#He’s obviously looking for sore spots he can prod

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, omegaverse/hybrid au, size difference, pet-play, predator x prey, collaring, handcuffing

fem reader

Think about being a bleating little bunny hunted down by two big bad wolves…

Your fear tastes so good – layered thickly in the air – so sweet in their mouth it’s almost painful how hungry it makes them – seeped and soaked and stained on the bed where they keep you collared and leashed for their own personal use.

You drive them both wild with your aroma and all your cute little struggles where you try so adorably to shove them away and crawl out of their reach. It’s never any use, and yet you still try despite being so stupidly small beneath them – so tiny it only takes one of their hefty hands to have you completely overpowered.

But they’re as sweet as they can be – as sweet as your smaller body allows them to be when it so obviously isn’t meant to take their thicker fatter meaner cocks in its petite little holes – prepping you on tongues and big fingers until you’re as loose as you get before stuffing you with something that’s always going to be too big for you.

They have to tie your hands to something – where despite them being fruitless in their effort, they can become bothersome to leave free – often attaching them to the loop in your collar, so you keep them to yourself all cutely while they mark you with their fangs – making you into a pretty artwork with coarse fingers rubbing your perky little nipples into sore nubs.

You’re really just too cute; it’s cruel – looking up at them with those adorably big eyes and that button nose wrinkling on each little sniffle when you beg them to let you go. Lop-ears sadly framing your face – so soft in their hands and so sensitive it makes you bite your lip all preciously each time they give them a little nibble.

You sob under their touches – knees shaking – as one of them laps at your clit with a bearded chin tickling your puffy pussy-lips, gnawing some on the swollen flesh while slurping your hole. His thick and eager tongue paints through your slit again and again and again on an unrelenting repeat – similar to the eager tail whipping behind him – swallowing all your juice down – growling ferally at the maddening taste while your thighs sweetly tremble around his jaw.

Your other predator bites on the plump of your ass, leaving spotted rings in his wake. Cupping your buttcheeks – fully fitting in the palms of his mighty paws – he cards his claws into the fat and spreads them wide open for an attack on that pretty tight little ring hidden between them. You always whine so sweetly for him – your cute fluffy cottontail doing a little dance while he circles your rim with his tongue – warning you of what’s to come later in the day when he’s finally had the taunt hole fully stretched and as ready as it gets to take his fat knot.

He moans into you while thinking about it – about your cute bunny butt swallowing his meat and being blown full of his thick creampie. Going livid at the mere thought alone – his cock bobs impatiently against his happy trail while he forces restraint upon himself – knowing how if he tries splitting your poor little butt on his pole now, he’d most likely tear you in two.

Instead, he amuses himself by prodding the pretty hole with the tip of a very special golden carrot – fresh batteries turning your rim numb while he slides ring after thicker ring inside you until you close around the tuft of golden leaves at its end. Tugging on his cock impatiently, he places his head – fluffy pointy ear-down upon your belly – listening to the drums echo inside you as he turns the vibrations up high enough to feel it through your skin. 

Of course, he wants to make sure that his precious little bunny is prepped and ready before subjugating you to a good butt-fuck – being kind enough to satisfy himself with your mouth until then – making you cry and choke around his thickness, swallowing his cock down your tight throat until your little nose burrow in the dark curls around his base – watching the pretty furrow between your brows beg for air as your eyes roll back and turn white with desperation.

He lets you suck his balls as mercy once you’ve choked him down long enough – to the point you’ve lost your pretty voice – gripping one of your lop ears, he holds it tightly by the base – thinking there's nothing cuter than spitting on your chubby bunny-face while you dizzily comfort yourself by nuzzling his sack so sweetly. 

Your pussy is left alone after it’s made swollen by a handful of orgasms, but not before the abuser slaps his handiwork with a grin. He wipes his chin off your slick, then grabs your other free ear – messaging the softness as he pulls your mouth off the other’s sack and onto his cock – fucking the pocket of your cheek while you sob from their rough handlings – fearing they might just tear your poor ears off.

They both stand above you as you kneel for them by their feet, lolling your teary lips against their heavy balls – groaning as you give them all sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as they fight for space in your tiny mouth – telling you to beg for the cum stored inside while you slide you pink little tongue over them until they drip with your drool. Then, making your lip and mouth the spine of their shafts, sliding both fat manhoods between your plump lips until making you take one head at a time, licking the slit clean of slaty precum.

But more than childsplay with their cocks on your cute face, they like propping your other two holes – make you moan and cream on them – entirely obsessed with fucking you full of the two of them – pushing in so deep, they have you screaming and shaking in uncontrollable spasms as you clamp down hard around them.

It feels extra sweet when they fuck you at the same time – feeling the other through the wall separating the holes – timing their thrusts – pushing in until completely sheathed down to the base, bottomed-out with their knot swelling up inside you, pumping you full of hot cum before sloshing out – leaving you panting and twitching.

Both holes fluttering around their absence – they inspect them to see how good they have your little bunny-holes stretched – grinning at the sight of both entrances gaping for them as though they can’t wait to be taken by their big dicks – both chuckling deeply when seeing how much of their cum your tightness pushes out before they fuck it right back inside you again – completely mesmerized by the big belly bulge the two of them are making in your tiny body – taken and riveted by the thought of breeding you despite knowing that it would be impossible for you to carry either of their pups. 

None of it keeps them from emptying the full value of their balls inside you for the umpteenth time – both of them slobbering at your neck while messaging you with big hands on your tits and hips, hissing out carnivorous desires your feeble constitution doesn’t understand before they sink their teeth down hard into the soft flesh of your vulnerable neck – claiming you as both their pretty little prey and silly little mate.

BNHA – EndMight, EndHawks, BakuDeku, KiriBaku, DabiHawks, ShigaDabi

JJK – Toji x Shiu, SatoSugu

HQ – Miya twins

DS – DouAka

HxH – HisoIllu

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere smut #yancore #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jjk smut #bnha smut #yandere bnha #mha smut #my hero smut

[vampirzina]

Hii :) I really liked what you wrote about fujin and reptiles with a pierced reader. Can I request something similar? Bi-han and Tomas with a reader who has pierced nipples. You don't have to do it if it makes you uncomfortable!

tw: gn pronouns, nsfw, mdni (!), established relationship, piercings and the like, afab reader

notes: two of my faves actually so yes i will! i heart them. i apologize if this is lackluster in any way

masterlist : lace divider

Bi Han’s so needy in his manhandling of your clothes at the time that he doesn’t even feel them. He’d been watching you like a hawk. Week after week you’ve been working him up to this moment, and bless intuition, you knew to shed your bra as soon as you escaped behind the wall that led to your room. No sooner were he there after you. You shed your shirt for him as he fumbles with your pants—and he’d have to double take. You dare him with playful eyes to touch, yet he has enough depleting restraint left to wait; you squeal when he practically rips your pants off of you now.

Bi Han’s second favorite place to mark you now is your breasts. Whether it be with his teeth to leave a few bite marks and hickeys, or cum—he makes sure that your pierced nipples pert from his cold touch are not neglected by time he’s finished with you. However, if they’re sore, he’ll comply and leave them alone for now but he recommends that you both do something to fix that problem if you can. He’s willing to be patient if you say there’s nothing to do but wait.

It’s unsaid, but Bi Han likes when you don’t wear your bra around him much more often than you think. It drives him a little crazy to feel them harden when he brushes his fingers over the piercing, and your soft mewl when he applies just the right amount of pressure to make you squirm in his lap. It frustrates him when you work him up far enough.

ᝰ

You giggled, moving his hand that snuck around your back from your breast. “Stop it. Just work.”

Bi Han grunted, nearly slapping the pen out of your hand when you picked it up to hand it to him—tauntingly, you both knew. You have to know what you’re doing, don’t you?

“Oh, my god. I just sat down on my spot and now you want me bent over,” you feigned total innocence, bracing a palm flat on his chest while your arm is hooked around his neck. “I think I’m going to leave you to do your work. There’s a lot to do, right?”

You only so much so leaned outward, and Bi Han is holding onto you for dear life. It makes you call his name in sheer tease—what has gotten into him?

You ask that, but when he shifts you further onto his lap, you feel the product of your teasing prodding at your damp cunt.

Bi Han’s grip goes from your hip to your tit to give it a good squeeze, and to stabilize you as he swiftly shoves his clothed and rock-hard dick impossibly closer to your core. You let out a gasp to his strained grunt.

“Stay and fix this,” he huffed. “An order.”

────

Bi Han warms his hands under your shirt these days.

Guide Tomas’ hands to feel them, and he’s completely hard on the spot. He doesn’t really asks questions about something he found incredibly hot, lest you think he doesn’t like them. After letting him touch, don’t expect him to let go—he spends an extraordinary amount of attention on them, whether it be with his fingers drenched from your slick or mouth. Despite that, it’s not that he doesn’t enjoy leaving hickey there, but he prefers leaving them on your thighs. Touch is already a big thing for Tomas, so god forbid if you tease him by not letting him touch you where he so obviously wants to.

You have to remind Tomas where your eyes are. Even in a completely innocent setting, when he’s not in the right state of mind in the moment and trying to make it through the day so that he could run home with/to you. His face flushes when you say the cliche line to him, and he meekly apologizes. Tomas can’t help himself—he loves to look. To him, they’re beautiful.

Tomas loves when you surprise him with different types of piercing jewelry on your breasts. He knows you don’t ask, but he tells you what he thinks of them (you appreciate it anyway). If you ask him his favorite, ideally it’s any, but it’s mostly the ones with jewels and hearts; to him, he says, brings so much attention to them from any angle.

ᝰ

Mouth completely ruined from eating you out, Tomas drags warm tongue kisses from your worn pussy up to your pierced breasts; all while maintaining eye contact. You whimper.

“These,” his hands come up to cup the underside of your tits. Tomas presses them together as far as they could go—and in a moment of great unserious-ness from him—shoves his faces into them and lets out a low moan. His thumbs press gently the piercing into the flesh cushioning them.

“All I think about coming home to,” Tomas is muffled but you hear him clearly. “All day.”

You giggle. “Well, they’re yours to use if you love them so much.”

Tomas looks up at you from your sternum. He seems surprised at your offer; were they really? His face is red and his steel eyes are mulled over in a deep lustful haze, but he’s staring at you to gage your sincerity, and you can tell.

“I mean it, Tommy,” your hands, although the tips of them ache from gripping the sheets too tight just moments ago, find his. “Except for when they’re sore, though. They ache enough then.”

Tomas lets out a sigh, lifting his face to lie a tender kiss on the both of them. He’s coming down from the high from feeling of you to even properly express his thanks to you, but you know he has nothing but gratitude.

────

Tomas’ favorite angle is underneath you, where he can see the piercing frame your beautiful face.

@𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐀೨

info

#mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat x you #bi han x reader #bi han x you #bi han hcs #tomas vrbada x you #tomas vrbada x reader #tomas vrbada hcs #vampirzina #mk1 x reader

[hanji-is-life]

my bestie sent me this so hello this is my first ever jjk piece 🧍🏽‍♀️if this has been done already, I’m sorry!!! I haven’t read a lotta sukuna/itadori fics as of late so forgive me if this is an overdone trope but my bestie sent it and I just had to write it!!!!

...

Sukuna was such a sneaky little fucker. He never came out whenever you expected it, even going as far as taunting the king of curses when Yuuji was sleep. No matter how much you’d poke and prod, he never gave you the time of day.

Yuuji tried his best to keep you from fucking with him, but even he was starting to get a little confused with Sukuna’s silence. The king was always rambling off about destruction and mayhem and shit in his head most of the time. But whenever you were around, he would become oddly silent.

Yuuji wasn’t really sure how to take the silence. A good thing maybe, since he could have his own thoughts to himself without someone butting their nose in. But also bad because—what the fuck was he planning in there?

Yuuji couldn’t be worried about it though. Not when you were mewling so sweetly into his mouth. Not when you were writhing on the bed, gripping his wrist and the pillow for dear life. Not when your cunt made the sweetest, wettest sounds whenever his fingers thrusted inside of your soaked walls.

“F-Fuck, Yuuji, right there, right there!” You practically screamed, eyes clenched tightly as you throw your head back. He follows with his mouth, trailing wet hot kisses down your jaw and to your throat. He rests in between your legs, taller form hunched slightly to make sure he could taste the skin of your neck.

“Does it feel good?” He murmurs against the bruising flesh. You wanted to quip back with a smart, no, dumbass, I’m just screaming to hear how loud I can get. But the moment you opened your mouth, your breath was caught in your throat.

It was a...different sensation. Yuuji was a little inexperienced when you first got with him, so you had to teach what and where a clit was. He’s gotten better with playing with it, but still hasn’t fully mastered how to hit your sweet spot with his fingers while simultaneously play with your clit.

But the feeling against you isn’t necessarily something that his fingers could do...?

Your head snapped down quickly, chin butting into the top of Yuuji’s head. He whines, slows his fingers down as he rubs at the sore spot with his free hand.

“Oww, what was that for?” He whines, sitting back slightly so he can look at you. He doesn’t understand why you have that dazed and crazed look on your face until he follows where your eyes are glued.

It’s Sukuna. Where Yuuji’s fingers are pressed snug inside of you, does Sukuna’s mouth appear on his palm, plump lips wrapped tight around your clit. He sucks harshly, just as an eye appears above the lonesome mouth. You and Yuuji scream in unison.

“Sukuna—what the f—you can’t do that man,” Yuuji splutters, rips his hand forcefully away from inside of you. You groan at the lost, thighs quivering wildly, mouth opening and closing like a fish as you stare up at Yuuji’s panicked face.

“And why not?” You shiver at the deep timber of his voice. You hadn’t heard it since you started dating Yuuji. And fuck, was his voice hot as hell.

“The slut obviously loves when we double team her. She was so close before—why stop now?” The mouth that popped up on Yuuji’s cheek grins sharply, all pointed canines and full of mischief. You shrink under the gaze of the eye above it, and Yuuji’s own confused one.

“She, she doesn’t,” Yuuji stutters, confused at the prospect of you actually wanting Sukuna’s filthy little mouth on you.

“You don’t want it, do you?” He asks slowly instead, insistent upon not putting words in your mouth. Not when he felt you tighten up when Sukuna licked your clit. Not with the scream that still echoes in his head from Sukuna’s suck.

You glance away guiltily, the shift in your thighs betraying just how wet you had become at the thought of Sukuna putting his mouth back on you. Before you can answer, a mocking laugh rings throughout the room.

“Look at how wet she is! I told you the bitch loved it.” Sukuna bellows, mouth going from Yuuji’s cheek to the palm of his hand again.

“Don’t call her that,” Yuuji frowns, but Sukuna ignores him.

“Now put your fucking fingers back inside of her, brat, before I come out and do it myself.” This time, they both catch your shiver, how your eyes drop, how your legs fall open even wider in invitation.

When Yuuji doesn’t move fast enough for you, you’re reaching forward and seizing his wrist in your hand. You guide his fingers to your sopping wet hole, look up at him with pleading eyes.

“Please?” You whine. “Just this once?” You and Yuuji—and Sukuna—both know that this won’t become just a one time thing. But the dirty shit that Sukuna has been whispering in Yuuji’s ear prompts him into sliding his fingers inside, all the way to the hilt, until a sneaky mouth can wrap comfortably around your puffy clit.

Definitely not a one time thing.

#my hcs #jjk smut #itadori smut #yuuji itadori x reader #itadori x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader #sukuna x itadori x reader #jjk imagines #jjk x reader

[bluecookies02]

Kinktober2020 -ending kink fest

Dabi,Hawks,Shigaraki(separately)-❗️NSFW❗️

warnings: consensual gun play(dabi), wax play(hawks), public sex(shigaraki)

/masterlist/

pic credit:birf on twitter. follow her, fucking follow her you'll thank me

He will put a gun to your lips, make you loll your tongue out and drool over the barrel, his finger jolting and twitching on the trigger all while his face holds a nerve-wracking smile that you can't figure out.

The truth is, you look so beautiful, your knees sore and red, slightly spread apart on the floor while the small vibrator buzzes against your clit.

He can still see the glimmer of trust behind your eyes, your eyelids hooded and pupils blown wide.

"You're so fucking crazy, you know that?" He comments as his shoe slips between your legs, your sweet juice coating the once dry leather.

You nod, reaching your arms to his pants, clawing at the fabric in attempts to finally get him out of his clothes.

The gun slips out of your mouth, the now wet pipe gliding over your tits in small circling motions, stopping briefly at your hard nipples.

It then goes back under your chin, your eyes meeting Dabi's once he kneeled down to your level, his lips hungrily pushing against yours, his tongue going as far as it can reach, a hum leaving his throat once you feverishly grip at his shirt.

His free hand slips past your slick folds, adjusting the small vibrator before filling you up with his digits.

Fuck...You're too beautiful to be left living...it's a thought that often plays in his mind, but he's selfish, wants you to himself for as long as he's alive.

His fingers expertly find your G-spot, his lips leaving yours as he takes his time looking at you, praising you and waiting for you to finally fall apart after undoubtedly agonizing hours of waiting.

"Lose yourself for me, doll."

And you do. Your orgasm is ripping through your body, your chin being held up only by a shaking gun against skin.

You manage to look at him through your almost closed eyes, his jaw tightened and his chest heaving, his whole arm trembling as you ride out your high.

He places the gun on the floor carefully before pouncing on you, trapping you beneath his arms and the floor, rubbing his clothed length against your damp hole, groaning at the way it seeps through the layers.

"I'm gonna make you wish I pulled that trigger" You smile up at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer, your mouth ghosting over his ear.

"Please."

pic credit:kawaiitentacles on twitter!

You're shivering under the heat, droplets of hot wax slowly cooling off on your skin, his wings spread open and waiting as the last droplets of melted wax fall over your chest.

Your body convulses at the new wave of pleasurable pain, your chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath.

He chose red...he always does, there's something that makes the setting ever so intimate, like you're slowly becoming his with every pearly stain on your chest.

Your pussy is smeared with drying wax, his fingers made sure your clit was completely covered in it, smearing the now barely warm liquid from your chest down to you puffy nub.

Your tits were a piece of artwork that he was sickeningly proud of, trails of red running down between them and to your belly button, some patterns obviously made by his fingers guiding the wax.

He settles the candle on the bedside table carefully, placing it back on the ceramic plate.

His cock is straining against his boxers, the perfect petal looking trail leading to your hole looks sinfully erotic, red beads all centering to your tortured clit.

You whine under his gaze, bending your legs to your knee, inviting him to slip inbetween. He does, his boxers now long gone as his cock head ghosts between your folds.

He watches the wax crack apart almost unnoticeably, each time he spreads the lips apart with his length.

He finally prods inside your heat, groaning when your legs hook behind his back.

Sometimes you wonder why he refuses to tie you down during these, but if you were to know that it's because he loves to see you jolt and shake, you would clearly tease him for being so sadistic.

Instead his arms pin yours on both sides of your head, plowing deeper in you when his chest presses against yours. It's almost too deep, fitting snuggly against your cervix and still pushing the tight walls wider.

His hips begin to move, his lips latching on your neck as he rocks his body into yours. It's passionate somehow... he can feel the wax brushing against his chest, each roll of his hips sending him even deeper in the crook of your neck.

His low rumbles and moans are so close to your ear, sending your mind into a frenzy. You're so close, so so close, yet you need just a bit more, wriggling your hips you try to find the perfect angle, getting frustrated when it takes you so long with no success.

You fight his hands while he's lost in chasing his own high, your arm freed from his grip with little struggle, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him to look at you.

The angry look on your face made him smirk, his next thrust perfectly hitting that soft patch inside.

"There you go my greedy little bird..." he whispers, moving the hairs away from your cheeks as he cups it into his palm before digging the pads of his fingers into your jaw.

His thrusts sped up, abusing the spot inside you, the clacking sound of your wet pussy filling the room. He was so close, the veins of his cock throbbing and pulsating, the fingers on your jaw tightening.

The build up became too much, headboard banging into the wall, the knot in your belly threatening to snap loose any second. Finally you felt your ears buzzing, hot waves crashing under the surface of your skin, your muscles giving out as you rode the high.

In a blink you were suddenly empty, hot ropes of cum splashing on your chest in continuous spurts, your boyfriend's groans and ruffling of feathers filling your ears.

There's a strained growl that leaves his throat when he lays next to you, his wings falling onto your chest, helping your body to stay warm as you begin to cool down.

He loves you. He can't stop saying it while he holds you to his chest, delaying the clean up just so he can say it as many times as possible.

You'll murder him if he makes you fall asleep like this, so he wills himself into getting up, not exactly agreeing to move away from you. He is picking you up and leading you to the bathroom, sending his feathers to prepare everything so he doesn't have to let go. He won't mind that you're practically asleep in his embrace...leave everything to him, he's got you.

You should've known really....

The famous wanted villain doesn't just ”feel like cinema date”.

You had your hopes up, imaginably high...Dressing up all cute and pretty. Spending hours to get ready and be perfect for your first public date.

You knew the risks, but the thought of enjoying a normal afternoon like a normal couple blinded your eyes.

None of that stopped you from spreading your legs even further apart in your seat, the lace of your panties tugged to the side as long slender fingers rubbed between your fold, smearing your arousal over your pulsing clit.

You were holding your skirt up to your tummy, one of your fists securely gripping your panties as you pushed your hips against his hand.

His intention was to get you worked up, pull you to the bathroom and have his way with you, yet he found himself lost in you muffled moans, your plump lips turning red and bruised as you dug your teeth in them.

It shouldn't matter, you were at the far end of the movie room, a few empty rows separating you and the group of guys that also came to see the film.

His other hand pulled at your chin, separating your lips and sending you a glare.

He didn't want you quiet. He wanted those bastards to turn around, be angered by the fact that a freak like him is having such a messy little slut on his sleeve.

Wetness seeped into the material of the red chairs, making the cloth a few shades darker. Your arms were now wrapped around one of his, hugging it to your chest as low whimpers left your throat.

You were squirming in your seat, making the screws screech with every movement of your hips. The sounds of your slick pussy seemingly at least 10 times louder in your ears.

His digits were now steadily pumping in and out of your warm cavern, never faltering when one of the men fake coughed, adjusting in his seat.

The movie wasn't even halfway through when you felt your high approaching.

The palm of his hand bumped into your clit with each thrust, your concerns pushed to the back of your mind the more his pace picked up.

You were now more than sure that the whole room knew, your slick cunt producing sinful sounds that were impossible to match anything else.

Tomura could feel your nails digging into the muscles of his arm, the wrinkled material of his shirt almost giving out and ripping under your clawing.

He's grinning from ear to ear, yet you can't seem to know why, his efforts doubling as he stares to the side.

You don't have the strength to move or to question his motives when you feel the electric pleasure in your stomach, the muscles there convulsing and flexing as you reach your high.

It comes not as pleasurable as it's embarrassing, the guilt eating at you as soon as you've reached your peak. Coming down from it proved even harder, Tomura’s long still fingers waiting for you to calm yourself before slipping out, cleaning them up on your skirt.

He's pulling you from your seat seconds later, rushing you out the room and out to the hallways.

”What the hell Tomura?” You try to question as you run behind him.

There's that grin again, his eyes squinting and his teeth showing only a bit.

”Cameras, they had cameras” you weren't supposed to be shocked, it's normal and pretty common, you were supposed to be aware of that.

What pisses you off is that grin that still hasn't left his face, making your brows furrow and cheeks puff up.

The nerve.

------------------------------------------------------------

Leave feedback, I’m an attention whore. Please and Thank you🥺

commisions:open( 1 slot)

requests:closed

#hawks x reader #hawks x reader lemon #hawksxreader #dabi x reader lemon #dabi x reader #dabi lemon #hawks lemon #dabi #hawks #shigaraki x reader lemon #shigaraki tenko x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki lemon #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #villan x reader #tomura x reader #keigo takami x reader lemon #keigo x reader #keigo takami x reader #hawks smut #dabi smut #shigaraki #kinktober 2020 #kinktober #keigo takami

[dinthehottotty]

A Thing About Silver (Part 2)

Summary: You face Din after sleeping with Cobb, partially out of spite and fight with Mando. 

Warnings: Angst, smut, gratitious smut. So much. More creampies. Unprotected sex. This is fanfiction. USE PROTECTION. Slight Dom!Din

A/N: I enjoyed writing this wayyyy too much. Good luck. Also I rushed a little bit towards the end cause I’m tired.

Part 1

Mando was moved on to cleaning his blaster now, still waiting. It made you sick.

Ducking your head, you shuffle through the sand and don't bother to look at him as you approach the little dome. He doesn't say anything as you climb the steps he sits on and wordlessly move toward the building.

Sleep called for you.

Leather snatches your wrist, not delicate at all. "Look at me," he manages. It's got no bite. No edge. It's soft and coaxing. Too sweet for your eager ears because now tears are welling in your eyes again at the shame. Immediately you know the truth of things. There is no illusion that you've truly and sorely fucked up. The worry in his voice twists you apart. Would you ever be able to repair the shot your hurt pride took?

Instead you squeeze your eyes shut and tilt your head back, desperately hoping that he won't insist. But it's Din. "Please, look at me," he begs. The attempt to steel yourself and stand your ground crumbles like the sand in your boots.

"I can't," you manage, voice breaking harshly. "Let me go." You pull your hand away and trudge into the little room he'd rented. The child was long since passed out in his floating crib. There was a tiny kitchenette in the corner, one that had been cleaned but a bowl still sat at the table. Then there was a bed and a sofa. Toward the back sat a door, you assume to the 'fresher.

You can hear Din following behind you, heavy boots making the floors creak. "You should eat something," he tries, voice turning tense but he's still just as soft as before. Instead of listening, you move toward the sofa and sink down on it, the fresh tears hot on your cheeks.

There is a split second between when he moves around and sees the tears, and him reaching for you. "Don't," you rasp.

"Did he hurt you?" He snarls, despite his gentleness of his hands flutter over you.

"No," you snap back at him. Finally glaring deep into the visor of his helm. It lasts only a moment. "No, Din, he didn't do anything wrong." You sniffle and fixate on a spot on the wall, then stop fighting the urge and curl in on yourself. How could you sit here and feel sorry for yourself when you'd ruined everything so easily. All for a quick fuck. (Well, not necessarily quick.) You'd pushed and prodded, always hoping for a different reaction but deep down, you'd always known the truth. Din didn't love you in that way.

He paces across the floor in front of you, very quiet, very anxious. Despite feeling the increasing anxiety from it, you decide to push it down. Your own frustration twisting and tightening like a coil. The air was heavy.

That is until your eyes fall on the floating cradle in the corner. Your heartaches, you weren't just losing Din. The kid would go with him.

You had two options. This was an ugly sore that neither of you could ignore. Should you try to resolve it now? Best case, you ride out this wave of shame and stick with Din and the child. They were home to you, but you'd be subjected to the truth that Din would never love you in this way. Trust was probably broken and until you both had mended from the hurt of the situation, the ship couldn't sail smoothly. You'd have to learn to not love Din in that manner, if that was possible. You fear that it would make you bitter. How long would you be staying with Din? Until the kid was gone? Would he be okay after he'd delivered him? Should you both spend the next few nights thinking and settling on your stupidity or would that just encourage further brewing? You didn't know if you could trust yourself to stay level headed or not burst into wails if Din so much as raised his voice.

But you needed it. You need him to scream at you about your recklessness. You needed to be shamed because how could you possibly take Din being this sweet and worried about you. Bile worked it's way up from your stomach, fighting with burning fingertips.

His pacing froze, seeming to watch you with distress, but you couldn't tear your blurred eyes from the levitating bassinette.

"Are you going to leave me?" He asks, his voice much firmer than before.

"I..." You start but slowly trailed off. There were too many words in your head. It was muddled and confused. In the very center of it was the enormous weight of shame and guilt. The utter dread cored from them but gravitating all of the negativity that surrounds your situation. It was tossing you in the oceans of panic, you were drowning. Din's anxiety was driving him to go rigid.

The idea of going to sleep was teasing you. Your eyelids were heavy. What time was it even? It was an empty thought. You wouldn't sleep. Just chasing your tail endlessly.

Din is moving between you and the kid and you realize the possessive tone his voice had carried. The real question was he wanted to ask was 'are you going to try to steal my child?' and he had obviously taken that as a threat. How this must look, you gazing longingly at the sleeping babe in his cradle and not giving the man a true answer.

Your eyes move up the curves of beskar that blocked your view of the little one. More hurt is rising. He wasn't worried you'd leave. He was worried you'd take the wrinkly green baby. Somehow you felt the need to blame the metal that separated him from you. You didn't normally curse the only think that had kept him alive this long, but it seemed to mock you like in Cobb's hut. It spurs a dangerous thought.

If Din wanted to fight, you'd fight.

"Wouldn't you like that? Like me to just walk away?" You hiss, rising off the couch to stare at him. Din's helmet doesn't waver a bit as you close in enough to see the puffiness of your eyes.

"Do you want to walk away?" He snaps back.

"Wouldn't that be easier!" You give a sarcastic laugh. "One of your problems could just walk away! Just say it! Just say you want me to leave you alone!" You shove at his chest weakly.

"Stop," he orders sharply. "You don't know what your talking about."

"Really!? Are you kriffing kidding, Din?"

"You need to eat and go to bed."

"Do you somehow have this sick notion that I'm your kid, too? Because I'm not! I am not a child! I am a hurt, angry, and frustrated adult woman!"

Din places his hands on his hips and towers over you. "Stop putting words in my mouth. Where are you even getting these ideas?"

"You treat me like a kid! I'm trying to show you I'm not one!"

"Well, you're acting worse than one right now!" He snarls through his modulator. You grit your teeth at his response. That one hurt. You knew it was true, the spotchka from tonight had left early tonight. It hadn't been enough to truly get you drunk.

"I have no problem listening to you when you give me a damn reason! Just fucking explain things!"

"I don't want to argue with you." He resolves.

"THERE IT IS!" You nearly screech. "That! You barely give me any scraps! You are so fucking hard to read sometimes and I fucking hate it! All I wanted was you to tell me 'no' tonight but instead you just stared! YOU JUST WATCHED ME WALK AWAY!" Din's visor drops at that. It's not trained on you, but off to the side, down towards the floor. "I COULDN'T EVEN ENJOY IT BECAUSE YOU WERE FUCKING THERE THE WHOLE TIME LIKE SOME DEVIL!" You break, sobbing.

His head twists up. "What?"

"You just stare and mock and-"

"I have never mocked you," he butts quieter than before.

"Why didn't you say 'no'?" You snap, eyes blazing, needing an answer.

He only gives you silence. You squeeze your lips into a hard line in the deafening scream of it. Shaking your head, you twist away. "Fucking great," you mutter to yourself.

A hand reaches tentatively for you, it brushes over the underside of your wrist and onto your palm. "What do you mean I was there?" He asks softly.

"You don't get to do that," you warn him, drawing your hand away again. Normally, you would blissfully sunk into his rare touch but you couldn't shake off the fire that was filling you. Guilt was nagging the back of your mind, knowing you were punishing good behavior. It was fruitless. He didn't want to touch you like that. "You don't get to answers from me while avoiding your own. That's not fair to me!"

Din sighs, turning his head to the side. "I'm... I'm not always good... with words." That one hurts more than you expect to. This man was bound to carve you up and spit you out.

You stop, turning your head towards him. You can see him shift his weight, stepping closer. He's standing right behind you. For the millionth time, you wished that fucking armor wasn't blocking his expressions from you.

"I... don't, just so you know."

"Don't what?"

"Want you to leave."

"Why don't I believe that?" You prod, still feeling antagonistic. Din steps closer, he grasps your arm and turns you. He twists you about so suddenly and forcefully that you're taken by surprise. A gasp leaves you when he suddenly grasps your face.

The air stills as you vibrate with the sudden aggression he's showing. His boots hit hard and heavy. Each step is slow and steady, his helmet only inches from your face that he's tilting up in the borderline painful grip he's got on your face. He's forcing you to walk backwards, supporting your form with the other hand that's gripping your arm. Air is suddenly harder to acquire. The air twisting tightly. "Bruise your cervix?" He prompts lowly. It drags across his tongue, extra ragged. "Use you. Make you feel something." It's not possible for your heart to beat out of your chest but when he's done walking you backwards, you feel like it will.

The air has changed, charged with the electricity of anticipation rather than shame and rage.

"Did Cobb do that?" He asks, nearly whispering. It's not an accusation. You glance towards the bassinette where the kid still sleeps, amazingly.

"I used him," you admit, shame filling you, he doesn't give you the opportunity to dwell on it too long because he's shoving you backwards onto something soft. The bed.

Cue the swell of disbelief. Mando leans down and immediately starts working at your pants, tugging them open effectively. He gathers the edges in his hands just as you remember what is currently leaking from between your thighs. You gasp out, "Din, wait!" much softer than you intend. Your voice failing you in the way you need it to.

Too late. He tugs the fabric down your legs effectively. Once glance tells you enough, he's staring at the mess that is was made between your thighs. "You let him cum in you?" His helm tilts up to your face that you cover with your hands. Your brain is too busy trying to decide if he's awed or offended by the newly reveled information. You try to press your thighs together.

"I'm sorry," you plead between the palms on your face.

Din hooks his hands roughly under your knees and jerks. You're dragged over the bed until your bare ass is seated at the end of the bed and then he pushes your knees up and apart and just... just stares. It's enough of a sight to have you peaking from behind your hands. "Are you sore?"

Fuck, you were supposed to be fighting not... not... well, what even was this? Some kind of slut-shaming? Was it bad that you were this turned on by it. The morbid curiosity was battling the mortification at being examined by the Mandalorian bounty hunter in this manner. His fingers were squeezing and massaging where they rested under your knees, trying to coax an answer from you. "Ah... a little, I suppose."

"Doesn't sound bruised to me."

You gulp.

"Don't move." How could you? You were petrified and incredibly, embarrassingly aroused. He lifts his hands from your legs, leaving you hanging on whatever he decided to torture you with.

The last thing you expect is for those gloves to make their way to his belt and unbuckle it. "I said, 'don't move'," he repeats, pausing in his movements. It's only when he says that you notice you've propped yourself up to get a better view of him. Suddenly bashful, you sink back down to your back. "Open them further," he rumbles lowly. None of his words seem to have any aggression despite his aggressive actions. His town maybe low and he might be ordering you around but there is no real bark to him. It's raspy in a way that you've never heard from him. Drawn out slow in a way that indicates he's in no rush. The balance has you spinning.

But fuck, pulling his pants open and you nearly wheeze when a he palms your forehead, pushing it back into the bed while he reaches within the confides of his clothes. Your left with only a view of the ceiling and his wrist. His bronzed skin peaks out just a hair. "You don't get to look."

"Oh, shit," you breathe, squeezing your eyes shut. What sort of wet dream were you stuck in? There was no way-

Something runs across your most sensitive area, something too thick to be a finger. You gasp and arch as it hits your oversensitive clit right off the bat. A little 'ah' leaves you for only a moment. "It's your eyes," he says and you think you've missed something when he wheezes it out. Then he lines up and slowly, maker, so slowly and completely unhindered, he's breaching you with the cock you've been dreaming of for months. You give a torn moan and arch up, grasping at the sheets. Still it's quiet because of all the things tonight, this is the last thing you want the kid seeing. "Ca-can't speak when... when you look at me." Heat blooms in your chest. He's still pushing deeper. He sinks against your cervix like no one's done before and pushes against it. When his pelvis meets yours, it's stretching you almost painfully. Your cervix is straining at the intrusion. It's lewd how wet it sounds already.

"Din," you sigh.

He gives a shaky groan when you squeeze around him. "Sh-should've told you 'no'," he admits, drawing back. And then he drives back in with force enough to make you cry out, and open further for him. "Ruin you," he murmurs with such a slur you wonder if he's drunk on it. And then his hips start to canter deep and hard. Not fast. Just deep and hard, stretching you beyond what you think you can. You're left mewling and trembling beneath him. "Should go... shove my...," he curses and his hand shifts from your forehead to your throat. "Shove my blaster, ah, kriff, down Vanth's throat."

Wait, he was jealous? Fuck, did that make you clamp down on him.

"Shit, like that?" He rasps out, still like he's whispering to you. "Want you," he promises, lower down so his chest is pinning you to the bed. He's so heavy, but you don't feel like you're breathing anyway. "All the time."

Please, don't let this be another delusion. Please.

"Did-did you just say... say that you saw me... to piss me off?" He urges.

"No," your arms tangle around him, grasping for purchase on his back. "No, I want you so- Kriff! Feels so good - want you so bad, s-saw you the whole time." He shudders in your hold, rolling the cool helmet against your neck as he continued his unhurried pace. He was going to kill you at this rate. "Please," you beg, "Please, Din. F-faster. Need it."

"No, I'm using you," he responds. A hand grips your hip and it's like he doesn't know whether he wants to push you further into the bed or pull you closer.

A familiar feeling rises in you, another orgasm creeping closer. The thought is pushed from your mind as the other hand covers your eyes. The one gripping your hip disappears and then something drops onto the bed. "Don't... don't look." Unmodulated and raw. Din is kissing you then. His mouth wet and hot and welcoming in this inferno of a hut.

He tastes so good and his tongue slips against yours eagerly. You would tear your eyes out if it meant you could feel his soft stubble against your mouth like this. You moan into his mouth and he eats it up with a particularly hard thrust. "Stay," he groans. "Be mine, be mine, be mine, bemine, beminebeminebemine...." he mantras like he can't breathe. His hips are finally moving faster.

"Yours," you promise, "Yours, yours, yours." You've lost your mind, unable to even conjure why you were mad at him in the first place because this sweet haze was too thick to look through and it takes you a moment to realize it’s a slow orgasm releasing. It’s not overwhelming, it’s just hot and sticky. It has you stretching across the sheets. His teeth sink into your neck as you shake below him. He settles down when you begin your own mantra. Instead, he grinds deeply into you. You're only vaguely aware of the way you both grasp and tug each other closer.

It's not long after before he spills himself into you with a string of expletives. "I'm sorry," he whispers against your neck. It's so nice to feel his breath for once.

"Me too." And nothing else seemed to be needed for it. It's not long before he's rocking his hips and spill his own seed out around himself.

You kind of like his beskar in this instance. The room feels too hot and it's cool against you both. Yeah, you could get used to this. Maybe tomorrow you'll remember what you're supposed to be fighting about.

Taglist: 

@lxdyred​, and I promised to tag you in this, Ava, have some iffy smut. @buttercup--bee​

#din djarin x reader #din dijarin fanfiction #din djarin #din x you #din x reader #cobb vanth #cobb vanth x reader #smut #angst

[hope-to-hell]

This is a long one, so I’ll split it up into three parts. The Walker possession fic that nobody asked for but is happening anyway.

A Possession, part one: Convergence. August Walker x Henry Cavill. Warnings for the entire fic: possession, dubcon (possession-related; our hero never asked for this), mentions of past torture (prior to story events), some degradation, praise kink. Roughly 6k words altogether. Section heading titles largely pulled from whatever music I was listening to at the time. Part two is here, part three is here

Your body is a temple

—-

He doesn’t die, not quite. He finds something better.

It’s like this. You tried sitting on your hand once til it was numb, so that when you closed your hand around yourself it would seem like it belonged to someone else.

A face at the glass. The sensation of falling, of oil under your skin. Sharp pinpricks in every pore, a headache that threatened to split you in two. Stillness, for a moment. Then

Wake up.

Nobody there.

Wake up.

You push up on your elbows, look around. Everything looks the same as always. You’re alone, as always. Even Kal is asleep in the other room, and anyway if he’s started talking then you’ve got more problems than you thought.

Get up. Isn’t there a mirror?

There is, on the wall above the dresser. You rake your hands through your hair, making your bedhead even more pronounced. It feels good, so you do it again, tugging a little on your curls. And again, scraping one hand down through your stubble, over your jaw and down your neck. Press just a little.

We look good.

What?

Pay attention. I know you won’t want to miss this.

It’s like this. Your hand is your hand is not your hand. The calluses are the same, the thick fingers are the same, but there’s static fuzzing the signal somewhere between brain and hand. You surprise yourself with the way you scrape your fingers down your chest, with the way you dig those fingers into the skin of your belly, nails raising red welts.

Hm, you really like that, don’t you? Look at you.

And yeah, it’s a little surprising, watching the blood pulse into your cock like that, watching it twitch and jump, but it is morning and you were dreaming—

Dreaming about what? Tell me. Give me your secrets. Was it something like

Your hand closes around your cock, stroking dry once, twice, before pulling away and you whine, you whine and want to touch again, it’s like your hand is your hand is not your hand and you grip the edge of the dresser, breathing just a little harder than you should.

like this?

And you open your mouth, shove the first two fingers of your right hand inside. Suck. Get them wet for me. What? You’re not sure where this is coming from but oh there’s a line of fire running down from your fingers to your cock and it’s so so so

Good. That’s a good boy.

Oh fuck. Your left hand slips off the edge of the dresser. You catch yourself on your forearm and that’s going to be a bruise for sure. And now, bent over like this, it’s just so easy to reach back behind yourself with your right hand, feel your fingers stroking cool and wet down the cleft of your ass. Feel the muscle of your hole twitch, just a little. But it’s not—

Not gonna work. Where do you keep the lube? Fucking tell me we have lube.

You do, and it’s right here, regular fucking boy scout aren’t you; you squeeze it sloppy onto your fingers and kick your legs farther apart, getting into position like you’re presenting your ass for, for what?

For me. Now, get your fingers inside yourself. You know how I like it.

Yeah, just a little too fast, a little too hard. You breach your entrance with one fingertip and it’s like fire; your head jerks up like someone’s grabbed you by the hair and there you are in the mirror, eyes just a little too bright, eyes on me, that’s good, oh you good boy. Look at you.

One finger becomes two becomes three, slopping more lube onto your hand like it’s going out of style, and the stretch, the burn of it has you gasping voiceless, breath fogging the mirror as you try to lean forward and reach back at once, as your strange tv-static fingers search for the spot that makes your vision white out.

There. Just like that. Oh you’re so greedy, aren’t you. You’d take my whole fist if I wanted, you’d take it and you’d like it.

Fuck, yes, god you can’t breathe, can’t think, because you’re hitting that spot with every press of your hand now, you could swear you feel fingers gripping at your hair, raking down your chest, closing around you and it’s impossible, impossible, it’s

Me. Come for me, now, that’s it. Don’t look away.

And oh, fuck, that’s all it takes until you’re coming hard, so hard it drives you to your knees, right hand wrenching free and you think maybe you’re dying. Is this what dying feels like?

Obviously not. Now get up. Get dressed. We have such a busy day ahead.

—-

Blinking lights and revelations

—-

He makes you lick your own semen off the dresser. Well, he doesn’t make you exactly; you have the sense that he’s more a passenger than anything, but fuck if it doesn’t get you going anyway. He says clean up after yourself in that weird way that’s like talking but not, like he’s right inside your brain (am I not? What do you think is happening here, boy?) And that weird static feel is ghosting down your spine, nerves firing in a fingertip pattern. So you lick at the wood and fist your cock which is somehow, impossibly, hard again already. Until

No.

“No?”

Drop it. I will tell you when you can touch yourself.

There’s that static again, bursting down your spine to your arm your hand your fingers. Your hand drops open and you breathe hard, pained, every nerve firing at once.

Maybe not just a passenger after all. There’s a rich warm sensation, curling under the skin behind your ear. Try again, pet. See where it gets you.

“Who even are you? Why is this happening, I don’t understand.”

You don’t have to understand. You just have to deal with it.

“But who—“

You don’t know? Even though we fit so well? I think maybe you do know, and you’re scared.

He’s not wrong.

Of course I’m not.

You dress, let Kal out and back in. He looks at you skeptically before disappearing to wherever he goes when he’s not lounging at your feet. You get out egg whites and chicken breast for breakfast which somehow becomes bacon and eggs and those weird American biscuits that are like scones except not. You certainly don’t know how to make them, and yet there they are being formed under your hands. You watch a little, feeling your mind disconnect from your body a bit. Static again.

Your body is a tool. You have to take care of it. And if you don’t, then I will. Now drink.

The water is halfway to your lips before you realize you can’t remember pouring it. The glass drops from your suddenly nerveless fingers.

Well, clean it up. And get another glass. Christ, we’re thirsty. What have you been doing to yourself?

You eat your ridiculous breakfast and drink your water, and you hate it but he’s right. You do feel better. You could almost forget what has turned out to be the weirdest morning of your life so far.

You flex your fingers, roll the stiffness out of your spine and

Oh, fuck. That feels good. Do it again.

What? You go through the motions in reverse, stretching your spine til it pops, shaking out your fingers, flexing them against the opposite palm until you feel yeah the coil of pleasure in your gut. And oh that drops a thought like ice into your veins. A little detail you thought up during one of those never-ending script rewrites, something you’d never shared and had in fact put out of your mind because it was so ridiculous. His hands hurt. They always hurt.

Walker.

This is ridiculous. It’s completely insane, completely impossible, and yet

And yet here we are. Funny, so I exist here too?

“You’re just a character. A figment. You aren’t real.”

Not real, huh? I saw how hard you came with our fingers in your ass.

And oh how your cheeks burn at that. You can still feel echoes of that stretch, that soreness that lingers.

“But if you’re here, then—”

uh-uh. You start to feel that static creeping down your spine—again?—come on, there’s a good boy.

“Honestly? I don’t think I can.”

You can. You think I don’t feel it? That ache, that burn, that little bit too much? Think I can’t feel what makes you weak?

“You’re deflecting.”

And it’s working.

Fuck, he’s right. You hate that he seems to know you as much as you know him. You’re frantically scrabbling through your memories, trying to pull up your sense of Walker-the-character but it’s been two years. Still, you reach bits and pieces, his confidence, his almost aggressive masculinity, his betrayal.

His—

Bright, blinking lights. Shouting. Begging. Asking why—

A burst of static drops you to your knees. It hurts him. This little bit of backstory you’d pulled out of your ass to try and keep Walker consistent in your mind when the script changed every damn day. It hurts him and you take it back, you take it back.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t, I didn’t know.”

—-

“I got a hunger and I can’t seem to get full”

—Bright Eyes

—-

You prod at him like a bruise, a wound, a scab you pull off before it’s healed so you can see, just for a moment, the raw wet flesh before blood comes rushing in, feel the flare of pain as the last of the scab lifts away.

Knock it off.

“Come on. Please. I didn’t know, how could I? I didn’t even think you were real. If I’d known, I wouldn’t— Shit. This isn’t coming out right. Look, if something like that happened to me I wouldn’t want someone digging it up either.”

Something like that.

Something like that? Something like

Static bursting in your head again, loud and overwhelming, the signal lost and all you can do is writhe, all you can do is crawl as it takes you under. Because

The lights are bright, so bright, and the blood roars in your ears as they tie your wrists down tight, as they pull off your nails one by one. As they break your hands lovingly, bone by bone by bone. As they leave you to lie on the floor, gasping through tears and snot, clutching your hands to your chest.

And that was an easy day.

Jesus. The static fades, receding back up into your spine as you lie there gasping, trying to push down the memory because that’s what it was, wasn’t it. Not backstory, not theory, and oh your hands ache with it. So you rub them, thumbs pressing between bones, until the feeling recedes, until you feel a little spreading warmth work its way up your arms.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Don’t.

“I—“

Not happening. Now you know and that’s the end of it. Worry about it on your own time. With anyone else, you’d bring them something to drink, sit close enough that they could lean into you if they wanted. Give them space while offering up your own. Even knowing what kind of man he is, what he’s done, he’s still hurting and you always were taught to help those in need. But here you are more intimately connected than you’ve ever been with anyone before, with Walker so deep inside you, and there’s nothing you can do for him.

Phrasing, boy. Amusement, warm at the back of your neck. Besides, if I was inside you, I doubt you’d have the space to think about it. You feel that static again, radiating out from your spine. It curls around your hips, wraps around your inner thighs. It’s gentle, effervescent. And god help you, but you want more of it.

“Deflecting again?”

Obviously. Now shut up and let me take care of us. It’s nearly soporific, the way he curls around your mind. You can feel him picking at the seams of your worries, brushing them away and leaving an emptiness behind. Let me do this, I’ll make it good.

You’ve thought about it, haven’t you. Thought about the way Walker would fuck. You always do, when you’re feeling out a new character. After all, it’s the closest you can get to another person, the most honest and intimate you can possibly be with someone.

Almost, anyway.

Charles Brandon? Up for nearly anything, anywhere, with anyone. Likes to surprise his partners with a silk bow around his cock. Has a scar in his left armpit from a knifeplay experiment that nearly went very wrong.

Clark Kent? Gives and gives and gives. Always holds himself back, likes it out in the cornfields where he can smell the warm earth. His first orgasm blew out every window in a three-mile radius.

Napoleon Solo? Oh, you don’t really like to think about that one. He’s tried just about everything and enjoyed almost none of it. Would really like to be tied down and petted until he falls asleep, but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

And August Walker?

Come on. Tell me how I like it.

“You, oh Christ this is embarrassing.”

Mmm, is it? I can feel it, you know. You can’t hide from me, not really. Now be a good boy and tell me. I want to hear it from you.

“You—oh hell. You like to leave marks, alright? Cuts, bruises, it doesn’t matter. You just want them to look at themselves after and be reminded of you. You always make it good for them, it’s a point of pride I guess. But you never let go, so you’re never really satisfied.”

Clever. Go on. How do I touch them? I want you to show me.

—-

“And who is to say what flesh should do, and who is to have it for that use?”

—Built to Spill

—-

It’s like this. Your hand is your hand is our hand. Show me.

“I— I don’t even know where to start.”

Same as anything. You start at the beginning. Here, I’ll even make it easy for you.

There’s that creeping, bubbly feeling again but this time it’s crawling up the side of your neck. You follow it with your fingers and yes, good, definitely the right choice. Press your fingers to your lips, try again, move your hand to your hair and tug. There you go. Show me your throat. You can picture him, can’t you, drawing your head back with a grip just the wrong side of too hard. Can feel him nosing at the point of your jaw, biting over your Adam’s apple.

“How in the fuck?”

Your nerves are my nerves. Keep touching. Mmm, yeah, like that. That’s your carotid artery, can you feel the blood pumping? Not too much now, follow the blood down.

And yeah, yeah you can feel your artery pulsing as you press into it with your index finger, hold it long enough to feel that thrumming in your skull, but

Not today.

Fuck but it’s good, it’s so good, hold it long enough and you could drop to the carpet, starve your brain of blood a little and you could

Don’t.

That static again, sharper this time. Driving your hand down, unbuttoning your shirt with one clumsy hand. It’s like you’ve never undressed yourself before. And it hurts, somehow, little prickles of pain at your fingertips with every button. But that creeping static is curling under your shirt as you work, running blunt little tendrils down your chest and circling your nipples until they pebble hard, until your hips make the tiniest movement, seeking any kind of friction you can get, until you open your pants and get yourself out in the open air. Until

“What the fuck?”

You can feel a hand on your cock, sure and strong, but it can’t be yours because by this point you’ve got one hand playing with your tits and the other wrenching your head back by the hair. And you try to speak but the angle of your throat crushes the words, rasps them out weak and strangled.

“Oh, that’s good.” Your voice is doubled, echoing on itself, flat American accent chasing your own. His words are hot in your throat and you can’t tell if it’s actually good or not; it’s like being in a hall of mirrors and not knowing which way is out and which way will break your nose against the glass. He’s like fire in your throat, under your skin, everywhere.

Fuck, you’ve got that tightening coil in your gut and this might be it, might be the first time you’ve ever come untouched

Untouched? Really? I’m insulted.

And then you feel it. That hot white spark inside, the one you’ve only sometimes managed to hit with fingers and a careful angle, the spark that makes your balls draw up tight and your cock pulse even as something just barely holds you back from the edge. Whatever it is, it’s

“Christ. I— what is that? How are you—?” You’re wound tight, so tight. All it would take is the smallest push; you’re so hard you’re sweating and your nails are tearing at your chest, at your scalp, everywhere except where you most need your hands to be. And when you feel the first tears start to prick at your eyes, you hear him.

Hey. He sounds— stretched, somehow. You ever come so hard you see God? And with a flare of fire deep inside, you do. You come harder than you ever have in your life, and it’s the last thing you know for a long, long while.

#henry cavill #august walker #my fic #mission impossible #mission impossible fallout #august walker fic #august walker smut #henry cavill fic #henry cavill smut #august walker x Henry cavill #august walker x Henry cavill smut #mission: impossible fallout fic #mission: impossible fic #mission: impossible smut

[sinkix]

Haikyuu!!│Boys going grocery shopping w/ you! HC’s│Ft. Bokuto, Nishinoya, Terushima, Kuroo & Kunimi

I had this late night idea and just HAD to follow through, the chaos would be O F F T H E C H A R T S. Thank you to @deathcab4daddy​ for helping me brainstorm some good characters for this post lmao I love you bby and can’t wait to do a collab. <3

E N J O Y ~ 

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

BOKUTO:

WHEN I TELL YOU THIS BOI PICKS UP EVERYTHING IN SIGHT LIKE A 6 YEAR OLD

 I FUCKING MEAN IT.

“(Y/N) we need this” 

“Bokuto we do not need a 7th jar of peanut butter.”

 “But (Y/N) it has a squirrel on the front-”

“BOKUTO I SWEAR TO GOD”

Tries to drift on the edge of the cart like something straight outta CSGO and the cart nearly obliterates under his weight.

V e r y l o u d u n e c c e s s a r i l y.

Everyone always stares at y’all when you’re going through the isles bc ur literally escorting a man-child sprawled in a shopping cart who’s going “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” at everything he sees like he’s a toddler at the zoo who’s never encountered a chimpanzee before.

Unless you have a bottomless bank account do NOT take him shopping of any kind he is LETHAL.

When you’re at the check-out he turns it into a basketball competition and tries to launch everything perfectly on to the conveyor belt.

Volleyball player? Nah this sis with the NBA now.

Do not ask him to go get something, he will return with at least 9 items you didn’t need and everything BUT the item you requested

He turned up with a whole ass pineapple, a jar of jam, a stick of butter and a bottle of olive oil.

Like,,,where is the correlation in those items???

Once made the mistake of asking him to grab some pads from the hygiene section and specified it HAD to be with wings

Boy showed up ten minutes later and looking very confuzzled.

You questioned why he has a pack of wingless pads in one hand and a can of red bull in the other.

He said it’s because they didn’t have any with wings so he figured the Redbull would suffice and do the job for you.

i-

NISHINOYA:

Can literally fit him in the little cart seat made for kids and he LOVES it lmaoooo IT’S SO CUTE MY HEART.

HE JUST SWINGS HIS LEGS EXCITABLY WHILE YOUR GETTING STUFF AAAAAAA

Ppl give you such weird looks though bc you have a guy who’s at least 14 years older than the intended demographic sitting there and raising his hands in elation over you copping a cookie dough pie and chucking it in.

Again, another who is VERY LOUD FOR NO REASON AT ALL.

Get’s out of the cart after a while bc his legs be growing numb and begins roaming around.

Someone came back with a feral Noya in hand stating “Is this your child” WNDKJWEFNWJEF.

M’AM HE’S LIKE 18 EXCUSE YOU.

Was salty about it for the rest of the day.

Just ruffle his hair and call him Senpai 

Problem solved.

Picks up tons of exotic fruit that look more like plastic or fuzzy poisonous plants and begs you to get them.

“Noya what the fuck is that.”

“...a Pitaya.”

“...”

“Can we get it-”

“no.”

“(Y/N)-”

“I SAID NO DAMMIT”

Last time you bought some strange fruit he took it to practise and got Tanaka to spike it LMAOOO

IT SPLATTERED E V E R Y W H E R E

AND OVER DAICHI’S SHIRT.

He begged you to no longer allow Noya to purchase weird fruits from then on since he is like a child with a nerf gun.

He once picked up a phat wrinkly purple fruit and turned to you asking if it was an overgrown raisin.

“Noya sweetie that’s a Date.”

HE FULLY TSK’ED AND THREW IT BACK SINCE IT REMINDED HIM OF DATE TECH I CAN’T.

My boy out here defending Asahi even in the Grocery Isles.

We stan a loyal king.

TERUSHIMA:

Another one who tries to stand on the ledge and the cart wheels almost collapse because it wasn’t designed to hold the weight of a young adult.

Oh young adult??? Sorry I mean’t MAN CHILD.

He treats a shopping experience as a time to practise his aim apparently because he ALWAYS THROWS SHIT AT YOU TO THE POINT YOU’RE THREATENED TO BE KICKED OUT.

Definitely picks up phallic looking objects and places them against his crotch, snorting and saying “Like what you see (Y/N)?”

Homeboy is stood there in front of a wife and child presenting his cucumber appendage for the world to see.

He once grabbed a pair of fat ass melons and pressed them against his chest, shaking them and belting the lyrics to ‘My Milkshake’ while begging you to SQUEEZE HIS MELONS.

“Look (Y/N) they’re bigger than yours!”

I just- 

I give up.

Constantly tries to sneak mutli-packs of energy drinks into the cart to the point you’re convinced he is going to keel over from heart failure and kidney stones by the age of 20.

Has his airpods in 90% of the time and treats the isles as his personal dance floor.

He busting them MOVES and performing the MJ moonwalk while in the dairy section.

ONCE HE SLID TOO FAST AND SLIPPED ON HIS REAR IN FRONT OF LIKE 12 PEOPLE LMAOO

He was DEAD silent the rest of the trip.

Probably the most serene shopping experience you’ve had to date.

The checkout clerks occasionally hit on Mr. Sore-Ass over here.

Until he opens his mouth and they realise he’s a total dolt and question how you have the patience for him.

You don’t know either honestly.

The whole bagging experience is spent with them shooting you sympathetic glances as if to say ‘sis you shoulda’ left him at home’.

Yes, yes you should have.

Never a dull moment with Teru as your shopping partner.

KUROO:

LITERALLY LIKE A MIDDLE-AGED MAN OR A TODDLER WHEN Y’ALL GO SHOPPING THERE IS NEVER AN EVEN MIDDLE-GROUND.

Frequently cracks lame-ass food puns or dad jokes that make you want to crawl into a hole and die.

You have competitions on who can come up with the most and the loser always faces a penalty.

Kuroo and creating penalties do NOT mix safely so you better hope you win.

“I love you a waffle lot.” 

Proceeds to hold up a wrapped waffle.

Ok that one was kinda cute you’ll let it slide.

“I ap-peach-iate you Kuroo.”

Cue HyenaLaugh.mp3

“Want a pizza me baby? Bitch peas, doughnut take me lightly.”

You changed your mind.

You didn’t talk to him the duration of that shopping experience, no penalty could be as horrifying as what just came out of his mouth.

“(Y/N)... sometimes I feel like you don’t carrot all.”

You slapped him with said carrot and obviously had to pay for it after.

You forced him to eat it raw.

He is the definition of Neutral disaster when you go shopping.

Shitty food puns aside, he is actually very responsible when making sure you both get what you need.

Not without tons of poking, prodding, and blowing into your ear while you’re trying to decide what ingredients to buy for dinner.

You contemplated serving him a plate of bubbling snot and moulded broccoli seasoned with rosemary.

Bone apple teeth, bitch.

Ofc you didn’t because he always pulls out the puppy eyes and cuddles card after since he knows he’s well and truly rattled your patience lmao.

Actually picks really healthy food options?? Being the captain of a team he has the responsibility of keeping his health in top condition and leading by example so at least he knows the right ingredients to make a bomb-ass and nutritious meal ig.

Y’all always bicker and tease each other at the checkout which is usually great amusement for the clerk serving you as they often smirk and perceive you as an old married couple.

Which tbh you kinda are, it feels like it at least.

Still such a big asshole though lmao you never leave the store without your sanity being scathed.

KUNIMI:

Honestly just wanted an excuse to make jokes at the expense of the Aoba Johsai teammates.

and what better candidate for cracking these than Kunimi.

He’s a very chill partner to have tag along with you on your endeavours.

Not without some grumbling and groaning on his part though, lazy bitch.

You always finish shopping trips with a busted lung at how much you have been laughing though with some of the SHADY ASS REMARKS HE MAKES ABOUT THE OTHER TEAM MATES.

You were outside the store when you both spotted an angry looking Doberman tied to a nearby post.

“Smh who let Kyotani outside again.”

You hadn’t even set foot in the store yet and he was already spitting flaming insults.

[Walking up to the automatic double doors]

“Damn Oikawa move out of my way.”

Oikawa just tryna live and he keeps getting roasted for his flat cheeks 

#StopOikawaAssShaming

Ten minutes of scouring the store later he picks up a spikey Kiwano and compares it to Iwaizumi’s hair.

Proceeds to beg you not to tell my boy Iwa because he KNOWS he will get decked to the gym floor.

Passers by often wonder why you’re wheezing and producing noises like a boiling kettle.

When I tell you no one is safe, I mean N O O N E.

“These Yule logs really out here looking like Matsukawa’s brows.”

The finisher was when Kunimi picked up a turnip and said 

“Huh, kinda looks like Kindaichi.”

I just-

He could roast a whole chicken in minutes from the burn of these comments I stg.

You can now never look at the Seijou team without various foods or inanimate objects plaguing your thoughts.

Thanks, Kunimi.

#hq #haikyuu #kuroo tetsurō #nishinoya yuu #bokuto kotaro #terushima yūji #karasuno #johzenji #nekoma #fukurodani #haikyuu headcanons #hq headcanons #haikyuu x reader #aoba johsai #kunimi akira #seijou #seijoh

[blancheludis]

@whumptober2021 Day 6: Bruises

Fandom: Batman Characters: Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth Tags: Hurt Tim, Injuries, Hiding Injuries, Self-Worth Issues, Protective Bruce, Lack of Communication, Bruce Tries To Be A Good Dad Words: 3.264

Summary: “Master Timothy, what is that?”

That is a bruise the size of Tim’s head spanning over the right side of his ribcage. A few ribs might be cracked but he can breathe fine when not training and it is good practice to avoid being hit in weak spots.

“I’m fine,” Tim says and wonders why anyone even bothers. In his parents’ house, being fine was a requirement and nobody had the time to keep asking about it

---

Pain blossoms through Tim’s chest as Bruce’s fist hits right where he bruised a rib the week before. Just barely, he manages to swallow a yelp and lets himself fall with the momentum, rolling over the floor to get back to his feet a safe distance away from Bruce.

Safety, of course, is an illusion with Batman after him, who has speed and strength and long years of experience on him. Bruce does not come, though, but stays where he is.

“Everything all right?” he asks, never letting his fists fall but looking at Tim with concern.

“Of course,” Tim replies with a grin he does not feel. It is hard enough to breathe. “Should have seen that one coming.”

Bruce nods and advances again. That is something Tim can rely on. He might not be used to people stopping to ask about his well-being, but the rules are the same wherever he goes. Be the best he can be at all times and appear perfect on the surface. The focus just shifted to include physical prowess as well as school work and social encounters.

Training is a gruesome affair. Tim needs every bit of it he can get but he has not had a chance to catch his breath in weeks.

Tim does not mind Bruce’s high expectations nearly as much as he sometimes did his parents. He is learning to be someone better than himself, after all, someone who can make a difference. Heroes do not stop just because they have some bruises.

He has still a long way to go until he can call himself a hero, but the lack of lectures makes him think he is being a passable Robin.

Rolling back on his feet, Tim makes sure his stance is steady as he raises his fists back up. He does not have to wait long for Bruce to come at him again.

This time, he makes sure to guard his right side more.

“I’m fine,” Tim says again when they are finished training for the day, and wonders why anyone even bothers. In his parents’ house, being fine was a requirement and nobody had the time to keep asking about it.

---

Tim flinches when he comes out of the bathroom and finds Alfred in the middle of his room, freshly laundered clothes in his hands.

It is too late to turn around and cover his bare torso. He has also learned by now that Alfred misses little, so Tim’s only chance is to be as casual as possible.

True enough, Alfred zeroes in on Tim the moment he notices his presence. “Master Timothy, what is that?”

That is a bruise the size of Tim’s head spanning over the right side of his ribcage. A few ribs might be cracked but he can breathe fine when not training and it is good practice to avoid being hit in weak spots.

One of these days he has to get good enough at fighting to stop being a liability. Until then, he will walk around with a few aches.

“Oh, that,” Tim says with all the cheer he can muster. “I tumbled off a roof.” And took several hits and kicks in the general region, too slow to properly defend himself. “I meant to ask for some bruise salve.” The lie falls easily from his lips, even though Alfred deserves better. It is just hard to forget that Alfred’s loyalty lies with Bruce and Tim really, really does not want to give anyone reason to complain about him.

Tim is not necessarily afraid of Bruce changing his mind about the adoption. He knows that is a definite possibility because Bruce does not have time for freeloaders, even though he never said so in as many words. It would suck, of course, because he is quickly getting used to Alfred’s warmth and proper meals and the way the house brightens when Dick comes to visit on the weekends. It is not the kind of family he has seen on tv, not even the kind he pretended to be with his parents during parties, but it is one he feels comfortable in.

No, what he fears is not being allowed to go out as Robin anymore. He already is nothing but a pretender, stretching to reach Jason’s level. He has looked up to Robin for so long he can hardly believe he has been let into this house and actually wore the suit.

Good things do not just happen. He has to work for them, has to constantly increase his efforts to stop anyone from noticing how inadequate he actually is. His parents prepared him for that, at least.

“Come,” Alfred says and gestures at the door. His stern look promises bandages and ice packs and a lot of questions that Tim does not want to answer. “I’ll help you with it.”

“Not necessary, promise,” Tim says and walks pointedly fluid, taking care not to show that his hip has been aching, too. “It barely hurts.”

He brings the bed between them, where he is further into the room’s shadows. Alfred notices too much, but Tim has learned to twist that, to put things in a light that better suits him. He does not actually like manipulating Alfred, who brings him hot chocolate and cooks his favourites on good and bad days, but if he gets benched he will not get better and then he is already halfway out of the door.

“It looks fresh,” Alfred says and stares at him rather than the discolouring. Too perceptive for his own good.

But Tim frowns and makes a show of prodding the bruise, breathing through the pain. “Must be the light. It’s only a little sore.”

He looks up just in time to see Alfred’s face smooth over from blatant concern to something far politer. “It’s all right to ask for help, Master Timothy.”

Is it, though? All the evidence Tim has gathered over the course of his life points to the opposite.

So, he grins and says, “I know. I’ll let you know if I lose a limb.” That is probably not even a lie because he has no idea how he would hide that. And, just because he desperately wants to stay Robin, he will not put others at risk just because he cannot let go of a pipe dream.

Alfred straightens, his lips pursed. “Don’t joke about that.” He puts the clothes down carefully on the bed. “Now, let me get the salve for you.”

Tim breathes out in relief once Alfred is done and hurries to put on a shirt. His blunder would not hold up a single second if Alfred had gotten any closer to him. Thanks to having been with Bruce for so long, he knows all about Bruce.

Then again, he knows all about lies, too. Perhaps Alfred thinks that Tim is doing well enough to deserve a second chance if he lets Tim’s lies pass. He knows better than to let his guard down, though.

 ---

This is the fourth time this night that Tim has stumbled over his own feet and now he almost fell off the rooftop, too. He really needs to get a grip on himself.

Tim pinches his hip, right where a new bruise sits. The pain wakes him up a little, but the blurriness in his vision does not vanish completely.

Bruce stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” His tone is low and a little restless, so Tim knows his patience is running out.

“Nothing,” he says with all the brightness he can muster, then winces inwardly. He is obviously messing things up, so he should not also pretend that he does not notice. The only thing worse than a fool is a fool who thinks he is helping. “I just stayed up late studying for a test.”

He should have studied. That would have been a better use of his time than thrashing around in his bed, wide awake while trying to sleep. But he passed out in English class the day before and while his teacher did not remark on it, he knows he is walking a thin line.

Bruce’s voice drops deeper still, which is never a good time. “You should have said something if you needed to stay home.”

“No, I didn’t,” Tim bursts out quickly. This is the last thing he needs. Staying home means not learning anything. Worse, Bruce might realize he is better off without this Robin and start looking for a replacement. “I’m just a bit tired.”

“You’re slow,” Bruce counters, shaking his head with what can only be disappointment. That is a definite strike. “That’s dangerous for both of us.”

Tim’s fingers dig deeper into the bruise. The words and pain together are enough to banish the sluggishness for now. Nothing but a reminder of one’s own uselessness to awaken the spirit.

“I’m sorry,” he says and makes sure the words are clear, even while he cannot quite meet Bruce’s eyes.

Bruce’s hand tightens briefly around Tim’s shoulder. It could almost feel like encouragement if not for him saying, “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

It is a good thing that Tim is a self-made insomniac. He is used to running on too little sleep. Usually, though, nobody was around to see him struggle. Now, he has to up his game because Bruce does not miss much. His parents, though, were good teachers in that regard. He will manage.

Stretching his limbs, Tim tries to ignore the heaviness weighing them down and does his best to be alert and helpful for the rest of patrol. Bruce does not complain again, so Tim guesses he does a good enough job.

 ---

As the ground rushes up to meet Tim, he follows instinct to curl up and brace himself for the fall. His arms protect his head and his ribs protest only mildly at the shock of impact. As he rolls, though, he hits something with his left knee, knocking what little breath he had left right out of him. He feels it bending the wrong way, the ligaments screaming for a long moment until everything snaps back into place and he comes to a standstill in some dank alley.

Tim lies there, just breathing, cataloguing the new bruises forming. The by now familiar pulsing in his ribs is joined by a more insistent stabbing sensation in his knee. That is the leg that was already messed up before. He thinks of all the things that might have gone wrong. Snapped ligaments, broken bones, luxated knee cap.

Unwilling to get up just yet, he just lies there. Once he moves, he has to deal with this, has to get up and put weight on his leg and decide how to hide this. Ribs are not essential and mere bruises are easy to ignore. Somebody is bound to notice, however, if he starts limping around.

With a sigh, Tim sits up and carefully pulls his left foot towards him. It hurts but not so much that he cannot manage. Nothing looks obviously broken, but it still feels wrong and Tim suspects he ruptured some ligaments. Which is unfortunate.

“Robin, where are you?” Batman’s voice comes to life in his ear. These days, he is always impatient, Tim has been that much of a disappointment.

He sighs, allowing himself another moment of weakness before he pulls himself together with ruthless efficiency. So much for having some time to collect himself. “I’m on my way.”

It is slow and painful, but Tim manages to get out of the alley and towards their rendezvous point. His movements are neither steady nor very fluid. Climbing the roof to meet Bruce is out of the question.

Before he can think about a way around it, Bruce speaks in his ear again, “What happened?”

Tim closes his eyes. Everything was going so well. He was managing things. If he had gotten a minute longer, he would have figured something out.

“I fell and – I hit my knee.” Admitting that alone makes the ache worse. He is not supposed to fall. Jason surely did not tumble off roofs left and right just because he was tired. “Nothing’s broken, probably, but –”

“Why didn’t you call?”

Tim knows how quickly Batman can move and still he flinches away when the dark shadow appears before him suddenly. Even if he were to fell, reality would probably rather bend than give Batman bruises. He barely catches the concerned look on Bruce’s face before he is kneeling down in front of Tim and prods his knee. Tim braces for pain that never comes for Bruce’s hands are more careful and gentler than he would have thought possible.

He does hear the small sigh Bruce lets out. “Let’s get you home so we can have a better look at it.”

Ice rolls down Tim’s back. He is here to be useful and, really, the one thing he really should avoid is being a liability. Robin exists to help, not to hinder Batman from doing his job.

“You don’t have to cut patrol short,” Tim says, desperation creeping into his tone, although he knows better than to show weakness like that. “I can get back on my own.”

Bruce stills, and Tim is so distracted by having done another thing wrong, that he barely hears Bruce saying, “You’re hurt.”

What does that have to do with anything other than Tim being a burden? “It’s not so bad,” he says. “Please?”

“T- Robin.” The almost slip has Tim’s heart missing a beat. Is this it? Is Bruce taking the suit away already? But then Bruce continues “Patrol can wait. You are more important.”

Now, that is a novel thing. Bruce even says it like he means it. Tim is aware that he is staring.

“I can manage,” he insists because he does not know what is happening and he hates when he is not prepared for something.

“I know,” Bruce says but it feels like they are talking about two very different things.  “But you don’t have to.”

 ---

All of Tim’s failings are laid bare. He has a bandage around a cut on his arm he had forgotten about the moment he got it. His ribs are taped. The x-ray of his knee is open on the screen behind them. A small crack runs through his knee cap, although, once he was done with his examination, Bruce declared that the ligaments are probably intact.

Tim is a wreck and he is not even thinking about the plethora of hurts he has gathered. No, Bruce does that thing where he collects himself before a difficult conversation and Tim knows how that will end for him. His usefulness definitely does not outweigh his faults.

“You were hiding injuries from me,” Bruce finally says. His gaze is heavy on Tim, who finds he cannot meet it.

“I didn’t,” he protests, despite knowing that particular fight is lost. “You noticed the knee right away.”

A shadow flickers over Bruce’s face as he likely notices the implication that Tim would have definitely hidden it if he could have. And will try to do so again if he is given the chance.  

“What about your cracked ribs?” Bruce’s voice is brimming with displeasure. “Or the extensive bruising?”

Well, the ribs have not really gotten better since Tim does not manage to let them rest. But the bruises have almost faded. And the new ones he has gotten are not quite as big.

“They aren’t bad,” he says because they are not. Bruises do not immobilize him or turn his brain to mush. He can still learn.

But Bruce leans slightly away from him as if to distance himself from Tim’s denial. “I did some of them.”

He almost sounds guilty, but Tim is quick to reassure him. “During training. I won’t learn if you hold back.”

Tim has problems ironing out his own faults, but he will not let Bruce blame himself for things Tim should have kept from happening.

“You won’t learn if you don’t take proper care of yourself,” Bruce argues with a quiet insistence that leaves Tim confused. This is not quite the lecture he was expecting. “If you’re too injured –”

“I’m fine,” he interrupts. And he is. There really is no other alternative.

Bruce sits back, realization dawning on his face. “So, every time you say that you mean the complete opposite?”

No, he does not. It means he is working on it. It means that he is doing his best no one else will find the cracks in his composure.

“Don’t throw me out,” Tim blurts out, sounding small and nervous and hating it. Robin has to be strong, an asset, not a scared kid. Nobody wants a child around.

“Tim.” Bruce inhales audibly and reaches out as if to pull him in but stops the motion just before he actually touches Tim. “I’m not going to throw you out. Even if you chose to stop coming out with me at night. You don’t have to meet any conditions to live here.”

That is a lie if Tim has ever heard one. Life is built on conditions, and who cannot do their part has to leave – or gets left behind. That is the first lesson he has ever learnt.

“But you need a Robin,” Tim says. With a tremble in his voice, he adds, “A capable one.” Deep down, he knows that is not him. But it is so hard to let go of this stupid dream.

Now, Bruce’s hand bridges the last inch between them. His skin is warm, a comfort Tim is not sure he deserves, but he leans into it anyway.

“I went for years without a Robin,” Bruce says without a hint of accusation. “And your well-being is so much more important than me having someone to chatter with on patrol.”

He sounds like he means it. Worse, Tim wants to believe him, perhaps more than he wants to keep wearing the suit. For years, he waited for his parents to come home for good or to take him with them at least. But he was never enough to keep them close. He just does not come first for anyone. He should not come before Gotham’s innocents.

And yet. That is the thing with dreaming. He has been offered a hand and now he wants to conquer the very heaven. Be helpful and cared for? Hope is a dangerous thing, but being unable to let it go might just be another failure of his.

“You don’t chatter,” Tim says because that is easier than to acknowledge what else Bruce said.

Bruce smiles and that is warmer even than his hand. “No, I don’t.” He quickly grows serious again, although the warmth stays. “You need to tell me when you’re hurt. And you need to take breaks.”

Tim nods. Anything to keep Bruce like this. Still, he says, “But I’m doing fine.”

Once again, Bruce sighs, but his expression never changes. “We’ll make sure you do,” he promises. “Now, let’s get you upstairs before Alfred has my head.”

He does not let go of Tim, helps him up the stairs, still so very gentle. And Tim, of course, vows to be better. But perhaps being better does not always mean hiding.

He has gotten a second chance, so perhaps he will try things Bruce’s way this time. Mostly. At least until his knee is all healed up. And then, he will see what happens.

#whumptober2021 #no.6 #bruises #batman #fanfiction #tim drake #bruce wayne #hiding injuries #self-esteem issues #my writing #ao3

[pinnithin-writes]

The First: Aftermath (Part 4)

A collaborative work between myself and @reneethecyborg on what happened after Lupin III: The First. Part 4 of 4, 1405 words.

The pain after a heist is nothing new to Lupin. It’s part of the job. There’s always the stab in his hips from running and jumping and climbing, the ache in his shoulders from pushing and pulling and carrying, the throb in his wrists from drawing schematics and fiddling with locks, the headache from too many all-nighters spent planning and replanning and planning some more. It’s usually not quite this extreme, but still, these things come with the territory. Besides, some broken bones and angry joints are a small price to pay if it means the entire world is no longer in jeopardy.

At least the worst is over. And now the three of them are away from that whole mess, holed up in some hideout or another. Lupin’s pretty sure it’s one of his, based on what little he’s seen of the decor since they arrived, but these places all sort of bleed together in the post-work haze of pain and exhaustion. It’s been raining on and off since they got here (a few hours ago? yesterday? the day before?), which is nice. Would be nicer if he could sit by the window and watch, but the sound of it hitting the roof is almost as good. Goemon says hearing the rain is better, because of course he does.

The bed is also nice, though Lupin’s starting to resent being trapped in it. Big enough for all of them, with the pillows Goemon likes and the thick comforter Jigen likes. Now that Jigen’s back from his outing to town, he’s seen fit to make himself comfortable in his usual spot to Lupin’s right. “So,” he says, fluffing his pillow and propping it up so he can lean against the headboard, “I went and called Zenigata like you wanted, Lupin.”

“And?”

“Sounds like he’s up to his ears cleaning this up. I had to call five times before I got through.” Jigen smacks his pillow a few more times before he seems satisfied with it. “Told the receptionist I had information on the whereabouts of the Lupin gang, Zenigata’s ears only.”

Goemon goes ‘hm’ from his typical spot sitting cross-legged to Lupin’s left. “I suppose solving crimes generates a lot of paperwork.”

After several seconds of shuffling around, Jigen seems to find the most comfortable configuration of limbs and gets settled. “I told him to take a month or two off after this.”

“Wait, what? Why? That’s—” Taking a deep enough breath to get more than a few words out isn’t pleasant, but the great Lupin III won’t be silenced by a petty little thing like broken ribs. “That’s kind of unfair, isn’t it? Pops won’t be ready for our next job.”

The look Jigen aims his way would be scathing, if it weren’t coming from a guy lounging in his pajamas (who even wears nightshirts in this century?). “Hey, Lupin. Quick question. When, exactly, do you think our next job is going to be?”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. But he’s being given a chance to save himself! How merciful. “...Not for another month or two?”

“Alright, good. Just making sure we have an understanding. You sounded kind of confused for a second there.” Jigen’s old mob ties come out in the strangest ways sometimes. With that, he does what Lupin sometimes mentally refers to as a big ol’ stretch, holding the pose until his back cracks. “The way I see it, none of us are doing jack shit for the next while—” he throws another pointed glance Lupin’s way, which Lupin dutifully pretends not to notice— “so we might as well let Pops off the hook too. He deserves a break, what with all the hell we put him through.”

Goemon nods sagely. “We do torment him quite often.”

He does have a point. Lupin can’t deny that they hassle Pops perhaps a bit more than necessary. “Yeah, but it’s good for him. Builds character.” It’s also made him a lot more crafty, but that’s the price you pay sometimes. Jigen’s very good stretch over there is making Lupin excessively aware of how stiff he’s gotten lying here all day; he makes a tentative attempt at stretching his arms, but that one shoulder muscle he can never remember the name of seizes up on him almost instantly.

In a perfect world, nobody would notice, but Jigen and Goemon have both very obviously noticed. Jigen manages to replicate his classic look of squinting at Lupin from under his hat, but it’s distinctly less threatening from under a nightcap. “You’ve been on bedrest half a day and you’re already pushing it, huh?”

“I’m fine. Just a spasm.” Everything’s back in its proper place now—insofar as it can be—but his joints still feel like they might fall apart again at a moment’s notice, and every muscle he can think of is either unbelievably sore or drawn so taut he can barely move without hurting himself. That’s pretty much to be expected, after such a beating. It’s been a long time since someone’s pummeled him this bad. With luck, it’ll be a long time before it happens again.

Jigen doesn’t seem terribly convinced that it’s fine, judging by his expression. With some grunts befitting his status as the world’s oldest twenty-something, he shifts to prop himself up on one arm—Lupin wishes he could do that right now without breaking something—and pokes around at the muscles in Lupin’s shoulder with his free hand. Always careful, always gentle. If he weren’t so tired, Lupin would try to string together something about a sharpshooter using his hands for caring instead of killing. “Christ, man, it’s like you’re made of stone. I’d look for knots, but I think you’re all knot. Doesn’t that hurt?”

“It’s not that bad. Most of the time I don’t even notice.” He’s noticing now, but these are extenuating circumstances.

“I’m not sure I buy that. You need one of those massages where they jab you with their elbows.”

“Are you volunteering, Jigen?”

He was mostly joking, but Jigen pauses in his proddings like he’s genuinely thinking it over. “Sure, why not.” Goemon opens one eye to fix Jigen with a stern look. “Later, though. When your ribs won’t turn to dust.”

“Alright, deal. As long as you don’t poke any holes in me with those pointy elbows of yours.” Jigen goes ‘tch’, as is his wont. “Maybe I will. Might deflate your ego a bit.”

Touché. “I’m not sure you’re in any position to pass character judgments, monsieur chemise.” He takes a chance and waves a hand at Jigen’s silly little nightshirt; his wrist twinges and pops, but holds firm.

Another noise of annoyance from Jigen. His French might not be great, but he knows enough to know when he’s being insulted. “At least I don’t wear vinyl pants.”

“You leave my pants out of this!”

“You’re the one who started an argument about clothes. Not my fault you think vinyl pants and leather suit jackets are a good combo.”

Lupin loses track of his very strong and argument-winning retort when he notices Goemon chuckling quietly at the two of them bickering like children over their respective poor fashion choices. It’s nice to just sit around talking about nothing. Part of the routine, really. The work is done, and now they can relax. This time yesterday, Lupin wasn’t sure he’d be around to do this when the dust settled. “...Listen, guys. I’m sorry about how all this turned out.”

The mood shifts a little, but not in a bad way. Jigen and Goemon exchange a look for a moment before Goemon speaks. “Nobody among us is at fault. We simply need to formulate our plans more carefully in the future.”

That’s a very tactful way of putting it. “I probably should’ve let you talk me out of the Hitler thing.”

Jigen makes a noise akin to shrugging. “I think that part was alright. One of us just should’ve gone with you to kill that prick before he got violent, is all.”

He has a point. Lupin’s usually not a fan of killing anybody, but even he can admit that there was really no other way for his tussle with Geralt to end. “Yeah, well. Next time.”

“There shouldn’t be a next time,” Jigen grumbles more than says.

“Sure, but with our luck? Within the year. Calling it now.”

“Well, now you jinxed it.”

Part 3 (by Pin) < --- Part 4 (by Cosma)

#ink #fanfiction #lupin iii #goemon ishikawa #daisuke jigen #lupin iii: the first

[janekfan]

omg you're taking prompts?? best day EVER!!! i was thinking. season 2, where jon is complaining about some kind of illness/pain that's actually worse than he's letting on? maybe elias sends jon, tim, and martin on some kind of gay little errand and jon's either really ill or already hurt, and he keeps trying to communicate that he really wants to go back to the hotel and lie down, but they're so angry with him that they assume the worst? then, comfort :) if you don't like this i can try again!

@taylortut :D I hope you like it!

6 hours and 47 minutes.

The average amount of time it took the train to travel from the London station to Edinburgh.

And that being if they didn’t run into some sort of delay. Or hit a cow. Rupture the fuel line and be trapped on the tracks for the rest of the day.

Jon massaged his temples, shifting uncomfortably on the hard cushion that honestly might as well not exist for how much good it was doing him. Barely back from their mandatory thirty days leave after the Prentiss, Elias, the prat, sent them away to investigate the vaults beneath the city regarding the murders committed by Burke and Hare nigh 200 years ago.

And Jon really, really didn’t want to.

He’d been looking forward to sitting in the dark of his office and going through statements at a snail's pace and possibly, possibly skiving off early because he hurt and hadn’t been sleeping well because of it. The injuries left behind had been deep and damaging and he'd walked out of the hospital with a brand new cane. Leaning against the window and easing the weight off his left side, Jon tried to let the scenery slipping by lull him at least a little bit. Tim and Martin were spending the majority of their time in the dining car sampling the assortment courtesy of Elias’ generous travel budget and that was fine by him. While Martin may be better at hiding it, both of them were quite angry with him and he wasn’t exactly looking forward to the next week spent in their company.

Pain exploded in his bones, waking him from his nap and he whacked his head against the window blinking hard, breathing shallow, as he gathered his wits about him and took in Martin sitting across from him.

“Tim,” he admonished, setting a cup of tea down in front of Jon and turning the handle toward him. “Should perk you up a bit; you look tired.”

“Yeah, Boss.” Tim mocked him, prodded a particularly sore spot on his side. “Drink your tea.” Jon chose to ignore him.

“Th’thank you, Martin.” He spoke low, shrinking away, into himself, and holding the warmth close to his chest, checking his watch: two hours and change. Surely it wouldn’t be this awkward between them the whole week?

Jon was often wrong and this experience would prove no different as he pushed himself as fast as possible following Tim and Martin, the tip of his cane clacking unevenly on the cobblestones. It was dark and he had no desire to be caught alone on the streets at night, sure that whatever else had complaints with them wouldn’t hesitate.

“Tim, slow down.”

“Ah, sorry, Marto.” Jon looked away, feeling the heavy weight of Tim’s gaze press down across his shoulders and he almost stumbled beneath it, catching himself and thankful he’d chosen a backpack instead of luggage. “Tired from the train?”

“I happen to be, yes.” Authoritative, eyes cast pointedly forward. “Besides, it’s a nice night. Let me enjoy being away from the Archives for a moment, won’t you?” Tim laughed, pounding Martin on the back, and the two discussed going out for drinks at the various pubs they passed along the way. While grateful for the decreased pace, Jon was isolated and alone, throat closing up so tight it was like choking, face turning hot, but he refused to cry.

He’d dug this grave. He’d have to lie in it.

Unable to stand one moment more after climbing the stairs to their room, Jon collapsed heavily to the couch, digging his knuckles into his thigh in an attempt to stop the awful seizing in his muscles. His whole body was trembling with fatigue and when Tim suggested it was the perfect time to head into the Vaults he could have kissed Martin for insisting he was too tired tonight because he knew he was only saying it for Jon’s benefit and he didn’t understand why. How could he...after all. He hated him and he still--

“Well, I call rooming with Martin and there’s just one bed. That leaves the couch for your skinny arse, Boss.” He batted big dark eyelashes at Martin, making the other man blush furiously and sputter and despite himself Jon smiled, just a little, bidding them a quiet good night neither of them would hear through the door between them.

He could tell already he wouldn’t be getting much sleep, if any at all. The pain wasn’t anything sharp anymore, just a low level throb impossible to ignore, and no amount of adjusting or staying still or squeezing his fists so tight crescent moons were bit into his palms would change that. So he laid there, in the dark of an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar city, filled with unfamiliar sounds and listened to the deep and even synchrony of his employees’ breath. More street lights kicked on, the glow pleasant if only because he could see, transforming eerie shadows into shapes he could identify. Jon nibbled his bottom lip, shifted, pushed his feet into the cushions to exert pressure? Release pressure? He wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to accomplish other than keeping himself quiet.

Dragging his bag over he dug blindly through it for the bottle of paracetamol settled at the bottom, fighting with the child safety cap and tipping too many pills into his hand. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t touch it. Not really. But hoping for a placebo effect was better than writhing in agony and Jon swallowed them dry because getting up wasn’t an option. Rigid, shivering, he pulled up the blanket, trying to take comfort in its weight and the sun was coming up by the time heavy lashes fell shut over tired, burning eyes.

“Wakey, wakey, Boss!” Jon jerked violently awake, whole body thrumming in panic and pain before he had the sense to realize what was happening and by then Tim was gone.

“Sorry Jon, I tried to distract him.” Sheepish, Martin offered up a small smile and a cup of tea, setting it on the low table beside the couch. “You alright?” He’d relaxed back into the cushions, trying to gain back any of the soft, drifting nothingness he’d finally succumbed to and failing miserably. Good lord, he wasn’t well.

“Just fine, Martin.” Rubbing away the remnants of sleep, Jon struggled upright and took a sip. “Thank you.” Strong and dark and perfect, the caffeine would help. “When, what time are we investigating the Vaults?”

“Midnight or so? There will be fewer people on the streets then.” Silence broken only by Tim’s puttering in the room settled between them. “We’re hoping to sight see, be proper tourists for the day.”

“Ah.” He hid his disappointment behind the rim of his cup. Of course they would. Of course and they deserved it. “That sounds like a fine idea.” It didn’t. He wouldn’t make it, surely. Almost choking on his tea when his jacket came down over his head, Jon sputtered and coughed, catching a glimpse of Tim slipping on his trainers.

“And you’re not getting out of it.” Martin reacted to Jon's sigh with exasperation and hurt.

"Look, Jon. I know you'd rather be anywhere than with the two of us, but try to enjoy yourself?" And while that wasn't entirely true Jon was unfortunately too much a coward to refute it.

Which is how he found himself here, now. Nauseated, Jon sipped carefully on some juice, sitting stock still in his chair and watching Martin and Tim sample almost everything on the menu. He’d been dragged through the city and while he’d enjoyed some of the history and honestly their company, the pain cast a dark pall over the day. It was only on his third try asking for a break that they passed a pub and Martin suggested supper, and not a moment too soon. Even with the cane and Jon's white knuckle grip on his self control, his leg felt ready to give way.

“Come on,” Tim cajoled, tongue loose and on his third pint. “Don’t you want to waste Elias’ money with us?”

“Not that hungry I’m afraid, but go on. Looks good and you mustn't forget dessert.”

"Martin! You heard the boss-man!" After sitting in the low light, resting for a bit, Jon felt up to a drink, enjoying how it blurred everything at the edges and dulled the worst of it so quickly on an empty stomach.

When they returned to the room for a nap prior to their excursion, Jon barely remembered passing out on the couch.

It was cold, the jacket completely useless against the underground chill and his exposed fingers were numb on the handle of his cane, on the torch. Long after this happened, Jon asked for a reprieve. They’d been down here for hours already and they had all week so with no leads they could come back another night, couldn't they? It had fallen on deaf ears and when he tried to speak up again, this time because he’d fallen more than a few steps behind, it was clear he just needed to tough it out. Obviously, he was supposed to be handling this better and he was only embarrassing himself by being overly dramatic. Gritting his teeth, Jon pushed himself faster, catching back up only to lose ground seconds later.

“I’m. I’m sorry. I.” Why was this so hard? Asking for help, for a break, to go back and just please stop standing up. “Could we. Could we take a moment? Just. I mean--”

“Spit it out!” Tim’s frustration echoed painfully in the enclosed space, bouncing off walls and striking Jon from all angles like a series of blows. “We don’t have time for whatever you’re on about.”

We don’t have time.

“Leave off, Tim.” Something caught Martin’s eye and he veered away from the pair of them.

We don’t have time for you.

Stop it.

Stop being a child.

“Of course. Yes. Push on.”

Sick with exhaustion and shaking from pain, Jon was falling further and further behind, the torch losing its effectiveness as the dark closed in, heavy, tight, suffocating. He couldn’t call out. They wouldn’t. He. They’d made how they felt clear and asking again would only be shameful. But his cane wasn’t enough anymore and it dropped from his ennervated fingers, clattering to the ground while he held onto the wall with both hands. He’d be lost here, buried here, in the oppressive black, his body saved by the End for experimentation and dissected by medical students and he didn't think he cared about being forgotten but the thought of it felt far too real. He sobbed. It echoed. And he clapped his hands over his mouth and let the tears glance off them as he slid to the ground.

He’d just hide here. In the dark behind his eyelids, stifling the pathetic sounds forcing their way up his throat and between his teeth. If he was quiet he wouldn’t be found, nothing could find him if he was quiet. Not the things scuttling around in the black, not the pain doing its level best to gnaw its way through his skin, not the overwhelming weariness clawing open his chest, between his ribs.

“Jon!” He flinched. He hurt. He curled tighter despite it. He didn’t want to be found. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. “J--Christ, Jon.” Martin’s heavy footsteps slowed to a stop on the stone in front of him, shifted nervously. “Hey, what’s. Jon? What’s wrong?”

“M’.” But it was so much more than that and he didn’t know how to explain, so he didn’t and Martin’s voice came from above him.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn't you say it was this bad? ” But he had. He had tried. Hadn’t he? After being ignored he thought he was just being needy and dramatic. Annoying. Tim had similar injuries and he was fine. Jon ducked his head into folded arms, shoulders hitching with a shaky breath. He didn’t know what to say or how to justify how bad off he was.

“S’sorry.” He’d have to stand in a moment. To continue the investigation and even the thought made him want to cry. “Just need a. N’need.” But it hurt so much and when the next breath he reached for broke open he heard Martin sigh heavily, shoes scuffing the ground and this time his words were at his level.

“I’m sorry, Jon. You. You did tell us. We just didn’t listen. Thought you were cross at being sent here with us.” A warm palm enveloped his forearm. “What do you need?”

“N’nothing. Just.” Deep breath. Relax. You’re alright. “I’ll be ready in, in a m’moment.” Thick and hoarse, he didn’t want Martin to see his face. He didn’t want to see the disgust in his. “You, you go on. Tim shouldn’t be alone.”

“And you should?”

Yes.

Yes, because he’d be fine. He was always fine.

Before he had the chance to answer he heard Tim coming back, steps angry if there was such a thing, and calling through the tunnels.

“I see, just abandon me to the spooky vaults, serve me up on a platter next time, it’ll be faster!” Jon risked a look and saw Tim staring down at him. “What the hell, Martin? Jon, sure, but you too?” And that hurt, cutting to the quick of him deep enough that he almost checked for blood. Tim didn’t really think he’d abandon him, did he? “What’s with the secret meeting?”

“We need to go back to the room.”

“What?! We’ve barely started anything!”

“Jon needs a break.”

“Of course.” Scoffed, Jon could practically see him rolling his eyes

“Tim--! No, Jon’s been. He’s tried to ask a few times and I know we’ve got work to do but--”

“It’s alright, Martin. I can. Keep going.” The crease between Martin’s eyebrows deepened. “O’or stay here until you get back.”

“No,” Martin spoke sternly, “Tim, help me get him up.” Jon didn’t think he’d ever seen such a scathing look on his face before but it was enough to shift Tim. They lifted him together and as everything stiff stretched back out fire bled into his bones and he couldn’t help but cry out, trying to collapse back to the ground and into himself. “Oh, okay, Jon. Okay.”

“Ah, it’s.”

“If you say “fine” I’ll drop you right here.” Tim adjusted his grip, tried to take more of his weight and Jon was ashamed that he let him but--

"Good lord, Jon. You're so pale." When had Martin gotten so close to him? “I’m, I’m sorry.”

“S’alright.” The shaking started up again when he tried to take a step and Martin had to catch him before he collapsed all over again. This was so stupid. Why was he like this? Why did he hurt so bad?

“You can’t walk like this.”

“No! No, I can! I just…nngh.” His teeth were chattering, he was shivering. Just leave him here. This was mortifying and he all but gave up, following their soft directions until he was draped across Martin’s broad back and suffering through the strain of forcing his leg far enough forward for him to get his hand under it to lift him. Off his feet and pressed against a veritable wall of warmth, Jon lost his grip on the frayed threads holding the last of him together. They unspooled, slipped from his hands, and tears soaked the back of Martin’s collar.

"You're warm." Empty, sitting limp on the edge of the couch, Jon leaned into Martin’s hand on his forehead. “Are you sick?”

“No…” Clumsy fingers clawed open the bottle of paracetamol, irrationally angry when Martin only allowed him double the dose.

“Jon.” Tone firm, Jon looked up at him without lifting his head. Didn’t think he could if he wanted.

“S’mm.” He pulled in half a lungful of air with difficulty. “When it. When it hur’s like this.” The next breath strangled him and he thought he saw Tim and Martin exchange a look, one he couldn’t interpret and didn’t care to if it just meant they were leaving him here to go back to the vaults. He didn’t bother worrying about the new moisture dripping off his chin. He just wanted to disappear.

“Jon?” There was a packet of digestives being thrust under his nose and his stomach turned. "I haven't seen you eat at all today, or yesterday for that matter. I'm not going to let you take all those pills without at least a little something."

“Mm.” He forced one down his throat and pushed insistent hands away, swallowing the medicine with some lukewarm water Tim helped him hold, gasping when they manhandled him down to the cushions, sighing when something cold eased the fire in his hip.

“Ice, should help, okay?” And Jon concurred, new tears slipped between closed lids in relief, in weariness.

“Try and sleep, Boss.”

Quiet voices tugged him up through layers of cotton. Martin. Tim. Talking. Hushed.

“...shouldn’t have pushed so far.”

“So stupid...didn’t think…”

“Shh.” Caught eavesdropping. Jon swallowed. Everything they were saying about him was true, he wouldn't cry over it.

“Hey, Jon. How’re you feeling?” Sore. Foolish. Like he wanted the couch to open up and drag him down to wherever loose change went.

“Better.” When he made to sit up Martin stopped him. “Really, m’fine.” He stayed put.

“I need to apologize, Jon. I, I was so stupid. I didn’t even think about. Well, your injuries. Caught up in myself, I suppose.”

“No! I. Martin, it, it isn’t your fault. This,” he gestured to himself and laughed humorlessly. “This isn’t your fault.”

“We should have listened.” Now Tim was sat on the arm nearest his feet. His elevated feet and his face must have shown his confusion. “Did some googling. But we shouldn’t have let it go so far.”

“It’s--” he stopped abruptly at their combined frowns. “It’s. Um. Thank you, for taking care of me.”

“How is it?” Jon looked at his folded hands, guilty.

“I’d. If I could stay here today?” He closed his eyes, waiting for the frustration, the disappointment. “Not because I don’t want to, to, I want to. I enjoy your company! I’m.” He was botching this, just speak your mind, Sims. “I’m just. I’m very tired. Haven’t been, uh, sleeping much.” Opened them again when Martin cupped his shoulder and saw understanding reflected back.

“Sure. Of course you can.”

“We’ll make a day of it.” Tim flashed the company card. “Back soon, gents.”

The day was spent watching bad daytime television and Jon dozed on and off between being plied with sugary snacks and tea and watching Martin scold Tim for throwing wrappers at the worst of the actors.

“I’d clean it up, Marto, but,” he gestured to Jon’s feet where he’d tugged them over his lap. “I’m trapped, clearly.” It was so much like old times, away from the pressure of the Archives and Elias that Jon couldn’t help but smile. Maybe this could be fixed after all. Maybe it wasn’t all lost.

In the end, they’d discovered nothing new. No evidence to back up the statement givers that inspired this whole excursion in the first place.

6 hours. 47 minutes.

It didn’t seem such a long time on the way back.

#TMA #the magnus archives #prompt #jon sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #strained friendships #pain #chronic pain #bad coping mechanisms

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter One

Ao3,   MasterPost,   

Relationships: eventual queer-platonic intruality, mentioned platonic relationships

Warnings: Touch-starvation, crying, meltdown, general angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 2,983

The carpet beneath his legs felt like sandpaper, rough and scratching. It was the kind of rug someone could find at their grandma’s house, the kind that you roll around on with the family dog when you’re little, even though it rubs your skin red if you lay still too long. It was painful, but a comfort. Familiar. 

Patton sat unmoving on that itchy carpet, curled tight into a little ball and pressed into the very smallest corner of his room. His bed was just a foot or two away, but it offered no appeal to him. And, supposing it did, he probably wouldn’t have had the strength to make it there anyway. 

The discomfort at least gave him something to focus that wasn’t his miserable little problem. 

Patton’s breath came in with little hiccups, each one weaker than the last until he shook with lightheadedness. He couldn’t tell if he was crying, yet, but it was more likely than not. He couldn’t focus on much else other than the pure feeling overwhelming him, filling up his lungs. It was all too much.

He was too much.

That was the root of the issue; he was overbearing, he was overeager, he was overexcited- always over, and never just right. Never just right, and the only times he got close was when he wasn’t enough. Not smart, not patient, not… respectful. 

He’d just needed- wanted- needed?- he’d wanted a hug, that was all. But of course, he couldn’t have just asked. He forgot; who forgets to do something so important? Just because he was giddy didn’t mean he was allowed to do something like that!

Logan had given quite the lecture when Patton had pulled away from him, mere seconds after he realized he wasn’t being held in return. Shame and embarrassment welled up in him at once. The intellectual side had looked so uncomfortable with what he’d done to him, and his rant had reflected that just as much. Patton apologized profusely right afterwards, of course he had- and Logan forgave him easily, looking remorseful himself for the outburst. He’d even offered, now that he was prepared for it, to give Patton the attention he’d been looking for. It was so generous, and sweet, and kind. 

And obviously Patton couldn’t accept. He’d done enough already, so instead he declined, and with one last apology excused himself, darting up to his room to… 

Well, to do this.

And it wasn’t that he’d upset Logan, that wasn’t what hurt. Logan forgave quickly- a privilege usually only reserved for Patton when it came to such a stubborn side as him- and he knew his best friend did care for him. It wasn’t even the guilt that hurt, because he was perfectly used to that emotion. 

It was his skin, the burning. The lack. The need for something- anything- any display of affection that he didn’t have to struggle his way through initiating.

Patton’s hiccupping was devolving into sobbing by this point- he was overreacting, he knew he was overreacting, but now that he’d started he just couldn’t stop. And he got louder, louder, and louder, and he couldn’t choke it back. But between his gasps, he began to hear, distantly, the tell-tale sound of footsteps in the hallway.

 Patton clamped his hand down over his mouth immediately, biting down on the side of it to stifle the whimpering. He hoped and prayed it wasn’t Logan, because he just knew that his friend would try so hard to help, even when what Patton needed was so touchy and clingy. But he shouldn’t have to deal with that.

Nobody should. 

So, he held his breath.

As the footfalls grew closer, however, Patton realized that they were much too heavy and thumping to be Logan’s. His steps were quick and light, but this person’s shoes came down with force, possible platforms, and- oh.

Oh no, not that, anyone but that- 

The door cracked against the wall as it was slammed open. Patton flinched, recoiling into his ‘hiding spot’ and hoping beyond hope that he was wrong about who it was.

Then Remus walked fully into the room, big chunky boots knocking against the carpet, and his worst fears were realized.

Of all the people to see him like- like this, it had to be the side that liked him the least. Not that he could blame Remus, because after everything he’d done to him it was certainly deserved, but that did nothing to assuage the terror blooming in his chest.

Remus gave the room a scan, clearly searching for something; he must’ve heard the crying. His gaze fell on Patton soon enough, and when it did his eyes widened to big, excited circles. 

Patton pressed his back against the wall, knowing anything in the world could happen to him now. He knew better than to think that Remus was a monster, someone come to torture him till he was dead as something like him could be, by now. He’d learned that lesson after the acceptance, after fighting to move past those judgements. 

But that didn’t mean Remus wouldn’t mock him, or poke and prod him in this vulnerable state, or any other number of smaller hurts that Patton most certainly had coming from the intrusive side. And the worst of that was he didn’t know, he had no clue what would happen, because Remus was Remus, the least predictable creature he’d ever met. What if he just left? Left and told everyone what he’d seen and now everyone would look at Patton with nothing but pity from now on, and they’d feel so guilty when they didn’t shower him with unearned attention. 

“Oh, shit,” there was a sharp hiss, and then Remus had teleported right in front of Patton, crouching down to his level. The moral side would have recoiled, but he found that he was already cowering as much as he possibly could.

Patton’s face was pressed against his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs. He tried to control the small, distressed sounds that continued to escape him, but the efforts were useless when he felt calloused hands tugging at his wrists. He yelped.

“Now- Now’s not a- a good ti-me,” he gasped out, voice cracking like a child’s. He regretted the words at once, feeling the fingers on his skin still. 

“I can see that, Pat.”

What was he thinking? There was no way Remus would leave now, now that he knew Patton didn’t want him there- not without teasing and badgering Patton until he got bored, at least. Why couldn’t he have just been better in the past, then maybe he wouldn’t be at the mercy of someone who more-or-less hated him? Why had it taken him so long to get things right- why did it always happen that way?!

“Hey, hey, look at me.”

Patton hesitated, sure that when he looked up he’d see Remus shapeshifting his face to something horrible and grotesque. Eventually, though, the tugging at his arms and the ache of his eyelids pressing against his knees broke him, and he glanced up.

And there was Remus. Just Remus. Looking as normal as he ever could have. Worried, even.

“There, that’s good- uhm, I’m not gonna hurt you, okay?” A toothy smile crossed his face, “Wow, never expected to hear myself say something like that, hah. I’m serious, though- which also feels weird to say!”

Patton stared at him in utter confusion. At the concern etching his face. That expression just didn’t seem to fit on the Duke’s face, looking out of place across his leathery skin and overly large features.

“You- you aren’t?”

Remus snorted, rolling his eyes (literally, a full 360 degree rotation) and scrunching up his nose.

“What, I’m gonna find you whimpering and bawling your eyes out like a newly-orphaned baby, sit down with a bowl of popcorn, and heckle the shit out of you?”

Patton glanced back down at his knees and went quiet. A ‘no’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he and Remus both hated lying, so he swallowed it back. The only thing he could say was:

“I’m sorry.”

Remus blinked, dropping out of his crouch to sit cross-legged in front of Patton. 

“Nah, don’t be. I wouldn’t have put it past me from like, two months ago, anyway.”

Patton lowered his legs a bit, if only because the position made them sore. He angled his head to the side, puzzled.

“What changed?”

Remus spent a moment very obviously trying to decipher if the question was genuine. 

“Uh, you stopped being a dick?”

Patton’s confusion only mounted, so much so that he hardly noticed the swearing.

“I did?”

“Yeah? Teary apology to me n’ everything,” Remus gave a noncommittal shrug, “Plus, you might be a prude, but you haven’t tried to boss me around in like… weeks.”

“Oh. Um,” Patton blanched, his fingers splayed out on his knees. He hadn’t thought such a simple apology would earn him anything near forgiveness- even when it first happened, guilt soaking every word from his mouth, Remus had laughed incredulously and brushed it off. And he’d read that as a refusal to accept the apology, but...

Remus let go of his wrists, opting instead to pick at his own claws. It seemed he was starting to realize just how out of place he seemed, sitting so casually in Patton’s room like this.

“Do you want me to get someone else to, like, cuddle you and talk about feelings or whatever? I don’t have a lot of experience with this whole comforting thing.”

Patton paled, panicked to think anyone else should have to be subjected to this.

“No!” 

Patton felt himself flush embarrassedly when Remus startled, and dropped his words to a whisper.

“I mean- I don’t want anyone else to see… this. But you can still go, if you want.”

There was a moment’s deliberation.

“Alright,” Remus said simply. 

Patton gave him as much of a smile as he could manage, waiting for the trait to leave. He tried to ease the disappointment he felt with the relief of knowing that he’d made it out of this conversation unharmed, but.

But the Duke made no move to leave. 

He clearly picked up on Patton’s perplexion, and frowned.

“Well, I don’t wanna leave you like this.”

“Oh- oh, um, thank you, that’s- You don’t need to-”

“Do you want me to go?”

Patton hesitated, hunching his shoulders up. Did he? Did he really want to be alone? Again? But when the alternative was- well, he really didn’t know what it was. But it didn’t seem quite as bad as loneliness (few things would be). 

“I’ll take your panicked silence as a ‘no, don’t leave’,” Remus announced, and- that was probably a good call, yeah. “So, do you wanna talk about it?”

Patton shook his head fiercely, like the question had struck him physically.

“Alriiight,” Remus drawled, “Do you want, I dunno, a hug?”

God, yes, more than anything- but he couldn’t… he couldn’t just! Take that!!

“Oh, you really don’t have to do that for me, I-”

“I know I don’t have to,” Remus said, “I volunteered to.” 

Patton stared at him, eyes blown wide as a painful sort of hope grew in his chest.

“I- I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask, I offered,” he retorted, sounding amused but not cruelly so. He outstretched his arms, opening them wide, and the offer was much more tempting than it should have been. “C’mere. I can’t promise it’ll be pleasant, obviously, but you don’t look too picky right now.”

Patton sat up straighter, leaning forwards on his knees. He let his hands fall to the carpet, inching just a bit closer. Each movement was halting, giving Remus as many chances as possible to take back his offer. When they were finally close enough, Patton reached out his hands, stopped them, and reached a little further, until just barely were his arms circled around the other’s torso. 

The reaction was immediate; Remus surged forward and coiled his arms tightly around Patton’s back. He gripped tight before rocking back, essentially dragging the much taller side into his lap and holding him there. 

And Patton could hesitate just a second more before his resolve crumbled, and he threw his arms around the Duke with force. He buried his face in the glittery fabric of Remus’ shoulder, finding it softer than he’d always expected. He didn’t attempt to hold back the crying now- not that he could, he wasn’t in any state of mind for self-control now that this was happening.

A hand found its way to Patton’s back, gently tracing up his shoulder blades and then back down. Another pressed against his hip, from an arm that was secure around his waist. 

It was an indescribable relief. Remus had been wrong- so wrong: the embrace was the furthest thing from unpleasant. Sure, he may have smelled like rotted meat and mold, his slick-with-grease hair brushing the side of Patton’s face, but none of it mattered at all to how perfect the contact was. It was grounding, Remus’ arms sturdy. Whenever Patton was hugged, there was the anxiety that came with knowing it would end soon, but in that moment he felt nothing but security. Because it didn’t seem like this one would end after a measly few seconds, not with the way Remus held him. 

He didn’t let go at all. When Patton started sobbing in earnest against his shirt, he gripped somehow tighter. And when that crying eventually tapered out into tiny whimpers, his hand on Patton’s back moved in wide circles, nails scratching softly down the ridges of his spine. And when fifteen minutes had passed, and Morality was finally soothed, he still made no moves to let go.

Patton heaved a breath full of shuddering relief, laying his head down against Remus’ chest and listening to the erratic and rhythmless beat of his heart(s?). What little energy he had on the reserves left him, leaving him limp against the intrusive side. 

“You good now, Morey?”

Patton blinked drearily, hardly aware that he’d closed his eyes before he was prying them open again.

“I think so,” he tilted his face, a weary smile on his lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Remus lifted an arm to ruffle his hand through Patton’s curls, smirking.

There were a few minutes of quiet as Patton caught his breath, and eventually pulled away of his own accord. He pushed himself onto his knees and stood, hearing a few joints creak and pop in protest as he stretched. He swayed on his feet, his limbs staticky from how long he’d been in that less-than-ideal cuddling position. 

Cuddling. Which was what Patton had just done. With Remus. The weirdness of that was just starting to catch up to him, there. 

Remus  stayed on the floor, stretched his arms above his head, and cracked his knuckles with sick popping sounds as he did. He proceeded to do the same for all of his limbs and joints, bending some of them backwards for good measure. Patton looked away, but Remus really didn’t seem to be trying to upset him; it just looked like habit. 

“Well, this was nice,” Remus gave a final, crackling stretch. “Aside from the crying, I mean.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

Remus waved his hand dismissively, hopping to his feet. 

“Don’t sweat it. It’s good to get the eyes pissing when you’re feeling rough,” he (sort of) comforted. Patton shifted from foot to foot, humming in vague agreement as Remus found his way to the door. Most every word on the tip of his tongue was another kind of apology, and it was only with difficulty that he could swallow them back. 

“Thank you,” Patton muttered, “Again.” 

“Anytime!” He threw the door open, catching the frame with his claws. He tossed a glance over his shoulder and a wide, inviting smile split his face. “And I do mean that, ya know.”

And with that, Remus was gone.

Patton hovered in the center of his room, staring at the closed door. 

It was so empty now, even with all his clutter. 

He shuffled over to his bed as the exhaustion hit him, falling into the plush mattress adorned with stuffed-animals and pillows. Hesitantly, he drew his arms around his middle, hugging himself as tight as he could.

Everywhere he pressed his fingers, the skin burned and prickled with lingering heat. He missed the touch already, but even the ghost of it filled him with relief. Patton exhaled, slow and steady, as he leaned back into his pillows. He felt better than he ever had after one of his meltdowns. 

He typically dealt with them alone (he wasn't even sure if anyone other than Roman or Janus knew he had meltdowns, thanks to the wedding ordeal), and they always left him feeling cold and hollow. But this, this safety he felt, the cozy dreariness lulling him- it was cathartic. The change of pace was welcomed.

Patton’s eyes fluttered shut, and he sighed. Who knew- maybe he’d wake up to find a pile of dead mice under his bed in the morning, or a horse’s head beside his pillow, or a thick coat of effluvia all over his plushies. Maybe there would be something to indicate that the comfort had been a trick, just another way for Remus to sneak something disgusting into his room as a prank. But something told Patton that the chance of that happening wasn’t all that likely. 

Remus was, after all, very unpredictable.

Chapter Two

Taglist: @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob 

#sanders sides #ts #fanfic #fanfiction #sanders sides fanfiction #ts fanfic #intruality #my writing #platonic intruality #multi-chapter #patton #remus

[uswnt-owns-this-homo]

Let a Bitch Hit You- Julie Ertz x Reader

     AN:  Here’s my attempt at a protective JJ, hope I did it justice!

TW: Homophobia, mentions of drugs/alcohol, cursing of course, homophobic slurs and language

You take a deep breath as the ref blows the starting whistle, the Courage kicking the ball back to their defense, signalling the start of the game. You try to follow the ball as much as possible, taking care to stay in position and wait for opportunities and passes to come your way. You can’t help but to think of the circumstances as your teammate, and long term girlfriend, Julie Johnson, gets the ball, and passes it quickly, opening up space and helping the Red Star’s attack. 

      The significance of the game is not lost on you, your first one against your prior team. Jaelene Hinkle, one of the most openly homophobic people in the league, had pushed you towards your transfer, though you and Julie were already discussing a request at a later time. After her and Ashlyn’s epic twitter battle, Jaelene had lashed out slightly, demanding that you, as the “resident queer on the team’’, get dressed for games and practices in a different area, so that she “could change without being leered at”. 

      The rest of the team, minus your national teammates, had just let her go along with it, not defending you or telling her she was wrong. This, along with direct statements to you about your sexuality, including, but not limited to: constantly telling you you’re going to hell and sinning, pelting balls at you during practice, and, during team bonding events, conveniently forgetting to invite you, leaving you disconnected with the rest of the team, had led to the situation at hand.

      Your former teammates, bar the national team members, attack you mercilessly. They go for cheap moves, like holding your jersey during corner kicks, and performing late slide tackles, obviously targeting your notoriously weak ankles and knees. Throughout the game, Julie’s frown has become more prominent, her play more sharp, focused on getting the win over the people, or more accurately, the person, who contributed to her girlfriend's small fall down the rabbit hole.

       Instead of discussing the transfer, and the events behind it, with a professional, you had turned to alcohol, and over the counter medications, drinking booze and then taking benadryl, or cough syrup, and sleeping for days. You had kept up your facade of your usual happy, energized, rival to Sonnett in memes personality, up until you had moved in with Julie in Chicago. She had quickly noticed your actions, taking count of the vodka and medicine bottles, and had pushed you to see a therapist, resulting in your sobriety of now 4 months. 

      Hinkle makes the mistake of going in for a late slide tackle, clipping your already sore ankle. You turn to her and she sneers, winking at you. You slowly get up, rolling your eyes as the ref allows play to continue.

      Julie has been slightly more aggressive when facing Hinkle, and some people have noticed, mainly you, and of course the target herself, especially after a particularly hard run in was made for the ball.

“Hey, Johnson, how about you clean up your play? This is the third time you’ve shoved me, getting sloppy there, homo?”

      The look on your girlfriend’s face says it all, and all you can do is run to put a hand on her shoulder, trying to keep her from retaliating.

“Aw, look, dyke is trying to stop big bad Julie from starting something she can’t finish. How’s the cough syrup binge going, Y/N? Still sober, or have you fucked that up as well?”

      You just blankly stare at her, feeling old urges resurface, trying to stay in the present, as well as keep Julie from getting carded.

“You know, I think you transferred because you know I’m right, and you can’t face the fact that you sin everyday, and don’t like that your sickness is brought to light, isn’t that right, Y/N?”

      Julie shakes you off, stomping forward and shoving Hinkle, causing you to follow, holding her back slightly, your team, and the opposition coming together in a large huddle, Alyssa grabbing Julie and holding her back..

“Alyssa, please. No, Y/N, she can’t talk to you like that! I mean, the league has done jack shit to her for harassing you, or for poor sportsmanship, or any of the other numerous things she’s done. Jesus, you tried to kill yourself! And what does she get? Absolutely nothing!”

Jaelene seems to falter for a moment, before her face turns in a sneer.

“Poor Y/N, can’t take any criticism, what’d you do, try to get away from it?”

      Julie finally breaks out of your and Alyasa’s grip, lunging at Hinkle, landing a solid punch to her jaw. The ref comes running, putting her hands on both players. Julie is still attempting to reach Hinkle, and laughs at the red card she’s shown.

“Oh yeah, fucking let the one who’s caused severe emotional and mental harm to my girlfriend get off scott free!”

Coach calls her over and she rolls her eyes, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead, glaring at Hinkle when she fake gags. 

You’ve had enough, officially snapped, gone off the metaphorical rails of tolerance of douchbaggery.

“You know, you can insult me, make me want to cease living, but you have no right to be disgusted. Any god I know would be appalled at how you’ve treated my community, and I know you don’t go to heaven just on the merit of being a homophobic christian. Ash was right, you have no place on the national team… You wouldn’t fit,”

      You shove her backwards, taking your yellow card with a grin. Play resumes relatively quickly, and your whole team goes forward into the second half with a renewed passion, compensating for Julie’s red. You lose yourself in the game, giving it your absolute all, and laying yourself out on every possible play.  You manage to score 3 goals, one which could have been defended by Hinkle. 

      The whistle blows and your team rushes you, picking you up, hugging you, and cheering. You all head back to the locker room and you spot Julie, staring at her phone, a blank stare on her face. You sit beside her, putting your arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a hug.

“Thank you, so much. For defending me, for fighting for me, even though I really missed my favorite ball feeder,”

Julie cracks a smile and shrugs.

      You pull her in for a short kiss, trying to  convey all of your love for her. You all walk out of the locker room, bags and bus buddies in tow. Julie holds your hand as you walk to the bus, rubbing a thumb over it as you stare blankly ahead of you, thinking back on your whole experience with Jaelene. Julie wraps her arms around you as you both get onto the bus, finding your usual seat beside Alyssa, who smiles worriedly at you. You take a deep breath and look at Julie.

“I just, I thought transferring would give me peace, but she’s still there, the thoughts, they’re still there. Just. Why is it such a big deal to her? I’m just living my life, trying to be happy, and she constantly made me feel, hell, sometimes still makes me feel, worthless, and I know therapy helped, but still, sometimes, like tonight’s game, brings it all back,”

      Julie gets a look on her face, as does Uncle Naeher. They look at each other and nod slightly, brows furrowed.

“Come on Alyssa, Y/N, sit here, we’ll be back in a second,”

You curl up in the seat, listening to Julie talk to Alyssa’s seat mate, and one of your friends on the team, Sam Kerr.

“Look, me and Alyssa have to go do something, we’ll catch an Uber to our place afterwards, could you do me a huge solid, look after Y/N for me? Make sure she stays talking, doesn’t zone out too much?”

Sam nods and Julie sighs, turns to you, and kisses you on the forehead.

Okay, love, I’m gonna go, sort things out.  I’ll be back in a bit, before you go to bed, okay?”

You numbly nod, heart racing.

      She quickly turns to Sam, nods, and goes to get off the not yet started bus. Coach looks at her and Alyssa, and they talk for a few seconds before he waves them on, glancing back at you. Sam moves to sit beside you, and you curl up to her side, silently wishing it was Julie.

      You’ve made it back to the hotel, eyes red from your crying on the way back. You carry your bag to your room, Sam walking you to it and giving you a hug as you walk inside. You put your things down, taking care to organize it so you don’t have to deal with it later. You turn the coffee maker on, set it to hot water, and start to run it, putting a tea bag in and leaving it to brew while you shower. You get your sweats and long sleeve t-shirt, taking out your toiletries and turning the water on cold, hoping the chill will help pull you out of your funk. You hop in and sit under the water, shivering slightly, but unwilling to turn it warmer. 

      You must sit there for an hour, slowly numbing even more from the cold water. You vaguely hear the room’s door open, Julie setting down her bag and putting her keys on the desk.

“Y/N? Babe?”

      You want to turn your head, say something, go lay and curl up in your girlfriend’s arms, let her reassure you, but the motivation doesn’t come. So, you sit and numbly watch, shivering and lips turning blue, as Julie comes in the bathroom, looks to you, and immediately rushes into the shower, clothes on and forehead cut, eye black.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve been here, stayed with you, I just. She did this to you, without really trying, I couldn’t just let that happen,”

      You just shrug and hug her, trying to get warm, regretting your tactic for pulling yourself out of your mind.

“Okay, we need to get you warm. I saw your tea, you can have that, and then we can lay down and watch that documentary you heard about from Rose?”

      You nod, watching her turn water to warm, and strip, leaving her soaked clothes on the bathroom floor. Julie slowly washes your hair, conditions it, and takes a cloth to your slowly warming body, every touch and prod gentle and full of love. She keeps you under the warm spray for a while, holding you and rocking slightly.

“Okay, now which one of my hoodies do you want? We have the Santa Clara U or the Red Stars one, and some sweats, and some fuzzy socks are in your near future,”

You smile.

“You wore the Red Stars one more recently, so that one,”

A small blush runs across her cheeks, her usual confident demeanour gone.

“I’ll see what I can do, charmer. Ready to get out, get bundled, and get cuddled?”

She goes about shutting off the water, looking down to nod at you, and then stands up, you still cradled to her chest. You have a moment of realization.

“If I ask nicely, will you avoid putting clothing on?”

She sputters and turns tomato red.

“I- what? No, clothes are going on so I can properly warm you up, no more sly passes! I’m trying to take care of you, short stuff,”

You glower, sigh, and wrap your arms around her neck, waiting for her to put you down.

“Okay, look, tonight may have gotten to me, just a bit, but even all wacked out, I know somethings wrong. What happened to your face, and where’s Uncle?”

She sighs and starts to towel you off.

“Fine, The Giant and I went to have a chat with Hinkle, and I had her record it. I simply started talking with Hinkle, trying to reason and help her to understand things a little better, and then she hit me, and I didn’t hit back, and then she hit me some more,so now we’re hoping that we can send this to the big people in charge and maybe she’ll get suspended or in trouble or something. Alyssa is back with Sammy trying to stay away from conflict for the rest of her life. She did tell me to tell you to come down tomorrow if you needed some tips for dealing with the whole situation. Honestly think it’s the most she’s spoken this season,”

      You hug her and wrap the towel around her shoulders before smacking her gently in the leg.

“No more inciting violence in the hopes that you fuck with people who have ‘wronged me’ or whatever it is you said that one time, got it? Also, you need ice, but I will say I love a girl with a black eye,”

      You walk off into the main part of the room, ruffling through Julie’s bag to find her sweatshirt, lifting it over your head with a triumphant croon.

“Aw yeah, the epic girlfriend hoodie, let’s go!”

      Julie chuckles and walks out, coming up behind you and grabbing her SCU hoodie, pulling it on and winking.

“So that next time you want a sweatshirt, you can have a freshly me scented one,”

      You roll your eyes and grab a pair of training shorts, pulling them on and grabbing your tea, laying back carefully on the bed.

“Okay, coral documentary, snuggles, and then sleep,”

      Julie nods and gets in bed, pulling you close and grabbing the laptop beside the bed and opening up Netflix.

“Sounds like a pretty amazing night to me, shorty, let’s watch us some ocean stuff,”

     Needless to say you’re crying by the end of the documentary. Julie jerks awake, her soft snoring abruptly ceasing.

“What? What happened, who hurt you, I’ll let em’ punch me, get their ass suuspeendedd,”

      You chuckle, still crying slightly.

“Nobody, babe, just, he loves coral! And it’s disappearing, and he’s sad and all emotional and now I’m all emotional!”

      You sniff a few times and shut the computer, quickly putting it on the bedside table.

“Please don’t let anyone hit you again, Juls, pretty please,”

      She sleepily grunts and mumbles.

“Man, sometimes you just let a bitch hit you, ya’ know. Gotta get the w somehow, cause I sure didn’t get it during the game,”

      You laugh and wrap her arms tighter around you, knowing it’s going to be a bit of a long road ahead, but certain that the whole situation will pan out, and that you have Julie by your side through all of it.

#julie johnston x reader #julie ertz x reader #julie ertz #uswnt imagine #julie ertz imagine

[love-toxin]

day 3, spanking; bakugo.

a/n: kinktober day 3. possessiveness, unhealthy relationships, spanking, marking, size kink, degradation, rough sex, excessive swearing, lemon. 

word count: 1.2k

"Who's the fucking best?"

Smack.

"You-"

Smack.

"My name. Say it. Tell me who your fucking hero is."

You trembled, your legs splayed helplessly out over the couch cushions, while your nails dug into the arm of the sofa. Katsuki had you laid over his lap, your shorts pulled down and tossed into a heap on the floor, and had been going to town on your poor cheeks, beating them with his open palm to the point that they had flushed with stark hand prints. 

"G-Ground Zero!"

Smack.

"K-Ka-h! Katsuki!"

This time, when his hand came down on your behind, it had none of the burning power of all the rest of his strikes. He gave you a careful slap, maybe just to test again how soft your flesh was, before grabbing a handful and ignoring your quiet whimpering. 

"...You got a cute fucking butt. Good thing it's all mine...I'd kill anyone who tried to claim an ass as tight as this."

He gave you another smack, snickering at the way you yelped in pain, before easing up for the moment. You took in a deep breath, finally able to relax...but it was short-lived, and suddenly you felt fingers prodding between your cheeks. Without thinking, you reached behind yourself to swat his hand away--but he grabbed your wrist in a second, skin heating up and the smell of caramel permeating the air.

“I’d think twice about that if I were you, sweetheart.”

His voice dripped with venom, as he gripped your arm hard enough for tears to prick at your eyes. It wasn’t as if you didn’t remember how cruel he could really be, if he thought you weren’t trying hard enough to make your ‘relationship’ work. You had no doubts that he wouldn’t have any reservations about seriously injuring you...and blowing your arm off would likely just make it easier for him to have his way, without you trying to stop him. And so you let the tension fall away and let your hand go limp, waiting with bated breath until he finally released you from his hold, his fingers instead trailing back down to that soft, sensitive place. 

You tried your hardest, you truly did. But no amount of mental willpower could stop you from squirming as he held you down, and roughly shoved a finger inside you to feel around for the spots that would have you seeing stars. 

“Quit fucking moving! Or else I’ll blast those cute little cheeks into fucking oblivion. You understand me?”

Thank god he could take a shaky nod as an answer, obviously too worked up already to dwell on a punishment. You did your best to relax yourself, as you felt another digit prodding at your rim...and a moan escaped from your lips, as he sunk the second one in and curled them right into your soft spot. 

“...One to ten. How sore are you?”

The stinging, residual pain in your behind from his harsh strikes practically radiated off you, skin marked, bruised, and burning. But even still, it wasn’t the worst he had ever done to you...and as much as you had fought him, the way he massaged you from the inside out was starting to feel cathartic. 

“S..Six.”

Your voice left in a gasp, as he pressed into a place you almost wished he had never discovered. You would cum no matter what pain he put you through, as long as he kept teasing that little spot inside you. 

“You think you can take my cock?”

“U-Uh-huh..”

You didn’t hesitate, even for a second. And for it, you got another slap, one that made you squeal with pain. 

“Don’t fuck around with me. Yes or no. I’m not waiting for you to heal if your fucking hole gets torn in two.”

...And you just couldn’t take it anymore. You were so wet by this point, you had practically soaked through the couch cushions--even if was rough, even if he punished you to the point that you couldn’t think or move or breathe without his help, you just needed an end. You needed to cum, more than you’d ever needed anything else. 

“Y..Yeah. Please.”

His hand cupped your jaw, slowly guiding you to look up at him--and as a rare, soothing gesture, he stole a deep kiss off your lips, before ordering you in a growl to sit up. And you obeyed, quickly, even if the mere act of shifting to sit made your bottom hurt even more. 

“Spread. Show me where you want me to make a mess.”

Katsuki gripped his cock, dragging short strokes up and down to prepare himself, as he waited for you to straddle his lap, and tentatively pull your cheeks apart to present to him what he wanted. As far as you could really be concerned, you didn’t often have a choice at this point--pretty much everything below your waist belonged to Katsuki. And when he wanted it, he got it, in any position he wanted for as long as he wanted. And you were...surprisingly complacent with it. 

“Fuck, that’s cute...c’mere. Sit down...and get comfortable.”

He tugged you back by your hips, until the tip bumped against your entrance, still as thick and intrusive as you remembered. And it was only going to get thicker, as he guided you to sink down further, groaning out his pleasure as his cock stretched you even tighter than you expected. Either he had somehow gotten bigger...or you just hadn’t adjusted to his size, even still.

“Katsuki..”

But he wasn’t happy about it. In fact, you could feel him growl as you squeezed around him, tighter than a vice. 

“...Fucking liar. This is gonna hurt.”

Just to prove his point, Katsuki spanked you once again, hard this time--and your mewl of pleasure descended into pain, as your ass started to sting again and you tightened even harder around Katsuki’s cock. And you knew for certain now, that it was going to wreck you once he started to move. 

“Yeah, well you know what? Fuck it. Enjoy this. Now I know you fucking love it when I make you bleed. And I’m gonna make you bleed tonight, slut.” 

He raised his hips up to meet yours, snapping forward to get a feel for how you pulsed around him--and shockingly, he placed a rather light kiss on your neck…until his teeth came into play, and when he sank them into your skin, you cried out in a way you had never heard from yourself before. 

“P..Please...Please, Katsuki…”

“Oh, I see. You’re so desperate, you don’t even mind...or, maybe you’ve always liked this. Doesn’t fucking matter though, does it? I’m gonna hurt you tonight...and when I’m done, you’re still gonna jump on my dick again tomorrow, freak.”

As he started bucking into you, his hand came down to spank you again, but this time there was no stopping him. Every smack on your already-stinging cheeks just made you moan louder, and squeeze around him tighter, while he treated you like some stupid, hollow sex toy. Once he was done, he would pet your hair, maybe towel you off, and possibly even give you a kiss...and you would fall asleep thinking this really could be love. 

And when you woke up tomorrow, maybe this time you would realize the vicious cycle you had trapped yourself in.

#yandere katsuki bakugo #yandere bakugo #yandere katsuki #yandere bakugo x reader #yandere katsuki bakugo x reader #yandere bnha #yandere x reader #yandere lemon #yandere kinktober 2019 #yandere kinktober #love-toxin kinktober #love-toxin #1k

[spaceskam]

day 3 of @alexmanesappreciation: legacy but I took a lot of liberties (also a follow up to the fic i wrote for day 2)

warning: memory loss, teenager-esque jealousy, mentions of Caulfield & 2x12

ao3

Alex knew he must've misunderstood something whenever Maria got there.

Michael caught her by the hand before she could run up to Alex and he pulled her to the side to have a word. But Alex wasn't stupid. He saw the way he touched her and the way she touched him and how close they stood while speaking to one another. It made him more uncomfortable than the fact he was standing half naked and letting Kyle and Liz prod at his body like he was a science experiment. Maybe he was.

Alex watched them until they finished their conversation. Michael squeezed her hand before letting go and she nodded simply. Maria turned to him with a big, cautious smile and came closer. With permission from Liz to touch him, she wrapped him up in her arms. He wanted to be happy to see her, but he couldn't take his eyes off Michael. What were they keeping from him?

"I'm so glad you're okay, I was worried sick," Maria said sincerely, squeezing him. Alex hugged her back easily and tried to stop looking at Michael. Just because he'd lost 10 years of his memory and it was super important to find out who and why didn't mean they could leave out massive plot points like Maria and Michael touching each other like that. But if they left it out and Michael kissed him, maybe he was looking into it too much. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired and sore," Alex answered. His whole face was throbbing and it hurt to use his crutches because of the bruising on his ribs.

But Kyle got Isobel Evans of all people to stop by his house and get something they called an iwalk. It fit around his not-leg and was sort of a substitute for a prosthetic so he could stand up without irritating his leg more. He hated it.

"I bet," Maria said, "But you still look hot despite all the bruises, so take it as a win."

"Yeah, I will," he said, eyes going back to Michael who was standing over her shoulder, "Can I put my clothes back on now?"

"Oh, yeah, of course, sorry," Liz said, rambling as she had been, "I just need to take a blood sample, but you can have your clothes on for that."

Michael came over to him then as if it was his job to help him get dressed. He grabbed the pair of sweats and the t-shirt he’d brought for him so he didn’t have to put back on the ones he’d been wearing the whole time he’d been allegedly kidnapped. Alex carefully sat down on the stool and started unlatching his thigh from the iwalk thing. Michael’s hands instinctively went to help.

“Stop it,” Alex said, catching his chin in his hand and pulling him into a kiss. Michael smiled into it and so Alex dragged it on as long as he was allowed, deepening it without concern for who might see since everyone could see. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t peek to see if Maria saw. And she clearly had because she looked away.

“Whoa, okay,” Michael laughed, pulling away. His cheeks were red and Alex was obsessed. It made all the bad things happening a little bit better. “Let’s get you dressed, huh?”

They took the straps off his thigh and Alex used Michael as leverage to pull the sweats over his hips. He pulled the shirt on carefully and slowly due to his face and ribs while Michael tied off the hanging end of the sweats. The whole process took, like, five whole minutes. So long that Alex had to pull him back in for a kiss when they were done.

“Alright, we get it,” Liz laughed, nudging Michael out of the way. Alex reluctantly let him out of his grasp. “After I take a blood sample, do you want painkillers?”

Alex felt himself relax a little at the offer. “You have some?”

“Yeah, do you need them?”

“I would prefer them,” he admitted. It was easy to push aside his discomfort when Michael was kissing and touching him. But he couldn’t have that forever and he was still hurting. Hell, he couldn’t even see out of one of his eyes.

“Okay, let me take a sample so I can start getting to work and figuring out how to fix this,” Liz said, wiping down a spot on his arm with an alcohol pad. He’d had so many of those on him in the last hour that he was surprised he wasn’t getting drunk through his skin.

“Didn’t you say someone else had this stuff in them too? Didn’t you try to find a cure for it then?” Alex asked. Liz looked up at him, face a little grim.

“Well, with Cam, we didn’t really know who or what to expect to find in her memories. She had a much weaker dose and it only erased what she saw when she was taken. She wasn’t exactly super excited to remember those weeks,” Liz explained, trying to force a kind smile, “You know, it’s a little weird seeing 29-year-old Alex’s face, but with 19-year-old Alex’s voice and eyes.”

“What are you talking about?” Alex asked just as she pushed a needle into his arm. He didn’t even wince.

“You look older, but... you carry yourself a bit lighter when you were young,” Liz explained, “Before everything.”

It was a small suggestion, but it had Alex’s mind reeling. Before everything? Was she insinuating things got worse? Or maybe she didn’t know about the shed. Maybe she had no idea what she was talking about.

Alex looked to Michael for some type of elaboration, but his eyes involuntarily went for his hand. It was all wrapped beneath a bandana, but it hid... nothing. He jumped at the sight of that, frantically looking up to Michael’s face.

“Whoa, stay still,” Liz said, “Still drawing blood.”

“What happened to your hand? I-It looks fine. I don’t understand,” Alex said, panic building in him again. Maybe this wasn’t just a weird time-jump, maybe he was in a different universe all together. “Wait, did... did my dad still...”

He didn’t know how to ask the question. And, apparently, no one knew how to answer.

The air got heavy and everyone around them stilled while Liz slowly pulled the needle out of his arm and replaced it with a band-aid. Alex’s eyes were stuck on Michael who shifted uncomfortably at the topic.

“Yeah, that still happened,” Michael said softly, clearing his throat as he looked to Liz, “I was thinking that maybe they took him to erase all of the shit he knew to make him less of a threat.”

Everyone noticed the drastic subject change, but didn’t address it. Alex, however, wasn’t as easily subdued. He wanted to know. He opened his mouth again, but he was cut off by Kyle handing him a couple pills and a water bottle. After he took that, he was again cut off by Michael stepping in close. Alex took his hand since clearly he wasn’t going to get much in the way of an explanation.

He ran his fingertips over the unscarred skin while his adult friends talked around him.

“But what’s the point of that? I mean, he obviously already had an attachment to you,” Isobel chimed in. Alex made that even more obvious by resting his head against Michael’s chest. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear their conversation. How was his hand so smooth again? How had he gone so long without noticing?

“Maybe they were trying to go further and failed,” Michael suggested, “Or maybe they just wanted to erase the alien thing to try and warp his position.”

Before Alex could even ask what the hell he was talking about, his mind blurred.

“Do you want to know who I am, or do you wanna know what I am?”

“Yes.”

Alex gasped and clutched Michael’s hand, looking up at him with wide eyes. Michael looked at him in concern and they just stared for a few minutes. Alex could feel that familiar buzz under his skin, contentment of being with him mixing with that tumultuous fire of arguing with him. Because apparently they did that a lot... they argued.

“What? What happened?” Michael asked, his hand laying on Alex’s neck and using his thumb to hold his chin up. Alex looked at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“My dad was the reason I know,” Alex murmured, “He told me. I’m not gonna sway on my stance no matter when I find out.”

Michael stared at him for a moment, eyes flickering over his face as he tried to process what he said. Then he pressed a kiss to his forehead and Alex let himself relax back into Michael. He hated this, hated not remembering everything. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Something about him made it easy to make him not remember. Trauma really was a bitch.

“Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the goal,” Michael said, “Maybe they were just trying to take out our biggest threat.”

“But then why would they give him back? And why would they drop him off at your place?” Kyle asked.

“Well, he was asleep when I got there. Maybe he still had his memories and he escaped and my place was the closest, but the drug activated whenever he passed out,” Michael suggested, his hand rubbing up and down Alex’s back.

“Do you really think he’d be able to escape on his own after getting beat up that bad?” Maria asked. Michael huffed a small laugh.

“Yeah. Especially if he still had his memories.”

They kept talking, kept brainstorming, and Alex kept feeling more and more exhausted. The painkillers dulled his nerves enough for him to focus on the fact that he needed sleep and trying to remember more than one offhanded conversation and the vague context of it was making him suffer even more. He turned the good side of his face into Michael’s chest and closed his eyes. He felt safe there.

“So, what, we think he got taken and his memory erased to fuck up his role in dismantling a legacy? Wouldn’t they have taken me too?” Kyle asked.

“No offense, but you haven’t exactly been hands on lately,” Liz said as kindly as possible. Kyle scoffed. “But from what I can tell, it’s definitely Butyricol. Same grimy little cells lurking in his blood.”

“Gross.”

“Absolutely. But I’m thinking if I can extract it I can work with it enough to see if I can make something that, you know, brings back memories, sort of like a human-equivalent to the alien antidote I made. Otherwise we’re stuck with him getting maybe one or two every once in awhile,” Liz said.

“How long do you think that’ll take?” Michael asked, one hand still rubbing his back and the other cupping the back of his head. Alex was more at peace than he’d been in awhile despite the fact they were all talking about him. 

“Long enough for you to let him take a nap, but not so long you should leave and risk running into more trouble,” Liz told him. Michael nodded.

“Okay, then we’re just gonna go lay in Kyle’s car.”

“No fucking in my car.”

“Obviously.”

Alex reluctantly sat up and grabbed his crutches. He hated this whole missing leg thing. He wanted his memories back if only so he could be used to it again. If that version of him was used to it. Would he ever be?

He gave an extra look to his friends. Liz and Kyle were already getting to work. Maria gave him a kind smile. Isobel was... there. And Michael was watching him, ready to catch him if he needed it. 

It was a slow and irritating process making it over the messy halls and desert terrain to get to the car, but they eventually found themselves cuddled up in the backseat of the car. Alex basically laid on top of Michael, trying to get some sleep. But he couldn’t, not quite. Not until he asked the question bothering him the most.

“We’re not together, are we?” he whispered. Michael was quiet for a little while, his thumb never stopping the smooth circles he rubbed into his shoulder.

“No,” he answered, “We’re not.”

“You’re with Maria,” Alex filled in, “I saw the way you guys touched each other.”

Michael took a deep, slow breath and it made Alex rise with him. He just waited for an explanation of how Maria, if she really was his girlfriend, was letting him be so hands on with Alex. Of course, Alex wasn’t mad about it. He missed Michael. Both with and without his memories.

“We’re... over. We were sort of in the middle of a breakup before you showed back up because I spent the last week ignoring her and tearing the world apart trying to find you,” Michael said, “She wasn’t mad that I was looking for you or anything, I guess it just finally clicked that... It doesn’t matter, we agreed we’d talk later, but right now it’s all about making sure you’re safe and comfortable.”

Alex lifted his head a little to look at his eyes. He was gorgeous. Sadder and rougher than Alex remembered, but gorgeous. 

“But you still like me?” Alex wondered. Michael huffed a small laugh, his hand carefully combing through his hair.

“Alex,” he said, his eyes flicking around his face. Alex noticed the moment he decided on what he wanted to say and he said it with confidence. “I love you.”

Alex’s mouth felt dry and his not-swollen eye widened. Love. That was new.

Again, before Alex could find his words, his mind blurred again.

“They’re my family, Alex!”

“Alright, maybe! But you are mine!”

Alex came back with another gasp, trying to ground himself again as Michael stared at him. The two second memory flooded him with residual gratitude that he was here. He was alive. He was his.

“I don’t look away, Guerin,” Alex told him. Slowly, a smile showed on his face and it might’ve been the most beautiful think Alex had ever seen.

“Was that just one memory, or...” Michael said, a hopeful little tinge to his voice. Alex hated to let him down, but he nodded.

“Just one,” he whispered. Michael’s smile didn’t fade any as he nodded.

“Then I want you to know I loved you then and I love you now. When you remember all the bullshit I’ve done to you, remember that I loved you through it all. I never stopped, okay? If they erased your memory to fuck with your place in your family’s legacy, than I’m gonna go ahead and use it to fuck with ours too. We were meant to be together and to be happy. I know that for a fact and I know people died to make it so. So, I’m saying it now. I have always and will always love you, Alex Manes,” Michael told him. 

Something akin to giddy laughter bubbled out of Alex at the words he was hearing, his whole system flushed with love and appreciation. He knew once he got his memories back, he’d probably feel different. From the way Michael was speaking, he knew he would feel different.

But right now he felt like he was on top of the world.

“I love you too,” Alex said, moving up to kiss him, “And I’m really upset we agreed not to fuck in Kyle’s car.” Michael laughed.

“You’re hurt.”

“Yeah, but I’m 19 and sleeping with a guy in Kyle Valenti’s car sounds like the best kind of revenge.”

Michael laughed again, pressing another kiss to his lips as he said, “Yeah, well, your body isn’t 19 and 29-year-old you might have a problem with me letting you get bent like that when you probably haven’t done your PT in over a week.”

Alex raised an eyebrow.

“Bent? That sounds like a challenge.”

“Go to sleep,” Michael told him, still grinning as he led Alex’s head to the crook of his neck, “I know you feel good right now, but this is just the beginning to a whole slew of bullshit that’ll come whenever we figure out who took you and what happened over the last week.”

Alex rolled his eyes, but agreed. It was hard to sleep with the adrenaline pumping through his system at Michael’s I love you, but eventually his fatigue caught up with him.

Later, he woke up to Liz excitedly telling him that she was sure she found a way to reverse it. They injected him with it and they waited. 

It didn’t happen immediately. In fact, they had to deal with a lot of stuff before he really got those memories back. They had to deal with his father, namely, and Crashcon. It was difficult trying to act like he knew what all these people had become and trying to assimilate just a little bit at a time. Even with Michael it was hard. There were pieces missing that made things different.

It all came to a head, though, when Alex found himself staring at his brother standing between his father’s gun and Michael Guerin.

“I know what he means to Alex.”

And suddenly Alex did too.

(ps if you want a fic where they actually bang in kyle’s car, check out @prouvaireafterdark‘s fic here because what am i if not slowly becoming a lynne fanpage)

#alexweek2020 #alexappreciation2020 #malex fic #malex #michael guerin #alex manes #roswell new mexico #my fic

[mandelene]

For the drabble prompts, what about single father Francis taking Matthew and/or Alfred to the doctor’s, where he meets Dr Kirkland for the first time? Bonus if the twins try to set them up, but don’t worry if you think it’ll be too long for a drabble. 💕

I did make it way too long, but once I got into it, I couldn’t stop myself. 😅💖 Sorry in advance. I hope you enjoy it! Also, I want to make a disclaimer that I do not think parents shouldn become infatuated with their kid’s doctor irl, nor should said doctor react the way Arthur reacts in this story because it’s unprofessional. 🤣  It’s just a story! 

Extreme Hopscotch and a Hot Date

Word Count: 2060

“Alfred, please, don’t make a scene!” 

“No! You can’t make meeeeee!” 

Francis did not think he’d be frantically rushing a bleeding Alfred to the nearest urgent care clinic at seven o’clock in the evening because someone thought it would be a good idea to create a game of “extreme hopscotch” in sidewalk chalk right in front of the house. Long story short, after a miscalculated cartwheel, Alfred managed to fall on his arm and land in gravel, resulting in a three-inch laceration leading all the way from his wrist and stopping midway down his forearm. 

Alfred is a menace when it comes to receiving any sort of medical attention, and Francis has tried everything to get him to be more cooperative—bribing him, whispering sweet nothings, soothing him, lecturing him, scolding him—nothing works. 

Thankfully, he has a secret weapon…

“It won’t be so bad, Al,” Matthew tries to convince his brother. “I’ll hold your hand, okay?” 

Alfred swipes at his red puffy eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt and sniffles wetly. “I don’t want it to hurt.” 

“The doctor will make it better,” Matthew promises, squeezing Alfred’s shoulder. “And maybe you’ll get a lollipop at the end!” 

Francis doesn’t know how Matthew has become better at getting through to Alfred than him, but he’s grateful for it.  

The idea of receiving a lollipop seems enticing enough because Alfred sullenly walks his way over to the pleasant medical assistant who has been patiently waiting for him to follow her down the hall. 

“You can come right in here, boys,” she says, holding the door open to an exam room. 

Francis picks Alfred up and sits him on the exam table so that he doesn’t have to struggle to climb up. He places a warm, reassuring kiss on his forehead, and then, he and Matthew sit in a pair of chairs opposite Alfred. 

“So, what brings you guys in today?” 

“Alfred fell on gravel while playing on the sidewalk and has a gash on his forearm. I’ve tried my best to keep it bandaged, but the bleeding hasn’t stopped,” Francis explains, pressing his palms against his knees. He has a fair bit of white coat syndrome himself, so being calm for the boys in these types of situations often proves to be difficult. 

The medical assistant notices Alfred’s rolled-up right sleeve and the gauze around his arm. “Ouch, that’s not good…All right, honey, I’m just going to take your vitals.” 

She takes Alfred’s temperature with an ear thermometer. When it registers as normal, she checks his blood pressure—also normal.

“Does he have any medical conditions?” 

“No.” 

“Allergies?” 

“Not that I know of.”

“And how old is Alfred again?” 

“Seven.” 

The medical assistant busily types away at the computer for a moment, clicks some boxes, and then says, “Okay, one of our doctors should be in shortly. Feel better soon, sweetie!” 

Francis thanks her as she leaves and shoots Alfred another encouraging smile. “It’s going to be okay, mon chou. 

Five minutes of tense silence go by, aside from Alfred occasionally asking, “Is it going to hurt? Am I going to get a shot? Are they going to cut my arm off?” while Francis tells him to relax and take a deep breath. 

There’s a knock on the door. A doctor of average height with emerald green eyes, tousled blond hair, and a white coat comes in. He shakes Francis’s hand and greets him by saying, “Good evening, I’m Dr. Arthur Kirkland.” 

“Francis,” Francis replies, mouth suddenly dry. 

The doctor turns to the exam table to shake the hand of Alfred’s uninjured arm, and Francis can see that Alfred is impressed that he’s being treated like a grown-up. “You must be Alfred, and I’m assuming that that’s your brother sitting over there.” 

“Yeah, that’s Matthew,” Alfred supplies with another wet sniffle. “He’s my twin, but I’m older than him by like ten minutes.”

“I see,” Dr. Kirkland says before shaking Matthew’s hand as well for good measure. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” 

He pauses to look down at Alfred’s injured arm and gently lifts it up. “Can you tell me what happened here, Alfred?”

“Ummm…Uhhh…I sorta was playing extreme hopscotch with Mattie and got to the part where you’re supposed to do a cartwheel, but I fell over and hit my arm and cut it.” 

“Extreme hopscotch?” Dr. Kirkland asks, raising a brow before carefully undoing Francis’s makeshift bandaging. 

 “…Yeah, it was an idea Mattie and I came up with…” 

 “I told you it was a bad idea,” Matthew mumbles from the sidelines. 

Dr. Kirkland smiles, clearly amused by the story. He sets Alfred’s arm down for a moment to put on some gloves and frowns when he gets a good look at the ugly gash, which is still bleeding even two hours after the incident. “Has this been cleaned out?” 

“I tried,” Francis says, holding a hand against his temple. “I wanted to rinse it under the sink, but Alfred threw a fit, and I don’t think I got very far.” 

“Hmm...” He turns Alfred’s arm back and forth several times and feels along his wrist and the surrounding bones. “Does it hurt when I press around here?” 

Alfred whimpers and says, “Yeah, when you pressed up there.”

“Up here?” Dr. Kirkland asks, prodding around Alfred’s wrist again. 

“Oww!” he exclaims, and a few tears roll down his cheeks. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it worse…I need to check something, all right? And it may hurt for just a moment, but you seem like a courageous boy, and I think you can handle it. Okay?” 

 “…Okay.” 

Francis smiles again and gives Alfred a little thumbs-up. Given how he normally acts at the doctor’s—he’s doing phenomenally.

Dr. Kirkland slowly rotates Alfred’s wrist and tries to hyper-extend it forward, but Alfred lets out a sharp shout, so he stops. “All right, all done…We’ll have to make sure you didn’t break any bones in your wrist or arm when you fell, Alfred, since you’re having some pain and swelling. So, I think it’d be wise to get an x-ray. We can do that here and know within a few minutes. We’ll also have to clean that wound and give you a few stitches.” 

“I-Is it going to hurt?” Alfred asks in the most pitiful tone Francis has ever heard him use. 

“Maybe a little, but then it’ll feel much better later.” 

Alfred swallows hard and mumbles, “Okay.” 

After a nod of confirmation and understanding from Francis, Dr. Kirkland says, “We’ll take him for the x-ray first. The medical assistant will come and get him. I’ll return once we have the images.”

Francis nods his head again “Okay, thank you!” 

“Not a problem.” 

Dr. Kirkland steps out for the time being, so Francis gets up to give Alfred another comforting kiss on the head and wipes his tears with some tissues. 

“See? That wasn’t so bad, right?” Francis murmurs, running a hand through his hair. “The doctor seems very nice.” 

“You should go on a date with him,” Alfred abruptly says, and Francis feels his heart skip a beat. 

“What in the world—?”

“You said he’s nice.” 

Matthew then jumps into the conversation and adds, “You were looking at him all funny, Papa.” 

“I was not!” 

“You so were,” Alfred agrees with a giggle in between his pained sobs. 

Before Francis can analyze the social cues he must have obviously given for the boys to be suggesting such a thing, a new medical assistant arrives to take Alfred to go and have his x-ray taken. Francis offers to walk him there, but Alfred insists that he’s a “big kid” and can go by himself. 

“You haven’t been on a date in a long time, Papa,” Matthew whispers. 

“I’m not going to have a fling with Alfred’s doctor, Mathieu!,” Francis whispers back. 

Alfred is brought back to them about ten minutes later, and the doctor arrives fifteen minutes after him with some medical supplies. 

“The good news is Alfred doesn’t have any fractures. It looks like a bad sprain. I’ll give him a brace to wear on his wrist for the next two weeks until it stops being sore and tender,” Dr. Kirkland tells Francis before looking down at Alfred. “Let’s get that wound sorted and you can be on your way. No more extreme hopscotch though, all right?”

“All right,” Alfred reluctantly agrees, hunching his shoulders. 

“I’m going to give you some medicine to numb the cut so that it won’t hurt when I put the stitches in.” 

But when Alfred spots the syringe and needle, he screeches at the top of his lungs, and Francis does his best to calm him down. 

“Alfred, Alfred! What happened to being a courageous boy?” Dr. Kirkland asks. “It’s just a little needle.” 

“No shots!” 

“Alfred, please,” Francis begs. He was doing so well! 

Once again, Matthew comes to the rescue by taking Alfred’s healthy hand in his own. “It’s okay, remember?”

Alfred squeezes Matthew’s hand and buries his face into his Papa’s chest to weep some more. 

Dr. Kirkland, meanwhile, coaxes Alfred to extend his arm and place it flat on the exam table. “It’ll be quick, Alfred. I promise.” 

“I take back what I said, Papa. You can’t date him! He’s a meanie!” 

At that, Francis turns beet red and really wishes he could disappear. Maybe the poor doctor didn’t hear that. “I’m so sorry. I have no idea what he’s talking ab—”

“A date?” Dr. Kirkland inquires, and Francis isn’t sure if he’s continuing the topic of discussion because he’s genuinely curious or because he wants to distract Alfred from the needle that’s now approaching his flesh. 

“Papa is single and hasn’t been on a date in forever,” Alfred explains, head still pressed into Francis’s shirt. When the needle finally pierces his skin, he yelps, but Matthew squeezes his hand and Francis rubs the back of his head even though he is mortified. 

“I see…The worst part is done with, Alfred. You shouldn’t feel any more pain, but your arm may feel tingly and strange as it becomes numb. I’m going to rinse this out with some sterile saline…” 

Francis doesn’t dare to look, afraid he’ll accidentally meet the doctor’s gaze and make things a million times more awkward. Alfred eventually loosens his grip on him and Matthew, curious to see what’s being done to him. 

“There we are. Much better,” Dr. Kirkland says before he readies the sutures. “This shouldn’t hurt, so tell me if it does…” 

“How many stitches?” Alfred asks, less hysterical and distraught now. 

“As many as it takes to close the wound. Probably around fifteen.” 

“Gross…But that’s also kinda cool.” 

Dr. Kirkland smiles again—he has such a lovely smile, Francis thinks. 

Alfred’s eyes widen as he watches the doctor work. “You do it so fast!” 

“You’re not the first person I’ve stitched up…It’s very important that you don’t touch your stitches or rip them, or else the wound won’t heal. You can come back to have them taken out in ten days.”

Once that’s done, Dr. Kirkland wraps Alfred’s arm in some gauze to discourage him from picking at the sutures and puts his wrist in a small brace. “How does that feel?” he asks. 

“It doesn’t hurt as much.”

“That’s the answer I was looking for,” Dr. Kirkland says before typing some notes into the computer and scribbling something on a piece of paper. Then, he hands Alfred a lollipop and a sticker that he fishes out of a drawer and turns to Francis to inform him, “You can give him some ibuprofen tonight before he goes to bed to bring some of the swelling and pain down. Ice and elevation will also help. You can get his detailed discharge forms from the front desk. Do you have any questions?” 

“No, that’s all. Thank you very much.” 

Dr. Kirkland nods and hands Francis the piece of paper he was writing on, except it’s now folded in half. Then, the doctor helps Alfred down from the exam table, pats his head, and says goodbye. “Stay out of trouble and feel better soon!” 

Francis assumes the paper contains some instructions regarding Alfred’s care. But when he unfolds it and realizes what it is, his hands tremble. 

It’s a cellphone number...

#hetalia #aph france #aph america #aph canada #aph england #drabbles #aph fruk #this isn't a drabble -- it's a one shot lmaooo whoops

[bjy-on-ao3]

Fic Friday: Relaxation

(As usual, you can find the AO3 version of all my uploads [and some things I don’t post here to tumblr] via my Masterlist blog page.)

Turns out there are character’s besides Adachi from the Persona series I like, so figured I’d write a little something with one of them, starting with Dojima.

Summary Dojima has had a long day at work. Reader helps him unwind with a couple beers and some TLC.

Tags/Warnings

Alcohol, Consensual Sex, Couch Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff And Smut, Reader-Insert, Vaginal Sex

Relaxation (F! Reader/Ryotaro Dojima)

Sitting beside the table, leaning casually on your palm, you paid only half attention to the drone of the late night news anchor and flashy headers filling the screen. You cast a lazy glance at the time glaring at you from the corner of the screen. It only reinforced the obvious: it was late. Yet you had a feeling Dojima would run late again when he had asked you to watch Nanako - more like to keep her company, given how capable the young girl was for her age - and had no qualms about it. Yet it still surprised you, even with your past experiences, just how late Dojima’s work kept him from home some evenings. One would think they couldn’t function for even a scant amount of time without him.

Though, Dojima had only requested you to keep an eye on Nanako until she had gone off to bed, so, really, you were the reason for staying so late. The little girl, like all children, seemed to vastly underestimate how long she could stay awake, and had gone to sleep several hours before. But you preferred sticking around until Dojima came back. It put you at ease seeing him return safely, not to mention it gave you an excuse to spend a few fleeting moments with him, though he was often rather exhausted after his shift at the station. He had never complained about the habit either, if anything he seemed to gather a little cheer despite his fatigued state at the sight of a familiar, friendly face greeting him. So you stayed, waiting much longer than necessary, while time and television programs slowly ticked on and away.

The sound of the entryway door opening and closing from the foyer broke through the dull, fake cheery drone of the latest repetition of the week’s expected weather. You glanced away from the TV set when the second door slid open, and you spied Dojima standing in the doorway. He looked tired as always, though happy to be home. When he noticed you were waiting for him again, you spotted a tiny, pleased spark to his expression and your lips twitched up at the corners.

The twitch bloomed into a full, warm smile of greeting as you got to your feet. “Oh, you’re back,” you noted cheerily, though kept your voice level and quiet. “Long day it seems like?”

Dojima didn’t chastise you for stating the obvious. He only sighed and nodded before responding. “You have no idea,” he confirmed, shutting the door behind him and making a beeline to the kitchen. “Half the station’s out sick. It’s a miracle they didn’t keep me all night,” he grumbled, opening the fridge.

“I’ll get out of your hair then,” you said, moving to his side and touching a hand to his shoulder. “I bet you want to get some shuteye before they call you back again, right?”

Ordinarily, now was the time when Dojima would nod in agreement, give you a parting peck on the cheek or lips, thank you for watching Nanako again, and apologize for how long his arriving home had been, all before bidding you goodbye and to stay safe. But tonight he seemed more needy for company, lonely almost. “I know you already stayed late watching Nanako,” Dojima began, though he knew very well you could have left earlier, “but would you mind staying a bit longer?” he asked tentatively, and your heart fluttered in response warmly.

“Sure, I’d be glad to, if you want me to,” you agreed. You leaned into give him a quick kiss on his cheek before returning to your previous seat on the cushion beside the table.

You were a little sleepy yourself by now, but you wouldn’t pass the opportunity to spend more time with him if you had the choice. Of anyone you had ever dated, Ryotaro Dojima was the one hardest to get free time with, especially alone time, given his additional responsibilities as a father on top of being a police detective. Neither of which you faulted him for though. To you, he was worth the effort, even if he was a little rough around the edges, and not the greatest with expression himself.

Dojima rummaged through the fridge’s contents for a few seconds, pulling out two cans of beer and closing the door. He made his way to the living room, setting down of can in front of you on that table, before sitting on the adjacent side of the table in front of the sofa.

“Thanks.” Dojima hadn’t asked you whether you wanted the drink, but you knew he wouldn’t have been upset if you had declined either.

You cracked opened the beer and took a small drink, wrinkling your nose slightly at the taste. Dojima repeated your actions, though he took a larger gulp from his can, and the room lapsed into silence. Though, as you continued to watch the droning news stories and the peppy commercials pepper in between, it was a pleasant silence. Lacking the heavy, awkward atmosphere silence sometimes possessed, or any of the pressure to frantically search for a conversation topic. One another’s presence was enough to make you comfortable, the company nearly therapeutic on its own. You were content to simply satisfy whatever need for quiet company Dojima had for however long he wanted it.

Out of the corner of your eye while you sipped the contents of your can, you noticed Dojima shift awkwardly, tensely, rolling his shoulders or stretching his back and rubbing his neck and wincing. When he rose at one point to retrieve a second beer, he even made a soft sound, something like displeasure or irritation. Another casualty of a long day at work, you imagined, especially the more sedentary parts. Dojima’s long shift had done more than drain him physically and mentally it seemed.

“Do you shoulders hurt?” you prompted curiously.

Dojima’s eyebrows knit together and up in surprise, as if he hadn’t realized what he had been doing or that you might even notice. “Ah, just a little stiff. Fewer people sure doesn’t mean less paperwork,” he groused, and you saw him grimace again at another twinge of obviously sore muscles.

“Let me help,” you offered, though it was more question than anything.

“Ah, no, you don’t need to go to any trouble,” he dismissed quickly.

“Really, it’s fine, it’s no trouble,” you assured him.

Dojima sighed, as if your persistence vexed him, though it was a sigh of defeat. You knew he was prone to brush things off, and sometimes it took a little convincing tor him to accept an offer of help. He nodded, wordless agreement to your insistence.

You stood up, moving to Dojima’s side of the table and crouching down close behind him. He returned to his drink, focus seemingly turned back to the news. You didn’t waste time, quickly getting to work and placing your hands on his shoulders and starting to knead. Your touch was gentle at first, carefully prodding here or there to map out the state of his sore shoulders. Dojima was tense as well, some of it beyond just the stiffness of his muscles, like always, but that tension evaporated soon enough. Feeling him relax, and having more of an idea on what to work through, you added more strength to your massage.

“You’re really knotted up to hell and back,” you pointed out, running across a knot of muscle that was extra hard and tight. Dojima released a sound that was a mix of a hiss and a groan when you applied a little more pressure to the stubborn knot..

He said nothing to you, though. And once more the comfortable silence took over the living, the only true noises the distant drone of the television and the small sounds Dojima continued to make while you tried to soothe his soreness. By the time you had gotten his shoulder satisfactorily loose, Dojima had finished his second beer, but didn’t rise yet for another. You weren’t sure if he had decided two was enough for the late night or if he was enjoying your massage.

His neck was your neck target, not strung nearly so tense as his shoulders and back, but still obviously sore. When you pressed your fingers into the muscles of his neck, it elicited much more pleasant sounding noises, less like the almost relieved pain when you had massaged his shoulders. The familiar tone of them made you grin, and you bent your lips to his ear.

“You know, Ryotaro, all this stress building up isn’t very good for you,” you murmured, shattering the silence.

“I’m used to it. It’s nothing,” he brushed off again, and you frowned.

“If that were true, you wouldn’t so tense,” you countered. A thought had come to you as you massaged the kinks from his neck. “You know, I can think of something that might relieve some of that stress,” you drawled, the kneading of your fingers morphing into featherlight touches on his skin, and you placed a few soft kisses following the path of your fingers.

Dojima hesitated, but seemed to follow the subtle hint well enough. “I don’t know, I don’t think I’ve got the energy,” he wavered.

“Don’t worry, you wouldn’t have to do anything,” you reassured him, planting a few more kisses and gentle touches on his neck. You smiled when a tiny shudder rolled through him. “I’ll handle everything. I just want to help you unwind and relax, I promise. They work you so hard you deserve it, after all.”

He gave a deep hum of consideration. “Alright,” he agreed after a moment of thought.

You got to your feet, helping Dojima to his own, abandoning your empty cans and moving toward the couch. Dojima sat down and you straddled him languidly, gently pushing him back to relax against the cushions completely. He slipped his finger through the knot of his tie, loosing it and the letting the collar fall a bit before relaxing completely. “Now, just lie back and relax, okay?” you insisted, one hand splayed flat over his shoulder.

“If you say so.”

Once Dojima was completely settled, you bent forward, kissing lightly along his jaw, his stubble scratching at your lips. You trailed slowly across his skin, down his neck and back up. Rewarded with a couple of pleasant, quiet hums, you moved to his lips, pressing yours to them. As you began to kiss him, Dojima’s initial response was slow, tired. But a subdued enthusiasm welled up in the kiss the longer it went on, moving to match the sensual pace you dictated. A muffled, satisfied sigh escaped him, and you took it as your cue to carry on further.

Brushing both hands down the front of Dojima’s shirt, you worked the buckle of his belt nimbly, slipping the leather loose and discarding it. You lay a palm on the crotch of his slacks, the beginnings of an erection rising beneath your touch. You rubbed your hand against it gingerly, coaxingly. Feeling the slight bulge grow beneath your fingers, you set to undoing the catch of his pants with your spare hand. The hand stroking him through the cloth moved swiftly, dipping past his waistband and the line of his underwear to caress him more directly.

You broke away temporarily from the kiss to allow the pair of you to catch your breath, just in time for a gruff, but suppressed groan to drift from Dojima’s mouth. There was an exhausted hint to the noise, though his pleasure was plain as well. His dark eyes were closed when you looked at him, basking in the sensation, and the hints of a blissful expression had painted themselves across his weary features. When you returned to his lips, you were smiling, delighted to see some of the day’s stress already melting away.

Pushing his pants and underwear down more until his cock stood free and half-hard beneath your hand, you grabbed it in a surer grip. Dojima inhaled sharply, and you flanked down, feeling him twitch and harden further. You drew your hand up and down, again starting slow, gaining momentum and stroking faster until he was at full mast from your touch. You teased the head for a bare moment, before moving your hand away and pulling back, admiring the sight of him lying practically boneless against the cushions. A delightful flush of color dusted his cheeks and his collarbones where they peeked out from his dress shirt, and when he opened his gray eyes they were half-lidded. You tore yourself from your reverie quickly; you weren’t doing this simply for the pretty picture.

You climbed off of him for a time, and he eyed you curiously, as if wondering what had stopped you. Dipping your hands up beneath the hem of your skirt, you hooked your thumbs under your panties and tugged them down, letting them fall onto the floor. Gathering the ends of your skirt in one hand, you clambered back onto his lap, settling yourself more comfortably over him.

Reaching beneath you, you took his shaft in your hand again, guiding it your lips and sliding it between them to lubricate it with the wetness had pooled between your legs while you touched him. When he was coated well enough, you brought the head of him to your entrance, slowly easing yourself onto him. Another gruff sighed escaped Dojima, and you returned to his lips to kiss a third time.

This time the kiss was deeper, more passionate, and a little sloppy as you took more and more of his length into you, stifling tiny sounds from you both. When your hips pressed flush, and all of him was sheathed inside of you, you stopped, savoring the ache of him stretching you, a small gasp disappearing into his mouth when his length twitched again. His hands made their way to your hips, fingers absently kneading your curves through your clothes.

You leaned forward, pressing yourself more closely to Dojima, chest crushed against his, feeling the rumble of his chest as more muted sounds rolled through him, dying on your tongue. Your eyes met his gray ones again, half-lidded still, hazy with his fatigue, but also with a lusty quality that made you clench around him unbidden. Spurred on by the alluring expression in his eyes and the delightful hardness filling you up, you shifted your hips. Rocking them slowly, you allowed Dojima to relish in the tight, soft heat, and letting you feel every inch of him.

Your pace remained slow and steady, almost lazy, though the muffled noises coming from your throat and his own spoke of how much you both enjoyed it. As you had promised him, you were more than happy to do the work, letting Dojima relax and lose himself in the pleasurable sensations. His touch through clothes, while light, was pleasant and soft, encouraging you to stop now and then and grind your hips against his and kiss him a little harder, a little more ardently. Though the pace was languid, it was sure, building a low, simmering fire in your belly and a tension you tried to shove to the back of your mind in favor of focusing on Dojima.

Though he was tired, concerned he would have been too drained to be very involved, Dojima’s hips rocked up to meet yours gently, the motion almost involuntary and instinctive, rather than a concentrated effort. It only added to the pressure and the heat. You fisted your hands in the collar of his shirt, driving your hips more firmly against his and feeling the rumble in his chest intensify.

When the kiss parted for the third time, it was of Dojima’s accord. He buried his face in the hollow of your throat, panting hotly against your skin there, his small noises as muffled by your skin as they had been by your mouth. With his lips no longer around to stifle you though, you clapped a hand to your mouth in their place. Dojima’s fingers grew still, becoming a tight grip, digging into your skin through the fabric, tightening a little more each time your heat swallowed him up again, pushing him closer to the edge.

You whimpered and winced at how tight his hold became, hearing his breathing, ragged and heavy, become more labored in time with the strength of his grip and the rhythm of your hips. You thought you heard him growl something gruff and unintelligible into your neck, but in the moment you very well could have imagined it. You were far too distracted to pursue that train of thought though, choosing to rut against Dojima’ more desperately.

All of it, the vice grip of his hands, the labored breathing, and the gruff sounds smothered by your skin, was the precursor to Dojima reaching his climax. Still squelching any stray noises, he finished a low, rumbling groan that made you shiver. His hands held you so tightly as he filled you, they nearly interrupted the slow buck of your hips, and you rocked them with a bit more force.

Everything combined, with the aid of some friction from clever angling of your hips, had put you so to your own release, too. Dojima’s climax was enough to drag you over with him. Your walls fluttered around his length, milking him for all he had left, and making his hips jerk against yours spasmodically for an instant.

A thick silence followed when both of you were spent, falling back into the couch. Again it was the welcoming, almost soothing silence though that added to the moment. Dojima’s head lolled back against the cushions, and you pressed your face into his shoulder, his shirt crumpled from your grasp. You stayed that way for what felt like a long time, your bodies still joined, hot and tired, basking in the afterglow until your breathing returned to normal and your hearts stopped pounding.

You finally eased yourself off him tentatively, feeling overly sensitive, but pleased, hoping he felt the same. “Feel any better?” you whispered in his ear, moving a hand to toy with the short-cropped strands of his graying hair.

His answer was gruff and drained, but not unpleasant. “Exhausted… but better,” he admitted, not bothering to lift his head, his eyes closed.

“Good,” you said, smiling and placing a kiss on the corner of his mouth, and then another. “I’m gonna get going then, let you get some well-deserved rest. Just make sure you make it to your bed, alright?” you teased, knowing it wouldn’t have been the first time Dojima passed out on the couch; though this in particular was not a proper way to fall asleep there.

You got to your feet, gathering your underwear from the ground and shimmying back into them, smoothing your skirt down. “Call me if you need me to watch Nanako again, alright? Or, you know, if you just want me around,” you said, giving him a joking when he opened his tired eyes and fixed them on you.

“Wait,” Dojima shot up from his boneless position, tucking himself back into his underwear and redoing the catch on his pants. He rose to his feet as well/ “You don’t have to go. You could…” His words lapsed low, muttering almost, as if he were hesitant to speak them loud enough for you to hear, and a cute new flush decorated his cheeks.

“What was that?” you pressed.

“Uh, why don’t you stay the night? With me. It’s late and…” He paused, searching for the words, “I’d appreciate the company.”

The feeling of warmth that welled up in your chest at his hesitant, almost shy request was enough to make you blush, too. “All you had to do was ask,” you confessed, grinning and moving to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. You pressed a much more chaste kiss to his lips, which he returned just as sweetly. “And I promise I’ll behave and let you sleep,” you joked, sealing your teasing with another kiss.

With that decided, Dojima grabbed the remote off the table, turning off the tv for the evening and tossing it back down, while you grabbed the empty beer cans and moved them to the kitchen. You followed him then to his room, feeling warm and nearly giddy, or as giddy as you could be when you craved sleep.

When the bedroom door closed, you both tiredly discarded most of your clothing, leaving you both in your underthings. Climbing into the bed, you curled up against Dojima, and he draped an arm over your after pulling up the sheets. Snuggled against one another so warmly, made weary from a long day and from the strenuous end to it, the alcohol an extra tip to the scales, it didn’t take long before sleep claimed you, heavy and comforting.

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