#cheap Curtain walling | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

v1x3n · 5 months ago

Text

SHOWER TIME ── ripped apart.

♯ PAIRINGS - john price x falsely accused reader x 141

♯ SYNOPSIS - tortured for information by your family and the person you loved, john price. you were harmed for something you hadn't even done, you were framed as the traitor and soon they would find out.

♯ TAGS - angst - nightmare mention, hospital setting, scars, depression, neglect.

─ previous chapter // masterlist // next chapter ─

After being taken to the infirmary, your body had uncontrollably decided to take a long sleep, your dreams full of the terrors your best friends had caused you. Your dreams reminisce on the before, on the time where everything was okay, the time where you had a friend group and your job was going well. But that had to end, didn't it?

Nothing good could ever happen to you.

Waking up, you don't even know how long you slept for, you discover your bandages on your body changed. Still bloody but they were fresh material, you were in new clothes - well clothes. Head goes dizzy when you look around the room, taking in everything you could see. The high white walls with no decoration, the window that you could look out from on your so-called bed, the cream curtains that hung but were swept to the side - bringing in bright light from the outdoors. The outdoors, something you hadn't seen in what, a month? You couldn't remember anymore. You felt disoriented, angry yet also sad. You felt every fucking emotion you didnt have time to feel during the attacks, all at once. Eyebrows squeezing together, looking to the side of your sheets, a small wooden chair was placed there. After gulping you peek at the table next to your bed, there was also a sink in the corner. Usual hospital room, tv and two doors, one leading out into the hallways and one to a bathroom. And that was that.

There was one thing that made your heart furious though, an arrangement of colourful flowers, wrapped in a light pink ribbon sat on the table beside you. Frowning as you peer at the beautiful petals you look away, they ruined you, ruined your body, your life and all they give you is fucking flowers? You knew it was one of them, you had not built that much of a relationship with anyone else and they were your favourite flowers. Only the 141 knew your favourites, cheap fucking way of saying sorry. You hadn't even heard the words come out from any of their mouths yet, fucking pathetic. enraged, angry, furious and irritated were only some of the words you were feeling.

Soon it had been a week, lay in that stupid fucking room. At Least you had met a few people, you met a few nurses who came by to feed you, check up on you and help your wounds. And you had met a patient in the room next to yours, he was sweet towards you, you never spoke to him though. He did most of the talking, his name was Logan and honestly in the week you had known him for - he was growing on you. He came by everyday, he was very nosy though, very extroverted. Luckily he never demanded answers from you, he always spoke, sometimes you would reply with a shrug or a small nod. You couldn't tell if he had heard about what happened to you though, he never touched you and he was always so gentle, dunno. Maybe he was just nice.

Scars were left all over your form, a healing cut on your cheek that wouldn't take that long to fix - just a very quick and painful stitch up!, your legs just starting to become responsive, rope marks dug in your skin from how tightly they displayed you on that cold pole.

Drugged up on antibiotics wasn't the best feeling, you had a few infected wounds down your body, the one on your lower womb was ugly. It looked diabolical, but luckily you were on many pills so life is okay! Looking down at your hands, the missing fingers was just another example of the pain the four caused you.

Just when you were about to spew tears from your tear ducts, a light shadow covered you. When did he come in?

Your captain sat on the wooden chair beside you, he didn't speak, just looked down at his raggy boots. You were glad he didn't speak, but deep down you kind of wanted him too because this was far too awkward. Glaring down at your lap, you refused to speak to him, just as you tried to turn around the door swings open. The nurse you were closest to walks in and sees the two of you. The obvious tension floods the air, flowing out the open door when Jane starts talking, “morning, honey” she smiles and takes slow steps up to you.

You dont reply.

“We need t’ get you into the shower” she mumbles to you, peeling off the sheets that covered your battered body. You were ashamed that the nurse had to physically get you up and take you to the shower but your legs just wouldn't cooperate with you. A twisted and healing ankle paired with weak legs and then on top of that the depression that comes along with all of this summed up too being unable to help yourself up. You couldn't do anything for yourself, they tore you limp by limp and now you weren't the strong soldier you were before. All thanks to them. “Okay” a light voice sounds from you through a sigh, almost whispering, not wanting that fucking man next to you get the pleasure of hearing your voice. Letting the nurse help you get out of the bed, Jane looks down at your form, your skin and your trauma.

“Healing well, hm? Did nurse poppy give you your pills this morning?” Jane asks, tilting your head up gently to take a look at the slight slit on your throat. When the man right next to you was about to end your life.

What is the saying? Each scar tells a story but every story leaves a car. Something like that.

Nodding at the nurse's question makes the corners of her lips twerk up into a small yet genuine smile, “good, now let's get you up, hm?” you could almost feel john's eyes burning into you while the nurse helps you get up, your weak limbs drop as you stand on your feet, jane instantly gripping you and jolting you back up, an arm wrapped around you to help you walk.

You were thankful for the nurses, obviously they knew what had happened and they were nothing but gentle and sweet with you, they never tried to do anything that would trigger you and knew to check up on you, make sure you were eating, drinking, sleeping and things like brushing your teeth and showering. You felt kind of useless. Not being able to do anything for yourself but it wasn't exactly your fault though was it?

Jane took you towards the bathroom and Price still just kind of sat there, in your hospital room - staring at your bed.

“You can do it yourself, yeah?” Jane helps you sit on the lip of the toilet seat, the bathroom was sterile and white. The smell of bleach attacked your nose, you looked at the shower. The shower head pours down water at a fast pace when the woman in front of you turns the knob around, you almost flinch at the sound of the water hitting the shower floor. “C'mon” she mumbles, taking your arm to help you limp into the shower, as soon as the water hits you - you flinch. Taking in an old memory, instantly you back up to the wall, “i-i can't” you shake, gulping down, staring at the dropping water splattering over the floor. Breath picking up as you breathe in harshly, “i cant - i cant” you repeat as if the nurse hadn't heard you, she quickly leans over to grab the sponge that was placed under the shower head, she places it in your hand, “its okay, honey, don't worry.” jane coos while you shake, “you don't gotta, just scrub yourself down outside the shower, you don't have t’ go in if you can't”

Thank god for this sweet woman. After nodding she leaves you to your own devices.

Taking a glance at the shower and then down at your sponge, you sigh. How could you let yourself become this pathetic. A panic scares you when you hear sounds coming from outside the bathroom door, a deep voice which was so obviously johns then a softer voice which you would only match it to janes.

“Is she okay?” Jane's ears picked up John's voice, still sitting on the wooden chair but he was facing the bathroom door. “You know they dont want you here” she states, walking past him to clean up your sheets.

“I needed to see them.” All Jane does is sigh, “they can't see you right now, i understand it's hard but it's harder for her” john looks down at his boots, in defeat. Closing his eyes and biting his tongue, this was hard for him - it was hard for everyone.

All of the 141 missed you, missed talking to you, seeing you and missed their relationship with you. No one knew how to go about the situation, nobody knew what to do. How to make it right, how to make it the same as before. They all just thought; they didn't know what else to do, they all thought it was you and the signs pointed to you.

The job is ugly, it's disgusting, that's what it is.but there's nothing they can do about it, it's all a part of the job.

1K notes · View notes

fear-is-truth · 3 days ago

Text

❝ V A C A N C Y ❞ ・── cho sang-woo

◟warnings — dom!sang-woo ⋆ dirty talk ⋆ unprotected p in v ⋆ MDNI 18+

it’s late. the shitty motel room is dimly lit, the neon glow from the sign outside bleeding through the dusty curtains. the air reeks with the smell of sex, sweat, stale cigarettes and cheap detergent. CHO SANG-WOO has you on your stomach, one big, calloused hand splayed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pressed into the mattress. he’s slow tonight. not in a teasing way—more like he’s savouring it, the heat of youl, the way you clench around him with every measured thrust.

“shh,” he murmurs when you whimper, his hand sliding up to the nape of your neck. he squeezes gently, thumb brushing over your pulse. “keep quiet for me.”

he’s not being mean about it. if anything, his voice is soft, damn near affectionate. but there’s an edge to it, that quiet authority that makes your stomach flip. he leans in, his chest pressing to your back, lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

“the walls are thin. don’t wanna wake anyone, do we?”

you shake your head, but it’s hard to focus when he’s buried so deep inside you, rolling his hips slow and steady, dragging every inch of himself along your walls. he’s so fucking deep it’s making you dizzy. his free hand slides under your body, fingertips tracing the curve of your stomach before dipping between your legs. the touch is gentle, a contrast to the firm grip still holding you down.

“fuck,” he exhales, voice rough, strained. “you feel that?” he presses his palm against your stomach, right over where he’s stretching you open. “so full, huh? taking me so well.”his pace stutters then, something raw breaking through his control. he groans into your skin, lips trailing down your neck, sucking a mark into your shoulder.

“gonna come for me, sweetheart?” his voice is low, coaxing, but there’s a quiet demand underneath the sweetness. “be good and give it to me.”

and when you do—when you shudder beneath him, nails digging into the sheets, walls fluttering around him—he exhales sharply, thrusts turning rougher, more erratic. his hand clamps over your mouth just as he groans against your shoulder, hips grinding deep, burying himself to the hilt as he comes inside you. his breath is hot against your skin, and he stays like that for a moment, pressed against you, cock still nestled deep. then, finally, he exhales, smoothing a hand over your back, thumb rubbing slow circles against your spine.

“good girl,” he mutters, kissing the nape of your neck before pulling the blanket over the both of you.

#cho sang woo #sang woo #sang woo x reader #player 218 #player 218 x reader #cho sang woo x reader #cho sang woo x y/n #cho sang woo smut #squid game #squid game season one #squid game s1 #squid game fanfic #squid game smut #squid game x reader

635 notes · View notes

cybergoth1 · 26 days ago

Text

beyond the cowl | chapter 01 | batfamily x isekaide!reader

masterlist | prologue | chapter 02.

synopsis: ❛❛you're just a normal twenty-one-year old girl trying to navigate life with a shitty job and a useless degree. life isn't easy, and between expensive therapy sessions and the constant feeling of failure, you suddenly wake up in a body that wasn't yours, with a past that wasn't yours. now, in another dimension, you're dealing with the fact that you're a crucial part of the caped crusade that shaped bruce wayne's life. you're the second robin, the former girl wonder, and the vigilant gotham needed so much.❞

warnings/tags: swearing. avoiding body descriptions like the plague. the bat boys being themselves. there's a tiny reference to 'nightwing: year one'.

When you woke up for the second time, the room was already shrouded in complete darkness, with only faint slivers of light slipping through the loosely drawn curtains. Your head felt heavy, and your ears rang as you slowly opened your eyes, wearily gazing at the white ceiling. The soft silk fabric against your skin felt like a warm embrace as you took a deep breath, trying to use your rational side to keep yourself from panicking again.

The tips of your fingers glided over the sheets, seeking the softness of it as you tried to organize your scattered thoughts. You were in Gotham — the shittiest place in the entire world, at least in DC’s fictional universe.

Fucking Gotham. Batman's Gotham. Joker's Gotham.

Out of nowhere, you found yourself missing the sagging, cheap mattress that made your back ache every night. You looked into the darkness around you and longed for your tiny, shared bedroom at your mom’s place.

Summoning strength from an unknown place, you decided to get out of bed and blindly search for the light switch in the room, as you had no idea where your phone was. Your left hand found the switch, and as you pressed it, the light momentarily blinded you until your eyes adjusted to the brightness.

The bedroom was huge, like, the size of your mom's whole apartment. But what truy left you speechless were the stunning detalis: your favorite color was painted on the walls, the bookshelves near the bed were crafted from fine wood, the exquisite furniture was strategically placed near the big windows, and the king-sized bed sat perfectly in the center of the room. The sheets were a soft pastel pink, and you were certain the curtains were made of linen.

A small section of the wall filled with Polaroids caught your attention more than anything else in the room, drawing you closer to the photos that decorated the space in a way that would have thrilled your sixteen-year-old self. It was you— your face, your hair, your smile, your body captured in those photos. Your face, repeated countless times, revelead a reality you coudn't believe was true.

Your eyes scanned through the photos, and you tried to count in your mind how many faces you could recognize with your limited knowledge of the universe that had swallowed you without asking for permission. One photo stood out— one of you next to Barbara Gordon and Stephanie Brown. The three of you were baking a massive cake for, apparently, Tim's birthday on the manor's kitchen while Alfred stood in the corner, tidying up the mess.

Perhaps, in this strange version of your life, you were a Batgirl, just like they once were at some point. But your hypothesis was immediately disproved when you saw a photo of yourself, probably around thirteen or fourteen years old, sloppily gripping a trapeze while a teenage Dick Grayson demonstrated the correct way to hold on from his position on the ground. At the bottom of the photo, you could see the cursive writing standing out: 'Girl Wonder working out for the first time'.

Ok, so you used to be Robin.

You were definitely no longer a kid or a teenager based on the last pictures— your days of wearing green shorts and pixie boots were probably long behind you. But if you weren't Robin anymore, then what were you? And if you were Robin at one point in this weird timeline, did that mean you were an orphan, adopted by Bruce Wayne?

Was he your father, or something close to it? Were you his ward? Wait, holy shit, how old are you here? You touched your face, feeling despair slowly creeping in and spreading through your body like poison. It wasn't long before your shaky feet carried you to the bathroom, the door partially concealed between the bookshelves.

You were finally facing the mirror, yet your eyes remained fixed on your hands.

Then courage took hold of you, and you finally looked at yourself in the mirror on impulse. Oh, wow. The girl who stared back at you looked more like a grown woman than anything else—her face slightly more mature than yours and strikingly beautiful, almost breathtaking. There were no pimples or acne marks, not a single blemish marred her flawless skin and perfect hair. Perfect teeth, cute dimples and pretty lips. It was almost uncanny how beautiful you appeared, still carrying most of your familiar traits.

The girl in the mirror smirked at you, her expression a mix of snobbishness and boredom. She seemed to despise you in some way.

"You look like a trust fund baby," you said, her lips moving and her brow furrowing as you talked.

That was you.

She was you.

You looked down at the countertop, avoiding her magnetic gaze. Your vision was immediately assaulted by the sheer number of expensive skincare products—each one seeming like it could cost you a kidney.

"So you're— we're disgustingly rich now, hm? La Mer, Dior, La Prairie..."

You both locked eyes again.

"Who are you?" you felt like you both were wondering the same thing.

This time, you weren’t gentle in your search for answers. You opened drawers, the closet, and designer bags, rifling through everything until you felt satisfied. The noise of things crashing to the floor was so loud that you could hear curious murmurs and footsteps on the other side of the door.

A huge smile spread across your face as you realized what you'd found. Thank God she was the nostalgic type— at the bottom of her big closet, behind some Hermes bags, you found a box full of old newspapers. Some headlines excitedly reported the debut of the first Girl Wonder many years ago. Hum, she— you looked surprisingly confident in those ridiculous green shorts and cape. But is the next newspaper in the huge pile that finally put an end to your curiosity and anguish.

You're new name is Blackwing. Fucking stupid. You frowned as you read more about your alter ego. Blackwing apparently operated in Gotham and, sometimes, out of New Jersey — there were some New York and Delaware newspapers in the pile, reporting your involvement in the drop in local crime. Your curious eyes studied the imposing figure on the first page.

Blackwing's red cowl covered her entire head, leaving only her eyes, nose, and mouth exposed— something that remind you of Batman's own suit. Speaking of suits, hers was red with black accents, leaving you to wonder if it was leotard beneath all the layers. The overall design gave her a very menacing look, you bet it wasn't a big hit with the kids.

Inside the old box, you also found a phone, saddly not yours, and quickly unlocked using facial ID. You wasted no time and searched Blackwing across several platforms.

In just six minutes goggling, you found a lot of things.

They called you the “woman without fear” because you were insanely brutal during your patrols, — at least that’s what the Gotham Times and Gotham Gazette liked to put in their headlines — madly sending petty thieves and thugs to the nearest ICU with your aggressive blows and merceless punches. Damn, you were like a demon seeking blood, an unmedicated demon it seemed, running from rooftop to rooftop, terrorizing the city’s criminals and sometimes the poor civilians.

You cringed, shrinking into your clothes while reading a Reddit post about the last time you damaged a whole-ass bulding fighting with Clayface on Gotham’s main street. How does insurance work in a world full of crazy people — some of them with superpowers — damaging property on a daily basis? Who’s paying for this shitshow?

Wait, how are you even taking punches like that, being thrown against walls and floors without dying on the spot? You thought with widew eyes while watching yourself being tossed around the street like a ragdoll by Bane in Twitter — a total dead weight in his massive hands.

You heard a soft knock at the door, followed by Alfred's voice.

"Miss, I trust your room is now renovated to your satisfaction," he said almost smiling, subtly alluding to all the noise you had been making. "But dinner is served".

"Oh—" you said surprised, putting the newspaper and the old phone back on the box. "Yeah, yeah, sure".

Shit.

Dinner. Probably with Bruce and Damian. Maybe Tim and Dick if you were totally unlucky tonight. You swallowed hard, realizing you were about to share a table with the world’s greastest detectives—without knowing almost anything about the life you technically shared with them. You're fucked.

"I'm fucked, I'm totally fucked" you muttered as you walked down the grand staircase, trying not to let the manor’s luxury overwhelm you and distract you from staying alert.

Near the dining room, you heard a voice calling you by your last name.

Thank God—at least that was the same as in your old life. You slowly turned your body, and Damian Wayne’s green eyes met yours, showing something closer to boredom. Great.

"Father said I shouldn't have been so rough with you during training earlier".

Training?

"And, naturally, I told him It was entirely fault of your chronic stupidity and lack of motor coordination," he added, his tone drippring with condescension.

You couldn’t let that slide. You looked down at him—you were at least five inches taller.

"You've got too much attitude for someone your size. What are you? Four?"

Damian looked like an angry cat, ready to tear your face off. He called you an 'unworthy opponent,' as if he were a knight in a Game of Thrones episode, then stormed off to sit at the table with an ugly scowl.

That weird ass kid needed an iPad.

"Don’t provoke her, Dami. You know how mean she gets without her eight hours of sleep."

Dick Grayson showed up, blessing you with his perfect white teeth and baby blue eyes. You watched him ruffle Damian's hair while the boy protested loudly.

"What are you even doing here, Grayson?' he said, slapping his hand away. You couldn’t help but notice his large biceps and broad shoulders, so you decided your nails were suddenly very interesting.

"Babs tracked down a Blüdhaven gang warehouse. They're hiding illegal weapons in Gotham."

You felt his gaze on you, followed by a hand resting on your left shoulder. He looked at you with warm eyes.

"Nice to see you back on your feet, little wing," he said, friendly patting your shoulder as you melted on the spot. Little wing?

'Hush, little wing. We're the stealthy ones, remember?'

Before your eyes, you could almost see and feel the fabricated memory surfacing—the memory of a body and a life that weren’t truly yours. It was the first time you teamed up, three weeks after you took on the Robin mantle. Dick listened to your constant chatter while you two tried to rescue some hostages. He didn't make you feel like a dumb kid in a costume — more like his cool sidekick.

Analyzing the timeline, you’re definitely the second Robin. Bruce probably took you in a few months after Dick moved out — both from Wayne Manor and from his role as Robin — leading to the older man's empty nest crisis.

But what could someone like you have done to impress someone like the Dark Knight?

You made a mental note to search more later and then gave Dick a smile.

"Glad to be back".

tag-list: @rosescarlettx, @btsloveer07-blog, @rainbowstar, @xingyunny, @mikyapixie, @sheep-from-rad, @fandomly-obsessed, @migilore, @natsukicookies, @candlewitch-cryptic, @socialmess-jery, @mona1704, @dieforcoffee26, @stupouid, @astrelz, @dind1n, @cxcilla, @mimi-sanisanidiot, @ceridwyn3, @sunako50, @lilithquillete, @rainbowstar, @ninihrtss, @dind1n, @blondwhxrewrites, @rosiita-fresita, @lovely-maryj, @vxsire

454 notes · View notes

ozzgin · 4 months ago

Note

Aye, this is kinda random but what if we rent a room and (surprisingly not) the room is infested by the spiders and the landlord is some kind of werespider or a spider ruler 💥💥💥

Spider Hybrid Horde x Reader

Content: gender neutral reader, NSFW, prompt: Mommy’s Little Monsters

Little heathens, blasphemous crreatures! Nasty vermin, every single one They want your blood, they need to feed And now Mother has brought them a treat

"That's a lot of webs", you groan to yourself, placing down your luggage.

A cheap room's a cheap room. No point in complaining about it now. You wander around, inspecting the dusty furniture and glancing out the window. You’d expected more people around, given everything else was booked out. Yet the paths are empty, save for the overgrown vegetation.

Even the lobby was devoid of any other human. You were instructed to pick up your key and find your room by yourself. Your only encounter was spiders, hanging from every corner and crawling in and out of the multiple cracks decorating the washed out walls.

You stretch your arms out and lazily throw your clothes on the bed, then walk towards the bathroom. Maybe some hot water will wash down your discomfort. The faucet turns with a rusty creak.

Suddenly, a horrendous shadow looms above you, twisting and bending over the shower curtain. There's a smacking sound, and the silhouette vanishes as quickly as it came.

"Not now, you varmint!" Mother scolds. "You're going to scare the human, and I won't find a better one."

The intruder scurries back to the group, lowering his head apologetically. His brothers continue gawking at your oblivious form, fat droplets of drool hitting the tile.

"Soon, soon", Mother coos. "Then you can do whatever you please."

Look at her boys, all grown up, ready to mate and breed. It’s about time she becomes a proper Grandmother.

The spider hybrids clack their arthropod appendages in excitement. Who gets to use you first? There’s a lot to consider, you see. They can’t tire you out too much, not until everyone’s had their chance to fill you. How do humans sound when they’re being fucked relentlessly? They’re about to find out.

[Navigation] | [Ozztober Masterlist]

#ozztober #monstertober #drider #spider x reader #monster x reader #monster x human #monster smut #monster fucker #terato #teratophillia

902 notes · View notes

sonukumar44 · 1 year ago

Text

Unveiling the Excellence of Curtain Walls: Types and Advantages

Welcome to a comprehensive exploration of curtain walls, where we unravel the intricacies and unveil the sophistication behind this architectural marvel. In this discourse, we delve into the depths of what a curtain wall is, explore various types, and uncover the manifold advantages that make it an indispensable element in modern construction.

Understanding Curtain Walls

Curtain walls stand as a testament to architectural innovation, seamlessly blending aesthetics with functionality. Essentially, a curtain wall is a non-structural exterior enclosure that envelopes a building, creating a transparent barrier between the interior and the external environment. It comprises an assembly of aluminum or steel frames, with infill materials such as glass or metal panels, creating a visually stunning facade.

Types of Curtain Walls

1. Unitized Curtain Walls

This type of curtain wall is a testament to precision engineering. Unitized curtain walls are pre-assembled in factories, ensuring consistency and quality. Once ready, these units are transported to the construction site and installed, significantly reducing on-site labor and time. This type is ideal for large-scale projects where efficiency and speed are paramount.

2. Stick-Built Curtain Walls

Contrary to unitized systems, stick-built curtain walls are assembled on-site. This method offers flexibility in customization, allowing for adjustments to be made during the installation process. It's a preferred choice when intricate designs or unique architectural requirements are at play, providing architects and builders with a canvas for creativity.

3. Spandrel Curtain Walls

Spandrel curtain walls are designed not only for aesthetics but also for concealing structural components, such as columns and slabs. The result is a sleek, uniform exterior that enhances the overall appearance of the building. This type is popular in commercial constructions where a seamless, polished look is desired.

Advantages of Curtain Walls

1. Architectural Versatility

One of the primary advantages of curtain walls lies in their architectural versatility. Architects can push the boundaries of design, creating visually striking buildings that captivate onlookers. The ability to integrate various materials, including glass and metal, allows for a myriad of creative possibilities.

2. Energy Efficiency

Curtain walls contribute significantly to energy efficiency. Advanced insulation technologies incorporated into modern curtain wall systems help regulate internal temperatures, reducing the reliance on heating or cooling systems. This not only promotes sustainability but also results in long-term cost savings.

3. Natural Light Optimization

Incorporating curtain walls into a building design ensures an abundance of natural light. This not only enhances the occupant's well-being but also reduces the need for artificial lighting during daylight hours. The result is a harmonious blend of aesthetics and eco-consciousness.

4. Weather Resistance

Curtain walls act as a formidable shield against the elements. Designed to withstand wind, rain, and other environmental factors, they contribute to the longevity and durability of a building. This inherent weather resistance ensures that the structure remains pristine even in challenging conditions.

Conclusion

In conclusion, curtain walls epitomize the marriage of form and function in modern architecture. From the precision of unitized systems to the flexibility of stick-built installations, each type offers unique advantages. The architectural versatility, energy efficiency, natural light optimization, and weather resistance make curtain walls a hallmark of contemporary construction.

#Curtain walls #Curtain wall #Curtain wall Uk #Cheap curtain Walls #best curtain walls #uinited shop fronts #shop uk

0 notes

moonlight-prose · 8 months ago

Text

FIRST LOVE IN THE LATE SPRING AIR

a/n: guess who is back on her joel miller shit again. i had the image of young joel possibly in love and just starting out and had to run with it. after not writing for him for some time, i really did miss this grumpy man. i do have a few fics in the works for him so hopefully this fixation lasts some time. this is an unedited jumble of words so enjoy! divider by the incredible @saradika-graphics.

summary: in the late spring air with summer setting like the sun, life with joel suddenly becomes clear.

word count: 1.6k+

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, fluff, domesticity, she wrote something without angst y'all, allusions to possibly an apocalypse but not really, mentions of pregnancy (don't worry), joel miller being a fucking softie, they're just so in love it's sick.

His sheets clung to your already warm body, molding to the bare skin that scratched along the wrinkled cheap cotton. You asked why he never bought something better, he claimed he didn’t mind how it felt. Of course, that’s how it usually went. Your questions, answered with sarcasm layered in anguish. He never bought more because he never thought he deserved it.

You ignored it for his sake—never pushing further than necessary; he felt like a stone wall at times, and you were the person searching for his cracks. A place to set your hammer into place and swing.

The sun cast shadows in the darkened room, his curtains pulled away to expose the already open window. He was helping his mom fix the air conditioner; you were sweating beneath his covers. The dichotomy felt wrong—too domestic for you to swallow. Yet you drank it down like cold water straight from the tap, already addicted to the way it chilled your insides and pooled in your stomach.

It never occurred to you that the things you did for love would feel silly in ten years time.

But that was in ten years. And this was now.

“I can feel you,” he mumbled into his crushed pillow squished between his arm and cheek.

You’d been scooting away from him for the past ten minutes. Not because you desired distance—quite the opposite—you couldn’t fathom the way his skin gave off heat. He was a fire waiting to burn you, singe the hair on your arm and beg for more to consume. You were merely asking for reprieve from the suffocating way he felt atop you in the middle of the night.

Spring in Texas was promised to be cool. Sunny air, bright dispositions, and weather you’d find in a luxury brand’s catalog. The kind his mother kept around for you when they arrived in the mail. Yet as soon as May set in, welcoming humanity with open arms and blooming flowers, the heat shoved its way forward. Settling into the air with a vengeance. A promise that you’d suffer through the next few months until you felt defeated enough to beg for winter.

“It’s hot,” you whined, shoving the thin gray sheet off your body. “I need a cold shower.”

“Mm.” His arm slid beneath the covers, tanned skin and already rough fingers reaching out to find you. “Sounds like a good idea.”

You bit back your smile and scooched even closer to the edge of the mattress—your leg halfway off and nearly to the floor. “I meant for me.”

The mess of rumpled brown hair shot up from his pillow, hazy brown eyes catching you in the snare of their web. “You’d leave me outta that?”

“Joel—”

“Cold water and you naked?” He shook his head, flipping onto his back and sitting up before you could get both feet on the floor. “Sorry darlin’. Ain’t happenin’.”

“You’ll distract me.”

He smiled all lazy and warm. Enough to have you considering your chances of braving the overheated bed sheets that still clung to your thigh. Joel in the morning wasn’t a sight to forget so quickly. He looked like he’d been dragged from sleep roughly, as if he’d rather spend hours more in the unconscious state than out with the real world. But when he gazed at you like this—eyes glassy with sleep and lips curled into a soft smile—you finally understood why people died for the ones they love.

“That’s the point.”

How could you argue? When he practically pleaded with you through his gaze alone. His hand grabbed ahold of your upper thigh, fingers digging into the warm flesh in order to yank you closer. Fighting his strength was no use when you were lazy with sleep yourself. Still halfway past the waking point and a dreamland that housed an image of a man who looked oddly like Joel.

Just a few years older.

“What time do you work today?”

He grunted. Awake enough to comprehend you naked, but still far too delirious to realize he’d have to be up in an hour to make it on time. He slept less than he wanted, but on days where the sun was warm and spring beckoned life forward, he didn’t mind so much.

Tommy being away didn’t help the loneliness that had settled on his shoulders within the past few months. His younger brother—the troublemaker. More fuckin’ trouble than he’s worth. Were words Joel was spouting two months ago the night before Tommy’s leave; you caught the pain in his eyes, the dull emptiness that chewed away in his chest.

Despite the multiple jests and bickered words that never quite stuck like they used to—now that they both knew there’d be no time to make up with cheap beer snuck into the backyard and cigarettes Joel claimed weren’t his—Joel would miss his brother.

“Two hours,” he mumbled, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye.

“Then go back to sleep.”

His gaze narrowed. “You’re gonna have to get back in.”

“Why?” You rolled your eyes, already reaching for his t-shirt tossed to the side last night when silence gave way to heady looks and soft promises beneath the light of the moon.

“Can’t sleep when you’re not here,” he huffed, falling back into the mess of sheets. “Need to feel you.”

An ache pricked at your heart, barely a nick in the fleshy organ, but you knew you’d feel it in a year's time. When life looked different. When life shined a bit brighter and Joel finally started up his business. When those promises came with a feasible future.

Wordlessly, you climbed back underneath the too warm sheet that immediately settled over you like a muggy cloud. But Joel’s hands sliding around your waist, tugging you closer, appeased whatever discomfort that attempted to push through. As if his touch was a promise of protection against the weather’s strange antics. A warning to be careful not to fall in too deeply. Lest you wind up left with a broken barely beating heart and a hollow space where he once occupied.

“What are you doin’ today?” he breathed, his leg sliding between yours, ankle hooking around the back of your calf.

Your hands found their way into the tendrils of his hair that stuck up in the back—curling with the heat. “The diner opens at ten.”

He hummed. “I’ll be there for breakfast.”

“Mr. Miller, what on Earth will people think of us?”

“That you’re my fuckin’ girl.” His eyes fluttered open, lashes longer than yours yet still dainty against his face. “Besides. We always have breakfast together.”

You hummed, bliss soaring in your heart as you shifted closer. Life with Joel must resemble this. Simplicity in such a small bubble of privacy you already created together. Mornings filled with coffee over a shared newspaper, lunch on the phone, dinner in a kitchen that always needed cleaning. Nights on the couch until one (or both) of you fell asleep, until Joel eventually woke, leading you to the mattress that would engulf your hopes and dreams with open arms.

The promise of domesticity with the knowledge that it would always be more.

“I have a question,” you whispered.

“Uh oh.”

An audible groan echoed in the room when your elbow met his stomach lightly. “It’s not a bad one.”

“Then shoot darlin’.”

“Romantic. Cowboy,” you scoffed. “What’s our life gonna be like in five years?”

He stilled. The hand sliding gently along your hip in soothing motions suddenly a heavy press against your waist. And you could feel the weight in your chest begin to sink like an anchor, settling in your stomach with force. Lead, cannonballs, the pain of intestines twisting and twining. It all hit you like a hurricane rushing to the shore, wiping clean every bit of life in its path. There was no swimming away from it, no catching the path of the torrential waves that sucked you under.

You could only wait, breaths measured and heart racing, as he processed your words.

“Got somethin’ to tell me honey?”

The gravity in his eyes nearly floored you—his meaning slamming into you with enough fervor to make you lose your breath. “No! Fuck. No, no, no, no—”

The solemn way he watched you never wavered, even as you breathed a laugh in the hopes of moving on quickly. “Definitely not that.” You sucked in a breath, lighter than before. “I just meant…what will we be in five years?”

His lips twitched, hand sliding even lower in order to cup your ass. “Hopefully that.”

“Joel—”

“I love you darlin’.” Something familiar—warm like the soothing balm of the sun caressing your skin in the afternoon—bloomed in your chest. Enough to make you nearly tear up. “That ain’t gonna change in one year or five or ten or even twenty.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, curling in so close your lips brushed his. “You sure you won’t get sick of me?”

He huffed, lips capturing yours briefly as his eyes slid closed. “Can’t get sick of somethin’ I’m addicted to.”

You laughed into the kiss, eyes daring a glimpse at his serene expression. “I’ll hold you to that in twenty years Miller.”

“Good.” His face dug into the crook of your neck, body wrapped around yours. “Means you’ll be around.”

The sheet lay above your heads, forming a haven you had no desire to leave. A space that breathed whispers of a future you could finally form a picture of. What once existed in a dreamscape you often habited on nights spent grasping for more than simply one spring and summer, now turned physical. Slowly shaping that malleable past that led you to right here.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #the last of us fic #pedrostories #my writing

583 notes · View notes

mintmatcha · 6 months ago

Text

Inevitable Things : chapter eight

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. Mentions of drug use

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

A lot of cheap black hair dye is just concentrated blue.

The first time Touya dyed his hair black, you sat in the sink of his parent's bathroom and pointed out all the spots he missed. You were sixteen and love still tasted like his cinnamon gum. He stood in his tub, school uniform still on, collar and skin stained with ashy blue water that ran down from his scalp. Smears of it were somehow everywhere: against the tiled walls, across the front of his button down, and even down the span of the porcelain tub. The memory is drowned in blue, from the curtains to the twinkle in his eye. A metaphor sits on your tongue whenever you think about it, too obvious to hold, too painful to ignore.

“Your parents are gonna be so pissed,” you said. Your own parents thought you were studying with your friends, instead of perched in your boyfriend’s private bathroom, door closed and away from the prying eyes of his younger siblings.

“Whatever.”

He wasn’t skinny back then, before the tattoos, piercings and heroin. When he raised his arms to wash the sludge of boxed dye from his hair, the tiniest bit of pudge on his stomach stuck out from the edge of his shirt, but Touya was attractive enough -and unhinged enough- that no one ever used it against him. He was handsome in the same way his mother was beautiful: tragically, classically. A button nose, clear eyes, with almost transparently pale skin: loving him, being loved by him, made you feel like Jane Eyre.

“Enji’s been itching to remodel this bathroom anyway. It’ll give Rei a reason to get out of bed.” His relationships with both parents were always so volatile, even before the fall. His mother bounced from overpresent and panicked, to completely absent, stuck in bed for seemingly weeks at a time. Touya said the whole cycle would never stop; it was because she hated the medications her doctor’s gave her, but also couldn’t live without them. Made the world too quiet, she said, couldn’t stand the quiet for too long.

(Later, Touya found out how much he craved that quiet, how much he loved being alone in it all. He’d pick at the medicine cabinet until his dad found out and threatened to kill him if it happened again.)

With freshly black hair, Touya shook his head like a dog and splatters of blue water sprinkled across the bathroom. Wetness makes hair darker, but you know that even dry, You giggled and it pulled out peels of laughter from him too, until you were both hunched over, giggling at nothing and everything all at once. He stepped out of the tub and inserted himself between your legs, hands coming to ghost over your face as he held you exactly how you needed. The spots where his ears were pierced were still and swollen, like unripe cherries.

“Do you like it?” His smile was freshly straight-- or maybe his braces were still on at that point. The details have been revisited so many times that you’ve begun to forget them, but you have no doubt that he smiled-- bright and sweet and juvenile in ways he’ll never touch again.

“I’ll miss the blonde,” you admitted. “But this is kinda cute too.”

He clutched you tight and you held him back, his head in your hands. “You’re so fucking mean to me.”

And you kissed him quiet. And you kissed him until the taste of cinnamon was synonymous with the taste of being alive. There was a metaphor there, something too obvious, something When he pulled away, your fingers were marked with him, dye running down your fingers and wrists, blue burying into your skin, so, deep, so vivid-

“Uh oh, did your pen explode?”

Hizashi’s voice drags you back to the present.

Your hands are stained with ink. The bottom of your pen case is spotted in blue.

“Yeah, sorry, uh-” You flounder a bit as you look around the front seat. Unlike Kaminari’s car, there’s no excess trash or tissues floating about to grab.

“I have wipes in the glovebox, babygirl.”

You carefully pop it open. Hizashi’s car is nice - all black pleather and freshly vacuumed floors, with seats that recline all the way back. You’re careful not to ruin anything as you tug a wipe free and scrub away the stains, silently working until your skin starts to wrinkle. The sun has decided to peek out for the first time in a week, much to Hizashi’s delight; he’s been humming along to the radio since your apartment, bouncing from channel to channel as he pleases. The UA Conference and Exposition starts today and, if the GPS is correct, you’ll be there early enough to get your bearings before the fun begins.

And, if the GPS is correct, you only have 15 minutes to gather yourself before Aizawa Shouta enters the car.

After the incident, Aizawa had started working from home, either for his benefit or HR’s. His absence left a void in the office that was quickly filled with intern’s chaos. Turns out, Aizawa really was keeping them all in line all this time-- as far as you can tell, almost no work has gotten done since he’s been gone. That’s the real tragedy of it all: he’s terribly good at his job and the company probably couldn’t float without him. HR would have a nightmare of a time replacing him.

Not that you want him gone.

You’re hurt, sure, but bringing HR into this mess would only open a can of worms and every little bug would link back to the fact you sent the man an unprompted nude.

Hizashi turns the radio down, leaving you two alone with the whir of the wheels against the road. “You okay? You’ve been bleh all week.”

“Yeah, I’m just--” Sad, pissed, poor, lonely, pathetic- “Nervous about this convention.”

It’s not a lie. As the week crept along, you found yourself more and more nervous for this trip, partially because of Aizawa, mostly because of everything else. You’ve never been to one of these events before-- what if you say the wrong thing, or miss a panel, or you’re not dressed well enough and you make the company look stupid? There’s so many silly little faux paus you could commit without even realizing it-

“Don’t be. It’ll be fun.” Hizashi glances over his pink prada sunglasses. As usual, he’s dressed well, donning a deep eggplant colored button down and freshly pleated black pants. “There’s a lot of things going on, sure, but there’s a bunch of things to see and swag bags to collect-”

He nudges you with his elbow until it teases a giggle out of you.

“And there’s always rich, hot doctors looking for a weekend fling.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun with them,” you say.

“You’re the one who needs to have fun with them!” Hizashi says. “You need a play thing to get your mind off of… everything.”

He grimaces at the last word and you wonder how much he knows about what's been happening in office. Probably a lot; you haven’t told him, but you know how everyone talks. You both get quiet for a bit, then Hizashi starts up again, that seasick smile still on his face.

“I actually think if you guys would stop biting each other’s heads off, you’d be best buds.” he says, “I do! He’s a really good hearted guy when he isn’t-”

“When he isn’t calling my boyfriend a junkie?” you quickly correct yourself before Hizashi can react. “Ex boyfriend.”

“He feels bad about that. Really. He just can’t bring himself to apologize correctly-- I’ll make him tell you, you’ll see.”

“Hizashi, that sounds like hell.” You sink down into the seat with a groan. You can imagine Aizawa’s stupid, uncaring face as he’s forced to apologize to you during your almost three hour-long car ride. No escape, nowhere to hide. God, it feels like some convoluted punishment that an author would come up with for shitty fanfiction.

He pulls off of the highway into a part of town you don’t recognize. It’s more suburban, with neighborhoods right near the train stations. This air isn’t as rich as Toshinori’s neighborhood, but you can taste the money.

“Can’t he drive himself today?” you complain, watching the GPS click closer and closer to arrival time.

“Can you drive yourself?”

The question flusters you. “I could, but I don't have a car.”

“Then you just have to deal with it, sorry!” Hizashi hums a couple bars of music in between words. “See? There’s something you two can bound over: being driven around by me-”

Very funny. If you guys were going to bond over anything, it’d be the fact that you- well--

Huh. Actually, you don’t know very much about the man at all. You know he likes yellow, that he works too hard, that maybe he likes cats… You certainly didn’t know he lived in a place like this.

Maybe he’s a secret serial killer. Or he kicks puppies. You don’t know!

Before you can work yourself into a tizzy, Hizashi takes a turn and you’re there. Aizawa’s house is smaller than you expected-- much smaller. It’s quaint, almost twee, and certainly not a new construct. It reminds you of old New England, this faded blue thing tucked onto the corner of a street. Nicely mowed lawn, small bushes in freshly turned soil: and you have to laugh at the thought of Aizawa doing physical labor. It’s painfully humble.

Before today, it was as if Aizawa didn’t exist outside of Prome. He existed only in those four walls and the stories Nemuri and Hizashi told you over late night drinks.

…and, of course, in your text messages.

The flux of work and real life is always strange to handle-- especially your own. You try to keep the mess from spilling together. Their densities are different: work rises to the top when home keeps sinking below it.

You think of Touya and the ink stains on your palms.

A cat lounges in the window of the top floor, black fur brown in the sunshine as it stretches long. A hand ruffles it for a moment before disappearing and Aizawa Shouta is out of the house about a minute later, bag in hand. Unlike Hizashi, he’s not dressed up-- in fact, he’s dressed worse than usual. Sweatpants and a white t-shirt: he looks like he’s about to fall asleep, not present for a crowd. He takes a second to tuck a key under the mat before trudging over.

Leaning over you, Hizashi wolf whistles out of your window, loud enough your ears ache at the sound.

“Hey, sexy!”

“Children live in this neighborhood, Mic.”

The older man throws open your door and looms down at you, no humor in his face. A beat passes before he clears his throat expectantly. His raven black hair makes you feel uneasy and you don’t want to figure out why.

“I need the front seat,” Aizawa says after a moment.

Of course he does. What a prick. Your head snaps to Hizashi, searching for backup, but he throws his hands into the air.

“Do not bring me into this.”

“But I don’t want to move.” You huff and pretend to scroll on your phone, sucking your cheeks hollow in defiance.

Aizawa’s lip twitches down.

“Are you seven?”

“You’re the one demanding a front seat,” you shoot back. “Do you get car sick? Like a toddler?”

“Are you done?”

“I am.”

“Then move.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

With a rather hefty thunk, Hizashi bounces his head against the steering wheel. “Oh my god, are you guys going to torture me like this all weekend? Because I can’t take much more of this.”

“If she would listen-” Aizawa starts.

“Just tell her!”

Tell you what? You glance up and realize he doesn’t look annoyed. No, his brow is knitted up, his expression is mild. He’s fidgeting with the hem of his suitcase, digging his nail into the seam with a little tap-tap-tap-

He’s nervous?

Your first reaction is to scoff. Who cares that he’s nervous? Not you! Why would you care about some ancient, heartless cunt’s feelings?

But then he clears his throat and steps back, admitting defeat.

“I-” Shouta clears his throat again, voice low. “Fine. I’ll sit in the back.”

Dammit. God fucking damn it. You’re already unbuckling your seatbelt before he can move.

“You can have the stupid seat.” Your attitude is gone, but you keep pretending. “But you owe me.”

Aizawa visibly relaxes, but he still sneers at you. “Whatever.”

You two shuffle around each other and you banish yourself to the rear. It’s actually not bad; the seat is bigger and comfortable. You just didn’t want him to win. This is at least a win on your terms.

“See? Hizashi sighs. “We can all be friends here! This is the ‘good vibes’ car!”

“This is not a ‘good vibes’ car. I know what you do in here,” Aizawa says as he sits.

“You mean who he does in this car,” you mumble, not expecting to be heard.

“No, I don’t.” Aizawa says. “Because he doesn’t know the people he does in this car.”

You don’t laugh, but you breathe a bit heavier through your nose. Aizawa��s shoulders shake with a hint of laughter-- his own joke clearly hitting. Hizashi huffs, clearly more amused than offended.

“Just get in already, you jerks.”

Everything’s quiet until you’re back on the highway. Now, traffic is heavier as people pour into the roads for work. The sun is higher in the sky and the air is still cool post rain, humidity currently drained from the air. You slip off your heels and tuck your legs under you. From directly behind Hizashi, you can catch a bit of his cologne-- or maybe it’s Aizawa’s? No, it has to be the blonde’s: it’s citrus, strangely sweet from a man’s scent.

“House looks good.” Hizashi turns to his passenger.

“Hm.” Aizawa doesn't settle back into the seat, but instead perches on the edge of it, gripping the little bar like a lifeline. In contrast, his voice is uncaring. “It’s fine. The girls are happy about the extra space, at least.”

Hizashi glances back at you through the rearview mirror, shit eating grin smeared across his face. “Shouta's told you about his babies, right?”

An unreasonable panic sets over you. “Human children?”

“What? No-- What?” Aizawa says, befuddled. “You thought I had children?”

“I don’t know!”

“I would have told you before we--- I have cats.”

You remember the little darling you saw earlier. So, he really does like cats. Interesting. Frankly, knowing he isn’t some animal hating freak makes you feel a little better about everything that’s happened between you. He’s just a ‘you’ hating freaking.

“Oh, I saw the black one in the window.”

“That's Sesame.” Aizawa says. “And there’s another one named Sushi.”

You snort.

“Yes, I’m a man with cats. I’m sure it’s very funny.” His voice lacks all ire when he can’t turn around and see you.

“I didn’t think you’d pick such cute names.” you shrug. “I thought it’d be more technical like, I dunno. Motherboard. Linux. Keyboard.”

“You thought I named my cat Keyboard?”

“Or something.”

He shakes his head and pinches his brow. “I don’t like computers; I just work on one.”

“Speaking of work--” Hizashi anxiously cuts in before the conversation can turn sour. Traffic has slowed to a crawl, which is nothing unexpected. He lounges back, unaffected by how others honk and weave ahead. “How’s the presentation going?”

Aizawa slumps in his shoulders and groans. “Not quite as organized as I would like, but luckily it isn’t until tomorrow.”

“You’re co-hosting in that assisted mobility panel, right? That’ll be a nice little warm up.” Hizashi says.

“Barely. That’s Tensei’s brainchild, so I won’t be speaking very much.”

“What are you presenting on?” You know the answer, of course. You’re just trying to engage politely, for Hizashi’s sake. “Our bed, right?”

“Partially.” Aizawa turns part way around, then changes his mind and faces front. The carsick thing must have been right on the money. “It’s more about patient care models and the efficacy of our upcoming monitoring systems for improving quality of life. I won't bore you with it.”

You pull at your seatbelt. You don’t really want to talk to Aizawa right now, but he’s so well informed. “I’d like to hear it.”

Besides, it’s part of your job to know these things, right? It wouldn’t be the worst thing to learn a little more about what Aizawa’s been up to this whole time. It seems like, despite all of his asshole behavior, he’s actually a pretty involved guy. An assisted mobility talk? Quality of life models? Could he actually be a good person underneath it all?

Aizawa gives you a nod, simple, but pleased. “As you know, it’s primarily to back up the paper that’s being published-”

Paper? What paper?

“But, essentially, I’m trying to convince a room of very smart people that I know what I’m talking about. Which, I do, but-”

Hizashi erupts into giggles. “You’re the worst public speaker.”

“Thank you so much. I appreciate your vote of confidence.” Aizawa’s voice drips with sarcasm.

“I assume our product is super good, right? That should make it easy.”

“Yes, it is, but it also isn’t. Once you figure out a method to collect data, anyone can do it. What turns a good advancement into a great one is what you do with the data.” The more he speaks, the more Aizawa’s back untenses and his legs stop bouncing. “And convincing other people that you know what to do with all of this raw human data is the hard part.”

He tilts his head as he continues, eyes focused forward. “This bed tracks body temperature, O2, blood pressure and pressure points, but it’s all nonsense until it’s correctly utilized. When should nurses intervene? If our model is overly sensitive, it makes nurses' jobs harder, instead of easier, and a stressed nurse negatively affects patient experience. Stress increases cortisol-”

You chime in. “And cortisol affects the cytokines, so it can delay healing.”

“How did you know that?” Hizashi asks, surprised.

“She’s smart,” Aizawa waves it off. “But if the model isn’t sensitive enough, it won’t alert nurses at the right intervals, which can also be detrimental to patient health, especially in the ICUs and coma patients that can’t advocate for themselves.”

“And you think we’ve achieved a good balance?”

“I know we have.” The sun hits the side of his face, haloing the soft bits of stubble and highlighting the silvered skin of his scar. The gray bits of his beard are almost golden in the light, and , despite everything, you find yourself smiling just a bit. He looks different in this light, you think, even if its just in your head. “But convincing everyone else is a different issue.”

“I believe you,” you say.

“That’s…” He fumbles for the first time. “Thank you.”

Oh, you try to fight how you soften. Being easily won over has always been your downfall; it would be better for you to stay furious, stay vicious, but that fire inside you darkens just a bit. It’s that same fucking ship metaphor that Touya left you with: you’re used to rocky seas, you’re used to hot and cold, drowning and rescue, rocky and unpredictable seas-

The worst thing about habits is that you can see yourself falling into them again, but you still can’t quite escape the rut you’ve carved for yourself through their repetition.

At least he thinks you’re smart. That sticks with you and buzzes in your chest.

“You must really care about this stuff,” you say.

From what you can see through his dark curls and side profile, Aizawa’s expression is less pressed than usual. “Of course I do.”

“You guys!” Hizashi throws a watery tone into his voice, all for show. “I’m gonna cry! I love when my buddies get along.”

“We aren’t.” Aizawa is quick to interrupt. “She’s just being polite. There’s no good will between us.”

Even though you don’t fully agree, you hum an affirmative. Sure, yes, there was a level of social obligation there, but to say there’s nothing positive between you is, well… Maybe it’s incorrect. Maybe it isn’t.

The rest of the ride is filled with gentle conversation- nothing noteworthy, but nothing boring either. Mostly Hizashi and Aizawa bounce off of each other with little stories and memories- things about friends they used to know, tiny complaints about people around the office, how they miss Toshinori. Aizawa even laughs a couple of times: these deep, rumbling sounds, uneven in a way that sounds like he’s almost unfamiliar with the sensation of it. The two were college friends and you can feel the familiarity in how they feed off of each other.

It’s simple, but nice, and you can see what Hizashi meant when he said you two would get along. When he’s not at work, he could be--

“I’m sorry, I feel like I neglected you the whole time.” Hizashi says. Sleep had almost taken you away at that point.“I’m not trying to leave you out.”

“It’s fine-- I like listening.” You rub the grit out of your eyes, contacts sticky and dry. “It’s like a free podcast.”

“Most podcasts are free, baby girl.”

The cityscape has changed. The buildings are taller, newer, shinier. It’s still the city, your city, but it has a different life than the outskirts. Gone is the touch of suburbia. If you were still young and fun and beautiful, you’d want to live here, feed yourself on culture and nightlife-

Hizashi meets your eye in the rearview. “You’re smearing your makeup, by the way.”

“Fuck.” You try to unsmudge your eyeliner with no success. No, you aren’t a city girl, no matter how badly you’d like to be.

“It’s alright-- we have time to go to our rooms and touch up before the con starts. We each have our own room, right?”

“Mhm,” you hum. “I figured you two wouldn’t share.”

“You and Shouta would share before I shared with anyone. I take this weekend very seriously.”

“He does,” Aizawa confirms. “This is his Olympics.”

“You sound insane right now. It would be a huge liability for us to share a room,” you say.

“I am insane-- insanely good at sex.”

“Ugh.”

“Hizashi!”

It’s just after noon when you pull into the hotel’s valet. Even though the building is wedged into a city block, it’s massive and beautifully built, a marvel in its own regard. Blue tile is pressed into neat lines across the white walls, their polished shine dazzling in the low light of the lobby. With the high ceiling, it's something closer to a Grecian vacation spot than a hotel in the middle of a landlocked city. It’s luxurious, it’s rich, it’s… almost romantic. God, no wonder Hizashi gets laid at this place.

The convention hall is attached by a skybridge, this colored glass beauty hanging in the sky above where you enter. An employee catches you staring at it all with a knowing smile. Your skin itches with the idea that you look like you don’t belong here: suburbs girl, with her smeared makeup, gawking at the city. They can probably smell that you could never afford to go here on your own dime.

Check in goes smoothly, of course. You’re organized and prepaid, so they hand you the room keys and wish you a wonderful stay. The three rooms you’re given are spread between floors. Hizashi claims the one on the first floor for ‘easy access’ and you and Aizawa are on higher levels. You’re relieved that none of you share a wall; the vibrator you have tucked into your bag is still in the wrapping and you have no idea how loud it’ll be. It’ll be equally mortifying if a stranger hears you, but at least they won’t know who you are or what you look like. It would be a secret that died between you and them.

Oh, no. Is this too nice of a place to masturbate in? Are they going to kick you out for being a nasty little horny freak? No, they would have kicked Hizashi out years ago. Unless he knows a secret that you don’t-

“Come on.” Aizawa himself snaps you out of your spiral. Hizashi has already scurried off, leaving the two of you alone in the lobby. “The elevators are this way.”

You gather your bag and walk with him, matching his stride. He’s not a very tall man, maybe even a little short, but he marches as he walks, quick and forward and sharp. You almost have to jog to keep up. It seems like he notices this and slows his pace a little, but it might be in your head.

Neither of you say anything as you wait.

And wait.

You check your phone, put it away, and then check it again. Aizawa presses the button again, muttering to himself.

What is there to say at this point? Where do you even stand?

The elevator comes, the doors close. The floors tick up. You’re both facing towards the door, saying nothing. Muzak floats in the air and it’s gentle tickle feels urging, almost more empty than silence-

“I want to apologize.” Aizawa speaks so suddenly that even he seems a bit surprised at himself. Readjusting his body, bracing his arm against the railing, Aizawa doesn’t look your way, opting to jam his hand in his pockets and watch the floor. “For it all.”

“It’s okay.” The answer is reflexive; it spills out before you can figure out exactly how you feel.

“It’s not,” he insists. “It’s just not.”

The elevator floats to a stop and the doors open. It’s your floor. There’s so much to unpack between you, so much to understand about exactly what his apology is for-

“Thank you.” You grip your bag tight as you step out. “I think.”

A thick, warm hand envelops your wrist. It’s grip is firm enough to turn you, but weak enough that you slip away as soon as you meet his face. Aizawa watches you; his deep, deep, dark eyes are locked on to yours and he tries to speak, mouth open but nothing coming out. He tries again, then again, before clearing his voice and shaking his head.

“Let’s pretend things are good between us.” Aizawa says finally, watching the floor once again-- and you have this awful feeling that what he’s saying isn’t what he really wants to say. “For Mic’s sake.”

You nod, swallowing this down, a beat too long.

“I’d like it if we were normal too.”

“Okay.” The door slides closed as Aizawa says: “For you, then.”

407 notes · View notes

viagracex · 8 days ago

Note

could you do one where the reader and george have an argument and she goes non verbal bcs of past trauma?

Bruises, Silence, and Bandages

george clarke x fem!reader

summary: a tense argument with george pulls you into the shadows of your past, but his patience and love remind you that healing doesn’t have to be done alone

warnings: Domestic Abuse, PTSD, Verbal Abuse, Physical Abuse, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Self-Worth Issues

note: Hey everyone, I just want to say that I truly apologize if this chapter made anyone uncomfortable. I wrote this with the knowlegde of an outsider, someone who has seen the effects of abusive relationships and the struggles of healing after them. I’ve done my best to approach these themes with sensitivity and respect, but I understand that everyone’s experiences are different. If anything in this story resonates with you, please know that you are not alone, and I hope you have the support and love you deserve. Thank you for reading, and please take care of yourselves. My mesages are always open 🤍

6.8k words

Masterlist

₊ ˚ ˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。‧₊ ˚ ˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。‧₊ ˚ ˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。‧₊ ˚ ˚ ₊

The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across your shared apartment. You stood in the kitchen, hands trembling as you gripped the edge of the countertop. George paced back and forth in the living room, his usually cheerful face contorted with frustration.

"I just don't understand why you won't talk to me about this!" he exclaimed, running a hand through his tousled hair. "We're supposed to be partners. How can we fix things if you won't even tell me what's wrong?"

You wanted to respond, to explain the tangled knot of emotions constricting your chest, but the words wouldn't come. It was as if an invisible hand had reached down your throat and stolen your voice. Your heart raced, and you felt the familiar panic rising.

George's voice grew louder, his accent thickening with emotion. "Is it something I did? Something I said in a video? For God's sake, just say something!"

The room began to spin, memories of past arguments crashing over you like waves. Your chest tightened as George's voice echoed through the apartment, his words blurring into distorted sounds. The room tilted, and you gripped the counter harder, your knuckles turning white. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm you.

Suddenly, you were back in that cramped, dimly lit apartment from years ago. The air was thick with the acrid smell of stale cigarettes and cheap beer. His voice—not George's, but his—rang in your ears, each word laced with venom. "You stupid bitch! Answer me when I'm talking to you!"

The sting of his palm against your cheek, the crash of a bottle shattering against the wall—it all felt so real, so present. You could almost feel the phantom ache of bruises long faded. You could feel yourself shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller until you were nothing but a speck of dust, desperate to be overlooked.

Back in the present, George's frustrated sighs pierced through the fog of your memories. "I don't understand," he muttered, his accent thicker than ever. "We were fine yesterday. What changed?"

You wanted to tell him, to explain that it wasn't his fault, that the raised voices and tense atmosphere had triggered something deep within you. But your throat constricted, and your tongue felt like lead in your mouth. The words were there, trapped behind a wall of fear and shame.

George's frustrated voice faded into the background as you sank deeper into the flashback. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps. The kitchen tiles beneath your feet seemed to tilt and sway.

"Are you even listening to me?" George demanded, his voice closer now. You flinched instinctively as he entered the kitchen, your body tensing for a blow that wouldn't come.

George's footsteps halted abruptly. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing. Slowly, you opened your eyes, blinking away the haze of memory. George stood frozen, his expression shifting from anger to concern as he took in your hunched posture and pale face.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice gentler now. "What's happening? Are you alright?"

You tried to nod, to reassure him, but your body wouldn't cooperate. Instead, you slid down to the floor, your back pressed against the cool cabinet doors. George hesitated for a moment before carefully lowering himself to sit beside you, leaving a respectful distance between you.

The familiar scent of his cologne—a mix of sandalwood and citrus—helped ground you in the present. You focused on it, using it as an anchor to pull yourself away from the memories threatening to drag you under.

"I'm sorry," George whispered, his accent softening the words. "I didn't mean to shout. I just... I worry about you, you know? When you go quiet like this, I feel so helpless."

You wanted to reach out, to squeeze his hand and tell him it wasn't his fault. But your body remained frozen, trapped between past and present. In your mind, you could still hear the other voice—his voice—berating you, mocking your silence, twisting it into another reason to lash out.

"You're pathetic," the voice in your head sneered, an echo of your ex-boyfriend's cruel words. "Can't even speak up for yourself. No wonder he hates you."

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts. But they persisted, a poisonous whisper in the back of your mind.

George shifted beside you, the fabric of his hoodie rustling softly. "I'm here," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Whatever's going on, whatever you're feeling, I'm here."

His words, so gentle and understanding, were a stark contrast to the memories swirling in your mind. You remembered the constant walking on eggshells, the way your ex would fly into a rage at the slightest provocation. The way he'd grab your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, whenever you tried to leave during an argument.

You could almost feel the pain of those bruises now, your skin prickling with the memory of his touch. Your breath hitched, and you curled in on yourself, making your body as small as possible.

In your mind's eye, you saw yourself cowering in the corner of that dingy apartment, arms raised to protect your face from the blows you knew were coming. The smell of cheap vodka and sweat filled your nostrils, making your stomach churn. You could almost feel the cold, hard floor beneath you as you curled into yourself, trying to become as small as possible.

The memories shifted, and suddenly you were reliving the night you finally escaped. The adrenaline coursing through your veins as you hastily shoved clothes into a bag, the heart-stopping fear when you heard his key in the lock, the burning in your lungs as you ran down the street, not daring to look back.

In the present, George's warm hand gently touched your shoulder, causing you to flinch violently. "Love, you're scaring me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, tell me what's wrong."

You couldn't respond. Your mind was trapped in a loop of painful memories, each one more vivid than the last. The sound of shattering glass echoed in your ears, mingling with the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. You remembered the feeling of rough hands gripping your arms, shaking you violently as angry words were spat in your face.

George noticed your constant flinching every time he he spoke. His brow furrowing with concern. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly, his accent wrapping around the words like a warm blanket. "I would never hurt you. You're safe here, I promise."

A part of you wanted to believe him, to trust in the sincerity of his words. But another part, the part still trapped in the past doubted every word.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's okay. You're safe here."

His words, so gentle and reassuring, stood in stark contrast to the memories swirling in your mind. You remembered the constant walking on eggshells, the way your stomach would churn with anxiety every time you heard keys in the lock. The other man—your ex—had been unpredictable, his moods shifting like quicksand beneath your feet.

There were good days, of course. Days when his smile was genuine, his touch tender. But those moments were fleeting, always overshadowed by the looming threat of his temper. You recalled the first time he'd struck you—a slap that left your ears ringing and your cheek stinging. He'd apologized profusely, showering you with gifts and promises to never do it again. You'd believed him, desperate to cling to the man you thought you loved.

But the violence escalated. Slaps turned to punches, shoves became throws. Your body became a canvas of bruises and cuts, each one carefully hidden beneath long sleeves and thick makeup. The physical pain was excruciating, but it paled in comparison to the emotional torment. His words cut deeper than any blow, chipping away at your self-worth until you felt hollow inside.

The night it all came to a head. He caught you in the middle of packing your bags. He had obviously been drinking heavily, his words slurring as he hurled insults at you. The bottle of whiskey in his hand glinted menacingly in the dim light of the apartment. You'd tried to leave, to escape the suffocating atmosphere, but he blocked your path.

"Where do you think you're going?" he'd snarled, his breath hot on your face. "You're nothing without me. No one else would ever want you."

The memory of his fingers digging into your arms made your skin crawl. You could almost feel the sting of glass shards as the whiskey bottle shattered against the wall, inches from your head. The fear had been paralyzing, rooting you to the spot as he towered over you, fist raised.

In that moment, something inside you had snapped. With strength born of desperation, you'd shoved him aside as hard as you physically could and ran. You remembered the burn in your lungs as you sprinted down the street, the icy rain soaking through your thin t-shirt. You'd left most of you things behind—clothes, possessions, your entire life—but you were finally free.

The months that followed were a blur of cheap motels and sleepless nights. Every shadow made you flinch, every loud noise sent your heart racing. You'd changed your number, your email, even your appearance, desperate to erase every trace of your past life.

Slowly, painfully, you'd begun to rebuild. A new job, a tiny studio apartment, a handful of cautious friendships. But the scars remained, both physical and emotional. You jumped at sudden noises, flinched away from physical contact, and struggled to trust anyone who showed interest in you.

Then George had entered your life like a whirlwind of laughter and warmth. His YouTube videos had been a source of comfort during your darkest days, his goofy smile and infectious laugh a balm for your wounded soul. Meeting him in person had been surreal, like a dream come to life.

At first, you'd been guarded, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But George had been patient, his kindness unwavering. He never pushed, never demanded more than you were ready to give. Slowly, you'd let your walls down, allowing yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserved happiness.

Now, sitting on the cold kitchen floor with George beside you, you felt those walls threatening to rebuild themselves. The argument had triggered something deep within you, unleashing a flood of memories you'd tried so hard to suppress.

"Love," George's voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, soft and hesitant. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Can you look at me?"

You wanted to, to reassure him that this wasn't his fault. But your eyes remained trapped, held hostage by the ghosts of your past.

"Love," George's voice broke through the fog of your thoughts. "I can see you're struggling. Can I hold your hand?"

You wanted to say yes, to reach out and anchor yourself in his warmth, but your body remained frozen. Instead, you managed a small nod, the movement barely perceptible.

George slowly extended his hand, palm up, leaving it within your reach but not touching you. "Whenever you're ready," he murmured. "No rush."

His patience was a stark contrast to your ex's demanding nature. You remembered how he would grab you, forcing physical contact even when you shrank away. George's respect for your boundaries was both comforting and overwhelming.

You stared at George's outstretched hand, your vision blurring with unshed tears. The gentle invitation in his gesture was almost too much to bear. You wanted desperately to reach out, to feel the warmth of his skin against yours, but fear held you back.

Slowly, trembling, you extended your own hand. Your fingers hovered just above his palm, not quite touching. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in your bones.

George remained perfectly still, his breathing slow and measured. "Take your time," he whispered, his accent wrapping around the words like a soft blanket. "I'm not going anywhere."

The kindness in his voice made your chest ache. You remembered a time when gentle words were rare, when every interaction was laced with tension and fear. Your ex had wielded words like weapons, each syllable designed to cut and wound.

You recalled the way he would twist your silence against you, using it as justification for his anger. "Why won't you answer me?" he would snarl, his face contorted with rage. "Are you stupid? Can't you even speak?"

The memory made your throat constrict, choking off any words that might have formed. You curled your fingers into a fist, pulling your hand back towards your chest.

George's expression softened with understanding. "It's okay," he murmured. "You don't have to if you're not ready."

With trembling fingers, you reached out, barely brushing George's palm. His hand remained perfectly still, allowing you to dictate the level of contact. Slowly, you pressed your palm against his, feeling the warmth of his skin seep into yours.

George's thumb gently stroked the back of your hand, the gesture soothing and grounding. "That's it," he whispered encouragingly. "You're doing great, love."

The gentle praise washed over you, chasing away some of the darkness clouding your mind. You focused on the sensation of George's hand in yours, using it as an anchor to pull yourself back to the present.

"I'm going to tell you five things I can see," George said softly, his voice steady and calm. "Is that okay?"

You managed another small nod, grateful for his attempt to ground you.

"Alright," he began. "I can see the sunlight filtering through the curtains, making patterns on the floor. I can see the little cactus on the windowsill that you bought last week. I can see the framed photo of us at the beach on the fridge. I can see the stack of cookbooks on the counter that we never use. And I can see you, love, right here with me."

As George spoke, you felt your breathing begin to slow, matching the rhythm of his words. The vivid flashbacks began to fade, replaced by the reality of your shared kitchen.

His last words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt a flicker of warmth in your chest, a tiny spark pushing back against the darkness that had consumed you.

"Can you tell me four things you can feel?" George asked gently.

You took a shaky breath, focusing on the physical sensations around you. Your voice was barely audible as you whispered, "Your hand. The cold floor. My... my heartbeat. The cabinet against my back."

George's smile was soft and encouraging. "That's brilliant, love. You're doing so well. How about three things you can hear?"

You closed your eyes, concentrating. "The clock ticking. A car outside. Your breathing."

"Perfect," George murmured. "Two things you can smell?"

"Your cologne," you said, the familiar scent bringing a sense of comfort. "And... coffee from earlier."

George's thumb continued its soothing motion across your hand. "Last one. Can you tell me one thing you can taste?"

You ran your tongue over your dry lips. "Salt," you whispered, realizing there were tears on your cheeks.

"There you go love," George said softly. "You're here, in our kitchen. You're safe."

The grounding exercise had helped pull you further from the grip of your memories. The kitchen came into sharper focus - the pale yellow walls you and George had painted together, laughing as you got more paint on each other than the walls. The mismatched chairs at the dinning table and the various pictures around the room.

George's smile was warm and encouraging. "That's brilliant, love. You're doing so well."

The praise washed over you like a soothing balm, easing some of the tension from your shoulders. You focused on your breathing, trying to match the slow, steady rhythm George had established.

"I'm sorry," you managed to whisper, your voice hoarse and unsteady. "I didn't mean to... to shut down like that."

George shook his head gently. "You have nothing to apologize for. I'm the one who should be sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice like that."

You wanted to explain, to tell him about the memories that had overwhelmed you, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you tightened your grip on his hand trying to get rid of the pins and needles from your fingertips.

George's thumb traced gentle circles on the back of your hand, his touch feather-light and comforting. "You don't have to explain anything right now," he murmured. "But whenever you're ready to talk, I'm here to listen."

His words, so full of patience and understanding, made your chest ache. You almost couldn’t believe that there was a time when silence was met with anger, when every moment of hesitation was twisted into an excuse for violence. Your ex had never been able to handle your non-verbal episodes, viewing them as a personal affront rather than a symptom of your trauma.

You could still hear his voice, harsh and mocking, echoing in your mind. "What's wrong with you? Can't even string a sentence together? Pathetic."

The memory made you flinch, your body tensing involuntarily. George noticed immediately, his brow furrowing with concern. "It's okay," he soothed. "You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you."

You wanted to believe him, to trust in the sincerity of his words. But years of conditioning had left their mark, making it difficult to separate past from present. In your mind's eye, you could see your ex looming over you, his face contorted with rage. You remembered the sickening crack of his fist connecting with your jaw, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth.

The phantom pain made you wince, your free hand instinctively moving to touch your face. George watched the movement,his eyes widening with a mix of realization and horror. "Oh, love," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Did someone... did someone hurt you?"

You couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze, shame and fear warring within you. What if George saw you differently once he knew? What if he decided you were too broken, too damaged to love? Your silence was answer enough.

George's grip on your hand tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground you in the present. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, his accent thickening with emotion. "I had no idea. I never meant to... God, I'm such an idiot."

His self-recrimination made you want to protest, to assure him that it wasn't his fault. But the words were stuck, your throat constricting around everything you want to tell him.

As if sensing your inner turmoil, George spoke again, his voice soft and reassuring. "You don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with. But I want you to know that whatever happened, it wasn't your fault. And it doesn't change how I feel about you."

His words pierced through the fog of your anxiety, touching something deep within you. You felt the tears now slipping down your cheeks, then another, until you were crying silently, your body shaking with the force of your sobs.

"Can I..." George hesitated, his voice uncertain. "Would it be okay if I hugged you?"

The question caught you off guard. Your ex had never asked for permission, taking what he wanted without regard for your feelings. George's consideration brought a fresh wave of tears to your eyes.

Slowly, you nodded, uncurling yourself from the tight ball you'd formed. George moved carefully, telegraphing his movements as he shifted closer. He wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in warmth and the comforting scent of his cologne.

For a moment, you tensed, your body remembering a time when embraces led to pain. But George's touch remained gentle, his arms loose enough that you could easily break free if you needed to.

"I've got you," he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. "You're safe. I promise."

Gradually, you allowed yourself to relax into his embrace, your tears soaking into the soft fabric of his hoodie. George held you patiently, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your back while the other cradled your head against his chest. You could hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat, its rhythm grounding you in the present.

As your sobs subsided, replaced by quiet sniffles, George began to hum softly. It was a familiar tune, one you recognized from his videos - a silly little jingle he'd made up for a brand deal. The gentle vibrations of his chest as he hummed sent a wave of comfort through you, chasing away the last tendrils of your panic.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. "I didn't mean to fall apart like that."

George's arms tightened around you fractionally. "You have nothing to apologize for," he said firmly. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I never meant to trigger you like that."

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at his face. George's eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks damp with tears of his own. The sight made your heart ache. You'd never meant to cause him pain.

"It's not your fault," you managed to say, your voice hoarse from crying. "You didn't know."

Slowly, you allowed yourself to relax against him, burying your face in the soft fabric of his hoodie.

George took a hesitant breathe, his hands rubbing your back. "It's okay," he murmured. "You don't have to tell me about it. Just... can you look at me? Please?"

Slowly, you raised your eyes to meet his. As George's eyes met yours, filled with a mixture of concern and tenderness that made your heart ache. "I love you," he said softly, his accent wrapping around the words like a warm embrace. "I love you, and I would never, ever hurt you. You know that, right?"

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with sincerity. You wanted to believe him, to trust in the love shining in his eyes. But years of abuse had left their mark, making it difficult to separate past from present.

"I..." you started, your voice barely above a whisper. "I know you wouldn't. Not on purpose. But..."

George waited patiently as you struggled to find the words, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your hand. The gentle touch grounded you, giving you the courage to continue.

"My ex," you said, the words feeling like broken glass in your throat. "He... he wasn't a good person."

George's expression darkened, but he remained silent, allowing you to speak at your own pace.

"At first, it was great. He was charming, funny. Made me feel special," you continued, your gaze fixed on a point over George's shoulder. "But then... things changed."

You told him everything. The first time your ex raised his voice, making you flinch. The way he'd grab your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. The constant criticisms, chipping away at your self-esteem.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself to continue. "It started small. He'd get angry over little things, yell and throw things. I told myself it wasn't that bad, that everyone argues sometimes. But then..."

Your voice trailed off, memories flooding back. George squeezed your hand gently, encouraging you to continue.

"The first time he hit me, I was so shocked I couldn't even cry," you whispered. "He apologized immediately, swore it would never happen again. I wanted to believe him."

George's jaw clenched, but he remained silent, letting you speak.

"It only got worse after that. The violence escalated, and so did the emotional abuse. He'd call me worthless, stupid, tell me no one else would ever want me. And I believed him."

Tears streamed down your face as you recounted the worst moments - the times you'd hidden bruises with makeup, the nights you'd lain awake in fear, the way you'd slowly lost touch with friends and family until he was your whole world.

"I lost myself," you admitted, tears streaming down your face. "I stopped talking to friends, quit my job. Everything I did, every decision I made, was about keeping him happy. But it was never enough."

George's arms tightened around you, a protective gesture that made your heart ache with a mixture of gratitude and residual fear.

"The night I left," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "He was angry about... God, I don't even remember what. Something small. Insignificant. He left. I could take it anymore, I started to pack. When he came home he was so angry.” You took a strained breathe as you continued.

“But that night, I thought he might kill me," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "He'd been drinking, and he was so so angry. Something in me just... snapped. I ran, and I didn't look back."

George's arms loosened around you as he took in the severities of you words, his own tears falling into your hair. "I'm so sorry," he murmured. "You didn't deserve any of that. You're so strong, so brave. I'm in awe of you.

George's voice broke as he whispered, "I love you. I love you so much, and I swear I would never, ever hurt you like that."

His words, so earnest and heartfelt, broke something inside you. The dam you'd built around your emotions crumbled, and suddenly you were sobbing uncontrollably, your entire body shaking with the force of your cries.

George held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubbed soothing circles on your back. He murmured soft words of comfort, his accent thickening with emotion.

"It's okay, love. Let it out. I've got you. You're safe now."

You cried for what felt like hours, releasing years of pent-up fear, anger, and pain. George never wavered, his embrace warm and steady, anchoring you in the present.

As your sobs finally subsided into quiet hiccups, George gently pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes. His own were red-rimmed and puffy, his cheeks damp with tears.

"Thank you for telling me," he said softly. "I know how hard that must have been. You're so brave, love. So incredibly brave."

You shook your head, feeling anything but brave. "I should have left sooner. I should have been stronger."

George's expression grew fierce. "No," he said firmly. "You did everything you could to survive an impossible situation.”

George cupped your face gently, his thumbs wiping away your tears. "Listen to me," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You are not weak. You are not stupid. You are a survivor, and I am in awe of your strength."

His words, so different from the cruel taunts you'd grown accustomed to, made fresh tears well up in your eyes. George continued, his gaze never leaving yours.

"I love you," he said, each word weighted with sincerity. "I love your kindness, your humor, your resilience. I love the way your eyes light up when you talk about things you're passionate about. I love how you always remember to water the plants, even when I forget. I love the little dance you do when you're excited about something."

You felt a warmth blooming in your chest, pushing back against the cold fear that had gripped you earlier. George's words washed over you, soothing the jagged edges of your pain.

"I love the way you scrunch up your nose when you're concentrating," he continued, a soft smile playing at his lips. "I love how you always make sure to ask our delivery drivers if they want a bottle of water. I love your strength, your courage, your ability to keep going even when things get tough."

"I promise you," George continued, his accent wrapping around the words like a warm blanket, "that I will spend every day showing you how much you're worth. I'll remind you of your strength when you forget. I'll hold you when the memories get too much. And I'll always, always ask before I touch you."

As if to demonstrate, he held out his hand, palm up. "May I hold your hand?"

The simple gesture, so respectful of your boundaries, brought fresh tears to your eyes. You couldn’t understand stand how you shed so many tries in such a short amount of time. Wordlessly you took his hand. His words, so full of admiration and love, broke something inside you. You sobbed openly, clinging to him as years of pent-up emotions poured out. George held you through it all, his presence steady and comforting.

As your tears subsided, George gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the lingering wetness on your cheeks. "Thank you for trusting me with this," he said softly. "I know it couldn't have been easy to talk about."

You managed a watery smile, feeling lighter than you had in years. "It wasn't. But... I'm glad you know now. I've been carrying this alone for so long. Thank you for listening," you whispered.

George pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Always," he promised. "You don't have to carry it alone anymore," he said, his voice filled with quiet determination. "I'm here, whenever you need me. Whether that's to talk, or just to sit in silence, or... anything through everything. The good days, the bad days, and everything in between."

You leaned into his touch, allowing yourself to believe in the sincerity of his words. The fear and shame that had held you captive for so long began to loosen their grip, replaced by a tentative hope.

"I love you," George said again, his voice thick with emotion. "Every part of you. Your strength, your resilience, your kindness. I love the way you laugh at my terrible jokes, and how you always remember to water the plants even when I forget. I love how passionate you get about your favourite books, and the way your eyes light up when you talk about your work."

His words washed over you, chasing away the lingering shadows of your past. You looked up at him, really looked at him, taking in the sincerity in his warm brown eyes, the gentle curve of his smile, the faint stubble on his jaw that he'd forgotten to shave this morning.

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice hoarse but steady. "So much that it scares me sometimes."

George's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you adored. "Good scared or bad scared?" he asked, a hint of his usual playfulness creeping back into his tone.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound watery but genuine. "Good scared," you assured him. "Like... like standing at the edge of something amazing and wonderful, knowing that jumping in might change everything."

"Well," George said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, "I'm right here beside you, ready to jump whenever you are."

George's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you adored. He leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn't. Instead, you met him halfway, your lips meeting in a kiss that was soft and sweet and full of promise.

When you finally pulled apart, George rested his forehead against yours. "I know I can't erase what happened to you," he said softly. "But I promise, I'll spend every day trying to show you what real love looks like. If you'll let me."

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. George understood, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Come on," he said, slowly getting to his feet and offering you his hand. "Let's get off this cold floor.

How about we make some tea?"

You nodded, allowing him to help you up. Your legs felt shaky, and you leaned against him for support as you made your way to the living room. George guided you to the couch, wrapping a soft throw blanket around your shoulders before heading to the kitchen.

You could hear him moving around, the familiar sounds of kettle boiling and mugs clinking providing a soothing backdrop. The apartment was bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon sunlight, casting long shadows across the floor. You focused on the little details around you - the framed photos on the wall, capturing moments of laughter and joy with George and your friends; the collection of houseplants on the windowsill, each one carefully tended; the stack of board games in the corner, evidence of cozy nights in.

George returned a few minutes later, carrying two steaming mugs. He handed you one - your favourite oversized mug, the one with little cartoon cats all over it. The scent of chamomile and honey wafted up, warm and comforting.

"Thank you," you murmured, wrapping your hands around the mug and letting its warmth seep into your palms.

George settled beside you on the couch, close enough that you could feel his presence but not so close as to crowd you. The two of you sat there on the couch, wrapped in each other's arms, as the afternoon sun slowly shifted across the room. The argument that had been forgotten.

As the afternoon light shifted, painting the room in soft golden hues, George spoke softly. "I've been thinking," he said, his voice gentle. "Maybe we could look into couples therapy? Not because there's anything wrong with us," he added quickly, "but to help us communicate better, especially about... about your past."

You considered his words, turning the idea over in your mind. The thought of opening up to a stranger was daunting, but the idea of having professional help to navigate your trauma and its impact on your relationship was appealing.

"I think... I think that might be good," you said slowly. "But can we maybe start with individual therapy for me first? I feel like I need to work through some things on my own before I'm ready to tackle them as a couple."

George's face lit up with a mixture of relief and pride. "Of course, love. Whatever you need. I'm so proud of you for considering it."

His words warmed you from the inside out, chasing away the last lingering chill of your earlier panic. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

"Thank you," you murmured. "For being so patient with me. For not giving up when I shut down."

George pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for a moment. "I'll never give up on you," he murmured. "You're worth every bit of patience and understanding I can give."

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping your tea and watching the play of light across the room. As the shadows lengthened, George spoke again, his voice soft and hesitant.

"I've been thinking about my videos," he said. "I know I get pretty animated sometimes, especially when I'm gaming. Do the loud noises or sudden movements ever... trigger anything for you?"

You considered his question, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Sometimes," you admitted. "But it's not just you. Loud noises in general can be difficult. And when you get really competitive with the boys, the shouting can be a bit much."

George nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "What if I put up soundproofing foam?" he suggested. "It would cut out the really loud bits. And I could try to be more mindful of my volume when we're filming."

The fact that he was willing to make changes to his content, his livelihood, for your comfort brought tears to your eyes. "You don't have to change your whole style for me," you protested weakly.

"I want to," George said firmly. "Your comfort and well-being are more important than any video. Besides," he added with a grin, "my editors have been begging me to tone it down a bit anyway. They say I'm giving them hearing damage," he chuckled softly.

You managed a small smile, touched by his willingness to adapt. "Maybe we could work on some signals?" you suggested hesitantly. "Like, if things get too intense during filming, I could give you a sign to dial it back a bit?"

George's eyes lit up. "That's good idea. We could have a little system, like traffic lights. Green for 'all good', yellow for 'getting close to the edge', and red for 'need to stop now'."

His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself nodding along. "That could work. And maybe... maybe we could have a code word? For times when I'm feeling overwhelmed but can't quite explain why?"

"Absolutely," George agreed immediately. "What word would you like to use?"

You thought for a moment, then smiled. "How about 'cactus'? Like that little plant you got me when we first moved in together."

George's face softened at the memory. "Perfect," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Cactus it is."

As the evening wore on, you and George continued to talk, making plans and setting boundaries. You discussed ways to handle future arguments, strategies for dealing with your non-verbal episodes, and how to navigate intimacy with your trauma history.

As you sat there, wrapped in George's arms, you felt a sense of peace settling over you. The weight you'd been carrying for so long felt lighter, shared between the two of you. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room and highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air.

You could hear the faint sounds of the city outside - cars passing by, the distant laughter of children playing in the park down the street. Inside, the apartment was quiet save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall and the gentle rhythm of George's breathing.

Your gaze wandered around the room, taking in the little details that made this space feel like home. The bookshelf in the corner, filled with a mismatched collection of your favourite novels and George's gaming guides. The framed photo on the coffee table from your first vacation together, both of you grinning widely at the camera, your eyes shining with excitement.

Your eyes landed on George's filming setup in the corner - the ring light, the carefully arranged backdrop, the high-end microphone. It was a stark reminder of the public life he led, the thousands of fans who watched his every move online. For a moment, anxiety gripped you. What if they found out about your past? What if they judged you

Your anxiety must have shown on your face, because George squeezed your hand gently. "Hey," he said softly, "what's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?"

You hesitated, not wanting to burden him with more of your fears. But his patient, loving gaze encouraged you to open up.

"I was just thinking about your fans," you admitted quietly. "What if... what if they found out about my past? What if they judge me, or think I'm not good enough for you?"

George's expression softened, a mix of understanding and determination crossing his features. "Love," he said, his voice firm but gentle, "my fans don't get a say in our relationship. And anyone who would judge you for surviving what you've been through isn't worth our time."

He shifted, turning to face you more fully on the couch. "But more importantly, you are more than good enough for me. You're brilliant, kind, funny, and so incredibly strong. I'm the lucky one here."

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, chasing away some of the chill of your anxiety. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

"I love you," you whispered, the words feeling inadequate to express the depth of your feelings.

"I love you too," George replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "More than I can ever say."

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching as the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky, casting the apartment into a gentle twilight. The soft hum of the city outside became a soothing backdrop to the quiet moment you shared. George shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you, his warmth a steady presence against your side.

"Hey," he murmured after a while, his voice thick with exhaustion but filled with tenderness. "No matter what happens, we're in this together. Okay?"

You nodded against his shoulder, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel so terrifying. It felt possible when filled with quiet moments like this, with laughter, with love.

George pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, and you closed your eyes, letting the steady rise and fall of his breathing lull you into calm.

The past had left its scars, but as you sat there, wrapped in the quiet strength of his love, you realized something profound: you were healing. Not all at once, not perfectly, but step by step. And with George by your side, maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t have to do it alone.

#george clarke #george clarke fics #george clarkey #george clarke x reader #george clarkeey #georgeclarkeey #george clarke imagine #george clarkey angst #george clarke fluff #british youtubers #uk youtube #british youtube #youtube #youtube fanfic #uk yt #youtuber x reader #youtube imagine

168 notes · View notes

unitedshopfronts581 · 1 year ago

Text

Curtain Walling in High-Rise Buildings: Navigating Challenges and Implementing Solutions

Introduction

In the dynamic realm of high-rise construction, the significance of curtain walling cannot be overstated. This architectural marvel not only enhances the aesthetic appeal of towering structures but also plays a pivotal role in addressing several challenges unique to high-rise buildings. In this article, we delve into the intricacies of curtain walling, exploring the challenges faced and presenting effective solutions to ensure optimal performance.

Understanding Curtain Walling

Defining Curtain Walling

Curtain walling refers to the non-structural outer covering of a building, typically composed of lightweight materials such as glass, aluminum, or steel. Unlike traditional walls, curtain walls bear no load, serving primarily as an envelope to shield the building from external elements while allowing ample natural light to infiltrate the interior.

Challenges in High-Rise Construction

Wind Loads and Structural Integrity

One of the primary challenges encountered in high-rise buildings is the formidable force of wind loads. As structures ascend to greater heights, they become more susceptible to wind-induced pressures that can compromise their structural integrity. Curtain walls must be engineered to withstand these forces, necessitating meticulous design and material selection.

Thermal Performance

Maintaining optimal thermal performance in high-rise buildings poses a significant challenge. The expansive glass surfaces of curtain walls, while visually stunning, can lead to increased heat transfer. To counter this, innovative insulation materials and techniques must be incorporated into the curtain wall design to ensure energy efficiency and occupant comfort.

Sealing and Waterproofing

As buildings rise to the skies, the risk of water ingress amplifies. Effective sealing and waterproofing of curtain wall systems become paramount to prevent leaks and subsequent damage. Rigorous testing and quality assurance during the manufacturing and installation processes are imperative to guarantee the longevity of the curtain wall.

Solutions for Curtain Wall Challenges

Advanced Wind Load Analysis

Addressing the challenge of wind loads necessitates a meticulous approach to wind load analysis. Utilizing advanced computational tools, engineers can simulate and analyze wind-induced forces, allowing for the precise design of curtain walls that can withstand even the most demanding environmental conditions.

Innovative Thermal Break Technology

In the realm of thermal performance, the integration of innovative thermal break technology emerges as a game-changer. These insulating elements within the curtain wall assembly act as barriers, minimizing heat transfer and ensuring a more energy-efficient building envelope. This not only enhances sustainability but also reduces operational costs.

Robust Sealing Systems

To combat water ingress, implementing robust sealing systems is imperative. High-quality gaskets, sealants, and weatherstripping materials are deployed to create a watertight barrier. Regular maintenance checks and timely repairs further contribute to the longevity and reliability of the curtain wall system.

Conclusion

Curtain walling in high-rise buildings is an intricate dance between form and function, where architectural brilliance meets engineering precision. By understanding and proactively addressing challenges such as wind loads, thermal performance, and sealing, we pave the way for resilient and aesthetically pleasing structures that stand tall against the test of time.

#curtain wall #curtain walls #curtain manufacturers london #aluminium curtain walling london #aluminium curtain wall #united shop fronts #cheap aluminium shopfronts #shop fronts uk

1 note · View note

hynzsn · 7 months ago

Text

★ SAFE HAVEN ★

☆ johnny suh x male reader

-> boyfriend!johnny x depressed!reader

꩜ .ᐟ hurt/comfort, fluff

contents: caring!johnny, established relationship, reader has daddy issues, unhealthy coping mechanisms (not eating, isolating), implied/referenced emotional abuse (from reader’s father), swearing, hugs, pet names (babe, baby), reassurance from johnny

wc: 2.7k

summary: you’ve been mia for weeks - ghosting calls, barely eating, and basically becoming one with your bed. the voice in your head, it sounds a lot like your father, and it keeps telling you you’re worthless. good thing johnny’s voice - one that whispers sweet nothings and promises of forever - is even louder.

♡︎♡︎♡︎ likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated ♡︎♡︎♡︎

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

[8:37 PM] 📱-> johnny 💝: yo, babe wtf?! you alive over there?? it’s been a minute…

[8:37 PM]📱-> johnny 💝: okay, jokes aside… please text me back. i’m worried about you 😔

[8:41 PM]📱-> johnny 💝: …

[8:45PM]📱-> johnny 💝: i’m coming over.

the messages sat unread, another three little gray bubbles added to the ever-growing count on your lock screen. you didn’t even bother to glance at them before letting your phone clatter back onto the mattress.

it wasn’t supposed to be like this. you were supposed to be the strong one, the one who always had it together, the one who could handle anything life threw at you with a smirk and a sarcastic quip. but lately, the mask had been feeling heavier, the edges digging into your skin, the forced smile making your cheeks ache.

you’d been spiraling for a while now, the familiar darkness creeping in like a fog, suffocating the joy out of everything. it started subtly – skipping meals, pushing deadlines, letting texts go unanswered. then it escalated, the isolation becoming a comforting cocoon as you withdrew further and further into yourself.

your phone buzzed again, the insistent vibration making you flinch. you knew it was johnny. he was the only one who still bothered, who saw through the carefully constructed facade you presented to the world.

he’d seen you at your worst – the breakdowns, the insecurities, the ugly crying sessions fueled by cheap instant ramen and self-loathing. and through it all, he never judged, never wavered. he was your rock, your anchor in the storm that raged within you.

but even rocks could crumble under enough pressure, and you couldn’t bear the thought of dragging him down with you. so, you did what you always did – you pushed everyone away, retreating into the fortress of your own making.

[9:36 PM]

a sharp knock on the door jolted you from your thoughts. you froze, heart hammering in your chest. you weren’t expecting anyone, hadn’t spoken to another soul in days.

the knocking came again, more insistent this time.

“fuck,” you muttered, dragging yourself out of bed. your reflection in the darkened tv screen made you wince. you looked like a ghost – pale, gaunt, with dark circles etched beneath your eyes.

“i’m coming, hold on!” you called out, your voice raspy from disuse.

as you fumbled with the multiple locks on your door, a wave of dizziness washed over you. you leaned against the wall for support, taking a deep breath to steady yourself.

the door swung open, revealing johnny standing in the hallway, his face a mixture of relief and concern.

“hey,” he said softly, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in your disheveled appearance.

“hey,” you mumbled back, avoiding his eyes.

“can i come in?” he asked, his voice gentle.

you hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, allowing him to enter.

the moment he stepped inside, johnny’s face fell. the air was thick with the smell of unwashed laundry and stale takeout containers littered the coffee table. the curtains were drawn, casting the apartment in a perpetual twilight.

“jesus, babe,” he breathed, running a hand through his hair. “what the fuck happened?”

you shrugged, unable to meet his gaze. “nothing. just… tired.”

he didn’t buy it for a second. he crossed the room in a few strides, pulling you into a hug. you stiffened initially, surprised by the sudden contact, but then you melted into his embrace, the warmth of his body a balm to your aching soul.

“don’t lie to me,” he murmured into your hair. “i know something’s wrong. you’ve been mia for weeks.”

you buried your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne – a comforting mix of sandalwood and something uniquely him.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice muffled by his shirt. “i didn’t mean to worry you.”

“worry me?” he chuckled humorlessly. “you scared the shit out of me, you know that? i thought something had happened to you.”

“i’m sorry,” you repeated, the words catching in your throat.

he pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hands and forcing you to look at him. his eyes, usually so full of warmth and humor, were filled with concern.

“talk to me,” he pleaded. “what’s going on in that head of yours?”

you hesitated, unsure of where to begin. how could you possibly explain the tangled mess of emotions that had taken root in your mind, choking the life out of you?

“it’s just…” you started, your voice cracking. “everything feels… pointless. like i’m just going through the motions, you know?”

he nodded slowly, encouraging you to continue.

“i feel like i’m drowning, johnny,” you confessed, tears welling up in your eyes. “and the worst part is, i don’t even know why. i have no reason to feel this way. i have a good life, a great boyfriend…”

“hey, hey,” he interrupted, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “it’s okay to not be okay. you don’t need a reason to feel the way you do. sometimes life just throws you a curveball, and you just gotta roll with it.”

his words, so simple yet profound, struck a chord within you. you had always felt the pressure to be strong, to have it all figured out. but maybe it was okay to not be okay. maybe it was okay to ask for help.

“i hate that you’re right,” you said, managing a weak smile.

he chuckled, the sound warming you from the inside out. “that’s my boy.”

he pulled you back into a hug, this time tighter than before. you clung to him, letting his strength seep into you, chasing away the shadows that had been haunting you for so long.

“you know i’m here for you, right?” he murmured against your hair. “always.”

you nodded, burying your face in his chest, unwilling to let go. in his arms, you felt safe, protected from the storm raging within you.

“always,” you echoed, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down your cheek.

johnny didn’t let you go for a long time, holding you close as if he were afraid you might disappear if he loosened his grip. the steady beat of his heart against your ear, the warmth of his body pressed against yours – it was a lifeline, pulling you back from the brink.

when he finally pulled away, his expression was serious. “okay, enough of this moping around,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “first things first, we’re getting some real food in you. and i’m not talking about that instant ramen crap.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you with a look. “don’t even try it,” he said, a playful glint in his eye. “i know your eating habits have been shit lately. i can practically see your ribs.”

he was right, of course. you hadn’t had a proper meal in days, surviving on a steady diet of instant noodles and self-pity. but the thought of food made your stomach churn.

“i’m not really hungry,” you mumbled, averting your gaze.

he raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “right, and i’m the tooth fairy. come on, babe, humor me.”

he didn’t wait for a response, instead taking your hand and pulling you towards the door. you stumbled after him, your legs shaky from disuse.

“where are we going?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“my place,” he replied over his shoulder. “my fridge is stocked with enough food to feed a small army. and before you protest, you need a shower and a change of clothes, sweetheart. you reek of despair and instant ramen.”

he said it with so much affection, you couldn’t even be embarrassed. he was right, though. a shower did sound amazing.

the drive to johnny’s apartment was a blur. you sat in the passenger seat, watching the city lights stream by, your mind racing with a million thoughts per minute.

as he pulled into his parking spot, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of envy. his life seemed so…put together. he had his dream job as an idol, a spacious apartment with a view, and everyone adores him.

you, on the other hand, felt like you were constantly playing catch-up, like you were always one step behind everyone else. your dead-end job at the call center barely paid the bills, your apartment was a testament to your inability to adult properly, and theres the fact that… well, you feel completely lonely. sometimes, you couldn’t help but feel like you were holding johnny back, embarrassing him. you and johnny have been together for a while now, but the thought of what he actually see’s in you still lingers in the back of your mind…

“you coming?” johnny’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. he was already out of the car, holding the passenger door open for you.

you forced a smile, hoping it reached your eyes. “yeah, sorry. just lost in thought.”

he gave you a knowing look, but he didn’t press further. he knew better than to push you when you were like this.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

his apartment was everything yours wasn’t – bright, spacious, and impeccably decorated. you felt a pang of guilt, realizing you hadn’t even bothered to tidy up before he came over.

“go on, shower’s in there,” he said, gesturing down the hallway. “towels are in the linen closet. i’ll find you something to wear.”

you almost protested, but the feel of johnny’s softest t-shirt in your hands stopped you. it even smelled like him. you quickly showered, washing away the grime and the lingering sadness that clung to you like a bad cologne.

stepping out, you found the promised clothes on the counter. you pulled on the soft t-shirt, the scent of him enveloping you like a warm hug. it was comforting, familiar. safe.

you found johnny in the kitchen, already dicing vegetables with practiced ease. he looked up as you entered, a soft smile gracing his lips.

“there’s my boy,” he murmured, his gaze lingering for a moment on how his shirt hung on you. “feeling a little more human?”

you nodded, unable to stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. “yeah,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “yeah, i think i am.”

he was right. a shower, his clothes, his presence – it was already working its magic.

“good,” he said, his smile widening. “make yourself comfortable, baby,” he said, gesturing towards the plush sofa. “it’ll be ready soon.”

you sank onto the sofa, sinking into the soft cushions. you closed your eyes, letting out a sigh of contentment. you had forgotten how good it felt to be here.

“so,” he said, his voice coming from the kitchen. “talk to me. what’s got you so down?”

you opened your eyes, watching as he moved around the kitchen with an ease that never failed to amaze you. he was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, his hair tousled from running his fingers through it a million times.

you sighed, running a hand through your damp hair. “it’s just…everything,” you mumbled, not wanting to burden him with your problems.

he stopped what he was doing, turning to face you, his expression serious. “don’t do that,” he said, his voice firm. “don’t shut me out. talk to me.”

you hesitated, unsure of where to begin. how could you possibly explain the suffocating weight of your father’s expectations, the constant feeling of never being good enough, the fear that you were destined to end up alone and miserable just like him?

“it’s stupid,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

“nothing you say is stupid,” he reassured you, walking over and sitting down beside you on the sofa.

you took a deep breath, steeling yourself. “it’s just…my dad called.”

johnny’s face hardened. he knew how much your father’s words could cut you, how deeply his disapproval ran.

“what did he say?” he asked, his voice tight.

you closed your eyes, the memory of your father’s condescending tone, his thinly veiled insults, sending a shiver down your spine.

“the usual,” you mumbled. “disappointment. failure. you know the drill.”

you opened your eyes to find johnny watching you, his expression a mixture of anger and concern.

“he’s an asshole, you know that right?” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “you’re worth ten of him, and don’t you ever forget that.”

you wanted to believe him, you really did. but the truth was, his words, as much as they stung, had a way of burrowing under your skin, planting seeds of doubt that were hard to shake off.

“it’s not that easy, johnny,” you said, your voice laced with frustration. “it’s like…it’s like his voice is always in my head, telling me i’m not good enough, that i’ll never amount to anything.”

johnny wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. you could hear the steady thump of his heart, a comforting rhythm against the chaos of your own thoughts.

“then we fight back,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “we drown out his voice with other voices – voices that love you, voices that support you, voices that remind you of your worth.”

he tilted your chin up with his finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. his eyes, usually so full of warmth and humor, were blazing with a fierce intensity that took your breath away.

“you are not your father,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “you are kind, you are talented, you are worthy of love. don’t ever let anyone, not even your own blood, tell you otherwise.”

his words, spoken with such conviction, such unwavering belief, pierced through the darkness that had settled over you. for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a glimmer of hope, a tiny spark igniting within the ashes of your despair.

“what would i do without you?” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

he chuckled, the sound a balm to your soul. “probably starve to death in a pile of dirty laundry,” he teased, his tone light despite the seriousness of the moment.

you swatted his arm playfully, a genuine smile finally reaching your lips. “hey, i’ll have you know i did laundry last week,” you retorted, even though you both knew it was a blatant lie.

he laughed, the sound echoing through the apartment, chasing away the last vestiges of darkness.

“alright, alright, i believe you,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “now, how about that food i promised you? i’m starving.”

he stood up, pulling you along with him. you followed him into the kitchen, your heart feeling lighter than it had in days.

as he moved around the kitchen, preparing a simple but delicious meal of kimchi fried rice and bulgogi, you watched him with a newfound appreciation. he wasn’t just your boyfriend; he was your best friend, your confidante, your rock. he was the one person who never gave up on you, even when you had given up on yourself.

you ate in comfortable silence, the only sound the clinking of chopsticks and the occasional contented sigh. it was amazing how something as simple as a good meal and good company could make the world seem a little less bleak.

after dinner, you helped johnny wash the dishes, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm as you worked side-by-side. as you scrubbed a particularly stubborn pot, you felt his gaze on you.

“what?” you asked, looking up at him with a questioning smile.

“nothing,” he replied, shaking his head. “It’s just… i’m glad you’re here.”

you knew what he meant. he wasn’t just talking about being physically present in his apartment; he was talking about letting him in, letting him see the real you, the broken, messy parts that you usually kept hidden from the world.

“me too,” you whispered, leaning against him, seeking his warmth, his strength.

he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

“you’re safe here, you know,” he murmured against your hair. “safe with me.”

you closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you, soothing the ache in your heart. In his arms, you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t realized you were craving. he was your safe haven, your refuge from the storm.

and as you stood there, wrapped in his embrace, you knew that no matter what life threw your way, you’d be alright, with him by your side.

477 notes · View notes