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joeloverture · 1 year ago

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hook 'em horny | j.m. x f!reader

masterlist : coach!joel masterlist pairing: college football coach!joel miller x reader summary: [no outbreak] seeking petty revenge on your cheating quarterback ex-boyfriend leads you somewhere you shouldn't be — and then it lands you over the knee of his coach. warnings: (18+ mdni, don't make me say it again.) cheating done by a referenced oc, briefest mention of drugs, porn barely garnished with plot, age gap (22/52), smut, unprotected piv sex, creampie, vaginal fingering, potentially dubcon by way of power imbalance but consent is enthusiastic, daddy kink, sir kink, 'punishment' spanking, degradation, praise, brat tamer!joel, dom!joel, joel spits on her ass but otherwise no butt stuff, mild choking, body writing, so many pet names of so many varieties, aftercare, surprisingly fluffy [no use of y/n] word count: 6.4k a/n: this is a crazy idea to have considering joel can hardly handle ellie. i don't think he'd be able to handle ~118 college-aged boys. however, the idea of football coach! joel is hot to me (i mean, seriously, look at those sluts on the sidelines) so i made it happen. on a serious note, i am so sorry to the unnamed university this is based on. i toured you. i'm legacy. but... joel miller. let's make it clear this is for entertainment purposes only. this is a fictional work about fictional people that does not reflect the school itself, which is a fine institution whose head coaches historically do not fuck students in the locker rooms. shoutout to my dad who, unknowing what this information would be used for, explained to me how he snuck into this stadium 3x. don't do that, either.

You can’t even remember the last time you made a good decision.

Your track record definitely isn’t the cleanest: you chose to go to school in Texas, and then chose to stay there for four years. Choosing to go to that frat party in late junior year wasn’t your brightest moment, either, evidenced by the resulting hangover from hell and, predictably, frat flu. All things considered, those choices pale in comparison to hooking up with their all-star quarterback, Lucas Scott.

Dirty-blonde, blue-eyed, muscled Lucas Scott. He’s the sort of guy who looks like an eight when you’re looking at him after a few shots of tequila and a four when you’re sober. The sort of guy who, after over a year of dating, makes you split the bill halfway after ordering the more expensive entree. Crowned as the most efficient, precise, and instinctive quarterback the Longhorns have ever had. Apparently that instinct hadn’t been enough to drive him away from dipping his wick in every sorority girl’s candle wax.

No matter how much post-orgasm Lucas panted into his ear that he loved you, you weren’t stupid enough to trick yourself into believing it. Staying with him was the easier choice, not yet wanting to reduce yourself to locker room talk. Walking in on him sloppily fucking some redhead nursing major was the breaking point. When it became less about you and more about your dignity.

So, yeah, you’ve never been one for making good decisions, and you certainly aren’t about to start now.

You thought breaking into the stadium would be some sort of monumental task. Trespassing here was normally reserved for campus rooftops and after-hours exploration, but once you’d gotten this batshit crazy idea in your head, you knew it wasn’t going to shake until you at least proved it couldn’t be done.

The open garage at the back of the building doesn’t help to deter you. It’s like there’s a welcome-mat outside saying, ‘Come on in and get what you deserve!’.

Who would you be to decline such a sincere invitation?

The garage is empty apart from some cushy golf carts, and the steel door behind them couldn’t be more tempting. If it’s locked, you tell yourself, you’ll go back to the dorm and forget about your incident of near-trespassing.

You take small steps to the door, testing the handle. It springs right open, and all thoughts of leaving dissipate from your mind.

Who leaves the garage open and forgets to lock the door? Probably people with just as little between their ears (and legs) as Lucas. You scoff in half-disbelief, half-luck as you close the door behind you.

The energy feels stagnant this late at night, no announcer on the loudspeaker or swarms of burnt orange hats and T-shirts standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Industrial lights flicker above, their hums loud enough to make you wonder if you have tinnitus. Concrete lines the hallways, interrupted by a few silver-painted pipes arranged in a labyrinth up against the walls. A few security cameras are pointed at you. Before going any further, you pause to raise the hood of your Longhorns sweatshirt.

Even if you should be, you aren’t in much of a rush; you amble about, really taking in the sterile ambiance of the empty stadium. You turn a few corners, going in what feels like the right direction. You figure you’re getting closer when you spot what looks like it could be a security tower. Crouching behind a trash can, you wait it out, trying to peer through the untinted windows to figure out if there’s anyone in there at all. When you’ve determined it’s unmanned and let out a shallow exhale, you go back up to full posture and keep wandering around unsupervised.

You know you’re in the right place when you find your toes hovering over a red line painted on the oil-stained concrete: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.

Bingo.

Crossing that line without really thinking about it, you stick to your (so far) tried and true method of going wherever feels the most promising until you’re standing in front of the two black doors you were looking for. The door’s handle is an obnoxiously large longhorn, and you quite literally have to hook ‘em to get inside.

You’re starting to understand where the rest of the university’s funding is going when you walk into the locker room. After dating Lucas for a year, you know the football team is full of itself, but the Longhorniness of it all is… excessive. There’s the silhouette of the logo glowing on the goddamn ceiling, and if the jerseys the players are wearing on their digital nameplates isn’t enough of an indicator of who they play for, every backlit locker has a drawer with, you guessed it: a longhorn painted at the center. A brown vinyl couch wraps around the front of the room in direct view of a powered down videoboard that you can only assume replays highlight reels.

You roll your eyes. Again, your track record with decision-making isn’t the best, because you chose a school who puts every penny towards sweaty frat boys with brain damage from the amount of concussions they get.

And then you see it: a sign tacked onto the middle aisle of lockers that reads CORE VALUES. From top to bottom, HONESTY, TREAT WOMEN WITH RESPECT, NO DRUGS, NO STEALING, and NO WEAPONS. You have to physically clamp your jaw shut to restrict your laughter at the second one.

It doesn’t take you long to find what you’re looking for. Lucas Scott, #10.

His sweat-stained jersey hangs limply from the rack, and you eagerly tear it off, tossing it down onto the floor. Eager like a child ready to color outside the lines of a coloring book, you kneel down in front of it, pulling out the one thing you had prepared for tonight. A bold black Sharpie.

You pop the cap with your teeth, spitting it out somewhere on the floor as you start scribbling. Disguising your handwriting isn’t intentional, but you’re writing so carelessly and on such a foreign material that it comes naturally. Your tongue sticks out of the corner of your mouth as you work. In a year and a half, you’d never felt such satisfaction about — and certainly not from — Lucas.

TWO PUMP CHUMP along the side. FIVE INCHES FULL MAST on the other. CHEATER at the bottom. WHORE across the front.

A throat clears behind you. You drop the Sharpie, a blot of ink forming on the mesh. You startle backwards, scooting until your back hits that stupid longhorn drawer. You’re expecting a janitor, maybe a security guard if you’re extra unlucky.

That isn’t the worst of your options, apparently, because when you look up, it’s at Joel fucking Miller, head coach of the longhorn’s football team.

Your lower lip starts trembling, and that moment is when you decide maybe you need to start making good decisions. You’ve heard enough about Joel from Lucas to know he’s a total hardass. He could drag you by the ear to the dean and have you kicked out at the tail end of your second to last semester in this hellhole.

He glares down at you with his head cocked, hazel eyes far darker than they ever seem on TV. His scruff stipples his hardened jawline, lips thinned out like the worry lines pressed onto his forehead. If you were interested in digging yourself any deeper, you might stall to think about how good he looks: the faint trail of chest hair vanishing down into the neckline of his longhorns polo shirt, his fitted khakis, broad leather belt slung around his waist, and the slight bulge of tummy above it. You swallow hard and kick yourself for it.

“What exactly,” Coach Miller drawls, voice syrupy and sticky. “do ya think you’re doin’?”

Your mouth moves, but no words come out. He doesn’t seem very amused, his muscled arms crossing over his wide torso.

Joel shakes his head. “Ain’t a good look for you, hun, scrawlin’ that chicken scratch all over my QB’s jersey. Could get a real ugly charge for that.”

Heart crashing into your ribcage, you bite down on your lip. “I can pay the damages,” you blurt out.

He sizes you up all over again, eyes dragging up and down your body. They linger on your chest for a few extra seconds that you’re convinced that you just made up. “Can you, sugar? ‘Cause to me, looks like you’re the type to be chasin’ tips at whatever joint hires you.”

You don’t have the bandwidth to be as offended as you should be, especially because he’s right. You settle for glowering at him instead. A huff of laughter pinches out of him. “You give everyone you vandalize that blue look? Or is that lil’ number jus’ because you found out Lucas really ain’t that loyal?” With ease, Joel bulldozes over whatever thinning resolve you have remaining.

“What’s that sign over there say? ‘Treat women with respect’?” You say. Joel’s backlit like all of those over budgeted lockers behind him. You squint your eyes. “You know that’s fucking bullshit. So what if I give him a taste of his own medicine when he’s been a minute man for every girl with a pulse on this campus?” You cap your Sharpie and clip it back onto your collar and get to your feet. So much for good decisions. “Fuck right off with that.”

“Hey, hey. Down, hun.” Joel holds his hands out to you, and you notice just how heavily you’ve been breathing, just how close you are to him. “Never said you were wrong. Kid’s a fuck up in all sorts ‘a ways. But I don’t like how you’re mouthin’ off at me, Miss Priss. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in dire need of a spankin’ to set you right.”

Your breath cuts short and your cunt bottoms out without your permission. You don’t need a mirror to know your eyes just went glassy, your lips parted as your mouth goes desert dry. As discreetly as you can manage, you squeeze your thighs together.

Joel doesn’t miss it. You can tell from the moment his brows raise and his eyes sparkle, the corner of his mouth picking up a smidge. “Oh, yeah? That do somethin’ for ya, hun? Nasty little girl.” There’s a dangerous, uneven grit to his voice that has arousal burning like a candle in your stomach, the wax of your arousal syrupy against your thighs already.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Fuck.

“No,” you breathe out stubbornly, but you’ve already given yourself away, even to yourself. The insides of your thighs are molten, twitching with every throb of your clit between your legs. That flush of warmth from your pelvis is spreading, overheating.

Joel tuts. “You really think that? You can whine all you want ‘bout wantin’ respect, but at the end ‘a the day, you just wanna be treated like some whore, huh?” And, yeah, he has you figured out, has you in the palm of his hand. Even though you have no idea what someone like him could do to someone like you, you want him to do it. You want to find out. “I’ll tell ya what, sugar, you walk outta here right now and nobody but me’s gonna know you came pitchin’ a hissy fit in my locker room.”

You frown at that, a small arc of your pouty lips that has Joel’s eyes gleaming.

“Or,” he says. “You can pull those wet fuckin’ panties down – don’t gimme that look, I know they are – and I can give ya a real lesson in respect.” He shrugs, hands going to his waist as he looks you up and down.

He knows he has you the same way you know, but you aren’t just going to give in that easily. You flare your nose and counter, “If there’s nothing keeping me here other than a firm hand, why should I stay?”

He’s looking at you like he wants to take you apart. His fingers jump against his hips for the opportunity to break you down.

“Sweetness,” Joel shakes his head as if it’s obvious. “if you let me, I could make you feel good. I’m guessin’ you got some vibrator sittin’ in the back of your desk drawer to use when your roommate’s out ‘n about, but you don’t wanna use that tonight, do ya? You want the real thing, hun, and I’d give it to ya real nice once I teach ya to behave.”

There it is again: Coach Joel Miller has you all figured out. Every syllable he says is doomed to send another shiver up your spine, and damn it, fuck playing coy.

You’re too busy tearing off your hoodie to think about how unsexily dressed you are, but the rushed nature of your actions punches a chuckle out of Joel. “Eager thing.” You’re halfway through kicking your shoes and leggings off when he saunters over to the couch, plopping down on the edge and patting his broad, khaki-covered thigh. Your mouth waters when you look back and see just how much the fabric strains against his leg. “Whenever you’re ready, hun.”

You waddle over to him, stripped down to the basics of your sports bra and everyday panties. It’s the furthest thing from erotic, but the way he’s looking at you isn’t. It’s primal and ravenous, enough to have you forgetting all about how you’d even gotten there in the first place. He licks his lips as he trails his eyes all over you, darkening a couple of shades when he looks at your cleavage. “Lucas is a fuckin’ idiot, baby.”

“Knew that already,” you mumble.

He pats his thigh again, bounces his leg. “C’mon, over my knee like the good girl I know you can be. Hurry up and I’ll only give ya five.”

You shuffle forward, relishing in the rubbing of your thighs that comes from it. He’s sitting on the corner of the couch at the perfect angle for you to rest your head on the arm. It doesn’t take any more convincing for you to put yourself over his lap, not that he needed to do much in the first place. You feel so much smaller than him. Your ass is up for him to do whatever he’d like to; it’s a tantalizing feeling you hadn’t gotten out of any intimacy – if you could call it that — with Lucas.

“Mmmmmm,” Joel groans as he runs a hand between your legs. He rubs at your slit through the soaked gusset of your panties. You can’t stop the way your hips buck, or the pitiful shout that jumps off your lips when he pins you down by the small of your back, robbing you of any friction. Between one arousal-riddled breath and the next, Joel tugs your panties off and flings them to the side. You know how it feels, tacky and cold on your core and thighs, so you can only imagine how it must look. Joel gives you a pretty good idea when he reveres, “Goddamn, pretty cunt is throbbin’ for it.”

He pulls apart your folds and you think you hear him lick his lips above you before he lets them go. The schlick noise your dripping pussy makes is nothing less than pornographic. Joel gropes you carefully, kneads the skin of your ass like you have all the time in the world. Under his ministrations, it’s easy to melt into the couch, forgetting why you’re there in the first place until his palm cracks down on your ass cheek.

The stinging impact has a slurred hnnnngh leaving your lips, and a fresh gush of wetness between your legs to accompany it. You keep your head tucked into the sanctuary of your folded arms, eyes squeezed shut so tight you swear you’re seeing stars. Joel’s quick to rub the spanked patch of skin, his palm soothing his ache. “That’s one, baby.” You nod into your arms. “Think you can take four more?” Another nod.

“I need to hear ya, hun. C’mon, head up f’me.” He taps the side of your cheek, and you prop your cheek up on your forearm. “Think you can take four more?” he repeats.

Your voice hitches, courtesy of the beating that echoes in your chest and between your legs. “Y-yes…”

When the second hit lands, you don’t expect it. You flinch away from his hand when it comes down with a clap that leaves you squirming in his lap. “Yes, what?”

“Yes sir,” you whine out, back arching. Although a punishment, that spank has the same effect as the last: a live wire of arousal strung from your spine to your cunt.

“Takin’ it well,” he praises, squeezing your ass cheeks together. “Sure didn’t expect anyone to come crawlin’ in when I left that garage open, ‘specially not some slut like you with an ass that needs a spankin’ six ways to Sunday.” Just as quick as he can build you up, he can take you down a notch, but you can’t mind when it has you moaning all the same. “Oh, she likes that,” Joel clicks.

He rubs your ass again, and you’re bracing yourself for that next strike, pulled stiff with an arousing, anticipatory sort of fear. Only when you convince yourself it isn’t coming do you let all of that tension flood out of your body — and that’s when Joel smacks his hand across your far-too-trustworthy ass.

You cry out, pouting over your shoulder at Joel, who has a proud smirk drawn all over his face. You don’t even feel your hips rocking down, seeking whatever pleasure you can get until he reprimands, “Ruttin’ against my fuckin’ leg, now, huh? Don’t pretend you don’t like this.”

With a particularly good grind of your hips, you feel his bulge pressing into your thigh. From a mere graze alone, you can tell it’s huge. A whimper tears out of you at the same time he groans above you. “You got nothin’ to prove, ain’t gonna change the fact you’re a slut who needs to get spanked ‘n stuffed to talk ‘er into behavin’ a bit.”

“Can’t even follow your own rules,” you huff, apparently still interested in shooting yourself in the foot even when Coach Miller has you ass-up over his knee.

“Don’t see how you care…” Joel slides a hand down between your legs. He rubs at your clit, an intense pressure that has you wanting more and less all at the same time, before dragging a thick finger across your opening. Arousal squelches between your legs and your hips jump – a dead giveaway to just how turned on you are, whether you like it or not. “when it gets you this turned on,” he finishes. Then that same finger is prodding at your mouth, glistening with your wetness. You whimper before tasting yourself, sucking obediently on his finger until he pulls away with a pop.

You sulk, “Don’t act like I can’t feel you ripping a hole in your jeans, Miller–”

The fourth spank is the hardest by far. The skin of your ass feels bitten by Joel’s ‘firm hand’. It’s the kind of hit that makes your legs kick in his lap and your fingers clutch in the couch’s arm for purchase. You wail, “Daddy!” Pain disappears from your mind when you realize what exactly you just said, quickly replaced by the churning coolant of embarrassment. If you were paying attention to anything else other than the shame suddenly inhabiting your chest, you might’ve been able to feel the twitch of his cock in his pants.

“Daddy, huh?” Joel hums, rubbing your hurt ass with one hand while the other strokes your shoulder. You bury your face back in your arms as an apology takes shape in the back of your throat. “Lucas your daddy, too?”

“No!” You squeak, adjusting in his lap. The hood of your clit catches on the rough material of Joel’s pants. Unable to stop yourself, you hump his knee again, shallow rolls of your hips. You can still feel his hardness against you. Needily, you tip your head up, panting as foggy pleasure hangs over your head.

“Stop makin’ a mess of daddy’s dress pants, baby, unless you wanna be on your knees, lickin’ it up.” You keen, and he chuckles knowingly. “Shoulda known, little whore like you gets off on that.”

Joel gives you a longer reprieve between the fourth and fifth spank. Instead, he strokes your ass and asks, “One more gonna be enough to set you straight, sweetheart?”

“Y..yes daddy,” you whimper. He hums in approval.

You shift back and forth, waiting for it to come — and when it does, it’s softer. It’s by no means a love pat, but it pales in comparison to his previous work. You still sniffle, squeezing your thighs together as he coos, “I know, I know. Poor baby, actin’ all high ‘n mighty. Can’t be on her high horse when she’s over Daddy’s knee.” Gentle, he pats your ass and guides you on all fours at the edge of the couch. He hums in approval. “See? Not throwin’ a hissy fit anymore. She’s all nice ‘n obedient when you get ‘er to act right.”

Joel spreads your pussy with his thumbs, and you hear the vulgar noise of him collecting his saliva before you feel his spit landing on your clenching hole. You’ve never felt so empty, not when your bottom drawer vibrator is buzzing against your core, definitely not when Lucas fucks you in the same old missionary. Whimpering for him, you arch your back to try to rub against his crotch.

“Quit your whinin’,” he snips, his thumb finding your clit in one swipe. Joel’s touch is firm, but not too firm, just enough to make your hips push down with a need only he’s ever made you feel.

Without warning, his middle finger slides inside of you, thick and calloused and so, so right. “Fuckin’... tight.” Another slides in as he starts scissoring you open, apparently satisfied enough when he crooks his fingers deep in your cunt. Instantly, he catches that spongy spot that you can never reach on your own. You nearly crumple with the sensation, limbs going weak and buckling. “That the spot?” he asks, but he already knows.

“Mhm,” you moan, chin instinctively tucking against your chest as if you can get away from the pleasure he’s giving you, as if you’d ever want to.

Then — he stops.

His fingers sit heavy inside of you, so close to where you need them to go. “What the fuck, Joel?”

"Baby, s’that how you get what you want?” He rubs your thigh with his free hand and gives it a quick swat. “Help daddy out, tight girl. I'm not just gonna let you get away with bein’ a spoiled brat. Work yourself on my fingers."

You’re putty in the palm of his hand – malleable, docile for him to treat or mistreat you however gets him hard. You whine, punching your hips back nonetheless. Grinding down, down, down, your cunt unresisting when he gives you another finger. It’s crude, the way you moan for him.

Even though he’s hardly doing anything, just the hand you’re getting yourself off on, that all-consuming strain in your body only gets stronger. “Daddy – close, please…”

“Attagirl, atta-fuckin’-girl, give it to me.” He rewards you with a press of his fingers against that golden spot inside of you. Your orgasm splinters through you, an ecstasy-charged mist fanning over your body. Your release runs down Joel’s hand and your thighs with every clench of your cunt, like you’ve been skinned and set ablaze by your own desire. You fall forward on the couch, no longer able to hold yourself up, arms a tangled mess as you gasp into the cushion. “You come so pretty, baby. Messy pussy, too. Soaked me up to my goddamn elbow.”

You’re still reeling from the best orgasm you’ve had in months, maybe ever, when you hear obscene slurping noises from behind you. You cast a look at him, your arousal returning with a vigor at the sight of Joel sucking his fingers clean. He groans at the taste, and you swear you see his cock jump in his khakis. Stomach warped with desire, you’re about to plummet off of the very dangerous edge of doing just about anything for him right now.

“Please fuck me, daddy,” you plead, and in any other position, with any other person, it might be mortifying, something worth clutching your pearls over. But this is Coach Joel Miller, the last person you ever expected to be fucking, giving you the best fuck you never expected.

“There’s those manners,” Joel praises, leaning over you to press a brief kiss to your shoulder blade. You can smell your release on his lips, a sweet smell that’s so distinctly you. He eases off of you, presumably to take off his pants. There’s the shuffling of fabric, and when he returns to your side, you’re disappointed to find he hasn’t even unbuckled his belt.

You pout at him again, still desperate to get your way. Eye-level with his bulge, you’re salivating over it. You had made a mess of his dress pants, a wet spot formed just above his knee, taunting you. You lick your lips.

“Think it’s only fair,” he says, looming over you. He’s holding the Sharpie you’d brought along with you. Your brows furrow as you look up at him through your lashes. “If I give ya the same treatment you gave his jersey.” His gaze is cocky as he pops the cap with his thumb, giving the marker a twirl.

Oh.

It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. Nothing about this should turn you on as much as it does, yet here you are, in a puddle of your own sweat and cum, itching for the next thing he gives you. And if it’s marking up your body before he fucks your brains out, so be it.

He nudges his head, gesturing for you to get down on your stomach. You lift your knees up and flatten yourself out on the cushions. The vinyl sticks and pulls from your skin as you get where he wants you. A soft, surprised noise leaves you when he straddles your thighs, his clothed cock nudging at your seam.

“Holy fuck,” you breathe out, because it’s the only phrase you can think of that even holds a candle to what all of this has become.

A laugh fans out from under his breath as he starts at your freshly spanked, raw ass. The Sharpie is cold and foreign, tugging at your skin as he inks you up. “Gotta make sure you match before I dick you down, don’t I? What is it you wrote on his jersey? ‘Whore’? Between the two ‘a ya, I woulda put my money on you for that one.”

If that wasn’t enough indication, you figure out what he’s doing by the time he gets to the right cheek, what feels like an ‘R’ taking shape across your ass. He finishes the ‘E’ and sets down the Sharpie for a moment, his meaty palms spreading your ass. It still thrums with the afterglow of his spanking. You don’t think you can throb any more than you already are, but then he spits on you for the second time that night, this time landing it on your puckered asshole. A gasp flutters from your lips as you grind down into the couch, his spit dripping down your folds.

“See? Real whorish, fuckin’ my couch.” He taps your ass for good measure. “Asshole makes a perfect fuckin’ ‘O’, baby. Looks a whole lot better than that chicken scratch shit you put on his jersey.” You think maybe, just maybe, he’ll dismount you and pull his cock out, but instead he keeps writing, scribbling on your back and upper thighs. Every pull of your skin under the bleeding ink has you aching for him.

When he’s content with his work, he lifts off of you, hands fumbling to undo his belt. It snaps apart, dangling open around his waist as his hands open up his khakis. “You let Lucas fuck that sweet lil’ cunt raw?” he asks.

“No, I don’t,” you admit, unable to tear your eyes away from his cock as he pulls it out, and fuck you. Your eyes don’t even feel big enough to take all of him in, and you have no idea how you’re going to fit him between your legs. You almost go cross-eyed at the sight of it, his head leaking precum.

“Thought so. You gonna let me fuck it raw?”

“Yes, daddy,” you breathe out, drool pooling in your mouth at the thought of having him inside of you, having him inside of you bare. Yet another thing you never gave to Lucas in a year of disappointing sex, but are eagerly giving up to Joel.

“Gotta be a real nasty slut,” Joel says, returning to his place atop your thighs, his thick ones framing yours. Your breath hitches when you feel the weight of his cock gliding through your ass cheeks and down to your cunt. “to let your ex-boyfriend’s coach bareback ya in the locker room.” A heady gasp tears from you when the head of his cock bumps your clit. He teases you — his cock, slippery with a combination of your arousal, skating from your clit to your spasming opening, not quite nudging in.

“Daddy, please – I need it… need you to fuck me, fuck me–”

He doesn’t make you wait any longer.

When he pushes in, it knocks the air out of your lungs. The only proof that you’re still breathing is when you let out a pitchy, desperate moan. Joel grunts, teeth gritted as he flattens himself down against your spine so he can roll his hips into yours. The pain of his size becomes an afterthought just as quickly as the pain of your spanking, dwarfed by the pleasure he gives you just as easily.

“Fuuuuck,” Joel groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and shoulder. Inch at a time, he works you open, grinding his hips into your opening. “Could you be any goddamn tighter?” He bites at your neck from behind with every rock of his hips into yours until he bottoms out.

“Big,” is all you manage to squeak out as he hauls you back on his cock, already prodding your g-spot with his head. Your eyes roll back as you clench around him.

His fingers go up to run circles around your shoulder, soothing you, grounding you when his cock has you anything but. “Mmm, I know, I know. You can take it. All whores can.” With that, Joel starts fucking you, really fucking you, a punishing, relentless pace where he pulls out entirely before filling you to the brim. Each snap of his hips into yours fills the locker room with shameless sounds, the mere background to your depraved moans.

“Never had your pussy stretched by a man double your age before, huh?”

“N–no! Never… never had my pussy stretched mu…much at all–”

Joel slams into you, laughs at the strained noise that you make. “Yeah? Those dumbfucks on my team not doin’ it for ya, baby?” You don’t answer, don’t think he’s expecting one until his hand wraps around your front, forearm pressed firm against your tits. His thick hand wraps lightly around your neck, jostling you. It’s not hard enough to blur your vision, but just hard enough to remind you of the power he has over you. The power you allow him to have. It’s invigorating. Everything about him is.

Moans spurt out of you as you fumble to answer, “No da– daddy! You — ah! — do it for m–me!”

“And what do you say for that? For goin’ outta my way to show you what a real fuck is?”

“Thank you, Daddy!” you cry out. You’re spilling down his thighs, the wet suction of your pussy around his cock making noises more vulgar than you’ve ever heard in porn.

His hand squeezes again at your neck, and you feel floaty, a bubble just waiting to pop. Pleasure dances in every one of your veins, every nerve ending burning like a match that he keeps striking ablaze.

“There you go, desperate slut just needs a freshly spanked ass, a good dickin’ down, and a hand ‘round her throat to behave.” Joel’s pace stays just as harsh, crushing your g-spot with his cock. “Should keep you back here for when we lose, tie you to the goddamn desk. Let my staff take turns with you, see how much crybaby you have left in ya when a dozen men’s loads are drippin’ outta your reamed fuckin’ cunt. Bet you like it when men use you.” The whine that almost gags you on its way out is enough to confirm it.

If he keeps talking to you and the wind blows the right way on your clit, you know you’ll be coming. You’re wringing out his cock with every flutter of your pulsing pussy. The beginning embers of your orgasm turn into a wildfire when he wedges his free hand down between your legs, rubbing messy circles into your sloppy clit. “Fuck, please, please, please,” you sob out, too riddled with pleasure to care about how pathetic you sound or look as you hump his hand while he pounds you.

“Can feel you squeezin’ me, baby.” Joel rasps, nipping at your ear. The hand around your throat falls fully to your chest, pressing you solid against him so he can fuck deeper, deeper, deeper. It’s enough to make you scream, hands clawing and scratching down his muscular grip on you. “C’mon, hun, give it to me, come on my cock, fuck.”

With another thrust, he has you pushed right down onto his fingers, rubbing and flicking you every which way. It’s all you need to come undone, your second orgasm of the night unlatching through you like something forked and angry, battering your sore limbs until there’s nothing left of it or you. You’re a mess, spit oozing down your chin as you slur “thank you daddy” like a broken record, thighs clamping around nothing.

Joel groans as you clench around his cock and continues his relentless pace, hips slapping against yours. The hand he’d been using to rub your clit migrates to your tits, grazing and then thumbing and then tugging lightly your nipples. “There it is, told ya you could be a good girl. Lettin’ your daddy use this cunt to get off, lettin’ me use you. I’m fuckin’ close, baby, where do you want me?”

And you want it even if you shouldn’t, want his cum deep inside of you, want it to leak out into your panties as you walk back to your dorm. You’re still no good at making decisions, too fucked out to tell right from left when you beg, “I–inside, fuck, come inside me, daddy, please.”

Joel practically growls at that, thrusts losing their steadiness as his hips jump and he hurtles towards his release. “Yeah, you’re a goddamn whore, beggin’ for this cum. And you’re gonna fuckin’ take it, yeah… fuckin’ take it.” He slams all the way into you for the last time before shooting his cum into your cunt, swearing and moaning. Breathing like he’s run a mile, he goes slack on top of you, pets the back of your head while he comes down from the exhilaration of his high.

With a gentle kiss to your shoulder, he rises, and the fantasy is over. His cock slips from your pussy, and you feel hollow with the loss. This is where he tucks himself back into his pants, runs a hand back through his hair, tells you to never show your face in his stadium again, and shoves you out the door.

And he does: tucks his softening cock into his boxers, zips up his khakis, does his belt, tames his post-sex head of hair. You wince even if you expected it, leaning down over the edge of the couch to grab your hoodie, already moving to tug it over your head.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” Joel asks, and his tone sounds much more different than the first time he’d asked you. He sounds offended. You blink confusedly, dazedly at him with your arms halfway through the armholes. “Let me clean you up, hun.” Joel side-steps the pile of your leggings and shoes, adjusting the hoodie on your arms and pulling it down your torso. “I know Lucas ain’t done you right, but you deserve to be taken care of, pretty girl.” Your heart pinches in a way that it shouldn’t, not for a hookup with your ex-boyfriend’s coach.

You shift, and he can’t help but look back between your legs where his cum escapes your hole. He manages to pry his eyes away, but not without licking his lips first. “I’ll be right back, baby. Promise.”

When he’s back, it’s with a damp rag. He crouches down in front of you, taking it to the apex of your thighs and wiping away the combination of your releases, careful not to nudge your sensitive clit. He kisses your thigh gently before pulling back, folding the towel on the arm of the couch you’d been crying into just a few minutes ago.

Joel shimmies your ruined panties up your thighs, followed by your leggings. You let him, breath cut like a snipped wire from the sheer intimacy of it all, intimacy you’d lacked with Lucas even after a year of trying. You’d stayed with him for comfortability at your own expense. How stupid could you have been?

Joel pats your knee, eyes soft and weirdly sincere as he looks at you. “I’m sorry about Lucas, honey, but I meant it when I said you deserve to be taken care of.” He rubs the back of his neck before holding something out to you. A business card, his work number plastered in bold sans-serif font across the bottom. “I know this is in reverse ‘n all, but I’d really like to take you out and treat you right, if you’ll let me.”

Saying yes is your first good decision in a while.

#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller/f! reader #joel miller x you #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic

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luveline · 1 year ago

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would you ever be willing to write the day spencer and stripper!reader met in the grocery store? i’ve always loved the concept when you’ve referenced it in the story, i would love to read it👀 you’re absolutely incredible and i can never say anything not anon to you because my blog is flooding you with notes constantly and i’m embarrassed😅

thank you for your request ❤️ fem!reader, 1.5k

cw for domestic violence and workplace abuse

There's this weird organic grocery store by Spencer's place that's far too expensive, but it's a ten minute walk, so that's where he goes. (Weird in separation to organic.)

He needs a lot of groceries now he's home for the week. Bread, vegetables, rice, flour if he wants to try and make pancakes, which he does. He also needs a new pen to write a letter for his mom, but Leaven is slightly too small for a stationery section.

He doesn't know what he'll say to her in this one. Maybe that the cases he's going on are easy, or that he's been reading about crows. She's not feeling well lately. It might help her to know he's doing gentle things, even if it isn't true.

No, he thinks. Can't lie to her. He never lies to his mom.

Eggs. Sugar. Coffee grounds. He fills his cart. It'll be a lot to carry on the way home, but better to do it in one go. He likes keeping busy but he's a human being, too, and he's looking forward to spending at least sixteen hours in bed after dinner tonight.

You look tired, too.

Your back is turned, but Spencer knows it's you. You must live close by, he's been seeing you duck in and out for months. Usually with a loaf of bread or a single box of painkillers tucked in your pocket. You don't steal, he'd be able to tell, and he wouldn't say anything if you did, anyways. All he knows about you is that you have a nice smile when you have the energy, and your voice is like silk. Purposeful or by nature, he's yet to guess.

You're standing by the end of the aisle near the checkouts with a basket hanging from your fingers. All you're buying today is a box of pancake mix and a bag of peas.

Weird, he thinks with a smile. Spencer likes weird stuff. It's quirky.

You turn to see which checkout is empty and Spencer's smile abruptly drops.

You have a bruise across half of your face. It isn't strictly fresh —he can see the split skin on your cheek starting to close in on itself, and your purpled eye is open (though barely). You're frowning. Spencer knows how bad it hurts to get hurt like that. For a split second he can't believe someone could do that to another person, and then he remembers the hundreds of women he's had the privilege to meet at their most vulnerable, who trusted him, and he thinks maybe he's capable of helping another one.

“Hey,” he says.

You meet his eyes with a funny smile. “Hey. Sorry, am I in the way?” you ask, your voice stretched, thin but not weak.

“No, you're not, it's… I see you here all the time.”

You hold your breath. When you talk, it rushes out. “So?” you ask wearily.

“Are you okay?”

Your funny smile fades as Spencer's had. He supposes that's the talent of cruelty. Even when it's over, it's not truly over. Your bruise still hurts, and Spencer still needs to know you'll be okay when you go home tonight.

“I see you all the time too. We've… we've actually spoken before, haven't we?” you ask after a moment.

“Yeah, about spirometry. I was out of breath running and–” It doesn't matter. You asked him if he was okay, and he explained that he was, just that his lungs don't hold much air on account of his own laziness, and it doesn't matter. “Are you? Alright? It's a bad bruise.”

“It's getting better.”

It might be, but there's something so raw about seeing you standing there in your sweatpants too big for you and a hoodie with a hole in it, purple and yellow contusion across your eyes and nose like the clumsy stroke of a paintbrush. Spencer will admit to feeling sorry for you.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks, knowing this isn't the right place. “There's the cafe at the front? Let me pay for my stuff and–”

“I'm really okay–”

“You had a cast on your wrist two weeks ago and now you're here with a limp and a really bad bruise,” he says softly, imploringly, “I just wanna talk to you about it. You don't have to say yes, I'm not trying to be weird, but I–”

You cut off his mile a minute speech with a small smile. “Okay. I'm not, you know, doing anything anyways. It'll be nice to sit down.”

Spencer knows it's dumb, but he wants to show he has good intentions. He takes your basket out of your hands and nods toward the cafe past the checkouts. “I'll come and meet you.”

“You don't have to,” you say, gesturing at the basket.

“The damage is done, right? This place is ridiculous.” He doesn't like the way you're holding your hip. It makes him feel sick, even though there's no proof one way or another to say you've been hurt beyond your bruising.

He pays for his things and yours and meets you at the cafe. He's half expecting you to have bolted, but you sit at a table near the entrance, completely still.

Spencer puts his two bags under the table and offers you your pancake mix and peas in their own bag.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“It was my boss.” You look at your fingers, spreading them slowly over the table top. “I’m a dancer. Sorry. I know you’re going to ask.”

“And he hit you?”

“Yeah.”

Spencer knows the number for every women’s shelter in every state, but he doubts it would matter to you. He can tell already that you’d say no. He can tell you’re scared, even if you don’t realise it yourself. “Is it getting worse?”

You can’t offer him anything else. He understands how that feels. There have been moments where he desperately wanted to tell someone, anyone, what was going on in his life, but he always holds his secrets like a perpetual ache in his throat. It’s like he can’t tell someone, even if they ask.

Sometimes he just wishes they’d ask twice.

“You can tell me. It won’t sound stupid,” he promises. He’s in some odd place between Agent Reid and young, terrified Spencer, determined to help you, but not sure how. “It’s getting worse, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, the weight of tears on your tongue.

“You’re a dancer. Is he just a boss– Does he… abuse you financially?”

You laugh wetly. “He’s not my pimp.”

He can feel his face heating up.’“No, but do you get paid on time? Everything you earn?”

You shake your head. “No, I don’t get paid on time. He takes a percentage, and somehow there’s always another percentage, and then discipline. And now…”

“Now he’s hitting you.” Very badly.

“I’m not stupid.”

Spencer frowns gently, talks softly, “I didn’t mean to imply that you were.”

“No, I know, but I need you to know I’m not stupid. When we talked before, you– you’re so smart, I bet you know so many smart people.”

He’s not sure where you’re going with this. Perhaps you don’t want to talk about being hurt anymore. It must be a kind of torture to be hurting and know that that hurting will come again. There isn’t an end in sight for you, just right now.

“Can I buy you something to eat?”

“I have money,” you say, taking your small purse from your pocket. There are a few notes wedged inside.

“You can’t take painkillers on an empty stomach, and you should take painkillers again soon. You had some before you came, and they’re wearing off.” He meets your confused frown with a frown of his own. “Your hands are twitching like you want to move away from yourself.”

“You’re very perceptive,” you say in that smooth murmur. Power clawed back, he thinks. You’re protecting one of the things you can control about how you’re seen when everything else is far from it.

“I’m a profiler. Do you,” —he tries not to sound hoity toity— “know what that is?”

“No.”

“I’m an FBI agent.” You’re laughing as he takes out his badge. He joins you. “I know it sounds like I’m making it up.” Spencer offers you his identification passport slowly, so you know he isn’t wielding it around to be an asshole. “I’m in the behavioural analysis unit. We analyse the way people act. That’s why I know you’re in pain.”

You take his badge, looking between his photo and his real face with a growing smile. “If you need all that to know I’m in pain, you’re not as smart as you think,” you tease, gesturing to the mottled skin of your bruise sweetly.

Spencer buys you both cold sandwiches from the front of the shop and a drink to wash down your aspirin. It’s awkward, he guesses, but he’s used to that by now, and under it he can feel your palpable relief. You trust him to not hurt you, if nothing else, and he can work with that.

#spencer and stripper!reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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punnifullife · 6 months ago

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I thought long and hard (and overthinking) trying to tie teen titans 03 to the batfam stuff in my AU. I really wanted to connect the other robins, Dick turning into nightwing, and the relationship with Bruce into this. so below are a combo of rough sketches and written out ideas mixed together bc i couldn't finish this without ripping my hair out. Originally I had it come right after season 5 ending with the weird alien thing (which is what bb and rae are referencing to) but..... anyways:

This gets long so the rest will be under a cut:

just FYI on changes already: Robin's look is more dan mora/og costume. I love Dick in the yellow cape (and i always associate the black cape to Tim so hehe) Like i said the alien WAS gonna be the main bad guy since this comic will also about things changing. but i got too overwhelmed reading up on what the alien was and it was a dimensional being and yadda yadda so it was bare bones and barely even brought up as i lost interest in drawing things out. Continuation:

this is where i didnt feel like drawing a transition to tt packing/traveling to gotham.,.. so it jumps to the meeting:

yess bb jason!! In my AU, this is when dick and jason meet. Dick claims batman hasnt changed, but yet Dick keeps tabs on gotham to know about jason just as much as bruce is aware of the teen titans (and even tho Dick says "oh look, a replacement. the batman cant go without a robin". he knows that isn't really the case. he's just still hurting from their fall out. and NO he does not feel jealous or anything like that towards Jason.) I will say that's where the main drawings stopped. but the story continues! But mostly text bc drawing it out became tiring. So: they work together in an upcoming fight. Batman (and teen titans) call out to "robin" so there's funny miscommunication as which robin responds to what. Jason proves himself to Dick that he can be a robin. Bruce is his usual skeptical self and it drives Dick up a wall. Bruce eventually calls Dick out for being the same way though (altho this is more of egging on to push Dick to make some more changes. since bruce never wanted dick to be like him).

Dick: You don't know my teammates. Don't act like you do. Bruce: You're right. I don't know them. Nor do I trust them with my son. Dick: Why can't you trust MY judgement. Bruce goes back to working, ignoring the statement. And Dick comes to a realization to how Bruce shuts him out (like what he did to starfire earlier). This leads Dick to reveal his identity to his team because he DOES in fact trust them 100%. There's some closure from that and this would kinda be a turning point in terms of his angst/edgy phase as a robin. As he officially passes the mantle to Jason and where he becomes Nightwing.

team reaction to face reveal:

#teen titans 2003 #batfam #dick grayson #starfire #beast boy #raven #cyborg #robin!dick #batman #jason todd #robin!jason #i should make a label for my own au but no clue for names so rip #punnifulart #long post #i was gonna add more but 30 pic maximum LMAo #YES I FORGOT TOO LATE ABOUT CYBORG'S RED DOT BETWEEN HIS EYES it was too late #Earth 0380 #It's gonna be the name for now for all my au stuff

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 7 days ago

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I always thought the stuff Savannaclaw has around their eyes are natural markings since the fur around animal eyes often tends to be a bit darker

And since Jack still features the same markings in his loungewear while other characters don't have their make-up anymore

[Referencing this post!]

Oooh, that's interesting 🤔 That thought never crossed my mind!

I took a look at Jack’s Dorm Uniform look and his Relax in Room look side-by-side:

It very much looks the same, even down to the colors. When comparing to other characters’ eye looks, this is notably different. For example, Jamil and Malleus also appear to have “natural markings” in the eye area, but more likely these are just natural shadows that form due to their eye shapes.

This is a part of Yana’s art style, as you can see in the Ciel and Sebastian illustrations. You can also tell that these differ from Jack’s because the same color is consistently used around the bare eye for shading, whereas with Jack’s eyes, the shading used for crease differs from the darker color that lines the lower lid.

Jack also states in his Relax in Room vignettes that he usually does not wear makeup, so this may be an indication that what we previously thought was eye makeup is natural markings??? However, Jack’s “usual” look is his school uniform, not his dorm uniform. It’s possible that he goes without makeup for everyday, but wears makeup for when he puts on the dorm uniform.

We don’t have Leona or Ruggie’s bare faces yet (since their birthdays are in summer and spring, respectively), but comparing a few of their artworks, they do seem to still have their “makeup” (eye markings) on. We’ll have to see their Relax in Room card models to see if this theory holds!

Update: some people have pointed out that there isn’t makeup over Leona’s scar (otherwise the area of overlap would he darker). This is another point that may suggest natural markings around a beastman’s eyes, not makeup.

Interestingly, Rook—originally a student of Savanaclaw—does wear makeup, and he does it differently after transferring to Pomefiore. You can see in his Relax in Room version that he has shading around his eyes even without makeup. Then in his Pomefiore look, his eyeshadow extends to his upper lid. His Savanaclaw look has shadow only on the lower lid and follows the flick of his lashes. This mimics the “makeup” (natural markings?) of his Savanaclaw peers.

... But if that turns out to be markings that naturally appear around a beastman's eyes and NOT makeup... does that mean that Kifaji and Chenya just have those blue and purple rings around their eyes????? (I mean, I guess it's not unheard of since Idia exists and he has naturally blue lips and eye bags?? But his traits are on account of a curse, so...) Or is the blue/purple coloring makeup and they have brownish markings around their eyes if you remove the bright colors on top?

Lastly, it seems like Cheka lacks the markings we’ve bene discussing?? Though I wonder if that’s a product of his age (he’s only 5). It could be that he’ll develop those markings as he grows up.

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darkenedurge · 1 year ago

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Edit / Update : Part 2 is now posted here.

𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐲.

“ 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐲, 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲. 𝐘𝐞𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞, 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐲. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 – 𝐄𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡. ”

` Inspired by this post.

And also, this song;

˚ ✧.

“But, ma’am, you could have anyone you wanted–”

Your dagger was swiftly swung, landing just a mere fraction before it met the skin of the poor, fragile, meek, little butler. His eyes flit, from each corner of the room, to the door – as it remained open, only by a crack. If he ran, he surely couldn’t make it, and even if he did – that would certainly be the end for him. This was heresy, both you and he knew that equally. Yet, another shared knowledge, was that you would never free your favourite toy. You were bounded in his chains, just as much as he in yours – Enver Gortash.

It wasn’t a faux claim, to say that you could have anyone. Followers, worshippers, dedicants of Bhaal, were far too quick, eager to throw themselves at your feet – be bent at your will, trampled beneath your pretty foot. These were all trivial matters, and ones that you rarely indulged in for such reasons. Perhaps on occasion, for a quick fuck. Though, you were almost always unsatisfied – insatiable.

Always would you delve impatient, frustrated fingers into your begging cunt, bringing yourself to the edge with a flutter of your eyelashes. Pleasure, but not in its truth. No, that’s where Enver came in.

You weren’t sure how it had even occurred. He and you, had always had a lingering eye for once another – stealing glances and sparing the flick of your tongue across your lip, wetting the plush skin, as you allowed yourself only a second longer to indulge in his stature. Small, fleeting moments of tension had somehow, pinned you beneath him – his teeth assaulting your collarbones, marks of possession and brutality staining your skin. Even the simple, slight swirl of his tongue as his mouth enveloped your nipple, had you gasping – hand flying to his hair, fingers curling and taking a fistful of his shaggy, inky locks. His knee parts your legs, and you rut needily against him. To which, he chuckles – scoffs, and tuts, “Impatient little thing, aren’t you? Someone hasn’t been taking care of my favourite assassin in my absence.. I should’ve claimed you sooner.” Sweet, citrusy words. Words of praise that, pathetically, could’ve made you come right there and then.

“M’sorry..” You murmur, breath audibly hitching as Enver pinched a nipple between his teeth, “You just feel so good.”

He hums, and the sound reverberates through your chest – forcing a shiver to course throughout your body, riding up your spine. “We’ve barely started, little one,” His eyes greet yours, head raised as he speaks, “It’s not good quite yet.”

That’s when your lips connect, for the first time, and the entirety of your stomach coils into tight, pleading knots. Enver grunts, the noise muffled by your intertwined passion – drool seeping from the side of your mouth, sloppy, wet dances shared between your tongues.

You don’t see Enver naked, then. You wouldn’t for a while. For now, and hereafter, he’d simply shrug himself free of the confines that his clothes so needlessly, annoyingly provided. As lazily as he’d enabled himself, Enver only provided the same impatience for you – ushering your panties aside, in favour of wasting precious seconds tugging them down to rest at your ankles. In a strange acknowledgment of admiration, you favoured his methods. His comprehensive need to feel you swallow his cock, take him the way the Gods had so sinfully intended.

Enver wets his fingers, tongue resting upon his lower lip as he swiped the tips until they were adequately coated – lathering your entrance in his saliva, earning a subtle flinch on your behalf. No warning is offered, he pushes into you with force, heavenly in the way that it hurts – in the way he stretches you, as he bottoms out with a wavering groan.

Your walls flutter around him, your hands finding their place upon his shoulders as he begins to piston his hips at a relentless, pace – you squeak, squeal, your nails press into the supple flesh beneath them. Enver is not shy to make noise, in return, his mouth no prison to the grunts, groans and moans that follow – in tandem with his thrusts. Over and over, you feel him assault a spot you hadn’t even known existed – deep, deep inside of you, making you quiver and tighten rhythmically.

“Say my name, little one,” Enver pants out in demand, fucking you evermore, “Say my name.”

You could hardly deny the request of a man who was literally, fucking you senseless. Making your head spin, your cheeks flush and stomach churn. “Enver..” You whine, like a mewling kitten. No, not good enough.

Again, “Enver.” It’s louder this time, and your nails drag down his upper back.

“Enver!” Oh Gods, are you going to cum?

As your heart pounds mercilessly in your ears, you can distantly hear Enver release a small, huff of a laugh. You voice is almost hoarse, as a cry strangles from your throat, “Enver! Enver, I’m-!”

You came. It’s akin to that of a crashing wave, and a roaring fire, in beautiful unison. There’s a hot, swarming pool that follows – Enver, no doubt, laying his claim; cumming almost simultaneously, filling you to the brim. You’re trembling as he holds you, pulls you flush against his chest and peppers kisses to the nape of your neck.

He wouldn’t be staying long. Slinking off back, toward his duties without so much as a whisper. Still, such ignorance didn’t pain you. You knew he’d be back, this was the very birth of a whirlwind. One that was destructive, perhaps. But, destruction is your birthright. Your solemn purpose.

You sit, thighs sticky and skin glazed in sweat. “Father,” Your hand is clutched to your exposed chest, resting over the thrum of your heart, “Forgive me..please.”

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anim-ttrpgs · 1 month ago

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Hi! I haven't had a chance to play Eureka yet, but having read it a while ago and following your posts further explaining some of the philosophies behind it, I just want to say that, as someone with multiple disabilities, what you're saying here is really cool and i appreciate it a lot.

I was really hesitant at first glance, probably because of how long I've felt the need to justify my existence by minimizing the accommodations and resources I ask for, even (and often) to my own detriment. The whole idea of being a burden cuts in to that and hits at the heart of the insecurity, so it was a little hard to hear spoken so plainly. Ultimately, though, seeing someone acknowledge that there is truth to that insecurity - I am, indeed, asking for a lot more from the people around me than a fully abled person would be - but that it in no way undermines the worth of my own life was really fulfilling. So yeah, thanks lol

Thank you!

(some links to previous posts about this topic that are being referenced)

I know exactly how you feel. I don’t want to speak for all disabled people, but the shame of being a burden is something that I think most of us probably feel to some degree or another, and something that we would be better off without, which is of course a big theme of Eureka’s monsters.

Hell, even “able-bodied” people need to be taken care of when they’re kids, when they’re old, and when they’re sick. The distinction “disabled” practically only exists to determine who gets minor legal exceptions in a society where you’re only valued by how much you can do particular kinds of work, and plenty of “able-bodied” people do have a lot of things about them that hinder them but just aren’t visible enough or quite bad enough to qualify for the legal distinction.

So really, it’s something I think a lot of people could stand to unlearn. A little bit of selfishness is okay sometimes.

Sometimes, people take offense to the part of the metaphor that involves the actual killing and eating of other people by monsters, and say that the disability comparison works for the monsters that don’t have to kill people, but not for the monsters that do have to kill people, especially with the fact that their targets will often end up being other vulnerable people and not cops or CEOs or something. I have a few thoughts about that.

For one, well, the cool thing about fiction and fantasy is that it can present a more extreme and entertaining version of the real life problems that the art is about.

Secondly, for some of those monsters that don’t have to kill their victims or even technically have to hurt people at all to avoid dying, well, structuring your life around personal deprivation to ensure that you never harm or burden anyone else ever is kind of the thing that this anon brings up, minimizing their accommodations and resource consumption to their own detriment. “Disabled people should go without as much as possible and subsist on the bare minimum resources to sustain them” is pretty much the complete opposite of Eureka’s themes and I feel like saying that the only acceptable disability metaphor monsters are the ones that have a slightly easier time subsisting on the bare minimum harm without literally dying is not good.

Then there’s the issue of who they eat. Really, they can try to eat whoever they want, but the “hunting tables” that provide opportunities when (and if) the monsters go out looking for victims are primarily comprised of pretty average, often pretty vulnerable people, including old people, young people, homeless or just obviously poor people, etc.

One of the reasons is because, well, non-vulnerable people aren’t vulnerable. When a healthcare CEO makes decisions that result in many poor people being unable to afford proper medicine and thus becoming disabled, the burdens that creates don’t fall back on them, they fall back on other poor people. When a politician makes policy decisions that result in more people being unable to get money for food without resorting to violence, that increase in crime doesn’t affect their fancy gated community, it affects poor people.

I talk about monsters in Eureka as a metaphor for disability a lot, but that purposefully isn’t the only valid reading. A lot of them can represent anyone whose needs are impossible to meet without taking from others.

Eureka isn’t a masturbatory CEO-eating simulator because it isn’t about wish fulfillment or power fantasy. First and foremost that burden will fall on the shoulders of one’s own community, not the rich guy causing all the problems. Eureka (and future A.N.I.M. games like Silk&Dagger) doesn’t present a world as it should be, it presents a world how it is. And Eureka says if being a bit selfish and burdensome to your own community is necessary for you to not only live, but live with any degree of happiness, then that shame and guilt isn’t helping anyone.

Elegantly designed and thoroughly playtested, Eureka represents the culmination of three years of near-daily work from our team, as well as a lot of our own money. If you’re just now reading this and learning about Eureka for the first time, you missed the crowdfunding window unfortunately, but you can still check out the public beta on itch.io to learn more about what Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy actually is, as that is where we have all the fancy art assets, the animated trailer, links to video reviews by podcasts and youtubers, etc.!

You can also follow updates on our Kickstarter page where we post regular updates on the status of our progress finishing the game and getting it ready for final release.

Beta Copies through the Patreon

If you want more, you can download regularly updated playable beta versions of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy earlier, plus extra content such as adventure modules by subscribing to our Patreon at the $5 tier or higher. Subscribing to our patreon also grants you access to our patreon discord server where you can talk to us directly and offer valuable feedback on our progress and projects.

The A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club

If you would like to meet the A.N.I.M. team and even have a chance to play Eureka with us, you can join the A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club discord server. It’s also just a great place to talk and discuss TTRPGs, so there is no schedule obligation, but the main purpose of it is to nominate, vote on, then read, discuss, and play different indie TTRPGs. We put playgroups together based on scheduling compatibility, so it’s all extremely flexible. This is a free discord server, separate from our patreon exclusive one. https://discord.gg/7jdP8FBPes

Other Stuff

We also have a ko-fi and merchandise if you just wanna give us more money for any reason.

We hope to see you there, and that you will help our dreams come true and launch our careers as indie TTRPG developers with a bang by getting us to our base goal and blowing those stretch goals out of the water, and fight back against WotC's monopoly on the entire hobby. Wish us luck.

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lieutnt · 2 years ago

Note

So I've read your face sitting stuff, and omg there amazing, so I was wondering if you could write Trans!Captain Price riding male readers face? Maybe with a reader who's quite bigger than him. Thank you 😊 and again I love your work ❤

taste

Trans!Captain John Price x Male Reader Summary: You eat Captain Price out against a wall basically. Warnings: NSFW, 18+ Only. Oral (r giving), reader is referenced as being bigger than Price (so taller than 6'2).

“Oh Captain…” you coo, his eyes sliding shut as a wave of embarrassment rolls over his face, the skin flushing redder and redder with each passing second. Your fingers slide through his wetness and he hitches a breath, one you feel as your lips dance across his throat. “If I knew you were this desperate I would’ve done this sooner.”

Your larger frame has him pinned against the wall, a thigh lodged between his own, opening him up to you. It doesn’t take much for your fingers to become soaked, and confusion twitches on Price’s features when you withdraw your hand. He waits until you speak, your tone leaving no room for disobedience. “Open your eyes Captain.” He does, like the good little soldier he is.

He’s thankful your leg is keeping him steady, because when he opens his eyes and watches you bring your hand to your mouth to clean your fingers of him he nearly buckles, another rush of arousal making him even slicker in his pants.

Withdrawing your fingers you crane your neck down, bringing your mouth to his own and he gives in instantly, allowing your tongue to slide in with ease as you coat his tongue with his own juices. He can’t help the muffled moan that escapes; the sheer lewdness making the tips of his ears burn.

You stay like that as long as you can, until the need for air becomes desperate and you break apart, his head falling slack against the wall. His brain is jumbled, only able to think of one way to express himself: “Bloody hell.”

He feels the air of your chuckle against the corner of his mouth as one hand wraps around his neck to move his head back up as you plant shorter kisses against his lips, and he feels worry in the pit of his stomach that you laughed. “Keep it together John, I’m not nearly finished yet,” he swallows thickly, knowing you’ll make good on that warning. Your mouth moves up to his ear, and he fails to suppress the shiver as you speak. “And I want another taste.”

He barely manages to stop the whine in the back of his throat at your words, and your cock twitches eagerly in your pants, seeing the Captain Price so pliant beneath you. With little effort you manoeuvre him how you want, making short work of his pants and the boxers that cling to him underneath, the fabric darkened by a noticeable wet spot that has you almost drooling.

To see a man so much bigger than him falling to his knees in front of him has his heart thundering in his chest, and when you hitch one of his legs over your shoulder Price’s stomach swoops, the skin of his inner thighs shiny with his arousal.

“Christ Captain, look how wet you are.”

He huffs, getting needier and needier the longer you drag this out. “Bugger off.” he replies, voice shaky and any venom in his tone non-existent. You go to move away and his leg tightens around you, keeping you locked in place. “If you leave right now I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

You tut, mouth moving closer to his opening. “Well we can’t have that now can we Captain?” Before he can respond you lick a long stripe up his cunt, one that has him arching his hips to chase your tongue.

“Fuckin hell-” he gasps, the grip in your hair tightening. He tastes like ambrosia on your tongue, so you dive in for another taste, fingers grasping his hips as you repeat the motion, making sure to catch his puffy clit with each lick.

Even though he’s pushed onto his tiptoes he rapidly begins to move more and more until he’s rolling his hips into your mouth, choking moans and gasps of your name filling the air as he finds a rhythm.

He whines when you hum against him, stopping just long enough to praise him. “You taste so good, I could do this for hours.” To accentuate your point you lean back in and begin to lick with renewed vigour, Price’s chants alternating between your name and curses as he gets closer and closer.

As you move up and suck on his puffy clit it all comes crashing down, a hoarse, drawn-out cry accompanying the uncontrollable convulsions of his body as he twitches above you, hips desperately grinding down on your mouth to keep the pleasure going. You noisily slurp at everything he gives you, your senses fogged by his overwhelming sweet taste.

Letting him ride out his high he pulls your hair to stop you, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Once the pleasure has fizzled away you place kisses along the inside of his thigh, only stopping when you place once final kiss against his sloppy cunt.

Pulling yourself away you’re hypnotised by the strings of spit connecting the two of you; you can feel how soaked your chin is. Price almost sobs at the lack of stimulation, hips trying to chase your mouth while you watch his hole twitch around nothing, so desperate to be filled.

Tears of relief stream down his face as you lean in again, giving him little time to feel your tongue sliding through his folds before you’re pushing the muscle into his hole, body arching perfectly for you to reach as deep as you can. “Fuck-” he cries, hips rocking down to fuck himself on your tongue. He doesn’t last long, moans growing faster and faster as the heat coils in his belly.

When you pull him closer he cries one more time before erupting into a whorish moan, gushing into your mouth as he convulses around you, body trembling with waves of pleasure. You continue to push your tongue in and out, dragging out the euphoria flooding his veins until he falls almost limp against you, hands weakly tugging in your hair to stop.

Teasingly you swipe once more against his slick opening, his body shivering and causing him to groan in discomfort before you’re moving his leg off your shoulder, planting his foot back on the ground and hands staying on him for support as you rise from your knees to your full height.

Price mutters a curse under his breath when he sees your face, the bottom half shining and wet, something you apparently have little concern over as you pull him in for a heavy, desperate kiss, letting him taste himself on your tongue as you moan into his mouth.

#john price #trans!john price #john price x male reader #call of duty #top male reader #elijahs oneshots #lieutnts writing #male reader #top reader

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valentinoappreciator · 2 months ago

Text

There's a First Time for Everything

A quick little drabble I put together after seeing the cutest radiostatic fanart <3 I haven't written for these two disasters before, so please forgive me, and don't be meanies about it ;v;

The post with the fanart can be found here: https://www.tumblr.com/byrdnight/768971048708374529?source=share Credit for the idea goes to @byrdnight, tagging you so you can read it as well :D

Media: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Alastor x Vox

Rating: M for Mature (nothing explicit, only a few references to actual nsfw stuff)

Word count: 2.8k

Tags included but not limited to: Established RadioStatic, implied / referenced Valastor, implied / referenced StaticMoth, light kissing, ice skating, first time ice skating, light angst???, but so much fluff to make up for that

Where else to read: AO3. Username: TheWeirdDane. Title: There's a First Time for Everything

Author's note: First time writing for these two, but I couldn't help myself after seeing the art <3 I hope it's to everybody's liking!

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

Dainty, white flakes drifted lazily through the crisp, cold air. Both were, of course, artificially created; things weren’t so fucked that Hell had frozen over yet. That didn’t take away from Vox’s almost childlike wonder at the snow, though. Alastor hummed softly and looked up into the red sky.

“Are you about ready?” he asked with an aura of exasperation before turning his head to Vox, who was busy tying his skates.

“Yeah yeah yeah, give me a moment,” Vox replied, tongue poking slightly out of his mouth, “these shoelaces are being annoying.”

Alastor rolled his eyes.

“Well, you’ve got that in common.”

“Oh ouch,” Vox said flatly as he tied a knot on the skates’ laces and then stood up, turning to Alastor with an outstretched hand.

“Well?” he said, and was surprised to see Alastor’s fluffy ears flatten against his head and Alastor turn a bit away from him. Vox frowned slightly, before figuring that Alastor maybe didn’t want to risk being seen with him in public like this. Well, he really should have thought about that before agreeing to go to the ice rink with him!

“Look,” Vox sighed, “if you changed your mind, you could’ve just told me so.”

“Would it have changed things?”

“Of course not. Now, come on, get on your feet and get out there.”

Alastor scowled up at him, refusing to take his hand. He crossed his legs and his arms, clinging to his microphone stand. Now it was Vox’s time to roll his eyes.

“If you’re going to be a big baby about it, you can sulk in silence,” he muttered and pushed himself away from the rink’s half-walls to glide onto the ice.

The cold air brushed against his face, and Vox took a deep breath in, closed his eyes, and let the breath out just as slowly. Oh, how he had missed this from his childhood! He vividly remembered going to the ice rinks with his mother and father. Remembered the excitement, the way he barely had to put effort into moving, the way his parents looked at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Beaming, full of admiration.

Like they thought he could get far with his ice skating skills. It was a wonderful memory.

Vox kept his eyes closed for a couple of seconds, leaning full-tilt into the warmth of the memory. It was only him and Alastor here, after all, there was quite literally no risk of bumping into anyone non-important and cutting off their ankles. Unfortunately. It was an ice rink only for the absolute elite. Only for the most powerful of Overlords.

He put one foot in front of the other and pushed the slightest bit, easily and smoothly gliding forward. Rinse and repeat.

When Vox opened his eyes, feeling like all the passion of the Sun was glittering in them, he found Alastor, still sitting on the bench, still with his limbs crossed, still clutching his stupid microphone stand. But, as opposed to before, he was now watching Vox curiously, his ears perked. He caught Vox staring at him, and promptly looked up into the sky again.

Vox rolled his eyes again before nimbly switching course, sliding towards Alastor with his hands behind his back.

“What is it, Bambi? Afraid you’ll slip and fall on the ice?” he grinned and slid to a stop in front of him, shredding a bit of ice that landed on Alastor’s black pants. Alastor looked at him with as much disapproval as he could, which was a lot.

“Oh come on, Alastor,” Vox groaned and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him up. But Alastor was stubborn as a mule and didn’t budge. “What’s your fucking damage? I asked if you wanted to go to the ice rink with me, and you agreed. Now you won’t--- you haven’t even put on the skates?”

Alastor glared up at him, his ears flat against his head once more. He huffed and turned his head away from Vox. Vox groaned loudly and shook his head, both hands on his hips.

“Should’ve fucking guessed,” he grumbled. “You really are just a big coward. You never try anything new and fun.”

“Valentino begs to differ.”

“Fucking excuse me?” Vox hissed between gritted teeth, lifting one leg and slamming the skate’s blade down into the wooden bench so that he could lean down into Alastor’s personal bubble. He didn’t care if the blade got dulled from the action; he needed to know what the fuck Alastor’s problem was.

Alastor growled quietly, pressing himself back against the bench as his ears went completely flat against his head.

“I know Val fucks you regularly, so why are you acting like there’s a massive fucking stick up your ass? If you didn’t want to do ice skating with me, you could’ve just said so!”

“It’s not because it’s with you,” Alastor snapped back, clearly surprised by his own words. Vox blinked in surprise, but the fiery annoyance in his chest wasn’t dying down.

“Then, pray fucking tell, what is it? Because you’re acting like a total prick right now.”

Alastor looked away for so long that Vox was tempted to push away again. Then The Radio Demon mumbled something. Mumbled. Not speaking loud and clear. Vox had to even look at his lips moving to make sure he was speaking.

“I don’t want to look like a fool.”

“There’s no one here but us,” Vox said irritably, gesturing to the completely empty ice rink. Alastor seemed to kind of curl in on himself, as he sat there on the bench. He hid his lower face in his scarf.

“I’m quite aware of that.”

Vox glared at Alastor, about to yell at him some more, when he had an epiphany.

Wait...

“Wait,” he said slowly, drawing out the word and watching how Alastor winced, “are you... afraid of looking stupid in front of... me?”

This got Alastor to glare back at him, ire in his eyes. Vox blinked down at him, utterly perplexed. Well, this was new. Usually, Alastor was so suave and nonchalant, so this came completely from left field.

“But... I’m your boyfriend.”

“I’m quite aware, regrettably,” Alastor scoffed.

Vox rolled his eyes once more.

“I mean, you idiot, that you shouldn’t have to worry about looking stupid in front of me because we’re dating. I don’t care if you look stupid. You’re the prettiest motherfucker around.”

A beat of silence. Alastor blushed slightly. Vox cleared his throat.

“Maybe don’t mention that to Val, though.”

Alastor was quiet, and Vox sighed. Despite the many layers of clothing, he was starting to get a bit chilly.

“Look, Al. Just... I don’t care about looking stupid. Not when it’s you. My brand is perfection, but I’m not working right now, am I?”

“In those clothes? I certainly hope not.”

Vox pretended not to have heard him.

“So just, please, relax. Put on the skates and join me out on the ice, please?”

Alastor glanced up at him as he dug his skate out of the bench.

“I have never done this before,” he then revealed, again in a low mumble.

Somehow, for some reason, this made Vox smile. A genuine, warm smile. The fire that had once been one of annoyance now became one of fondness, but he would be double-damned before he admitted that. Alastor was... willing to do this with him? Something he hadn’t tried before? Even if it made him look ridiculous? As far as Vox was concerned, there was no greater declaration of love.

“That’s okay,” he said softly and cupped Alastor’s cheeks with his hands, the claws gingerly scratching through his hair. “We’ll take it slow. I’m a good teacher.”

Alastor huffed, but couldn’t run from the blush on his face. Vox smirked.

“Now now, no salacious thoughts, young man.”

Alastor’s face went beet red, and Vox laughed gently.

“I’m kidding. Come.”

He pulled back and grabbed Alastor’s skates lying next to him before starting to kneel.

“Please?”

Alastor was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed deeply, rolling his eyes and putting his usual face back on. His legs uncrossed, and he bent down to take off his shoes.

“Do you even beg this much for Valentino?” he asked jokingly. Vox grinned.

“Only when he’s being extra insidious.” This got a warm and heart-felt chuckle out of Alastor, who proceeded to take off his shoes and replace them with the red-and-black ice skates in Vox’s hands. Vox tied them for him in silence.

When the laces were done up and tied with a pretty knot at the top, Vox stood up without so much as a wobble. He reached his hands out to Alastor, who seemed to regret this whole thing, but nonetheless put his own hands in Vox’s.

“I’m gonna pull now,” Vox warned, and tugged gently. Alastor followed, immediately wobbling and clinging to Vox.

Vox would have been a lying bastard if he said he didn’t like it. Not that he couldn’t live with being accused of being a lying bastard. He had been called much worse, and much more accurate, things through the years.

Alastor was wonderfully warm against him. He smelled nice, too. Well, Vox had to hand it to Valentino, the pimp had an uncanny ability to get people to present themself as nicely as they could. For Alastor, that meant taking actual regular showers and using cologne. He still hadn’t learned how to use a comb or a brush, though.

“This was a mistake,” he hissed, ears flat and eyes closed tightly.

“Calm down,” Vox said soothingly and straightened, putting a hand on the small of his back. “Easy. Easy does it. Stand up straight. You can hold on to me if you need to.”

Alastor did need to hold on to Vox as he slowly, very slowly, stood up straight. His hands had an iron grip on Vox’s arms. In turn, Vox gently held Alastor. They stood like that for a little while.

“There you go, that’s a good posture!” he praised, noting the flush going across Alastor’s face and filing this away for later blackmailing purposes. “Now, I’m going to go backwards, okay? You keep holding on to me.”

“No, no no!” Alastor yelped as Vox slid backwards a bit, forcing Alastor to move.

“It’s okay, you’re doing great. It’s okay.”

He kept his gaze firmly locked on Alastor as he scooted further back. There was something almost akin to panic in Alastor’s eyes as they held Vox’s gaze, but Vox did his best to be calm and reassuring and soothing. Eventually, it had to rub off on Alastor.

“See? You’re doing great!” he praised again after having moved a few feet and Alastor was still standing. Wobbling and uncertain, but standing nonetheless.

“Shut up,” Alastor hissed, looking like someone spending all of his energy focusing on staying standing. His cheeks were burning red, his eyes wide open, his lips pressed together in a tight line. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m being serious, believe it or not.”

They continued like that for a little while; Vox skating backwards and forcing Alastor to move as well. It was utterly clumsy and without elegance or grace, but Vox didn’t care. He was just happy - thrilled - that he got to do this with Alastor.

As they went, Vox gave him tips and advice on how to move his feet and how to keep his posture. He wasn’t sure how much of it he retained, but he could see improvement after just a couple of rounds on the ice rink. He made sure to let Alastor know that his posture was improving and that his steps seemed to become more confident. Alastor glared at him, but Vox liked to think it was all a façade.

Not that it mattered all that much, though. He got to be close to Alastor, didn’t he? And really, wasn’t that the stuff dreams were made of?

“Okay, Al, you’re doing really great now. I feel confident in letting---”

“You are not letting go,” Alastor hissed immediately, clinging even harder to Vox’s arms, to the point that Vox had to stop himself from wincing.

“You’ll be fine,” he promised.

“Vox, no,” Alastor continued, “you are not letting go so soon, you slimy little---”

“I’ll cut you a deal.”

“...” His ears perked adorably.

“If you fall on your pretty ass, which I know you won’t, I will refrain from being smug and snarky about my superiority for a whole weekend at a time of your choosing.”

“You’re not superior, though.”

Vox rolled his eyes.

“Look, do you want me to hold on or not?”

“Do you want me to bully you around and prove how you’re inferior to me?” Alastor retaliated, even as he hesitantly loosened his grip on Vox's forearms. Now it was Vox’s turn to blush, but he played it cool with a little scoff.

“As if you could.”

They glared at each other for a moment before Alastor let go of Vox’s sleeves. Very slowly, and very hesitantly, until they were only connected by Vox’s fingertips on Alastor’s hands.

“Okay?” Vox asked, looking at Alastor.

He took a shuddering breath but nodded all the same, and Vox was filled with a bizarre kind of glee. Seeing The Radio Demon scared was a sight reserved for... hell, he couldn’t think of anyone who had seen Alastor nervous, let alone scared. Well, seen and lived to tell the tale.

“Okay.”

Vox skated back a few feet, but remained within grabbing distance. Just in case.

Alastor’s knees wobbled, and he flailed wildly with his arms. Vox instinctively reached for him, but he managed to stand upright. Mostly. Well, somewhat. And, when Alastor got his knees under control, and the arm-flailing stopped, and he stood there, completely still, without help, Vox grinned widely at him. Alastor’s eyes were closed tightly.

“See? I told you you could do it!”

Alastor opened his eyes and looked around, then at Vox. His heart swelled with the thrilled surprise in his gaze. For just a moment, in this precise moment, Vox could feel his own childlike excitement at doing something all by himself when he had been but a kid.

“You’re doing great, Al,” he said. Then he gestured to himself, waving a hand. “Now, come on, come to me.”

“Not happening,” Alastor said immediately. “I can’t move ever again.”

“Yes, you can, and yes, you will.”

Alastor shook his head so hard it threatened to disrupt his balance. Vox observed him for a long moment.

“Alright,” he then said and skated back to Alastor who immediately reached out and clung to him. It was a highly unusual feeling. “It’s okay. I’m still really proud of you, Al.”

“Don’t say that,” Alastor mumbled, ducking his head. Vox stroked a few claws through his hair, carefully avoiding his antlers. They were always very sensitive, and he didn’t want to set off Alastor in any way right now. Maybe later, though...

Alastor instantly relaxed against him, even more so when Vox began petting his hair in earnest.

“You did do well, Alastor. I’m not patronizing you or anything. I really am proud of you for the progress you’ve made today.”

Alastor scoffed softly, but didn’t argue any further, so neither did Vox.

They stood like that until Vox started getting chilly. Then he withdrew his hand, gently cupping Alastor’s cheek.

“I’m cold,” he said, “do you want to go home?”

“Please,” Alastor mumbled, but didn’t let go. Vox smiled softly.

“Give me a kiss, and then I’ll get us back.”

Alastor gave a quiet scoff, but nonetheless lifted his head.

They exchanged a quick, yet surprisingly tender kiss, and as promised, Vox led them both back to the bench. They engaged in a bit of small-talk while they removed their skates and put on their own shoes.

“Al.”

“Hmm?” Alastor hummed as he grabbed his microphone stand.

Vox wanted to ask if he had overstepped any boundaries today, but he didn’t want to seem overly concerned. That would ruin his image. Thus, he instead grabbed Alastor’s scarf and hauled him in for another kiss, this one much more like the ones he was used to receiving from Valentino; deep and passionate, verging on being obscene.

Alastor didn’t do or say anything. He just sat there, rigid.

When Vox pulled back, he pulled Alastor’s hat onto his head and down over his eyes, laughing as The Radio Demon yelped and grumbled.

“I love you, Al.”

Alastor snickered as he got his hat - and hair - under control.

“A terrible decision, really.”

“I know,” Vox grinned as they laced their fingers together and started the walk back home.

#text #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fic #hazbin fic #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel vox #radiostatic #staticradio #hazbin alastor #hazbin vox #implied valastor #implied staticmoth #my post

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quitealotofsodapop · 9 months ago

Text

Post-JTTW Stone Egged Au asks: Bad Ichor

Amassing some Post-Jttw egg asks with similar vibes of "reject gods. stay monke".

Hehehe many questions - main ref post here. Btw in future try sending one sentence questions/comment as replies to the specfic posts. sometimes I find asks referencing a post and I can't remember which one they're talking about.

Wukong in the au makes a concious effort to inform his cubs and his people of what his mother sacrificed to bring him into the world. Her statue and the paintings on the walls of Waterfall Curtain a tapestry of a ruler more fair and far grander that any celestial in the monkeys minds.

And when their little chaotic Eclipse twins found the Consort's resting place, more of Wukong's parent's sacrifice was uncovered. Along with the King's delayed twin brother Luzhen. The little prince grows up being taught how him and the "larger him" share parents, but they aren't here in person anymore but they love him very much. Luzhen has met his and Wukong's parents during the holidays that allow it and gladly runs up to Yē Lín and Shíhuā calling them "Baba" and "Mama" let he's known them all his life. He misses them a lot. But older Brother/Mama and Bama/Baba are really good to him so he isn't sad for long.

Wukong never lets Heaven realise that Luzhen isn't his biological child, as he fears the Emperor or Queen Mother attempting to sieze custody of Luzhen out of spite. The few higher up that know agree that baby monkeys need to be with monkeys.

Pigsy is still uber confused when Luzhen refers to Wukong as "mama" and "gege" in the same sentence tho.

Mac and Wukong are still super petty tho. They call upon their ancestors during the cubs' naming ceremonies to give their little one's blessings. And along with Shíhuā, Yē Lín and Guanyin making an appearance, the royal couple are invoked to send divine blessings of protection down onto earth. They know who's calling them. They aren't happy about it but they won't hurt the little ones.

MK is still a huge JTTW fan, even more so since to him it's like learning about all this cool stuff his family did back in the Before times! And he was there for a lot it! (even if he wasn't born yet). Him and his childhood besties deduced early on that they have *some* kind of family in the Celestial realm, just not sure who.

As for the Dragons:

Going by Ao Guang still being upset by the theft (barely, in Jttw his wife let Wukong have it), of the Staff, I imagine that dragon can be super petty. Ao Guang doesn't like Sun Wukong at all for the theft and the havoc in heaven, even if he was cordial to him during the Journey.

When the youngest son of the Ao Run/Ji is fatally wounded by the Samadhi Fire, basically every royal dragon had an attack of pstd to when they lost Ao Bing. They started to hate Sun Wukong for his recklessness.

Then DBK, Wukong's older sworn brother and godfather to his young twins, suddenly goes on a rampage forcing Heaven's hands.

The royal dragons basically took DBK's imprisionment as an excuse to bail out. Dragons don't like the gods, and they don't like Sun Wukong.

Mei's parents hadn't wanted to cut ties with the monkeys, but Mei was a super sickly dragon pup and Ao Yi simply couldn't emotionally deal with cutting off her family with that happening... her and Long Chen continue to send Wukong's family birthday presents, card, and the occasional letter - all covert like a spy mission. Other dragons who disagreed with the royals continue this practice as well.

And ofc S4:

Nezha: "Jade Emperor, there's a message for you from Sun Qi Xiaotian." Jade Emperor & Queen Mother: (*super intrigued! Did he find out about their connection?*) JE: "Send him in." Nezha, peaks head out of window: "Yeah he's in." MK: (*busts through wall like a Looney tunes character, shaking with anxiety*) MK, like he's on fast-forward: "Mister Jade Emperor sir I'm so sorry but Azure Lion's got this memory scroll and he trapped my family in it. He tricked me and my friends into freeing his old buddies from the Brotherhood but he wont let my mom loose and NOW he has my baby sister and little bro (it's complicated) and they're on their way here right now to kill you and my powers are glitching out and I DONT KNOW WHAT TO DO!!!" JE: "Uhhh..." Queen Mother, rolls her eyes and turns to her entourage: "Prepare the safehouse. Contact all the bodhisattvas and the Kings of Hell, and tell our armies to be ready for a big game hunt. And get this child some peaches." MK: (*heavily breathing/mid-panic attack. gives thumbs up*) Mei, peaking her head in: "Wow. Girl bossing!" Nezha: "And Sun Wukong my lady?" Queen Mother: (*looks over MK like he's the most precious thing in the universe. like she doesn't want to let him leave*) Queen Mother: "For the sake of my daughter... find Sun Wukong's mate the Six Eared Macaque. He knows those Brotherhood brutes well. It's the least he can do for giving my grandson such distress with that disappearing act." Rumble & Savage, appear from the Queen Mother's shadow: "Do we gets peaches too?" "I like melon better." Queen Mother: "Who are these?" MK, calming down: "My older little siblings. They're twins. Azure didn't take them. Probably because he couldn't catch them." Rumble & Savage, proudly flexing: "We're too fast!" "And we got our bama's powers!" Queen Mother: (*notices little red tiger-stripe-like markings on the twins' bodies*) "OH!!!! He had twins! My love! More wàizēngsūnérnǚ! Twins too!!" JE: (*frozen stiff on his throne, completely shocked*) "Can the brown one repeat what he said about celestial beasts coming to kill me?" MK, blanking at QM's use of chinese: "Did the Queen just say-" Orchard Maidens, quickly shuffling the Noodle Gang out of the Throne Room: "SO! How about those peaches?" "You'll learn soon enough." "Sorry, but we're going into lockdown." "He's taller than didi!" "Must be mother's genes that did that."

Basically MK is calling in the big guns early cus he's panicking, abd accidentally uncovers the fact that he's somehow the great-grandchild (by reincarnation nonsense) of the two rulers of Heaven!?

All he wanted when all this Scroll nonsense happened was a day off!

#post jttw stone egged au #jttw stone egged au #stone matriarch au #sun wukong #lmk sun luzhen #lmk xiwangmu #lmk queen mother of the west #lmk eclipse twins #lmk rumble & savage #lmk mei #long xiaojiao #lmk mei's parents #lmk nezha #lmk aus #lmk #lego monkie kid #long post

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charlottesbookclub · 11 days ago

Text

time after time – chapter four (armitage hux x reader)

time after time masterlist

Summary: Hux forms a new plan to ensure that his meeting with you goes correctly this time

Warnings/Tags: gn!reader; set pre-TFA; time loop; brief description of a medical appointment; references to psychiatric care; references to depression and related symptoms; reading of personal and medical files without the subject's knowledge; super brief suicidal ideation if you squint; as always, let me know if I've missed anything!

Words: 2838

Author’s Note: I don't have a ton of comments to make on this chapter, but please do peruse the tags/warnings because I do reference some mental health stuff in this one! ❤️‍🩹 I'm excited to get back into Hux having another interaction with the reader! the question of course is: will he fumble again? (yes, but in a new and different way! 😌) I hope you enjoy! 🥰

Hux had always believed it took three times to become familiar with something. This fourth time, the sight of the med bay ceiling was far too familiar. He barely gave the medics time to loom over him before he was out of the door, completely ignoring whatever they might have been saying to him. He called Mitaka via coms. He had to know if the lieutenant remembered anything, although Hux seriously doubted he would. It seemed that he alone was trapped in this nightmare.

“General? Is everything alright? Did something go wrong at medical?” Exactly the same as before. Hux sighed.

“Lieutenant, do you recall our conversation from last cycle?” A beat of silence on the other end of the line.

“About the supply chains, sir?” Mitaka asked then, uncertainty quavering in his voice. “I haven’t had time to confer with our agents yet, but—”

“Never mind, Lieutenant,” Hux interrupted, “thank you.” He clicked off the call.

What Hux needed now was a plan, he decided as he reached his quarters. All this desperate scrambling about wouldn’t get him anywhere. The idea of you stubbornly remained in his thoughts. Maybe he would feel steadier if he went through with the meeting and could clear you from his head. It was no doubt the lingering fear that he had botched the previous two interactions that kept you in his mind. If he could complete the meeting cordially and satisfactorily, he could turn his attention to other matters.

But there was so much time until then. And your persistent presence in his thoughts meant he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything productive during that time. Unless, of course, it pertained to you. How much did he know about you, really? Very little. He could easily use this time to acquire some more information about you, information that would no doubt confirm that you were someone in whom he could maintain a professional disinterest. Filled with new energy, he turned to the data screens on his desk and pulled up your personnel file.

Aside from basic biographical details, he found a list of accolades from your academy days and an impressive academic record. He had been correct about half-hearing from Mitaka that you did recruitment in the field. There were records and field reports from each of your planetside deployments. He hummed to himself in interest as he read the reports you had personally authored; they were professional and well-written. Various official letters from commanding officers commended your work and applauded your abilities to communicate across various cultural and linguistic barriers. He skimmed their contents until one in particular caught his eye. Although it celebrated your work in the field, the writer – a former supervisor – found you unsuitable for assignment to a Star Destroyer. Hux raised an eyebrow and read further. It referenced a report from psychiatric. Deeply intrigued, Hux pulled up the psych file, so curious to know more about you that he barely stopped to consider whether he should continue.

The psych report was a short one, with no flagged indicators of immediate risk. Hux read through its recounting of an observation period and interview that were undertaken two years previously when you had been reassigned to a Star Destroyer after years in the field. The attending psych medic clinically recorded a depressed mood that resulted in lower energy and productivity than your previous documented levels. They had prescribed stims, but the required dosage ended up being higher than they could justify when your presence was not immediately required on the ship and they could better conserve those medical resources by simply deploying you to the field again. The interview section was a brief summary of a conversation with you that had been written up by the psych medic. It didn’t record many of your actual words, but a few key phrases jumped out immediately: “isolated,” “adjustment difficulties,” “lethargic,” “decreased productive output,” “lonely.”

Hux leaned back in his chair, fingers pressed to his lips in contemplation as those words echoed through his mind. Something in his chest felt strange, almost a little strangled. When he forced himself to take a deep breath, it quavered on the way out of his lungs. His memory helpfully presented him with a selection of images of you: honest eyes, nervous fidgeting, shrinking away from him, sobbing in the turbolift. Isolated. Lonely.

He pushed himself out of the chair forcefully, sending it skidding across the floor. Pacing to his large window, he rested his forehead against the cold transparisteel. The stars blinked back at him from the darkness. What in the galaxy was wrong with him? This was no way to act about someone he had barely met. Certainly it was unfortunate that you were experiencing such… unpleasant symptoms, but your condition was not unique. He was sure that others suffered from feelings of isolation, although Hux was too consumed with his work to be able to empathize. Perhaps if he met with you as planned and showed some professional courtesy, he could help to facilitate a more successful transition than your last. Yes, that was it. He would go through with the meeting as he had planned, which would serve the dual purpose of finally banishing the persistent thoughts of you from his mind and easing your transition to the Finalizer.

As though on cue, his reminder about the meeting pinged from his datapad. Hux retreated from the window into his refresher. He splashed his face with cold water and tried to ignore the lingering tightness in his chest. He combed a new layer of gel into his hair, adjusting it to perfection. Donning a freshly pressed uniform and shrugging on his greatcoat, he left his chambers with his intentions set.

Despite his steely determination for an entirely normal and professional meeting between potential future colleagues, Hux made the mistake of letting himself assess you as he approached your table. His motivations had been to simply take stock of your comportment, but his wandering thoughts betrayed him. Just as he had the first time he saw you, he couldn’t help but remark how good you looked. In your uniform, of course. How good you looked in your uniform. It was perfectly tailored to the shape of your body. As a proper uniform should be, he reminded himself. There shouldn’t be anything unusual about that. Forcing himself to look elsewhere, he noticed that despite the stiff set of your shoulders, your fingers were drumming nervously on the table. He was certain you were unaware of this, because he got the distinct impression that you would have made yourself stop if you had known. You kept reaching over to tap your datapad screen, as though checking the time. Transferring his gaze to your face, he noticed you mouth was turned down slightly at the corners into not quite a frown – more of an expression of concentration? Maybe even of anxiety? Hux couldn’t quite parse its meaning. What he was becoming more and more certain of, however, was that he would prefer to see you happy. Because it would ease your transition, of course. Because it would make you more productive in your duties, obviously. Hux attempted to clear his mind of these cluttered thoughts as he approached the table. Always a quick learner, he voiced his greeting more softly this time:

“Captain?” His quieter words were rewarded; rather than startling at the sound of his voice, you turned to look at him more naturally, catching him in your focused gaze.

“General!” Your small exclamation still sounded a bit surprised. Anticipating that you would rise to greet him, Hux instead slid into the seat across from you, encouraging you to remain sitting. What had he gotten himself so worked up about? This would be simple – just like any other meeting with a fellow officer. That was the last coherent thought he had before he met your eyes across the table. Kriff, he really was going to faint again. A beat of awkward silence pulsed between the two of you before you hesitantly broke it, averting your gaze and momentarily allowing Hux to regain his balance.

“Thank you so much for meeting me – I know you must have a full schedule. I uh… I just really appreciate you taking the time to meet… with me.” Your words were faltering but absolutely genuine. Hux could sense it in your tone immediately; it was something rare to hear amongst the officers that usually surrounded him.

“Of course, I’m happy to meet with any new transfers to the ship,” he offered his best attempt at a smile, but was certain that it came across as tight and stiff. He wanted to kick himself. His words did have the blessed and cursed effect of bringing your eyes back to his though, and the sincerity brimming in them was enough to make him feel a little lightheaded. You returned a small smile of your own. How could you be practically glowing in the harsh lighting of the dining hall? Now he was lightheaded and queasy.

“I ordered us both a caf. I—well… I wasn’t sure what you drank.” Mercifully, you diverted your attention to the cups on the table. Hux wanted to shake himself by the shoulders and rattle some sense back into his clouded mind. What the kriff was wrong with him? The stress of the unusual circumstances of the past few days was clearly starting to affect him.

“I usually don’t drink caf at this time of the cycle.” You rushed to apologize, but Hux kept going, certain he wouldn’t be able to hear your soft, nervous words without losing his senses again: “but it’s no matter – I have tea back in my quarters.” You murmured a soft “oh” and nodded. Your hands fell into your lap. Hux got the distinct sense that you were trying your best to keep them still. He cleared his throat.

“So… how can I help you?” A perfect question – very professional, and it could even generate some actionable items. Hux was quite pleased with his returning sense of surety.

“Oh—um…” you passed a hand nervously across your face and let out a small breathy laugh. Hux’s vision went a little blurry around the edges. “I’m not sure actually. I was friends at the academy with Lieutenant Mitaka’s older sister and I suppose they thought—well, the two of them set this up really. I think they wanted me to have a connection with someone here.” Hux nodded, but most of the coherent thoughts had flown from his mind. In his silence, you kept talking.

“To be quite honest, I don’t think I’m doing this right. I mean—is this too informal? I’m actually not used to being surrounded by this many other First Order personnel,” you gestured vaguely to the room at large, but Hux’s eyes never left your face, taking in every small shift in your expression as you spoke. “In the field I was mostly talking to local populations and it was… very… different than this.” You tucked your hands under your legs then, as though you were suddenly aware that other officers didn’t gesticulate as much as you had been. Your eyes found his again, which did little to help his desperate attempt to generate thoughts. “Maybe you could tell me what the expectations are here? That would be helpful as I… adjust.”

Oh, thank the stars! The universe had some pity on him after all: reciting information and protocols he knew by heart was just what he needed to dispel the odd sensations that had plagued him since he first saw you. Without hesitation, he launched into a recitation of the various rules, regulations, and even unspoken expectations that governed life aboard the Finalizer. He tried to lose himself in his conveyance of information, resisting the urge to monitor your reactions or even look at you too closely. From the few glances he allowed himself, you seemed to be listening with interest, nodding along to his words. As he wrapped up his remarks, he decided it was best to leave while he was ahead. After all, he had accomplished both of his goals: he was able to provide information that would facilitate your transition and he had conducted the meeting with enough professional courtesy that he could consider it satisfactorily completed, finally putting you from his mind.

“I hope this provided some comfort as you adjust to your duties aboard the Finalizer,” Hux concluded, “I’m afraid I have another commitment now, but you are welcome to contact me if you have any further questions.”

“Yes, thank you, General. This was very helpful,” you responded, although your bright sincerity from earlier was slightly dimmed. Hux did not permit himself to analyze this further; he needed to end the meeting before his intermittent ailment overtook him again. He stood from the table and you echoed the motion, though your posture wasn’t quite as crisp as it had been before. He had to stop noticing these things before it drove him to distraction.

“I’m certain I will see you around the ship, Captain,” Hux commented, inclining his head toward you in a departing gesture. You simply nodded in response, meeting his eyes. Realizing the danger he faced in lingering longer under your gaze, he turned swiftly, but not so quickly that he missed the something that was plain on your face. Your expression was unreadable to him in that split second, despite the fact that it was not veiled with any attempt at pretension or deceit; things that Hux was all too accustomed to deciphering in the faces around him. This uncertainty quickened his steps as he whisked out of the dining hall and back to his quarters.

Hux was not a man who tolerated failure. That’s why he planned, why he prepared – so he wouldn’t risk failing. So how had this perfect plan failed so spectacularly? The meeting had gone almost as he had imagined. He had experienced moments of that strange recurring illness, yes, but overall he felt he had comported himself with great professionalism. So why the kriff were you still on his mind?

He slammed his fist onto his desk and considered bringing his forehead along with it. This meeting – done correctly this time – was supposed to have brought him closure and allowed him to focus on other things. It was having the opposite effect. Thoughts of you filled nearly every part of his mind, replaying even the most minute of your actions, running your little laugh on repeat, reminding him constantly of your soft eyes. Maybe he did need to be sent to psych – he felt like he might be losing his mind.

And then there was the question of the expression on your face as he turned to leave. Without even meaning to, he was picking at the problem of it as though it were a new starfighter design rather than a fleeting look from someone he barely knew. And that was another thing that ate away at him as he sat alone in his quarters, tormented by thoughts of you: he hadn’t asked you anything about yourself. You had mentioned your work in the field; he should have asked more. No he shouldn’t have – what was he thinking? It had been a professional meeting – he had made sure of that – there was no need to get to know you better than necessary for cordial interactions. But the not-knowing gnawed at him. He wantedto know more. No he didn’t – he couldn’t. Any longer of looking at you across the table, hearing you speak, listening to your laugh, watching each gesture – any longer and he would have lost what remained of his reason. But why? He buried his face in his hands, nearly ready to cry in frustration.

In this midst of these flurried thoughts, the part of his mind that had been puzzling at the question of your last expression rushed forward with the answer: you had been disappointed. Kriff. Why did he work so hard to discover answers that he didn’t want to know? He paced to the window, the weight of this realization heavy in his chest. Why were you disappointed? He let himself fall against the transparisteel, savoring the cold press of it against his skin. He idly wished that it might give way and relieve him of the spinning chaos of thoughts that he could not seem to clear. He walked himself back through the whole interaction, exerting great effort to not linger on the images of you. This replay confirmed to him that the meeting had indeed gone mostly to plan – he had done admirably despite brief bouts of whatever illness still seemed to be affecting him. So why were you disappointed? And even more perplexingly, a small voice reminded him, why did it matter to him that you were disappointed? Despite all his logical thinking and reasoning abilities, this was not a question he could answer.

#charlotte writes #time after time (hux x reader)#armitage hux x reader #general hux x reader #hux x reader #general hux fanfic #general hux fanfiction #armitage hux x you #general hux x you

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thr0wnawayy · 6 months ago

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Deku: The Doll (1/2)

Authors Note: This one's pretty heavy. I'm going to be honest, this was a hard one to write. But I think it encapsulates how severe things have gotten in the past 5 years since the war.

Warnings for vomiting, referenced mutilation and referenced SA.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hosu District, Suiseki Junior High. (1 Year after the Incident Report)

Red.

For as far as the eye can see, there was red.

All over the room, it coated every surface.

It was in her clothes, in her hair.

She could taste it on her pallette.

Seeping, staining...

She'd done it.

The quirkless bitch had done it.

She'd triumphed over her tormentors and all it took was a baseball bat stashed in her (on her third now) guitar case.

The stench hit her nose before her vomit did. She barely made it to the bucket she'd placed in advance.

Deku, that is what they called her. A doll to be played with and pulled apart. No matter where she went, she could never escape the torment.

By this point crude kanji had been etched into every section of skin like sacrificial tomes. Yet the one that stood out the most, the one she hated was the one from that day.

木

偶

Originally it had just been a simple line, a remnant from the surgical procedure that saved her life, at the cost of her voice.

Then her teachers found out that their golden calf could no longer be of service, so they cast her into the flames. Just as they had all those years ago when her diagnosis first came through.

A destroyed textbook here, a curved grade there. It didn't matter Deku could work twice as hard as they could push against.

Then they got older, Her classmates taunts became more pointed, Their moves more bold.

Shoving, slurs and occasionally using her as quirk practice quickly became the new norm.

The teachers ignored her, or worse some would join in.

The gym teacher in particular had loved making (false) comments about her iq or using her as a demonstration.

Still she persisted, learning to simply ignore the comments. That was until some of her classmates got fed up with her disinterested attitude.

If you asked her, Deku would "say" this was the point that her glasses came off, the point she couldn't ignore her reality.

The multiple sets of hands holding her down as she writhed. The box cutter gliding across her flesh. The laughter, Deku remembers the laughter the most.

They left her there in the empty 7th grade classroom, not even checking to see if they cut too deep. (They hadn't, if only by miracle)

The janitor called the paramedics, she'd been lying in a shallow puddle of her own blood.

-- had become 木 and beneath it lay 偶. Displayed on her throat for all to see and mock.

Not even a police report, it had only gotten worse from there afterwards.

The touches and hits turned, personal and more dangerous. Shoved down flights of stairs, stolen clothes, destroyed property.

Burns, burns, BURNS, BURNS-

As she matured, they became more forward. Some of her classmates found alternative uses for their quirks.

They found a much more unpleasant use for her.

Deku vomited into the bucket again, before looking around to see the mess she caused.

Deku stifled a "laugh".

They'd always called her a freak, now she really was one.

Did she enjoy it in that way though, no.

She manages to keep down the nausea this time.

Now all Deku needed to do was-

Deku realized she couldn't remember her name. Did she even have parents?.

No, all of her stuff was at the orphanage.

Deku scraped her memory as she pulled out the specialized blue plastic bin from the walk-in closet.

She'd brought her own hacksaw, pulling it from it's hiding spot (also in her guitar case) and taking off the sheath.

Putting on her butchers apron with care, she reached under a specific desk for her final supplies.

It was time to get to work.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

After 3 hours of work, she was done. The unused shower looked spotless, she looked disheveled (as she did after any good beatdown) but otherwise clean.

All evidence and tools literally poured down the drain, perfectly to plan.

Her alibi was perfect, it's not like anyone checked on her anyways. So they'd have only word of mouth to go off of and with the rumors she'd spread.

They weren't getting a clear picture any time soon.

Her junior high had lost any funding for any real security after the SC placed it elsewhere. So there was no chance of her getting caught on any video feed.

Her peers were also out of the equation, it's why she waited for the week's end to roll around. Besides her tormentors, everyone just wanted to go home.

The section of the school she'd chose had been abandoned shortly after the Liberation War, leaving her free to move around without disturbance which was needed for her exit.

Deku packed up her belongings and lept out from the window, pulling on the string attached to the wood block keeping it open.

The window locked with a slam, having lost the one thing keeping it open.

Upon landing on the sandy floor, Deku slipped into the nearby alley and out of sight.

She didn't have to go up to the orphanage's door to know it was locked.

Deku did her usual routine, just like when they forgot to let her or the other kids in.

She grabbed onto the gutter-pipe and began to climb. It wasn't long before she reached her dorm. She popped the lock and silently slid inside.

One could describe her room as 'frugal'. A set of dumbells laid in the corner next to her shitty TV and gaming system, all sat on the floor.

Across from her closet, a potted plant sat on her laptop desk and her bed laid half done in the corner by her right. (she palmed her face as she realized she'd locked the door again).

Deku wanted a nap, but she needed a bath first.

Deku started the bath and began to undress, she figured she deserved a treat after going through that whole ordeal.

Normally she hated baths, it meant staring at her body for too long. Being reminded of what she'd suffered through.

Steam began to fill the room, prompting Deku to look into the mirror before it fogged.

She gazed upon her skinny yet surprisingly fit form.

To anyone outside of Japan, she'd be a tragedy. Every spare inch of Deku's body was covered in some kind of scar.

Lictenberg fractures, stab wounds, scabs, old burn marks and of course there was Kanji. A massive scar lay on her hip from where a shard of metal had once lodged itself.

She worked her way up her body more of the same, no place was off limits. Nothing was sacred.

Deku brought her right arm up to the mirror. She looked at her forearm's underside, the word "cocksleeve" had long since been burnt off but she knew what it was.

One of her classmates, a boy able to grow extra limbs from his mass, had marked it there, it was one of his favorite insults to use while he and the others-.

She gagged, slapping herself across the cheek to stop that train of thought from derailing.

After washing herself up, Deku finally sank into the bath and let her mind drift off.

'Let's see what tomorrow brings', she thought as she allowed herself to unwind.

#mha rewrite #bnha critical #mha critical #hero society critical #crownless monarchy

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aftgficrec · 1 year ago

Note

hi I'm so excited I caught you guys open :D

I was wondering if you guys could find some fics where Neil brings up his past in casual conversation or his past gets brought up because of something he said or did

Also I've read a lot of the older soulmate fics where they can feel each other's pain or communicate telepathically and stuff like that but was wondering if there are any new ones :)

Ty u so much <333

There is so much material here I decided to split it into 2 parts, one with fics about Neil’s past, and one devoted to soulmate aus. Enjoy! - S

references to Neil’s past:

people Neil met on the run here

Foxes learn about Neil's past here

The Foxes react to Neil’s life here

The Foxes react to Neil’s scars here

The Foxes react to Mary’s abuse here

videos of neil on the run here

Neil’s secrets unravel here

Neil says ‘it’s fine I’ve had worse’ here

Neil shows off his knife skills here

‘The Bet’ here

‘here I am, there you go again’ here

‘I'm not broken (I'm made for a mosaic)’ and ‘More Afterthoughts, Chapter 39’ here

‘arrivals/departures’ here

‘TFC minifics...’ Ch 23 here

‘heavy hands, heavy hearts’ here

‘"I've endured far worse"’ here

‘it whistles through the ghosts still left behind’ here

you may also like:

Neil with languages/accents here

Neil with languages/accents 2 here

‘No straighter path than to struggle’ here

Neil also shows off his knife and language skills in ‘I Hope You Lie To Me’ here (ch. 9)

Neil’s past:

Andrew, I'm fine by AceSirenSinger [Rated T, 2081 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew passes through the door into the ensuite bathroom, and he freezes an instant before he understands why. The bathroom tile is smudged red, just so. Someone bled here, and then wiped it, too quickly. Andrew wants to call for Neil, but he is suddenly unsure if he is alone in his apartment.

tw: nightmares, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: knives, tw: violence

Killer Bunny by godless_writer [Rated T, 6661 words, complete, 2023]

Neil started his second year in college thinking his past was behind him. His father was dead, Riko was dead, he was no longer running – nothing left to hide from. At least that is what he thought before six FBI agents barged into his team’s practice one day. Or The team finds out Neil had to kill some of his father’s men while on the run.

tw: implied/referenced murder, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: panic attacks

Bound for Error by confusedtoadd [Rated M, 22759 words, incomplete, last updated July 2023]

“You claim you’ve left your truth bare, yet you still lie, interesting don’t you think Nathaniel?” Neil was paralyzed, stuck between begging for her to stop and strangling her. They were a mix of his parents' wishes, his father's anger was bubbling over, his mother's survival instincts charged his legs with vigor. “Perhaps I should have stepped in sooner. No matter, they will know the truth soon, you did promise no more running, Nathaniel.” OR The foxes react to Neils life, pre-canon included.

tw: implied/referenced suicide attempt, tw: implied/referenced suicidal thoughts, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: violence, tw: blood & gore, tw: torture, tw: abuse, tw: psychological abuse, tw: panic attacks

Secrets by The_stars_ship_us [Rated T, 1265 words, complete, 2023]

Matt sees Neil's scars for the first time and Neil wakes up, still sleepy, and feels comfortable and safe enough to speak in his true accent

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: scars

The Best That You Can Hope For (is to die in your sleep) by Major_816 [Not Rated, 10840 words, complete, 2022]

The first time O’Malley saw the kid was in a low-level underground gambling ring, walls crawling with asbestos and next to every bastard inside armed with something sharp if not something packed with warped metal and gunpowder. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, but he surveyed the crowd of the room with years more experience than he should have. There were scars cutting across exposed bits of skin, sick looking in the light of the place and stretching hotel-bible-page-thin over crooked bones. He was a wispy thing. Nothing more than a scrap of a boy stitched together. O’Malley was half-convinced a strong wind might blow him over, but the kid turned, those quick and clever eyes burning across the room and O’Malley could recognize that sort of fight instinct. He saw him again half a year later in Northern Florida.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: scars, tw: panic attacks, tw: dissociation

Broken bones by All_for_the_andreil [Rated T, 1126 words, complete, 2021]

Neil gets injured during a game and freaks out. Andrew finds out what exactly happened to Neil in Baltimore.

tw: implied/referenced torture

I guess I can drop the accent now by poly_pr1nce [Rated M (we say T), 495 words, complete, 2020, locked]

Neil reveals the final thing he's been hiding about himself after the Foxes win against the Ravens and Riko's death

'ah yes, my shirt will cover this' by @jingerhead [tumblr, 2021]

This prompt is great, I've read some angsty fics about Neil getting hurt and they're great BUT I love the idea of Neil getting stabbed and he's just like.....'ah yes, my shirt will cover this' and everyone notices right away. I think something super angst or something more lighthearted would be equally great haha!

tw: injuries

Art

what’s life on the run like? art by @meaucrow

Thinking about all he went through trying to survive art by @microolli

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galaxymagitech · 25 days ago

Text

no one is coming (but I'm going to stay)

(Whumpuary 2025 - Day 7)

unfair fight | insomnia | "no one is coming"

For @kades-stuff, who requested Tim and Jason, comfort, and the prompts "insomnia" and "no one is coming." If you want to request a fic for another day feel free!

Summary:

After Jason reluctantly rescues Tim from torture by Two Face’s goons, Tim decides that he doesn’t want to be alone. The obvious solution? Move into his semi-murderous older brother’s apartment.

Jason is not amused, but grudgingly accepts his new roommate. He owes him one, after all.

Characters: Jason Todd, Tim Drake

Warnings: Implied Child Neglect, Referenced Torture

You can read it here or on AO3!

Jason opens the door to find Timothy Drake on his doorstep, head still bandaged from the kidnapping that Jason had (reluctantly) rescued him from just two days prior. And by the amount of blood the kid had been leaking by the time Jason got him away from Two-Face’s goons, Jason’s willing to bet there are a lot more bandages hiding beneath the kid’s overly large Superman sweatshirt. So, not only is Tim not supposed to be Jason’s problem, but he should be on bedrest.

And yet here he is, standing outside Jason’s apartment at 8 pm at night.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jason asks. Tim blinks at him. “I asked—”

“Can I stay?”

Huh? That takes Jason a moment to process and then he sees that the kid is carrying what appears to be a stuffed school backpack. Is he asking if he can have a…sleepover?

Yeah, no way is this for real. This has to be a hallucination or a trap or…or a practical joke. Yeah, maybe Tim’s taking a page out of Dick’s book.

Tim seems to take Jason’s silence for a refusal, rather than disbelief, because he starts rushing to reassure him. “You’ll barely notice I’m there! I can just sleep on the couch or the floor or whatever. I’ve got a sleeping bag. I’ll get my own food too—I won’t be a bother. And I’ll run comms for you if you want, or, like, I can pay you back or something. I—”

“Okay, stop,” Jason says, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. Tim immediately stops talking. This is…wrong. In the Tower, the little shit wouldn’t shut up. And he’s a Robin. Robins never follow orders. But here Tim is, quiet.

And, apparently, asking to stay with Jason.

Jason could ask why Tim wants to leave the Manor, but frankly? That sounds like too much of a bother. “Yeah, whatever,” he says. He figures he owes the kid that much, at least. If Tim wants a place to stay, he’s got it. And if it makes Jason feel like less of an asshole? Well, that’s a nice benefit. “You can take the couch. Just don’t touch any of my guns. Or grenades. Or bombs.”

“Trust me,” Tim says. “I have no interest in messing around with your booby-trapped weapons.”

“Good.”

Jason steps aside and watches as Tim enter the one-bedroom apartment. Tim places his bag carefully on the main room’s couch and then sits down, slumping against the back of the couch in exhaustion.

Okay, yeah. This is way beyond Jason’s paygrade (a paygrade which is currently nothing except a load of self-righteous bullshit from Batman—Jason refuses to accept any gear and steals it instead, because Bruce might think everything’s okay, but it’s not), but sue him. He’s curious. “Why exactly are you not at the Manor?”

Tim blinks at him again. Jason’s pretty sure Tim is concussed. How did the kid even get here? Why is he Jason’s problem.

Jason’s expecting something about Bruce being overbearing or benching Tim (not that Robin should be patrolling like this, but whatever, throw away all of Jason’s hard work, see if he cares). What he is not expecting is:

“Why would I be at the Manor?”

“Because you…live there?”

“I live with my uncle,” Tim says. Jason didn’t know Tim had an uncle, but whatever.

“Then why are you not with your uncle?” Jason shakes his head, not really waiting for an answer. Instead, he goes to the freezer to get started on his pre-patrol chicken nuggets.

Look. Jason knows how to cook. The truth is, though, he’s a full-time Crime Lord with a decaying empire. He doesn’t have time to actually do it. So, chicken nuggets. Everyone likes them anyway, except for maybe stuck-up trust fund brats. It’ll be funny to watch Tim internally debate over whether to turn his rich little nose up at the chicken nuggets or choke them down out of politeness to his host.

“I don’t know my uncle very well,” Tim answers. Which is ridiculous, because he doesn’t know Jason very well, either. And his uncle didn’t break into his baby superhero clubhouse to attack him. “And he’s out a lot. I mean, just.” He looks down at the floor, eyes fixating on a faint bloodstain that Jason hasn’t been able to get out. “When Two-Face’s guys had me, I didn’t have my tracker. I just kept thinking, ‘no one is coming.’ ‘No one is coming.’ And then you were there. But I forget that, sometimes, so I don’t want to be alone.”

Jason sighs and pops the chicken nuggets in the microwave. “And you didn’t think that maybe Dick or Bruce would be better company?”

“The Manor feels like it’s alone,” Tim says. “And if I tell Bruce my uncle’s gone a lot, he’ll get…weird.”

That is…interesting information that Jason does not care about. No, he’s not making conclusions and planning to investigate this mysterious uncle. Absolutely not. Letting the Replacement stay the night (multiple nights?) here is just because he still feels kind of bad about the Tower. Sure, Tim wasn’t hurt that much, but Jason can admit that beating up a younger, shorter, less-trained boy to prove that he was better was cruel. Bullying. Whatever you want to call it. So, yeah, Jason will let Tim stay here, but that’s about as far as his good will goes.

“Plus, Dick has enough on his plate without me.”

Yeah. Dick was in and out of the manor during the two weeks Jason spent there recovering from the explosion. During Jason’s encounters with him, Dick was all cheerful and loving and overjoyed that his ‘Little Wing’ was back. But when he didn’t know Jason was watching, Dick looked distracted and almost guilty. And Blüdhaven’s been having Deathstroke problems recently, so Dick is probably waist-deep in that mess too. “Okay,” Jason says. The microwave dings. He takes two plates and divides the chicken nuggets between them, handing Tim the smaller portion. Jason can always heat up more if Tim is still hungry.

“Oh,” Tim says. “You really don’t have to give me food.”

“What, not fancy enough?”

“No!” Tim grabs the plate and starts eating them. “I just meant you didn’t have to bother. I like chicken nuggets.” Did he even wash his hands? What the hell is wrong with this kid?

“Wash your hands, idiot.” Jason doesn’t care about Tim’s well-being. But if Tim gets sick and Jason is letting him couch surf, then Jason could get sick too. And that would suck.

“Whatever,” Tim says, but he does get up to wash his hands.

Another point in favor of something being really off. Robins don’t follow orders, especially when it’s for their own good.

But Jason has patrol to get to, so after Tim finishes the chicken nuggets, he gets dressed and leaves for patrol.

***

When Jason gets back, Tim is attempting to change his own bandages. Which would be fine, except this particular set of bandages is on his back, and he’s trying to use a hand-mirror that he’s attached to the microwave handle with a hair tie.

Jason spends several seconds watching this scene in pure confusion, before he speaks. “Let me do that.”

Tim startles. “Oh,” he says distractedly. “No, I’m fine.”

“No,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. “You’re not.” If the kid gets infected and gets sepsis here, his tenuous alliance with the Bats is over. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but that’s happening on Jason’s terms, not Bruce’s. So, no, Jason isn’t letting his dumbass replacement die of inadequate flexibility to tend to his own wounds.

“Really!” Tim insists. “I’m fine!”

Well, Jason can’t exactly blame Tim for not wanting his former attacker to be close enough to bandage his injuries, but Tim is literally the one who asked to stay at his apartment. “Either I help you or I’m taking you to Leslie.”

Tim shoots Jason a look of pure betrayal. “She’d tell Bruce!”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “She would.” He holds out a hand, and Tim reluctantly passes him the roll of bandages. “Sit down.”

The wounds on Tim’s back are…bad. When Jason had gotten there, the goons had been attempting to waterboard Robin, but obviously they’d tried other methods first. Jason doesn’t know what they wanted, but it doesn’t really matter. It never does. Whether they wanted information, bait, revenge, or even just stress relief, it’s Batman’s fault that a Robin was there in the first place. Jason’s fists clench and he tugs too hard on the bandage. Tim flinches.

“Sorry,” Jason mutters.

“Whatever.”

After that, Jason stops thinking and just bandages the wound as quickly as possible. “I’m going to get some sleep,” Jason says. “Don’t try to slit my throat.”

Tim crosses his arms. “I’m not you.”

Right. Jason winces. He was trying to be vaguely funny, but, well…maybe not the best wording. “I wouldn’t have actually slit your throat,” Jason protests lamely, despite knowing he very well might have.

“I needed stitches.”

“Because Catwoman got in the way and half-shoved you into the dagger.”

“Because you’re an asshole.”

“I’m the asshole who you’ve chosen to have a sleepover with,” Jason says. “I could always kick you out.”

He means to be teasing. He’d thought they were bantering. But instead, Tim goes stock still, like he’s actually afraid.

“Uh,” Jason says awkwardly. “I didn’t mean it?”

Tim blinks. Jason’s starting to think that’s his way of resetting his brain. “It’s fine,” Tim mutters.

“No, I’m, uh.” Sorry. Jason should say he’s sorry. But he doesn’t want to. Saying he’s sorry opens up the floodgates. If he says he’s sorry once, then everyone expects an apology for everything and—

“I was being rude,” Tim justifies.

Instead of apologizing, Jason just shakes his head and goes to his room.

***

Tim doesn’t leave the next morning, or the following evening, or the morning after that. Instead, he sticks around. Somehow, he gets into Jason’s files and flags a traitor, tracks down an international drug trafficker through a complicated series of shell corporations, and writes a memo on Hood’s increased city-wide approval ratings now that he’s toned down the murder to only when absolutely necessary and in his territory.

Jason scowls at the last one, but thanks Tim for the first two and says they’ll be helpful, even though he’s annoyed that the brat has access to his files. Tim seems to light up at the praise.

It’s weird, how much Tim seems to care about Jason appreciating his help. He even cooked dinner, an actual dinner, and even though it was mediocre, he hung on Jason’s every word when he asked how it was. And he’s constantly promising that he won’t be a bother if Jason lets him stay over one more night. Meanwhile, if Tim has contacted his uncle to tell the man where he spent the last few days, Jason hasn’t seen it.

So, Jason starts to investigate Tim’s uncle. He’s annoyingly boring. All his papers are in order. All his taxes are in order. All his everything is in order. Tim’s uncle is so unsuspicious that it’s actually…rather suspicious.

Not your problem, Jason reminds himself. But after a week of Tim staying in his apartment and displaying zero desire to fuck off back where he came from…Jason can admit it’s kinda maybe a bit his problem. Especially since Jason hasn’t even hinted to Tim that he should leave. (And Tim would leave, if Jason hinted. But Jason doesn’t know what’s going on with Tim’s uncle or why the kid wanted to stay here of all places, and he sort of appreciates the company, anyway.)

***

A week and a half after Tim showed up at Jason’s apartment, he deems himself ready to patrol again.

“Deems himself,” because he is absolutely not ready to patrol, and Jason doesn’t know what the fuck Batman is thinking letting Tim go out like this. But Jason’s stepping on a drug dealer’s fingers, asking him about one of his compatriots, when he catches Batman and Robin watching him from a nearby rooftop.

Well, there goes any opportunity to shoot the guy in the forehead. Not that Jason was planning to do that, but it’s the principle of the thing.

The drug dealer gasps out an address, and Jason figures that’s the best he’s going to get, so he steps away and grapples up to the rooftop. “What do you want?”

Jason expects Bruce to ask why Tim randomly spent a week and a half living with him. But apparently, Bruce is none the wiser, because instead he tells Jason that he’s investigating a string of drug overdoses that he thinks might be connected to Jason’s current work.

It’s probably a lame excuse for supervision, but if it works, it works. Jason’s main concern isn’t punishing these people right now—it’s getting them out of his territory, and Batman has the connections to make that happen.

***

Now that Tim is going out on patrol, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that the kid is simply not sleeping.

Well, okay, he must be sleeping at some point, but at most it’s a few catnaps when Jason is out. Because Tim is never sleeping when Jason is in the apartment.

Maybe it’s a trust issue, but Tim literally came here. If he really thought Jason would murder him in his sleep, he wouldn’t have decided to be here. With that theory eliminated, Jason is completely at a loss.

He’s tried asking about it. Jason doesn’t know why he bothers, but he has tried. Answers have ranged from “I’m not tired” to “go away, I’m busy” to “of course I sleep!” to “what do you even care?” And Jason wouldn’t care. He’s not the kid’s babysitter. He’s not even technically his brother. But the bags under Tim’s eyes are growing day by day, he’s seen Tim stumble on patrol, and really, it’s getting ridiculous.

“You need to sleep,” Jason says, after he’s finally had enough. He sits across from Tim at the kitchen table, watching as Tim traces a deep score from a knife that Jason had recklessly thrown around a month back.

“I am sleeping,” Tim argues. So it’s one of those days, then.

“You need to actually fucking sleep, or you’ll get hurt on patrol.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” Jason feels his heart—not stop, but just kinda go quiet all of a sudden. The room feels like it isn’t fully there. “Sorry, I—I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I said that.”

“If I wanted you to get hurt,” Jason says slowly, “I wouldn’t have rescued you.” But he knows that’s not quite true. He rescued Tim because he saw a Robin being tortured, not because he cares at all about Tim. He let Tim sleep the night because he figured he owed him. And then he let Tim stay because he wanted the company but is unwilling to approach Bruce or Dick or Alfred.

When—not if—Jason ends up back on bad terms with Bruce again, he’ll probably end up fighting the Replacement. And, well. He isn’t exactly planning to pull his punches. Or his bullets.

But at the same time, Tim has slept in his apartment for almost three weeks. They’ve cooked together. They’ve even watched both of their favorite movies on weekend afternoons before they patrolled.

So, Jason doesn’t have any right to feel hurt by Tim’s skepticism, but he feels hurt anyway. Because somehow, he’d been beginning to think he had a brother. A friend.

“I know,” Tim says. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He shakes his head, standing up. “You’re right, I’m tired and it’s affecting me. I’ll sleep.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, a bit gruffly. “You do that.” His voice sounds hoarse, and he doesn’t know why. Tim doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t have to. It’s whatever. Jason’s apartment is just a place for Tim to stay and maintain his minimum levels of human contact. It’s fine.

Jason turns away and starts walking to his room, but he feels a hand fall on his shoulder. He turns around to see Tim, who looks seconds away from crying. And Jason has never seen Tim cry. He didn’t even cry when he was being tortured, just coughed out whatever snarky comebacks he could think of. He didn’t cry in the Tower either. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean that. I know we’re…allies, or whatever now, and you’re letting me stay, and I’m really grateful, I am.” Tim’s hand is still on Jason’s shoulder, but now it’s more like he’s clinging to him. Like he can’t bear to let Jason leave. “I know you don’t want me to get hurt. I’m really sorry of accusing you of that. I—”

“Stop,” Jason nearly shouts. “Stop. Just—stop.”

Tim stops, shutting his mouth instantly. It reminds Jason of the day Tim first showed up. (Robins aren’t supposed to follow orders. That’s why the Good Soldier display case is so galling.) The kid’s face is pale, and Jason can see tears pooling in his eyes.

Tim has stayed in Gotham for three weeks, and his uncle—who lives in a completely different city—hasn’t asked about his location once. Tim has been living with someone who has nearly killed him twice and shown absolutely no inclination to leave. Tim has repeatedly attempted to prove that he’s worth keeping around, whether by offering money, mediocre cooking, help on cases, or his own invisibility.

There’s something wrong here, more than Tim just not wanting to be alone, and Jason’s going to get to the bottom of it.

Tim’s hand is still on Jason’s shoulder. In the three weeks Tim has been here, they haven’t made physical contact even once outside Jason dressing Tim’s wounds, and yet Tim is clinging like he’s afraid to let go.

“Let’s sit down,” Jason says. They sit on opposite ends of the couch. Tim folds his socked feet up onto the cushion—brat, Jason thinks, but it’s affectionate now, and when did that happen? “I’m not kicking you out.” Thankfully, Tim doesn’t start crying at that. Jason knows how to deal with traumatized civilian kids, but no idea how to deal with his hypercompetent little brother and current roommate bursting into tears. “But Tim—where the hell is your uncle?”

“What?” Tim stares at Jason, not blinking.

“Your uncle,” Jason repeats. “The guy you’re supposed to be living with? Edward Drake? Ring a bell?”

“Oh,” Tim says, shifting uncomfortably and avoiding eye contact. “What about him?”

“At this point, you’ve practically run away from home. Like, you live here. You don’t seem to have any plans to go back to Blüdhaven. Why?”

Tim shrugs. “He’s away a lot.”

“Edward Drake is currently in Blüdhaven,” Jason says. “Supposedly, at least. I tracked his train tickets.” He really, really doesn’t know what’s going on. Jason’s current theories range from Eddie Drake having kicked Tim out (which would explain why Tim seems to be terrified of Jason kicking him out) to the guy being some mafia boss that Tim is currently in hiding from. He had theorized that Tim is just being an overdramatic teenager, but Jason has dismissed that mostly out of hand—a normal guardian would definitely do something if their nephew disappeared for three weeks. “So. Why are you avoiding him?”

“I’m not—”

“Did you kick you out?” Jason asks. If this has to become an intervention, so be it.

Tim’s eyes widen. “No! No, definitely not.” He looks down, picking at his socks. “It’s just that. That he. Well. Hekindadoesn’texist.”

Jason’s brows furrow. “I’ll need you to repeat that, Timmy.”

“He…kinda doesn’t exist?”

“Your uncle…kinda doesn’t exist.”

“Yeah,” Tim confirms, like this is a perfectly normal situation.

“What does kinda doesn’t exist mean?” This was not in Jason’s list of theories.

“You’re gonna tell Bruce about this, aren’t you?”

And, well. Jason should. Because this kinda non-existent uncle thing sounds like a long-term problem, and…Jason was not planning for a long-term roommate. If he tells Bruce, this becomes Bruce’s problem. Bruce can deal with Tim’s quantum uncle or whatever is going on. Jason can wash his hands of the whole thing.

But Tim showed up outside his apartment. Tim asked for his help. Tim said that he didn’t want to be alone, and chose to stay with him.

So, Jason reaches out and slowly wraps an arm around Tim’s shoulders. When the younger boy doesn’t seem upset, he pulls Tim closer against his side. The warmth is…strange. Jason doesn’t think he’s been this close to another person outside a fight since…since before.

I missed this, Jason thinks, and then quickly strikes the thought from his mind.

“Nah,” Jason says. “If he doesn’t know, that’s on him. I’m only cooperating with him because it would make Alfie sad if we fought.”

“Oh,” Tim says, burrowing into Jason’s side. “Thank you.”

“So…what’s going on with your uncle?”

Tim hums. “I made him up,” he admits. “Faked paperwork and everything. Legally, he’s real. But he’s not actually.” He frowns. “I wanted to live on my own. I lived on my own a lot as a kid, I thought I could do it. But it was really lonely, and I went back to Blüdhaven after Bruce was done monitoring me for a concussion, and I just.��No one was coming, Jason.”

Tim said that on the night he first got here as well. No one is coming. “You could have gone back to the Manor. You could still go back to the Manor.” It actually hurts to say it. Because after spending three weeks thinking about how annoying it was that he was suddenly housing an insomniac teenage gremlin, Jason got used to having Tim around.

“I don’t want him to know about the fake uncle,” Tim says. “He’d be really upset. I might have to stop being Robin. And…everything is so far away in the Manor. I can always hear you when I’m here. But Wayne Manor is just so quiet.”

Jason gets that. “Okay,” he says.

“So, I can stay?” Tim asks.

“Yeah,” Jason says, as though it wasn’t already obvious. (But maybe it wasn’t obvious to Tim. Even if his uncle is fine—due to not existing—Jason is pretty sure that Tim’s obvious abandonment issues have to come from somewhere.)

“Thanks,” Tim says quietly, curling up even further. Before Jason knows it, Tim’s breathing has evened out.

Finally, Jason thinks. He’s sleeping. He gets up to go clean his guns, because it’s a good way to get his thoughts in order.

Halfway through Jason’s third pistol, the reason that Tim hadn’t been sleeping becomes extremely clear.

***

Jason runs into the apartment’s main room, thinking that the place has been attacked. Instead, he just finds Tim, who has fallen onto the floor and is now thrashing about, muttering incoherently.

Jason knows you’re not supposed to wake someone up if they’re having a nightmare, but Tim could get hurt like this. So, Jason tries to shake him awake by the shoulder.

Tim’s hand grasps his wrist tightly, fingernails digging in almost hard enough to bruise. Jason winces, but doesn’t let go. “You’re gonna leave,” Tim mutters deliriously. “You’re gonna—you’re—”

“It’s alright,” Jason tries saying, keeping his voice soothing. “You’re okay, you’re—"

Tim cries out, flailing and nearly hitting his head into the bottom of the couch. That’s it. Sleep is important, but not getting another concussion is even more important. “No one is coming,” Tim whispers. “No one’s…”

“Tim!” Jason grabs both of Tim’s shoulders and shakes him, hard. Finally, Tim’s eyes snap open. “It’s okay. You’re not there.” He doesn’t know where Tim thinks he is. Two-Face’s dungeon? Somewhere else? It doesn’t matter. “It’s Jason.” That could backfire, horribly. Jason isn’t exactly synonymous with safe for Tim. But apparently, Jason currently ranks low on the list of threats, because Tim’s body seems to deflate.

“You’re gonna leave,” he says quietly.

“This is my apartment, you idiot. I’m not going to leave.”

“Didn’t stop my parents,” Tim says. He blinks, seeming to come back to himself. “Sorry. That was. That was dumb.”

“Not dumb,” Jason says. Tim is pretty much the poster boy for abandonment issues. He sits down next to Tim as the younger boy pushes himself up into a seated position and scootches away to give Tim space. Tim, however, doesn’t seem to want space, because he ends up leaning against Jason anyway. Jason pretends that doesn’t make his heart swell with warmth. Even after everything, Tim wants to lean on him—in more ways than one.

“Sorry,” Tim mutters. “I didn’t—I didn’t want to wake you up. This happens a lot.”

“That’s dumb.” Jason shakes his head. “You kinda need to sleep, Tim. Nightmares or not.”

“You would totally have been mad if I woke you up when I first got here.”

Yeah. Jason would’ve. But he would’ve gotten over it. Probably. “Well, I won’t be mad, now,” he says. “You’re staying here, and you’re sleeping, instead of just napping at random times when I’m gone. Alright?”

“I might wake you up,” Tim says. “I woke my dad up a lot.”

“Was he mad?”

“He was injured,” Tim argues. “He needed his sleep to recover.”

Yeah. But it’s not like Tim can just…not have nightmares. “Well, I don’t have a job,” Jason says. “Worst comes to worst, I can sleep while you’re at school.”

“Oh,” Tim frowns. He seems to rethink his next few words, but then ends up plowing straight ahead. “I don’t go to school.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “You graduated early?”

“Nah, my dad stopped paying the tuition. And then he died.” Tim shrugs. “I’m sixteen. Uncle Eddie signed my forms to drop out.”

That idiot. Tim is supposed to be smart, and yet he’s dropped himself out of high school. “Do you even have any plans for after being Robin? Your dad stopped paying your tuition, so I’m guessing something happened with your finances. How do you even have money?”

“Trust fund,” Tim says. “And not really. I’m just gonna be Robin. I’ll be good enough, and then I won’t have to stop.”

It’s not a question of being good enough. But Jason doesn’t voice that. He’s well aware that he’d seem biased. “I’d kill to go to school again.”

“You’d kill anyway,” Tim says, not incorrectly. “And you can literally get a GED. You could even fake a diploma and go straight to college. If I need one, I can hack myself a high school diploma or GED or whatever. But I don’t need one, so it’s fine.”

“Whatever,” Jason says. Tim wants to waste his future? Not Jason’s problem. At least not right now. Currently, Jason’s problem is making sure Tim sleeps. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Fine,” Tim grumbles, climbing back up onto the couch. He’s going to fall again, isn’t he? He could hit his head. Get extra concussed.

“Just sleep in the bed,” Jason says.

Tim tilts his head. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Don’t touch my books, though”

“Trust me,” Tim says. “I have absolutely no interest in whatever nerd books you’re reading.” “Trust me,” Tim had said. “I have no interest in messing around with your booby-trapped weapons.” Well, Jason had seen Tim poking at one of his firearms, so maybe Tim will somehow end up into classical literature.

“You’re a nerd too, Timmy.”

“A computer nerd. At least I don’t read historical romance!”

“It wasn’t historical at the time!”

“Austen has weird sentence structure!”

“It’s called a semicolon, dumbass.”

Jason is still laughing when he turns out the lights and leaves his room.

***

Now that Tim isn’t worried about bothering Jason with his nightmares, it’s like his insomnia has been turned on its head. Because Tim sleeps everywhere. Jason finds him asleep next to the refrigerator, curled up underneath his desk, even snoozing on the apartment building’s rooftop. It’s weird, but…Jason can’t exactly complain. Tim’s eyebags are growing less pronounced by the day, and his cooking has gone from mediocre to actually okay. And neither of them are lonely anymore.

You don’t miss what you never had. Jason was satisfied, with the blood and revenge and justice.

But now that Jason’s had a brother living with him—now that they’ve cooked food and solved cases and watched movies and even had an accidental pillow fight together—Jason is terrified of losing this. Because he still cares about his territory, still cares about the city, but the main thing on his mind isn’t Red Hood. It’s whatever topic Tim was rambling about yesterday, and his plans for dinner (because Jason doesn’t have enough time to make a real dinner every night, but he can make time, and cooking is faster with two), and the book he’s going to make Tim read the next time the kid loses a bet.

Jason is happy. And it’s not going to all come crashing down. He won’t let it.

***

Jason may not live by hopping safehouse to safehouse, but he is the Red Hood, and he is pretty high-profile. He can’t afford to stay in the same place forever.

Two months after Tim showed up at Jason’s door, Jason decides that now is the time to move. He tells Tim that they’re changing apartments one afternoon, while Tim is doing his homework (Jason wore him down eventually, although he’s pretty sure Tim’s sudden willingness to go to school was less about the homework and more about his new conspiracy-obsessed “friend”).

Instead of the casual acknowledgement Jason expects, though, Tim freezes. For a moment, Tim is so still that Jason doesn’t think he’s breathing. And then—“Oh,” Tim says, sounding devastated. Is Tim really that attached to the place? It’s not like bloodstains and knife furrows are particularly good decor. “I guess. That’s fine. I mean, I can move back to my place, then.”

Before Jason knows it, he’s rushing across the room. “No! I mean, not unless you want to, Tim,” he says. “There’s an apartment a few blocks down with two bedrooms. And if Dick wants to stay over, he can take the couch.”

“You’re…not kicking me out?”

“We’re roommates,” Jason says. “Okay? You don’t need me to let you stay. And I’m not planning to leave. Got it?”

Tim smiles in response. “Yeah,” he says. “I got it.”

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nowoyas · 4 months ago

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koi no yokan 18: get some rest (nishinoya yuu/reader)

First - Prev - Next - M.list - Ao3

A/N: back to your regularly scheduled programming! as mentioned over on ao3, there's a slight chance of a small hiatus AFTER next week. I had to pause and hammer out the next arc more thoroughly, since my outline is mostly limited to the actual onscreen and offscreen proposals. next week's chapter is already banked, though, so there's ALMOST no way I don't manage the planning AND drafting for at least one chapter within two weeks' time. almost.

Summary: It takes a lot of good sleep to recover from a concussion.

Warnings and tags: briefly implied/referenced child abuse, blanket series warnings

Words: ~3000

Noya comes home late.

You might not have noticed; it's not like you're waiting up for him. You'd come home after practice, barely managed to pull out the futon, and immediately gone straight to bed. If he hadn't purposely woken you up, you probably wouldn't have noticed, but he shakes you awake when it's already well past dark out, gentle as he stirs you from a dead sleep.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" he asks while you're still blinking into the lamplight.

"Mrrrrgh," you tell him.

He laughs, soft and sweet, hand resting on you as you stare at him. "Okaa-san said you didn't come down for dinner. Wanna eat with me?"

"Didya just get home?" you mumble. "Time?"

"Yeah. It's like, nine or something. Got caught up in individual practice until they almost locked me in, so I haven't eaten yet. C'mon, I'm starving."

"You're late." You groan and push yourself to sit up. "I feel like it's s'posed to be my turn to wake you up, but fine."

So you follow him downstairs, let him set a reheated plate of food in front of you and sit across from you with his own. Sleepily set about eating.

"I was surprised to see you back today," Noya comments when you're both settled in. "At practice, I mean."

"Good. I wanted it t'be a surprise." You yawn, stretch a little. "Was everyone… like, do you think everyone liked the lunches?"

"Are you kidding? They were amazing. You did a great job."

A smile flicks to your lips. "I'm glad."

You watch him eat for a bit. He hasn't showered yet; his hair's still down.

"Why the hair change today, by the way?"

"Oh, that?" He laughs, a secret third kind of Noya laugh you haven't heard before. It sounds almost nervous. "Don't worry about it."

So you were right. It's definitely because of this morning. As much as you kind of wanna tease him for it, that has the chance to go down a path you're trying to avoid looking at. Also, requires acknowledging that you were awake and just sort of let it happen, which basically guarantees looking at that path you don't want to acknowledge the existence of.

So instead, you hum thoughtfully. "Took a little getting used to, but it looks nice."

He freezes, the bite of food that had been on its way to his mouth dropping back to the plate as he stares at you, cheeks growing red. "Y-you think so?"

"Yeah. Totally different vibe from your usual, but it does."

"Marry me" tumbles from his lips thoughtlessly, and you smile.

"Nine hundred thirty."

He finishes eating way before you—you blame his snakelike ability to unhinge his jaw and the fact that he's actually fully awake, while you're still recovering from your nap and eat like a normal human being—and watches you finish up, an uncharacteristic quiet settling between you. It's comfortable.

You're really comfortable with him.

"Do you want the rest?" you ask after a moment. "I'm kinda full, but I don't wanna waste it."

"Sure," he says. He takes the plate you push over, and you watch with amused horror as he polishes off the last bit of food in record time.

"You know, if I weren't so worried for your digestive system, I'd say you should go into those eating competitions professionally. There's that one American who does it, like, full time and gets all these sponsorships and stuff."³³

"You worry too much."

"Someone's gotta worry if you won't," you quip back, resting your head on your arms to look up at him. "Lucky for you, yours truly is fantastic at it."

"Yeah," he says. "You're great. You complete me, you know?" He flashes an easy grin. "So you've gotta marry me."

"Nine twenty-nine, and let me help clean up."

He raises an eyebrow. "You did a lot today. Are you sure?"

"I can wash one plate, Senpai. Probably even two plates. If I'm feeling ambitious, I might wash a fork, too."

"Woah, let's not get too crazy, here," he jokes. You bump shoulders with him as you come to stand beside him at the sink. He actually lets you help clean up, a fact that you sigh into.

"I'm glad everyone liked the lunches today," you say as you wash your plate. "Really. I was… kinda worried."

"Why? Your cooking's great."

"Not about the cooking. I mean, a little about the cooking. Just… you know. Insecure, I guess." The admission comes out too quiet, nearly lost in the sound of the sink. "I'm extra, you know? There's really not a need for there to be three managers for the team."

He's silent a minute. When you glance at him, he's staring out of the corner of his eye, realization widening his eyes and pursing his lips. "And you think you're the unneeded one."

A nod. "I guess. I mean, Shimizu-senpai's a third year and everyone loves her and also she actually knows what she's doing."

"…And Yachi-san did those posters," he realizes. "You were so weird after she first showed them to us."

Another nod. "I remember seeing them the first time and thinking… wow, she's amazing. What am I doing here?"

A hand rests on your waist, pulls you loosely into his side. You wrinkle your nose—he smells like sweat. Definitely hasn't showered yet. "And today? There's no way you still think you're extra after that reception."

You huff. "Guess not. I missed everyone. I like it here, but… I guess I sort of like going to practice with you guys and helping out."

"Marry me, then."

You laugh, turn your face into his shoulder to hide your smile. "You are really working them in tonight. Nine twenty-eight."

"What can I say? There's something about coming home to you that makes me wanna keep coming home to you."

Error: [name].exe has stopped responding. Reboot program?

…

Rebooting…

"I. Um." Fuck. Your face feels dangerously hot. "…n-nine twenty-seven."

His shoulders shake with poorly-stifled laughter. "I didn't even ask that time."

"T-that felt like one, okay? Shut up."

"You know, [name]-san, I'm starting to think you might be…"

"Whatever you're thinking of finishing that sentence with, shush."

He breaks into a grin. "Just a little bit of a tsundere, that's all."

"I said shut up!" You shove him away roughly. "Go take a shower or something. You smell gross. I'm not letting you cuddle me like that."

"So if I clean up, I get to—"

"Go!"

He mock-salutes you before darting out of the room. You remain standing at the kitchen sink, desperately trying to get your bearings.

How the fuck is he single? No, seriously, how the fuck? Is it the height thing? Has he just never had the chance to come out of nowhere with shit like that and completely floor some other unsuspecting girl?

Fucking hell. If he just acted around other girls the way he acted around you...

You shake your head. Dry your hands. Slip up the stairs to head to bed. With any luck, you'll be asleep again before he's done in the shower.

You're not optimistic about it, to be honest. Your mind is racing in a weird way—completely blank, but the blankness itself is at a high speed, which is odd to say. It occurs to you, faintly, that you suddenly are aware of what "!?!?!?" sounds like. Then there's footsteps coming down the hall towards your room, and you're forced to slam your eyes shut and turn over so your back is facing the door.

Tonight, he slumps into your futon with a contented sigh and a whispered good night. Tonight, he wriggles under your blanket with you, and tonight, you lay awake, count his breaths as he spoons you.

You're hyperaware that you need to stop this. That you need to pull back, for his sake and yours. Before you hurt him and rip your own heart out in the process. Before he hurts you just by being him—earnest, straightforward Noya. But it's one of those nights, and what you know and want takes a backseat to what you do.

Tonight, when his breathing slows and you're sure he's asleep, you trail a hand up his arm. (Stop it. Just go to sleep.) Tonight, you close a hand over his. (Stop it. Someone's gonna get hurt.) Tonight, you intertwine your fingers with his. (Stop it stop it stop it—)

(You do not stop it.)

(You fall asleep that way.)

(You're just so comfortable in his arms.)

Three more days sees three failed attempts at meeting your—admittedly ambitious—goal for the day, three marked increases in your stress level as you call whichever sister is available to come walk you home, three days without a word from your father, three nights where Noya comes home later than the standard, and three nights sleeping cuddled up to your best friend like nothing's weird about it.

You ease into other home chores where you can with the blessing and supervision of Rina or one of the girls. Noya's grandfather isn't around much—you don't know what he gets up to all day, only that once or twice he's come back with a strange woman maybe Rina's age on his arm. When Noya's home, you ask for updates on what you're missing during dinner, and when you're in his futon or he's in yours, you drag the pads of your fingers over his exposed skin and tell yourself that tomorrow, you'll go home.

The guys are improving massively already—apparently, Azumane wasn't the only guy working on something new. You're treated to new flashes of everything they're trying during the meager hours you can tolerate being there, and Noya excitedly tells you more during breaks or when he comes home for the night. When it comes to his own little project—the jump set he's told you about multiple times and which you admittedly keep pretending to forget about, half to tease him and half to watch him talk about it—he's grown less and less enthusiastic over these three days.

He's getting frustrated.

Your suspicions are confirmed on day four of this—today, your goal was "lunch and stay until individual practice", and it's the first day you've successfully met your return goal, with seven to spare before you have to miss the biggest sleep-away camp of the summer. On a break, Sawamura had waited for Noya to disappear for a bathroom break before approaching you. Can you talk to him? he'd asked in a quiet voice. We've been trying to get him to pull back a little, but he only listens until I stop glaring at him.

So, perfect timing. He's overworking himself, and there's no damn way you don't stay until Noya leaves tonight. You'd agreed with a sweet smile, an assurance that either he'd listen to your request to take it easy or you'd make him literally carry you home.

So now, you're helping with his individual practice for the first time since you allegedly agreed to do so over a week ago, in spite of the protests from multiple team members that you should take it easy and not risk getting hurt.

You're throwing a ball. That's it. If Azumane or Tanaka manage to hit you in the head where you're standing, perfectly perpendicular to the direction they're trying to spike in, they should probably just quit volleyball entirely. Even Hinata apparently only had to hit it a little out of bounds at just the right time to take you out the first time.

Like this, you get to see exactly why Sawamura asked you to talk to him, and you grow more and more disapproving as the night drags on. It's like he's Hinata, with the way he's absolutely relentless—whoever he's setting to takes a break, and he immediately tracks down Suga for advice or moves to a setting drill you've seen Kageyama do, bouncing the ball repeatedly against the wall without pause. Something about strengthening his fingers and improving control? You don't know.

What you do know: he literally hasn't sat down since individual practices started.

For the fiftieth time tonight, you check the time, and while you were pushing through the exhaustion and occasionally using them as reasons to try to force a break, it's not working.

So this time, when Noya takes the ball and starts setting it against the wall, you fix a glare on his back. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Tanaka watching you march up to him and shift away a little bit.

You snatch the ball out of the air between the wall and his fingers with a glare. "Senpai."

He blinks. "[name]-san?"

"You have a lot of nerve, you know that?"

"I—what did I do?" he manages, staring at you entirely stunned.

You sigh. You really want to lecture him, but with the way he is, you get the weird sense he's just not noticing what he's doing. "Hardly letting me take a plate to the sink because I need to take care of myself and then doing this shit. Sit down, Senpai. Everyone already knows you're cool, and you're gonna get that set, so there's no sense in going hours without taking a real break."

His cheeks tinge pink as he processes your statement, and he slides to the floor obediently. "You think I'm cool?"

You roll your eyes, take the ball over to the volleyball cart for now. "Not the issue here."

"Marry me?" he calls after you as you make the walk across the gym.

"Nine twenty-one," you grumble in reply.

That night, curled up in his futon instead of yours this time, you trace the scar on his shoulder thoughtfully. It's so much easier to worry about him than anything else, so that's what you do.

"Gonna swing by my place and check on things tomorrow," you say. "Maybe grab some clothes so I'm not stealing all your shirts."

"Want me to come with you?" Noya offers. "I'm sure everyone'll understand if I'm late because I'm helping you."

"Nah, I don't wanna take you from practice, and I need to be able to handle this stuff on my own if I'm gonna be cleared for full activity again soon."

He pouts. "How strict are the doctors gonna be with that? It's not like you're playing."

"Dunno. They're probably worried about, you know, five volleyball teams playing at once in the same room possibly leading to me getting my shit wrecked again."

"I'll protect you this time," he grumbles. "It's not gonna happen again."

"I'm sure you will, but the doctors don't know that. I really don't wanna miss the whole thing, though, so I'll probably ask if I can still go under a modified schedule. Like, help out for half the day and hide out in the girls' room the rest of the day or something."

"Aw, you do love us," he teases.

"Who said anything about that? It'll be boring here all alone."

"Sure, sure," he laughs. "You can admit that you like us, you know. I won't tell. You even already said it once."

"Shut up."

"Marry me and I will."

"No, you won't," you snort. "But nice try. Nine hundred twenty." You sigh into him, eyes lingering on the arm in your vision. "How'd you get that scar, anyway?"

"Mm?"

You tap your finger against it. "That one."

"Oh." He sounds… kinda upset that you asked.

"If you wanna talk about it, I mean. I'm just curious."

He shrugs, the position awkward for it, shifting you a little bit where your head rests on his chest. "My dad, probably."

"Your… dad?"

"I don't remember much, and Okaa-san thinks Satsuki and I don't remember anything, so she doesn't talk about it."

Oh. "You mean he…"

"'Sjust a guess. I know that I barely knew him, and that Mei and Kaede both get really upset if Satsuki and I ask about him. Okaa-san wouldn't talk about how Kaede got a concussion, either, so it's probably related to that. And the one time he tried to contact us, Mei had a panic attack and then stopped talking for like, three days. Figure it's probably got something to do with that."

"Noya, I'm so…" You freeze, and then you laugh. "Sorry, I—I'm not laughing at you, I just… I was so emphatic about not wanting you to be sorry when I told you about my family, and now I'm laying here and I don't know what to be if not sorry."

Another light squeeze, crushing you to his body. "Just be here."

"I can do that," you whisper. "That's easy. Can I—is there anything else?"

He hums thoughtfully, taking a moment to nuzzle the top of your head. "Well, there's one thing. Ma—"

"Nine nineteen," you interrupt.

He smiles. Huffs. "Let's get some sleep, alright?"

You nod, shift to get just a touch more comfortable. "G'night, Senpai."

"Marry me," he blurts in reply. "I mean, goodnight."

Your shoulders shake with silent laughter, and you count up one more proposal before you drift to sleep.

Footnotes

33. Joey Chestnut, of 76 hot dogs (with buns) in 10 minutes fame. At the time of this fic taking place, he had just tied his own world record with 68 hot dogs (with buns) in ten minutes, about a month before this chapter. I like to think Reader-chan knows this information solely to tease Noya about his eating habits, but who has the power to make that canon?

Tags: @deeplightgarden @idonthaveanameideayet @dusstory @kazunish

#my fics #nishinoya yuu/reader #nishinoya yuu x reader #yuu nishinoya x reader #yuu nishinoya/reader #hq reader insert #haikyuu reader insert

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