❝𝘕𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯?❞
A youthful woman remains in search of a job, to compensate for the boredom she has. However, a niche job ad envelops her eyes -- leading her on the path of...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
a synopsis of acts: time-skip: torture, emotional abuse, gun violence, hallucinations, abuse, crying, throwing up, pregnancy, lack of hope, fatigue + potential more. read with caution + vote!
a/n: three.
With the softness of a thick blanket adorning your supple skin, you so beautifully glance at the swaying waves from your windows. The swaying waves as your limbs lay, the prominent presence of a lingering Toji shifting so hazardously.
Succumbing to the lengthiness of such a nostalgic phenomenon, you fall aware of the sensation of Toji's broad hand. His broad hand cupping the roundness of your stomach, grogginess taunting him whilst he lays beside your gentle stomach.
"Toji, leave the twins alone," Raspy with your loving sentence, you intake the impatient groan that departs from his clinging presence.
"No, since they need to know that I love them," Plastering a kiss upon your ample abdomen, Toji so adorably plasters care within the moment. Everything within his heart festooned around the scenery of his unborn twins.
"They already know how great of a dad you'll be, you idiot," Beaming with satisfaction, your heart curls with assurance. Assurance at him confiding within your pleasing company.
"I'm sure Hikari and Chinatsu are going to be a carbon copy of me," Softly humming a motherly melody, you adapt to the statement he releases. Your heart thunders so patiently, at the level of care he evokes.
"That's not something I want to know pregnant," Smitten, you mature into revoking the concept of concealing Toji and your baby bump.
Yet, you fall known to the vision of your ample stomach scar erring to remain. Such a thing composes a distasteful sensation of dread to occupy you, informing you of an imperfection blooming in such a naively sculpted scenery.
Frowning so pitifully towards the wholeness of your absent stomach star, your erratic heart lays stained. Your heart grows stained with every fault within your star, sewing you within a pattern of realising the falseness of such a pitiful dream.
