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fernclans · 9 months

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MOON 05. (part 2) (tw; none i think!)

Starring: Cliffpaw (BuddingClan), Flippaw (BuddingClan), Amberpaw (BuddingClan), Dashpaw (BuddingClan) Mentions: Magpiestar (FlintClan)

“May all cats of BuddingClan gather beneath the Echoed Stones for a clan meeting!” A ginger feline called before leaping, landing unsteadily at first atop their clan's gathering place; a set of three stone pillars, one taller than the others, where the leader, deputy, and head mediator would sit once upon a time.

“UGH- finally!” A small rosy brown molly bemoans loudly as she bounds around the grassy slope beneath, claws catching dirt between them.

Another cat strides forward, rolling his eyes when he sits. “You don’t have to say the whole thing every time, y’know Cliffpaw? It’s just the four of us.” Dashpaw teases, shooting the other tom a playful wink to show he’s not being serious.

“It’s better than us completely abandoning the traditions our clanmates died fighting to protect.” Amberpaw sneers, not picking up on the toms’ lightheartedness.

The half-white tom’s cheeky expression dissipates into a flat one of disappointment. “You don’t have to suck the air out of every situation, Amberpaw. Lighten up will you?”

“Could you two wait until after my ceremony to argue?” Flipkit complains, shooting both of them an exasperated look and sparing Cliffpaw from having to break things up himself. Both felines seemed startled at the younger cat's comment, both reacting with their own levels of embarrassment and apologies.

Cliffpaw clears his throat one more time, dipping his head to Flipkit in appreciation.

“Flipkit, you have reached the age of six moons and are ready to begin your training as a warrior of BuddingClan. From today forward, you will be known as Flippaw; while I can’t act as a proper mentor for you, we will all work together to complete our training as a clan.”

“I won’t let you down!” Flippaw meows back enthusiastically while Dashpaw and Amberpaw call her new name in celebration.

The cheering subsided and the three apprentices looked to Cliffpaw expectantly; there was still one more ceremony which needed to take place. His own.

For once, the confident tom looked uncertain, his remaining yellow eye concentrating down on his paws. “I, Cliffpaw, feel as though I’ve completed my training and that I am ready to take the full responsibility of BuddingClan’s first full warrior.” Not that he hadn’t done so already moons prior. “Though, to be honest, I’m not sure what I should call myself. Since I was a kit I always imagined Magpiestar being the one to do it, I hardly spared the thought of thinking of what I would want it to be.”

“You could just skip a step and call yourself Cliffstar.” Dashpaw meows jokingly.

Cliffpaw grimaces. “Even if StarClan didn’t smite me for that, I’m not sure I feel ready to call myself leader- not in that way.” He was a leader, but he didn’t feel quite like he could be the leader. "Besides, I haven't even trained an apprentice yet."

“How about Clifftalon? Or Cliffsnarl? Something cool and intimidating!” Flippaw chirps, eyes shining.

Amberpaw chuckles beside her. “Do you think Cliffpaw is intimidating?”

“Do you think Cliffpaw is cool?” Dashpaw jeers.

“Well I don’t, but other cats might.” The youngest of the four explains.

“Hey--! Come on!” Cliffpaw perches on the edge of the stone, tail swishing behind him. His vision spins slightly as he looks between his clanmates, claws sinking into the stone and moss for stability.

“Right, sorry.” Amberpaw shakes her head, looking up at him and taking notice of his unsteady state. “Do you want to get down? Dashpaw’s right, it is just the four of us…”

Cliffpaw shakes his head, regaining his former posture. “No, not until we settle my name.”

“What about Cliffstone?” Dashpaw meows, almost seeming sincere before following it up. “Because once you’ve set your mind on something, you’re as stubborn as one.”

Cliffpaw begins to grow frustrated. “I’m not that stubborn.”

“Yes you are! Only a cat as stubborn as you would make it back home with that kind of an injury still fresh.”

“Dashpaw kind of has a point.” Flippaw interjects. "He would've let CypressClan take care of him until they forced him to leave." All but Dashpaw laugh, the brown and white tabby tom feigning offense for dramatic effect. The moment subsides, leaving them back to where they'd began.

Amberpaw hums thoughtfully. “How about instead of stubborn, we can say reliable? Even after you were gone for days, we were sure you were coming back.”

Cliffpaw seems taken by surprise, a warmth filling his chest. “How sure?”

“As sure as the stripes on your back.” She smiles.

Cliffpaw goes silent, tapping his tail rhythmically against the pillar while in thought. “...how about Cliffstripe?”

“‘Cliffstripe’?” Flippaw echoed. “Isn’t that a little… basic? Come on, Cliffpaw! You fought a WOLF for StarClan’s sake!”

The dark ginger tomcat bristles somewhat, forcing his fur to go flat before replying. “We lost everything to those monsters- I won't give them my name too.”

Silence again fills the grassy slope, all cats feeling heavy under the weight of the past five moons. It's Amberpaw who breaks the silence again. “So, Cliffstripe, right? I like it.”

Dashpaw speaks next. “Yeah, it suits you.”

“Mm. It’s fine.” Flippaw pouts, just hoping that her suffix will be different.

Cliffstripe gives a weary smile, slowly easing his way onto the soft ground. He brushes against each of his clanmates, a deep purr rumbling in his throat while they depart.

#clangen #clan generator #buddingclan #buddingclangen #cliffpaw #flippaw #amberpaw #dashpaw #moon 5 #omg he's so big now

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cuubism · 7 months

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part four of Hob running into Dream between their centennial meetings [final chapter] [& explicit chapter]

Hob spends several weeks afterwards fretting.

True to Dream’s word, no one had tried to stop him leaving Fawney Rig. They must have been sleeping, or perhaps just dead. Hob didn’t much care. Dream had gotten out of there. That was what was important.

It’s the afterward that Hob’s uncertain about.

For all his attempts at displaying his normal pride, and strength, power, Dream had seemed worn, tired, after escaping from his cage. As well he should. But he hadn’t stopped even a moment to rest. What if he gets himself hurt chasing after his tools? What if he gets captured again?

Hob does some digging to see if he can find Dream’s tools himself, but to no avail. It doesn’t help that he’s not certain what the tools are. That ruby, maybe. Dream always had it on him during their meetings. But if it was sold or passed around, it wouldn’t have been under the provenance of Dream’s name, which was too obscure, and simply searching for mystical gemstones on the market is too broad a net.

He’s still poking around at it when, several weeks later, Dream swirls unexpectedly into his flat.

Hob jumps, nearly flinging the antiquities sales ledger he’s reading at Dream’s head in instinctive defense.

“Apologies,” Dream says, standing very still in the center of the living room. “I did not intend to startle you.”

“Dream!” Hob lurches to his feet. “Christ. Thank God you’re okay. I’ve been worried.”

“You worried for me?” He sounds ever so slightly touched. And he’s— he’s wearing Hob’s coat. The sight of it startles Hob so much it takes him a second to appreciate the rest of Dream’s outfit, which—

—he’s really taken the new year in stride, hasn’t he, Christ. Dream has always dressed to the times at their meetings, always the peak of elegance and grace, and now is no different.

But now it’s a panther’s grace, not a king’s. His jeans are skintight, and Hob swallows hard at the thought of the lithe muscle of him that he’d seen but barely taken in during the rush of the rescue. His black t-shirt is simple but so much less than Hob’s used to seeing on him, his fingernails are painted black and shiny like claws, and he’s got studs running up his ears, heavy dark makeup hooding his eyes, hair as much of an electric shock as when he’d stepped from his prison, vibrating at the pitch of glass shattering.

He looks dangerous. He always looks dangerous, but now he’s dangerous in the way that would have knocked Hob into a wall if he’d met him in a nightclub. Kneecapped him more effectively than any weapon.

Hob would want to look dangerous too, if he was escaping from such a prison.

His brown overcoat is fair ruining the look Dream’s sporting, but still he wouldn’t have it any other way. He swallows, throat clicking dryly, and all he can manage to say, gesturing at the coat, is, “You still have that.”

Dream takes it off, holds it out to him. This reveals his bare, wiry arms under his t-shirt.

Hob shakes his head, still strangled. “Keep it.”

So Dream drapes the coat over his arm.

“As promised, I have returned to assure you of my wellbeing,” Dream says. “Unnecessary though it is.”

“It’s not unnecessary.” Hob finally manages to get his legs to work and moves closer. Dream does look better. He’s less gaunt, still pale but no longer with quite the pallor of a corpse. His ruby is once again hanging around his neck. “I’m glad to see you.”

Dream inclines his head. “I promised you a boon in return for your help,” he says, and he looks slightly wary now. Does he really think Hob would try to take advantage of him? His oldest—at least in his own mind—friend?

“You coming back is more than enough,” Hob says. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Dream seems, if anything, more disconcerted. “I would not leave a debt between us unpaid.”

There’s no debt, Hob thinks, but arguing this point is probably not going to get him anywhere. “Stay for tea, then, and consider it paid.”

“That is what you would wish?” says Dream, brow furrowed.

Hob sighs. “My friend, you don’t have to pay me to help you. But if you insist on it, then all I want is the pleasure of your company.”

Dream frowns, but sits at the table. “Very well.”

Hob busies himself making tea, and when he returns from the kitchen Dream is still sitting where he left him, hands steepled on the table, Hob’s coat draped over the back of the chair. He looks distant, lost in thought.

“Something on your mind?” Hob asks, setting a mug before him.

“Chance,” says Dream, taking it, lifting the cup delicately and sipping slowly. “And coincidence. It was chance that allowed me to step into a sleeping guard’s dream—a mere lapse in concentration. Chance that we met outside the hospital, so that later I may think to call upon you and believe it possible you would answer. Chance that one man—” his gaze flicks to Hob— “would be thinking of me with enough fixation that the weakest form of my power could still connect.”

“Of course I would answer,” Hob says. It’s Dream. His eternal stranger. That Hob wouldn’t drop all to help him—unthinkable.

“It was not a requirement of our arrangement.”

“You didn’t have to help with those—what were they? vampire hunters?—that time either. Still never told me how you knew about that, by the way—” Dream’s lips quirk up, but he doesn’t explain—“but you did. How long would you have been stuck there, if I didn’t intervene?”

“A very long time, I expect,” says Dream, lips thinning to a line. He says it with apparent equanimity, but under the stoicism is a flash of hurt. A raw wound, that cage, still. Which isn’t surprising, and neither is that Dream would do what he could to avoid it being seen.

“So tell me, if I were in that cage, would you have left me there?” Hob says. “After all, you owe nothing to me.”

He half expects Dream to say yes, to be honest. It’s possible Hob will regret opening this line of questioning.

Dream’s countenance darkens, and for a moment Hob swears the actual room darkens too. Something flashes in Dream’s eyes, and he looks very inhuman, for that fleeting second. “That would be gravely offensive to me. To attack one who bears my mark is tantamount to attacking me.”

That’s... not the reason Hob would have gone for. But boy is it something.

“Um,” says Hob, grip tightening on his untouched tea. “Your mark?”

Dream’s gaze turns to him. “I would not tolerate abuse to one who is under my protection.”

“Oh,” says Hob, choked. He really doesn’t know what else to say.

Dream sips his tea, and is silent. The thrumming energy that Hob hadn’t realized had been buzzing in the air around them finally fades.

He must know by now that the feeling is mutual, even if Hob has little protection to offer, even if Dream is the only one he would care to offer it to if he did. The only being on this earth he would wade through Hell’s high waters to help.

“What did you do to them?” he asks. “At the manor.”

He still doesn’t really know what Dream is, what his powers do.

“Made them sleep, and dream,” says Dream. Dark satisfaction curls on his lips. “They won’t wake.”

Dream, Hob thinks. Literal, then. A shiver runs up the back of his neck.

“Does that frighten you?” Dream asks. He seems darkly enamored with the prospect.

“Little bit,” Hob admits. Something about Dream whispers of nighttime dangers, especially when darkness swirls around him like that. “Still sitting here, though, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Dream muses. “You are.”

The fact Hob’s had to accept about himself is that no matter how primordially frightening Dream flexing his powers is—and it is—it’s also alluring. It’s more alluring than frightening. It’s magical in the way the night sky is a brilliant and consuming abyss.

He downs half of his tea as if it were something stronger, then, pushing his luck, says, “I think you should stay awhile. If, of course, you have no more critical tasks to occupy yourself.”

“I don’t,” says Dream. His gaze touches on Hob’s hands, chest, jaw. Interested. Proprietary. He really would have come for me if our positions were reversed, Hob thinks incredulously. At least after we met in 1915. He doesn’t know if it would have been out of friendship, or just possession, annoyance and offense that something he’d come to consider his had been taken from him. Maybe it doesn’t much matter.

Hob stands up, and Dream’s eyes follow him. Hob circles his chair to the kitchen, possibly a bit closer to Dream’s back than he really needs to be. He feels like nothing so much as a lure, like he’s taunting some dangerous thing into playing with him. Dream’s attention prickles on the back of his neck. “Wine?”

Dream inclines his head.

Hob fetches two glasses and a dust-covered bottle from the wine rack under the cabinets. A good vintage, this one. Only the best for his stranger. Especially if he’s willing to let Hob draw him in to something deeper.

Heart pounding in his chest, Hob walks to the living room, gesturing with the wine bottle for Dream to follow. Which he does, like a shadow peeling up from the table to slip across the floor.

Hob uncorks the bottle and sets it on the coffee table to breathe, then sits on the couch. He expects Dream to take one of the armchairs, but instead Dream sits beside him, though with a small distance between them. Hob’s body thrums with his proximity. He remembers the moment they’d touched, when he’d helped Dream out of the shattered remnants of his cage. Just a brief moment of support, but truthfully, Hob had longed to hug him. He’d like to think it was an impulse to comfort Dream, but it may have been more selfish. An assurance, for himself, that Dream was okay. Enjoyment in the pleasure of his touch.

When he judges the wine’s breathed enough—or really, when the tension of just sitting next to Dream gets the better of him—Hob pours two glasses. Holds one out to him. “1875 vintage. Hard to believe that’s considered old.”

Dream takes it in delicate fingers, raises the glass to his nose and inhales the scent with a hum of pleasure. The sound runs right down Hob’s spine.

“The youngest thing in the room,” Dream agrees, and Hob chuckles. Dream takes a sip of the wine, and his pleasure deepens. “It is very good.”

“I’m glad.” Hob takes a sip of his own. It is good. Nice trick he’s hung onto it for all these years.

“Does wine actually get you drunk, or are you impervious to it?” he asks.

“It can affect me if I allow it to,” says Dream.

“And are you now?” It feels like pressing on something beyond just curiosity. But he presses.

“Would you want me to?” The energy around Dream hums. Hob feels like he’s being challenged. He’s uncertain which answer to that challenge is what Dream wants.

But he answers. Pulse jumping in his throat like his heart itself has moved up under his jaw, he wraps his fingers over Dream’s hand. His hand is just as bony, skin just as smooth as it looks, and very still. He doesn’t move away.

Hob lifts his hand, kissing the soft skin of Dream’s inner wrist, over the stark tendons. “I think I would,” he says.

The tension buzzing in the air around them snaps.

Dream goes from sitting stoically beside him to being in his lap in half a second, his boots melting away into sand as he goes. Hob catches him by the hips with a barely-restrained yelp, and Dream smiles at it, pleased and predatory. He straddles Hob’s thighs, pushes his shoulders into the back of the couch with wiry strength, the lightness of his eyes—human blue, now, not dark and starry—standing out even more starkly against the dark eye makeup. Christ, but he’s stunning. Hob’s never had him so close, and it takes him a moment to come back to a semblance of sanity.

“Never have I had such a gallant rescuer,” Dream purrs, sliding his hands up and over Hob’s shoulders.

“Oh, enjoyed that, did you?” Hob asks, breathless. “Got a good show?”

“Mmm. I did,” says Dream. And he kisses Hob. Hungrily, devouring his mouth, all the weight in his gaze and his words from earlier set alight.

Hob must be dreaming. Does merely interacting with Dream count as dreaming? Regardless, he’s not about to miss out on the opportunity, even if he is dreaming. He readily opens his mouth for Dream, and Dream sweeps his tongue in, bites at his lip, he is powerful and demanding and all-encompassing and it’s glorious.

Hob slips his hands just under the waistband of Dream’s tight jeans, over his hips, and Dream smiles against his mouth. “You are daring,” he rumbles, and doesn’t seem displeased about it.

“You jumped into my lap,” Hob reminds him, and Dream chuckles lowly.

“You kissed me,” he counters.

“Oh, like this?” Hob takes Dream’s hand again and kisses the inside of his wrist, then nips at the skin. Dream’s eyes darken.

“Supplication,” he observes, the word sweet and satisfied. “Befitting such a fair rescuer.”

“Is that what’s due to your station?” Hob asks, sucking a bruise into his soft skin. “Always knew you were some regal thing. Damn haughty enough for it.”

This could have been offensive, but Dream only smirks. “I am king of my realm,” he says, though doesn’t elaborate on what realm that is, exactly. Something with dreams, presumably. Hob would have to be daft to not have pieced at least that much together.

“My lord of dreams,” he says, and Dream’s eyes flash. Right on, then. “I hope you don’t mind if I take some liberties.”

“If they suit me,” says Dream. Of course.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Hob says. And without dallying any longer, he returns to the tight waistband of Dream’s jeans, undoing the button and zipper and finding the soft skin underneath, his hipbones, the vee of his pelvis, the swell of his arousal in his underwear. He’s reluctant to really undress Dream at this point, unless Dream does it himself, but he pushes down the hem of his underwear to take Dream in hand, strokes him once, loose and revenant. He can’t believe he’s touching his stranger this way.

Dream shivers, sighs, tips his head back. Enjoying his touch. That itself is such a reward; Dream wanted to know what favor he would request? Seeing him like this is its own boon, its own privilege.

Dream grinds into Hob’s hand, fingers wrapped around the back of Hob’s neck, twisted in his hair. Hob pays no mind to his own erection, it’s secondary, he’d rather watch Dream. The way his eyes flutter shut, his mouth lax and open. Hob strokes him with an uneven pace, relishes in Dream grinding against him, writhing in his lap. He slips his free hand down Dream’s back, under his waistband, grabs a handful of his ass and pulls Dream closer. Dream lets out a low moan, grip tightening on the back of Hob’s neck.

“Do you like that, darling?” Hob murmurs, even though it’s fairly clear that he does. “Is that good for you?”

“Acceptable,” says Dream, even as he leans in, touching his lips to Hob’s, breathing against him. Hob chuckles. Dream’s lips are soft against his and it’s intoxicating.

“If we’re only at ‘acceptable’,” he breathes, “you’ll just have to come back to give me a chance to improve.”

Dream’s lips twitch up in a small smile. “Perhaps.”

“Welcome anytime,” Hob says, twisting his hand and rubbing his thumb over his slit, pulling a shiver and a moan from Dream. “I want to figure out what makes you feel good. Wanna get my mouth on you, have for ages.”

“Ages?” says Dream, and now his hand finds Hob’s chest under his shirt. Those slim, cold fingers trail down his skin, leaving a prickling trail behind, and Hob shudders, temporarily losing his pace. Dream smiles with what Hob can only interpret as mischief. He would be murderous in bed. He would be such a brat, Hob just knows it, and what Hob wouldn’t give for the chance to fuck it out of him. Haughty little thing.

Of course, this would probably result in Dream bringing his full power and kingly dominance to bear to make Hob cry, but he’s not exactly opposed to that. It might, in fact, have featured in some prominent fantasies over the years.

“Ages,” Hob confirms. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Flattery,” drawls Dream, seeming quite pleased about it. He tips his head back as Hob keeps stroking him, and Hob kisses his throat, biting a mark into the skin, which feels very daring indeed. Dream just tips his head to the side, letting him. It’s heady, the allowance, the sense that Dream is luxuriating in his touch, the fluid lines of his body grinding in Hob’s lap. Pre-come beads at the tip of his cock, he must be close. It’s strange, the normalcy of his body in this moment.

Though Hob wonders if he can actually control his body, if he can prevent himself from coming so he can luxuriate in something that he likes for longer. The thought only makes him harder, and he presses Dream to him by the small of his back, finally giving in to temptation and grinding against him. Dream makes a satisfied humming sound, almost a purr.

“Will you come for me, darling?” Hob murmurs against his throat. “Wanna see you. Gorgeous thing.”

Instead of answering, Dream plucks open the button on Hob’s trousers, slipping his hand inside to take Hob in hand. Hob startles—fuck his fingers are cold—but then mentally stutters at the feeling of his stranger, Dream, touching him, pleasuring him. How long has he held improbable dreams of that?

He loses himself to it for a while, their hands on each other, the way they move together. Dream’s touch is unpredictable, giving and taking, and it has Hob on a wire, drawn after him. Always drawn after him. Dream, meanwhile, is a vision of hooded eyes and dark makeup, superiority on his face again as he watches Hob fall apart at his touch, but Hob sees the shivers of want that go through him, that send ripples through that superior look. He slows his pace, dragging his touch with agonizing patience up and down Dream’s cock. Watches the shudder run through him. And then Dream comes with a gasp, as if surprised by it. He tips his back, eyes closed, mouth open and long throat bared. He’s radiant and loose in that moment in a way Hob hadn’t thought was possible—and the sight of Dream’s pleasure is enough to send Hob over the edge, too, spilling over both of their hands.

For a moment they just breathe—or, Hob breathes, Dream seems to settle his existence back in order in a more metaphysical way—and Hob brings a dab of Dream’s spend to his lips, tastes it, more out of curiosity than anything. He doesn’t taste like much at all, it turns out. Sort of like the way a sex dream might be incredibly vivid but have no real smell or taste to it—ha.

When he looks back up, Dream is watching him. Gaze still heavy, though sated, for now. He’s just as stunning when Hob’s gaze is clear. What Hob wouldn’t give to get him in an actual bed, to really dishevel him. Smear that makeup. Mess up that outrageous hair.

But he wonders if Dream will simply leave again, instead. He’s fulfilled whatever obligation he felt in assuring Hob he was still alive, and now he’s taken his pleasure, too. It would be just like Dream to disappear now with only a vague promise of a meeting a century in the future. Before having Dream in his lap, kissing him, touching him, seeing the shudder of climax run through him, Hob might have been able to bear that. But not now.

But Dream doesn’t get up. His hands are braced on Hob’s hips, playing idly with his t-shirt. He seems to be deliberating on something. Deciding whether to go, perhaps.

“Stay a while, if you want,” Hob says, even though it might have been better to remain quiet and let Dream come to him. His nerves always come back around Dream, and when he’s nervous he runs his mouth. “If you need a rest after… well. You must still be tired.”

Dream stiffens. Shit. Goddamnit, Hob.

“You assume me to be infirm?” Dream says, tightly.

“No, I—”

“I assure you, I am more powerful than I have been in eons, and will gladly demonstrate—”

“Dream, no.” Hob strokes his hands up and down his sides, and Dream stills, though he still looks one misstep away from biting. His eyes are guarded now, and that’s not what Hob wanted at all.

“I know you’re powerful,” he says. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that, even with all that power—” he touches Dream’s chest— “I was worried about you. You went through all that and you didn’t even flinch. You said before you would have helped me if I was the one who got stuck in that place, hm? Well, continuing that scenario, would you blame me if I was a bit fucked up afterwards?”

“I don’t suffer human injuries, Hob,” says Dream, stiffly. He doesn’t climb off Hob’s lap, though, and Hob knows he’s right. Even if Dream won’t admit it. “I have taken my vengeance. That is all that is required.”

“Sure,” says Hob, hand still over his heart.

“Your concern is unwarranted,” Dream continues, though Hob hadn’t contradicted him. “I am not hurt.”

So he’s the type that needs someone to push. And also the type that’s run away when Hob pushed in the past. Great. Fortunately, Hob has an eternity to wait if Dream runs again.

He strokes his thumb over Dream’s wet lower lip, over the corner of his mouth to his cheek. “I think you are hurt,” he says quietly.

Dream opens his mouth to speak, but Hob covers his lips again with his fingertip. It’s too bold by half, and he almost expects to get turned into sand, but instead Dream stills.

“And you’re right to be,” Hob continues, just as quiet. “And it wasn’t enough, that vengeance, was it? It’ll never feel like enough. And it burns. And under that—” he presses harder against Dream’s chest, where his other hand still rests— “it hurts. I see it. I get it. And it’s okay.”

Hob’s mother had always wondered aloud where in God’s green kingdom Hob had gotten his foolishness. And where indeed. For Dream really might smite him for that. But Hob doesn’t take it back. Stronger than the fear that Dream might leave is the need to give him the moment of comfort and rest and empathy he so clearly has not allowed himself to have. Hob doesn’t know if he has anyone else in his life to offer such a thing. He hopes so. But even if he does, it’s obvious to Hob in his iron posture, his careful control, that he hasn’t let himself lean on it. The sex felt good, filled some need, but Dream still kept all his stern, haughty power through it. Never quite believed Hob wouldn’t abuse his trust if he let himself fully relax.

Dream’s dark gaze bores into his, burning with the same low fire as the hurt, the anger Hob knows is still deep in his chest. But it’s not anger at Hob, not this time. With everyone in the manor already punished, his anger has no direction. And Hob knows that sometimes with no other target, that type of anger will turn back on oneself. He may still leave. He might run from it.

Instead, Dream leans into his hand, and Hob’s heart trills with surprise, then relief. He takes Dream’s face between both hands, framing those harsh cheekbones with his thumbs. Dream doesn’t say anything in response to Hob’s words, but then Hob’s always been the more verbose between the two of them. Always running his mouth, and sometimes it gets him walked out on, and sometimes it gets him this. Dream leaning into his touch, and closing his eyes, and letting out the most gentle of sighs as Hob strokes his thumbs over his skin. That’s answer enough.

He draws Dream close and kisses him.

It’s different this time. The hunger has shifted. Less urgent, but still chasing a certain need. Hob notices the way Dream slips his hands close, skin-to-skin. Seeks out touch and warmth, rather than pleasure. Apparently he’s decided he will let himself have some degree of it from Hob, and Hob gives it freely, enthusiastically, he would have even if Dream had never been captured, would have fallen into bed with his stranger given the first hint of an opportunity, but it’s different now, when he feels he can offer Dream something he needs. Something he has not had for so long.

He pulls his t-shirt off over his head to give him access to more skin, if that’s what he wants. Dream hums in appreciation, pressing his hands to the warmth of Hob’s body. Rubs his cheek on Hob’s. His skin is utterly smooth against Hob’s stubble. Hob wraps a hand around the back of his head, drags his fingers through his hair. Dream lets out a shivering sigh and shifts closer, pressing their bellies together.

Come closer, Hob thinks, but doesn’t say out loud, not this time. Come closer, it’s alright. It’s alright, darling. Let me give you what you need.

He doesn’t say it, for the last thing he wants is to chase Dream away. He leans back against the couch, curling Dream’s body further into his, arm low around his waist. Dream tucks his face into Hob’s throat. Hob’s breath shakes. Grateful for the trust of this strange, wonderful creature.

“Staying for a while then, love?” he asks, rubbing his hand up and down Dream’s back.

“Mmm,” says Dream. “Perhaps.”

Perhaps might as well be yes, for he doesn’t move, just sinks further into Hob. And for as long as Hob might have dreamt for, wished for the opportunity to have his old stranger in his bed, out of lust when they first met, and care and passion later, this is so much more special. What he’s always truly hoped for, deep down, more illicit and impossible than sex. And for Dream, too, it seems a much greater expression of trust than just sleeping together, as it were. He could perhaps have tempted Dream into bed in a prior era, but he could not have gotten this, not before Dream’s imprisonment.

So of course, he lets Dream stay, relishes in Dream staying, getting what he needs to feel better even if he won’t voice it, never voices it. And when some time has passed, he knows not how much, of Hob stroking his hair and Dream settled against him, and Dream finally sits back up, and Hob knows he’s going to say that he has to return to his duties, he’s stayed too long already— he takes Dream’s dear face between his hands.

“Come back,” he murmurs, “if you want to. You know I’m always here.”

“A man of constancy,” Dream says, with a little smile.

“You said you thought I could change. I hope that’s true. But that’s one thing I wouldn’t. That I’m always here. At least, whenever you come back.”

“And for our chance meetings as well,” says Dream.

“I don’t know if it’s totally chance,” says Hob. “I think I’ve just been waiting for you.”

Dream is Hob’s own source of constancy. A guiding point, ever since they first met. Perhaps it started with the chance meeting of Hob’s loud mouth and Dream’s penchant for challenge, but it doesn’t feel like chance anymore. Chance does not involve so much choice to come back.

With great care, Dream kisses him, a light press of lips that Hob holds dearer than anything, and then sits back again.

“Very well,” he says, and at last slips off of Hob’s lap, all his clothes miraculously perfect again as he stands, though his hair carries the lingering traces of Hob’s fingers still. “I shall return. If you are waiting.”

“Always,” Hob vows, and watches with awe and reverence as Dream lifts Hob’s hand to his lips and kisses his palm, watching him with his dark gaze all the while. Then he turns away, already swirling into a cloud of sand, and Hob’s heart aches with a mixture of sadness and hope, the feeling of endings that also herald new beginnings. And Dream swipes up Hob’s coat from the back of the chair where he’d left it, and then he’s gone.

Hob presses his palm to his lips, touching where Dream just touched, feeling nothing so much like he’s been engaged in a long, careful courtship and his suit was finally accepted. They don’t really do courtships of that kind in this decade. But his Dream is not a creature of this or any decade, and Hob’s always had a lingering fondness for the ‘old ways’ in that regard. The ways of romance they’ve preserved only in novels, nowadays.

He looks at the scattering of sand on his floor, and the empty back of the chair where his coat had been, the places Dream’s already claimed in his life. And just smiles.

#tell me why this was supposed to be the end and now i want to write an epilogue #anyway. first nano fic done. though this was very very close to being done beforehand anyway #my writing #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #nsft

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lavinialost · 2 months

Text

“Boop!”

One moment, Todd’s dozing, one earbud in his ear blasting Soundgarden at max volume. The next, without warning, a hand firmly plants itself smack dab in the middle of his forehead with a resounding thwack.

His eyes fly open, the nap he’d been trying to finagle at his desk in the middle of a workday thoroughly interrupted, to find Dirk standing over him, grinning like an idiot. Todd pulls the earbud out of his ear, the tinny hum of Black Hole Sun still barely audible.

“Wh– what the fuck was that?”

He presses a hand over where the skin of his forehead is smarting, still trying to process what had just happened.

“A boop, Todd, obviously. I booped you. You have been booped.”

“You just–? I was–? What were you–? I just–?” Todd stutters, trying to come up with the right sequence of words to express the potent cocktail of abrupt shock, burgeoning annoyance, and utter bewilderment flooding his brain in response to being hit on the head for no reason. “Why?”

“Well, you see, I spent the morning observing our beloved shat’s behavior–”

“Please stop calling her that.”

“But that’s what she is,” Dirk protests. “She’s a shark and a cat: ergo, shat.”

“She has a name that we all voted and agreed on that isn’t… shat.”

For the record, it’s Cecilia, not that Dirk ever uses it.

“Yes, well, semantics aside, I spent a significant portion of my morning conducting an observational study on her behavior, and came to the conclusion that, when in a playful mood and faced with a familiar individual whose undivided attention she desires, she performs what I have expertly dubbed a ‘boop’.”

Todd’s experienced– he’s not going to call it ‘booping’, he’s still got some pride remaining– whatever this is from the agency’s adopted shark-cat many times before. She’ll drape herself across the nearest occupied desk and bat at its occupant with her paws until she’s gotten what she’s wanted. But while (as long as she’s not using her claws) the shark-cat’s attempts at diversion are endearing at best and distracting at worst, Dirk’s attempt to emulate her had been downright painful.

“Don’t do it again,” Todd says shortly. With any luck, Dirk will actually listen.

“Of course you wouldn’t appreciate it,” he frowns. “I should have guessed, since you’re a self-professed dog person for some indiscernible reason.”

“I promise you, there’s not a single person on Earth who would appreciate being hit on the head, dog person or not.”

As if summoned by the universe itself, Cecilia picks this moment to join the argument, jumping up onto Todd’s desk and flopping down next to his arm, purring, totally unaware of the chaos she’s wrought on the agency today.

“Well, the shat agrees with me, doesn’t she?”

Cecilia flicks the tip of her tail and bumps her forehead against Dirk’s hand. Traitor. This is why Todd prefers dogs.

“Now, where’s Farah gone off to?”

“Bad idea,” Todd warns.

“I don’t know what you mean, it’s an excellent idea. I’m sure she’ll appreciate my foray into feline methods of affection much more than you did.”

“Dude, I’m warning you–”

“And I don’t want to hear it. She’s in the interrogation room, right?”

Whatever Todd says isn’t going to matter; Dirk’s obviously not listening to him. Mustering up all the judgment he has in him (spoiler: it’s a lot), he stares Dirk down with flat condemnation in one final attempt to dissuade him.

“Right?” Dirk tries again, totally unaffected.

Todd sighs and gives in. “Whatever, it’s your funeral, man.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

Dirk practically skips out of the room, hurtling headlong into what Todd’s sure is certain death.

Whatever happens, it’s out of Todd’s hands now. He sits back in his chair, arms crossed, and waits.

Sure enough, Dirk’s voice rings out from the next room moments later.

“Boop!”

Thwack.

And then, from the other room, there’s a startled cry, the all-too-familiar crashing sound of a table collapsing under the sudden weight of a fully grown adult, and a brief moment of stunned silence broken by muffled, distressed groaning.

Todd winces. That sounded painful.

“Dirk, what the hell was that?!” comes Farah’s exasperated cry, echoing sharply down the hall.

Well, Todd thinks, putting his single headphone back in and resting his head back down against his desk, he had tried to warn Dirk.

#in honor of april fool's day and the boop-o-meter my beloved #dghda #dghda fic

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writers-ex · 1 year

Text

the black spider

??? x fem!reporter reader

warnings: breeding, unprotected sex, g!p, praise link, mentions of blood and violence, gag?, riding, multiple rounds

word count: 1.2k

Taking the bus route you make your way downtown near Midzy Street like the hotline mentioned and look around. An uncovered manhole is on the other side of the street along with some white string that looked oddly like web fluid leading down the hole. You cross New York traffic like a boss and make your way down not drawing any attention to yourself, using your phone flashlight you follow the trail of webs and faint noise that as you get closer the sounds of fighting and groans fill the air.

Peaking your head to the side with your camera lens you snap a photo and see and smell the open area with the lizard and ‘spider-girl’ battling it out. Taking a few shutter shots you watch her get her head bashed against the wall making her cry out as the villain laughs. Concerned for her well-being the lizard approaches to claw her face you step out of the darkness and set your camera to flash rushing close to the lizard taking a picture of him blinding him momentarily giving her enough time to shoot some webs to tie him up and electrocute him with the water he was standing in.

As the sounds of police sirens were heard she turns to look at you and clutches her side falling face-first down. You were able to catch her and drag her to safety before the police came and took the lizard away. Now out of the sewers you look around and realize that all that dragging and carrying lead you to your apartment complex somehow (aka the power of fanfiction). You take her up and lay her sleepy figure on the couch, finding a first aid kit you slowly undress her leaving her mask on to see that she just had a good size cut on her side which didn’t tear too deep into the skin.

As you patch her up you take a moment to admire the hero’s figure and wonder why she had to hide it. Your appreciative gaze must’ve been too hard that you didn’t notice the hero stir and wake up to watch your eyes on her body.

“You do realize that I’m not tasty to eat? I’ve tried and failed.” Startled you jump back and fall flat on the floor groaning as your butt takes a hit.

“Sorry…” she tries to get up her lips tremble before she lays back down.

“Yeah that’s not happening Ryujin…oh that’s my name. You deserve to know that at least for saving my life. Thank you um erm- I didn’t catch your name.” Watching her still you sit up a bit and turn to face her better.

“Oh um…I’m…I’m a reporter at the daily bugle I don’t think my name is worth mentioning…but I’ll keep yours a secret Ryujin? It’s the least I can do for my favorite superhero.” Her cheeks pink as she slowly lifts her mask off to get a better look at you. Eyeing your body in the half-lit room she feels her cock twitch, like her, you were half-dressed in your pajama shorts and crop top waiting for her to wake up. Seeing that Ryujin was in a bra and her tights that were feeling tighter by the second, her gaze changes making you shiver.

“You know… I wish there was something I could do to repay your kindness- help me out of my tights... please?” Nodding quietly you stand up and help her out of the pants and suck in a gasp as you see her hard member out free. “What? These tights are enough for me to not wear underwear? Why? You haven’t seen a girl's cock before princess?” Red at the nickname you shake your head slightly as she bites back a smirk.

“Want to …try riding it? I promise it feels great~ take off your shorts and I’ll show you. Think of this as a small thank you for helping me with my problem, I can help you with that pool of wetness you have there.”

Closing your legs you turn around and slide them off before slowly moving on top of Ryujin who helps you to get in position. “Forgive me if I can’t be of much help princess, you’ll have to do most of the work but I think we’ll both have some fun~” You slide down and grip the couch top with your lips parted as Ryujin holds your hips. “Ahh you’re so tight when was the last time you had sex?”

“I…it’s been too long.” Getting comfortable with her cock deep you look down at her. “Ready… Ryujin?”

“Ride me beautiful.”

And you do. Starting slow you move up and down letting out low whines as she stretches you out.

“Good girl.” Her words only add fuel to the heat growing inside your stomach. Going faster your apartment fills with sounds of skin slapping and both your breaths panting. Ryujin praises you the whole time making you go from speaking to babbling words and getting drunk on the feeling of her in you.

Eventually, you fail to notice her sit up and start to thrust in you with each drop you take making her cock poke out of your stomach. You scream in pleasure but she covers your mouth with her webs and shakes her head.

“Can’t have the neighbors file a noise complaint and call the police now can we angel? Go ahead and cry out now my webs will muffle the noise~” sure enough all the cries and pleas coming from your mouth are muffled letting you ride Ryujin as you please without worrying about the noise.

With time your body gives in and you shake from your hard orgasm all over her chest. Laying back you try to hold yourself up but Ryujin has other plans and holds you up and flips you facing your ass to her as she takes her time pounding into you going for round two. You simply feel tears stream down your face from the pleasure and overstimulation as she goes harder and harder praising you the whole time. Her hands on your breast you barely hold yourself up as your body is at her mercy.

“I’m going…to….make you mine so…forgive me for…the roughness princess….but let me breed you…” with each thrust, she doesn’t give you enough time to react she licks her lips and shoots her cum inside you as you fall down with her deep inside you. Before you give out completely the last thing you remember is feeling full and content as your surroundings turn black. Waking up to the sunlight you find yourself naked and in bed, glancing at a nearby mirror your neck and chest are covered in love bites. Memories of last night flood your mind making you sit up and cry out at the pain of it all.

“Ryujin!! Where are you?”

Silence.

You try to get out of bed to go check on her and sigh realizing it was pointless- you would have to call in sick today. Laying on the bed your eyes stare at the ceiling but after taking a minute you rub your eyes and realize that there’s a note webbed on. Using your zoom on the phone you read the message and smile a bit.

Sorry princess had to run, I’d love to repay you properly with a date tonight if you manage to make it out of bed x. Meet me at the same place you stole my heart?

-Ryujin

ps take-out works too

head back and find the red spidey

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rabbit-harpist · 2 months

Text

parting deferred

For perhaps the last time, Joui talks to Liz. pre-desconjuraçao, also posted to my ao3.

////////

Shamefully, his gaze passes over her at first. She’s only another old woman sitting in the back of the library, white head bowed over a study table. But the way she frowns at the mess of papers before her is all Liz.

Joui tries his best to assess her condition as he navigates the shelves. She’s alive. And unhurt, and perhaps even sober. He can breathe more easily now that he sees her.

Someone unexpectedly exits a row in front of him—he startles, reaches for the weight at his hip, apologizes, heart racing—arrives.

Another moment of unfamiliarity. Joui could be looking at someone else’s grandmother reading the paper.

He shakes off the moment, and the uncertainty that suddenly rises in his chest.

“Liz-senpai?”

It takes a moment for his voice to register—she’s absorbed in whatever the papers are telling her. He can see the recognition in her face, the way the hand that holds the pen stops its motion.

She covers her notes as she turns to him. He tries to suppress the sting.

“Joui? What do you want?”

“You didn’t respond to the group chat,” he says, his tone more accusing than he means it to be.

“I muted it. It was distracting me.”

“We were worried. Liz, I went to your apartment and the landlord said it had been sold. And you weren’t answering calls or texts and—“

“How did you find me?” she asks.

Joui is thrown off. “Ce-Kaiser tracked your phone,” he says honestly.

Liz purses her lips. “I see.”

“We were worried,” Joui explains. (I was worried) “You disappeared—what if something had happened to you?”

“Well. As you can see, I’m fine. As fine as I can be. You can tell that to the others.”

Joui looks at the pile of papers—newspapers, dated recently. “Liz-senpai, what are you working on? Can I help?”

She slips her notebook into her bag, covering the table with the other hand. “Joui—I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

And she can—Joui knows Liz, and she’s strong—but how strong is she now? She’s smart—smart enough to get to the bottom of this, whatever it is, and put herself right back in danger.

He misses hearing her theorize, brow furrowed and eyes alight. He misses her laugh and her smile. He misses Liz herself—she’s right in front of him again, but she feels a thousand miles away.

“Don’t disappear again,” he pleads. “We need you.” (I need you, he wants to say, but he’s terrified that it won’t be enough to keep her with him.) “The Order needs you.”

That makes Liz laugh—a bitter echo of his memories. “The Order doesn’t know what it’s doing.” She straightens the papers on the table. “Symptoms,” she says. “They’re treating symptoms, and the heart is rotten. We throw ourselves into a brick wall over and over until every one of us is dead and broken.”

Joui doesn’t know what to say. It’s a mirror of the thoughts that haunt him at night, laid over the memories that never fade. He doesn’t have words of hope—he has to be the strong one now, but he doesn’t know what to do.

Liz turns over the newspapers, arranging and rearranging them feverishly. Joui watches and he doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t know what to do.

He puts a hand on her shoulder, finally, clawing past the uncertainty that freezes him in place.

“Liz-senpai. Look at me, please.”

She meets his gaze, and whatever he’d tentatively planned to say next escapes his mind. Her eyes are older than the wrinkles on her face. The eyes of the monster of death flash into his mind—a thought he despises as soon as he has it.

“Liz-senpai?” he repeats.

“Get out, Joui,” she says, and she just looks tired now.

He isn’t hurt that she’s still putting herself in danger—he understands the itch to do something, anything. He’s hurt that she doesn’t want him beside her. Joui isn’t sure of many things these days, but he knows bone deep that they need to protect each other. If he loses Liz—and Arthur and Kaiser—every part of him that matters will have died.

“If you think I’d leave you, you don’t know me,” he snaps.

Something flashes over Liz’s face. “I suppose I can’t make you do anything—it’s not like I’m your mother.”

Joui wishes she had hit him instead. He tries to say something else and can’t manage it.

He thinks she wants to say something else too. She pauses as she walks away, looks back—but she leaves anyway.

#rabbit writes #ordem paranormal #opd #elizabeth webber #joui jouki #i just reread this and gave myself emotional damage so it’s going here now #(if you saw the previous version of this post apologies. i decided to format it differently and tumblr wasn’t letting me edit)#also! going to say that liz /does/ think of joui as hers. but also she thinks she’s a failure and terribly unfit for his respect #and terrified that she really /doesn’t/ know him anymore after all the lost time. she knows she went too far but how can she fix this?#and she succeeded in pushing him away. but only to a distance. he’ll never truly abandon her.#how can she expect him to stay out of danger when she’s putting herself in it?#anyway. i care a lot about them.

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my0vershareworld · 1 year

Text

𝔾𝔼𝕋 𝕆𝔽𝔽 𝕆𝔽 𝕄𝔼

Pairing: Szayelaporro Granz, Nnoitra Gilga, Coyote Starrk, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez X GN!Human reader

Genre: Crack, Headcanons, Platonic.

CW: None

Requested by Anon: Hiii can you do headcanons for Szayelaporro,Nnoitra,Starkk,and grimmjow who have a friend that runs to hug them and tackles them like how Nelliel does with ichigo please 🙏🏻:)

A/N: WAHHHH I LOVE THIS ASK SO MUCH ACTUALLY???

Szayelaporro Granz

he does not like you fucking startles him whenever you hug and tackles him like that. but is not like he mind it.

he just kind of wish you stop but at the same time he kind of don't.

your warm hug gives him some of his most vulnerable moment.

but every time you tackles him specifically from behind..he will fall down to the ground flat on his face most of the time. and you ended up getting him angry at you the whole day.

Nnoitra Gilga

you startles him. badly. he thought an enemy did a sneak attack on him and almost kill you a few time at first.

he always yell at you and tell you to stop every time you tackles him like that.

he don't even know what to do when he's in your bear hug. he wanted to escape yet your warmness and softness of a human skin is making him melt and make his arms weak. he never been treated so soft and tender yet so harsh like this before. he loves yet hates it.

every time you tackles him he'll just try and take you off of him and is pretty easy since..he's tall and a giant compare to you. he'll just pull you off easily like a bug.

he'll just look at you like 😐 whenever you tackles him like that

Coyote Starrk

when you hugged him he just stays in your hug. no matter if you're actually choking him and he can barely breath in your hug. but that's fine.

when you tackles him into a hug he'll just fall flat to the ground. he won't even get up. he just let you hug him on the ground like that.

he likes your warmness when you hug him so he..fall asleep so easily in your hug.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez

this man is so on high alert and so fucking animalistic he fucking punch you in the face when you tackles him from behind like that. he does not appreciate that sudden shit. he even call you an idiot for doing that in the first place knowing he's like a wild animal.

when it comes to hug he'll probably try and pry your hands off of him. NO TOUCHY TOUCHY GET OFF OF ME. he's a cat really.

he'll chase you down a few time when you tackles him and scare him too badly.

but when he started to get use to it he still try to pry you off of him every time but he just more soft with the claws prying.

#szayelaporro granz #nnoitra gilga #coyote starrk #grimmjow jaegerjaques #Szayelaporro x reader #nnoitra x reader #starrk x reader #grimmjow x reader #bleach #bleach headcanons #bleach crack #bleach x y/n #bleach x you #bleach x reader #{ 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔶 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡 }

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theres-a-body-here · 10 months

Text

Male survivors with Jezebel!Reader

Its not everyday a notable figure is snatched by the entity. You clawed your way to the top before. Surly it won't be hard to do it again here. Right?

(The idea for this came to me in a cough syrup dream)

Dwight Fairfield

He's wary of you at first

Who wouldn't be?

He was expecting another Yun-Jin Lee

Someone cold and selfish

Surprisingly, you were neither

You actively helped others in trials

However, your language was......colorful

Dwight doesn't think he's heard someone swear as much as you do

"Fuck, medkit's empty. Fucking great. What kind of pussy ass bitch killer brings overwhelming presence?"

Complete sailor's mouth

You seemed to take a liking to him

Dwight doesn't know if that's a bad or a good thing

You always tend to his wounds gently and softly

Your words are a different story

"Fucking moron, running into the killer like that"

"But he had dark dev-"

"Might as well put your glasses back into your purse if you're not gonna fucking use 'em"

"Ah, there we go, all patched up," you grumbled, a sense of accomplishment in your voice as you rose from your crouched position.

Dwight blinked, his lips parting in an attempt to express his gratitude, but before he could gather his thoughts, a gentle press of your lips against the bandaged wound on his hand stole his breath.

His heart raced, caught off guard by the unexpected gesture."Um, I, uh..." Dwight's voice cracked, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. He fumbled for words, his mind a jumbled mess of surprise and flustered emotions.

Dwight's gaze trailed after you as you simply began to walk over to the next generator as if nothing happened. His heart was racing from the kiss.

"Right, work," he muttered to himself, his fingers subconsciously tracing the spot where your lips had made contact.

Ace Visconti

And you thought you were the lech?

This man is relentless

Slides up on you with finger guns.

"Hey baby, heard you were devoured by dogs. I wish I was one of them. I would've loved to eat you ou-"

It took 4 other survivors to pull you off him as you started to throttle him.

Homer Simpson style

You thought that would've deterred him

It did the opposite

Man has issues

He always tries to convince you to play strip poker with him

You always say no

Always tries to be the first person to unhook you

"You're knight is here, princess. Hehehehe"

"Leave me here dammit"

He always gives the best items he finds in chests

Ace gets the biggest shit-eating grin when you thank him

You pried open a chest, but your excitement dimmed as you laid eyes on the item inside – a broken key. A disappointed sigh slipped from your lips, momentarily quashing your hopes. Before you could fully immerse yourself in disappointment, a gentle tap on your shoulder startled you.

Turning, you found Ace standing there, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he held out a flashlight towards you. There was an unmistakable smugness in his expression.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his antics, accepting the offered flashlight with a quiet, "Thanks."

Ace's smirk widened into a self-satisfied grin, his response dripping with playful arrogance. "Anytime, babe," he chimed, punctuating his words with a playful finger gun gesture.

Suppressing the urge to growl at his audacity, you managed to keep your response to a subdued nod, appreciating his gesture despite his playful teasing.

Felix Richter

He's pretty nervous around you

Mostly because you flirt with him all the damn time

"Oh, you were an architect? Well, I'd let you study the curves of my temple anytime"

Instant blushing mess

"I-I.....uh......"

Moral dilemma time

He's technically still married

You know this

But you flirt with everyone else

(Except Ace)

So he doesn't take it seriously

Hates being alone with you

He's afraid to look stupid

Definitely blows up gens more often if you're working on them with him

You found yourself enjoying the calm silence as you worked with Felix on repairing a generator. The rhythmic clanking of tools and the atmosphere of the trial filled the air.

Despite his proficiency, Felix had inadvertently blown out the generator twice, a fact that he couldn't seem to hide.

You noticed his nervous glances in your direction whenever he thought you weren't looking.

Amused by his flustered behavior, you decided to play with the architect a bit.

Leaning in, you quirked an eyebrow and teased, "Felix, if you keep trying to sabotage the generator, I might start thinking you're trying to get my attention."

Felix's face flushed, his gaze dropping to his feet momentarily. He stammered, "N-No, that's not... I mean, I'm not trying to sabotage anything. It's just... this fog, it's making things a bit more complicated than usual."

You simply started at him. A small smile tugging at your lips. Felix's cheeks reddened even further.

Grinning, you decided to take pity on him. "Alright, I'll cut you some slack. Let's finish this generator together, and maybe later, we can find a way to make the trials a bit more... intriguing."

Felix's reaction is immediate; his cheeks flush into a deep shade of red, and his words stumble over each other as he tries to form a coherent response.

"Uh, well, I, um... I never... I didn't..... Oh, darn it," he stammers, his embarrassment all too evident.

You can't help but chuckle at his adorable reaction, finding his discomfiture endearing. "Got you there, didn't I?" you tease, enjoying the sight of his flustered state.

Masterlist Here

#dbd x reader #dead by daylight x reader #dead by daylight #Jezebel!reader #dbd #felix richter #felix richter x reader #ace visconti #ace visconti x reader #dwight fairfield x reader #dwight fairfield

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iplayghoul · 2 years

Text

𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢'𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬.

pairing:: kento nanami × afab!reader

warnings:: mentions of lots of kinks, daddy kink, drinking, alcohol, drunk/intoxicated sex, cowgirl position, face riding, pain kink, somnophilia, reader is slightly in dominant positions here.

author's note:: the paragraphs are LONG ASF AGAIN sorry i tried to have some self control😭hope u enjoy!! reblogs appreciated :p

𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, but nobody can break down his composure like you can. you're both quite similar in personalities, but your flirtatious and playful nature is something he'll forever be greatful for. you bring out the kinks he likes to pretend he doesn't have.

some of these kinks are connecting, but lemme explain the timeline for yall. pain kink: you and kento's work schedules rarely align. fortunately sometimes while you're off to exorcize a curse late at night, kento's just now dragging in through the door. he's often a bit battered and bloody but that doesn't stop him from dropping his weight into your arms. you're always early for work, which means more play time 😋 kento enjoys when you lay him down on yall's shared bed, lights dim, with a basin of cold water and some bandages. he enjoys nothing more than the sting of the water and alcohol you use to disinfect his wounds. his pants tighten when you wrap his wounds and pull the bandage tight, looking at you under the hood of his eyes, lost in lust and shifting uncomfortably. his voice, gravelly, groans when you sit atop his lap to wrap the wounds, especially enjoying the tight grip you hold on the area.

drunk sex: kento is not a heavy drinker, he enjoys alcohol on few occasions but after you clean his wounds and bandage him up, nothing gets him in the mood more than being a little dizzy or just a little dumb for you. you always enjoy when he lets you play captain like this, knowing he's always still in charge. but, his drunken state loosens him up, gets him real horny, n' he craves nothing more than to get pussy drunk after having a couple shots. he claws at your ass to keep you on his lap, letting your hand grab his chin and lead his lips to yours. you lap at each other, licking the alcohol off his tongue and slowly humping his covered cock. his voice is so deep, his whimpers sound like growls and man does he groan under you.

face riding: regardless of how many drunk make outs yall have, you end up on his face before the end of the night. kento's sweaty, wounds bandaged and cleaned and ever so slightly tipsy; laying on the bed with his cock pressing up against your panties (he never let's you treat him in your work attire) and chest exposed to the cool wind of the room. slowly, he tugs at the last few buttons of his shirt, pulling it off behind him as he sits up quickly to kiss you again. it startles you slightly, he makes you look small, "take 'em off," he grumbles. it makes you chuckle, feeling the vibration from his tone, but you say nothing and sit up on your knees to slide your panties off, finding his tipsy behaviour endearing though it isn't new. he enjoys grabbing your fleshy thighs, leaning back gently as his hands move up your waist, guiding you onto his open mouth.

cowgirl: one of his favourite positions to have you in is 100% cowgirl. surprisingly, he can't seem to decide whether he's an ass or tits kinda guy and for him making you ride his dick is s perfect bond between the two. his favourite thing to see is you struggling to fit his cock in. he's not the longest, just about average, but he is thick. so thick, that he's been getting places you didn't even know existed. and when you get on top to ride, gripping his cock by the base and teasing the tip in your pussy, you always can't fucking put it in😭 maybe you're too much of a pussy, but when he takes over and puts it in, he doesn't hesitate. he forces his dick in just the way you like it, letting you take just the tip.

somnophilia: if it wasn't obvious, i think he just really likes to be serviced by his favourite slut ;) he knows you love it, even more when he does it for you. but, on nights when you don't have to go to work, he enjoys letting you do as you please when he falls asleep after his drunken state wears off. you feel a little embarrassed getting off like this, but with your feet planted into the mattress on either side of him and your sloppy pussy drooling down his cock and balls, you couldn't be happier. he's half asleep at this point, an arm laying languidly on your ass, because how can he sleep too good with the way you slap your ass down on him, desperate to cum.

daddy kink: he's fucking pounding you right now, thinking about it is a little funny, especially when you think about him making headphones out of your ankles with the position. he was never one for the name calling kinks really but it kinda just slipped out your mouth. your legs are all so far up by your ears, and he uses his body weight to hold them down while his hands are holding yours above your head. tears are streaming down your face, little pathetic dribbles of spit leak from your mouth as you mumble and murmur nonsense, he can't understand. he was in deep, stretching you out, your legs stung from the slap of his hips and you could hear the rough jingle of the bracelet you bought him. you struggled to see through your tears when you felt him hit a different angle you aint never felt before and you gasped. "holy— fuck!" immediately your hands started scratching at his, desperate to break free and push his hips back. not once had you squealed like this, pleading with the words 'holy fuck' over and over like a broken record. your g-spot was being bruised at this point, and when he hit it right on the fucking target? "daddy— it's, shit, it's too m– ah! too much!" his eyes snapped to you, eyes tracing your scrunched up face and rolling eyes, and kept fucking you right on the spot.

— masterlist.

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whaleofatjme1920 · 10 months

Text

From Where the Land Meets the Sea - Chapter 5

[GN!Reader]

[Warnings: Mentions of murder]

[AN: had a weird urge to finish this chapter and post it. 2155 words <3]

Full Index

Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 coming soon...

Reblogs are appreciated!

Tag list: @mutareadastra

Highways stretch on forever. Aside from the leaves of the trees just barely shifting from the late summer to a touch of autumn, you would have thought you and the ones packed like sardines in the car with you were stuck in your own version of eternally humming hell.

“Reader?” A voice called out for you.

You stared endlessly out the window and huffed. You were completely oblivious to the rough voice asking for you. Glassy eyed, you didn’t feel the presence of a predator looming over your shoulder while he glared at you down.

From the back seat where he sat with Kate, he slinked from behind and rested his forearms on the seat. An annoyed Masky curled a brow upwards at him, but did not interfere with his odd staring. He made a gesture at you, almost to see if they were both testing the waters before he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and slumped against the seat. Jeff grinned. He positioned himself directly behind you. His breath fanned across your skin as he entered your personal bubble. His forearm snaked around your shoulders and neck to cage you against the uncomfortable seats of the van while his other hand twirled the blade of a knife.

“Sunshine,” he cooed softly as his chapped lips nearly brushed the shell of your ear. “Wake up!”

You had been so consumed in your thoughts that you hadn’t felt his forearm crawl against you and constrict. But his screaming, it made you panic. Your eyes went wide as you tore your gaze away from the rolling hills and clawed like a wild animal at his forearm. “Get the fuck off of me!” You screeched as he held you tight against the seat.

A hiss sounded from the front seat as the van swerved ever so slightly. “Stop fucking horsing around, I’m trying to drive!” A lightly southern accented voice growled. It grew deeper with every syllable to further highlight his frustration. His black ski mask stared the two of you down in the rear view mirror.

From your side, Toby turned his head back over to look upwards at Jeff. “Come on, that’s enough,” he said coolly. It wasn’t like him to be the most composed of the group, but Toby wasn’t looking forward to the potential of another car crash. He watched as Jeff’s grip steadied so as to not choke you and hummed in approval when his pale hands stopped fluttering the blade around.

Jeff’s ragged breading filled your ears alongside the pounding of your heart. He dipped his face down to stare you in the eyes, still grinning. “This is for you,” he said as he dropped the blade unceremoniously onto your lap. His hawk-like stare followed your hands as you moved them downwards to the handle, uncomfortably handling the knife as if it were a ticking bomb bound to go up. When he caught your startled visage once more, his grin fell completely. His face pressed to yours, the bridge of his nose blowing uncomfortably on the tip of yours. His eyes were wide, much too wide. “If you fuck around with this I will gut you and no one here will be able to stop me.”

Masky’s head raised as if to protest, but he didn’t find the prospect of arguing very exciting and ultimately decided to let sleeping dogs lie. He sighed once more and absentmindedly rubbed his thumb over the spark wheel. He felt calmed by the feeling of the metal grooves pressed against the pad of his thumb. He looked over at you with his tired eyes and let them fall to the blade of the knife.

Naturally, you followed him. And with it, you could see that it had been used. How many lives have been taken with this? You could feel the tears well in your eyes as your index finger just barely brushed over the handle and the silvery metal of the blade. Your hands shook as you found your reflection within it. Why did holding it feel right? Why did it fit into your hands so perfectly?

The thought mulled in your head as the car continued down the long stretch of road and it continued until you, and your odd group of sorts, found your way to a gas station. One by one, you and all the others filed out of the car with some cracking their joints and stretching from being seated for so long.

But you, you were transfixed on the blade. Why did it fit in your palm so perfectly? Weighted just right, a smooth, but tactile grip, if you swung it, it would simply become an extension of your very body. Nothing more, nothing less.

The blossoming of realization that etched across your face and unfolded like roses in spring lit your face on fire. The sensation of heat even though there may not have been physical evidence of it roared across your cheeks but what followed by a mild mannered peep. You were like a deer caught in the headlights, eyes far too wide and a confused, hurt expression on your face as you waited for the inevitable hit of a car which would come to you in the form of a few words.

“You don’t mean…” You whispered as your stomach raged like the beginnings of a tsunami, waters pulled quickly from the surface to well in the depths only to come hurling forward in a few moments if you weren’t careful to mind yourself. The need to empty your stomach of its contents was overwhelming at the mere implication of what the knife was meant to do.

Hoodie shifted his attention from your sickened expression and nodded simply. “Oh, but we do,” he said with no underlying amusement or excitement. It wasn’t really his first idea for you, but the people in the van were getting… twitchy. Something about you was odd from the moment you managed to down Kate in the backyard, and if the legends they heard when they were young proxies held even a smidgen of truth, they were dealing with someone that far surpassed a normal human’s caliber. The Tall Man had yet to reveal anything of substance to them, but Masky, Jack, they had their thoughts alongside him.

“No, no, no-” you mumble to yourself again and again like a mantra. It’s a prayer to a God that refuses to answer you. Your cries are in vain. Your heart had begun to pound wildly in your chest, your vision going blurry and flashes of colors that don’t even have names spot in your eyes. You’ve had maybe one panic attack before this, when you were younger, but this? This was of an entirely different breed. You’re breathing so hard and gripping the handle of the knife so tightly your knuckle bones are ready to burst through your skin.

There’s people in that gas station. They don’t even notice the seven of you standing out there, with your captors like a pack of vultures surrounding the living corpse you feel like. The artificial lights of the gas station can only reach so far to cut through the foggy black of night.

“I can’t,” you retorted in a broken squawk. You glanced down once more at the glistening blade, and to your shock, it seemed to smile at you. The sharp edges, how it reflected the yellowed lights of the gas station, the very thought of warm blood turning cold on your flesh once it had been spilled from someone else… And you liked it. Your heart beat in sync with the blade’s and it startled you. You dropped the knife in horror, more than disgusted with yourself for the very thought of enjoying something so terrible. “Why?” You choked out, dry tears mixing with what you could only assume was the call of the void.

The men, accompanied by Kate, all shared a look between each other like they were locked in a standoff and staring down brandished weapons that were ready to shoot at the slightest brushing of the trigger. Eyeless Jack stalked towards you, but not much like a predator. It was if he understood a glimpse of what you had just seen - what caused you to drop your knife.

“What did you just see?” He asked, voice slow but not condescending. It seemed he wanted you to be able to understand him the first go around as opposed to repeating himself. That, and his accent was visibly thicker given the slight annoyance. Your silence annoyed him further, but he made no rash movements. Instead, he bent down, picked up your knife and thrust it back into your hands. His own clawed fingers then trailed upwards to your chin, forcing you to look up at him. He crossed his arms across his chest. “You saw something and you liked it.”

Your face fell. “No, no I didn’t-” you vehemently denied.

Jeff’s grin grew. You felt it, didn’t you? Now he knew too and was in on the little secret some of your group members had been muttering all about. “Ohohoh, you can’t deny it-you got a hidden blood lust buried away inside of you! You have the potential to be just as fucked up as one of us,” he taunted further, watching as Jack’s hand forced you to once again look up at him.

“Now,” Jack breathed. “Stop the dramatics and listen up. Okay?” He patted your cheek, that was meant to be condescending, and released you as if you were nothing.

You kept denying their claims and fell to your knees, letting the concrete dig into them. Your sobs were quiet, but heaving. The very thought of taking a life logically broke your very soul apart, but a little voice in the back of your head asked you, ‘what if?’ The very thought disgusted you even further and you grew closer and closer to hyperventilating.

The men in your group weren’t going to check on you. It’s not that they didn’t want to, per se, but rather they’d been in the life for so long they’d almost forgotten how to do things like… comfort someone. But Kate? Kate had retained some of her humanity despite the horror inflicted on her when she was a young proxy. She approached you, crouched down to your kneeling form and gently placed her hands on your shoulders. It was a subtle force and tell for you to look up at her.

“Hey,” she whispered in that same delicate voice like you were a small child that had come to her after having a nightmare.

Slowly, your eyes met hers. Her eyes, dark, all consuming, much like the void that called you from the grinning blade of your knife, were comforting where it was not. You watched as her chapped lips fell into a small smile, uneasy, but reassuring. No matter what would happen, she was on your side. You felt dizzy as she helped you back up to your feet and leaned on her while the two of you walked. Slowly, just quick enough to get you moving but measured so you would not risk actually passing out. Though, passing out would be preferable to the situation you found yourself in.

“I know I don’t want to,” you croaked as you wiped away stray tears.

Kate found the choice of words odd, ‘know’, but chose not to comment for now. “I understand,” she replied. “But you need to,” she stressed. It was uncharacteristic of her, to urge you to doing something you wouldn’t want. You hardly knew her personally but felt she’d been a friend for years, or perhaps not a friend but at least a kind soul yours recognized as familiar. Relatively safe even though she too was a predator waiting to pounce. “Look,” she murmured, “I just need you to hold on a little bit longer, okay? Things are… getting weird.”

Something clicked in your head. She was leaving you a trail of breadcrumbs, waiting for you to follow them and see what was at the end of the path.

‘Kate, you gotta hurry it up. You don’t convince her, I will. My methods won’t be as nice,’ Hoodie says in passing, his eyes not even honed in on the two of you. He’s still amazed the gas station employees hadn’t noticed them or their whole commotion in the parking lot. What luck it was that no one needed gas in the time they’d wasted here convincing you either. A small smile crossed on his lips. If you performed the way he thought you would, then his theory would really hold some weight. Sometimes the universe is convenient that way.

Toby gave a small look to his group leader, and then to Hoodie. He too was now interested in the conversation between the two of them, something deep and pertaining to you. He hadn’t been in the life as long as everyone else, maybe a bit longer than Kate if you ask whoever’s recalling their stories, but even he’s heard of the urban legends passed around in proxy spaces. ‘Ditto,’ he finally adds, wanting to get the show on the road.

Masky shot Toby a glare. “Watch it,” he growled.

A few beats of silence passed through you and Kate, Hoodie, Masky and Toby before her voice finally gave them an answer. ‘They’re on board now,’ she tiredly said while her gloved hand rubbed slow circles on your back.

#from where the land meets the sea #masky x reader #masky headcanon #jeff the killer x reader #kate the chaser x reader #hoodie x reader #creepypasta x reader #eyeless jack x reader #ticci toby x reader #marble hornets x reader

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antiquitea · 2 months

Text

𝐖𝐈𝐏 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘.

tagged by @swifty-fox who shared some of little beasts and kingdom for a kiss, which both currently live in my head rent free 😍

just sharing my masters of the air wips because if i shared any more than that my tumblr might implode on itself.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐰𝐚𝐲

The door to the diner opened and Gale looked up from his pile of discarded single serve creamers, stacked inelegantly on top of one another, some nested in others like a haphazard and poorly made nesting doll. It was a younger couple, Gale tracked them as perhaps being on their first date. They both look nervous, but for different reasons. The boy, hoping that he was making a good first impression, the girl, fussing with her hair which Gale could only assume was done in a style that she wasn’t accustomed to.

So intent was he on paying attention to the teenage couple on their first date, navigating all the unwritten rules and social mores of courting, that he didn’t notice John slip into the booth across from him.

Gale didn’t give him the satisfaction of being startled.

𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝

John moved toward the bathroom, and stood in the doorway for a moment, letting out an appreciative sigh. In the large, claw-foot bathtub was Gale, submerged in the water and naked with the exception of his tags resting against his chest, book in one hand and a bottle of Coca Cola in the other. His blonde hair was damp, loose, not carefully styled as it normally was, pieces of it stuck to his damp forehead. His skin was almost red from how hot the water was, steam rising in tendrils from the bathtub, the steady rise and fall of his chest betraying the thundering of his heart behind his rib cage that John knew was there.

Though he had clearly taken the time to paint the image of a man nonchalant and spontaneous, John had no doubt in his mind that this was carefully crafted, specifically for him to walk in on.

𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 (soulmate au)

John learned of soulmates from his mama when he was young. He straddled that line between boyhood and manhood, thinking that love was gross, but also desperately infatuated with Dottie Clements at school. He sat at the dinner table, helping her peel potatoes, asking questions about her and his dad growing up as a thinly veiled way to learn more about love. Mama Egan was no fool, she knew her boy had a schoolyard crush.

“There’s something bigger than all of us out there, Johnny,” she murmured, peeling her sixth potato while John was still only his second. “One great love for every person on earth.”

“So Daddy is your great love, Mama?”

Mama Egan was silent.

John learned of soulmates from his mama when he was a boy. He learned from living life that not everyone was lucky enough to meet theirs.

𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 (1980s summer au)

“Johnny!”

John Egan had ignored the shouts from his mother to come inside for the last time evidently. Her voice turned into something shrill that he could hear even down by the lake, where he could normally escape all manner of ruckus that came from the cottage. It wasn’t that noisy, he supposed. But it was difficult to get a moment of peace and quiet when his whole family - his ma and dad, his sister, and himself - were all crammed into the small two bedroom space.

When they were kids, John and his sister, Billie, would bunk together in one room, at first sharing the one bed, John then eventually sleeping on the floor when he “got too long,” as his dad put it. But when one is suddenly seventeen, and the other is fourteen, bunking together isn’t on the table anymore, no matter what Ma said. John would just as soon take the couch, which he was too long to fit on comfortably anymore, in the living room, or grab a tent and camp out under the stars if the weather was nice enough.

��Johnny Egan!”

The last name was included now, it was getting serious.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

no pressure tags: @hederasgarden, @imjess-themess, @wildbornsiren, @magneticghouls, and anyone else who would like to share!

#antiquitea.txt #antiquitea.tag

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dearestspirit · 1 year

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road

-> xiao x gn!reader

-> fluff

-> wc: 773

-> note: probably ooc xiao but idc i like making him flustered. somewhat established relationship in the sense that you two are already close enough to be friends/for you to tease him, i guess?

cold rain pelted down on your skin, the night's storm raging on. thunder roared, lightning flashing across the sky every so often. panting, you ran through the muddy trails of liyue, chest heaving as you did. after accepting a last minute commission, you were hurrying to make the delivery the commissioner requested. of course, they had demanded it be delivered before the first sunlight of the day, leaving you little time to make your way through the countryside. mud had started to soak through your boots, leaving your footing uncomfortably slippery. tonight's weather has significantly slowed your progress, leaving you not even a moment to rest.

holding your hand above your head to block rainwater from soaking your face, you take a second to look up at the path ahead of you. eyesight blurry, you squint. barely, you could make out a nasty group of hilichurls. exhausted, you huffed. pulling out your weapon, your combat was sluggish. you managed to take out a few, but two mitachurls had easily surrounded you in your vulnerable state.

knocked backwards, you hastily roll over onto your stomach, clawing at the dirt to pull yourself forward. wincing, you try your best to ignore the scraping of rocks against you, the rough stones ripping through the fabric of your clothing. out of the corner of your eye, you see the gigantic ax begin to swing down in the air, aiming for you.

breathless, you manage to call out. "xiao!" you yell, eyes squeezing shut as you brace for impact.

a sudden gust of wind blows through the air, disrupting the monster's attack. startled, you open your eyes to see a figure leaning above you. crawling, you manage to sit upright. around you lay slain hilichurls, their bodies dusting to ash within milliseconds. clearing his throat, the figure holds out a hand to help you stand.

"you came," you mumble, taking his hand. xiao wraps an arm around your middle, keeping you steady as you wobble. "thank you."

he nods sharply, reaching up to lift the yaksha mask off his face. returning it to his side, he breaks eye contact. "it's nothing to praise. if you require protection, i will provide it. that's all there is to it."

you smile, nudging at his ribs teasingly. "are you sure?"

xiao tenses, shoulders raising as if to shield himself. "i… i do suppose i have some sort of satisfaction at knowing that i'm the one you called to protect you." his voice is hoarse, but a redness spreads throughout his cheeks.

"i'm just teasing you, don't worry about it, xiao," you reassure him, making sure to take a step back. his touch lingers around you, but with your movement his grip loosens, arm falling back to his side. scrunching your nose, you wipe at the excess rainwater on your face. "i appreciate you sticking to your word, at least. you'd probably be surprised how many people don't, nowadays…"

xiao furrows a brow, looking at you curiously. "did someone upset you recently?" he questions, arms crossing.

"just this commissioner, really," you shake your head, picking up the packages you had dropped during your fight. "they said it could be delivered at the end of the week, but of course, now they're changing their mind and it has to be delivered before tomorrow morning. they're even threatening to slash the reward in half!"

he nods as he listens to you. "yes, that is unfair to you… come here, i can help get you there quicker." he holds his arm out, allowing you to place a hand in the crook of his elbow to hang onto him.

using his vision, he's able to bring the both of you much closer to the intended recipient's house. xiao's hands land at your sides, holding you still as you adjust to the sudden movement.

"after you deliver it, i can assist you back to wangshu inn. the weather isn't going to clear up any time soon. your journey home would take too long, and you need to rest after the scuffle you found yourself in earlier." he tells you, awkwardly, yet endearingly, resting a hand on your back.

turning towards him, you grin. placing a hand on his cheek, you turn his face gently to the side so you can press a kiss on the other cheek. "thank you, xiao. it means a lot to me."

bristling, the blush on his face is quick to deepen, making even his neck a bright red. "go… go finish your commission," xiao mumbles, hand coming up to cover the lower portion of his face. "i'll wait for you here."

#xiao x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader

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journalofimprobablethings · 1 year

Text

JonTim Literal Sleeping Together: China Edition

(aka these two are still my faves, I will keep thinking about them being friends in s3 until the end of time)

On Jon and Tim's first night in Beijing, Jon books them a double room in a respectably unassuming hotel near the Research Centre. The room is on the sixth floor, and Jon supposes that the view from the window might be quite striking, if he was in any frame of mind to appreciate it.

Tim drops his bag onto the bed nearest the door with a thump as soon as they walk in.

"I never want to sit that long on a plane again, ever," he says. He twists and stretches his back, which emits several alarmingly loud pops.

"I'm afraid you'll have to in order to get home," Jon says, moving to put his bag down on the far bed.

"Nah," Tim says. "We'll just do a bunch of hops. See the sights along the way. The Institute's paying, so why not?"

"Yes, I'm sure Elias will approve those expenses."

Tim snorts. Then he nods toward the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower. Unless you want first crack at it?"

It's an innocuous question, but Jon is still getting used to this old-new side of Tim—the way he checks in with Jon now, making sure that he's okay.

It's nice. He thinks it's nice. But it's strange.

"No, that's fine. You go ahead."

Tim nods and disappears into the bathroom.

–

The rest of the evening is like that—a bit fumbling as they work out bathroom logistics, then attempt to order some food ("I don't know why, but ordering Chinese takeaway when we're in China feels strange," Tim says). Even though Jon has spent occasional nights over at Tim's flat, somehow all their vocabulary for navigating a shared space seems to not quite fit here.

But they're both trying, and considering how tired they are, Jon is proud of them for getting through the afternoon with minimal snapping.

By the time the food arrives, Jon's eyes are drifting shut of their own accord. He knows he should eat before trying to sleep, should try to stay up to a reasonable time to help with the jet lag, but when he's startled upright by the sound of his chopsticks clattering to the floor from his slack hand, Tim gives him a look and he nods at the unspoken message in his eyes.

He pauses only briefly between the beds—at Tim's flat, they had kept sharing the bed out of habit, and, as Tim pointed out, as the best option to avoid severe back pain.

But here there is no need to share. He had booked the double room on purpose, so they could each have their own space.

He casts one glance over at Tim sitting on the bed opposite. Then he crawls under the covers and is asleep as soon as he shuts his eyes.

–

Jon had hoped that tonight, just for tonight, he would manage a dreamless sleep. But of course, he's never been a lucky man.

The room is dark when he claws his way out of the dream, chest heaving with desperate, gasping breaths. The clock on the nightstand informs him that it's just past three in the morning.

He lies still, trying to get his breathing under control, hoping he hasn't made enough noise to wake Tim. The remnants of the dream still cling to him, wisps of fog and the hate in Naomi's eyes hovering at the edges of his mind, and as hard as he tries his breath keeps coming in rough, ragged gasps (loud, too loud)---

"Jon?" Tim's voice comes quietly from across the space between the beds.

Damn.

"I'm fine," he says, trying to ignore the strain in his own voice. "It's fine, Tim, go back to sleep."

It's a bit stupid, he knows, trying to act like everything is fine. He's already told Tim about the dreams. Tim has nightmares of his own, he knows; of clowns and theatres and that terrible helplessness, the feeling of being forced to watch someone else be torn apart.

But even though things are better between them now, there's always a part of Jon that feels the need to tread lightly; a part of him that worries that one day Tim will wake up and realize that Jon is a monster, that he's not to be trusted, that he should be pushed away.

So Jon curls himself into a ball, trying to make himself as small and quiet as possible, and hopes Tim will listen to him and just go back to sleep.

He's so focused on his own breathing, on trying to push the memory of the dream out of his mind, that he doesn't hear Tim get up, and he startles when Tim's voice comes again from just next to the bed.

'Budge up," Tim says.

"What?"

The mattress sags suddenly, and it takes Jon's sleep-addled brain longer than it should to realize that Tim has sat down on the edge of his bed. Before Jon can protest, Tim lifts the blankets and scoots under them, giving Jon a gentle shove on the shoulder as he does.

"Move over a little, I'm going to fall off the side."

Jon does, mostly because Tim is already there and Jon wouldn't put it past him to actually roll off the bed just to prove a point. Tim settles himself in the space Jon's made–in a better mood, Jon would needle him about how much movement it seems to take for him to get comfortable, but as it is he just lays still and tries to even out his breathing.

Tim finally begins to settle, near enough to Jon that he can feel his body heat. Jon feels him roll over one last time, and then a gentle weight comes down on his shoulder as Tim reaches over to place an arm around him.

"Is this okay?" he asks.

Jon can already feel his muscles relaxing, the shakes leftover from the nightmare already subsiding.

"Yes."

"Okay."

Tim lets his arm fully settle around Jon, his chest a warm presence pressed gently against Jon's back. Jon takes a deep breath, and Tim's arm tightens around him, just a little, in wordless comfort. Jon reaches up to where Tim's hand rests near his collarbone and squeezes back.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"Shh, boss," Tim replies. "You're welcome. Go to sleep."

And Jon does.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #tim stoker #jontim #literal sleeping together #there were two beds this time #but that doesn't stop them #tma fanfic #scribblings #long post

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101flavoursofweird · 7 months

Text

Title: Room for a cat to swing

Description: Claudia knocks something over… as cats do. (Poor Matthew.)

Spoilers: For Curious Village

Set: Presumably after Curious Village

Warnings: Reference to dead characters, and a dead character’s ashes

Note: Written for @layton-npc-appreciation-week, Day 1: Curious Village/Diabolical Box. I went with Matthew and Claudia from CV, inspired by some suggestions I received. @czechsmix suggested writing about how the villagers in St. Mystere are doing on their own… (Thank you!) and then I started wondering how Matthew would cope, when even Flora is gone. What does he have left to do now, aside from following Lady Dahlia’s orders and babysitting Claudia? And thanks to anon for the suggestions they sent too!

“P-please!” Matthew gasped, his back pressed against the arm of the settee in the parlour. He pointed the feather duster at his attacker. “You don’t need to do this…!”

Piercing yellow eyes, unmoved by Matthew’s plea, glowered at him from above the mantelpiece. Sharp claws were out-stretched, ready to strike the precious white urn.

Lowering his makeshift weapon, Matthew tried to barter with the devil. “I’ll give you anything— anythingyou want! You can have fish bones— o-or I can get you Simon’s glasses—“ (Better to face a sulky Simon than this monster!) “—or, you can have the flowerbeds! A-All of them— to do with whatever you desire!”

Matthew’s assailant cocked their head, considering his offer. The beast licked their lips, flashing their fangs.

They seemed to have been appeased by the thought of fish…

Matthew sighed with relief as their paw came to rest on the mantlepiece. The urn— containing Baron Reinhold’s ashes— was safe for now.

But then, an angry shout rang out through the manor. “MATTHEW!”

Claudia— startled or otherwise— leapt off the mantlepiece, knocking the urn. Time slowed for Matthew as he scrambled to catch it.

The urn could have landed on the soft rug— but no, it landed on the hard wooden floorboards.

Matthew winched, waiting for the urn to disintegrate and for the ashes to come pouring out.

His eyes widened as he noticed only a small crack had appeared at the top of the urn.

He crouched over the urn carefully.

There was… there was still hope—

Another shrill cry from Lady Dahlia shattered that hope, along with the rest of the urn.

Shuddering, Matthew stared down at the tiny shards and the dust (Ashes— these were Augustus Reinhold’s ashes!) covering the floor.

From behind him, there was a impatient and mocking, “Mrrrow!”

“Why?” Matthew jerked his head in Claudia’s direction. “Why would you do this?”

Claudia had never been fond of Matthew, but surely Claudia had more respect for Baron Reinhold?

Claudia blinked at him. The cat scampered to the other side of the parlour when Lady Dahlia stormed in.

“Matthew! How can you be lying about when there��s still work to be done?”

“M-my lady…” Matthew stammered. (He wasn’t capable of crying, even if he wanted to.) “Forgive me, but I— I was…clearing up…”

He moved aside, still on his hands and kneels, so Dahlia could see what had happened.

“Claudia knocked over the urn, and I… I…” Matthew struggled to explain himself. “I wasn’t fast enough…”

Dahlia, unnaturally silent, stared at the remains of her husband. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line.

Matthew swallowed. Surely he would be dismissed for this— no, he would be decommissioned!

Dahlia would go straight to Bruno— the Baron’s oldest friend— and Bruno would agree with her…

Matthew wasn’t just faulty. He was guilty. He was a disgrace to the Reinhold family…!

“Why are you fussing so much, Matthew?”

At Lady Dahlia’s question, Matthew said with quiver, “W-what?”

“Clean it up and come downstairs,” Lady Dahlia ordered, as if Matthew was fretting over an everyday chore. “Use the hoover if you must…”

Matthew squeaked, “Y-you’re not upset—?”

“I will be if you don’t HURRY UP!” Dahlia surged out of the parlour as quickly as she had arrived. She shouted over her shoulder, “And bring Claudia with you!”

Relieved beyond belief, Matthew swept up as much of the ashes as he could. He emptied a flowerpot that had been on the windowsill and put the ashes in there.

All the while, Claudia watched him from the corner of the room.

“You never much cared for the Baron, did you?” Matthew murmured, looking back at Claudia with new understanding.

Perhaps Claudia had been put off by Baron Reinhold’s constant coughing or the smell of sickness that had clung to him in his last few months of life…

Or perhaps Claudia hadn’t appreciated how the Baron had treated Lady Dahlia.

Claudia hissed with what Matthew hoped was confirmation.

“Let’s not keep Lady Dahlia waiting any longer,” Matthew whispered. He went to pick Claudia up and, thankfully, he was met with no resistance.

Matthew could have sworn Claudia was purring as they left the parlour.

#professor layton #Claudia Reinhold #Matthew (PL)#I know he’s a robot but once again we need to give characters LAST NAMES #Curious village #Lady Dahlia #Layton-NPC-appreciation-week #Claudia does not care of Baron Reinhold

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the-cat-at-the-theatre-door · 11 months

Note

"Looks like neither of us could sleep" for Gus and Demeter

"Looks like neither of us could sleep, eh?"

Demeter startles at the new voice in the dawnlight, tail bristling. Though it wasn't entirely uncommon to find other cats straggling around the clearing after the Ball had concluded, she hadn't expected somecat to approach her; most kept decidedly to themselves after an evening spent in such close proximity, and, frankly, Demeter had been counting on it while she got her bearings about her, trying to loosen the tightening that had settled in her lungs.

The scent that trails just behind the comment diffuses her initial flash of fear quickly, but her nerves persist in their scraping away at the lining of her stomach, prickling unpleasantly under her skin.

"Oh, hello Gus," Demeter greets politely in spite of herself, instinctually standing and holding her paws before her. "What are you doing out here? I figured you'd have gone back to the theatre."

"You would have been correct, but that walk gets longer every year," Gus grumbles, waving at her to sit back down, the end of his sentence hitching as he slowly settles himself nearby. "And my granddaughter is a very good host. Though -" He winces as he rolls his shoulder back. "Her little bed is not the best option for an old tom like me."

Demeter half smiles at the picture that conjures in her head. "Jellylorum didn't put you up?"

"Oh, of course she did," Gus snorts, faux offense written across his muzzle in spades; the idea that his own daughter wouldn't over accommodate in every way - for her own flesh and blood no less - imagine that. "Etcetera is very persuasive."

The two cats fall back into a companionable silence. Or at least companionable from Gus' end; he seems satisfied enough with where he ended. Demeter - meanwhile - tucks herself back in her own thoughts, watching as the baker down the street hauls his supplies inside to begin the morning preparations anew; he'd been waiting for his delivery for an hour. She resists the urge to tangle the fur by her ear in a knot.

"Would you like me to ask why you're out here on your own?" Gus prompts eventually, following her line of sight. "You've a new one at home, haven't you? Full house now?"

It is, in its own way, surprising that Gus remembers that much of her goings on, though he'd pointedly avoided Sillabub's name. Jellylorum had told them day-to-day - even hour-to-hour - was wildly different for him, so perhaps she shouldn't be surprised; she must have caught him in a good something or other - at least about as good as they were wont to get.

"No?" Gus asks when she doesn't respond, after a perfectly timed beat. "Then none of my business."

Demeter worries the inside of her lip in her teeth. She feels the sudden desire to slip her tongue between them instead and allow the conversation to fizzle out.

However…

"I just felt…"

"Smothered?" the older tom ventures, unprompted.

Demeter, taken aback at the forthright statement, pauses. Considers…nods.

Gus hums, settling his chin on his paws. "Very common, you know, especially around this time."

The comfort was simple and direct, but it did very little by way of making any headway in the tangled net of her thoughts. Though the effort certainly should be appreciated - and it was - Demeter tugs at her claws, guilt unassuaged.

It is a long time before Gus speaks again, seemingly having fallen asleep. The exact goal - she would have hoped - of getting out in the first place.

"Change is a rather troublesome beast," he murmurs, opening a single, yellowed eye to look at her. "You get used to doing things a certain way, then they're different."

Demeter pulls her knees to her chest, listening to the pivot curiously.

"I remember sleeping all on my own for years and years," he continues, shaking his head. "And then suddenly there was another cat in my bed and kittens kicking me in the ribs, and I thought: 'What has become of me - how ever did I get here?'"

Demeter holds herself very still, as though any movement would knock the tom off his trail of thought. "But you get used to that change after a time - wonder how you possibly could have been without it."

Gus sighs; a forlorn sound that whistled past his teeth. "Then, someday, they change again, and again, and again, and you're slower to keep up. Think maybe you won't be able to this time, but you manage."

"At some point, things change once more, but you're too old and too set in your latest way to be comfortable. But it happens whether you like it or not. And that," Gus concludes, looking as though he were merely commenting on the weather, but there was something heavy trailing behind his words. He yawns, and pointedly rolls his shoulder again. "Is the way we stay. Though often, you've forgotten where it is you left off."

Demeter carefully pieces together what she believes the old tom is attempting to explain to her; wonders if he was explaining anything to her consciously at all, or if he'd forgotten why he'd started in the first place, and she'd fallen into the trap of projecting onto him.

When Gus sits up to look at her directly, gaze intent somewhere behind the milky white of his cataract, she finds the latter thought fade into the back of her mind. "Sometimes, you just need a moment to remember. They'll wait for you."

The theatre cat says no more to her that evening, returning contentedly back to his own world as though he'd never spoken to begin with.

Demeter continues to stare after where the baker has disappeared, feeling the cool air of the morning sting in her eyes as her shoulders begin to lift.

Send me a sentence and I’ll fill at least five more in after it for a little mini-fic.

#i'm crossing out that five sentence part because jemi stop #Gus the Theatre Cat #Demeter #my fanfic #fanfiction #jellicles ask because jellicles dare #anonymous #i can't help it you said the magic word #idk if this makes sense but it does in my head - the roundabout #when you've got two grown toms and two little queens when there was a time you so often slept alone...it's a lot

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