#and it's like... am i just. ugly????? is it my skin??? is it the scars and purple dots?????

[campingwiththecharmings]

me whenever someone gives me unsolicited opinions about myself:

[watchthekittycatcher]

God DAMNIT

[shotmrmiller]

tw: mentions of roofies, murder, then smut:)

cbf!simon would absolutely kill for you.

cbf!simon has always been your partner in crime.

even in your youth, back when he was built like a daffodil, he was always by your side. kept you safe from the mean girls at school, always got in trouble for throwing hands at boys who made crass comments at you and the like. then he'd left his butcher job to join the military. "I gotta learn how to keep you safe, love. i'll always come back to ya."

and he had. he returned to you almost four times his size; he left a boy and came back a man. down to your very bones, you knew that he would always keep you safe.

which is why he was the first person you called when the guy next to you at the bar roofied your drink. the beer fizzed irregularly and had an almost milky colour even though it was an ipa.

the idiot had dared to smile at you, an oily, crooked grin with yellow teeth, and lifted his own glass to toast with you.

you bolted out of your seat in seconds, heading straight to the ladies' room, and dialed.

he answered on the second ring.

"please come get me." you hadn't meant to sound as terrified as you felt.

"be there in 5," then hung up.

he lived 15 minutes away from the dingy bar.

true to his word, he was there in 5, texting where you were at.

inside the ladies bathroom.

he let himself in, put his jacket around your quivering shoulders, and with a strong, comforting arm, guided you toward the exit and into his truck. simon remained silent as he sat you in the passenger seat, gently pulling the seatbelt over your chest, clicking it into place.

he stood next to you, his hands resting on your jean-clad thighs, waiting patiently for you to explain.

your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you sort out your thoughts. you no longer felt afraid, that much was certain. simon has always been your pillar of strength. there was nothing to fear with him at your side.

so why do your hands continue to tremble? digging deeper, you realize that you're angry. no.

furious.

some imbecile thought he'd take advantage of you. if you'd been any more drunk, you would have been a victim— wound up lifeless in a dirty ditch.

you burned with fury, your blood boiling under your skin. how dare he? how dare he?

simon softly touches your tightly clenched hands, coaxing your fingers to unfurl.

everything pulls hard to port when your eyes land on his disfigured knuckles— scarred by battle. you've never liked what simon did for a living. he just fought and killed people that some higher-up told him were the bad guys.

in war, there is no good or bad side. the field is too soaked in blood for anyone to recognize where the line is if there even was one to begin with.

until now. just this once, you couldn't be more grateful that simon possesses the skills he does.

you make your decision. "there was a guy in there. green hat, ugly brown jacket with yellow, crooked teeth. he drugged my beer, then toasted me so i would drink it."

his hands tighten around yours marginally. "and now i'm here, safe, with you. but he's still in there, with potentially a pocket full of pills, on the lookout for his next victim. how am i supposed to sleep tonight, knowing that if someone goes missing tonight, the blood will be on my hands?"

you cut your eyes to his dark, hardened ones, and the words tumble out of your mouth with surprising ease.

"there's trash in there that needs throwing out, simon."

nothing but a wretched mongrel that needs to be put down.

simon's nod is subtle, but it's there. you exhale a shuddering breath, heart slamming against your ribcage.

he's a gun in your hand, and you've just pulled the trigger.

simon hands you the keys to the truck. "are you sober enough to drive home?" he quietly asks.

hard to keep a buzz when you almost became a victim of—

"yes."

he's opening the glove compartment, taking out his skeleton gloves, and a tac knife that he tucks inside the waistband of his jeans.

"go home. i'll see ya in a bit." his voice is flat, lifeless.

simon closes the door and raps his knuckles on the hood of the truck before heading inside.

and so the elephant marches to war.

-

it's well past midnight when he crawls in through your window. one moment his boots are on the windowsill, the next he's pinning you onto your mattress, hips flush against yours.

his chilly, clean hands lift the hem of your loose shirt, dimpling the soft skin that his fingers dig into— his bare lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"he is no longer a problem."

he grinds his clothed erection against the flimsy fabric of your sleeping shorts.

"you did the right thing by telling me what he did."

simon trails a path of open-mouthed kisses from your ear down to your mouth, licking your bottom lip.

"nothing gets me harder than when my girl looks at me to keep her safe."

your breath hitches when a hand begins to move south, lifting the waistband of your bottoms and sliding his fingers over your slick pussy. "it seems you like it too. does it turn you on, ordering me around like a dog? i bark at your command, pet."

one finger sinks into your wet heat, his groan drowning out your own.

"you like having this much power over me? how easily i bend to your will?" he croons.

there are two fingers in you now, so much thicker than your own, and the way they curl and drag along your nerves has your toes tingling. he takes you to the precipice at frightening speed— the expert hands that kill without remorse are the same ones that are bringing you your pleasure.

he thrusts his fingers into you with an obscene squelch and a thumb circles your slippery clit.

"i'd burn the world to ashes if you asked it of me."

the coil in your stomach is tight, your body tense in anticipation.

"so... would you? would you ask me to bring the world to its very knees?"

the answer sits on the tip of your tongue when you climax around his fingers, walls pulsing rhythmically, arousal dripping from his knuckles.

later will be a good time to reflect on how you don't feel even remotely guilty for what's been done.

for now, you focus on how good simon feels as he slowly sinks into you, splitting you wide open with his heavy cock.

-

simon finds no pills in the guy's pockets. no baggie, no bottle.

nothing.

shame that his little love has declared the guy's life forfeit.

your wish is his command.

[3motionally3xhausted]

Redesigning the Fentons!!

Hi yes this is for yet another Danny Phantom AU of mine it has nothing to do with the Apprenticeship AUs but unlike that batch I actually wanna turn this AU into a fic eventually once I get through a few other big projects I have *sobs*

Anyway individual files for each character under the cut along with my obligatory rambling about all the choices I made ;)

Jazz! Honestly, when I was a kid, I always thought she was 18 not 16 so it was kind of a shock when I started rewatching the show about a yr ago and heard that. Anyway, she's 17 in this AU but already moved out to college on a scholarship bc living in FentonWorks is kind of hell and she has that Older Sibling Guilt for leaving Danny there. For her clothes, I wanted it to be a mix of tactical and preppy.

Danny! (Fenton) The effects of FentonWorks hell is much more visible on Danny than Jazz because she got out of there as soon as she could. Because of that though, a lot of the chores in the lab got pushed onto Danny, without passing on many safety tips, like replacing the ecto-filtrator, cleaning contaminated tools, organizing ecto-weapons, etc. And because he doesn't know any better when it comes to safety, he has many symptoms of radiation poisoning: visually, this comes through in the discoloration/scarring on his skin (Jazz has some slight scarring on her face and hands as well), the cataract on his left eye, as well as burst blood vessels in that eye. For his clothes, I wanted them to look a bit ragged and worn through ripped seams, tears in the jeans, & duct tape around his shoe.

Danny! (Phantom) I don't actually have a lot to SAY about my choics, but I am really happy with it. There are still a few things. I wanted his hair as Fenton & Phantom to be different but still reminiscent of the simplistic rendering of the original show: Fenton is kind of timid so his hair falls over his face, & Phantom is more active/aggressive so his hair is pushed upward. The only other thing I want to comment on is his skin: it's kind of about how I usually stylize Phantom (and I mentioned this when I redesigned Dani a while back) but a "healthy" Phantom in my style would have more bright cyan skin and an unhealthy Phantom has a more dull/zombie green. And lastly, as a ghost, the radiation poisoning kind of cleans up into more neat scarring rather than the muddy/bleeding look as Fenton.

Maddie! Now, I'm gonna be honest, real vulnerable here,... I hate Maddie's canon haircut. It's ugly, I'm not sorry. But I can modify it, so it's fine: now it's curlier, a bit darker, and has a few grey streaks bc she's a genius and constantly pulling long working hours. And, it didn't come across as much as I wanted, but she's got some biceps, strong lady. Now, I'm not really sure why, but I wanted to shift the color of her and Jack's jumpsuit, making hers much more desaturated.

Jack! Big guy. I don't have many thoughts about him either, but I did give him glasses and some stubble for a little bit more dad energy (?) I mainly changed the color of his jumpsuit bc Orange is an extremely hard color for me to render for some reason, so now it's the classic Hazard Yellow. Finally, the most notable difference is the coat I put on him for a bit more scientist energy but my main reasoning for it is the potential visual of him being an absolute tank jumping from overhead with the ghost gauntlets and his coat flapping behind him. Also, I generally like the idea of him presenting himself as a big, dumb teddy-bear, always smiling, but completely unhinged below that facade: dropping the smile or not while towering over you in shadow. Wild imagery.

FINAL THOUGHTS: Do not count on any actual steps towards creating this fic in the near future, it's just on my mind right now, but I NEED to finish my other projects first 🙏🙏🙏 That said, I will (eventually) get around to a handful more character redesigns for this AU including: Vlad, Sam, Tucker, Valerie, Paulina, and maybe Lancer & Dash

[latenightdaydreams]

Blacksmith!König x Farmers Wife (fem)

MDNI🔞

Part 2

Master List✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, lust, unhappy marriage, thoughts of cheating, p in v

1.4k word count

.

.

On a hot summer day, you find yourself lost in thought as you chop vegetables in the kitchen. The heat is unbearable, small beads of sweat drip down your forehead and onto your brow before you wipe it away. Your small sense of peace is disrupted when your husband slams the back door open. You jump, turning your head to see your husband covered in sweat and dirt with an angry look on his face.

“The fucking axe is too damn dull to chop a goddamned thing!” He tosses the ax on top of the kitchen table.

“Get that off the table!” You shout in annoyance as you turn to face him, slamming your knife down.

“Calm down woman.” Your husband walks to sit at the table. “I need you to take it to the blacksmith. Get the horse shoes I ordered while you’re there too.”

“I’m in the middle of cooking-”

“Don’t talk back to me.” He points a finger at you while giving you a stern look. “Leave.”

With a glare you grab the apron that rests over your skirt to wipe your hands before untying it and tossing it onto the kitchen counter. You walk to grab the ax from the table before walking past your husband and out of the house. Under your breath you mumble insults towards your husband as your approach the stable.

You hike your dress up to get on the back of the horse and head out to the blacksmiths, nearly half an hour’s ride. The sun beat down on your skin, the lack of a breeze makes the air feel thick. At least the scenery is nice. Ever since you got married, you really don’t leave the house much. Everyday all you see is the farm and the small woods across from your home.

As you approach the edge of the local town, you turn down a dirt path that leads to the blacksmiths. You can hear the sound of him working as you get closer, seeing the man’s figure as he moves. You’ve never met this man before, causing a small wave of anxiety to come over you.

With the ax in hand, you approach the doors to the barn he’s working in. The heat is unbearable in the small space with a large fire in the background. As König catches a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye, he stops what he’s doing and turns to you. His face is angular with a deep scar across the right side of his face.

“Hallo.” His eyes drift up and down your body as he steps closer. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, uh. My husband ordered shoes for the horse and needs this sharpened.” You hold up the axe for him to grab.

König’s fingers lightly graze your own as he grabs the handle to take it from you. His eyes look over the dull head of the ax before nodding. He turns, walking to his work station and giving you and full view of his muscular back in the undershirt he has on.

“What’s the order name?”

“Uh- my husband’s name is Michael Andrews.”

“You’re his wife?” König asks, almost surprised that a man like him could possibly land a beauty like you.

“I am.”

“Hm. Okay. I’ll work on this and then fetch the shoes for you.”

“Thank you so much.”

König nods to you and turns to grab his tool to begin sharpening the head of the ax. With every move he makes, the muscles in his arms flex. The focused look on his face makes him even more attractive. From behind him the fire cast a golden hue around his massive body.

“W- what’s your name?” You ask, trying to distract your mind from the thought of what it would feel like to be wrapped up in his massive arms.

“Alexander König, but I just go by König.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” You saw so softly he almost misses it.

König looks back up at you, his eyes landing on your chest where your breasts sit perfectly. He smirks at you before looking back down. The fact that you’re Michael’s wife truly boggles his mind; such an ugly and unpleasant man.

Working in these conditions has left König absolutely filthy. Usually when your husband is covered in dirt you find it repulsive, but König on the other hand was a different story. The way the smut blackens his pale white skin, his blond hair polluted with grime. You can only imagine what he would smell like. His strong masculine musk consuming your nostrils… You shift your legs as you feel a tingle between your legs from your thoughts wandering.

Once König is finished, he polishes off the sharpened edge. He inspects his work before smiling at himself. His body turns and approaches you. As he does you gaze up at him, his massive height making you feel so small. He stops only a few inches from you; intruding on your personal space, but you don’t mind.

“All ready.” He lowers the ax, resting it against the wooden wall of the barn.

“Thank you. What about the shoes?”

“Hm, right.” He lifts his head looking past you at your horse. “Bring him around back, I’ll put them on.”

“You can do that?”

“Of course, Schatz.” König winks at you when he calls you that.

With a small smile you nod, turning to go grab your horse and lead him around the building to meet König. He walks up to you both after a while holding the shoes and supplies he needs. Your eyes obviously roam down his body, focusing on the massive bulge in his jeans. The impression nearly going down his leg. It’s almost like you’re mesmerized, not noticing that König is smirking at your obvious gaze.

He places the items on the small bench, turning to look at you. “Do you work on the farm too?”

“No.”

“I can tell, your hands are soft.” He comments so casually, causing you to blush.

König’s attention turns to you as he approaches you, nearly pinning you against the fence behind you. He shamelessly looks down at your cleavage as he towers over you. One of his hands reaches out to feel the texture of your hair, letting out a soft hum. The feeling of a soft woman isn’t something he’s used to. His scar and standoffish personality scaring off most women.

“You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Oh, I’m nothing special.”

“Don’t speak poorly of yourself. You’re beautiful.” His eyes roam over your face and caresses your jawline.

“Sir, I’m married.”

He looks back and forth between your eyes before nodding and backing away. “I apologize for overstepping Mrs.” His voice speaks so softly as his thumb caresses your lower lip before stepping back.

You ride home to your husband with the mental image of König so close to you, touching you. It’s as if you can still feel his touch on your lips. The thought of how big his cock must be consuming your mind. As you approach home, you try to calm yourself down.

After you put your horse in the stable, you rush into the house. Michael is sitting on the kitchen chair still, smoking his pipe. You march over to him and straddle his lap, kissing him as your hips grind against him. He drops his pipe on the table, in a hurry to unzip his pants.

Michael pulls his cock out as you lift yourself up to remove your undergarments. You lower yourself on his cock with your eyes closed, thinking about König’s piercing blue eyes gazing down at you. A soft moan leaves your lips as you begin to bounce on him. His hands grip your hips to encourage your bouncing; his hips thrust up to meet your movements.

You lean back to pull your breasts free from your dress to hear your husband let out a lout moan, his hands holding you down so his cock is fully in you. He cums deep inside of you, after only maybe a minute of sex. While his head has fallen back in a sleepy bliss of pleasure, you sit there glaring at him with disdain. Quickly, you stand up and grab a towel to clean yourself up.

“Where is the ax?” Michael asks as he watches you wipe his cum as it drips from you.

“Oh, shit. I must have left it.”

“Jesus Christ, y/n.” He snaps at you as he sits up. “Now I have to go get it.”

“No,” You cut him off quickly. “I’ll get it first thing tomorrow.”

Part 2

[formula-ghost]

Read Your Diary (FC43 x fem!reader)

Chapter 2: Own My Mind

CHAPTER SUMMARY: You might have finally admitted to yourself that you have feelings for Franco, but that doesn’t make the deep longing you feel for him any easier. And he's starting to make you question if he might feel the same longing for you, too.

WORD COUNT: 5.2k

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT 18+ ONLY MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Reader is a lil freak, use of YN, mentions of anxiety disorders/therapy, reader has self esteem issues

TAGLIST: @scopeiguess

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love on part one! I never expected my first chapter to get any notes let alone over 200 notes in just a few days. Seriously every single note has me kicking my feet and turning my eyes into little heart emojis lol. I’m already about 2k words into ch 3 so I am hoping I’ll finish it before I have to travel for the holidays (I will not be able to write at all while I’m gone). Also, I had a request for someone to be tagged in this chapter, so let me know if you all would like me to start a permanent tag list. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Oh it’s automatic, you know I just gotta have it

I’ll make your body a habit

You know there’s some kind of magic, uh huh

Do you wanna, do you wanna, own my mind, own my mind?

The Singapore Grand Prix was later that night. Franco did really well considering the circumstances. It was disgustingly humid, and when he was done you could tell he felt awful. You were so angry at everyone at Williams for letting him race like that. Yes, it was his job, but that was your friend out there suffering—your friend who you had just admitted to yourself yesterday that you were in love with.

You watched him from afar when he spoke to the media afterwards. His curls were plastered down to his forehead with sweat, and his skin was pale and clammy. You just wanted to hold him and tell him that you were proud of him. Instead you had to settle for keeping an eye on him in the chaos of the paddock post-race, and helping him back to the hotel with his mother.

She had to get on an early flight, so she left and you promised her you’d stay until he was okay. She was worried about him, and you were too. God, seeing him so sick broke your heart. You helped pack up his things while he took a cold shower and he emerged in just a towel wrapped around his waist. He seemed to be feeling much better thankfully, and his more playful mood reflected it.

Of course, you snuck a glance or two at his sculpted form. Just a peek at his wet curls, the water droplets running down his chest—even the scar on his collarbone that he always tries to hide. He thinks it’s ugly. You think there isn’t a single part of him that’s ugly.

You tried to ignore him and continued tidying up. “I hope you don’t expect me to tip you,” he joked.

You playfully rolled your eyes. “What else are you going to do with all your stripper money?”

“Well, if we’re stripping…” he said, slowly lowering his hand down to his hips, palming the towel. You stomped to the bathroom, out of view of whatever joke he was making. “Get dressed, you man whore,” you instructed.

You lived for the banter you all had—at times, it felt like your own language separate from the rest of the world. The audience could hear Franco’s humor, but they’d never understand it like you did.

When you left the bathroom he was thankfully (or, unfortunately) fully clothed, lying on the bed and lazily scrolling through his phone.

“I’m glad you seem to be feeling better,” you said.

“Well, better than I was, but still kind of like shit,” he responded with a sigh.

“Well, you can get some rest, I’ve got you pretty much all packed up so you’ll be ready to go tomorrow.”

He put his phone down and gave you a soft smile. “Thank you.” He paused for a moment, as if he was readying himself to say something, and looked at the floor away from you. “YN, would you… stay? Just in case I get worse, you know.”

You could tell by the color in his face that he was feeling better, but how could you deny him this small comfort, when his eyes met yours through his long eyelashes, a sliver of light from the street lamps outside cutting through the drawn curtains and resting on his face? He was so beautiful. And he wanted you to stay.

“Of course,” you said. You were going to get up from the corner of the bed where you now sat and move to the chair until he fell asleep, but instead he motioned for you to lay down on the bed next to him. Tentatively, you did, heart racing as he laid his head on your shoulder and curled his body into you.

His playful flirting was normal, but this was… different, a closeness beyond what was usual between you two. You could feel the warmth of his skin, his breath steady against you. Yes, your heart was beating, but you felt strangely calm. Peaceful. In this moment all that mattered was you and your best friend, quietly sharing a moment in each other’s presence.

Your hand, trembling, reached down to smooth a piece of his hair. He hummed in response, to which you quickly moved your hand, mumbling, “Oh, sorry.”

He just grabbed your hand and wordlessly placed it back on his head. Slowly, you began to run your fingers through his beautiful curls. You got lost in the moment, and soon enough, you felt his breath even out as he fell into a peaceful sleep. Soon enough, the stillness of the moment and the soft rise and fall of his breathing lulled you to sleep too.

You woke just as the sun was beginning to illuminate the sky outside. You had an unfortunate habit of waking up in the middle of the night—a common symptom of anxiety, your therapist had told you—but for the first time in a long time, you slept through the night soundly.

You and Franco had shifted, and he know had his arm lazily wrapped around you. You remembered the previous night and felt your heartbeat increase. It wasn’t just the feeling of his arm draped across your waist, but the feeling of…. something else. A little… morning problem.

Of course, you knew Franco couldn’t help it. He wasn’t even awake, and from your years of friendship you knew how much of a heavy sleeper he was. It was just an uncontrollable biological phenomenon. Nothing more.

But you couldn’t stay, feeling him pressed against you like that. It felt wrong and you were so nervous you could hardly breathe. So you carefully wiggled your way out of his grasp and quietly left his room, returning to your own.

Returning to your hotel room, all you knew to do to calm yourself down was to write. So you opened your journal and wrote all about the scene; the dinner, the banter, waking up next to him in the morning sunlight.

You wrote until your hand started to cramp. Then you went back to read what you had written, skimming over it, your mind only picking up on little snippets.

Lily thought I was Franco’s girlfriend, and I guess I can’t blame her. He’s such a flirt, I love and hate it. I just wonder if it ever means anything to him. I mean, he treats random reporters the same way he treats his girlfriends. What does he do when he actually wants someone?

He asked me to stay. I thought he must still be sick, but he just wanted me to… cuddle? I ran my fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. He looked like an angel, so soft and innocent, resting next to me. I wanted to kiss him so badly.

But when I woke up, I could feel his morning wood pressing against me. God, it was so awkward. But I can’t stop thinking about it, what he would do if he really wanted me.

Oh no. Oh no no no. You shouldn’t write that kind of stuff. Having a crush was one thing, but thinking about him like that? It was…wrong. Franco was your best friend. Your best friend who was absolutely perfect—yes, physically as well.

You threw your journal on the bed with a grunt of frustration.

You were fucked.

Your heart beat nervously as you walked into the waiting room before your next therapy session. It had been a week or so since Singapore when you had finally admitted the truth to yourself.

Yes, you had feelings for Franco. Emotional and… physical. No, you had no idea what to do with them.

Waiting for the clock to strike the hour, you reached down into your bag to run your fingertips along the spine of your leather journal. You had been writing incessantly in it since that night.

And if you thought that your fantasies were bad then, oh, it had gotten so much worse.

You told yourself you couldn’t help it. You were ovulating. You’d been single for a while. You were a girl with needs. But you felt disgusted, basically writing porn about your best friend.

I keep imagining that night at the hotel in Singapore, when he came out of the bathroom with just his towel on. In my mind, he sits on the edge of the bed like always, hand carefully placed at the top of his towel. His hair is dripping and his skin is still dotted with water droplets.

He doesn’t even have to say anything. The way he looks at me—eyes looking up through his gorgeous lashes, his pouty lips looking so lonely—I know exactly what he wants. So I get on the bed and straddle him, the only thing between us being my skirt, panties, and the thin fabric of the towel. I can feel him, how badly he wants me.

Then I’m in control, kissing his neck, leaving love bites up and down so that everyone knows he’s mine. He moans softly into my ear, bucking up his hips into me for just a bit of friction. “No,” I tell him, “I didn’t give you permission for that.” He whines in protest, but I just smile at his frustration. “My sweet boy…”

Even remembering what you wrote felt filthy. You wanted him—all of him.

I had a dream last night that Franco dominated me. We are in his apartment, arguing about something stupid, and he pushed me against the wall, kissing me roughly, like he couldn’t get enough of me. He holds me waist with his strong hands as his kisses get deeper.

“I need to taste you,” he growls into my mouth, picking me up and throwing me on the bed. Before I can react he’s on top of me, one hand holding my chin and the other fumbling with the zipper of my jeans. “Are you going to be good for me?” he asks, and I frantically nod.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, smirking, as he pulls off my jeans and my panties with it—

“YN? You can come in now.” You’re pulled from your daydreaming by the voice of your therapist. You close the journal, embarrassed, but not without her seeing it in your hands.

“I hope you’re doing well. I see you’ve got a journal, you’ve been writing in it, I take it?” she asked as you sat down in the familiar office.

“Yeah, I have,” you answered, clutching it tightly in your folded hands.

“Well, that’s great! Has it been helping you?”

“Um… I guess?”

“Explain more.”

You paused, unable to think. All you could do was blurt out the truth.

“I’m in love with my best friend.”

“…Okay.” Your therapist also paused. “Did your writing bring about this revelation?”

You tumbled through the rest of the session, trying to explain what happened without revealing too many intimate details.

“I just feel… horrible I guess. It’s so dumb. It’s not like he’ll ever feel the same way about me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, he’s so… perfect. And I’m an anxious mess,” you laughed.

“Is anxiety that much of a barrier to being loved?”

You laughed, considering the gravity of her question. You couldn’t truly answer it. “It shouldn’t be. But I just know he’d never choose me and that’s okay. He doesn’t even know how I feel, and even if I had the courage to tell him, I wouldn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“Does it bother you, not being able to tell him about all of this?”

“….yeah, it does, actually,” you admitted. "I'll never do it but... I just wish I could, you know?"

"I understand. Why not start with expressing your feelings platonically? Telling him what he means to you as a friend?"

"I guess I could do that." You didn't quite know how you'd accomplish that, but you weren't in therapy just to refuse to try anything. You wanted to do hard things. You needed to do them.

So you made it your mission, next time you saw Franco, to tell him something meaningful. You weren't sure what it would be or how it would come out, but you'd at least try.

Unfortunately, it was a while before you'd see Franco again. There were a few weeks between Singapore and Austin, and between race prep with Williams and sponsorship deals, Franco was up to his ears in work. You still talked, of course—you texted back and forth every day—but it just wasn't the same, and you missed him horribly.

You'd felt this before, the ache in your stomach that longed for his presence when you'd gone too long without seeing him. You figured it would be different now that you had finally admitted to yourself what this feeling was. You didn't expect it to be worse.

Because now that feeling in your stomach was sharper. You didn't just yearn for the mere concept of him—you wanted everything. You missed his smile. You missed hearing his voice rise and fall in intonation as you bantered back and forth. You missed his perfect curls smoothed across his forehead. You missed the feeling of his arm wrapped around you, whether in a friendly embrace or something more intimate, like you'd had in Singapore. And in the back of your mind, you missed the feeling of Franco's hardness pressing against your back, a sign of what you fantasized was a deep wanting for you, both physical and emotional.

You tried, and failed, to rein in these fantasies. But with the more days that passed, the more Franco began to feel less and less like your best friend, and more and more like the version of him you'd created in your head, desperate for you more than anything else in the world.

You wrote all of this down, of course. If you hadn't you would have lost your mind with lust. Romantic pining was nothing new to you—you'd had a boyfriend before, although what you felt for him paled in comparison to Franco—but this intense physical desire you felt was new.

You had never been satisfied by anyone, anything, before. You smiled to yourself as you thought, well, I guess it's true what they say about the quiet, shy ones.

And Franco, unbeknownst to him, wasn't making it any easier. He called you one day, the first phone call you'd had in a while, a few days before you'd be flying out to Austin for the grand prix.

"I'm sorry I've been so busy," he explained, "but the stuff we're doing is so cool."

"Am I allowed to know, or is it top secret?" You smiled through the phone.

"Well... I can't tell you everything just yet, but I can give you a sneak peek. Check your messages."

You felt your phone vibrate, receiving a notification from Franco. You tapped on the text and nearly dropped your phone. He had sent you unedited pictures from a photoshoot, and he looked fucking amazing.

His voice on the other end of the line explained, "I'm gonna be on the cover of Forbes Mexico for the race. What do you think?"

At first, you were quite literally speechless. "Franco, you look..."

"Gorgeous? Sexy? Like the most fuckable Formula 1 driver?" he teased. For a split second, you wondered if it was possible to hear a blush through the phone.

His banter inspired your own. "... not bad. I mean, you certainly give them a lot of work to do to make you look good, but they did pretty decent."

If human beings could hear a blush through a phone, you were sure the noise that Franco made would be indicative of one. "Oh, shut up and tell me I'm pretty."

A million potential responses went through your head. Make me. Beg for it. My pretty boy.

Instead you just laughed and said, "No, really, you look great. This is amazing. You know the entire internet is going to lose their minds after this drops?"

He smiled. "That's the plan."

It still hadn't been released by the time you made it to Austin, but you weren't complaining. A part of you liked having this piece of Franco all to yourself. You kept going back to the photos again and again—his glare at the camera, his arm draped over a steering wheel—you couldn't get enough.

And when he met you at the airport in Austin (even though you told him it wasn't necessary), all that want came rushing back the instant he wrapped you in a hug that lasted a little too long to be considered platonic.

You couldn’t let your thoughts go that far. You’d already crossed a line by allowing yourself to feel such… intimate emotions for him. But to even imagine that he really wanted you to? No. That was where you actually drew the line.

But unfortunately, Franco’s confusing behavior made it far too easy for you to believe that he didn’t feel the same.

You all didn’t talk about that night in Singapore, or the fact that he must have woken up alone. You’d rather throw yourself into a pit of knives than talk about it and have to bear the embarrassment, and Franco didn’t seem bothered at all, so you let it go to the back of your head, acting as if it never happened at all. Your first day in Austin was fine, mainly spent recovering from jet lag and exploring the city on your own while Franco did his media duties. You had dinner with him that night and it was like no time had passed. The banter was the same, the atmosphere was great, and you were so happy to be back in his presence again.

As he walked you to your hotel room, you remembered your promise you had made to yourself, that you’d try to practice being vulnerable. For some reason, you didn’t have it in you today. You were tired, in a good way, but all you wanted was to curl up next to Franco and wake up in his arms the next morning.

And of course, you assumed Franco would want to stay. Why else would he walk you back to your room? Maybe it was the nervousness of the implication—you and Franco, alone in your hotel room—that prevented you from saying anything, or maybe you just knew that now wasn’t the right time.

Either way, there was no moment. Franco just bid you goodnight with a wave and left to his own room.

You didn’t know what you were expecting. He just didn’t like you like that, and it was okay. You didn’t want to ruin the friendship.

But you also couldn't help but feel a bit...disappointed. You cursed yourself for letting your fantasies become too real. It would be weirder if he had tried something.

Still, you dealt with these complicated emotions the only way you knew how: writing. You opened the journal and began to write away, not even stopping to think, just vomiting words on the page.

We're in Austin right now. It's been...normal. Good. Which is weird, considering that last time we were at a grand prix we spent the night together. It's not like that, but I can't help but think that something is just...different. I keep thinking about what my therapist asked, about anxiety being a barrier to love. Franco has always supported me, or tried to at least. I haven't exactly made it easy for him, or anyone else, since I bottle things up so much.

But he doesn't love me, not like that, anyways. He dates models—I mean, God, he is a model now—and I'm just me. I'm not exceptionally pretty or smart or funny. I'm nobody.

I can't help but fantasize about how things could be different. I imagine us going on a fancy date. He's wearing that suit he did the Mexico photoshoot in, with the top shirt buttons undone to tease me. He picks me up from my apartment at 8 with a bouquet of pink roses (not red, red is too cliche; but I guess I can't complain, no man has ever bought me flowers). I'm wearing that dress I got the last time we visited Argentina together—the one that hugs all my curves just right, and it's his favorite color. The dinner is sweet. We savor the time together, since it's more scarce now that he's a permanent driver in F1. We've had a few glasses of wine, just enough to get us slightly giggly and blushed, our inhibitions long abandoned. In the back of the Uber he traces his hand up and down my thigh, each time teasing scandalously closer and closer to the place I need him the most. 

The ride is torturously long, but when we arrive back at his apartment, he wastes no time in getting me alone so he can have his way with me. He picks me up bridal style and kisses me through my drunken laughter, a smile on his face, too. He lovingly tosses me on the bed before taking off his jacket. I just look at him in awe. He’s so fucking perfect. And he’s all mine. He gets on top of me, kissing me gently, and no words need to be exchanged between us. I can feel the tenderness of his lips against mine, and he pauses, looking me directly in the eyes. The moment is quiet and I feel so safe and loved with him, until our lips crash together and his hand finds its place on my thigh again. It trails up and

There was a knock at your door. 

You jumped, startled. Getting up and looking through the peephole in the door, you saw it was just, of course, Franco, so you hurried to open the door.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“You left your lipstick in my pocket,” he smirked, holding out the tube to you.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, having forgotten about asking him to hold it earlier at dinner since your outfit didn’t have pockets. 

“You didn’t even notice that I stole it.” It was true. You had completely forgotten about it with all your journaling. 

“Well, the shade would look good on you,” you teased. 

He playfully rolled his eyes. “It’s no fun pranking you when you don’t even notice. Keep up, hm?” Franco loved to play little tricks on you like this, and usually you played right into them, knowing that the fun of his taunting outweighed whatever consequence the prank itself would bring. 

“You’re impossible,” you said, smiling regardless. “Now, if you’re done stealing my stuff, I’m exhausted.” You went to close the door, assuming this to be the natural end of the exchange, until Franco took a step into your room and rested his weight on the doorframe.

“Not exhausted enough to skip your… journaling?” he said, looking over your shoulder.

Shit. Shit shit shit. You hadn’t closed your journal. 

“Since when do you journal?” he asked, leaning forward as if he was trying to make out the words from across the room.

If you had been smarter, smoother with it, you probably could have lied and said it was for work, then proceeded to rant about your remote corporate job which would have bored Franco to tears. But smart and smooth with it are two things that you are not.

You swiftly turned around to grab the journal and slam it closed, holding it in a death grip. Your absence from the door, however, had been interpreted by Franco as an invitation to come in. And it was clear by the urgency of your actions that whatever was in that journal was something you did NOT want him knowing.

You answered him, “I haven't been doing it very long.” There was a brief moment where you considered ending the conversation there. It was too late to formulate a good lie, anyway. But on the other hand, you wanted to do hard things and be honest with yourself and others. So you did. At least your therapist would be proud.

So you continued, “It was a suggestion from my therapist. Just helps you get your thoughts out so they aren’t all stuck in your head.” Simple enough. It was the truth, after all. He didn’t need to know what those thoughts were.

“Can I read it?”

You paused in bewilderment. “Um, no? Franco, what the fuck?”

“What?”

“You don’t just… ask to read someone’s personal journal.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s personal, you muppet!”

“Really? Stole that one from Lando?”

“It fits." You snorted. "But seriously, why would you ask to read my journal?” 

“Because I never know what you’re thinking. You’re impossible to figure out.”

“... I am?”

“Yes, you are.”

“Well why don’t you just, I don’t know, ask me what I’m thinking?”

“... I know you did not just say that.”  He made a face at you. Yeah, he was right. If you were skilled enough at communicating your emotions you wouldn’t have needed to start the journal in the first place. He continued, “You were literally dying in Singapore and when I asked you what was wrong you said you were fine.”

“Hey, I made it to quali alive,” you replied. 

“Look, I just… It would be nice to understand where you’re coming from a bit more, like… actually nevermind, forget I ever said anything.” Your confusion only lingered as Franco clearly struggled to find the words. You guess that this was how he felt communicating with you sometimes—it sucked.

“Whatever, you weirdo,” you said, your joking tone an indicator to him that you were willing to act as if this horribly embarrassing exchange had never happened. 

“Goodnight, YN,” he said as he left the room, ending the conversation like that. Now it was your turn to be confused by his actions. There was something he clearly wanted to say but couldn’t, and you let yourself wonder, just for a second, if what was happening to you wasn’t so different from whatever was going on in his head.

You let your fantasies lull you into sleep.

Again, you let… whatever was happening between you and Franco go unsaid and focused on supporting him for the grand prix. 

From the Williams garage, you cheered him on as he got another point, overtaking Alonso so skillfully. When he came back to the garage, you met him as you always did, with a smile that stretched across your entire face. Your hug this time was different, as he picked you up and twirled you around. You laughed into his shoulder, holding on to him as he spun you.

He put you down and was immediately assailed by hugs all around from the Williams team. Lily, who had been in the garage by your side the whole race, elbowed you in the side. 

“So, you and Franco are just friends, huh?” she teased. You all had become friendly enough that a little bit of banter was acceptable. 

You inhaled with a soft smile, watching him celebrate in the distance. Once again, you chose vulnerable honesty. 

“Yes, we’re just friends. But it’s…complicated.”

Her eyes widened and she turned to you, shielding you off from the celebratory scene. In a lowered voice, she muttered, “You have feelings for him?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Unfortunately, yeah. But c’mon, he just spun you around like a Disney princess. He obviously has feelings too. And have you seen what the fans are saying about you all?”

“No?” You were surprised the fans even knew you existed. You had cut down on social media a long time ago, knowing how much it contributed to your anxiety and self-esteem issues. You still had accounts, but all were private and hardly used, and you didn’t interact much with fans at the races, preferring to stay in the garage or in Williams hospitality to enjoy the races without worrying about what people were thinking of you.

“They love you two. Seriously, I think there’s gotta be a million teenage girls living vicariously through you.”

You laughed at her comment, not in a mocking way, but because of the absurdity of it all. None of these people really knew you, or Franco, for that matter. It just proved your point that social media wasn’t real.

So if people on social media were shipping you and Franco, then it couldn’t be true. At least, that’s the confusing logic you held yourself to. A line had to be drawn somewhere.

Your conversion with Lily was cut short by Franco approaching. “Celebratory dinner later?” he asked, still beaming. You agreed.

If you could have bottled the energy that Franco exuded all day after the race, you would have had yourself a very lucrative energy drink company. As he was packing up his things to leave the circuit, you all passed by barriers where fans were practically crawling their way to get to him, screaming his name and waving Argentine flags in the air. He tilted his head to them as you passed, and asked, “Can I?”

You were in no rush, and of course you could never deny him this moment to enjoy what he had built with all his hard work. He stopped to sign shirts and caps while you stood behind. Everyone had their phones out, filming Franco, but you knew you’d inevitably end up in the background. You just hoped you didn’t look too awkward. 

Franco turned his head back to you as the crowd behind the barrier just grew more and more excited. “You see this, YN? This is insane!” his smile stretched from ear to ear, and you just smiled in response. He climbed up the fence, eliciting a small giggle from you, and filmed the crowd below him chanting his name.

You had never been more proud of him. And you had to say it. 

So you did, after dinner when you all somehow ended up in his hotel room together again. The atmosphere was…calm. Familiar. Warm.

The conversation had reached a natural pause, and the night had gotten to that point where that space between you and him felt simultaneously infinite and nonexistent. 

He sat crossed legged on the bed, fiddling with something in his suitcase next to him. You sat on the chair only a few feet away.

“I’m so proud of you, Franco. I don’t tell you enough.”

He looked up and your eyes met. And he blushed. You had made Franco Colapinto blush.

“When did you get all sappy on me?” he asked. There was still a bit of a wall up. It was unusual for you all to be this vulnerable with each other.

“Since my best friend in the entire world is achieving all his dreams! I mean, we’re celebrating points now, but one day we’ll be celebrating podiums. And then race wins. And then championships. I believe it.”

The room was draped in a thick silence. Franco knew you didn’t throw these words around carelessly. And the unspoken implication, that you’d be there for all of it.

“I believe it too,” he said quietly. There was no ego in his statement. Only true hope.

[cherryobx]

pretty girl

request: here

pairing: Steve Harrington x reader

summary: Steve has been begging to take you on a date for weeks but you've said no every time because you think you're not pretty enough for him

warnings: reader is pictured as fem and has hair that can be pushed behind the ear, being insecure about acne, steve is a simp, they're coworkers, reader wears jewelry

wc: 1.1k

“Why won’t you go out with me?” Steve asks, leaning against the driver side of your car so you can’t get in the car without him moving. You were both on closing shift tonight so you walked to the parking lot together.

“I already told you, I just don’t want to.” It’s a lie. A big fucking lie. In fact, it’s your dream to go out on a date with Steve. He’s handsome, sweet and has always been very nice to you but it’s your own insecurities holding you back.

Ever since puberty hit, you’ve been struggling with acne. You’ve never once thought that other people with acne were any less beautiful but you just couldn’t get yourself to like how it looked on you, how the bumps and scars littered your face. 

“That’s bullshit. I know you like me. I just don’t understand why you won’t go out with me,” he ponders.

“My reasoning should be enough for you to back off.” You cross your arms on your chest, using them as some sort of barrier between you and him, hiding yourself.

“Have I done something to you for you to hate me?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then go out with me.”

“No,” you stand on your ground. “Can you please stop blocking my car so I can go home now?”

“No.” And he stands on his. He’s not giving up and you can’t help but lowkey admire his ambition.

“No?” You raise your eyebrow at him.

“Give me a real reason. Tell me honestly why you don’t want to go out with me,” he demands and you sigh at that. You know he won’t leave you alone unless you actually tell him. 

Steve prides himself in knowing you well enough to know when you’re lying. Couple months into working at the Family Video together he managed to spot the tells of you lying. He saw it every day first hand. They were always little white lies. Like when someone asked about a movie they wanted to rent out but you told them that it wasn’t available at the moment. The truth was that it was, he checked, but you wanted to take it home yourself. But he noticed how you pushed hair behind your ear and then pulled it back out from behind it many times. He noticed how you fidgeted with your rings and bracelets or touched the necklace you never took off. He noticed.

You take a quick glance around to make sure that there are no people near enough to hear you confess your biggest insecurity to your coworker. Not that anyone would really care. But you do. It’s something you don’t really voice out loud and write in private into your diary at night when everyone is sleeping.

“Are you sure you want to go out with me?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t. What is this about?” His eyebrows are furrowed and he looks confused.

“Don’t you find me, I don’t know, ugly?” Your voice is now quieter, vulnerable.

He’s taken aback. His words are almost choked up. “Ugly? No, I find you really pretty actually. Why would I think that?”

“You’re just saying that. You can be honest with me, Steve. My acne. Is it not making me unattractive or something?”

He pushes himself off your car and stands up straight. “I am being honest. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in Hawkins.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not! Your acne does not make you any less beautiful to me.” He takes a step closer into your space, his eyes remaining on yours. It’s a little thing but you notice it. Most people’s attention is on the skin of your face but Steve is staring straight into your eyes, almost like he’s seeing into your soul. It makes you feel vulnerable.

Your heartbeat speeds up and you can feel your heart thumping loudly in your chest at his closeness. His hand comes up to your face and he pushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I want to take you out because I like you. I like spending time with you. I like how you make me laugh. I like how you fix my hair when you notice it’s messed up. I like how you lie to customers from time to time.” That pulls a smile from you. “ I like how you look at me. Because I look at you the same way.”

“Are you serious?”

“As death.” He places his hand over his heart. 

“I don't feel pretty enough for you, Steve. There are so many girls who’d do anything to be with you. You should be with someone who looks and feels as pretty as you are.”

“You think I’m pretty?” There’s a cocky smirk on his face.

“Was that all you heard?” You scrunch your face.

“No. I’m sorry. I was joking,” he chuckles nervously. “If you don’t feel ‘pretty enough’ for me,” he uses air quotes, “I want to help you feel that you are. I want you to show you how beautiful I think you are. I want to take you out and show you off because you deserve it. You deserve to be treated like a princess because that’s who you are.”

You almost tear up at his words. He seems to genuinely mean what he says and it’s quite literally pulling on your heartstrings. “Really?”

“Really. Let me take you out, please.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely above a whisper but it’s enough for him to hear. The smile on his face is huge as he wraps his arms around you tightly, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around. You laugh and hold onto him tightly.

“Yes! You won’t regret it, I swear.” 

When he finally places you back on the ground, he keeps his arms around you, no space between you two as your bodies are pressed together. 

His eyes dart to your lips. “Can I kiss you or is that like reserved for the first date?”

It pulls another smile from you. “It is, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

It’s all you need to say before he kisses you, a hand coming to rest on the side of your neck, fingers in your hair. It’s gentle and sweet but oh so perfect.

“How about tomorrow night? We’re both off.”

“How do you know my work schedule?” You narrow your eyes at him.

He shrugs, a mischievous smirk on his face.

“So?”

“Tomorrow works.”

He presses a small peck to your lips before pulling away and backing towards his own car. “I’ll pick you up at 7 then.”

“Sure.”

“See you tomorrow, pretty girl.” His nickname for you causes your cheeks to heat up and you grin.

Maybe you should’ve given into him and his relentless begging sooner. 

[ervotica]

𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

pairing; azriel x fem!reader

summary; and so i cry the light is white and i see you

when your wings are taken from you in a brutal act of torture, you see no way to ease your grief. your mate is there to guide you back when you need him most.

warnings; hurt/comfort, ANGST, suicidal ideation, sorta suicide attempt, in depth descriptions of injury

The wind stings at your flushed cheeks where you stand at the edge of the rooftop. It's dark, iridescent balls of light expanding at every edge of your vision as you take a step towards the lip of the roof that overhangs from the house. Wetness clings to your eyes, threatening to spill over your itching waterline when you gaze down to the sea of lights below.

You long to feel the whip of the breeze against your face as you rise and dive into the night sky, to scream and yell at the top of your lungs as your wings flap behind you in tandem with your family.

You'll never feel that again.

You've been a shell of yourself since the day your wings were taken. Had them brutally cut from your body, hacksawed until all that remained were jagged stumps in place of gorgeous, thick corded planes of muscle. Naked. Half the person you once were. Your back is a myriad of scars, still healing and bruised, ripples of broken flesh marring your once untouched skin.

You are broken and ugly and miserable.

It took weeks to even walk again, weeks of rehabilitation, physical therapy with Madja. Weeks of sobbing in your mate's arms as he held you upright, of wanting to claw your way out of your own skin and scream and rage until something snaps you out of this living nightmare. Weeks of Azriel having to force you to eat and drink, to get outside in favour of withering away in your bed.

You're teetering on the edge of the building now, swaying in time with the gusts of air that threaten to send you toppling onto the street below.

"My love, what are you doing?" Azriel's voice breaks you out of your haze, but you don't move; you don't make any effort to step away from the edge. One wrong move from either of you and you're dead.

"I miss flying," you croak.

"I know you do." His voice oozes with pity and it sends rage hurting through your veins like the white-hot lick of a flame. You stumble, swatting Azriel's hands away when he surges forward to wrench you back. Your pulse roars in your ears and you lose focus of his speech, each pleading word blending into one another until you don't bother to decipher the words at all.

"Come back to me," he shouts over the ringing in your ears. "Come back to me, mate."

The name seizes your muscles, pours into your soul like molten lava and solidifies, heavy and unforgiving.

"Why?" you whirl around, heels hanging over thin air, nothing to break your impact were you to fall - or throw yourself - from this great height. Azriel's unnaturally still, not moving, not breathing- calculating how long it would take him to dive after you if you were to slip. "Why do you call me that? Why don't you run from me, leave me here now I'm not of use anymore."

He takes one step, and then another. Sweat beads on your brow despite the frigid chill of the night- his scarred fingers outstretched, waiting for you to take them. The golden thread inside your chest pulls taut like a bowstring. He's calling you home.

"You are my mate." he says. "I need you. Come back to me, my love."

"I'm ruined, Az." The words stick in your throat like syrup. "I'm no good to anyone, anymore. All I'll do is burden you." A sob rips through you. "You won't be happy with what I am now. I just want you to be happy."

The confession almost brings him to his knees.

Something snaps inside of him; eery calm replaces terror as he surveys you with narrowed eyes and a tilt of his head.

This is not your Azriel.

This is the feared shadowsinger- who wears a mask of cool wrath, who bows to no one. A calculated facade of composure.

"You are not ruined," he growls. The glacial fury in his voice has your breath catching in your throat, your insides freezing as if his words have wrapped icy fingers around your throat. "You are my mate, and you will step down and come to me. Now."

You find yourself complying without question, moving away on wobbling legs until your limbs give out and you're tripping over your own feet, hurtling towards the ground. As fast as the mask appears, it slips away, pure, unrelenting relief cascading down the bond.

Azriel's already there, hooking his arms beneath your own to shoulder your weight, a hand atop your head to anchor your body to his own even as you shudder and scream and soak his leathers with angry tears.

"I know, my love. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he murmurs, the words a whisper into your hair as you claw at him, legs buckled and utterly useless. You're settled against thick muscle, tucked under Azriel's chin where he's lowered you both to the ground.

"I'm nothing," you gasp against his chest. "I have no place here anymore. I'm useless."

His hand is an anchor against the back of your neck, grounding when he squeezes the malleable flesh to draw your gaze to his own.

"You are everything."

The welcome pressure on your neck lulls you into drawing a long breath. Azriel deflates, hazel eyes trained on the rise and fall of your heaving chest.

"I am nothing without you," he continues on. "You are my life and my heart. Were you to die, I'd go by your side with a smile. I can't bear the thought of living in a world where you do not exist."

His wings twitch where they're tucked behind him. Your trembling fingers splay against the sharp angle of his jaw.

"I'm sorry," you croak. "I never want to leave you." His knuckles drag across your cheekbones, brushing away the tears that stain your balmy face. "I don't know how to live like this."

His lips press to your temple, brow nestled against the wisps of windswept hair at the crown of your head. He smears a kiss there and ventures lower. One against your jaw, your chin, in the crease of your brows.

And then he slants his lips over your own. Your muscles go soft, ragged breaths evening as he parts your lips with a swipe of his tongue, a hand splayed against the base of your spine as you sag. He brushes your nose with the tip of a scarred finger.

"Come on," he murmurs, urging you to stand. When you do, he tucks you into his chest, arms slung over your shoulders in a crushing embrace. "I will do anything to make this easier for you, my heart. I know it will be difficult, and I know it's scary. But stay with me."

Your arms tighten around his middle.

"Always."

[thebookbutterfly]

Hey there! Could you possibly write a Sandor Clegane x gender neutral reader where Sandor has a soft spot for reader and reader feels the same? He tries to hide it but one day reader get’s hurt and he patches them up and maybe confessions come out?

🦋 Little Bird— Sandor Clegane x gn!Reader

Summary: You get injured in an ambush. Sandor carries you to safety and takes care of you.

Tags: #so much hurt/comfort, #a teensy bit of angst, #fluffy ending, #potentially OOC Sandor Clegane but personally I think he is pretty baby girl, #request

Warnings: Gender Neutral, no use of Y/N, descriptions of blood and injury, mentions of death, cannon compliant threats of violence, no beta and no ‘ragrets' [1,371 words]

AN: This is a request by @agender-wolfie. I really hope that this is what you were looking for! It came out a bit longer than I intended, but I am such a sucker for hurt/comfort tropes I really shouldn’t be surprised lmao. I wrote this all in one sitting and I haven’t done any editing so please excuse any errors. Happy reading! 🦋 Love BB

If you like this work my requests are currently open! So please give me your ideas ;)

You hissed a curse, gravelly and threadbare, as Sandor sidestepped another fallen tree.

A jumble of vulgar expressions that barely registered to you as they left your mouth. Almost all of them taught to you by the giant man holding you to his chest. The hound cradled you surprisingly gently, but his tension was evident. It was written all over him.

His scarred face, which you so rarely got the opportunity to study, was pulled into a broken grimace. The rest of him taut like a wire ready to snap beneath his armour. If you weren’t bleeding all over him, you might have reached up to prod the furrow of his brow. A silly attempt to smooth away Sandor’s permanent scowl.

The thought shattered as another wave pain tore through your ribs. Every bump in the path sowing fresh agony in the ruined skin and muscle.

Sandor ran a calloused thumb over the side of your knee in apology. Uttering clumsy noises of comfort as he picked up the pace.

“We’re almost there. Hold on just a bit longer, little bird.”

His gruff voice was cut with a noticeable amount of panic. Your brow scrunched at the unusual sound. You had gotten used to many things about Sandor as you travelled North with him. His rough sense of humour, bitter attitude, scarred face and huge stature were familiar to you by now. Underneath those things, his kindness and his softheartedness had become apparent to you too.

All the vulnerable pieces of himself that he smothered and choked beneath layers of vulgar humour and recklessness, had been presented to you in glimpses as you got to know him. But panic? Panic was new to you.

The farmhouse that Sandor had marked out in the distance finally drew into view. Up close it was a measly grey thing. The stone masonry looked haphazard at best but its chimney puffed with life. Behind it a barn lay with its doors open and rattling in the freezing wind.

You expected Sandor to head straight for the shelter of the barn but instead he strode to the front door. The family of four, seated around the dining room table inside, scrambled back as he slammed open the door with his usual subtlety. Which was to say— none at all.

You groaned as the sudden movement jostled your wound. Normally you would have chastised him for being so rude but your head was swimming. Too weak to lift your hand, you focused your energy on your eyes. Willing them to stay open, if not for your sake then for the sake of your worried companion.

An old man stepped forward to speak but Sandor cut him off, “One of you better be a healer, because if they die I will mount all of your heads outside on sticks.”

It was an ugly threat and they paled. The youngest boy whimpered looking suddenly ill. A younger woman with dark hair and a generous smattering of freckles stepped forward. She gestured a slightly shaky hand towards the table before him, before turning to her family.

“Clear the table, quickly. We can lay them down here,” her attention shifted back to the massive man standing in the doorway, “I’m not a healer by profession but I’ll do everything I can.”

Sandor seemed pleased enough by this answer. The rest of the family had been wise enough not to put up a fight and so Sandor stepped forward. He eased his grip and lay you down on the hastily cleared surface.

He moved to step away and let this stranger do her work but you whimpered. Fingertips clutching at air until he shifted back into reach.

A leather belt was stuffed between your teeth as your tunic was torn up the side. Unfamiliar hands grasped at your arms and legs. Holding you down with a bruising grip. All the while, Sandor brushed his bloodied fingers over your forehead and through your hair. The warmth of his skin a small consolation for the pain you were about to endure.

The woman lifted a needle and thread. With a glance at Sandor and his affirming nod she began to count down and you closed your eyes, unable to look.

Three.

Two.

One.

Fire. Your body was on fire. You arched off the table. Trying to escape the agony, the needle slowly piecing your flesh back together. The table shook as you thrashed but the hands holding you down didn’t falter. Sandor’s gravely words of comfort were the last things ringing in your ears as the world went black.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The first thing that you noticed when you woke up was the lack of pain. Your side still ached, the wound tender, but it was a dull throbbing now. No longer, the screaming torture it was as Sandor carried you away from where you were ambushed.

The second was the warmth. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been this warm since you and Sandor had journeyed across the border into the North. Sandor.

You opened your eyes slowly. The lighting was dim but from what you could tell you were inside the barn. The door was closed now though and soft orange candlelight illuminated the space.

You lay on your good side underneath a thick layer of blankets, and next to you lay the man your eyes sought for. His arm tucked you to him, large calloused hand resting somewhere on your lower back.

His heart thudded rhythmically beneath where your head lay on his chest. His even breathing and faint snores filled the quiet. Despite your inner protests it was the most comfortable you had been in years.

You gazed up at him, not wanting to wake him just yet. Sandor didn’t sleep nearly enough and you were content to watch the way the candlelight danced across his skin. It caught on his scarred cheek. Shadows flickering on the panes of his face.

Unable to resist you lifted a hand to his cheek. Your touch was featherlight but his eyes snapped open. Sandor’s gaze flicked to you immediately. Scanning you for distress and finding none, his body relaxed.

“Seven Hells, I thought you were going to die. Never do that again,” he said gruffly. His cheeks were flushed but he made no move to shift away from you.

Your voice was cracked from screaming but you still managed to mumble, “M’Sorry.”

Sandor sighed, “It wasn’t your fault, little bird.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a water-skein. Unscrewing the top he held it out towards you.

“Here, drink. Then you can go back to sleep,” he said.

“Thank you.”

The moisture eased the pain in your throat and soon you were snuggled back up under Sandor’s arm. The wind howled through the rafters and you both sat in silence for a little while.

Your thoughts broke the quiet, “Thank you for carrying me here. Thank you for staying.”

Sandor’s eyes met yours, they were unguarded and soft in a way that seemed reserved for you. Reserved for these conversations in the dark.

His voice was low as he replied, “I would have carried you to the ends of the earth, little bird.”

You studied him, the scars that mottled his skin, the cut on his brow and the curl of his mouth. Something deep within you settled, like a cat stretching out on a rug.

“You’re a good man, Sandor Clegane,” you said.

The conviction in your voice hit him harder than any blow on the battlefield ever had. The tidal wave of emotions that followed threatened to take him under but he swallowed them down.

You pretended not to notice his watery eyes and he lifted his spare hand to stroke your head. “Go to sleep, I’ll keep you safe.”

You nodded sleepily, too tired to fight it off any longer. A few seconds pass before you feel it. The soft press of his lips on your forehead. They linger there for a while before he pulls back, the warmth that they leave behind searing like a brand on your skin. You smile as you drift off, lulled to sleep by his warm embrace and steady breathing.

“Goodnight, little bird.”

[redsrooftopprincess]

Monster

Raphael x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: Smut. 🌶️🌶️🌶️

Happy Monsterfucker Pride Month you fucking deviants. 😈 Here's a present.

There are a lot of words that come to mind to the average person upon meeting the Hamato clan. "Thing" is pretty popular, and "Freak" is always a classic, but by far Raphael's least favorite is "Monster."

That one tends to stick around, like a "Hello My Name Is" sticker, even after first meeting. The others have an easier time. Leo's the calm, cool one, Mikey doesn't need any help making friends, and Don's got that cute nerd thing going on, but Raphael is big, quiet, and Close Quarter Combat has left him with more scars than clear skin, making an already ugly situation worse.

So when he was sitting at your desk while you were hanging out one night and a notification popped up on your computer, the word caught his attention.

"What is a... 'Monsterfucker?'"

You're not sure sure if anyone has ever died from asphyxiating Dr. Pepper, but you wonder for a moment if you'll be the first.

When you can once again breathe, you look up at him raising a brow at you, "You good?"

"Yup," you croak out with a nod and a thumbs up, clearing your throat, "good."

He gives you a moment to catch your breath, "So... You gonna answer my question, or...?"

Damn. You were hoping he'd suddenly magically forget that he asked.

You've been holding off on coming clean to the guys about this particular personality quirk. You're conflicted because, while it would do wonders for their self esteem, it would more or less be the equivalent of wearing a big sign around your neck that says "HEY RAPH! I'M INTO YOU!" You're still trying to figure out how to approach him about it, and whether or not doing so would ruin an already amazing friendship.

Apparently, you aren't going to get a choice.

You clear your throat, procrastinating, and looking down at the Halloween coloring book you've been working on so you don't have to meet his eyes, "Well..." You clear your throat again, "... a Teratosexual... or... 'Monsterfucker'... is someone with more... exotic... preferences," you cringe internally.

"Exotic as in...?"

"Exotic as in... non-human." You say, making an attempt at sounding casual, suddenly very focused on the cat you're coloring.

That was not the answer he was expecting.

The longer he's quiet, the louder the heartbeat in your ears.

"So you're... not... into humans." He ventures hesitantly.

"Not generally, no..." You say, still not looking at him. Your face is burning.

"Oh..." He says, sitting back and attempting to process, "So what kind of, uh... monsters, I guess... are you, um..." He can't believe he's actually asking this question.

"Depends," you say, thankfully without your voice squeaking.

"On..."

"On... who they are as a person," you say, "just like anyone."

He's quiet again, and you resist the urge to look up at him. He's running through moment after moment with you in his head. The looks, the touches, the gentle words, all those times he kicked himself for reading too much into things...

You tense as you hear him get up and walk over to your side of the bed. the mattress dips as he sits down beside you, and a hand comes up to still the hand coloring. You look up at him, heart thundering in your ears as his thumb brushes over your wrist.

"Now, I could be way off base," he says softly, "and if I am feel free to tell me and I swear I'll never bring it up again... but sometimes I feel like you and me, we..." He takes a breath, "What are we? Friends? I mean, Donnie's your best friend, but you spend all your time with me, and... um..." He trails off.

"Is that what you want...? Friends...?" You ask, hesitantly. You're talking about it. Everything the two of you have both very purposely avoided talking about. The time, the touches. You're talking about it, making whatever the hell this is real. Which means the next words out of his mouth could either build or break you.

"Honestly, at the risk of possibly ruining the best thing that's ever happened to me... No."

"Honestly," you say, breathless, your heart doing backflips, "me either."

"So... If not friends, then... what do you want?" He asks, holding your gaze.

He watches every one of your reactions closely. Any sign of unease or discomfort and he's going to bail. But there aren't any. He's pulled to you, and he closes what little distance there is, a blush blooms across your cheeks and chest.

"Honestly..." You whisper, "you."

He inhales sharply, and looks down at you in awe for a moment, heart pounding behind his armored chest. Exhaling, he cups your face with his other hand, brushing his thumb over your jaw before sliding it back slightly and tilting your head up to him.

"You sure that this... that I'm... what you want...?" He's vibrating. Everything in him is screaming out to take you. Claim you. You're right here. You're giving yourself to him. Anyone else would have just kissed you by now. But he isn't anyone else, and this isn't exactly a normal situation. He has to be sure.

His soft caress is sending sensations rippling down your arm, and you can barely breathe for the ache in your chest. The night they met, Mikey had been injured. Badly. So badly, that they had to drop in at April and Casey's even knowing there was a stranger there.

He stood in the corner and watched you like a hawk. You were new, and new was dangerous. He watched you jump in to help Donnie with whatever he needed, eyes clear and calculating.

In the moment, you were too focused on making sure D had what he needed to save his brother's life, but the memory set your skin on fire.

"Pretty much since the beginning." You whisper, nodding.

He wastes no more time. You've wanted this as long as he has and that thought sends a surge of heat through his bloodstream. He releases your hand and slides his around your waist, pressing his lips to yours, pulling you into his lap, and as flush against him as he can. He's been dreaming of this since the moment you met.

It feels right. Natural. Like you should have been doing this all along, but the moment the hand against your cheek slides into your hair, gripping it gently, and you can feel the rumble in his chest within your own, any whispers of regret are forgotten.

All too soon, he pulls back, both of you needing a moment to catch your breath.

His forehead pressed to yours, you look up at him curiously when he starts laughing softly.

He beams down at you, "You know, on the list of shit I though was gonna happen... ever..." You smile up at him, laughing gently as well. He looks at you with elated, if not confused, eyes, "You got any idea what you're signing up for."

"Pretty sure, yeah," you grin.

They all tried so hard to be human, but it was the hardest for Raphael. Whether it was a result of his mutation, his wildly inconsistent emotional states, or some combination of the two, he was the closest of the four of them to their primal nature.

That night, and the hulking figure in the corner, like some kind of ancient sentinel watching over his charges, was a memory you had come back to so many times you're pretty sure you could recreate it perfectly, not that you would want to.

You pull back slightly to look at him, and bring your hand up to his face, cupping his cheek. You look down at his lips, brushing your thumb over his scar, you've always wondered what it felt like, "... and I think I've been handling it pretty well, so far." Your eyes meets his like the period at the end of a sentence.

Looking at you as if you were the only thing he's ever really wanted, he presses his lips to yours far less tentatively this time, growling into the kiss.

You rest your hand on the back of his head as he kisses down the curve of your throat, nuzzling against it and leaving traces of himself on you. You don't miss the significance of being marked as His and something warm and grateful fills your chest.

He works his way back to your mouth, kissing you deeply before pulling back. He looks down at you, still in almost disbelief.

"I want to see you..." He says, breathless, running a finger just under the hem of your tank top. He looks down before meeting your eyes once again, and you would shudder if you weren't pinned down by his gaze.

You smile, pulling your shirt over your head, letting it fall to the ground. You had no idea what you thought his reaction would be to finding out everything, but this was way better than you could have hoped. Gooseflesh scatters across your skin, though you're not sure if it's from the change in temperature, or the way his eyes laser focus on on every inch of you. They light your skin on fire, but he doesn't move.

"You're allowed to touch me, Raphael..." you whisper. His eyes shoot up to yours, "I want you to." He inhales sharply, fingers already tingling, he hesitates for just a moment before a calloused hand brushes tentatively over an already hardened nub, making you shiver.

His hand covers your breast and he squeezes gently, the sigh that ghosts from your lips emboldening him.

When he dips his head and captures the other in his mouth, circling with his tongue, the whimper that escapes you as your eyes fall closed is nearly his undoing.

One of your hands rests on the back of his neck, while the other guides his hand lower. As he caresses your waist, his mouth moves to your other breast, giving it the same treatment and leaving your pulse racing.

You can feel the dampness between your legs, and from the way his churr has deepened, it's evident he can smell your arousal. His fingers play at the waistband of your shorts, but no further.

"This doesn't have to go any farther than your comfortable with," you reassure him.

"It's not that, it's just..." His cheeks darken, "I'm not... um..."

"Human?" You venture, with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah..." He says before laughing softly, still not entirely able to process that this is happening, "But, I guess... that's not really a problem for you, is it?"

"Nope," you say, offering him a wicked smile which leaves him swallowing hard.

You smirk and reach up to tug at his paldron. "Feeling a little one-sided here, Red," you say looking over all the clothing and equipment he still has on.

He exhales, a permanent smile of disbelief resting in the corner of his mouth. Him. You want him. You climb off of him, laying back on the bed, and he stands. He sheds his gear and clothing as you look on hungrily, reclined on the bed like a God damn empress. His tail twitches. You aren't just letting him have you, you want him right back, and that is doing amazing things for his ego.

As he's removing the last of his clothing, he glances down at your shorts before meeting your gaze with a brow raised in expectation.

You narrow your eyes and smirk, pushing yourself up and standing beside the bed, before pushing your shorts from your hips and letting them slide to the floor. Now it's your turn to look at him expectantly as he tosses his red mask on top of his gear and takes the few steps towards you.

He looks down at you as if you're the most beautiful creature he's ever seen, and if you ask him, you are. With fabric no longer impeding, he is glutting himself on your scent and his head is swimming as it takes everything in him not to drop right there.

Your eyes roam over his body greedily, drinking him in, something you previously could only ever do in secret, and he shivers. You can't help it, you reach up a hand and hesitate for only a moment before placing it on his chest, following the labyrinthine whorls and channels in his plastron. He's cool and hard under your fingertips, and rough in many places where the keratin has been damaged.

"You know what kills me?" You ask softly, fingers tracing a particularly deep scar, "You have absolutely no idea how beautiful you are," you step forward, pressing your lips to the deep groove. You're rewarded with a sharp inhale and the rumble in his chest against your bare skin.

His hand slides around your waist and he pulls you into him as you kiss upward along the length of the scar. Your softness caresses him, and warmth pours through his shell, filling all the parts of him starved for sunlight. A deep hum reverberates inside of him when you reach the divot in the top of his pectoral scute, and kiss the scarred skin just above.

You look up at him, whispering, "Will you let me show you?"

He looks down at you, and he looks terrified. But he nods. He trusts you.

You take his hand and walk to the end of the bed. You close the door to your room, the light flashing in the full length mirror on the back of the door.

"Sit," you say with a gentle squeeze of his hand, leading him to the side of the bed facing the mirror. He does as he's told, and you climb into his lap, also facing the mirror.

You take his large hands in yours and guide him, showing him how you like to be touched. He watches your reactions to every movement closely, and it isn't long before he's confident enough to explore on his own. His fingers trail lightly down your side, following the line of your hip slowly inward. He stills, waiting to see if you're going to stop him from moving forward.

You don't.

He holds your gaze, watching your features change as his fingers slip into your folds. You gasp as he teases you slowly, and it isn't long before you're near trembling.

You're eyes fall closed, and your mouth falls open as one finger finally pushes into your soaked center. You lean back against him, whimpering as his finger curls, brushing against the soft part inside of you, before pulling out and pushing back in. He repeats the action, slowly, and again, slowly. He feels you clench around him, writhing impatiently, and looks up at the mirror.

Flush and trembling in his arms, one hand nearly covers your abdomen, the contrast of your smooth skin and his pebbled scales looking almost intentional, color and texture complimenting each other perfectly. The other continues disappearing inside of you and drawing from you the most exquisitely frustrated sounds. And it's him. He's doing all of it. His oversized, inhuman hands are creating this moment.

There is no other word for it than "beautiful..."

Your lust blown eyes open to meet his as you whimper and twist in his lap. "f-fuck..." he shudders as he drops, gripping you tighter.

The corner of your mouth turns up slightly as you meet his reflection's eyes. Trembling, he angles himself to rub against your sex, coating himself in your slick, pulling a small sound from your throat. You're already so wet and ready, and when you tilt your hips and capture his spade-tipped head, you are very grateful for that.

The burn as you stretch around him is glorious. He's bigger than you were expecting (and you were expecting), and a deep moan is pulled from you as you sink down on him slowly, your eyes falling closed.

You still once he's buried to the hilt, both of you needing a moment to adjust. When you open your eyes, his are still closed. His arms hold you tightly around the waist, and measured, trembling breaths ghost over your shoulder.

He needs a minute. This is new for him and the worst thing he can imagine right now is for this to be over before it starts. You are so soft and warm and tight, and he can feel your heartbeat pulsing in the walls around him, and if he doesn't get some kind of control, he's going to bust right here.

After a few moments, he opens his eyes, meeting yours in the mirror. His fingers find your clit again, and he strokes it slowly, groaning, his head falling back, when you clench around him.

In an involuntary search for friction, your hips rock against his and he gasps, his other hand tightening around your waist, and he's never been more grateful for years of training in meditation.

He breathes heavily for a few moments, and once he feels like he has his bearings, he holds your gaze and tightens his grip on your hips, pulling out of you slowly before pushing back in. You can feel his churr inside you and you shudder as he sheathes himself again, feeling the vibrations of his desire scatter outward from your center, leaving your fingers and toes tingling.

You move together in a slow rhythm, his eyes never leaving the mirror. He's going to remember every single second of this for the rest of his life. Whatever happens next, this is his. This moment. This feeling. He's wanted a lot of things in his life - peace, acceptance, love -, and for this one shining moment, he has all of them. For this once shining moment, he has you.

This beautiful, brilliant goddess of light and mercy is with him, wants him. You are watching him in the mirror as if he is something sacred. Divine. This broken deformation of something that isn't even a man, held in reverence, and he is filled with something indescribable.

His head falls to your shoulder with a deep moan, as a fire ignites inside of him. Not the one he's used to, there is no burning rage. No barely contained fury. This is not the fire of battle, but the fire of a forge.

Red hot iron burns in his veins as years of doubt and insecurity are boiled away. They didn't matter anymore. Every weird, unacceptable mutated turtle thing he had to deal with. Every scream of horror at his terrible visage. Your light. Your heat, is burning it away. Allowing him to make something new. He leans back, lifting you and bucking up into your harder as that heat fills him, and with every thrust, something in him is reshaping itself.

You could see it in his eyes. That fire of creation. And if you thought he was beautiful before... He holds your gaze with open purpose, unsure but ready for anything, pouring that fire into you. The catalyst of his recreation. And for the first time in his life, he feels like maybe he deserves something good.

And, Gods, you felt SO good.

He's transfixed, his hand reaching around to find your clit again, moaning as his mouth descends to your neck and shoulders. Needing to pull more of those exquisite sounds from you. Every one of them ringing through him like a struck anvil.

A smirk turns his lip as he stands, growling, and you brace against the door as he shows no signs of slowing. His large hand comes to cover yours on the door, wrapping around it. Eyes no longer fixed to the mirror, gaze downward, watching the way you stretch around him as he disappears into you, he can feel his release building as your body flexes around him.

The fire roars under your skin as his speed and strength increases, capturing every sight, sound, and scent, and tossing them back into the flames.

You're beyond language at this point, grunting and whimpering with every thrust. You can feel him in every part of you, until there is nothing left in the world but him and the burn of him filling you completely.

You can feel the pressure building as he growls low and sparks shoot up your spine, his hot breath crashing over your shoulders in waves as he is lost to you. He wraps his arm around you, leaning back and pulling you flush against him as his eyes fall shut.

You are consumed by the flames, arching against him with a cry as white fire streaks through you, the pressure breaks, and you are undone. Raphael follows with a roar, gripping you tightly as he buries himself in you. A second wave crashes over you when you feel him spill himself inside of you, your body milking him dry.

Trembling and breathing hard, you sit back and hold each other as you come down together. You meet his eyes in the mirror, and he's looking at you in reverence and gratitude, like you're his own personal miracle.

Because you are.

He wraps his arms around your waist and buries his head in your shoulder and breathes deep, pulling your scent into his lungs as he pulls out of you, leaving you feeling empty. Glancing up, he watches himself drip out of you, staining the rug below. You are flush and exhausted, but smiling as your heart rate and breathing slow.

After taking a few moments to clean up. You crawl back into bed together. He slips his arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

You smile up at him, happy, truly, actually happy, for the first time in... ever? That can't be right. It feels right. All you know is you've never been happy like this.

It won't last. It can't. He's too special. And now he knows he has options. "Just think, when you get bored with me, there's a whole community of people that will also find you hot." you chuckle softly. It was only a matter of time, right? You were nothing special.

His smile disappears.

How could you think...

"Y/N, I don't want anybody else." He says softly, sure.

"Raph, you haven't met anybody else." You counter.

"Fuck anybody else. Everybody else. I got it in one, and I ain't about to question that." He presses his forehead to yours.

You smile at him in patient, loving, disbelief. "Okay, Red."

He raises his head to look at you. "Want me to prove it? Fine. Give me a few years, I'll have you convinced."

This gets him a laugh. "Years?" you really like the sound of that.

You grin up at him. You really, really like the sound of that. But moments later, you cringe hard and start giggling, a clear sign that your brain has interrupted with something ridiculous. "Okay okay okay, I'm gonna say it. I have to say it... I've created a monster."

"If I'm lucky," he says. You look into his eyes as he smiles down at you, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear. "You better be prepared for me not to be able to keep my hands off you," he says with a smirk.

"Y/N..." He groans and covers his face with a pillow while you cackle.

"No wait, see? Now you can't hate that word anymore because it will remind you of sex!" You chirp delightedly.

"You can't possibly be fucking serious right now..." He says, muffled by the pillow.

The next several minutes are spent with you vehemently defending your joke, while, delightfully annoyed, he quietly admits to himself that being a Monster might not be all that bad.

...

Happy Pride Month, my Monster. I love you. ♥️

...

Tag list

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll @silverwatergalaxy @gornackeaterofworlds @daedric-sorceress @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @milykins

[sapphoherselz]

was it casual when you stopped me from running before you even knew me, then became the reason I stayed?

was it casual when you touched my back on your way by, fingers light enough to give me goose bumps?

was it casual when I pressed your palm to the ugly scarring across my abdomen and your eyes dropped to my shirt like you could see the marred skin through the dark cotton?

was it casual when I willingly got tortured for your sake?

was it casual when i hid your armbands under my pillow, or when I gave you back the mean to protect yourself even though I was advised against it?

was it casual when there was nowhere for me to stand except up against you, but somehow I didn't mind, was it casual when your body next to mine reminded me why I stayed, was it casual when I remembered this unyielding, unquestioning weight that could hold me and all of my problems up without breaking a sweat?

was it casual that for the first time in months I could finally breathe again, that your presence was such a relief it was frightening, because I hadn't meant to lean on you so much?

was it casual when "The next time someone comes for you, stand down and let me deal with it. Do you understand?" "If it means losing you, then no”?

was it casual when "You were supposed to be a side effect of the drugs” "I'm not a hallucination” "You are a pipe dream”?

was it casual when I plucked your cigarette off the sidewalk and stuck it between my lips and tipped my head back to meet your unwavering gaze and tapped two fingers to my temple in your mocking salute?

was it casual when I felt a half-second from losing my mind, but then you said my name and my thoughts ground to a startled halt?

was it casual when "You like me” "I hate you” "You never said anything” “Why should I have? Nothing will come of it"?

was it casual when "I want to see you lose control”?

was it casual when "Am I bothering you?” "Beyond the telling” "Interesting, last week you said nothing gets under your skin”?

was it casual when “But I trust you” "You shouldn't" "Says the man who stopped”?

was it casual when I took the pint from your unresisting fingers, stacked it on top of mine, and leaned in, but didn't dare to touch you until you gave me a green light?

was it casual when time was nothing, seconds were days, were years, were the breaths that caught between our mouths and the bite of my fingernails against my palms, the scrape of teeth against my lower lip and the warm slide of a tongue against mine? was it casual when I could feel your heartbeat thrumming against mg wrists, a staccato rhythm that echoed in my veins? was it casual when I wondered how a man who viewed the world with such studied disconnect could kiss like this? was it casual when I had forgotten what it was like to be touched without malicious intent?

was it casual when I didn't know if I could get my hands back in my pockets without brushing up against you, so I tucked them behind my back instead?

was it casual when “It is just a key” "You're a foster child, you know it isn't"? was it casual when I had toyed with your house key so many times I knew every dip and ridge by heart?

was it casual when "If you hit me again” "You'll what?"?

was it casual when I protected you by yanking someone away even though the agony that shot from my fingertips to the elbows almost took me off my feet?

was it casual when your expression was deceptively calm, but there was iron in your grip when you seized my chin? was it casual when you let go of me so you could tug my hood out of the way, when you dragged a finger along the lines of tape keeping the myriad of bandages in place as if looking for the best place to start?

was it casual when you froze with your hand a few scant inches from my face, when your expression didn't change, but there was a new tension in your shoulders that didn't bode well for anyone in the room?

was it casual when I knew better than to touch you yet but I got as close as I could and framed your face between my bandaged hands, when you could have easily pushed me aside, but after a short pause you got settled again?

was it casual when "Am I at ninety-four yet?" "You are at one hundred"?

was it casual when "Get away from us, If you make me repeat myself you will not live to regret it”?

was it casual when "Did they tell you who I am?" "They didn't have to, I choked the answers out of Kevin on the way here”?

was it casual when "If you tell me to leave, I'll go” "You're staying with us. If they try to take you away they will lose”?

was it casual when "I have to go, I don't trust them to give you back"?

was it casual when "Can I really be Neil again?" "I told Neil to stay, leave Nathaniel buried in Baltimore with his father”?

was it casual when you threw yourself out of the goal like all of hell was at your heels?

was it casual when "I thought you knew how to run” I thought you told me to stop running” "Survival tip: no one likes a smart mouth” "Except you"?

[demonic0angel]

Spectra discovers the misery factory that is Gotham. Everybody has a bad time.

(Will just be focusing on Anger Management for this ask, but this is a VERY fun ask lmao, I love angst/comfort)

Red Hood tried not to let the tears fall as he firmly kept his finger on the trigger.

“I’m not scared of you,” he gritted out.

Spectra laughed. “Maybe not. But I know someone you’re scared of. You’re scared of Wolf, aren’t you? You’re scared that she won’t like what she sees when she finds the true you. Your worries certainly have merit. After all, who can expect someone like her, brilliant, beautiful, powerful, to like someone like you? Someone who can never understand her, someone who is as disgusting and damaged and weak as you.”

“I-I—!!” His hands trembled and the gun nearly slipped.

Spectra smirked and prowled closer. “You’re nothing compared to her. My apprentice was raised into excellence by me. She’ll know. She’ll know that someone like you is beneath her. Someone who doesn’t even deserve to touch her feet. After all, who would like someone like you, who died in such a pathetic way?”

Red Hood inhaled, trying to clear the spots in his vision as the tears persisted. “I’m not pathetic! I got to where I am with my own strength and will! I crawled out of my own grave! I am—!”

“You’re nothing,” Spectra hissed, her eyes flashing. “You’re nothing but a spineless, cold-blooded murderer who begs his daddy for love. No one mourned you. No one cared for you. You were replaced like nothing because you are nothing. The Lazarus pits have healed you, wiped away your outer scars, but the inner ugliness still remain, don’t they? No one will love you. Not your siblings, not your father, not Wolf. You are an unloveable, forgettable trash who should’ve died on the streets.”

A voice interrupted her, but Red Hood was completely and utterly hyperventilating already.

“Spectra. Enough.”

Red Hood froze in his place, shivering like an abandoned dog as Wolf strode across the roof towards them. He bit down on his lower lip, stifling a whimper as the gun dropped from his hands. He shouldn’t have done that. He should’ve done everyone a favor and—

Wolf shot a strange bullet at Spectra, who disappeared with a hateful scream. Red Hood could not see through his tears, fogging the inside of his helmet and as everything began to close around him, like the coffin that used to hold him in his death, he tore it all off like he had done before at the age of 15, weak and helpless and mindless. He whimpered and whined and clawed at the mask on his eyes, wanting it off, off, off—

Hands gripped his wrists and Jason reared back with a sob. Everything felt wrong, like his skin was keeping him caged and the air of Gotham City was too cold and he felt boiling hot like shame and embarrassment and Wolf was looking at him through her helmet. She let go of one wrist and for a moment, Jason wondered if she had truly thought that he was disgusting, when she reached for his face and gingerly held his cheek in one gloved hand.

The gentle touch immediately pulled him away from his thoughts.

His breath hitched and he blinked away hot tears, closing his eyes as he just focused on her touch. She let go of the other hand and then pulled him into a hug, cradling him and for a moment, Jason wished he was 15 again, undamaged, innocent, and clean, untouched by death and murder.

But for now, he just held tightly onto Wolf and sobbed as she murmured sweet nothings into his ears only.

“Shhh… it’s okay. Nothing she said was true. I promise you, I’ll stay by your side no matter what. Shhh, it’s alright, you’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay…”

[lilywastaken]

— Simon helps reader with getting ready.

> This blurb is part of my series — MÉNAGE !

CW: Talks of poor body image, stretch marks, scars.

"'Necklace looks nice."

"You think?" You mumbled, staring at yourself in the mirror as you clipped the back. "It's weird, dressing up."

After all, it'd been a long time since you'd spent so long on your makeup or appearance, having given up mostly on cosmetics ever since you became a mother. Which made you all the more excited to do your makeup again, properly, not just the curling and mascara or gloss you'd rush when going out, a full-face of makeup, even if it was just for drinks with a few friends.

"Goes with the dress." Simon offered after a moment of silence, clearly having gone quiet in hopes of coming up with a compliment that didn't sound so bland, but said what he'd originally thought at the beginning as bland as it was, not knowing much about fashion.

"Yeah, I suppose." You snorted, looking down at the short skirt of the dress and trying to pull it down slightly to cover some of the stretch marks that threatened to show. "...maybe I should wear tights or something."

"Why?" Simon grunted, turning to look at you from his spot on your bed, Tommy rolling around in a few blankets next to him, playing with some of his father's fingers. "'S not going to be cold tonight."

"Yeah, but…" you pushed yourself out of your chair, turning around to show yourself to the blond, letting his eyes scan your body from head to toe, lingering slightly on the cleavage showing thanks to the low cut. "Look."

"I am."

"No! Here!" Your hands came down to rest on your thighs, bringing his attention to the plush parts of your legs. "They look ugly."

"What?" He furrowed his eyebrows, scanning your skin in hopes of finding what you had deemed "ugly", findinging nothing. "What looks ugly?"

"The scars!" You whined, hands landing on your stomach and prodding at your tummy. "I mean… I got them after Tommy, they're all over my body, they kind of just… don't look good."

Simon outstretched a hand out to you, bringing you closer to the bed when you immediately took it, helping you kneel down on the mattress and collapse against his side, snuggling into his warmth as his arms enveloped you.

"I think they look good, lovie." He mumbled against the top of your head, his thumb rubbing comforting circles into your arm. "'Reminder of what you did. Of what you made. 'Bit corny, but it's true."

"I know… it's just… Weird. I don't know how to explain it, Si…" you sighed, running your own fingers over his covered chest.

"If you don't feel comfortable showing them, there's no shame in covering up. Not going to try and force you to go out like that if you don't want to. Just remember you don't have to feel disgusted by them." He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, making sure to avoid your makeup in hopes of not ruining it.

"Yeah… I guess." You mumbled, closing your eyes to savour the feeling of his lips against your skin. "Just… nervous... Maybe I should just stay-"

"No. C'mon." Simon grunted, grabbing you by the hips and pushing you up and off the bed, leaning back against the array of pillows behind him. "You promised them."

"You really want me to go, huh?" You sighed, letting a cheeky smile pull at your lips as he looked down at you with an arched brow, trying to figure out if you were being serious with your accusation or not. But when he did, he let out a huff, rolling his eyes before squeezing you tighter, making you let out a string of giggles.

"Yeah. Fuckin' hate your guts. Been waiting for you to leave forever." He mumbled, contradicting his teasing words as he continued to press kisses against your face, relishing in the way your nose scrunched up and your eyes shone when he leaned back to gaze into them. "Go on then. Get on with it."

"Yeah, yeah." You laughed, rolling your eyes at him before slapping at his chest playfully, batting your eyelashes at him. "Hate you too, Si."

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two Three Four Five Six

The car’s gone. Lets go now.

Eddie sighs, but at least this is still the trailer park and at least it’s dark, so they stand a chance of not getting caught.

Max says her room is around back.

“I am aware,” Eddie huffs under his breath, “I was there for the conversation, if you recall.”

Eddie finds the right window and sort of shimmies it until it gives, just like Max said it would. Eddie’s still not one hundred percent healed up, so pulling himself up and then flopping through the window is a little painful and not his best moment.

At least he lands right on Max’s bed.

He looks around to orientate himself, then heads for the wardrobe, right at the bottom there are two scrunched up paper grocery bags, right where Max said they would be. Eddie checks real quick; yeah, clothes. Not much, just a few of Billy’s things Max managed to salvage before they downsized to move to the trailer.

Eddie hits the bathroom next, bottom shelf of the cabinet, right at the back, a half bottle of Billy’s preferred cologne and a couple of half used bottles of fancy shampoo and conditioner, “you’re so fucking vain.”

You will thank me later.

Eddie looks at Billy. The bathroom in the trailer is still pretty small, so Billy is currently standing in the shower cubicle, watching Eddie brush his teeth. He looks perfect; perfect hair, perfect tanned skin, shiny earring dangling from one ear, chain flashing at his throat. He’s wearing a white button down, undone to between his pecs. And Billy actually has pecs, because Billy also has a perfect muscled body.

Take a picture, it’ll last longer.

Ha Ha.

“Right,” Eddie spits and rinses, “lets go.”

What. You’re not ready.

“Errr….yeah I am,” Eddie looks down at himself, he even got out the nice jeans for this. It’s his first real proper date with Steve, just Steve, and he is not going to fuck this up. They’re having dinner at Steve’s, and then going to catch a movie, and then maybe milkshakes after.

Perfect.

Absolutely not. You are not going out looking like that.

“But I did the fancy hair stuff. I even dried it the way you said.”

And it looks like, a million percent better, but you gotta’ change. We can’t go looking like this. You want to bag Harrington, don’t you?

“I...alright, fine. Make your suggestions.”

You’re going to ditch those dumb fucking white sneakers for a start.

“Billy, man, I’m not sure about this.”

Eddie eyes himself in the mirror, same jeans, but now with a belt cinching his waist in tight, and tucked into a beat up pair of black boots. His leather jacket over top of a tee shirt that Billy had insisted he cut the arms off of and around six inches off the bottom.

You look good.

Eddie wraps an arm around himself, the scarring is still pink and shiny in places, raised and uneven...ugly looking. The tee shirt gives a couple of inches clearance for bare skin to show above Eddie’s belt.

Trust me, you need to show off those ridiculous hips.

“I don’t have any hips!” Eddie says desperately.

Exactly, stand up straight. Turn side ways, look in the mirror. See how the jacket hangs, it makes your waist look even tinier. He’s going to want to get his hands on that, trust me.

“You can’t know that.”

Yeah I can.

“How?”

Because I want to get my hands on it. Trust me.

Eddie frowns at himself in the mirror, “the scars look fucking terrible. I’m just. Billy man, I don’t think I can do this...”

And then Billy’s there, sliding in behind him, turn, Eddie does, goes where Billy wants him, watches as Billy’s fingers creep around his hips.

“That’s...that’s so weird,” Eddie breathes, it’s like a tingle. Like the ghost of a touch, “I think I can feel you.”

Billy smirks, good, because I can definitely feel you.

One hand creeps further around, Billy watching them both in the mirror over Eddie’s shoulder, his fingers tracing softly across the visible scars on Eddie’s tummy, finding his belly button under his shirt and then moving on. It makes Eddie shiver. He watches, unsure where this is going, but too quickly it’s over, Billy stepping back, and Eddie finding he immediately misses the feeling of Billy’s hands on him.

Billy clears his throat, looking away, come on, lets go bag you your guy.

Okay, so this is about the millionth time Eddie has caught Steve starring at his bare middle and he’s only been in the house for twenty minutes...so I guess you were right.

I’m never wrong about shit like this. Ask him if he sees something he likes.

“See something you like Stevie?”

Steve splutters, going pink to the tips of his ears, “yeah, I, sorry, I’ll just. Sauce.”

In his head, Billy is absolutely braying like a donkey. Wild, joyful laughter that Eddie didn’t even think Billy was capable of. It’s beautiful, and weirdly charming, making Eddie smile at him. But he’s watching Steve turn away with his shoulders hunched up around his ears with embarrassment, and he shouldn’t leave that.

“This okay?” Eddie asks quietly, carefully hugging Steve from behind as he stirs sauce on the stove.

Steve sighs and relaxes back into him, “yeah, yeah it’s good.”

It’s dark as they stand shoulder to shoulder, doing the dishes. Eddie had taken off his jacket, and even though Eddie thinks his arms are stick thin and pale as fuck, that doesn’t seem to stop Steve from looking at them.

He’s so into you.

“What?”

“What?” Eddie grins at Steve, with it dark out and the lights on, he can clearly see their reflections in the windows over the sink.

“You’re grinning.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m enjoying myself.”

“Doing dishes?”

“Doing dishes with you,” Eddie amends, hip checking Steve and handing him another dish to dry.

Steve leans over and flicks some suds at him before giggling and moving to put the dish away. Eddie just might be in love. They had decided to skip the movies, staying in and watching something instead. Eddie was immediately up for the change in plans simply because it means he can hold Steve’s hand.

He’s not really expecting Steve to kiss him, not right now. Not lent up against the kitchen counter, and definitely not with his hands still a little wet with sudsy water.

But that’s exactly what happens. It’s a soft press of lips, at first, uncertain. Gentle. And then Steve sighs through his nose, relaxes, and they move together. Steve’s mouth is soft and, when it slides open, damp. Then wet. Eddie finds himself pressing Steve into the counter without really thinking about it, and Steve goes easily.

It’s so good. So fucking good. It’s slow and sweet and gentle, everything Eddie ever dreamed it would be. They part, but Eddie just wants to kiss him again. Wants to kiss him forever. Steve presses in with his tongue first and Eddie’s never been kissed before today, never mind this, and reflexively sucks on Steve’s tongue before he can even think about it.

Steve moans.

Okay then.

Steve’s fingers are squeezing at Eddie’s waist, and he can’t help but shiver, thinking for a moment about Billy’s hands on him. The tingly feeling he felt when Billy touched him and...Eddie blinks, pulling back to look at Steve.

Steve’s beautiful, his lips shiny and a little kiss bitten pink, his cheeks are rosy and he might be the most beautiful thing Eddie’s ever seen. He's probably the only person on the planet who's on a par with Billy.

Steve kisses him, but over Steve’s shoulder, on the other side of the kitchen, Eddie can see Billy. He’s watching them, arms crossed over his chest. Glaring.

He looks...angry. Sad. Fucking furious and fucking devastated in turn and-

“Eddie?” Eddie blinks again, looks back to Steve. “You okay, you kind of...zoned out. That wasn’t like, too much was it?” Sorry if I…”

“No. No it, was great it was. Shit. It’s the best Steve, it was great it was just...”

Steve seems to curls up into himself, pulling his hands back and wrapping himself up instead. “Right. Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll just uhm…” And Eddie’s getting his jacket before he can even think it through, putting it on on autopilot.

What are you doing?

I can’t do this.

Why the fuck not, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?

But is it what you want?

Billy goes silent as Eddie climbs into the van. Steve’s standing at the front door, and jesus, he looks devastated. Fuck.

Eddie can’t do that either.

He angles his mirror, finds Billy hunched moodily in the passenger seat, glaring out of the window. His eyes look suspiciously pink and shiny.

Shit.

Eddie scrambles back out of the van, jogging up to Steve on the porch.

Now what the fuck are you doing?

“Steve, I’m really sorry…”

Oh Munson don’t you fucking dare.

“...but I really have to tell you something.”

Part Eight

[riediaries]

you hate your scars.

it is clearly imprinted on your body. mosquito bites that turned darker and darker until it became a noticeable dark spot on your legs and your thighs, the one you got from childhood on your knees because of playing too much and there are some scars you didn't even know you got.

it's not your fault that your skin is so sensitive but you still suffered body shaming because of it so you started hating it too but your boyfriend loves them a lot.

he call it sometimes battle scars even though it's just a mosquito bite.

"satoru, it's just mosquito bites.." you laugh.

"you had a rough battle with mosquitoes!" he defended his answer as he sits down beside you on the couch.

you face him as he faces you. "don't you hate my scars, satoru?" you asked, curious of what he really thinks of it.

he gasps dramatically like he just heard you say he hates you.

"how... how could you say that!" he points a finger at you, still on his act of being dramatic about your question.

you stare at him, still waiting for his answer.

"satoru, i'm serious. what do you think of my scars? are they ugly or inappropriate?" you add.

he cleared his throat and leans to you, inches away from your face. "baby, i love them.."

that brighten your face and chuckles.

"you sure are different." you brought your hand on his cheeks, your thumb rubbing the smooth surface of his cheek.

"sure i am, baby." he smiles cheekily and kisses you shortly as hugs you, sharing his body heat to yours.

"but seriously babe..." he pauses and looks at you in the eye. "why the sudden question? are your scars bothering you?"

you could only hum and remembers the hurtful words that you heard from the past, insulting your body because of your scars.

"you have a lot of scars, those will automatically turn off the boys."

"did you see some rust coins? 'cause i sure did some when i looked at your body."

"who will even love those disgusting dots in your body?"

ever since people started noticing your scars, you will unconsciously hide or cover it. you even avoided using your cute little dresses or skirts that you love in order to not attract people from body shaming you.

"it's not like that.." you looked away but he immediately puts a hand on your cheek to stop you from cutting the eye contact. "then why?" he asks.

"w-well.." you started. "some people makes fun of it.." you admitted.

"who the hell–"

"but you're the first one who said you love them."

"that's because it's true."

he kisses you again, slow but passionate until he pulls away to breathe. "is that why you don't wear your cute little dresses that's been hanging on your closet?"

you raises an eyebrow. "you opened my closet?"

"w-wait, let's not get into that, hm?" he avoids the suspicious looks you are giving him. "i'm not like that, okay?!" he defends.

you are still giving him that suspicious looks when he started talking again. "so, is it the reason?"

you slowly nodded.

"oh, my baby.." he coos. "wear those when we go on a date sometimes? want to see you in those, please?" he kisses your cheek.

"w-wait, what i-if people–"

he cuts you off immediately. "you have me. i will not let anyone insult you." he seriously said.

"y-you sure?"

"of course. who do you think i am, baby?" he flips his unfounded supposed long hair which got you laughing.

"i'll try." you promised.

the next few dates, you starts wearing those stocked dresses you bought before and satoru's menace fingers are so into you.

"look so cute, babe." he coos. "what a cutie girlfriend i have." he praises you too well.

"should we buy more?" he excitedly pulls you into a store and bought every dresses that matches you.

you did see some people looking at your legs and thighs from time to time whenever you two go out but it does not bother you anymore as your very good looking and loving boyfriend goes down on you to kiss every scar you have every time he got the chance.

you suppose you love your scars now because your boyfriend loves them too much.

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

Hey! I love your stuff!! Could you maybe do fem reader being insecure about how they look and the 141+ König comforting them?? Im sorry that I’m not giving you a lot of stuff to work with. And if you have already done something like this or feel uncomfortable doing it I 100% understand! I LOVEEE YOUU!!!🩷🩷

141 + König Comforting Insecure Reader

Warnings: swearing, mentions of insecurities, crying, mentions of poor body image, mentions of bullying

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Simon Ghost Riley-

"Love, are you ready to go?" Simon's voice called from outside your door. "Reservations at five and it takes us about twenty minutes to get there."

"Yeah, I'm almost ready." You replied regarding yourself in the mirror. You felt the pit in your stomach grow as you turned to the side, inspecting the way your outfit made your stomach look.

You weren't always self-conscious, Simon always had a way of making you feel like the most beautiful person on the planet, but lately you'd noticed you'd been gaining some weight, and really felt like it was starting to show.

Unbeknownst to Simon, you'd been at the mirror for the better part of the afternoon, trying on outfit after outfit, trying to find something you felt good in.

"Love is everything-" He stopped short in the doorway when he heard your sniffles.

You turned to him with tears running down your cheeks, unable to hold them in any longer. "I hate my body, Simon."

Simon's heart slowly broke as he absorbed your words, his eyes softening as they landed on yours. "Y/N."

"No, it's true. I can't find any outfits that fit right. My stomach just feels like it's blown up ten sizes overnight, I just.. I hate the way my body looks." A soft sob escaped your lips as you spoke, causing Simon to walk up behind you, placing his arms around you.

"Enough of that. You are so, so incredibly beautiful inside and out, sweetheart." He spoke as he pulled you into his chest. "Please don't pick yourself apart like that. You're beautiful no matter what you've got on. I especially favor you without clothes, but that's just me."

You turned swiftly, playfully slapping at Simon's chest. "Si, I'm serious!"

"So am I, sweetheart." He leaned down to press a soft kiss on your lips. "You are the most beautiful person I have ever and will ever lay my eyes on. Nothing will change that."

"You mean that?"

"More than you will ever know. I know it's not easy to believe me, I've had my fair share of self-confidence issues, but love, you have no reason to be self-conscious." He got down on his knees in front of you and started to place various kisses across the length of your body.

"You're beautiful here. And here. And here." He murmured in between kisses before landing one on your tummy. "And most especially here."

Johnny Soap MacTavish-

"Y/N? Babe, are you okay?" Johnny called out as he searched the house trying to find you. The two of you were watching a movie together, and you'd dissaperwd nearly twenty minutes ago, claiming you needed to use the bathroom.

He walked into the bathroom and found you picking at yourself in the mirror, with tears streaming down your face.

He stood at the doorway and watched you for a moment, his eyes softening as he watched you pick at the skin of your face. He knew of your insecurities when it came to your skin, but he'd truly thought it was something you'd overcome.

"Babe, what are you doing?" He asked, approaching you from behind.

"I had a sore pimple, and I just came to put some cream on it..and I.. I didn't realize how bad it is." You sniffled softly, letting your hands fall to your sides in defeat.

"How bad what is?"

"My skin, it's just, I wish I had smooth skin like everyone else. I can't get rid of these scars no matter how much I try, and every time I wake up, there's a new pimple, and I... I feel so ugly."

"Now you listen to me." Johnny's voice was stern, causing you to look up at him through the mirror. "I don't know where this is coming from, or why you'd possibly feel this way, but you are so, so fucking beautiful, Y/N. So what if your skin isn't like everyone else's, it makes you YOU."

"But-"

"No buts. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has imperfections, and they are what make you human. I love everything about you, sweetheart, down to the last little scar you've got on your cheek. I love all of it."

You hiccuped a sob and turned to throw your arms around your boyfriend. "Thank you, Johnny."

"No, thank YOU for being you, love." He picked you up, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist. "Now if you really want to thank me, you'll come watch this damn movie and let me cuddle your beautiful ass while we do."

John Price-

"Hey, I'd check on Y/N. There were some of those newer recruits harassing them earlier today." Kyle said, popping his head into his captians office.

John stood immediately, grabbing his hat as he made his way to your room. Fortunately for him your door was unlocked as he barged inside, only to find you in tears on your bed.

"What did they say?" John's tone was cold, and you could tell he was seething.

"What do you mean?" You asked, fiercely wiping away at your tears. You knew John knew, but were to embarrassed to talk about it.

"Y/N, honey, please tell me." He pleaded, kneeling in front of you.

You stayed quiet, your thoughts running rampant in your brain before you spoke up. "They were saying they don't know how someone like you is with someone like me and that I dont deserve to be on the team or deserve you."

"Look at me." He grabbed your chin gently, directing your gaze to him. "Those twats are just jealous of you. They've wanted on 141 for a while, and they were pissed you got the spot. None, and I mean none, of what they are saying is true."

"I can't help but let it get to me, John. I haven't felt good about myself in a while, and hearing that didn't help." Your eyes flickered down to your hands in front of you, as you fiddled with then nervously.

"Why on earth have you not felt good about yourself, babe? You are so stunning it hurts."

"I've gained weight, John, even you can't deny that. I got on the scale last night, and nearly broke down. I've never been this heavy before."

"The numbers that look back at you on the scale are just that. They are just numbers. They don't define you, love. You are a wonderful person inside and out, and anyone who doesn't see that can fuck right the hell off." He spoke gently before placing a chaste kiss to your lips. "I love you more than you'll ever know. Nothing will change that, especially not some stupid numbers on a scale or some petty recruits."

You threw your arms around him and let him hold you for some time, before pulling away. "I love you John."

"I love you too, always."

~

Later that week, John was elated as he got permission to lead a group of the newer recruits in a training seminar. When he found out the recruits who'd harrased you were a part of the group? Let's just say he didn't pull any punches during the training.

Kyle Gaz Garrick-

"Babe, the boys will be here any minute. Are you able to come help me in the kitchen?" Kyle asked poking his head into your shared bathroom.

You placed the straightener you were holding down on the counter and turned to Kyle with a sad smile. "Yeah, be there in a minute."

"Hey now, I know that look, what's up, kid?" His brows furrowed in concern as he walked over to you.

"I want to look good for you and your friends." You said, picking up the hair brush on the counter. You turned back to the mirror and started brushing at your hair aggressively.

"Sweetheart, who says you don't? You look as stunning as you do every day."

"My hair it just, I can't style it like how I want, it's just always a mess no matter what I do." You threw the brush you were holding down in frustration. "I don't feel pretty because of it."

"Babe, I love your hair." Kyle spoke, grabbing the brush off the floor. He moved you so that you were standing in front of him and began to brush at the strands of your hair softly.

"You have to say that, because you're my boyfriend."

"No, I don't. You and I both know I'm an honest man. I think your hair is beautiful, no matter what you do with it. Hell, you could shave it, and I'd look at you no differently than I already do."

"You mean it?" You asked, blinking away the tears.

"Of course I do, love. You're too hard on yourself, I promise you, you are so beautiful. If you want, if you really want to try out new hairstyles, why don't we look at pinterest or something to see about different ways to do your hair? I can help."

"I love you so much, Kyle." You turned around to grab the brush from his hands before placing a kiss on his lips.

"I love you too." He said pulling back with a smile. "By the way, the boys are your friends too."

"What?"

"The boys, you called them my friends. They love you just as much as they do me, if not more. They are your friends as well."

König-

König awoke to the sound of muffled sobs coming from the bathroom. He blinked the sleep from his eyes as he turned over to find your sleeping form absent from the bed.

"Schatz, what's wrong?" He asked as he shuffled into your shared bathroom. What he found had his heart tearing bit by bit.

You stood in front of the mirror in nothing but your undergarments, tears streaming down your face as you closely inspected the scars and marks littering your body. "I'm ugly, Kö. These marks make me hideous."

"Maus." He moved to stand next to you regarding you thoughtfully in the mirror. "Your marks are what make you beautiful. Each scar, each mark, tells a story, and I love each and every one of them."

"You don't have to say that, Kö. I know my body isn't perfect." Your voice cracked slightly as you spoke. Tears continued to fall down your cheeks as you looked back at the scars lining your skin. "I'm not perfect."

"Nobody is perfect, Maus, and if anyone were to be, it'd be you. I wish you saw what I do. I'd kill to have you see yourself through my eyes." He shuffled slightly to stand behind you as he leaned his head on yours. "Just as you told me when I was self-conscious about mine, the scars make us human, make us wholesome. Nobody is without them."

You gave him a small smile as you shook yourself before turning to him. "Thank you, Kö."

"You never have to thank me, Maus. I'm only speaking the truth."

You wrapped your arms around his med section and squeezed tightly. "Take me to bed?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

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A/N: thanks for reading