. The only thing keeping you from collapsing completely.

He wants to help Yuuji. He knows he has to, but he fears he's powerless. The Sukuna of this universe is merciless, a true evil. In Yuuji's eyes, Itadori Sukuna is nothing but a bad reminder of the monster who lives inside him. He doesn't recognize him as the asshole brother he is.

Death rarely shakes Sukuna. It was something that has always been that way. Sukuna always seemed to have some kind of error. He didn't have the emotions other people had. He truely cared about very few people, yet didn't mind going out of his way to help another. Yuuji and you are one of the very few people whose death he would actively mourn if it were to happen.

Nobara, one of your best friend's, is dead. But this wouldn't hit Sukuna until he had proper time to sit down. And even when he did, it was a true question whether he'd mourn her.

Sukuna swallows, before softly shaking you. He's toughing up for the two of you. he doesn't know this cursed spirit, doesn't know what's going on in this universe, but if he doesn't step up, Yuuji will get his ass beat and you'll be stuck in your head in a cycle. 

There's no time for that.

Sukuna's eyes widen as the curse, Mahito, closes in, it's focus on Yuuji and Yuuji alone.

" Y/N." 

He continues shaking you, trying to catch your attention. You blink through your tears, trying to regain your attention.

Yuuji gets hit with black flash by the curse. Sukuna shakes you more feverishly, trying to wake you from your numbness.

You finally snap back to Sukuna when Yuuji gets thrown into a wall.

" I need Light Fury." 

Your eyes are wide, taking in the scene, taking in what's happening.

" He needs you.." 

You're back, fully aware again, finally out of your shocked state.

Sukuna shakes his head, his hold on you loosening, before his arm fully slips off you.

He sighs as he faces you, wiping your tears with his thumb.

Sukuna's neutral expression was intimidating, but you have always been able to see through the way he carries himself, has always seen him as him.

And Sukuna knows he could never bring himself to be mean to you when you're crying like this.

Leaning down, he presses a short kiss to your forehead.

" I know. We can't allow their deaths to be in vain. Get me Light Fury, sweetheart. Focus on healing nobara as far as you can. I refuse to believe she dies easy."

You nod, glancing up at him. You're so glad he's here. So glad he's come to save you. So glad you're not alone in this mean universe.

You reach out beside you, focusing on your reverse cursed energy. Some kind of portal opens up behind you, the hilt of a white katana visible. Just like Megumi's shadow follows him everywhere, water is in the very air surrounding you as well. Light Fury is a weapon capable of killing special grade curses. It's loaded on reverse cursed energy. It was originally a regular weapon before Yuta brought it to you with the idea.

Sukuna rips it out of the small portal, allowing it's energy to attract Mahito's attention.

The two of you split up. You take a deep breath before focusing, drawing your ring of water with every last drop you can physically find around you as you drop to your knees besides Nobara's body.

Sukuna was right. Your best friend is tough, You couldn't accept her death just like this. She was too stubborn for that. 

You focus, really focus, finally. Your eyes close as you focus on her vitals, on keeping her alive, or forcefully keeping her body going.

Meanwhile, Sukuna joins the fight.

Mahito seems impressed, avoiding Sukuna's newfound blade with an interested expression in it's eyes.

" Oooeh, you wanna join in on the fun? Found a new toy?" 

Sukuna doesn't react, his eyes sharp on Mahito as he calls out to Yuuji.

" Yuuji. Get up. Stop crying. We need you. We don't have time for that." 

Sukuna could never be soft with Yuuji. Not during training, and not while they might be fighting to their deaths either.

Yuuji shakes his head. He's completely given up. Completely gone. Sukuna would be one of the last people who can save him.

" You should leave. You and Y/N both. I already almost accidentally killed her. This isn't your universe. Go home." 

Sukuna rolls his eyes in annoyance, a vein popping in his head. Did he really have to act all depressed now?  (  Yes, Sukuna, was nowhere near soft on Yuuji. Ever.)

he doesn't need to fight Mahito long. Within seconds, he's suddenly moved to a completely different spot, his place taken by what appears to be a loose rock.

He only knows one asshole with that technique. Todo.

Meanwhile your nose has started bleeding. You're really demanding a lot from your body today, demanding a lot from both your curse energy and reversed curse energy. At this point, you're fighting to stay awake. 

You're exhausted. You don't even know if Nobara is dead or alive anymore. You're fully focusing on healing her, even if it proves to be aimless. You've reached a point where your head hurts, your energy is reaching it's limits, and you can't feel her vitals.

" I- Are you okay?" 

Nitta Arata is both amazed and terrified. You're surrounded by reverse cursed energy, as is Nobara's body.

His call to you makes you blink. Your vision is already hazy.

" Huh?  Who are you?" 

" My name is Nitta Arata. I'm here to help. My technique can stop injuries from getting worse.-" 

Nitta stops talking as you collapse. The ring of water is completely gone, dissipated in Nobara's skin and the air surrounding you. Nitta watches it happen with wide eyes before rushing over. He treats you first, before deciding to apply his technique to Nobara as well. He doubts she's alive, but you had been too focused to not do that. Nitta glances at you one last time before leaving.

That was without doubt the most powerful reverse cursed technique he's seen in his entire life.

Moments later, he arrives at Todo's side.

" I've finished treating the girls over there. One's probably dead though." 

Sukuna's eyes widen as Light Fury dissipates.

Had you collapsed?  

Todo opens his mouth as he takes a good look at Sukuna, and behind him Nitta tenses up as well.

" I'm from Y/N's universe. I'm not going to bother explaining. We have shit to do, get to work." 

Sukuna's eyes are sharp as he passes by Todo, their heights matching. 

Todo can feel this Sukuna is not a threat. He has no cursed energy after all. He respects him as he passes by. Sukuna's brown eyes flit over Nitta hotly for a second, but he doesn't say anything. Moments later, he finds you, seemingly sound asleep near Nobara's side.

He huffs, leaning down and picking you up with ease. He notes the blood that seemed to have run down from your nose. You must have gone beyond your limit.

" Always getting into fucking trouble. Now I have to go find a stupid nasty Shibuya river again." 

He grumbles, complaining to himself as he carries you out of the metro station, taking one last look at Nobara before sighing.

He doesn't want to leave her body behind, but he has no choice.

He glances down at your sleeping form in his arms, before shaking his head, and finding his way outside.

" So much trouble for such a little shit." 

Yuuji is better off in Todo's hands.

[ A/N: Slow updates from now on bc I've got internship, school & work from now on.]

The Anomaly Taglist:

@luxylucylou @kalulakunundrum @strxbxrrylover @aethersslave @jenniferrvsesi @hanatsuki-hime @betizda @sh0uk1 @nymphsdomain

[hiraya-rawr]

"in another life, i would've really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you"

synopsis !! all the opportunities he didn't take! forbidden love, status differences, different life goals, missed chances

characters !! zhongli, thoma

note !! please please read thoma's part I really like it for some reason- also everything everywhere all at once was amazing, i loved every second of it and it was just so beautiful! i also love all the cultural references aaaah

+ + +

Z H O N G L I

"Live a human life with me," You had once suggested to Rex Lapis, lounging on a floating island and watching the construction of what would eventually be known as Liyue Harbor.

He turns to you, confused look on his face, "A human life? Honestly, your ideas only develop in oddity over time."

You laugh, shrugging as the wind chimes along with you. Did Barbatos find it amusing as well?

"I'm being serious, Morax! The war is over, peace is settling, any issues can be handled by the humans and we can always guide them from a distance." You smile, "Live a human life with me. We can open a teahouse by the outskirts, we can visit the harbor on weekends, we can age ourselves and spend a human's lifetime together!"

He sighs, turning away, "I'll amuse you and visit you in my human form, but I have responsibilities I wish to take as their archon. You can play human without me."

"Aww, Morax-"

He rolls his eyes, amused, "Human lives are so fickle and short. Should you ever get tired of living their ways, you're welcome to join me in the skies again."

"Hmp. You might just regret not trying with me." You tease, and you—

Were right. He did regret it, because there was no time left for him to try with you. You were gone, eroded like the old immortals, withered in a grave like a human. The immortality of gods like you and him was never physical after all, and your body decayed too soon.

"So, finally decided to join the bandwagon, huh?" Venti grins at the geo archon, sipping from his drink of what's presumably wine. The teahouse is half full, a known heritage site for anyone who knows the history of good Liyuen tea.

"It's an interesting idea." Zhongli simply replies.

"And how are you finding the human life, my dear friend?"

"Strangely. . . I had expected it to be a sociable endeavor," He smiles, strained, "but it could also feel quite lonely."

T H O M A

Doing laundry and taxes with Thoma was impossible in the first place. Not when you were destined to marry someone of the same status; a political engagement which tied you down since the day you turned of age.

For you, this was an unbearable tragedy. The denial of being with someone you love.

For Thoma, this was as simple as nature's course. Of course you would marry a noble! He's simply a commoner, a mere house worker with the favor of his boss. It wouldn't make sense for you to marry him.

And perhaps that's why it infuriated you; how dare he think so little of himself?

"I just don't understand why you're not mad about this! I'm about to be married and you— you won't say anything about that?" You once yelled, frustration built to its peak at his nonchalance.

"(Name)," Thoma says softly, concerned.

"No, don't you start!" You cut off swiftly, "You'll only talk about how you're a commoner and I'm a noble and I'm sick of that! I'm sick of all of it!"

"I just don't know what you want me to say–"

"Say you love me! Ask me to run away!" The words are desperate on your tongue. "Archons, Thoma, I wish you could be more selfish. I'd give it all up for you." You sob, collapsing onto the wooden floor as your legs give out. He immediately kneels in front of you, ready to embrace.

In quiet whispers, he cups your face, brushing tears away with his thumb, "You know I can't ask that of you."

You sniffle, "I know, I know." and "I just wanted you to try."

[thebouldersconflictedfeelings]

Ok you asked about Jayvik meant to be yours but, picture this : jayvik Seventeen, Jayce trying to convince Viktor to not give up his humanity

Seventeen has always sounded to me like someone trying to talk someone down from a roof they're about to jump off of, and they literally both did that for each other at qome point but really seventeen is "stop wantong to play god and just come be happy and in love with me" and idk if it were less teenage centered it would be so jayvik coded

This is so sweet omg yes. Folks have made the "I would have loved just doing laundry and taxes with you" comparison as well and that's what this reminds me of 🥰 domestic jayvik is the good end

[fullofgutsndopamine]

what’s it like on the other side of us? (is it dark?)

TW// major character death, mention of death, talk of illness (unspecified), angst, cursing, line stolen from “everywhere, all at once” (because i lack creativeness)

more hasan here

hasan took up knitting.

that in itself isn’t weird, read it was a stress reliever, would keep his hands busy, couldn’t exactly tangle them into your hair anymore-

and even though minimal, the sound of the needles clicking together brought some noise for him-he absolutely hated silence, did anything to avoid it, to fill the space in-

and days are filled now, and it’s in two desperate parts, a solid before and after diagnosis.

before, when days were spent dancing around the cramped apartment, late afternoon hikes and chilly bonfires curled into each other.

and after, when you’re too weak to walk into the house, hasan carrying you up the stairs to the bedroom to tuck you in gently after a long day.

today was another long day, the steady machine beeping next to you that woke you up when you moved the wrong way, always sent hasan on edge even though he insisted it didn’t, moving quickly to silence alarms like the nurses taught him-

the doctors said you were getting worse.

nothing to do about it now, comfort measures in place, his feet hang over your bed and the steady noise of the needles clicking together as he makes a row of careful stitches lulls you to sleep every night.

insists he’s going to make you the biggest blanket he can, as yellow and bright as the sun, as warm and delightful as you-that you’ll never experience a cold jersey winter in your life-and the words are heavy, the “-in your life” but you both act like you don’t hear the double meaning in it.

every night, machines off, his face buried into your collarbone, squeezing you as tightly as he can, trying to get you to stop shaking-your always fucking shaking-he acts like he doesn’t hear you sniffling, and you act like you don’t see his red eyes every morning.

it’s not functional, you both know this, but every day is just a matter of survival at this point.

on the bad days, (which get more frequent, more tears and shaky hands, the you he know disappears) hasan brings his guitar out from the closet, filled with clothes from the house, blankets galore (you’re always so fucking cold) and puts the strap around himself, paces around the room and hums, doesn’t care about the doctors or nurses or anyone, that comes in, or when you turn your back he keeps playing, and you wonder if it’s more for him or you. doesn’t care that his singing voice would scare small children, break glass-

another bad day, but those are easier to come across lately, you’re in bed, hanging onto the rail of the bed for deer life, like it’s a life line, like it’s deciding if you stay or go, you’re trying to ignore hasan’s hands on the railing, his knuckles white from gripping them so hard, like he’s saying: stay stay stay like it’s your deciding factor in your future-

“in another life,” your voice is hoarse, and your eyes are half shut, your lips are dried and pealing, cracked to hell-you have to look as terrible as you feel, “i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.” you leave out the part that hangs in the air, isn’t said but understood, the: instead of organizing medications and scheduling doctors appointments and he insists, with some teary eyed smile you can’t place as he kisses the top of your hand, careful of the IV hanging off of it, that there’s no one else he would rather do it for.

days pass, both too fast and too slow, somehow, and you act like you don’t smell the nicotine on his coat, his fingers laced yellow from the same vice, and everything moves forward, no matter how hard you dig your heels into the earth, beg for life to just fucking stop for a second-nights spent looking for before hasan like it was a game of hide and seek, searching under your bed for the carefree hasan who made songs up while you did the dishes, who bought home the saddest looking flowers from the market because he insisted they needed the most love, said you could give that to them-into the one who spends nights up, pacing around your hospital bed, his hands scratched from anxiety, his voice hoarse from yelling at whatever god exists that it isn’t fucking fair-

the beginning of the diagnosis, when everything was gold laced and hopeful, almost like a smirk on the edge of doctors lips, a: it’s rare, but it could happen. they could survive-when hasan would bring his laptop into the small bed, his feet over yours, laptop on his lap and all these plans to watch these movies that he’s been wanting to get to anyways, will now have some time-wanted to take a small streaming break anyways-

(you tell him if he doesn’t start streaming again, or finish that podcast he talks about, daydreams about, you would haunt his ass, even if you both don’t talk about the heavy weight of what could come, what is coming)

you feel high almost, from the treatment, and you know you’re slurring, but you feel light, the weight of the diagnosis and medication and all the planning floats around you; you’re aware of it, but it doesn’t eat at you for two seconds, and hasan is sitting cross legged from you, a small cup of some food in his hands (he took up cooking to try and recreate all those recipes you made that he loved-that you loved, once-sprawled on the back of hospital menus and take out receipts from himself, a last ditch effort for some normalcy) he leans in, slowly feeds you, insists you need to eat something, even if the mere idea of food makes you want to vomit-he looks so tired, so sad-the least you could do is have a spoonful of food he made. (he doesn’t tell you he spent all night making it, re making it, trying to perfect it, screams until the neighbors pound on the wall when it’s wrong, insists he’ll never get it right, never have it as good as you did-)

the next day they wheel you into treatment, but he’s there every day, right before, kneels on the hard aluminum floors (and still wonders why the knees of his jeans are so fucking dirty) rests his chin on the arm rest of the wheel chair: your hand is lazy and sloppy at best, and he acts like he doesn’t have to knock his hand under yours as you both do your handshake before you leave for treatment, sent away with a wet kiss to the crown of your head, spends the time pacing in the empty room, too quiet, too small-would do anything to hear the beep of your machine again-prays to whatever god is listening to let it work to let it heal you, will start praying or attending church anything - spends the days when it tapers off, when it’s less hopeful, to leave you the fuck alone, to back off, that it isn’t your time, to take him instead-to give him that suffering, the shuddering the pain again

In some sick way, you know it’s coming.

hasan’s eyes are pink, has just finished a cry, a doctor pulled him into the hallway, and he comes back, his voice shaky but you both act like you don’t hear it-sits in the chair next to your bed, throws the half finished blanket over you, smells like him, like pine and you take a deep breathe, glad to be able to smell it one last time.

“And i was thinking, baby-“ hasan says, as you turn to face the door, doesn’t feel right facing him, close your eyes and hope he feels this, knows this somehow: i love you. please don’t cry for me- “that tomorrow, we could have some visitors. Will has talked about wanting to see you for ages now-“

The light from the hallway gets brighter, almost blinding, and the noise around you is muffled-

you feel like you should stay, should say something, a low hum is in the back, almost guiding you, like it’s teasing you, telling you to follow it, like your sister did when you two played together all those years ago.

you’re so fucking tired.

“-and i know i don’t say it much anymore, baby. but i love you. I hope you know that, right? i love you so much-“ hasan doesn’t act like his voice doesn’t get caught in his throat, doesn’t see you move at all, half stands, his hand on your shoulder.

“baby?”

a shake and then-silence.

[creepycoffins]

Hi yes I would LOVE to hear your jotakak hcs 🙌🙌🙌

ur all enabling me stoooop I'm cringe /lh

Here are my basic thoughts :))) fair warning I have Much to say wrt Kakyoin lives au uhhh man I should just write a fic. Whatever throws this at u

kakyoin lives but his healing journey is long and arduous and uncertain. Every day is a coin toss. The physical and mental toll on the both of them is too high--theyre both 17 for fucks sake it'd be too high for anyone. How could they navigate a budding, relationship (probably each other's first?? And what with kakyoins lonely past??) when they've got more trauma combined than what most people go through in a lifetime? When jotaro thinks for even a minute too long about what kakyoin is going through (because of him, his brain supplies helpfully), Jotaro starts to unravel. So even though jotaro is sure he loves kakyoin, he does leave. he's scared of the way he feels. he does choose to live a life away from Kakyoin who, for the better part of his twenties, remains recovering with and working for the Speedwagon Foundation. Kakyoin was never really mad at Jotaro tho. Sure, he was probably bitter and stubbornly pushed away how he felt to mask his disappointment. But it was a lot, they were young, and jotaro is famously bad at sitting with his discomfort. And kakyoin was so focused on like, basically relearning how to be a human all over again, he's not sure he would've been any better himself.

When they meet again, Jotaro has already been through a failed marriage and is a few years into fatherhood. And god, kakyoin is a hearth fire. Just as bright and sharp and full of life as he'd been before, but somehow even more honed, more graceful. Jotaro is well and truly fucked. He'd never moved on, not really. And kakyoin forgives him. He sees right through Jotaro, he knows what jotaro means when he stumbles. It takes Jotaro a while to lean into it, to let himself Receive, to forgive himself. But Kakyoin is patient. And when it happens, that's it. End of story. Ruined for anyone else tbh

They do laundry and taxes together, man!! They know how the other takes their coffee, how to perfectly steep each other's tea, they borrow each other's socks, they're so in sync it disturbs everyone around them. They're an old married couple. Their flirting is devastating. People think they're fighting. They use their stands inappropriately. Kakyoin is able to take Jotaro apart with a single word, a gesture, a look. They bicker. They're like two stones smoothed over to perfectly fit into the curves of the other. They critique movies together and take nature walks and go bird watching. They both smoke the same brand of cigarettes (they get help quitting from Koichi). They have a fucking porch swing. And kakyoin is a good dad. He's so god damn proud.

Kakyoin works for the swf and uses that brain for good, but he's still an artist. Jotaro is always encouraging him to try for galleries, and goes to his shows when he does make it in. Kakyoin loves that jotaro is passionate about his degree. They have a lot of respect for each other and support each other's work. Truly equals in every sense of the word.

They talk over the phone a lot while JoJo's in Morioh. They like playing chess together. They have a favorite late night coffee shop. Theyre diligent about returning their library books. Jotaro makes a really good pineapple upside down cake. you agree

I won't share my nsfw hcs this is a mostly sfw blog but. Trust me I have them :)))

As a caveat they're both such interesting characters on their own outside of ship. and I have so many thoughts on them individually I could write essays!!! But u asked for jotakak so here I've baked u cookies (jotakak hcs) enjoy

[winkk-koo]

For me the ship appeal for shuangshui comes from the following:

Both of them are big brothers who'd do anything to protect their little siblings

If the roles were reversed HX would have done the same to save his sister

"Have you no remorse" if HX truly only hated him why would he care if swd felt bad about what he did? He's invested in the outcome and was desperate for an apology and acknowledgement of his feelings (which SWD only denied him because SQX was at risk)

HX saw SWD's face at death and that's what kept him bound to this world instead of passing on

After killing SWD, if HX was satisfied in his revenge his soul should have dissipated, but he's still here

You can argue this is bc of SQX, but ghosts can't change their obsession, or the resentment tying them to this world, and a ghost king has the strongest obsession of all

Shuangshui as a foil for hualian, basically what happens when you dedicate your existence to hate instead of love (which is, after all, the function of bw arc in the novel)

They don't have a chance in canon since it's very one sided, HX's obsession for a guy who doesn't even know who he is, but that's the tragic appeal of it, destroying the person you should have loved with your own hands, because you refused to understand your own heart, and dooming your soul to wander, unsatisfied, forever

And maybe if things had been different, Shi Wudu could have loved the soft, sensitive Scholar He, who would sacrifice it all for his sibling too

There's a lot of lost potential to explore, in another universe I would have loved to do laundry and taxes with you

Who is being so poetic in my asks!!!!!

Bro wrote amazing character analysis and expects to just get away with it

______________________________________

I really did not think of the actual meaning of both being water themed and why He Xuan Specifically chose this . And now that you say it i find it really interesting

Arrrh and the fact his calamity name is Black Water Sinking Ships when Shi Wudu does the same thing with ships that don't send him offerings before sailing 😭😭

He really copied that man he was supposed to hate everything about

(I also took a break from tgcf right after black water arc to start reading svsss so i didn't take into account that he might still be around. But thats really tragic he dedicated like 800? Years to his revenge and he wasn'teven satisfied with it and since the source of his suffering is basically gone he can't do anything about it now right)

I also- forgor to press "post" on this yesterday

[baka-bakeneko]

Chaos Theory Miguel O'Hara x Reader

"in another life, i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you"

tags: reminiscing, wishful thinking, feelings of grief, slightest mention of emotional abuse, cheating, crying, feelings of hope, Miguel-canon aggression, PTSD, slow sex synopsis: Miguel, after being injured by an anomaly, stops somewhere he shouldn't have word count: 2.5k a/n: come feel the sad angsts with me

Miguel sat at the kitchen counter, staring at your worried shoulders as you wrang out a bloody washcloth. He'd tried to avoid this verse for so long, told Lyla that its coordinates were blacklisted in his computer and should also be from his watch.

Because it was too hard to see you. Especially in this state. You were not to be interfered with, your life with your husband the quiet peace that Miguel wanted to give you, in another lifetime.

You were still his wife, though you didn't know it. But somewhere deep down, when you glanced over your bunched shoulder at Miguel, he hoped you recognized him. Like the man in your dream, the faint touch on your neck, the warrant thought of a kiss on your inside thigh just against your beauty mark.

That was all him, he was the groundbreaker for those instances and he wanted you to snap into place and recognize him as such.

But you didn't. And you wouldn't.

Another pierce in his already bleeding heart. You turned around to face him, leaning in to swipe carefully at the gash on his cheek.

"What happened to you?" You asked, your concern more than sweet.

Your hand rested on his shoulder, withholding a gulp as you stepped closer between his legs to swipe at the gash on his neck.

"I-uh-tripped through a glass window," Miguel lied, clenching his hands on his lap to avoid grasping at your waist.

He focused his dull glare at one of the kitchen cabinets, wincing softly when you patted too hard at his neck.

You turned around again to wring the washcloth once more in warm water, then set it on the counter. You reached for the gauze and rubbing alcohol, turning around to rest it on the counter closest to Miguel's elbow.

You tsked dryly, stepping close to this man again. You relaxed your shoulders and dapped at the gauze with the alcohol before tapping it gently to the man's neck first.

He withstood a soft flinch, his teeth baring slightly at the sting. You noticed his sharp tooth, something so unnatural for a normal man like him.

"Miguel," You chastised lowly, leaning into the man slightly to scan his wound for glass. "We can't keep meeting like this."

His lips curled into a grin, slowly letting his lips fall back into his natural frown. "I know."

Miguel knew it was wrong for him to keep circling back to this verse, his presence in it was an anomaly in itself. Still, once he arrived the first time after falling from another verse, Miguel felt attracted to come back every time he was injured.

That was always within you, your willingness to aid others. Whether it was stray cats or abandoned baby birds, you were always there lending your help.

Miguel remembered having to climb under the car to retrieve a kitten that wedged itself near the engine during the winter storm the night before and how you were staring down at him from under the hood.

"Be careful!" You offered, hiding your cold nose behind your mittens.

"Nena, its okay, I've got this," Miguel murmured, looking up at the winter sky haloed around you.

You begged him to keep the little tabby after it was freed and Miguel, a man controlled by your hand on his heart, agreed without a second thought.

He hissed inwardly again when you pinched out a spare piece of glass. He felt his talons curling into his palms, breathing steadily while you patched him up carefully.

"How's your husband?" Miguel asked, the question only twisting a knife into his heart.

You backed away an inch and looked over Miguel's shoulder, around the kitchen to the doorway. Of course he wasn't home but you could never be too sure.

Miguel's throat tightened, watching your stare grow wild looking around to make sure you were still alone. He didn't want to know what the man had done to you to make you so on edge, but it caused a raw nerve to twitch between his shoulders.

"He's fine," you said, stressing your words while you returned your focus to Miguel again.

Miguel couldn't help his hand grabbing your wrist then, as you reached to tape his cheek. He stood up from the chair, immediately towering over you.

"Are you sure?" He asked with a curious tilt of his head.

Miguel looked behind him to still see that you two were alone. Returning to your presence, he noticed your other hand bracing his stomach.

He glanced at your fingers scratching softly at his shirt; your fingers spread apart to touch more of his hardened body.

Miguel felt... familiar under your fingertips. If you recounted your most lucid dreams, you could pinpoint the scent Miguel gave off right now.

He knew that your touch was not sanctioned like this, how dangerous it would be if your hand wandered.

But he didn't want to stop you.

"Ne--" he cut himself off and snapped back to this reality, not one constructed in a tragedy. "Y/N...do you...fear him?"

Your brows quirked, staring at Miguel's tight shirt then matched his gaze. You wanted to shake your head, he was your husband after all, but he didn't give you the innate safe feeling that this man before you did.

Your throat lodged with a swallow, already curving your chin left ready to swing back with a dissuade of Miguel's accusation.

His top lip curled then, your defiance to the answer he could see in your eyes. Miguel's free hand grasped your chin between his thumb and index finger.

Staring deeply into your eyes, everything he once called you came to mind besides your name. This was his tresuro, his cariña, his nena, mamí, mujer hermosa, bebé mamá.

He had to bite through his damn tongue lest one of his terms slip as he remapped the divets in your irises. A singular tear threatened him, making his nose sting with every emotion he felt towards you.

How badly he missed your kiss.

You held your breath, staring up at this beautiful stranger. His chocolate eyes were rich and echoing, begging you to recall where he was from. To recall why you knew how to touch him now.

Your mind was running blank and tears welled in your eyes then, conflicted by the loyalty to your husband and whatever Miguel was stirring within you now.

Miguel brought your hand up to his heart, let your palm rest firmly against him to hear his heart racing. He knew he was something to you, someone but he said nothing.

You feared what that meant, but couldn't stop your heart racing the same for him.

Miguel leaned down, cautious to scare you away, and found your lips with his. Your shock was half-phoned, your lips molding to his as if he'd kissed you a thousand times before. Miguel reasoned it on a thousand a day.

A whimper escaped as it did him, his face contorting and giving way to how miserable he was inside. You were so close, but not his.

His eyes squeezed shut, tears streaking down his cheeks as your eyes fluttered shut. A few tears escaped you, your arms straightening out to wrap around Miguel's broad neck.

He sniffled into you, coming to terms with what he was doing now. If he kept going, he'd never be able to come back.

He'd have to search another million verses to find a version of you again. His heart wrenched in his chest, whimpering into you again.

Miguel couldn't stop himself though. He has to feel you again, to feel your lips and hips and skin. He had to remember how you felt pressed against him, how you sounded.

All he wouldn't be able to do was feel Gabriella kicking inside you. You hummed softly into Miguel's kiss, retreating when his tears tainted his taste.

"Lo siento," Miguel whispered, regaining his composure in an instant before returning to your kiss.

It all happened so fast. Miguel's hands grabbed your waist, pulled you firmly into him, allowing him to tower fully over you.

You fought to keep it chaste, to break off of him though your body felt this all as second nature with Miguel.

He lifted you into his hold with one arm, blinding trekking through your house to find your bedroom. He slammed the door firmly behind him then tossed you onto the bed, your downy grey comforter ballooning up around you.

Miguel lifted your shirt and kissed down your stomach, hiding his tears against your skin with timid nips. He'd admire your body in every verse if he could, his beautiful wife. Mother of his child.

He wiggled your pants down slightly, kissing at every new patch of skin revealed.

Your mind was unraveling in the huffs of silence. The daylight peered through your windows, the breeze of the afternoon seeping through your grey decorated bedroom, the air picking up the sheer curtains in billows.

Miguel inspected your skin for any marks, knowing that if you truly feared him, he'd have done something. He waded your pants down to your ankles, freeing your sex to catch the air.

He furrowed his brows in reminisce at the sight, pushing your thighs apart to find your beauty mark. When he did, Miguel pressed his lips there, licked and nipped at it as if touching it would bring you back to him.

You reached a hand out to comb through Miguel's luscious hair, making him pull away from your beauty mark.

He stared up your body, meeting your gaze with his reddened eyes. You felt his stare begging for your mind to catch up, to know him, remember him.

Miguel took your in-turned brows as the answer to his pleas, it wasn't working. He righted his mouth to your inside knee, trailing his tongue up to your inside hip.

Fine, he gave up. You wouldn't remember him. But now he'd never let you forget him.

Your sex clenched at the blow of warm air from Miguel's mouth, edging up on your elbow to watch him.

He slinked his tongue inside you, not warming you up to tease. He wanted to be unforgettable.

Your face pinched, planting your heels onto the edge of the bed. Miguel hungrily, selfishly, nudged his face further into you, causing your body to tense.

"M-M-Miguel," you stuttered, losing all edge with a loud moan slipping out with a drop of your head.

He hummed in response, his hands taking grip of your hips to pull you harder onto his mouth. He was going to imprint you with him, cause a detrimental change to every version of you after this.

Your hand tightened on his locks, wanting to pull him off and into you. The heat picked up low in your stomach, a pooling sensation leveling further up with each lap Miguel gave to your walls.

He pulled off of you to finally catch his breath. He stared down at your diminutive expression, your whole face holding a sense of edge.

Just like he remembered you to do. You never begged him for more, only pouted that it was over. Miguel scoffed dryly, bringing the collar of his shirt up to wipe away your essence.

He outstretched over you, kissing you again as his hands slipped under your shirt. You attempted to help him undress, wading your hands up under his shirt but he never caught on.

Miguel wanted this to be about you; he unclasped your bra with a simple flick of his fingers, peeled your shirt off with a quick pause at your lips.

He reached to pull his waistband down, your hands finally aiding him in that effort. When his cock was free of its confines, Miguel parted from your mouth to look down at the meet of your bodies.

He glanced back at you, knowing that this was the beginning of the end. He couldn't go back from this.

Your hands slipped up to his shoulders, pecking the corner of his mouth as he silently debated his limited options.

"What's wrong?" you asked in a whisper.

Miguel shook his head, his eyes watering again. "N-nothing, nothing mi corazon."

He shut your next question down with a deep kiss, readying his cock before thrusting slowly into you.

Your face broke with a moan into Miguel's mouth. His eyes broke again, crying outwardly onto your skin.

You ignored his tears as they slipped down his cheeks and dotted your chest; you couldn't help but feel his anguish just the same. You broke from his mouth to kiss his leaking eyes, down his slick cheeks and back to him.

Miguel rocked his hips rhythmically, his arms curled around your head. He wanted to keep you, savor you in a pocket dimension so he'd never lose you again.

His tears were now angered, hot saline streaking down his cheeks with the thought of losing you again.

You crossed your arms along his broad back, heaving out your own sniffles to this stranger.

Miguel whipped his heart internally, cursing himself inside for acting so impulsively. This was not meant to happen, but he was never level-headed with you.

He pumped into you, ignoring your keen breaths as he imagined and reimagined you with him. Your skin, your laughter, how you held his head in your lap, your croon-awful singing.

Miguel parted from you, leaning further into you to nudge his nose against yours.

"T-te amo," Miguel whimpered lowly against your lips. He kept his eyes welded shut for fear he'd lose himself and crush you into him. "Me escuchas, nena? Te amo, Te amo, Te amo."

He leaned further to kiss at your ear, driving his cock hard into you before whimpering at the fluttering of your soft walls.

Your eyes rolled with your head craning back, moaning out Miguel's name. You relished in him deep inside you, his hips stalled against yours.

He came undone over you, ducking his head under chin to whisper your name against your collar. Miguel pulled out of you, cumming into his hand before rolling over to sit on the edge of your bed.

You caught your breath, touching your fingers to your chest and cheek to finally acknowledge the tears.

Miguel looked over his shoulder at you, savored his last few moments before typing in the coordinates of headquarters on his watch.

You looked over at Miguel, noticing he'd disappeared into thin air. Sitting up, you stared at the billowing curtains around your window hoping to see a glimpse of him as he made his escape.

Your eyes watered at the sudden emptiness you felt from his leaving; you grabbed at the comforter and pulled it up to your chest with a tear slipping down your cheek.

Miguel stood before his computer screen, watching your realization unfold in real time. His eyes threatened a final time before he bit it away and continued staring on. He'd wiped his hand on his pants in disgust, waiting for the appropriate time to clean up.

"What'cha watching?" Lyla asked innocently, popping in over Miguel's shoulder.

Miguel instinctively reached for the button to turn the broadcast off, straightening his shoulders as he sniffed.

"Nothing."