#idk if this is drabble it is what I say it is

[strang3lov3]

Soap

“What’s the point in washin’ ya if you’re just gonna make a mess of yourself?” Joel taunts, finding your cunt slick with arousal. “Tsk. Can’t send ya to class like that, huh? Y’gonna let your daddy take care of it?”

WARNINGS - one shot, smut, dubcon, dad!joel, incest - if game of thrones could do it, so can i so fuck off about it. girthy age gap but reader is an adult. daddy kink (tho idk if it counts when he’s your father, but whatever) fingering, little bit of a handjob, inappropriate use of a shower head, unprotected piv, cream pie. uncle tommy mention 😈 This is icky. You have been warned. Reminder that fiction is not real life.

A/N - OKAY GAMERS. Fuckin'...thank you guys??? for being so stoked about this little haphazardly put together drabble about dad!joel?? blown away. so flattered. so touched. I'm really fucking excited to write more of this shiny new kink for all of us perverts, and i plan to turn that drabble that started this whole thing into a whole ass fic. just had to get this out of my system because you all know how much i love shower/bath sex lol. and thank you so much to this anon!! i loved your ideas so much and i had fun incorporating them into this fic. @tofics, you know what you did. thank you for the beta hunny ♡

It’s 6am when Joel wakes up to that awful, high pitched beep of his alarm. Eyes closed, he slams it with the heel of his palm, and exhales sharply through his nose. At least it’s Thursday, he thinks. More than halfway through the week. 

He groans softly as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and his sheets are warm against his body.  He inhales deeply as he stretches, and smells the warm, nutty aroma of the coffee maker brewing a pot downstairs that coaxes him up with the promise of caffeine. Joel stands up then, and his skin is covered in goosebumps from the cool morning air nipping at his skin. His graying, dark, curly hair sticks up in six different directions, a mess he’ll take care of later. 

He walks first to the bathroom, and turns on the shower to warm up. Then to your bedroom, where he quietly opens your door. Joel chuckles seeing you asleep on your stomach, ass hanging out of your sleep shorts with a sliver of morning light pouring over your body. You’re clutching your pillow tightly, drooling onto the mattress as you snore gently. 

Joel crouches down and pushes some hair out of your face. “G’morning, sunshine,” he murmurs against your scalp, in between pressing kisses to the top of your head. “S’time to wake up.” 

“Mmm…no,” you mumble groggily. 

“Mmm…yes,” Joel drags the word out, mimicking your sleepy, whiny tone. 

You scrunch your nose, but otherwise don’t move a muscle. “Just give me - just five more minutes, please, Dad. Go have your coffee or whatever.” 

“Cute,” Joel says. “Up an’ at ‘em, lazy ass. Y’got school today.” You groan loudly, and your dramatics make Joel chuckle. “Oh, I know, kiddo.” 

You open one eye to glare at him, vision blurred by your sleepiness. “You do not. You have no idea how awful 8 AM classes are,” you argue, swatting away Joel’s hand as he digs his fingers into your sides and your neck, tickling you. “And my professor is such a - st - stop,” you giggle breathlessly.

“Yeah? Your professor’s such a what, now?” Joel continues teasing until you’re wide awake and fighting him away, your protests turning into laughter. “Tell me, baby girl. Use your words.” 

 “D-Dad, I’m getting up, okay?” you huff. And you do, in fact, sit up. Joel’s tickle method of waking you up always pisses you off, but at least it jolts your system wide awake. Works like a charm. 

“I really hate you sometimes, Dad.”

“Uh huh. Love you too, kiddo.” Joel takes your hand as you sit up, pulling you off of your bed. Your hair’s a mess and there’s a pillow crease on your face, and you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Get your ass in the shower, alright?” He tells you, “Should be nice and warm.”

You take off for the bathroom, and the bright, warm lights stab at your tired eyes. You move slowly as you peel off your pajamas, tossing them haphazardly into a hamper that’s too full. You’ll have to get that in the washer before your dad notices. 

You tug the shower curtain and test the water on your wrist, then twist the knob of the shower until the water runs just under boiling. You step into the tub, then let the hot water run through your hair and down your body, and it makes your skin burn and tingle in the best way. Steam rises around you and clouds your vision a little, makes the air you breathe thick and tingle your sinuses.

The door opens and in comes Joel, flipping on the switch that turns on the bathroom fan. “Dad!” you yelp, covering yourself with the curtain. 

“Oh relax, would ya?” Joel says, pushing his boxers down his legs.  He steps out of them, then joins you in the tub. “I’ve seen it all before, sweetheart.” 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, turning away from him. 

Joel reaches over you for his toothbrush and toothpaste, then squeezes a little bit onto the bristles before wetting the toothbrush under the stream. “We’re conservin’ water,” he answers. “‘Cause the water bill was too fuckin’ high last month, thanks to you. You’re bleedin’ me dry, kid.” Joel begins brushing his teeth, lathering the toothpaste in his mouth. It drips down his chin and chest, landing in his mess of graying pubic hair. His cock is half hard already. 

“I’ll shower quickly,” you insist. “Just–”

“Just nothin’. I can’t trust ya, baby. We’re outta here in fifteen minutes,” he says, voice muffled by the toothpaste. “Not a minute longer.”

“Twenty,” you bargain. “There is no way I can shower in fifteen minutes.” 

Joel eyes you as he finishes brushing his teeth, then leans over you and spits out the toothpaste into the drain. “I’ll give ya seventeen, princess. Final offer.” 

You roll your eyes, and hum a quiet okay. You reach behind yourself to point the showerhead back down at you, then turn up the heat a little more. “Nuh-uh,” Joel says, turning the heat down to about halfway between cold and hot, an excruciatingly lukewarm temperature. “Quit tryin’ to boil yourself alive, baby.”  

“I’m not trying to boil myself. I’m–” you reach for the knob to warm up the shower again, but Joel swats your hand away and gives you a warning look. “Seriously? It’s fucking freezing, Dad.”

“It’s fine,” he says, then reaches for your toothbrush. “And watch your mouth.” He squeezes a bit of toothpaste onto the toothbrush, then watches you brush your teeth. You make a silly smile at him, toothpaste dripping out from between your teeth. “Oh, nice. Charming, sweetheart,” he says sarcastically. “Y’got your daddy’s smile, you know.” 

“I know.” 

After spitting your toothpaste out and rinsing your mouth, you stand under the water, shivering a little. You rest your head against the tile wall, letting your eyes close as the rushing water lulls you into a groggy haze. 

“Hey,” Joel says, startling you a little. “Don’t jus’ stand there, kid. Wash up. Y’got twelve minutes left.” 

“But I’m so cold,” you whine.

“Well c’mere then, drama. Quit your cryin’ an’ hug on Daddy if you’re so damn cold.” Joel drags you by the wrist to him, pulling you in close for a hug. You melt against him, savoring his warmth and the scent of his skin. It’s so masculine, so comforting, and you close your eyes. Joel kisses the top of your head, then rests his chin there. He can’t believe how tall you are now. How womanly you are. All he did was blink, Jesus Christ. 

He remembers bath nights with you in this very tub. The Crayola bath crayons, all the other silly toys you loved. He can almost smell the Johnson’s baby soap and the tear-free Suave green apple scented shampoo.

Still holding you close with one arm, Joel reaches for the bar of soap, decorated by his beard trimmings from two days ago. With his free hand, he lathers the bar, and then washes you with both of his hands, his palms sliding all up and down the smooth skin of your back. He washes your ass cheeks too, and between your cheeks. “I can do that myself,” you mumble, face heating up. 

“Mhm. Back up a little,” he murmurs, putting a little distance between you and him. He cleans underneath your armpits, then massages down your arms with his big, strong, soapy hands. Torso is next, and his palms slip and slide over your soap-covered tits, thumbs circling your nipples. He works his way down, and washes you between your thighs. Your breath hitches at feeling his fingers slipping through your folds, dragging over your clit. 

“Daddy,” you moan.

He circles the sensitive part of you a little, loving the way your knees buckle and how you wrap your arms around his shoulders for stability. “Easy, baby,” he tells you, “I gotcha.”

He’s always got you. Always there to catch you before you fall, or to pick you up and kiss your bruises when you do. It’s what being a dad’s all about, right? Looking out for his baby girl. 

“What’s the point in washin’ ya if you’re just gonna make a mess of yourself?” Joel taunts, finding your cunt slick with arousal. “Tsk. Can’t send ya to class like that, huh? Y’gonna let your daddy take care of it?”

“Yeah,” you nod, burying your head into his neck as he rubs your clit. His cock is hardening further, the head throbbing against your thigh. “Please, Dad.” 

Joel nods silently, and pushes two fingers into you. He groans at the way you squeeze and clench around him, how your cunt pulses when he strokes at his favorite spot inside of you. You whine when he pulls his fingers from you, but he quiets your complaints with a soft kiss, tongue melding with yours as he reaches for the showerhead with one hand, the other wrapped around your waist so he can squeeze at the soft flesh of your ass. 

Joel warms up the temperature of the water, then turns the shower head onto its jet stream mode. He wriggles the shower head between your bodies and directs the stream to your clit. 

“T-too hot,” you say urgently. “That’s too hot.” 

“Huh. Thought you were jus’ tellin’ me you wanted a hot shower,” he taunts, smirking against you. “You’ll get used to it, baby.”

Joel takes one of your hands and guides it lower, then wraps your fingers around his length. You pump him slowly as he keeps the shower head at your cunt, drawing the steady stream up and down your seam. He moves his wrist in gentle circles, using that motion to simulate how he’d rub your clit with his fingertips. You moan against his wet skin, squeezing his shaft when he finds your sensitive spot. 

Joel pulls the shower head away from your cunt when he thinks you’re about to cum, and by the sound of your whines, he knows he was right. Of course he’s right. He knows his daughter like the back of his hand. 

“Daaaad,” you moan. 

He pays you no mind as he twists the shower head back into place above you. He backs you against the wall and hooks one of your legs over his hip, notching the head of his cock at your entrance. He thrusts into you in one go, causing you to gasp and throw your head back onto the tile. 

“Woah, easy, kiddo. Be careful. Let me see,” he groans, drawing out of you. He kisses the part of your head you hit, or at least as close to that place as he can, then holds his hand against the wall to keep you from hitting yourself again. Before thrusting back into you, he looks down at his dick, and the creamy rings of your arousal are quickly rinsed away by the running water. He pushes back into you. 

“Oh my god, Dad,” you moan, feeling Joel bury himself into you, all the way to the hilt. It’s an impossibly full feeling, impossibly tight. It’s comforting and sickening, all at one time.

“Oh, fuck,” Joel grunts, pulling out of you again. “Your daddy fits so nice in ya. Like you were made for it,” he winks, a twisted smile playing at his lips. Like he made you for it.

Joel sets the pace then, fucking in and out of you deeply. The tip of his cock kisses against your cervix as you writhe in pleasure, held so securely by him. He bites and sucks gently at the flesh he knows no one else will see but him, marking you as his. His daughter. His girl. 

He watches you closely, admiring those pretty eyes he gave to you. Beads of water roll down his handsomely wrinkled skin, down the perfect slope of his nose. You clench down on him as he fucks you, eyes rolling back into your skull. 

Joel moans and presses his forehead against yours, fucking you in a hard, devastating rhythm. Pleasure washes through his body, and his cock is hard as it’s ever been. You squeeze him so deliciously nicely, and moan Dad so fucking pretty. 

Once again, Joel reaches for the shower head, and guides it toward your cunt as he fucks himself in and out of you. “Cum for Daddy, now,” he whispers. “Gonna be late to class.” 

With a little more thrusting - that intentional, practiced rolling of his hips Joel knows you love, you’re cumming. Making those cute little noises he loves so, squeezing at his bicep and shoulder as you stiffen and shudder. Joel watches closely as pleasure washes through you, guiding you through your release with his steady fucking. 

Only once he’s milked you of your release does Joel chase his own orgasm. He fucks you harder, quicker, and selfishly, with little regard for your comfort. He feels it in his balls first, that intense warmth and tingle. It rolls through his body, crawls up his spine as he kisses you, drinking in your moans of overstimulation. Once he’s filled you up, Joel eases you down and pulls out of you. The shower’s gone cold - so much for saving water.

Joel shuts the water off and gets out of the shower first, patting himself dry before wrapping that old, scratchy towel around his hips, belly spilling over the edge. Joel tosses your towel to you and catches the face you’re making, like you know something he doesn’t. 

“What,” he deadpans, combing his hair out. The strands at the bottom of his skull curl up and drip a bit of water still. “What’s the look for?”

“Nothing, Dad.”

“Tell me.” 

“It’s just…that was a long shower. I don’t know why you get mad at me for my long showers when–”

Joel cuts you off, “Because you ain’t the one payin’ the water bill, are ya?” Joel says. ‘An’ as long as you’re under my roof, you’re under my rules. Thought we were clear on that,” he says, his voice low and warning. You drop the argument. You leave the bathroom to pick out some clothes, then get dressed and head down to the kitchen. 

And so much for Joel not wanting to send you to class a mess - you’re dripping his cum as you take your seat in the passenger side of his truck, feeling the wet, sticky warmth as you lean over to the side to start the vehicle. While waiting for Joel, you draw a little star in the condensation on the glass. He says he hates when you do that, but he loves catching glimpses of your doodles on his way home from work, when the sun hits the glass just right.

Joel gets in the driver’s side, hair slicked back and smelling strongly of Old Spice deodorant. He lifts up a bit, then pulls out his wallet, and rifles through it for a couple of bills. “Eat breakfast at school,” he tells you, handing you the money. “An’ I want the change back.” 

You sigh. “I know, Dad.”

“An’ I’m gonna be busy with somethin’ today, so Uncle Tommy’s gonna pick ya up. Be good for him, alright? Maybe he’ll even take ya out for ice cream or somethin’.”

More Dad!Joel

if you enjoyed, please reblog with something nice and disgusting or shout at me in my inbox ♡ your sweet words go a long way in keeping me motivated to write.

tagging friendos who fw dad!joel

@joeloverture @flowercrowns-goodvibes @thechaoticcherub @perpetuallymanic @shivispunk @beardedjoel @calmjoonie @taeslarityy @bean-is-reading @mushgloomz @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @io12n @oldloganslittleslut @highinmiamiii @nycweb-slinger @rottingr4ven @111melo @sagexsenorita @blooming-bubs @shortandderanged @sp00kymulderr @ickystickysap @ozarkthedog @cxrsed-angel @miss-oranje-disco-dancer @pedge-page @bitchesuntitled @94namkooksworld @squeakymxsterbationcrock @max--phillips

[tojisteddy]

After Care with Toji.

cw: no use of ‘y/n’ I use ‘[+]’, depicting after care (obviously), sub space, softdom!toji, fluff, dom/sub dynamics, treading the line of dd/lg (anyone could digest this), pet names (baby, doll, mama, ma), it’s LONG (idk how many words, I know know it’s LONG), toji is the sweetest bf ever.

Toji knew your limits. He knew just how much he could push and pull, throw you around until you were delirious. And he knew when you were fucked out of your mind, when you couldn’t think properly, you who’d only knew how to moan and spew gibberish.

He’d had half of his manhood in you, slowly sliding out of your gushing cunt as he looked down at your ravished body. He had hickies and bite marks from the top of your neck to your toes, both of juices on your stomach down an absolute mess coming from both of your thighs. He adored the sight of it.

He gently lifted your chin to look at him, your eyes kept wandering around, “no, no, look at me mama, focus.” His voice was gentle but it was a command.

It sorta sounded like God was calling you, maybe the pearly gates were opening. You wouldn’t have minded.

“Where’s yer head at? Tell me.” He always asked when you were blissed out.

You couldn’t verbally answer though. You reached for the back of his knee and tapped. Once, twice, three times. Toji’d known from the first tap alone you were calling it quits, he sat you up on the pillows. Running to go get a damp towel or two to clean you off.

“Such a good girl f’ me today Doll. Did so well.”

You hiccuped, rubbing your face that was once full of tears. “Really?”

Fuck, you were so damn cute like this.

“Course mama,” he lifted your hand and kissing your knuckles and intertwined your fingers, “Loved bein with you. You love it too?”

“Course papa.” You replied, using his same sweet tone.

The ends of his lips curved up, leaving a quick kiss at your temple, “Yer so sweet baby.”

You hadn’t even realized when Toji finished cleaning you up and had sat you up, legs dangling off the bed. You felt his fingers going into your hair.

“I-I can take care ��f myself Toji.”

“Sure you can ma, but not right now. Let me help you.”

Togi was consistent with after care. It was something he learned how to do after being with so many women, to look out for them. Help them clean up, get them properly conscious, relaxed.

It was different with you, though.

Not that he wasn’t a fan of it already, but after pushing you to your limit, manhandling you every which way known to man, forcing you to take everything he had— he loved taking care of you. To the point that even when his dick K.O’ed you into darkness, you’d wake up at 3 am, the moonlight slithering it’s way into the your shades bedroom through the curtains. You’d sit all the way up, rubbing your tired eyes to find yourself completely wiped down, in one of Toji’s sweatshirts that hung off him just right but gave you sweater paws, a pair of underwear and a scarf to protect your hair because he knew you’d be grumbling all morning if you woke up with out.

He didn’t mind because he loved you.

You, who never asked too much of him or pushed him too hard. You, who felt every need to be independent, and he had to teach you to rely on him. You, who had every wall built up as far as the eye can see, worse than him— it was Toji who broke every one of them down, breaking his own in the process.

Yes, you were his play thing in the bedroom, a messy girl, his slut— but everywhere else, you were his baby, his gorgeous girl, cute future momma to his kids, his lover.

Oh how he absolutely adored you.

“What’ddya wanna do, huh? Take a drive, eat, a bath?” He had put your curls up with one of the silk scrunchies you left lying around, leaving peppering kisses on the back of your neck.

“A bath.” You mumbled.

“Yeah?” He carefully rubbed your hips, thankfully they didn’t bruise this time.

“Go on, take a shower first ‘nd I’ll meet you there. You know what to do.”

With a pat to your ass, you were off. Legs wobbly from so much action.

Toji took care of everything. From changing the sheets, lighting candles, playing whatever music you wanted to hear to wind down, running the overly hot bath water with bubbles, just how you liked it. Whatever you wanted at the moment, Toji would give it to you. He loved how reliant you were when you were blissed out.

He liked it when you were completely relaxed, completely trusting of him with not a care in the world. Your only focus was him and being with him. He also loved being needed by you, how you were like two peas in a pod— both of you needing each other.

You pressed your head on the cool tile of the shower, closing your eyes as the soap and water ran down your body. It felt soooo nice against your skin.

“Oi, if yer tired sit on the hinoki!”

He snapped you out of whatever trance you were in with the wall, but you closed your eyes again with a scuff, “fuck off… ‘m not tired… You’re fuckin tired.”

Toji chuckled, setting both of your pajamas on the bathroom counter and then joining you under the hot water.

“You talkin shit?” An amused look on his face, leaning down closer to see you. As if he wasn’t already following your every move, just to make sure you were safe on your own.

“You get in my face… talkin- talkin ‘bout me… you’rrre the one yellin. Yoouu must be tired.” You slurred out, a grin forming on your face.

“ ‘S that right?”

“ ‘M always righ—”

You yelped out, Tojis devious fingers immediately going to your tummy, your arm pits— anywhere he knew he could get a bustle of laughter out of you. At the best and worst times, Toji was a literal tickle monster. He could get anything out of you that way.

“That’s— haha- you’re cheating! Ah! Hehee- you cheater!”

“Come on! I know yer tired, I’ll stop if you sit.”

“Oh, come awn!”

Without another word, Toji had you trapped between his body and the tile wall of the shower, tickling you so much it hurt.

You groaned, still giggling up a storm, slapping his large arms that held you, “Damn it! I give! I give!”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his fingers were off of you body, taking your hand and guiding you to the hinoki.

“Doesn’t that feel better?”

“Whatever.”

It did feel better, your legs had been contorted in every in every way imaginable. Above his head, above your head, spread out from the Atlantic Ocean to the pacific. It felt good to take a rest.

Your eyes trailed up Toji’s body, skin riddled with scratch marks from his arms to his back, a few hickies on his neck, water cascading down his toned muscles, chiseled cheek bones—

“You starin mama?”

Toji hummed to himself, he loved when your eyes were on him. They were so pretty to him, especially when you were in the sun and he could really get a look at them. Like two Hershey kisses staring back at his green ones.

“Look so cute when you blush.”

“Shut up! You can’t even see it!”

He couldn’t, your brown skin didn’t let it peek through.

But it was in the way your eyes immediately went else where, unconsciously going to feel your heated cheeks or even trying to hide your face that had a small toothy smile— so fucking cute.

“Is the bath done?” Your eyes going to the tub a few feet away back to Toji who was washing his body with a wash cloth.

“Course, but you always fall asleep in there Doll ‘nd I told you I don’t like. It’s not safe.”

“I’ve never fallin asleep in there!”

His eyes met yours, eyebrow raised. Try it [+], I dare you.

“Maybe once.”

He shook his head, going back to washing his body. Unbelievable.

“More than once.” It came out more like a question even though you knew the answer to it.

Toji peered down at you, your eyes back at the tub. The steam was rising from the water, bubbles floating to and fro in the water. Slowly disappearing. Then your eyes went back to him. Big brown doe eyes, a tilt of your head and the cherry on top; a pout on your two tone lips. Not two big, not too small- just enough to push.

You were hell.

How could he say no when you were looking up at him like that.

“Fine- fuck baby, take your time!”

You slipped twice getting to the tub. Once because of how wet your foot was because of the water and another time because your legs felt exactly like the water under your foot. If it weren’t for the bath, you wouldn’t be able to walk tomorrow. Now you would be able to, a little limp like you worked out (I mean you probably could consider what you did an hour ago a workout) but you’d be able to!

Toji was right there with you, towel in his lap just barely covering his manhood, sitting on the hinoki and washing his hair. Talking to you about anything from the lunch you packed him last week to the new sake he wanted to try. You loved it, Toji’s voice was like a melody, deep, scratchy because of all the cigarettes yet smooth— a shot of whiskey.

“Scoot.”

You moved forward so Toji could sit behind you, it was his spot whenever you took baths together. After care or not. He loved getting to hold you, letting you rest your head on his shoulder, leaving kisses at every place he left a hickey, maybe placing one or two new ones there.

Tonight was quiet, The Light In by Lana playing. You really were tired, unwilling to fight it but at peace— right where you needed to be. Toji was rubbing your arms, your thighs, your shoulders, just in the right places— he had some godly hands. Toji looked at you, who was completely slumped, your head resting against the tub, your long lashes slowly meeting each again and again.

“Ready for bed?”

“Mmm.”

You don’t know how, or when but by the time you’d realized— Toji had you in bed, teeth brushed, pajamas and scarf on and was rubbing the small of your back. Whispering how you did so well for him, how good you were, his adorable baby— a total sweetheart.

“Love you papa.” You mumbled, drifting off without a second thought.

Toji smiled, taking in your gorgeous face one more time before closing his eyes.

“Love you too mama.”

[gomzdrawfr]

content warning: blood

Loyal to a fault

bonus + other versions:

Bonus:

Alt:

the words on Ghost's body reads:

LOVE (level of violence)

it takes a monster to destroy a monster (poorly cropped i apologize)

Loyal Dog

Vēnor (Latin verb for hunt, chase)

this is something very different to what I usually do I hope yall don't mind....also this was me when I was sharing this with my friends...because priceghost/ghostprice dynamic really gets a grip on me

[stsgluver]

synopsis. you were once gojo’s girlfriend but left due to the pressures of jujutsu. now you’re back as a teacher at tokyo.

wc. 490

series link !

"blue looks good on you."

gojo knew you were there, he'd recognise your cursed energy anywhere. still, the sound of your voice after several years without startled him more than he would've cared to admit.

it looks better on you, is what he wanted to say. instead he gave you a grin, tilting his head to the side as he looked down at you. "everything looks good on me."

you laughed, and god did he miss that - the way your eyes crinkled and the way you covered your mouth with your hand. the sound of your voice was honey and it soothed his ache of being apart from you for so long.

"glad to know you're still humble, oh honoured one," you teased and gojo felt his cheeks heat up. it was an unfamiliar sensation - the feeling of embarrassment. yes, he may have once declared himself as such, but as he stood in the presence of you, he only felt honoured to be so close to you. if you moved any closer, your shoulders could've brushed against one another and he would've allowed that. infinity off.

"you're back just for an exchange event?" gojo asked with brows furrowed. his students were training for such in the field in front of you, only megumi vaguely aware of the significance you being there held.

it was the same field the two of you would sneak out to a decade prior just to watch the stars.

"didn't yaga tell you? i'm a teacher now," you quirked a brow as you watched his jaw drop, mouth slightly agape. "yeah believe me i'm just as shocked as you."

it took a moment for him to compose himself as he struggled to find the right words. "jujutsu was killing you," gojo's tone softened to just above a whisper. he was wearing glasses that had by now tipped to the edge of his nose as he studied you with those ocean blue eyes swirling with a formidable power.

your smile dropped slightly. there was no point in avoiding the elephant in the room forever. "losing you killed me."

you cleared your throat and took a step back. three and a half years of unspoken words created a wall stronger than his infinity and gojo wanted nothing more than to personally crush every brick.

nodding your head over to the practicing students, you changed the subject, "i've been assigned to help you out with the first years as i get used to being back so try to go easy on me." gojo managed to muster up a small chuckle at your jab at your different grade levels. he didn't respond, however, and turned his attention back to the students.

if he spoke, he'd be on his knees, promising you that he'd never hurt you or allow anyone else to harm you now that you were here again.

he'd lost you once and he'd be damned if he did that again.

[teddybeartoji]

this going to be a proper wordvomit but i've been thinking about a fucked up little dazai thing,, like what if you two were at the port mafia together when you were younger? orphaned and molded into a perfect little killing machine alongside with him and chuuya.

oh, but what's your ability? well, it's awfully similar to yosano's but it's.. more selfish. while she can also save and heal others, you can't. your ability only works on yourself - you're unkillable. even the smallest cuts fade on your skin, the remainders of everything you've gone through disappearing within hours. you still feel it though. the pain.

you just never fucking die.

tied up, tortured. beaten. cut. shot at. broken bones and bruises. you've seen them all, you've felt them all. but it shouldn't matter.

it shouldn't. this is who you are, right?

you've seen people die hundreds of times, wishing it were you instead. what is the point of this ability if you can never actually do anything useful with it? you're one of the best sharpshots at the port mafia and you know you're way around just about every melee weapon there is but you're still no real competition to the people with real powers. you're just another tool, another soldier. just a shell of a person, sent out mission after mission, no matter whether the fractured bones have already healed or not.

anger builds. shame builds.

something murky.

and it only gets worse after dazai leaves. he understood. he didn't ever say it, but he did. and now he's gone. he's left you behind; there's nobody to lick your wounds or to match your tone and darkness.

and then word gets around that there's someone with an ability similar to yours but better. more useful. and you just... lose it.

mori has no hold on you. he sees it in your eyes, so he doesn't stop you from leaving. you don't say goodbye to chuuya, only leaving him a fancy bottle of wine as a thank you for always having your back. and a note. something along the lines of seeking out your other half.

he's the only one who can do it.

you dream of him wrapping his bandaged hands around your neck and squeezing until you can feel tears dropping onto your face, until your vision blurs, until you can't breathe. until you can't come back anymore. of course, he wouldn't want to do it. he's killed more than anybody could count but with you, it's different. he's finally found something to live for and you haven't. he offers for you to come to the ada with him, he assures you that fukuzawa would listen to him but it doesn't matter.

you're smiling and he isn't. it isn't funny anymore. the gun pointed at kunikida isn't funny anymore. dazai won't do it unless you force him; you know it's going to be hard but you accept it as your one last mission. you will draw your one final breath at the hands of the man who's always been there for you. your friend. your partner.

the only one who should understand.

should.

but maybe he's not who you thought he was. maybe he truly has changed. maybe he really is a better man now. it doesn't matter. you'll break him one last time and let him live his new life. it's only fair.

[moongreenlight]

Greek mythology/the Olympians has been my hyperfixation for going on two decades now and I just… Soap as Dionysus.

Always brings a good bottle of wine and a few rooted cuttings of ivy as a housewarming gift. If he’s fixed his attention on you, he’ll also put a few sex toys in the little bag he brings. Puts them right on top for the pleasure of seeing your scramble to try to shove them in a drawer or tuck the whole gift in the closet.

He’s a great time. Has this intoxicating way about him. Like life is a stage and he’s the director. Playful and fun, though a little too enthusiastic at times. Handsy when the two of you hang out. You assume that’s just his nature and excuse it accordingly. Hard not to, gorgeous man that he is. A divine kind of handsome. Like his features are an eons-old amalgamation of all the most beautiful features humans have ever had.

And he gets strangely possessive, even after you’ve been nudging back his wandering hands or putting your hand between his mouth and your neck all night. Borders on vindictive and aggressive if he’s not in the right headspace.

It’s a bit terrifying to see him snapping his teeth in the face of some man at the bar who had only just asked you if you’d wanted a drink. You swear later in the night you see him babbling feverishly to a group of his friends. It sounds like total gibberish, and his friends look even more confused than you feel, but his eyes are wide as saucers and his hands are flying about hazardously. You don’t think much of it after Soap pulls you by the waist to the corner booth and tips a cocktail up to your mouth.

He keeps you out until all hours of the night. Insists on staying jovial. Club-hopping to find the best crowd, best music, best conversation. Keeps you up and active for so long that the confines of reality start to become fuzzy at the edges.

Sexuality expressed through bodies writing and twisting in drunken dance. Bumping up against one another. Collecting strangers and your own sweat in fat beads on your skin that make you shiver when they get heavy enough to trail down the small of your back.

When the room is spinning enough to make you stumble just a bit and you’re unable to do anything but giggle about it, he’s somehow able to make sneaking off into the family bathroom together seem like a good idea. He seems just as drunk as you are, slinging an arm around your shoulders when you walk. Bellowing a laugh when his hand grazes your tit but making no attempt to pull it away.

It’s less easy to be oblivious when you’re in the bathroom together. The muffled music filtering through the bottom of the door. He’s pressing up against you even though now there’s no crowd to excuse his practically grinding his groin on your hip.

It smells like sweat and generic brand bathroom cleaner. You hum when he staggers to the urinal instead of griping at him about how crass it is to take a piss right in front of you. He props himself up on the wall with one hand and a moment after you hear the teeth of his zipper come undone, he lets out a throaty, satisfied groan.

You busy yourself looking in the mirror. Checking your makeup. Seeing if you look as drunk as you feel. It’s filthy. There’s a web of cracks coming from the bottom left where it looks like someone tried to send their fist through to the wall behind it. It makes you a bit dizzy to look at and you have to bend at the waist to get close enough to see the way your mascara has smudged all around your eyes.

And all of a sudden there’s a burning heat behind you. Sickly, feverish heat pressing straight into the pillows of your ass. Soap’s spidery reflection shows up just over your smile sporting a wicked grin. Teeth and eyes flashing.

You try and swat him away, all too used to his comings-on, but he digs his fingers into the fat of your hips bruisingly hard.

“C’mon, hen. Been driving me mad all night. Relax a bit. Jus’ need this. Need you. Please.”

He has to lay flat over your back to hiss in your ear. Teeth clenched like he really needs to put some effort behind his words to sound polite. Like a petulant child who’d just been reminded by their mother to practice manners.

You were practiced in batting back his advances, but for some reason his grit made you falter. His gaze seemed to be burning a hole through you in the mirror. The idea that something inside him was hitting a roaring boil that he couldn’t stop from flowing over made your brain go foggy. The opposite of sobering. His aberrant need was contagious and catching quick.

He smelled like sweat and cheap cologne and dry, sweet wine and woods. Flirty and masculine and overwhelming. And he’s warm and strong behind you, even if he’s pushing his hard cock into you.

Who were you to deny him the pleasure of snapping his hips into your backside a few times? Letting his fingers impatiently tug at the button of your jeans and hastily tug them down with your underwear until they pooled around your ankles?

It didn’t help that the sound of him sending a glob of spit into his hand made you clench around nothing. A familiar warmth gathering between your thighs that made you shift a bit to chase the momentary relief even a touch of friction could provide.

He couldn’t even afford you the decency of pretending not to see. No. Instead he points a spotlight on you and insists you perform for him again. Nudging your legs apart and pressing his thigh flush against your core while purring the filthiest things in your ear.

“Ken I jus’ needed to wear you down, mm? Thought ‘bout this before we went out. Always did get sloppy when you drink. Jus’ needed a little push. That’s it -Jesus- cunt’s so wet. Gonna take good care of her.”

And the club is so packed full of drunken, dancing bodies that hardly anyone notices the way you two stumble out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later. Even though you’re still fumbling with the button of your jeans with shaking hands.

[xxlady-lunaxx]

love had always been such a strange concept for obanai. as he grew up, drifting up the ranks as a demon slayer, tethered to the ropes of his past, he found himself comparing the things around him to his childhood. he learned that the love he’d known had been shallow—controlling, obsessive, and likely not deserving of the title ‘love.’ it was strange, to learn that something seemingly so important in life had been taught in all the wrong ways to him. when he watched the love that other people described, the contrast was apparent. love seemed to be gentle and sweet and forgiving, all the opposites of the one he’d grown up with. it was, truthfully, so, very terrifying.

sometimes, he wanted to try out love. sometimes he paused, and watched one of the hashira, finding her so enticingly alluring. he wondered if what he felt for her was love—the way he wanted to give her the world. but he realized, after a while, that he did not deserve the love. because love was supposed to be gentle, and sweet, and forgiving, and obanai was none of such things. sometimes, he tucked in on himself, because he knew that he neither deserved to love or to be loved. somewhere in him, he acknowledged that fear played a part, too. but he didn’t want to admit it, not consciously, not out loud. he didn’t want to give in to his fear that he might one day twist into the love he’d been taught, and hurt someone. hurt her.

there were times, while he resided in the rengoku household, that he longed for the love they had. ruka—kyojuro’s mother—had terrified him, at first. because she resembled his family in a way—the same long, black hair, and softer features. shinjuro had never scared him. his face was sharper, rougher, and unfamiliar. in that way, it comforted obanai. because it was different from what he’d grown up with. so ruka, in her familiar-ness, had stolen obanai’s comfort for a while. but he watched from afar, occasionally, as she held kyojuro, and senjuro, so tenderly. her eyes would soften, and though she held an impassive expression more often than not, her lips would smile and then her whole face would follow. she lit up, even if it wasn’t obvious, when she loved her children. ruka was the first love obanai witnessed—and it was the first one he craved. he wondered if his own family had ever looked at him with such a beautiful gaze before. he doubted it. (even as a child, he was very perceptive. a skill he loathed to have, but wielded it all the same).

shinjuro offered a different love. a louder, firmer one—like a big hug. he had changed throughout the years, and had grown distant. but before, he burned like a fire in the midst of the snowiest winters—he was someone people huddled around, and felt safe in his presence. someone kyojuro, and senjuro, and obanai looked up to, and hoped to be like him one day. the encouragement he coaxed kyojuro and obanai through, in the months obanai had stayed with them, had always been persistent and sweet. he was a savior, of sorts. obanai was always fond of him—and he came to place his fondness as a form of love. in a way, he’d loved shinjuro, even when things changed. love, obanai realized, was hardly susceptible. if it stood true and real, it was difficult to dampen. the sort of love obanai had been shown as a child was replaceable. obanai, to his family, had been replaceable. there would be moments of dismay, but they would’ve gotten over it in less than a minute. he knew that to be truer than a fact.

becoming a demon slayer, and eventually a hashira, had stolen many experiences of life from obanai. he’d never minded—because he’d lacked the knowledge of what could’ve happened if he’d had a normal life. the years blurred past, irrelevant when all they held were days spent training until he passed out. he’d long since decided that being a demon slayer was all he could and would do; the acceptance came easily for him. it felt as if he’d been destined to take this path in life—from being a prize object to a demon, to staying with a hashira for months, it all seemed to be something to eventually guide him to this occupation. he let himself become what he was supposed to. forgot that there was ever the question of love. when he became a hashira, he learned appreciation and inclusion. but he never considered love. not until she joined, did he even blink in the direction of it. (he figured out, eventually, that it was because he hated the love he’d learned. why would he want to expect something he loathed?)

contemplating love was always a circle. going around and around—obanai wanted to experience love, he wanted to see it first-hand, but he did not deserve it, yet he couldn’t help the longing to understand it. it spun him around, confused him, and he almost hated it for that.

when he’d understood his only purpose in life was to kill demons, and then die, love had slipped from his mind. even as young as he’d been at first, he was unable to wrap his mind around the possibility that love could actually be his, so he’d long since given up on it. when she joined the ranks of the hashira, obanai had paused in his tracks. she was beautiful, and sweet, enriching his life in ways he’d never imagined possible. moreover, she was the love hashira. such a strange coincidence—to fall in love, for the first time, with the pillar of love. many times, he convinced himself she was underserving of someone as bleak as him. many times, he’d dug his own grave, horrified that he’d even considered tainting her perfection, but equally tumbling into the anxiety that he would never amount to anything to the one person he’d grown to love. love was not obanai’s, no matter how hard he tried to attain it. it just didn’t fit. he knew he’d ruin everything for her, and for himself, so he let it hurt instead. that, at least, he understood. (although he wondered if love and pain were closely acquainted. they did seem to clash often, in obanai’s life).

everyone died eventually, and obanai was no exception to that. he did die, both earlier and later than he’d imagined. he thought he wouldn’t mind—had always toyed with the fact that he’d die without regrets. but, for some inexplicable reason, he wished he could’ve loved. could’ve been loved. it hurt to know that his entire life had truly been fated to never be loved.

as his mind tried slipping away, finally retiring to the freedom of death, wanting to exist where consequences did not, his life snagged onto something. someone. and he found, in his arms, a woman. one of whom he loved. he wondered what she was doing there, for a moment, before he understood: she was dying, too. and it hurt so badly. this must be love, he realized; to wish that the inevitable could be stopped. for her. he did not want her to die, even when he knew it would happen regardless.

for his entire life, obanai had never understood love. it was an unfamiliar, faraway thing he’d never had the pleasure to indulge himself with. he’d spent many years chasing after it, had seen how wonderful it could be, and had wished to experience it himself. then he’d denied himself it, when it began to grow too tempting, because he did not deserve to long for something as precious as love. but always, always, he’d seen it as something anyone would want—would need, even. had imagined it to be overwhelmingly beautiful, and amazing. warmth sweeping over him, or soothed into the luxury of feeling relaxed. never had he thought it’d hurt. never had he considered that it was a double-edged sword—ready to stab him in the back.

pain and love correlated with one another, he’d grown to find. though the seeds of that thought had begun to bud long ago, he never let it bloom in his conscience until he approached death. to love was to accept that there would be loss. an ache that refused to fade, even when his life seeped out.

then why had love always been said to be gentle, and sweet, and forgiving? he didn’t understand. obanai would never understand love. perhaps he truly was underserving of it. love was strange, because it was never for him.

[echolocalia]

He then realises with a certain gravity that Arthur Pendragon has not recognised the man in his reflection is a long, long time.

He can actually pinpoint the moment.

He was wandering the halls, just as he was now. He couldn’t have been more than nine summers old.

He remembers looking into the mirror and grinning, a wobbly, gap-toothed grin, he had been unsure of himself, but now he felt like he could fly. He had just unwrapped the bandage from his first ‘battle wound’. Squire trained had started that day, he had nicked himself on a sword.

That was before father actually began to acknowledge his existence and began getting very hurtful in his words.

An older Arthur looks back at him in the mirror, weathered and battle-worn, with too many scars to count, eyes red and face splotchy, he will hear no more of what his father has to say.

[shoot-i-messed-up]

…ngl the Ilana & Rick dynamic was more interesting before they fucked

[popponn]

a sort of. [rin x reader]

notes: it's rin itoshi, and the relationship is pretty ambiguous but there is comfort there. a hinted heartbreak with some nameless npc on your part. pre blue lock.

From Itoshi Rin’s point of view, you are downright pathetic sometimes.

Sitting beside him, you sobbed loudly into his scarf. Your snot wetting the fabric all over the place in form of messy and most probably gooey spots that Rin would never touch even with a pole—he would burn that scarf or threw it to your face later. This was the third time you were like this and Rin wondered why he even bothered sitting beside you at times like this. He could be practicing and yet—

“Rin!” you wailed suddenly, pulling his hand that you had taken hostage since thirty minutes ago. “Are you listening?”

“No,” Rin answered bluntly. As a response, you kicked his shin weakly, which he returned with half the strength he used on soccer balls.

“Argh!” you yelped, hugging his right arm tighter. With a glare, you protested, “How could you do that to this heartbroken me?!”

Rin just made a face at that, as if asking were you sure you could stand the words he was about to spit at your face. Your glare shifted into a pout that belongs more to a elementary schooler instead of a highschooler. Thus, with that, the small war between the two of you—classmates, neighbors, and childhood friends since the two of you started crawling—ended.

At the edge of the empty field, Rin and you sat in silence. You stared blankly at the setting sun, meanwhile Rin wondered how he could get you to let him go back to his practice. But, in a way, what had been present for more than a decade had its way, so Rin just sat in silence while stealing glances of your figure, leaning on his side slightly. He, of course, would never admit that even under torture.

“Rin,” you began again, this time with a voice that was smaller and just a step away from a quiver. “…do you think anyone will ever like me back?”

Hearing your question, Rin merely stared at you wordlessly from his peripheral. He watched you put away his scarf to your right, gently as if saying that, yet again, you would wash it and return it him later. And if he told you to fuck off or called you names as bad as he did after that snowy night with his brother, he knew yet again you would just came back and attach yourself to his side like a goddamn parasite.

Unable to hold himself, Rin scoffed and looked away from you. “As if I know.”

You laughed bitterly and lightly, “Yeah. As if.”

Rin didn’t give you any reply. He let you sat with his hand trapped in your arms for another five minutes, before roughly shoving you away with his leg. As an act of vengeance, you threw a shoe to his head and miserably missed.

“Pathetic, lukewarm moron,” Rin spat coldly as he walked back to the field.

“Shut up, soccer clown!” you shout back before shifting your sitting position into a more comfortable one.

Rin stayed for another six hours in that field all while you sat at the edge, wrapped in his jacket that you had yet again taken by force from his bag. This time, Rin didn’t insult you.

[bobbedazzled]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ

[lovebunnie]

The words wash over Hawk and fills his lungs like putrid water. In a moment everything seems clearer than it has in years, plants greener than ever before and Tim still looks so calm.

His older features seem more relaxed, more grey in his hair than Hawk’s own. It is obvious the disease is aging Tim faster than normal and the army may have made a man out of his Skippy, but the years after Fire Island made him Tim.

It occurs to Hawk then that Tim has been living with this knowledge for some time, was not even going to tell Hawk the truth. This was Tim collected, this was Tim accepting. This was Tim on borrowed time, and Hawk imagines his Skippy holding a live grenade to spare him from any hurt.

“Can I use your bathroom?” Hawk asks in a tight voice after a moment of silence.

Tim says yes, and Hawk is on his way as though running from the truth. Skippy is dying.

The bathroom is a garish yellow and Hawk cannot stand the remnants of this person he does not know; he is used to picking up Tim’s small trinkets and being treated to the origin story with boyish glee. This Tim, however, is unknowable to Hawk. He wonders when Tim started using cinnamon toothpaste over spearmint.

Hawk looks into the mirror and splashes water on his face to bring him back to reality. There is no time to know this Tim, not like he once had. Gone were the days of lounging in bed and trading stories. There was no more time because Skippy was dying.

The world turns and Hawk sits on the toilet.

The last time the world had spun so violently, Hawk had been asked to identify his son’s body at the morgue.

Yes, that’s… Hawk had said before clearing his throat. That’s my son, that’s my boy.

Jackson had been so still and looked freezing and it took everything in Hawk to not climb next to his son and cradle his frigid body. There was in fact nothing left for Hawk to do for Jackson, his duties as his father were absolved. Father of one, officially. Losing his child had damn near killed him.

And Hawk had tried to die, hoping maybe falling into drugs would somehow make him closer to Jackson. This is how he felt when he felt free, Hawk thought as the powder burned his nose; it was the closest they ever got to father-son bonding.

Hawk would have died if it had not been for Tim. No two ways about it.

Now Tim is dying and Hawk cannot return the favor.

He lost one of his boys and another was on the way out next. Jackson and Tim, was there truly no sanctuary for the kind? Were they doomed the minute they opened their hearts to the bitter world?

Hawk cannot imagine losing Skippy, not again, not like this. Soon the world would be without Tim and Hawk could not bear to live through this death again.

Don’t you need me, Skippy? Hawk had asked long ago with cheeks sticky with tears.

I have you, Tim said with all the certainty in the world.

Hawk crumples forward with his face in his hands, tears stubbornly at bay. He never had Tim at all and it was no one’s fault but his own.

He looks up from his hands to the shelf of medication and notices the prescription has a refill available for pick up.

Skippy is dying, Hawk thinks. But he’s not dead yet.

[eebie]

i cant keep it hidden any longer

[teddybeartoji]

彡 A MASSIVE PILE OF GUILT

☆. contains: tooru oikawa x gn!reader; this is called angst i think (with comfort), reader plays volleyball and oikawa comforts them after they lost a match, reader talks badly about themselves:( i'm sorry, they swear they're just really really good friends but they're also just fucking stupid wc: 4k

in the blink of an eye the loud screams and cheers transform into a disgusting mix of muffled noises in your ears. the lights are too bright and you feel like you're stuck to the ground; stuck under hundreds pairs of eyes. you can't move, you can't breathe. your arm stings, a painfully clear reminder of your fuckup.

you should've had it, you saw it coming, you had a plan and yet - here you are, watching the colorfol ball hit the wall of the big arena with a quiet thud!. your eye twitches, locked onto the missed oppurtunity in a form a sphere sit metres away from you and your teammates.

because of you.

like a statue; turned into stone, you stand in your awkward position, unable to comprehend that it's over. that it's really over. it feels like everybody is looking at you, cursing you in their own heads. is this what drowning feels like? even if you could open your mouth to try and save yourself with a big breath of air, the stifling stench of losing would surely just make you choke harder.

a palm slaps onto your shoulder and you don't have to look at the person to know who it is – a dejected captain trying to pick up their loved teammates. you can't look at them; how could you? they're trying to cheer you up while you're the sole reason you lost in the first place. they give you a squeeze, a silent plea for you to snap out of it and you comply, not wanting to humiliate them any more.

you did well!

an arm around your shoulder, you're being dragged away from the court and you taste blood – the result of biting into the soft skin of your inner cheek in order to surpress a cry. the lights are too bright and you just want out.

after the handshakes and the formalities are done, your coach gives you all a pep talk. not that it helps but what else is there to say right now. you eat in almost complete silence; the only sounds in your ears being the chewing and the crying.

you've yet to do that. your lip wobbles and your eyes are red but so far, no tears. but you know you will – it'll be the only thing you'll be doing after you've locked yourself away into your room.

good game!

you feel sick. the food in your mouth is starting to taste like vomit and the water isn't helping either. still, you refuse to stop. refuse to raise your eyes from your table to ask whether you can leave. you will sit there as long as the others do and you won't complain. you will eat the food just like the others do and you won't complain. you don't get to do that.

the hugs feel just as suffocating as the eyes. you've never felt this bad in your whole entire life. you feel bad for thinking that the hugs feel suffocating – they're literally trying to comfort you and you're blatantly refusing it. stupid. stupid. stupid.

everyone has their own things they do after a loss. some like to be alone, some like to go for a run, some like to beat the fuck out of a punch bag and some like to do watch a comedy film with their teammates. it's silly; none of them laugh during it anyway. but it helps. you know it does because you've done it with them – not this time though. and they don't pressure you; they're not stupid, they understand how it feels. you need a moment and they will give it to you.

your captain does sit you down for a second before letting you go though, calmly telling you how it wasn't your fault and how you'll get it next time. and it sucks. it sucks that you don't hear it... it sucks that nothing will make this feeling go away. you know it and your captain knows it.

their warm hand resting on your back does soothe the shivers that have been tormenting you ever since you lost the ball. and for the first time since that moment, you crane your neck, raising your heavy head to meet their eyes and now you do feel like crying. the sadness is there, but so is the same warmth, the same adoration one has for their loved ones. nobody is upset with you, nobody blames you. their hand rises from your back and goes up to ruffle your hair as you let your head fall against their chest. "you're okay."

they hold you close as your tears soak their shirt. you hear a loud sigh and you know they're holding back theirs. the shivers are back and you hiccup out a broken i'm sorry, which makes the captain pull away immediately and grab your shoulders.

"don't. it wasn't your fault. it wasn't. you can cry as much as you want but that? you're not allowed to do that." there's a certain determination in their glassy eyes and you have no other choice but to weakly nod your head before letting it fall again.

"by the way, i saw you not eat properly, so i'm keeping an extra eye on you tomorrow morning, okay?" they poke your cheek and you're thankful. "i'm gonna watch the movie with the others but i'm keeping my phone close by, so if you want company at any time, just let me know."

you raise your head back up, desperate to show your appreciation for them and nod again, cracking the world's smallest and saddest smile and they ruffle your hair again before standing up. "you're okay."

they close the door behind them and you take a minute to compose yourself. you can't seem to stop your hands from shaking though and it makes you angry. your now empty room is too quiet and your own reflection in the window is taunting you with an ugly expression. is that really how you look like right now?

you don't wanna know and you don't want to keep looking at it either. so you grab your hoodie and your wallet and make your way to the lobby of the hotel. maybe the reflection in the vending machine won't be so mean.

and it isn't. it's not mean at all. it's the exact opposite actually. from the fact that it's staring at you with rather soft eyes to the fact that it's not your own reflection.

"good game, right?" you scare yourself with your own voice – already so harsh and raspy. it comes out mean and you wince. you tear your eyes from his, focusing on the sweet drink that's locked behind the glass instead.

oikawa is never this quiet and it makes you want to hit him. make a joke. just do it. just do it already. but he doesn't. his steps are quiet as he goes to lean on the vending machine. he's nothing if not observant; he sees your shaky hands pressing the buttons with so much effort; how the lips that are usually pulled into a beautiful grin he loves so much are now wobbling, ready to spill all of your sorrows. your clenched jaw as you try to avoid his gaze for whatever reason.

please, look at me.

the vending machine dings as the mechanics push your drink to you. his eyes are unforgiving and you know he means well. you know he's not gonna make fun of you, he's not gonna tease you – not now. but you still feel ashamed, whether he says the joke or not; the joke has already been made and it's right here, standing in front of a stupid pink vending machine.

your head shakes on it's own, casting shame on yourself on it's own. the drink falls with a loud thud! but before you can kneel down to get it, a hand on your wrist stops you.

his hand is so warm and it's unusual, considering he tends to be cold almost always. he doesn't push you and let's you take a deep breath before you raise your eyes to his.

if his heart wasn't shattered before, it sure is now. your eyes are red and glassy, but mostly tired, so tired. there's no glint in them, dull and sad. his hand slips from your wrist to your palm, intertwining his fingers with yours. "you did well."

your head falls back as you choke out a broken laugh. "oh, fuck off. i don't wanna fucking hear that. it makes me sick." staring at the ceiling, you shake your head again as if to rid of the words from your mind.

oikawa feels useless. he's been in your situation and yet, he can't think of anything good to say. he remembers how much he hated whenever people said that to him after their loss to karosuno. he tries to swallow the lump in his throat; everything he comes up with just makes him feel even more sick. he wants to cry because he doesn't know how to comfort you. how to make it all better.

"do you want me to stay with you?"

that's the best he can come up with. maybe just his presence will be enough when his words clearly aren't. but when you shake your head again, his heart sinks.

"that's alright. let's uh– ... tomorrow, yeah?" bringing your eyes down from the ceiling, you try to give him a reassuring smile that says i'm fine but it obviously doesn't work. you see the hurt in his eyes and you just feel bad. you feel bad for everything. you're upsetting people even off the court. you just can't help it can you?

"i'm good. i just need to be alone right now." you try again, squeezing his hand. his mouth opens but another voice cuts him off.

"oikawa!"

from around the corners emerges an angry looking iwaizumi. "here you fucking are. coach said it's bed time—"

when his eyes travel from his troublesome best friend over to yours, he swallows his words in an instant. you see the remorse wash over his face and you kind of want to laugh. it's all too funny in a fucked up way. "sorry for interrupting. hey, that was a really goo—"

good game!

he stops himself. fuck. what do you say in this situation?

"good game, i know. maybe next time it'll be a great one, hm?" the bitterness just oozes out of you without your consent, making iwaizumi wince. you feel bad.

pulling your hand from oikawa's, you kneel down to finally grab your nearly forgotten drink. "it's okay, really. i know what you mean."

another weak smile. a pathetic one. "see you at breakfast, yeah?"

oikawa shoving iwaizumi is the last thing you see as you're making your way back to your room. your hands still haven't stopped shaking and opening the door is so fucking hard. the key card slips from between your fingers—

breathe... in...

and out...

you kneel down and pick it up in slow motion as you're tunnel visioning on just getting inside the room. you hear the click! and you burst in, slamming the door shut. the ugly reflection is back and it's laughing at you and you can't do it anymore. your knees buckle from under you, hitting the soft carpeted floor as you weep. hunched over, you just look like a big pile of guilt.

clutching at your heart through your shirt, you cry and you cry, taking in raggedy breaths just to let out pathetic little sounds. everything hurts – your knees, your arms, your head, your eyes, your fingers, your legs, your inner cheek. you pretty much crawl to the bathroom, grabbing a handful of tissues before plopping right back down onto the floor. your nose hurts, too.

for almost an hour – you don't move from your spot, rooted and rotting into the carpet. it's pathetic. you think about how the others are watching the movie, shedding tears quietly but together, nonetheless. sick of your own actions, you push yourself up and change your clothes. you even manage to drink some water and wash your face in this half-alive state of being. a+ for effort, huh?

you bury yourself under the blanket, wishing the bed would swallow you whole instead. the tears have returned and you feel the pillow getting wetter and wetter by the second. you don't have it in you to grab another tissue though, letting the feeling of the soaked material remind you of your fuckup.

a floor and a few rooms away, oikawa can't stop pacing around. "but they said they didn't want me to go with them...."

"have you ever considered that people lie, idiot?" a tired iwaizumi replies from underneath his blanket on the bed. "especially in a situation like this. it's not like you were any better, you know."

oikawa just glares at him, although it's very hard for iwaizumi to take him seriously when he's wearing his matching plaid pj set. "but what if they get upset that i didn't listen to them?"

"but don't you wanna go and comfort them?" iwaizumi questions harshly. "don't you wanna be there for them? is your fear of overstepping more important than their well-being right now?"

oikawa thinks of your tired, sad eyes and his fingers twitch. "no."

"obviously, dick. go on, then. you have to be back for breakfast though or i'll punch you." iwaizumi states before turning away from his friend and disappearing completely under the blanket.

"you're so mean, iwa... can you not threathen to punch me every two seconds? i'm trying to be so good." oikawa mutters with a pout, grabbing his phone and his hoodie, ready to be your knight in shining armor. knight in plaid pyjamas more like.

"just go already." his friend grumbles and oikawa gifts him a small bye-bye as he's already halfway out the door. the next thing he knows, he's sprinting through the hallways, thanking himself in his head for making you tell him your room number the second he saw you this morning. he doesn't even take the elevator, instead taking triple steps up the stairs. he's also thanking himself for becoming an athlete.

knock! knock! knock!

dismissing that as just a noise from the room next door, you continue your sniffling but when the knocks repeat in a faster manner, you figure one of your teammates had forgotten their key card. so, ever so slowly you push yourself from the comfort of your bed and head over to the door while trying to wipe the tears from your eyes as to look at least a little bit more composed. you're even ready to crack a joke about them losing the card, desperate to disctract the person behind the door from yourself.

but it's not any of your teammates, nor is it your manager of your coach.

it's your oikawa instead – eyes wide open and slightly panting. "you said you don't want me here but i– fuck, how many steps can be between one floor..." he clutches his hand over his chest, the stupid comment slipping out all on its own.

for a millisecond, for a fraction of time, the corners of your lips turn upward but they fall just as fast back down, leaving you both just standing there, staring at each other.

your eyes look way worse now; way more red, way more tired, way more sad, way more dull than a mere hour ago. he should've come here sooner and he imagines iwaizumi slapping the back of his head for his mistake.

"you said you wanna be alone but i don't care."

his blunt statement catches you a little off-guard, your eyebrows furrowing but oikawa just takes it as a green light. if you didn't want him there, surely you'd tell him that right away but you've been standing here with him for a almost half a minute and nothing.

he takes a step, closing the distance between the two of you. he pushes his glasses up on his nose and fiddles with his own fingers and it's weird again. he's nervous. but this isn't about him – it's about you. whatever he's feeling right now is nothing compared to what you're feeling and he just wants to be here for you.

for a second time today, he watches your bottom lip wobble and your chest rise as you take short sharp breaths. and for a second time today, a pair of eyes feel actually comforting. he's not trying to burn you, he's not trying to take back time and alter your actions. he's merely observing instead of dissecting. he's ready to catch you when you fall.

and you do. it's hard not to when he's standing in front of you and looking at you so fondly. your head falls against his strong chest, hands tucked between your bodies as his firmly wrap around you. he takes another step inside and closes the door behind him with his foot.

he listens to you cry into him, he feels your tears on his shirt and through it, on his skin. your hands grasp onto the material, bunching it up in your fists and he just holds you tighter against him.

"you're gonna win next time, i promise" he murmurs.

but when you just sob out a but i wanted to win this time, his heart aches so bad he thinks he's going to die.

oikawa curses at himself for walking right into that one and this time he swears he feels iwaizumi slap the back of his head for real. but he has no time to pity his poor choice of words when he feels your hands clutching at him just where his heart is.

he whispers a quiet i know and you sniffle again. he starts drawing soothing circles onto your back with his palm and he feels so warm. releasing his shirt from your hold, you snake your hands around his body instead, burrowing your face even more into his chest and you faintly hear him coo. it's the first time ever that he's done it in a genuine way and it's the first time you haven't felt the need to punch him for it.

his hand rests on the back of your head, keeping you in your place as he gently sways the both of you from side to side. "i got you."

after some time, he feels you going slack against him and decides to guide you to the bed. he climbs in with you and safely tucks you into the crook of his neck and lets you cry some more as he whispers it's okay against your temple. he just hopes that he's actually helping, that his words actually have an effect. god, he hopes he's making it at least a bit better for you.

he is. he's doing more than he could ever imagine. the thick goo of guilt and shame seems to be draining out of you when you feel his lips brush against your skin. he just might be washing the it off of you with his quiet praise. his words don't sound condescending nor do they sound fake. he means it when he says that you really did do well.

the tears have dried by now and oikawa can feel your eyelashes fluttering against his neck. the long tiring day is finally catching up to you as your breathing slows. he rests his head on top of yours and presses your body indifinitely closer to his. the tips of his fingers dance across your skin, drawing little circles and hearts as he soaks in the sight of you relaxing against him under the moonlight.

"did..."

your meek voice makes him crane his neck back so he can look at you better, ready to hear out whatever complaint you have, ready to comply to whatever request you have.

"did iwaizumi send you?"

...

"WHAT?" it comes out way louder and in a way higher pitch than he'd intended it to. he immediately clears his throat but his eyebrows are still furrowed. "i wanted to come here, why would you say that..."

he still can't see your face clearly from this angle but the way your body moves, is telling him that this isn't you crying anymore. this is you laughing.

"are you– are you fucking laughing at me right now?" he questions, trying to pry you from his neck to confirm his suspicion. and he's fucking right. when you finally unlatch yourself from his body and roll onto your back, you have the tiniest, smallest smile on your lips and oikawa's mouth falls slack. "i wanted to come! i– i'm a good friend!"

it shouldn't be this funny. it really shouldn't because he is a good friend, isn't he? he's here now, holding you, comforting you; he came to you and you're now making fun of him. but you can't help it, the thought of iwaizumi "lecturing" him is silly in this moment. not that you doubt that he came here only because of that, of course. but knowing him, you just think he probably needed a push to actually do it.

oikawa holds himself up above you, observing the small freckles that adorn your face. your eyes are still red and still tired but... the small little glint is back. the same one that's always there when you make fun of him. or when you laugh.

"i literally ran here and this is how you treat me?"

"you're telling me it took you an hour to run up the stairs? i thought you were a volleyball player, shouldn't your stamina be better–" you poke at his chest (right where his heart is) and he lets out a very loud and a very dramatic gasp. "or did your boyfriend have to convince you to come over and console me?"

oikawa's lips tilt into a smirk, happy to hear you barking at him at last. "first of all, don't ever call him my boyfriend ever again–" he situates himself next to you, so his both hands are free. you should've seen this coming, too. "and second of all, you really oughta treat me better."

before you can taunt him with a good old "or what?", his hands are tickling your sides, fingers dancing along your skin as laughter bubbles up from your throat. you try to fight him off, hands clutching onto his in order to stop his torment but to no avail.

"i am... trying... to be.... a good... friend... and this is... what i get... huh..." he rasps as he continues soaking in the sound of your laughter.

"you're.... always... in it for something... that's not... a... real friend... tooru..." you breathe back with a grin and he stops. he doesn't take his hands off of you though, just resting them on your waist.

"you're spending way too much time with iwaizumi, you're both just so mean to me." he's pouting. oikawa is sitting back on his legs and he's actually pouting.

"am i gonna have to console you now?"

"yes." he deadpans.

...

you push yourself up onto your elbow and lean up to boop his nose. "you're stupid."

"no, you're stupid." he grins back.

he has his ways of getting you out of a slump, he always has. him sitting here on your tiny little bed, pouting and laughing is only merely of them. you couldn't wish for a better friend. his hands feel so warm on you and you're so grateful. sitting up, you slap your hands on his shoulders (which of course, makes him wince in a very over the top way). "thanks for coming, tooru."

he rolls his eyes. "pffft."

...

pfft?

"excuse me?" you glare at him and he decides that you and iwaizumi can never hang out ever again.

"i– i meant– yeah, of course. anything for you." he stutters out as you keep glaring at him. he then leans in closer, so much so that your noses are almost touching. "i'm really proud of you, you know."

heat crawls up from your neck and you feel the tips of your ears warm up, overwhelmed by the sudden genuine praise. but you can't let him have the upper hand. not now, not ever. he'll never let you live it down.

"your breath stinks, you know."

his eyes close with another incredibly dramatic sigh as he rests his forehead against yours but while doing so, he takes notice of your hot skin and the way you giggle, and translates it into your language –

thank you.

[eddiemunsonsmum]

Just saw this comment on a story posted a month ago.

*cries in Eddie Munson Solo Series no one wanted to read, interact with or request for*

No shade to the person that commented this on their own fic if you recognize it. It's not their fault. I'm not mad at them. More crying in the tags.

[the-last-quest]

While I’m all for Nine being able to go to Green Hill and finally getting a home with Sonic and Tails I think that leaving him the grim made the most sense for his story.

To me Nine’s whole story is his want for a home. He wants someplace safe where he doesn’t have to worry about harm that others may inflict onto him, or having outside forces like the Chaos Council control every aspect of life.

That was his original plan with the Grim. He wanted to build a world from scratch where he was free from everything. He included Sonic in his wants, wanting the hedgehog to be happy and stay with him, the coconut trees being a testament to that.

That however changes after his fight with Sonic. That’s when it changes to not wanting anyone who could hurt him. The Alpha Grim’s built to follow his every command. To protect him from anything that could ever harm him.

He fights for the Grim until the end. Even when it’s clear he has no shot at winning. When each part of his attack fails. When he’s left only the fortress he built for himself.

And that fortress in the end is the home that Nine wants. It where he chooses to stay at the end. He got the home that he didn’t always want, but the one he wants now. A home where he can’t get harmed from anyone, but also where he can’t get close to anyone either unless the situation turns out the same.

In the end Nine got what he wanted, even if it isn’t what he needed.