#spiking heartbeats

[pearlsephoni]

Spiking Heartbeats: Team-Building

Can also be read on AO3!

Rating: T

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Relationships: Platonic Karasuno First Years, platonic Hinayachi (Hinata & Yachi), pre-relationship Tsukkiyama (Tsukishima/Yamaguchi), pre-relationship Kagehina (Kageyama/Hinata)

Characters: Shoyo Hinata, Hitoka Yachi, Tadashi Yamaguchi, Kei Tsukishima, Tobio Kageyama

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary:

“Ditch?” Yachi repeats, looking extremely unsure of herself. “Ditch,” Shoyo confirms.

In April 2010, Hinata Shoyo and his childhood friend Yachi Hitoka leave Miyagi Prefecture to attend university in Tokyo. Shortly thereafter, an attempt to avoid compulsory hazing during their medical school orientation leads to an unlikely new friendship with three fellow first years

A/N: Written by @r0mantic-era as part of our collaborative series of Haikyuu Hospital Playlist AU fics, featuring the Karasuno first years as the 99s! Originally published on AO3 on March 25th. Further author's notes can be found there.

***

Hinata Shoyo sits with his back pressed against the wall of a crowded room, clutching his abdomen and gritting his teeth.

While an off-key rendition of Katy Perry’s Hot and Cold warbles through the cramped space, his stomach churns the overabundance of food he’d eaten during dinner. Eager to please his new seniors as they piled meat on his plate, Shoyo had shoved down piece after piece, constantly replaced in a never-ending stream, and ignored his body’s growing protests.

Now, he’s paying the price.

Beside him, Yachi gnaws on her fingernails, free hand twisted into the fabric of his tee shirt. “Hinata,” she mumbles. “I can’t do this.”

“Hurghh,” Shoyo groans in response, battling a wave of nausea as it rolls over his body. Although he prides himself on his stomach, he’s never been able to eat like Yachi. Bile rises in his throat.

Noticing the telltale signs, Yachi hurriedly presses her water bottle into his hand. “Drink,” she urges, glancing nervously over to their left. When Shoyo follows her gaze, he sees cases upon cases of alcohol stacked against the wall. The thought of getting hazed with alcohol in this state…Shoyo chokes down a gag and immediately looks away, back towards the front of the room.

“Wonderful performance! Everyone give a big hand to Hakuba-kun!!” announces Yamamoto Akane, one of the older med students running the retreat. “Who’s next?” The upperclassman’s eyes gleam while she scans the crowd, like a lion surveying a herd of antelope, as Hakuba Gao—one of their fellow first years—hurries off the stage, cheeks flaming.

“Hinata, I will pass away if I have to sing in front of the whole class,” Yachi hisses in his ear, pure dread plastered across her face. “Please!”

Shoyo chugs the water and finishes in several gulps before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth with a sigh. Sweet relief hits his system when he swallows, easing the pressure in his stomach just enough to respond properly. “I’m in no shape to perform, either,” he whispers back. “Let’s ditch.”

“Ditch?” Yachi repeats, looking extremely unsure of herself.

“Ditch,” Shoyo confirms, holding out his hand to his oldest and dearest childhood friend with a grin. Clearly conflicted, Yachi stares at him, torn between her fear of getting in trouble and her obvious desire to leave. 

After a minute, Shoyo makes the decision for her. “We won’t get caught,” he asserts confidently. Momentarily grabbing her hand, he climbs to his feet and leads her out the back door. Yachi follows without protest, stage fright more anxiety-inducing than any punishment their seniors can deal out.

The fresh night air kisses his lungs when they slip outside, clearing away his food-induced queasiness until it is nothing more than a faint, dull ache. Creeping across the porch of the inn, Shoyo makes to turn the corner when Yachi grips the edge of his tee shirt.

“Hinata, wait! Look!” Yachi warns under her breath, gesturing ahead.

Sure enough, he spots two other seniors leaning against the exit of the venue. Shoyo can’t remember their names, but the scowls on their faces are more than enough of a deterrent. “Damn it!” he curses quietly. 

Their department orientation retreat is located high in the mountains at a walled inn with only one entrance: in short, there is no escape.

“The toilet?” Yachi suggests, pointing at a very sad port-a-potty a little ways away.

Shoyo wrinkles his nose. “We’d reek something awful if we went there.”

Yachi pales at the reminder. “And then we wouldn’t be able to make any friends for the rest of medical school!” she concludes, whisper rising in pitch. 

Shoyo flicks her on the forehead. “You’re doing it again.”

“My bad.” Yachi rubs the spot with a small blush, embarrassed by the call-out. “Um, well, what about that shed?” She raises one finger to point toward the back of the courtyard. Sure enough, there’s a small shed there, with blue paint peeling off the door and a rusted tin roof.

“Great thinking!” Shoyo praises, dashing towards the back. Yachi follows after, inching along the side of the inn pressed to the wall like some sort of secret agent. Once she joins him by the front of the shed, Shoyo grabs the door handle and wrenches it open with a loud creak.

“Eep!” Yachi lets out a tiny shriek, which Shoyo barely manages to muffle with his hand.

Two pairs of eyes stare back from the far end of the tiny supply shed, which is actually the size of a small closet. Shoyo vaguely recognizes the pair from the day’s earlier activities—they’re fellow first year students. 

An outdated SONY portable CD player sits on the ground, bracketed by their shoes. The cord of a pair of wired headphones travels up the space between them only to diverge at their shoulders, an earbud traveling to each ear.

“Oh, great,” says the first guy—he’s clearly huge, even though his frame is hunched and folded into itself in an attempt to make himself small. “This is what I was afraid of.”

His friend, similarly big but not quite as colossal, sits squished beside him with his arms wrapped around his knees. He’s a little mousy despite his big size, with a smattering of freckles across his face and jittery knees. “Tsukki… They can hear you.” His voice is soft and a little sweet.

“That’s the whole point, Yamaguchi,” replies ‘Tsukki’, who rolls his eyes behind square-rimmed glasses. “This shed is occupied. Go make out somewhere else.”

“Make out?!” Yachi squeaks, horrified.

“We’re running away from compulsory Karaoke,” Shoyo corrects, face flaming. “Yachi is my childhood friend!”

‘Yamaguchi’ perks up at that. “Tsukki and I are childhood friends, too!” he offers excitedly. “And we also came here to avoid performing!”

“Shut up, Yamaguchi,” Tsukki mutters.

Shoyo frowns at that. What’s this Tsukki guy’s problem?

“Sorry, Tsukki!” chirps Yamaguchi, flashing a toothy smile, completely unfazed by the fact that his friend just told him to shut up.

Shoyo exchanges a glance with Yachi that says, These guys are weird. She meets his eyes in agreement, lifting a hand to chew on her fingernails.

“Well, Tsukki—,” Shoyo begins.

“That’s Tsukishima to you.”

“Well, Tsukishima,” he amends. “You don’t own this shed, so you can’t complain if we join you.” Without waiting for an answer, he steps inside, extending a hand to pull Yachi in after him. She closes the door hastily and leans against it awkwardly.

“It was already cramped in here,” Tsukishima huffs.

Shoyo appraises him, squinting to see under the dim light bulb. “You’re really whiny, aren’t you?”

“Don’t say that about Tsukki!” Yamaguchi retorts immediately, uncurling his spine abruptly. His lanky limbs practically vibrate with defensive intensity. Tsukishima sighs through his nose.

“Whining is all he’s been doing since we met!” Shoyo points out, squeezing into the spot beside Tsukishima and bumping the boy over to the side with an aggressive scoot of the hips. “Yacchan, come sit here,” he instructs, patting the newly vacated space.

Tsukishima plucks the earbud from Yamaguchi’s ears and rolls up the headphones before tucking them and the Walkman into his jacket pocket. “We’re only letting you stay here because you’re both tiny,” he mutters, now pressed up against Yamaguchi due to the narrow dimensions of the shed. Yamaguchi looks rather uncomfortable, contorted awkwardly against the wall to make more space. Tsukishima’s hands are tightly clasped in his lap, his face oddly redder than it was just a minute prior.

“Tiny?!” Shoyo jabs Tsukishima in the ribs with his elbow, sensitive about his height. “I’m a very respectable height, you know. You’re just…freaky!”

Yamaguchi snickers into his hand. Shoyo is starting to think that he’s not quite as nice as initial appearances had suggested.

“Shhhh,” Yachi interjects worriedly. “You two are going to get us caught! Can’t we all just be quiet?!”

Shoyo can’t really handle awkward silence, though, when he’s not preoccupied by a task. “My name’s Hinata Shoyo. She’s Yachi Hitoka,” he tells Tsukishima and Yamaguchi. “Yacchan and I are from Miyagi Prefecture.”

“I’m Yamaguchi Tadashi from Tokyo,” Yamaguchi tells Shoyo, twisting his torso in an attempt to find a better sitting position. “And this is my best friend Tsukishima Kei! Tsukki scored in the top percentile on the entrance exam for this program,” he announces proudly, puffing out his chest like he’s sharing his own scores and not somebody else’s.

“Shut up, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima groans, burying his head in his hands. Shoyo thinks he catches a glimpse of pink cheeks peeking through Tsukishima’s fingers.

“Sorry, Tsukki!”

“Shhhh!!” Yachi begs, hushing them all again. “What if—”

The door to the shed swings open.

“Ahhh!! We’re sorry!!” Yachi yelps, immediately getting to her knees to beg for forgiveness.

The person standing there stares down at her, eyes wide. “Huh.” And then he looks up.

Flat black hair cut like a bowl sits above piercing eyes, cobalt like the blue of a Mikasa volleyball. Shoyo traces the stranger’s small nose down to his deeply set frown, lips curved like Cupid’s bow. The boy is tall, hands shoved into the pockets of a black Adidas tracksuit.

The first coherent thought that Shoyo manages to formulate is: Cool.

“Oh, it’s this asshole again,” Tsukishima states, matter-of-fact. “The one who was trying to boss us around during the games earlier today. Kageyama, right?”

Kageyama’s face clouds like the sky before a storm. “You were the reason our team ate lunch last,” he mutters. “All the yogurt was gone by then. Jerk.”

“So you’re not an upperclassman?” Yachi asks, relief blossoming across her face. She scrambles to her feet and grabs Kageyama’s sleeve, pulling him inside before quickly shutting the door. “Phew… Now everybody be quiet!” she orders. “I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do to us if they find us.”

At her command, the shed falls silent for a while. Kageyama shuffles his feet awkwardly before crouching on the ground in a flat-footed squat. Shoyo watches him with intrigue; he can’t help it. Kageyama is…he’s eye-catching.

“What are you staring at?” Kageyama grunts after a little while, breaking the quiet.

“Nothing,” Shoyo says immediately, a flush crawling up his neck. Caught red-handed. “Iwasntlookingatanything!”

“What?” Kageyama prods, leaning closer. “Are you even speaking Japanese?”

“O meu nome é Shoyo Hinata,” Shoyo jokes, feeling his skin grow sweaty under his clothes.

Kageyama stares at him blankly and tilts his head, clearly confused. Shoyo stifles a laugh. This Kageyama guy has some pretty cute behaviors, he has to admit.

Yachi swats Shoyo’s arm gently. “His name is Hinata Shoyo. I’m Yachi Hitoka. We’re from Yukigaoka in Miyagi Prefecture,” she says timidly.

Kageyama nods, looking rather solemn. “I’m Kageyama Tobio. I’m from Sendai, so I’m from Miyagi, too.”

“No way!” Shoyo whispers, fighting to keep his voice down. “I’m a huge fan of the Sendai Frogs!”

“The volleyball team?” Tsukishima perks up for the first time since Kageyama entered the shed. “I guess you have some taste, after all, Shrimpy. The Frogs have some of the best blockers in the V-League.”

Before Shoyo can contest the ‘shrimpy’ comment, Kageyama speaks up: “The Frogs have weak offensive power; they only just made the jump from division two to division one. The best team in the V-League is hands-down the Schweiden Adlers.”

“You take that back!” Shoyo protests, seething, right as Tsukishima exclaims, “The Adlers?! The fucking Adlers?!”

“Be quiet!!” Yachi begs.

“I’m just stating facts,” Kageyama retorts, crossing his arms. “The Frogs are shitty.”

“The Frogs are not shitty!” Shoyo declares, heated in a way he only is when it comes to his favorite sport. He played wing spiker for his school team all through high school until it was time to study for university entrance exams—so sue him for being a little overly passionate. “They’re about to thrash the Adlers in their next match!”

“You’re a dumbass if you think—” Kageyama begins, meeting Shoyo’s glare head-on, when the door swings open for a third time.

“Having fun?” asks Yamamoto Akane, standing in the entryway, incisors sharp in her sparkly white smile.

Shoyo fails to suppress his audible gulp.

***

“Our next performers will be a group of five! They specially volunteered to perform this next song and they’ll be cleaning up the whole place once we call it a night!” announces Yamamoto, hitting play on the iPod Nano attached to the stereo speakers.

As the familiar Woaaaah of Justin Bieber’s Baby starts to reverberate through the room, Yamaguchi clutches his microphone like a lifeline, horror-stricken. Yachi’s knees knock together like a baby giraffe. Tsukishima stares blankly ahead.

“I don’t know this song,” Kageyama announces into his microphone, prompting giggles from the audience.

“Just do ad-libs!” Yachi squeaks, lowering her microphone so that she’s only audible to the five of them. “Who knows what the upperclassmen will do if we don’t try!”

“I know you love me, I know you care,” Tsukishima says, completely deadpan, into his microphone in accented English. He sounds like he’s reciting a passage for class.

What follows is the flattest, worst musical performance that Shoyo has ever witnessed, much less participated in. Despite the fact that English was never his favorite strongest subject, Shoyo’s firm grasp on pop culture and five years of playing guitar as a hobby mean that he and Yamaguchi manage to halfway carry the tune, stumbling over the lyrics. Yachi, who Shoyo knows to be an incredibly gifted pianist and lovely singer, spends the verses breathing loudly into the microphone and warbles out the refrain pitchily, halfway hiding behind Tsukishima, who is still doing a monotone robot impression (but somehow seems to know every word, including the rap).

As for Kageyama…he just yells, “Hey!” into his microphone every few seconds, so gruff it’s almost aggressive.

Their rendition is awful, objectively, and their classmates clutch their stomachs the whole time, peals of laughter ringing through the room. Shoyo knows they mean it in good fun; when the song comes to a painful end, the other first years drunkenly hoot and holler with good-natured enthusiasm. Nonetheless, Yamaguchi and Yachi still seem to be moments away from death by mortification.

Thankfully, the event ends shortly afterward, with their fellow students stumbling into the sleeping quarters; everyone is freshly of age and unused to drinking.

Kageyama, Yachi, Yamaguchi, Tsukishima, and Shoyo remain behind, where Yamamoto hands them all trash bags and a few brooms. “Hopefully this serves as a good lesson about being good team players instead of sneaking off to avoid participating,” she tells them. “It was so sweet of you five to offer to clean all this up in place of your very tired seniors!” Yamamoto stretches her arms above her head and yawns, exaggerated. “See you in the morning~”

Once they’re alone, Yamaguchi slumps back against a wall. “I can’t believe we got caught,” he groans.

“We wouldn’t have gotten caught if these two menaces could keep their voices down,” Tsukishima snarks, bending over and getting to work, plucking up paper plates and red solo cups by their rims with two fingers, wrinkling his nose. “God damn it, everything is sticky.”

“You were being loud, too!” Shoyo objects, hands on his hips.

“Let’s just hurry and get this over with,” Yamaguchi interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose. Abashed, Shoyo joins Tsukishima in cleaning up, along with everyone else.

They finish the job in just thirty minutes, partially because Shoyo and Kageyama somehow end up competing as to who can collect the most trash: it all starts innocently enough, with Kageyama side-eyeing Shoyo’s less-full trash bag with a smirk. Shoyo can’t really even explain how it devolves into the two of them furiously stuffing garbage into their bags as fast as they can.

Shoyo thinks he hears Tsukishima whisper, “single-celled organisms” to Yamaguchi, who snickers in response, but he graciously elects to ignore them.

Once clean-up is finished, the five of them haul the bags out to the dumpster.

“We did it!” Yachi cheers, releasing a huge sigh of relief. Shoyo grins as he watches the tension flow out from her body, fully, for the first time that evening. Without warning, however, she stiffens again.

“What’s wrong, Yacchan?” he asks, genuinely concerned. “Did we forget something?”

“No, no! It’s all okay!” Yachi digs the toe of her converse into the dirt, fiddling with her small purse. “It’s just, um… Um, well, my parents got me a digital camera. To record memories of my time at university. And…I…Will you all take the first picture with me?” she squeaks out, completely pink in the face.

“In front of the dumpster?” Tsukishima raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Ah, no, um…maybe in front of the inn?” 

“Of course, we can!” Shoyo interrupts, marching over to the front of the main building and shucking off his shoes. “Everyone, stack your shoes here. We can put the camera on top of the pile and use the timer setting!”

Surprisingly, Yamaguchi and Tsukishima and Kageyama all surrender their shoes to the pile without a fight. Yachi’s red converse sit at the very top, flipped upside down so that the little camera can rest on a flat surface. Idly, Shoyo wonders if tonight is the start of something interesting.

“I’m clicking the button!” Yachi announces, pressing down before hurrying to the front steps of the inn, where the others are already waiting. She sits in the very center, sandwiched between Kageyama and Shoyo. Yamaguchi and Tsukishima perch on the step behind them.

Shoyo watches the little green light flash, counting down from ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…

He raises two fingers in a peace sign and stretches his mouth into his widest smile.

Click.

[gemharvest]

projecting my ADHD experiences onto this idiot part 1 of a potential one million

[sskk-manifesto]

This is a kind of heartbeat. to me

[takkamek]

watching the drivers getting close to the walls

[nabaath-areng]

In other news despite being knocked out for several hours earlier due to my pulse flipping the fuck out I've finally managed to cook and eat and shower without collapsing!!! Took me the entire day but still!!!!!

[glitterbombedshadow]

Imma play around with my hair tomorrow, should I try a death mohawk or a half mohawk?

[somekindofadeviant]

I want so so so bad to see the Fanged Four reunite to raise baby Connor. It takes a village to raise a kid. Yeah well maybe it takes a toxic vampire polycule to raise a miracle born-to-vampires baby?!?! I just, I want to see Darla and Angel co-parenting. Spike and Dru roped in as the older siblings to share the workload. Just think of the shenanigans. The drama. The weird domestic sweetness.

[marcsullivan620]

Spike...

[aromanticbastards]

.

[clockwards]

willow and spike constantly getting into weird emotional situations and comforting each other is so funny. they're idiots in arms long before he's any type of 'good'

[pearlsephoni]

Spiking Heartbeats: Free Coffee and Tea

Can also be read on AO3!

Rating: G

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Relationships: Platonic Karasuno First Years, pre-relationship Tsukkiyama (Tsukishima/Yamaguchi), pre-relationship Kagehina (Kageyama/Hinata), pre-relationship Kanoyachi (Kanoka/Yachi), established Kiyotana (Kiyoko/Tanaka)

Characters: Shoyo Hinata, Hitoka Yachi, Kanoka Amanai, Tadashi Yamaguchi, Osamu Miya, Atsumu Miya, Kiyoko Shimizu, Ryuunosuke Tanaka

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary:

Amanai had always come off as shy, even though she’d been at the hospital for more than three years. At first glance, it would be easy for Shoyo to brush off any stiffness in her body language as awkwardness or discomfort. Yet a rosy pink flush was creeping up Amanai’s neck and rising in her cheeks. Shoyo regarded it with interest. Once Yachi disappeared out the door, he gave Amanai an experimental wink. The blush transitioned from pink to bright red. Tanaka and Shimizu exchanged knowing glances. Bingo.

It's an ordinary day at Ohyama Hospital, until Dr. Hinata stumbles across some interesting new information.

A/N: Written by @r0mantic-era as part of a collaborative series of Haikyuu Hospital Playlist AU fics, featuring the Karasuno first years as the 99s! Originally published on AO3 on April 15th. Further author's notes can be found there.

***

On a bright and early Sunday morning, Shoyo entered the café on the first floor of the hospital in high spirits. Humming to himself, he scanned the long line of customers with the eager, hungry eyes of a scavenger. 

It didn’t take long to spot a stubborn tuft of hair sticking out from the head of a familiar, tall figure in pale blue scrubs. Letting a grin crawl over his face, Shoyo made a beeline for his target—snatching up a salmon onigiri from the fridge on his way to cut the line.

“I want a hazelnut latte with soy milk,” he announced, looping his arm around Yamaguchi’s wide shoulders. “And this onigiri.”

Yamaguchi didn’t so much as flinch at the intrusion. “Guess what I have, Hinata?” he sang, waving a hand in front of Shoyo’s face. Pinched between his fingers was a familiar credit card.

“Tsukishima’s card?!” Shoyo pumped his fist. He’d arrived at just the right time.

Yamaguchi’s smile, impossibly, grew even more smug. “I’m buying coffee for my resident and Sawamura. Want in?”

In terms of residents, General Surgery only had Iwaizumi, but Shoyo made a split-second decision to snag drinks for the fellow surgeons in his department. “I’ll take an iced americano for Iwaizumi, a caramel latte with an extra shot of espresso for Bokuto-san, a jujube tea for Omi-Omi…” he pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time, “...and a black coffee for Yacchan.” 

Shoyo was clocking in ahead of schedule this morning, so making a pit stop by Neurosurgery to drop off a drink for Yachi would be no problem.

“That’ll be 3,900 yen,” Miya Osamu announced from behind the cash register.

“And this.” Kageyama dropped a probiotic yogurt on the countertop.

“Ack!” Shoyo jumped. “Where did you come from? You’re like a ghost! Don’t be so quiet when you walk, Creepy-yama,” he sputtered.

Kageyama shrugged, plucking up the yogurt as Osamu punched the new purchase into the machine. “Have better hearing, then, Dumbass.”

Shoyo playfully stuck out his tongue. “My hearing is—”

“Ah-ah, no fighting in my café. You goons are going to hold up the line,” tutted Osamu, rolling his eyes sky-high. “That’ll be 4,200 yen. Tsumu will have the drinks out for you all shortly. Now get.” After more than a decade, the owner of Café Miya was well acquainted with Shoyo and his friends—they’d made more than a few ruckuses inside his establishment over the years, after all. 

Shoyo flashed him an apologetic grin before ducking out of the way and leaving Yamaguchi (or, well, Tsukishima) to cover the bill.

“See you at dinner?” Kageyama asked, uncapping his yogurt. It was a rare day when the friends’ shift schedules left them all simultaneously free for the evening, so the five had plans to meet up at a barbecue restaurant near the hospital.

“See you then, Yama-yama,” Shoyo told him, waving as Kageyama strolled out of the café and towards the lobby elevators.

Shoyo spent the next few minutes scrolling through Youtube to watch volleyball highlights. Yamaguchi, who had wandered over after placing their order, peered over his shoulder as Shoyo skimmed through clips of the most recent game between the Green Rockets and the Black Jackals. He hadn’t had time to watch yesterday with so many procedures scheduled, which was a shame—from the game reel, it seemed like it had been a great match.

“Sho-kun!” interrupted Miya Atsumu, setting several cardboard coffee cup carriers down in the pick-up area. “Your drinks are ready. But do you have any news for me?”

Atsumu, Osamu’s brother and co-manager of Café Miya, nurtured a notorious proclivity for gossip. His penchant for fueling rumors consistently bothered Tsukishima and Kageyama, both of whom complained that Atsumu was the hospital’s resident auntie, but Shoyo was always happy to indulge him.

“There’s a rumor going around that two interns are dating, but nobody knows who,” he provided, lowering his voice conspiratorily. “Let me know if you notice anything, alright?”

“I got you, doc,” Atsumu replied with a wink, handing Shoyo two carriers holding five drinks.

Yamaguchi clicked his tongue against his teeth and grabbed his own coffee carriers with a fond sigh. “Do we really need to be snooping around the lives of our juniors?” he asked, ever-responsible. Then, he grinned. “Well, let me know if you find out who it is. My money’s on Sugawara being involved in some way.”

***

After exiting Café Miya, Shoyo headed up to the third floor and into the Neurosurgery wing. Upon arriving at the department’s staff room, he bumped the door open with his hip and poked his head inside.

“Yacchan!” he called. “I brought you coffee!”

Yachi, who had been midway through explaining something to the two interns rotating through her department, startled slightly.

“Hinata!” Yachi yelped, knocking a stack of papers off the table. The sheets fluttered haphazardly through the air: Dr. Shimizu managed to snag half the pile mid-fall, aided by quick reflexes, while her fellow intern Dr. Tanaka scrambled for the remaining documents just a beat too late and ended up crouching on the floor to gather the rest.

“Sorry, Yacchan,” Shoyo apologized, placing the black coffee on the table beside her. “No milk, no sugar. Just how you like it.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” she told him, taking a massive gulp of the drink. “And the timing was perfect. I actually have to run to a consultation, now, but Kanoka can take over briefing this case for me. If that’s okay?”

Yachi’s third-year resident, Dr. Amanai, closed out a patient chart on the break room desktop and hurried to join the others at the table.

“I’ve got it, Professor!” she agreed immediately, tucking a lock of short, dark hair behind her ear. “And, um, hello Dr. Hinata.”

“Hey, Amanai-chan,” Shoyo greeted easily. Amanai was tall, so he had to look up slightly to make eye contact. “I heard you’re going to be the lead surgeon on an upcoming case!”

Amanai nodded. “It’ll be my first time leading,” she said timidly. “I’ll do my best.”

“I have no doubt it’ll go great,” Yachi interjected confidently, placing a hand on Amanai’s shoulder. “Just like I have no doubts leaving these two in your very capable hands!” The gesture was innocent—the reassurance of a mentor to a mentee—but Shoyo couldn’t help but notice Amanai tense just slightly under Yachi’s touch.

Amanai had always come off as shy, even though she’d been at the hospital for more than three years. At first glance, it would be easy for Shoyo to brush off any stiffness in her body language as awkwardness or discomfort. Yet a rosy pink flush was creeping up Amanai’s neck and rising in her cheeks. 

Shoyo regarded it with interest. Once Yachi disappeared out the door, he gave Amanai an experimental wink.

The blush transitioned from pink to bright red. Tanaka and Shimizu exchanged knowing glances. 

Bingo. 

Shoyo wished he could say that he was a mature man who refrained from meddling in the personal affairs of others, but there was a reason he was Atsumu’s Number One Gossip Buddy. 

Sure, the timing wasn’t ideal. Yachi was still dating Maruki Takuto from Dermatology—they’d only gotten together about two months ago, but it truly felt like it had been ages. Ages of Kageyama and Tsukishima agreeing for once and mutually bitching about the guy, that is. 

To be fair, Shoyo wasn’t exactly Maruki’s biggest fan, either. Maruki was nice enough to his colleagues and the hospital staff. But Shoyo had a strong feeling that the other doctor had an inferiority complex which manifested as jealousy over Yachi’s accomplishments, and he’d told her so in similar words. 

“I’m just seeing how things go. It’s not that serious,” Yachi had assured him. Still, none of their friends could really understand why she was wasting her time in the first place.

Although he would never interfere directly in Yachi’s relationships, Shoyo couldn’t help but be excited by the appearance of a better candidate for his childhood friend. Amanai had a reputation as a kind, fair, and caring member of the staff. She clearly had a tremendous amount of respect for Yachi. Once this Maruki business ended, maybe he’d have to do some meddling.

Shoyo left the neurosurgery wing in high spirits, whistling merrily. Having acquired free coffee and tea, the morning was shaping up to be a pretty good one.

***

Shoyo didn’t give his discovery much thought for the next few hours, swept up in the bustle of his morning cases. He met with patients one right after the other, dissecting CT scans and MRIs in layman’s terms before negotiating treatment paths and scheduling procedures. 

At a major hospital in a capital city, consultations often breezed by, but Shoyo liked to think that the person-to-person aspect of medicine was a personal specialty of his. Had he been the best student in their medical school class? Not by a long shot. Did he make mistakes when charting because he could not wrap his mind around the hospital software system? Occassionally. But Shoyo was a good surgeon and, perhaps most importantly, he did his best to make his patients feel safe and understood, before and after their operations.

Even for a gregarious person like himself, the latter was hard work. So, when his break finally rolled around, he opted to chill in the outdoor courtyard rather than return to his shared office with Yamaguchi.

Outside, the sun shone golden through the green leaves of the well-trimmed trees. The soft hum of public conversation filtered past as he shut his eyelids, enjoying the warm weather. And then he heard footsteps approach, stuttering against the pavement.

Shoyo cracked open one eye.

“Um, Dr. Hinata.” Amanai Kanoka took a seat on the bench beside him, a banana milk between her hands.

“Amanai-chan!” Shoyo replied immediately, straightening his spine. “What’s up?”

Amanai picked at the edge of the foil lid of the banana milk with the fingernail of her index finger, smoothing it back into place each time she came close to actually opening the container.

“I…I heard you liked banana milk,” she said after a minute of awkward silence, thrusting the milk into his hands.

Shoyo grinned gleefully, accepting the treat eagerly. “For me?” he asked, peeling off the lid and taking a swig. “Who told you?”

“Dr. Yachi mentioned it once,” Amanai replied, bravely lifting her gaze to make eye contact. “I know, um, you two have been friends for ages…right?”

“We have,” Shoyo confirmed, biting back a knowing smile. He had a feeling about where this was going, but he wasn’t going to put the words in Amanai’s mouth. “So what is it that you needed? Assuming you didn’t just come here to give me my favorite drink for no reason,” he joked. “Not that I’m not honored that our nation’s number one judoka personally delivered my snack.”

Amanai flushed pink. “Ah, how did you know?” she squeaked.

“Yacchan told me,” Shoyo explained matter-of-factly, offering her a cheerful thumbs up.

“She talks about me?!” Amanai blurted, eyes widening in genuine surprise. Once the outburst escaped her lips, she immediately clapped her hands over her mouth in mortification. “Um, I mean…”

Shoyo let his laugh flow free. “Well, it’s a pretty big deal when a three-time Olympic gold medalist finishes her career and then decides to enroll in medical school of all things…but to answer your question, she does!”

Amanai dropped her hands and leaned forward. The undisguised eagerness written across her face greatly amused Shoyo for a split second, who had deliberately refrained from elaborating. Witnessing the way Amanai was so clearly torn between pressing for more information and holding herself back, however, prompted a subsequent twinge of guilt. Amanai was not Kageyama—it wasn’t kind nor appropriate to tease her. Although she wasn’t much younger, she was still his junior.

Ever graciously, he made an executive call to put an end to her misery rather than force her to come clean. “So what do you need? Intel about Yachi’s hobbies? Her favorite restaurants?”

Amanai’s blush, impossibly, grew even more pronounced. “I, I—!” she spluttered, coughing into her elbow. “Um, I…”

“Yachi only ever has good things to say about you and your research,” he added, once she finished wheezing.

Amanai thumped her chest with one fist before sighing deeply. “Am I really that transparent?” she asked forlornly. “I hope Dr. Yachi doesn’t realize.”

“There’s no way she knows,” Shoyo assured her. “Yachi can be oblivious when it comes to this kind of thing. Though I can’t say if that the same thing is true for the interns.”

Amanai pressed her palm to her forehead. “Ugh. Tanaka keeps trying to wingman me in the worst ways, and it’s extremely embarrassing every time,” she complained. “He has no subtlety whatsoever.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for!” Shoyo cheered. “You can totally trust me to give you the best insider information about Yacchan. Like, she really loves camping, if you need any date ideas. And she finds height attractive.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Amanai covered her face with her hands in embarrassment. “I know. Or, well, I knew she liked camping. She’s the president of the Outdoor Hobbies Special Interest Group.”

“Huh.” Shoyo scratched his chin. Who knew their hospital had an organization like that? Well, it was no surprise that Yachi had found a way to be heavily involved: she was, at her core, an overachiever.

“Dr. Hinata, I…I’ve been interested in Dr. Yachi for a while now, and I’ve been too scared to act. So nothing has changed.” Amanai took a deep breath. “But I really want to give this a proper go instead of giving up without even trying. And I thought you could help me approach Dr. Yachi in the…a way that’s most respectful of what she would want. Since you know her so well.”

Shoyo bit his lip and rubbed his palms along the tops of his scrub pants, unsure of how to proceed. Amanai was so sincere, and he hated to be the bearer of bad news. “Well, it’s kind of on the down low, but Yachi is…sort of seeing someone?” Amanai’s expression plummeted, and Shoyo hastily rushed to amend the statement. “He’s actually a…big jerk! And it’s really not serious. In fact, we’re all rooting for it to be over sooner rather than later!”

Amanai frowned. “Still. I guess I shouldn’t do anything at all if she already has someone.”

“Hey. Just know it’s not going to last forever. Seriously. I think Tsukishima might actually commit a homicide if Yachi actually got serious about this guy,” Shoyo insisted. “As soon as she ends things, I’ll let you know right away. So don’t give up!”

Amanai’s frown only deepened. “Dr. Tsukishima?” she repeated. “Does Dr. Tsukishima have feelings for Dr. Yachi?”

Shoyo spat out a mouthful of banana milk. The drink splattered across his pants. “Shit. Sorry!” 

“I’m sorry!” Amanai exclaimed, horrified. “Oh no! I don’t have any napkins, though!”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Shoyo waved her concerns away with one hand. “My fault. It’s not like they don’t get dirtier than this on the regular.” He dabbed at the stains with his hands. “You just caught me off guard. But trust me, Tsukishima does not have a thing for Yachi.”

When Shoyo lifted his gaze back up from his pants to Amanai, he spotted Atsumu over her shoulder. The café co-owner stood inside the building with his nose pressed up against the glass, looking directly at Shoyo.

Perking up at the sight of his friend, Shoyo lifted a hand to wave hello. Strangely enough, however, Atsumu darted away from the window as soon as they made eye contact. Weird. Well, weird wasn’t out of the realm of the ordinary when it came to Atsumu, he supposed. Shrugging, Shouyou turned back to Amanai.

“So, what else did you want to know about Yachi?”

***

1:30 PM

  [Miya Atsumu]

Yo, Dr. Bokkun!

Σ (O_O)

[Bokuto Koutarou]

Tsum-tsum!!

What’s up (• ิ _• ิ )?

[Miya Atsumu]

You would not believe what I just saw in the hospital courtyard

Shoyo was with Amanai from neurosurgery

They looked pretty cozy (¬ ‿ ¬ )

Sho-kun even got flustered! He spat out his milk!

[Bokuto Koutarou]

No way!

(o_O) !

[Miya Atsumu]

Yes way

[Bokuto Koutarou]

Let me ask Iwaizumi if he knows anything

|ʘ ‿ ʘ) ╯

  ***

7:00 PM

[Hinata Shoyo]

Yacchan where r u? Ready for dinner?

[Yachi Hitoka]

finishing up now! I’ll go get my car and pick you up at the front

[Hinata Shoyo]

Sounds good!

btw

do u happen to know why kageyama is in such a bad mood

he’s extra grumpy this evening even though he was fine in the morning

[Yachi Hitoka]

:o

i had no clue

… hope he doesn’t have a stomach ache. bbq is serious business

[Hinata Shoyo]

too right

well

i’ll head to the lobby

c u soon!

    To Be Continued...

[seokmashu]

QUICK THINK OF AN ICONIC TAERAE LINE

in celebration for taerae's bday <333

his whole interview with ollie was iconic so imma have to go with these:

"if you were a candy on white day?"

[eupheme]

— burning slow

logan howlett x inexperienced!f!reader

rated e - 1.2k

tags: reader is nervous but excited about sex, soft!logan, dual pov, touching, feelings, hint of an innocence kink, oral sex, fingering, PiV

an expansion of this lovely ask, because I couldn’t stop thinking about it 💕

The exchange is fluid, shifting between you. How you call every shot, his fingers and tongue working you until you cry out. More. Harder. Faster. There, Logan. Please-

Brought back to him in the way you place your pleasure in his hands, wrapped around fingers that crook deep. Wrenching you to a peak that leaves you trembling - his voice a low croon as your cries are muffled into your pillow.

Logan bites back a groan at the shift of your hips. How you grind down almost unconsciously, letting him angle your eager mouth against his. The sound slipping free from his throat when your fingers tighten in his hair.

It’s not the first time his mouth has met yours.

Stolen moments around the grounds, always leaving him wanting more. Leaving you with eyes half-lidded and lips kiss-swollen, and it’s impossible not to image them elsewhere. Mapping out each and every inch of him.

But it’s the first time he’s had you alone. Entwined fingers as you sneak him into your room - as if you were both students. His back pressed against the headboard as your thighs spread wide to straddle him.

The hitch in your breath, as you feel him beneath you. A thick curve of desire, pressed snug against your core. His own need a low pulse in his guts, a rhythmic lift of his hips to meet the downward rock of your own.

A rough sound that he swallows, as his hand slips up to cup your breast - your soft flesh molding to his broad palm. There’s the kick of your heart, rabbiting behind your ribs. Your scent threatening to overwhelm him.

Clinging to you, where it settles between your thighs. Where you meet him meet, a low whine as you grind down just a little harder. He did this to you. He'll do more - if you let him.

Sighing into the soft brush of your tongue against his, his thumb sweeping against the stiff peak. A moan that he swallows - pretty, as it slips from you.

He wants to hear more. Wants you to cry his name so loudly, you won't be able to look at Scott tomorrow.

Something shifts, when his hands dip low. Fingers tracing against skin as they slip beneath your shirt. A thumb hooking around the waistband of your leggings, gently tugging.

His nose twitches, as something about you changes. How you stiffen in his arms, the needy rock of your hips going still.

“‘s wrong, baby?” It’s slips from him, rough and low - his pupils blown wide and dark.

There's a shine to your lips, where his tongue traced them. Pressing together as your eyes drop, teeth sinking into flesh.

“I’m just-“ You start, searching for words, “Nervous. Haven’t done this before. Not that. I’ve done that."

A breath, "Just not like this-”

“I mean, you’re-”, The rest comes out breathless, with the slow sweep of your eyes, “It's just, a lot."

Your words, how sweet they are - the nervous hunger and curiosity in your expression - shoots straight through him. His jeans tight enough to ache - he has to resist the urge to rut up into you.

A sharply-inhaled breath, as he tries come back to himself.

Fuck.

Your nerves spike, as his eyes close. Worried he’ll think you’re silly - that he won't understand - but that’s only until you hear the noise it pulls from him.

Almost a growl, as his fingers pinch into your skin.

Only a heartbeat passing until he eases you off of him. The rejection stings - leaving you tripping over your words, “I-I don’t want to stop, Logan-”

But he only stretches out on your bed. The flex of muscles as he settles. A hand extended towards you, beckoning.

“I know, baby," Loga rasps, "Just gonna take it slow, alright?”

It soothes you, as you fold yourself against him. The careful mapping of fingers, as he matches each piece of clothes that are peeled from you. Letting you set the pace - biting back groans as your touch trails across his skin. Seconds bleeding into minutes, and then more.

You own sounds louder, when his mouth drags from your neck down to your sternum. Tounge tracing the tight peaks of your nipples - your shirt long peeled from you. Equal time spent learning the soft curves, until it’s your hand reaching between you - down to where he presses stiff and hard against your thigh.

Cupping him, feeling the weight against your palm. The heat that rolls of him, his breath a harsh pant against your skin as your fingers skate up his length.

A sharp inhale that hisses past your teeth, when they try to wrap around. A hesitation he can feel.

“I don’t-” You’re not sure how to touch him. Not sure if you can take him - a rough murmur in your ear as he kisses at your throat.

“Cant do it wrong,” He croons, “It was made for you, sweetheart.”

A ragged breath, as you try. His hand curving to fit yours, showing you how to stroke him. A heat flickering in your belly, when he grits out, "Fuck. Just like that, baby."

Logan's hips jerking into your touch. The sound it pulls from him, making your skin prickle with pleasure.

It feels like a triumph.

You’re soaked through, by the time he finally touches you.

The soft swirl of his fingers, so much thicker than your own. A little rougher than you are with yourself, but it feel right.

Feels good - when first one, and then another - press inside you. Teeth sinking into your your palm to muffle your whines, when he settles between your thighs.

The exchange is fluid, shifting between you. How you call every shot, his fingers and tongue working you until you cry out.

More. Harder. Faster. There, Logan. Please-

Brought back to him in the way you place your pleasure in his hands, wrapped around fingers that crook deep. Wrenching you to a peak that leaves you trembling - his voice a low croon as your cries are muffled into your pillow.

Ones that slip from you, when the ripples of pleassure ease. Smoothing across your thigh as he hovers above you.

“Fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?” It’s rasped out, with the soft curl of a smile.

The slight crease of a frown when you reach for him. Fingers fitting around his hard length, tilting your hips to meet his. A rough, inhaled breath as he protests, even as he leaks against your skin.

“Don’t have to, sweetheart.”

“I know,” You sigh, as the velvet length skates across your folds. An urge to feel what else he can give you.

“Want more. Want you.”

He takes it slow.

Lets you feel every inch that notches inside you. His jaw set as he works himself deep. Shallow rolls of his hips until you’re urging him for more - his teeth flashing white in the dim room as his pace picks up, giving you what you need.

You think he must like it - the way you beg, his cock slick with your need - with the way he leans down to kiss you, the age-old wood creaking beneath you with each thrust.

Praise and filth pouring from his lips - how fucking good you feel, how well you’re taking him. How you’re going to come for him again, as those fingers make practiced circles against your clit.

“One more time on my cock, baby. Come on-”

The nerves ease, until they’re no more than a memory. That tightly-wound thread burning up with the ember glow of another orgasm. Forgetting everything else, when he looks at you the way he does. The way Logan moans your name as you make him come - a rough grunt as he works himself empty inside you.

That tension sloughing off your skin in the soft afterglow - the weight of him welcome against you as your fingers card through his hair.

Because he’s right.

He was made for you.

thank you again, anon! 💖

[acid-ixx]

ch.3: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: allusions to sexual assault, prostitution, and alcohol abuse.

"hey baby bird!!! <333 long time no see! how are you?!"

please stop.

"i know that we haven't been talking for quite a long time—"

no, you have never once had a solid conversation with him.

and you wish it stays that way between the two of you.

"—so let's catch up over coffee, yeah? i'll be staying at the manor for a week!"

you don't want to, you don't want to see his face at all, his dismissive eyes. don't want to hear his voice, how it only sings praises for everyone but you.

"(name)??? it says you have seen the messages :( are you asleep? you shouldn't sleep with your phone on, baby bird, that's dangerous!"

he doesn't have the right to scold you, he's not your older brother anymore. and you're not asleep, fuck, you regret not dozing off this afternoon. hell, you're more than awake and aware of the messages he's sending you, eyes scanning over the train of spam that clutters what was once an empty one-sided conversation.

"baby bird? c'mon, i miss you!!!"

lies, lies, lies. all he ever says are lies and you wouldn't fall for it, not anymore.

yet you're simply frozen in shock, seated up in bed as you simply watch dick's messages stack upon each other.

you watch, and wait. it's like you have lost autonomy over your body's actions.

five minutes pass.

your phone rings.

it was the only sound that fills the room other than the wringing in your ears.

it continues ringing, reverberating throughout the room, but all you do is stare, stare until the it ends, for everything to end and for all of this to be a sick hallucination your brain played on you.

there's nothing else you could focus on, your heartbeats spike the longer the call sound continues. you didn't even have the strength to decline the call, let alone move as you fear you might end up pressing the accept button.

so you wait, you wait until it stops.

and once it does cease, your sweaty thumb immediately pressed the block button on dick's profile, even going as far to delete all the past chats you had sent him. then, without moments hesitation, hastily scrolled all the way to the bottom of the list, where their other contacts lay barren of messages.

you have only used enough effort to message dick. that's what probably triggered his sudden intent on spending time with you, no? or was this all for his sick pleasure?

fortunately, all your other contacts with your past family are empty.

it will remain empty.

so you immediately blocked them, all of them. the thumps in your heart are erratic, so much so that you had to remind yourself to breath. through your nose, and out your mouth.

that's it, right? he'll get the message, definitely. that you don't want him to talk to you, to get rid of the false pretenses between the two of you, you don't want to "catch up" over coffee, or over anything.

it's all over, you tell yourself.

'calm down, relax...' you're in the safety of your own apartment, you should feel safe right now, he wouldn't bother you anymore.

not anymore would you be led to believe that they care for you.

— so why is it that you can feel that familiar rise of bile? taste it, even? why is it that your body is shaking so uncontrollably?

what the fuck.

seriously, just what the absolute fuck is wrong with you?

you never take yourself as an overdramatic person, especially not now, at the age of eighteen where you had finally learned to live for yourself, to never yearn what you knew was unattainable. your past tantrums were no more, no more you say but you wish so badly to carve a knife into your very heart.

why is it that now— now that you were out of your comfort zone, out of their empty presences and their overwhelming absences; why is it now that he just suddenly decided to appear? why is it just now that you feel your skin scorching uncomfortably at just a single message.

shit, your heart hurts so much. you want to take the beating organ out of your chest, just to make the pain stop.

your momma always told you, she said it herself that you are a brave child, her pride and joy despite the hellish living conditions you both were subjected to.

why is it so hard to believe her now?

just, why are you so weak?

when your mother hid you inside that closet - one too small for even a malnourished child like you to fit - telling you to hush for her, and that it's just a game of hide and seek with the 'bad guys', to not make a single sound at all or even come out if you hear screaming— you did what you were told, obediently, covering your mouth, trying your hardest to ignore your sore joints and heavy breathing.

"woah, mommy! is this really me?! you always make me look so nice." a young voice squeals, the sound echoing throughout the hollow room.

"yes, it's you, baby. you who are so strong, unlike me. momma will always love you." scarred hand, littered with gashes and soiled bandages run brush through your messy hair as your small form sat on the dirty bathroom sink. your eyes are drifted towards a mirror, checking out the new shirt your mother had bought for you.

"i love you too..."

you never cried that loud when light suddenly hits the cramped interiors of the closet, when you were caught and shoved outside of your hiding space by strange men, your mother nowhere to be found. when you felt the same men ripping your clothes apart, knives branding your skin like a searing hot pan; you never fought back because that's what your mother taught you. even when they pinned you down and injected you with a strange substance, head suddenly numbing and vision darkening; you still woke up alive, no?

... you woke up alive and conscious in a police station, where you had questiomed to the kind officer about your mother's disappearance, where she had bared the news that you would be taken in to a new family; a new home where your father resides in. one way cleaner, way safer she says.

yet for the next 15 years you were neglectef of the love your mother had given you. you were only raised by a butler too busy to fully focus on you. you had compared yourself to your siblings, siblings who had achieved so much in so little time.

and you?

you are only a wayne by name, but a (last name) by heart.

but you are brave, you are strong— you came from the lowest of the low, yet you pushed through and through to be a better person, and look where you are now...!

... just look at yourself now.

your phone lays untouched on the bed sheets. it tempts you, mocks your panicked state, and you want to rip that rectangular piece of metal apart. yet all you do is stare at it, sitting upright as one hands supports your weight. your fingers clench the mattress, it does nothing as your vision darkens from your lack of breathing.

breathing.

oh, breath in, breath out. do what alfred has taught you years ago, the- the one he uses whenever you would run alone in the desolate halls of the manor to alfred's room, just because you were anxious of the monsters in the corner of your eyes, where he would help you return to your senses and play you a lullaby from an old music box right after. the one he uses after you two would watch horror movies and you were too scared of any sounds that engulf your surroundings.

your throat tightens, and you want to vomit out the contents of what you have eaten— but you have to try.

five things you can see.

your eyes, although frozen wide and stinging with tears, darts around the room. everything is darker now, it's cold and you feel so small. your apartment was small. unlike the place you had lived before, it lacks of furniture, of life, of personality. the only things in your tiny apartment were basic necessities, but even food was scarce for someone like you who had juggle working multiple jobs and college just to pay for rent.

you can see your phone, the candy wrappers you had forgotten to throw, the overflowing trash bin, an empty bottle of prescription pills, alfred's gifts on the shelves counts, right? you laugh sarcastically at yourself; even a trashcan has more contents in your shitty apartment.

fuck, your chest throbs, you remind yourself to breath a little deeper.

four things you can feel.

the mattress is too hot for you, sweat already running down your forehead as if you had ran a marathon. you can feel the tears well up your eyes, overflowing with bitterness that you thought you had already buried deep down, and your hands gripping the sheets so uncomfortably tight. the weather is too cold, winter's nearing but the blood pumping through your veins scorches your very being.

that's four, three more to go and you hope this would all be over. you hope that this would all be a dream, a hallucination, anything.

three things you can hear.

does your choked sounds count? or does it need to be anything else? fuck, why doesn't it work as well as when alfred helps you through? you told yourself that you could take on anything in life, but is it all just a lie—?

focus. focus on your surroundings. you can hear your sniffling, heavy intakes of air, and a repeat of the phone ringing with dick's name as the contact.

shit, shit, shit. don't remind yourself of that. move on, just get onto the next thing.

two things you can smell or... taste? you don't remember, why can't you remember? your thoughts keep running back in circles to the messages, that stupid '<3', the way his desperation could be felt through the phone.

it reminds you of yourself.

before you knew it, your fist brought itself to punch your chest.

thump, beat, thump.

every time your heart beats too loudly, you strike your chest as hard as you can, uncaring for the pain it inflicts you, uncaring for the way you beat the air out of yourself. as long as it distracts you from the bile rising up your throat and the unsated nausea from sitting in the same position— it'll be fine if you hurt yourself. you've already done so a million times, no?

... yet nothing works.

why doesn't anything work out in your favor?

please don't do this to me.

your fists eventually stops. everything hurts even worse.

just earlier ago, you were praising yourself for all the progress you had made. how you weren't in need of validation anymore. you try so desperately to erase any inch of evidence that you were a wayne.

it all crashes down, again and again, and again and again.

moments ago, you were laying on your bed, scrolling through social media, making plans to hangout with your small group of friends in college, trying to cling on to the good parts of your past— ignoring the empty chats of what was once family.

but even without them, even if they haven't knew that you pushed them away from your life— they're always seeping their way at the back of your mind.

you truly can not erase your past. no matter how much you shake your head to rid of the thoughts, no matter how much you try to erase any documentations, any

even talking to alfred reminds you of your stupid past. a past that eats you up every time you wake up from the nightmares, wishing that there would be someone, anyone, who would hold your body tight and tell you it's alright. your mother, your father, your brothers and your sisters— they just were never there for you for so many years. and you hate to admit it but; you still cling to the wish that one of them would...

would hug you and kiss all your wounds away. drive away the countless of dreams filled with terror and torture.

you're independent now, but at what cost? what good does it do when you still try your damn hardest to live? when you know it in your soul that you still desire for a semblence of familial love.

and now that you've pushed alfred away, you're truly alone.

alone and stuck in a loop of trying to run away from your past and failing miserably.

and all you can ever do is, well...

you cry.

the tears bursts out of your eyes like a broken faucet.

you cry because that's the only thing you know how to do. you let the waters loose, hands quickly tangling itself on your hair, ripping fragile strands apart. you cry because you've been living a such a life full of lies, of broken promises, a life where you have to constantly walk on eggshells. you cry because you want to turn back and throw away all your progress just to feel the embrace of a family who had never once held you in their arms. you let yourself heave, let your voice wail out to its deepest frustration, uncaring for the thin walls, or the sleeping neighbors next door, or the rumbling of your empty stomach.

you cry, for what seems like hours, unending like the memories of solitary isolation, like the wanting of a love that you could never quite catch. you let your eyes become all puffy and red; red like the gashes you have scratched upon your skin, like the crimson, beaded blood from your bitten lips.

you don't find any strength in yourself to stifle your sobs anymore.

not when you're so, so lonely in this world.

and when your voice dies down, when your hoarse shrieking becomes no more; you simply force yourself to stand, despite the spinning of your vision, the stumble in your steps and the lack of air in your lungs; you run to your bathroom, slamming the door shut, letting adrenaline take its course into your already tired body.

your knees, they buckle after its few wobbly steps. it's sore and lacks the circulation to be properly controlled, but you ignore it in favor of expelling the acidic bile that finally rushes itself up your tongue.

at least you find just one thing to be grateful for— that your knees slipped on the wet tiles and land coincidentally towards the toilet's rim, a loud thud vibrating through the room.

alfred says the best way to cope is to never jar your emotions.

it's painful, everything is so painful that you want to scream; you need to let it all out.

you don't care if your knees were to bruise because you couldn't help it anymore, spilling out the contents of your breakfast onto the toilet bowl. your throat constricts into itself, and all you could do is gag and force every bit of food out of your mouth.

and it tastes so bitter that you cry even more. there were some bits and chunks stuck on the sides of your tongue, you can taste the acid on the back of your throat. you feel the urge to vomit even more but there's no more to expel. all you can do is dry heave, shaking hands finding its way to cover your mouth from gagging anymore.

it's so pungent, so fucking disgusting— but all you do is force yourself to stand once more, to look away from the mess you had created and flush it away.

the tears just wouldn't stop, the throbbing in your heart could never be expelled just as easily as the contents of your stomach.

yet you chose this life, there's no more alfred to assist you on your own personal struggles. there's no more rubs on the pack, pats on the head or a warm meal that greets you every time you drown in your own emotions. it's only you who can solve your own problems. you can't depend on anyone but yourself...

if only life was as easy as it is to flush away unwanted contents from your stomach.

if only you weren't in gotham... if only dick wasn't in...

gotham.

he's in gotham right now.

shit.

shit, shit, shit.

dick is in gotham, and you know he just doesn't give up.

he can track you down, he'll find you, he might hurt you because you blocked him— you know of his temper, of his unadulterated anger; you're scared of that. just what have you done wrong? did you take something that was his? no, no, never.

you've never been in his room before. he knows yours because he had visited once, but you don't know his. you don't even know which hallway leads to it.

oh, fuck.

you stumble towards the bathroom sink, hastily twisting the faucet's valve. cold water immediately rushes down, you cup your two hands together to collect the running water.

you need to get to you bearings, prepare for the absolute worst because you know, you know the power he holds in his arms.

with the amount of times he had spammed you, called you even— there's something he wants from you, and you don't want to entertain whatever he has on his mind.

you splash your face - splotched with tears, snot and drool - clean multiple times, rub your swollen, red eyes, and wipe the bits of vomit on the sides of your mouth. you can still taste the vomit. god, it's disgusting.

so you hastily grabbed your toothbrush, pushing an insanely large amount of toothpaste on the bristles. you scrub your teeth aggressively, feeling the urge to rid of the pungent taste of stomach acid. then you gargle mouthwash, twice, and spit it all out.

your movements are too quick for your own self to catch up, but you have to do this. your brain tells you to follow through whatever it has to do.

follow through instincts, get him out of your mind.

distract yourself from dick and the cryptic messages he had sent, that you had thoroughly deleted but...

it dawns upon you that albeit all your failed attempts at bonding with him— you know nothing about dick beyond the circus incident that had killed his parents and his identity as gotham and bludhaven's vigilante, nightwing.

you know nothing about him...

and you fucking blocked him before you could ask for an explanation.

what does that message mean? what does he want to talk about all of a sudden? a person doesn't just fucking waltz in someone's life after 15 years of absence and exclaims himself as close as your friend, no?

it had been so long since you had last heard him call you baby bird, let alone even read your messages, so why spam you now?

your knuckles grip at the bathroom sink's tiles, it was the only thing that provides you balance, legs too wobbly to support the dizziness. you feel a huge lump on your throat again, but you can't just erase all the efforts you had done to get yourself together.

— but at the same time, it's too hard to ignore the panic that resurfaces on your very mind.

so what do you need exactly?

distraction, something to get your mind off of the current situation? before you run away from gotham—

you need a distraction, anything. even if it's stupid, you'll regret it later, just not now.

cigarettes? no, you don't smoke. alfred will kill you if he finds out and you can never lie to him.

drugs? you'll be shot in the head by nasty criminals scamming naive citizens for half the price before you could even purchase them.

... then what?

you look at yourself in the mirror, puffy eyes glazing with emotions you yourself couldn't comprehend.

'despite everything, it's still you, no?'

if you could describe yourself right now, you would call yourself a mess, a big loser who had let their emotions run free for too long, let themself go way too quickly, gave up too quickly, and believed too naively. you had lost so much yet gained so little. a wayne so stubborn that it was the only thing you could ever relate to your father who had estranged you without knowing it.

there was more negatives than positives, you're aware of it.

but if there's one trait that anyone could generalize off of you, it would be that you're always desperate for something.

anything.

and just one time, you tell yourself. one time and that's it, nothing more, nothing less.

once you done relaxing, you're packing your bags and making a run for it. you'll even cut alfred off of your life once and for all. no matter how much it pains you to do so, it's necessary so you could make a new identity from scratch.

it'll hurt you so deeply.

but that's why you're going to do what you wish you had done back when you were still so young—

you need a drink right now.

the wayne manor, in all its glory, is truly just an empty palace that houses buried memories.

with walls that cover the cries of one lonely child; a child who yearns for the unreciprocated love of their family. it was a cage for a child who stalks the frigid halls without any company, who sleeps in a room too small for their age, who cries for anybody to notice the pain that they had hidden with rose colored tints for so long, who yearns for a warmth that could never be provided in the spaces of harsh, black wallpaper and harsh winters.

it will always be innately lonely, and cold.

yet it's even more sullen now, an atmosphere so empty nobody could pinpoint.

no more was the voice that sings of the butler's splendid cooking. no more was the etching of ballpens on smooth paper on an intricately designed diary that stores all the rants of one's daily life. no more were the strokes on colorful canvases that paint dreams of a different life. no more was the humming of multiple tunes every morning. no more was the presence of the ghost who water the plants every afternoon. no more were the footsteps that thud in the kitchen and the hands that opens the fridge.

and most importantly—

no more were the hushed cries of the kid who resides in the smallest room of the wayne manor.

a house could be described as a building where a unit, moreover a family, lives in; but a home is what represents comfort, a place of belonging and safety.

it was a place encased with deep, historical roots.

but right now, encased in a field of damp grass - wet from heavy rain - and the overwhelming scent of petrichor— the manor is simply a house.

for it could never be complete without the presence of the very lonely child who cries for a love never to be attained.

the wayne manor, in all its worth, would never be the same without (name) wayne, a child who had always belonged, but at the same time, always wronged.

bruce wayne never considered himself the greatest father.

he could be gotham's best detective, the most feared vigilante, or the heavily beloved billionaire who donates millions on hospitals, hosts charity events, and so much more.

he could spend his entire life saving countless of other lives that do not deserve the turmoil of living on edge constantly, attend meetings, plan out his every moves, sit on cushioned seats as he broods over where the all the next criminal hideouts; he could do everything and he'll be damned great at it.

—but he will never be the greatest at being a father.

he had long accepted that fact, embraced it even, facing countless of criticism from both alfred and media alike, but it would never be an excuse to neglect or mistreat any one of his children, just like how it would never be right to just ignore a kid's cry for comfort in the barren halls of a manor.

bruce was never outright cruel towards anyone, every action of his baring significance to his moral code.

which was why bruce feels a pit of neverending regret now.

in all the years that he had spent trying to raise his children, children who, in a way, are trouble. who all differ from each other from ideals, to pasts, to habits, to preferences— he wouldn't lie and say that he never had difficulty helping each and every one of them grow to be who they are now.

living through his decisions are never easy, especially if the outcomes were unpredictable; raising a child, let alone children, could go so many ways.

the lives that he had to juggle, alongside his identity as bruce wayne and as batman, they were all an endeavor that he had chose to balance. he had come so far and stumbled so often. but at least by the end of it, he would be proud to say that he truly will never regret having them by his side when he was at the lowest points of his life.

he had his flaws and his mistakes, he had done irreversible actions that he wishes he could reverse, and most importantly, he had failed each and every one of his children indubitably.

but he really tried.

he tried his best to be there for every single one of them. he was there for dick when he had witnessed the death of his mom and dad, adopting the boy who was overflowing with rage towards the killer of his parents and utilizing his gymnastic skills for good. he was there to pick jason up when he had stolen the batmobile's tires, helping the child unlearn the past abuse he had fallen victim to (and although he had died, then resurrected, and turned cold-blooded towards criminals, murdering without hesitation— he still cares for jason deeply). he was there when tim had lost his parents. there for damian who had only been raised as an assassin since he was born. for cass, for duke, for everyone.

he really tried to be active in their lives, supporting them through their blood, sweat, and tears.

... but he had never tried to be there for you.

his forgotten third child, the biological firstborn, child of a well-known prostitute, (name) (last name), whose identity has long been erased off of the face of the internet; the scandal of a century that took the shared efforts of him and barbara to decimate whatever information the late (or missing?) (last name) has in the underground.

(name), his child he has never once bat an eye on, too preoccupied with tim, aversing his attention away from you to train the other kid; ultimately ignoring the immense trauma you must have dealt with from being raised by a mother targeted by most criminal organizations from extorting their cash. it was sickening for him to think of just how cruel were the conditions the two of you were forced to live through.

it was sickening for bruce to imagine the even lonelier years you had to suffer through after your mother's disappearance— years where your father's presence was elsewhere, years that a child has to suffer through alone without any figure to look up to.

it was your name that he had hesitated to even say, in fear of butchering the pronunciation and earning more of alfred's judgemental looks.

(name) wayne.

not even a face can be associated with you, not your voice, your hobbies, nothing.

he couldn't recall a memory where he had taken you to a fancy gala, or one-on-one father-child dates, or any occasions that requires bonding with each other.

he wasn't the man who welcomed you through the doors of the manor, nor was he the father who should've picked you up at the police station.

bruce wayne knows nothing of his third child.

if alfred hadn't confronted him about your terrible living conditions as of now, living in debt whilst trying to push through college, then how long would he have ignored your presence inside the manor? how long would the years pass without him acknowledging any important milestones that you would reach?

until your untimely demise perhaps?

he couldn't even remember a time he had at least given you a gift during christmas or new year or any time of the day.

not even the name of your elementary and high school, or your college university. he doesn't know of your friends, your teachers or what subject you excel in.

you had already graduated highschool, and he wasn't even there for your ceremony. he wasn't there to walk you up the stage, wasn't there to shield you from the thousands of photographers who would've attended should they know that a wayne would attend, wasn't there to offer you a pat on the shoulders for a job well done.

then who had to walk you up the stage?

"alfred..." he stops walking, clearing his throat as alfred turns back at bruce, offering a raised eyebrow at the sudden pause and bruce's rigid pose.

"yes, master?"

"when... (name) graduated," he hesitated on saying your name again, catching on alfred's sudden squint of the eyes. "who walked them up the stage?"

he hopes you didn't have to go up there alone, that a teacher at least accompanied you or—

"i was the one who attended in your stead, master bruce." the butler replies without hesitation, as if it was a normal occurrence. he sighs again, too tired to scold bruce's surprise for absolutely dismissing all the important dates that include you and instead turns back to continue on his treck to guiding bruce to your room.

alfred's look of condescension makes him sink deeper into the void of regret. for being unable to

fuck, how many important events had bruce missed? from school plays, to parent-teacher conferences, to talent shows— was there ever a "bring your father to school" day?

oh... he really hopes there wasn't.

his hands find itself scratching his head, fingers tangling itself onto his hair in hopes of providing distraction— but his thoughts all circulate towards you, a faceless entity, an itch that he could never reach unless he sees you for himself.

the further he walks through frigid halls, the smaller the space seems to get.

how many birthdays had he missed?

when even is your birthday?

you are eighteen now, five when you were taken in which means... almost fourteen years of missed birthdays...

he didn't even give you a single gift card out of pity. not even money for allowance, or a birthday cake.

bruce was never there for you, and he has a feeling that that may have been one of the reasons of you moving out.

he needs to make up for it at least, once he contacts you he'll apologize for everything—

but first, he needs to see the state of your room. to at least have a first impression of you, of what your life was in the manor; any clues that pertains to just who his child is, as humiliating as that sounds for a father.

which was why he didn't hesitate to let alfred lead him straight to your room, albeit the shame he feels for not even knowing where his own child's room is located.

back when he had taken damian in, it was him who introduced the boy to his own room, whom had promptly thrown a tantrum and demanded someplace bigger before ultimately accepting his fate.

... how would you have reacted to your own? he wishes to at least picture your face, probably opposite to damian's, as you get to live in an entirely different space from what you're used to.

would you be pleased? would you look at him with sparkling eyes and thank him? or would you maintain a neutral stance? an overwhelmed one?

he really wants to see you, your expressions, just a sliver of your presence.

but nothing comes up in his mind. not the length or color of your hair, not your height, not anything. he could picture a vague imagery of your mother, but not you.

it makes him wonder; does any of your siblings know what you look like? were you at least any closer to them that you are to him?

he hates just how much desperately the darkness in the pit of his chest is crawling in need to hasten his steps towards wherever your room was.

the rain outside had already ceased, but a newer thunderstorm was brewing inside bruce's heart.

he needs to see you.

as he walks behind alfred through the halls of the manor, he had just noticed how barren the other side of the manor truly is.

cob webs and dust particles litter through the corners of the untouched furniture, the wallpaper peeling off itself and revealing untreated mold and even more cocoons of baby spiders that would soon crawl out, and even most of the ceramic vases they had passed by houses no flowers, instead being covered in a thin sheen of dust.

it was obvious just how neglected this corner of the house is.

just like you.

alfred was always meticulous in his duty as a butler, but bruce had advised the old man to leave unexplored parts of the manor be, seeing as how nobody would stroll by; and to only clean it whenever he would host an expensive gala in the manor with spare rooms as guest rooms.

it made bruce wonder if these halls are the path that leads directly to your room, which it actually does, and he feels even more guilty at just how... different your living condition is compared to your siblings.

it was no wonder why the butler would always excuse himself early, seemingly always making a treck towards a forgotten chamber that he rarely visited.

he'll make a note of relocating you to a room closer than his if you ever were to decide to come visit during holidays or vacations.

... alfred said it had been six or seven months since you had left, just how many occasions have he missed?

counting only fills the dread in his the growing hole of the pit of his heart.

yeah... he will get you a new room, one preferably closer to his; just so he could greet you every morning by knocking on your door and at least escorting you to the kitchen for breakfast. he'll try to make small talk, invite you over and... bond with you.

that'll be a good habit he could incorporate into his daily life.

a small part of him wishes you wouldn't look at him in disdain if he had to forcibly visit your apartment.

he swears it's in all the good of his heard; he just needs to check for himself if you were doing okay.

as him and alfred nearly arrives at your bedroom, the two had already noticed the light peaking from outside the doors and what seems to be two voices ensuing an argument.

even alfred, who had ceased his steps, looked surprised at the presence of the people who seemed to be there before them.

bruce doesn't even hesitate jogging towards the room, unaware of alfred's immediate shift to a calculating gaze, as bruce immediately opens polished, mahogany doors, inviting himself in.

... it smells of bleach and fabric refresher.

his heart clenches at the implication.

"father...? why are you here?" damian's voice cuts through the tension, bruce merely dismisses youngest child as his eyes takes in the space, ignoring how the other presence in the room - dick, with wide, feral eyes - quips about an ongoing "family" reunion.

bruce analyzes every detail, heart thumping loudly in his chest.

small... your room is way too small, and lacks of any design or life whatsoever. a tiny bed is shoved in the corner, the closet too miniscule to even contain clothes for someone your age (just where do you store them, then?), the windows barely welcome any ventilation nor sunlight, even your bedside table was too small to be considered one; the lampshade on top of it could be easily toppled over by a single sway of a hand.

everything is clean, too clean and orderly.

his eyebrows furrow at its state. even a model's walk-in closet is significantly bigger than the cramped space he calls your bedroom.

no proper ventilation, not even any space is provided for... your hobbies. hobbies that he wasn't even aware of.

is this how you had been living for almost eighteen years of your life?

how do you live like this?

just how much has he neglected you?

"bruce...?" it was dick's voice that he had now registered. it sounds out of breath, way too abnormally distraught and out of character.

he slowly looks at dick, equally befuddled at the presence of his eldest and youngest sons.

he seems disheveled, stressed even. the athlete's blue eyes were wide and dilated, seemingly unfocused as his stance was rigid. he was breathing too deep, hand clenching his phone too tight, veins popping through muscles, and he holds a... notebook in the other, this time like it was a delicate piece or artifact.

"... why are you here?" dick tries to cover his current state with an awkward laugh, but he could never hide the furrow of his brows, the flickering in his eyes, nor the anxious stomping of the his feet. sweat runs down dick's forehead; it looks like he's been inside the room the longest.

and dick refuses to get out of it. he won't, not until he finds out just why were you pushing him always all of a sudden.

he's afraid of forgetting his baby bird once more and neglecting your needs. if you were just as self-depracating as he is then... just how well would you be coping all by yourself?

does bruce share the same intentions as him? he doesn't know, his thoughts all leading to a path of thinking about, well, you.

you and your wide eyes looking at him like he was the world.

"i'm just here to visit... (name)'s room." bruce replies, a deep tremor in his parched throat, threading even further into the cramped space as his eyes seem to lock into the multitudes of messily stacked notebooks in the center of the bed.

they were all captioned '(name)'s diary', each having different fonts for every notebook and a date plastered on the very bottom.

"and you both are...?" he stares at them, demanding an answer as he sits on your too small bed (—it creaks, he hates that it does so he promises to get you a new one, a bigger one even, with enough space to fit in at least four people just as you deserve), picking up one of the diaries in his hand; it sports messy calligraphy and peeling stickers, reminiscent of just how old it was.

the hold he has on the diary is delicate as he flips through the first page the same way the eldest child had done. the papers were stained gray from the lead of the pencil, doodles littering every page, from flowers to animals and even faces that bruce couldn't recognize.

at least it provides the void in his heart food for thought, taking in every small detail about you and your hobbies.

you like documenting your life through diaries, that was the first thing he noted about you. the entries all date far from back when you were five or younger, the earlier pages highlighting, well, you and your mother's life. though the handwriting wasn't all that eligible, bruce finds himself becoming fond of the common topics you often rant about from "momma's burnt stack of pancakes" (paired with a drawing on the side, colored with dried markers and glitter gel pens), to the fairytales your mother loves to read you.

as much as it was entertaining for him to read through your mind, it's sad how aged the papers were and how some pages were crumpled to the point some contents were incomprehensible.

he'll get you even more high quality ones, rather than the cheap paper the one he's currently holding has. and he'll buy you designer pens, or do you prefer the more functional ones? would you like fountain pens or glass dip ones just to enjoy the experience?

bruce notices a pattern of the pen's strokes, an array of thinner lines were preferred in most of your entries compared to the thick pencils you sometimes force yourself to use, as there was an entry you had mentioned where if you use thicker lines then you'll run out of pages quicker, and "my mom doesn't have enough money to buy me one right now."

even the doodles in pencil had prefered line widths. finer quality for even finer details, thicker lines to emphasize and exaggerate your art on the side of the papers.

would you prefer mechanical or charcoal pencils? charcoal is messy and smudges, bruce knows as he sees small drawings of a tiny sprite that point towards a smeared sketch of a flower, a look of disdain on its furrowed brows.

he couldn't contain the upward quirk of his lips, blocking out dick's shadow that seems to get closer to bruce.

unfortunately, there were no ballpens of your preference on your bedside table for him to take for himself. he'll find out himself sooner enough though; what materials you like to utilize for your diaries and sketches. hell, it seems you like using a mix of normal and puffy stickers alongside a mix medium to obtain different colors.

journaling supplies, you'll find a lot of them in your arsenal soon.

he'll make sure of that once he finds out where you live.

he looks at damian flipping through what seems to be one of your sketchbooks.

art is, undoubtedly, one of your hobbies too— that's the second thing he notes, picking up what seems to be your second diary right after he flips through the first one, wasting no time to learn more about you.

this time, your second diary talks about your early life into the gotham manor. your anxious yet earger energy to meet your father, how the dick grayson (presumably your idol, with how you mention him as the) is now your brother, and how you almost got lost just wondering in the manor; they all highlight your innocence and curiousity about the world. you write so effortlessly, unafraid of writing down what you truly feel.

though you barely mention the incident regarding your mother, you have stated multiple times about how you miss her beautiful smile and her captivating laughter.

he's grateful that you're fond of writing diaries, exposing bruce to the deeper, more personal parts of your life. he doesn't need to pinpoint any lies or truth. all your secrets, your endeavors, your dreams and your passions are buried deep into the crevices of your diaries, etched in thousands of words and drawings that tell bruce just who you are.

and truly, you are his child.

bruce craves to know more about you in person the more he reads through your entries.

fortunately, it wasn't only him that feels an intense need to take you in, as the presence of his eldest cuts him off of the his train of thoughts.

"y'know, before you forget we're even here, bruce," dick quips with a fond smile as he looks at his bruce's unkempt state, taking a seat next to his father who seems to be in his own world just like damian. the bed creaks against their weight, both cringing at the sound before bruce returns to his own world of... analyzing you, just like he did hours ago.

but he knows that his father knows how to multitask, so he doesn't hesitate to answer.

"i'm also here for (name), i promised to take them out for dinner month's ago." that seems to actually catch bruce's attention, as he looks up from reading your second diary, gazing at dick as if to urge him to continue.

dick proceeds with a sigh, a smitten smile plastered on his face as he recalls the only memory he has of you.

"(name) really has a knack for writing and all, right? i love them for it. when i first met them, they were just so adorable. my baby bird tried to ask me for an autograph!" dick couldn't help himself from yapping, chuckling lightly as he remembers the deathly grip you had on alfred's cuffs, how you were hiding behind the butler's legs and looked at dick so enamored. he couldn't contain his unhinged smile, the goosebumps on his skin made shivers ripple throughout his entire body.

bruce (and even damian, who had all his attention on your sketches) had listened in on his monologue.

"i was the one who helped lead them to their room," he continued confidently, tapping his phone with his fingers, "they clung really close to me when we climbed up the steps, even tried to hide under my jacket..."

looking back, dick wishes he had carried you up the steps. thing was, you were incredibly small back then, and the manor's staircase is particularly hard to transverse through when ascending, so you must've felt exhausted and leaned onto him for support. your tiny legs must've been sore once you two had arrived by your room.

oh, he should've noticed. dick swears he won't make that mistake again once he gets you back in his arms, he promises to carry you the moment you even show the slightest bit of fatigue.

he swears he will, and he'll make sure to spoil you rotten with all the affection you deserve.

oh, dick really wants to see his baby bird again.

"yeah, that's, uh, the only time we had only ever talked." he admits shamefully, opening his phone for what seems like the thousandth time, looking at your profile over and over again, one that had him blocked.

he bites his lips, nibbling his skin in anticipation, in hopes that in the good of your heart that you just, unblock him.

it was just so unbelievable, despite you having all the reasons to push them away from your life, he just doesn't want to accept it. doesn't want to think of the worst outcome; of you hating him.

his baby bird blocked him and he just couldn't comprehend the amount of hurt he's feeling right now. what's wrong with checking up on his baby sibling? on someone he hasn't talked to for a long time already?

scrolling up through your previous messages fills him with both dread, and another emotion he doesn't want to admit— the slightest bit of pride he feels that you chose him over everybody else. you chose dick grayson as your idol, as someone to look up to and eagerly wanted as your older brother.

he was the favorite.

yet he feels terrible at the same time for taking it for granted, for forgetting your his own younger sibling. and bruce? bruce feels terrible just looking at how much your disappearance - an existence he didn't even know existed not until a few hours ago - impacted the atmosphere of the house.

is your absence the reason why the manor had felt too empty, then...?

even alfred seemed to sulk more often, always having his phone around and... talking to someone?

does alfred know where you are? or at least maintain communication with you?

it seems like the family was equally keen to find out just who you were.

whilst the two engross themselves in their own personal matters, damian continues to stand near the middle where the light hits the brightest, analyzing all the pages of your sketchbook. the youngest couldn't even afford to miss a single detail, green eyes mulling over the poses of your human sketches; the anatomy, the composition. all the progress, the mistakes, the erasures... his mind seems to eat up every drawing as if it was a piece of art hung in a museum.

which it should've been— but he wouldn't even let worthless critiques lay their eyes on any one of your sketches. they wouldn't understand you as much as he does.

it's his to look upon, nobody else could understand the meaning of your art, the meaning of his older sibling's art.

the older sibling who he used to threaten with his sword, who he called vile names — a bastard child, he told you one day. he was unable to ignore the glare you sent him, how he felt a pang in his heart after — the older sibling who he ridiculed endlessly in front of his best friend, whose actions he criticized without end; who had started to avoid him like the plague after all of his incessant bullying.

his older sibling who he had used as a punching bag for all his negative emotions, who he was incredibly jealous of, who he felt the need to fight, to compete with, all for the sake of grabbing your attention without seeming frail in his intentions.

his weak and incapable older sibling, who he knew hated him with all their gut.

the unwanted and undeserved treatment he had subjected you to was gruesome.

it was just exactly like your drawings... gruesome and brutal, to say the least. as if it was a medium of releasing all your unparalleled anger. charcoal strokes violently covers the entirety of your pages, it was unpredictable where the lines meet and end, whenever there is color, they blotch each other without harmony, all the subjects of your art either human or anything else within your vicinity.

if someone else with inexperienced, undeserving eyes were to witness your sketches, they would not understand and dare say, criticize your art pieces for being too contemporary, for letting your emotions run free through cheap quality paper without any ounce of care for the rips and tears of the pages.

but damian likes it... he likes the rawness of your pieces, likes it when you incidentally find a way to express tragedy, grief, and all the antagonistic traits a human could bare. he likes just how all thr subjects you paint were muddled with dull colors, sometimes too vibrant, sometimes too neon, sometimes a mix of all— your hectic personality bleeds through the pages.

you should've... shared your talents with him. albeit the jealousy he feels towards you, the sense of competitiveness— a small part of him admits his desire to bond with his only blood sibling... he doesn't even know why he treated you like trash, yet felt so incredibly heartbroken whenever you would retaliate with a blank, soulless stare.

he doesn't know why he felt so compelled to melt into your embrace, despite never once being physically close to you. your warmth always emanates off of your body; he hates that he wanted your validation, your praise and your attention.

he'll apologize to you sooner, damian will drag you back even if he has to, he needs to, actually.

needs to get you to forgive him, to look at him fondly, and to love him without bounds. he's on his path to redemption, he acknowledges his wrongs, all the wrongs he had done to you, he couldn't list it all out but he knows just much it affected your views on him.

damian knows he should've dismissed your reactions— he was raised by assassins for gods sake! he should not be so perceptive of every micro expression of yours, but the connection he feels towards his blood sibling is stronger than any bond, a bond that he himself chose to sever and came to regret afterwards.

he remembers one specific expression of yours after he had criticized your anger issues when he had heard news of you being transferred into another school. it was a glare that lacked any fight or bite, you had long since given up on him and allowed him him harass you whenever he felt like so. but that day was the same day you had snapped, nearly choking on his

he told himself to ignore it, that you were merely throwing a tantrum (despite how hypocritical he seemed)

yet he didn't expect to be overcome with regret.

with hurt.

with empathy at the tears that welled on your eyes.

damian doesn't want to admit it but, that was one of the first times he had hesitated to retaliate with an even crueler comeback to your glare. he wanted to so badly run to you and bond with you and your unadulterated anger, to comfort you and provide you the affection you had so desperately needed— but in the bitterness and the jealousy of his heart, he had forced himself to leave you be; a decision even until now he regrets because... you had no longer seen him as a younger brother, let alone treat him as one, as he desired to.

after that incident, you tend to avoid him more and more, not even eating in the same room as him, let alone ditching whatever you were doing in favor of keeping to yourself.

he should've held himself back from hurting his older sibling, the one who, despite doning no skills or talent in combat whatsoever, who knew that he was more of a threat than a younger brother; was brave enough to approach him with a tray of alfred's baked cookies and a hesitant yet welcoming grin.

and yet he had replied with a sword to your neck and an insult to your origin, calling you a bastard child; the product of a whore and his father's terrible decisions.

he had simply watched as you had left the hallway with a knick on your neck and a wobble on your steps, nearly dropping the tray of untouched goods due to the inconsolable shivers you must've felt.

you hate him, no? he could see it in your eyes, no matter how defeated it may be, there was always a tinge of resentment towards him that he knows he couldn't undo.

you hate him, you must've hated him so much and he hates that. hates how he wants to throw a rampage over the fact that you would never consider him as a younger brother.

... if things were different, if he had never let his emotions and his past dictate his actions, would you love him?

for the first time in quite a while, he had felt tender longing and desire, his hands caressing the pages of your sketchbook as if it could bring you back to the manor.

for the first time in a while, damian allows himself to want, to dream about a fantasy where you would cherish him, allow him to melt on your chest whenever he feels the pressure of the world getting to him, let him sulk about his deepest darkest insecurities as you would run your fingers through his hair and tell him it's all alright.

for the first time in so long, he would openly admit the immense regret he feels, wishing for an opportunity to turn back time, to never unsheath his sword towards you and to never open his mouth to allow vile words to spew out of it.

time passes by oh-so quickly when you are left alone with only your thoughts to accompany you.

it had been quite awhile since the trio were left pondering about your very existence, alfred noted, watching the three scramble about through their minds. they had seemed to have forgotten the very butler who had been observing every single one of their actions.

alfred had waited so long for this moment to come, for them to realize just how crucial you are to the family, how you are the very final jigsaw puzzle the complete the picture perfect definition of a home, how much they need you if they wish to maintain even the slightest bit of sanity.

it was only right that he decides to place the final nail in the coffin.

after all, this was all to get you back to your safety, to where you rightfully belong.

—"it seems like the family has finally taken notice of young master (name)'s disappearance...?" alfred buts in by the door, a single eyebrow raised, crossed arms, an all-knowing look that just screams 'i told you so'.

he continues once he had their complete attention, "i would like to say that i am heavily disappointed in how it took more than a decade and a half for all of you to find out about their existence. if it wasn't for the long months of their absence and even a personal sermon towards master bruce about their financial struggles, they would've long been gone. well... they would be gone soon if they are unable to pay this month's rent for their apartment."

his tone was sullen as he nitpicks every single one of their reactions, a mixture of confusion, shame and regret a commonality between the three.

"(name) is in financial debt?" it was damian who asked first with furrowed brows and wide eyes, unbelieving of what alfred had just stated. "but father wires money to all of his children, right?

the youngest turns back to his father's seated form, expecting a nod of some sorts, but all bruce had was a tense jaw and a solid stare. it speaks of volumes, all damian could do was shut his mouth, looking back at alfred with a pout.

alfred expected this reaction. it was truly unfortunate how the family would never know just how important you were in their life.

yet all he could do was press on, further their guilt and desperation.

"young master damian, i am aware of bruce's willingness towards providing for his children, but (name), like you, had adopted your father's stubbornness to accept any financial aid on their part..."

the silence was defeaning now, tension so thick that not even a knife could cut through it. fortunately, the people alfred were with are trained combatants, formidle not only through fights but with words.

it was a shame they had never used their brains to connect the dots with just how sullen the manor was the moment you were gone.

"how do we...?" this time it was dick who talked, albeit hesitantly. "bruce could at least send a few thousands to them, then? or i could do it, you could just give us their location and—"

"unfortunately, there is nothing i could do about it, master dick," alfred interrupts dick's sudden onslaught, "for even i do not have master (name)'s address. they refuse even the slightest bit of a clue, hence why i have confronted master bruce about it."

it was like a needle had dropped on the floor, an intense, numbing feeling everyone present was subjected to feel.

... what?

it was dick who had reacted first, springing up from his seated position as he stared at alfred's defeated eyes incredulously.

"are you serious, alfred? (name) could be anywhere in gotham right now? unprotected, unsafe, and in debt?"

a long, defeated sigh was what he had merely received from the alfred.

"yes, master dick, you hear exactly what i say."

"but the world outside is too dangerous for (name)! we can't just let them loose in a street filled with criminals who can take advantage of their innocence!"

"they're eighteen, dick." all of a sudden, it was damian who cuts back with a roll of his eyes, "i'm sure they can survive on their own."

"yeah right, and have you even read their latest diary, or are you just gonna pretend like you aren't going to keep their sketchbooks all for yourself, huh?" dick retaliates with clenched teeth, letting himself be swayed by his own emotions. "or... you're planning to track their location without us so you can get a reservation to visit them first?"

"calm down, dick—" bruce stands, immediately holding dick back, gripping the athlete's tense shoulders.

"why should i, bruce?! (name) can be anywhere, we— i can't afford to bide time on anything but them!" he glared back at his father, slammimg his fist onto your bedroom walls without hesitation. cracks immediately formed on the chipped wallpaper, a testament to dick's strength; you'll be relocated to another room, a better one anyways and they'll... they'll turn this one into a bigger atelier for you.

dick just needs to let his anger out, yeah... unfortunately, his father seems to think otherwise.

bruce retaliates with a snarl, "we need a solid plan, dick. we can't just randomly search where they are—"

"look, if none of you are willing to help, then fine, i'll track (name) all by myself—"

"— i've never mentioned not coming, grayson." damian cuts him off with a glare, possessively holding all your sketchbook in one hand. "i'll be the one spending time with them first."

"yeah, right... and you, bruce? you coming with or no?"

defeated, bruce replies, "... you already know the answer, dick."

"of course, dad. glad to know we're on the same team after all," dick lets out an airy laugh, returning to his old demeanor. but bruce could easily pinpoint the sharp edge to his giggles, how calculated it is and how it's all merely a cover up to hide the unbearable itch to get you into his arms.

not like bruce could help it too, feeling the same way dick does— all he wants to do is see you for himself after all.

"then call the others into the batcave, now. tell them it's a priority mission, don't let them say otherwise, and don't settle on any excuses."

bruce is so grateful that he had his hands on your diaries, that he was given the grace to read through your entries and embrace even the slightest clue about you.

although there was no face to associate with your name, no photograph nor portrait— he at least has an idea of your personality, of what you like and prefer; something that bruce would hold dear, something that feeds the growing urge to find you.

find you to not only correct his mistakes, to make up for all the lost time, but to also get closer to you. to bond with his child, the one he should've focused on all those years ago. the one who, despite showing disinterest to vigilantism, chose to not fall deep into the pits of resentment, of committing heinous acts— you had chosen to run away from them without any intentions of badmouthing your own family even after the years of neglect.

his child, (name) wayne.

you were a symbol of what he had strived to cherish, to protect. it was your innocence through these pages, your eagerness to the world despite its cruelty, that relays the message to bruce that he should've centered his attention on both you and tim instead of just tim.

maybe then the dispair he had felt after jason's death would've been less devastating, maybe then you'd act as his source of light in the darkness he had choose to brood in. maybe then he wouldn't have acted so rash, so impulsive and tense.

after all, you had lost your mother too early, and your father was just somebody you can watch through the television and read through the newspaper.

and you? you were forced to take the short end of the stick, without any familial attention nor emotional support whatsoever— a substantial failure on bruce's part. you didn't deserve anything you were subjected to, didn't deserve to know what pain and despair felt like.

bruce should've been the father who had to shoulder all your burden. he should've been there for you as he was there for all your other siblings.

he should've been the man who would kiss your wounds away whenever you go out to the park with him to play. he should've been the man who would sit on the crowded bleachers to watch you perform on a talent show. he was supposed to be the father who would hold you close to your chest as you cry about your first heartbreak, about your overdue projects, about the bullies in the school.

but he wasn't that father for you. and now, you seek love and attention from people who weren't even family. because they had failed you, he had failed you.

there was so much things about you that he doesn't know of, so much he had missed out on. his absence was a constant in your life; what would you have felt if he suddenly barged in on it then? especially now that you've moved out on the presumption of neglect?

but could he help it if he does?

could bruce help it if he was already concocting a way to bring you back? alfred had explicitly told him that you were living off of debt

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,100+ words. no beta we just die. undertale reference. this is my least favorite chapter LMAO, despite it's length i had to waste blood sweat and tears for this and i hate it so much. anways guys pls comment or send as ask if u like this and what's good abt it bec this chapter literally made me question my ability as a write 😭 erm im gonna take a break after this and mostly answer asks bec istg my energy is so drained. also is it jst me or does everyone default the reader as female ^^' it's jst weird for me bec i always write them as gn/male. oh and if anyone is wondering, yes i am gonna add the batgirls too bec they r family !! the entire family (universe) is obsessed with u !! also yall i cant add anymore to the taglist, tumblr won't allow me.

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

[monstersflashlight]

Monster in the dark

Demon x chubby fem!human || chasing, dub-con (almost cnc), breeding, cum play, tail play

There wasn’t anyone in the street. You knew you should have taken the longer path, it took you all around the neighborhood but at least it was always crowded with people shopping, talking, walking around... anything. There were always people there, but instead you choose the fucking short path, going through the less light part of the neighborhood. You hated the dark with passion, but you were in a hurry, your favorite show was about to start and you didn’t want to run into anyone and risk them stopping you.

But apparently you were out of luck. "Hey dude!" Someone called out. You didn’t turn around. You walked faster, trying to get to the end of the long street where at least the lightbulbs weren’t flickering. Your anxiety was spiking, your heartbeat so loud in your ears you were scared someone could sneak up on you. A shiver ran down your spine when a cold breeze blew past you. A bad feeling creeping out on you.

"Hey you! I need a little help!" You turned around trying to decipher if your possible attacker was close enough that you should run faster. You knew you shouldn’t have done that. It was scary movies 101 to never turn around when something was chasing you. But maybe they were hurt or something. Your big heart betrayed you. You turned around completely, but there wasn’t anybody in sight. Just empty space. Confused you kept walking, almost running, but not entirely.

“Hey darling! The one with the cute butt, I need some help!” They called. What? Your anxiety was through the roof. The lightbulbs started to flicker like crazy, some of them even exploding, engulfing the street in darkness. You screamed and started to run as fast as you could. Which wasn’t so fast.

You ran and ran, the street seeming longer than ever. You prayed to whoever was listening to let you make it. To let you run fast enough to get to your house. Then you heard something similar to a growl, a primal sound that made your blood run cold and your body fuel with a fear so profound that it made your insides twist.

"Caught you!" Someone said as you felt a hand closing down on your shoulder. "Why are you running?" You were scared to turn around, but the stranger made you twist your body either way. The sheer force in that one point of contact made your fly or fight response activated. "Don't worry, darling, I just wanna talk."

You turned around and saw nothing. Not a peep. But the hand on your shoulder was there. The voice was there. You could feel it. You could feel a presence there. What the actual fuck. Your heart was going to get out if it kept beating like that.

"Oh, shit, sorry! I forgot humans couldn't see me in this form." And right before your eyes a tall figure appeared. Just like that. There was nothing, and then there was a big as fuck man. So big you have to look up. And up. And up. Your neck hurt from looking at his face. "Better like this, right?" He asked, the black tendrils around his body shimmering as he smirked. His mouth was too big, too wide, he had so many teeth you couldn't even process it. And they were sharp, so fucking sharp. You shivered. "Oh, darling, don't be scared, I'm not gonna eat you." You thought he added maybe under his breath, but your heartbeat was deafening in your ears.

“Wh- what are you?” You got out, your body frozen in place.

“A poor demon who needs your help.” He told you, his face trying to mimic a grin, but contorting in a creepy way, making you shiver.

“With- With what?” You asked, your body sending all kinds of alert signals to your brain.

“With this…” He whispered as he pulled your body against his, his erection rubbing against your stomach. “I need a sweet human pussy to help me with this, and your luscious body looks delicious. Perfect to breed.” He answered, making your blood turn into ice. And your body started to respond, trying to fight his hold, unable to do it.

“No. Stop. Let me go!” You struggled against him, but his hold was too strong.

He turned you around, pressing his front against your back, black tendrils coming around you, caging you. They started to touch every part of you. The tendrils and his hands moving freely over your body, groping your tummy, your tits, your hips, your ass, rubbing your pussy… There wasn’t a centimeter of you that was left untouched by him. You tried to scream, but his hand covered your mouth. “Don’t do that, baby.” That pet name made something inside your brain react. Could it be?

You talked with your demon boyfriend about wanting to try some CNC a couple nights back. He didn’t react to what you said, just kept listening as you listed your personal kinks. But this couldn’t be him, could he? He was a demon, but you never saw him like this. You couldn’t know. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe you had a magnet for weird monsters who wanted to fuck you. Fuck. You couldn’t know. What if he wasn’t? What if this stranger fucked you and you realized later it wasn’t your boyfriend. What if a weird monster took advantage of you in the middle of a dark street?

You knew you should have taken the long path.

The anticipation and the fear mixed inside of you, making your stomach drop and your fight response kick in. You bit the hand around your mouth as hard as you could. The monster moaned and rubbed his hard cock against your back. It was so big, too big. There was no way that would fit inside of you.

He used his tendrils to manhandle you into the air, lifting you so his cock rested between your ass cheeks. Your feet didn’t touch the ground, you were completely suspended, at his mercy. You regretted putting on a dress this morning, making his advances so easy now. You felt the cool air hit your rear as he lifted the back of the dress, exposing your almost naked ass.

“Aw! Look at that, you are wearing the prettiest thong. I bet your boyfriend loves it, too bad he’s not going to fuck your pussy tonight. I am.” His voice went so low in tone that it sounded distorted, making your insides tingle. To your shame, making your pussy tingle, too.

He moved the thong aside, pushing two fingers in right away, his claws pointy, dangerous. Your walls contracted against his fingers. “Someone is excited…” You blushed so hard you could feel the blood in your cheeks. “You like it, don’t you? Of course you do, you are a proud monsterfucker, aren’t you? I saw you with that demon boyfriend you have…” He whispered against your ear. You shivered, feeling humiliated as you moaned when his fingers hit your G-spot. “You are so wet and so hot… I’m going to enjoy your slutty pussy.” He teased, a tendril flickering your clit harshly, making you cry out in pain and pleasure.

He didn’t wait, he didn’t care about you or your comfort. He pushed his dick inside of you in a fluid motion. As far as it could go. You could feel he wasn’t fully inside, his dick too big for your human pussy. But he didn’t seem to care about it. He started to fuck you hard and deep, hitting all your sensible places at once as his hands groped your tits over your dress, not caring if you screamed. Shame filled you as your pussy got wetter and wetter around his assault. You tried to struggle, but your forces bleed out every time he hit your G-spot. Fuck.

“Are you going to be a good breeding bitch for me? Are you going to keep fighting as I fill your pretty little cunt with my cum until it overflows?” You moaned, embarrassment filling you as your pussy pulsated around him. “You like that, don’t you? You try to fight but you are enjoying this. You are enjoying to have a monster’s cock deep inside of you.”

“N-no.” You choked out, the moan you let out after made your words pointless. He laughed harder, the movement of his body making his dick go a bit deeper.

“Yes, you do. You love to be a little human cum-dump for me. I bet you’d love if I fucked you harder.” He speeded up, setting a punishing pace that made a chorus of ah ah ah leave your mouth. He didn’t try to cover your mouth anymore, clearly enjoying the sounds you were letting out. You felt like the bitch he called you, enjoying as someone took advantage of you in the middle of the street. Anybody could come and see you there, exposed, being fucked by a monster, acting like his personal fleshlight. His cumdumpster.

“Prepare yourself slutty human, I’m going to cum so deep you are going to taste my cum.” His words were nasty, so dirty you wanted to say something, anything. But instead it made you moan, turning you into a mess.

And then you felt his cum hitting deep inside, so much of it you felt your lower abdomen bloating. “Look at that, you are so full… Poor little human, let me help.” He laughed cruelly, pushing against the bulge there, as cum gushed out of you, trying to escape around the cock still buried inside of you. Some of it came out, making the filthiest sound you ever heard, accompanying his laughter. He pulled out at that moment, his hand still on your abdomen, making a splosh sound as what felt like a river of come dripped down and hit the pavement under you. “So messy…” He chastised.

He lowered his hand, collecting some of his cum gushing out. He played with it, spreading it around your pussy, pushing some inside again. You groaned and moaned, his tendrils holding you in place as he played with your pussy like it was his personal toy. He took some of the cum and rubbed your clit with it, the most delicious friction taking you to the edge. It was dirty, so dirty… And then he took his hand away. You whimpered loudly and he laughed at your pathetic slutty act, slapping your pussy hard and making your eyes roll inside your head. You came, right there, right then. You screamed at the top of your lungs, his laughter fading into the background as your brain blacked out for a couple seconds.

You came back slowly. He lowered you to the ground, his front to your back and tendrils still around you. “Told you it would be fun!” His voice was back to his normal tone, making you relax, finally recognized your stupid boyfriend’s voice. He never showed his full demon form, just giving you glimpses of it through the months you dated. It came in handy for him today, you guessed, anger rising inside of you.

“You didn’t say you were going to use your fully transformed form. You scared the crap out of me, you ass!” You yelled back at him, your eyes still teary and your voice raw after the screaming marathon you just had.

“Hey! Don’t lie to me, you like my ass. And I definitely love yours…” He smirked, his hand groping your ass. He kneaded your ass cheeks like he was making bread, chuckling when you tried to pull away. You knew you were going to have some pretty nasty bruises the next day. He would love that. To have you all marked.

“I hate you.” You whispered, trying hard not to moan as he pulled on your thong’s string, the fabric rubbing your asshole and abused pussy in the best possible way.

“Aww, baby, don’t be like that.” He said softly, placating. His lips trailing kisses along your neck. “But you looked so good running away from me, I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. Also, your booty moves so nicely when you run, and your tits were bouncing like you were an anime girl.” You didn’t need to look at his face to know he was smirking like a madman.

“You are nasty.” You told him, reaching back and grabbing his balls, hard. He just moaned. You knew he liked the pain.

“You love when I’m nasty.” He teased you. He was right, you couldn’t deny that. “Can I fuck your asshole next?” He mumbled, rubbing his still hard dick against your back. You looked over your shoulder at him, trying to decipher if he was kidding. He wasn’t.

“You give me the scare of my life!” You repeated, mad at him for being so heartless, but deep down loving how shameful he was.

He didn’t look guilty at all. “You came either way. You loved to be my prey, didn’t you baby?” He teased, tendrils coming around your body to hold you tight against his embrace. You mumbled about how mad you were, not really meaning it. “Does that mean I can’t bend you down and fuck your ass?” He asked again in a pouty voice. You hesitated, and he took that as an invitation to move your thong to the side again, teasing your asshole. He pushed his traveling tail up your hole, circling it. You tried to push him away, but he just laughed and moved it to collect some of the mixture of his seed and your juices. He used it as lube as he pushed the pointed tip inside you, making you moan. “There she is, my lovely slutty girlfriend.”

“Take me home first, at least.” You told him, already giving in to the pleasure you could feel building for him pushing his tail in an out, just the tip, but it was enough to make your pussy tingle all over again. His cum was still coming out of you. He always came in what felt like buckets.

“But I don’t wanna wait!” He complained, fucking you faster and holding your hips flush against his body. You pushed back, making his tail go deeper, his laughter almost cruel.

“Don’t be a brat. Take me home.” You choked out, already feeling the signs of an orgasm building. You didn’t want to be caught, and you already pushed your luck too far tonight.

“Can I fuck all your holes if I take you home?” He tried to negotiate.

“Ugh, fine.” You tried to fake the annoyance, but you knew he saw right past your facade. Who were you trying to lie? You loved when he was so shameless, you loved when he used all of your holes as you were nothing more than a human fleshlight for him. And specially, you loved when he used his prehensile tail to fuck your ass as he pushed his dick inside your pussy. Fuck. You were so close.

He lifted you up and carried you home, his tail still fucking your hole sloppily all they way there, bouncing you over him and staring at your tits.

You came two more times before you reached your bed.

[cursingtoji]

cw: band au, rockstar!geto x groupie!gf, slight manipulation?, car sex, oral. a/n: geto deserves a loser gf too. gojo version nanami version

geto who has a rock band and though they’re quite small they already have a #1 fan: you.

the band is all you talk about, going to the point of making your own shirts and posters, you doodle the bands logo everywhere and, most importantly you don't miss a single concert.

by the end of it you're waiting next to the back door of the pub when the band comes out, as soon as you see suguru you call his name extending your little gift bag.

"woah for me? thanks, doll." he takes your chin and gives your glossy lips a peck that makes your heartbeat spike up and your face warm up. geto fucking suguru just kissed you!

during all that week you were on cloud nine, so distracted and giggly.

of course geto notices you, always in the front row and ready to give the band some gifts, he sees how you try to dress up as one of them before they even realize they have a visual identity.

geto likes having fangirls, if anything that’s the best sign that the band is doing well. till that point he never considered engaging to one in a more intimate level. after all, women were never a problem for him, fans or not.

the problem is when they think more of the relationship than it really is. geto has always made sure they knew that sleeping together and treating them well was not synonymous to committed relationship.

because he already is committed. to his music. so after spending the whole day trying to come up with a new song so the band may finally have a complete album to present to a record, he takes a frustrated break picking up his phone and to his dismay only finding a long message about how he hurt someone’s feelings.

“oh for fucks sake” he lets his phone fall on the couch and take his keys, this is not a good week to quit smoking.

“geto?” he hears a small voice calling him after he leaves the convenience store with a very much needed cigarette on his lips and nicotine in his system.

“oh hey” he recognizes you by name and face.

“you’re using the lighter” you point out enthusiastically, that was a limited edition you bought and gifted him.

“that’s right, you bought me this, did i say thank you?” he’s genuinely wondering, your face heats remembering the kiss.

“i-its no big deal” you brush it off, since he doesn’t seem to be in a rush you start to babble about one specific song and everything you loved about it, knowing he was the composer.

“do wanna go to my place?” he says after quietly listening to your passionate thoughts. you think steam is about to come out of your ears at how hot your face got.

geto throws away what’s left of his cigarette and takes your hand, not really waiting for a response since the heart in your eyes is pretty obvious.

“you’re so cute” he says with his face mushed into your breasts as he guides your movements on his lap. you never guessed when you came out this morning you would be riding your favorite guitarist’s dick a few hours later, if you knew you probably would’ve put a sexier lingerie. not that he would care, by the way he pushed your bottoms down all at once he probably didn’t even know what color your underwear was.

geto pulled your hair tilting your head to meet his mouth, he devoured you so intensely, so overwhelming… you came not even needing your clit to be touched, just by having him inside you and breathing into your mouth like that was enough.

for suguru it was all a power trip, when he saw you after a concert he knew it wouldn’t take you much sweet talking to get you in his car.

he quickly mumbled an excuse to meet the band at the bar later and in just a few minutes he had you bobbing your head down his cock, “just like that, gorgeous, so good” his head is thrown back as he moans softly.

and as the band grew more popular and they had to travel to other cities to perform he would always count on you to meet him at his hotel room.

“geto~” you mewl his name as he eats your pussy from behind so lewdly.

from the very first time you knew it was over for every other guy the moment he touched you. no matter what anyone said about geto, that he was using you, he would never marry you, you didn’t care. you would be his devotee as long as he wanted.

and geto got all he wanted, a pretty little thing that didn’t complain or asked too many questions and best of all: that loved his music and understood his work.

“i know, you have to practice” you kiss him one last time before gathering your clothing from the floor, the hints of him not wanting to stay over were all memorized at this point, so you turn your back at him and make your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth.

but the usual sound of the door opening and closing never came, instead you saw him coming from behind to lace strong arms around your waist, “well maybe just tonight” he smells your hair and through the mirror he sees the tattoo bellow your belly button, just above the hem of your underwear. your prof of love: the logo of the band.

geto touches it and you giggle at the feathery feeling, like a tickle, he likes that sound. he likes you.

“i was thinking you should get another, right here” a finger caress your right ass cheek.

“the same one?” you ask confused.

“no, silly, something else” he gets down hands caressing your hips and kissing the extension of your butt, “my name.”