#to make it something a bit richer
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tresdem · 2 years ago
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Randomly in story beats that bug me:
The end of the Lion King (1994) when Simba 'confesses' that he killed Mufasa and Sarabi, his mother, is like: "Tell me it's not true." Like, lady, he was an infant. An infant. Of course it's not freaking true. What the hell do you think he did? Push him? And aren't you the least bit suspicious that the uncle who is mismanaging the whole thing and being an ass is claiming that this is true? Now, if Simba had been a teenaged lion growing into his mane, that I could see, but otherwise please. Please.
But that was a cheap line made to up the dramatic tension of the scene and to provide a sort of hiccup in Simba regaining his place as King. And it was made because who else was going to act in shock and horror? And also it sets up the reversal for later wherein Simba makes Scar confess.
So does it do the job it sets out to do? Yes. Is it still a cheap line that makes little sense unless we assume some things about Sarabi and/or the ability for cubs to take down full adults? Also yes.
On a somewhat related note, there's an old Kyle Kallgren video wherein he discusses the Lion King's similarities to the Shakespeare play History of Henry IV Part I & II and I kind of dig it.
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garygoldenbignaturals · 10 months ago
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Indopol is a joke
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headspace-hotel · 1 year ago
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I will write this thought about Veganism and Classism in the USA in another post so as to not derail the other thread:
There are comments in the notes that say meat is only cheaper than plant based foods because of subsidies artificially lowering the price of meat in the United States. This is...part of the story but not all of it.
For my animal agriculture lab we went to a butcher shop and watched the butcher cut up a pig into various cuts of meat. I have had to study quite a bit about the meat industry in that class. This has been the first time I fully realized how strongly the meat on a single animal is divided up by socioeconomic class.
Like yes, meat cumulatively takes more natural resources to create and thus should be more expensive, but once that animal is cut apart, it is divided up between rich and poor based on how good to eat the parts are. I was really shocked at watching this process and seeing just how clean and crisp an indicator of class this is.
Specifically, the types of meat I'm most familiar with are traditionally "waste" parts left over once the desirable parts are gone. For example, beef brisket is the dangly, floppy bit on the front of a cow's neck. Pork spareribs are the part of the ribcage that's barely got anything on it.
And that stuff is a tier above the "meat" that is most of what poor people eat: sausage, hot dogs, bologna, other heavily processed meat products that are essentially made up of all the scraps from the carcass that can't go into the "cuts" of meat. Where my mom comes from in North Carolina, you can buy "livermush" which is a processed meat product made up of a mixture of liver and a bunch of random body parts ground up and congealed together. There's also "head cheese" (made of parts of the pig's head) and pickled pigs' feet and chitlin's (that's made of intestines iirc) and cracklin's (basically crispy fried pig skin) and probably a bunch of stuff i'm forgetting. A lot of traditional Southern cooking uses basically scraps of animal ingredients to stretch across multiple meals, like putting pork fat in beans or saving bacon grease for gravy or the like.
So another dysfunctional thing about our food system, is that instead of people of each socioeconomic class eating a certain number of animals, every individual animal is basically divided up along class lines, with the poorest people eating the scraps no one else will eat (oftentimes heavily processed in a way that makes it incredibly unhealthy).
Even the 70% lean ground beef is made by injecting extra leftover fat back into the ground-up meat because the extra fat is undesirable on the "better" cuts. (Gross!)
I've made, or eaten, many a recipe where the only thing that makes it non-vegan is the chicken broth. Chicken broth, just leftover chicken bones and cartilage rendered and boiled down in water? How much is that "driving demand" for meat, when it's basically a byproduct?
That class really made me twist my brain around about the idea of abstaining from animal products as a way to deprive the industry of profits. Nobody eats "X number of cows, pigs, chickens in a lifetime" because depending on the socioeconomic class, they're eating different parts of the animal, splitting it with someone richer or poorer than they are. If a bunch of people who only ate processed meats anyway abstained, that wouldn't equal "saving" X number of animals, it would just mean the scraps and byproducts from a bunch of people's steaks or pork chops would have something different happen to them.
The other major relevant conclusion I got from that class, was that animal agriculture is so dominant because of monoculture. People think it's animal agriculture vs. plant agriculture (or plants used for human consumption vs. using them to feed livestock), but from capitalism's point of view, feeding animals corn is just another way to use corn to generate profits.
People think we could feed the world by using the grain fed to animals to feed humans, but...the grain fed to animals, is not actually a viable diet for the human population, because it's literally just corn and soybean. Like animal agriculture is used to give some semblance of variety to the consumer's diet in a system that is almost totally dominated by like 3 monocrops.
Do y'all have any idea how much of the American diet is just corn?!?! Corn starch, corn syrup, corn this, corn that, processed into the appearance of variety. And chickens and pigs are just another way to process corn. That's basically why we have them, because they can eat our corn. It's a total disaster.
And it's even worse because almost all the USA's plant foods that aren't the giant industrial monocrops maintained by pesticides and machines, are harvested and cared for by undocumented migrant workers that get abused and mistreated and can't say anything because their boss will tattle on them to ICE.
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mssalo · 13 days ago
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fixation
You have an oral fixation, and Joel is more than happy to keep your mouth busy.
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, oral fixation (f!reader), oral (male receiving), finger-sucking, dirty talk, praise kink, established relationship, consensual dynamic, playful possessiveness, casual intimacy, semi-public setting, reader can’t keep her mouth off of Joel’s cock (I get it) 6k.
· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··
It had been about 11 months since you and Joel started seeing each other, and every day with him felt like a quiet discovery, learning things about each other that made each moment feel richer.
But there was something you hadn’t quite figured out how to bring up yet—a part of you that you weren’t sure how he’d respond to. Yet, in his presence, the need always seemed to flare up, subtle but persistent, tugging at you like a habit you couldn’t quite ignore.
One evening, you were curled up together on his couch, the night warm and quiet, and you’d been a little fidgety, your mind distracted, wondering if he’d picked up on your subtle hints.
His hand rested easily on your thigh, his thumb tracing soft, absent-minded circles over your jeans, grounding you in the moment.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and gentle, breaking the comfortable silence as he glanced over at you, his eyes soft but observant.
“You’ve been a little… antsy tonight.” He tilted his head, watching you carefully with that warm, reassuring smile of his. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours, huh?”
You bit your lip, your cheeks heating up as you avoided his gaze, feeling that familiar warmth creeping in, making you both nervous and a little thrilled.
His hand squeezed your thigh just slightly, his fingers gentle, urging you to look up.
“Baby,” he said, his voice a mix of patience and curiosity, “you know you can tell me anything, right? If there’s somethin’ you want, or… need?”
He trailed off, his gaze lingering on your mouth, a knowing smile beginning to form.
You swallowed, feeling the warmth in your face intensify as his words sank in, and finally, you gave him a small nod, glancing up at him shyly.
Your lips parted slightly, but the words felt stuck, tangled up in the way he was looking at you, his gaze warm and inviting.
A quiet laugh slipped past his lips as he brushed a thumb over your bottom lip, his voice dropping to that rough, soft tone that always seemed to send a shiver through you.
“Got a feeling I know what’s been on your mind,” he murmured, his hand moving up to cradle your cheek as he leaned in closer.
“You got a little fixation, don’t ya?” he whispered, his tone playful but warm, his eyes glinting with quiet confidence.
Your heart raced, and you gave a small, embarrassed nod, your gaze dropping to his chest as you felt the words tumble out in a near whisper.
“I… I just like having… something to keep me busy,” you admitted, your voice soft, almost shy.
Still brushing his thumb over your bottom lip, his eyes sparking with that familiar glint.
“Need somethin’ to keep that pretty mouth busy, huh?” he murmured, his voice soft and rough as his thumb lingered, his hand steady on your face.
“Should’ve known,” he said with a grin, his gaze dropping down to your mouth. “Come here.”
His hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer with a gentle yet confident touch.
As you leaned in, you saw the soft amusement in his eyes, the way his expression held a subtle, reassuring warmth.
You parted your lips, shy but eager, letting his thumb slip between them, and he watched, his gaze intense but filled with that easy confidence that always seemed to make you feel safe with him.
"That’s it, baby," he murmured, his thumb brushing against your tongue as he watched, clearly enjoying your reaction.
"Didn’t need to be shy about it… any time you need this, you just come to me, alright?"
Your cheeks flushed, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips as his thumb brushed your lower lip, his other hand steady on your waist.
It felt like a quiet promise, a comfortable acceptance that brought you even closer, and you felt your lingering hesitation melting away as he held you there, happy to give you exactly what you’d been craving.
“I don’t mind one bit,” he whispered, his thumb still in your mouth, feeling your soft, tentative sucking as he gently pulled you closer.
Joel’s eyes softened, his voice was low, roughened with curiosity and a touch of arousement as he asked, “Is this what’s been on your mind, babygirl? Just my fingers?”
His question lingered in the air, his tone hinting at more as he kept his gaze steady on yours, letting the words sink in.
He watched the way your cheeks flushed deeper, and he let out a quiet chuckle, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he murmured, “Or was it somethin’ else you were thinkin’ about?”
Your heart raced, his hint unmistakable, but there was something about the warmth in his gaze and the steady grip of his hand that put you completely at ease.
The words felt caught in your throat, but Joel waited, letting his thumb slip out of your mouth, his hand settling under your chin to lift your gaze to meet his. “I can make sure you get exactly what you need… all you have to do is ask.”
He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head.
His voice softened, a quiet encouragement. “Whatever you want, I’m here, sweet bug.”
Joel’s thumb brushed over your lip again, encouraging as he kept his gaze steady, patient, letting you find the words.
Your cheeks warmed, but the way he was looking at you—reassuring, warm, without a hint of judgment—made it easier to open up.
“I just… feel calmer when I’m, you know, sucking on something,” you began, your voice quiet, a little shy.
“Something solid. It’s like… I like the weight of it in my mouth.” You paused, catching your breath, feeling a mixture of vulnerability and relief as you finally said it out loud. “I don’t know why, but it’s… comforting.”
Joel listened closely, nodding as his thumb traced a gentle line along your jaw. His smile softened, and he murmured, “I figured, pretty one… I could see it.”
He tilted his head, watching you with a look of gentle understanding that helped ease the lingering embarrassment. “Were you embarrassed to tell me?”
You hesitated, giving him a small, shy nod. He chuckled softly, a low, comforting sound that settled any lingering nerves.
“Can’t say I haven’t noticed,” he murmured, his voice low and a little rough, as he looked down at you. “The way you linger, like you can’t let go of my cock once you’ve got your mouth on it… like you’re not quite done with me.”
Your cheeks flushed, and quiet laughs slipped out of the both of you.
He tilted your chin up, his gaze softening, still playful but carrying a deeper warmth. “You like the weight of it, hm?” he asked gently, a thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “Feels good for you, yeah?”
You gave a small, shy nod, meeting his gaze as your pulse quickened.
He leaned closer, his tone a gentle murmur as he continued, “Darlin’, anytime you need that—anytime you want me, you come to me. I’ll be more than happy to help you calm down.”
With that, he pressed a lingering kiss to your lips, his hand still cradling your face, his words sinking in as he held you there, his touch reassuring, making it clear he was there for you, always.
· · ───𖥸
It had become a quiet ritual between you and Joel ever since that night—one where he was more than happy to help you find comfort whenever you needed it.
At first, it was just his fingers. When you’d feel the day’s tension creeping up, he’d let you settle close, slipping his fingers between your lips as he watched you, warm and intent.
The gentle weight, the grounding feel of his hand against your jaw as he let you draw his fingers in, helped you feel calm in a way that words couldn’t quite reach.
Joel noticed it too, the way you’d relax under his touch, how you’d quietly seek him out and never let go until you were completely at ease.
Tonight, though, you found yourself wanting more. It had been a long and hard day, one that left you feeling edgy, and his fingers alone weren’t enough.
As you walked into the living room, you found him on the couch, relaxed with his arm draped across the back, his other hand resting on his thigh.
The sight of him there, so grounded and steady, instantly soothed something in you.
He noticed you right away, his gaze softening as you approached, catching the fidgeting in your hands.
“Hello there, pretty girl,” he greeted, his voice warm, with that touch of curiosity he always had when he knew you needed him. “Need anything?”
You didn’t say anything, instead sinking to your knees in front of him, your gaze falling to his lap before meeting his eyes again.
Joel’s brow lifted slightly, his expression soft but knowing, his lips curling into a small smile as he reached down, fingers brushing over your cheek.
“Had a rough day, huh?” he murmured, his tone low, patient as his hand moved to cradle your jaw.
His thumb traced along your bottom lip, holding you there gently, his eyes darkening with quiet understanding.
“Is this what you’ve been needing?” he asked, his voice a quiet rumble, letting his fingers linger at your lips, already familiar with the comfort it brought you.
But you shook your head slightly, looking up at him with that same shy glance, your gaze flickering down as you hesitated, unsure how to ask for what you really needed.
Joel’s gaze held steady, his thumb brushing over your lip as he read your expression, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Or maybe… you want a little more than that?”
You felt your cheeks flush, but the look in his eyes made the words come easier. You glanced up, giving him a small nod as your hands settled on his knees, silently asking for permission, for more.
Joel’s thumb brushed over your lip, and he chuckled softly, his gaze dropping to meet yours. “Is that what you’ve been needing?” he murmured, his voice low, rich with amusement. “My cock… to make you calm?”
The words sent a thrill through you, and he watched as you nodded, barely able to meet his gaze, your cheeks warm. ”Yes... please,“ you whispered quietly.
Joel tilted his head slightly, his hand guiding your chin so you couldn’t look away.
“No need to be shy with me, darlin’,” he continued, his voice a quiet, steady invitation. “If that’s what you need, I’ll give it to you. Always.”
Joel leaned back slightly, the soft lighting casting shadows across his strong features, highlighting the rugged lines of his face and the warm, steady gleam in his dark eyes.
He watched you closely, his gaze never faltering as you settled in closer, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, grounding you with his steady presence.
A subtle smile played at the corner of his mouth as his hand settled over yours, guiding you with a gentle but firm touch.
His fingers brushed your jaw, coaxing you to look up at him as he murmured, “Go ahead, sweetheart… take what you need.”
Your fingers brushed over the outline of his cock, feeling him hardening beneath your touch, his quiet, restrained breaths signaling his anticipation.
His gaze darkened, his eyes holding a mix of warmth and intensity as he watched you, his lips parting slightly as you felt his cock pulse beneath your hand.
“Just like that,” he whispered, his voice deep, a touch of approval in his tone as his other hand cupped the back of your neck, his thumb brushing soft, grounding circles there.
His touch, his steady gaze, everything about him filled you with a quiet confidence as he murmured, “You’re doin’ perfect, darlin’… don’t stop.”
His voice, low and calming, was a quiet invitation, full of the easy confidence that you found so comforting.
“Go on, pretty girl,” he murmured, his eyes holding yours.
You tugged his jeans down just enough, freeing him from the fabric, and your breath hitched as you took him in.
His cock was thick and slightly curved, already hard and flushed with arousal, the tip a deep, needy pink that glistened faintly, inviting. Dark, neatly kept curls surrounded his base, a subtle, masculine scent rising from him, earthy and undeniably him.
His hand moved at the back of your neck, thumb grazing lightly against your skin, steadying you as you leaned in.
His voice, low and gravelly, sent a shiver through you as he murmured, “My sweet girl... Lookin’ so good with your mouth just inches from me. Can see you want it… don’t hold back.”
His words dripped with quiet command, tinged with that deep warmth that made you feel secure yet set your nerves alight with anticipation.
You opened your mouth, your tongue trailing along the underside of his length, savoring the salty-sweet taste of him.
The heat, the weight of his cock, filled you with a heady calm, grounding you in the sensation. Joel’s hand tightened ever so slightly on your neck, his other hand resting on his thigh, fingers curling as he watched you take him inch by inch.
“That’s my girl,” he groaned, his voice dark and warm, his eyes half-lidded as he watched you.
“Look at you, takin’ all of me like that, slow and easy. Your lips… they look so damn good wrapped around me, sweet one.” His tone was full of approval, deep and rich, letting you know how much he was enjoying this, letting you settle into the moment.
You began to move your mouth over him, letting your tongue swirl around the sensitive head, savoring every ridge and vein.
The faint sheen of your saliva coated him, catching the light, and his cock looked even more inviting, glistening and hard, throbbing slightly in response to your touch.
Joel let out a low, pleased hum, his hand stroking your cheek, encouraging you as you took him deeper.
“God, baby, good job,” he murmured, his tone thick with admiration. “So sweet and focused… like you were made for this.”
His fingers trailed through your hair, gentle but firm, guiding you without any hint of impatience. “Gettin’ every inch, nice and slow… takin’ your time just like I like.”
Your mouth tightened around him, feeling his cock twitch as you took him deeper, letting the weight of him press down on your tongue, grounding you, calming you in a way that nothing else could.
His scent, his warmth, his quiet, filthy praise—everything about this moment soothed you, made you feel safe, yet utterly alive.
“You love how it feels, yeah, baby?” Joel’s voice was a low rasp, and his words spurred you on, made you feel bolder. “The weight of me, how thick I am in that pretty mouth of yours. Tellin’ you, sweetheart… there’s nothin’ I like more than watchin’ you get lost right here.”
You could feel the pulse of his heartbeat through his cock, and it made you shiver.
His hand moved from your hair to your cheek, his thumb brushing softly over the corner of your mouth as he watched you, eyes dark, lips parted in quiet approval.
He tilted his head, studying you with that intense, appreciative gaze that always made you feel seen, adored.
“You keep that mouth workin’ as long as you need, baby,” he murmured, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “Long as you want, it’s all yours. Just… fuck, yeah, just like that.”
The praise made you feel a rush of warmth, and you took him deeper, letting him feel your eagerness, your need.
His cock pulsed against your tongue, and you savored the feel of him as his fingers stayed steady at your neck, grounding you with his warmth and strength.
“Feelin’ better already?” he asked, his voice gentle, his tone rough with desire.
His hand traced down your jaw, thumb pressing lightly at your lip, pulling it down so he could see himself disappear into your mouth. “Look at that, darlin’... look at you, takin’ me so well. Such a good girl, lettin’ me calm you down just like this.”
You hummed softly around him, the vibration making his fingers tighten slightly on the back of your neck.
His breathing grew deeper, more ragged, but he kept his touch soft, steady, letting you take the lead, letting you have what you needed. “That’s it, baby… don’t rush, just keep me right there. Slow and steady,” he whispered, his voice low and dark, every word soothing yet making your pulse quicken.
His hand stayed firm as he leaned back slightly, allowing you to settle comfortably as you continued to savor him, tasting, exploring, letting his words and his touch fill you with warmth and calm.
Every brush of his thumb, every murmur of approval, grounded you deeper, letting you lose yourself completely in him, in the simple, comforting weight of him on your tongue, a connection that was yours and his alone.
You relaxed deeper, each slow movement of your mouth deliberate, savoring the weight of him, the feel of his thick, flushed cock filling you, grounding you.
Joel’s hand stayed steady at the back of your neck, fingers pressing just enough to let you know he was there, a solid presence holding you close.
“Babygirl, look at you,” he murmured, his voice a husky rasp that made your pulse quicken, each filthy word dripping with pride.
“My perfect little thing, workin’ so hard… always giving it your all. Just needed somethin’ to fill that pretty mouth, didn’t ya?”
His fingers tangled in your hair, a gentle but possessive touch that sent a thrill through you. “That’s what I’m here for, baby. You look so damn good like this, takin’ me slow.”
Your cheeks flushed, feeling yourself sink into his words, every filthy murmur making you crave more, making you want to show him just how much you needed this.
You let your tongue swirl around the head of his cock, tasting him, savoring the salty heat, feeling him twitch under your attention.
He let out a low groan, his other hand moving to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he watched you, dark eyes heavy with desire.
“God, baby, you’re too good at this,” he muttered, voice dipping lower, dripping with arousal.
“So focused, takin’ me so good, like you were made for it. Seein’ those lips stretchin’ around me, so damn eager. Look at you… got me hard as a rock, and you’re takin’ your time, just workin’ every inch.”
His hips shifted, barely a nudge forward, just enough to let you feel his need, but he held back, letting you control the pace.
“Bet you’d stay right here all night if possible,” he chuckled, the sound rich and dirty. “You’d just keep suckin’, hm? Letting that pretty mouth of yours get all messy for me.”
You felt his cock pulse, a heavy, throbbing weight on your tongue as he watched you, his breathing roughening as he sank further into the sensation.
His grip on your neck tightened just slightly, his control slipping as he saw how lost you were, how you kept at it with such gentle, focused attention.
“Love how you’re suckin’ my cock for me, baby… so fuckin’ devoted. Just lettin’ me fill that mouth, takin’ me all the way. It’s like you can’t get enough, huh? Just keepin’ me right there, like you’d never let go.”
His breathing grew heavier, more ragged, and he bit his lip, feeling his own need taking over as he tried to hold back, not wanting to pull you from the calm, submissive state you’d found.
But with each slow, wet stroke of your mouth, each deliberate pull of your lips around him, he felt himself teetering closer to the edge, and a quiet, breathless laugh escaped him as he leaned down, his hand cradling your face.
“Baby, I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice thick with both regret and need, “but you’re too damn good… I can’t hold back any longer. I’m gonna cum.”
His thumb pressed against your cheek, feeling the fullness of his cock in your mouth as he whispered, “Hate to take this from you, but I want you to swallow every drop, every bit of me… you’ve earned it, good job.”
He let out a deep, guttural groan as he came, his cock twitching in slow, heavy pulses against your tongue, spilling into your mouth as he held you close, his grip tightening just enough to anchor you, keep you steady as he filled you.
His other hand brushed over your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth, watching with dark, hooded eyes as you swallowed everything he gave, his voice dropping to a low, possessive murmur.
“God, look at you, darlin’… swallowin’ every fuckin’ drop like the good girl you are. So perfect, so fuckin’ perfect. Just lettin’ me use that sweet mouth, keepin’ me close.” His thumb lingered at your lips, his voice warm, affectionate as he whispered, “You’re exactly where you belong, sweetheart… right here, with me.”
He stayed there, holding you, his voice softening as he praised you, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your cheek, grounding you as you both came down, feeling safe, cherished, and completely at peace in the warmth of his touch.
As you eased back, Joel’s hand remained at the back of your neck, his thumb brushing gentle, soothing circles, and he looked down, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he took in the calm, relaxed look on your face.
You were utterly at peace, your eyes heavy-lidded, a faint, satisfied smile on your lips as you looked up at him, the tension you’d been carrying all day melting away.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice rich with warmth and pride, his hand steady as he helped you rise.
“My perfect girl, you did so well,” he whispered, pulling you up to settle you against his chest, cradling you close as his hands drifted to rub soft circles on your back.
He could feel how completely at ease you were, the deep calm radiating off you as you leaned into him, feeling safe, cherished, like you’d found exactly what you needed.
You let out a quiet, sleepy murmur, snuggling into his warmth, your cheek resting against his shoulder as you wrapped your arms around him.
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice soft and full of gratitude, the words barely audible as you let yourself sink into his embrace.
Joel’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle as he held you, one hand moving up to brush through your hair, his fingers gentle, comforting.
“That’s it, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing.
“So calm now… my sweet girl, lettin’ herself relax.” He could see the sleepiness in your eyes, the way your breathing had slowed, your body completely soft in his arms.
He tucked you closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, his hand never stopping its gentle, grounding strokes along your back.
“You can rest now, baby,” he whispered, his tone full of care as he continued to hold you, letting you know he was right there. “You’re safe with me… just close those eyes. I’ve got you.”
You melted further against him, your body fully relaxed, your breathing deep and even, your face tucked against his neck, perfectly content and utterly calm in his embrace.
He felt you drift closer to sleep, your soft breaths warm against his skin, and he tightened his hold, letting you find that final bit of peace, held close and cherished in his arms, exactly where you belonged.
· · ───𖥸
Over time, it became second nature, a quiet ritual between you and Joel.
The comfort you found in each other had only deepened, making those moments when you had him in your mouth feel easy, almost instinctual.
There were mornings when he'd sit on the edge of the bed, tousled hair and a sleepy smirk, and you’d settle between his thighs, taking him slowly as the sun crept through the blinds, warming the room as he murmured sleepy praise, his hand steady in your hair.
Or lazy afternoons, when you'd both wind down on the couch, and he'd reach over, resting a comforting hand on your shoulder, just to let you know he was there, that he understood what you needed.
Sometimes, even in the middle of the night, he'd feel you shift closer, your warm breath against his skin, and he’d know exactly what you needed without a single word exchanged.
He’d guide you under the sheets, his voice a low, sleepy rumble as he whispered, “Go on, darlin’, take what you need,” his tone gentle, reassuring as he let you lose yourself, knowing how much it helped you relax, how much you needed him in those quiet hours.
And then, there were moments just like now—calm and casual, like you were simply sharing another part of your day together.
Joel stood at the stove, his back turned slightly as he tended to a simmering pan, cooking up something simple for dinner before a friend came over.
His shoulders were broad and relaxed, his stance easy, completely at home in his space.
You were on your knees - his hard cock in your mouth, your lips wrapped around him, taking him slowly, almost like an afterthought, as if this were as natural as holding his hand or sharing a quiet drink together.
The kitchen filled with familiar sounds—the soft sizzle of the pan, the clink of the spatula, Joel’s steady breaths mingling with yours.
His free hand occasionally drifted to your hair, brushing over it with gentle fingers, not guiding but simply acknowledging you there.
Every now and then, his hand would graze over your cheek, tracing a soft line along your jaw as he continued to stir the food, keeping his focus on both you and the task in front of him with that calm confidence that made you feel secure.
He glanced down at you with a smirk, his eyes warm with that casual affection, the amusement clear on his face as he took in the sight of you.
“Look at you, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and playful.
“Can’t keep away, even while I’m tryin’ to get dinner on the stove.” He chuckled, running a thumb along your jawline, his tone casual and amused. “But hell, can’t say I mind one bit.”
His hand returned to the pan, stirring with a practiced ease, completely unfazed as you continued to take him deeper, your lips sliding over his length with a slow, familiar rhythm that felt grounding, comforting.
You could feel his cock twitch in your mouth, but his breath remained steady, his voice calm as he casually carried on.
He kept stirring the pan, flipping the food, but you noticed how his fingers tightened on the spatula, his calm demeanor wavering ever so slightly as his eyes lingered on you a moment longer.
His hand drifted back to your hair, gripping a little firmer this time, letting his thumb brush over your cheek as he took in the sight of you, your cheeks hollowing as you pulled him in deeper.
“That’s it… good girl,” he whispered, his voice dipping lower, rougher.
“Always so eager to get me in that pretty mouth of yours, no matter what we’re doin’. you just can’t get enough.”
He chuckled, shaking his head in admiration as he went back to the stove, still casual, as if it were perfectly natural for you to be on your knees, sucking him off while he cooked.
You felt your own excitement building, a warmth settling over you as his words sank in, his easy praise making you feel cherished and bold.
As Joel continued cooking, your pace grew a little faster, your mouth working over him with that same familiar, comforting rhythm, but now you could feel his cock twitching, thick and heavy against your tongue.
He glanced down with a small smirk, clearly enjoying the way you seemed to lose yourself, the casual intimacy of it making him feel grounded, completely at ease.
Just then, the doorbell rang, echoing through the quiet kitchen.
Joel paused, casting a quick glance at the door before looking down at you with that calm, teasing expression, his fingers stroking through your hair.
“Well, guess Paul’s here,” he murmured, his voice low and amused, as if the idea of his friend arriving right now only added to his pleasure. “Mind hurryin’ it up, darlin’?”
You looked up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, feeling a surge of need as his gaze held steady on yours.
The doorbell rang again, and you gripped his thighs tighter, pressing in, whispering in a low, urgent tone, “Please, baby… fuck my mouth. I need you to cum. right now.”
A low groan escaped him, his amusement giving way to a darker need as he held your head in place, his fingers tightening in your hair.
“Well, since you’re askin’ so nice, baby,” he murmured, his tone dropping, filled with pride and pleasure as he looked down at you. “Guess I can’t keep you waiting, can I?”
With a steady hand, he guided your head, his hips beginning to rock gently, then harder, each slow thrust filling your mouth with a deep, satisfying pressure that made you feel grounded, completely in tune with him.
His hips rocked forward, his hand guiding your head to take him as deep as possible, his voice breaking into low, filthy groans.
“That’s it… just like that. God, you’re a perfect little thing… lettin’ me use you, lettin’ me fill that pretty mouth like you’re starvin’ for it.”
His breaths grew more ragged, his cock pulsing with each movement as he picked up the pace, letting himself go, his fingers digging into your hair as he held you steady.
“Just like that,” he groaned, his voice thick with need, his thrusts becoming faster, deeper. “You want my cum, don’t you, sweetheart? Just need to feel me fillin’ that pretty mouth of yours.”
You hummed in response, the vibration making him gasp, his cock throbbing. Joel’s breaths grew heavy, his control slipping, and you could feel him getting closer, his words now a strained murmur.
“Almost there, sweetheart… just a bit more. Need you to swallow every bit for me.”
With one final thrust, he let go, his cock pulsing as he spilled into your mouth, warm and thick, his groans deep and satisfied as he watched you take everything he gave.
His thumb brushed over your jaw as you swallowed, his gaze filled with a mix of pride and possessiveness. “That’s my good girl,” he whispered, his voice rough as he held you close.
Just as you both caught your breath, the doorbell rang again. Joel smirked, helping you up and wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb before pulling you into a quick, reassuring kiss.
He glanced at the door, chuckling. “Better let Paul in. Don’t want him thinkin’ we forgot about him.”
He straightened up, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips as he went back to the stove, leaving you flushed, fulfilled, and feeling like you were exactly where you needed to be.
You straightened up, catching your reflection in the hallway mirror and smoothing your hair, feeling both satisfied and a little flushed.
You opened the door to see Paul standing there
“Hey, Paul,” you greeted, trying to keep your tone light and casual, though you could feel Joel’s gaze burning into you from behind, clearly amused.
Paul stepped inside, glancing between the two of you with a smile. “Took you both long enough—I almost left again.”
Joel strolled over, leaning casually with that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Well,” he drawled, his eyes glinting as they met yours, “guess I finished up just in time.”
Your cheeks flushed as Joel’s smirk lingered, a private joke hanging thick in the air, while Paul remained blissfully oblivious.
· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··
I really liked this…. a bit too much. 🫎
Just a little reminder that your comments, and reposts with reactions, mean the world to me. They’re the only “thank you” I get for these stories, and truly the reason I stay motivated to keep writing and sharing.
Knowing you’re enjoying the journey and hearing your thoughts keeps this all alive.
So please, keep those comments and reposts coming—they’re what make it all worth it. Thank you so much for being here and for all your support!!!! 🗣️🗣️🗣️😭😭😭‼️‼️
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phoenixkaptain · 1 year ago
Text
I really want to explore Tim “rich kid” Drake spending time with his friends and them just slowly realizing that Robin is even weirder than they thought.
Like, Arrowette complains about some press event or something that her mom wants her to go to and Robin just starts listing off advice and unspoken rules and tells her to absolutely avoid the shrimp cocktails unless she wants an early out, in which case the correct amount to eat is one and a half shrimp with only a bit of cocktail sauce, which will be enough to change her complexion and convince people she doesn’t feel well and allow her to escape to the restroom, then she just needs to slip out one of the windows-
Or Wonder Girl commenting on, like, a science fair project or something and he just goes “Science fairs are the worst. Everyone wants to buy your services to make them something, not understanding that you’re richer than they are and that an insult to you could lead to you buying their parents’ companies if they don’t shut up. They’re lucky I have an even temper…” WG: “…wat.”
Superboy is like “man, Superman’s trying to convince me to clean my room. What should I do?” and Tim just stares blankly at him because nobody has ever told him to clean his room before and he’s never cleaned his room before and he had no idea Clark was so cruel and-
Impulse: “Hey, Rob, pass me a can opener.”
Robin, staring into the drawer, fifteen can openers right in front of his eyes: “We don’t have one.”
I just want Tim to inexplicably not know some things because he’s never had to know them. I want him to explicably know things because he had to know them. I want the things he does know and the things he doesn’t to be totally backwards to everyone, who are all wondering why Robin knows how to hotwire a car but does not know how to work a vacuum cleaner.
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luveline · 6 months ago
Note
coworker James being protective of reader like she’s just a sweet and kind thing and he’s FINALLY accepting his feelings and reader gets like happy that he cares?
“No, no, it’s okay. Yeah, don’t worry about me, I’m just gonna watch movies all weekend. I might make popcorn. Yeah! Don’t worry about it, just have fun, okay?” 
You’re talking quietly but not without pep, hushed to avoid disturbing him. By the sounds of it, your plans for the weekend have bombed. You’re taking it remarkably well. 
“Okie dokie. Well, I’ll see you soon, yeah? Love you. Bye.” You don’t lift your head where you’re laying against the desk, but you put your phone gently by your keyboard. 
“That blows,” James says. 
“Maybe.” You turn your face to see him, before you lift yourself up and return to the pack of biscuits you’ve opened. “Do you want some?” you ask, bringing a malted milk to your mouth. 
“Please.” 
You gesture for him to take one. In relative quiet, you and James sit there chewing, the sunlight from the open window on your hands. 
“You’re not upset about your plans?” he asks. 
“A bit, but… I don’t want her to feel bad for me. She should have a good time, she got last minute tickets to see a band and she loves them. We can just hang out next weekend.” You push the biscuits toward him. “I need to stop eating these all the time.” 
You stand up and do a big stretch, arm arched over your head before you laugh and point at him. He’s never had someone look at him like this. “Pretend you didn’t see that,” you say, raising your eyebrows just a touch. 
You’re being playful. James’ stomach flips. “I didn’t see a thing,” he says. 
You drop your pointing. “Really?” 
He covers his eyes. 
Your following laughter is even richer. 
“This office makes me tired. I’m going to make some coffee before lunch is over,” you say. 
You walk away like nothing happened. James is left to ruminate. 
He pushes a hand into the crop of his hair and ruffles it, stressed, though the scratch of his nails against his scalp relieves some tension. James is used to being annoyed at you, you were always so irked with him, but lately he struggles to find anger for you. He still loves to tease you and watch your eyes change; there’s no better moments than on the mornings he’s here first and he’s found a new hiding place for your mug, and you’re forced to ask him where it is he put it. Asked is kind, really. More aptly, you demand to know where it is, and promise professional retribution. 
You could always drink from a different mug, but James has a feeling you like asking. This morning, you found it by yourself, and you put it smugly on your desk with steam rising from the surface. “You’re getting worse,”
you’d said, and that smugness suddenly felt friendly. Your smile was ten different shades of sweet. 
You are… quite sweet. You’re kind. You don’t let much upset you that isn’t James, even when it should. And the James stuff is all superficial. When was the last time you guys argued over something that mattered?
Which isn’t to say he doesn’t love arguing with you. But he’s coming to appreciate another side of you, the side that comes back to your desk with a fresh coffee and little happy breath of air when you see he’s made his two figurines cuddle each other. 
“They’re in love,” you say dreamily. 
“You can be so lovely,” James says. It’s like something takes over his body. 
You put your coffee down. “What?” you ask, smiling as though it’s a joke you don’t get. 
He’s not sure he should say it again. “I don’t know. When you smile, you’re really pretty. Like, even more than usual.” 
“Ha-ha.” 
“No, I’m serious.” 
“I don’t believe you.” 
James takes one of your biscuits. “Then don’t, it doesn’t bother me.” He wishes he hadn’t said it, what a weird thing to say, but he can’t pretend he was kidding, it would be crueller than saying nothing. So he wedges a biscuit in his mouth and laughs when you call him gross, your facade one he doesn’t believe. You wrinkle your nose, but you’re happy underneath it. 
Lovely, even. 
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mclqren · 8 months ago
Text
THE LECLERC CHRONICLES ★ F1 GRID
PAIRING ✦ charles leclerc x fem!younger sister!reader ; f1 grid x fem!leclerc!reader
SUMMARY ✦ you're the younger sister of charles leclerc, and your relationship with the rest of the f1 grid has the internet going crazy [ SMAU ]
WARNINGS ✦ cursing
REQUESTED ✦ here!
NOTES ✦ reader is 22 years old, and the youngest leclerc sibling. this one is a bit shorter than my other smaus, sorry for that! the fc i've used is lexi jayde, but feel free to picture whoever you want! my requests are open so feel free to leave a request :)
SERIES ✦ the leclerc chronicles masterlist ; next part
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liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris, and 776,319 others
yourusername it's tough work being the hottest leclerc 🤷‍♀️
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user1 UGH SHE'S SO PERFECT
user2 my fav leclerc sibling!!
charles_leclerc the caption 🤔🤔
yourusername am i lying though?? 😘
arthur_leclerc i think you are!
yourusername i think it's just you (& charles) who think that!
landonorris so what's the crown for then?
yourusername because im a queen. i need no other reason 😊👑
landonorris self proclaimed queen or-?
yourusername im queen of the grid, now bow down, bitch!
alex_albon you don't even drive-???
yourusername stop it rn or i'll tell charles to ram into both of you on the track 😊❤️❤️
georgerussell who are the flowers from 🤨🤨
yourusername my man, who else?
georgerussell okay be honest now y/n...who are they from.
yourusername and if i told you ur girlfriend then what 🤷‍♀️
carmenmmundt only woman i need 😘😘
georgerussell WOAHHH SLOW YOUR ROLL GUYS
carlossainz55 loving the sunglasses, y/n! 😎😎
yourusername awww you type like such a dad but ur forgiven bc ur my fav ferrari driver 💗
charles_leclerc helloo i'm your older brother??
yourusername hey, i'm still allowed to have my favorites!
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liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, and 801,211 others
yourusername bahrain weekend woohooo!! TEAM LECLERC (third slide is for motivation ❤️)
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user3 THE THIRD SLIDE IM WHEEZING
user4 SHE'S SO FUCKING FUNNY
charles_leclerc the last slide??? im telling maman ☹️
maxverstappen1 maybe you can beat me with that motivation!
yourusername he speaks the truth charlie soz 🤷‍♀️ AND PLS DONT TELL MAMAN IM SORRY
francisca.cgomes ur sooo 😍😍
yourusername leave pierre for me rn. im richer i swear
pierregasly huh?
yourusername see, not a thought behind those eyes! run away w me bbg 😘
francisca.cgomes okay you've convinced me, give me ten minutes x
yourusername HAAA GOT UR GIRL GASLY
landonorris the coat in bahrain weather??
oscarpiastri how is she surviving??
yourusername a girl does what a girl has to do 🤷‍♀️ maybe you should both take fashion tips from me anyway xx
charles_leclerc you aren't being rude are you y/n?!
yourusername noooo!! im offering friendly advice 😊
lance_stroll i wonder who bought you the first shirt...🤨
yourusername my rich nepo baby friend, thanks again boo 😘
lance_stroll wowww you're literally a nepo baby sister idk what ur on about
yourusername im actually famous for my incredible looks & witty humor, not my fugly brothers
charles_leclerc why are you so rude to us ☹️
yourusername it comes from a place of love 💗
logansargeant i wonder whose sunglasses you're wearing?!
yourusername idk i just found them!!
yourusername
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( caption one: the third wheel lifestyle is NOTTT for the weak 😔 + tags | caption two: yeah i took this photo asw. can they stop being so fucking happy please it's making me depressed 😔 )
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liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly, and 781,221 others
tagged francisca.cgomes
yourusername who needs a man when you have kika 😘 ( ps no clue who the other people in the last pic were, but whatevs )
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user5 the y/n lifestyle is something i needddd
user6 SO REAL FOR THIS
user7 outfitsss!! 😍
francisca.cgomes love you 😘
yourusername LOVE YOU MORE 💗💗
landonorris what on earth were you drinking
yourusername idk but it was fizzy and orangey and it was yum
alex_albon orangey isn't a word ❌
yourusername ACTUALLY ☝️ it is. sooo idk what ur on about mate
pierregasly are you even of age to be drinking
yourusername IM THE SAME AGE AS UR GF??? ur just jelly she prefers me to you
pierregasly ☹️☹️
logansargeant the winnie the pooh shirt 🔥
yourusername do americans even know winnie the pooh...
logansargeant clearly??
charles_leclerc how much did you have to drink
yourusername none of ur concern brother!
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liked by yourusername, georgerussell63, and 1,002,665 others
tagged yourusername
landonorris y/n's signature pose: hands under the chin (she forced me to post this please come save me guys)
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user8 SHE'S SOOO ICONIC
user9 CAPTION LOOLLL LOVE Y/N
yourusername live laugh love me!!
alex_albon is it now...
yourusername SHUT UP ALBONNN IT IS
yourusername guys the caption is a liee i swear he just loves me 💗
landonorris urm who told you that mate
yourusername shut up or i'll send you back to the basement 😁 no one cares enough to save you
georgerussell63 carmen's looking over my shoulder and says y/n's a cutie
yourusername TELL CARMEN I LOVE HER AND TELL HER TO COME OVER TONIGHT 😘😘
pierregasly are you just after everyone's girlfriend then?
yourusername yup! single life = hoe life, @/alex_albon lily's next 😘
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liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, and 800,219 others
yourusername hey alexa, play art deco by lana del rey ( 📸 @/arthur_leclerc )
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user10 SHE LISTENS TO LANA?
user11 SHE'S ONE OF US FR
user12 the dress wooowwww
charles_leclerc when did you take these 🤨
yourusername don't worry about it 💗
arthur_leclerc we had tons of fun without you ❤️❤️
yourusername ARTHUR DON'T BE MEAN (it's true)
charles_leclerc ☹️☹️☹️
lilymhe 😍😍
yourusername LOVE YOU LILS 💗
yourusername but also ops on leaving alex for me...just for research purposes
alex_albon Y/N STOP IT SHE'S MY GF
yourusername leave me alone im single and sad :(
lance_stroll did i not buy you that dress for christmas
yourusername yes you did!! thanks again lance it was a LOVELY investment 😘
yourusername
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( caption one: guess where i am!! 🇦🇺 | caption two: yeah yeah the flag gave it away whatever look at my new best friends 🦒 )
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liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris, and 833,331 others
yourusername aussie aussie aussie... (australians finish the chant)
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user13 she's so perfect
user14 wait is she charles' sister??
user15 yup!! she's the youngest of the leclerc siblings
oscarpiastri coming from an australian...no 🧡
yourusername lucky for me ur not the only australian i know...so!
danielricciardo OI OI OI 🇦🇺🇦🇺
yourusername @/oscarpiastri LOOLLLL POINT MADE
oscarpiastri DANIEL WE'RE MEANT TO BE AUSSIE BUDDIES WHY WOULD YOU BETRAY ME
danielricciardo THE CHANT WAS CALLING TO ME I CANT HELP IT
charles_leclerc FORZA FERRARI
carlossainz55 ❤️❤️❤️
yourusername idk red's not really my color...might have to step into the mclaren paddock next time to see if orange suits me better
charles_leclerc as my sister you can't fraternise with the enemy
yourusername yeah but y/n leclerc does whatever she pleases and right now she wants to wear an orange jacket 🤷‍♀️
landonorris *papaya, not orange
yourusername yeah yeah pls give me a vip paddock pass for japan thank you lan 😘🫶
georgerussell63 the first picture??
yourusername i dropped my ice cream and my WONDERFUL brother decided to capture the moment instead of comforting me ☹️
charles_leclerc it was so funny you just had to be there
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liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, and 872,339 others
tagged charles_leclerc, carlossainz55
yourusername FERRARI 1-2 I KNOW THAT'S RIGHTTT!! PROUD OF MY BROTHER(S) (and little lando norris congrats on 3rd 😘)
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user16 THE CAPTIONNN BROTHERS IM CRYING
user17 the way she said in a podcast once that carlos being in her life was like having ANOTHER older brother makes me cry its so sweet
user18 FERRARI IS MY RED FLAG YESSS 🚩🚩
charles_leclerc rare post of you being proud of me?
yourusername it's mainly for carlos...but i'm proud of you too i guess!
charles_leclerc but i'm your brother??
yourusername idk ur both my brothers in my eyes 💗💗
carlossainz55 te amo y/n! ❤️
logansargeant embracing your inner cowboy, i see! very american of you 🤠
yourusername RAHHH WHAT IS A KILOMETRE 🦅🦅🦅
lance_stroll nurse, she got out again
yourusername SHUT UP LANCELOT ur just jealous that i prefer america to canada!! ❤️
landonorris thanks for the caption y/n, but are you not looking for a way out of the ferrari paddock...🤨🤨
yourusername unfortunately mr norris i have to be a supportive big sister on days like today, where my dear brother has done an exceptional job at racing. i hope you understand, and i offer you my deepest condolences ❤️
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might make a p2 to this idk :)
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thelightsandtheroses · 1 month ago
Text
Sweater Weather | Joel Miller x female reader
Summary: When you pick up a hobby again as the seasons turn in Jackson, Joel wonders why you won’t make him a sweater. Word Count: 2k Warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, copious references to knitting and crafting, references to the ‘sweater curse’ , post season Jackson domesticity, no description of the reader beyond her hobby. Notes: This is just a cosy autumnal piece of fluff to ease back into the fandom a bit. I’ve been struggling with writing and my place in the fandom bit recently but I wanted to take part in @jolapeno and @goodwithcheese ‘s jolabrew with cheese autumn challenge and I’ve recently been crafting a bit and trying knitting and crochet so couldn’t resist this silly little idea,
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You used to love autumn. You thought it would be your favourite season forever. You were intoxicated by the foliage in all its glorious shades of red and mustard yellow, even the browns seemed richer then. You remember jumping through leaves in your childhood, a mug of hot chocolate waiting when you got home.
That was Before though.
Before the colour red reminded you of blood rather than leave. It was before the dark meant risk, meant the chance of an infected hiding away and a rational fear of death.
After the outbreak, all of the moments you clung to, the memories you used to savour, it all felt so pointless in this new world where death was always so close, always a shadow around you.
It’s different here though.
Jackson is like something out of a postcard. It’s simultaneously stuck in another time and fully adapted to the outbreak and the need for security.
You sit on the rocking chair on the porch, hands occupied by knitting needles as you try and turn what was once a too small jumper into something useable for you, or Joel, or Ellie. You’re thinking a scarf maybe for Ellie, as the weather turns more, perhaps even a matching hat if you can salvage enough, or remember how to make one.
“Whatcha makin’?” Joel asks, one arm casually leaning against the wooden jamb of the porch. Sometimes he seems to appear from nowhere and you take in his appearance, eyes slightly tired from patrol but still bright and there’s a small smile on his face as he takes in what you’re up to.
“Not sure yet. It was a sweater before I frogged it, could be good for a scarf or hat, maybe even socks if I can … I don’t know if I can make those.” Before Jackson, it had been a while since you picked up a pair of knitting needles or a crochet hook, or even a decent skein of wool but now you can finally indulge in the hobby again. Back in Boston, you can hardly imagine how many ration cards this would have gone for.
“You’ll figure it out, you always do.” Joel says with a smile.
You remember you used to make Tommy, Tess and Joel whatever you could from scraps of wool or ragged jumpers whenever possible. Your proudest accomplishment was a patchwork blanket over several months for winters in Boston. There was no heating in the apartments and it could get cold.
Now you’ve made a number of sweaters in varying levels of success, for the first the arms were so long in you had to start again, but you’ve also made a scarf and an acceptable number of hats - the latter of which you’ve proudly given to Ellie and Joel.
It feels domestic, normal even. Jackson is just different.
“How was patrol?” you ask.
“Tommy and I went up to the lookout, there were a few infected but-” Joel shrugs and runs a hand through his hair in a motion that still turns to your bones to jelly every single time. “It was fine.“
“Good.”
You take a moment to drink in Joel’s appearance. He looks better here. His clothes fit again, his eyes are brighter. There’s part of you that can’t believe either of you are here now, that he came back. That either of them did.
When you all left Boston, you noticed the way he made sure you and Ellie had supplies, had food when it was in short supply. The closer you’d got to Jackson, the more you’d noticed how he started using a tighter notch on his belt, so you tried to share more with him, make it subtle so he didn’t catch on to your intentions either.
He had taken Ellie on from Jackson alone, insisted he’d only be a couple of weeks, but he’d asked you to stay. There was an unspoken promise to wait for him to come back. Two weeks turned into a month and you’d begged Tommy to send a group to find him and Ellie, you’d begged the town meeting every week but they said no.
Tommy thought Joel was dead, you realised. Him and Maria were trying to subtly prepare you, to help you build a life in Jackson of your own. You knew they were alive though, you just knew it.
After a while, you weren’t so sure. You just weren’t sure what it would mean if they didn’t. Your life was in stasis, waiting for an answer that might never come.
The day Joel came back with Ellie, you’d hugged them both before joking that they stank and tried to wipe away your tears when neither was looking.
That was months ago and now the three of you are settled into Jackson, almost. There are secrets between them about the time they went to Salt Lake City, but they’re here. They’re safe. There’s time for that later.
Hey,” Joel says, “you want to get lunch at the hall?”
“Sure.” You place your wool and knitting inside the hallway of your, Joel and Ellie’s home and walk down the porch to meet him.
The two of you stroll down the street towards the main town hall and dining area. It’s cool, crisp and the sound of leaves crunching under your boots is a balm. Joel’s hand is tantalising close to yours, skimming your fingers as the two of you move in tandem.
“Weather’s turning, we’ll need warmer clothes. I think the stuff I made for Tommy and Maria’s baby went down well.” You pause. “Think I could get a sweater for Ellie and new socks for you outta that.”
“Huh?”
“The wool - you asked what I was making.”
“Oh, right.”
“Seth asked if i can make him a sweater. This wool is for you and Ellie though, if you come across anything on patrol, could you- ”
‘Sure.“
Joel pauses, he’s wearing the expression you’ve noticed whenever he wants to say something but he’s not sure. A slight frown, one brow lowered, concentration on his face.
“Is everything okay?”
“Sure.”
“Joel, I know that face.”
“Seth asked if you can make him a sweater.”
“For trades, Joel, could be useful. I think he mentioned a certain bottle of wine that I’ve been eyeing up.”
“Okay.”
“What is it?”
“You’ve made me some lovely things, darlin’, and I truly appreciate the hat, but I -I know it sounds selfish, but I -”
“You want a sweater,” you say in realisation. You should have known, the last time you knitted a jumper you couldn’t help but notice how Joel had watched you doing it.
“I mean, not necessarily. It just feels like half the town has sweaters you’ve knitted ‘cept -”
“You.”
“It’s stupid, I’m sorry.”
“No. No, it’s not. It’s just, I can’t make you a sweater, Joel.”
“You can’t make me a sweater?” Joel asks.
You nod solemnly. “Honestly, I would, but I really can’t.”
“Well, why not?“
“Sweater curse.”
“Sweater curse?”
“Sweater curse.”
The two of you reach the dining hall and you kiss Joel lightly on the cheek before you open the door. “We’re okay, right?”
“Course we are,” he says firmly, squeezing your hand and putting an arm around you. “Sweater curse?” you hear him mumble to himself.
You should elaborate, explain things but in all honesty this is a moment you’ve dreaded. It’s as close to defining your relationship as you and Joel have come in some time. Mostly, the two of you are together and you’re exclusive and that’s enough. There’s no need to put any firmer labels on things than that because the two of you just work.
By the time the two of you have selected your lunch and are sitting at the table.
Tommy’s wearing a sweater you’ve made. Joel scowls for a second.
“What the fuck is a sweater curse?”
Tommy bursts out laughing.
“Rally?” He laughs, raising an eyebrow at you.
“I’m not messing with that shit. Not in this world.”
“This world?”
“There are people essentially infected by a mushroom, Joel, I will play ball with any superstitions I need to.”
“That sounds sensible actually,” Tommy says thoughtfully. “So … the sweater curse, huh?”
“How do you know about the sweater curse?” Joel asks.
“Dated someone into crochet some time back.”
“You dated someone … Jesus, Tommy. So what is it?”
“Well you know if you give someone you’re dating a homemade sweater, the curse is you’ll break up.”
”Oh.”
Joel scrutinises you and you feel your face heating. “It’s an old wives’ tale, but I - I would rather not chance it.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“I know, I know. It’s just I know someone who did make their girlfriend a sweater and then she broke up with them. Do you remember Tamsin back in the QZ?“
“Tamsin was a smuggler and dating a woman in FEDRA, it was doomed before the sweater,” Tommy says.
“Nonetheless.”
“But okay, if you’re really worried, I get it,” Tommy says, earning a scowl from Joel.
“It’s just an urban legend, baby,” Joel says.
“That might be true, but with you? Nope, I don’t want to risk it.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he repeats calmly, looking into your eyes and squeezing a knee as he slightly moves you so you’re both facing each other. The distractions of Tommy and the dining hall melt away. It’s like a balm over your body, the fact that Joel is here with you, that he still wants to be with you. The connection between the two of you runs deep and it’s certainly not always run smoothly. This town has been a true second chance for the two of you to achieve something close to normal, and maybe, you realise, Joel can see that.
“You go on patrol, Joel, it’s not as simple as that.”
Tommy looks away and Joel swallows. You watch how he tries to work through his answer, lips slightly pursed as he ponders the rich approach. There’s a freckle on his neck, one that whenever you see it instantly transports you to nights with him and moments between the sheets. You’ve catalogued every freckle, every mark, every scar now.
“I won’t push you on this,” he says quietly. “The gloves and hats are real nice.”
You smile softly, kissing him on the cheek before turning your attention back to your food. The water jug is empty so you decide to go and get a refill.
As you walk away, you can hear Tommy and Joel’s voices still.
“Now I think about it, there’s a way around the curse anyway,” Tommy says quietly, clearly in the hopes you won’t hear them. The years together have led to your hearing becoming attuned to them, to Joel’s voice in particular. You could pick him out of any crowd.
“Oh yeah?” There’s a lightness in Joel’s voice now, that slight teasing edge you love.
“Marry her. That’s the workaround. Honest.”
Joel chuckles. “For a sweater? Can’t marry her for a sweater. That ain’t right.”
“You said you were going to marry her anyway, Joel. Isn’t a sweater just a bonus?”
“Tommy!”
“I’m just sayin’, you said you had a plan.”
“I do and shut up, will you? She’ll hear.”
You freeze momentarily. Joel’s talked about marriage with you to Tommy? You take a deep breath before returning to the table.
“Is it true?” Joel asks in a whisper to you. “I know you heard Tommy and me.”
“Reckon I could ask the same question.”
Joel swallows. “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”
“Same.” You pause and smile mischievously, “Say it was true, I take it you have a colour preference for a sweater then, Joel?”
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snowsinterlude · 11 months ago
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melted snowflake.
(coriolanus x plinth!reader)
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summary: coriolanus never thought he would fall into his own trap. his plan wasn't falling for you. no, it was the contrary, he was supposed to use you. but god, you were so perfect for him.
based on this ask!
c.w: snow being a bit of a jerk, manipulation, jealousy, plinth reader x coriolanus snow, snow being head over heels with you, fluff (?)
you were a district girl, of course. your parents made sure to take that out of your head, but you couldn't simply forget about everything you lived in the districts. you were a child, but it didn't mean you were dumb or blind not to caught up on the things surrounding you.
the first time you saw snow was when your father met panem's president and left you to play on the kindergarden with your brother, sejanus. of course, it didn't go as planned when you were pushed away by a random kid and he protected you and your brother.
of course, after that, he never talked to you guys. a snow is not supposed to talk nor look at poverty with kindness. that's what his grandma'am taught him.
with this being explained, neither him nor his grandma'am expected your family to get richer than the snows, but after his father's death it was only natural they would be poor.
"y/n?" he approached you, now at the academy. he was a beautiful young man, often obtained your attention because of how much praise he recoeved from teachers and others. even though you were rich now, of course you wouldn't fit in as well as he did. not when you and your brother disagreed with everything the capitol kids stood for. "i'm sorry to interrupt you, but the teacher assigned us to do our assignment together." it was a lie. you could tell right away.
but why not see where he'll go with this?
well, that's what you decided to do. every lie he told you made you want to slap him from how dumb he seemed to think you were.
everyday you would caught him staring at you, at your eyes. stealing glances, stealing everything he could from you. hearing your voice was turning out to be the best moments of his days. but you knew deep in your heart that he was taking you for stupid. you were a girl, smaller than him, more soft looking than him, and he thought it was adorable.
but snow, being a snow, had something other than that silly feelings in his body. plans that didn't go as planned when you slapped his face hard, the red print kf your hand on his white skin being visible.
"hey! what are you-?" you interrupted him.
"look, i allowed you to go as far as lie to me about everything, even what others had to say to me. but i will not allow you to say anything about feelings, snow. this isn't funny. this is sick, and twisted. to think you want to have whatever i want so much that you would go as far as say you love me makes me sick." you said, and he blinked his eyes quickly, dumbly looking at you.
"ah, c'mon. don't look at me like that. you really thought i would believe you when you said clemencia hated me? man, she doesn't even know my name!" you kept going, and he gasped a feel times, his hand touching the place you slapped. "stop coming after me."
and you were gone, just like that. everything snow had planned for you both had gone down the drain while you walked away from him.
and after that, he tried to talk to you. he truly did. but you were always so far away from him, and when you caught a glimpse of him walking your way, you would always exit whatever place you were entering.
"man, what you did to the plinth girl? she's running from you like the devil runs from a cross." festus said, watching you exit the library the moment he stood up from the desk they were in.
"i don't know," he said, but he knew what he did to you. he knew he was wrong. and god, the ache he felt on his chest when he saw you laughing at a joke some body made to you was unberable.
that's when he noticed it. that's when he noticed he liked you, more than he planned to. you were supposed to be his accessory, his pretty ornament on the shelf, used when needed to. but now? ah, you had him at your bare feet and you didn't even knew, and if you did, you didn't care.
it was his fault, of course. he didn’t need to tell you that clemencia hated your guts, or that festus was betting that he could fuck you till the end of the year when you said he was pretty, or anything before and after that.
and thinking of that, he had a white bouquet of roses on his hand, provided by his grandma'am when he said he needed to apologize to the prettiest girl he had ever seen. mentally rehearsing his apology and what he would say, he didn’t even notice when he was already at your door, nervously knocking.
you were rich. why was it you the one who answered the door? god, if you were his wife in a near future, you wouldn't even need to move your hands to eat a grape and-
slam!
you closed the door right when you saw the white bouquet on his hand and the ashamed face he had on.
"y/n!" he called you, knocking on the door and pressing the bell of your house multiple times. it was so loud, so irritating, that you opened the door again.
"god, what the hell do you want?!" you asked, angrily frowning at him.
"you," he said. "please, i'm sorry. i-i didn't took you for stupid- you're actually the smartest girl i've seen in the academy, and the prettiest too, and i'm so sorry for being a douchebag to you but i wasn't planning on-" he stopped talking, gulping down.
"planning on what? being a jerk? a liar? a manipulator? a-"
"on falling in love." he said.
"there he goes again." you said, rolling your eyes.
"y/n, i'm serious!"
"prove me." you said, crossing your arms. and he fell on his knees at your feet, placing the roses delicately on your ground. "i'm sorry. i think love is a weakness, i am not used to feeling it- nor any kind of affection towards others but- i can't stand the sight of you, the thought of you being with anyone that isn't me, please-"
ah, how cute. anyone who saw coriolanus at your feet right now would be surprised, his grandma'am would go nuts, saying that snow's are supposed to be on top and not on the bottom of some district girl's feet. but he didn’t mind. he needed to do it. if being on his knees was the only way to get back at you, fuck it. he would be.
"get up." you said, looking away. he obeyed you promptly, eyes looking at you with hope. "that's your last chance, coriolanus." he nodded, almost falling on his knees to kiss your feet.
well, within the span time of seven months, you both were dating. but it didn't change much, coriolanus was always, and i mean always ready to get on his knees for you. he was a sucker for you, even if he was all high and mighty with others, with you, he was a melted snowflake. and he was fine with it.
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helen-with-an-a · 1 month ago
Note
Can you please write something with Aitana based on the video of her saying “fan number one?” and “you work or not work?”
Hiiii - so I used the dialogue in a way that I don't think I've seen other people use - I didn't want to make it too samey. This is inspired by how hot it was here for a little bit during the summer. Also, sidenote - next weeks post will be out on the Saturday rather than the Friday because of the football/international break. I hope you enjoy <3<3<3
Heat
Aitana Bonmatí x Reader
Description: The heat is getting to everyone in Barcelona
Word Count: 3.5k
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One thing you loved about Barcelona was the heat. Coming from England, sunshine was a rarity, and sunshine that was actually warm was a precious commodity that you cherished. You could often be found dozing away in the sunlight, curled up like a cat absorbing the golden rays as you napped your free hours away. The warmth soaked into your skin, loosening the knots of tension that had become second nature in the grey, drizzly days back home. It was as if the sun in Barcelona had a different quality, something richer, more generous, wrapping you in a golden embrace that you had never known in England.
It was something you and your girlfriend had in common. Aitana was as much a sunworshipper as you were, perhaps even more so. Raised in the heart of Catalonia, she had grown up with the sun as a constant companion, and she revelled in its warmth with a kind of effortless grace that you admired. While you had learned to cherish the sun’s rare appearances in your life, for Aitana, it was a way of life. She would often tease you about how you could fall asleep anywhere as long as the sun was shining, but the truth was, she was no different.
The two of you had a ritual – every off-day, when you finally had time to relish in the sunshine to your heart’s content, you would pack a small bag with some snacks, a blanket, and a book or two, and head out to one of Barcelona’s many parks. Sometimes it was the sprawling greenery of Parc de la Ciutadella, with its majestic fountain and shaded pathways. Other times, you preferred the more secluded spots, like the hidden corners of Montjuïc, where the trees provided just enough shade to keep the heat bearable, but still allowed the sunlight to filter through.
You’d find a spot, lay down the blanket, and spend hours just basking in the warmth. Aitana would stretch out beside you, her hand always finding yours as you both soaked in the sun. There was something so simple, so pure, about those moments. The world would fade away, and it would be just the two of you, cocooned in a bubble of warmth and contentment. Sometimes you’d talk, sharing dreams and stories, your voices mingling with the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze. Other times, you’d fall into a comfortable silence, letting the sun do all the talking.
But one thing you hated about Barcelona was also the heat. You weren’t used to it. The relentless sun that you had once welcomed with open arms quickly became an overbearing force, pressing down on you with an intensity that made you feel like you were perpetually walking through a furnace. You found yourself sticky, sweaty, and hot far too often for your liking. The sweat would bead on your forehead, trickle down your back, and make your clothes cling uncomfortably to your skin. You felt like you couldn’t breathe in the heat, the suffocating temperatures wrapping around you like an unwanted blanket.
This was where you and Aitana differed. She relished in the heat. The intensity that overwhelmed you seemed to invigorate her. Where you saw oppressive warmth, she saw life brimming with energy. Aitana would thrive under the sun’s unyielding rays, her skin glowing, her movements light and carefree. She seemed to draw strength from the very heat that left you seeking refuge.
On those days when the sun blazed down mercilessly, you’d find her with an easy smile on her face, wandering the streets of the city as if the heat were a friend she was catching up with after a long absence. While you sought anywhere with cooler air, she would coax you back into the light, playfully insisting that a little more sun wouldn’t do you any harm. Sometimes, she’d lead you to the beach, where she would dive into the cool Mediterranean waters with a laugh, emerging refreshed and radiant. You’d follow, grateful for the temporary relief, but always aware that as soon as you left the water, the heat would be waiting for you again.
Yet, despite the discomfort, there was something about the way Aitana embraced the heat that made it bearable for you, even on the worst days. Her joy was infectious, her love for the sun a reminder of why you had fallen in love with Barcelona in the first place. She had a way of making you forget the sweat trickling down your back, or the way your clothes clung to your skin. Instead, she made you focus on the beauty around you – the vibrant colours of the city, the scent of blooming flowers, the laughter of children playing in the fountains.
Barça knew all about your conundrum surrounding the heat. It was a running joke among your teammates, how the sunlight and heat seemed to be locked in an eternal duel, yet somehow always managed to work together to make your life both blissful and unbearable. Sunlight often battled with the heat, but they were a bonded pair—you couldn’t have one without the other, much like they would find you trailing close behind Aitana as she traipsed around the city. The team would rib you about it in the locker room, laughing as they imagined you wilting under the sun's rays, while Aitana, always vibrant, led the way through the bustling streets of Barcelona.
It had become something of a ritual for the team to watch you struggle with the heat during training sessions. The mid-afternoon sun would hang high in the sky, relentless and unforgiving, as you ran drills on the pitch. While your teammates seemed to have adjusted to the searing temperatures, you were still caught in a love-hate relationship with the heat. You’d catch them grinning as you wiped the sweat from your brow, the back of your shirt clinging to your skin, while they effortlessly powered through the drills.
This wasn’t usually a problem—the gym was air-conditioned to a frigid temperature, offering a welcome reprieve from the sweltering outdoors. The cool blast of air that greeted you as you stepped inside was a small but cherished comfort. The staff, always attentive, kept extra ice packs and cold towels on hand, ready to pass them your way during particularly grueling sessions. They had come to expect your need for these little luxuries, and you had become something of a connoisseur of the best ways to beat the heat.
You were usually the first to dive into the ice baths, even when it wasn’t on your designated recovery schedule. The shock of the cold water was intense, but it was also the quickest way to bring your body temperature down from the brink of boiling over. You’d sink into the icy depths with a sigh of relief, feeling the cold seep into your muscles, soothing the burn from hours spent under the relentless sun. The other players would laugh and shake their heads, knowing you’d be there long before any of them even considered it.
Yet, despite all the precautions, the heat had a way of creeping back into your bones the moment you stepped outside. The contrast between the chill of the gym and the furnace waiting outside always caught you off guard, no matter how many times you experienced it. It was as if the sun, sensing your brief escape, redoubled its efforts to remind you who was in charge. The walk from the training facility back to your car felt like a marathon, the heat radiating up from the pavement, wrapping around you like an oppressive cloak.
Your teammates often teased you about this too, their voices carrying over the sound of cleats on concrete as they watched you dart from one patch of shade to the next. “Careful, chica, you might melt before you get to the car!” they’d joke, their laughter ringing out in the sun-drenched parking lot. But it was all in good fun, and you’d laugh along with them, shaking your head as you fumbled with your keys, already looking forward to the sanctuary of the air-conditioned interior.
While the heat was your enemy, you knew how to combat it. You had your routines, your strategies, your little comforts that made the relentless sun bearable. Until the day the air-con broke.
It had been on its last legs for a while now, the fan making a strange clanking noise that echoed through the gym like a ticking time bomb. You and your teammates had joked about it, but there was an unspoken understanding that the day it finally gave out would be a disaster. The unit had a habit of cutting out at random intervals, plunging the gym into a suffocating stillness until someone managed to coax it back to life with a few well-placed taps. But this time, it was different.
It was a scorching afternoon, the kind where the heat seemed to seep into everything, turning the city into an oven. The air outside shimmered with intensity, and stepping into the gym usually felt like a sweet relief. But not today. The moment you pushed open the door, you were hit by a wall of stifling air, thick and heavy, clinging to your skin like a wet blanket. The usual blast of cool air was conspicuously absent, and instead, the gym felt like an extension of the inferno outside.
You exchanged a glance with Aitana, the dread setting in as the reality of the situation sunk in. The air-con was dead – really dead this time. The fan was silent, the strange clanking noise gone, but not in the way you’d hoped. There was no more coaxing it back to life. The temperature inside the gym was already climbing, the walls seeming to radiate heat that had nowhere to escape.
“Oh, amor meu,” Aitana sighed, already dreading the moans that would be coming her way throughout the session. She looked at you wearily as your studied the machine forlornly.
“Maybe … maybe someone can fix it?” you looked up at her hopefully, eyes pleading innocently.
“I’m sure they’ll get a maintenance guy in,” she smiled at you. Aitana's smile was both reassuring and sympathetic, but you could see the glint of amusement in her eyes. She knew exactly how much you dreaded the heat, especially in a place where you had come to rely on the cool, controlled environment of the gym. Still, she tried to offer some comfort, even as the oppressive warmth started to settle around you both like an unwelcome blanket. “They’ll have someone here in no time,” she added, her tone light, though the sweat already beading on her forehead betrayed the discomfort you were both feeling. “Until then, we’ll just have to power through, won’t we?”
You nodded, trying to muster up the same optimism, but the thought of spending the next couple of hours in a gym with no air-con made you want to run back to the car and crank up the AC instead. Aitana, always the more resilient of the two of you when it came to the heat, took your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, silently urging you to tough it out.
“Come on,” she said, leading the way to the changing rooms. “We’ll get through this together.”
You did not get through it together. You struggled limply through your workouts - refusing to do the optional extra reps and keeping the weights light. As you looked around the room, it seemed like you were the only one grappling with the oppressive heat.
The native Spanish players, their bodies accustomed to the relentless Barcelona sun, appeared to breeze through their routines. Alexia and Mapí chatted amiably through their sets, the heat barely registering on their relaxed faces. Irene and Marta, both seasoned in navigating the city's sweltering conditions, moved with their usual ease, seemingly unaffected as the temperature in the gym climbed higher. Cata, Pina, Patri, and Vicky handled the heat with a nonchalant grace. Even the Scandinavian players, usually the first to wilt under the sun, seemed to be faring better. Ingrid had her hair neatly tied up in a bun, but otherwise, the heat seemed to have minimal impact on her or her teammates.
Frido and Esmee were sharing jokes, their laughter ringing out above the hum of the equipment. Caro, in her typical fashion, was methodically stacking more and more weights onto her machines, her focus unwavering despite the stifling conditions.
It was then that you noticed Keira. She was the only one who seemed to be struggling as visibly as you were. Maybe it was because you both shared an English background, and despite years on the team, you were still not fully acclimated to the heat. Keira, with her freckled skin and usually upbeat demeanour, looked as if she was fighting a losing battle against the oppressive warmth. Her movements were slower, her breaths more laboured, and her usual efficiency in the gym was replaced by a noticeable struggle.
You caught her eye across the room, and she gave you a small, weary smile – a silent acknowledgment of your shared plight. There was something comforting in seeing someone else feeling as drained and overheated as you were. It was a rare moment of camaraderie amidst the collective struggle.
Aitana had left your side a while ago, a subtle sign she was over your complaints about the heat. You felt a little put out by it, but you understood. You knew you could grumble until the cows came home if it felt justified, and though her patience had worn thin, you couldn’t blame her for needing a break from the relentless whining.
You watched as she rejoined the rest of the team, seamlessly slipping back into the rhythm of the workout as if the heat was a minor inconvenience rather than the oppressive force it felt like to you. Her movements were fluid, and her energy seemed unshaken by the sweltering conditions that had left you feeling utterly drained.
As she chatted with her teammates, her laughter cut through the dense air, a reminder of how effortlessly some seemed to adapt. You took a moment to let your frustration settle. Deep down, you knew you were being unreasonable – Aitana had been more than supportive, and her patience had to be running thin after weeks of listening to you moan about the heat.
With a sigh, you decided to focus on finishing your workout. You adjusted your weights and forced yourself to push through the remaining sets. Each rep felt like a small victory against the heat’s oppressive grip. Even if you couldn’t match the others in performance, you could at least maintain your commitment.
By the end of the session, you were thoroughly exhausted, but you felt a slight sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t about setting records or impressing anyone; it was about getting through it, even when it felt nearly impossible.
Your self-imposed silence meant you had finished your workout a lot earlier than the others. You flopped onto the floor, letting the coolness of the mat seep into your skin. The contrast between the refreshing chill of the floor and the relentless heat you’d been battling was a welcome relief, even if it was fleeting.
As you lay there, catching your breath and trying to cool down, you watched the remaining teammates still at work. Their movements were fluid, a testament to their adaptation to the heat, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy mixed with admiration. The intensity of their focus and the ease with which they handled the oppressive warmth was something you hoped to emulate someday.
Minutes ticked by as you lay there, taking in the quiet hum of the gym’s remaining equipment. The distant sounds of grunts and the rhythmic thud of weights being lifted became a soothing backdrop to your respite. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself a few moments of stillness and gratitude for the rare, cool touch of the mat beneath you. You let your mind drift away to icy places; Antarctica and the penguins, the walk-in freezer in the physio rooms, England in the winter.
Someone cleared their throat above you. You cracked one eye open to see Aitana standing with her arms crossed, a scowl gracing her usually smiling features.
“You work or not work?” she asked, unimpressed at your supposed slacking.
“I work, thank you very much, Tana. I’ve just finished,” you said offended at her implications. You sat up, matching her scowl and raising and eyebrow at her. “Just ‘cos I’m not used to the heat doesn’t mean that I’ll slack off.”
Aitana’s eyes softened just a touch, though she kept her arms crossed, her posture still radiating a mix of concern and frustration. “I didn’t mean to suggest you were slacking off. It’s just… you looked like you were resting more than working. And you know how important it is to keep up the intensity, especially when we’re all pushing hard.”
“Yeah, I do know that Aitana. It’s all anyone ever reminds me off whenever I take an extra water break or need a sit down because I think I’m going to faint in the heat.” You huffed, standing up and snatching your water bottle from the floor. “I’ll see you at home.” You snapped as you walked out of the gym.
You knew you were just angry because of the heat. It had a way of getting to you. Aitana was a cuddler, much like you were, but in the heat of the summer, you couldn’t stand to be near her, much less sleeping wrapped around each other like you usually did. It resulted in a sleep-deprived, touch-starved you trying to go about their normal day and push themselves further with the increased intensity of the season.
As you walked out of the gym, the late afternoon sun blazed down with an intensity that only made your frustration worse. Each step felt like wading through a hot, sticky swamp, and the city’s noise blended with the oppressive heat, making it hard to think straight. You tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that the anger you felt was partly a result of the sweltering weather and not just Aitana’s well-meaning but poorly timed comment.
Once you reached your apartment, you kicked off your shoes and slumped onto the couch. The coolness of the indoor air was a brief but welcome respite from the heat outside, though it wasn’t enough to fully ease the agitation that had built up inside you. The usual comfort of being home felt diminished by the weight of the day’s frustrations.
You tried to calm yourself by closing your eyes and taking deep breaths, reminding yourself that Aitana’s intentions were good. She was trying to help, but the heat had made everything seem more intense, including the way you reacted to her. You knew that the combination of exhaustion, heat, and the pressure to keep up was making you more irritable than usual.
You must have fallen asleep because the next thing you knew, you were being woken up by a blast of icy air. You jolted slightly, not used to the coolness on your skin. For a moment, you were disoriented, blinking at the sudden chill that seemed to sweep over you.
As your senses returned, you saw Aitana standing beside you, holding a small handheld fan in her hands and adjusting the settings with a satisfied smile. The cool air that had stirred you was now filling the room, making the previously stifling atmosphere feel refreshingly crisp.
“Bona tarda, amor meu,” Aitana said softly, her tone laced with affection.
“Hi, Tana,” you smiled back, feeling a warmth spread through you that was as comforting as the cool breeze.
“I thought you might appreciate a little cool relief after the heat of the day.” You sighed, relief flooding your body as you felt yourself cool down.
“Thank you, baby,” you said, shifting to sit up and lean against her. You didn’t recognise the fan – small, white, with red and blue stripes clearly hand-coloured, and a large number 1 printed on the side.
“Fan number one?” you guessed, your lips curving into a playful smile.
“Exactly!” Aitana laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And fan number two.” She reached behind her and produced an identical fan, its stripes and number 2 matching the first one perfectly.
Aitana grinned and settled beside you, aiming one of the small devices in her direction. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you said quietly, not wanting to break the peace.
“And I’m sorry I implied you were slacking.” Aitana’s smile softened as she reached out and placed a gentle hand on your arm. “We both let the heat get to us. It’s been a tough few days, and I guess we both needed to cool off a bit, in more ways than one.
“I love you, Tana.” You sighed, feeling your eyes slip shut.
“T'estimo, amor meu.” You felt Aitana place a feather light kiss to your hair.
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ikemenomegas · 2 years ago
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Having a resurgence in anime rewatches after nearly six years of watching k-dramas instead (blame bungou stray dogs, they haven't had a full season update since 2016 and until jjk I didn't see anything come out I wanted to watch) has been a trip. It's like being thrown full bodied through the looking glass to have a conversation with my thirteen year old self haha. Seeing as what I consider "old classics" includes Ouran Host Club, Hakuoki, Vampire Knight, Brave 10... maybe it's not such a mystery why we are here today... ^^'
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chahnniesroom · 10 months ago
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for richer, for poorer
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pairing: bang chan x female reader
summary: gift giving has always been something you've agonised over. for chan, just having you in his life is enough.
word count: 3.4k
warnings: insecurities (especially related to finances), feeling anxious, hurt/comfort
a/n: i know it’s still a long time until october, but i didn't write it in time to fit as like a holiday related fic.
bonus: minho's reaction to his gift (included as a reblog of this post)
till death do us part collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist
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Gift giving has always been something that you agonised over. You wanted so desperately to get something meaningful and special that nothing you ended up getting seemed special enough.
So when Felix had proposed throwing both Chan and Minho a party for their birthdays, you were more than happy to help plan. You could see that Chan had hesitated when Felix had told them about it, but he had ultimately agreed when he saw the way Minho had seemed to perk up at the idea.
It wouldn’t be anything too big, Felix promised, just inviting some close friends to have dinner and hang out. It slowly balloons into more than a simple dinner, but the opportunities for the members to have their friends gather are so rare that you swallow your concerns.
The night of, you can’t help feeling a bit nervous. You recognise almost everyone, but that's the part that scares you - you've only seen most of these people through your phone screen before. You know Chan and Minho have a lot of idol friends, but you didn't realise there would be so many at the party. You had discussed the guest list with Felix briefly, but your concern had been about the number of guests and not who they actually were. Now you’re starting to regret it, you aren’t mentally prepared to be face to face with so many celebrities.
The time passes surprisingly quickly with people trickling in as the night goes on. Dinner is casual, you’ve helped to cook a number of dishes and takeout was ordered to fill the rest of the counter. There isn’t enough proper seating so everyone is spread throughout the kitchen and living room.
You spend most of the time just wandering through and making sure that there’s no shortage of drinks, appetizers, and that the empty dishes or cups are cleared away. Of course, you greet everybody as they arrive and thank them for coming, but it’s hard not to be intimidated by all the famous faces.
Eventually Changbin drags the birthday boys to the living room, standing them in front of the TV to open gifts. Everyone else either crams themselves onto the couches, sits on the floor, or loiters closer to the doors.
Chan insists that he open presents at the same time as Minho instead of one at a time like Jisung suggests. Someone pushes a couple of matching boxes into their hands and steps away.
It's almost comical how different they open them. Chan takes his time, carefully pulling apart the ribbon that's wrapped around the box, sliding the lid off and putting it to the side, then slowly peeling aside the tissue paper. Minho on the other hand, manages to pull the ribbon off the box without untying it and flips the box to shake off the lid and reveal the contents.
They're complementary hoodies in the casual and oversized fit that the boys usually go for. You recognize the brand, have seen the members wear it on more than one occasion, and know that they most likely cost the same as your monthly salary.
The next gifts seem fairly innocuous, a beanie for Chan and a baseball cap for Minho, but you know their pieces often go for over a million won, more than you’ve ever spent on a single clothing item.
It continues on like this, the boys receiving items like music equipment, alcohol, and sunglasses. It makes you swallow hard when you think of your own, mostly handmade gift.
Maybe the worst part is that nobody else at the party even blinks an eye at it. You can’t blame them, it’s the nature of their occupation that has gotten them desensitised to being surrounded by luxury and it’s not like they can’t afford to indulge in getting more expensive things.
When you look down, wanting to stop staring at the pile of opened gifts, you see that you've partially crushed the packaging of your own gift. It already looked shabby enough, it was obvious you had wrapped it yourself and the paper you used was from the supermarket, but now it was even worse.
When you try to smooth out the crinkles, your shaky fingers somehow make it ruin it more. You bite your lip, hard, then stop, self conscious about your appearance around all these idols.
It suddenly feels cramped and too warm, sweat starting to gather on your forehead and back. The room starts to spin slightly and you become overly aware of your heart beating in your chest.
A burst of laughter from the crowd spooks you, pulling you out of your head. You use the opportunity to get to your feet and excuse yourself. You slip away as quietly as you can and breathe a sigh of relief when you make it into Chan's room without anyone following you.
You don’t bother to turn on the lights, not wanting anyone to check up on you, and sit on the ground with your back against Chan’s bed. With the door closed, the noise from the party is muffled and it’s significantly colder in this area of the dorm. You press your hands to your face and take a few deep breaths to try and calm your heart rate.
You don’t know what’s wrong with you because you know you shouldn’t feel like his. You had been looking forward to watching Chan and Minho open their gifts, you had spent a lot of time preparing them and you had felt confident that they would enjoy them.
Well, until you saw everything else that they received.
Now your ideas just seemed silly. You feel humiliated at the thought of everybody seeing the obviously cheap gifts and even worse when you consider how ashamed Chan might be for others to know that you were his partner.
Although you were working full-time at the moment, you had only graduated from university last year and your student debt was an ever present weight on your shoulders that you tried your best to hide. Everything you had went to paying it back and checking in bi-weekly to see the number get smaller and smaller was the only thing that made you feel better.
Chan knew that you often worried about money. You had been mortified the first time that he had walked in on you trying to organise your finances for the next few months. He had glanced over your shoulder before you had even realised he was in the room and all the red cells showing where you were in a deficit were hard to miss.
It had been early on in your relationship and the dates that the two of you had been on as well as a couple unforeseen events had meant that you had been spending way more than what you had anticipated. Of course, Chan had treated you on a number of occasions, but you refused sometimes because you felt guilty every time he offered to pay, especially since it had been only a couple years after his debut.
He had been more than understanding, but you had been so embarrassed and caught off guard that you couldn't stop the tears from streaking down your face. Since then, Chan and the members had never done anything to make you feel like they pitied you or thought any less of you for your financial situation, in fact they did the opposite.
When you had first started visiting the dorms, opening the food delivery apps was like a reflex for all of the boys once it was dinnertime. You were always hesitant to choose anything and felt even worse by the nonchalant way that they covered the costs each time. Even though you knew they didn’t think anything of it, you couldn’t help but feel like you were taking advantage of their hospitality.
Somehow they caught on to your reluctance to buy food and now it's tradition that you cook for them when you come over, enough so that they keep the kitchen stocked with more than ramen, chicken breasts, and protein powder.
In particular, Minho absolutely loved your cooking and had needled you many times on sharing how you made it. You had always denied him though, saying that you didn't use exact measurements and came up with things on the fly. That’s why for his gift, you had taken the time to create a recipe book, complete with pictures for each step and modifications that he could make based on the ingredients he had.
You had spent a few months thinking about what to give Chan. He was harder to shop for since you knew he wasn't overly fond of celebrating his birthday and didn’t want you to spend money on him, but was always touched when you got him something. Usually, you tried to do something he was more likely to accept.
Last year, you had organised with the company to give Chan a day off and had taken him out to a movie. It was a pretty standard date, but the two of you rarely had the opportunity to go out together and you knew Chan had resigned himself to watching the movie when it was released online instead of going to the theatres like he had hoped to. Having to spend a few days trying to sort out all the logistics of secretly rearranging Chan’s schedule had been more than worth it with the way that his face had lit up when you had told him about what you had planned.
You don't know how long you sit alone, but every time that you tell yourself to get up and rejoin the party, it feels impossible to move.
“Hey,” Chan's voice is cautious, but you startle anyway, scrambling to stand up. Stuck in your thoughts, you hadn’t even noticed him entering the room. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Just needed some air, it was getting kind of stuffy in there,” you explain. “I didn't think you'd notice.”
“Of course I noticed. You were there one second and gone the next, I didn't know what happened.”
“It’s nothing.” You avoid Chan’s gaze, not wanting to see the concern that shines in his eyes.
Chan steps closer, then reaches out and tangles your fingers together, using your connection to pull the two of you to sit on the bed.
“Y/n, baby,” he says softly. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in here.” He leans forward until the side of his head bumps into yours.
“It’s-”
“Don’t say it’s not important,” he warns. “It’s important to you and that makes it important to me, okay?”
“Uhm,” you pause for a moment, unsure of how you want to word your thoughts. You trust Chan, but it still feels scary being vulnerable. “I guess, I was just feeling… Insecure.”
“Insecure?” Chan tilts his head slightly. “About what?”
“Everyone-” you laugh slightly, embarrassed. “Everyone gave you guys such nice gifts, I feel like mine don’t even compare.”
“Y/n, you know I don’t care about that kind of thing. If I had the choice, nobody would be giving me gifts at all. Just having you in my life is enough.” Chan’s voice is painfully sincere.
“I know you don't mind. It just- It feels bad that I can't give you something nice like they can. It's dumb, I know, but I can't help it.”
“I can open it here, away from everyone else if you want,” Chan offers. “Or you don't even have to give it to me today, you can save it until you feel better. Or don't give it to me at all, it's all okay.”
“No no, I want you to have it,” you say immediately. Before you can think better of it, you reach down and retrieve the gift from where you left it on the floor.
“Whatever makes you feel comfortable,” Chan reassures you.
“This is fine,” you decide. “Just the two of us."
“Okay.”
“It’s not designer,” you say suddenly, fiddling with the ribbon that keeps the two packages together. Both of you ignore the fact that you’re just stalling at this point.
“I don’t need any more clothes, I barely wear everything I own now,” Chan jokes.
“Really, you might not like it,” you warn.
“Baby, when have I ever disliked anything that you’ve gotten for me?” Chan drops the teasing tone. You think for a moment.
“When you asked me to order noodles for you and I accidentally got you the spicy version and it made you cry?”
“Did I say that I didn’t like them?”
“No, you ate it all even though I warned you that it would make your stomach hurt for the next couple of days,” you say, smiling faintly at the memory.
You had gotten yourself the same dish and had found it to be bearable, while Chan’s face had turned bright red after the first bite. You had offered a few times to get him a non-spicy version so that he could enjoy himself, but he had been determined to finish, soaking his shirt and beanie with how much he had sweated. He hadn’t even been able to continue carrying a conversation with you, too busy trying to suck in air to cool his mouth.
It had been even funnier for you the next day, receiving multiple texts from Chan about his stomach hurting and having to continually pause dance practice to go to the bathroom.
“The pain was worth it,” Chan insists. “I'm actually convinced that I'll like anything you give me. Now come on, let me open my gifts!”
You hand over the gift and watch as he pulls away the ribbon to separate the boxes and peels away the tape on the first package. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he tries not to rip the wrapping paper.
This gift was more neutral, a set that contained a wallet and cardholder, both in black. Although Chan hadn’t complained at all, the wallet he had been using was from years ago and the synthetic material was starting to crack and flake away at the edges.
He looks delighted, examining it briefly before pulling out his old wallet and transferring all his cards and cash into this new one. Although it’s not a name brand, you had purchased it at a small shop specialising in handcrafted genuine leather goods at a surprisingly affordable price. It was good quality and suited the simplicity that Chan preferred.
“It's just what I needed,” he says, sounding pleased. “You pay so much attention.”
“I'm glad you like it,” you say, feeling relieved even though you had been pretty sure that he would be happy with it.
The unease comes back when he turns his attention to the second gift. Once again, he puts in effort to gently unwrap it, revealing an old chocolate box that you had repurposed from one of your dates.
You’ve always been on the more sentimental side and had saved it, wanting to remember the evening that Chan had taken you out and the two of you had spent 20 minutes in the shop, meticulously picking out the flavours that you wanted to try. The box is made of a surprisingly durable material and is the perfect size for this gift. You’ve painted over it too, concealing the original design.
Chan turns it around in his hands curiously, before sliding the lid up. You turn away to stare at your hands, overwhelmed by nervousness.
You already know what’s inside. It’s a deck of cards that you’ve transformed, with 52 things I love about you inscribed on one of the jokers. On the flip side, you’ve painted a picture of you and Chan smiling widely with your cheeks pressed together. It’s his favourite, one he always tells you would be permanently on his lock screen if he wasn’t an idol.
The rest of the cards are decorated similarly, a small drawing or painting on one side with the things, people, and places that Chan loves on one side, and something that you love about Chan on the other. The last joker is the only one that's different, you've treated it as a card and have a small message written on.
You had been so excited when you had thought of the idea, even though it was almost embarrassingly cheesy. Chan was often hard on himself, overly critical, and sometimes insecure. You tried your best to reassure him that he was doing well, both in his career and personal life, but you weren’t always able to be with him to do it in person.
As time goes by, your dread just continues to build, but you don't dare look up, not wanting to see Chan's reaction. Based on the silence, he’s clearly not thrilled with the silly idea that you had gone with. You can almost imagine his expression, jaw clenched and lips pressed together as he tries to think of what he can say to let you down easy.
Finally, you can't take it any longer and you lean forward, reaching out to grab at the cards that he's still reading though.
“I'm sorry, it's stupid, I know,” you say quickly. “You can tell me that you hate it, it's okay. I don't know what I was thinking, but just- give me more time, I'll get you something else, something nicer-”
It catches Chan off guard, and instead of successfully taking the cards away, you grapple with them for a second before they slip between both of your hands, scattering across the floor like confetti.
You instantly drop to your knees, scrabbling to scoop them up like the most awful game of 52 pick up that you've ever played in your life. To your horror, the task gets even more difficult as tears start to well up in your eyes.
“Y/n-” Chan says gently, reaching out and taking your wrists in his hands to stop your frantic movements. “Come here.”
You resist for a moment, but he pulls you into his arms, cradling your head so your face is resting on his shoulder. The tears leaking from your eyes soak into the fabric and you sniffle softly.
“I'm sorry,” you say, voice partially muffled. “I'm a mess.”
In response, Chan pulls back slightly and when you don't turn towards him, he taps a finger against your cheek until you face him. Your eyes widen when you notice that he also has tear tracks streaking down his face.
“What-”
“It's okay, I'm a mess too. I should have said it sooner,” he says, voice low and gravelly. Still in his embrace, you can feel the rumble of it in his chest. “I love it. I was overwhelmed, I wanted to say something but you left me speechless.”
“Don't just say it-”
“I've never had a gift so thoughtful, Y/n,” Chan says earnestly. “How could you think this was stupid? You must have spent hours and hours on it and I really appreciate it. It’s just- is this really what you think of me?”
“What do you mean?” you ask.
“Do you really love that-” Chan picks up the closest card to him and flips it so that he can read the message. “That I snore? Y/n, why do you even have this in the list?”
“Yes, snoring was one thing and it's because with everything, there’s always a reason to love it. It's not that I love that you snore, but with your insomnia, hearing you snore is a relief because it means you're sleeping, that you're resting. Even with your insomnia, I know you're busy thinking of every little way you can make things just right for you and the members. It's because you care so much, how could I not love these parts of you?”
“You- you really love all these little things?”
“Of course I do,” you say in a hushed voice. “Of course. When I was making these, I couldn't fit it all. I love everything about you, Chan.”
This time, it's Chan that breaks eye contact, shaking his head as if in disbelief.
“I don't know what I did to deserve you.”
“It's not about deserving. You didn't have to do anything, that's the whole point. I love you just as you are.”
“You know that's how I feel about you, right?”
“Chan-”
“Even if you never got me anything ever again, I wouldn't love you any less. You being in my life, by my side, that's the greatest gift you could ever give.”
till death do us part collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist
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asapeveryday · 7 months ago
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Breath Me In
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Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader
Warnings: Smut (Fingering), weed, alcohol
Summary: Uconn’s end of summer party brings you all sorts of highs.
A/n: can you tell I like party settings??? Anyways. We need more fics of Paige receiving instead of always giving pls!! Someone please this girl!
Summer is coming to a close. Long August days turn to colder September nights, and the students of Uconn have mostly moved in for the new semester. A new year of college calls for a party.
Uconns annual end-of-summer party was an absolute staple to attend for seniors, richer students who lived in housing nearby often responsible for hosting. Summery rap and pop blasting, coolers and twisted tea by the gallons, string lights in big green backyards, patio furniture overrun by couples making out or slowly sobering up. It was a sight to behold, and you relished in the feeling of this, the beginning of the end of school.
When you make your way throughout the house, various people stop to talk to you, including the hostess herself.
Stella DeSantos is a trust fund girl who’s in her senior year for sports marketing, and this years lucky party organizer. She has the means, obviously, because the house is massive.
“So… gonna start the year off with some dick or what?” She laughs, already tipsy.
You just smile and shake your head. “I’m chill right now.” Is your reply. Honestly you just didn’t want to pull the ‘id rather have pussy’ card on her.
The girl swings an arm around you. “I could set you up with some really athletic guys if that’s your thing.” She hiccups. “Want a drink?”
She thrusts a mango white claw into your hand and you take it reluctantly. As much as you loved getting wasted the party was a bit too rowdy to feel comfortable. You were desperately searching for someone you knew well enough to hang out with that wasn’t already drunk, with no luck.
You stick by Stella for a while, standing by as she greets people and gets drunker by the minute. You’re still holding the same White-claw, though it’s mostly empty.
You’re scoping out the scene yourself, the house is filled with kids you’ve been in school with for the past years. Your gaze stops in the kitchen, where two girls reside. One tall with dark skin, hair slicked back and clothes baggy. You’d had classes with Aubrey Griffin before, she was intimidating but attractive.
The other girl was paler and slightly shorter, blonde hair tied back into a bun and glasses on her face.
“Paige!” Stella calls out, as if sensing your thoughts. She makes her way over to the two girls and you awkwardly follow behind. Everyone knows Paige Bueckers. She’s one of those students, everyone mostly likes her and she’s friends with all the right people. It puzzled you how someone so gay still attracted so many guys.
Stella talks to Aubrey and Paige, and they politely engage despite obviously being thrown off by how drunk she is. Their shared looks almost make you laugh. You take this as a chance to get a good look at Paige. She mostly stayed out of trouble or tough rumours, and kept to her main group of friends, so aside from her talent on the court you knew almost nothing.
You let yourself stare at her, noting her blue eyes, long lashes and wide smile. She carried herself confidently, but looked uncomfortable.
Finally she turns to meet your eye, and when her tongue flashes out to wet her lips you physically feel something in your stomach drop.
“You her babysitter or something?” She smirks.
“You’d think she knows how much she can handle by now.” You scoff. Stella barely notices, fully talking to Aubrey.
Paige’s eyes dart to the drink in your hand. “Good luck finding a ride home tonight.”
Before you can respond, maybe by telling her your name or sparking better conversation, Stella’s attention is drawn somewhere else and she starts to drag you away.
You turn to get one last look at Paige, and internally celebrate when your eyes meet.
-
As the summer sun finally began to set, it got a little too cold for everyone to be outside. The inside of the house was absolutely packed, the music was louder and the air was thicker. The smell of smoke and sound of people was starting to irritate you, but for whatever reason you didn’t want to leave just yet.
Stella was nowhere to be found and you were sitting on the kitchen counter next to some other girls, quietly sipping some drink while listening in to conversations. The original plan of staying mostly sober was ruined by your boredom, and though you weren’t drunk you felt significantly warmer and a little more confident.
“Oh, it’s you again.” A voice says. You turn to see it’s Paige and your heart skips a beat.
“I have a name.” You reply, not caring if you come off rude. She doesn’t seem to care either, just raising her eyebrows at you. “And it is?”
You tell her your name and she repeats it to herself with a smile. “I’m Paige.”
“I figured.” You laugh. The alcohol was making everything seem like less of a deal, had you talked to her more before you probably wouldn’t have been so casual.
“You drunk?” She asks, leaning against the counter across from you. At this angle you’re pretty much looking down at her, she looks cuter with her eyes wide and head tilted slightly upwards. You almost let your imagination get ahead of you.
“Getting there. You?”
Paige shakes her head no. “You don’t seem like much of a drinker.”
With a shrug, you say “This party is less fun than I thought it would be.”
“I’m gonna head outside if you’re tryna come.” She shrugs back.
You hop off of the counter and are reminded of the fact that Paige isn’t short. She seems happy that she’s not looking up at you anymore.
“Sure, why not.” You smile.
She leads you to the backyard and the sudden quiet is surprising. The music is muffled and the air is fresher, it’s a beautiful night and the yard is empty for the two of you. Paige heads straight for the pool, sitting down by the edge of the deep end and taking off her shoes, letting her legs dangle in the water. You join her and do the same.
“So you came to a party and you’re not drinking or getting high?” You ask her.
“Ah ah,” she smirks. “I’m getting high for sure, jus had to be a little sneaky. You can keep a secret, right?” Paige tilts her head at you, and you almost melt right there and then.
“I’m great at keeping secrets.” You eye her, tilting your head like she does. “But can all those people?” You gesture to the kids inside the house.
“Everyone in there is gonna be too drunk to remember me sneaking out for a blunt with a girl.” She finally breaks eye contact, reaching into her pocket for a tin of pre-rolled blunts.
She said ‘with a girl’ like her being with you could be a topic of conversation. The thought makes your mind race.
When Paige lights up and gets the first hit, her whole composure loosens.
The blue from the pool water reflecting onto her face, the slight glow of the blunt against her lips, the way she blows the smoke afterwards. It’s driving you insane.
You stare at your legs in the water, her pale ones next to yours. The night is beautiful. She’s beautiful. You wonder if she’ll remember anything tomorrow.
“Want sum?” Paige interrupts your thoughts, holding out the blunt. You know you shouldn’t mix weed with alcohol, but your heart is buzzing and her lips had already been on it, so you can’t say no.
Taking it from her nimble fingers (which you cursed yourself for even noticing) you inhale, letting the smoke fill you up before letting out a long breath, trying to ignore her sharp eyes on you.
“I’m surprised I haven’t noticed you around before.” She says, taking back the blunt. You let the statement linger in the air. For every hit you take, she takes three. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are already slightly pink.
“Are you not the noticing type?” You ask.
Paige’s eyes meet yours. “Are you?”
You laugh and take the blunt from her, holding the smoke in before tilting your head back and blowing it into the night sky.
“I notice a lot of things.” you say, glancing at her lips before meeting her eyes again.
“Oh yeah?” She says quietly, analyzing your features. If it weren’t for the drinks and the weed, you would’ve felt like prey under her watch.
“Yeah.” You match her tone.
She’s closer than you remember her being. The air smells like weed and chlorine, but she smells like summer.
Nobody says anything, you just keep passing the blunt.
“What was your first time getting high like?” You ask her.
“Freshman year, me and some other girls on my team decided we were gonna do it together.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “Don’t know why we started with edibles, but we were still high the next morning.”
“Oh shit.” You laugh.
“Yeah,” she huffs “and we had practice that afternoon, must’ve gone through like 3 bottles of eye drops each. What about you?”
“Senior year of high school.” You cringe and she smiles at your expression. “My girlfriend- at the time, was kind of addicted. Didn’t seem like a big deal then, but she begged me to smoke and I did. It was whatever.”
“Girlfriend?” She asks.
“You’re surprised?” You chuckle. “Shit, you really don’t notice anything.”
“Shut up.” She flicks your shoulder. “Any girlfriend now?”
“Fuck no.”
“I feel that.” She blows smoke into the crisp air. There’s a moment of comfortable silence, you looking into the water and her looking at you, before she finally says “Can I try something?”
“Like what?” You ask.
You can tell her thinking is slightly hazy, she’s moving slower and her eyes are tired, it’s attractive.
“Lemme jus show you…don’t freak.”
Paige takes a hit, then leans into you. In an instance her lips are on yours, prying you open and exhaling smoke into your mouth, then she pulls away. You resist the urge to choke, but manage to exhale smoothly. Your lips tingle where she made contact with you, and you feel your face get red at her expression. Paige is practically entranced.
“Little warning would’ve been better next time.” You cough.
“We can try again if you want.” She smirks, and you roll your eyes.
Once again Paige takes a hit then leans into you, this time placing her hand on your face. She huffs the smoke inside your mouth and you gladly take it, now knowing what to expect. When she pulls away you don’t turn your head, you just blow out the smoke, letting it cloud both your vision and hers. When it clears she’s staring dead at your lips.
Her lips meet yours again, this time without any weed. She’s taking her time with you, tongue exploring your mouth attentively, one hand still on your face while the other finds your thigh.
Her hands are calloused and controlled against your skin, her glasses bump your face as you kiss her. Her lips are soft.
You let your hands wander too, dancing under her black t-shirt and gripping her waist. You can feel her abs, toned from her athletic lifestyle. You can only imagine the things you could do with her abs alone.
Her hand leaves your thigh and meets yours under her shirt, gripping your wrist she guides you to her sports bra, letting you get under it and feel her breasts.
She sighs into your mouth when you lightly pinch her nipples, her usually confident voice now almost needy.
Paige’s kisses trail down to your neck, licking and biting into your soft skin. You let your fingers ghost against her until they reach the waistband of her sweatshorts.
“Can I?” You whisper, eager to feel her.
“Fuck, yes.” She murmurs against you, sucking beautifully painted hickeys from your neck to your collarbone.
When your fingers rub her through her boxers you can hear her breathing change, and it’s doing things to you. Rubbing slow circles on her clit, you feel yourself getting wet.
“You let every girl down your pants, Paige?” You mumble. She stares up at you, eyes wide and bloodshot.
You relish in the way she bites her lip when your pace quickens, you can feel her slick through the boxer briefs and you can’t help but tease her. “So wet already…”
Finally you let your hand slip into her briefs, finding her entrance and teasing around her hole. Her hips jerk upwards, giving you room to move, offering herself to you. “Stop talking.” She grumbles, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
You connect with her lips again as your fingers finally dip inside of her, causing her to let a soft moan out. You realize suddenly that anyone inside the house could come outside and see you two, but with all the weed and alcohol you couldn’t care less, you couldn’t stop now, not when Paige was grinding against your fingers and letting out sweet whimpers into your mouth, her hands feeling you all over.
Breaking the kiss is the best decision you make, because you can actually see her. Her face is perfect, hair falling out of her bun, glasses sliding down her nose, her expression a sexy, needy pout, her tongue darting out to lick her lips.
You pick up the pace, pumping your fingers in and out of her and grinning as her whimpers get a little louder. The noise of her slick, her voice, the crickets outside and the muffled music is almost magical to you. Her blue eyes shining and glossy from the weed and the reflection of the water.
“Fuck.” She murmurs, covering her mouth. “Oh, fuck.”
Her hips are violently bucking now as you curl your fingers inside of her and use your thumb to apply pressure to her clit. Her eyes are screwed shut now, and you can tell she’s close.
“Gonna cum for me Paige? Cmon baby, let it out.”
She calls out your name, legs open and pussy throbbing against your fingers. Finally she loosens around you, reaching her orgasm.
She’s still clinging to your body and catching her breath when you pull your hand out from her shorts, licking your fingers like you’ve just finished a meal. Paige’s eyes are trained on your lips wrapped around the same digits that were just inside of her.
You just smile at her staring. “You good?” You ask her. She just chuckles and takes off her shirt. “I’m good. Might needa cool down though.” Paige eyes you as she slips into the pool.
You laugh and take your shirt off too, slipping into the cold water with her.
It’s a good night, filling your lungs with her, breathing Paige in.
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corvidae-00 · 6 months ago
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"Kiss me?"
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A/n: Halloooo!! this is my first time writing for Joost and i LITERALLY have so many ideas so PLEASE REQUEST FOR HIM?!?!? PLEASEEE Based on this song! give it a listen ;>
~: fem! Reader, Tooth rotting fluff-, maybe slight angst if you squint, mutual pinning, both parties completely oblivious, reader and Joost have been friends long before Eurovision, literally so in love with each other, Maybe a little self-indulging, literally just a music fic but YAY- Word count- 1,095
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Joost rubs his fingers against his lips softly using his elbow to somewhat hold up his head, his day dragging on, and the thoughts of going home and smoking a quick cigarette sounding splendid right now. He sighs and sets his hands flat against the cluttered table the sound of music and heavy bass pumping the walls and making things seem far away. His concert was next and all he could do was wait and hope it went smoothly- not that he expected any different he couldn't help but ponder, especially with how empty the backstage room was. he fiddles with his tank top and slowly runs his fingers down to play with his jeans squinting and making a face at all the loose threads from how worn and loved all of his clothes had eventually become.
"Joost?" A voice calls from the door the handle turning slightly and a head poking in- a bundle of hair and smiles were what he was least expecting "Gekke kikker?" He smiles a goofy smile where his lips curl up and the dimples around his cheeks make his smile that much more beautiful. He stands up quickly and strides over letting you slip fully inside and smile just as wide "Surprise!" You laugh opening your arms for a big hug from one of your most long-time friends "What are you doing here?- I thought you were busy?" Joost says pulling you into his chest tightly and muffling his words by dropping his face into your shoulder enjoying your presence, feeling his worries and stresses fade. the hard vibrations of the bass are not so nerve-wracking now. "How could I miss my best friend's performance right before he takes the stage at Eurovision!" You chuckle and rub his back the tanktop lifting and falling with each stroke, Joost can feel the goosebumps creep up his arms at the gentle gesture "Ah, well- I guess that is understandable Mijn lieveling" he sprinkles a little bit of his mother tongue into conversations and while you would love to know what he was saying you were yet to get lessons that the dutchman so intently insisted on giving you. Pulling away Joost can't help but smile again knowing you are here and ready to cheer him on- his biggest supporter through thick and thin- someone he always adored and went to for anything. someone he in a sense of the word- loved. Maybe he truly loved you and maybe a few times he had laid in his bed with a cigarette and had his eyes closed with ideas of him in nice clothes and you in a beautiful dress and watching the stars in a beautiful less populated area where the galaxy could be seen. Just maybe.
This hadn't been the first time you had popped up or shown up to support Yoost- and it wouldn't be the last- being his personal cheerleader through everything- YouTube- the beginning of his music- and even now was a job you took seriously. Knowing Joost you knew In the end it meant something or changed some kind of emotion and the smile that always graced his face was something you were more than happy to bend over backwards to see. After the concert you found yourself walking around the nearly empty streets of Amsterdam laughing and leaning into Joost after a joke he cracked where it may not even have been a joke- the look he gave you just proceeded to lead you to crack up more "what? is that not something to ponder je mafkees??' he shoves you playfully before cracking a few laughs himself "oh no no- your face just makes it all the more fun" you poke at him and shake your head a little as Joost smirks taking two wide steps and wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you up spinning you a few times "who has the funny face now?" He laughs at the surprise of the sudden assault on gravity "oh that's not fair!" You laugh trying to look back at him. Joost's eyes fall on yours, full of wonder and shine- 'has she thought about me at night like I have her? A future of this being normal-' he thinks to himself a small smile taking over his once loud features as he sets you down and shakes his head putting his hands into his oversized jacket an airy chuckle leaving him. Little did he know that every time he smiles- or laughs- or holds you like you mean the world butterflies erupt and you have to fight everything in you to kiss him, hold his cheeks in your hands, and run your thumbs over the apples of his cheekbones and be ever so gentle with him. something you have kicked your feet in bed about- you sat in front of your mirror wondering if that could ever be you.
Joost looks at you through his glasses the two of you standing a few steps apart both seemingly lost in each other's own thoughts- before Joost sighs and can feel his skin grow hot and he pulls a hand out to rub the back of his neck- "I- you-" he stumbles out and silently curses himself- an almost 30-year-old man can't even grasp his own emotions and You blink and smile a little stepping closer to him "You- Me?" you smile seconding his stutter and he looks over you his eyes landing on your lips that even in the dark only slightly lit up by a street light- seemed too soft to be real. He looks back at your eyes and reaches for your hand which you happily accept in the middle letting him pull you closer to him his other hand pulling out of his coat to wrap around your waist- "Kiss me..?" Joost whispers internally cringing- 'How straight forward- you clutz-' his thoughts are cut off by the feeling of you leaning in and softly pecking him on the lips- Joost leans forward to follow your lips as you go to pull away his eyes already having fluttered closed. You chuckle and lean back in kissing him gently and wrapping your arms around his shoulders leaning into the gentle embrace. Pulling away you and Joost lock eyes, cheeks flustered and smiles adorning each party's faces "Spend the night?" Joost looks to the side bashfully and you can't help but blush and nod "I guess that can be arranged" you tease leading both of you to laugh softly leaning in and resting your foreheads together.
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Dutch translator: Gekke kikker? - Crazy frog? Mijn lieveling - my darling je mafkees - you weirdo A/n: THANK YOU FOR READING- this was my first time ever writing Joost- so hopefully the more I write him the better it gets?? BUT PLEASE REQUEST FOR HIM!- I wanna write for him so bad- THANK YOU AGAIN!!! LOVE YOU ALL <3
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babygirlnicohischier · 1 month ago
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Intimacy - Quinn Hughes x gender neutral reader
Warnings: 18+ smut, oral (m receiving), penetration
Summary: Quinn learns that sometimes it's ok to not be in charge
Word count: 1.86k
Trope: established relationship, porn with some plot
Notes: Please don't ask me why it's from his POV, I also couldn't tell you
Y/N’s POV
Everything is quiet, darkness dampening any outside noise or conflict. All that is in this universe is in this room, on this mattress.
I leave gentle kisses all along his long neck, across his beautifully crooked nose (“from street hockey with my brothers when we were kids, it was the second time it broke and it just never went back right”), placing a kiss on every fingertip before interlocking my fingers in his. His unfairly pink and cute lips floated down my shoulders as if breathing too hard would cause this to collapse. With his big green eyes watching every movement, it looked nearly too much for Quinn to bear; the attention and care that was being doted on him was something that had never been shown to him, and that much was obvious. I want to make every freckle feel precious and loved, every small mark, and mole, and scar a map to follow with my mouth as I shower him with the affection he has always deserved.
Quinn’s POV
I had heard my brothers talk about what it felt like to be with someone you really really liked but I had always assumed they were exaggerating or bragging, a defense against the humiliation of cumming too fast or not taking time to make sure whoever they were with were having as much fun as they were having. It never seemed possible to me that they were telling the truth, and that being with someone who you wanted so badly could almost knock you out. One time when the boys were younger, Jack bet me $2 that I wouldn’t lick the electrical socket in the garage. A few minutes later and eight quarters richer, I did actually stick my mouth to the faulty wiring and felt the electricity flood me from top to bottom, and back up again before it ran out of my little 9-year-old body. Kissing Y/N felt like that, but a million times stronger.
Our mouths moved together and we were in sync in a way I've never felt before, leaving me breathless. They bit my lip gently, pulling it into their mouth with a suck that gave me chills. I felt the pressure of their hands on my hips, trailing slowly up to my abs and back down but never below my shorts which is where I wanted them most. “Slow down, Quinn. We have all the time in the world tonight. We’ll get there.”
While I thought of this, I kept getting pulled back feeling Y/N’s kisses across my neck, small bites and sucks being mixed in to the soft contact from their lips. There was something nice about going so slowly and not rushing immediately to the fucking. It made me feel like I was the thing that was desired here, not the story of hooking up with Quinn Hughes the pro hockey player but being near Quinn Hughes, the man. No one has ever made me feel so wanted. Normally people expected me to romance them and prep them for a hookup; it was almost a given that I should feel lucky I was here and getting some and nothing more was needed. Most times that was fine, but sometimes I wanted to be kissed, touched, and treasured a little too.
“Is this ok?” Y/N asked in barely a whisper to avoid breaking the magic of this moment. All I could do was nod emphatically and smile. “Of course,” I said, finally, voice raspy from not being used in a while. “Please. I want you to keep going.” I didn’t care if I sounded desperate, pleading, and needy. I am desperate, pleading, and needy, and a lot of other things I didn’t know I was missing until Y/N gave them to me. Giggling, I felt yet another kiss being placed just below my belly button at the start of my happy trail. It was interesting being the inexperienced one in this situation, and suddenly I felt shy at the feeling of hands on my hipbones, guiding me into what I needed to do and where I needed to go. The touch felt almost hot and I felt my shorts being pulled down, and the bedroom air was cold when it hit my thighs. I quietly thanked God and my latest shopping trip for the brand-new boxers I had on tonight. I had never worried about this before, how I looked or if I was good enough but in this situation I was like a virgin again.
Y/N’s hands kept moving, palming over me; I couldn’t look away at the hands gliding over me, putting just enough pressure on my cock to get me hard. I knew that Jack was a room away, sharing the wall not even a foot from us in our shared Michigan house, but it was so difficult to keep quiet when I was finally getting everything I ever wanted. “God,” I heard Y/N say as they pulled the boxers down to reveal my cock. I never felt great compared to what I had seen in porn or heard my female friends describe when they talked about their hookups, and I felt even weirder compared to any of the guys in the locker room. Listen, I’m not small, I just know that along with the rest of me, my dick was six inches of perfectly average, and average was never great.
“You’re beautiful,” Y/N said, stopping their movements just to look up into my eyes. “I’m serious, Quinn. Everything about you is just gorgeous.” I felt my face flush, unsure how to handle these words and the genuineness of the situation. I felt…vulnerable but not in a bad way. It was like someone was seeing me for the first time. After a lifetime of being in the shadows, standing behind Jack as he got all of the dates and behind Luke as he slowly grew to outshine me as a defenseman, someone was finally able to take the time to really see me. I was about to respond when Y/N placed their mouth around me, taking me in and causing my hips to buck up from the sudden contact. “Oh fuck,” I breathed, hands searching for Y/N’s head just to get some stability.
My head was swimming; not only was this every wet dream come true, but also Y/N’s mouth was better than anything else I had ever felt, their tongue swirling around my tip, sucking gently as a hand worked what length wasn’t sucked into their hot, wet mouth. “Shit,” I sighed out, unable to draw my eyes away or even close them; I needed to relish every second of this. Suddenly their eyes look up into mine, and with a wink, they swallow up even more of me. “Ohymgod.” It took everything in me not to cum, but then I felt the cold night air on me as Y/N moved away, still connected to me by a string of spit and what I was sure was some precum. “I need more of you, Quinn. Please?” It was a request, not a demand like it normally was when I was hooking up. All I could do was nod and flip them underneath me.
Stroking myself, I rolled the condom out of its foil package and onto myself. I felt Y/N beneath me, watching every movement with eyes so hungry I was afraid I’d be eaten alive if I kept looking at them. “You ready, baby?” I asked, rubbing my tip at their entrance. With a moan, they nodded a yes and I slid myself inside, giving a moment to them to get used to the sensation before I started my work. “Fuck, Quinn,” they whined and I stopped moving immediately, afraid that something I did hurt them or fucked up this perfect moment but as I was going to ask they stopped me. “Why did you stop it was just getting good.” They were breathless, a flush on their face that looked more endearing than anything else. “Slow down, we have all the time in the world, remember?” “Shut up that only works when I say it,” they said with a fake slap to my chest and a laugh. My worst fear in the world was for someone to laugh at me in a situation like this, but it wasn’t because I wasn’t measuring up this time. Seeing their smile and their tousled-up hair, I laughed too. Here I was, balls deep in the most gorgeous person in the world, and we were laughing together about some stupid joke. If I wasn’t so horny I could have teared up from how much it meant.
“Ok, ok, I’ll get back to it. Just make sure to tell me if anything is uncomfortable or too much or you need to slow down.”
“Ay ay, Captain,” they saluted to me. I gave a kiss to their forehead and pushed back inside with a groan. Chest to chest, I tried to find a rhythm but the tightness around my cock was nearly enough to have me cum on the spot. Thinking of anything I could to keep myself from an embarrassing ending to this night, I was almost in the clear until I felt hands snake around my waist and pull me all the way inside. “Mmmmm I love how you feel, baby,” the last word dripped from their mouth with enough desire to drown me. “I want you to cum,” they said, into my collarbone, punctuating the sentence with a suck hard enough to leave a hickey for the next day. “Fuck, more of that,” I sputtered out and felt more hickeys blossoming on my chest. The small bursts of pain mixed with their slick wetness on my dick was an amazing mix.
“You like that, don’t you baby? You like being taken care of huh? A big, strong man like you just wants to be babied a little sometimes.” They said it not as a taunt, but just simply as a fact and a fact that neither of us could deny. Their fingers lifted my chin so our eyes met as I continued to lose myself inside them, and they kissed me again. Goddamn, that electric kiss and the taste of myself in their mouth was all it took. I groaned into their mouth as I spilled inside of the condom. Pulling out, I slipped the slick rubber off and tossed it into the trash can next to my bed.
“I’m…I’m sorry that was so fast,” I said sheepishly as I laid back down next to them. “I’m not normally like that, this was just…” and I trailed off.
“Baby, it’s fine. Just now you need to make it up to me.” I looked over to them and they were smiling, not in a teasing way or a way that read ‘I’m telling all my friends what a two-pump chump you were.’ “I love making you feel loved but I want to cum too.”
“Ay, ay Captain,” I saluted and leaned in for another kiss. It really was good that we had all night, I had a feeling we would use every minute.
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wife-of-all-dilfs · 8 months ago
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the five stages | f. odair
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summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.
pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader
warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!
notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33
word count: 8k
The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.
My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.
Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.
It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.
Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.
I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.
Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.
But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…
Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.
Fuck. I needed to rest.
“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”
“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”
Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.
“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”
I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.
The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.
“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”
The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.
More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.
My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.
And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.
But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.
Dishevelled golden hair…
Dimpled cheeks…
My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.
“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.
A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.
We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).
My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.
“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.
I smiled. “We’re not even married.”
“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”
My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.
“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”
“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.
Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.
“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”
I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”
How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.
“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.
He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.
I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.
He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.
My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.
To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.
Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.
The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.
I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.
“Oops.”
Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.
“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.
He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.
“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.
I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”
“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”
I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.
His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”
The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.
“Blinded by love,” I whispered.
Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”
My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”
“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.
Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”
We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.
A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.
“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”
The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.
In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.
I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.
“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”
My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”
“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.
His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).
“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.
And I did.
I really did.
The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.
It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.
God, I love him so much.
Love…?
Wait.
That’s not right.
Shouldn’t it be “loved”?
And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.
The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.
After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.
Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.
Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.
After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.
His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.
But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.
I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.
I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.
Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.
The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.
Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.
He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.
“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.
Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”
“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”
“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”
He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.
His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”
“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.
His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”
I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.
“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.
His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”
But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.
I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”
His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.
My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).
He even wore it the day we got engaged.
So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.
The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.
When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.
I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”
That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.
My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.
Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?
Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?
I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.
Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.
I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.
I hoped I would too.
I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.
But then something strange happened.
Someone called my name.
No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.
But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.
“Hey.”
I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.
Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.
In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.
“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.
Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.
He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.
“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”
Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.
The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?
I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.
He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.
Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.
After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.
The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.
“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.
He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.
It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.
He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.
My eyes drifted to the floor.
Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?
I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.
To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.
My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.
He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?
A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.
Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.
It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.
He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.
I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.
I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.
“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.
I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.
“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.
“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”
The room was silent.
He said nothing in response
The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.
I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.
I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”
With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.
My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.
Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.
Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.
I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—
No.
My own eyes began to burn.
“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.
The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.
It’s killing me.
His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.
It’s killing me.
But that can’t be right, can it?
It’s killing me.
Why?
It’s killing me.
Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.
I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.
“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.
He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.
I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.
Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.
Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.
I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.
He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.
“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”
My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”
A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.
I was back in my bed.
My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?
A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.
None of it had been real…
The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).
Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.
Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.
In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.
On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.
“Finnick.”
It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.
And he indulged.
His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.
It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.
He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.
If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).
Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.
I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.
He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.
And then he was gone. Just like that.
Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.
“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.
So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”
I was inconsolable after that.
She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.
“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four­, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”
At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”
He wanted to build a house for you.
And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.
Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.
“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”
I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.
Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.
Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.
Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.
Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.
Finnick holding our child.
I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.
“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”
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