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cuubism · 10 months

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based on THIS shitpost. nsft below the cut. inexplicably 7k.

Dream had promised Hob, since reuniting, since agreeing to see each other more often, that he would let Hob introduce him properly to human experiences. "It'll do you good," Hob had said. Dream thinks Death would agree with this also. He is now wondering, however, if this had been folly.

"I think I've given you the general rundown now," Hob says, leaning back in his chair, swirling his bottle of beer—mostly empty—idly in one hand. "The highlights. We'll be here for ages if you want to hear all of it."

Dream is surprised to realize he is curious to hear the stories of all of Hob's lovers. But he does not feel it is quite appropriate to press, no matter how open Hob has been in speaking of it. Dream is most interested, after all, in people Hob has loved, not just those he's had carnal relations with—stories of love are of much more interest to him than stories simply of desire, and Hob has already relayed these stories to him, each a glimmering jewel on the long chain of his life.

Each sticks in Dream's mind now, glittering in his peripheral vision. He cannot tell precisely what they want of him—the corners of his being are blurred, his thoughts wavering, at points clear and ringing and at others indistinct. A consequence of allowing alcohol to affect him, at Hob's bidding. It is... pleasant. Loose. Warm. Though Dream thinks, anywhere outside of Hob's flat, it would feel disconcerting instead.

It's this folly in allowing Hob to ply him with wine, perhaps, that has him saying, "Do you wish to hear of my own?"

Hob's expression sharpens. He is, perhaps, less drunk than Dream is, despite being on his fourth beer, while Dream has only had— ah. That bottle of wine is three-quarters empty. Hmm. "You mean, you want to talk about it?"

"I believe it is customary for friendship to involve a mutual sharing of stories?"

"Sure, if you want to." Hob's gaze on him is intent, curious, but still fond, always fond. "Usually you're like this." He draws his fingers across his lips in a zipping motion. "So of course I'm curious."

"Am I so reticent?" Hob is right, though. Dream can acknowledge it. He would not usually care to speak of these things. He could blame the wine, today. But.

Hob laughs. "Took me six hundred thirty-three years to get a name. You are the king of reticence." He dips his head as if bowing to this "king." "I would be honored to hear your stories, my friend."

Dream tucks his nose into his glass. He should perhaps not drink any more, but the smell is still pleasant, rich and sharp. "They are not so happy."

"Still. If you want to tell."

Dream is not like Hob. He does not have casual dalliances. Each collision was as bright as a falling star. He doesn't know if he has the strength, now, to relay all that terrible history.

Instead, he shares with Hob the early days of burning. Each of those bright, glowing moments. And glosses over the fall.

He thinks Hob sees it, though. He considers him from under his brows as Dream speaks, understanding in his eyes. Doesn't ask him about it, perhaps sensing that Dream does not have the wherewithal for telling and asking in the same evening. "Thank you," he finally says.

"Why?"

"For sharing."

Dream looks back down at his glass. It's empty again. Perhaps that is for the best. It is not often that he... shares. Particularly about this. But Hob is generous in not prying. In wanting to listen, for the simple sake of, as far as Dream can tell, understanding Dream.

When he looks up again, Hob is tapping the mouth of his beer bottle against his lips in thought. "Can I ask you something? It'll probably be utter silliness to you, though. Being this... beyond human entity that you are."

Dream's shoulders tense where they'd gone relaxed with drink and Hob's company. "Go ahead."

"Were all of your lovers women?"

And Dream relaxes again. Ah. This is just... factual. Not... digging in to his many relational failures. "I suppose. Yes."

"Is that by design, or...?"

Dream frowns. "I do not... understand."

"Well, since we've established that I'm an indiscriminate slut—" always so crude, but something about the click of Hob's tongue makes Dream shift uncomfortably in his seat on the couch— “I was wondering whether you were the same way." Then he winces. "Not the slut part. The indiscriminate part."

"Do you mean to ask if I care about the gender or sex of my lovers?"

"Yep. Knew I should have just been straightforward with you."

Dream thinks about it. He has never made a pattern of his relationships, the way humans do. He simply... does what his foolhardy heart commands. Usually with poor results. "I suppose I do not. Care, that is. But. My lovers have been women, yes."

Hob tilts his head. There's a new gleam in his eyes, now. He goes to finish his beer, but it’s empty. Dream watches the drag of his lips over the mouth of the bottle.

"Does that surprise you, Hob Gadling?" he asks. "That my amorous pursuits have been so much narrower than yours?"

"Mmm. Little bit? It's just, even if I hadn’t—how can I put it politely—fucked my way across half of London already by the time we met, I can't imagine making it six hundred years without ever at least experimenting?" He grins. "I could be straight as a nail and curiosity alone would've got me in some bloke's bed at least once. Hmm. Maybe three times just to be sure."

"It is good that you cannot die, for I believe curiosity would have sounded your death knell twenty times over by now."

Hob raises his bottle in Dream's direction. "True, that." Then he leans forward on his knees, eyes bright with, of course, curiosity. "But weren't you ever curious?"

"I contain the collective memory," Dream reminds him. "All fantasies. And dreams. If I need to understand an experience, I can simply consult that breadth of knowledge. I do not need to 'wind up in some bloke's bed.'"

Hob's leaning so far forward now he might come toppling off his chair. "But do you wanna?"

Dream frowns. "I do not..."

"Do you want to experience it yourself, though?" Hob repeats. "Cuz I could watch porn—" Dream wrinkles his nose at this crude analogy for his relationship to his dreams, but the offense is swiftly banished as Hob continues— “but that's not the same as—” his hand lands on Dream's wrist, fingertips pressed to where he would have a pulse— "that."

Dream freezes. Under Hob's fingers, his heart jumps once, quick as a mouse.

"I've no doubt you understand it, Dream," continues Hob, and perhaps he had drunk less than Dream had thought, for he seems very lucid now, "but that's not the same as being there."

Dream fixates on where they are touching. His skin feels very hot, at that point. "And what. Is being there like?"

Hob's fingers slip a little higher, just under the sleeve of his coat. He is still wearing his coat, yes, why is that? He feels very warm. "Could find out?"

"Are you suggesting I should find some man to bed me?"

"Some man," Hob repeats, jaw working. His gaze is hovering somewhere around Dream's collar. "Some man who knows what he's doing, yeah."

"And..." an echo of a breath is frozen in Dream's lungs. Some instinct saying, be still. A pulse at his elbow, in his thigh, at his throat. Hob still has his wrist pinned. "Do you know what you are doing, Hob Gadling?"

"Never in my life," says Hob, and leans in and kisses him.

He has to get out of his chair to do it. Has to lean down over Dream, taking Dream's cheek in his hand. Has to tip Dream's head back, and sweep his tongue into his mouth from above, or perhaps Dream only tells himself that he has to rather than acknowledge that it is Dream himself baring his throat, opening his mouth to Hob's.

If he wished to know what it was like to be kissed by a man, now he knows: strong and lingering and hungry. Or perhaps that is just Hob Gadling. Hob's stubble brushes his cheeks. He can smell Hob's cologne, rich and sweet like whiskey. He wraps a hand around the back of Hob's neck so he can't pull away far.

Hob's eyes are heavy-lidded when he looks at him. Dream touches his own lips, and Hob follows the movement. "I'm not certain I understand," Dream says. "This is not enough data to make a determination."

"Definitely not," says Hob, and kisses him again, pushing him into the back of the couch. The strength of his hands sends fire racing all the way up Dream's spine, curling around his neck, burning in the tips of his ears. He bites experimentally at Hob's lower lip, and Hob groans low in his throat.

"We're not—" Hob pulls away, lips shiny and wet, "we're not doing this here. Come on."

He stands upright again, and Dream will deny to the end of the universe the dissatisfied sound he makes when Hob's warmth leaves him. Hob smiles, soft and fond now, and takes his hand. "Come on, love."

Love.

Some man, Dream thinks, as he lets Hob pull him up. Join some man in bed. As he follows Hob down the hall to his bedroom. For curiosity's sake. As Hob kneels to help pull off his boots. Just to understand. As Hob divests him of his coat.

Experimental.

"You're so buttoned up." Hob smoothes his hands over Dream's shoulders, his bare arms under his t-shirt. "Let me know if it's too much, okay?"

"Yes." Too much, yes, it is too much, to see Hob look at him like that, with care and with hunger, for Hob to touch him gently, it makes his skin prickle, his cheeks heat, his throat terribly dry. It is too much; he will not tell Hob to stop.

I want to understand, Dream thinks. I want—

Hob smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Come on, then."

Hob is already barefoot, being less guarded than Dream, and he leads Dream up onto the bed. Dream follows, chasing his hands, and Hob does not deprive him. He leans against the headboard and lets Dream settle in his lap, immediately framing his face again between his palms. For the sake of learning, Dream pushes all the dreams of this aside, so that it is just him and Hob. New. Theirs.

He looks into Hob's eyes, very close now, and he feels light, floaty, good. Perhaps the wine was a bad idea. Perhaps it was right.

"What d'you want, darling?" Hob asks. Brushes his lips to the corner of Dream's mouth. "Tell me. This is for you, after all."

Yes. For Dream. A scientific exercise, he must remember. It will help him... understand. It will help him create more vivid dreams. That is all.

He can feel Hob's growing erection pressing against him. His own jeans growing tight. "I would like. The full experience."

Hob laughs, but it's a friendly laugh, not at his expense. Dream can recognize that, now. "There's no full experience. Sex counts as sex if you say it does. But if you're trying to say penetration, we can do that."

Dream shivers at the word penetration, sitting so matter-of-factly on Hob Gadling's tongue. "Yes. I believe that is what I meant."

"Alright." Hob may be matter-of-fact, but he does not sound unaffected. His voice has gone rough, his eyes dark, a flush along his cheeks. His hands fall from Dream's face to brace his hips, thumbs sweeping under the hem of Dream's shirt to touch his skin.

But he doesn't push Dream down into the mattress. Instead he pulls Dream closer by the hips, saying, "C'mere then," and Dream goes back to his mouth. Sinks into Hob's kiss, and the searing heat of his hands on Dream's hipbones. It's different. It's already different. But he can't yet determine if it's different because Hob is a man, or because he is Hob.

Hob, who has been a friend to him even when he couldn't recognize it. Who wants him to enjoy things. Wants to share with him.

Hob pushes Dream's shirt up over his head. Dream has not been bare in front of someone since his escape, but he doesn't think he minds, when it's Hob. When it means he gets Hob's broad, strong hands on his back, pulling him close, and Hob's lips on his shoulder, the crook of his neck, kissing and leaving marks.

"You know, once upon a time I thought you were above all this," Hob murmurs. He touches Dream's belly, his chest, his neck, holding lightly. "You were so... untouchable. Couldn't imagine you lowering yourself to engage in such—” he bites at Dream's earlobe— “such base activities."

"'Untouchable,' Hob Gadling?" Dream says. Hob's hands are cradling his throat now. Hob catches his point and flexes his fingers; Dream swallows under the grip.

"Always wanted to know," Hob murmurs, "if anyone'd touched you at all."

Not in a very long time, it is true. Dream burns with it, now, everywhere Hob touches him is alight. "What would you have done with an answer?"

"Dared," says Hob. "I expect."

"Always daring," Dream says. Indulges himself and slips his own hands under Hob's shirt, feels out his stomach, his hair, his back, all the strong lines of him. Hob's shoulders are pleasing, and his hips where Dream squeezes with his thighs, and these are not things Dream has thought of much, before. He wants to see more. To feel more. "Daring to be the first man to have me."

"Don't say things like that if you want me to keep my sanity." The words are rough like Dream has reached in and touched him instead of just spoken, and Hob's chest rises and falls heavily under Dream's hands.

"Maybe I don't."

This makes Hob chuckle, and Dream feels the rumble of it through his body. He wishes there was not the barrier of their clothes to dampen it; more than seeing Hob, he wants to feel Hob, his skin is prickling with it, his mouth is tacky and dry with it.

"How do you want me?" he asks, and whatever change Hob hears in his voice has him stiffening up, going serious. Dream doesn't know how he feels about it—he enjoys Hob's ease and laughter, but the intensity is... he feels it like a touch.

"How do you want to be had?" Hob counters, and before Dream can contemplate the myriad possible answers, adds, “Do you want to be? Is that what you meant? Only I would have thought— but then again—”

Dream does not interrogate the rambling path of Hob's assumptions. He says, "I would like to know. What I have not. Personally. Experienced, yes."

Daydreams poke at Dream's awareness as the image flashes through Hob's mind. Dream doesn't touch them, but the awareness of their existence alone has him shifting where he straddles Hob's lap. Hob's cheeks darken, and he says, "Strangest way anyone's ever asked me to fuck them. Yeah, alright. Budge up, love?"

Love. Again. Dream climbs off Hob's lap, kneeling beside him as Hob strips off his own shirt, flinging it somewhere--Dream doesn't see, for he is looking only at Hob. The solidness of him, where Dream often feels made of wind; the warmth of his belly, where Dream touches him, while Dream himself often feels cold. So made of earth, Hob Gadling.

Hob lays a hand on Dream's chest as if to push him down to the bed. No strength behind the touch, but the impression of it. "Need you to tell me if it starts going wrong. I'm serious, Dream."

Despite himself, Dream bristles. “You think me incapable of conveying my displeasure?”

Hob huffs. “I think you’re just prideful enough not to. Just be direct with me. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Perhaps... Hob is not entirely wrong. “…I shall," Dream vows at length. Hob nods, and smiles at him again, that warm smile. Dream can’t help but feel pleased to have made him smile so. Hob pushes, and Dream goes, lies back against the pillows, and Hob kneels between his legs. Hands sliding again to his hips, to the waistband of his jeans. Dream watches with fixation, caught on Hob's fingertips.

Hob has apparently decided he does trust Dream to interrupt if he doesn't like something, for he doesn't ask again before unbuttoning Dream's jeans. But Dream can tell Hob is still paying close attention to his reactions, and it's heady to be attended to so.

He lifts his hips for Hob to pull off his jeans, and then gets to bask in a look he can only interpret as adoring. Hob looks upon him that way, and strokes up and down his thighs, over his hips and belly. Dream's skin jumps at the touch.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," Hob says, sounding wounded by it. "Everyone who sees you must go home wishing you were going with them, I refuse to believe otherwise."

Dream smiles, despite himself. "This may be a particular bias of yours, Hob."

"Yeah, maybe. I'm right, though." He leans down, hovers over Dream, kisses him. Dream pulls him down so their bodies are pressed together. Hob's skin is so warm, his hair softer than expected, the fabric of his jeans a rough counterpoint where it scratches Dream's inner thighs, rubs against his cock lying hard in the crook of his hip. A wealth of sensation. A pleased, wanting sound escapes him, before he can stop it—but Hob catches it, looking delighted to do so, kisses it right out of Dream's mouth. "You've left broken hearts in your wake. Still can't believe this is your first time doing this."

"Revel in that victory if you must."

"No victory," says Hob. "Only privilege."

And he kisses Dream again even as he works a hand between them, takes Dream in his grip. Dream gasps at the touch, breaking the kiss. Hob's hand is warm and rough and very sure, and Dream can't help the way his whole body tenses with that simple touch.

He feels Hob's smile against his cheek. His voice drips with satisfaction. "Are you sensitive?"

Dream does not get a chance to answer. Hob strokes him again, hums as Dream bucks up involuntarily into his grasp.

"Oh, I'm going to make you feel so good," Hob muses, his voice a warm rumble in Dream's ear. "I know I can. You deserve it."

"Hob—"

Hob kisses his own name out of Dream's mouth, a deep, biting kiss, and this confidence, rather than being offensive to Dream's station, is riveting. Dream feels spelled.

"Just let me take care of it," Hob says, and moves away, and Dream groans at the loss of his body heat.

"You will take what you want now?" Dream complains, knowing full well even as he says it that it is nonsense. But having Hob's touch and then losing it is making him insensate; truly, he had not thought he could fall so far. "Is that what this is, Hob Gadling?"

Hob chuckles. "Oh, no." He kisses Dream's sternum, and down along his abdominal muscles. Mouths at Dream's belly, where Dream shifts under him, ticklish and affected, skin jumping, and then Hob noses at the base of his cock, and Dream realizes what he's gotten himself into only right before it comes to light.

"No, Dream," Hob says, lips now brushing the head of his cock, and like that he looks up and meets Dream's eyes. "I serve at your pleasure."

He takes Dream in his mouth, strangling Dream's response before it can even reach his throat. Not that Dream knows what he would have said. It's whited out instantly in the rush of pleasure that is Hob's mouth, and tongue, the generosity of his body, the vision of him between Dream's legs.

He's voiceless as Hob bobs his head, takes Dream deep, laves his tongue over his slit, applies what Dream must concede is his considerably greater experience to breaking Dream's ability to speak entirely. He grasps mindlessly at Hob's hair, it slides soft between his fingers, head tipped back against the pillows and thighs jerking restlessly, and still he knows this is but a precursor to what Hob truly intends for him. What he's... asked for. Folly. What had he been thinking?

Hob lifts his head to look at him, a line of spit dragging from Dream's cock to his lower lip. "Dream, you with me?"

Dream nods. His hand is still in Hob's hair. He pets at Hob's forehead, his temple, and Hob smiles. Like Dream is the one being indulged.

"Good?" he says, and Dream nods again. Hob takes his hand from his hair, kisses his knuckles, and Dream does not think this is how casual experiments are meant to go. He does not know what he is learning, except that Hob's kiss is soft and reverent, and the look on his face even more so.

"Is this," Dream asks quietly, hyperaware of how he's laid out on his back, Hob between his legs, "how you want me?"

Hob releases his hand. Drags a fingertip maddeningly up and down the crook of Dream's thigh as he considers. "Probably be a bit easier for you on your belly, but I don't want to make you feel vulnerable."

Dream is not certain there is a version of this that would not feel vulnerable. That it does not already. "I defer to your better judgment."

"Stay there, then." He moves away, and Dream takes the moment to gather himself. He's not certain he succeeds. He's spinning pleasantly, buzzing with the echo of Hob's touch. He wonders what might happen if he gives up on trying to right himself.

Hob comes back with lubricant, situations himself between Dream's legs again. Runs his hands up and down Dream's thighs and Dream spreads them wider on instinct. Hob swallows hard, Dream watches the harsh bob of his throat. He's still wearing his jeans, and Dream wishes he would take them off, he wants to pet at Hob's thighs in turn, he wants to see.

"You're a holy vision," Hob says, still studying him with that look, raw and strangled. Find some man to bed you, Dream thinks, feverishly. Some man.

He plucks at the fabric of Hob's jeans. "Hob—“

Hob chuckles. "Sorry, sorry. Bit unfair of me, isn't it? Got too distracted looking at you." He unzips his jeans then, pulls them off, and then is sitting there only in his underwear—something which Dream does not bother to manifest for himself because his clothing is made already of dream stuff, but perhaps he will start because Hob bare before him, his cock heavy and hard in his boxer briefs but still obscured by the fabric is—

"Dream?" Hob asks, as Dream pushes himself up on his elbows and reaches for him, mesmerized, cups his hand around Hob through the fabric, feels the warmth and heft of him, "did I break y— ah fuck."

Hob pushes into his hand, bends down over him again to kiss him as if summoned to it, and it is thrilling, sparkles along every vein, to get such a reaction. To have Hob caving to him. "Fuck, Dream."

Dream indulges himself further, slips his hand under Hob's waistband, takes him in his grasp, and Hob jerks against him. Dream's mouth waters at the weight of him, he has to swallow thickly to clear his throat, his own cock is heavy and straining, and he parts his thighs further for Hob. Vulnerable. Yes. This is vulnerable, and especially so in the waking world, and he wants, he wants Hob in him. A new feeling.

"Hob. I want—"

"I know, darling. Fuck, you're beautiful. Your hands—" He shakes himself. "Right. Right."

Hob sits up again. Strips off his underwear properly. His hair is hanging loose and messy now, eyes ever so slightly glazed with pleasure, chest rising and falling, his prick hard and ruddy at the tip. He is arresting.

He pushes Dream's legs up so his knees are bent, finds the bottle of lube where it's fallen into the sheets, pours some out into his hand. Leans in to kiss Dream’s belly, pleasant and tickling, and in the same motion drags a finger over Dream’s entrance.

Dream catches his wrist, inhuman pulse peaking in his throat, like a burst of dream stuff. “You do not need to put in such effort. This body does not have these human limitations.”

Hob tsks and taps his hand away. “You said you wanted the full experience. And the full Hob Gadling experience includes proper prep and aftercare, even if you're made of whims and fantasies. Free of charge, by the way."

"Oh, indeed?" This comes out significantly less teasing, and significantly more affected, than Dream had intended. "And what will the rest cost me?”

Hob winks at him. "Only your pleasure, darling."

This time, he leans over Dream, takes Dream’s wrist and pins it to the bed by his head. Dream lets out a choked gasp. The sudden pressure of Hob’s grip makes something stand out sharply within him, and then collapse again in relief. Hob makes a considering noise, and holds him there as he presses a finger lightly to Dream’s entrance with his other hand.

Dream shudders as Hob pushes his finger in, one knuckle, two, as he works in and out of Dream’s body, stretching him— it is an odd sensation, one he half-feels he should shy away from, but Hob’s grip on his arm is grounding, and Hob kneeling between his spread legs is tickling something in him that wants very badly.

Then Hob crooks his finger and pleasure rushes through him like a windstorm. Dream arches off the bed, grabbing at the sheets, and Hob laughs. “Thought you might like that.”

“Hob.” Dream thinks he means this to come out admonishing but it’s far more strained. Hob doesn’t give him time to recover, he drags his finger over Dream’s prostate again and Dream bites down hard on his lower lip. Hob slips his finger out, returns with two, and now it’s a stretch. Dream grinds down on him, resists the urge to whine as Hob works him over on his fingers, rubbing over his prostate on every other stroke.

“You are unbelievably gorgeous,” Hob murmurs, watching where his fingers slip in and out of Dream’s body, and then back up at Dream’s face with awe and fixation.

“Even,” Dream struggles over the words as sensation washes through him, Hob’s fingers in him, filling him, so much and yet he wants more, “spread out, like so?”

“Especially then. The way you move on my fingers,” he twists his hand to emphasize the point, and Dream shudders, "the fact that you let me. D’you know how long I’ve looked at you and wondered?” Saying this, he kisses Dream, sliding his hand up Dream’s wrist to clasp their fingers together. “Passing Stranger, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only. Fuck, I wanted to see you like that.”

You give me the pleasure of your eyes, Dream thinks, but doesn’t quote the poem back to him— Hob reels him away again by the touch of his hands. He pushes a third finger into Dream, and now it is tight, it is so much, but Dream pushes himself back onto Hob’s hand. Hob’s fingers move gloriously within him, touching every part of him, and he starts speaking again in his low, honey voice, that’s it, darling, good, feels so good, yeah? and Dream needs Hob inside him. Hob has pulled him by the throat from inexperienced to grasping, and he is grasping.

Hob keeps fingering him, spiking his pleasure higher, his cock hanging heavy and teasing Dream with each move he makes. Dream himself is painfully hard, and it sharpens the feeling of Hob in him from maddening to agonizing. Hob kisses him, licks into Dream’s mouth, and Dream opens to his tongue. He opens to him. Like a yawning, cavernous thing.

Wanting Hob in him has shifted to needing Hob in him has shifted to lacking Hob in him, that Hob is a fundamental part of him and without him Dream is bereft. “Hob,” he whines, mortified by the sound of it but unable to drag himself back to that place of control he had surely—surely?—started the evening with. “Please—”

Hob’s head jerks up and he looks at Dream in shock. And. Oh.

Shame rushes through Dream’s body. Who has he become, begging a human to fuck him? Is he not the Lord of all Dreaming, is he not above this? Once, Dream was a skillful and assertive lover, he could bring the full power of the Dreaming to bear for his lovers’ pleasure, he could craft every moment exactly as needed— and now—

But Hob doesn’t draw away in disgust. Or gloat over the position he’s maneuvered Dream into. He smiles down at him, a soft look that goes just a bit pained at the edges as Dream tenses. Then he presses his lips to Dream’s cheek. Even that simple touch makes Dream shiver.

“It’s alright, darling,” Hob murmurs, so gentle but the heat of it still winds through Dream’s insides. “Don’t you know I’ll give you what you need? You don’t have to beg for it.” He slips his fingers out and back in, only two now, working them as deep as they’ll go. “But you sound so pretty when you do.”

“Please,” Dream says, the words again dragged from him unbidden, unspooled by the feeling of Hob inside him, there but not enough. Hob kisses him, swallows his plea like sweet wine, works him on his fingers, grinds his cock in tantalizing lines over Dream’s thigh. And gradually something unlocks in Dream’s ribcage, each piece turning itself open in realization. Hob likes when he asks, begs even. But he isn’t going to make him.

Asking, then, feels less like a wound rent in him, showing all his torn pieces, and more like a spell that will draw Hob to him. Speak, and he will come.

“Please,” Dream says again, and this time the words don’t tear. He speaks into Hob’s mouth, and the wet warmth of Hob’s lips and tongue soothe him where asking might start to chafe. “Hob, I need—”

“Do you need my cock, love?” Hob asks, rough low and rough and burning. “Feels empty, doesn’t it?” He slips his fingers free, and Dream whines. “I know. I know. You’re just starving for it, aren’t you?”

Starving, yes, Dream would like to take Hob in his mouth, but right now he’s feverish for something else. Hob is so close, every touch of his skin already has Dream singing, but he still wants more. He tangles his hand in Hob’s hair, wraps one leg around the back of Hob’s thighs to pull him closer, and Hob laughs, breathless.

“Fuck, Dream, you’re so—” Hob sounds spun around, now, and it’s gratifying to knock him askew in the way he’s done to Dream.

“Hob Gadling,” Dream says, putting the weight of sleeping desire into his voice, “I need you. I’m waiting.”

“Fucking hell,” Hob groans. “I’ve created something terrifying.” He doesn’t sound displeased about it. In fact, he kisses Dream again, lets Dream pull him close by the hair, smiling into his mouth. “Gonna make it so good for you, I promise.”

“I can plague your sleep with eternal nightmares if not,” Dream says, with no intention of doing so.

“See, I’m so confident in my ability to fuck you” —Dream's skin prickles at the word— “that I’m not even worried about it.”

He makes Dream lift up so he can push a pillow under his hips, takes Dream’s leg and maneuvers it over his shoulder, bending his body back. Dream shivers at the vulnerability of the position, the way he’s pinned. Hob kisses the bend of his knee with a little smile, and then Dream watches down the length of their bodies as Hob takes himself in hand. He’s so hard, glistening with pre at the tip, and Dream swallows jerkily.

“Alright, love?” Hob asks, meeting his eyes. He has always had the brightest, loveliest eyes. Dream holds his gaze and nods. He is not certain that he is, in fact, all right, he feels strange and spun about and immersed in the waking dream of Hob’s bed and Hob’s touch, but he does not want Hob to stop, he wants Hob to fuck him.

Hob presses into him, slowly, pausing when just the head of his cock is sheathed. And Dream— Dream was not prepared, Hob’s fingers did not prepare him for the all around pressure of Hob’s cock, the way it would fill him. It dances on the edge of pain, but he wants more. Already, more.

“More,” he finds himself saying, and Hob chuckles, bracing a hand around the back of Dream’s neck as he complies. This time, he pushes all the way in, not stopping until he bottoms out, groaning at the feeling. Dream clutches at his shoulders, no doubt leaving indents in his skin, body clenching convulsively as he gets used to the feeling of Hob in him.

Hob is inside him. Hob is inside him.

“Dream, you alright? You’re… breathing,” Hob says, petting through his hair. He sounds awed.

Breathing. He is breathing. And he hadn't commanded it so. Hadn't even meant it. Normally Dream forgets to affect such human mannerisms, even when it might be advisable to do so. But now he is breathing. Each one is choppy, three steps up three steps down, somewhere between a breath and a sob.

“I am fine,” he says, and Hob shushes him, kissing his cheek.

“I know you are. It’s alright to get a bit overwhelmed, yeah?” Hob is still in him, Dream can still feel every centimeter of him everywhere, but he doesn’t move. Simply lets Dream settle.

Dream tries to stop the wretched breathing, it makes him feel human and mortal and out of control, but he can’t, this temporary body affixed to this plane by Hob’s weight, his touch. Hob kisses his cheek again, nuzzles at his ear, and gradually Dream finds himself subsiding, relaxing in increments. It occurs to him, through the distant knowledge of the Dreaming, that this softness would not be characteristic of a temporary, experimental experience with a stranger, should Dream have simply wanted to know what it was like. It occurs to him through his own knowledge that this vulnerability he feels, this ability to ease him, is characteristic only of Hob.

He does not yet know what to do with that, but he turns to find Hob’s lips. Hob meets him easily, smiling into the kiss. “With me?” he asks, and Dream nods.

“Yes.”

Then Hob starts to move, slow measured thrusts at first. Dream breathes through each, and perhaps breathing is not so bad, after all, for it settles him, and settling lets him take Hob in, and he wants to take Hob in. It is so good, the slide of him sends sparks all along Dream’s limbs, builds inexorable and tantalizing heat through his body, none of his many dreams conveyed to him just how good it would be, when brought from dreams to reality. From memory to the body. More, even, than this is the sense of Hob’s body over him, the heat of him, and the strength, the breadth of his shoulders, the drag of Hob’s belly over Dream’s prick, the way he moves, expertly pushing Dream higher and oh-so-much faster with each thrust, tapping against that edge of pain-and-too-much without ever letting him fall over it.

Dream is starting to think that, in addition to his general experience, Hob has become quite an expert in knowing what Dream, specifically, might like.

“Good, darling?” Hob asks against his jaw, and Dream means to respond but all that comes out is a whine. He feels Hob’s smile against his skin. “More, then?”

Dream evidently doesn’t have to respond. Hob braces himself more firmly over him, and then he’s moving much faster, and then Dream really loses his senses. Hob bears down on him, levering Dream’s leg back further and deepening the angle, and each thrust hits before Dream has recovered from the last, and Hob’s mouth is on his throat, right over his pulse, which is also hammering—

Hob hits his prostate, and Dream keens as lightning arcs through him. Hob is talking to him now as he does it again and again, saying through panting breaths something like, you’re so good, does that feel good? is’at good for you? fuck you’re gorgeous, but Dream can’t parse much detail. He feels he should be participating more actively, but the wherewithal to do so has slipped away from him, all he can do is take what Hob is giving to him.

Probably that is what Hob wants. Perhaps he has fantasized over their long acquaintance about having Dream bent in just this position. Many might wish to have the Dream Lord at their mercy. Hob’s mercy, however, is a burst of pure heat straight to the soul.

“Hob,” he’s saying when he comes back to himself enough to notice, “Hob, Hob—”

“You’re beautiful like that,” Hob says, voice rough. “Dreamed of it— ha. You make the most beautiful noises.”

They are, in fact, wholly undignified noises, but Dream can’t seem to bring himself to stop; Hob punches each sound of pleasure out of him. He floats. Holds onto Hob’s shoulders. Presses his face to Hob’s and feels the scratch of his stubble. The rough calluses of his hands. The rhythm of Hob’s body is sublime. The kiss that he presses to the corner of Dream’s eye is more so. He is… crying there. Tears spilling over and down his cheeks. Dream has crafted the heights of euphoria within the Dreaming. But. Has any of it ever been as good as this?

He has Hob close to him, around him, in him, and still he wants more. Never again will Dream be able to disdain the office of Desire, not without looking away in shame at the lie.

His release washes over him in a wave that he doesn’t even notice until it peaks, so great is the rest of his pleasure. He gasps as he comes, not even needing Hob’s hand on him, tips his head back on the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open. Chest heaving. Hob slows, cups Dream’s cheek—until Dream urges him on with an ankle hooked around the back of his thigh, do not stop do not stop do not—

“Alright.” Hob nips at his lower lip in admonishment but he does start fucking him again, clearly chasing his own release now rather than pushing for Dream’s. That edge of pleasure-pain now tips closer to pain but Dream relishes in it. Each stuttered motion of Hob in him is blessed.

“I want,” he manages, throat dry, voice scraped rough from his cries, “to feel you come. In me.”

“Oh fuck,” Hob swears. “Dream.” And that apparently is enough. Hob’s hips stutter quick and he comes, hot spurts in Dream’s body, he can feel it. When Hob's tension eases, when his breath catches up to him, he moves to pull out—but Dream drags him back in. He wants— wants to keep Hob inside him, belly spine lungs throat, bring Hob in and in and hold him there, wants that warmth with him always. He could live like that, with Hob close to him.

Hob helps him lower his leg from his shoulder, stretch out sore muscles, and then lets Dream pull him in close, hold him there, in him, even as he’s going soft. He turns them on their sides, tucks his face in against Dream’s shoulder. Breathes the same air.

“So,” Hob says, after several, very long moments where they’ve been lying quietly together, tacky with sweat, Dream’s limbs all wrapped around Hob and Hob running his hands up and down his back, “how was that?”

“Mm?” Dream is still floating. It’s very pleasant.

He can feel Hob grinning against his shoulder. “You wanted to know what it was like to sleep with a man.”

What it was like. Dream is not certain he knows. He knows that Hob’s arms around him are strong, the touch of his skin pleasant even with the combined heat of their bodies. That he smells of sex and sweat and Dream wants to mire himself in it. He knows that, as Hob does finally, carefully pull out, he can feel Hob’s come dripping sticky over his thighs and rather than being discomforting, it only reminds him how he was wanted. His own come is smeared over Hob’s belly in disorganized lines, and Hob’s hair is ravaged by his fingers. There are still tears drying on Dream’s face. He knows that Hob has had him, now, and is still holding him. That the force of his lovemaking annihilated Dream’s dignity. That Hob wants to kiss him during sex. That at his prolonged silence, Hob looks up, finds his gaze, questioning.

“I am not certain that’s what I studied,” Dream admits. “Or. Learned.”

“Oh? What’d you learn, then?” Hob touches his cheek, as if even parted for a second, he wants to be close to Dream again. “Least tell me if you enjoyed it.”

“I did.” Dream must look ruined, and still Hob must confirm he enjoyed it? “What I learned is not what it is like to be with 'a man'. But rather.” He brushes his thumb over Hob’s lower lip, and Hob’s mouth opens at the movement. “What it is like. To be loved. By a very good friend.”

Hob’s expression crinkles into the softest smile at loved. “Oh, a very good friend, hm?”

“Very good,” Dream says. Presses his hand flat to Hob’s heart. “Uniquely so. Uniquely good to me among friends.” Not that Dream has… friends, plural. Better, then, that Hob is so singular. Singular enough to have nestled somewhere within him, between one meeting, one drink, one kiss and the next, and Dream would no longer be without him. His heart is surrounded by a hazy warmth much softer than the sharp pang of desire, and Hob's bed, Hob's touch, is soothing to him, a blanket he has finally pulled over his shoulders after trying to brave the lingering cold. Like so much this evening, it feels strange, and like so much this evening, it feels too good to shy away.

Hob leans in to kiss him, a soft drag of lips over his. “Good. Can I convince my friend to go in for a shower? Tea, maybe? Can I convince him to stay the night and keep exploring that friendship?”

Hob has taken care of him this evening, has not yet lead him astray, and so Dream lets him pull him out of bed and to his feet. In the shower, under the rushing hot water, Hob kisses him, kisses him, kisses him, rough, inelegant, consumed by feeling, hands curled around Dream’s hips. Dream will not make dreams out of this night, after all, he thinks. Selfishly, he wants to keep it to himself.

Peerless among friends, Hob Gadling, he thinks, as Hob makes him tea. As Hob tugs him back over the threshold, into the bedroom, into the mess they’ve made of the sheets. Peerless among friends.

Among lovers, too, perhaps.

#tfw ur having casual sex with ur homie to learn what its like to get dicked down then oh no youre having a gay awakening oh NO youre having #a romantic awakening about your homie too. we've all been there #my writing #dreamling #dreamling fic #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream x hob #you best believe 'i serve at your pleasure' plays over and over and over and over in dream's mind for weeks after #btw the poem hob quotes is 'to a stranger'#nsft

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inkovert · 2 months

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I don't make the rules but - if you don't get excited at the thought of going back and re-reading the story you wrote then you're writing the wrong story.

You are your first and most important reader.

#the way I got into my bed one night and was awake and anxious at 2 AM and decided to open my story on my phone and read it from ch 1 #I was having a blast and didn't want to tear myself away to go to sleep #also been daydreaming about the scenes in this chapter I'm currently writing that may or may not make its way into the actual story #but every day or so I begrudgingly write a few hundred words to get it on paper #and I go back and reread it voraciously until I get to the point where I left off and am like WHERE IS THE REST #so yeah #what is the point of putting words to paper if not to finally indulge in the pleasure of reading and enjoying the scenes we daydream about?

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solarpunkani · 11 months

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Psst, hey.

Hey you.

Come closer.

Listen to what I'm about to say good and well, alright?

#out of queue #ani rambles #anti ai #anti ai art #solarpunk #solarpunk aesthetic #does this have the official backing of the other 2 event hosts? no i just made this meme on a whim #but also if you try submitting AI art and we find out? or worse if I can flat-out TELL its AI? I'm blocking your ass #one of the best artists I've ever had the pleasure of knowing won't touch the Solarpunk community with a 10 foot pole because of all the #goddamn AI art infiltrating this space. constantly. like even when I'm trying to be on the lookout for it I somehow reblog it anyways #even when I block the tags too!!!! this is a PROBLEM #you want more artists taking part in this community spreading the vision visualizing the future?#STOP REBLOGGING AI BULLSHIT AND CHASING THEM AWAY THEN #how are artists supposed to feel accepted and appreciated and loved by this community when every other piece under the tag is some fuckin #midjourney bs made my scrubbing the internet and spitting out a mishmash of other artists' works and ideas?#i have said it before I will say it again #i would rather see a messy pen scribble on the back of a coffee stained napkin with stickfigures than see some smooth smudgy AI BS again #this applies to AI writing too if I catch an INKLING that your short story even STARTED with some bs chatgpt ramblings you're blocked

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blindmagdalena · 2 months

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Homie with a reader that has a habit of laughing that turns into moaning every time their sweet spots are kissed?

nsfw-ish The first time it happens, it's a happy accident.

You're tapping away on your phone, wholly unaware of him sneaking up behind you. You yelp when he snatches your hips and pulls your back flush to his chest. He presses his warm lips to the tantalizing slank of your neck.

You shriek with laughter as you try to worm out of his grasp, but your efforts are entirely in vein. "That tickles!" You tell him, half statement and half plea.

If you wanted him to stop, that was the wrong thing to say.

He gives a playful little growl as he doubles down, peppering quick kisses all up the column of your neck to the soft curve just below your earlobe. You dissolve into fitful laughter, fighting to wriggle away from him, when suddenly that laughter stretches into a keening moan.

You both go still, though you're still panting, cheeks hot.

"What was that?" He purrs, his Cheshire cat grin audible in his voice.

"Don't," you say, embarrassed.

"No, no," he says, wrapping his arms properly around you when you try again to push his hands away. "I'm gonna need to hear that again." "No, you-!" You break off into another peal of laughter, victimized by the way he repeatedly brushes his lip over that same spot. Just as it had before, your laughter escalates into desperate, breathy moans straight out of his wettest dreams. Your frantic heartbeat throbs wildly against his lips, the heat of you as intoxicating as the sound.

Not only that, your struggling has you writhing against him, grinding back against what has rapidly become a hard-on in his pants.

"Christ," he exhales, cheeks blushed with his own arousal. "How is it everything you do is so fucking hot?" He asks, heat bringing a rasp to his voice that sends a shiver down your spine.

"You're a monster," you gasp through a smile, trying to catch your breath.

"I'm about to be," he agrees, effortlessly swinging you up into his arms. "I'm gonna need to figure out if you have any other spots that make you laugh—and moan—like that."

"No! Noooooooo~!" You cry, the end of it muffled by the kiss he presses to your lips, swallowing up your half-hearted protests.

As it turns out, you have a multitude of them.

Homelander happily spends the next several hours exploiting them.

#i'm gonna have to incorporate this lil quirk into Guilty Pleasures because this is SOOOO cute anon #consider this a preview lol #ask and you shall receive #darling anon #homelander x reader #homelander x you #my writing

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extra-somethin-somethin · 2 months

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If nothing else Koenma is a Kuwabara stan and I'm right there with him o7 (I need to write the kuwameshi fic that goes with this fr)

#maybe one day i'll write that au i have sitting in my head #ever since the comment he made about making kuwa spirit detective instead ive been thinking about it #like...what if yusuke is still recruited same as canon but like #kuwa was already spirit detective? doing assignments for the guys upstairs and all #and they made yusuke help him after his resurrection instead of going solo #and it's hilarious because they still have the ''rivalry'' set in place so it's like #now i gotta be coworkers with this guy i was in a fist fight with last week?#yusuke is like you can't be serious you want me to fight DEMONS with the guy who cant even beat ME? lmaooo okay #kuwa would be more in tune with his powers atp in this au and super offended like hello #why would i use my reiki on a FELLOW HUMAN CHILD you DICK i can hold my own on my assignments just fine #but he's actually really excited to be able to spend time with yusuke doing something besides getting his ass handed to him #they're both genkai's students (she's endlessly annoyed but they grow on her)#i just think it'd be fun cos like #it'd be harder to exclude kazuma from shit if he's literally been involved in this shit before he even met #kurama and hiei #kuwabara isn't really told about yusuke's resurrection so things go mostly the same up til he's brought back #they're both called to koenma's office and it's the spiderman pointing meme 💀#it's koenma's first time seeing kuwa in person as he usually just sends assignments with botan #yusuke has already seen him cos of the resurrection arc #and koenma is SUCH a fanboy ''kuwabara it's such a pleasure. you know you're my best worker 🥺''#''um urameshi am i seeing things or is that a fuckin baby'' yusuke will NOT stop laughing #it fucks koenma up so bad he makes sure he's in his adult form when he's around kuwa next #cos he wants to be the respected boss but also guy that you can chill with!! he's so cringe #okay yeah i need to write this it's such a fun concept #kuwameshi #yu yu hakusho #kuwabara kazuma #yusuke urameshi #koenma

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jadewritesficshere · 23 hours

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Pretty

Eddie Munson x reader

Contains: no plot just filth, sub!Eddie Munson, bound hands, edging, slight overstim, cumplay, ass play, aftercare, pet names (Eddie is called Baby), no gender descriptors for reader (your thighs are mentioned but not size or shape just that Eddie finds them beautiful)

This is unedited I wrote this in a blur idk how many words maybe 1k ill add that at a later time

18+ only!

"You look so pretty like this."

Eddie shudders as he feels your breath against the back of his neck. He looks ahead into the mirror, pupils blown wide at the scene before him.

You sit behind Eddie. A saccharine grin on your face. His back is flush with your front, he can feel every inhale and exhale you take. Your beautiful thighs he wants to bite are on either side of his. Your ankles are locked around his, holding him in place. Eddie's hands are bound with his belt, resting on your thigh.

Eddie's shirt is pushed up, belly button piercing glinting in the low light. The red of his piercing matches the red on his face that runs down his neck. If he had his shirt off, you'd be able to see the blush bleed into the top of his chest. He shivers as you blow against his ear.

"Look how pretty you are Eds."

He lets out a whine as your fingers delicately trail his length. His cock is flushed a deep red, almost purple at the top from how turned on he is. Slightly curved to the left, the tip leaking so much cum he's practically glistening. Your fingers ghost over the slit and his hips jump forward, only for your touch to leave. Teasing him again.

It was torture of the best kind. He isn't sure how long you have been teasing him. Tears in his eyes from pleasure and annoyance. Your hand wrapped firmly around him bringing him to the precipice only to let go before he reaches the edge. Tantalizing touches that sway the line of not enough and too much.

"Say you look pretty Baby."

He gasps as your hand wraps firmly around him again, hoping you won't remove your hand again. His nails dig into your thigh, trying to grab hold of anything he can. He can feel your smirk as you press a kiss to where his shoulder meets his neck. "I uh I look pretty," Eddie's voice is raspy.

"The prettiest boy." You murmur. "The fuck the prettiest boy." Eddie whimpers. A tear rolls down his cheek and he watches as you swipe it away. "Color?" You pause. "Green so green please don't stop," Eddie babbles slightly, turning to face you. You smile sweetly as your hand forces his jaw back to facing the mirror.

With your ankles locked around Eddie's, you spread your legs, thus causing his to spread wide open. Its obscene, being fully on display. "Awh," you coo at him, making him whine. Eddie shivers as you slide your hand up and down his shaft, your other hand gently squeezing his heavy balls.

Eddie jumps as you trail your fingers lower. You lightly press against his hole, just enough for him to feel it. It takes him a minute to realize the moan he hears was from himself. His cock leaks another spurt of precum, dribbling down your hand as you continue to jerk him off.

You remove the pressure teasing his hole and swipe up the cum that has leaked onto your hand. You coat your finger with it before pressing against Eddie's tight hole again. Your gently slide your finger in.

Eddie can feel his eyes crossing as his mouth drops open. He can feel you pump your finger in and out of him in tandem with the hand that is stroking him up and down. "Gonna come for me? You look so good baby. Look so perfect like this," you kiss the shell of his ear. Eddie nods, barely able to open his eyes. Barely able to think of anything as he feels the warm pleasure spreading throughout his limbs.

His hips snap up as a loud whine leaves him. His brain goes silent as pleasure comes over him in waves. You never falter your pace, its almost too much as he keeps cumming. It's the hardest and longest he has ever come, it almost knocks the breath out of him. His senses hone in on the euphoria he feels, numbing his mind to everything but the pleasure.

He pants and gasps as he slowly comes back to himself. He's barely aware he's holding onto your thigh with a death grip. "Did so good baby, so good." You murmur. "Uh-huh." Eddie can feel his heart beating in his chest. His limbs feel like jello. He's pretty sure if he tried to stand his legs would shake.

You slowly move out from behind him (wait when did you stop touching him?). Eddie opens his eyes, tracking you as you grab a water bottle and wash cloth on the bedside table. You wet the wash cloth before wiping the cum off him. Eddie tries not to but jumps from still being sensitive. You murmur apologies, as if you have anything to apologize for. If Eddie's tongue didn't feel of lead, he would sing your praises.

You toss the wash cloth away and quickly undo the belt around Eddie's wrists. Even though there isn't a mark, you take your time massaging his wrists and hands. You gently place a kiss on the back of both of his hands. If he wasn't already completely in love with you, that would have done it.

Eddie can barely focus on your words, barely think through how good he feels. He's aware you are holding the water bottle up to his lips and he drinks greedily. You swipe away the water that dribbles down his chin.

Eddie curls into you, head against your chest listening to your heart. You slowly stroke his hair, comforting him. He's aware you're whispering to him, praising him. All he can think about is how loved he feels in this moment. How safe he is in your arms. How he can fully let go and know you have him. How he knows you love him with your whole being, just as he loves you.

#Idk how to end this anyways uhhh idk what happened but I had a vision and it took a hold of me and here it is #I was writing this in a blur and when I opened my eyes I stared widely at this and I cant edit it i am too into it #I dont even know how to fully tag this BUT I TRUST THIS WILL REACH THE RIGHT PEOPLE OKAY #anyways uh have this #everyone please don't yell at me pls enjoy this i-#Eddie Munson x reader #Eddie Munson x you #Eddie Munson x y/n #Eddie Munson/you #Eddie Munson/reader #Sub!Eddie Munson #Sub!Eddie Munson x reader #Sub!Eddie Munson x you #Jade is Talking #If I missed something in the contents be kind to me when you tell me pls I am sensitive just like Eddie is from you giving him pleasure

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linka-from-captain-planet · 3 months

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maybe Lady Mizora has had her claws in Florrick for some time and that’s why Florrick believed her lies about Wyll

#me glossing over bad writing by injecting drama and terrible lesbian vibes as usual #Florrick I know ur a quest giver first a plot device second and a character third #but my wife deserved better #ignore Mizora’s jewelry I didn’t want to draw it #Counsellor Florrick #Mizora #guilty pleasure ship #Florrick/Mizora

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clerichs-xi · 2 months

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nothing to see here, just the party rogue reporting to the party tactician after a scouting mission... being that close and shirtless is mandatory. for party morale of course.

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charlesoberonn · 1 year

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Visually speaking, the magic in Doctor Strange is the polar opposite of the magic in Harry Potter.

Doctor Strange Magic: Creative, trippy, intricate, varied, inspired

Harry Potter Magic: “pew pew pew my laser is bigger than yours!”

#not to defend the mcu too much #the writing in the doctor strange movies is trash #they're my guilty pleasure tho

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komorim · 1 year

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something more

-> naoya x f!reader (kamo!reader)

[ synopsis. ] naoya had a reputation for being misogynistic, and he certainly didn’t believe that he would ever fall in love with the disgusting creatures called women. the only one worthy of his attention was the strongest female sorcerer, a woman who was nearing in skill to gojo satoru himself. yet the attention doesn’t mean he would treat you any better. but he wished he did.

[ content warnings. ] manga spoilers. misogyny. kidnapping. heavy angst. character death. mentions of child abuse. mentions of suicide. mentions of murder. mentions of attempted murder. mentions of torture. mentions of inhumane experiments. mentions of disability. allusions to sex. miscarriage. description of gore. reader is underweight. reader is older than naoya. belated love epiphany. more pain, possibly more than the suna one :)

[ word count. ] 3.7k

[ author’s note. ] wow. this story went from the original 10+ chapter fanfic to a 3 chapter fanfic to a one shot. after so many trial and errors, i finally decided to make this a one shot, even if that means i’ll have to cut some major plot points. the reason being that this story was developed a bit over a year ago, and i’m honestly starting to lose interest in finishing this as a series. well, here it is!

[ previously named: a cracked shell ]

“i’m home,” naoya says as he slides open the door to your shared room. yet he doesn’t find you in there. he’s confused to say the least. even though you had a small fit with him the other day, it wasn’t nothing serious. you would always pretend as if nothing had happened. you were just like that. you didn’t like conflict, so in order to avoid it, you became somewhat of a pushover when it comes to most things.

your boundaries are set very low, and they continue to lower with every violation of them. it was one of the reasons you and naoya could coexist. he wished for an obedient little wife, and although you weren’t obedient per se, your character in its nature was close enough.

you never acted out of line as you were clear of the troublesome headache it would bring you. and naoya was okay with that.

it would be an understatement to say that his expectations for his wife also lowered. the original idea in his mind was that he would marry a docile, mindless woman who would do everything he asked of her without question. and you don’t fit that description. but he’s okay with you.

you, who is a sorcerer strong enough to rival geto and gojo.

it wasn’t a secret that naoya had always admired the strong. and even if it’s a woman, he’ll show some degree of respect to them as long as they’re stronger or on par with himself.

which is why he’s so lenient with you.

he remembers how miserable you looked when he first met you at the kamo estate when he was eight and you were nine.

the only reason he appeared at the kamo estate was that he heard of a secret kamo child that had been recently escorted back to the estate. though he wasn’t the type to come for solely this minor, insignificant purpose. no, he came since he heard the rumors of what you were.

not only had you inherited the kamo technique of blood manipulation, you also had an immense amount of cursed energy within you. though what made you the most special of all was the essence of your cursed energy.

a cursed energy with scent.

and not only did your cursed energy have a scent to it, the scent was odd. it had the ability to put people in a drunken state upon breathing in the fragrance too much. it was truly odd. something like this had never been seen. it was probably why the kamos were so hell-bent on bringing you back to the estate to recognize you as one of their own.

nine year old you was very similar to how you are like now. quiet, appearing to be uninterested in almost everything, and eerie. almost twenty years later of knowing you, he could never pinpoint exactly what it was, but you always seemed off. it was an eerie aspect that made others uncomfortable in your presence. maybe it was a dominating attribute that came with being that strong.

yet what he didn’t understand was why you always looked so miserable. you were so strong that you could destroy a city and possibly more if you wished. but you were never happy. eight year old naoya thought that if he was that gifted, he’d never have a bad day in his life. maybe it’s because you were born a girl that you are unable to be happy. after all, the elders always spoke of how unlucky it is to be a girl.

that was the first time he met you. only being able to get a glance of your face in a open room. the next time he saw you was at the goodwill event. you appeared to be the same as before. you didn’t speak much, you still looked miserable and unbothered, and you still had that eerie feeling about you.

around this time, naoya had been raised by the zenins’ misogynistic ideals for so long that he has also adopted them himself. and even if he knew that your current abilities can rival even the two most powerful jujutsu sorcerers, you were just a woman. you were born with the right, immense power, but the wrong gender. you were bound to one day become someone’s wife one day, confined to the chains of marriage and the duties of a woman.

your talent and power will succumb to nothing. it’ll all be useless.

maybe that’s when he first started hating you. he envied you for having the power he could not. his eyes grew red at the thought that a woman had received the main inherited jujutsu technique of the kamo clan when he himself only inherited a sub technique of the zenin. he feels frustrated that you have all this power and he’ll never be able to see its full potential since you’re a woman that’s destined to be in a house and nowhere else.

maybe that’s why he was desperate to hunt you down during the goodwill event. he was desperate to prove himself better. he couldn’t stand being weak compared to someone who’s power will become useless one day anyways.

but he lost. zenin naoya had lost. it was humiliating really; the way you barely looked at him as you successfully constrained him, proceeding to leave without a care in the world.

he had felt a new kind of sensation that day. a strong urge to see what kind of faces you can make other than that miserable, unbothered expression.

so when he found out from his father later on that you’ve been engaged to him, he found it perfect. he’ll have the rest of eternity to make you say something, feel something more than hopelessness. you could tell that his preference for said feeling would be suffering, but it’s not like he ever succeeded, so you didn’t pay his unwell intentions much thought anyways.

it was at this point when he finally found out why you always looked miserable. after all, the least he could do as your fiancé was get to know you, albeit you didn’t want him to.

when he heard about your life so far, he laughed a bit. you’re so strong and yet you couldn’t prevent any of the tragic events in your life. the elders were right. a woman like you was destined to live out an unlucky life. but maybe yours was a bit too unfair, even by naoya’s opinion.

secret child born to loving parents, you had been raised without the kamos’ knowledge. at the age of nine, shortly before naoya first met you, an escort had appeared at the peaceful apartment you lived at and supposedly murdered your father. your mother fell into hysteria and blamed your existence for the death of her only love. she looked at you with hatred, with the intent to kill her only child. and when she regained some sense of logic, she would hold you closely and cry. he bets that this on and off behavior you endured also dried you up emotionally. and apparently your mother too, for she committed suicide in her room less than a year later.

before doing so, she didn’t forget to smash a rock onto your head. either trying to take you with her or trying to enact some revenge for the love of her life he doesn’t know. but what he does know is that the damage caused absolutely destroyed your right ear.

irreparable loss of hearing.

however unlikely, it was probably the hearing of your tragic childhood that made naoya show you a bit of kindness after the marriage. he showed some form of respect for you, the one who survived such a past and also you, the one stronger than himself.

you had also noticed this. how he wasn’t exactly like how the rumors depicted him. but you paid no mind, as he still treated you as lesser than. it was to be expected. and although the younger you would scowl at the disrespect shown by someone younger than you, the current you couldn’t care less.

you were only a wife to naoya for one reason. to escape being assigned as the next clan leader.

you could never take that position. not when you saw how the kamo clan had crushed your family. not when you saw how noritoshi hated you for receiving the attention of the elders. you knew about the boy. his mother being a mistress made his standing in the clan awkward. and you knew how much he needed to be the next clan leader in order to reunite with his mother.

so you allowed him to take the position of heir. you declined as your uncle, the clan leader, tried several times to make you the heir. you knew why he treated the two of you so differently. one was the only child of his only little sister, the last blood relation to her on this world, and the other was simply a mistress’s son, albeit his own.

but you couldn’t destroy a family the way he destroyed yours. you didn’t want to watch as noritoshi falls into despair like you. so even when your uncle pressured you with the choice or either marriage or heir, you confidently chose to be married off.

and what a choice it was.

from day one of being zenin y/n, you already disliked the atmosphere of the zenin household. but alas, it was the place where you would be living for probably the rest of your life.

and when the year passed by and you still had no sign of child, the zenin naobito had attempted to have you divorced.

least to say naoya was furious when he heard. why? because he finally had the second strongest sorcerer chained to his side. how was he supposed to just willingly give you up? but he and yourself both know what the cause for your lack of child was.

the fact that naoya refused to touch you.

it’s not like you minded. you had no emotions for your husband; you couldn’t care less if he had someone pleasuring him outside. in fact, you’d probably be better off if he did.

but that wasn’t the reason naoya didn’t want to lay a finger on you. suprisingly, he had more than just one single reason.

one of which was that he still didn’t want to be so intimate with such a lowly creature, a woman. but he needed an heir and he knew this well. actually, it would be best to have his heir be birthed by you. the possibility of your child inheriting some of your incredibly unnecessary cursed energy, or better yet, inheriting your unique scent would be splendid.

but the most important reason was that your body most likely couldn’t handle it. not to mention the mental toll that your past and even the duration you were a sorcerer had on you, you had a more concerning issue. you turned sickly after overexerting yourself during the time at jujutsu high. and although he shouldn’t care so much for a mere woman’s life, he knew that you were different, and he couldn’t afford to lose such a valuable asset like yourself.

he’s seen how pregnancy does a woman over, and as much as no one would believe it, he doesn’t want that to happen to you. either for his own selfish reasons, or for the reason he dreads, the reality was that he was contempt with not having an heir in the mean time.

so divorcing you? absolutely out of the question.

if his father used not having any emotional attachment as an excuse to tear you away from him, he would create that emotional attachment. fake or not, he won’t have anyone thinking of making him divorce you.

so he pushed himself. he pushed himself to treat you as a decent human being, and pushed himself to buy gifts for you when he’s out, going out of his comfort zone to try and pleasure you.

he allowed you and gojo to continue writing letters to each other. although he’s still sick to the stomach knowing his wife is conversing with another man, he knows that ever since you had been more in touch with your childhood friend, your mood became better.

and finally, on your second year of being married to naoya, he was finally able to see a genuine smile grace upon your lips.

it was the wish he had when him and you were still engaged and not yet married. the wish that you could display an expression different than that of your normal, unbothered one.

and it was beautiful.

he knew you were a looker since the day he first met you. and maybe that’s a subconscious reason why he always wished you could show some more emotion. but seeing your actual smile was so much different. it’s almost as if he’s been blind all his life and finally saw light.

and as much as he wants to deny it, maybe he did have a growing place in his heart for you.

so why are you now missing when things were just starting to get better? it wasn’t long after when he first shared a kiss with you and the two of you started acting more like a married couple, and now you’re nowhere to be seen?

naoya first reached out to gojo within two hours of you not being home, and when the white haired man responded with he didn’t know where you were either, naoya almost lost his mind.

she’ll be okay, he thinks to himself. but another voice in his head reminds him of how you’re not in a state to fight. weirdly your physical state has deteriorated the past few days, and you turned into a even more sickly condition.

it isn’t until the next day when he confirms with hayashi, your personal servant, that you haven’t returned during the night does he really lose it.

weird too. hayashi was saved by you as a child, and follows you around ever since to repay you. he’d never leave your side, so why is he still in the estate and you’re not?

hayashi responds to the question with how you were invited out by a letter, and he wasn’t able to see the sender.

it was a dead end.

quite a few months pass by before naoya finally hears about you. by this time, naoya has thinned down quite a bit and also looked abnormally pale. probably from the lack of sleep or the lost of appetite. or both.

and what he heard from gojo made sick to the stomach, so much that he wished to throw up even though his stomach was empty.

you were found.

the bad news? you were found bloodied and very much dead. you were found rotting.

and although gojo was wearing sunglasses that covered his eyes, anyone could tell the way this affected him through the crack in his voice as he struggles to continue on. after all, he already lost a best friend, and now he had just lost his childhood friend; he lost the one that he swore to protect since your parents failed to do so.

not much information was exchanged after the initial news was delivered, for it pained gojo too much to describe the horrendous scene in which you were found in. but he did take naoya to the scene shortly after he delivered one last piece of news that was sure to shatter naoya.

you were pregnant.

naoya wasn’t all that surprised. in the last few months in which you were missing, he thought of you a lot. how you looked paler, sicklier than usual. how you were more sensitive than usual.

and because of his guess, he had treated you much better than before. he knew how you used to get suspended from jujutsu high for being overly cruel when some curse user would overstep your boundaries. and although your sharp edges dulled over the years, he was still afraid you’d have even a sliver of thought to abort it. and he couldn’t let that happen.

but you probably didn’t know yourself.

“we’re here,” gojo announces.

he bids naoya well before waiting outside the warehouse. he already saw it once, and he couldn’t bear to see it again.

naoya braces himself before slowly walking inside. the interior of the warehouse seemed very normal. it looked like a warehouse for scientific research. there were lab tables, and giant fluid cases. the only thing out of the ordinary he noticed was how dirty everything was. there were many blood stains, but he convinced himself that it was too rusty and old to be yours.

as he walks further, that was when he saw it. the small hidden door in the far back. the door was unnecessarily heavy, seeming to made out of hard iron.

even if it was his first time being here, even if he can’t see what’s beyond the door, he knows what’s about to appear before his eyes.

and he dreads it.

but he still pushes open the door that has already been forced open once. it was easy, seeing how the lock had been destroyed completely. but what wasn’t easy was the capacity to handle everything that he saw.

cruel tools that his imagination can help show him what their uses were. red colored stains on the floor and counters. pieces of meat each around the size of a finger littered around the damp and suffocating room.

syringes. tubes of medicine. medical equipment. chains and shackles. bandages, both used and new. disposed pieces of surgeon uniforms, all covered in blood and a weirdly colored substance.

it didn’t take a psychic to know what had happened here. it didn’t take an actor to imagine the performance that undergone here.

the performance of torture. the act of experimenting on a living human being.

naoya’s trembling although he doesn’t notice it. he comprehends the emotions inside him bubbling as anger that someone had dared to lay their hands on what was his. but the truth was that this unfamiliar feeling he had was despair. something his pitiful wife was familiar with, but something he had only now acquainted.

despair over the fact that all this equipment was used on you and despair over the fact that when you were in pain and suffering, he couldn’t do anything about it.

he slowly walks over to the small bed in the corner of the room. he noticed the blood stains on the sheets and the shackles on the headboard and footboard. most of all, he noticed he noticed the small shard piece covered in blood. he knew why it was covered in blood although no one told him.

it was probably what you had used to end your life.

he stares at it with a blank face, and he eventually reached out to grab it, grief and frustration causing him to clench the shard so hard he sees red. but it doesn’t hurt.

it’s nothing compared to the atrocities you endured.

you were missing for months. he had been informed that your death report showed that you had only died a few days ago. to imagine that you had to suffer from these cruelties for months; the only thing in his mind was how strong you were.

he turns around to walk back out. to see you again. he deemed that it was worthless to stay here any longer.

as he was leaving the room that housed your pain, he saw it. the thick notebook filled with notes and scribbles of the things done to you.

from cutting away pieces of you to examine your genetic makeup, to attempting to force the day of labor so they could research his child; every word written was horrendous.

the contents journaling the day it was discovered that you were pregnant were drastically different than before.

at first it was just terrifying experiments performed on you to determine why you had an intoxicating scent to your cursed energy, but then when they couldn’t find anything out, they wanted to try to copy the trait completely. through what? the child you were harboring.

as naoya flipped through more and more pages, he saw how they took their research further and further. and as things failed again and again, their methods only became more inhumane.

when he finally couldn’t take it anymore, he threw the notebook behind him harshly, hearing a violent thump shortly after. he met up with gojo outside the warehouse and notices how his eyes were somewhat red.

when he brought naoya to your body, that was when both men couldn’t take it anymore.

your originally sickly features looked even worse. you had grown paler and you looked like you had starved for every day you were missing. all that was left of you was skin and bones. there were bruises on your skin, littering almost everywhere the eye can see. the ones on your wrists and ankles naoya knew were from the shackles confining you, and the others on your body seemed to be wounds still unable to fully heal.

you, who hated becoming dirty, lay there with dried blood and dirt on your body. your skin had turned gray and you felt colder than ice. yet naoya still held your hand, trying to warm it up like he had done so before.

but he knew it was fruitless. you couldn’t possess body warmth anymore, and you had no need for it either.

but as he holds your hand with both of his own, what he doesn’t know—what haunts his mind—is the question of did you wish for him to come to your rescue when you had passed day by day and week by week in that tiny little room.

were you disappointed as days passed and he still hadn’t come?

or did you think he wouldn’t come? did you doubt his love for you and think he wouldn’t care if you were there by his side or not? did you think you were replaceable?

but the fact is that you weren’t. albeit how badly he showed it, he knew he couldn’t lose you.

he smiles bitterly as he pressed his lips to your cold forehead and thinks. maybe the possessiveness he held for you had a different meaning. he realizes that even if he denied to everyone that he didn’t love you, maybe he did.

but it’s too late now. he only knew now. he’s only now understood what it was that he felt when you left. you probably also never knew.

after all, you left without giving him a chance to tell you.

do not copy or repost my works. likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated.

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schizodesires · 5 months

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finding yourself masturbating to the mere thought of your sister's voice. how sweet and innocent she sounds, her teasing words wrapping around your brain. the way she laughs, the specific cadence that carries her sentences along. You start fantasizing about how she would push you over the edge. what words she would say, the noises that would escape her mouth...

youve been doing this more than a month now. you keep telling yourself that you'll watch some normal porn the next time you want to get off. and each time, you find it more and more difficult to cum without thinking about her.

normally, this wouldn't be an issue for you! however, somewhere along the lines, you mixed up fantasy with reality. having a conversation with her leaves you feeling dizzy after. it doesn't help the fact that knowing she doesn't know just turns you on even more. you keep your cool, the conversation ends, and you go back to your room. with a shut of the door and a shaky sigh you mutter "just one more time.."

#hazy stories #nsft #sibcon #sibcest #siscest #siscon #i have such a thing for guilty pleasures it applies to every kink of mine im sorry if thats gonna be a main writing focus fbhdf #blame my parents for that one #also this is based off smth i implemented into one of my ocs :3 #n e ways time for antipsychs and shower and sleep <3

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cuubism · 4 days

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tagged by @hardly-an-escape for last line tag game :)

from shibari fic

Regardless of whether the consequences were dire, he did fail. “I went against what you asked.” “Oh, you were beautiful, though,” Hob says. “I’ve never seen you lose yourself like that. I’m not mad about it. I’m so happy.” This sentiment strikes him deep. Humiliation that he could get so far out of control. But the wonder in Hob’s voice… Still, he does not see how it negates the matter at hand. “So?” “So? That’s all I wanted for you the whole time. Not some checklist of rules to complete.” The boundaries were the point, Dream had thought. The trust, yes, that as well, that he trusts Hob to have control over him. He does get relief from that, peace from that. But this is not peace, and it is far too unmoored to feel like relief. “You always keep such control over yourself,” Hob continues, “and you’re gorgeous, I mean that’s who I fell in love with first, that—” he strokes his hand through Dream’s hair— “impossibly elegant man who never took a step out of place. But to see you just enjoying yourself? I actually wanted to cry.”

tagging @five-and-dimes, @omgcinnamoncakes, @beatnikfreakiswriting if you want to :)

#hob: newsflash buddy. it's been about YOUR pleasure the entire goddamn time #dream enjoying himself: is this... a crime?#shibari #tag games #my writing

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brainrotcharacters · 8 months

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My Favorite Line In The Show

that line with that expression with that hand angle? oh you just know they did it

#and shanks tops #a pleasure dom if i dare to speak #no honestly i'm half joking #i only ship their opla versions a tad #in my defense shanks had no business saying that line LIKE THAT #what was i supposed to do? NOT think they fucked? come on #shanks x mihawk #opla mihawk #opla shanks #one piece live action #i could still take you #shanks i need a demonstration #for research purposes #look all I'm saying is #a boomer didn't write that line #whichever one of us in these hell sites are actually ppl from the writers room #I thank you #And i salute you

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erisenyo · 1 month

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I'd say we can blame the Zukka server for this one except it's been kicking around for a while all on it's own

NSFW ahead - Zutara, bloodbending, humiliation kink, D/s vibess, conensual but not sane or safe, I think we can see where this is going

The first time she has him on his knees it’s an accident—almost.

Katara grunts as Appa takes off, instinctively shifting her weight to counterbalance the heave of take-off, the rush of bloodbending still in her ears. It’s a sharp, jagged thing, sticky in the way it clings to her bending, tugging her awareness away from the rolling ocean and toward the smallest rush instead, looking to grab and hold and crush the water to her will and she knows it’s not water but it’s close enough and she’s just doing what she has to do, what Zuko came with her to do, so for him to turn away like he’s horrified by her, like she’s the monster when he—

“What was that?” Katara snarls, the words bursting out of her, her bending thrumming like she can feel the pulse of every venule in her fingertips.

“What?” Zuko says after a pause, delayed and not looking at her, acting like there’s anything at all to see except ocean over the side of Appa’s saddle, when the only thing around to look at is—

“Back there,” Katara snaps, bending throbbing along with the words and her pulse, high and wild and looking for something to grab onto and that’s the hardest part of bloodbending, the way it wants to be used once it’s been called, a rising flood pressing against the dam of her control. “On that ship, when you—”

“My information was out of date,” Zuko has the gall to shrug, even stiffer than usual about it and nearly entirely turned away, like she’s too disgusting to even look, at the edge of the saddle like he’d be leaping out of it if he had anywhere to go. “But it’s fine, we got his location, we just have to go to—”

“I’m not talking about information,” Katara spits, “I’m talking about you.”

A jerk, his voice coming high and thin. “I—me?”

“You think you’re better than me?” Katara hisses, wishing she could revel in that fear except all she wants his for him to snap and snarl back so that she’d have the excuse to— “Like you’ve never done what you had to do? I don’t need your judgment, Prince Zuko.”

“What?” he says, almost turning toward her before he catches himself. “No, I—” Like he has any ground to try to deflect when he’s acting like she’s something too shameful to even acknowledge. “You just—”

“Shut! Up!” The bending lashes out with the force of it, whipping and rolling right at the object of her rage and freezing his jaw if not his throat.

So when he moans in the sudden silence, they both hear it, clear and lingering even in the rush of wind and waves.

“What—” Katara pulls back, her shock quickly twisting into ready anger as he gasps and whirls fully away like she’s— “Are you mocking me? You think this is a joke?” she snarls as he just shakes his head, mute.

“No, no,” he says, the words tripping out of him, “I don’t, I don’t, I—"

“This isn’t some trick—”

“—I know, I know, you’re—"

“—that you can just laugh at,” she shouts, the bending lashing out of her mid-word, snapping his jaw shut and wrapping into his veins and arteries and forcing him to turn and face her.

It’s a rush of adrenaline-fueled rage and she’s braced to counterbalance his resistance, so she overspins when he goes limp into it instead. She stumbles, instinctively yanking him down as she finds her balance and the way he folds right to his knees, not even fighting.

Katara only half-releases him in surprise this time, but it’s enough for his whimper to go from strangled to loud and clear halfway through, the sound loud and clear, fear and—and making fun of her, when they’re—when this whole thing was his—when they wouldn’t even be here if not for—

“Stop mocking me,” Katara screams, her hands clawing the air as she purposefully reaches out this time, gripping him tight and making him feel her, making sure he feels her bending everywhere.

“I’m—not—a—joke,” she snarls, setting her feet and shoving away the part of her that wonders what Aang would think of her using all their time practicing bending in the air for this and focusing on the wild feeling of exactly what she could do to him instead.

She lifts Zuko bodily into the air until he’s barely supporting his own weight, back arched and arms splayed wide and knees just graving the saddle, making sure he feels her power down to his fucking toes. She strangles any more sounds as she flattens his tongue to the roof of his mouth, his head kicking back, and she can feel the way his pulses pounds, feel the flush of fear in him, the blood rushing to his cheeks and extremities and his—

Zuko lets out a sound that any other time would be protest as she releases him so abruptly he collapses down onto the saddle. But she knows its just gasping for breath and the shock of regaining control of himself after—after straining, ice replacing the rolling fury in her veins as she stares at Zuko fumbling up onto his knees and back, scooting away, his knees drawn up like—like protection. Like he needs protection from her. His chest heaving and mouth wide and face turn away so she can only see his scar and just a sliver of skin, usually pale but still flushed red with—

Katara whirls away, fists clenched at her side as she tries to will away the voice too like Aang’s in the back of her head murmuring ‘two-headed rat viper,’ sadly and quietly and understandingly, like there’s anything here to—

“Get us to Yon Rha,” Katara grits out, the words rough in her throat like she was the one fighting to scream, and Zuko just gasps behind her, breaths harsh, and Katara decides that that is answer enough.

The second time she has him on his knees, it’s on purpose. Mostly.

Because the problem is she can’t stop thinking about it, that—that sound. About that sound, and about the way he’d looked at her.

So in snatches and glances and sidelong looks, through the rest of the night and into the morning she watches him. Through the trek across the nondescript, nothing island to the nondescript, nothing village to the nondescript, nothing man who killed her mother, she keeps him in the corner of her eye.

And she knows that he can tell she’s watching, she can see it in the way he holds himself and the angle of his head and in the mortified redness that never truly leaves his face. In the stiffness of his body when she makes the rain fall like daggers around them. And in the look in his eye when he snatches furtive looks back, too, even though she doesn’t know how she knows it, something in his gaze she can’t place except that it makes her think again of that sound, and what it felt like to have him helpless in her hold, and he way he’d curled his legs up in front of himself after…

“Why didn’t you fight me,” Katara demands later as they pause by a stream, Zuko crouching down to wipe the sweat from his face and neck, his hands, cupping water into his mouth and the power of the moon is still lingering in her chi and for a while moment she imagines she could cup that water in her bending, too, cup it and follow it past his lip and—

“You didn’t even try,” she snaps when he just avoids her gaze, temper scraped raw by the idea of being denied this on top of being denied the struggle, on top of all the righteous fury crested inside her with nowhere to go. “You always—you fight why wouldn’t you—”

She breaks off, clenching her hands into fists against the jagged surge in the midst of the rolling ocean of her bending, Zuko hunching forward even more and still not answering, hunching over himself just like before, which means this is the same, which means—

Which means not what she thinks its means. Which means she was wrong then, and she’s wrong now, and he’s just mocking her again, mocking her like—

“It’s like you want to be on your knees,” she accuses, remembering the way he—blurting the words before she even fully thinks them, bravado over uncertainty and then when he just looks away, doesn’t even have the nerve to make a sound, “Or like you want me to put you there.”

Zuko just swallows hard, a flush crawling up his face, and Katara feels like her own face is flushing, barely-banked adrenaline surging back to life and her bending along with it.

“Toph told me how to spot a liar, you know,” she says, watching his lips part as he gasps and she has no idea where the threats are coming from. “I can feel hearts beating and pulses pounding just as well as her.” The quick flash of his tongue, like his lips are suddenly dry. “Would you be lying now if I checked you?”

Katara doesn’t know why she holds her breath, jagged anticipation in her throat, but it’s the only reason she hears the whimper that slips past his bitten lip over the sound of the stream, the noise that’s fear but also—it’s also—

“Should I check?” she says, the words coming out taunting, challenging, her bending shivering with readiness, her awareness sharpening from the heavy rush of the stream to the tight-quick-fast pulse on front of her as Zuko pants a moment, still half-folded forward.

Then, unsteady and low, gold eyes suddenly peaking through his lashes and the fall of his hair, “If it would make you feel better.”

Katara bloodbends him. Not like before, not with that sharp urge to wrench, but shoving into every bit of him hard enough to make him gasp, to make his whole body jerk with it and then go still, caught as she holds, flexing against every bit of him and—

“You like this,” she accuses as she quickly releases him, like that does anything to erase the bright feel of the pathways and pools of his blood from her mind.

And Zuko shakes his head, chest heaving and gasping and that’s familiar to her, too familiar, but the flutter of his lashes along with it—

“Are you lying?” she challenges, and she wonders if he can feel the potential of her bending pulling at his blood as he pants, open-mouthed a moment, body going tight.

Then, “You could check,” he rasps, and it’s such an open invitation that even half-expecting it, Katara still stares a moment before grabbing hold again, pushing to the liquid core of him but leaving his throat free because the way he keens, like he wants it, like she doesn’t even need to check his throbbing pulses to know—

Zuko is still folded half over himself, so she makes him straighten to sit back on his heels, first. Then she makes him drag up his head to look at her, makes him keep his eyes open until they bead and water and she’d do something about that except for the way the strain against her grip is like he’s trying to tilt back into it. And then she forces his knees to spread, wide enough to draw out a panting whimper and further than she expected and more than enough to see the bulge in his pants.

“You like it,” Katara says, her mouth suddenly dry—adrenal response, a voice like Yugoda’s says in the back of her head—as she stares at the dark fabric straining against the length of him, the way she can see his shape so clearly, see him press flat by the fabric against his own leg and it can’t be comfortable and—

Katara gives him enough play to talk, to argue, to say its stress or adrenaline or just the natural responses of a teenage male body experiencing hormonal surges. But he just groans, letting out a low, pleading sound of denial and she can feel the way he strains to close his thighs but she still has him in her hold and she’s attuned to his blood, she can feel the way he’s reacting, she has felt it, and even if she couldn’t she can see.

“You like it,” she says again, more to herself except she can see the way he bites his lip against it even as she can feel the rush of his blood, can feel exactly where it’s pooling and even if he doesn’t like it, his body undeniably does.

Except Katara thinks he might like that, too. Because his invitation is still hanging in the air and she can’t fight the urge to figure this out, figure him out, arching his back—he likes that—and flexing his fingers—he’s indifferent, or what baselines as indifference for him in the current situation—and closing his lips—oh, he really like that, that gives her a new baseline. And she can see the hardness between his legs, the one she isn’t causing, at least not with bending—at least not directly with bending. And she can see the way he gasps and pants as much as she’ll allow it, hear the half-pleading groans that don’t entirely muffle against his sealed lips.

And the way she can feel the strain of his body, what he fights and what he tries to sink into, the shivers and tremors and Tui and La the jerks of his hips that she presses instinctively to stillness, and then again because the way it makes him moan—she shoves with her bending, gripping and pushes and finally following the flow of blood as much as controlling it, making her presence known beneath his skin, deliberately pressing it through him inch by inch and feeling heady with the precision of it, with that she can make his body do, what she can make it feel.

There’s the increased blood pressure throbbing against her pending, the quickened pulse, the blood rushing away from the heart, so like fear except for the way the blood is also flushing up his abdomen and Katara is fascinated by the way she can feel the steady spread of it before she ever sees the wash of red reach his neck and face.

There’s the blood stiffening his nipples, erectile tissue going hard just like his already-full penis, Yugoda’s voice again brisk and papery in the back of Katara’s mind, talking about arteriolar dilation and increased blood flow, about supraspinal centers and spinal reflex mechanisms and Katara wonders wildly which one is, wonders when exactly he got hard, and why, and how and—

Zuko’s blood throbs against her bending like it’s in her own veins and Yugoda’s clinical vice in memory talks through the stages of male arousal, Katara noting each one, wondering what this would feel like with her healer’s sense instead of the jagged sharpness of bloodbending but it’s impossible to do both with Zuko gasping and straining and throbbing this way, with the way she can feel his flush rising even hotter, blood rushing even lower, feel he way he swells even further, so much it has to hurt and the sound he makes says maybe it does but that he doesn’t mind, his muscles straining against her hold, a textbook case of male arousal and on a woman she’d feel—

Katara yank her bending so hard back to herself that Zuko cries out with it, his entire body arching against the hold that’s no longer there. His hips jerk against nothing, a wordless protest breaking past his lips, then another as he falls forward to catch himself on hands and knees, head bowed and body visibly clenching still, gasping almost like sobs with every breath, fingers digging into the dirt.

“You like it,” Katara finally says, low, watching the flex of his fingers into the dirt, the humiliated hunch of his shoulders and flex of his hips. “You like not liking it,” she realizes, staring another moment and feeling the echo of his throbbing blood before suddenly whirling to stomp back to the path and the beach and Appa, trying not to listen for how long it takes Zuko to follow and forcibly shoving away the awareness of her own pulsing blood.

#fic writing #my writing #Zutara #bloodbending #This...might become a full fic #This *wants* to become a full fic. full of kinky smut and characterization via smut and exploring kink by making all the mistakes first #Something something Katara having a lot of rage and power and lashing out and learning to wield it wisely and thoughtfully and responsibly #But not to be afraid of it #And Zuko riding the thrill and fear of adrenaline of offering himself ot her and the release of being the one to decide how he is controlle #And learning to sset boundaries and enjoy the pleasure his body can give him and not just punish himsself #Anyway. Much to think about...

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