#and this is UNEDITED lmao
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Spring sneaks up on Amy before she knows it- time moves so much more differently to her, she barely noticed the slow progression from fall to winter. Flowers are budding on the leaves, and new life grows from the dirt beneath her windowsill. The sunlight is warm and inviting, under any other circumstance, Amy would throw on one of her sundresses, grab a parasol and sit outside with a book. Or she’d go for a walk and talk with Jessica as she did.
Except, this isn’t ‘any other circumstance.’ She’s been stuck inside for days now, while her cohort, Jay, carries around a camera with him and films everything he does. Amy wonders if he takes it into the bathroom with him. Not that she’s been paying attention, as much as she should be in this situation. Her mind wanders back to the woods where she awoke. Jay had been the one to find her on the side of the road, looking confused and out of it. She didn’t understand what was happening to her then. She still doesn’t. With each new piece of information that she receives it only leaves her more lost than before. Jay says he empathizes with her completely.
She had been a scatterbrain since then, even though her memory was usually much stronger than that. She could recall her childhood memories with ease where others could not, now she can barely remember what she ate yesterday or what day of the month it is.
Hearing the hotel door open, Amy whips around from the window. Jay is holding his camera in one hand and carrying his keys and a small takeout bag with the other. He shuts the door behind him and looks up at her.
“It’s just me.”
“Did you see him out there?”
“Who, Alex?” Jay moves further into the room and places the bag on the small table. “If I did, we would be leaving immediately.”
Amy shoulders drop. Based on everything Jay had shown her on his YouTube channel, she shouldn’t feel disappointed. The camera never lies, only people, Alex had told her once. If all the videos were true, then Alex is not the person he used to be, or who she thought he was. She tried to tell this to Jay, who, in response, had only said that people can still lie through video through manipulation of footage. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. Alex had never been violent, sure, he had his flaws; but no one is perfect, and he isn’t that guy.
It's that… thing. That faceless monster that had been haunting him. It had to be that. Whatever it is, it caused Alex to lose his mind and hurt others. Amy is sure he didn’t mean it, because Alex wouldn’t do that. She’s sure of it, it has to be that monster. It’s controlling him, somehow. It can’t be anything else.
“-my. Amy? Hey!”
Amy blinks a few times, then narrows her eyes as she focuses. “What?” She mumbles.
“You zoned out again.” Another side effect of… whatever happened to her. It’s the reason why her days often go by so quickly most of the time.
Amy shakes her head. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. I picked up some food.” His arm gestures over to the bag. Amy’s nose picks up the familiar scent of Chinese. Jay moves over to his laptop to plug his camera in and sift through the footage. Jay takes extra care not to show Amy when he films, to keep her safe. If Alex knew she is with him, then who knows how far he’d go just to find her again… and what he’d do to Jay when he did. At the very least, Jay can prolong the reveal. Keeping Amy out of sight for as long as he can is what matters the most.
Amy moves over to the bag and pulls out the food cartons, as well as a black plastic container. There’s a pair of chopsticks and plastic utensils, as well. She searches the bag a little more and finds a fortune cookie, but there is no second container.
“You didn’t get any for yourself?” Amy looks over to him. Jay shrugs.
“Not really big on Chinese food myself. Besides, you really haven’t been eating a whole lot these past days.”
“You sound like Alex. That just means you haven’t it had it done right. When someone makes Chinese food right, that’s when you can never go back.” Amy tells him as she moves over to grab her mini table, she places her eating utensils and tin on it, then moves back for the cartons.
“Hey, what’s todays date?” Amy has lost track of all the days. She didn’t have her phone on her person, either. Jay didn’t want to risk returning to her place in case Alex was staking it out.
“Uh,” Jay checks his laptop’s date, “April fourth, why?”
Amy freezes. That’s why today felt a little different. She felt as though she were forgetting something important, and it was this. His birthday. She takes a seat on her bed, hands flopping onto her lap. Back when things were okay, she and Alex would meet up for the day regardless of anything else. The two of them would go out to a little bakery in Rosswood and buy a dozen cupcakes for themselves, chocolate and red velvet (Alex would always tease her and say that red velvet is just dyed chocolate. She knows this, but she likes feeling fancy!); they were delicate and airy, fluffy cream spread thick between layers and dolloped artfully on top. and they would walk some distance up a trail, past Rosswood park, for a little picnic. That must be why the outdoors is calling her name, and why she’s craving the soft breezes and gentle grass blades under her fingertips.
Just before leaving, Alex would insist on taking photos with his polaroid, and she would become camera shy. She’s not used to being the center of attention. But whenever she’s with Alex, it becomes inevitable.
It's not that she hates the attention per say, she always managed to attract people to her just by being herself. Alex would say it’s because she’s a star and other people could see that. Amy would call him nuts for it, because she was pretty sure it was just him trying to compliment her. Regardless, she’s content with a quiet life, earning her degree in education and going on to become a teacher. She thought it was funny, how she wanted a more reserved life whereas Alex wanted one in the limelight. He dreamed of the day he could walk on the red carpet for one of his films, be nominated for awards, give speeches.
Her vision blurs, and her eyes sting, yet she refuses to cry. Now’s not the time for that, it does nothing in this situation. And yet-
“Maybe I will try some Chinese food.” Jay’s voice abruptly cuts her thoughts, she almost the awkward tinge in his voice. “There’s a lot of footage I need to rewatch, may as well try to eat something now before I forget.” As he’s had the habit of doing ever since he began this investigation. Amy has to nag him to take care of himself (and she's impressed he hasn't keeled over from lack of sleep or proper eating.)
Amy looks up at him, unsure if she heard correctly. She grabs one of the cartons and opens it, revealing golden yellow rice with fried vegetables within. She glances at him. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. This is a different branch than what I had years ago. Who knows,” Jay shrugs, “Maybe it’ll be cooked right.”
Grabbing a spoon, Amy places it in the carton and hands it to Jay. Jay looks at the rice and shuffles the spoon around it. Grabbing a fair amount on his spoon, he takes a bite and chews for a minute. Then he swallows. He looks back down at the rice, his eyebrows raise.
“It’s not bad.”
Amy smiles a bit. “Told you.”
---
Later, while Jay was in the bathroom, Amy remembers the fortune cookie in the bag. Lifting from her bed, she makes toward the bag and grabs the cookie. She unwraps it, breaks the cookie in half (while making sure to get a bite in, just to taste it), pulls out the paper and reads it to herself:
‘Trust your friends, but keep your eyes open.’
Amy’s stomach doesn’t sit well the rest of the day.
#marble hornets#jay merrick#amy walters#alex kralie#amylex#self indulgent fic is a GO#and this is UNEDITED lmao#the writing desk#an au where jay finds amy (alive) instead of jessica and they team up and amy is trying to cope with the Horrors and her boyfriend being-#a Bad Person (which she does not believe)#but there's hardly any of that here it's mostly fluff with a tinge of angst at the end#also jay sucks at comforting people so he mostly goes for distractions and subject changes when he can#he's just a little socially awkward sometimes he's trying his best#also trying to get better at writing jay so dont mind me too much
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Center Stage
suguru whimpers as he pounds into you, folds your legs until there’s a knee on each side of your head. you're so good he has to bite back a gasp when your walls squeeze down on him, gripping his cock so fucking hard he sees stars. his eyes roll back when he reaches a hand down to your clit, swollen and sensitive and he feels the sudden gush of your arousal drip down between your bodies. suguru loves how your tight little cunt always takes him so well, how it makes room for him and holds him like it never wants to let go.
every thrust, every roll of his hips, every slap of your skin meeting has suguru leaning down to groan into the crook of your neck. he doesn’t let up, pounding into you like a man possessed. and he is. your pussy makes him insane, makes him want to scream, makes him want to fucking cry.
it feels like heaven in your walls.
suguru loves to look between you, where your bodies connect and see the creamy mess you’ve made on him. fuck he loves how your pussy always makes a mess. it’s one of his favorite things about you.
that and the way your lips part when he pistons his hips a certain way, touches that sweet spot you love. how your head falls back and your back arches when he wraps his thick fingers around your neck, makes you hold his weight as he fucks into you with reckless abandon. the way your little moans fall from that pretty mouth he loves to bury his cock in. he loves all of that.
he loves the way your hands find his hair and you pull. not gentle at all, just the way he likes. you’re as a desperate and fucking needy as he is.
“come on baby. tell me how much you love my cock.” he pleads. he knows you love it. you've told him plenty of times. but suguru also loves to get his ego stroked.
“i love it, ah- fuck, fuck i love your cock!” you whimper beneath him like the good girl you always are. all he ever has to do is ask and you’ll deliver every time. so obedient. it’s why you’re his favorite.
suguru can feel your walls softly convulsing around him. you’re so close. but while your words were good, they’re weren’t good enough. so suguru slows his pace, staring down at you with half lidded eyes. he wants you to do it right.
“pretty girl forgot her manners,” he chides, clicking his tongue. “i love your cock, what?”
he bottoms out with a particularly harsh thrust that has you crying out, your fingers tightening in his tresses and he chuckles, his dick twitching within the confines of your cunt.
“oh fuck! i love your cock master geto”
there it is.
you peer up through your lashes at the man above you and the smug smile on suguru’s lips sends you spiraling over the edge, your orgasm rushing over you, your body shivering as wave after wave hits you. and your sweet lips muttering his formal title, it has him burying his face in your neck again, whining as his hips stutter with every sloppy thrust until his balls tighten.
he grips your thigh hard, high pitched whimpers falling freely from his mouth as his cock stiffens and his hot, white seed fills your twitching pussy. the release has suguru shaking, struggling to hold his weight as your pussy milks him of every fucking drop.
you’re both panting, both catching your breath as suguru kisses you desperately, pressing kisses to your face, to your lips. and he’s still cumming
“m-master geto,” you mutter between kisses. he hasn’t pulled out of you, just keeps rolling his hips into your slowly, softly as he continues to litter your lips and face with kisses.
suguru hums in acknowledgment.
“you’ll be late to session tonight,” you warn him. “you know there will be big donors there. you don’t want to be late.”
ah yes, the work never stops for suguru. he would love to stay here, on the floor of his stage but it wouldn’t be a good look to have his donors and worshippers walk in on you both in the middle of such a salacious act.
and you, his most favorite follower. there's no way in hell allow anyone to leave the room alive if they saw you this way. no, you're meant to be seen by him this way and him alone. even with your current situation, he knows you are loyal to him. so with a hiss, suguru pulls out of you, smirking when he sees the way you pout at the loss of fullness.
cute.
“come and see me after session” he tells you with one last press of his lips to yours. he crawls off of you carefully and fixes his robe. you nod, watching as he exits the room.
he knows where to find you.
suguru always finds you the moment he enters the room, packed with worshippers ready to give themselves to him. and you’re among them, loyal as ever to him, even as you bow politely and pledge yourself to the organization alongside your husband.
#bye i found this in my drafts and it's been there since august LMAO#this would be me if i was in his cult#when did i even write this#i have no memory of this place#unedited because i need to get over my overthinking#suguru geto x reader#suguru geto drabble#geto x reader#suguru geto x you#i love a cheating reader LMAO#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru x you#getou x reader#getou suguru x reader#getou suguru x you#geto suguru smut#cult leader geto#cult leader suguru geto#sorry to my husband
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arjuna whenever karna opens his mouth
#my edit#my art#arjuna#fgo#fully inspired by another person posting the unedited version on twitter lmao
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Fuck It Friday 💌
I keep wondering if people even know that I write... like, I know giffing has captivated me lately, but actually this is where I'm "based", so to speak. I just kinda fell off the map since the new season started airing (and since posting that 75k monstrosity that was the mudslide fic lmao).
Anyway, I am finally, finally getting closer to finishing the buck loves tommy fic (which pretty much does what it says on the tin, though it does have an actual title now), all it needs is some hefty editing and it's ready to be posted — hopefully within the next few days. Until then, here's some soft angst that somehow found its way into the middle of the smut.
“Good.” Tommy’s lips stretched into one of those wide but close lipped smiles and it was hard to hold back the urge to trace it with his thumb — so he didn’t.
Tommy gave a small kiss to the tip of Buck’s thumb, before opening his lips and sucking it in between them, humming quietly.
“God… did you get even hotter while you were away?” Buck mused with an incredulous huff.
“Are you trying to talk your way into my pants?” Tommy’s grin was downright dangerous as he let go of Buck’s finger and leaned down to get a hold of the hem of his t-shirt, rolling it up as much as he could with the stupid sling in the way.
“You’re not wearing any pants.” Buck pointed out with a teasing lilt of his voice.
“Must be doing real good on all that talking then, huh?”
“Funny.” Buck rolled his eyes jovially, but when Tommy didn’t answer or in fact moved at all, he zeroed in on his face with a frown. “H-hey, you okay?”
“I don’t know. Are you?” Buck followed his line of sight, only to realize that Tommy was staring directly at the bruises on his ribs, where they were blooming like a collection of poisonous clematises; hugging his torso tight, probably for weeks to come.
“Y-yeah, I told you, I’m fine. It’s- it’s just some bruising, no big deal, I swear.”
“We can wait until you feel better.” Tommy suggested, his face darkening and his eyes never leaving the big blotches of purple and pink.
“Baby, does it look like I wanna wait?” Buck scoffed, gesturing vaguely at his achingly hard cock, only inches away from Tommy’s own.
“Evan, that’s not—”
“You a-asked me what I need.” Buck cut him off with a serious set of his jaw. “This- this is what I need. You. That’s all I want, okay? So just… please, would you just touch me already?”
Buck closed his eyes with a frustrated little sigh and only opened them when he felt a feather light touch on his skin, causing it to twitch with a tickle, as Tommy’s lips brushed over the bruises.
“That okay?” He hummed quietly, his lips gently vibrating with it and bringing a small tingle into Buck's ribs, one that somehow felt like it was going much deeper than skin or bone.
“Y-yeah… okay.”
✨I have been tagged by and am absolutely no pressure tagging the ever so talented @sunshinediaz @spagheddiediaz @jeeyuns @exhuastedpigeon @bidisasterevankinard @diazsdimples @likegoldintheair @honestlydarkprincess @watchyourbuck @actualalligator @wikiangela @bucksbignaturals @loveyouanyway and anyone else who feels like sharing mwuahhh 💛
#the smut is just some very rought draft at the moment but it's finally done#and the whole thing is nearly 9k unedited#which the people who do remember how i am when i write already know means it'll be a miracle if it comes out under 10k lmao#i kinda missed this ngl#anyway#911#911 abc#bucktommy#wip#buck loves tommy
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Beware! Nsft!
How would the ROs (in a crushing stage) react to having a spicy dream about MC?
This is just...pure smut lmfaO
Rook:
This isn’t the first time, and he doesn’t think it’ll be the last. You beneath him, gasping, his own body pressing close to you. Your mouth on his, your moans being swallowed by the desperate kisses he gives you. His hands skim down bare skin, wanting more, so much more. More then you could ever give.
The way you say his name is everything he’s ever wanted. His mouth leaves yours, wandering down your neck, your shoulders, you neck, stomach, hips, to the spot right between your legs. You writhe against him, back arching and he takes far too much pleasure in the sound that gasps out your mouth.
An alarm sounds, somewhere, and he blinks awake. It takes too long to register where he is, considering how many times he’s had this dream. The flash of guilt isn’t as strong as the first time he’s had it, but it’s still there. Especially when he realizes how hard he still is, and the way your image is lodged into your brain.
He groans. A cold shower and enough mental screaming at himself will make it all go away. It’s not like the longing is as part of him as his own bloodstream.
Beck:
Everything is soft and hazy. He finds himself pressed against a couch or bed or somewhere soft. You lean over him, and he lifts his head, eyes tracing your every move. Your fingers dance down his face, ghosting his neck and he lets his eyes close.
“What do you want?” He breathes.
“You.” You say it so plainly, and he rises up to press his lips against yours. His hands wrap around your waist, and you settle on his lap. When your fingers thread through his hair, his fingers go under your shirt. He tugs on it and you pull away just long enough for him to take it off you.
His own shirt comes off and the feel of your skin against his is enough for him to moan your name, pleading. You press into him, and he says you name again and then—
The alarm on his phone goes off and his eyes open in a daze. His skin feels too warm and the blankets too heavy. He turns off his alarm sighs. He’s in deep now, isn’t he?
Rhea:
It starts so soft and innocent. The two of you are in a room that’s probably the Student Government meeting room. You slip into the seat next to her, resting your head on her shoulder. She means to shoo you away, before you distract her from whatever she’s doing.
Instead you nuzzle against her shoulder and she sighs. You take her hand, and she entwines her fingers against yours, “You’re distracting me.”
“I can distract you a little more.” Your voice is teasing before you kiss her cheek. She can’t help but laugh, trying to push you away as you rain kisses on her. But then she’s somehow against the wall, and your kisses aren’t on her face but her neck.
You pull at her, and her braid comes undone and falls around her. Your other hand trails down and slips between her legs. The moment you press down, she’s gone. Her hands grip onto your shoulders for purchase, grinding against your hand, the mounting pressure building.
You’re still laughing, murmuring how cute she looks coming undone. She’s so close to some kind of release.
Then her door flies open and Eloise is shouting she can’t find something and she’s painfully awake.
She grabs the nearest thing and throws it at the door. Hopefully her roommate thinks it’s because she’s upset at being woken up, and not notice how painfully red her face is, and how she wishes to vanish you from her mind.
Zoe:
Zoe’s never had strong feelings about sex. It’s something a lot of people do, and some people…don’t. It makes the way their throat catches foreign to them. You lean over them, face blurry against the backdrop of a blue sky and burning sun. Your fingers splay across their face and they nuzzle against it.
“Zoe.” You murmur, and they don’t question why the two of you are here, atop a hill with grass as soft as satin wrapping around your bodies. When you call their name, they only turn towards you, eyes fluttering closed as you brush a kiss against their lips.
It’s soft, warm. Their usual inhibition bleeds away. They reach a hand up, and pull you close. You nip at their lips, and they gasp away. With a soft laugh, you nuzzle against their neck, and they try to move away.
“Hey that tickles—” At least it does, until your teeth sink in. Heat ignites in their chest as they gasp. You press a kiss against it to sooth before curling up against their side.
The sky becomes dark all at once. Your hand traces circles against their side, “I want to touch you. Can I?”
Can you? No one has ever seen their body before, and they’ve never wanted someone to perceive it. But you? It feels so easy now, to do this with you. They rise, pulling at their shirt. Your hand stops them with a shake of your head. They relent, and let you pull it off them. Any embarrassment they expect doesn’t come, letting your eyes trace their body.
You lean forward again, and they catch you in their arms. Your hands on their skin feels nice. They want to sink into it. They want to sink into you. They won’t run from you. No matter what you want to do.
“Zoe! Mom said to get your ass up, it’s your turn for morning shift!” Zoe gasps awake, brain scattering as they bolt up in bed. Their brother raises an eyebrow at them, which they only meet with a throw of a pillow in their direction.
“I had my alarm set you heathen.” They grumble, heart beat racing. Why did they have that dream about you? It wasn’t like them to dream like that? They thought they might bury themselves into the earth today instead.
Lars:
Everything is loud and noisy, and he’s not sure who’s dragging the other to somewhere more secluded. There’s a shut of a door, he doesn’t think anyone will hear amongst the music and their own chatter. The two of you are pressed together, mouth against mouth, hands wandering across each other’s bodies.
He slots a leg between yours, swallowing your gasps at the sudden friction. His fingers are swift with the buttons of your jeans. Everything is a neon haze. You’re arching against him, desperate to be ever closer. He’s about to show you just how close you can be.
“Lars,” you manage to gasp, wrenching yourself away, “Someone could see us—”
“Scared?” He slips his hand beneath your waistband and you squirm, moving against his touch on instinct. “With how you feel, you seem more excited to get caught then anything.”
“No—I—” Your words fail you as he keeps going, eyes squeezing shut. You blindly reach for him, fumbling with his own pants, too lost in your own pleasure to do it right. Your hand finally manages to undo it, then—
He startles awake. The grey, early morning haze greets him. Lars isn’t sure what woke him up. It could have been even the slightest of sound. That doesn’t matter. He rubs a hand over his face.
“You can’t be fucking serious.” He groans. You in his dreams was bad enough, but like that? He couldn’t believe he’s already so far gone.
???:
How many times had they imagined your body? They’ve always wanted you to yield everything to them. Heart, soul, and body. The image of you laying so pretty and bare beneath them feels like a lifelong longing finally fulfilled. Their teeth has sunk into so many places, leaving marks and bruises all along your body. You’re begging for them, a type of release. They kiss your inner thigh, refusing to give you what you want.
They’ve wanted this for so long, they’re going to take their time with you. Their own pleasure hardly matters. They’re mapping out every inch of skin, cataloguing every expression your face can make. All of it. They want all of it and more.
“Please—” You gasp, “Please.”
Even your begging sounds like music to them. But not yet. Not quite. They rise up, bracing themself over you. Their hand traces the outline of your mouth. Your lips part, and they slip a finger inside, feeling you bite down, tongue brushing against it.
Their voice is a command, “You can’t just beg without stating what you want, my little moon. You have to tell me exactly what you want me to do.”
Your eyes open, and there’s the faintest flash of defiance in your eyes, even in this state. A thrill rushes through them. Oh, they love when you don’t make things easy. They love seeing you fight them, pressing you until you finally break down.
The soft nibbles turn into a hard bite. On instinct they yank their hand away, but really they feel the way their body shuddered at the sensation. You frown at them, and the next thing they know, you’re pulling them down. In a blink, you’ve switched position. You’re on top, legs on either side of them.
“What about you? What do you want?” Your hips grind into theirs and they suck in a breath.
“Everything. Every piece of you.” They reach out their hands to hold your waist, but you snatch them by the wrists and pin them down. The sensation makes them feel like their falling. And the feeling of falling wakes them up.
In the dark, they breathe hard. A hand is thrown over their eyes, thoughts scattered. You. You. You. God, they would do anything to have you.
#em answers#ch: rook#ch: beck#ch: rhea#ch: zoe#ch: lars#ch: ???#nsft#unedited#idk felt like practicing again#will tumblr kill me for this LMAO#think I thought this with the ??? smut as well
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yeah, okay. how about a Parent Trap dreamling AU?
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“I was hoping I’d find you out here.”
Hob only speaks once he’s mere feet from Dream, at the end of the pier. Dream surely had heard him approach, the damp, squeaky wood of the dock giving him away. But Dream hadn’t looked back.
He looks at Hob now, twisting his head just enough to watch as Hob carefully sits next to him with a grunt, unfolding his legs to let them drape over the edge and his shoes inches away from the surface of the water.
They say nothing for a while, staring straight ahead, out past the lake, the murky waters gentle and reflecting the clouds above, moving just enough in the soft breeze to reveal rays of the setting sun here and there.
This whole trip had been… interesting, to say the least. A weekend vacation at a resort gone completely haywire. Hob certainly hadn’t expected to see his ex-husband getting necked in the elevator by some well-dressed blond wearing sunglasses. Indoors.
The look on Dream’s face, as he and Hob made eye contact across the lobby, just before the elevator doors closed, had been hilarious though.
“Our sons.” Dream finally says with a hint of astonishment, his low voice barely disturbing the quiet.
Hob huffs out a laugh, closing his eyes and leaning back on his hands.
“Can’t believe they did this.”
Hob can sense Dream looking at him, and cracks an eye open to catch his gaze.
“No?”
Hob laughs again, shaking his head. Clearing it. From the deep blue of Dream’s eyes. Still as striking as ever, even weathered from age. Twelve years.
“He gets it from you, I hope you are aware.” Dream continues, affection in his tone.
Hob chuckles. “Perhaps the idea was Robyn. But the logistics?” Hob peeks over, side-eyeing Dream. “That’s all from you. That’s Orpheus”
A tiny smirk tugs on Dream’s lips and Hob finds his gaze fixed to the sight. It had been a long time since he’d seen Dream smile.
“You,” Hob starts again. “And your particularities.”
“You used to find them charming, I remember.” Dream looks down into the water, kicking his legs slightly. “Not as off-putting as my personality.”
“You were very prickly, back then.” Hob agrees with a laugh, feeling bold and bumping their shoulders. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Dream goes quiet, as does Hob. Sitting in silence. Listening to the sounds of nature around them. The rustle of leaves, the sounds of birds singing, the lapping of the waves.
“They’re watching us, you know.” Dream speaks again.
Hob smiles. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”
Dream gives a long sigh, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together. Hob watches him, openly. Takes in the long form of Dream, the rolled up sleeves of his black button down, revealing creamy white forearms against equally black jeans, cuffed around the ankles. His shoes and socks are tucked next to him, and Hob wonders how often Dream lets his guard down like this now.
And Dream’s aged infuriatingly well, in his physical appearance. A little more filled out, still thin though. Like Hob could still wrap his entire body around him, embrace Dream and fit him against his chest, where he would fit best. He’s got maybe some lines on his forehead but otherwise…
“You look good, Dream.”
Dream looks sideways up at Hob before sitting up properly.
After an agonising silence, Dream sighs, his eyes moving, studying Hob.
“As do you.”
Hob licks his lips and tears his gaze away just as his eyes settle on Dream’s mouth. He clears his throat and speaks forward, forcing his thoughts out of the past.
“Robyn misses you.”
Dream laughs sadly. “He doesn’t even know me.”
He could know you, Hob thinks. “He talks about you though. He wonders… what you’re like.”
Dream sighs again, rolling his eyes upward.
“He’s been a handful this past week, pretending to be Orpheus. A menace.”
Hob laughs, pulling a hand through his hair.
“Sorry about that.
“He doesn’t like Cori.”
Hob feels a nerve twitch. Neither do I.
“Ah, Cori. That the bloke you were mackin’ on in the lift?”
Dream shoots him a pointed look and Hob smirks and winks. “Nice looking fellow– I’m assuming. Couldn’t see his face with those sunglasses.”
“He’s just a fling.”
“Ah.”
The silence between them is heavy now, turning awkward. Hob takes a sharp breath through his teeth, changing his tone to be playful.
“At your age?”
“Shut up.” Dream shoves Hob and his smile is blinding.
Hob laughs and it catches Dream, who is giggling now behind his hand and something in Hob’s chest lurches. Lodges in his throat. He looks at Dream, just them, alone and his heart is suddenly screaming with regret.
There’s an ache to touch. To feel Dream’s hands on him again, to hear his laugh, to earn his hard-won smiles. Hob wonders how much Dream had changed, if he still likes the same things. If he still takes his tea with far too much cream and sugar. If he’s still enamoured by thunderstorms, dragging Hob outside to feel the rain on his skin, laughing hysterically as a bolt of lightning would crackle and shake the earth and getting pulled back inside by Hob, who would kiss him stupid afterwards, wet and smiling.
They had both been so young when they’d married. The fights had been small but constant. Little things that bubbled up into nonsense. And they hadn’t been ready for kids. But it felt like the natural next step. Their surrogate having twins was a shock for both of them.
But they had loved Orpheus and Robyn. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough to keep them together.
Funny how, now that the boys had found each other, they were the ones pushing them back together.
[part two!]
#dreamling#hob x dream#oh no another one#somebody hold me back lmao#this came out of nowhere#i was browsing the 90s films selection on hulu tho#and this idea slammed into my brain#absolutely surprised i havent seen this yet#has it been done??#my writing#unedited this is just an idea...#like my devil wears prada au lol#dreamling parent trap au
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iwaizumi hajime the type to run to the store for you at some outrageous time like 2am—
—in nothing but his sweatpants, sleep shirt hastily thrown on. it’s thinned out from each wash and is way too faded to be worn out; there’s a hole or two somewhere on the sides. and his hair’s all messed up, sticking out every which way with a bit of sleep still in his eyes.
he’s yawning through the aisles, slides smacking against the store floor as he looks for what you need. self check-out is mechanical at this point, movements memorised.
when he comes back home—to bed, you’re sat up against the headrest, waiting. he drops the paper bag beside you and climbs under the covers, slinging an arm around you as he whispers in your ear, lazy and sleep-laden while his eyes fall shut, “need anything else?”
#iwa hours early today but let me tell u.#i need HIM.#nEOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWW#i shouldnt think abt his voice sounding sexy but it is it is it issssssssssssss#iwaizumi x reader#hes so sleepy he doesnt care aksnskjx#wolf clawing his chest photo#he also does everything without complaint btw like he hates being woken up in the middle night#and for sure the first few times this happened he was grumpy af but#he’s gotten used to it and softened through the years and he doesnt mind it anymore now#he comes back to bed and hes clingy bc if u arent feeling well what else can he do apart from getting things for u?#i love him#and hes also so hot#fuck#hajime#shotorus.bubble#this is so unedited i just need to feed myself LMAO
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an understanding
morpheus x reader. 5k. no use of y/n. yearning. the only thing i know about video game development comes from mythic quest. dont feed ducks bread (its bad for them) morpheus.
“You know feeding ducks bread is bad for them right,” you pointedly tell the stranger in black. The man was wearing 30 layers of black under the midday sun. You had no clue how he could bear wearing a wool coat in this heat. Sweat was already gathering around your forehead and you were in a gauzy shirt.
“Oh.” His voice was deep, an alluring quality that would’ve made him a perfect audiobook narrator. He doesn’t look up, still hunched over his loaf of french bread: the good kind that was made fresh in store at some local bakery.
“Mind if I sit here?” You didn’t want to sit on the grass. Lugging a towel on top of your laptop and bag was bad enough so you were really hoping for a bench, even one with no shade. It was just too nice of a day to spend working indoors.
He doesn’t respond. Tearing another piece of bread, he pops it into his mouth, finally looking up, looking out at the park contemplatively.
You decide that it’s okay. He didn’t say no.
He was obviously incredibly awkward or maybe didn’t get out much judging by his pasty skin. It was rather unfortunate too. Now that you’d gotten a good look at him he was cute in a way that would’ve thrilled you at twelve when you were wearing studded belts and obsessed with Mary Shelley and Trent Reznor. His hair was a hopeless mess: it’s color so black it seemed to destroy any sunlight that shone on him.
Too bad he was about as interesting as a pet rock.
Even the beta testers who were chronically online, still figuring out women at the ripe old age of twenty six (which you understood as your dating life was no better and all your hopes rested on Hinge) were livelier to talk to.
You were probably being too hard on him, you thought as you opened up the company issue computer. It was the fancy type that bent completely backwards. There were so many dialogue trees to work through. So many paths.
Sitting cross legged on the bench, you get back to work and try not to think about the man on the other end of the bench.
He managed to make eating bread an incredibly depressing act; gaunt as he was, with a forlorn expression in his clear blue eyes.
Clearly the guy was going through something.
Refocusing on your work, you turn up the screen brightness and pull up your saved files for Project: Dracul City.
There were notes.
Bottle: get sent to old lady Constancia and gain +1 luck token
Newspaper: uncover school turned shelter LORE
Right.
“Thirsty now, are we dearie,” you utter under your breath. You worked best like this, saying the lines out loud. At the office, no one batted an eye, but you’d gotten plenty of looks at cafes.
No. That was too fairytale-esque. This was more survival horror. The words rich and velvet were also on the moodboard.
“A bottle of wine to soften the blow eh?” You frowned. It sounded too young, too flirty. Old Lady Constancia ran a black market shop in the game.
“Well then, a bit of liquor for the road? Better than anything in the tavern.”
Again, it was wrong. The wrong feel for the setting.
“No need to ask how your night is going then.” There. You grin a little, reading over the dialogue tree that led here, skimming over Lady Constancia’s lines. There’d be no voice actors for this so the diction would have a lot to convey.
“What.”
“Huh,” you look up from your screen. You’d completely forgotten you were sharing the bench, speaking too loudly.
“You were saying.” The man looks over at you for the first time. His gaze is no longer distant as he studies you. It was obvious you held his full attention in spite of how cold his demeanor was.
“Nothing,” you laugh nervously, “I just-it’s something I do while working. Say what I’m writing to see if it makes sense. It’s a really good trick for dialogue. Sometimes what sounds good in my head sounds really awful to my ears. It was advice I got years ago in school. Really fucking helpful though.”
“You are a writer?”
“Ha, I wish,” you scrunch your nose feeling yourself blush. “Well, sometimes. I don’t know. I always wanted to work in video games and thought writing for them would be cool. And yeah, every now and then I think I’ve got a novel in me but I like my job. Sure-I’m not lead in anything yet but it’s fun to flesh out these characters and help build a world where people can escape into. Just look at early fallout, Kentucky Route Zero’s a really good one. . .” Your own sincerity embarrassed you. “I know,” you look down at your screen, the blinking | waiting for your next words, “most people play to blow things up and kill lines of code but, I really do think it means something to people. Give them a world to play in, create, dream. . .yeah.” God you rambling so bad. “I can stop if it bothers you?”
There’s the slightest hint of interest in the subtle relaxation of his expression, “Not at all,” he replies, putting aside the bread he had left, “There is nothing frivolous in striving to inspire people.”
His words catch you off guard. He’d been so distant before, you were expecting a brush off. “Well maybe this line won’t impact someone but you never know what characters players latch onto.” Mariska Lutz’s tapes haunted you for months after playing Bioshock for the first time.
The man does not reply again, watching the ducks hop into the murky water.
You return to your work, making an effort to keep your mumblings quiet.
It’s not until the battery low notification pops up on your screen that you look up again, shutting your laptop and stretching your legs out. Your left foot tingles hellishly, having fallen asleep.
You look over, only to find that the man had left without a word, without making a sound. It was unsurprising. When you worked you got tunnel vision. That was the reason your pot of pinto beans had burned before. No enfrijoladas for you that day.
Well, he had certainly been a character.
*****
You escape a hectic office where you’d spent the past week during crunch time as the demo went live, a short teaser of the gameplay for corporate who would never even play the game but wanted to see evidence that money would be made when the game released in time for October aka when everyone would be over school and the spooky month would fit the game’s design. You’d brought a tote bag with your lunch and snacks from the office. Nothing hit the same as lays with salsa valentina though you would like to know who kept using your bottle. You’d labelled it. As a last resort you’d taken to stashing it in your desk when you knew you’d be working from home.
July.
Kids were chasing the poor ducks back into the pond. A woman in leopard print roller skates took on hills like a pro.
You liked the warmth of sunlight on your skin.
You still wore sunscreen though.
It’s Thursday but the park is packed. You try to look for any spot that has some shade, an open seat so you can enjoy a hard earned lunch. Your fingers have cramped from all the typing you’ve done in the last few days. You haven’t checked in the mirror but you feel like roadkill.
It was about three in the morning when you’d started using eye drops to keep going, but the meeting was happening. You’d done everything you could for your team.
No luck.
The moms were out in full force today, phone in hand as their kids ran wild.
Then-
You spot the same man from your last visit to this particular park. He looks the same, only his coat is longer. It was like he was trying to get heat stroke.
Well, the trick to adulthood was just going for it. Sharing a bench wasn’t the end of the world.
You walk over.
“Hello again,” you wave, “mind if I sit here?” You could always keep looking. There was plenty of time before you had to rush back to work.
“No.”
You plop down, leaving space for not only Jesus but all his homeboys too. “Thanks. I feel like everyone keeps having the same idea as me, but I guess it’s summer and unless you take the ferry west we don’t have the best beaches.” You open the bag of chips and liberally pour salsa on them, “want one?”
You hold out the bag, offering up your snacks to the man. He seemed less morose than last time, but was for sure managing to sulk under clear skies.
He doesn’t acknowledge you. Instead he reaches into a white paper bag and slowly grabs a pinchful of birdseed to toss over to the ducks.
You’re left holding the bag of chips long enough for it to be awkward before you shrug and dig in, sucking the salt and salsa from your fingertips.
This is why you’ll never have a flat stomach. Five minute abs workouts from tiktok were not enough and you sure as hell were not giving up gansitos. There were some in your freezer waiting alongside a pint of ben and jerry’s.
“You got birdseed,” you note, amused. He had been listening to you. A thrill of excitement bubbles up in your chest.
He nods, the motion small.
Your companion was not an expressive man.
“No fat pigeons,” he states neutrally.
You’re puzzled but shrug it off. “I’ve heard you can feed them oatmeal. But I’d probably double check that.”
Finishing your tiny chip back, you fold it up neatly into a square and pop it back into your tote bag until you can toss it into the trash. Your actual lunch was a cold tomato and fresh mozzarella pasta.
Nothing exciting.
You’d been at the office for practically a week, only going home to have a quick shower and pick up food. You were overtired. Food was fuel. You’d treat yourself tomorrow to breakfast at your favorite cafe.
You idly eat as people bike by.
It could use some more sauce.
Your melancolic acquaintance continues to feed the ducks, lost in his own thoughts.
You stab a grape tomato, deciding to make conversation because what was there to lose. “I didn’t catch your name last time.” Last time, ha. You were really going on like there would be a next time. What was the chance you’d see him again? There’d been students in your same major you’d never shared a class with.
The question hangs in the air.
You chew the tomato, the juice spilling out into your mouth. It was tart.
You didn’t think he’d reply and were already considering fleeing. You could finish eating at your desk.
“Morpheus.”
“Morpheus,” you repeat so you don’t forget, “like the Greek god of sleep?” At least, you think he was the Greek god of sleep. It had been a while, he might have been a mythic hero.
“Of dreams,” he pauses, turning to you, his clear eyes peering into yours intensely, “and sleep. Yes.”
It’s only polite to introduce yourself properly now. You wipe the corners of your mouth clean and reply, “Nice to meet you Morpheus,” feeling silly and giddy (flip flopping between the two similar states) as you give him your name.
Blandly he states, “We have met before.” But with his attention on you, you catch the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. The corners of his small mouth twitch in the ghost of a smile.
“All the same,” you beam at Morpheus, and finish your long lunch in quiet companionship.
*****
When you’re exhausted, you don’t even dream. Depending on whatever game you are working on, there’s weeks when you’re so mentally drained that you don’t even get under the covers before you’re out like a light.
You’re pretty sure this is a dream. Your mind rested enough to dream.
It’s usually in the middle of the dream, in the middle of the scenery changing from a party in your grandmother’s house where a bird offers you a peach to you sitting on a trampoline that you remember from summer days at your childhood friend’s house before the trampoline broke and sent you both to the ER where you only had scratches only your friend isn’t there but a programer from your internship and hey maybe this was sign from your subconsciousness that you should text her-
You let out a breath.
The sky turns pink.
Yup, this was a dream.
You lean into it, letting it happen around you, letting your mind wander as the trampoline bounces lightly with Nina’s movements. It jolts your body, your brain swings around in your skull pleasantly like being in those massage chairs.
A breeze runs over your cheeks.
You look at the blue of the trampoline border. Blue like the waters in instagram pictures. Blue-
The black trampoline washes away into dark waves and your favorite aunt lays in an innertube sipping on a cocktail, “I’m really glad we came to Hawai’i.”
“Me too. Though I’m still waiting to see a mermaid.”
“It’s great. I’m glad Lady Gaga approved the highway from San Diego to Hawai’i.”
“And we got to see those sea dragons!”
“Exactly!”
You feel something by your leg and stick your head underwater. The water is so clear, you can see everything around you, including the dolphins swimming around you, leading you somewhere. Minecraft dolphins. You grab onto it’s fin, wondering where they want to lead you. Atlantis? Too see a mermaid.
From under the water you tell your aunt, “I’ll be right back!”
“Yeah-”
And your alarm goes off. Your dream rapidly fades as you wipe the sleep from your eyes and blindly grasp around your nightstand for your phone. “Shut up!” The alarm was so annoying. Shrill ringing in your ears when all you wanted to do was go back to sleep.
You send Nina a heart emoji on discord, followed by let’s grab some shaved ice.
Then, you flop back on your bed and doom scroll for a few minutes before you have to sign in on Slack.
*****
It becomes a habit.
Even as the weather takes a turn as fall sets in, you try and make it out to the park once a week, and without fail Morpheus is there. He’s not always feeding the ducks. But he’s always there and always leaves without saying a word.
You’re not offended when he barely acknowledges your wave as you sit down next to him. That was just what he was like. Morpheus suffered from perpetual resting bitch face because of his pouty mouth. You’d yet to see him smile.
It didn’t matter. You liked his presence. You enjoyed having company as you got fresh air.
He listened but rarely had much of a reply.
“It’s nice to go into the office and touch base with the other writers,” you muse, sipping at your drink, “make sure everything is coherent and I guess it helps to talk to people who are also living with this whole world in their head. It helps. The entire story’s been fleshed out by James, our lead.” You let the words hang in the air. Working from home was nice too. It lets you wake up at noon and crawl down the rabbit hole of your own imagination until three in the morning.
Morpheus’ tilts towards you as he continues to watch the wind sweep through the trees. A trio of teenage girls had brought an entire charcuterie board and flowers for their park day.
“Not to mention James does have to sign off on my work. I’m still pretty low on the totem pole.” This was your first full time gig out of school. Not an internship with terrible pay and long hours or freelance, but an honest to god full time job with benefits and pay that meant you could finally rent your own studio apartment. “Do you game?”
“No.”
You glance at him in profile. He remained as pale as the first time you’d seen him, but the gauntness in his cheeks had receded. There’s lines under his eyes that led you to believe he was closer to forty than your late twenties, closing in on the big 30. The Cut loved to post how everything changed at thirty.
“It’s fun. I didn’t really get into them until high school but that was only because my parents bought into the whole video games cause violence schtick but like, I wanted to play pokemon not Call of Duty, at least when I was nine.” You smile, thinking back on fond memories, “then I started going over to Michael’s house after school and we’d play Zelda and Fallout. His parents were complete nerds who knew Klingon so they were cool about us playing whatever they were also playing.” Your parents would not have approved of Left 4 Dead.
“I will take your word for it,” Morpheus tells you, sitting back against the bench.
You sip your tea. It’s still warm enough that the ice is melting away, watering down the taro flavor. “Or you could come over sometime and play Stardew Valley?” You pick a tree and stare at it. You were nervous about his reaction. But it had been weeks. At some point you had to make plans and grab a burger or a drink. That’s just what friends did and if you left it up to Morpheus it would probably take a year. That’s all. It had nothing to do with how your heart sped up the moment you spotted his familiar head of hair in the park. It had nothing to do with the anticipation that had you smiling like a fool on Wednesdays when you routinely went to the park.
He doesn’t respond, his expression dour.
After a beat of silence, you find it within yourself to look at him.
Morpheus meets your searching gaze with his own. You could see the emotions playing out in his blue eyes, but you could not read them. Like the eyes of a bird of prey, you could see the intelligence, the life and consciousness within, but lacked the ability to understand them the way you could read other people.
The corners of his mouth lift, his smile a precious thing you couldn’t turn away if you wanted to. “Perhaps,” he allows. “Once the image of an avenging Mina Harker fills the minds of dreamers around the world.”
Smiling softly you reply, “Only if it’s successful.” You could never be sure with indie games.
“It will be,” Morpheus states.
“I try not to focus too hard on what happens after it’s released and out of my hands. What will be will be.”
He nods.
You finish your tea.
It was a lovely day. The August sun was not so harsh after four. There were less people as families planned for a return to school. The tourists stopped visiting the Northwest in droves.
And maybe Morpheus would come over.
That was more than you’d had yesterday.
You could even show him the demo of-
You bite your lip, trying to think if you had let anything slip about Project: Dracul City. Developing games came with a strict gag order. Nothing could leak before it’s time, not the gameplay or plot or any of the concept art. Usually, you were pretty good about keeping quiet.
Surely you hadn’t told him.
And yet he’d known.
You frown.
“Do you wish to feed the ducks as well?”
His words break your line of thought. You hadn’t even noticed the crinkling sound of the paper bag as he opened the birdseed up.
“These ducks must be the most spoiled in all the public parks,” you muse, smiling at Morpheus before grabbing a handful of feed and tossing it lightly into the grass.
It was exciting to see the ducks and birds come over. The shyer animals waited to see if it was safe. They all had their own personalities.
You’re not bothered by his lack of response, the conversation stilling. You’d grown to like his taciturn ways. It gave what he did say more weight. He wore black like a uniform and over the course of the weeks in which you had been meeting up with him (undiscussed by either of you) he had become beautiful in your eyes. You wanted to run your fingers through his unkempt hair. You wanted to steal away his smiles for yourself: to know you could make such a dour man smile because he couldn’t help himself around you.
You reach for more birdseed only to find that Morpheus had left.
Figures.
*****
Unsuccessfully, you try to wipe away the number written on the cup of hot apple cider, otherwise known as the perfect fall drink as the leaves grew into vibrant array of reds and oranges with the change in seasons as the days grew cold.
The cashier had been nice, but you were only interested in one man.
The sharpie doesn’t budge at all.
You give up trying to get the sharpie off when you spot Morpheus. “Hey I got you a drink since it’s starting to get cold out.” It wasn’t coat season for you yet, but you’d started wearing a sweater while running all over town.
You hold out one of the cups, the one without the number scribbled on it.
His eyes widen, pink lips parting in surprise. But he makes no move to reach for the cup you’re offering.
“It’s apple cider,” you tack on, “warm you right up.”
He blinks.
You roll your eyes, “just take it and say thank you.”
It works. Morpheus nods, taking the cup from you, his fingers cool when they brush against your skin. “This was not necessary.”
“I know,” you say, plopping down next to him. “But I wanted to.”
“Thank you,” he inclines his head toward you. The sincerity in his voice is clear as a bell.
Heat blooms on your cheeks. “You're welcome.” Again, you smile at him as you take a sip of your cup, “I can’t wait until the street vendors start having roasted chestnuts.”
“You enjoy winter.”
“Yeah. Some of it,” you laugh, “The snow can get annoying at times but more and more I find myself taking the time to enjoy the little things. It’s not like I’m working towards getting into college, getting a degree or anything anymore. I’m just enjoying life, yeah?” You flush. In your head it sounded wise, but out loud you just sounded naive.
“My sister shares your thoughts.”
You arch a brow, “you have a sister! Older or younger?”
With a slight smile, Morpheus answers, “older.” He must be fond of her.
“Well she’s right. It’s hard at first. I’d pick up flowers for myself and then think about what a waste of money they were but why not. I like having flowers. Or I’d make up excuses not to go out with my coworkers to stay in but if you do that enough times they’ll stop inviting you and you fall into a rut and that’s no way to live. And some people are so different outside of work.” The older you get, the easier being content becomes.
Stop and smell the roses indeed.
Then you ask him, deviating from your unspoken plans, “do you want to walk around?”
“If you wish to.”
“I do, but we don’t have to.”
Morpheus stands, and you take that for the answer that it is.
******
The grass tickles your calves as you wander through the meadow. The sun paints the sky in hues of orange as it sinks below the treeline.
It’s lucky it’s not raining.
On your first trip to this national park, it had rained the entire time. Not surprising. Rain was a constant companion in this city, but it was more than worth it when you got this lovely meadow all to yourself. Wildflowers were sprinkled throughout the grass.
You’d always wanted to come back, splurge on the fancy lodge instead of being in a tent and hoping the rain wouldn’t get through the plastic. Plans to come-
You blink, looking around slowly.
Was this a dream?
You try to string your thoughts together: trying to remember how you got here. It was fall. Not spring. It’s hard, your brain feels like it's sinking into a thick comforter, the way it always feels when you’re on the border of deep sleep.
Taking in the scenery, the solace, you let your train of thought dissolve and you give into the nonsensical logic of dreams, letting yourself fall back into deep sleep.
It’s lovely.
You sit down in the grass as the leaves take flight, butterflies in the air twirling in constellations before settling back down in the branches. These trees were unmatched by anything you’d seen before. It only made you wish to see more, go to more places.
“You are fond of the natural world.”
Turning, you find Morpheus sitting next to you. His long coat is no longer black but a starry night. Stars twinkle in the depth of the fabric as you take him in with wide eyes.
“Morpheus,” you’re delighted to see him.
And because this is a dream, you don’t hesitate to reach out, crossing boundaries without a thought, you brush your fingers over his shoulder, half expecting your hand to go right through and slide into an abyss of night. That doesn’t happen.
Sheepishly, you meet his gaze.
His eyes are black unfathomless pits with a sole pinprick of light for a pupil. At this, you draw back.
Morpheus says nothing, regarding you carefully.
You blink.
And when you can bear to meet his waiting gaze again, his eyes are clear as ever. It must have been a trick of the light.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you note lamely. The national park wasn’t exactly close.
“I have business to contend with,” Morpheus replies, which leaves you with more questions than answers. You didn’t even know what he did for work. “We will not be able to meet in the Waking world for some time.”
“Oh,” you answer, crushed. It was ridiculous to feel so intensely about someone who was the equivalent of a classroom friend. You didn’t even have his number. Lin, your coworker, would call that a red flag.
His words sink in and, “the waking world?” Now you’re just confused.
His brow furrows with concern. “We are in The Dreaming.”
“I don’t understand.”
Morpheus frowns. “This a dream, your dream.” The sky goes periwinkle as snow starts falling. “And I am King of Dreams, Ruler of the Nightmare Realms.”
“Oh,” you go, “should I bow or something?”
Your words elicit a rare smile from the dour man.
It made your smile grow, to know that you had made him smile.
“There is no need,” the small smile stays on his pink lips.
“No off with her head” you joke, accepting dream logic and not questioning it as you quote the Queen of Hearts.
Morpheus frowns. “I would not be so crude.”
“Oh so I should be worried,” you wiggle your brows.
“Not of me.” He utters softly, his eyes become glassy. “Not while you are under my protection.” Morpheus reaches for you. The back of his hand ghosts over your cheek.
You lean into his touch without a thought.
You meet his gaze unabashed.
He blinks slowly, peering at you through dark lashes. There was a sedate romance to him that the Brontë sisters could only dream of.
“I cannot stay,” he confesses with remorse.
“You did say you had stuff to do.”
“I do.”
His hand is soft against your cheek. Neither of you move, resting in the moment, holding the pause for as long as possible.
Morpheus draws away, standing. Snow falls around you but the temperature remains pleasant. Snowflakes fall on your arms and do not melt.
You stand.
It’s the awkward point where you’re waiting for him to leave but don’t want him to leave and he’s dragging it out too. You’ve been through this plenty of times on friends' doorsteps as you chat and say goodbye and wait.
He stuffs his hands in his coat. It touches the ground, melting away the snow around the hem with its soft red flames, more ember than anything.
Morpheus makes no move to leave.
You wait, taking in the sight of him. Snowflakes fall in his unbrushed hair.
“Here,” Morpheus draws something from his pocket.
“Oh.”
He drops it in your outstretched palm without ceremony. Morpheus looks away as you study the object.
It’s a necklace. The chain is simple gold. It’s the pendant that catches your eye.
Encased in glass are grains of sand. They swirl inside the glass on their own.
“Thank you,” you look over at him.
Morpheus nods slightly. “It allows you to enter The Dreaming at will.”
“A standing invitation then,” you wink.
“Yes.” He has a talent for filling words with a weight beyond their common vernacular. Morpheus’ gaze is heavy on you.
You can’t parse out why this is so important, but it obviously is for him.
You unlock the clasp, wrapping the chain around your neck. With your fingertips, you try to lock it. The clasp is impossible when you cannot see it.
The hairs at your nape get in the way.
“Allow me.” Morphues closes the distance between you.
“Yeah, that would be great.”
He takes the chain from you, his fingers brushing against the back of your neck. He works swiftly, making quick work of it.
The pendant hangs in the middle of your chest.
Your heartbeat is hummingbird quick.
Morpheus’s breath tickles your nape.
You don’t dare move, fearing this is all a dream that will end if you do anything.
“I shall be expecting you.”
“I’ll be sure not to disappoint. Though it’s about to be crunch time and I’m not looking forward to-”
His actions cut you off.
Morpheus leans forward, his lips brushing against your neck chastely.
You draw in a breath.
The moment is over in the blink of an eye.
Something witty, sure to ruin the moment, is on the tip of your tongue as you turn, looking over your shoulder. But he’s gone.
****
The sand continues to swirl, defying gravity inside the pendant, when you wake.
You play with it as you scroll through files, read through work emails, and desperately try to recall the details of your dream.
You’ve never been more excited to sleep in your life.
#morpheus x reader#morpheus x you#morpheus x y/n#dream of the endless x reader#the sandman#an understanding#lmao i love miscommunication as a trope#to morpheus: he explained what he is perfectly#meanwhile readers like: idk whats going on but im into it#unedited as usual
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Dreamling - Comfort given freely - 691w
Dream has a hard time accepting all the succor he had received from Hob since his return in 2020.
▾▾▾
"Why?” Dream asks.
“I knew you needed it” Hob smiles at him “and I could give it, so what’s the harm in that?”
Dream averts his eyes, pride and hurt fighting inside of him. He does not wish to be so, he wishes not to be depended on anyone’s pity, on anyone’s scrapes of empathy— but oh stars, how he does need it, how much the empty spaces of the fabric of his soul crave it, want it.
He cannot face this man, cannot look him in the eyes and let him know that he had won. Won where others did not. Many had gained his affections, some had gained his love, but Hob....Hob had won his trust. He had won his trust and he had won him over.
He has the power over him, one of the Endless.
Something that should not be, shouldn't have happened.
“Morpheus?” Hob asks, a short silence, and closer “Dream” he says, gentle, gentle as if talking to a wounded thing, a hurt thing.
Is there no end to this man’s pity?
Dream’s insides twists, for he knows that Hob is honest, and that Hob is true. He knows that he means it, means this care of his. Dream wonders if he should leave, if he was mistaken for questioning it. Perhaps he should accept it, allow his pride some rest. And yet—
“I love you.” Hob says.
Dream looks up, sharp, alert.
“What?” he says, though he had heard him quite well.
“I love you.” Hob says with a shrug, kind eyes looking sad “You don’t need to think so hard about it, there’s nothing to it other than that, I love you, I love you and I’d do anything for you” Hob finds his eyes, and smiles again, there's a deeply rooted fondness in that look.
For a moment, Dream's shadow distorts, the lights in the room flickering. He notices that as he notices the heat in his chest, at his neck, on his face. This body of his, this image he presents to the world, should not do things he does not choose to show.
Words that are his to command, that come so easily to him at most days, are lost to him now as he opens his mouth and no sound comes out in response to Hob's confession.
Love. He knows love. Bright and passionate, strong and wild, worlds consumed, galaxies worth of feelings— love is not this, not the calm patience of a friend, not the endless devotion, not the... soothing safety he feels in Hob's presence.
“You confuse.” Dream answers at last.
“No I don’t” Hob’s light reply comes without a hint of argument.
“Hob Gadling, you—”
“—love you?” Hob completes, this time smiling.
Annoyance ignites whitin Dream, the heat on his face deepening.
“Do not mock me.” he starts, voice raising a fraction, deepening a bit. He will not allow this. He will not stand here as a mere human makes mockery of—
“Dream, I don’t.” Hob reaches a hand— hesitates only a second— and takes a hold of Dream’s tense hand. “It’s okay if you don’t, I don’t expect you to, but this..” he presses their joint hands across his own chest “...is how I feel. I’d do crazier things for you than just care for you, " he stops as if he swallowed one last word, looking mildly bashful but with an unashamed smile on his lips. “tis just how it is” he says and squeezes Dream’s hand firmer against his chest.
Dream can feel the quick rhythm of his heart, can feel the roughness of his hand, can sense the human warmth of him— he can feel his love.
"I...understand." he says, and this is not true, he does not.
He does not understand this form of love. Does not know how to experience nor how to express it. Yet he finds himself wishing for it. Finds himself wanting not for the scorching heat of a dying star but for the soothing tranquility of a spring lake. Something calm, something without waves to drown him under. Something...safe.
Something that might just be Hob Gadling.
#I found this thing from back in november‚ to the most part I left it unedited however I did add a bit to it :)#Dream's type of love is very... hectic. He had great and full of turmoil romances. Makes sense he'd miss out a different type.#Dreamling#Dreamling fic#The sandman#dream of the endless#hob gadling#dream#hob#buns.w#buns.all#I need to be asleep actually lmao so I don't have time for a final re-read hope y'all feel the softness though~ Hob's unconditional love!
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drives me nuts when people treat jin guangyao or wei wuxian like they're socialist revolutionaries like no! they're not!! in fact their respective roles in society and complacency regarding its hierarchies is why ANY of the story even happens to begin with!!!
jin guangyao doesn't hold bitterness just because he was born lower class. he is bitter because others deride him and his prostitute mother in spite of both their intelligence, skills, and efforts to climb the ladder.
why do you think we were shown scenes of other prostitutes in the brothel deriding meng shi for being literate, for "trying" so hard? why do you think we were shown scenes of anxin taunting meng yao and throwing shit at him because he was trying to learn cultivation at his mother's behest?
why do you think jin guangyao arranged for the arson of that brothel, burned to the ground with everyone except sisi inside? that's not the behavior of someone who believes in true equality and the inherent worth of sex workers as human beings!
that's the behavior of someone who thinks he's better than them. the behavior of a man who already came up on top through political games and war crimes, backstabbing and spying for the sake of the "greater good".
i won't rehash his argument to nie mingjue that he didn't have a choice-- he had some choice, but no matter what he does his class will come up and people will always assume the worst and try to hurt him for it, which forces his hand to do whatever will protect him best (hence 'no choice').
jin guangyao did everything he could to secure his own safety and a place among those already higher up. and by that point, he'd won it.
the fact that the temple rebuilt on the brothel site is to guanyin, the goddess of mercy, is even more ironic! the fact that jin guangyao has the goddess's statue carved to look like his own mother is proof that he viewed both her and himself as higher than them. more worthy than them.
of course he cared about the general welfare of others (read: the watchtowers). but consider also that there is no watchtower near yi city, which ended up being one of xue yang's playgrounds. jin guangyao can and will turn a blind eye to certain sufferings if it is convenient to him.
sure, jin guangyao made undeniable contributions to cultivation society and accessibility, but he is not at any point trying to topple existing class structures. his adherence to them is in fact integral to his own downfall in the end.
it brings with it the inevitability of society conveniently ignoring his triumphs and genuine moments of humanity to deride him once more as an evil, disgusting son of a whore once his crimes come to light.
now for wei wuxian. he's the righteous protagonist of the story and he doesn't give a fuck what society thinks, yes, but he wasn't out there trying to cause an uprising so that all the poor servant classes and lower could become cultivators. he wasn't trying to redistribute wealth or insinuate that those who are lower deserve to be viewed as equal to the gentry.
the most critical and non-explicitly stated fact of mo dao zu shi is that wei wuxian has always been resigned to his position in the social hierarchy.
his unreliable narration, especially regarding his own past and thoughts, is so damn important. he doesn't EVER tell the reader directly that people treated him any which way at their leisure because of his parents' differing social classes.
no. instead we are shown how much prestige he is afforded as cangse-sanren's son-- reputation as a talented and charming young cultivator, made head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang-- and how little respect he is given in the same breath, as the son of servant wei changze.
the way he is treated by others is as fickle as the wind. if he obeys and does as told, there is no reward. of course he did that, that was the expectation to start with! if he does anything even slightly inconvenient, there is a punishment. of course he has no manners, what else would you expect from an ungrateful son of a servant?
wei wuxian's righteousness is not a matter of adhering to principles he was explicitly taught, the way nie mingjue values honor or the way jiang cheng always tries to prove himself. wei wuxian does the right thing regardless of what the consequences are to him because his good deeds are always downplayed and his bad deeds are always singled out, no matter who or how many people were doing it with him.
he has faced this double standard since childhood. there are points in the novel where it's clear that this sticks out to wei wuxian, but does he ever fight back against that view of himself? does he EVER, at any point in the story, explain his actions and choices to jianghu society and try to debate or appeal to their sense of reason?
no. because he knows, at his very core, that any explicit deviation from their interests whatsoever will be punished.
slaughtering thousands of people is fine when they want him to do it, and when the alternative is unjust torture, re-education camps, and encroachment upon other sects' lands.
slaughtering thousands of people who are trying to paint him as evil for not going along with their genocidal plans, however, is punished.
wei wuxian knows his acceptance among the higher classes is superficial and unsteady. from the age of 10, when jiang fengmian took him in, he knew subconsciously that he could be kicked out at any time.
he knows that cultivation society doesn't care about war crimes and concentration camps and mistreatment of the remaining wen survivors of the sunshot campaign. but the right thing to do now that they aren't at wartime is to help them, plus they'd punish him either way for it, so he will.
in this regard wei wuxian is more self-aware of his position than jin guangyao. he does care about common people and he does try his best to help them as an individual. even if that ends up with him disabled, arrested, targeted in sieges, or dead.
but is he revolutionary? in the full equality, fight the establishment, rewrite laws, change social structures and people's perceptions of class sense?
no. no. he isn't.
now my knowledge of chinese society and history is fairly limited to my hindu diaspora upbringing and our shared cultural similarities ... but speaking to what i absolutely know us true, adherence to one's social class is expected.
this is rigid. efforts and merits might bring you some level of mobility, but in the end, the circumstances of your birth will always be scrutinized first, and your behavior compared to the stereotypes of where and how you originate.
mdzs is not about revolution, and none of its characters are able to truly change its society. there is no grand "maybe cutsleeves aren't inherently bad" or "i'm sorry for persecuting you and believing hearsay, you were truly a good person all along!" at the finale.
people ignore history and repeat it again with the next batch of ugly gossip and rumors.
wei wuxian, lan wangji, and luo qingyang find peace only by distancing themselves from cultivation society and its opinions.
jin guangyao and wei wuxian both cannot ever escape from others' perception of their origins and actions. regardless of their personal beliefs, they are not revolutionaries.
#keri chats#mdzs#mo dao zu shi#long post#mdzs spoilers#wei wuxian#jin guangyao#mdzs meta#the untamed#cql#i know it's funny or fanon to call them commies but it's so deeply fucking important to me that ppl understand they CANONICALLY are NOT#AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH#this is messy and unedited and rather surface level but again if you read this post i love you lmao#wwx did the right thing in the xuanwu cave by helping mianmian and fighting back against wen chao BUT he was punished for it#through wang lingjiao's visit insisting he be whipped for it + the fall of lotus pier#like if wwx'll be punished either way ofc he'll do the righteous thing. but he is undeniably resigned to the fact that they won't change#wwx doesnt TRY to change THEM. he just does what he wants & believes is right himself#big difference & while jgy is often easy to clear up i still see so many people say that wwx is different and im like. YES but also GOD NO
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CHA JOO WAN and LEE TAE VIN
WINK China 01.03.24
#the pink and blue sweaters feel so aggressive compared to the white and black fits lmao#unedited by op#cha joo wan#cha joowan#lee tae vin#lee taevin#love for love's sake#cast#korean actors#bl fashion irl#im a sucker for an all black fit#black and silver#blmpff
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happy new year's eve @luminousbeings-crudematter, here's another version of the purge au (4k) that i forgot i finished in the process of trying to get the first one done lol
(also when i said "it's essentially the same thing but with different smut" i meant... no smut. i didn't post this one bc i couldn't figure out what to do with the smut. but this has some kidnapping and overall rough creepiness!)
cw: noncon touching, kidnapping, graphic murder, blood & violence, unedited bc im lazy
The soles of your feet burn against the hot asphalt, even though the sun’s been set for hours. The flames roaring from the burning high school alongside you are enough to heat the ground, enough to leave you wincing with every step and trying your best to walk on your toes.
You’re not sure if the wetness on your cheeks is tears or blood, or some sick combination of both. You’d wipe it off to see, but your hands are covered in red, and you don’t want to smear it across your face.
It’s impossible not to flinch at the sudden sound of cackling laughter, some indeterminate distance away but clear as a bell. The laugh cuts off abruptly, followed by a high-pitched scream that makes you wince. You speed up as much as you can, breath shuddering in your chest. You feel a few tears slip down your cheeks, just adding to the tacky mixture already covering your face.
The street is crowded with Purgers, people wearing all sorts of different gear to make themselves seem as terrifying as possible. You’d feel lacking in your black pants and shirt, if you wanted any attention like them. Instead you pray that whoever’s looking for fun won’t focus on you, that you’ll disappear with so many other distractions out tonight.
The sound of a chainsaw revving makes you shudder, and you tuck your arms close to your chest.
You can’t believe you were stupid enough to come out on Purge night, but there’s no use dwelling on that now, not when you’re still blocks away from home with absolutely no way to defend yourself.
You should’ve known your friend - your now very dead friend - didn’t have good intentions. She’d invited you out with her to vandalize your most recent ex’s house, and like an idiot you’d agreed and walked yourself right into a trap. Your only defense is that you’d had a few drinks before leaving your perfectly safe apartment, in hopes of forgetting all the screams you’d hear outside. It’s the only reason you can think that you were so quick to agree when you’ve got absolutely no way of defending yourself.
Her blood is still wet on your hands. You don’t feel bad about her death, and that makes you feel sick. You’d never thought you’d be the kind of person to actually partake in the Purge, let alone kill during it, but here you are - stumbling home covered in blood with two deaths on your hands. The fact that it was self-defense isn’t nearly as much of a comfort as you need to make your heart beat less erratically, to make the blood stop burning against your skin.
The quick flashes of their deaths won’t stop playing on repeat in your mind - you would’ve died if you’d been any less lucky, and you doubt your piece of shit ex would have made it quick.
If you hadn’t caught them together - your friend fucking him in the bed you used to sleep in, that fucking bitch - you might not have had the anger necessary to kill them. Might not have had the rage, the energy, to stab them both until they stopped screaming.
Your arms already ache from the force you’d used. You can’t stop seeing your friend’s face, torn to shreds beneath you, blood splattering up onto your own face and neck while your ex’s corpse cooled beside you. You’re not sure if you’re hearing her screams still, or if someone nearby is suffering just like she had.
The only thing you can bring yourself to regret is leaving behind the knife. It would come in handy now, as you walk alone down one of the poorest neighborhoods in your city.
It would come in especially handy as a hand grabs your shoulder, yanking you to the side and into an alleyway, shoving you against rough bricks and ignoring your yelp.
“Well, well, look’it you…” the man drawls, his face hidden by a bright red skull and a black hood covering the rest of his head. “Wha’s a bonnie lass like you doin’ out tonight, all alone?”
You can’t speak, heart thudding painfully at your ribcage as you blink up at him. He’s all you can see, just a bright red skull floating in place.
“Please,” you manage to gasp, hands shakily raised in front of your chest.
“Please? Please what?” His words are sharp, almost bitten off, and he leans closer. “Haven’t even threatened ye yet, pretty thing. What’re you beggin’ for?”
You whimper as he leans closer, hardly inches away from your face, and a loud boom from somewhere nearby shakes the wall at your back. You still can’t tell if it’s blood or tears dripping down your face. You jump at the sound, and your chest hits his. Before you can move back, his hands are on your shoulders, keeping you pressed to him.
“Oh, did that scare you?” He coos, patronizing and mean. “You a little scaredy cat, all alone and afraid?”
You sob, hands pushing at his chest, and he makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a laugh, pushes you against the wall without pulling even an inch away.
“No, no, you’re not goin’ anywhere. ‘S not safe out there for you, kitty. It was so easy to grab you, you want someone else to get a hold of you? They won’t be as nice as me, I can tell you that.”
“Get- get off!”
He laughs, loud and rough, right in your face. “Oh, I’ll be gettin’ off, kitty. Might take some teamwork, huh? A good way to get to know my new friend-”
He cuts himself off with a sharp Oh! as your knee jerks up into his crotch, the man doubling over in pain and groaning as his head comes to rest against the wall by your face. You barely have enough sense left in you to duck out of his way before his body goes limp against the wall, hand cupping your target.
“Fuckin’ bitch,” you hear him hiss, right before you stumble away, legs weak as you put all your energy into not tripping over your own feet. Your only thought is getting out of the alley, even though being more exposed is probably riskier than just taking your chances with the man in the red skull. Still, there’s some instinct at the back of your mind telling you go, run, and you’re not stupid enough to ignore it.
You hardly make it five steps away before you hit a wall - no, not a wall, a person.
It’s almost comical, the way you bounce off of him and stumble backwards, losing your balance on weak knees and sending yourself straight to the ground. He’s a monolith above you, a massive figure clothed in all black, the light from the flames behind him almost making him glow. He’s all black cloth and white mask, a skull hovering well past six feet in the air.
The sight of him makes your heart stutter, brings everything into acute focus around you, slowing the world down to a near stop. That same instinct at the back of your mind tells you this man is worse than the last, that you should’ve taken your chances with the red skull.
You’re jerked back and to the side, shoved roughly against the brick wall. Your face scrunches up at the rough texture against your cheek, your torso flush against the wall and the first man flush against your back. You manage to open one eye and track the new man, your other forced shut from the way your head is angled.
The white skull tilts, and its wearer steps closer. You can’t help the small cry you let out, the way you flinch back into the first man like he’ll do anything but expose you more. His hands are rough on you, one hand locked around the back of your neck and the other harsh on your hip.
The body behind you laughs, push further into the wall regardless of the stinging pain as the white skull steps closer. He stops hardly a foot away, when your vision is eclipsed by only him. You try to struggle against the hands holding you, whimpering when they dig in more harshly.
“You got her?” A voice asks, and it takes a minute for you to realize it’s the new man in front of you.
“Yeah,” the first man pants, holding you close and alleviating some of the pressure against your cheek. “Woulda caught her without you, y’know. She just caught me off guard.”
The white skull rumbles low in his chest, a rejection. You’re not sure if he’s got faith in your ability to escape, or doesn’t trust his partner’s ability to chase. He’s close enough that you can only see the black of his chest, close enough that you can watch him breathe.
“I’m sure. You got a good hold on her?”
The hands squeeze, you can’t help but make a sound disturbingly close to a squeal, and- “Yeah, course, got her tight to me, Ghost. She’s not goin’ anywhere.” There’s an air of desperation in Red’s voice, a strained tension underlying every word. He’s almost eager, but it’s all directed towards the man in front of you - Ghost - instead of towards the prospect of hurting you.
Ghost doesn’t respond, but he steps close enough to press his chest against your shoulder. The three of you are all less than a foot apart, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to get away. Another tear slips down your cheek.
You can feel Red’s chest heaving behind you, and at first you can’t understand why - he hasn’t had to chase you, hasn’t had to fight, there’s no reason for him to be out of breath.
It hits you when you feel the hard plastic of his mask press into the top of your head. He’s eager, and it’s making him pant like a dog. You’d bet he’s drooling behind the mask and the thought makes you shiver.
You flinch when a gloved hand cups your chin, tugging your face up so you’re staring into the eye sockets of the mask.
His eyes are dark brown, so dark that you almost can’t see them past the shadows and the paint over his skin. The flames roar behind him, giving him a monstrous glow.
“Pretty thing,” he hums, chest rumbling against your side. You try to push away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. “You’re gonna be our little toy for the night. Things’ll get worse for you if you try to run. You hearin’ me?”
It’s pure instinct to nod, to give this man what he wants, but you know you’ll still try to run the second they look away.
“Alright then. Let’s get you home. Johnny,” the man steps away, jerking his head in clear instruction for Johnny to follow and turning away. “Come.”
“Right behind ye,” Red - Johnny - assures, that same eagerness in his tone as he tugs you away from the wall, trotting behind his partner. “It’s gonna be a great night, lass. You and I are gonna have fun.”
You can’t help but whimper at that, letting your body go nearly limp as the man drags you by the elbow. You can’t even fathom the horrors they’ve got in store for you, what fun is to two men hunting for lone girls on Purge night.
You try to let your feet drag, but they hurt too much for that to last long. You consider going limp, making them carry you, but you’re too scared that they’ll just drag you across the concrete and let you bleed.
You only manage to keep up with Johnny because he doesn’t give you another choice. You’re practically hobbling from the pain in your feet, forced to walk on the balls of your feet and lean your weight into his hand where it’s wrapped tight around your arm. He doesn’t give you any slack, doesn’t even seem to notice when you struggle to match his pace.
The three of you have walked several blocks - you can’t quite focus enough to count - keeping to the sides of buildings and dodging other people, when you’re tackled to the ground out of nowhere.
It’s impossible to stop the blood-curdling shriek from leaving your throat. Your bare arms feel torn to shreds as you slide across the ground, head bouncing off the ground and leaving you with black spots dancing across your vision.
You’re hardly able to blink, body alight with pain, and the heavy weight over you only serves to make your panic worse. You moan as you roll your neck, staring wide-eyed up at the dark sky and praying the ringing in your ears isn’t permanent.
Your vision is just starting to clear when the man on top of you - and he’s definitely a man, he’s not even wearing a mask and his expression is mean and you find yourself glad you can’t hear what he’s saying - jerks back, his head pulled back until all you can see is his bared throat.
You can hardly even register what’s happening in the next few seconds. Some distant, detached part of you can recognize that someone slits the man’s throat, that his blood comes gushing out and covers your face.
The first sound you can hear again is your own screaming - it’s an ear splitting sound that melts from the ringing in your ears. When you gasp underneath the man, the corpse, you can feel his blood falling into your mouth. Every breath tastes like iron, and the world is tinted pink from the drops of it falling from your brows.
You can do nothing but pant and shake when the corpse is thrown off of you, replaced immediately by Johnny. You can hardly focus on him, are only really aware enough to know he’s there.
“Hush, bonnie, yer fine,” he scolds, one big hand coming up to cover your mouth, pinky and ring finger holding your jaw shut. “Wanna draw people over? Ye wanna see me and Ghost kill someone else for you, ‘s that it?”
You shake your head on instinct, tears running down your temples, dampening your hair. Your chest aches with the force of your breaths, nose congested from all the crying.
“Then hush,” he hisses, face so close that you can feel the breaths from his nostrils. You flinch at the loud sound of gunshots disturbingly nearby, desperately pushing against his body to try and see what’s going on. You can hear grunts and moans, the sound of something heavy hitting the ground, and your heart races.
Then, the sounds stop. It doesn’t go silent - not with other Purgers still out, still killing - but the area you’re trapped in is quiet again. Johnny drops a little more of his weight onto you, making it even harder to breathe.
You have to focus on every breath, deliberately making sure you get enough air so that your lungs stop aching. You only notice the movement on top of you after nearly a minute of slow breathing.
Johnny’s hips grind slow and steady against your stomach, and it makes you sick to realize you can feel his erection through his pants. His chest rises and falls with harsh breaths, and his movements are just harsh enough to force your body to move with his.
There’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Not with shock settling in, his weight holding you pinned to the ground, and the pain in your head shifting to something closer to a migraine. All you can do is focus on your breathing and stare up at the stars.
“Johnny,” Ghost eventually calls, and you can hear him kick what you can only assume to be a corpse out of the way. You can’t help but whimper when he crouches nearby, his boots splattered with blood. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Need-” Johnny gasps, hips stuttering against you before working even more quickly. “Needed to feel her, fuck, Ghost, she’s so fuckin’ soft. Can’t wait to be inside, to fuck her full, feel her squeeze-”
You whine against the hand over your mouth, trying to pull your face away from his grip and only succeeding in dragging your sensitive head across the harsh concrete.
“You’re gonna fuck her out here, where anyone can see? Doubt you’ll be able to keep her safe when you’re pussydrunk.”
Johnny moans above you, dropping more of his weight on each thrust. “Tha’s why you’re here, yeah? To keep me and the lass safe?”
Ghost grunts, fisting a hand in the strip of hair left revealed by Johnny’s mask. “Don’t be a fuckin’ brat, Johnny. You know I don’t have to do shit for you - either of you. Maybe I want to see my mutt get all defensive, growlin’ over his girl. You ever think about that?”
The whine that slips from Johnny’s throat is nothing less than pathetic, his pace becoming uneven as his eyes screw shut behind the mask. “C’mon, Ghost, I’m close, just let me… just watch for another minute, yeah?”
The scoff from Ghost is mean, and even you feel the absurd desire to try and placate the man. He stands abruptly, stepping away from where you’re pinned and leaving you staring at the cooling corpse of a man you don’t recognize.
“You do whatever you want, puppy. Stay here and get yourself off or behave and heel. You know what you’ll get either way.”
You can’t help but furrow your eyebrows as Johnny hisses out shit above you, hips working desperately against you for a few long moments before he drops his entire body weight onto you, knocking the air out of you.
“Okay,” he whispers, seemingly to himself. “Okay, alright, it’s fine. It’s fine.”
He pulls himself away from you with a long oan, pushing up until there’s no place the two of you are touching but you’re still entirely caged in by him. He takes his hand off your mouth to hold himself up and you wince at the string of blood between his hand and your lips.
“Not gonna fuck ye yet, kitty,” he tells you, staring into your eyes with an intensity you don’t quite know what to do with. “Ghost’ll make the both of us regret it, and ye don’t deserve that on your first night home.”
You hardly manage to bite back a whimper. “Please…”
His eyes crease, like he’s smiling beneath the mask. “God, yer so scared, aren’t ye? I can fucking taste it in the air, kitty. It’s delicious. Cannae fuckin’ wait to have you on my tongue.” You shudder, eyes dropping to his neck when his gaze becomes too heavy.
He forces you to stand before you’re ready, leaving you to lean on him if only to avoid crumbling to the ground like a ragdoll. You ite your tongue against a sob at the sight of three corpses around you, a twisted sense of appreciation and disgust warring in your mind.
Johnny herds you like a dog, pushing you by the small of your back and your shoulders as he tries to catch back up with his partner. You’re left stumbling in front of him, unsure and terrified, not quite strong enough to think running away would be a good idea. It doesn’t take long for you to spot Ghost’s large back on the street in front of you, and a part of you resents the fact that he’s already so recognizable.
He’s an overeager shadow, unable to decide if he wants to tug you forward or chase you from behind. He ends up almost circling you, shifting from your back to your side to your front and back again, always moving, always rushing. It leaves you unstable and nervous, unable to predict what he'll do next.
Chills run down your spine at the thought of this man… taking you. If you’re this terrified of him fully clothed, you’re loath to think of how you’ll react when he gets you where he wants you.
The two of you only manage to catch up to Ghost because he stops for a cigarette. His pale jaw is exposed when he tugs the mask up enough, and you try your best to memorize the scars covering his face, telling yourself that you’ll remember him, that you’ll never let him near you again once this night is over.
The look he sends Johnny is approving, the look he sends you is distinctly smug. It makes your teeth grind, makes you really wish you still had that knife so you could lurch forward, thrust the blade into the solid center of him and twist, pull out again and aim a little higher, then again, then again, then again-
“Made your choice, then?”
“Yes, sir. Wanna be good.”
Ghost hums, flicking the butt of his cig then dropping it to the ground, the cherry still glowing. “Settin’ a good example for your girl, huh? That’s my boy.”
The sound Johnny makes is animalistic, and despite the harsh grip he’s got on your arm you try to lean as far away as possible. There’s a building energy under his skin, a twitch in his fingers, that unnerves the animal part of your brain in ways Ghost doesn’t.
“‘Course. Gonna teach her how to be good, too, gonna keep her perfect for us.”
Ghost is completely stoic with the mask tugged back over his face, nothing but his heavy gaze as he stares you down. It’s hard not to jerk away from Johnny and run, no matter how futile you know the effort would be.
He reaches out a big, gloved hand towards your face, moving quickly enough that you can’t fully flinch away and hide your face in your shoulder or chest. His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, smearing the sticky mess of liquid across your face and huffing a sound just loud enough for you to hear.
“Cat got your tongue, girl?” He rumbles, a faint note of something in his voice lost in the sounds of anarchy behind you.
You try to shake your head, unable to manage anything more than a, “Please.”
Johnny scoffs beside you, wrapping both of his massive arms around your shoulders and holding you close. “Broken record, this one. Hasn’t said much else since we nicked her.”
“That’s alright,” Ghost rumbles, give Johnny one firm stroke over his mohawk. “I’m sure you’ll drag all sorts of pretty sounds out of her tonight. Now, let’s get goin’. Don’t want your little toy gettin’ her nerve up and earnin’ herself a punishment so early in the night. Come, now.”
Johnny laughs, loud and harsh as he tugs you to follow him and Ghost. You know you should be upset about what he’s said, know he should be doing exactly what he warns against and try to get away.
But you’ve got no energy left to fight. Everything hurts, your system is overrun by fear and just the tiniest drop of adrenaline, and your best chance of making it through this night is passing out and forgetting any of it ever happened.
A few tears, stragglers, drip down your cheeks when Johnny tugs you beside him. The places his fingertips squeeze against your arm have gone numb, and your feet feel like they’re on fire. Your arms are sluggishly bleeding and you’re not convinced you don’t have a concussion.
It’s hard to hold back sobs when you think of how much worse it’s going to get. Staring at the broad back of Ghost, feeling the feral energy of Johnny hardly contained by your side, all you can hope is that they let you survive the night.
You close your eyes as Johnny guides you, take a deep, steadying breath, and pray for your own strength. You tell yourself that maybe next year you can seek them out, find them at the very start of the Purge and get your revenge.
It’s a comforting enough daydream to lessen the aches of your body, to shine a spot of light after the hurricane of your future.
#this might very well be incomprehensible#when i say unedited i mean i haven't read this since i originally gave up on it#i just remember liking the way i wrote johnny and being said i wouldnt get to post it LMAO#anyways. no one say anything mean about it to me if it sucks#remember that this is not the first version i posted lmao#ghoap x reader#bo writes#dark fic#also sorry for the random tag lumi lmk if you want me to untag you lol
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i feel like everyone and their mother has spoken about this before but james potter is 100% the biggest puppy bf i've ever witnessed in literature !! like bro has MAXIMUM puppy dog stats
he's the kind of bf to INSIST UPON carrying your textbooks/bags for you and escort you to your classes class,,, like he would literally REFUSE to not do either of them,,, he gets so worked up about it that it's actually kind of pathetic (in a cute way),,,
you wouldnt even be able to carry them for 5 mins in his presence before he's scooping them out of your arms ("james i quite obviously have two perfectly functioning hands just let me hold my books pls" and his completely serious response would be "but im your bf??? and my hands are also free rn??? it's literally my job to hold your books just stfu and let me")
continuing the escorting headcanon he always ends up having to sprint to off to try and make it to his own class in time BDAHBFDH as soon as you retreive your books and walk into the classroom you try to look back and thank him,,, but there's literally just a cartoonish cloud of smoke where he stood not even 5 seconds prior (he insists that it's a good warmup for his quiddich practice)
he's also the kinda bf to literally SHOVE himself in front of you to beat you to the door, just so he can open it, dramatically wave his hand, bow, and say something cringey like "for you, my lady/liege" (BARF THATS SO CUTE IM LITERALLY GOING TO THROW UP)
OMG ALSO HE'S JUST INSANELY OBSERVANT WHEN IT COMES TO YOU????? to the point where it would be considered creepy if it wasnt james,, yknow?? there was definitely a time where upon meeting you at the door of the potions class you just finished (yes he is flushed, out of breath and sweating,,, no, he isnt going to admit that he sprinted from his C.F.M.C class 5mins early to make sure he met you at the door in time) and he does a double take and looks genuinely concerned before saying "???? pookie??? what happened to your hair???? did you do something different?? it looks different from when i saw you this morning !! D:" queue you responding with "?? wtf? i cut off a singular strand of hair for one of the potions how the actual fuck did you notice that??"
he is so babygirl i love it
i swear im not even a james stan but i can't help but ramble abt his bbygirlness
hes such a puppy dog bf
he just has the biggest heart eyes for you bro ( -3-) follows you around like a lost puppyyyyy
you dont just have him wrapped around your finger - you have him tattooed and superglued onto you istg
#lord when is it my turn to be happy#PUPPYDOG BF JAMES CANON IDC IDC#bbygirl james potter#just a quick little ramble before i go do schoolwork LMAO#unedited pls dont judge too harshly#q's journal#harry potter#marauders#hp marauders#marauders era#harry potter imagines#hp imagines#hp headcanon#marauders headcanon#marauders x reader#hp x reader#harry potter x reader#james potter headcanons#james potter x reader#marauders imagines
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August 12, 2008.
Magritte had only ever heard good things about Vancouver's Granville Island and so, naturally, it was the first place she set out to find upon arriving in the city. The Greyhound station her bus pulled into had been only a short walk from the Skytrain that would carry her two minutes to Granville Station. And it was here that Magritte had the good sense to find a nice, unintrusive space to sit cross-legged and lay her old, faithful piano keyboard across her lap.
The instrument, pulled out of its cozy bed from within her large duffel bag, was a well loved Yamaha PSS-270. Its dull, black, plastic body was covered in ancient, disintegrating stickers, and a generous amount of electrical tape served to hold its batteries in place.
With an affectionate press of a button, she woke the machine up from its slumber, selected her choice presets and, with no specific setlist in mind, began to improvise a little tune. Something cute and fun, perhaps a little bit like Donkey Kong’s Stickerbrush Symphony in tempo and progression. Or just…”Stickerbrush Symphony”, wholesale, why the hell not? Improvisation melted seamlessly into the classic video game tunes that were fondly familiar to her.
The beloved instrument cradled in Magritte’s lap had been pulled apart and reassembled more times than she kept track of. But still, it held together and played its charming FM sounds dutifully. A tidy row of silver metal switches, lined up along the side of its body, were left carefully undisturbed as her fingers danced across the yellowed plastic keys. Magritte had learned very early in her busking career that the general public did not appreciate the unpredictable discordinance of a bent circuit as much as she did. And so that row of silver little switches connecting the data lines stood stoically in their ‘on’ position, not allowing for any delightful surprises, but also not deteriorating the synth-chip’s sound into glitchy noise on a bad turn. Perfectly vanilla, perfectly agreeable, endearingly nostalgic.
She had placed an old ball cap upside down infront of her, tossing in a few quarters of her own as a way of inviting more from friendly pockets. Ideally, she’d play an hour or two and leave with enough change to buy a coffee. Not just a Tim’s coffee–no. She wanted a decadent foamy latte from a cute, artsy little cafe she could sit in. She couldn’t bear to walk through the streets of Granville Island without having the spare change to treat herself on an impulse. And so–she’d not leave the train station until the passing public funded her frivolous spending habits.
After all, it was her birthday. She deserved a little gift.
Busking in a transit station was always a bit of a trade-off. It was a bustling place full of foot traffic but the people here were focused on reaching their destination; busy and preoccupied. In a place like this, Magritte had no expectation to captivate loiterers. Not many transit-goers could spare a minute or two to sit and listen while she hammered out her cheap little tunes on cheap little piano keys. And so, when a well worn pair of tan colored, loose-laced Timberlands entered her field of vision, stopping definitively to stand before her, Magritte turned her gaze upward to welcome the listener with a wide, sloppy smile.
Without giving her brain time to register the face she was speaking to, Magritte opened her mouth to chime a cheery greeting. She was cut off faster than she could process his expression.
“You’re in my spot.”
The man’s voice was curt, and the cold annoyance in his tone was mirrored in the expression on his short, square face. Pale blue eyes looked down a sharp, slightly bent nose at her. His narrow lips were pressed narrower still in a stern line, framed by a full, sandy colored beard and moustache. Atop his head, long hair of the same light color was pulled back into a small, tight bun; more slick and tidy, but far less full than the sloppy bun that Magritte’s unruly mane of curly rust colored hair had been wrangled up into.
Her dorky smirk dissolved with a few confused blinks into a slack jaw of nervous apology. “O-oh! I uh-s-sorry!”
Her startled gaze snagged itself on the acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, and the instrument’s exciting potential made her straighten her back with intent.
She found her smile again. “What if–maybe we could jam? For a few minutes! And then I can scoot on outta here and leave you to it if you want. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the chance to–”
“Do you have a permit?” His tone was unchanged by her eager proposition.
“Huh?” It wasn’t that Magritte didn’t hear him, but she needed a moment to process what was being asked.
“You can’t be here without a permit. Not the stations, not anywhere in Granville either.” The unaccommodating man took a few steps towards her duffel bag and used the top of his foot to lift and slide it away from where she had safely tucked it. “Get a move on.”
Magritte protectively reached out to grab her bag as the man carelessly footed it out of ‘his’ space. And in doing so, she caused her keyboard to slide off her lap, forcing her to clumsily abort her duffel-grabbing effort in favor of clutching her instrument before it could somersault over the edge of her knees and land face-down onto hard ground.
The man, it seemed, was done with words and had already begun moving into the small space that shoving her bag out of the way had created. She felt her face turn hot as she began to gather up her items. Any desire to engage the guy more than she already had was lost along with her nerve.
As she relented to stowing her keyboard back into her duffel bag, an unfamiliar hand shoved a cold, unopened can of Coke in front of her face.
“Here you go.” Another man’s voice. A softer one, this time. Magritte glanced up to meet eyes with the stranger who was offering her a free drink, only to gaze into a pair of red, plastic, star shaped dollar store sunglasses.
He gave the soda can a little shake, prompting her to take it into her hands. “Sorry I took long, I had to give someone directions to the aquarium.”
“Is this…for me?” Holding the can in both hands, Magritte stared at the unopened beverage, unsure what to do with it.
The new stranger leaned onto his back foot. “You said coke, right?”
Before Magritte could stammer out a response, the new stranger turned his attention to the man with the guitar. “‘Ey, Kurtis. You mind, dude?”
The unaccommodating man, ‘Kurtis’, had just started settling in, and looked towards the new stranger with an expression that appeared as perplexed as Magritte herself felt. He turned up both his palms in a slightly contentious gesture. “Didn’t know you were playin’ here again. I’ve had this spot for, like, a year. People don’t usually park here without asking me first.”
“Okay, but you can’t just kick ‘em out like this, man.”
“I didn’t know she was with you–”
“Doesn’t matter,” Magritte’s new best friend replied. “Sixty minutes. It’s not a long time to wait if you gotta wait.”
Magritte, who had been watching Kurtis’ confidence slowly drain from his body with each passing second, turned to examine the cut of her spontaneous new accomplice. His hair was a shade or two darker than Kurtis’, and trimmed much, much shorter, with longer locks in front that fell in straight tufts over the tops of his ears and just past his thick, blocky eyebrows. His eyes remained obscured by the cheap plastic shades, and their childish novelty paired strangely with the well trimmed goatee that fanned out from under his lip to define the curve of his somewhat long but gentle chin. And he had with him a rectangular instrument case of…some variety. Not big enough for a guitar, not small enough for a flute. It didn’t give away the shape of the instrument inside, but the black oxford cloth and gold colored metallic detailings of its exterior gave it a classy, charming look she had not seen for an instrument case before. It was cute. Magritte wondered if such a style was available for portable keyboards.
His hands, which wore white fingerless driving gloves, cracked open his can of sprite, and he took a casual sip while waiting for Kurtis to, “Get a move on.”
Relenting, Kurtis shuffled away from the spot he had been deliberately crowding Magritte out of. With a snort and a nod of his head towards her, Kurtis said, “Can’t exactly play Paganini on a Portasound, Raf. What’s on your setlist?”
Raf brandished a lopsided smirk and jutted his chin in the direction of Magritte’s upturned hat on the ground. “Put a toonie down and I’ll show you.”
“Fuck off.” Kurtis’s scoff was accompanied by a laugh–one that sounded surprisingly genuine to Magritte's ear. “I came here to earn change, not spend it. But I’m curious to hear how the Ephrem Classical pairs with Toy Piano.”
Raf let out a low groan that could have been mistaken for a growl. Moving into the corner that Kurtis had surrendered, he unslung his instrument off his shoulder with a shrug. “There’s plenty you can play on just forty-nine keys.”
Being very confident about this fact, Magritte couldn’t help but provide her insight on the matter. With an enthusiastic lean-in, she interjected, “Yeah, like Kirby’s Dreamland!”
Raf’s head flinched in her direction almost imperceptibly, and if she had caught the subtle downward twitch of his eyebrows that betrayed a pang of confusion, she might have felt a bite of embarrassment. But instead, she heard him agree. “Like…Kirby’s Dreamland, yeah.”
He turned to look over his shoulder at her, his sunglasses mercifully hiding the bafflement in his eyes. Magritte beamed gleefully back up at him.
“Well, have fun.” Kurtis levelled a stern yet somewhat pleading glance at Raf.” I’ll be back here in an hour. Don’t let anyone else move in if you leave early, please.”
Raf simply shrugged and sipped loudly from his can of sprite in response.
As Magritte watched Kurtis disappear into the foot traffic, she began to tentatively scoot back towards where she had previously sat. “I didn’t mind giving that guy his spot back, he was just kinda–”
“A dick. Nah, I saw that. S’why I stepped in.” Raf had carefully set his instrument case down, and was in the process of zipping it open.
Leaning slightly to get a peek at what he was playing, Magritte said, “Thanks for the pop, by the way! I can pay you back after. If uh–you’re actually gonna stick around and jam with me.”
He pulled his instrument out of its protective cradle; a pale varnished wooden violin. “Don’t worry about it.”
Inside the carrying case, Magritte noticed two bows neatly stowed. The bowstrings on the bow Raf selected was a standard white color, but the strings on the one he left in the case were an eye-catching red.
“Truth be told,” tucking the chin rest of the violin beneath his chin, he played one string, and then two experimentally, “I don’t really play anymore.” His fingers closed around one of the tuning knobs at the head of the violin, but if he had tweaked it at all, it wasn't perceptible. “So it’s gonna be pretty rough. But uh…gotta commit to the bit, I guess.”
Magritte took the moment to open her soda and enjoy a refreshing sip. “What kinda music do you normally play?”
“Classical,” he replied almost too quickly. “You?”
Magritte hesitated for a second. She should have had an easy answer for this by now, but all she could manage was, “a bit of everything. Anything, really!”
Raf ran his bow over the strings again to hear their tune before turning to look at her. “Yeah?” His eyebrows were raised, and his smirk favored one side of his face; an expression Magritte interpreted as incredulous. He fidgeted with a tiny, lone knob on the violin's body where the strings ended.
“Y-yeah! I, um…” Settling her keyboard back into her lap, she turned it on. “You can just play whatever, and I can fill it in. I can improvise, I think.”
Raf paused and stared down at Magritte’s little Portasound with a sigh much heavier than he intended. The thing was lacking, not just in keys, but in sound. It was a struggle to think of something he could play that she’d be able to accompany. The titles which did come to mind where…overplayed and would have to be simplified considerably to suit the keyboard's limitations. Weighing it in his mind, however, he decided that ‘simple’ may benefit not just the limited range of her instrument, but of her musical skill as well.
He ran the bow over his strings to measure their tune one last time before tentatively, very slowly playing the first few crystalline notes of Für Elise. He felt a tension he didn’t know he was holding melt off his shoulders as he watched Magritte’s face light up. She curled over her little piano in a hurry to play his accompaniment. She knew this one.
She picked a soft, more ambient sound from the keyboard’s voicebank, electing to quietly cushion the violin’s notes rather than chafe against them. It was…difficult. Her little yamaha and its quaint library of FM chip sounds did not get along nicely with ‘real instruments’ that were being played ‘straight’. It wanted to be weird and annoying, just like her. But the notes Raf played, while simple, were extremely clear in tone; neat and tidy. The bow did not once stutter on the rough strings, it glided with practised ease. And with a great deal of restraint.
This guy…he was playing beneath his skill level. For her sake, presumably. Like a gentleman.
As Raf brought Für Elise to a close with the last, steady draw of his bow, Magritte swapped her soft, ambient voicing out with an annoying music box sound, and began hammering out a choice section from the 3rd movement of Appassionata. Her fingers slammed the keys harder than was necessary, solely because she enjoyed the percussive sound it added to each obnoxious, feverish note.
Lowering his violin, Raf watched Magritte’s fingers flutter furiously across the mini keys with respectable precision. Holding both the bow and the neck of his violin in one hand, his free hand reached up to remove his sunglasses and he rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. A humbled snort escaped through his nose. “Yeah, okay.”
“Play any song.” Magritte slowed her fingers to a stop without completing the movement. “Even if I don’t know it, even if it goes beyond the range of my little piano, I can improvise something nice for it, I promise!”
Fitting his sunglasses back on, Raf let out a tentative hum. “I’m not much of an improviser–”
“You don’t have to improvise anything! Play whatever you want, however you wanna play it. I will improvise around whatever you give me!” Magritte’s voice had risen to an excited shout, and instinctively, she withdrew into herself just a little bit, as if making herself smaller would also make her voice smaller, too. “It’s my favorite thing to do. It’s a lot of fun.”
His incredulous smirk returned, but this time his brow furrowed slightly, encouragingly, under his growing sense of intrigue.
“It’s–” Magritte held up both hands haltingly, “it’s probably not gonna be like how you know it should be. Just…so you know. It might even be…bad? In some parts? But-! Mostly it’ll be neat! I promise!”
“Neat…” Raf brought the violin up once again to rest under his chin. “Neat’s cool. Alright, let’s see, then.”
As though he had been inspired by Magritte’s aggressive interpretation of Appassionata, he began with a series of fast, chirpy, clean notes of his own. A wholly different song, but Magritte recognized this one too. She had most often heard it as a phone ringtone, but she couldn’t recall who composed it nor what the song was titled. She provided a jaunty, equally bouncy accompaniment that she’d have described as ‘percussive’. The violin’s unwavering confidence was a delight for Magritte’s deft little fingers to dance around. He never fell out of tempo, and she was able to punctuate his notes with hers in perfect time. Maintaining synchrony for the entire length of the fast paced composition filled her with such satisfying joy, she had failed to properly appreciate an obvious fact about her musical accomplice until he brought the song to a close; he was a skilled musician.
Staring up at him from her spot on the floor, Magritte’s wide eyes almost sparkled with delight. “You’re like…Concert hall good, aren’t you? Are you part of the local orchestra? Or at least like–aspiring to be?”
Raf’s gaze hung on her as both his jaw and posture slackened. “Uh…”
She didn’t give him enough time to respond, hitting him with another question. “What was the title of that song? I just know it as one of the Nokia ringtones.”
“P–” Raf’s stunned silence cracked with a laugh that sprang forth from his chest and took him by surprise almost as much as Magritte’s line of questioning had. “Paganini. It’s–it’s Paganini, Caprice number…number 24.” The response was punctuated with warm chuckling. “Or, you know, that one phone ringtone, yeah.” He smirked at her for a moment longer, studying her for any sign that she was putting him on. “How do you…accompany me that well, on that little machine, and not even know the song?”
Magritte waved her hands in front of her. “No, no, I knew the song! I’ve heard it before, I just didn’t know what it was called.”
“Yeah, alright.” He snorted one last incredulous laugh and brought his violin back up for another song.
Magritte stopped him before he could settle on his next pick. “Do you play professionally? I mean, it sounds like it but, like–”
“No.” Before Magritte could inquire further, the first notes of their next song filled the space between them, drawn out of his violin with long, purposeful strokes of his bow.
The next several songs, Raf played seamlessly one into the other–without pausing for conversation. That was just as well for Magritte. It had been ages since she was given the chance to play music with someone, and never had she played with someone who was so…solid? Consistent? The real deal. Usually, she had to avoid getting carried away when playing with another person. It was very easy for her to close her eyes and get taken to places that her musical partners could not follow along with. But with Raf, she was finding herself challenged to keep up with him. Most of the songs he had chosen, she had not heard before. And so she needed to keep an attentive ear out if she wanted to pick out repeated phrases, and predict melodic trajectories.
Finally, they arrived at the end of an especially eclectic piece, and Raf did not immediately follow through into another composition. Instead he lowered his bow, and Magritte took her opening to converse again.
“I really liked that one. It was super janky, in a fun way.”
“Yeah,” Raf said. “I was always fond of it, too.”
“I liked the plucky bits. Did you write it?”
“Did I–” Raf palmed both his bow and violin in one hand, and massaged his eyes and browline with the other. “No, some guy named Ravel did. Tzigane, that one’s called.”
Magritte chewed the inside of her cheek. “R-right.”
He furrowed his eyebrows at her. “You knew that one, though.”
“I didn’t.”
“...You just let me solo the first four minutes based on vibes?”
“I thought I missed the bus on it.”
“The actual composition has no accompaniment until about half way through, so…bravo.”
“Wait, really?” Magritte leaned forward eagerly. “Did I play the accompaniment correctly, too?”
“Not even close.”
“Drat.” She slumped.
“Was good, though.” Raf picked up his sprite from where he had placed it, on the ground next to his case, and drained the last bit of its contents.
Magritte perked up again. “Yeah!?”
He held the lip of the empty can between his teeth as he began tucking his violin back into its carrying case. “Mmhm.”
Magritte watched him pack up for a moment longer than it should have taken her to realise, “Wait, you’re leaving already?”
Raf zipped his instrument safely away before removing the empty soda can from his mouth. “Yeah, I gotta get going. But look,” He bent over to collect Magritte’s upturned ball cap off the ground. The few quarters she had started with now had a generous handful of friends with them; more quarters, some loonies, a few toonies and–
Magritte accepted the hat when Raf handed it to her, and pulled a crisp twenty dollar bill out of it. “W-who left this!? I wasn’t even paying attention, I should have said thanks!”
“A mystery.” He slung his violin case over his shoulder.
Magritte urged him to wait, fluttering a hand at him. “Half of this is yours!”
“Nah.” He favored her with a smile. “Genuinely, this was a treat in itself. It’s been a long time since I’ve played for fun like this. It…was fun.” That last part sounded as though it came as a surprise to him.
Frowning, Magritte pleaded with him. “Okay, okay but–okay. Lemme treat you to a coffee then, at least? If you’re in no real hurry.”
Raf paused to regard her with a measuring stare. He then sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his black denim hoodie jacket, waiting for Magritte to stow her keyboard away into her bag.
Zipping the duffel closed, she hoisted it with effort over her shoulder and beamed up at her new friendly acquaintance. “If you know any cute, cozy coffee places with a real decadent latte, I’m open to suggestions!”
“There are…a few.”
“I’m Magritte, by the way!” She extended her hand out to him.
With slight hesitation, Raf shook it. “Rafael.”
As the two of them began to make their way out of the station together, he dared to ask, “Are you here visiting, or..?”
“Oh!” She bounced on the balls of her feet, “I just came in from Calgary like…two hours ago. Ideally, I’d like to stay until the spring, but that’s gonna depend on things.”
“Calgary?”
“Yeah! I was in Edmonton before that, and in Winnipeg before that–but that was mostly a fever dream. I wasn’t there long. Montreal before that, though, was nice..!” She talked the entire walk, and he was content to quietly listen.
part ii
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grocery clerk suguru x youtuber reader... we r officially walking people (we r holding hands btw) @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat i hope u dont mind being tagged but i know u were excited about this!!
OK! so this is such a specific concept but it is so very special to me. i imagine suguru working as a clerk with one of those cute little aprons some stores sometimes have their employees wear. so he's got this little job but then later at home he likes messing around online.
yes guys, im making him a little streamer in this au i couldn't help myself. (what games he likes to play specifically i'm not too sure about yet, but i think he likes to stream a variety of things!) he's got a small audience but he's found that it's a cool way for him to decompress so he really enjoys it!
anyway back to the reader. you come into the store suguru works at pretty frequently, with an array of impressively well picked groceries almost every single time. he likes to play this little game when gets bored on shift where he guesses what people are cooking based on what they buy, and you're by far his favourite any time he plays it.
it's a little embarrassing to admit, but you're kind of the best part of his week. always so kind even on days he notices you're in a rush or stressed out, bidding him a good day after you're done bagging your items, a small smile on your lips the few times you raise your head to look at him.
suguru notices that you seem to favor him anytime he's at the registers, feeling an odd sort of pride whenever he spots you scanning the lines and choosing his every-time. call him delusional, but it sort of becomes hard to ignore when you choose him even when a register with a much shorter line is available.
for some reason he's found it strangely difficult to break the ice with you, finding it hard to secede from his practiced script in the short time the two of you share a space. the most deviation he's been able to muster in the past weeks has been asking you if you'd like to sign up for the store's rewards card.
subconsciously searching for something to point out casually takes him a few troubling days, but he finally conjures something in the spur of the moment. right as he's handing you back your cash, suguru notices the vibrant colour of your nails; they're different from last months.
"I like your nails," he mentions quickly, semi distracted by the upcoming customer already beginning to place their items on the belt.
You look up from your bagging and Suguru is able to literally catch the way your face brightens, fixated on the flash of your teeth and the crinkle of your eye. It's the first time he's seen your cheeks rise up so high, delightfully different from the subtle smiles you've granted him till now.
"Thank you," you reply, a laugh laced into your voice. And then you're gone again, throwing a sincere good bye over shoulder, bag hung over your arm, and stepping out the automatic doors.
the interaction is short, brief enough to have suguru thinking about it the rest of the day. latching onto it enough that he finally buys that nail polish remover he's been needing to wipe away the chipped mess on his own fingertips. and maybe he repaints them new with you in mind.
it goes on like this for a little while. you notice the new colour on suguru the next time you see him and compliment it. he does the same for yours, mentioning how close it is to one of his favourite shades. actively holding back from slyly commenting on how you've been subtly matching it to his preferences based on your short conversations. blue, green, black; anything he mentions makes a subtle cameo onto the design of your nails in the following weeks or so.
he never explicitly mentions you during his little streams, but suguru does have this thing where he'll mention craving a specific food that's related to what he'd seen you buy that specific afternoon to his chat. it's fun to mention it to his few viewers, sometimes they'll recommend him tutorials on how to make certain things or even share their own recipes. it often ends rather jokingly, with crazy inedible recipes no one would dare follow, but some times it can be rather wholesome.
one night, he gets off stream and actually decides to check a few of them out. aimlessly scrolling through both the serious and unserious suggestions.
he never would have imagined recognizing your nails, jewelry, and voice after typing in the title of a video and pressing on it.
turns out the reader makes content themselves! they've got this semi-popular cooking channel they've been growing for the past two years or something like that. i like to think it started off as something sort of accidental for you. like one of your close friends liking your cooking so much that they beg you to share it.
then you just kind of picked up the habit of making different types of videos by following a vague schedule. you found yourself really enjoying the process of making the food and sharing the way you did it with people. one of your favourite parts is reading the comments of your videos and seeing how people's food turned out for them, if they liked the taste or if they cooked it for someone else.
it's been a motivator to indulge in your groceries a little more. eventually you switch over to buying at the more expensive grocery store more often in order to purchase higher quality ingredients.
it helps that you meet geto there, the cute clerk who has a sweet voice.
you grow to enjoy him being part of your routine. a small part of you even believes him ringing you up adds a dash of luck to how your cooking will turn out that week.
the more you've frequented, the chattier he's gotten, gracing you more with that silken voice of his. it almost reminds you of a warm meal.
but this afternoon seems odd.
geto can't seem to stop staring at your hands today.
#i totally forgot about this so here it is!#finished it up right before the last class of today :)#AHH IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG ARI#it's just a cute thing atm and it will probably stay that way i need more cute writing in my arsenal#moss writes#god I havent used that tag in a bit LMAO#they would both be faceless content creators btw idk if i made that clear enough#this is unedited btw sorry!#jjk x reader#suguru x reader#geto x reader#suguru geto x reader#geto suguru x reader
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Sonic noticed Tails glaring at him a few minutes ago. He hasn't called it out or said anything, after about a year of being with the kid he's learned it's better to let Tails come to him first. Though he will say his patience has been wearing thin, it's been a week of nonstop staring and cutting eyes.
Sonic glances at Tails with an eyebrow raise making the fox flush in embarrassment. For another few minutes Tails sits with his namesakes on his lap and his head buried in their fluff. Sonic gives him privacy and looks the other way, hoping not to embarrass him any further, he'd really prefer not to prompt the kid more than he has to.
"I uhm- I have a question. If that's okay." Sonic shrugs, reaching down to dig in his bag, but he's not reallt looking for anything. "Oh, if you're looking for the cans of chili we put them in my bag, remember?"
Sonic plays it off as if that's what he was looking for, it's basically dinner time anyway so it's not a waste to start cooking.
"Right uhm- anyway, what makes you different?" Tails asks.
Sonic raises an eyebrow again, asking him to elaborate.
"I just... We're friends right-" Sonic nods without hesitation- "okay good. It's just that the people back at Westside didn't like me much, so... So why do you?"
Sonic gives another shrug. Is he supposed to have a reason for liking him? It just came naturally. He had a good heart, big ambitions, and an even bigger brain. Is there a reason he shouldn't like the fox?
"Is there a reason I shouldn't like you?" Sonic signs.
Tails' snout wrinkles a little, "Obviously."
The hedgehog gestures for Tails to keep talking.
"I'm weird, and I can't brush my fur by myself yet, I talk too much, I take half a portion of your food, I slow you down I-"
"It's our food, and you don't slow me down," Sonic huffs. "Those things don't matter. Why would they make me not like you?"
Tails frowns, gripping his Tails between his fingers, seeming unsure of the answer himself. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to gather his thoughts into a neat sentence, and Sonic continues food prep. An anticipatory silence sits between them.
It's not until Sonic's almost done with the first chilidog that Tails speaks again. His voice is a quiet murmur under cracking fire and a few distant flickies, but Sonic still catches his voice and it's little sniffles in the wind.
"I can't understand how someone so cool can like something that wasn't even tolerated by its parents..."
And isn't that heartbreaking? Sonic could join Tails crying after hearing that. What's he even supposed to say? Is there anything he can say?
Sonic places a hand on Tails' shoulder to get his attention, making the fox wipe his tears away.
"Your parents were dumb."
"But they were the smartest people in the village! My dad was the head research-"
Sonic places a hand over Tails' muzzle to quiet him.
"Being the smartest dumb person in a room full of dumb people isn't the win you think it is."
Tails looks away from Sonic with a sniffle and huff, wiping his eyes again.
If Sonic could take it all away he would. Unfortunately, he doesn't have memory altering magic, at least as far as he knows.
"How about I become your new family. I can be your brother or something." He says on a whim, looking for something to make the kid feel better. Maybe offering a replacement family would be better than claiming the old one.
And for just a moment Tails looks starstruck. His already teary eyes grow large and seem to well up even more before he tilts his face down, his eyes glistening in the ever brighter glow of the campfire.
Sonic swears he didn't do anything wrong, but those tears make him feel like the scum of the earth.
"You're just trying to make me feel better... You wouldn't actually want that. No one in their right mind would."
Sonic crouches down in front of Tails, waiting for him to turn and look him in the eyes. It feels like an eternity before the fox actually looks at him, and Sonic grasps desperately at the patience he's never had, but is determined to find.
Tails' face fur is wet and sticks up awkwardly, and the eye contact he gives is minimal at best but Sonic will take that over nothing.
Gently, Sonic bumps his fist to Tails chest, right above where his heart is. "We're brothers!" He says, in a voice that's just as foreign to the fox as it is to him. The re in the word we're doesn't quite come across, neither does the br in brothers making the word sound like buzzers, but Tails seems to understand him anyway.
Sonic can't tell if the fox is surprised by him standing his ground or by him talking, but it's probably a healthy mix of both. He repeats himself, pushing just a little harder on Tails chest to get the point across.
Tightly, Tails squeezes his eyes shut. Heaving out a sob, dropping his head down to stare at the log he's sitting on.
"Okay." The fox mumbles, "Let's be brothers."
Yooooo guess who finally wrote something !!! (Hint, it's me !!!) After receiving some of the most devastating news of my life, I decided to write some hurt comfort !!! Welcome back unbreakable bond fans, I'm glad I could keep us all fed this winter's night !!! I have so many unfinished drafts but take this, and thanks for reading !!!
This is NOT ship content. I am under the same name on AO3, and will post this there soon ! Come hit up my DMs or my askbox for now !! Toodles !!
#sth#sonic the hedgehog#miles tails prower#i have the mic#sonic fanfiction#sonic headcanons#sonic and tails#tails and sonic#tails the fox#unbreakable bond#the brothers#sonic#this entire fic was me projecting onto tails i fear#but what else is new#youll reblog instead of just liking it if you love me#THIS IS COMPLETELY UNEDITED LMAO#that was an accident#expect to see the cleaned up version on ao3 tomorrow
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