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#subway rumbles
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Ninja Turtle Scale Color Comparison
Here's the colors comparison for the scales. Most of these have a light to dark scale, but the exceptions are 2016 where the 'highlight' is the tan area around their mouths, and 2018 where I show some additional colors on their skin, like Leo's red marks.
I feel like 2003 is a little dark, but that might be because of the picture I chose. Or it just looks darker with the colors separated.
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I have the results of the next poll, and I still have shell colors to finish up and post.
When I get the eye color comparison (result of Poll 2) then I'll make Poll 3.
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angelcakesponge · 1 year
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accidental poetry by bestinsio on twitter
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glitterock · 1 year
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tbh im scared all the time
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hauntedtrains · 1 year
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oh my fucking arc,. oh my gi. on mnby arceus. oh my hofn. ohmy. ooi my .god. oh my arceus.
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scoobysnakz · 2 months
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loser!miguel who immediately regrets offering to walk you to the subway because you, being you, insist on holding hands all the way and letting your head rest on his shoulder each time you have to wait at a crossing.
you’re so oblivious to the tent in his pants, so blissfully unaware at the strangled groan that rumbles through his chest each time you give his hand a squeeze, that he’s starting to think you’re winding him up on purpose.
loser!miguel who nearly dies when you give him a hug, before hopping on the train, and you let out a small complaint about his keys digging into your thighs.
loser!miguel who desperately wants to get on the train with you, follow you home and memorise your address. maybe he can run into you one morning, offer you a lift to work which ends up with his cock buried deep inside your leaky cunt.
loser!miguel who has to watch the train whizz past with a frown tugging at the corners of his full lips and an ache in both his chest and thighs.
loser!miguel who has endure ruthless teasing from LYLA, who refuses to let him coming home with a boner and smelling of your sweet perfume go unnoticed.
she brings up how many times his heart rate spiked through out the day, how often his blood pressure raised and offers to book a doctors appointment, because “this isn’t normal, getting random peaks in your pulse at your age!”
loser!miguel who has to shut off LYLA because he needs some time to himself without an irritating AI nattering in his ear about his body’s health.
and finally, for the first time all day, miguel can sit in complete silence. for a moment, he’s worried that being left alone with his thoughts will only result in another couple of hours with your instagram on his phone and one hand shoved down his pants, but it’s not.
he thinks pleasant, normal, harmless things. like how kind you are to him, how gorgeous you would look in a wedding dress, what your kids would look like, how cheery your laugh is.
prev < > next
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pseudowho · 1 month
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As usual, I have no one to talk about this but... Have you seen those "mom instincts are cool, but let's talk about dad reflexes for a sec" vids???
Kento with dad reflexes? (Pretty sure he already has it when he's single or even in canon when Yuji is accompanying him in missions lmao)
I'm just in my bed giggling, kicking my feet because I can imagine him having those like when his baby girl would trip and he moves so FAST to catch her 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 man idk where I'm going with this it's just making me go skkdkddkdjd
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The footsteps were slow, slick, echoing-- considered. At this stage, Kento didn't know if he and Yuuji were being hunted, or if they were the hunters. He suspected both.
The mansion fell apart around them, broken pipes lazily spewing sewage and muck. Kento felt the softly yielding floorboards beneath his feet, aware that if he wasn't careful, the second floor would very quickly become the first floor and--
"Oi, Nanamin!" Bounding, youthful footsteps hopped up beside Kento, who felt and heard the repercussions up the walls, the crack in the floorboards, the imminent collapse--
With the barest flash of movement, the floor beneath Yuuji's feet was missing, and Yuuji hung by his collar in Kento's iron grip, slowly rotating in the air as floorboards rumbled away with distant clatters. Otherwise, silence. A mildly dismayed hum from Kento, as he twizzled his blade in his other hand.
"Wow, Nanamin! Good refle--"
"Please make sure I do not have to use them, Itadori-kun."
"Ah...yeah."
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Curse-killing on a moving Subway train in the middle of the night wasn't the sort of overtime Kento needed...but when he heard the mission had been given to you, and you alone, he felt a sickening twist of anxiety in his gut. Not that you knew how he felt.
Kento bridled with incandescent rage, seeing you tumble down the rattling carriage, pinballing between poles and seats. Your fatal blow to this filthy Curse was not fatal quickly enough.
"Come on! It's dead, time to--" Kento's call was cut short, sensing imminent disaster as you kicked the door through on the opposite end of the carriage, and the Curse staggered into the walls, making the carriage list sideways, making you list sideways at the open door in your bullet-shot speed through this gloomy tunnel--
All at once, you felt yourself falling from the moving train, rolling and tumbling but wrapped up in something so warm that smelled so good.
You rolled to a stop, still full-body bear-hugged by Kento. You lay under him for a moment, face to chest through the torn off buttons of his shirt. He unfolded you with a soft sigh, hands and knees planted either side of your head and hips.
"Wow, Kento. Good refle--"
"Dinner, I--...we should go out for dinner."
"Oh. Like...now?"
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"Daddy, watch this--"
One little blonde girl, suspended and giggling upside down, caught. Kento, sighing, holding her by her ankle by the tree she was almost certainly too small to climb.
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"Jump, jump, jump, jump, ju--"
A full-suited barrel-roll across the living room, a near-miss with a tiny head and a coffee table corner. The boy peered sheepishly up at his daddy, whose narrow brown eyes glowered down in silent disapproval.
"Daddy, I was jumpi--"
"Hush. Be more careful."
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"I'll race you--"
"No, I'm winning I'M WINNING I'M---"
A flash of movement. One little boy and one little girl, hunched over and suspended by the backs of their jeans, spinning and surprised.
Kento grunted once, loaded down with shopping bags, hooking the boot of the car up with one foot, his keys between his teeth. He spat his keys onto the seat.
A truck barrelled past, its driver certainly not looking for little people. Kento grunted again, dropping children and shopping bags.
"Do not-- I repeat, do not run in the car park."
"...sorry daddy."
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You reached out towards Kento, seeing something glimmer in the honey-blond of his hair. His hand snapped up, grasping yours reflexively round the wrist. He let go immediately, apologetic.
"Sorry, I--...rough day with the kids." You smiled, stroking his cheek, and he leaned into your soft palm, planting a kiss there. Your gaze wandered to his hair again. Kento raised an eyebrow at you.
"What?"
"You've, uhm...got a grey hair."
Silence. A moderately dismayed hum.
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I agree. Nanami Kento has dad reflexes.
-- Haitch xxx
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wriitingwoes79 · 10 months
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Naughty Neighbors
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Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Y/N
Summary: You and Miguel are neighbors in an apartment in Nueva York. There’s a mutual not-so-quiet dislike for each other despite your best efforts to make nice, but it seems the both of you are reaching a breaking point.
Content Warning: a hint of dub-con, mention of masturbation/sex toys, thigh riding, dirty talk, exhibitionism
WC: ~1.2k
AN: this is BARELY edited, but thank my bestie @whaddayadothatfor for helping me out with this! Go check out her Miguel O’Hara and JJK fics <3
MDNI!!!
Miguel O’Hara had to be the worst neighbor in the history of neighbors.

But as terrible as he was, that didn’t stop you from rocking your hips back and forth so that your clit and pussy slickly slid over the length of his generously sized and veined dick as he pressed you hard against the walls of the hallway.

*before the ‘incident’*

Miguel made it his life’s work to be absolutely insufferable. He was rude, constantly making racket and always seemed to be around at the worst time.

You had had trouble sleeping lately, so you did what any newly single gal with frustrations up to your knees would do: pull out the vibrator and go to work. In all honesty though, you’d had to use it even when you weren’t single too.

You used it more than you’d liked to admit—so much in fact that it needed new batteries and died mid act just as you could hear Miguel rumbling around on his side of the wall. As a result, you couldn’t sleep.

It had ended up setting the tone for the day: waking up too late, cursing over frizzy hair, spilling your coffee on the subway and eventually being berated at work by your boss over a deadline. It didn’t help that your boyfriend had been avoiding you for the past few days after declaring the two of you “take a break”.

You ordered takeout from a place down the street after returning home and changed into comfortable clothes to wear around the house and figured while you waited you might as well go check your mail.

You went through your mail slot in the lobby of the apartment building, finding Miguel’s among yours. You tried his slot only to find it was locked, of course, and sighed.

You would have to talk to him. 

For anyone else, that wouldn’t have been a problem. You were friendly with everyone on the floor—minus Miguel. He was rude, aloof, and often met you with silence when you tried your friendly neighbor tactics. Even when you first moved in and brought over a tray of muffins, he’d declined and slammed the door in your face hard enough the knocker rattled.

He wasn’t your enemy or anything silly like that. No, he was just a fucking douche bag. And there were plenty of those in this building and in this goddamn city, anyways.

Still, determined to be the better person (either to a fault or out of spite), you knocked on his door. You could hear the shuffling and heavy footsteps even through the door, and a sigh sounded between it before it swung open.

Oh, fuck.

Unfortunately, there was always a nagging thought in your mind when Miguel crossed it—he was undeniably attractive. It made it that much more frustrating that he was rude and so cold to you.

Today was no fucking better.

He leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest as his dark eyes scanned over your form. They widened slightly as they took in your cropped tank top and fuzzy pajama shorts that did little to cover your generous assets but they snapped back up to your eyes when you shook the mail lightly in front of him.

“Hey neighbor,” you said in a slight sing-song voice. “I have some of your mail. It got mixed in with mine again.” You hold out the mail and he looks down at it.

“I don’t need it.”

You paused, brows furrowing. God, he was frustrating.

“You don’t need your mail?” You asked incredulously. “It’s literally bills. One of these is the electric and gas company! What do you mean you don’t need them?”

“You snooping through my mail now, Y/L/N?” His gruff voice is a near purr as he says your last name and you huff in annoyance.

“Of course not, that would be illegal,” you retort, stressing the syllables of “illegal”. “Just like how it should be illegal to be that terrible of a next door neighbor.” Miguel laughed coldly, the muscles on his chest and biceps pushing through his white tee. The grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips did little to keep your imagination in check and you backed away, still holding out the mail.

“I’m the terrible neighbor? You think I like listening to what happens on your side of the wall?”

Your mouth gaped open in shock.

“What do I even do?”

“You think I don’t have to deal with the shit I have to hear on your side?” He leaned in dangerously close, his lips tilted up in a mocking sneer.

“Like what?” You pressed, crossing your arms over the flimsy tank top you wore.

“The arguments between you and your boyfriend, the noises you make in the morning….the noises you make at night.”

“What noises?” Your cheeks were already starting to feel hot as he bent down to lean closer, his arms still crossed.

“The noises you don’t think anyone hears,” he says quietly, his voice rough and rumbling in the air between the two of you. “I hear everything through that wall. And I’m surprised that little toy of yours last night had any juice left.”

You acted before any actual thought could cross your mind and the next thing you knew— your hand was stinging and Miguel’s sculpted face was red on his right cheek.

“I…I’m sorry,” you squeaked out, cradling your hand. You backed from his door, the letters falling to the floor. Perhaps if you ran fast enough you could just make a quick getaway. Miguel’s eyes blinked before narrowing, now dark as his pupils widened.
“Don’t try and run off now.”
***

“You think I’m gonna sit idly by while you disrespect me like that?” Miguel’s voice was gravelly and deep, his hands gripping both the front of your thighs and your breasts now pulled from the flimsy tank top as his own hips pushed hard and slow against your ass.

Over and over, the length and head of his dick caught your clit and rubbed dangerously to the point of indescribable pleasure. You hadn’t felt like this in so long.

You hadn’t been touched like this in so long, you were desperate to cum. Desperate to do anything he wanted if it meant you could cum.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Miguel remarked, sighing as he nuzzled into your neck, his canines teasing on your sensitive skin. “Deep down this is want you wanted, huh?”

“P-please,” you stammered, unable to form any coherent thought as the wet sounds began to echo in the hallway. You moaned as every muscle in your body began to tense up from a building orgasm.

“What would the neighbors think if they caught you out here like this?" Miguel taunted. "What a naughty little neighbor you are."

"I'm n...I'm not--" 

The ding of the elevator down the hall interrupted the both of you, and in a flash, Miguel had pulled your tank top and shorts back up over your exposed parts, tucking his dick back into the waist band of his sweatpants. Before you could even turn around to say anything to him he'd slammed his door closed, the forgotten mail littered all over the ground. 

The worst neighbor, you seethed.
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doobea · 7 months
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"STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS PLEASE" - RIN ITOSHI
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synopsis: Rin discovers that he likes being next to you on public transit. But it probably doesn't mean anything - right?
contents: proplayer!rin, gn!reader, reader is team manager, under the assumption that reader kinda short, fluff, sfw, loosely based off of my recent morning commutes to work, kinda word vomit/kinda proof'd sorry word count: 3.4K a/n: i realized that i wanna write more oneshots and i know i said i was gonna take a break from rin but ... i can't sorry!! apologizes if this feels rushed LMAO
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Rin’s mornings have a strict routine. 
He would get up at the crack of dawn, dedicate the first hour to yoga and the second hour to his needed morning run, make himself a protein shake for his meal on the go, and take a brisk cold shower all before jogging down to the train station for his work commute. His routine is nothing but quick and simple in his book, though not everyone can easily pick it up.
Today he wakes up missing his alarm or rather the lack of it.
His phone beams in his face the time 8:35AM and he curses under his breath. Practice starts at 9:00AM sharp and waking up two hours late throws everything off for him. He decides to keep his windows shut, skips out on his morning exercises, ignores the rumbling in his stomach, and sprints to the subway station that's located ten blocks from his apartment.
The air grows heavy and thick from the continuous sea of people cramming into the train car. Usually, the earlier train cars have enough room for him to fully stretch his arms out or even sit if he was feeling lazy but it's practically impossible by the sheer volume he’s currently facing. Rin stands by one of the entrances of the train car, clutching his duffle bag close to his body as more salary men and women alike are shoving past him, trying to claim an open spot of their own.
"Stand clear of the closing doors please." The automatic voice announcement blares through the outdated speakers and lights by the entryways flash yellow as the sliding doors begin to seal shut.
"Wait!" Rin perks up and sees your frantic figure running down the flight of stairs, hands busied with a binder and a duffle bag of your own. "Someone hold the door!"
And while Rin would pretend and ignore just about anyone on any given day, he couldn't do it this time, not when he notices the logo on your bag and the name stitched onto the blue zip-up sweater you had on. He quickly sticks out his foot to prevent the sliding doors from closing, earning himself a harmony of groans from the workers around him, and watches your figure slip past the gap and stop directly in front of him.
He watches you gasp out a breathless 'thank you' before eyes widen at recognition, "You're Rin from Project: Blue Lock, right?" You say a bit too loudly for his liking and swiftly adjust your volume into a whisper. "Sorry, I just read your file before I hopped on." You attempt to point at the binder between the lack of space.
Rin stares at the binder, which appears to be on the verge of spilling out all of its contents of how stuffed it was. "You're the new manager?"
"First day!" You cheer despite almost missing your own commute just moments ago.
The train car sways in motion, causing you to stumble forward and almost crash into him. He watches as you glance around for a surface to hold onto but there isn't much to offer in a crowded room. Rin, of course, had no issue claiming such space as his back leaned against the side wall next to the doors and one of his hands rests freely on the top metal bar.
"Hold onto something," He points out the obvious.
"I’m trying," You respond, but Rin notes that you didn't want to shove your way through the crowd nor grab at the handlebars behind the seats that people sat in. He figures that you're too much of a people pleaser.
The train car lunges itself into motion again after the next stop, this time more packed than before. You were practically pressed together if not for the binder. Much to his own surprise, he lamely offers his extended arm that was gripping onto the metal bar.
"Are you sure?"
"Do you want to hurt yourself?"
You didn't bother fighting back as the next wave of people make their way through and reach to latch your free hand around his arm, fingers pinching the fabric of the athletic undershirt he wore. The train's frequent stops meant a lot of back-and-forth motions, each time you would apologize and he would find himself mumbling back 'no worries'.
When the train finally reaches your shared destination, Rin's collar is pulled to the side and his sleeve is no longer compressed against his skin. His bangs stick to his forehead and he feels sweat drip down his spine. You're still profusely apologizing beneath him but he holds back his sharp tongue.
"It’s fine."
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The second incident follows shortly after during a team excursion to Okinawa's training camp. Since then it had been two months since you started working for the team and Rin was taken aback by how structured you are compared to the first meeting. Ever since joining, productivity and communication between members have increased and during game days you would already have everyone's lockers stocked with necessities such as painkillers, bandages, extra sweatbands, etc. It didn’t take too long before you quickly became everyone’s favorite manager.
Isagi would always greet you with a fist bump first thing in the morning, Bachira follows in after with an overbearing hug, Nagi gifts you whatever latest candy he had in his bag, and lunch is always on Reo.
Rin keeps his distance, he’s like that with everyone, but even he can silently admit that you’re annoyingly good at your job. He hasn’t spoken a word to you outside of official introductions after the train incident - until now.
The bus system in Okinawa is different from the ones he was used to on the main island and it seems like you also figured that out the hard way as he watches you do a second headcount on the public transit. The workers had forgotten to change out the working hours last minute and, because the team went during the slowest season, the schedule wasn't always on time.
Luckily, the last bus of the day was able to pick up everyone from the training camp after one heated call to the company. Unfortunately, this meant the drive back to the hotel was going to be in pitch-black darkness with added bumpy roads (who decided to build a sports facility on top of a mountain?) and of course, this bus has no working AC or indoor lighting.
"... eighteen, nineteen - who am I missing?" You strain your eyes down at the clipboard before peering up again.
"Here," Niko raises his hand next to you which causes you to emit a small screech.
"Geez, okay," The lack of lighting plus the football player's face covered in hair did not help. You make your final check mark and signal the bus driver to start the commute. "Two rules I wanna say for this ride back: one, rest up! You guys killed it today and tomorrow morning we'll fly straight back for regional conferences, I already have your suits tailored and cleaned up in your closets. Two, absolutely no ghost stories on this bus."
Shidou, who's seated directly in front of Rin, starts to laugh and throws his head back, "Hear that? Lil' manager here is scared of the dark."
Rin can't see your expression, but he imagines you making a deep frown. You strut over to Shidou's seat and promptly smack the clipboard on his head.
"I mean it, no ghost stories!"
Bachira tips his head, his phone flashlight already propped under his chin, "But I'm great at telling ghost stories."
Gagamaru jumps in next but he keeps a straight face, "I've been to this mountain last time with my grandpa. It was also the last time I would see him."
Everyone is unsure whether he meant it as a joke or if he was recalling true events. Either way, this conversation needed to end.
You groan dramatically and plop yourself down next to Rin, making the seat bounce ever so slightly, "Please tell me you're on my side."
"He actually enjoys reading horror, your honor." Chirigi replies in amusement.
You whine in return, "What? Why?"
Rin shuffles closer to the window, feeling uncomfortable by the unwanted attention, and plugs in his earbuds, "It's just a stress reliever for me." He answers, hoping that it'll be enough. It wasn't.
"Oh, he totally wishes that all the bad things happen to his brother." Rin rolls his eyes at Isagi's comment while the shorter male and Bachira share a moment in laughter.
"Probably a sadist too." Nagi chimes, not looking up from his mobile game.
"Definitely a major sadist." Reo agrees.
If not for the fact that everyone was good on the field, Rin would've placed half of the football team six feet under by now. He turns up the volume of his earbuds and sinks deeper into the seat.
The whole bus swerves along the cliff's edge, causing everyone to grow quiet as they all grip onto their belongings and the nearest handrest. The only light available is the moon but even that wasn't going to be enough as dark clouds were rolling in. The players scramble in their seats and check their surroundings, seeing nothing but ragged bushes and the dirt road being engulfed by the night.
"Honestly," Your shaky voice is loud enough for him to hear, "this is way worst than ghost stories."
Rin is not someone anyone could go to in need of comfort. Yes, he can be rude (although kinda working on it?), but most of the time it's because he doesn't know how to be comforting. Guess it's time to put his skills in check because he really doesn't want to ride back with a paranoid seatmate.
"Wear this," He takes out his earbud and places it in your ear, handing over his phone with a music library pulled up in the process. "Pick whichever song you want."
Rin didn't expect it to work but you graciously take his phone and throw on a slow, mellow beat to hopefully calm down your frantic state. He leans back into his seat once more, watching your chest slowly fall in a rhythmic pattern and your eyes close shut as you try to calm yourself.
After a few more near-death turns and bumps in the process, the bus manages to make it back to the resort in one piece. While almost every player on board carried green faces and barf bags at the end, the older driver seems to have no issues waving everyone goodbye.
Rin didn't even notice that you and him are the last ones on the bus until he overheard his teammates asking around. He had been too engrossed in the fact that you had fallen asleep next to him.
Again, he holds back his tongue but this time it's in an attempt to hide a smile.
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"How did you manage to misread the time?"
"I didn't do it on purpose!"
"We were supposed to be there now."
Rin stifles back a groan as he watches you pace back and forth on the platform, waiting to catch the next arriving train. Except for the fact that there might not even be a train. Because the last train may or may not have run an hour ago before the construction workers closed the route off for maintenance. Heavy on the may or may not. He knew that he should've gone with the others earlier when Reo offered everyone a ride in his limousine, but Rin kindly stayed behind to help you (it was actually his turn this week) clean up the football field.
"Okay, maybe we should call a taxi instead? Or would an Uber be faster?" You anxiously play with your dress shirt before typing rapidly away at your phone for any quick solutions. "I can't believe I'm going to be late for my first sports banquet!"
Usually, Rin would keep quiet in public when it came to anything related to football. But due to the fact that the train might be delayed for the rest of the night and that you two were the only ones dressed up at the station, he didn’t care.
"It's mine too," Rin adds but with less enthusiasm. "I can guarantee that it's probably nothing special."
"What?!" You practically shrieked in shock, almost stopping in your tracks at his statement. "It's the perfect time to network and meet international players!"
The striker shrugs and kicks at nothing in particular on the ground, scuffing his brown loafers in the process. “Not usually my thing.”
You let out an exasperated sigh, "You can’t just say that when you literally just told me you haven’t been to one!" A few quiet moments pass before you let out a sound of, what he assumes, victory. "Taxi is right outside, let's go!"
You shove his body into the car, purposely ignoring his protests as you scoot closer to the center of the back seat. Your body is now pressed firmly against his and his cheek crashes into the opposing window. Rin shoots you a glare and you merely roll your eyes in response.
"You literally have all that space next to you. Do you really need to be in the center?"
"Listen here," He widens his eyes as you whip out a hairbrush and a whole skincare set from your bag. "My goal tonight is impressing all the other players and their managers. And appearance is what people notice first." You said as you apply a full-on face mask.
"You can’t be serious right now."
"Oh, but I am." You grin and shove an extra sheet mask in his hands.
It reads 'Collagen Essential Lifting & Firming Sheet Mask' in big pink letters with an image of a snail in the background. Not like he hasn't done skincare, but Rin wasn't sure if a snail really belonged on the cover image of the packaging. He tries to throw it back on your lap but your hand stops him.
You whip your head around to glare, "Put it on, or else I'm doing it for you."
Something about your sharp tone sent shivers down his spine. Rin reluctantly rips open the packaging and carefully starts placing it on his face, making sure the extra solution doesn't drip all over his suit. The mask against his skin is cold, wet, and smells nothing like snails.
He glances at the rearview mirror to see his reflection, the extra white flaps from the sheet hang off of his face in a way that reminds him of a soggy mummy, and he grimaces, "I look ridiculous."
Rin flinches when he feels your fingers on his face, grabbing the extra flaps and readjusting their position back on his cheek, "After this, you'll look like a newborn baby!"
Rin flicks his eyes away from his own reflection to scowl at you but is taken aback at your appearance. While his facemask is just a white sheet, yours had little cute characters printed on it, and he could not take you seriously.
"You look so stupid right now." He didn't mean to have his intrusive thoughts slip out so easily, especially since you're his manager, and almost backtracks his words immediately. "Stupidly cute." Wait that doesn't sound any better. His other intrusive thoughts got in the way!
"Itoshi Rin?"
"Yes?"
He feels a flick on his forehead followed by a series of giggles.
"You're such a weirdo."
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"You like our manager, don't you?"
For the first time in ages, Rin misses his shot.
"What?"
Aiku stands behind with a shit-eating grin that Rin is all too familiar with. Ah, the unsolicited relationship advice from 'big brother' Aiku is what Rin likes to call it.
"C'mon, you guys are super buddy-buddy now!" Aiku attempts to rest an arm on one of Rin's shoulders but he steps aside.
While he's not completely wrong, the two of you have grown slightly comfortable with each other's presence since the banquet, Rin wouldn't quite think of anything more of it. You are a naturally sociable person and Rin just happens to have gotten used to your presence. Nothing more and nothing less.
"Don't go spreading around rumors like that." He jogs to get the ball however Aiku beats him to it and holds the ball captive between his feet.
"You smiled at them this morning." Aiku points out and awfully recreates Rin's 'smile'.
Rin rolls his eyes and tries to get the ball but Aiku pushes it further away, "That doesn't mean anything."
"Okay but recently you've been sitting together quite often." Aiku decides to start dribbling the ball down the field and Rin is quick to follow after.
"Maybe I'm just less annoying to be around."
"Would you let Isagi sit next to you? Bachira? Me?" Rin jumps in an attempt to block his shot but it barely grazes his head as it flies smoothly into the goalpost. He loses his balance and falls straight to his bottom in defeat.
"Let me help you." The taller male persistently offers and holds out a hand.
"Like you have any luck with relationships." Rin swats the hand away and begrundingly gets up. Aiku ignores the comment.
"I'll make the guys stay behind today to clean up the locker rooms so that you and our little manager can have some quality time together." Aiku puts emphasis on the last part and it's almost enough to make Rin throw his cleats at him but he saves the action in his imagination instead.
"I'm leaving," Rin dismisses his co-captain's suggestion and begins to walk off the field.
He hears Aiku clicking his tongue in annoyance, "Does arrogance run in the family or something?"
Without turning back, Rin holds up his middle finger and makes a beeline toward the locker rooms.
Getting on the subway during the afternoons is always rough for just about everyone. Unlike the mornings, which are just filled with salary men and women, the afternoon hosts a wide range of age groups and it doesn't help that the station he has to take is in a centralized location in the city. It feels like sardines packed in a tin can.
"Stand clear of the closing doors please." The automatic voice blares above his head as he leans against the wall in the corner of the train car, away from where the majority of people had gathered.
"Woah, fancy seeing you here!" Your chirpy voice makes Rin do a sharp turn as you barely squeeze through the sliding doors. The sight of it makes him recall back to the first meeting, although this time with a lack of disheveled hair and a thick binder in the way.
You swiftly manuver your body over to his spot through the sea of people, "Do you usually get off this time?" You didn't ask to be instigating but rather out of curiosity.
Rin takes hold of the top metal bar as the train starts to move, "Not really. Just needed a break from Aiku." He confesses.
"He can be a bit much."
You try and shift your weight so that you could stand up straight but it fails and you end up leaning against another passenger. The stranger sends a nasty glare while you fix your posture, apologizing profusely to them. Once again, the train car ended up being too crowded for you to secure a spot of your own and you weren't in a good position to reach for the top bar.
Subconsciously, Rin offers his arm again, not wanting to see you struggle for the remaining stops. This time around, you had no hesitation in latching your hand around his bicep. A small part of his brain wanders back to Aiku's question and it plagues his mind.
Does he like you? He knows that he doesn't mind being next to you. And he doesn't quite mind when you touch him. Talking to you feels nice too. Wait, this all sounds like a crush, he thinks. The hand on his bicep suddenly feels like it's on fire and he starts sweating.
"Sorry, is it getting hot in here?" You speak from below and he realizes that your hand is slowly slipping off by the amount he was producing due to just nerves alone.
"My bad." His free hand clasps yours back onto his bicep and he holds it in place.
"You sure? I can try grabbing something else." You suggest.
It's nerve-wracking but Rin does admit that it feels nice.
"I don't mind."
Standing next to you on the crowded train is rather fitting at the end of the day, he thinks.
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xtra7s · 2 months
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𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 ★ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏
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pairing: Renee Rapp x reader
Synopsis: Renee Rapp finds herself being forced to co-write with her popstar enemy, Y/N YL/N.
content: none
word count: 2500+
masterlist
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Sunlight, pale and watery, peeked through Renee's eyelids, coaxing them open. She groaned, squinting at the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam, momentarily lost before memory slammed back, a tidal wave of yesterday's chaos. The sold-out show, the encore that bled into the early hours, the post-show whirlwind of sweaty hugs and hoarse thank yous.
She sat up, wincing at the way her muscles protested, stretched languidly like a sun-drenched cat. Her apartment, usually alive with the echoes of guitar strings and her own humming, was blessedly quiet. She savored the stillness, reveling in the luxury of an unscheduled morning.
Coffee first, always coffee. Slipping into a faded black tee and ripped sweatpants, Renee padded into the kitchen, the familiar ritual grounding her. The hiss of the espresso machine, the frothy gurgle of milk, all a symphony of caffeine-fueled peace. She curled up on the window seat, mug cradled in her hands, watching the city wake up beneath a veil of mist.
The day unfurled with the lazy elegance of a catnap. She strummed aimlessly on her guitar, chords bleeding into each other like watercolor paints. A melody hummed beneath her breath, hesitant at first, then soaring with newfound confidence. Words followed, tumbling out like spilled secrets, raw and vulnerable. This one, she knew, wouldn't be for the stage. This one was for her, etched in the quiet of her living room, sunlight painting gold across her notebook pages.
Mid-verse, the phone buzzed, pulling her back from the daydream landscape. It was Adam, her manager, his voice a staccato counterpoint to the slow tempo of her morning. "Hey, sleepyhead. Get that caffeine flowing, you've got a meeting in an hour."
Renee blinked the edges of her daydream blurring. "A meeting? With who?"
"Surprise," Adam purred, a mischievous glint in his voice. "Just be at the office by noon, looking fierce. Trust me, this is good."
The call ended, leaving behind a delicious cocktail of curiosity and apprehension. Adam rarely sprung surprises, preferring the well-worn path of meticulous planning. A quick peek at her calendar confirmed the blankness of the day, a testament to his clandestine maneuver. Renee, intrigued, finished her coffee with newfound urgency.
A quick shower scrubbed away the remnants of sleep and yesterday's glitter. Jeans replaced sweatpants, and a vintage band tee swapped for a sleek silk cropped tank. She threw on a leather jacket, its worn patina contrasting the delicate silver chain around her neck. A flick of mascara, a touch of rouge, and voila, Renee was ready for whatever mystery Max had cooked up.
The subway ride was a whirlwind of crumpled newspapers and hurried goodbyes. The city buzzed outside the windows, a symphony of car horns and sirens that somehow managed to be lullaby familiar. Renee tapped her foot against the worn floor, an impatient rhythm against the steady rumble of the train.
Adam's office, on the top floor of a sleek glass tower, felt as controlled as its occupant. He sat behind a minimalist desk, a tablet gleaming like a black mirror in his hands. "Well, look who graced us with her presence," he drawled, a sharkish grin lighting up his face.
"Alright, spill it," Renee demanded, settling into the plush leather chair opposite him. She took off her jacket and rested it on the chair, "Who's the mystery meeting with?"
Adam smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Ready for the real kicker, Blondie?" He reached for his tablet, tapping the screen with a flourish. "Your writing partner for these demos? None other than the one and only..."
The name that flashed on the screen froze Renee's blood. Y/N YL/N. The girl who seemed to embody everything Renee wasn't – polished, perfect, and seemingly born with a platinum record tucked behind each earlobe.
Their paths had crossed a few times – an awkward introduction at an awards show, a tense exchange at a music industry party – and each encounter had felt like navigating a minefield. Y/N’s icy smile and razor-sharp wit felt like a personal affront, a constant reminder of everything Renee felt insecure about.
The news hit her like a rogue wave. Collaborating with Y/N? Writing songs together? It was like asking a firefly to tango with a scorpion. The very idea sent shivers down her spine, a delicious blend of dread and fascination.
"You're joking, right?" Renee's voice was a tight whisper, her fingers twisting in her lap.
Adam chuckled, but there was a glint of steel in his eyes. "Nope. Word on the street is that Y/N's been looking for a songwriting partner with some... grit. Apparently, her last collaborator couldn't handle the 'diva act.'" He raised an eyebrow, daring her to challenge him.
Renee squared her shoulders, a spark of defiance lighting in her eyes. "Challenge accepted," she declared, her voice steadier than she felt. "Let's see who the real diva is when we're both spitting shit in a recording booth."
The Hollywood dream suddenly felt a lot less glamorous and a lot more like stepping into a coliseum, armed only with a guitar and a stubborn sense of self. Writing songs with Y/N was going to be hell, but maybe, just maybe, it would also be the spark that ignited something extraordinary, both on the record and within herself. 
As Adam slid a glass of champagne into her hand, the city lights outside the window seemed to wink, beckoning her towards a future both terrifying and thrilling. The Renee Rapp show was just getting started, and her first act was facing her demons, head-on and harmony-filled.
"Alright, Renee," he said, pushing himself up from his chair. "Y/N's on her way to the studio right now. Time to go meet your new best friend."
Renee swallowed hard, the champagne suddenly turning to vinegar in her stomach. "Right," she croaked, forcing a smile. "Studio. Collaboration. Teamwork."
Adam raised an eyebrow, his sharkish grin widening. "More like controlled chaos, but hey, that's where the magic happens, right?" He winked, then tossed her black leather jacket to her. "Go get 'em, tiger. Show her what Renee Rapp's made of."
The city stretched out before her, a concrete jungle pulsating with possibility and peril. Grabbing a taxi, Renee sped towards the studio, her thoughts churning like a washing machine on a spin cycle. Would Y/N be the ice queen she always appeared to be, or was there something more beneath the polished surface? Could they possibly navigate the choppy waters of songwriting together, or would their egos collide in a spectacular, public shipwreck?
The studio, nestled in the heart of Hollywood, hummed with creative energy. The air crackled with the sound of guitars being tuned, drumsticks tapping impatiently, and voices warming up scales. Renee took a deep breath, stepping into the dimly lit control room where Angela waited, her music producer, a mischievous glint in her eye.
"She's in booth two," she said, pointing towards a soundproofed glass box.
Renee nodded, her heart pounding a primal rhythm against her ribs. She pushed open the heavy door, stepping into the booth like a gladiator entering the arena. There, bathed in the soft glow of studio lights, sat Y/N YL/N.
For a moment, the world held its breath. The two rivals were locked in a silent standoff, their past encounters casting long shadows across the room. Then, a slow smile spread across Y/N's face, a smirk that was equal parts of challenge and intrigue.
"Renee Rapp," she drawled, her voice like honeyed poison. "Fancy seeing you here."
Renee met her gaze, her own smile steely and determined. "Yeah yeah, Y/N," she replied. "Let's get to work."
And so, the unlikely collaboration began. Two voices, so different yet somehow destined to intertwine, filled the studio with the raw energy of unspoken feelings and unbridled talent. The air crackled with tension, with unspoken words hanging heavy between them. Yet, as their fingers danced across guitars and their voices blended in unexpected harmonies, a spark ignited.
It was a dance on the edge of a volcano, fueled by equal parts animosity and grudging respect. They challenged each other and pushed each other to their limits, their voices soaring and crashing like waves against the rocks. 
Frustration hung heavy in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. Hours had bled by, filled with discarded melodies and half-written verses, with the tantalizing promise of a song just out of reach. Renee strummed her guitar listlessly, the chords echoing the emptiness in her mind.
Y/N sat across from her, perched on a stool, her usually immaculate hair mussed, dark circles smudging the corners of her eyes. The polished veneer of her persona had peeled away, revealing the vulnerability beneath. For the first time, Renee saw her not as a rival, but as another artist struggling with the same demons.
A sudden change in Renee's strumming caught Y/N's attention. Her head snapped up, eyes locking with Renee's, who seemed unaware of the shift. Her fingers danced across the strings, weaving a melody that was both raw and captivating. Renee's lips moved silently, forming words that hung in the air like wisps of smoke.
"You say that I'm your favorite," she hummed, her voice low and husky, "With your hand between my thighs."
Y/N's breath hitched, a shiver dancing down her spine. The lyrics, raw and unapologetic, cut through the tension like a knife. This wasn't the sugary pop Y/N was known for; this was something darker, something more real.
Renee's eyes fluttered open, meeting Y/N's gaze with a newfound intensity. The air crackled with electricity, a mix of anticipation and trepidation.
"Tell me if you were gonna," Renee continued, her voice gaining strength, "That I would be the one you tried."
Y/N watched, hypnotized, as Renee mumbled a few more lyrics before shaking her head. The raw lyrics, sung with smoky confidence, peeled back layer after layer of the facade Renee typically projected. Y/N noticed things she'd never observed before - the flecks of gold in Renee's blue eyes that sparked with each line, the way her nose crinkled adorably when she concentrated, and the subtle curve of her jaw that spoke of hidden strength.
 The song, a shared confession, had cracked open Y/N's carefully constructed shell, revealing a tangle of emotions she'd kept buried for years. Her gaze traced the line of Renee's neck, the pulse fluttering beneath the delicate skin, and a shiver ran down Y/N's spine.
The air crackled with a charged silence. Y/N's walls, once brick and mortar, were now mere cobblestones, tumbling into disarray. She met Renee's eyes, her own unguarded and vulnerable, a stark contrast to the icy color they usually held.
"That..." Y/N's voice was a mere whisper, "That was something else, Renee."
Renee, sensing the shift, offered a tentative smile. "It was," she agreed, her voice husky.
There, in the dimly lit studio, their rivalry seemed to melt away, replaced by a fragile understanding, a whispered promise of shared vulnerability. They stepped out into the dawn, the first rays of sunlight painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. It was a new beginning, a blank canvas upon which they could paint a masterpiece of collaboration.
But as they left the studio and the magic of the music faded, Y/N's walls began to rebuild, brick by metaphorical brick. The vulnerability 
evaporated, replaced by the familiar mask of cold detachment. Her back straightened, her gaze sharpened, and a familiar smirk played on her lips.
"Alright, Renee," she drawled, her voice tinged with her usual icy edge. "Hit me up tomorrow, I'll come over and we can continue writing."
Renee blinked, startled by the sharp shift. She nodded as the warmth of their shared moment had dissolved, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste. But something had changed. Renee saw a flicker of the woman beneath the ice queen, a glimpse of the vulnerability Y/N had so briefly unveiled.
The game had changed, indeed. Renee knew the road ahead would be paved with challenges, with Y/N's barbed wit and ruthless ambition a constant obstacle. But she also knew that, hidden beneath the layers of frost, there was a fire in Y/N that could be kindled. The melody they had forged together, raw and honest, was proof. And that, in itself, was a victory.
The rivalry was far from over, but now, it danced with a hint of something else, something unspoken and intriguing. Renee met Y/N's gaze, a new challenge glinting in her own eyes. 
Renee stumbled out of the studio, eyelids drooping and nerves buzzing. Sleep, usually a welcome sanctuary, seemed elusive tonight. The image of Y/N's walls rebuilding, brick by icy brick, replayed in her mind, a discordant note against the echo of their raw collaboration.
She drifted into her apartment, the silence pressing against her like a suffocating wave. The ukulele leaned against the wall, untouched, yearning for the warmth of her fingers. Instead, she gravitated towards her trusty guitar, its familiar weight grounding her in the chaos of her emotions.
Her fingers danced across the strings, returning to the notes she played in the studio, a way to translate the tangled mess in her head. The chords came hesitantly at first, a tentative whisper, then gathering momentum like a gathering storm. Her voice, raw and unfiltered, filled the quiet room, weaving a tapestry of unspoken desires and lingering questions.
"In the PM, all the pretty girls," she crooned, "They have a couple drinks, all the pretty girls."
The lyric hung in the air, heavy with both longing and self-awareness. Was it her own reflection she saw in those words, the girl in the mirror seeking solace in the fleeting comfort of company? Or was it Y/N, a glimpse beneath the polished surface, a yearning for something just beyond her reach?
"So now, they wanna kiss all the pretty girls," Renee continued, her voice gaining strength, "They got to have a taste of a pretty girl."
The melody soared, achingly beautiful, and laced with a bittersweet truth. The game they played, the unspoken tension between them, was it just a desperate grasp for connection in a world of curated personas? Or was there something more, something simmering beneath the veneer of rivalry?
She strummed the final chord, letting the silence settle like a soft snowfall. The lyrics etched onto the page in messy scrawl, seemed to hold the answer to a question she hadn't even dared to ask. Tonight, the lines between artist and subject had blurred, Renee revealing not just melodies but a sliver of her own soul.
With a heavy sigh, she slipped into bed, the image of Y/N's eyes, both guarded and curious, dancing behind her eyelids. Sleep, at last, brought its welcome embrace, but within its depths, another song was stirring, waiting to be born. In the morning, with the city streets shimmering beneath the sunrise, Renee knew the game had just begun. 
The melodies they created, confessions hidden in plain sight, would be their currency, their battle cries, their whispered promises. Whether it led to harmony or heartbreak, one thing was certain: the world they were about to create, together, would be unlike anything anyone had ever heard.
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kingkatsuki · 2 months
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Do you think Shindou’s ears are more susceptible to vibrations because of his quirk? Like he can hear a cell phone buzzing in someone’s pocket or bag when it’s vibrating from an incoming call, the whirr of a microwave or a kettle boiling, or the rumble beneath the ground of a subway train.
Or the sound that’s seemingly coming from Bakugou’s cute little girlfriend, and you’re definitely not holding your phone— “Hey, Blasty. Why didn’t you tell me your girls got a vibrator stuffed in her pussy right now?”
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Heights for the Ultimate Turtles Forever
I got inspired by a series of posts on @misteria247's blog about turtle heights across different universes.
So I made these (using https://hikaku-sitatter.com/en/):
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Some of the words got cut off, so I added them manually.
For those wondering/worrying if Bayverse Splinter would be taller than 2012 Splinter, good news! 2016 Leo is the same height as 2012 Splinter (6' 2") so Bayverse Splinter would be shorter.
Also, capitalizing their whole names makes them seem... I don't know, spelled wrong?
Is that just me?
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heavy--feels · 24 days
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T gain
Finally, you attained your dream: you're on testosterone.
You've spent the months leading to getting your first prescription on research. You browsed through all the lists of effects and side effects, and read people's stories. You're prepared for the initial emotional imbalance, and you know that your body will quickly start to redistribute fat. It doesn't surprise you when the little amount of fat from your hips and butt goes to your belly, rounding it out a little. You look in the mirror and you see a waist that's more of a male pattern, and it brings you joy.
You knew about the hunger, too. After all, you're going to be like a teenage boy. Teenage boys are always hungry. Except, they also grow, and you won't be.
But nothing, absolutely nothing could prepare you for how the T hunger feels.
You are taken aback when your belly suddenly starts rumbling as if you haven't eaten all day. You had breakfast 3 hours ago, but it feels like your stomach is attacking itself, caving in, the acid burning its sides. It's practically painful.
Frantically, you decide to have lunch earlier, and you eat what you prepared - a regular lunch, not a small one, but also not especially big.
It's not enough. An hour passes, and your stomach screams at you again.
You don't know what to do. You run to Subway and order a footlong with as many ingredients and sauces ad you can. 1500 calories should satisfy that monster, shouldn't it? You find yourself forcing the last bites down your throat, and you wonder if you didn't overdo it a little.
Three hours pass. Your stomach rumbles again.
It takes you 1-2 weeks to figure out how to adjust your portions and eating schedule so that you don't spend the entire day hungry and thinking about food. All of your regular meals become huge: breakfast, lunch, dinner. You eat smaller meals in between, and you add supper to your routine. You snack. You find out that you have to stuff yourself as much as you can before bed, or else you'll wake up in the middle of the night, hungry.
It's no wonder when the effects of this changed routine become visible. At first, your muscles thicken and expand, but it doesn't end there. Your rounded belly slowly grows into a full-blown gut. Your thighs thicken. Your chin softens. You upsize like crazy; on the day you started T, you were wearing M; now, a year later, you're on XL.
You look in the mirror. A fat boy is staring back at you. This is how it was always supposed to be. This is you.
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dandylovesturtles · 5 months
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Lil missing scene from the movie
My favorite trope is when a character who is very hungry gets fed
———
Casey’s stomach growls, and he can only hope it’s masked by the rumbling of the tank as it travels through the subway.
He’s good at ignoring hunger pangs by now. Knows how to swallow them down and push ahead, had to learn because there’s never been enough food to truly silence them. Maybe when he was a child, and the adults in his life were fine with going with less when it meant he would be full, but as Casey’s body grew and demanded more and more the colony only had less and less.
He just hopes the turtles didn’t hear it. It’s embarrassing, and not really the impression he’s trying to give. And besides, it’s not like there’s anything they can do about it. They’re not going to stop for lunch.
Unfortunately, his stomach has other plans - right as there’s a lull in the conversation it growls again, and this time Michelangelo turns away from the console and looks at him in awe.
“Dude, was that your stomach!?”
“Uh…” He grins, trying to shrug it off. “Yes?”
“That was sooo loud! I thought there was a bear in here!”
“Oh. Sorry. Uh… it’s been awhile since my last meal.”
He’s hoping they just drop it there, but…
“How long is “awhile”?” asks Leonardo. He sounds unimpressed, and there’s the same piercing look in his eye that Sensei would have when he’d ask the same. When’d you last eat, kid?
So Casey knows there’s no dodging this one. The thing is, he’s not sure how to answer the question - there was the whole time travel business, and the mission before that, and the time he spent unconscious, and the attack on the Foot Clan…
Point is, he can only guess. He hopes Leonardo doesn’t see it as lying.
“Um… thirty five hours? Maybe?” That’s a pretty conservative estimate, but he hopes it flies. “But I’m fine! I’ve handled worse than this.”
Leonardo staring at him. Actually, they’re all staring at him. None of them look happy, and Casey’s stomach flips from something other than hunger.
Then Leonardo sighs, and he sounds disappointed. Casey opens his mouth to plead his case, to assure Sensei that he’s fit and ready to go, but Leonardo interrupts him by addressing Donatello instead.
“What’ve we got in the snack stash, Dee?”
“Hmmm…” Donatello flips on the autopilot again, leaving his chair and flipping open a compartment on the wall. “Sour candy, hot Cheeto’s, some snack cakes…”
“Oh, you don’t want any of that on an empty stomach,” says Michelangelo. “Trust me, it’s not worth it.”
“Well, we have some pretzels in here, and… oh.” Donatello’s voice goes a little quieter. “Some of Raph’s protein bars.”
Casey starts to insist that he doesn’t want to take Raphael’s food, but before he can Donatello has closed the compartment, wrapped food in hand.
“If you’ve been eating,” he makes a face, “leaves and rats, this is probably the best thing we can give you right now.” He fans them out. “We have plain and chocolate chunk.”
“I like the peanut butter ones,” says Michelangelo, “but we can’t keep those around.”
(A memory: Master Michelangelo making him a peanut butter sandwich as a special treat. Carefully wiping down the counter and utensils he’d used. When Casey asked, he’d said, “Because Raph-“
The sad look on his face was brief, but Casey never forgot.
“…Because we need to be careful, in case someone has a peanut allergy.”)
“I know.”
He takes one of the plain ones, unwrapping it hesitantly. Sensei’s voice echoes in his head, Eat slow. Small bites.
He knows he should, but when he tastes it his stomach roars to life, ravenous and angry. Before he knows it he’s eaten the entire bar in four barely chewed bites, and wishes he hadn’t because now it’s gone and he feels hungrier than when he began.
They’re still staring at him. He doesn’t know what to do, so he just says, “Thank you,” sincerely, because sharing food is the ultimate gesture of love in the apocalypse.
The rest of the bars are suddenly being shoved his way - four of them in total. “Here,” says Donatello, not meeting his eyes. “You can have the rest.”
“Ah, no,” he says quickly, trying to push them back. “I can’t take-“
“Raph always forgets they’re here, anyway,” says Donatello, waving him off. “Someone might as well eat them.”
Casey takes the bars. Donatello sits back down. They’re not looking at him anymore.
He looks at the protein bars in his hands. He’s still hungry.
He takes smaller bites this time. Savors the taste of oats and other flavors he can’t readily identify. It’s good. It’s really, really good.
He stows the last three bars away. He may need them later. Or maybe he can give them back to Raphael, after they rescue him.
“Three minutes to Metro Tower,” says Donatello, and he focuses up. His stomach’s quiet now - there’s no excuses.
He found the key. Now it’s time to stop the Krang.
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sunflowersteves · 9 months
Note
hello lovely!! can i request some protective!miguel who saves his love from a villain?
jo!!! my love!!! of course u can 😌 i made it so miguel loves r so much he gives up canon events HELLO I-
pairing || miguel x f!reader
warnings || injury, blood, violence, angry miguel, protective miguel, we're also pretending his venom heals, this is so much more angsty than i thought
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Blood.
The thick, dripping red liquid started to stain the concrete floors of the abandoned building. Miguel smelt the coppery substance before his eyes landed on the ground, then following the source and he could feel every single muscle on his body tense.
Your abdomen.
Miguel wasn't sure when it happened. You weren't sure when it happened.
One minute you were swung to safety by Miguel as he fought Carnage, and the next your body was pushed up against the wall as an iron rod pierced your lower abdomen.
Your eyes widened in shock before your hands immediately attached to the metal. Your breath hitched as pain radiated through your body—the adrenaline that coursed through your veins didn't seem to be helping all that much.
"Miguel." You whispered. It was so quiet—too quiet. Your vision started to become hazy as the blood continued to seep into your pretty black-laced dress.
Today was a special day. It was June 28th—the day that you met Miguel.
You had been stuck in the Upper West side of the city when someone attacked your work building. You had been late that day as your alarm clock had failed to do its job that morning.
You had rushed to put on clothes and ran down to the subway lines. You knew you were fucked if you were late today. However, a giant lizard had put a stop to your plans as it scaled the skyscraper.
You just stood in shock from across the street as you clutched your bag and put a hand over your mouth.
Then, you heard a deep voice from behind. "You need to get out of here."
You could only smile fondly at the memory. Today, Miguel had surprised you into bringing you flowers after work. He was gonna take you to a special spot—his favorite restaurant.
You cried out in pain as the building rumbled from the force of Miguel's attack onto the enemy. You looked down and whimpered—the loss of blood seemingly piling around you more.
"Miguel." You whispered, hoping that you could stay awake.
~
Miguel wasn't sure exactly what had happened. All he could see was your blood. All he could smell was your blood.
It made him feel red. It made him see red.
"Voy a matarte. Te lo prometo." It was deep. A growl vibrated at the base of his throat and the whole sentence sounded like a groan. He promised.
He promised that Carnage would not see another day.
His claws swiped and dug into carnage's black goo flesh. Carnage just laughed before staring at the pure crimson of Miguel's eyes. Something clicked inside of him—something dark and brewing as the sight of your blood was played over and over in his head.
Carnage groaned in pain as Miguel continued to dig and claw his way through. Eventually he managed to slice through Kletus' skin on his abdomen, all while carnage screamed in pain of the host.
He swiped again, and again. Again and again. Rage bubbled to the surface at the picture of your eyes closed. Sadness enveloped his heart as the future attempted to flash before his eyes of a funeral dedicated to you.
Is this a canon event?
"Miguel, I-" Your sentence was cut off by a cough. Miguel's head whipped over to you and his heart palpitated by fatigued look on your face.
He wasn't sure how he had heard you. He doesn't have spider hearing like the rest of the spider-people or have spidey senses. Honestly, he didn't care.
His fist stopped mid air—paused between punches and claws. He looked at the man before him. Blood seeped through the blackened goo of Carnage. Bits of flesh clung to Miguel's suit. If he wasn't preoccupied by you, he would have realized that Miguel almost killed him.
His moved fast, desperately darting to you and pressing a hand against your cheek. "I'm here, querida. I'm here. Don't—don't fall asleep, okay? I'm right here."
He pleaded. He begged.
You gasped out a breath as Miguel's shoulders sagged in relief. You're awake. You're alive.
"Miguel. It hurts." You whimpered. Another drop of blood dripped from your wound.
"I know, baby. I know. I've got you."
In his head, though, he was panicking. The metal rod had completely gone through your back and was lodged into the wall behind you. You were stuck.
Tears pricked his eyes as his breath started to rapidly build. You were going to die. You were going to die. It all seemed to repeat over and over in his head.
He can't lose you. He can't lose another family again. Not again.
His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at your fading figure. His hands settled themselves onto your hips and he gently pulled you closer to him to get the rod out of your body.
Your screams echoed into the abandoned building. The rod sliced through each muscle and tissue of your abdomen as he continued to pull. "I know, please. Lo siento, lo siento—"
He rested his forehead onto yours for comfort. You screamed his name again as he seemed to pull harder. "Miguel! Please, please, please—"
"I know, cariño. P-Please—just—" Your body fell limp into his arms as he successfully pulled the rod out.
your eyes were snapped shut as the pain became too much. Your breathing was haggard and Miguel knew he didn't have much time left.
He had no time left.
He gently moved the strap of your dress. His fingers brushed against your soft skin and his mind reeled from the idea of never hearing your laughter again. Is this a canon event? He asks once more.
In a panic from his thoughts, his teeth sunk into your flesh and he let his venom flow through your veins. He let the venom heal the broken parts of your skin. He bunched up the side of your dress so he could watch as the wound started to slowly heal itself.
He looked down to see that your breathing had evened in your slumber. He made a promise to himself as he carried you back home. You would be protected. You would be unharmed. You would be safe.
Miguel will make damn sure of that for the rest of his waking life. Nothing and no one will ever do harm to you. Ever.
He tucked you neatly into bed and pressed a kiss to your hair line. "I'm never letting you go."
He held in his breath. He felt tears start to prick his water line again. "Te amo." He whispered into the dark. He felt his chest blossom with guilt, relief, and happiness all at once.
One day, he might say that to your face and watch as your eyes lighted with joy. For now, he was going to show you his earth-shattering love through bandage changes and cuddles.
Fuck the canon and fuck Carnage.
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Can I get a 7 with Steve Rogers or Peter Parker? I love the nice guys being angsty
And congrats on the 5000
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.⋆。Noise。⋆.
Peter Parker x plus size reader
You don’t like the quiet, Peter does
Warnings: angst, noise sensitivity, college!Peter, mutual pining, hurt/comfort
Minors DNI
Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library
5k Follower Celebration
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Silence was your worst enemy, although you never really understood why you hated it. Whether that be the awkward silence during a lull in conversation or at 3am when the city quieted down. There had to be some kind of noise around you for you to feel at ease, usually it was music from your headphones or the chatter of other people but that wasn’t the case in Peter Parker’s room.
Somehow his room was the one place in all of New York that seemed to be above all the noise of the city. There were no sirens or voices or just random noises from the subway. Just silence.
And it was slowly driving you crazy. 
At first, the sound of your fingernails tapping your keyboard soothed you. It was rhythmic and just quiet enough to not disturb your best friend as he was studying. Then you moved onto bouncing your leg, which given that you were wearing socks and the whole room was carpeted, you could make almost no noise.
You sighed and shifted in your seat, becoming antsy as the silence seemed to close in around you. You could feel Peter’s eyes flick up to you occasionally but he never said anything so you started doing the only thing you could think of to create some noise. You began to hum.
The vibrations rumbled through your chest, immediately soothing the panicked feelings around your heart. Your shoulders dropped with relief and you finally felt like you were able to concentrate on the work in front of you instead of just mindlessly typing away to appear busy. 
You switched songs every 30 seconds or so, nodding your head along to the beat you were creating. Your usual smile began to pull at your lips as, unnoticed by you, Peter’s face fell and his eyebrows scrunched. 
He cleared his throat but you didn’t hear. “Y/N?” You looked back at him, pausing your humming for just a second. “Do you think you could be a little quieter please?” 
“Yeah, sorry about that.” You responded bashfully with a giggle. Peter breathed a sigh of relief and sat back against the wall behind his bed. He gave you a half-smile to which you winked at him before turning back to your work.
Things were quiet again save for the occasional turning of a page or alert on your phones and you started to feel that discomfort creeping in again. Like a massive weight slowly coming down onto your torso, the anxiety grew once more. Your eyes darted over your essay but you couldn’t comprehend any of the words that you had written.
Your breathing picked up as your heart pounded loudly in your ears though it did not give you the relief that other noises would have. You swallowed thickly, clamping your jaw shut tightly. Maybe a little noise would be okay, you thought as you brought a hand to your chest to where your shirt didn’t cover.
The soft tapping of your fingers against your bare skin was barely louder than your racing heartbeat but it worked. Your body eased as you picked up the pace, finally getting the relief you desperately needed. You hadn’t even noticed Peter’s frown deepening, the vein in his neck twitching with aggravation.
“How are you this fucking annoying?” Everything stopped and your veins turned to ice. 
“I-I’m sorry.” You managed to squeak out around the massive lump in your throat. Even Peter looked shocked at what he said, his brown eyes wide with terror. “I think I should head home, my roommate will get worried if I’m not there after dark.”
You tried to grab your tote bag from the floor but before you could even touch the canvas handle, Peter had sprung from the bed and caught your hand. “Wait I didn’t mean-“ You shook your head and swallowed back your tears, you couldn’t talk about this now.
“I know I’m noisy okay, I’m sorry for disturbing you.” You tried to pull yourself away but his grip tightened. “Peter.” Your voice wobbled but he didn’t give you an inch.
“No, no I’m sorry. I was being an asshole.” He gently pulled you towards him and you let him wrap you up in his strong arms, needing some sort of comfort even from the person that had hurt you in the first place.
“Then why did you say that?” You murmured, slowly melting into his chest. Peter held your wide hips gently, brushing the tops of your thighs through your clothes with his thumbs.
He sighed heavily and let his forehead rest on yours, a regular gesture between the two of you that was far from platonic. “I’ve had a rough day. There was a robbery this morning and that made me late to my lab and then some asshole thought it was funny to use a dog whistle right outside. And I just- I was overstimulated and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not when you were really trying.” 
You whimpered as a tear slid down your cheek. “I’m sorry beautiful, I really am. Let me make it up to you.” His right hand came up and gently wiped it away, keeping his hand on your soft jaw as he urged you to look into his eyes.
“How?” His smile was almost unsure, seemingly a little wary of how honestly he should respond.
“Let me order some food and we can watch Percy Jackson.”
“And cuddle?”His smile grew as his eyes twinkled. He ducked forward and gently kissed the tip of your nose.
“Whatever you want, I’m at your mercy tonight.” You giggled.
“And tomorrow too, I’m still kind of hurt.” Peter just squeezed your hip.
“Anything for you.” Maybe the silence wasn’t so bad, as long as Peter was quiet with you.
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rosesaints · 9 months
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help wanted ! chapter six.
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pairing: miguel o’hara / f!reader 
summary: miguel lets you into his world a little bit more.
rating: 18+ explicit (minors, do not interact) 
warnings: oral (m! receiving), unprotected sex, mentions of emotional abuse/neglect
series masterlist / previous chapter / next chapter
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In the year of 1999, Miguel O’Hara’s world came into focus for the first time. He was six years old, and the world was blurry and still too large for him to even begin to comprehend.
His mother, Conchata, was an eccentric woman. When he was younger, he believed that it was just her unique charm, a puzzling and unpredictable quality that drew her to pull him out of class to run to the fair at the last minute or speed through a silent grocery store on a shopping cart. It was unbecoming of a scientist’s wife, but as she rolled him faster down the condiment aisle, he was still too young to care, and it was still just him and his mom in their own little corner of the world.
“How come papa never joins us for dinner?” He had asked his mother once, a long time ago, across a table that was too long and empty for just the two of them. The words pushed themselves off the tip of his tongue clumsily and awkwardly, but something pulsed within him too loudly to ignore.
“No te preocupes por eso, Miggy,” Conchata replied between bites of the frozen food they had picked out at the store earlier. “What if we went to the science center again tomorrow? Just the two of us?”
“Mama—”
“No más preguntas,” Her response was brisk and cold, unlike the way she would usually speak to him. When she saw how Miguel’s eyes retreated to the floor, her voice softened. “Please. Let’s just enjoy this.”
After that, it helped to balance out their family, he reasoned, having found comfort in the spontaneity when his father would often disappear from the picture altogether.
1999 was when Gabriel was born. Gabriel was a gift, an undisputed blessing from the moment he was born, and for a time, Miguel had to admit he resented him. Resented the way his father looked at him with more pride and joy than he had ever cared to shine his way, resented the way his mother nervously glanced from him to Gabriel to him again, resented the way he was forced to sit alone in the waiting room while their relatives and family friends came to visit the rest of his family at the hospital.
Holiday photos became strained; he would remain on the outer corner of images, always, on the opposite side of his father and Gabriel.
There were a few times when he resolved to get to the bottom of it, to force his father to look at him and see him and give him just a little bit of the attention that he gave so easily to Gabriel, but to no avail. There was always this unexplainable distance, a rift that grew miles long between them.
But then Gabriel’s first word was “Miggy.” Not “mama,” not “papa.” Miggy.
The resentment toward Gabriel didn’t last long at all, making way for something easier and lighter. Suddenly his mother’s shopping cart became a little more crowded, and finally, he had someone else to share the rush of evading the manager at the grocery store with, as their mother pushed through tight corners and raced faster down the aisles.
But no matter how much Gabriel loved him wholeheartedly, like love was just something that deserved to be unconditionally given out, it made no effect on how tense and strained things became between Miguel and his father. While Gabriel was following him from the moment he could walk and step towards him, every day it felt like his father was walking farther and farther away.
A defining memory with his father took place a week before his fifth grade science fair.
Miguel remembered the day clearly, standing quietly beside his father on the subway while holding onto a railing, watching as other parents and kids held hands while the train would shake and rumble. His father kept his hands squarely at his side.
Conchata had begged his father to allow Miguel to accompany him to work one day at Alchemax, in order to gather inspiration for his project, a silly experiment that tested genetics among generations of fruit flies. It was a last-ditch attempt to connect with his father with something, anything.
As he stepped into the grand halls of Alchemax Headquarters, a twinkle of awe sparkled in his eyes, growing even brighter as his father guided him into his very own laboratory; His father allowed him to look over current and previous experiments without his usual, stern warnings, and like a fool, he believed that it was a turning point in their relationship.
He could still remember the way he shook in excitement, breathlessly cooing over vials and serums that rested on his father’s workbench, so eager and glad to be a part of the one facet of his father’s world that remained untouched by Gabriel.
“Miguel,” His father called with a strained voice. At the sound of his name, he turned hastily to find his father facing an unfamiliar man. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as Miguel approached the man standing beside his father. His heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.
“Come introduce yourself,” his father urged, his hand resting on Miguel's shoulder. It was a touch he had still not grown accustomed to, one that felt like a vice, trapping him in place.
As Miguel drew closer, he couldn't help but notice the uncanny resemblance between himself and the man he was being introduced to. The stranger's eyes bore into him, reflecting his own features back at him. It was as if he was looking at a distorted mirror, a reflection that sent shivers down his spine.
“Tyler Stone,” his father introduced, his voice carrying thinly veiled resentment. The weight of his father's hand on his shoulder seemed heavy, sharp nails digging into his skin that he couldn't wrench away from. He remained frozen, his eyes locked with those of Mr. Stone.
“This is my son. Miguel.”
The words hung in the air, a moment pregnant with significance.
The next words that came out of Mr. Stone's mouth were intended to be a compliment, but to Miguel, they felt like an unbearably cruel joke, a mockery of his existence. “Well. Don't you look  just like your father?”
For the first time, Miguel saw his father the way his father saw him. It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing the truth that had been hidden in plain sight all along. He saw the expectation and disappointment, the unspoken burden that hung between them during his entire childhood.
The anger came in droves soon after.
He stood parallel to his father on the subway back home hours later, fists squared at his sides as the train shook and rumbled on its tracks. No words needed to be said between them.
He had spent his childhood searching for validation, trying to prove himself worthy of his father's love. But that day, standing face to face with his own reflection in the form of Mr. Stone, he couldn't help but feel a surge of self-hatred. Every imperfection, every flaw, felt magnified, as if he had been carved from the same flawed mold.
Miguel clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out, to scream at the unfairness of it all.
A week later, it was as if his hands were moving at their own accord. His science fair, a day that he had spent so long preparing for, and he felt so—so angry. Fucking enraged to his core. He didn’t remember when he picked up a baseball bat, didn’t remember when he started swinging aimlessly. But he vividly remembered crying in the midst of a ruined fair, destroyed projects and mock volcanoes and dioramas as other parents and children watched in horror.
Most of all, he remembered his mother cradling him in her arms, cupping his face, and sobbing along with him. “Miggy—Miguel. Look at me, mijo. Lo siento. Lo siento. Lo siento.”
He had never felt so small, so insignificant before. Worst of all, his father didn’t even bother showing up.
“Hey,” You snapped him out of the recesses of his dream, carefully pushing stray strands away from his face. “Did you have a nightmare?”
Blinking away the remnants of sleep, he became acutely aware of his surroundings.  The first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains, illuminating the room in a gentle glow. He was lying in bed, the warmth of the covers cocooning him, and the soft, steady breaths of you beside him, a soothing melody in the early morning silence. Next to them, nestled between their forms, laid Gabi, her cherubic face peaceful in slumber.
The lines of worry that had etched themselves into his face over the years seemed to momentarily fade away, realization flooding through Miguel like a cleansing wave. “No. No, it was nothing.”
“Is everything okay?” You looked at him with so much worry and care, and Miguel felt as though his heart might burst.
"Better now," Miguel whispered, his voice carrying a tenderness that seemed to envelop the room.
Subconsciously, his fingers moved of their own accord, gently tracing the contours of your face, fingertips grazing the softness of your skin. He was mesmerized by the way your lashes fluttered in the sunlight, the delicate rise and fall of your brows relaxing at his response, the way your fingers traveled up to intertwine with his. He noticed the way you paused at his bruised knuckles. "Don't worry about it . "
A warm smile tugged at the corners of Miguel's lips as he met your gaze. He wanted to ease your concerns, to make all your problems go away. “How’d you sleep?”
“Good,” You responded, a smile mirroring his. Your eyes drifted down to Gabi. “She had a nightmare in the middle of the night and decided to join me. Poor girl was crying and I just couldn’t resist. I hope you don’t mind.”
I just woke up with my two girls next to me. How could I mind that? “Of course. I don’t mind at all.”
There were flowers in the kitchen. Miguel didn’t remember the last time he got flowers, but he soon found out that it was yours and Gabi’s doing. A vase filled with daisies smiled up at him as he popped the breakfast pizza in the microwave. The room felt lighter; Gabi’s colorful crafts were hung up with lettered magnets on the fridge, your phone was blaring some Etta James song, and you were trying to coax Gabi to sing along with you.
“I want a Sunday kind of love,” You crooned to Gabi off-key, dancing around with her in your arms as she rolled her eyes and tried to fight a grin. “A love to last, past Saturday night! Sing along with me, Gabi!”
“Dad, make it stop,” Gabi giggled, spinning after you twirled her on her tip-toes. ‘Get me out of here.”
Miguel shook his head, chuckling softly as you swung Gabi around once again. “No, I think I’m good over here. Nice try, though.”
After the science fair incident, his father hardly spared any effort in sending him away. In a whirlwind of hurried arrangements, he found himself hastily boarding a train, his meager possessions in tow, journeying from the bustling streets of Midtown to a stately preparatory school nestled in the heart of the Bronx. He barely got to say goodbye to his mother or Gabriel.
Structure and Control, was the school’s motto. No one approached him at the dining hall, having been dubbed a liability and a risk by the school staff. He spent the rest of his childhood stewing in the anger he felt that day, surrounded by four walls and people who didn’t know him, mourning the loss of a father he knew and a father he didn’t know.
But he wasn’t a powerless child anymore. He was standing in the kitchen with you and his daughter, and you were dancing with Gabi on the vinyl floor, soaking up the sunlight that streamed lazily in through the window.
Eventually, you relented once Gabi’s laughter died down, content to hum and sway along to the slow tune as she sat perched atop a tall stool, her hair falling in gentle waves around her shoulders as you began to braid earnestly. You looked across the kitchen table, grinning as he set the breakfast down in front of them. “You’re a godsend. When did you even have time to get all of this?”
“I’m a ninja,” Miguel mused, pulling up a chair next to them and grabbing some pizza in earnest. “Didn’t you know?”
He knew that there were bigger responsibilities waiting for him, saw proof of it with the dozens of unopened emails and text messages on his phone, knew that there were bound to be some repercussions for him acting so recklessly earlier that morning with your ex-fiancé, but as you and Gabi beamed at him with so much unfiltered joy, Miguel knew there was no other way he wanted to spend his day.
It was easy to place his phone on “Do Not Disturb” for the day and even easier to set his undivided attention on his girls. “What’s the plan for today?”
After breakfast, at Gabi's eager request, the day's activities seamlessly transitioned to the familiar haven of the backyard. Miguel laid a worn and cherished blanket on the verdant floor, the years of use visible in its fading print. He reclined on the blanket, a spectator to the impromptu game unfolding before him. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he watched you engage Gabi in a spirited round of soccer.
The twinkle in your eyes mirrored hers, your movements fluid, but clumsy. He couldn't help but chuckle as Gabi, fueled by the same, stubborn determination that coursed through his veins, effortlessly outmaneuvered you at every turn. With each triumphant goal, her excitement radiated, intermingling with the shared laughter that filled the backyard.
After a while, you crossed your arms and dropped against him on the blanket, heaving as Gabi kept running around the yard with her soccer ball. Miguel found himself gravitating closer to you, legs intertwining with yours on the grass. “Giving up so soon? You were doing so good.”
“Shut up,” Miguel ducked as you playfully swatted his arm in feigned annoyance, but settled closer into the crook of his arm anyway. “She’s too fast and way too athletic for a five-year-old, no thanks to you. I barely even passed gym class in high school. It’s a surprise I lasted any longer than I did.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You did slightly better than the other five-year-olds she plays against.”
“She’s growing up way too fast,” You turned to him, eyes wide with bewilderment. “Did you know she was telling me that she didn’t need my help anymore with tying her shoes the other day?”
“You can’t tell me things like that,” Miguel sighed, eyeing his daughter with a mixture of bittersweetness. “I’m just glad she still pretends to need my help.”
“Can’t be too long now,”  There was something teasing in your tone, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “She’s going to realize she’s way cooler than you and start tying her shoelaces herself.”
“Let’s just hope that doesn’t happen anytime soon. I don’t know if my heart could take that.”
You hummed in response, the melodious sound resonating deep within your chest. "I don't think my heart could take that either," you whispered, your words carrying a gentle echo of shared sentiment.
Gabi scored for the umpteenth time that day, kicking her ball into an imaginary goalpost against the fence. Moments later, she bounded towards the blanket, breathless and sweaty and wide-eyed, joining your little cluster on the blanket. You were mussing up her dark curls, singing her praises and laughing and inviting him in, and everything felt so right, so unequivocally real.
As the day wore on, time seemed to stretch, as if honoring Miguel's silent plea for the day to last as long as possible. They lingered in the backyard as conversations flowed, intertwined with bursts of laughter and moments of comfortable silence.
It was distinctly summer; the scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the aroma of a distant barbecue.  He could hear other neighbors milling around the block, but it all seemed to blur away.
As the sun set, signaling the approaching end of their idyllic day, Gabi's eyelids grew heavy, her energy spent from the day's activities. No matter how quickly the years passed, he still carried her like he did the day she was born. Miguel scooped her up in his arms, cradling her gently as he carried her to her room with you in tow.
He wanted to raise her in a way that was different from his upbringing, wanted her to grow up in a place that was overflowing with warmth and care, to feel his love from the soft glow of her nightlight that illuminated the room, to feel it when he tucked her into bed with the blanket he bought for her with his first paycheck. “Felices sueños, mi cielo.”
Once she fell asleep, a familiar sense of comfort guided him through the familiar paths of his bedroom, leading him to the bathroom where you patiently awaited his arrival.
“Let me take care of you,” Your voice was soft,  laced with tender affection. “Just for tonight.”
With deliberate movements, he allowed you to undress him and guide him into the soothing embrace of the bathtub. The air was thick with tension and want and he needed to be closer – he needed every inch of your bare skin touching his and even then that wouldn’t be close enough.
It’d been years since he’s felt taken care of; delicate were hands running through his hair, humming “A Sunday Kind of Love” against his ear as you caressed the shampoo into his scalp. Miguel closed his eyes and leaned his head back onto your shoulder, and allowed himself the rare opportunity to let his defenses down.
You traced the contours of his back, his shoulders, all the way down his arms to the bruising, purple swells that emerged from his knuckles. He inhaled deeply, aware of the way you were examining him under a close eye. Wondered if you saw through the carefully constructed facade and the pain that rested just below the surface.
(He wanted nothing more than to spare you from the ugly details, countless meals and nights he spent alone after years of ceaselessly pursuing meaning in his life beyond his family, how often he slept nestled between the cold walls of his office and his cluttered laboratory bench, resting his head on invitations to important events that were sent unopened back to him. There was the fact that he hadn't seen his mother or father in almost a decade, how none of his family members even knew that Gabi existed. That Gabi was even named after Gabriel.)
“You don’t have to tell me about it right now,” A beat passed. “But I’d like to know when you’re ready.”
Miguel nodded, the lump in his throat dissolving as you enveloped him in that all-consuming way of yours.
When you stepped out of the tub, draping a towel between the two of you and ushering him back into the bedroom, he thought he could be content forever.
This was a dance that you had played with him many nights before, but every time, he couldn’t resist staring in awe as you bore your body to him, as if recommitting you to memory for the first time.
His eyes fluttered, wonderstruck, and leaned forward first, but you were the one to deepen the kiss, pulling him down to your level and undoing the towel around his waist. You pressed him back for a moment, examining him with a breathless look before you winded your hands around his hair, water droplets be damned.
“Let go for me,” Then you were pushing him down on the bed, descending upon him like a prayer. Shivers ran through his body when he discovered your next actions.
You started out so torturously slow. A kiss on his thighs, followed by your breath fanning his skin. Your mouth was a sharp contrast to the cold air, and your teeth brushed against his skin just so. He was tempted
to plunge himself within you, to do away with this game of back-and-forth, but the way you were playing with him was exquisite.
You licked one strip from the base of his cock to his tip, just to taste, and Miguel felt like he was short-circuiting. But you remained patient, attempting to hide the smile that you hid between his legs. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes back, shuddering as you showered him with praises about how good he tasted, how well he was going to fit in your mouth.
“So good, Miguel. Unwind for me, that’s it.”
His cock was straining in his arousal, unable to do much more than enjoy the feeling of the lazy spins of your tongue around his head, dizzy with the way you complimented him perfectly.
When you took him in your mouth after what felt like eons, hollowing your cheeks to try and take more and more of him, his breathing grew ragged. You liked him like this, at your mercy, and he wanted nothing more than to fall apart underneath you.
He vaguely registered the way your other hand rutted against your core, your praises fizzling into high-pitched mewls that sent low sensations reverberating throughout his cock. “ Fuck—oh my god—such a sweet girl, takin’ care of me.  Dios. ”
Gasping out, he felt the outskirts of his orgasm approaching and his hands went flying, pleading with you. “Fuck me,” he begged, temple pressing against your head as his arms yanked you up, forcing you to straddle him with a low groan. “Let me in, amor, déjame terminar dentro de ti.”
To his pleasant surprise, you were soaked from taking him in your mouth, his eyes fixed on the wet shimmer of your pussy as he slotted himself in within you, cursing as you took him in one, fell swoop. His girl, always so sensitive to his touch, tight and pulsing in anticipation.
“Always taking care of me,” His large hand snaked behind your back, going lower until he could knead the supple skin of your ass in preparation. “Need to take care of my girl too.”
He snapped into action, working himself to the bone inside of you, strokes going faster even as your nails dug into his back in an attempt to ground yourself, delirious with the way he mercilessly pounded into you.
“Miguel, Miguel—-Miguel, please.”
“You don’t know what you do to me,” He murmured against your lips, tasting himself on your tongue as his rough hands came around your back to pull you lower.  “How much you affect me,” He relished in the way your breath hitched, sinking his teeth into the plush of your bottom lip to capture your sounds, but it wasn’t enough. “How often you cross my mind,” He was near delirious and his heart was soaring then, and it was an admission he’d make for you in every possible way. “The things I would do for you.” The things I have done.
“Miguel, I think I’m––” You didn’t get to finish your sentence as he snapped back, and you swore he was fucking you harder with each stroke. His hands ran up and down the sides of your waist, gripping your flesh so hard in a way that you knew there were going to be bruises in the morning.
“You’re gonna let me fuck more out of you, huh? You’re gonna let me give you everything you need?”
All it took was for him to stroke your clit one last time, and you were falling apart like putty in his arms.
His face dropped forward, drinking in the feeling of losing control as your back arched, lost in the way your walls clamped down on him, thrusts growing sloppy while you writhed and clashed your hips against his to make it last.
Miguel saw white and came with your name as a constant chorus on his lips, warmth painting your insides as he pushed rope after rope within you.
A slow, lethargic feeling overcame him, like a breath that he had been waiting to release all day.
In the darkness, Miguel stilled his trembling hand as he found yours, his thumb gently caressing your palm as he felt the rhythm of your breath gradually slowing.  He watched you fall asleep in his arms and held you just a little tighter, a little closer to his chest.
He had lived his life by the principles of science. His reality laid in the tangible realm of facts and figures, where equations and formulas held sway. He believed in precision and unyielding logic, finding solace in their certainty and finality.  
There was no certainty in your future together, didn’t know how long this thing with you would last, but the pessimistic scenarios that began running through his head paled in comparison to what he held in his arms.
He hadn’t felt this hopeful since Gabi was born and he was given the chance to begin anew. Not since he was a child, skating past grocery aisles on the rickety wheels of a shopping cart. What he held in his arms was tangible and real, and it filled him with hope that he hadn’t felt in a long time.
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