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ohmyeyesmyeyes · 5 months ago

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always a good morning - nh13

summary: (nh13 x f!reader) a snapshot into a morning at the swiss alps with our favourite devils captain! inspired by headband nico!

warnings: suggestive content, fluff, not checked! 2.4k words

< a/n: i've hit such bad writer's block i literally can't even tell you so i went back to my roots: brunettes with big brown eyes!! >

You inhaled at the feel of your heart rate quickening, something having thrown your mind from its restful slumber to suddenly being conscious of your surroundings.

It was freezing, that was the first thing you noticed. You could feel the duvet cover draped across your shoulders but it was cold to touch, like a window had been left open during the night and cooled the one thing that was supposed to keep you warm. There was a draft somewhere down your back, the chilly air swirling up your sleep shirt and down your bare legs, and without thinking much of it, you pulled the duvet higher, nuzzling back down into your pillow.

Maybe if you stayed still enough and tried not to focus on the pounding of your heart, which was clearly telling you to get up for whatever reason, you’d be able to trick yourself into falling back to sleep. Maybe.

You were certainly still tired enough: your eyes felt dry and your bones felt heavy, your entire body and mind fully sinking into the mattress and pillows gladly and with a sigh of relief. You could feel your hair smeared across your forehead at an unnatural angle, and your top was twisted uncomfortably, but the mere thought of reaching around to move it was exhausting to even entertain.

You sighed, breathing into your pillow, feeling the last dregs of sleep begin to wither away. Your heart rate wasn’t slowing and you could feel yourself fight the urge to open your eyes. Suddenly the idea of burrowing back under the covers only awakened the desire to sit up straight and take in the view – when had you become a morning person?

The sigh turned into an impatient huff of resignation, your previous thoughts of sleep abandoned completely, and you slowly peeled your eyes open, peering out from under the covers.

The foot of the bed was a heavy mess of blankets strewn around, clearly having been kicked off at some point in the night, and your eyes jumped over the chair filled with clothes and bags before settling on the open window to your left. For the sake of the view of the cloudy mountains and the utterly breathtaking green outside, you ignored the sleeping hunk of a back also on your left.

Though it could barely have been five seconds before you turned your attention back to him. That always seemed to happen, no matter where you were or what you were doing – Nico was much too magnetic for his own good.

You were still curled up where you’d woken initially, one arm tucked underneath your pillow, the other resting comfortably on top of the sheets. It was the space between you both that gave you the answer as to why you’d woken up cold: you were perched on one side of the bed, and Nico on the edge of his. The reason? You’d both seemingly drank enough the night before to not take any notice of the sides you’d fallen into, because he was on your side and you were on his.

You blinked slowly, poking some sleep out of the corner of your eyes before glancing back at him quickly. His back was facing you, broad shoulders blocking some of the light from the window you’d obviously forgotten to cover with curtains the night before. His skin had a brownish glow to it, evidence from the dream-like string of vacations he’d taken this summer, and you restrained the urge to reach out and press your palm against the skin there, knowing with absolute certainty he’d feel like he’d just crawled out of the sun.

You were so cold because he wasn’t near enough to act as a human hot water bottle, keeping everything just the right temperature.

You weren’t even sure how he did it, not in the early morning breeze, because he’d shuffled the duvet down to his waist and you could see he’d untucked one leg from underneath to come to rest on top of the covers.

It seemed your mind had made up the solution to your little problem before you’d even managed to comprehend it because you’d suddenly pulled the duvet into your fist taut enough to shuffle subtly closer, just enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, but not close enough to touch him.

You thought about pressing your feet into the backs of his calves, but judging from the sun just peaking round the mountains it can’t have been any later than six in the morning–

The bed shook violently, almost reminiscent of how someone would jump in their skin after falling down the stairs in a dream, and the sudden jolt had your eyes flying open, mind a complete jumble as you blinked the remnants of sleep away.

When did you fall back to sleep?

There was a groan of “woah” from the body in front of you, deep and gravelly, both hinting at the alcohol consumption last night and the early morning disruption of…whatever had happened there.

Your brows furrowed at the intense light streaming through the window, and you could barely open your eyes from squinting hard against it. Yet, you could still make out the silhouette of a shoulder moving in front of you, and still make out the thick head of hair combed back with the sudden appearance of a hand you knew all too well.

“What the fuck?” Nico grumbled, and the mattress bobbled again, prompting you to pull yourself into a sitting position, hair falling into your face before you managed to push it all back.

You weren’t entirely sure how long you’d slept but it must have been at least two hours later: the sun was beaming pretty intensely through the window, no tells of that early-morning breeze left to suffer through.

You were too busy trying to get your eyes to adjust to the light to notice Nico reach an unsteady hand out to the bedside table, fumbling with the phone lobbed on the wood. You blinked once, twice, before placing a delicate hand on his shoulder.

The involuntary shudder that immediately followed had both of you freezing. Right under your palm his skin seemed to transform, now littered with goosebumps. You frowned, slowly removing your hand.

He’d been as warm as you’d predicted, but his temperature was the last thing on your mind, especially when he almost instantaneously started to shiver, his phone long forgotten on the bedside table as he blearily rolled over onto his back, pushing away your hair that had fallen in a curtain around your face, blocking his eyesight.

You took that momentary pause where he couldn’t see you, eyes trailing greedily down his chest before looking up to meet his gaze. It was painfully clear he’d only just woken up: his eyes were still blinking quickly, trying to adjust to the light as well, and one side of his face was lined red from where his cheek had been smushed against the pillow.

There was something so adorably irresistible about Nico in the morning; he never quite ceased to amaze you, not with those big doe eyes blinking wearily up at you, and certainly not with the way he’d curled his arm to rest behind his head, bicep purposefully on show.

“What were you doing?” You croaked, eyeing the rather befuddled crease between his brows as his mouth formed an ‘o’, his attention darting to your pillow next to his head.

His face crumpled at your words, and you held back an amused snort of laughter at his clearly hungover state, instead moving to lay back down in your previous position, head perched on the corner of your own pillow.

“Sorry.” You whispered, unable to help a small smile at the way his nearest eye to you peeked open, immediately followed by a cheeky dimpled smile.

He hummed, shaking his head, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he fought to stay awake, “My fault.” He breathed, before snapping his eyes open, “I went to check you were still in bed and almost fell out instead. Why are we on the wrong side?”

You shrugged, yawning, “No clue.”

His face broke into a kind of smirk, and he rolled onto his shoulder, breath tickling your face, eliciting an amused scrunch of your nose, “We must have been pretty distracted, then.” He muttered, and you rolled your eyes fondly.

“Morning breath.” You mumbled, budging your cold foot against his shin. He didn’t recoil at your freezing touch, but rather helped trap your foot between his leg, sandwiched by heat on all sides.

“You don’t care about my morning breath.” He said knowingly, nudging his nose against yours and draping a bare arm across your shoulders to pull you impossibly closer.

He was boiling. The sudden change in temperature had you shivering, now enveloped completely in a bubble of warmth, your forehead pressed snugly against the crease of his shoulder. You found yourself humming, “No I don’t.”

There was a rumble in his chest, a soft, lazy laugh, as his hand dragged through your hair, gently untangling any knots and brushing it off your face to press a sweet kiss to your temple. Your heart had been beating pretty quickly from when he’d almost launched himself off the bed – from sheer shock – but now it was racing for a whole different reason.

It was still for a while, and you were vaguely aware of the pounding in his own chest and the constant shuffling, so when he wrapped both arms underneath you it didn’t come as a complete shock. There was a brief moment you were airborne, a new rush of cold air blowing through the sheets before the mattress was back on your side, and when you peeled your eyes open once more you were facing a now wide-awake Nico, whose cheeks were a significant tinge of pink, evidence of his previous warmth.

He’d spun you around so you were both back in your normal sides of the bed, but he’d also placed you on his hot spot.

“That’s better.” He grinned, running a hand through his hair.

He’d not had it trimmed in so long it was difficult to keep it all from falling into his face, and for the last few days of vacation it had been driving him crazy. A hair tie didn’t work, it was far too comical for him to even walk out of the door with a sad excuse of a ponytail, let alone enough to face his family. It was only yesterday that you’d managed to wear him down to wear one of your headbands, and he hadn’t once moved to take it off throughout the entire day.

Clearly he was missing it already.

You pushed yourself up onto one elbow and he tilted his head quizzically, “What do you wanna do for breakfast?”

His face brightened, mouth twisting in thought, “We could go to that cafe and pick up some pastries and eat them on the dock?”

As if by command, your stomach growled in agreement, and both yours and Nico’s faces crumpled with amusement, before Nico took initiative and threw back the covers, that single action both the best and worst thing in the world: on one hand you were smacked with the one thing you’d been trying to avoid, but on the other? There was nothing quite as mouth-wateringly picturesque as watching Nico kneel on the bed, back muscles rippling as he stretched.

Your lip caught in your teeth, and he turned around after a moment, not having heard you even attempt to move even despite the goosebumps trailing across your skin, and you blushed, smiling unabashedly as he raised an accusatory brow in your direction. He tried to hide the fact that he was smiling as well, his mouth fighting to keep a straight line, but the dimple in his cheek gave him away. The dimples always gave him away.

He looked right at you, trailing his eyes across your splayed figure still unmoving from your previous position, and you collapsed your arm, head hitting the pillow with a soft thump.

“Good morning.” He mumbled, voice suddenly quite gruff. You reached a hand out to poke him in his lower back, just above the elastic band of his shorts, and he spun quickly, arms instantly bracketing your head in. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you found you were hungry for a whole different reason. The house was empty – everyone else had made plans to hike for sunrise – and Nico was slowly lowering himself closer to your face, his hair tickling your forehead.

You reached a hand out automatically, fingers catching and pushing his hair away from his face, just right at the same moment he pressed an urgent kiss to your lips, lingering for a few seconds longer than he usually would have.

But…you had an empty house and no reason not to kiss him back as fiercely as you wanted. There were no consequences, after all.

“It is, yeah.” You whispered, pulling back slightly. Through the gaps in your hands a stubborn lock of hair flopped onto his forehead, and he looked at it, contemplating something for a moment.

You did the acting for him, quickly twisting your hands out of his hair and avoiding his arm bracketing you in for the sake of pulling a headband out of the bedside drawer and sliding it around his neck before pulling it back up, the thoughtful task made all the more difficult by the hot, open-mouthed kisses he was leaving across the column of your neck.

“Always is a good morning when it’s with you, y’know?” He breathed between kisses, and you couldn’t help a breathy laugh, mind not completely focused on his hair when he was melting you to the mattress.

“As much as I love what you’re doing, I literally can’t–Oh, thank you.” You grinned as his face reappeared, his cheeks flushed and lips bitten pink as he waited patiently for you to slide the headband into place, just the way you knew he liked it.

You patted the top of his head and he flopped onto the mattress next to you, one arm somehow already wound around your waist, pulling you closer as he continued his path, “I thought you were hungry?”

“The cafe’s not going anywhere any time soon.” You reasoned, pulling back enough to look him in the eyes – dazed and glossy, “You should wear headbands more often.”

“I know, right? They’re so useful.”

You frowned, “That’s now what I was going for.”

“I know.” He grinned.

#nico hischier x reader #nico hischier fic #nico hischier oneshot #nico hischier imagine #hockey player x reader #hockey fic #hockey imagine #hockey oneshot

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rorylovesangst · 1 month ago

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A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is Motion Sickness by Phoebe Bridgers

tws: trauma, child abuse, blue getting tipsy

previous chapter → chapter 6

word count: 6.4k

You’re already late to Friendsgiving.

The stuffing burned. You’d been in the shower, washing away the sweat and things you wish to forget, the scalding water pelting the burn on your chest. It had started to look better—less red, less bitter. It had begun to forgive you—but it still throbbed, a dull ache that flared with every fiery drop and unpredicted movement. The acrid smell of smoke didn’t hit you until it clawed its way under the bathroom door.

Dripping wet and wrapped in a threadbare towel, you bolted to the kitchen, your feet thwacking against the floor. Smoke slithered from the oven’s withered edges, curling upward with a mind of its own, eager to consume everything in its path.

It wasn’t the first time smoke had chased you.

Once, when you were young, your father burned a pizza in the oven. He’d left you alone in the house, small and helpless, while he wandered off somewhere. When the smoke crept through the screen door, you stumbled outside, coughing, your tiny lungs unable to fight the gray fingers curling through the trees and clinging to the sky. You called for him, begged him to save you with fragmented warbles and a quivering chin.

When he found you, grimy and gasping, he didn’t hold you or brush the soot from your cheeks. He smacked you. Open-palmed. Swift. Stinging.

You wanted to cry then, to let the tears fall so maybe he’d feel guilty, maybe he’d see you as something fragile and worth protecting. But you couldn’t. You didn’t. And he didn’t.

He waved at the smoke pouring from the house and made you sleep outside that night, the sky vast and cold above you, its stars nothing but indifferent pinpricks in the dark. You tried praying to a God above, looking up at the stars with whispers you hoped would travel far enough to reach someone, something. No answer.

Now, standing in front of your smoking oven, it’s hard to tell if the smell filling your nose is coming from the burning food or memories that are embedded in your bones, licking at the marrow and sucking off the meat. The darkness of that smoke feels like it never really let go. It's stuck in your hair and the creases of your palms, stuck in your throat and everywhere you’ve tried to belong.

You yank open the oven door, coughing as the heat prickles your face, and pull the tray out with jittery hands. The stuffing is ruined, blackened and crumbled. Its harsh scent stings your eyes.

So, you start over.

By the time the stuffing is in the oven again, you’re in front of your bathroom mirror, your chest heaving from the effort. The burn on your chest screams at you with every breath, though it’s quieter now than it was. It looks less like a wound and more like a reminder, its edges faded but still aching.

Your neck, however, refuses to be quiet, refuses to let you forget it's there. Deep bruises bloom across your skin, sickly hues of green and purple that bleed through makeup no matter how many layers you cake on. Each attempt to cover them is a losing battle that leaves you frustrated. Finally, you give up and scrub your neck clean, throwing the foundation-streaked cloth into the sink.

You dig through your drawer, pulling out an old, itchy turtleneck. It’s a hay-colored sweater, rough and coarse against your skin. The threads scratch at the raw patches on your chest and cling to your neck You pull at the collar, desperate for it to give you some air. It doesn’t help. It never does.

Now, you’re at Olive’s door. Voices hum through the walls, muffled but warm, and her laugh rings out above them. Lively. Ludic. Your stomach churns, nerves buzzing as your fingers twitch in your mittens. A tic builds in your throat—a compulsive hum you can’t quite swallow. Your head jerks slightly to the left, the movement sending a sharp sting through your chest and neck. It almost makes you whine, but you press your lips together and try to push the pain somewhere else.

“Shit,” you whisper, pressing a hand against the sweater’s collar, the coarse fabric adding insult to injury. The tic comes again, this time with a sharp hum that escapes your lips. You glance down at the tray balancing precariously in your other hand and force yourself to breathe.

The burn on your chest throbs. Your head jerks again. You knock twice, sharp and quick, before you can change your mind.

The door swings open almost immediately, the warmth of the room spilling out into the gelid night. It's so warm that you feel like you are glowing, incandescent and hot to the touch. Olive stands there, her hair lit like a halo by the soft light of her home.

“Finally!” she sighs, her voice dreamy. Effortless. She takes one look at you and snatches the tray from your hands before you can even open your mouth. The sweat pooling in your palms is luckily shielded by your mittens, stopping the tray from slipping from your hands.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late—I burned the stuffing, and then I had to—”

“It’s fine.” She cuts you off with an airy laugh, waving away your words. You can see them dissipating in the air with your foggy breath. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

Her hand lands on your shoulder as she guides you inside, the gesture so casual and warm that it catches you off guard. The room is small but alive, people cramp themselves onto the couch, elbow to elbow, knee to knee. Glasses clink, laughter spills over the hum of conversation, and the air smells of rosemary and wine. Price is wrapped in Olives checkered apron, bent halfway in the oven with a baster in hand. He peeks over his shoulder and smiles. It’s cheeky, glinting against the darkness of his bushy mutton chops.

“Hey Blue,” He says, head back in the oven, Sylvia Plath style. That wouldn’t work though, his shoulders are too big to fit into the small thing.

The word "Hi" spills from your lips like syrup—thick, sticky, and sluggish, clinging to the air before it dissipates into the space between you and the world you’ve never quite felt part of. The house around you pulses with an unfamiliar energy, like the hum of a broken lightbulb flickering in the corner of a room that is too full of ghosts. Olive’s decorations are too much, and yet not enough, a glittering cascade of beauty that threatens to swallow you whole. Golden garlands twinkle across the dining room ceiling, casting delicate shadows that dance like ghosts on the walls, frozen sunlight trapped in a world that has already moved on.

You shrug off your coat and drape it over the hook by the door, fingers brushing the fabric as though it were a lifeline. You fold your arms around yourself, a reflex, like gathering the shards of something you didn’t know had cracked. It’s not to shield yourself from Olive or Price—they are familiar, constants in a place that doesn’t belong to you. No, it’s the strangers that linger, their laughter spilling like wine into a glass already full, unfamiliar faces that hang in the air like fog, dense and suffocating, threatening to smother you in their warmth.

Across the room, Johnny catches your eye. His mohawk juts up like a beacon, daring the world to notice. His body sprawls across the leather couch, limbs loose and easy, the fabric creaking under him like an old door about to fall off its hinges. And then, just like that, his gaze locks with yours, sharp and unrelenting, and you feel it—the weight of him—like a stone dropped into the depths of an otherwise still pond. A grin splits his face, jagged and crooked, a flash of something dark and teasing. The leather groans beneath him, and your nerves tighten, an invisible string pulling taut in your chest. You turn away, seeking refuge in the warm familiarity of Olive’s face, her smile a flicker of light in the haze of strangers.

Olive notices, of course, her eyes finding yours as she slices through the conversation like a breath of fresh air. "Okay, Blue," she says, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the knot in your throat. "You’re helping me with the mac and cheese."

You exhale, a sigh that feels like a storm passing. You nod, grateful for the distraction, the simple task of grating cheese a small act of survival, of doing something normal in a room full of things that make you feel like you don’t belong. Your hand aches with the motion, but it’s a welcome pain, the rhythm of it grounding you in a way that nothing else can.

"Doesn’t he look so snazzy in my apron?" Olive teases, and you glance up just in time to see Price flitting around the kitchen, his movements fluid, almost unrecognizable in the apron that clings to him like a strange second skin.

A laugh slips out of you, jagged and raw, a sound that feels foreign in your throat. It cracks as it leaves your lips, a brief, fragile thing that vanishes before it can settle. You hate how it sounds—forced, brittle—but it’s all you can offer.

Price grins, his deep, rumbling laugh shaking the walls, filling the room with its warmth. "It’s making me a better cook than you."

"Oh, you wish," Olive retorts, her voice light, teasing, but there’s a softness there too, a warmth that clings to her words like the memory of summer rain. As she leans past him to stir the pot, Price brushes a hand over her shoulder, a touch that is almost absent, but meaningful nonetheless.

Their banter fills the room, a background hum that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of something you can’t quite reach. And then, Olive’s eyes flicker toward you, a mischievous gleam in them.

"What?" you mumble, the grater scraping against the block of cheese, the sound steady and metered like a clock ticking in the silence.

"Here comes Johnny," she murmurs, her half-smile betraying the amusement that you don’t quite share.

You glance over your shoulder. There he is—Johnny—moving toward you with the lazy confidence of a predator, eyes narrowing as he inches closer. His grin is wide, calculated, a mask he wears like armor to disarm. He’s too close now, his presence heavy, pressing against the air like a stormfront moving in. You feel the heat of his breath as it ghosts along the side of your neck, and your stomach churns, a cold knot tightening as he leans in, his voice a velvet slither.

"Hey, bonnie," he drawls, the words curling around you, soft and dangerous, like smoke that seeps into your lungs and lingers.

You want to shrink away, to vanish into the shadows of the kitchen, but you don’t. You stand there, waiting, caught in the pull of something you can’t name, your heart pounding like the beat of a drum you didn’t choose to hear.

"Hi," you manage, the word barely a whisper, fragile as a breath lost in the turbulent hum of the kitchen. It fades almost immediately, swallowed by the clatter of plates and pots, the heat of the stove, the sizzle of oil in the pan. Your fingers, slick with tension, glide the grater down the block of cheese with an intensity that almost betrays you. The blade kisses the surface too close to your skin, a faint, electric reminder of how easily things can go wrong.

“Get out of the kitchen,” Olive commands sharply, her brow lifted in a maternal arch, the kind of look that says she knows everything—what you’re thinking, what you’re hiding. “I know you’re trying to sneak a bite of something.”

“I’m not sneakin’ anything!” Johnny protests, his voice rising, honeyed and teasing, a mock offense that falls like a soft sigh through the air. The sound crawls along your spine, a warm shiver igniting across your shoulders, goosebumps blooming like stars across the expanse of your skin.

“Don’t give in, ‘Liv,” Price calls from the pantry, his voice low, thick with amusement, muffled by the rustle of cans and spices. “He’s a scavenger. He’s not getting shit.”

Johnny laughs—a light, airy scoff that slips through the room like smoke, dissolving into the space, leaving behind only the echo of something faint, elusive. He steps closer, his presence a gravity you can’t escape, pulling the air tight around you. “I jest wanted to introduce meself,” he says, his voice now lower, darker, like a velvet cloud pressing down on your chest. It lingers, suffocating, until his gaze settles on you—a quiet, insistent weight. His eyes lock with yours, a slow, searing pressure that promises to pin you in place, hold you until you can no longer move, speak, or breathe.

"Name’s Johnny."

You force a smile, one that barely skims the surface of your lips, like a cracked porcelain mask. It’s more a reflex than anything else—automatic, stiff, lacking any trace of warmth. “Blue,” you murmur, stealing a glance at him, just long enough to see the sharp edge of his gaze cut through the air, the flicker of something sharp—dangerous—in the depths of his eyes. Your attention snaps back to the cheese, the task of grating a flimsy excuse to escape the magnetic pull of his stare.

“From the diner. I remember.” His voice, smooth as silk, slides around you, weaving through the quiet spaces like a thread binding your senses to him. The weight of his gaze on you is almost tactile, like a slow burn against your skin. It presses through the veil of your peripheral vision, making your pulse stutter, each throb loud in your ears as it rushes to your throat.

“Olive!” Price calls from the pantry again, his voice an abrupt slice through the thick tension, breaking the spell. “Y’got any idea where the oregano is?”

Olive mutters something unintelligible under her breath, stomping toward the pantry, leaving you alone with Johnny. The silence left in her wake is heavy, like a storm about to break. The distance between you both shrinks, as if the air itself tightens, presses in.

“How’s the burn, lass?” His question is a sudden gust of wind, sharp and biting, cutting through the heat and making the hairs on your neck stand at attention. It stirs something deep inside you, makes your chest tighten and your breath catch, though you can’t quite place why. You grip the grater harder, your palm slick with sweat that betrays you, a signal of just how much he rattles you.

“Uh—it’s better. Fine, really,” you answer, your voice smaller than you want it to be, swallowed by the weight of his unwavering gaze. You wish you could control the way your heart starts to race, the way the air feels thicker, harder to breathe the longer he stands there. His gaze doesn’t waver, though it remains casual, deceptively so, like a predator pretending indifference while waiting for the slightest movement, the smallest crack in your composure.

“Good.” He draws the word out, savoring it, letting it linger between you like the softest of threats. And even though his tone remains deceptively easy, you know—without a doubt—that his eyes are waiting for you to falter. To show him something you’ve kept hidden, something you can’t afford to let slip.

Before he can speak again, the door creaks open, the sound slicing through the stillness like a knife cutting through velvet. You don’t raise your eyes, but the chill that rushes in steals the warmth from the room, biting at your skin like an unwelcome guest. It lingers in the air, a stark reminder of the world beyond this little sanctuary of soft conversation and heat.

“I brought gifts,” Simon’s voice rolls in, smooth but carrying weight, the kind that demands attention like thunder rolling in the distance before the storm. You flinch—not outwardly, not enough for anyone to catch—but your hand stills mid-motion, hovering above the cheese as if his very presence has sent ripples through the calm.

When you finally glance up, he’s placing a bottle of red wine and a foil-wrapped dish onto the counter. The deep red of the wine catches the light, as if it holds the evening’s secrets within it. He’s dressed in dark jeans, sharp and unscathed, with a navy wool sweater that clings just enough to outline the muscle beneath, the shoulders broad like the horizon at dusk. Tattoos snake down his arms, curling like dark tendrils around his wrists, hidden art that only seems to emerge when he’s close, as though parts of him were always kept at bay.

His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, the room feels too small to contain the weight of it. He smiles, his lips pulling back to reveal white teeth, the slight chapping of them speaking of cold nights and long drives. “You’re late,” Olive’s voice rings out with playful reproach, as she reaches for the tray with hands that know the rhythm of shared meals.

“I know, I know. Had to stop for wine. Long line,” Simon answers, the shrug of his shoulders dismissing the lateness like it’s nothing at all. His jacket slips off, revealing the familiar scabbed knuckles, each wound telling a story deeper than words. They’re raw, angry against the soft fabric of his shirt, as though they belong to someone who’s lived in the spaces between calm and chaos.

“Well, it’s a good brand, so I’ll forgive you,” Price chimes in, his voice warm and familiar as he uncorks the bottle, the sound sharp and final, like a sentence passed in a court of good taste.

“Nice apron, boss,” Simon says, his tone light but weighted with something more, something sharp that cuts through the air between you like a thread pulled taut.

“Pleasure of my wife,” Price quips, his hand steady as he pours the wine with a flourish, each gesture so practiced it feels like a performance. Every motion has purpose, as if he’s acting out a play where every guest is a character, and each gesture holds meaning.

Johnny grabs a fistful of cheese, stuffing it into his mouth before anyone can stop him, his grin wide and unrepentant.

“Hey! No dirty fingers in the food!” Olive snaps, swatting at him with a swift, playful flick. He laughs, stepping back in exaggerated shock, as if the moment were made for an audience only he can see.

The air shifts again, thickening with Simon’s presence as he leans in, his voice low and measured, a hum that vibrates against the very walls of the room. “Hi, Blue,” he murmurs, his head tilting just enough to catch your gaze, like a wolf who knows the hunt is close but won’t rush it.

“Hi,” you whisper, your grip tightening on the bowl as though it could hold the moment still, anchoring you to the room, to the space between you.

Olive reappears, her wine glass gleaming like a polished ruby in the dim light, the liquid inside swirling like blood in a vein. She steps into the room with the effortless grace of someone who’s long mastered the art of disappearing into the spaces they occupy. Her eyes flick between you and Simon, measuring the air between you two with the clinical precision of a seasoned chemist, knowing exactly when to introduce a new element, when to let it simmer.

Price greets her with a kiss to the crown of her head, a gesture that lands soft as rain on a tired roof. His hand gives her rear a playful tap, a reminder of old routines, of moments that don’t need words to linger. She rolls her eyes, the motion habitual, but even in that, there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or just the quiet contentment of a life too familiar to be anything else. She swallows down the wine, her throat moving with the smooth, deliberate motion of a cat licking its wounds in the sun.

“Thanks, sweetpea,” Olive purrs, tugging at the apron strings knotted at Price’s hips. There’s something intimate in the way her fingers dance around the fabric, a tether binding them together in this small, circumscribed world. As if their world, this little kitchen where time seems to pause, is the only one that matters.

Simon’s gaze sharpens when he asks, “Olive’s got you cooking?” His voice, calm and composed, lingers in the air, like a stone sinking slowly into still water. There’s weight in his presence, a subtle pressure that presses on the ribs, a quiet pull like the tide, always there, always moving beneath the surface.

“I want to,” you reply, shrugging as the words slip from your mouth, slippery and unformed, before you can weigh their cost. They feel like something you might have said years ago, when you still believed in the power of wanting. The truth, like a cold shadow, stirs quietly in the background.

Simon’s brow arches, and the pause between you thickens. His gaze lingers, a soft dissection, like the way sunlight pulls at the edges of things, revealing the cracks you’d rather keep hidden. You feel as if he's peeling back layers, layer by layer, until there's nothing left but the parts of you you'd prefer to forget.

When you finally meet his eyes, there’s a flicker of amusement—a quiet, knowing glint—as though he’s caught the lie you didn’t even know you were telling. A shadow of something darker flits across his expression, like a stormcloud crossing the moon. His eyes gleam with something unreadable, but you know—he sees right through it.

“Well, I’m surprised you’re not working,” he comments, his voice curling around the words with a softness that betrays a hidden edge, something faint but sharp, like the quiet hum of a cello in a room too silent to bear the sound.

“Olive made me take off,” you admit, eyes dropping to the counter, where your fingers twirl around the cold, unforgiving edges of the cheese grater. It’s a small gesture, but in it, the tension in your hands speaks louder than any words could.

“Probably for your own good,” Simon teases, the sip of wine punctuating his words like the final note of a suspended chord. The sound of it lingers in the air, thick and heavy, as though the room is holding its breath, waiting.

“I don’t mind.” Another lie. The words feel sharp against your throat, like broken glass. You push them out anyway, not letting them falter, though the weight of them feels like lead in your stomach. The thought of returning to your father’s house—his voice like a whip and his hands like steel—tightens your chest.

Simon’s eyes remain on you, his gaze quiet and unwavering. He doesn’t press, just holds the silence with you, giving you room to breathe in a space that feels smaller by the second. His lack of words is a concession, a gift of sorts, the kind of offer you can’t return.

Olive interrupts the moment, her voice light as a summer breeze. She holds up two glasses of wine, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, and doesn’t wait for your response. The glass she presses into your hand is cold, smooth against your palm, and the liquid inside feels like something forbidden as it slips past your lips—rich, tart, like a balm to the wound you’re too tired to care for.

“Good, right?” Olive teases, her voice like a bell, sharp and light, as she tilts her glass toward yours in an exaggerated mock-toast.

You hum in agreement, focusing on the way the wine dances down your throat, its warmth settling in your chest like a fire too low to burn. It's smooth, numbing, the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask too many questions, just offers its presence—an unspoken agreement between you and the night.

And for a moment, the room feels just a little bit smaller, the edges a little more forgiving.

“Surprised Price didn’t pick this out,” Simon jokes, his eyes flicking toward the other man, who’s engrossed in the turkey carving ritual, every movement deliberate and reverent, like a priest at the altar, cleaving into the flesh of the bird with devotion.

“Price would pick boxed wine if I let him,” Olive quips back, a playful fire in her glare aimed at her husband, but softened by the warmth of affection.

The kitchen hums around you, the voices and laughter flowing like honey, sweet but thick, and somehow sticky. Yet, you feel distant from it all, your focus slipping through the cracks of the moment like sand slipping from your clenched fist. Johnny’s laugh, loud and brash, rips through the air, filling the space like a storm cloud bursting with rain. Simon’s presence beside you is a weight—heavy, suffocating—as if gravity itself has chosen to rest on your bones, a force that tugs at your very center. You wish you could sink into the floorboards, disappear into the seams of the house like a whisper that no one remembers.

Ten minutes pass, though time feels as though it’s dragging its feet, unwilling to hurry. The turkey emerges from the oven, golden skin shimmering like a prize, gleaming in the artificial light. It’s a spectacle, untouched by the hands of real life, a thing that could only exist in the pages of a catalog—perfect, polished, out of reach. It sits there, a symbol of a life you could never own, no matter how many hours you spent chasing the illusion of it.

Olive tugs you into your seat, pulling you closer with a gentleness that feels foreign. Johnny takes the place beside you, as though slotted in place, a man-sized puzzle piece. Across the table, Simon settles into his chair, leaning back, drink in hand, his fingers tracing patterns along the glass’s rim as if the table itself were an ancient artifact—something he’s studying, examining, perhaps deciding whether it’s worth his attention.

The conversation swirls around you like wind through a field of tall grass, all clinking glasses and overlapping voices. The golden garland above seems to glow with a light that is too perfect, like halos that should belong to angels but somehow rest on mortal heads. It makes the room feel unreal, as though the whole thing could dissolve like mist if you looked away too long. You chew your food with the precision of someone on autopilot—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes—filling the empty spaces with tasteless bites. You nod along, but the words are like echoes, bouncing off your skull and fading before they can register.

Johnny’s voice cuts through, jagged and loud, like a knife scraping the edge of a stone. “So, Blue,” he says, the name falling from his lips with the sharpness of a saw’s edge. “How d’you know Olive?”

You don’t want to look up. You don’t want to see the expectant faces around you. So, you keep your gaze fixed on your plate, hoping the food might swallow you whole or at least offer some kind of refuge from the scrutiny, the weight of their attention pressing in from all sides, suffocating.

“Coworkers, huh?” Johnny’s grin splits like a crack in ice, his voice a low hum as he leans in closer, the scent of beer pushing you back in your seat like a tide. “Never heard her mention you.”

“I keep to myself,” you reply, your voice calm, though you can feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your skin.

“Clearly,” he teases, fingers brushing against yours, a casual touch that feels far too intimate as he reaches for his glass.

Across the table, Simon clears his throat. It’s subtle, a soft rumble like distant thunder, just enough to make Johnny pause. Simon’s eyes are locked on him, unreadable, but there's a charge in his gaze, a quiet warning, sharp as a blade beneath calm water.

Johnny shrugs, muttering something under his breath, his grin slipping as he turns back to his plate.

You glance at Simon, and find him already watching you. His eyes are darker than you remember, the shadows beneath them deepening, the hollows of his face making his stare heavier, like gravity itself is pulling you in. The inflamed scabs on his knuckles catch your eye again, and the urge to ask about them rises, but you swallow it down, unsure if you want to know the answer.

After dinner, the house spins into a blur of motion. People scatter—some to the living room, others toward the kitchen for more wine—but you slip away unnoticed, the weight in your chest too much to carry. The bathroom is cool and quiet, a refuge where the soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound as you lock the door behind you, isolating yourself from the rest of the world.

You catch your reflection in the mirror, but quickly look away. Your sweater is hiked up, revealing the tight bandages weaving around your ribs, crisscrossing away from your one-size-too-big bra, and continuing its journey around your sternum. The burn throbs in defiance, swollen and achy, the pain sharper now than it was this morning.

You rummage through Olive’s medicine cabinet, fingers grazing over the cool bottles until one catches your eye—a prescription bottle. Antidepressants. You blink at the label, too dazed to focus on the name beneath it. Setting it aside, your fingers fumble as you search for something more…immediate. You find a bottle of Advil, pop a few pills, and swallow them with a handful of water from the tap, some dribbling down your chin. You wipe it away with your sleeve, the fabric damp but scratchy against your skin, a quiet reminder of the tension coiling around you.

A knock at the door startles you.

“Blue—” Simon’s voice filters through, low and calm, threading into the space. “It’s Riley. You alrigh’? Y’been in there a while. Jus’ worried.”

You’re moving before thought has time to settle, unlocking the door and swinging it open. His eyes widen in surprise, disbelief flashing across his face as you grasp the soft fabric of his sweater, tugging him inside. The wool is buttery under your fingers, a sensation both foreign and familiar, and for a brief, stolen moment, you pause—suspended in the unexpected warmth of him.

Simon doesn’t resist. He lets you pull him in, his presence filling the small space, the air thickening as you shut the door behind him. The bathroom seems impossibly smaller with him in it, his broad shoulders brushing the tiled walls like a storm cloud settling into the room. You gesture for him to sit on the toilet, and he does, his long legs folding awkwardly, pressed against yours in the tight space.

“My burn hurts,” you mumble, slumping back against the cool tiles, your voice heavy with exhaustion, each word thick as though the weight of everything pressing on you has turned your tongue to lead.

“It’s gonna do that,” Simon replies, his tone steady, firm, but not unkind—like a reminder of what you’ve neglected. “You neglected it.”

“No, like—like it really hurts,” you insist, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your sweater, as if searching for something to anchor you in a world that refuses to stand still. The words slip from your mouth, stuttering, as if they’re afraid to be spoken. “Just—just look.”

“Blue—” His voice softens, threading through the air like a fragile thread, one that could snap at the slightest tug. There’s something unspoken between you, an understanding so thin it could be made of mist, too delicate to be held in the light of day.

“Look!” The command escapes your lips with a desperation that feels almost primal, the kind of desperation that births from the deepest wells of need. You tug at the fabric of your sweater, intent on exposing the wound beneath, but Simon’s hand is there in an instant, a sudden force, wrapping around your wrist with the quiet strength of someone who’s borne witness to things that bleed in silence.

“What are you doin’?” His voice is soft now, but there’s an edge—a warning, like a hand hovering over the broken glass of a dream. His grip is firm, but there’s a tenderness to it, as if he knows the fragility of what you’re offering him.

“I’m showing you,” you say, the words tumbling out, raw and unpolished, as if they could never be anything but the exposed parts of you—the parts that were never meant to be shown. Your voice quivers, breaking open at the edges, offering him something you weren’t even sure was real.

“I don’t need to see it,” he says, his voice low, a quiet conviction wrapped around every syllable. “I believe you.”

His eyes, dark and unreadable, seem to understand more than you ever could say. You stand there, caught between the sharp breath that claws at your lungs and the steady rhythm of his hand, still holding your wrist, his thumb tracing circles along your skin. It’s a touch that holds you together, but threatens to tear you apart.

You don’t want to pull away. You can’t. The connection is a thin thread, fragile and necessary, like the last stitch holding a broken heart in place.

“You’re drunk,” he murmurs, and you feel his gaze soften, though it carries the weight of something deeper, something harder. There’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes, something you can’t place, but it settles in the air between you like dust on a forgotten shelf.

“No, I’m not,” you slur, but the words feel like ghosts slipping through your fingers, no more substantial than the fog that clings to your mind. You can’t even make your body obey you. You press your forehead to the cold tile wall, and sigh. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” He exhales, the sound heavy in the room, a sigh that’s both worn and weary. There’s a quiet compassion in it, as if he understands the quiet wars you’re fighting, even if they’re wars you can’t speak aloud. “C’mon. Let’s get you upstairs.”

Before you can protest, he’s guiding you out of the bathroom, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. The touch is fleeting but steady, grounding you as the hallway spins, the walls bending and swaying in your peripheral vision. His hand at your back is light, but it grounds you—just enough to stop you from crumbling completely, though it feels like everything inside you might just shatter if you let it.

In the guest bedroom, Simon helps you sit on the edge of the bed, his touch gentle as he kneels, movements precise and measured, like someone accustomed to tending to broken things. His fingers work deftly to untie your shoes, each motion a small act of tenderness, as though he’s learned the quiet language of care for the tired and lost.

“You didn’t have to—” you start, but he silences you with a soft murmur, the sound barely more than a breath.

“Hush,” he says, his voice a low, insistent hum. A command wrapped in compassion. “Jus’ lay back.”

The room tilts, the world around you spinning slowly as the alcohol buzzes in your veins, a lullaby played by the distant hum of the night. Your head sinks into the pillow’s softness, as if gravity itself is pulling you down, coaxing you to surrender to the darkness. The blanket clings to your body like a last defense against the cold, a fragile shield against the gnawing chill of an empty room. But Simon tucks it higher, drawing it gently beneath your chin, his movements deliberate, as if wrapping you in something more than fabric—something almost sacred, something that feels like care.

His hand pauses, fingertips brushing the stray strand of hair from your forehead, the gesture small, almost imperceptible, but it lingers in the air between you, a silent vow. He looks at you, studying the fragile curve of your face, as though trying to capture it, memorize the way you’ve finally found stillness. You, who are never still, who wear your restlessness like a second skin.

Your breathing evens out, the soft rise and fall of your chest now a steady rhythm in the quiet room. It is the only sound, and it’s enough. Simon watches you, his gaze heavy with a quiet sadness, as if you’ve unraveled something in him that he can’t quite name. His silence speaks volumes, his stillness matching your own.

With a soft clink, he unbuckles his boots, the sound too loud in the otherwise empty room. The weight of his presence settles beside you, as though his body is a tether, pulling the world a little closer, a little heavier. The mattress creaks under his weight, a sound almost apologetic, as though it’s trying to make room for the tension in the air. His movements are slow, deliberate—every inch of him cautious, as if each breath he takes might shatter the fragile peace that exists in the space between you.

The moonlight spills through the window, soft and silvery, like the touch of a lover long gone. It paints your face in shadows, tracing the lines of your quiet surrender. Your lashes flutter, a delicate ripple beneath the stillness of sleep, as if the world outside doesn’t know you anymore. And for a moment, neither does Simon. You are nothing but a shape in the dim glow of the night, a broken melody that has yet to find rest.

He leans back against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked on the ceiling as if it might hold some kind of answer. The silence stretches between you, thick and impenetrable, each of you trapped in your own quiet despair. But Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare to break the fragile bond you’ve silently shared. The night grows longer, each passing minute a weight, a quiet void that neither of you can escape.

But sleep doesn’t come to him. It hovers just out of reach, a specter he can’t outrun, just like the darkness that lingers in the corners of the room. His gaze stays fixed, his body unmoving, as if he’s waiting for something to change—or perhaps just for the night to finally end.

some fluff if you squint since I made u wait so long for this

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hmmarble · 6 months ago

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HMMARBLEDESİGN - DRAGON+ (2)

Marble Bathroom Sink

When it comes to home design, few materials evoke a sense of luxury and timeless beauty quite like marble. A marble bathroom sink not only serves as a functional wash basin but also elevates the overall aesthetic of your space. The elegance of marble exudes sophistication, turning an ordinary bathroom into a serene oasis.

Marble Bathroom Sink

A marble bathroom sink is not just a functional component of your bathroom; it is a statement piece that adds elegance and luxury. Marble, known for its unique veining and rich texture, brings a timeless charm to any space. When choosing a marble bathroom sink, there are several factors to consider to ensure it complements your bathroom design.

First, consider the style of your bathroom. Whether you are going for a modern, classic, or rustic look, a marble sink can fit seamlessly into any theme. The color palette of the marble also matters; white and cream marbles can lend a fresh and airy feel, while darker hues can create a dramatic effect.

Maintenance is another important aspect to consider. While marble sinks are stunning, they do require some care to maintain their beauty. Regular sealing and careful cleaning will help prevent stains and etching, keeping your sink looking pristine over the years.

Installation is another key consideration. Marble is heavier than other materials, so ensure that your cabinet and plumbing can support your chosen marble bathroom sink. Consultation with a professional can help you navigate this aspect of your renovation.

Ultimately, a marble bathroom sink is an investment in both aesthetics and functionality. By choosing the right type, color, and maintenance plan, you can enjoy the beauty of marble in your bathroom for years to come.

Wash Basin Sink

A wash basin sink is an essential fixture in any bathroom, offering both functionality and style. When selecting a wash basin sink, it is important to consider various factors such as size, design, and material.

One popular choice among homeowners is the marble bathroom sink. Known for its elegance and durability, marble sinks can elevate the aesthetic of your bathroom. Their unique veining patterns ensure that no two sinks are alike, providing a one-of-a-kind centerpiece for your space.

When choosing a wash basin sink, you will encounter various types including undermount, vessel, and pedestal sinks. Each design has its own benefits and can enhance the overall look of your bathroom. For instance, vessel sinks are often mounted on top of the countertop, making them a stylish option that complements modern decor.

Aside from aesthetics, the wash basin sink should also offer practical features. Consider looking for a model with easy-to-clean surfaces and a design that accommodates your bathing and grooming needs. The right choice will not only enhance your bathroom’s style but also improve daily usage.

In terms of installation, make sure to consult with a professional if you are unsure. Proper installation of your wash basin sink will ensure that it functions efficiently and lasts for many years to come.

Lastly, don't forget to incorporate additional features such as stylish faucets and accessories that complement your wash basin sink and add to the overall design of your bathroom.

Ancient Roman Baths

The Ancient Roman Baths were an essential aspect of Roman culture, reflecting the importance of hygiene, social interaction, and relaxation in ancient society. These baths, also known as thermae, were large public bathing complexes that served as a social hub for citizens of all classes.

Typically, the layout of a Roman bath included a series of rooms with varying temperatures and functions. The caldarium (hot bath) heated the water through a sophisticated system of hypocaust, allowing steam to rise and warm the space. Next to it was the tepidarium (warm bath), which served as a transitional room, and the frigidarium (cold bath), where bathers would plunge into cooler waters to invigorate their bodies.

In addition to hygiene, these baths featured amenities such as libraries, gymnasiums, and gardens, encouraging a sense of community and leisure. Romans often visited to socialize, conduct business, or simply enjoy the art and architecture that adorned these luxurious facilities. The decorative mosaics and grand columns were not only functional but also represented the wealth and sophistication of the society.

The significance of the Ancient Roman Baths can also be seen in their architectural innovation. The Romans mastered the use of concrete and arches, allowing for grand open spaces and intricate designs. These structures have inspired modern spa designs, embodying the idea of relaxation and wellness.

Despite their popularity, the fall of the Roman Empire led to the decline of these spectacular sites. Many were repurposed, and their intricate plumbing systems fell into disrepair. However, remnants of these ancient baths still surface in archaeological sites, offering a glimpse into a fascinating aspect of Roman life.

Today, while we may not indulge in the same communal bathing practices, the legacy of the Ancient Roman Baths endures. Their emphasis on hygiene and social engagement continues to influence how we design our own spaces for relaxation and community interaction.

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yandere-sins · 5 months ago

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Yan-Poll #23

Warning: This is a poll containing sexual content

Your yan is a little pathetic.

That's what you think to yourself as you stand in the bathroom with him, his nervous fidgeting with the towel around his hips feeling even more insulting than him telling you that you are not allowed to go take a shower alone. He was assertive then, the thought of having you separated from him by the bathroom door seemingly unbearable as he immediately stood and walked after you once you announced your plans.

As if you were a child, needing supervision.

But now it seemed like the tables had turned; your always so selfish captor suddenly nervous at the prospect of showering with you. He keeps stealing glances at the areas covered by your own towel, his thoughts probably spinning around the idea of seeing you naked for the first time since he captured you. You don't like it, but you don't have to like it. He does what he wants and you haven't showered in days since he locked you in your room as a punishment. You were smelly and grime was beginning to settle on your skin.

Before, he usually stood watch outside the bath, even when you just needed the toilet. That was uncomfortable enough. But your yan had yet to cross the boundary of invading on your bath-time. You had no idea what caused him to decide now was a good time to make his advances, but you weren't happy with it. Even less now that it almost seemed like he was more embarrassed than you were.

You sighed. It's been too long since you got to wash up and feel clean again. You could argue and tell him to get out, but things had only calmed down. Your body still hurt from him manhandling you, the rope burns still stinging when you touched them. If you couldn't have freedom, you shouldn't have to forgo basic needs like hygiene, even if his presence was unwanted.

Stepping up to the shower, you tried to ignore him. Ignore the way he matched your steps until he was back to breathing down your neck. You climbed over the rim of the bathtub and were about to pull the curtain close when he caught your hand in his, the pain of his touch making you wince. You didn't get to close the curtain until he was standing inside the bathtub with you, forcing the curtain close.

For a moment, only your heavy breaths could be heard. His were dancing over the exposed skin of your nape, the thought of this man you despised so close to you in such a small space feeling even more threatening than usual. It was no surprise that you jumped when his arms snaked around your body to the front, slipping between your skin and the towel. His touch was invading, no matter how gentle and careful every one of his movements was. Your pulse quickened, breathing getting harder and harder as you almost felt claustrophobic solely because of his presence. He halted momentarily when he felt your nervousness, then slowly untied the towel from its fixation on you, letting the fabric slide off.

There was more rustling behind you as he undid his own towel, and before you could reach out, he turned on the faucet. The water was always cold at first before it warmed up, but with the way you two were standing, he got hit by the icy stream instead of you. He took it with more stride than you thought he would after he seemed so nervous about all this.

Some droplets ricocheted onto you, and you bit your lip, arching your back. Still, soon, the temperature was rising to a comfortable warmth. You leaned back with your shoulders, trying to catch some water to start washing up. It felt so good to stand underneath the water again for so long, the cat wash at the sink in your room doing nothing for you compared to the heavenly feeling of grime sliding off you.

You felt his chest lean into you as your captor bent forward, grabbing the shampoo from the shelf. A nervous pang went through you as you heard him squeeze the gel onto his hand and watched the bottle being placed back before you felt his palms brushing against your head. Both your bodies were incredibly stiff as he started massaging it into your hair, never even asking for your permission. Still, you were more surprised about how good it felt to have someone wash your hair than his lack of boundaries.

Breathing out, you decided to try to relax, letting your yandere massage your scalp. One of his hands vanished temporarily, but you heard him aggressively rubbing his own head with it, probably using the foam on his hands for his hair. There it was again, that strange way of obsessing over you. If you were a couple, this would have probably made sense, but as you were not, this was just your stalker trying to feel closer to you by using your leftovers.

"You're beautiful," he mumbled suddenly, and the compliment caught you off-guard. A sense of shame washed over you as you felt the initial flattery, but it was normal to feel this way when you were most vulnerable, right? Naked and exposed to another being. This much was okay, right?

You tried to tell yourself that, but when he leaned forward again to reach for the body wash next, you felt something hard and eager brush between your buttcheeks. Your eyes widened and his hand halted, fingers curling into a fist in what could have only been frustration, but they unfurled as he let out a short, low groan. His other hand gripped your shoulder tightly, fingernails pressing into your skin.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbled, annoyance in his voice—annoyance at himself. "Fuck, I'm so sorry," he kept repeating again and again. It became agonizingly clear he didn't intend to ruin the moment, but that he couldn't help himself from getting hard from merely being with you in the shower and washing your hair. That's how deep that man had fallen. Fallen into obsessive love with you.

"If you could just-- Let me-- Maybe we could-- I could--"

He didn't finish any of the sentences he blabbered, but you felt him grind against you, making you lose your balance and brace yourself against the wall in front of you. Your yan didn't back away. The position you were in was awful. Vulnerable and so, so easy to take advantage of. You felt him grind his cock against you again, another groan—this time bitten back but no less audible—escaping him as you realized he wouldn't just stop.

It was on you to stop this. To put an end to it before it was too late.

You knew it was a bad idea, but the shower was too tempting. You glanced to the side, only the curtain separating you from the room. But jumping out could cause you more harm than good; you could slip or fall, hit your head, or bang into any of the furniture around. However if you stayed... not sure he'd just let you go if you asked. He appeared so pathetic before, but you knew he was downright selfish at all times.

Your captor kept grinding against you, the feeling of his cock so invading, although still relatively harmless. But he was picking up the speed. If you wanted to act, you had to do it soon, but... should you? It might have been better to let him get it out of his system once. Perhaps he'd be overcome by shame and leave you alone afterwards, or he'd at least be satiated. You could endure the grinding, even if you risked more dangers if you allowed it to just happen. Tears stung in your eyes as you felt violated by him and your thoughts alike, the what-ifs unbearable and cruel.

You braced yourself and decided what to do.

(Reasoning and discussions welcome! ♥)

#yan-poll #yandere talk #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere fanfiction #yandere writing #yandere stories #yandere oneshots #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #Yandere TW

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gatitties · 1 year ago

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Web of love

─Yandere!Jujutsu Kaisen x fem!reader (platonic)

─Summary: your worst night followed by a wonderful day, are you slowly going crazy? Maybe, but you'll get out of here no matter what

─Warnings: blood, self-harm, anxiety attack, hallucinations, obsession, toxic behaviors, stalking, yandere stuff

Part One / Part Two / Part Three

The blank pages: Part One / Par Two

YOU TRY to control your shaky breathing, no one would take away the poor quality of sleep you had at this point in your life, but having nightmares right now was the last straw that broke your patience.

You looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, your face was slightly wet because you needed to splash yourself to clear your thoughs, the cold water didn't help much anyway, you slapped your cheeks with moderate force hoping the feeling of mental numbness would go away, but again it didn't work.

"What the hell is wrong with me…?"

You touched your right cheek, slightly red from the previous blow, focusing your gaze on the reflection of the sink mirror, you were a complete disgust, never, not even in your worst period of exams, had you seen yourself so emaciated, the dark circles and bags under your eyes, the lack of color in your face, your frizzy hair, its lack or decrease, bloodshot eyes… you could continue to despise yourself while you stare at your reflection for hours, bringing out each of your flaws.

But there was one that bothered you beyond your appearance, your lack of emotions, your lack of thoughts, you refused to show anything other than a blank expression to those people who ruined your life, you refused to have to think complex things while they took care of everything, not being able to do anything on your own you began to stop complicating your life by thinking about solutions.

Who were you? What were your goals? Your tastes? When did your memories start to become blurry? When was the last time you really smiled? Were you real? Or just a corporeal desire of psychopaths eager to have something precious to protect? Since when was everything so gray, so monotonous? Did you still consider yourself a person with rights and freedom? When did you start accepting this?

"Hey… Hey!"

Focusing your lost vision again in the mirror, you weren't very surprised that you were hallucinating after having a brain as soft as baby food, it was you, maybe a couple of years younger who was speaking to you through the reflection, your mouth opened but no words came out as if you were a fish out of water.

"What's happening? Is this the future that awaits me? You're pathetic! Look at you… Where the hell is your stupid smile? You used to smile a lot before, why…? Why have I become a puppet?"

Your words mixed with a murmur, feeling how your heart squeezed painfully in your ribcage, your mind deciding to continue the macabre game of your existential crisis, replaying memories with your family and all the warm moments that kept you sane until now. You closed your eyes hoping that the hallucinations would disappear, but you only managed that instead of visuals they were audible, reproducing words of affection from your parents in a loop like torture, the breathing exercises you did before to calm yourself stopped working now, you bit your lip so hard that you ripped off some skin, not enough for you because you started running your nails down your arms, leaving red marks from the friction and force.

"You're better than this, what's all this whining about?! Get up and stop being a coward! You will only drag me into this meaningless future!"

"Shut up…"

"Are you even worth anything? You're so boring, I don't understand how those sorcerers want to protect you."

"Shut up."

"Are you going to cry to sleep like always? You are a disgrace, you are lucky, lucky that someone can love you so much, what would you do without them? They are much better than your own parents, accept it, accept it, they love you unconditionally! Even without knowing who you are or how you feel, even without knowing what your purposes are, they will love you! Accept your desti-"

"I said shut the fuck up! Silence!"

You shook your whole body, holding your head, you hit it a couple of times against the wall, so hard that even a couple of tiles fell off, a few drops of blood fell from your head, but you didn't care, the voice, your voice, it was gone, you swallowed your own poison, locking your inner, dark thoughts deep in your brain.

Your mind continued numb for a couple more minutes where all you could hear was a faint sound of static and a constant beeping, but it was more calming than having to listen to your own voice in that twisted way. Getting up once you calmed down a little, your reflection returned to normal, you splashed your face with cold water again, cleaning the blood on your head, nails and lip, taking one last look at your pitiful person, with your head still full of unknowns.

"Why is this happening to me?"

You rub your eyes tiredly, cleaning up the mess you had made, you decide to lie down on the cold bed once more, tucking yourself in and looking at the ceiling waiting for your body to magically disintegrate into ashes, too pretty to be real, when you realize the rays of light make your eyes hurt and sting, one more sleepless night, a new day awaits.

Faking and ignoring your nighttime crisis you get up to do your morning routine, being greeted by an overly cheerful Nobara as you passes through the dining room to look for some breakfast, you couldn't say the same for Megumi, who looked much more tense than normal, you didn't know where the others were but you didn't care much either, and Nobara and Megumi didn't say anything about your appearance, whether they noticed it or not, you're just glad they decided not to ask anything.

"You look like you've experienced the worst existential crisis of your life."

You spit out what you were drinking when you heard Maki just enter, from her appearance you could tell that she had gone out for a run early in the morning, Toge and Panda followed behind her, everything fell into a silence that was too uncomfortable for you because they stared at you carefully, completely ruining your efforts to hide your bad appearance.

"Just a bad dream…?"

You mumbled, avoiding everyone's gaze, Toge approached you, patting you on the head as if that would help you, although it was the most comforting thing you felt this week, it didn't feel as forced as other interactions.

To your relief, everyone continued with their things, while you ignored what they were talking about and continued eating breakfast, their talk became louder than usual, you frowned at this, deciding to listen lightly to the conversation, you froze when you remembered what they were talking about, the Kyoto school exchange, even though you didn't sign up for that stupid ceremony, as a student you had to, at the very least, be present, but you knew that a large concentration of sorcerers would only cause you more problems than solutions.

You knew why Megumi seemed so tense when the other students showed up, they didn't seem to have a very friendly relationship, they all seemed quite focused on the rivalry between high schools, which made you happy since the focus of attention wasn't on you, but rather in Itadori since he seemed to be targeted by the Kyoto school just for being Sukuna's vessel. The bad thing was that you had to stay in the teachers' room, with Gojo and a couple of other guys, the good thing was that you fell in love, Utahime was your spirit animal, definitely someone to admire just for her hatred of Gojo.

"So, why don't you want to compete? I can tell that you have quite a bit of accumulated cursed energy."

"Aww, meeting my favorite student? Well that's a delicate topic she doesn't-"

"I'm not talking to you, shut up."

You smiled internally when you saw Gojo's kicked dog expression, who didn't even let you talk to Utahime, she looked at you again, completely ignoring the albino's presence, it was, the first time since you arrived here that you felt like you were having a normal conversation with someone outside your life, someone disinterested in your protection, it was the most real interaction you had since then and it had to be ruined, not by Gojo, not by any student… curses, a planned attack, a lot of chaos was caused that you barely understood.

"Don't fight and don't try anything weird, although I'll know anyway, stay safe!"

It was the last thing Gojo said to you before leaving with the others to see what was happening outside, you couldn't have cared less about his words, and although locking you in your room was the main idea, your wires got crossed with your little sanity, if everyone was distracted by a greater evil you could use that to your advantage.

Since both sorcerers and curses were completely absorbed in their stupid fight, you used that to go outside, first it was a couple of meters, you didn't notice anyone, the capsule didn't stop you from leaving, so you walked further away, elated by your minimal achievement, you started running as fast as you could, reaching the busy streets of the city, smart enough not to go near the places Nanami frequented.

It had been a long time since your heart had been beating like this, so wild that you thought it might come out of your throat, you coughed for air once you stopped in a park, collapsing on the ground, you lied there, you laughed like a crazy person, some tears escaping of your eyes as you looked at the sky brighter than ever. You couldn't believe it, you were alone, with no one watching, you could feel all the positive emotions hitting you, there were so many sensations that you didn't know how to feel, but definitely much more relieved.

The smile on your face was indelible, you were happy, the world at this moment was painted in much more vibrant tones, the palette stopped being a constant tone of gray, you smiled at children, the elderly, you caressed animals, you bought a few flowers and then randomly give them to some people, completely in a bubble of happiness.

Although the bubble had to burst at some point, whether due to your subconscious or the pass of time, you knew that your sudden disappearance would only cause more of a stir, you wish you were left for dead, but you know those sons of bitches wouldn't have that in mind unless they saw your death with their own eyes or found your inert body.

Using your last moments of happiness, you decided to treat yourself to some of your favorite sweets, saying goodbye to the clerk who served you with one of your best smiles, you took the long way to the jujutsu high school, hoping to delay your reunion with your "loved ones" as long as possible.

"Stop there! Aren't you the missing girl? You've given us an incredible headache, come on, I'll take you back."

Someone you hadn't bothered to meet grabbed your wrist, pulling you without even waiting for you to react, analyzing her appearance, she was quite similar to Maki, maybe a family member.

"What a pity, sorry for the headache, but can you let me go? I know the way Maki number two."

At this moment the least you wanted was a confrontation, but your mood had not completely dropped, although now you were a little more upset than happy, your emotions overflowed, causing you to be a more sarcastic and sassy version of yourself.

Mai stopped instantly when she was called Maki number two, you had definitely found her weak spot, which turned into a passive-aggressive chat between the two of you, you would have been angry, but you couldn't be angry when you enjoyed the criticism you were giving each other, honestly it improved your day and you felt more human than before.

"Oh thank goodness you're fine! I thought those dirty curses had kidnapped you!"

Nobara didn't waste a second in hugging you as soon as she saw you, Itadori following her a second later, you assured them that you were okay not wanting everyone to crowd around you as the others also wanted to ask where you had been and why you disappeared when they were under stroke.

You drowned out the emotions you poured out during the day, swallowing everything, turning your expression blank as you felt Gojo's powerful gaze on you, everything calmed down for the next few minutes, the two schools finished the meeting and the Kyoto students left, before that you decided to exchange phones with Utahime.

Once you got rid of your companions, you locked in your room, unlike many other nights, you threw yourself on the bed, grabbing a cushion and screaming as if you were one of those teenagers in love in those saccharine series, you moved your legs in the air by pressing the cushion tighter between your arms. Changing your posture, you looked up at the ceiling just like the night before, with the big difference that now you couldn't contain your emotions, you giggled, biting your lip lightly, not noticing the wound you got earlier.

You saw it, you saw light at the end of the tunnel, ─not that way of course─, you saw how a door opened before your eyes, a new opportunity to free yourself from the chains that kept you captive with all these psychopaths, experience freedom after so much time made you delirious, made you imagine that you could get rid of them, that they would leave you alone, even if it was risky, your only option was to escape, run away from everything and everyone without thinking twice, without thinking about what can happen in the future, you would give everything to re-experience what you felt today when you ran away.

You sighed dreamily as you remembered the feeling of freedom, closing your eyes, not worrying about whether you were going to be able to fall asleep today or have another boring game of chess, oblivious to the blue eyes that watched from your window.

"It seems like someone is in her rebellious stage, maybe she need some restrictions…"

He muttered, unhappy with your disobedience but excited to see you happy, he didn't think he would see it so soon, your smile was beautiful just the way it was and you decided to hide it like that for them? They were only worried about you, why did you have to keep all that to yourself? They wanted to be part of your happiness, couldn't you understand it? Well, they will make you understand it no matter what.

Once he made sure that your breathing was stable, he entered your room, kissed your forehead like every night, only this time he sat next to you, caressing your head slowly, observing how, even while asleep, your silly smile was still painted on your face, the flash of his phone made you frown slightly, but you didn't wake up.

"I hope you rest well today, I'm sorry for not helping you the night before, but if I had come in you would hate me more, wouldn't you?"

He said to himself, closing the door slowly, giving you one last look before leaving, he sent the photo to the group chat he had with his students, reviewing the last photos where any of the four were able to capture something more emotion than indifference. Just like you, the small display of emotions only opened another door for them, that small display of freedom for you and emotions for them, was simply another trigger for your problems, after all, the more you move, the more you get tangled in the web.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #reader insert #fem reader #x reader #web of love #yandere platonic jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x fem reader #jujutsu kaisen x platonic reader #yandere jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #platonic reader #platonic yandere #platonic relationship #jjk x platonic reader #jjk x fem reader #jjk x reader

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ssturniolo · 7 months ago

Note

hii first ilysm and your stories :))

so I have an idea with Chris and the reader (they are dating in the story), the reader has problems eating but doesn't want to show it to anyone so as not to worry them so she lies about it. saying that she has already eaten or that she is not hungry, one day while she was at the triplets' house she went down to Chris's room to change but she did not know that Chris had followed her and when she takes off her sweater and her jogging pants, chris is very worried when he sees that the reader has lost a lot of his weight. I know that it's not an easy subject so you don't have to write it, it's just a proposal

Unconditionally loved

𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 - Chris sturniolo x fem!reader

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶 - request <3 (it’s a little different I hope that’s ok)

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 - eating disorder, use of y/n, crying, I think that’s it??

I follow the delicious scent of my favorite food down to the triplets kitchen, smiling to myself as I watch Chris and Nick put it into 4 separate bowls.

“Hi baby” Chris smiles, trotting over to wrap me in a hug. “I made us chicken Alfredo,” he says proudly.

“Don’t worry it’s edible, all he did was boil the water,” Nick smirks, handing me one of the bowls.

I laugh lightly as Chris rolls his eyes, walking with me to the couch. I set the bowl onto the coffee table, eyeing it longingly. It smells heavenly but I had a full banana this morning so even though my stomach is rumbling, and every part of my body wants this food, I know I can’t.

Instead, I snuggle into Chris’s side, watching him enjoy his meal.

***

I wake up still on the couch, Chris asleep at my side. I quietly stand, taking my now-cold bowl of chicken Alfredo to the kitchen, dumping it into the garbage before setting the bowl in the sink.

I return to the living room as Chris stirs awake.

“Hey baby” he smiles, opening his arms for me to crawl into. I do so, nuzzling my nose into his neck as he runs a hand through my hair.

“Wanna go back to the bed? I don’t wanna sleep on the couch tonight,” Chris says after a few moments of silence.

“Mhm” I hum into his neck, waiting a few seconds before pushing myself off of him.

“I’m gonna put my bowl away then meet you there, ok?” Chris says as he turns the tv off.

“Alright.”

I make my way to his room, leaving his door cracked open behind me. I pull out a pair of pj pants and a hoodie from Chris’s closet, laying them out on the bed. I remove my sweatshirt, not noticing Chris enter the room.

“Y/n?” Chris’s concerned voice cuts through the air as I spin around. His eyes are trained on my ribs that are poking through my skin at an unhealthy level. The way my stomach is less than half its original size is easy to hide under baggy clothes but under his hot gaze, I feel like shriveling up and dying. He wasn’t supposed to see me like this.

“Baby are you ok?” Chris takes a step closer as I take a step back, my eyes brimming with tears.

“I saw your food in the trash. Have you not been eating?” He questions again, knowing the answer.

I say nothing, burying my face in my hands as I erupt into sobs. Chris rushes over, to which I do not step away this time. He brings us to sit at the edge of his bed, cradling my shaking body in his warm embrace.

“It’s ok… you’re ok” he whispers sweet nothings into my ear until I’ve calmed down enough to form coherent sentences.

“I-I lied a lot about already eating or not being hungry. I’m so sorry” I sniffle, my cheek pressed against Chris’s tear-soaked t-shirt.

“No need to be sorry my love. I just wish you would have talked to me before it became a severe issue.” Chris replies, rubbing my back soothingly.

“I just didn’t want to worry you,” I mumble, realizing how stupid that now sounds.

“I know I know. All that matters is getting you the help you need now, yeah?”

I just nod my head against him, blinking away fresh tears. I know I need the help I just never knew how to go about it. Especially since no one but me knew about my bad eating habits.

Chris lifts my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes.

“I’m scared Chris.”

“And I’m going to be here with you through it all. I always will. We face problems together from now on, ok?”

“Ok.” I repeat, giving him my word.

Taking this on is so much less scary with Chris at my side, loving me unconditionally.

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

Unfortunately, eating disorders are increasingly common amongst people, particularly younger females. If ANY of you need to talk, my dms are always open. I love you guys <3

XOXO - Zoe

Taglist ⬇️

@dwntwn-strnlo @mbbsgf @gabbylovesreading @0-r-a-y-0 @sturn3g1rl @lvrsparadise @taylorssfilmsss @emssturniolo @ilovemattsturn @mattestrella @itsaaliyah2 @thetriplets3 @urfavstromboli

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fayecreates · 25 days ago

Text

I Will Die Your Daughter.

Premise: uhhh totes not a self insert because my day left me a few weeks ago and im now only coming to terms with it… you and sevika have daddy issues and y’all talk about it. The reader is an errand runner for Silco around S1. Also fem reader, Sevika doesnt like men, sorry.

A/N: 100% inspired by robotxm’s edit on tiktok, please go watch it it’s the best edit ever. I’m also making this bc im tired of all Sevika fics, as beautifully constructed as they are, are all smut. also its not a crime to make stuff up so dont be mean to me… i may or may not be taking requests…

Warnings: mentions of abandonment, allusion to harmful habits/behaviors (kinda leaning towards self harm), daddy issues i guess?? Probably a bit ooc Sevika

Words: 1,466

It was late at night, the new moon up in the sky barely allowing sight. You were tired to say the least, not only physically from all of stupid small yet tedious tasks from Silco, but also just your life. Nobody thought it was easy growing up in Zaun, at least compared to Piltover. Sure you had food, a roof over your head, and a blanket to keep you warm at night, but a part of you still felt like a desperate little kid. Dad was not around much, staying for a few days, taking some cash and then leaving to go do whatever he wanted. It sucked for sure, but it was a routine at least. Once he really left, not on some vacation but just for the fun of it, it just felt weirdly empty. Today being the five year anniversary of these untouched emotions didn’t help work go by faster either.

Being Silco’s errand-girl also meant being up for his beck and call. sleep weighed down your eyes, it was only one in the morning but it felt like six already. Staying in the little ‘home’ with all Silco’s goons was weird, it was like living with all your estranged cousins who you couldn’t tell if they hated you or not, well all but Sevika. She wasn’t the stereotypical ‘nice girl’ but staying by her for a while now wasn’t so horrible as the rest. Maybe it was trust, maybe it was some weird friendship, either way Sevika was the one and only girl you could call to for help.

Walking towards the kitchen, deciding that maybe a glass of cold water would wake you up miraculously, you saw Sevika sitting at the usually empty breakfast nook. Giving her a small nod, barely having enough energy to muster up the ghost of a smile, you walked towards to cupboards. Grabbing a shitty mug, you just get some water from the sink, sure it probably wasn’t the best for you considering Zaun, but it didn’t matter all too much. Standing at the counter, a ways away from Sevika, you take moments to sip then stare at the wall.

“Something wrong?” Sevika’s voice rang out, her voice was rough but not in an emotional way. You glanced up at the sudden question, looking at her with a semi surprised expression. You knew people didn’t care, i mean could you blame them? People down there spent their lives working to just barely survive, caring or even asking was rare. You shook your head slightly, it was a lie of course. How could anything be right? Everyday just felt like the knife dug deeper into your chest. She simply hummed in response, she didn’t buy it but she wouldn’t pry anymore.

“…he left me five years ago today.” You spoke up after a second, like a rush of adrenaline just to say something so simple. Your eyes stayed locked with the chipped paint. She glanced back to you, her expression not moving much but the movement alone showed her attention was on you.

“Some boyfriend or something?” Sevika asked, sure the statement was unclear but you had already wanted to just yell sorry and run off. “My dad.” You say, your voice hinted with a sort of apathy. “I dont know, i dont really miss him to be honest, it just sucks i guess…” You continue, it wasn’t honest, it didn’t just ‘suck’ it felt horrible. Keeping up a constant unfeeling mask felt like living in the wrong skin, you felt things so deeply but you couldn’t risk showing it.

“…i get you, dads suck.” Sevika says, snapping you out of your headspace. You looked towards her, her arm was relaxed, holding a cup of god knows what. Her expression was the same as always, but she looked at you in a way no on else bothered to try. She was simply understanding, connecting even, but it was such a strange surprise. “…they really do.” You respond, a look of almost happiness if it weren’t for the context. “You wanna talk about it? I can tell it’s a bit more than just ‘it sucks’.” Sevika says, her tone a little joking, only to keep the lighter mood.

“…its not like that was the first time he left me, he’d do it like once a week. He’s done it on some of the most important part of my life.” You explain, your body turned towards her, your hand grasping the handle of the mug, but your eyes never met her as though it would make you really understand each word. “Sometimes i wish… i wish he’d like me enough to just come back. He never wrote to me, he never dropped by, it’s like i never existed to him.” You continue, anger growing in your voice just slightly.

“I want him to just stand me, im not asking for the world!” You say, growing a bit too agitated over the long over issue. “I hate him… but i loved him too. I was always a daddy’s girl, y’know i was a tomboy, a girl who loved all the stuff he did. I dont know what i did wrong, i was just a kid. When did i just become not good enough? I got better, i stopped hurting myself, i got better grades in school, i was a good person!” You yell even if it wasn’t super loud, your tone changing from anger to just sadness and confusion. Your eyes finally met Sevika’s, she was just look at you, giving small nods when you finished talking. She didn’t even have that pitying expression everyone had when you even mentioned feeling down. You stayed silent, really realizing that you weren’t just speaking in your head.

“It’s not your fault.” Sevika said as though it were basic knowledge, not in a condescending way though. “No matter how hard you change, he’d probably still stay away.” She says, her tone was a bit comforting.

“…i know… it just pisses me off, sorry.” You apologize, you just felt bad for wasting her time on something she didnt really care about. “For what, answering the question I asked?” She asked rhetorically, putting her forearm on the counter and leaning forward. “Stop saying sorry all the time, you’re not wrong.” She reprimanded, looking at her with the same semi soft look. All you wanted to do was say ‘sorry’ again.

“…okay…” you muttered, knowing you needed to respond but not in a pathetic way. You shift your weight on your feet, leaning a bit to the side. “I won’t like and say i know how you feel, but i didn’t always like my old man either.” She says, taking a sip of her drink. “We’d fight, we’d make up, but never once did he try to leave me.” She says simply. “Ouch.” You respond, taking it as a jab to your lack of present father. “Not what i meant, I mean your dad’s a douche. No real man would leave their child like that, especially not you.” She continues, giving you almost a compliment? Your expression changed again, it was one of surprise and maybe a bit flushed.

“… i dont know how to feel better, its like everything i try fails.” You admit, your tone quiet instead of its usual projection. You take a sip of water, hoping it’ll do something for you. “It won’t feel better.” She says bluntly, standing up from her stool and starting to slowly walk around the counter. “It might feel less bad day by day, but thats if you stop avoiding it.” Sevika says placing her hand on your shoulder in an attempt of comfort. “And saying that you don’t care, when you so obviously do, is avoiding it.” She says leaning down just a bit.

You didn’t know what to say, your eyes started to tear up a bit, definitely not by choice. You let your head fall, refusing to meet Sevika’s eyes. You just started crying, it was rare, every once in a while you’d spend hours sobbing and punching till it felt fine, but this was different. It was a moment of vulnerability, you didn’t know why Sevika chose you to give a moment of her little time open. You felt guilty, you always felt guilty though. Her hand pull you closer for a small hug. It was for sure awkward, but you wrapped your arms around her waist, burying your face into her shoulder.

You cried probably a bit too much, tears stained her shirt. Either way she kept patting your back as you attempt to not make an awkward noise. Sevika didn’t care though, no matter how awkward or weird the things you did it was no big deal.

She cared, unconditionally and irrevocably.

#sevika x reader #arcane #sevika #league of lesbians #h/c #is it h/c?#daddy issues (NOT FREAKY)#i cant tag #fayecreates works!

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cherrychaiparadise · 1 month ago

Text

the cold water of my heart (christ, it's boiling over)

Maybe you should’ve just left it at that, let the moment pass. But some part of you knew that it wouldn’t, that even if you had, another would rise in its place. The swirling water acting like a shield from the outside world, stranding you and this handsome man in some place out of time. Outside of reality, where normal didn’t apply. So, you let yourself loosen, let yourself voice the desire you’d been burying deep within your chest for the past hour or so, maybe longer.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader (no physical description, except for hair below the shoulders and is wearing a bikini) summary: you and frankie get it on in the hot tub rating: 18+, minors dni tags: ski resort au, hot tub sex, soft dom frankie, exhibitionism, praise kink, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, nipple play, dirty talk, begging, frankie morales has a filthy mouth, frankie is tired, mentions of the tf boys word count: 7k

crossposted on ao3!

divider by @firefly-graphics

He leaned back, letting the gentle rumble of the water beat into his sore shoulders. The years of service had finally begun to take their toll on his body. Muscles tense and weary, joints cracking against each other, tendons pulled tight, strung together like a misshapen marionette.

Shouldn’t have let the guys fuckin’ drag him into this, Frankie thought. Sinking further below the surface of the bubbling water, letting a jet pound into a particularly stubborn knot that had tied itself together in his upper back, just between his shoulder blades. But they’d insisted, Benny going as far to joke that this was the “Better, more legal, snow.” That’d earned him a hard elbow to the rib cage from Ironhead, no matter that the younger Miller was the fighter.

They’d been supportive, though. All of the guys agreed that it would be a much needed trip. Reminiscent of their youths, Will and Ben especially, who’d grown up in Colorado and had been sweltering in the Florida heat for years. Frankie had reluctantly come along, never having experienced much of the cold, but never one to sit on the sidelines while the rest of the crew did some stupid shit like blowing their hard earned money on a ski resort.

And Frankie thought that Pope was just looking forward to teaching clueless women to snowboard. Using the excuse to put his hands on their waists, whisper words of encouragement softly in their ears. Cheeky fucker was right, too. Frankie’d seen him with at least three different women today alone. Meanwhile the only woman Frankie had in mind was the masseuse at the resort spa, maybe he’d book an appointment tomorrow. Despite the hot jets and warm lights, the jacuzzi wasn’t enough.

It was late, and his fingers had long since wrinkled into that weird, spongy texture. He considered getting out, heading to the queen sized bed that awaited him in his shared room with Santiago. Shared. Frankie grimaced, remembering the last woman Pope had been working up. Her too loud laughs at his dumbass lines, the way she’d shrugged off her puffer jacket, even though it was well below forty that afternoon. Maybe he’d wait out here a bit longer, maybe he still had more muscles that would loosen.

The area was mostly empty, too cold for the majority of vacationers, despite the nearly scalding temperature of the hot tub. Sequestered into a hidden pocket behind the hotel section of the resort, tucked away in a small trail off the pool, which was also silent. Puddles sitting silently on the gray stones neatly worked around the circular tub, a mixture of condensation and melted snow. White, hardened snow more condensely packed along the iron railings surrounding the patio, fairy lights weaved beneath old snow. Creating an ethereal glow through the millions of frozen crystals, almost setting them aflame.

Music and laughter drifted faintly from the main lodge, where the resort was hosting its first Christmas party of the season. Where his friends were likely warm with wine or wandering hands along a woman’s arm. Likely both, for Santiago. Frankie chuckled to himself, glad to be alone. He loved the guys, loved that they were having fun, but he was just… fucking tired.

The oldest member of the team, long since out of active combat unlike Pope. Or Benny, who was still young and quick on his feet, fucking fighting for sport. Even Will, who spoke for a living, had remained running endless drills or sparring with his brother. Leaving Frankie stiff and aching, his stomach softening into a plush curve. Not that he minded, he could care less about his physical appearance, really. He was just sick of being a step behind, sleep catching up to him an hour or so earlier. Feeling like he had to work twice as hard just to keep up.

A shrill, groaning creak broke him from his melancholy thoughts. Opening his eyes, Frankie straightened, lifting his sagged body out from under the water. His breath hitched at the cold air on his shoulders, the gust of icy wind brushing through his damp hair. He felt his eyes adjust, tracking the distant figure approach through the key-coded gate. Huddled together in a pale blue towel, shoes slapping against the wet floor. The warm lamplight curling around the soft silhouette to reveal a woman, her hair falling freely and limbs shivering profusely as she shuffled towards the steamy glow of the hot tub.

Frankie tried to keep his eyes down as she settled her things into the wooden chair, notably right next to his. Tried to focus on the colorful bubbles, the foam bubbling along the water’s surface, not wanting to make her uncomfortable, being alone in a hot tub with a stranger this late into the night. Part of him was surprised she was still getting in, to be honest.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked. Striking him with the soft timbre of her voice, slightly rough, as if she’d been out in the cold for too long.

He lifted his head to respond, voice nearly catching in his throat as he drank in the sight of her. Midnight blue bikini clinging to her curves. The bottoms cut high along her hips, revealing the slope of her ass. Top drooping low, arching along with the swell of her breasts. He had to avert his eyes at the outline of her nipples, clearly hardened in the cold winter air, poking through the thin fabric of her swimsuit. Fuck, and he’d been trying so hard to make her feel safe, and here he was fucking ogling her at his first glimpse.

“Yeah, no problem.” He said, tongue heavy in his mouth. Hoping he hadn’t taken as long to respond as it’d felt. But he must’ve done something right, because she smiled brightly, a puff of her warm breath drifting past her lips as she thanked him. Floating up to mix with the steam rolling off of the hot water.

The water rippled against his bare chest as she stepped in, her hand barely brushing against the metal railing, leaving fingerprints in the visible condensation. He tried his hardest to find the tile floor of the jacuzzi through the thick bubbles when she hummed at the warmth of the sauna as she lowered herself beneath the frother surface.

Only then did Frankie feel safe enough to look up from the imaginary point on the floor, now that her too-soft looking body was hidden beneath the white fluff of the bubbles. Her eyes had fallen shut, lashes whispering against her cheeks. Lips slightly chapped from the harsh mountain winds, moisture already creeping its way along the smooth slope of her shoulders. Droplets of water spattered across her collarbone, carving a path down towards the crevice between her breasts. Head leaned back against the curved edge of the pool, smaller particles of water clinging to her hair.

Shit, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d seen. Like a siren washed up from the sea, enchanting unsuspecting men with her otherworldly allure, only to drag them back with her to the watery depths.

Maybe he should’ve gotten out earlier after all, escaped his fate, because he was completely and utterly fucked.

The water felt heavenly wrapped around your nearly freeze-dried skin, you had to fight back a moan. The December sky was painted above you, bright splatters of white and yellow and blue painted across a black canvas, the moon hung full overhead. The slowly changing hues of the bubbles mirroring the heavens above. It was stunning, the space around you.

Not to mention, the man in front of you.

Broad chest dappled with a light sweeping of freckles. Brown hair mussed and curling upwards from the moisture in the air. Strong, curved nose and almost sorrowful brown eyes. He was beautiful, you thought, nearly rivaling the sky above and waters below. Suddenly aware of the lack of space between the two of you, no more than four or five feet apart.

You glanced up at him, surprised to find him already looking at you. A soft shade of pink spread across his cheeks, already flushed from the heat. You pursed your lips, fighting back a grin at his response to being caught. “Avoiding the rest of the world too?” you asked, trying to build a bridge across the small space that separated you.

The man’s eyes widened for a moment, before meeting your own as he spoke, and again you were struck by the roughened edge to his voice. A stark contrast to his otherwise soft demeanor. “Something like that,” the edge of his lip tugged upwards as he tilted his head to the side. “Mostly just my roommate… ‘ve got a feeling he’s got another, prettier roommate in mind, if you know what I mean.”

You bit your lip, feeling your smile spread across your cheeks at his joking answer. “I’m sure he appreciates it.”

He snorted, an abrupt, unexpected noise which he quickly reigned back in, as if its escape had been just as much of a surprise to him. “Nah,” he shook his head, curls bouncing with the movement, lip still curled up into a small smirk. “Doubt that fucker even notices I’m gone.” His words were harsh, but his features held nothing but fondness.

Smile still comfortably spread across your lips, you slightly shifted forward and gave the man your name. Who knows, you were at the same resort, maybe you’d run into him again.

He swallowed, as if taking in the consonants and vowels, the way the sound of your name curved in the air, before returning it with his own. “Frankie,” he leaned forward, arm outstretched towards you. His hand was warm against your skin, grip firm as he politely shook your own. You couldn’t help but notice how much bigger his hand was, the way his fingers stretched all the way around the outside of your hand, nearly connecting with his thumb. Leaving your skin feeling cold as he pulled away. “You here alone? Or…”

You quirked a brow. Forward, wasn’t he.

“Shit,” he choked, face immediately flushing with color once again. Water splashing against his chest as his arm jerked out in panic. “That’s- that came out differently than I’d mean it to,” he laughed quietly, running a hand through his hair, damp curls pulling back before quickly coiling back into place. You smiled, finding his flustered state endearing. “I just meant if you were here with friends, too. I kinda was brought as a hostage by my buds…” he trailed off again, clearly struggling to properly formulate his thoughts.

“Nah, not friends,” you met his eyes, trying to convey your reassurance. “I’m here with my family. Never too old to grow out of annual family vacations, apparently.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “That’s sweet. That your family does that.” He’s right, it was. You almost asked about his family, but caught yourself, worrying that would be too invasive. “My mom’d take me to her parents for the holidays every year. Don’t know how she did it, ‘know I must’ve been a little shit in a car for seven hours.” He chuckled to himself, eyes softly glazing over as he relived the memory.

You didn’t know how much time passed after that. Alternating between amicable banter and comfortable silence. The two of you sharing stories and watching the lights change color. Humming along to familiar holiday tunes drifting from the lodge and listening as the occasional owl hooted from the snow-covered pines overhead. Laughter echoing between you, bouncing off the water, fizzling into the air along with the pop of the bubbles. You’re not sure how, or when it had happened, but somehow the two of you had drawn together, closing the small distance once between you.

Steam curled around you, hazy ribbons floating in the air, and you briefly wondered if they were what drew you together. Wrapped themselves around your relaxed forms, around your wrists and ankles and tugged and pulled until the two of you sat side by side, bare feet occasionally bumping into each other with the gentle push and pull of the jets.

Feeling the delicate skin of his ankle graze against your toes, droplets of water splashing into your lap as he gesticulated while speaking. Finding yourself enraptured in his movements, the plush curve of his lips when he spoke, the way his biceps pulled taught and chest flushed when he laughed.

How his brown eyes fell to your lips when you smiled. Dropped even lower when you’d lean forward or turn a certain way. He seemed to track your motions the same way, going as far to push a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Stealing your breath as warm fingertips brushed featherlight against the wet skin of your cheekbone. Lingering as he pulled back, fingers softly curling along the counters of your face. His thumb barely kissing the edge of your lips as he finally let his hand fall back to his side.

“Warm,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut at the loss of his heated skin.

“Hm?” his brows furrowed slightly, even though you knew he understood the meaning behind your statement. Just as affected by the headiness of the thick steam and lulling rhythm of the bubbles and the closeness held between your bodies. You opened your eyes to find his head tilted, and under any other circumstances, you would’ve taken it as confusion. But not here, not now. Not with him. His eyes unabashedly on your lips, wet and glistening and waiting.

You leaned closer, the tip of his aquiline nose just brushing against yours. “Frankie,” you breathed against his mouth. Your eyes flittering up to his, finding them dark and hooded and wanting. Nearly begging, begging you to let him, to confirm that you wanted this, too. Normally one to wait, to follow the lead, you hesitated for a fraction of a second before pushing the past aside. You didn’t want to wait, you already knew the answer. He was asking for both of you with those big brown eyes, shining in a way that looked like he was in physical pain from waiting himself.

“Please.” It was more of a warning than a request, giving him a moment to deny you, to tell you you’d been misinterpreting this entire situation. He responded with a soft exhale and a sharp raise of his brows. As if he was begging you as much as you were him. Letting yourself give in, give the both of you what you desired, you took in a breath of the warm winter air and pressed your lips to Frankie’s.

Frankie’s mind seemed to spark and fizzle like a faulty wire before finally clicking back into place. Commanding his heavy arms to rise, wrapping around the silky skin of your waist, tugging you flush against him. He smiled internally at the quiet gasp he’d drawn from your lips, fresh confidence driving him to deepen the kiss. Running his tongue along the outer edge of your lips, faintly tasting sweet chocolate and the tang of the chlorine. His hand lifted up to cup the back of your head. Fingers tangling with the damp hair at the base of your neck. Shifting positions so that his touch traced along the curve of your spine, causing you to shiver beneath his touch.

Only seconds had passed, yet he found that you were an instrument he wanted to play till the sun’s golden rays overflowed from the mountaintops. To master the pull of your strings and dips of your intricate curves. Draw sweet melodies from you all night until his hands could no longer work. Until your body had completely melted into the silky water of the jacuzzi and the firm pressure of his touch.

He bit back a groan as you pulled back, leaving wet handprints on his chest that quickly evaporated into the humid air. Already, your lips were swollen, hair clearly messed where his hand had been tangled with your locks. Your chest heaved as you inhaled, his eyes brazenly dropping to your tits. Nipples hardened in the winter breeze, practically begging to be pulled between his fingers and twisted till he draws sweet cries from your lips. Eyes brightly reflecting the warm glow of the lights, darkened with a shadow of something else. Like a siren, he thought once more. Yet he found himself more than willing to fall, to dive headfirst if it meant more of this. More of you.

Your lips parted as if you were going to say something, but no noise came out. Instead you leaned back into him, threading your small fingers into his hair. A rough noise escaping him as you tugged, pulling him back into your wanting mouth. Your tongue dipping past his lips. Again that warm sweetness and cinnamon filled his senses as he let you take your fill. Loving the heady blend of sensations. Little blossoms of pain at his scalp laved over by the wet caress of your mouth on his and the satiny strokes of the hot water.

He would happily let himself drown in your mouth, he knew. But he wanted to taste more.

Tilting your neck back, Frankie ruefully separated his lips from yours, noting the needy whine linger in the back of your throat. “Shhh, sweetheart, trust me,” he watched you give him a rushed nod, taking the opportunity to bring his mouth to the smooth column of your neck. Shining with the glimmering sheen of water, he began licking up the droplets. Tasting the blend of tangy chlorine and the warm musk of your skin. Feeling your pulse fluttering beneath his tongue, Frankie closed his mouth around the cord of muscle and sucked into your skin.

Your moan rumbled up in your throat, reverberating into his wanting mouth. Fuck, he wanted to draw more and more of those pretty noises from you long into the night. With his mouth, hands, cock, whatever. Anything to keep that sweet song pouring from your lips.

The water swished around him as he repositioned himself, pulling away for a moment so that he was standing between your spread legs. Your knees hugging his outer thighs as he curled over you, moving his mouth back to your skin. Letting his lips wander down your neck, no more than a whisper along the sparse hairs that coated your skin. Bringing his lips to the spot where your neck connected with the tip of your collarbone. Getting a feel for the soft, squishy skin there before using his teeth, gently biting into your inviting flesh.

As another quiet moan fell from your lips, Frankie used the moment to bring a hand to the soft roundness of your breast, finally getting his fill. Shamelessly stroking you in the place he’d been denying himself all night. Head spinning as the weight settled in his palm, warm and smooth and not quite enough through the fabric of your swimsuit.

A whimper tumbled out of you as he grazed a thumb over the peaked bud of your nipple. And fuck him if that didn’t send another jolt of heat straight to his already full cock. Drawing his thumb back, Frankie slowly traced a circle along the outer edge of your areola, not quite where you needed him. Eyes drinking in the deep rise and fall of your chest, the water swaying in rhythm with you. Bringing his thumb closer, just to the base of the hardened skin, before retreating and continuing to rub teasing circles “Frankie, please,” you breathed, voice choked and airy.

“Please what? This not enough for you?” He hummed, a slight pout drawn into the melody.

Your pretty face scrunched up at his mocking tone, and Frankie almost felt bad. Almost. But he wanted to hear more of your pretty noises, hear you ask nicely for what you wanted. “Touch me, ‘s not enough.”

His mouth curled into a sinful smirk, something inside of him drawing tight upon realizing how easy it was to get you to beg. Part of him wanted to wait, to deny you just to see how far you’d go to get what you wanted. Later, he decided. There was plenty more to make you beg for.

Finally letting his fingers return to your aching nipple, he brushed a finger back across the peak, giving your tit a sharp squeeze before pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Needing to be a bit rougher than normal to keep it from slipping away beneath the fabric barrier. The whimper formed, stronger, in your throat and he knew he couldn’t stop. Twisting you between his fingers, almost enough to hurt, but not quite yet. Your hips bucked below the surface, back arching against the tiled wall, bubbles crackling just below your ribcage. “Not-” you whined, brows pinching together, clearly frustrated. “Still not enough, not-,”

You writhed beneath him, body tightly coiled as he continued to work your nipple, having brought the other hand to cup your other breast, wanting to give it a similar attention. Watching the way you’d brought your hands to the sides of your swimsuit, seemingly unconsciously pulling at the skintight fabric, nails digging into the synthetic material as you dragged your hands down your torso.

Gripping the bare skin at your waist, he pushed your body back against the wall of the hot tub, your body nearly weightless in the water, he lifted you slightly to get a better angle before pressing his mouth to your tits, replacing his finger that had been tightly twisting and twirling. Laving his tongue over the chlorine-soaked fabric, feeling the hardness of your nipple beneath. Using a flash of teeth to nip at you through your swimsuit.

Still, you tugged at your bikini straps, not quite pulling them down but playing with them, drawing his darkened eyes to the thin fabric at your shoulders. He pulled back, watching your breasts sway with your heavy breaths, one of the straps falling from your shoulder, exposing a faint glimpse of the rounded flesh at the side of your breast. Thoughtlessly raising a hand to trace along the bare curve, entranced at the give of skin beneath his calloused fingers. “Something you need, beautiful?” His gaze didn’t leave the patch of your partially exposed tits, begging to be freed.

Your eyes were wild as they met his. Dark with need and alight with some proprietary sense of hesitation, of knowing that you were still in a public area. That anyone could come through the iron gates, could see you like this. Flushed and needy and heaving with desire. “I-, I just want more.” Your voice was tight, like he could break you with no more than a touch.

Fuck him. He shuffled forward, letting his aching cock press against your core, only separated by the thin layers of fabric. Clenching his eyes tight at the sudden contact, the way it burned a trail up his spine. Grunting when he saw the same expression mirrored across your own features.

“I need you to tell me, sweetheart,” He leaned down, placing a chaste kiss to your uncovered chest, the fabric peeling down to reveal a peek of the silky skin where the colors shifted. Giving way from tougher skin to the sensitive softness of your nipple. “You want this off? Hmm? Want me to give your pretty tits the attention they deserve? Bet they’re fucking beautiful,” he murmured into the curve of your skin, fingers dancing up your ribcage to land below the swell of your chest. Holding you there as he leaned back, meeting your eyes. Waiting for your permission.

He wanted this. Wanted it here, now, didn’t give a fuck who saw. But he needed you to want it too. “Need to hear you say it, please.” He lifted his head, pressing a warm kiss to your lips, holding you like a treasure he desperately desired to keep close.

You opened your mouth soundlessly, and for a second he was sure you were going to say no. Push him away and tell him to fuck off, that he was a pervert and a creep and everything that wasn’t enough for. But instead, you tugged down the remaining strap, the fine strands of fabric dangling from your shoulders. Remaining material above your chest already drooping low without the support of the straps.

Instinct drew him forward, but his mind kept his hands in place. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me this is ok.”

Your eyes were nearly black with lust as you spoke, voice firm. “It’s ok, Frankie. Don’t stop.”

He moved like a predator, was your first and only thought, before the straining cups of your bikini top were torn down, breasts spilling out over the wet fabric into the night air. You’d expected the shock of the cold to pierce you, but were instead caught in the heat of Frankie’s gaze on your bare tits, his hands returning to them, almost reverently now that you’d fully revealed your upper half.

“I was right,” he whispered, more to your chest than you, you realized with a sprinkle of amusement. Pupils blown wide as he soaked in your appearance, feeling his hand clench at your side before returning to your exposed chest. “Fucking perfect,” he pinched the hardened bud between deft fingers, and you gasped at the feeling of his skin on yours. Just enough pressure as you silently begged him still for more. Needing his mouth back on your skin.

Accepting your unspoken plea, Frankie closed his mouth around your tight nipple, and you let out a frighteningly loud cry as the wet heat enveloped you. “Fuck, Frankie…” you whined as he give it a suck before laving over the peak with his tongue. Swirling it in his mouth, bringing it between his teeth with a slight pinch and a gentle tug. Eyes flitting up to yours to gauge your reaction. Knowing your face was nothing more than a canvas for the pleasure he painted across you in long, flowing strokes. All the while continuing to work your other breast with his large hand, keeping you suspended between two constant pools of bliss.

Your body wound tight, warm energy swirling beneath your skin. Buzzing across your nerves, so hot it fucking hurt. The backs of your arms ached, the cool concrete digging into your skin, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. Not when Frankie had you arching into him, hips beginning to grind against his. Feeling him hot and hard and digging into the swell of your inner thigh, so close to where you needed him but nowhere close enough. Constantly assaulted by his tongue and hand relentlessly working your sore tits, bordering on the edge of pain and something else.

Briefly you wondered if you could come just from this. If you dropped a hand between your legs, pressed down on your swollen clit that had been throbbing for what felt like hours. If that would be enough. If that would send you over the edge, send you reeling into the ecstasy your body was chasing. “Frankie, shit, I-” it took you a second to collect your words, scattered along with the nerves that lit up your body.

He switched tits while he waited for you to continue, big brown eyes looking up at you patiently, mouth latching onto your other nipple while he lifted his hand to your spit-slathered breast. Nipple glinting in the warm light, slick and shiny with his saliva.

“Need you to touch me- your thigh.” Your eyes locked onto the thick muscle of his leg, watching the tendons clench as he shifted his weight, immediately catching onto your meaning.

Pulling back from your chest with a wet, lewd pop, he braced his arm on the stone beside you, the cords of his bicep flexing with the movement, close enough that you could see the droplets of water beading on his tanned skin. “You’re learning,” he smiled, tilting your chin up with the bottom of his finger. “Asking for what you want like a good girl.”

You nodded eagerly, mind overcome with a deep-set hunger, greedy for the pleasure you knew he could give you. Tongue heavy in your mouth, feeling like you were capable of doing nothing more than sinking deeper into the water, letting its hypnotic pull overcome you while Frankie played with your body like he’d studied it for years.

“You think you could come like this?” he pinched your nipple harder than before, enough for you to cry out in pain, though it quickly melted into simmering pleasure which Frankie immediately caught on to. “Bet you could, bet you want to.” He dropped his mouth to your ear, voice lowering an octave. His words were hot on your skin as he spoke. “Let me give you what you need, please.”

His eyes met yours once again, warm and rich and filled with desire. You’d never felt like this before. So wanted. Like Frankie had made it his mission to give you as much as he could. Not just for you, but for him. Because he enjoyed it, enjoyed bringing you to the edge of pleasure and holding you there, leaving you teetering near the precipice before letting you fall deep, deep into the waves of ecstasy.

“Please,” you repeated back to him, the hiss of your plea being the last thing you heard before he jerked your nipple with a harsh twist and slotted his knee between your waiting thighs. The pressure kissing firmly against your swollen clit and breaking the dam inside of you. Cunt clenching around nothing, spasming as you can feel yourself gush into the billowing water.

Churning waves roaring in your ears as your body tensed and released, shaking with the effort, feeling as if all the building pleasure was pouring out of you, leaving you helpless to stop it. Feeling your vision go fuzzy, like you’d sunk below the surface and everything was glazed over with flashes of light and sprays of water.

You heard Frankie murmur your name against your ear, his hand now gently caressing the flushed skin of your cheek. Hard concrete pressing against the back of your head, you lifted yourself up, slowly opened your eyes to find his own looking back at you. Dark and heavy and wanting. Yet he maintained the gentle brush of his thumb against your skin, slowly drawing you back to the present, even though you knew his mind was just as lost as yours.

“Shit, Frankie,” you smiled up at him, feeling a little silly. “That was- fuck,” you laughed and he pressed a kiss to your lips. Initially soft and quieting, it quickly changed, his own desire fueling him on. You could feel the energy building beneath his skin, his hands dropping lower to the cute little bows that held the strings of your bikini bottoms together. Fisting with the plump curve of your ass, thumb slipping beneath the drawstring, but leaving your remaining clothing in place. Ever the gentleman.

The gentleman who then continued to spin you around, lifting you as he settled into the bench seat, back leaning against the wall, before settling you into his lap. His cock jutting up against your soaked pussy, putting pressure back on your swollen clit and fuck, even with your previous orgasm it still wasn’t enough. Circling your hips, you put a hand on his chest, savoring the feel of his bare skin warm beneath your fingertips. “Frankie,” you ground into him, realizing how fucking empty you felt. “Need you, want you inside me.”

His grip on your hips tightened, hard enough that you knew there’d be finger-sized bruises tattooed into your skin tomorrow. “Fuck, sweetheart, can I?”

You knew that this was risky, fucking crazy, actually. Fucking a man you’d just met in open air, where anyone could still walk in and see, at a resort your fucking family was attending. But you didn’t care, couldn’t even bother to worry. All you could focus on was the burning between your legs, the way your body was screaming at you to be filled. And with the way Frankie was straining beneath you, you knew you’d have to stretch to take him. But god, you could already imagine how it’d feel to be full of his cock, have him deep inside you, murmuring filthy things in your ears while he’d gently rut up into you. And yeah, you didn’t give a shit.

“I’m on the pill, and clean.”

Frankie nodded. “Me too. You sure?”

So fucking sweet, this man. “Please, Frankie. I want you to fuck me.”

Frankie had to bite his tongue to stop himself from cumming right then and there. The determination in your eyes, the deadset desperation for him. He couldn’t wait any longer, needed to be inside you. “Fuck, yeah, ok,” he babbled, fumbling for a moment to pull the drawstrings, moaning when he felt the fabric come free and float away, leaving you bare in his lap and all for him.

“Shit, baby- fuck,” Words temporarily evaded him as he soaked in your appearance. Naked and glimmering with beads of clear water reflecting the light off your skin. Leaving you glowing like a fucking angel and fuck, everything he wanted to do was far from holy, but at the same time he wanted to worship you until the sun rose and set and the silvery moonlight coated the snow once again.

It took him a moment to collect himself, feeling you hot and waiting above his painfully hard cock. The little swirls and arches of your hips causing him to meet your thrusts, jutting up into you even within the confines of his swim shorts. “Hang on a sec, just-” he trailed off, burying his head in your shoulder, your wet hair tickling his nose. Clenching his hands around the delicious swell of your ass, willing himself to focus, needing to last longer than a fucking teenager.

Finally having collected himself, Frankie pulled back, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Only to find you beaming down at him, extending a soft hand to run through his tousled curls and he could help but lean into your touch. Turning towards you to plant a soft kiss to your palm, trying to convey his gratefulness for your patience. Wanting nothing more than to make this good for you, loving the way you’d come apart under him before. Needing to break you apart on his cock.

Freeing his length from the shorts, Frankie took a moment to drag his head along your folds, easily parting for him with the slick that had gathered there. “Fuck, sweetheart, so fucking wet for me,” he murmured as he continued teasing the outer edges of your pussy, collecting the wetness before it was washed away with the water.

You moaned sweetly, breath warm against his neck where you’d settled yourself. Arms thrown tightly around his shoulders as he held you, one hand at your hip, one still firmly planted on your ass.

“You sure this is ok? Out here where anyone can see?” He double-checked out of caution, and something else too. Some sick thrill shot down his spine at the thought of getting caught. Of being seen fucking into you, your tits bouncing as you cried out in pleasure. Letting everyone know how good he’d made you feel.

You nodded against his skin, and he felt something build within him. Reaching between your legs, he slowly parted your folds, notching the tip into your tight, waiting pussy. Savoring the gasp that it tore from your parted lips, hot and moist on his neck. “You sure? Not scared, are ya?” He continued working himself inside of you, the added friction from the water halting his rhythm, but not his determination.

A whimper sounded against him, and he felt you clutching him tighter, nails digging into the smooth skin of his back. Taking the moment, he canted his hips, sheathing another several inches within you so that he was almost halfway in. And fuck, he needed to take another deep breath. The tight heat of your pussy gripping him was almost too much. Combined with the dull pain of your nails piercing his back, he had to be careful. Still, he continued.

“Not worried someone’ll see you like this? Getting fucked in a hot tub? Pretty tits out for anyone to see?” He gave your breast an emphatic squeeze, never tiring of the way the soft skin felt spilling between his fingers. Drawing another whine from your lips, face still buried into his skin. “Nah-ah, sweetheart, no need to be shy,” he gripped your jaw, gentle pressure but still enough to control your movements.

Your eyes were glazed over, a trail of drool spilling from your mouth. Looking perfectly fucked-out for him, and he hadn’t even started. “There we go, baby, make sure they can see that pretty face too, see how much you’re enjoying this.” You moaned something that vaguely resembled his name, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Let them, you know why?” He didn’t give you time to answer before thrusting the rest of his length into your cunt, feeling you grip him as the air fled from your lungs. Brows drawn tight as you accommodated to the stretch. “Because this pussy is just for me. Taking me so well, aren’t you?” You nodded, hips slowly shifting above him as you adjusted to the intrusion. Frankie was well aware of his size, and knew that it often took people a moment or two to get used to him.

“Yeah, there you go, knew you could do it,” he praised, placing a kiss to the soft spot of your neck, feeling your body loosen into him, your walls relaxing around him, giving him room to test out a slow thrust. “So good for me, baby.”

Beginning with a slow pace, Frankie dragged his cock back, feeling your cunt grip him, like you were trying to keep him inside. Grip on your ass tightening, he leaned back in, slowly pushing his length back inside of you, the wet drag heavenly against his cock. Your hips tilted against his as you began meeting his thrusts. Riding him in rhythm as he fucked up into you.

The hot pull of your pussy combined with the pressure of the jets against his lower back was heavenly. Pressing at his muscles while you drained the pleasure from him, milking it from his body, which happily gave you his all. Loving the way your cunt fluttered around him, alternating between deep, stroking clenches and quick little pulses. So fucking responsive.

His eyes transfixed on the bounce of your tits, wanting to suck them back into his mouth, roll your nipples with his tongue more. Taste your skin in his mouth, the sweet combination of winter air and chlorine and the faint trace of your body’s natural musk. Sweeter than anything he’d tasted before. Mind wandering to how your pussy would taste, how you’d leak for him. Let him lap up your juices, fuck them back into you with his tongue until you were nothing but a writhing mess for him to savor.

“Shit,” Frankie felt his pace faltering, clearly spurred on by the thought of getting his mouth between your legs. Maybe later… “I’m sorry sweetheart, fuck- I’m close.” He tried to focus on something else, tried to slow down, anything to slow his quickly impending orgasm. But his body seemed to move on its own, hips hammering into your heat, your tight cunt sucking him in, wet and tight and perfect and fuck- it was too much.

“Want you inside- cum inside me, please, Frankie-” your voice broke off, and he’d been so busy trying to slow himself down he hadn’t even noticed the tears that had formed at the corners of your eyes. The way your breathing had picked up and head had thrown itself back, lips chapped from where you’d been digging your teeth into the plump flesh. Looking just as fucked as he felt.

And whether it was seeing you or hearing your words or the idea of tasting you ingrained into his mind or some combination of the three, Frankie felt that rope inside of him snap. Head falling forward as his hips jerked once, twice, and fuck, he was cumming. Heat flooding his stomach and shooting through his throbbing cock, feeling the warm spurts shudder through him as he poured himself into your soaked cunt.

Panting heavily into your sweat-slicked shoulder, Frankie planted a kiss against your wet skin, feeling your body stir against his. Just breathing you in, listening to the soft bubble of the jets, feeling your pulse flutter against him.

Pulling out, he felt the rush of water around his spent cock. Reaching a hand between your thighs to find himself spilling out of you, cum already being washed away by the rushing water.

He leaned back to find a lazy smile spread across your face, hair plastered to your forehead. Brushing it out of the way, he pressed a matching kiss just above your brow before pulling you into his chest. Loving the way you let it happen, your body melting into his. He let his cheek rest on the top of your head, your hair tickling his flushed skin.

And as he held you, he realized that the music from inside had finally died down. Leaving him alone with the rhythm of your breaths and the melody of the wind.

#pedro pascal #frankie morales #triple frontier #frankie morales fanfiction #francisco morales #pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales x reader

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sgt-tombstone · 3 months ago

Text

I’m Not Ready To Go

Mature || Ghost x Soap

cw: angst, MCD, vomiting, graphic description of a corpse, blood and gore, hurt no comfort

————

It’s warm here,

Come on in,

But that’s a long way to dive,

When you don’t know how to swim

- Hazlett, I’m Not Ready To Go

————

When John MacTavish was eight years old, his family went on vacation. Gun to his head, he couldn’t say where exactly, but he remembered being warm, a stark contrast to the chilled air of the Scottish Highlands that seemed to sink into his very bones. There was a pool, somewhere near where they were staying, and John had been fixated by it. It was brilliant blue, unnaturally so, and the surface shimmered in the summer sun, blinding, yet so alluring. His fascination hadn’t gone unnoticed, and his mother had led him to the water’s edge, clad in his brand new swim trunks, to dip a toe into the unknown. She slipped into the pool, the glittering sun reflecting off of the water, wreathing her in ethereal light, and motioned for him to jump in after her. But John balked. He’d never been swimming before, had never been in water deeper than his bathtub, and the thought of leaping so readily into uncharted waters had his entire body freezing up, fear lacing his veins like a paralytic.

“I dinnae ken how to swim,” he whimpered.

“It’s okay, John,” his mother had said, low and assured. “I know it’s scary, but I’m right here. I’ll hold your hand; I won’t let you fall.”

Trusting her was as easy as breathing. With one hand tight in her grip, he stepped off of the edge and into oblivion.

————

The gunshot didn’t hurt, all things considered. No more than his aching legs or straining lungs, anyway. Pressure against his temple, a concussive force that was over in a flash; the impact of his shoulder against the concrete hurt more than the bullet lodged in his brain, nestled in a bed of shattered bone. Vaguely, he could feel a rush, like water over his skull, hot and slick as his brain matter pooled on the ground beneath him.

And then he got up.

It was perhaps the hardest thing he’d ever done, but something in his chest, or maybe his soul, knew that there was no other option. He had to get up, so he did. He managed to roll over, get his arms underneath him, and push himself to his knees. The change in elevation made the gaping hole in his head gush, spilling scorching blood over his ear and down his neck, soaking into his shirt and tac vest, and nausea roiled in his stomach at the sensation. The world was blurry and vague, as if submerged; everything around him was muffled and slanting. He was lightheaded, which made sense, considering half of his head was currently on the ground. He swayed slightly, trying to catch his balance with the new weight distribution but it felt like he was keeling over, a ship caught in a gale, a drunkard stumbling out of a pub. His arms swung out, desperate to find some semblance of equilibrium, but he couldn’t quite manage it with half of his head suddenly feeling much lighter than before.

His stomach made a valiant attempt to keep its contents in place at the resulting swoop of vertigo, but it lost the fight as soon as he caught a glimpse of the pool of red, bright against the off-white floor. He twisted to the side, palms braced against the cold concrete to compensate for the abrupt movement, and narrowly avoided vomiting on his own body.

His own, dead, body.

Vaguely, as stomach acid burned the back of his throat, his stomach convulsing painfully, his eyes watering from the force, he wondered how it was possible. Wondered how he could be here and there at the same time, living and dead, conscious and a corpse. Normally, he didn’t make a habit of questioning miracles, leaving skepticism to Price and Ghost, but this didn’t feel like a miracle.

A train swept by, deafening in the tunnel, and the wind buffeted his body, both of them. Through the din, he heard a voice.

“John.”

She was beautiful, all soft skin and warm eyes, blinding yet alluring. Beautiful in the way that men would walk through fire and flame for, if only she led the way. Beautiful in the way that men would kill and die for, if only for the prize of her gentle smile. Beautiful in the way that had John listing towards her, towards her outstretched hand, trust as easy as breathing, but then… he balked. He looked back.

The bomb, disarmed.

Gaz and Price, standing off to the side. Gaz’s face was pressed against Price’s tac vest, his fists curled in the back of his captain’s shirt as he sobbed, held up only by the support of Price’s arms wrapped around his body.

Ghost, kneeling next to his dead body. His head was bowed, his gloved fingers tight on his knees, as if the tension held in his bones was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

“It’s okay, John,” she said, so softly that he shouldn’t have been able to hear her, but her voice rang clear anyway. He glanced back, breath caught in his throat.

“Who are ye?” He asked, but he knew who she was. He knew her as innately as he knew his own mother, the sound of her heartbeat, the warmth of her skin, the moment his life began. Death stood before him, and he knew that this was the moment his life ended.

All at once, a maelstrom of emotion surged through him. Rage, grief, fear. They ignited in his blood like a wildfire, scorching him from the inside out. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.

“I’m no’ ready to go,” he snarled, face twisted in fury, but the anger melted like snow in the face of her impassivity. He’d learned a lot from Ghost over the years, but he’d never gained the ability to intimidate Death herself, especially when she was looking at him with such gentle kindness.

“I know it’s scary,” she said, and something in him broke. Tears streamed down his cheeks before he even felt the sting in his eyes and he couldn’t catch his breath, his mouth caught open on a sob that lodged in his throat. He wrapped his arms around himself, as tightly as he could given his bulky gear, but it didn’t help. He couldn’t escape this nightmare. There was no comfort to be found here.

“I’m no’ done here,” he ground out, quiet between his lips but it echoed impossibly through the tunnel as if he had howled it, carrying all of the emotion he’d held back. He turned back to the dismal sight; to his lifeless body sprawled on the floor, heat leeching out with his blood; to his team, seemingly stuck in place, undoubtedly waiting for the medical team to arrive with the body bag. “I’m no’ even thirty,” he whispered, voice thick. “I’m supposed to have more time.”

“I’m afraid not, John,” she said. The words should’ve hurt, should’ve made him bear his teeth and fight, but he couldn’t summon the defensiveness. Desolation took its place, like a gaping hole in his chest, a twin to the one in his head. “This is all the time you get.”

“No.” He shook his head. He couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. “There’s so much I didnae get to see, I cannae leave yet. Don’t make me leave.”

“You can’t stay, John.”

Her words sank through him like a stone in a still pond. He knew she was right, could feel the truth in his bones, like an ache that wouldn’t leave, a chill that he couldn’t shiver out.

“I gave everything!” He yelled, pressing his hands to his eye sockets, hard, but the outburst ebbed just as quickly as it had the first time, leaving only empty, numb resignation and a hollow sense of defeat. “I gave everything, and this is what I get?”

“I’m sorry, John,” she said earnestly after a long moment, so earnestly that he couldn’t doubt her. It only made it worse. He shuffled forward until his knees his his own side, until he was face to face with Ghost, or would have been, had Ghost been able to tear his eyes from the cold corpse between them. John lifted his trembling hands, just shy of cupping the mask-shrouded lines of Ghost’s cheeks. For a moment, a split second, Ghost glanced up, as if he could sense John’s proximity, the chill of his fingers only centimeters from his face, and their eyes met. The moment seemed to stretch and warp, a second caught in an endless expanse as he stared into the depths of Ghost’s, bourbon brown eyes for the last time. And then Ghost dropped his head again, and the second shattered.

“I cannae leave him,” he said, directing the words over his shoulder even as he kept his eyes on the slope of Ghost’s mask, the way his balaclava rippled where his hair was flattened underneath it, the careful stitching that kept the whole ensemble together. “Don’t make me leave him, not like this. I cannae- I never got to tell him…”

He knew he was dangerously close to begging, knew how hopeless it was, but he had to try.

“Simon,” he breathed, then again, louder, the sudden resurgence of his anguish lending a warbling strength to his words. “Simon, I’m so sorry, love, I didnae mean to, I promise, please, love, please look at me again-“

“He can’t hear you, John,” she murmured.

“Tell me he’ll be okay,” he snarled at the interruption, whipping his head to the side, just far enough to throw the words behind him. A bad idea, if the swoop of his still-unbalanced head was any indication, but he didn’t care. There was nothing more important than this. The urgency was glass under his skin, paralyzing.

“John, I can’t-“

“Lie to me if you have to,” he snapped, “but tell me he’ll be okay. He’ll die in his sleep when he’s eighty, quick and painless. Tell me he makes it out. Tell me he disnae die here.”

He could hear another train coming, rushing down the tracks, rumbling through his knees. The medics would be here soon, no doubt, and then it would be chaos. Team members or not, the rest of the 141 would be swept to the side, told to return to base for debrief and several rounds of psychological evaluations. He could see the slow preparation to move in the shift of Price’s arms around Gaz, getting ready to let go, letting him find his footing again before stepping back. He could see it in the flexing of Ghost’s hands against his knees, fingertips digging into the flesh of his thighs, burying everything until they got back to base, just like he always did. Only, this time, he wouldn’t be there to see it. He wouldn’t be there to bump his shoulder against Simon’s, a comforting weight at his side.

“I love you, Johnny,” Simon whispered, so low that John thought he’d imagined it. Agony laced his voice, dripping with grief and guilt. He ripped off his mask, quick and desperate, and John was gifted the unique torment of watching, helpless, as Simon’s lips curled in a silent keen, his tears running in wavering rivulets down his scarred cheeks. He brought the cloth part of his mask up to his face to wipe away the tears. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry, Johnny.”

He stretched his hand out and his fingers were twitching, his arm trembling, every sniper instinct utterly broken, but the touch he used to close John’s unseeing eyes was as gentle as a wave, softer than water, extinguishing the dull, lifeless blue.

“Goodbye, love,” he breathed, and then he stood up, pulling his mask back over his head, shutting out the rest of the world, containing everything that was Simon Riley behind the skull plate, locked tight. He turned, stooping to pick up his gun, and stalked out of the tunnel, not waiting for Price or Gaz to catch up.

John stared after him, rendered—for once in his life, or maybe only in death—speechless. The train hurtled through the tunnel, but he barely noticed it. He felt scraped hollow, nothing more than a husk, eyes caught on the retreating back of the love of his life. He’d never be able to say it back.

“He makes it out,” Death said softly as the sound of the train faded in the distance. He’d forgotten she was there, but he didn’t startle. She was a calming presence at his back, a warmth that he couldn’t explain, didn’t even try. He didn’t know if she was lying and he didn’t dare ask. It was a comforting fantasy, if nothing else. He swallowed roughly, ran a hand through his mohawk, and stood up. It was easier this time, somehow, or maybe he’d gotten used to the dead weight. He turned, his back to his own corpse for the first time, and felt the yawning expanse of the unknown in front of him, a nebulous, unseen aura that shimmered like sun on water, wreathing Death in ethereal light. Her expression was soft and sympathetic, but he didn’t feel the sharp sting of pity he’d expected. It made his next words a little easier to bear.

“I dinnae… I dinnae ken how to swim.”

“I’m right here, John,” she said, low and assured. “I’ll hold your hand; I won’t let you fall.”

Trusting her was as easy as breathing. He placed his hand in hers, tight in her grip, and together, they stepped off of the edge and into oblivion.

————

Feel free to drop a kudos or comment on AO3!

#call of duty #cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #angst #major character death #mcd #tombstone's epitaphs #tombstone's ficlets #hehe sorry 😅

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cagesofgold · 4 months ago

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Sickening - Shigaraki x Reader

Tomura believed himself to be an autodidact when it came to relationships.

He learnt everything he knew through observation. Observation which was carefully curated by his master to fit his exact lense. His lense which was warped by fervent desires and undeniable cruelty. Tomura didn’t recognize himself to be an object until quite recently. A pawn, a play piece, being shuffled across the board of fate with his master’s calloused hands at the center of it all.

So for a long time, his perspective on relationships and love, was irrevocably skewed. He believed it to be superficial, something to pass the time and to distract yourself from the dreariness of reality. The only feeling he ever felt which remotely belonged under the umbrella of these emotions, was lust. But never that ‘Sickeningly sweet’ love, as people would describe it. He saw it as a weakness, and a flawed deferment of facing any form of loneliness. Something most feared, yet for him it was the only feeling he didn’t feel out of place in. The one he knew he deserved.

So why do you make him feel so sick?

The first time you entered he felt it. Trailing behind Dabi’s languid saunter and peeking over Toga’s shoulder. Two curious, beady eyes met his - and he felt his stomach twist.

Initially he told himself it was the sight of Dabi’s rotting flesh, or perhaps he had an undercooked piece of pork with dinner. But when the feeling became more frequent, and coincidentally every-time you were in the room, the fact of the matter drew harder and harder to deny.

He loathed it. He absolutely loathed the feeling. And so he did the only thing he knew to do, twist his inarticulacy into hatred. He told himself he hated you. You were an attack on all senses, with that fruity perfume you’d spray, and your voice which would hum along to the radio whilst mixing drinks behind the bar with Kurogiri. The way your hands would graze his whilst passing a glass of strong-smelling whiskey to his crotchety-sulking self. Zero fear in your movements, you didn’t falter for a second. Not when your fingers touched his that were known for destruction, and not when you flashed him a gentle smile. He promptly left the bar. Drink untouched. And sat in his room plagued by a feeling swirling around him that he didn’t understand.

He thought he could push it down, ignore it entirely, and bury himself in his work. However, that proved to be difficult when you were everywhere he turned. He truthfully considered kicking you out of the league, after all, it wasn’t him that was the problem; It was you…right?

He never brought himself to do it.

The weeks rolled by, and the feeling never subsided. In fact it just got harder and harder to ignore. With your cooking for the league, warm on his tongue, and that sweet fucking perfume. He couldn’t stand it. It had even managed to pry its way into the one thing he thought would be safe. I mean, the feeling would have to go away whilst on missions. He had much bigger priorities than his breath catching in his throat whenever you’d look in his direction. Yet when he saw you battling fiercely with two heroes; he felt it again. Except this time it was different. And he felt as if he had no control over his body. Before he knew it he was rushing to your aid, not that you needed it, and by the time he arrived you looked just as shocked as he did.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

That night he leant limp over his sink, having just splashed his face with cold water, droplets dripping from his skin. Strands of pale-soddened hair stuck to his forehead as he raised a palm, pushing the soggy hair backwards as he retreated from the sink.

He paced around his room silently. The clock read 3:40AM. In bright, blaring crimson numbers. He had to speak to someone. He was gonna explode. He ran through the league, who could he ask?

Kurogiri would most definitely give him the same answer that google did when he had relentlessly searched, “Feeling sick around someone”, and would likely stick a thermometer in his mouth two seconds after. Toga…no. Twice couldn’t ever really give advice, because you never truly knew which aspect of it was how he really felt. Spinner could be an option, but he wasn’t at the base. So that left only one person.

And god, did he hate it.

The loamy smell of cigarettes attacked Shigaraki’s nostrils upon entering. The room was shrouded in dusk, and a thick cloud of smoke hung in the air. He had only ever been in this room once after the occupant had moved in, and it was to decay him after he had once again called him, “More scaly than Spinner” - unfortunately he was halted by Kurogiri before he got the chance.

Dabi’s gaunt figure rest upon his bed, eyes fixated on his window as he flicked a few curling ashes from the cigarette stuck between his lips. His head lay against the pillow, not having noticed the looming presence in his room until his face appeared right above his head.

“Jesus!” Dabi jolted upwards, inhaling a large breath of smoke as he jumped upright, proceeding to clutch his chest as he choked out puffs of smoke. After a moment of panicked spluttering he turned to look at the intruder, rage infused in his usual nonchalant eyes. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, i didn’t say you could come in here.”

Shigaraki scoffed. “Im the leader, I can go wherever I please.”

“Yeah, okay jackass.” Dabi snickered, attempting to push past him in order to stand, only to be shoved back down by Shigaraki. “What the f-“

“Why does Y/N make me feel sick?”

Silence fell over the room. A moment passed, then two. And the shrinking feeling of embarrassment started to creep up Shigaraki’s spine.

“What?” Dabi stared at him in a flat sort of confusion.

“Just what I asked.”

Dabi sighed, bringing a hand through his hair as he reached over to the table beside his bed, rolling his cigarette against the glass ash tray which lay atop a stack of books. “I don’t know, man. It’s four in the morning, I really don’t give a shit about this.”

“Well it’s an order.” Shigaraki said in a surprisingly desperate tone, leaning a little further forward to which Dabi leant further back.

Dabi chuckled, his eyes narrowing in that haunting way they always would when he was about to tease someone. “Why do you care.”

“What?”

“I said why do you care. You act as if you don’t give a shit about anyone, so why do you care if she makes you feel ‘sick’ or whatever.”

Shigaraki seemed taken aback, fumbling with his fingers conspicuously. “I don’t.”

“Right.” Dabi nodded in a superficial manner. “Why you in my room at four then?”

Silence somehow managed to regain its unruly power over the room, only to be ruptured by Shigaraki’s low voice.

“Fuck off” He seethed, turning on his heel as he advanced towards Dabi’s bedroom door, swearing under his breath as he knew he shouldn’t have bothered.

His hand met the doorknob, twisting it in his hands as the dim light from the hallway melted into the room which grew smaller behind Shigaraki’s retreating figure.

“Maybe you want her.”

Dabi’s voice halted Shigaraki’s movements, his hand pausing on the doorknob, loosening and then tightening in anxious realisation.

It couldn’t be that. It wasn’t that. Those thoughts kept floating around his brain but for some reason it didn’t translate to the rest of his body, as that dreaded feeling returned and his skin felt hot. Burning and feverish. He hated you. He hated your smile, your face, your gentleness. Your pure, unbridled talent and strong heart. He hated all of it. He hated you.

What did wanting someone even mean?

Sure, sometimes when your hand would dust across his, he’d wish he could hold it. Sure, when you’d laugh at something Twice said he would wish it was him that evoked that reaction. And sure, sometimes his eyes would trail after you as you left the room, his mind wondering when you would return and he would never fully return to reality until you did.

Somehow, Dabi of all people had pierced the veil of denial he cast over his heart all those months ago. And now it thumped in his chest happily and free of wrongful convictions.

He left the room without another word and Dabi didn’t stop him. And for the first time in your entire time of being here he managed to sleep soundly. The following morning he arose feeling lighter and when he sat at the bar - rubbing sleep from his eyes - he watched as your figure darted across the liquor lined shelves, mumbling to yourself as you replenished the stock everyone had heartily drunk through.

He wanted you more than anything. He knew that. And he knew the feeling in his chest wasn’t hatred, it was the opposite.

And even though you were right in front of him, he knew it was a feeling he’d die with.

Unless it killed him first.

#shigaraki x you #mha shigaraki #shigaraki x reader #bnha shigaraki #shigaraki tomura #mha tomura #bnha tomura #anime fanfic #anime x reader #mha x reader #mha x you #mha tenko #tenko shimura #mha oneshot #my hero academia #my hero academia x reader #bhna x reader

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kuroppiii · 5 months ago

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cuteness aggression ᵕ̈ boyfie!timeskip!bokuto kōtarō x gn reader ˎˊ˗

⋮⋮ ˒ ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ 𖥻 ⿻ : your boyfriend is quite ⋮⋮ literally too cute in the mornings

📋 content ♡ # 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 🐮 ♡ # 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦 🥛 ♡ # 1𝘬 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴

🧸 directory ‹ ✩ like what you read ? check out more of my blog ! •ᴗ•

8:25 am. both you and bokuto have the day off.

you're leaning against the kitchen counter, one of bokuto's shirts loosely hanging off of your frame. as your thumb instinctively scrolls through your feed, the bubbling of hot water brewing for your morning drink sounds off next to you.

you're vaguely aware of the steam drifting up from the top of the machine when your eyes land on a post from an official msby account.

it was video where they had bokuto running around the msby locker room interviewing his teammates. the questions were along the lines of “favorite point you’ve won”, “court position you would try for a day”, “how do you wear your kneepads off court”, yadayadayada—

the questions didn’t really matter to you at the current moment. what caught your attention, of course, was your lovely boyfriend.

you watched his bright eyes as he excitedly talked to the camera and as they were trained on his teammates while he intently listened to their responses.

the same eyes that light up whenever he sees you, without fail. or the ones that glowed a warm amber when the afternoon sun hits them just right. ones you’ve seen on countless nights as bokuto lies on top of you with his chin softly resting on your chest, as he looks up at your face and his eyes dart over each and every feature on your face in utmost admiration.

and in the video he also smiles—a toothy and hearty smile where it’s so wide that little dimples appear at the sides of his face and some of his bottom teeth peek out from behind his bottom lip. his lips are rosy and full of life, just like him. and only you would know how soft they are, too, and the exact feeling of how they stretch into a content grin against your own lips when you kiss. it’s a smile you could never grow tired of.

everything about him is so charming. he’s adorable. some days you wish you could hide him from the world and keep him and his cuteness all to yourself.

and suddenly the urge just hits you—to hold him and hug him and smother him with affection. to cup his face in your hands and squish his cheeks so you can plant a big kiss on his lips. to nip the tip of his nose just to hopefully incite his laugh that brings music to your ears.

and guess what? you can do exactly that, right at this instant.

completely neglecting your brewing drink and leaving your phone laying flat on the countertop, you shuffle your way back through the apartment to you and bokuto’s shared bedroom.

you peek your head in and see he’s still out cold. the sunlight makes its way through the window blinds to cast shapes on your boyfriends bare chest, exposed by the sheets that he’s shoved down to his lower torso in his sleep.

a ray of light falls on his face, where his eyes are closed, his eyelashes brush against the tops his cheeks, and his mouth hangs open as he sleeps in and snores away.

the black and gray streaks of his hair are rendered messy and tussled as his head sinks into the pillow under it.

the other day you read about the phenomenon of, “cuteness aggression: desires to squeeze, crush, pinch, or even bite an object of our affection. scientists think it is a way we cope with intense positive emotions.”

yup. now you totally get it.

you approach his side of the bed and crawl on top of him, brushing your hands against his chest as you lean down to immediately start peppering his face in kisses. surely he’d wake up, and although you knew the previous night’s practice had taken a lot out of him and he deserved to sleep in for a little longer… the urge. the urge to gather him up in your arms with all the love in the world was simply just too strong.

his eyes not yet open, but his hands now moving to blindly search for your waist, his voice is groggy and rough as he mumbles, “this is an awesome way to start off my day.”

you let up with the face kisses for a moment and fight back a giggle as bokuto blinks one eye awake to get a good look at you first thing as he wakes up, “mornin’ gorgeous.”

too cute. butterflies fly around in your stomach while, firmly but gently, your hands go to hold his head in place as you resume to kiss him all over even more.

“what’s the occasion, baby?” he asks amidst being attacked by your displays of affection, his hands playing with the hem of his shirt on you.

“nothin’, just missed you,” you say between kisses, softly and just barely above a whisper.

“well i’m right here,” he smiles before stretching himself out under you, letting out a small whine as his body comes to before the day properly starts.

as he does this, you tap a finger on his nose and laugh when his face scrunches up in reaction, “kō, you look real cute in the morning, you know that?”

a sound of protest escapes from his throat as his arms wrap around you and he rolls you both over. now he hovers over you, and those pretty eyes gaze down at you. if only you could swim in those eyes and all the love they carry for you, forever.

but bokuto shifts so he can kiss you, and kiss you deep. when you part, you feel your heartbeat is racing and that maybe you don’t need caffeine this morning to wake up after all. not when your boyfriend is bokuto kōtarō, who brings something so inexplicably fulfilling to your life with each day you start waking up to him and his cute bedhead—his cute everything.

“not as much as you are all the time, cutie,” bokuto lazily argues and you lightheartedly roll your eyes with a small scoff.

now it’s his turn to “cope with intense positive emotions”, as you find yourself getting smothered with love—his love—in the messy sheets of your bed at around 9 in the morning.

#🌼 𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗸𝘆𝘂𝘂 #🌼 𝗯𝗼𝗸𝘂𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗼𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗼 #clawing at the walls of my enclosure #chat #how are we doing chat #haikyuu #bokuto kotaro #bokuto koutarou #bokuto x reader #haikyuu bokuto #hq bokuto #bokuto koutaro x reader #bokuto koutaro #koutarou bokuto #bokuto #bokuto x you #bokuto x y/n

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burning-academia-if · 9 months ago

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How do the ROs react to the siren turning into them, and trying to seduce MC?

I'm surprised that siren ask was a hit lol Here's pt1

Rook: "You're ok MC, it's ok." He holds your shivering body close, trying not to let his emotions play out on his face. You were reaching for him, enraptured by not just the siren's song, but his own image. You stutter out his name, voice rough, but he only shushes you, "Just rest for now. That's all that matters."

Beck: The water is both his home and his curse. He pulls you away easily, golden magic flaring and lighting up the whole of the dark night and ocean. He doesn't let you go onto your back on land. You cling to him, body shaking. He waits for your thoughts to process and when you say his name, he breathes out a sigh of relief. You whisper, "That siren...it..." He presses a kiss to your brow, "I know. You can tell me later. Let's just get you safe and warm."

Rhea: She screams your name, feet splashing against the water as she runs towards you. She throws her arms around you, voice desperate, "That isn't me, MC. Wake up, it isn't me." The cold winter water makes her body shake, and even you tremble in her arms. There are people behind her, weapons drawn to take on the siren. It slips away before they can get close. You blink slowly, slumping back in her arms. She doesn't let you go. As your conscious fades she whispers, "If I'd known your feelings, I'd..." you don't catch the last of her sentence before you go under.

Zoe: They're shaking more then you, opening their mouth to speak, only for it to close seconds later. They can only see them taking your face in their hands, but it isn't them. Not really. It's the hands of a siren wearing their face. You had been so willing to embrace them, and they can't focus on that. They need to focus on you, on making sure you're ok, on getting you to safety. They swallow and take your hand, "...A doctor. You need to see a doctor." It's all they can manage

Lars: The siren lays dead at his feet, the image of his face flickering out to reveal its true form. The water laps away the blood splattered on him and on you. He has an arm wrapped around you, and you lean heavily into his side. "Lars, that wasn't-" "I know what that was." He has no emotion to his voice, instead pulling you closer to him and out of the water. Despite his words, he's careful with you, as he walks you back to shore, tide pulling at your legs. Somethings shifted, even if he doesn't say it.

???: They're in the water with you, lips pressed against yours and filling your lungs with just enough air to allow you both to break the surface without you falling unconscious. The water splashes around you, the waves tall and harsh from the storm. They don't let you go, blood tainting the water from where a siren's body sinks to the bottom of the ocean. "You really are mine, aren't you?" You're too delirious from the situation to register what they said, as they fight the tide and bring you back to shore.

#em answers #ch: rook #ch: beck #ch: rhea #ch: zoe #ch: lars #ch: ???#siren au #happy mermay pt 2 ig lol

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truths33k3r4 · 2 months ago

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(Warnings for this chapter are at the bottom of the page to keep from giving away spoilers.)

CHAPTER 8 - Deceptive Answers

Don cringed as he thoroughly sprayed down the empty trash bin, acting as if the fragrant, lavender scent would banish the acrid stench back to the pits of hades from whence it came. After the third round of air freshener, he slowly backed away from the bin with a cautious frown.

He proceeded to spray it down four more times.

Why did it have to be vomit…

As he walked to the kitchen sink he gently pulled off his latex gloves, neatly folding and placing them on the counter as he began to run the tap. After years of learning about germs and how to abolish them, he knew well that it didn’t matter if you washed them with hot or cold water. But even with this knowledge, it still brought him a slight ping of delusional comfort envisioning the hot temp burning the germs right off his hands.

That’s definitely normal.

He didn’t care all that much for the gooey sensation of the soap when it first puddles in his palms, but with a few quick scrubs, the sticky texture expanded into soft peaks of foam. The warm water mixed with the luscious suds did wonders for his dry hands. Thanks to the colder weather beginning to creep into the city, his home’s air had been stripped of its moisture. As a result, the skin of his hands and ankles cracked like the barren grounds of a scalding desert.

In other words ew.

With the last stage of washing his hands complete, drying them and folding the washcloth over the railing near the sink, Don began the trek back to his office. As he neared the doorway of the brothers’ bedroom, he paused.

Just move quickly. No big deal. Just ‘ninja’ your way around. Get to your office without attracting any unnecessary attention. Orrrr getting involved in any more emotional drama… Easy.

With a quick inhale, and his face tightened with concentration, he slowly took one silent step after the next, continuing his way down the hall past the bedroom. As he crept, little pieces of whispered conversation fluttered past his ears.

“...Lotus, what are you talking about?”

Don instantly recognized the soothing tones of his oldest brother.

“You are free. You made it out. We saved you. Shhhh, it’s alright.”

Don’s brows creased together as he paused to figure out what had happened to spark such concerned words from Leo. Going by what he said, the eldest wasn’t referring to Lotus being sick. The word “free” especially intrigued him. He continued to stand frozen as he leaned closer to the doorway, his curiosity now overriding the mission to get to his office.

“N-no… No, They…They’ll never go away…” A small voice cried in muffled whimpers.

Don’s mind began to process Lotus’ words one at a time; Every vowel and every fluctuation were filed into neat shelves in his brain.

Who’s “they”? Going by how we found her, she must be referring to the scientists at the lab, right? But what does that have to do with her being sick? Did those physician abominations give her something to make her ill?

“Who, Lotus? Who won’t go away?” Leo gently whispered over Lotus’ smothered sniffles.

Don leaned closer. No verbal answer was given to Leo’s question, the silence only being filled by the frantic shuffles of sheets being pulled back and forth.

“I.. I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it. I c-can’t.” Lotus pleaded as her voice continued to crack and splinter under the weight of whatever was haunting her mind. “I just c-can’t.”

Don’s posture physically slumped as he listened to the fear-stricken shivers of Lotus’ voice. The way her words jittered and broke in shards sounded all too familiar to him. She was so scared, but there wasn’t anything physically present that would make her react that way.

That left whatever was plaguing her to be something lurking deeper. Don couldn’t help the defensive snarl that escaped his teeth.

It has to be nightmares… That’s the most reasonable explanation for such behavior.

He knew that well, being reminded every night of the horrors he and his twin were forced through. Even though they were home. Even though they were safe. Even though it made no sense that the past has such power over the present.

And now he sees he’s not the only one.

How long was she there?... How long did she live under the microscope of Specter’s prying eyes?

Don failed to suppress a shudder through his body as he was forcefully pushed into his own memories of the nightmare laboratory. His hands instinctively rose to cling to his shoulders, rubbing them down in an attempt at comfort. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, willing his mind to forget all those horrific memories that plagued him, but it was all for naught.

His twin’s screams echoed in a terrible chorus that consumed all his thoughts.

A sickly, neon green glowed through the barrel of a syringe.

His chained wrists ached and burned from being yanked through long corridors.

His terrified face looked back at him through the reflective surface of dark-tinted lenses.

His body shook violently as an electrode was pressed into the left side of his head.

His vision erupted in white static when the nurse pressed the button.

NO! STOP IT- NOW!

IT’S OVER. STOP LETTING THIS GET TO YOU.

IT’S OVER.

Don gulped down the dread and anxiety clogging his throat, burying it deeper into the places of his heart he dared never to go. The chill of his memories forced another shudder to claw its way up his spine, leaving him gripping tightly to his arms and shaking his head. His legs shivered and buckled underneath him as if the weight of his memories added to his physical mass.

It’s over. That’s enough.

Don leaned and used the wall to stabilize himself, relying on the firm surface to steady his rampant thoughts as well as his shuddering body.

Just move. One foot in front of the other.

With a withered sigh, he pushed off the wall and continued walking, blocking out the rest of the hushed conversations escaping the bedroom.

I can’t deal with that right now. I just can’t.

Leo’s got it. He can handle it.

With his mind completely focused on simply reaching his office, he didn’t even attempt to sneak past the bedroom. It didn’t matter if they saw him, anyway. This was one of those pesky things that he just… couldn’t fix.

So why try when it’s a waste of time? When there are others who are far more equipped for such a task?

Soon after, he finally reached his office, carefully closing the door behind him as he walked toward his desk. With a sigh, Don flopped onto his computer chair, causing a quiet squeak to fill the compact room. He leaned into the firm cushion of his chair as the whispered hum of the computer filled his ears. For a moment, just a small moment, Don took the second of mental silence to look around his room.

His gaze immediately rose to the high school certificate hung proudly on the wall closest to his desk. He remembered how excited he was to have such an accomplishment under his belt at the young age of sixteen, rubbing it in Raph’s face with a smug grin. His twin nearly shattered the frame before Leo and Splinter intervened.

So much has changed.

As his eyes began to wander again, he suddenly caught sight of a small, blue sticky note left underneath the frame of his certificate. Don leaned and squinted his eyes as he read,“Please remember to drink! -Leo”.

A cozy warmth filled Don looking at the note left there by his brother. It embraced his heart and settled his mind, leaving the faint feeling of a grin growing on his face. Don turned to his desk and took a good swig from the glass of water left there since that afternoon.

His eyes continued to wander, soon catching sight of his calendar and notes posted on the wall near his door. He again squinted his eyes, and even fixed and cleaned his glasses, but that all proved to be useless. He still couldn’t read very well, and it was beginning to drive him crazy.

With an annoyed growl, Don scooted and rolled his chair closer to the wall. He would have to figure out his sight problem some other time, no matter how many sparks of dread began to pop in his stomach at the thought of his vision once again failing him.

Shaking his head to repel any more worthless memories from entering, he once again gazed at the notes neatly stacked on the wall. Most of them were just phone numbers of the “co-workers” from his job.

But then he finally saw his calendar. And the warmth that once thrived inside him vanished instantaneously.

Leo’s words echoed back to him as he began looking over the wrong amount of days crossed out, reminding him just how much time he had lost.

“Eighteen days.”

For eighteen days he didn’t help his family.

For eighteen days he didn’t keep up with the repairs of his home.

For eighteen days he didn’t show up to work.

For eighteen days his family tirelessly searched for him.

For eighteen days you failed them. Weeks of worry, dread, and longing plagued your family all because of your absence. Did they even have fresh food this whole time? Did they have to resort to drastic measures? Did they have heat? Did any of them sleep?

Don crushed his head under the clutches of his tightening fingers.

How much pain did he inflict on his family all because of his carelessness?

Don hunched over in his chair, pulling his legs up to his plastron and pressed his head onto his knee caps. He squeezed tighter and tighter until it hurt.

How could I let this happen?

Why did You put me in this family if You knew I would FAIL THEM?

He pressed his head further into his knees. His arms clung tighter around his legs. His lungs begged for oxygen that he couldn’t supply.

“Why?...” He whispered brokenly.

Just at the moment he felt his head would burst from the pent up energy and pressure, a soft *ding* sounded from his monitor. He couldn’t recall what he had been processing on his desktop, so he slowly lifted his head from his knees, gazing over to his computer as he dropped his feet back to the floor.

Then it clicked in his brain, and he shot his legs out to propel himself off the wall to his desk. After slamming his hands against the ridge to keep from crashing into the small table, he took a millisecond to gather his completely shattered mental state so he could focus on the task at hand.

This was something he could fix.

His fingers comfortably found their rhythm clacking on the keyboard as he finally opened the files coded into Lotus’ implant. He was surprised to see so many, at least a hundred or so lined up in neat rows. Each one was labeled similarly, with the title “SUBJECT 19- PROCEDURE #”.

As curious as he was to begin looking deeper into those files, one in particular caught his eye, labeled two simple words:

“SUBJECT INFO”

That should be promising.~

With his mind made up, Don swerved his mouse and clicked. The file opened to reveal many different types of documents: Blood types, heartbeat readings, and many more medical related data.

If Don weren’t so disgusted by what these felons had done, he would actually be quite impressed with how well organized all the information was.

He pushed that feeling aside as he continued scrolling.

“MEDICAL HISTORY”...

“DIAGNOSES”...

“TREATMENT PLANS”...

Holy French Toast there’s SO MUCH… I’m gonna need weeks just to go through this all!

“MEDICATIONS”...

“TEST RESULTS”...

“PROGRESS NOTES”...

Down, down, he continued searching through them, just trying to find the end of the treasure trove of knowledge about his family’s new guest.

“IMAGING AND DIAGNOSTIC REPORTS”...

“IMMUNIZATION RECORDS”...

And then his cursor finally stopped. And at the very bottom of the list lied what he was searching for:

“VITAL RECORDS”

There you are.

Don clicked the file as he hunched closer to his monitor, the feelings of anticipation and dread filling him as he wondered what he was going to find. Lotus would finally get some semblance of answers about her past now. And from what he’d seen of the wounded girl, he knew she needed some good news.

The first document to pop up on his screen was a newspaper clipping.

What?

The article showcased some kind of vehicle, flipped over and ablaze on the side of a dirt-paved road. All the dates on the paper were crossed out, as well as the last names of anyone involved. The cover read in bold letters,

“FAMILY OF FIVE KILLED IN UNFORTUNATE CRASH”

Don’s head cocked in utter confusion as he began reading through the article. He began clicking his tongue as all his concentration zeroed in on every word of the story before him.

Somehow this connected to Lotus. And he was going to find out how.

The article stated that during a particularly rainy, spring night, a family of five, (husband, wife, and three children), slid off the road and flipped their car over. When help finally arrived, as well as the Press, the car was being swallowed by unrelenting flames. Only two bodies were retrieved, that of the husband and wife. Their names were Frederick and Jess, but their last name was crossed out.

All that was left of their two toddlers and baby were scorched car seats.

Don backed away from his monitor in horror, covering his eyes with his hand and sliding it down to his chin. The images of the husband and wife’s bodies hidden under sheets made his stomach tighten with sorrow. He squirmed in his seat, both guilty and grateful that he had never seen or heard anything about this tragedy.

All it took… was one thing to go wrong.

… And then… everything was gone. Everything. That poor family…

The rest of the article continued on to review the woe of their family’s relatives, as well as the following funeral that would occur at a later date. (A later date that was meticulously scratched out to be indecipherable.)

Why is this in her records?...

After finishing reading through the article, he moved on to the next document in the file:

A birth certificate.

Don muttered an annoyed growl as he noticed that this document had been thoroughly crossed out too, with the only things left reading:

Alexis?... Is that Lotus’ birth name?... But… this is an official document by the State of New York-

A human certificate.

Don’s brain whirled all this new information around his mind like an indecisive tornado. Nothing was making sense. No puzzle pieces were lining up. How could he be given so much information and none of it is useful?!? Here he thought those psychos with medical degrees were organized and thorough in their research- Here he thought he was finally given a buffet of answers ready to be feasted upon at a moment’s notice. How wrong he was to think this would be easy.

If he’s learned anything in his sixteen years of being a teenage mutant ninja turtle, it was the fact that easy never seemed to be an option.

His shoulders fell as he let out a sigh filled with disappointment. None of this would make Lotus feel better… If anything, it could make things worse.

If these documents are true…

Don pushed away from his desk, dropping his head onto the rim of his chair as the weight of the answers given to him pressed further into his mind. His chest ached and his head spun with the implications of the documents.

Was Lotus born as an actual human?

Did she truly once have a family?

And how did the newspaper article connect to this?

Was she in that crash? Did she escape the fire?

Instead of clicking into place and revealing the steadfast truth, all that these answers had done was scatter the pieces of this mystery further apart, deepening the chasm that remained of Lotus’ past.

That's it for this chapter!! And now all of you get to really see the base mystery of my story. :) Hopefully these small pieces of the past will help you theorize what you think happened to Lotus and who you think she is. :) I was ECSTATIC to show you all this chapter. I'm honestly quite proud of how it came out, and I am so excited to delve deeper into the mystery of Lotus' past.

Feel free to reblog and share this!

BIG THANK YOU to @poetique823 for helping me and encouraging me through this chapter! Also apologies for uh... breaking you. XD

@writer-in-wonder, @allyheart707, @oddartistl3, @risebabyx2, @joyjoygorl, @carrots-bear, @howtotrainyourdragonprince, @jasminegazer, @indieyuugure

If you want to be tagged in the next chapter, please comment down below! :)

To God be the glory!

~ Melissa

(CW- Implied past deaths, trauma, mention of medical trauma!)

MASTERPOST <- PRIOR CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER ->

#tmnt #my version of tmnt!!#the strength in weakness #SIW Don #SIW Lotus #SIW Leo #In this story Don is a germaphobe #tw implied past deaths #tw trauma #tw medical trauma #tw flashbacks #This legit broke my editor #SORRY POETTTT <3 #The mystery has been revealed~#do y'all understand how HARD IT IS TO DRAW A BIRTH CERTIFICATE #Like GEEZ THEY'RE SO DETAILED

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