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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months

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The REAL AI automation threat to workers

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

Long before the current wave of AI hype, we were being groomed for automation panics with misleading stories. Remember this one? "'Truck driver' is the most common job in America. Self-driving trucks are just around the corner. How can we prevent America's army of truckers from turning into a howling mob when the robots steal their jobs?"

https://futurism.com/millions-of-jobs-are-at-risk-but-their-loss-could-be-for-the-greater-good

It was absolute nonsense. First of all, "truck driver" isn't a particularly common job in America! The BLS lumps together all cargo vehicle drivers under a single classification. The category error here was thinking that every delivery van driver, furniture mover, and courier is behind the wheel of a big rig, cracking wise on a CB radio as they tear up the interstate.

But what about automation threats? It's possible that if we redesigned the interstates to give 16 wheelers their own separated lanes, and then set them to following one another, that they could traverse long distances in that way. Congratulations, you've just invented a shitty, failure-prone train.

"Shitty train AI" does not threaten the job of the vast number of people the BLS classifies as "truck drivers." For one thing, "shitty train AI" isn't going to pilot a UPS van around the streets of a busy city with other road users. Sure, a few robotaxi companies have bamboozled city governments into conscripting the city's residents into an uncontrolled murderbot experiment. These are not going well:

https://www.cbsnews.com/sanfrancisco/news/9-key-leaders-depart-gms-cruise-amid-ongoing-investigation-into-san-francisco-incident/

More than $100b has been set on fire chasing the robotaxi dream, and the result is most charitably described as a technological curiosity, requiring 1.5 high-waged remote technicians to replace each low-waged driver:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

But even if we could perfect this technology, robots still wouldn't replace all those "truckers" who drive delivery vans (to say nothing of moving vans!). The hard part of driving a UPS van isn't just getting it from place to place – it's getting the parcel into the place. The robo-van would still need at least one person to get the parcel from the back of the van and into the reception desk, porch, or other delivery zone. It's not going to fire those parcels at your door with a catapult. It's also not going to deliver them by drones. Drone delivery is another one of those historical curiosities, capable of delivering a very narrow range of parcels, under even narrower circumstances:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/05/comprehensive-sex-ed/#droned

If all UPS delivered was lightweight, non-fragile rectangular parcels ordered by people with large, unobstructed back yards, then sure. Congrats, you've just created the world's least-useful parcel delivery service!

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2022/06/amazon-drone-delivery-service-seeks-faa-approval-to-launch-in-2022/

All that said, the big rig drivers probably don't need to worry about robots stealing their jobs. It's not even clear that "shitty train" is within our technological grasp, but even if it is, there's yet another problem with the AI automation trucker jobpocalypse: "trucker" is already one of the worst jobs in America:

https://www.usatoday.com/pages/interactives/news/rigged-forced-into-debt-worked-past-exhaustion-left-with-nothing/

It's hard to overstate just how fucking terrible it is to be a trucker. Truckers are trapped in abusive debt holes by their employers – who misclassify their workforce as "contractors" in a bid to sidestep labor law. Shriven of any labor rights, truckers are forced into the most ghastly, body-destroying, family-wrcking, financially precarious existence imaginable.

You can drive a truck for years, give almost all of the money you earn back to your employer (who denies that you're their employee) to pay back the usurious loan for your truck. Then, your employer can underschedule for shifts so that you miss a loan payment, and they can repo your truck and keep the six-figure repayment you've already made to them, leaving you destitute.

They can force you to work for hours – days! – without pay while you wait for loading and dispatch. They can make you drive long past the point of safety, then, if (when) you get into a wreck, they can fine you for not taking the mandated rest breaks.

Now, these drivers aren't about to be replaced by AI – but that doesn't mean that AI won't affect their jobs. Commercial drivers are among the most heavily surveilled workers in the country. Amazon's drivers (whom Amazon misclassifies as subcontractors) have their eyeballs monitored by AI;

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/17/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs/

AIs monitor the voices of the (primarily Black, primarily female) workforce at Arise – homeworkers who field customer service calls for blue-chip companies like Carnival Cruises and Disney. They're listening for unruly children or pets in the background, and workers who fail to muffle these dependents lose the contracts they have to pay to train for:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/22/paperback-writer/#toothless

And AI monitors the conduct of workers on temp-work apps. If a worker is dispatched to a struck workplace and refuses to cross the picket-line, the AI boss fires you and blacklists you from future jobs for refusing to robo-scab:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/30/computer-says-scab/#instawork

Writing in The Guardian, Steven Greenhouse describes the AI-enabled workplace, where precarious, often misclassified workers are monitored, judged, and fined by algorithms:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2024/jan/07/artificial-intelligence-surveillance-workers

Whether it's the robot that gets you disciplined for sending an email with the word "union" in it or the robot that takes money out of your paycheck if you take a bathroom break, AI has come for the workplace with a vengeance.

Here's a supreme irony: nearly all of the beneficial applications for AI require that AI be used to help workers, not replace them, which is absolutely not how AI is used in the workplace. An AI that helps radiologists by giving them a second opinion might help them find tumors on x-rays, but that's a tool that reduces the number of scans a radiologist processes in a shift, by making them go back and reconsider the scans they've already processed:

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

But AI's sales pitch is not "Buy an AI tool and increase your costs while increasing your accuracy." The pitch for AI is "buy and AI and save money by firing workers." Given how bad AIs are at replacing humans, this is a bad deal all around, both for the worker who loses their job and the customer who gets the substandard product the AI makes.

There is a very limited slice of applications where an AI could make a lot of money for a company that deploys it, without costing that company anything when the AI screws up. For example, AI is a really good tool for fraud! Rather than paying people to churn out millions of variations on a phishing email, you can get an AI to do it. If the AI writes a bad phishing email, it's OK, since nearly all recipients of even good phishing emails delete them. What's more, no one will fine you or publish an op-ed demanding that your board of directors fire you if you buy an incompetent AI to commit fraud. Fraud is a high-value, low-consequence environment for using AI.

Another one of those applications is managing precarious workers who don't have labor rights. If the AI unfairly docks your worker's wages, or forces them to work until they injure themselves or others, or decides that their eyeball movements justify firing them, those workers have no recourse. That's the whole point of pretending that your employees are contractors: so you can violate labor law with impunity!

But that's not the ironic part. The ironic part is that "being a shitty boss" is the one AI application that companies are willing to increase their net spending on. No one buys an eyeball-monitoring AI so they can fire a manager. This is the one place where AI is there to augment, rather than replace, an employee.

This makes AI-based bossware subtly different from other forms of Taylorism, the "scientific management" fad of the early 20th century that saw management consultants choreographing the postures and movements of workers to satisfy the aesthetic fetishes of their employers:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/24/gwb-rumsfeld-monsters/#bossware

The pseudoscientific cod-ergonomics of the 1900s was demeaning and even dangerous, but it wasn't automated, and if it increased worker output, this was incidental to the real purpose of making workers move like the machine-cogs their bosses reassured themselves they were:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/great-taylors-ghost/#solidarity-or-bust

Every AI panic is a way of deflecting attention from the real, grimy, here-and-now ways that AI is destroying our lives by demanding that we entertain nonsensical science fiction claims about large, shiny existential risks that AI might present in the future.

The "X-risk" of the spicy autocomplete chatbot waking up and using its newfound sentience to turn us all into paperclips is nonsense. Adding words to the plausible sentence generator doesn't turn it into a superintelligence for the same reason that selectively breeding faster horses doesn't lead to locomotives:

https://locusmag.com/2020/07/cory-doctorow-full-employment/

But there is a way that AI could destroy the human race! The carbon footprint and water consumption associated with training and operating large-scale models are significant contributors to the climate emergency, which threatens the habitability of the only planet in the known universe capable of sustaining human life:

https://www.forbes.com/sites/federicoguerrini/2023/04/14/ais-unsustainable-water-use-how-tech-giants-contribute-to-global-water-shortages/

Likewise, AI isn't going to replace you at work. But it's already augmenting your shitty boss's ability to rip you off, torment you, maim you and even kill you in order to eke out a few more basis points for the next shareholder report.

Science fiction is a fun and useful way to tell parables about our current technologies. But it's not a roadmap for the future. The fact that sf writers like me found AIs as useful measures to describe Earth's dominant artificial life form – the limited liability corporation – doesn't mean that superhuman AIs should – or can – be created.

Back the Kickstarter for the DRM-free audiobook of The Bezzle, read by Tumblr's own @wilwheaton!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #labor #ai #disciplinary technology #bossware #automation #robots stole my jerb #surveillance #privacy first

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tj-dragonblade · 6 months

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[Fic] Appreciation

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling (Hob x Dream) Rated: E Word Count: 4369 Tags: Top Dream, Bottom Hob, costume, costume from Baldur's Gate 3, Hob looks good in sexy armor, Dream has plans, possessive Dream, inspired by art, groping, anal fingering, public sex, shapeshifting for sex, mild body horror, for sexy reasons I promise, tentacle-adjacent sex, sharing fantasies as dirty talk, coming untouched, over-stimulation, anal sex, possessive exhibitionism as a theme, sweat is sexy, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel, un-negotiated shenanigans, the word 'No' is absolutely in Hob's vocabulary but he doesn't often use it

Notes: Sequel to Anticipation. Please find @designtheendless' original inspiring art and additional costume references here, here, and here.

So I scribbled out Anticipation really quick, and then the word Sequel came up a few times, and then Dream reasserted his Horny Little Weasel status and Hob as always is amenable to whatever he wants so here we are. Enjoy.

Summary: Hob wears the costume. Dream has his fun.

On AO3

~~~ "So, how's the daydream buffet?" Hob grins, cheeky. "Everything to your liking?"

"Very much so." Dream's smile has an extremely self-satisfied curl to it, eyes half-lidded as they sweep over Hob for at least the tenth time in the past hour. He's seated on a high stool against the wall, taking in the crowds and noise and lively bubbling humanity around him without having to be directly in the midst of it. He's got a decent line of sight on most of the pub from here, making it easy to track Hob moving about all night.

Which is perfect—because watching Hob, watching other people watch Hob, is Dream's primary purpose here this evening.

And truthfully, Hob is having a lot of fun with the ogling. It delights him and boosts his ego to know that Dream is so invested in the way he looks tonight. He's wearing almost the full costume that he'd modeled for Dream earlier that week; the gloves were more trouble than they were worth and had been left upstairs, but he's got the big fur-wrapped boots and the long high-slit tunic with the plunging neckline and the amulet on his forehead and the cape, which he is seriously considering removing at this point except that Dream would pout. Something about the drama of the cape being necessary to properly sell the fantasy of the very impractical and highly aesthetic armor.

It's not actual scale mail; he doesn't have the muscle tone and stamina these days to wear that much extra weight around for the night. It's dreamstuff, probably, styled as heavy-duty sequins, sturdy but lightweight and so expertly crafted that it looks authentically metal unless you get right up on the fabric and start poking and prying. But it's light enough and moves well and drapes nicely and is overall quite easy to wear, if a little drafty. He's comfortable in his own skin and having this much of it on display genuinely doesn't bother him, so long as nobody gets flashed accidentally; the three sets of chains across his naked hips do an admirable job of keeping the front and back skirts in place where it matters, and he's counting on Dream's promise of 'no wardrobe mishaps' to guarantee his decency.

He sidles up to Dream behind the small round bar-height table, bumps shoulders lightly, bumps his bare hip against Dream too just for good measure. "Glad you're enjoying yourself."

"Indeed." Dream leans minutely into him, while also turning to better face him. "And how do you fare, on display in your very fetching garb, knowing the thoughts and eyes of so many are upon you?"

"Got to take your word for it, haven't I?" he says, genially. "On their thoughts, at least; I might have noticed one or two looks. Very flattering, really." It's been more than 'one or two' and they both know it, but Dream has a tendency to respond with compliments when Hob gets a little self-effacing and maybe he enjoys hearing it, time to time.

Dream's fingertips brush his bare leg, tracing patterns throught the thick hair below where the chains preserve his modesty. "You should be flattered, Hob. Their thoughts are quite…fitting, when such exquisite beauty moves among them." His hand travels lightly around the shape of Hob's thigh, curves slowly up the back of it beneath the armored skirt—not far enough to be publicly indecent, just far enough to send a little thrill up Hob's spine. "And I am immeasurably pleased that I am the one who gets to take you home tonight."

"Aren't you sweet." Hob flutters his lashes coyly to cover the way he kind of wants to swoon at Dream just saying that sort of thing so easily. It's such a far cry from his everyday reserve and Hob is entirely grateful that he gets to see the Dream who will stop and breathe and relax and smile and let himself want things. And if Hob is one of the things he wants, well, so much the better. "Promise, I'm all yours tonight. As long as you don't mind I'm getting a little sweaty down below." His grin is halfway between sheepish and smug, unable to resist reminding Dream that he's not wearing anything under the costume.

"I will clean you up later, never fear," Dream says, with a sweet little glitter in his eye that makes Hob's pulse jump. Dream's enthusiasm for all the everyday mundanities of Hob's human body will never cease to thrill him, either.

He shifts slightly, leaning in, feeling terribly romantic. "I'll hold you to that," he murmurs, and Dream, smiling, says nothing in reply but closes in for a kiss. His hand slides soft against Hob's neck, above the pauldron and the choker, stroking sensually up beneath his hair. The kiss itself is entirely decent, if a bit lingering, but there's still a wolf-whistle from one of the staff behind the bar—probably Sam, but Hob can't be sure. He flips a friendly bird in that general direction regardless as they draw apart.

The pub is lively and crowded, a fine turnout for a Friday night Halloween party and Hob's staff are hopping, keeping everything running smoothly. He's built a good crew and they've got things well in hand; 'supervising' has given Hob the excuse to wander among the patrons sowing daydreams for Dream's benefit, but truthfully he's not needed in any capacity. Which means he's free to spend his time being just another patron himself, here with the king of dreams and nightmares, who has agreed to set down his duties for an evening for the sake of accompanying Hob as his date.

Hob truly is the luckiest bloke alive.

There are as many people in costume as not, and Dream of course is not one to pass up the opportunity to dress with drama and flair. He's wearing something from the same game that he's drawn Hob's ridiculous outfit from, only more practical. It's all black as expected, leather armor over sensible clothing, some golden accents, and he's given himself pretty little pointed ears to complete the look. They've gotten many compliments, together and separately, and Hob can tell that Dream is equally as pleased at the praise for his creative sartorial efforts as he is about inciting daydreams of Hob for the sake of his own titillation.

And on the subject of titillation…

"Y'know, I thought about wearing a plug tonight?"

"Oh?" Dream does not move, barely shifts, but everything about him suddenly conveys paying acute attention.

Hob dimples. "Yeah. Figured, you getting all worked up showing me off, sampling everybody's envious daydreams, maybe skipping the prep time after would be smart."

"But you did not?"

"'Fraid not, nope—changed my mind." He winks. "You made me wear this ridiculous getup all night, you can take the time to get me proper ready once you peel me out of it."

"A pity." Dream's hand snakes down Hob's back as he leans closer, using his body and Hob's cape to hide where it moves next from anyone in the crowded pub who might glance their way. "I should have liked to do this—" his hand slips beneath the extremely accessible back of Hob's costume to stroke down the cleft of his arse "—and find you already open, filled, wanting and ready for me."

"Christ," Hob swears, standing up a little straighter, because in addition to the sultry words Dream is sliding one finger between his cheeks, a finger that is suddenly slick and probing, going straight to his hole and teasing over it. Surely he's not—

"But I suppose I shall just have to make you ready myself, then," Dream confirms, and his finger slips in, easily.

"Dream!" Hob hisses, eyes widening at the intrusion, and then he manages a return smile to a passerby despite himself. "We are surrounded by people! Who know me! And I'm completely naked under here!"

"Yes, I do recall," Dream purrs, and twists his hand around so that his fingertip strokes unerringly over Hob's prostate.

"Hngh—" He bites back a whine, stifles the urge to slouch, to widen his stance, to lean forward over the table so Dream has better access. "You're giving me a massive hard-on and I've got nothing to even attempt to hide it with!"

"No one will notice. Unless you should like for them to."

"No, thank you! Oh god—" Dream's finger is changing, less bony within him, more flexible, wriggling like a tentacle and it feels incredible. Hob is breathing hard through his nose, hanging onto the appearance of normalcy by his fingernails, sweat breaking out all over as he tenses and trembles. His cock is fully tenting at the front of his armored skirt—the sequined material is heavy enough to keep things down a bit, but not completely, and the table provides a little cover for now, but it is still wildly bizarre to be getting a full and thorough prostate massage in the middle of his pub on a Friday night while the Halloween party's in full swing.

"You've got no concern for propriety, have you?" he gasps out, choking back a moan.

"If I had no concern for propriety, Hob Gadling, I would not be showing such restraint in my current actions."

"Mrhnnhh—" Hob is finding his self control sorely tested as Dream's not-finger wriggles inside him, strokes lovingly over his prostate. "Restraint, you call this? Really?" He bites at his lip to keep back the whine in his throat, glances about, but no one seems to be taking any notice of his rising discomposure.

"Indeed." Dream does not let up on his artful expert stimulation. "Were I to cast off all restraint, Hob, I would have you over this table, here and now."

"Fuck." Hob realizes too late that he's blundered his way into a fatal error, that now Dream is going to tell him dirty fantasies while fingering him in public and already he can feel any control over this situation running like water through his hands where they tremble against his naked thighs. "Fuck."

"Indeed," Dream purrs. "I would fuck you, here, in the middle of your fine establishment, on display before all your patrons, let them bear witness to my claim that none might dispute it. But first—" His touch inside of Hob twists deliciously and Hob jerks, just barely keeps down the sound he wants to make, nostrils flaring with the effort and the surge of pleasure through his veins. "First, I would kiss you, as lewdly as I like; I would grind and grope at you as I please with my tongue in your mouth while they watch, and envy." His finger-tentacle rubs firmly, lovingly over Hob's prostate and Hob's mouth falls open; he manages to keep his throat closed and his moan in but his eyes have rolled back in very telltale combination with his mouth and he hopes to god no one is looking right that second.

"Then I would eat you out in the way that you like best," Dream continues, "that they might drink of your cries, the way you beg me for more, and know that it is I who brings you low, who makes your body sing." He's stroking precise little circles in exactly the right spot and Hob's stomach is trembling with the thrill of it, the way the pleasure washes hot and cold in waves all down his bare legs and curls his toes in his big furry boots. One hand is braced on the table in an attempt to keep himself steady and he's biting his lip trying to keep the sounds in; his chest is sheened in sweat beneath his hair, he can feel it, and what must he look like to anyone actually paying attention, all flushed and cozied up to Dream in this slutty slutty costume—

"I would let them see how you gape for me, once I had sated myself on the taste of you, let them see how keenly your body longs for mine and mine alone, despite how they dream of being in my place. And I would make them watch me fill you, again and again, slowly, savoring the way you grasp at my cock, pull me deeper—" His tentacle-finger writhes abruptly inside of Hob and Hob gasps, choking back the cry that wants to escape.

"Fuck, Dream, I am not coming in fancy dress with no underwear on in the middle of my pub—!" He shudders, leaning forward enough to grip the table in both hands, white-knuckled as he fights the raw need to drape himself over it and beg Dream to fuck him properly, to follow through on every word he's just said.

"You alright, Robbie?" The question comes from Rebecca, one of the waitstaff, swinging by on her way back toward the bar. "You're looking a bit flushed."

"Don't think I'm quite feeling my best," he says, voice tight, using every ounce of willpower to keep his tone even and his body under control as he straightens up with Dream's…appendage still inside him. Lightning shoots along every limb with the movement and he swallows his moan with difficulty, managing a trembling smile for Rebecca while his cock throbs, leaks against the skirt of this stupid sexy costume.

"I am taking him upstairs to lie down," Dream cuts in, lacing his fingers with Hob's and covering their joined hands with his other, solicitously, at which point Hob completely loses any thread of the conversation because if both of Dream's hands are on his then what the hell is still wriggling about in his arse??

"Come, Hob," Dream says, tugging on their joined hands. "Let's get you home."

"Hope you feel better!" Rebecca calls after them, but Hob is far too distracted trying to walk with whatever-it-is caressing his prostate to acknowledge her, a death grip on Dream's hand in his and the other clinging desperately to Dream's leather armor as he leans on his shoulder.

"You complete and utter bastard," he gets out through gritted teeth, only the last word betraying the whine in his throat. "What—on earth did you leave in—inside me?"

"It is merely a piece of myself, still fully connected to my consciousness and will," Dream demurs, innocent as anything. "I will retrieve it when it has done what I wish it to do." He lets go of Hob with one hand, fingers of the other—a complete set of them, never mind what's inside Hob—still intertwined, and pushes open the 'Staff Only' door to the back hall.

"Please tell me you're magicking us straight upstairs," Hob gasps as soon as they're through with the door shut behind them, voice wobbling. The dream-tentacle-whatever, he's not thinking too closely on that, it's still squirming inside him like mad, pleasure singing through his body in relentless surges that have him shaking and it feels like it's swelling now, growing larger, stretching him further with each undulation. His naked thighs feel a bit like jelly and the stairs at the end of the short hall seem absolutely insurmountable from here.

Dream makes a cloyingly-sweet little noise of disappointment. "I should like to see you mount the stairs under your own power, though," he says, as if Hob would be doing him the greatest service imaginable in complying. "You are so beautiful like this, strung taut and alight with pleasure, coming apart on the 'gift' I have left within you…" He turns and steps into Hob without letting go of his hand, brushes his mouth across Hob's. "Please, Hob," he says, tongue curling between Hob's lips on the 'L', "won't you let me. Enjoy you, like this, a few moments longer?"

And Hob whimpers, knowing he's done for, knowing he could never hope to say no, taking the tease of a kiss for what it is. "Fine. Fine. As you wish, oh god—!"

The bit of Dream inside him squirms in delight, and Hob's gasping whine falls directly into Dream's mouth.

"I am going to die and it's going to be your fault," he warns, pulling away, voice trembling as pleasure surges through him, and follows on shaking unsteady legs as Dream leads him forward.

The next few minutes are the most exquisite torture he's ever undergone, Dream backing up the stairs ahead of him, pulling him gallantly by the hand, the swollen tentacle of dreamstuff making sweet merciless unrelenting love to his prostate while he tries not to trip over the long skirt of his ridiculous armor or his cape. He stumbles more than once, his shaking legs giving out despite his resolve, pleasure rendering him weak and uncoordinated; Dream is there to catch him each time, cooing endearments against his cheek and pulling him upright again to continue on. He is flushed and overheated, pulse racing, absolutely steaming in his own sweat, moaning helplessly with every deliciously labored step.

The thing in his arse swells and changes halfway up the stairs, no longer a single cohesive surface caressing his insides but what feels like—it feels like a hundred little tongues all licking his prostate one after the other, ceaseless, inescapable, maddeningly delicious. It would be exquisite if he were stationary, if he were kneeling facedown in his bed with his arse up and his thighs spread, letting it work him to climax. It is nearly unbearable like this, shifting inside him with every step and heightening the pleasure coursing through his body with no respite and no relief as he trembles his way up the last of the stairs. His ears are ringing and his mouth is dry, Dream's beautiful face blurring as his vision goes fuzzy; he's clinging to Dream's hand like a lifeline, whimpering uncontrollably as climax surges in his belly.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck, Dream—I can't—ohfuckohfuckohfuck—!"

He makes it over the last step as it hits and then he's collapsing in front of his door as orgasm crashes through him, crying out, shaking on hands and knees until his arms give out as well and he's more or less flat on his face, arse in the air, coming and coming all over the inside of the stupid armored skirt. It's pleasure so sharp that his eyes water, tears trickling down his face, voice caught in his throat as it goes on and on. And Dream.

Dream is gazing down at him, riveted, enraptured, as if the sight of Hob writhing and sobbing in pleasure at his feet is the most compelling work of art he's ever witnessed. Maybe it is. Hob wouldn't know, drowning in the throes of his climax, clawing uselessly at the carpet he's drooling on and desperately trying to find the voice to beg for Dream to stop. Because the thing in his arse? Is still wriggling full-tilt, never mind the way he's clenching and spasming around it, never mind that his body is overloaded with pleasure and he absolutely cannot handle any more. His cock is pulsing and twitching untouched, emptied in those first few powerful shots and still dribbling weak spurts as everything convulses repeatedly under the unceasing stimulation; he can hardly draw breath let alone catch it and his heart is pounding furiously.

He's going to die. This is how he's going to go, finally, after six centuries of glorious glorious living, taken out by his stupid sexy eldritch boyfriend and his bloody stupid detachable orgasm finger and Hob wants to scream his unbearable pleasure, to shriek with laughter until he can't breathe for the mirth except he already can't fucking catch a breath and it's too much, too much, so fucking good but too much too much he can't possibly come anymore he's going to die—

And then, mercifully, the thing in his arse goes still.

Hob sprawls limp on the floor when it stops, abruptly boneless, twitching, soaked in his own sweat and come, heaving breath after breath regardless of what he might be inhaling with his face in the carpet—it's not like it'll kill him. His cape settles over him like a blanket.

"Beautiful," Dream murmurs, and all Hob can hear past the pounding of his heart is the abject sincerity underwriting that deep warm voice.

Which makes it all absolutely worth it.

Dream pushes open his front door with no apparent key, bends gracefully down and rolls him over, picks him up bridal style and carries him in. He removes Hob's cape and boots, drops them aside and kicks the door gently closed behind them, and then his arm around Hob's back moves down.

Hob, wrung out and still trembly and floating in his afterglow nevertheless gets his arms around Dream's neck, hanging on as Dream slides a hand beneath his costume and gently touches his arsehole. He has a brief sense of two slender fingers sliding in, and then the warm slick bulk of the tentacle is drawing sweetly out of him. There's an obscenely thick-wet sound accompanying the surge of pleasure that sweeps through Hob as it exits his body, and he moans, panting into Dream's shoulder.

"I daresay you are quite ready for me, now," Dream says, amusement curling through his voice, and Hob can only give a wet shaky laugh of agreement. Whatever Dream took out of him has disappeared, reabsorbed he supposes, and it's left him wonderfully open and slick and distressingly empty.

"Please." Words are returning, slowly. "Dream—"

Dream carries Hob into the bedroom, disappears his own costume and lays himself back in Hob's bed with Hob straddling his lap. He crumples the soiled skirts of Hob's armor to the side, out of the way, and slides himself slick and easy into Hob, who settles back and rides as best his trembling thighs can manage. Which, understandably, isn't much; before long he's just leaning forward again, braced on his hands, holding still and letting Dream fuck up into him. The sharp edge of climax has dulled and he's left with the delicious rhythm of Dream's very normal cock thrusting nicely against his tender swollen prostate, the warm burgeoning of pleasure without the urgency of orgasm behind it.

"Do you know, how many of the people below in your pub would dream of being here in my place?" Dream asks, hands firmly gripping Hob's thighs, thumbs stroking through the hair in time with his slow thrusts up.

"Mmnope," Hob mumbles, mouth slack, captivated by the blue of Dream's eyes holding his and the adorable pointy ears that he's still sporting. "Tell me?"

"A great many," Dream sighs, satisfaction curling from each word. "Dozens upon dozens of dreamers, thinking of you, in wonderful detail…" His hands move to Hob's waist. "You were very inspiring, Hob, and I am well fed on the dreams you have shaped in others."

"Anything for you," Hob says, and he means it one hundred percent.

They move together in relative silence for another few seconds, and then:

"I was thinking," Hob sighs, awash in smooth currents of bliss, "'bout what you said downstairs? We could do it if you like. In a dream?"

Dream makes a considering noise, fingers running idly up and down the silver lace framing Hob's sweaty chest, toying with the thin chain down the middle, still fucking smooth and effortless and the ease with which he does so never fails to get Hob going.

"I don't mean in front of your people or anything, they don't—ahh—they don't deserve that any more'n my staff but—" he tosses his head back, panting, as Dream's cock hits him exactly right. "But I could dream it, and you could be there, and help shape it, and make sure I remember and all. And then you could stake your claim in front of a crowd, live your dr—your fantasy, and I don't have to fake my death early and start over just yet." He grins, warm and happy, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at Dream beneath the slender chains holding the golden amulet on his forehead in place.

Dream's answering smile is slow and smouldering. "Hob Gadling," he purrs, settling his hands on Hob's naked hips, below the rucked up strands of chain. "I am pleased by your generous offer, and I should like to accept it. First, however—" his grip tightens and he surges, rolls Hob underneath him in the blink of an eye without separating them. "First, I would finish what you have begun here in the waking world."

"What I've begun? Really?"

Dream fucks into him, smooth and deep. "It was you, was it not, who displayed yourself so beautifully in this 'armor', who shaped the daydreams of dozens by wandering among them clothed thus?"

"And whose idea was the costume? Hm? Who asked that I forego my ahh—my underwear? Who started fingering me in the—the middle of the pub?"

"I am not the one who requested your presence at my social function, Hob." There's a wicked glimmer in Dream's eyes now, and he's fucking into Hob a little faster, a little harder.

"And I'm not the one who insisted on being allowed to choose the costume in return for agreeing," Hob gasps, legs wrapping more firmly around Dream. "Got no complaints about any of it, have I? 'Course not—oh—'cause here we are—but you're the—nnh—the instigator, you started it—"

Dream cuts him short with a kiss, hot and wet and full of tongue. Hob opens to it eagerly; the warm languid pleasure of being fucked through his afterglow is heating steadily and gaining urgency and he thinks he might even manage to come again, if Dream keeps this up. He tangles his fingers through Dream's hair, holds him tightly, pours all of his adoration and appreciation into the kiss.

When Dream finally breaks away, it's only to concede, remarkably enough. "Very well, Hob Gadling. I started it." He takes Hob's hands from his hair gently, one at a time, interlaces their fingers and pins them beside Hob's head. "And now I shall finish it."

And that is the last coherent sentence from either of them for quite some time.

=== Started: 9/24/23 Drafted: 10/3/23 Posted: 10/21/23

They would like to do a part three, so feel free to subscribe to the series on AO3 and keep your fingers crossed that my focus and their interest holds

#TJs Fics #Sandman #Dreamling #Dream of the Endless #Hob Gadling #wip: a2

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michaelnotholden · 6 months

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do you have any other michael/tori or both hcs???

YEEESSSS!!!!

Michael and his mom get along pretty well unlike his dad, who has that lead poisoning boomer attitude. Basically he’s a weirdo and Michael doesn’t like him a lot.

Everyone in Michael’s family is tall, his mom is 6’0 and his dad is 6’5.

Tori doesnt like the starwars sequels. She thinks they are stupid. she doesn’t consider them canon. (I’m not…projecting!!)

Tori has freckles!! Usually more prominent in the summer. Also her eyes are RLLY blue. Like Rhea Norwood (imogen) blue. She has hooded eyes.

Michael will absolutely cuddle Tori and crush her but she tolerates it (ok taylor swift..)

Tori is such a goofball around the ppl she’s comfy with… She’e rlly just a girl in a big world!!! Like me too girly!! 😝

Tori "thick southern British accent" Tori spring. Her accent gets worst when she’s angry or excited.

Michael finds that HILARIOUS^^^^

Henry loves tori, if she goes to nicks he will 100% jump at her feet and almost pee

Michael likes his tea sweet with a splash of milk. And only a little bit.

Tori is a lightweight like her brother… she will start dancing for no reason too it doesn’t matter if there’s no music. She’s just stimming!

Michael cries when he drinks. Not Necessarily abt negative stuff but tears will just pour out.

Michael can do backflips and will do it randomly to startle ppl.

#send me more asks like this it’s so fun!!#tori spring #michael holden #solitaire #solitaire alice oseman #osemanverse #alice oseman #heartstopper #victoria spring #sprolden #tori and michael

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reinerispretty · 2 months

Text

astronomically.

satoru gojo x f! reader. sequel to best of luck. and pause technique. third installment of the heart beats series!

masterlist

ok, this one is my favorite hehe. also wrote this back in 2022. please enjoy!

SUMMARY:

You get very, very drunk. Thankfully Gojo's there.

tws: throw up (for drunk reasons)

Nanami Kento is too good at drinking. One might not think it just by looking at him—he seems very reserved and orderly, the type that sticks to a strict routine to keep himself at optimal performance. And those things are all true, of course, but it doesn’t stop him from tossing back shots like nobody’s business.

You, however, are not very good at drinking, but that doesn’t stop you from trying. When Nanami orders another shot, you order one too, because you don’t want him doing it alone. You’ve never liked the burn going down your throat, but they get you drunk fast , especially at the pace you’re going. Nanami probably doesn’t feel much, what with science and tallness and muscle mass and all that, but you’re hammered. Stumbling over words and feet type hammered.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t really drink, and for good reason. He’d tell anyone who asks that he’s a massive lightweight, since he never developed much of a tolerance, what with being the strongest sorcerer and all. And that’s true, sure, but the larger reason is you. You, who is so adamant about keeping up with your friends and proving yourself that you’re willing to be your own downfall.

You don’t need to keep up with Nanami, god knows he doesn’t expect you to, but you’ve always had a sort of…inferiority complex. You want to prove to other people that you’re strong before they have the chance to doubt you, even if you’ve known said people for over a decade. You’ve gotten better since you’ve grown up (you used to be an aggressive little thing), but at times like these when emotions run rampant due to alcohol content, you start to fall back into old habits.

Tonight’s your birthday, and it’s probably the only day of the year you’ll allow yourself to act like this, so carefree and unbidden. You’re sipping on your cocktail which is arguably more juice than liquor, thanks to a quick exchange between Nanami and the bartender. You’ve got one hand propping up your head, and you’re looking between Gojo and Nanami as they talk.

From behind dark glasses, Gojo’s eyes flash to meet yours. He gives you a wink that has you blushing before he turns back to your friend, and his large hand rests comfortably on your knee. Your fingers wrap around his, and you hum along with the song playing through the speakers.

Gojo likes you like this. He likes you all the time, but drunk you is a favorite of his. You’re a lot less careful about what comes out of your mouth, so you’re far more likely to compliment him. Mostly though, you seem relaxed, and he knows it’s because he’s there. You don’t worry about anything because you know he’ll take care of you, and it makes his heart swell that you put so much trust in him. He wants to soak in every moment, so Gojo always offers himself up as the designated driver.

“I like your tie,” You interrupt their conversation to tell Nanami for the seventeenth time that night.

He doesn’t miss a beat, sending a relaxed smile your way and saying, “Thank you, (Y/N). I appreciate it.” You grin so widely at him your eyes squint, then return to your people-watching.

The bar is crowded, has been since you all arrived, and you aren’t normally someone who enjoys crowds but you’d insisted on coming. You like drinking with your friends. It reminds you of a time when everything wasn’t so complicated and serious. It was a long time ago.

You know you’ve reached the bottom of your drink when your sips become loud, the straw bringing up absolutely nothing. You pout, and turn to Gojo to ask him to order you another drink, when suddenly his face is inches from yours.

“How’s a burger sound?” He asks, and your eyes sparkle at the prospect of food. You don’t even realize it’s being used as a distraction.

“Okay!” You nod eagerly, and you turn toward Nanami. “Are you comin’ with us?”

“I think it’s best if I head home,” He tells you, and your bottom lip wobbles just slightly.

“But Nanamin,” You say, and they know you’re absolutely wasted if you’re using his nickname. “Ish my birthday .” Sober you would respect your friend’s wishes, but drunk you just wants to spend time with him! Nanami is a busy person who keeps to his routine, leaving little room for the two of you to actually hang out. If it isn’t scheduled in advance, he won’t be there. (Ironically, if it is scheduled, it’s unlikely Gojo will show up. It’s a good thing your birthday is so important to them.)

“I’ll walk with you,” He offers. “But once you arrive, I’m going home.” Nanami checks his watch. “It’s already past one. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“I think he’s calling us old,” Gojo whispers loudly to you, and you gasp.

“Nanamin! Don’ disrespect your elders!”

Gojo pays the tab and the three of you leave the bar, which is still thrumming with the vibrancy of night life. Your hand firmly holds Gojo’s, swinging it back and forth as you pour your heart out to Nanami.

“I’m really thankful you came tonight, Nanamin,” You say. “I mish you a lot. We used ta spend soooo much time together, ‘member?” If a representation of your heart was inaccurately drawn by Gojo, ninety-five percent of it would belong to him while the other five percent would go to Nanami. Although you’d met Gojo first, you’d been actual friends with Nanami for longer. (These timelines blur and coalesce depending on who’s telling them.)

Nanami hums. “Yes, back when we attended the same school and didn’t have full time jobs.”

You groan. “I think we should jus’ quit an’ make Gojo take care of us!”

“Gladly,” He says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. Nanami would never allow it and neither would sober you, but he’d spend all of his money on you if he could.

You lean into his touch completely, something you would normally only do in the privacy of your home. You’re very reserved when it comes to intimacy, which Gojo respects, but he also lives for these moments.

You’re talking animatedly to Nanami but Gojo isn’t listening. He’s too focused on how the neon lights shine against your hair and how small but right your hand feels in his. How your laugh rises above the noise of the city but still sounds more melodic than any song he’s ever heard before.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair. What did his students call it? Down bad? (Astronomically, Kugisaki would add later.)

They finally reach the burger place and Nanami departs, but not before you give him a bone-crushing hug. Gojo laughs as he sees the surprise on his friend’s face. He hadn’t been expecting your strength.

Before you can get too sad over Nanami’s departure, Gojo steers you inside. There’s a bit of a line, since other drunk people also had the same idea, but he doesn’t mind. Just means more time with you.

“What d’you want?” He asks. You hum, finger tapping against your chin as you think.

“Cheeseburger, large fry, an’ a milkshake, please.”

“Got it, but I feel like I shouldn’t have to remind you that you’re lactose intolerant.”

“Ish my birthday ,” You grumble up at him, but you rest your head against his arm. “If I wanna shit my brains out later, I should be able to.”

He snorts. “You know technically, it’s not your birthday anymore. We passed midnight a long time ago.”

You look up at him, eyebrows drawing together. “We celebrated your birthday for a whole week!”

“Well, yeah, but that’s me.” You scoff at him but he catches the smile on your face, and presses a kiss to your rounded cheek.

He orders (and pays) for you, and the two of you claim a booth as you wait for your food. He takes advantage of your lack of inhibitions and sits on the same side as you, enjoying the way your thighs touch against his. Such a simple thing, and yet when it comes to you, it’s everything.

Gojo can feel eyes on him, hear friends whispering to each other about how hot he is (a fact, not a personal opinion), but he’s only looking at you. You, who’s decided that now is a good time to type out a thank you message to everyone who made your special day so special.

The bar was more of a close friends event, but the guest list for dinner had been much broader. Shoko and Mei Mei were in attendance, and somehow you all wound up at the same restaurant as the students. It might’ve been a smidge inappropriate, but you’d looked so happy to see everyone there that Gojo didn’t have the heart to tell you it wasn’t planned.

Utahime was there as well. She’d shot him a death glare which immediately faded into a bright smile as soon as her eyes landed on you. The two of you had always had a grumpy girl club thing going on that he’d never understood. Aside from himself and Nanami, Utahime is your other best friend. He has to admit it makes him a bit jealous, especially because he’s certain she’s trying to steal you away to Kyoto.

“How do you spell ‘extracurricular?’’ You ask him.

“What are you even writing?” He snatches your phone out of your grasp. His eyes skim the message to find that it’s entirely incoherent and riddled with spelling errors that you’d be mortified to find in the morning. He deletes it all and slips your phone into his pocket. “You’ll thank me for that tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes but don’t object, which is a win in Gojo’s book. After a moment, you speak again. “Do ya think people had fun tonight?” Your voice is soft and he can tell you’re a little lost in your thoughts.

“Doesn’t matter if anyone else had fun. All that matters is whether or not you did.” He raises an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Did you ?” You tap your fingernails against the table. “I know I’m not…” You deflate, some sort of criticism of yourself lost on your lips, and Gojo needs to rectify this.

He slots his fingers between yours. “Of course I’m having fun! Wouldn’t be here with you if I wasn’t.” You smile because you know he means it. He’s not the sort of person to waste his time.

“Order eighty three!” The cashier calls out, and Gojo’s hand slips from yours as he stands to get your food.

The girl at the counter’s face goes pink as he approaches. She hands him the paper bag and asks, “Need anything else?”

“A few napkins, please.” You’re a messy eater when you’re drunk.

The girl pulls napkins out from under the counter, but before she slides them over, she takes out a pen and scrawls a phone number on one of them. Gojo’s used to this sort of thing. He flashes the girl a smile as he takes the napkins and heads back to you. He has no intention of calling her.

Still, all it takes is one look at your face and he knows that you’ve seen the whole exchange. Your lips are turned down into a frown, and you stare angrily up at him. He ignores you as he pulls the food out of the bag.

When he’s sitting back down again, your hand snakes behind his neck, pulling him into a kiss. It’s loose tongues and bumping teeth and perhaps a little inappropriate for such an establishment, but it invigorates him. Electricity rumbles through his veins, setting his body alight. He’d known kissing you was going to be dangerous—even pressing his lips to your cheek or forehead fogs his mind for a few seconds, but it’s a drug that only gets better and better.

You pull away first. The kiss couldn’t have lasted for more than a few seconds, but he can see the flush on your face and how swollen your lips look from his teeth nipping against them. He grins. “You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous!” You protest, shoving french fries into your mouth. “Ish just annoying, you know? How hard is it to make the educated assumption that a man an’ woman sitting together in a burger place at almost two in the morning are dating?”

Drunk you is far more outward with her jealousy, and he loves it. Thrives off it, in fact.

You bite into your burger. “Wish we had rings,” You say, more to yourself than him. “That way everybody’d know.”

He stiffens. Is this something you’ve been thinking about? The two of you had only been officially dating for a few months, but he’d considered himself yours for years. The thought of marrying you crosses his mind at least once a day, but he’d kept quiet for fear of spooking you. You’re someone who works through things in their own time. See the last thirteen years as an example.

Gojo ignores what you’ve just said, more for your sake than his, but he files it away. The two of you will come back to that later. Preferably when he’s had time to stop by a jeweler.

Faces stuffed and bellies full, you leave the burger place and head back down the street to Gojo’s car. He’s got a hand wrapped around your waist to keep you from falling as you walk. You’ve become rather quiet, drifting into that sleepy drunk phase now that you’ve eaten. The night is drawing to a close.

Gojo helps you into his car, buckling you in because your hands keep fumbling. As he slides into the driver seat he asks, “Your place or mine?”

Your answer surprises him. “Can we go to your house, please?” You slump in your seat so you can lean into him. “Your pillows smell like you.”

“Anything for the birthday girl,” He says as he pulls onto the street, and you give a tired cheer.

You don’t come over to Gojo’s house very often. Not because you don’t like it, but because he’s never there. He’s usually at Jujutsu High or traveling, so he only really sees his place when he’s going to sleep. And since you got together, he’s been choosing to do that at yours.

Although it’s smaller than his, he likes your place a lot more. It’s lived-in, curated with care, and it feels so wholeheartedly like you that even before you admitted your feelings for him, it felt more like home than his own.

You’re nearly asleep by the time he pulls up to the building. He helps you inside, greeting the late-night doorman with a nod before guiding you into the elevator. “Seventeenth floor,” You say, proud of yourself for remembering, and he smiles at you.

“You stalking me or something?” You giggle as his arms encircle your waist, his fingers playfully tickling your sides.

Gojo’s home is a penthouse apartment, so the elevator opens directly into it. It’s private, which means that even though the rest of his building is filled with wealthy elites, his floor can only be accessed by a single elevator with a passcode. It fills you with pride that you’re one of only two people that know it.

You slip off your shoes and toss your coat on the rack like you own the place, but before you can make your way towards the bed, Gojo drags you into the kitchen. He fills a glass of water for you and takes a bottle of Tylenol from the cabinet.

“Drink,” He orders as he presses it to your lips. You try to take the cup but he won’t let you, so you’re stuck staring up at him as he force-hydrates you. Once you’re finished, he fills it up again and makes you take the painkillers.

You’re onto the bathroom next. “‘M not letting you give me a bath,” You tell him.

“Of course not,” He scoffs. “That’s a tomorrow activity.” And despite your glare, there’s still a hint of a smile on your face.

He opens a cabinet and pulls out makeup wipes, and you spot a multitude of other feminine products. They’ve likely been left here over time, or he purchased them to make sure his guests were more comfortable. It doesn’t send off warning bells to see it. Instead it just carves a little into the darkest part of your heart, where the regret of not doing any of this sooner lives.

“Did it make you sad, too?” You ask as he gently wipes the makeup from your face. He raises an eyebrow. “When I’d sleep with people who weren’t you.”

Gojo’s always had a bit of a reputation for being a manwhore, and it had always confused you how he could declare his undying love for you and then bring random hookups back to his house. It wasn’t until you accepted your feelings for him that you realized he was doing the same thing you were: searching for each other in the embrace of strangers. You can’t even count how many times you’ve had to hold your tongue to avoid calling out his name when sleeping with people you pretended were him.

Gojo’s smile wavers slightly, and he clears his throat as he avoids your gaze. His eyes hold infinity and all of his emotions, and he knows that nobody can read him better than you. “Yeah,” He agrees, his voice just a bit hoarse. “Yeah, it made me sad, too.”

He lets you finish scrubbing the last of your eye makeup, and stands in the doorway as you wash your face and brush your teeth. He brings you one of his tshirts to wear as pajamas (he is a man, after all), and once you’re all clean he brings you to his bed. It’s not nearly as comfortable as yours, unfortunately, but Gojo enjoys the way you sigh happily once you have his comforter wrapped around you. You’re asleep within seconds.

He doesn’t go to bed just yet, though. You don’t have any clothes at his house to wear the next day, so he does a bit of online shopping. You’re going to hate him for spending so much money on you. However will he endure it?

It’s a few hours later and Gojo’s just finished checking out at the third store when you start to stir. He pauses, waiting to see if you’ll fall back asleep, but then you’re standing up and wobbling into his ensuite bathroom. You slam the door shut behind you, and it’s the clicking of the lock that indicates to him that something’s wrong.

He knocks against the door, calling your name. You’re quiet, but he can hear your sniffles. He imagines that you’re crying over the toilet. “Can I come in?”

You unlock the door for him and his heart melts at how absolutely pitiful you look. Tears are welling in your eyes and streaking down your cheeks, and you try to wipe them away as he sits down next to you but they just keep coming. “I can’t—” You hiccup, “I feel so sick but it won’t, I don’t want to—” You shake your head.

“I think you’ve got to force it this time,” Gojo says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. More tears fall at the prospect. You hate throwing up. You don’t like doing it, and if you didn’t feel so horrible right now you’d probably just ride through the nausea until it passed. Sadly, it was so uncomfortable that it woke you. “Do you want me to help you?”

You frown at him. “I’m not going to ask you to stick a finger down my throat.”

“I’d do it for you,” And that makes you laugh. He presses a kiss to your temple and gathers your hair in one hand. “Come on, you can do it,” He encourages. “I’m right here.”

You inhale a deep breath and reach your finger as far back as it’ll go. Your gag reflex triggers and suddenly you’re throwing up into the toilet, and more tears start streaming down your face. You hate this feeling. Hate it hate it hate it.

But Gojo’s there, as promised, and his large hands smooth over your shoulders to soothe you as he keeps your hair out of your face. “Let it out. You’ll feel so much better once it’s over.”

You stay there for a while, and once you’re certain there’s nothing left in your stomach, Gojo helps you clean up. You’re tired and still a bit drunk, so you cry as you apologize to him. He shushes you and wipes your face with a damp washcloth, and makes you brush your teeth again.

He doesn’t have to, but he carries you back to bed. He doesn’t let go as he turns off the lights, nor as he settles between the sheets. He holds you firmly to him and you don’t protest.

“Do you feel better?” He says into the darkness, and you nod against his shoulder.

--- --- --- --- ---

The next morning, you regret absolutely everything .

As much as you’d have liked to spend the day sleeping, at precisely six in the morning, Ijichi calls to tell the both of you that you’re needed at Jujutsu High. You let Gojo handle most of the talking, since you can’t be bothered to leave the shroud of blanket you’ve surrounded yourself with.

“No need to call (Y/N),” Gojo says, “She’s right next to me! I’ll let her know.” With that, he hangs up, and uses a finger to lift the blanket just slightly so he can see you. “Ijichi said we need to go to the school.”

“I heard,” You say. Gojo had been kind enough to put him on speaker.

“He said Yaga would like us there in an hour.”

“I heard .”

“I told him he didn’t need to call you since you spent the night.”

You huff, flinging the covers off of you so you can stand up, which only exacerbates your headache more. “If this is your way of annoying me out of bed, you’re doing phenomenally.” You storm off, slamming the bathroom door shut and locking it. You turn on the shower and Gojo’s at the door, knocking.

“Hey! I thought you were gonna let me give you a bath!” The handle rattles. “I have to get ready too, y’know!”

“Use the guest bathroom!” You shout back as you step beneath the sweet relief of hot water.

If you’re with Gojo, you’re going to be late anyway, so the both of you take your time getting ready. His online purchases are carried up by the staff, clean and ready for you to use, and you only snip at him a teensy bit for spending money on you. You’re thankful that you don’t have to greet your peers in last night’s outfit.

You fix yourself a cup of coffee to drink on the way, but as soon as you and Gojo step outside, the bright, sunny day blinds you. Had you become a vampire in the middle of the night? You scowl, raising your hand to block out the sun’s rays, but it’s no use.

Gojo maneuvers around you to block out the light, but his teasing grin is just as annoying to look at. “Something wrong?”

“Shut up,” You grumble. “Why’s it so goddamn bright?” You don’t think you can last another second in this light.

Gojo snickers. “All these years and you haven’t learned your limits.”

“I can still kick your ass, hungover or not.” You pull him back into the shadows. “Give me your sunglasses.” He raises an eyebrow from beneath his blindfold. “It’s not like you’re going to use them today, anyway. Let me borrow them.”

He pulls them from his pocket and you unfold them, placing them onto your face. You exhale as you step back into the light. “Much better!” You toss him a smile over your shoulder. “Ready?”

Gojo needs approximately five seconds to gather himself. He knows he looks great in his glasses, but he’d vehemently argue that they look even better on you. Seeing you wear his stuff always does something to him, but the sunglasses?

He thinks of cold showers, grandmothers, and sour foods to keep himself from imagining how you might look wearing his sunglasses and nothing else.

#writing #fluff #romance #silly gooses #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #satoru gojo x reader #jjk #nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen

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fermentedfanfics · 1 year

Text

a little wine and charcoal.

hello welcome to my first writing that wasn’t a rewrite in a while. i hope you guys enjoy this ?? i randomly thought of this idea at like three in the morning and wanted to write it so bad– so forgive me if this is a little all over the place or written badly because i finished writing this at like six am and wanted to post it immediately. i might make a sequel to this, i kinda wanna write some smut for them. please know that this fic is explicit and for 18+ audiences only, minors dni.

summary: you enjoy taking figure drawing classes at your local college a few times throughout the year– this month you take up figure drawing again and find you’ve caught the model’s eye. (model!loki x artist!f!reader)

warnings: (possible smut for future sequel) fem!reader, make out sesh, reader is a little drunk, more than a little she’s a lightweight like me, light praise kink, kind of dry humping, orgasm denial, slight dom/sub dynamic (reader calls loki sir.) i’ll add more if i think of anything. word count: 3.2k

You are keenly aware of a pair of eyes on you, and you’re almost afraid to lift your gaze off the newsprint paper in front of you.

For a moment you wonder if you’re the only person who feels uncomfortable, but when you drag your gaze across the room you find everyone hard at work– focused on properly taking in the form of the man in front of you. Was he really a man though?

His ivory skin is chiseled like a marbled statue, and his thick, pitch-black hair was pulled back tucked behind his ears at the start of the class but has loosened and fallen into his face now. It’s given him a disheveled look and you’re rattled by how attractive he is. You’ve barely drawn anything, but you’re glad he’s not fully nude. Well– he is, but the way he’s posed has completely covered himself. You aren’t sure how you’d hold up if you were able to see him completely.

These figure drawing classes were supposed to be a source of relief for you. Twenty-five dollars and three hours of drawing live figures in silence with a couple of cups of wine was such a steal, and you’d truly enjoyed the last few times you’ve been– but the recent model has stolen that comfort from you.

At first you didn’t want to be conceded, clearly he was not staring at you directly. But the entirety of this month, each time you’d come and sit in that stuffy little classroom and painfully tried to draw the most beautiful being you’ve ever laid your eyes on, you could always feel him staring. It’s intensified by the wine you sip on throughout the class, your skin humming with the warmth of the alcohol and hot just from his mossy shaded eyes watching your every move.

Your hands delicately slip around the epicure of the glass next to you, it’s red and stinks of cheap wine but you drink it anyways to break the edge. Finally taking your eyes from the paper in front if you to the model, you swallow thickly when your eyes meet. You didn’t mean to look directly at his face, but curiosity got the best of you. Gripping the piece of charcoal in your hand, you begin to sketch.

You avert your stare from his face and to his body, and your mind wanders as your hand moves. Does he like your gaze? Observing every curve and rocky edge to his sculpted form– does it turn him on as much as it does you? You’d probably notice if it did. Each sip of the wine has your mind cloudy, and fills you with a kind of confidence you know isn’t good for you. Sneaking a peek to his face, you instantly regret it. His stare is intense, and the shine on his lips indicate he’s wet them with his tongue sometime between you taking your time studying every part of him and the last time you looked him in the eyes. You shiver.

The class wraps up faster than you expected. The conductor of the class brings the model a robe, and when he leaves the room bursts with conversation. “My god he was sexy, I couldn’t focus the entire time!” One of the women next to you boasts. Each class has a set of people who've never tried it before, or you’re simply just not lucky enough to get paired with anyone you’ve drawn with before. You feel seasoned among those around you, but you would be lying if you said the model hadn’t affected you in the same way.

You swallow the rest of the wine from your last glass, setting it down on the nearby tray it sat on. Trying to drown out the chattering and clattering of the class putting themselves together to leave, you try to pull an image of the model from your brain. You’ve seen him three or four times now, you didn’t keep count– each time you try to engrave him into your mind. You think this drawing is the closest you’ve ever gotten, fingers stained with charcoal. You decide to take this drawing home instead of leaving it like that last time.

By the time the room is empty, you’ve finished gathering your things. You take your time, knowing you have to call an uber since you finished about three cups of wine and you were a lightweight. Taking one last look at your drawing, you begin to take it down from the isle you used.

“I think yours is my favourite out of the bunch.”

His voice completely startles you, causing you to tear the top of the paper for a split second. You quickly stop yourself, letting go of your drawing allowing it to float helplessly to the ground so you wouldn’t completely destroy it. Instantly annoyed, your hazy, drunk gaze looks over your shoulder. It’s then you realize the class model is speaking to you.

He’s fully dressed, the first time you’ve seen it. It seems more intimate, you feel yourself burn hot at his voice as he apologizes, bending over and picking up your drawing. Smooth, sultry, and thickly accented– he’s rendered you speechless. “I always like the ones you draw– you’re very good.” He offers the paper to you.

“Thank you..”

You barely whisper your thanks, carefully taking the drawing from him. The rip doesn’t reach the art, thankfully. All your words are caught in your throat, he’s openly staring at you this time and you think he knows the effect he has on you. Swallowing your spit, you visibly relax ever so slightly as you begin to roll it up ready to leave.

“Do you come here often? I’ve seen you before.”

“Couple times a month.”

“Mr. Kilmyer let me keep some of yours of me, they’re hanging in my home. You’re incredibly talented– is this your profession?”

You’re trying to be respectful and listen to him, but you can’t. Your skin is boiling and the way the stupid cashmere turtleneck he wears fits him so perfectly that you can practically see his sculpted form beneath it is driving you up the wall. Though, that’s probably because you’ve seen him naked before and want to see it again. It’s fresh in your mind, and every time you blink you get a flash of his intense gaze. Wine plus him does not mix well.

“No.” You breathe out. He’s stepped closer, you’re in a full blown conversation with him now and you can see the quality of his face better. He has beautiful high cheekbones and strong brows giving him an intoxicating expression. His lips are thin and pink, you see he’s put chapstick on now. You wonder what it tastes like.

“It’s just a hobby. Um, thank you– I’m glad you like them.”

He cracks a smile, and your heart leaps so far into your throat you’re sure you can taste it. He seems to realize he hasn’t introduced himself, and offers you his hand. You’re delighted. “I am Loki, it’s a pleasure.” Your hand slips into his easily, a friendly shake sending electrifying shocks across your sensitive skin. You’re too drunk for this.

A little smile curls onto your lips, finally he thinks. “Y/N.”

He catches the slow blink of your eyelids, it’s late. You’re tired, and drunk– he can tell. He pulls his hand away and tucks a strand of his own hair behind his ear, drawing you in more. Does he know how sexy he is? You think he does. “I apologize, you must be tired. I don’t mean to take up your time, it’s just amazing to me how you’re able to master the human form in such a beautiful way.” His compliments give you a dopamine rush, your brain is fuzzy like the sizzling of a firecracker.

“I have to order an uber, so it’s okay..I have time.” You simply respond, he watched you drink those three glasses of wine.

Loki opens his mouth to say something, closing it as a thought come across his face. He sucks his lip in ever so slightly, biting it. He thinks for a moment, finger coming to his chin to caress it. His skin looks so soft and you’re instantly jealous of his own hand. Everytime you see him your mind floats away. Every single time he models, he’s fueled the bank in your mind to use late at night when you’re feeling lonely. You feel guilty a lot of the time, using a stranger to pleasure yourself– but you simply think of it as a one night stand. (That you keep going back to.)

You’ve imagined what it would be like to kiss his pretty lips, how it would feel and taste. You think he tastes like some kind of bourbon, and maybe caramel. A delicious mix. You especially enjoy remenecing on how he’d look at you while you drew him, how his mossy eyes bore deep into your soul and ignited a sexual flame in you faster than anyone ever had.

“Those can get quite pricey, hm?” He pauses, drawing your mind back to your conversation and away from your intrusively nasty thoughts about him. Loki rubs the side of his neck slightly, almost as if he’s embarrassed. “Well, I know we only just officially met– but I could drive you home if you’d rather save the money?”

His offer lingers in the air for a moment, before a surprised oh leaves you and your brows raise. Free ride from the pretty model that eats you up with his stare every single time you see him? Yes please!

“I would hate to bother you..”

“It’d be my pleasure, truly! I do feel a bit honoured talking with someone who views me in such a lovely perspective.”

You don’t fight again after that, a sheepish grin taking hold of your lips– you giggle. It’s heaven to his ears. “Sure.”

The walk to his car was short, but he continued to ask you questions– egging you to socialize with him. You wanted to just stare and eat up his features, engrave as much as you could of him into your brain because you’re sure this is the last time you’ll see him. You’re able to muster up questions to ask him, so you’re not such a boring chatting partner. He is giving you a ride home after all. Loki does not model often, but he did get roped into it after his brother suggested him. It’s relaxing for him, because he’s able to mentally check out for a few hours and not worry about anything– it’s nice.

You realize he may have just been spacing out in your direction and you’re deeply embarrassed that you came to the conclusion that he was equally staring at you. Loki opens the door of the passenger side for you, it’s amusing to your intoxicated little brain and you can’t help but laugh as you get into the car. “It feels like you walked out of a fairytale.” You murmur.

“Never had a gentleman open the car door for you? Such a shame.” He tuts at whatever past relationships you’ve had, and you can feel your standards raising.

Your drunk limbs find immediate comfort in the seat of his car, relaxing and laying your head back. The car ride is peaceful, and he lets you roll your window down so you can feel the cold wintery air on your skin. I’m a fan of the cold. Loki simply stated when you worried over him becoming too chilled. The cold air feels good on your warm skin, you know you’re in for a good night sleep.

Loki comfortably chats with you the entire car ride to your home, giving him weak directions as you try not to drift to sleep. Is it weird you feel completely at ease, and safe, with a complete stranger? Yes. But so far, he hasn’t given you any reason to feel any other way. In reality you wanted to fall asleep in his arms, but his car would have to do.

Thankfully you’re able to keep yourself awake, and when he pulls into your driveway you raise your arms above your head to stretch. It’s a damn good stretch, a euphoric feeling rushing through your body as you feel your muscles contract. Loki delightfully takes in the rise of your shirt, the sliver of skin showing your belly before you plop your arms back into your lap. You’re eternally thankful to him.

Looking back over to Loki to thank him for the ride home, you’re unsettled by his deep stare on you. It makes your chest and head thump once more. “Thank you for driving me home, Mr. Loki..” You try to be respectful, but you’re only turning him on.

“Of course,” He hums, not sure if he wants to let you leave just yet.

You don’t think your night will go much further with Loki, your hopes are not high. But when you grab for the handle to open your car door, his warm hand is wrapping around your free one. “Y/N..” He starts, and the way Loki says your name is magical. It’s the first time, and you’re a little worried at how much of an effect it has on you. You shiver once more, gulping thickly. “Yes, sir?” Your voice wavers for a moment, and you can’t help your usage of sir. You do wish to be respectful to him afterall. Your usage of sir seems to break him, make him snap– Loki is quickly leaning over the console and caressing your face with his hands.

“May I kiss you, Y/N?”

“Yes, please.” Your response is quick, and his lips crashing into yours is quicker.

Your stomach explodes like fireworks feeling his lips on you, and the desperation that follows only makes the heat rising in your core burn brighter. His lips are much softer than you were expecting, coating your own in that chapstick you can now taste is strawberry. You moan after tasting it, and Loki takes this free time to work his tongue towards yours. His lips are sweet like strawberries, but his tongue and mouth is minty and the stark contrast makes your head spin.

Loki’s left hand is wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling you closer while his right hand cradles your face like you’d simply disappear if he let you go. The desperation in his kisses make your stomach twist in the familiar sense of need, want. Your hands have found his biceps to hold onto, fingers digging into the fabric of his pine-green cashmere turtleneck. “You taste so divine.” He breathes into you, devouring the whimpers and moans that float from your throat with every kiss.

Each compliment he spews is another match thrown into the fire thats on your skin. Your head is indescribably fuzzy, and you feel like you’re going to pass out. But it’s good. It’s so, so good. You might doubt this to be a dream later on.

The hand on your face is exploring you now, and it doubles all of what your feeling. His hand slides to your hip, rubbing circles into the fabric of your shirt. It’s overstimulating at best, and turning you on even more. You instinctively rub his biceps, feeling his muscles underneath. Loki drags his hand down your thigh, rubbing and caressing just the same as you are to his biceps. It’s stimulating the heat growing in your pants but it’s not enough and when you buck your hips ever so slightly all thoughts are thrown out the window.

Loki’s hand palms your clothed cunt, ripping a ragged groan from the back of your throat. He hasn’t even moved yet and you feel like you’re about to melt, about to cum. Please, please, please, please. Your tortured voice peeps into his mouth as he bites your lip. You spur him on without even trying too hard. Slowly, but with pressure, Loki begins to rub his fingers and thumb up and down the length of your cunt.

You hiss, and before you can moan out his kisses are occupying you once more. His tongue barrages your crevices once again, exploring your tongue, teeth, roof of your mouth– anything he can. “So good for me, good girl.” He moans praises, and you echo his vocal pleasure with your own. Thank you Mr. Loki, please! Feels so good, sir.. Your groan hitches when his thumb glides over your clit through your jeans and panties– he’s instantly dragging his thumb across the area. It shocks you like a voltage, your body tensing in utter glee as it begins to climb for it’s release.

Please, sir! You gasp as his simple drags of up and down have turned into calculated wiggles and zigzags that have you keening. Your skin is burning, and you’re so close. So, so close. He can tell by your breathing, your gasping between kisses– it’s so cute. Just as you’re about to reach your climax, just as your about to cum Loki seamlessly removes his hand from your warm, wet clothed cunt and grabs the side of your face in a deep kiss.

You finally tap his biceps, and he releases you from the passionate, breath-stealing kiss he pulled you into. You’re gasping for air, trying to ignore the wetness of your panties and dull ache coming from your hole.

Loki catches you slightly as you slump, head far too heavy for you to hold up now. He remembers you’re drunk, and a giddy smile comes to his features. “Oh dear, I ‘ought to get you inside, yes?” He’s so sweet again, like he hadn’t just stolen your soul and heart with those kisses. If you weren’t so drunk you’d be pissed.

Scratch that– you are pissed. Your body is screaming for release, and you know you’re going to be too tired to rub one out once you’re inside your home. But Loki looks so mesmerized by you, so encaptured.

A small line of drool has dripped from the corner of your mouth, and tears have streaked your cheeks– your eyes still welling from lack of release. “Oh, princess..” He murmurs, kissing your cheeks where your tears roll down from.

Without another word, Loki gently releases you to rest against your car seat before exiting the car and making his way around. He opens the door for you, and helps you get out of the car. Your legs are wobbling, like a new-born deer. You want to throw yourself against him, beg him to come inside and finish what he started but you’re too tired. You’re too exhausted, and it’s hard keeping your eyes open. Perhaps it’s best the two of you stopped here.

He escorts you to the front door of your house, and places a loving kiss on your forehead and lips. He watches you fumble to open your door and get inside, bidding you a goodnight before heading back to his car.

You’re still buzzing with excitement by the time you crawl in bed, your bag and rolled up drawing laying haphazardly on your desk. You want to cry, weep even. You’re unbelievably horny and he simply just left you like that– although you want to keep thinking about how much he screwed you over and how much you’re going to pounce him the next time you see him, sleep has taken over.

You fall asleep with Loki on your mind, and a determined mind for next time.

Next time.

306 notes · View notes

chronic-ghost · 10 months

Text

title: nose as long as a telephone wire

rating: M (just for language)

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 4412

summary: you get too caught up in a phone call with your favorite DEA agent and accidentally let slip something very personal.

warnings: light angst, language, mentions of the cartel, mentions of drinking, obnoxious intros, comedy? i think i’m funny, part of a series but you can read alone

a/n: song lyrics come from Bad, Bad Leroy Brown by Jim Croce, and the last ones come from Tom Waits’ Yesterday is Here. Hope the anon who requested the series likes this - sequel to Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

🤍Series Masterlist | Previous | Next🤍AO3 Link 🤍Masterlist

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

A girl walks into a poker hall in Florida.

She joins the game.

She wins. Everyone asks, ‘well, how’d that happen?’

Girl says, ‘I got magic powers that tell me when you’re lying.’

Wide-eyed, they all ask, ‘really?’

She says, ‘yep, and now you owe me fifty grand.’

They all laugh and easily hand over the money.

And then they try to kill her.

Okay, sorry, that one isn’t all that funny.

What about this one?

A girl walks into a diner in Texas at two in the morning.

She’s scared, tired, and hungry. She solves most of these problems by ordering the biggest burger on the menu and pouring five shots of Crown Royal in her milkshake. And because she’s a lie detector and a lightweight, it all goes straight to her head.

She starts to tell the guy next to her about her little situation in the poker hall. Guy’s nice, sympathetic, asks enough follow up questions to make him appear interested.

And then he goes and lies to her.

Girl says, ‘please don’t kill me, sir!’

And the guy says, in a gruff and very serious voice, ‘I’m not gonna kill you, I’m DEA.’

Oh, and, like, this guy is smokin’ hot. Like just come off the grill hot. Like you pick him up and you burn your fingers – ay, caliente! Like danger and sex all wrapped up into one. Oof, Mama Mia and the rest of the cast in Greece, y’know what I’m saying?

So, DEA agent wants to help.

They flirt, they fight, and just as it seems, this one thing is going well, this only bright light in her life may actually hold a candle, she knows what she has to do.

She TASERS his ass. And all six feet of hotness drops, like a sack of potatoes.

Girl drives off, knowing he’s better off without her.

. . . oh, you were expecting a punchline?

Sorry, folks, this ain’t that kinda story. That girl just ain’t that kind of girl.

Truth is . . .

Funny little word, truth. It’s implicit that truth and trust come in the same bag. When you tell someone you trust them, you expect them to tell you the truth. Is it possible to have one without the other? If the truth is what we believe it to be, then how fragile is our trust?

If you taser someone and leave them literally by the side of the road, what have you broken? Their trust or their understanding about the truth of who you are?

But what about –

“Okay, that’s enough philosophizing to my ten-year-old. I gotta get her ready for school then I gotta vacuum this rug before the day rush. Scoot.” Maria knocks your boots off the end of the bright red couch in the lobby of the Motel 6 on route 22 and you grin sheepishly up at her.

“Aw, c’mon, Mare, this is good for the kid. She’s learning so much.” You glance over at Maria’s daughter, Rio, ready to have her defend your proselytizing – when you meet her heated and leveled glare. You’ve never seen such a small child radiate such annoyance.

“Your jokes suck.”

With a scowl, she stomps to her feet and lets her mother lead her off down the hall to one of the other empty hotel rooms, glaring at you over her shoulder.

You wave a hand to her as you go, smiling flatly. “Thank you, Mare! I owe you one! And thank you so much, little girl, I’ll be here all week.” You dig into your coat pocket and pull out your half-way empty packet of smokes. “Everyone’s a friggin’ critic.”

“Hey, you there! You can’t be smoking in here!”

Birdie, another maid whom you promised to stay out of her way if she kept your “hideout” in one of the second floor empty rooms a secret, snaps at you over the counter. The hotel phone at the front desk rings and she answers it with one hand as she shoos you off. “Go on, take it outside!”

Groaning, your body aching from the toll of driving forty-eight hours straight, you stand up, the unlit smoke between your lips. “Alright, alright, I’m going. Might die before I get there, but I’m going.”

But the other maid barks at you again, asking your name.

“Monologue McQueen, that’s you, right?” She has the red handle pressed against her shoulder. “You’ve got a phone call.”

The toll of outrunning the law and the cartel had taken its turn on Baby as well and the call is no doubt the mechanic calling with an update. You could have kissed Maria all over her face when she let you in at midnight and slipped you a key to a room at the end of the complex. She did owe you one after you proved her brother didn’t kill his boss – but that’s a story for another time.

“Just send it up to my room, alright, Birdie? I’ll take it there. Thank you.”

You trudge out of the hotel lobby in the bright Colorado sunlight and take a deep breath. Colorado is markedly different from Texas. More mountains. More green. Less roads . . . and even less mouth-watering DEA agents.

You stretch till you hear something crack and you shake out your head. Things had been going pretty well since Texas too. Made some money here and there – legally this time. You still hadn’t decided what to do with the fifty grand in your trunk (which had since been removed while Baby went to the doctor’s) but having it nearby was nice. A parachute if things got bad – or worse-r than they had been. But, counting no more run-ins with any government men or better yet, a complete lack of presence from the cartel – it seemed like everything that had happened since Florida was finally fading into the background.

You light the cigarette as you bounce up the concrete steps. Using Maria’s master key, you let yourself into the small dark room that looked heaven-sent after days on the road. Dark wood paneled walls, orange carpet, a lime-green tiled bathroom, a rug that could make you dizzy if you stared at it for too long. Perfect. And you can smoke all you want. You breathe out into the low sunlit room and smoke wavered white then gray as it swam through the shadows.

Sighing and realizing you should probably eat soon if you were going to pick up Baby, you toss off your jacket onto the bed. There’s a blinking red light over the phone as you pick up the receiver and sit down on the mattress.

“Yellow.” You slip your cigarette into the ashtray and wait.

“Hey there,” the deep masculine voice drawls, “it’s Baby Cow Eyes. How’ve ya been?”

Either your knees buckled or the mattress dropped you but you hit the ground with a thump.

“What was that?”

Eyes level with the window, the glass covered by a gauzy white curtain, you inch down to the floor, one vertebrae at a time, the plastic phone shoved tightly against your ear. You think you can hear him breathing on the other line but that might be your own frantic panting. Shitshitshit.

“Nothing,” you mutter. If you can get underneath the window, he might pass your room by. “Nothing at all.”

“Why are you whispering? I’m not literally in the room.”

The phone cradled by your shoulder, you slither, one arm at a time along that nauseating carpet, as far as the cord will allow. This is perfectly normal behavior for an adult woman.

“And what room would that be?” You breathe, softly. “Huh, Agent Pena?” You think you see a flutter of movement on the other side of the window and you jerk back against the door, toes clenched, eyes shut, and bottom lip bitten to the point of pain.

“I don’t know.”

Your eyes pop open. “What?”

The bastard actually laughs.

“If you know what hotel I’m at,” you hiss, jerking the curtain to the side from your protected corner to peer out into the open hallway, “why aren’t you kicking down doors and swinging around that big, thick badge?”

“Why do you think?” You think you can hear the chunk of a gas pump turning off.

“Psychological warfare. You’re gonna nuke the motel from space. Who knows?

You had to drop off Baby at the mechanics and one of his crew gave you a ride back to the motel. That was this morning and since then, not another car had pulled into the motel’s parking lot. Crouching on your knees, you spare a glance into the parking lot below. Still empty.

Over the phone, Javi’s sigh is garbled. “That sounds like a lot of work, sweetheart.”

Your fingers tightened around the plastic. “But you are coming for me, right?”

He inhales and, in the space, you hear the car door slam shut. “That’s right.”

You put the receiver against your chest and, as silent as a church mouse, you mouth:

F U C K

“You still there?” The vibrations are muffled in your shirt.

“Where are you?” you ask, shoving the phone back against your ear. You scan the parking lot one more time just in case of a surprise attack. “At least do the sporting thing and give me a head start.”

Javi huffs over the rumble of the engine as it overturns. “Oh, hell no. You got your one and only head start two days ago. When you tased me.”

“Okay, see, you sound mad about that. My concern about psychological warfare doesn’t seem so crazy now, does it?”

“I’m not mad.” You could almost picture the frown, dark eyebrows drawn in, glaring at the phone like it had personally offended him.

You grimace. “How’s your face?”

There’s a pause, as if he wasn’t expecting that question.

“It’s fine. Had worse,” he grumbles. “Barely even feel it any more.”

“When you growl like that, it makes me feel like you’re still mad.”

“I’m not –,” He cuts himself off and you grin. If you were keeping a tally, which you definitely weren’t, then you just got a little tick next to Javi’s zero. “What are you doing out in Colorado?”

“This feels like entrapment.”

“I’ve got about eight hours ahead of me,” he sighs and you can see his broad fingers tighten over the steering wheel. “This isn’t entrapment, it’s conversation.”

Eight hours. That gave you enough time to get Baby back and . . .

Unless he is . . .

F U U U U CK

See, there’s one little problem with your gift and the government goon is toeing dangerously close to finding it out. Shitdumb, bad fucking luck.

“A conversation, huh?” You rub your forehead with your fingers. This is going to end so badly. “Alright. You start. How did you find me?”

“Mhmm, I was hoping we’d play twenty questions.”

You pull back and stare at the holes in the receiver. Was he flirting with you?

But he continues, “After I came to and found my phone shattered, another thoughtful parting gift from you, I think it was safe to say you were spooked. Route 22 was the closest highway. Giving your headstart, I had a guess where you might be.”

“So, what, you started calling all the motels along route 22?”

“You mentioned you liked places with pools. Started with those first.”

Parts of that night were very clear in your mind – the way he looked at you at the counter, the way he chuckled, his hands on you when he hauled you off the back of Baby’s hood.

When he said you were smart, funny, resourceful.

However, there were other things that were decidedly not as clear.

“I never said that.”

“Yes, you did. You talked about pools when you held me hostage for an hour relaying your life’s story.”

You scowl and stand up, uneasily convinced he wasn’t about to burst your door down. You loop the cord through your fingers. “I said I stayed in places with pools because they needed a maid, not because I liked going there.”

Again, Javi laughs, deep and relaxed, and the world flares brightly for a minute.

“Sweetheart, you and I both know there isn’t a goddamn thing on this earth that could make you do something you didn’t want to do.”

For a second you could see it. Clear in your mind. Bright, gold sunlight. Open road, warm desert sand, the roar of Baby’s engine –

– his hand over your knee and he laughs –

“You know, I don’t think I ever said sorry about your face.” You swallow, sitting back on the bed and taking up your cigarette again. You take three long puffs in the silence, appreciative that there is quiet to steady your nerves. The room smells like clean cotton and ash. “And . . . I’m sorry for tasing you. You were nothing but nice to me and I . . . I shouldn’t have done that.”

Leather squeaks as if he’s adjusting in his seat, the engine humming over the line.

“I got close to a woman with a history of cutting and running. You wouldn’t be alive right now if you weren’t a little bit . . . shifty.”

Despite his familiar teasing, you glance at the window, fearing something else scarier than your DEA shadow. From the beginning, he said he wasn’t going to hurt you or kill you and he hadn’t lied about that.

It had been too long since you felt the barbs of that night in Florida but now you can feel them prickle under your skin.

“S-s-shifty, huh?” You can’t fight the sting in the back of your throat. You wrap an arm over your waist and clutch the phone tighter. “The way you say it, it sounds like a compliment.”

“It is.”

“So you’re not mad about your face?”

He sighs and you swear you can hear his teeth grinding.

“I’m not mad about my face, I’m mad you got the drop on me, alright? Shoulda seen that comin’ a mile away.”

You scoff. “Hey, pal, that shit’s original. No one expects the secret taser.”

“How many of those do you have?”

“Why? Planning on making them standard issue?”

“No, sweetheart, we have actual guns for that. I just need to know how many to search for.”

“And give up my one defense? Now that wouldn’t be very shifty of me.”

He chuckles again, the sound pulling a smile from you. “Smart, babygirl, smart.”

With the cigarette between your fingers, you kick off your boots and they land with two loud thuds.

“What was that? Sounds like you’re moving.”

“Darn, you caught me.” You lean back, your spine propped up by the scratchy pillows, your feet stretched out in front of you. With the hum of Javi’s car, as tinny and distant as it might be, you can almost picture yourself in the seat next to him. He’d have the windows down, enjoying the air in the late afternoon. Maybe the radio is on. And he's bad, bad Leroy Brown

The baddest man in the whole damn town. You flex your toes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your arm, your thigh. “I’m sneaking out the back right now. I’m hunkering down and slipping into the night.”

“Ah, I’ve been thinking of all the ways I can say this to you: bullshit. It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Try again.”

Your heart squeezes, but in a good way, like you’ve swallowed bubbles and they’re making your lungs all jittery.

You glance at the empty spot next to you, looking for his jeans, his wide hands.

“You’ve been thinking about me?” It’s breathless, surprised. You don’t mean to sound so pleased. You realize the cigarette has been burning untouched and is in danger of collapsing. Cursing to yourself, you reach over and tap it out.

“Just how to be one step ahead of you, sweetheart.” His words slow you down. The half-smoked cigarette, burnt and ashen, tumbles from your fingers as you let it fall into the ashtray. You pull your legs up to your chest.

“But things are getting serious out in Florida, in Bogota,” he continues, the teasing lilt from his voice gone. “We really need your testimony. Could save a lot of people’s lives.”

You watch his sunglasses slip down over his nose, just enough to catch yours and really stick in the knife. The engine roars as he guns the gas.

“Javi,” you begin slowly. “I’ve made a lot of enemies. Not just in the cartel. I mean, those are probably the baddest, but I can’t show my face in certain places. You can’t protect me every second of every day.”

“What makes you think I can’t?”

He won’t look at you now and you stare blankly. How many times were you going to hurt this man?

“You couldn’t see me coming, for one.”

“Ouch.”

You grimace, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m sorry, Javi, I–,”

“You’re right.” He visibly swallows, and he switches his grip on the steering wheel. “I broke your trust.”

You try to smile to comfort him, but know he wouldn’t appreciate your pity. You pick at the torn thread on your jeans. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t trust anyone.”

“Well, I guess for someone who – how did you phrase it? ‘Gives trouble a little wink and blows a kiss as you drive by’ – you’ve got to be a little paranoid.”

Your mouth falls open and he smirks, his aviators back high on his face.

“I did not say that.”

“You definitely did, sweetheart. From your lips to my ears. Gotta make up for the fact that I got accused of not listening last time.”

His hand is on the gear shift. The light hair on the back of his wrist and forearm glows in the late evening sun. You think about what it would be like to touch it.

“How’s Steve, by the way?”

Javi snorts and rolls his eyes. “That dumbass? He’s fine. Been duck hunting while on leave. Goddamn Deliverance shit.”

“An activity he shares with Mrs. Steve, I’m assuming?”

“Nah, Connie’s too good for that. Too good for him, as I like to remind him.”

“What’s he like? What’s Connie like?”

He pauses, thoughtful. “Connie likes cats. Blonde. They both are. He’s a good agent. They’ve got a little girl, actually. Adopted her, in Bogota.”

“That’s nice. They sound like good people.”

“They are. Steve’s lucky to have her.”

The car slows, the ringing warning of an oncoming train has him stop before a long stretch of railroad tracks. He taps the wheel with his fingers. The wind comes in and ruffles his hair. He’s handsome in a way that is almost overwhelming. Like you wouldn’t know what to do if he actually looks at you with intention.

The train roars as it passes, the blinking red lights like cosmic stars across his face. You pick at lint on your sock because he can’t be blamed for it, and you should try and make nice. So you open your mouth and ask,

“So is Mrs. Javi still planning on taking me out by the kneecaps? I’ll give her at least two free shots.”

He makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He adjusts on the seat and cracks his neck.

“Oh, yeah, you really got Mrs. Javi all worked up.”

“Then send her my regards. How should I fill out the card with her flowers?”

There is silence on the other end. The train whistles and the lights flash. The car rumbles from the force of the train, the weight of gravity. The heavy sun is hovering just above the horizon, going red against the mountains. Like a cracked chicken egg with a smear of blood.

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me.”

You sit up higher on the bed and cross your arms.

“What do you mean?”

Javi glances from the train, to you, the red lights hiding any blush on his cheeks. He frowns.

“I’m– I’m not married. That . . . was a lie. There’s no one waiting for–,”

Fuck. Fuck fuck shit. Of all the ways for him to find out. Goddamn it. You lean forward onto your knees, groaning, as you wait for it to sink in. He twists in his seat to you, rabid delight on his face.

“Hang on a fuckin’ second, you’re telling me that little trick of yours doesn’t work over the phone?”

You shake your head. Why, why did you bring up the wife? That’s, like, rule number one.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you sigh, admitting defeat, and pick at your socks. “Over the phone just isn’t as good as the real thing.”

He laughs in disbelief. There might be some red in his cheeks after all. “Uh, yeah. I’d have to agree with that.”

He sits back in his seat, mouth agape, as the last of the train cars rumble through. The ticking of the warning signs slows and the barrier raises. Javi distractedly puts the car into drive and it shudders as it goes over the tracks.

“So what other limitations do you have?”

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. “I’ve never put it to the test. As far as I can remember, it only ever makes me money or gets me into trouble.”

“Really? You’ve never been curious.”

“People like me aren’t afford the luxury of being curious.” You glance out the window, at the darkening farmland rushing by. “We just hope to get by. See one day after the next.”

“I know what that’s like,” he murmurs. “Now knowing if you’ll make till sunrise. It’s a bad way to live.”

“Yeah,” you agree, eyes shut. “It is.” His spine is straight, gaze forward, but his knuckles around the wheel are white. Sunlight is fading fast. “How’d you live with it?”

“Didn’t. Not well, at least. Dealt with the worst of it by drinking. Met with people I shouldn’t have.”

Your stomach clenches as you try and decipher his meaning. People, being other agents, the cartel itself, or even women –

There’s no one waiting for me, he was going to say.

“It’s lonely,” you say. You see him nod in the silence.

You bite the inside of your inner lip. “You don’t have to agree with me, you know? I really can’t tell if you’re lying or not right now, so you –,”

You don’t have to pretend to care.

“I’m not lying,” he soothes. You wonder if he could be this kind in person. “Someone once told me starting off a conversation with a lie is not a good way to make a friend.”

You smile out of the corner of your mouth. “That’s good advice. You should keep her around, whoever said that.”

“I’m trying.”

You can feel the shake of the car over the road. Twilight has come, purple and heavy, drawing shadows where there used to be light. Javi takes off his sunglasses and drops them in the clutch of his front shirt, but in the faint light you can’t quite see his eyes.

“I did watch Dr. Pole,” he offers, “had to see what all the fuss was about.”

“You liar.”

He laughs and his fingers bump your knee. “Just making sure.”

You want to stay here with him, but you know you can’t. You squeeze your eyes shut and open them to the dark, warm hotel room.

“Javi, I – I have to go.”

“I know,” he says, his voice running thin through the phone line. You twist away from the headboard, your feet touching the orange carpet. The street lights outside your window have come on, leeching the color from your room. It feels sterile now, less welcoming. Another moment of peace, gone. Another location burned. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You huff a laugh, in spite of yourself. “That’s not the comfort you think it is.”

The car hums, swallowing up anything he might have said.

“But there is something I wanted to say, before you go. Before you tased me, which was a one time thing by the way, I, uh, actually had a nice time with you. I wouldn’t call it a barrel full of monkeys, but . . . you, uh, surprised me.”

You can almost picture the way he curls around the plastic handle, broad shoulders folding in on themselves as if to make his joy as small as possible. Protect it from prying eyes.

“Of course, you did. Chocolate waterslide and all that.”

You can feel his smile, even if you can’t see it. You slide your shoes back on, and gather up your jacket. It wouldn’t take you that long to walk to the mechanics and you remember seeing a diner on the drive back this morning. You wondered if they’d let you sleep for a few hours in a booth.

“Oh, uh, just one more thing,” you say, the cord around your fingers. “You still haven’t told me your real name. At the diner, you said it was Javi, but that’s just a nickname, right? What’s your name?”

“You gonna frame me for murder or something?”

“Or something, sure.”

“My name’s Javier. Javier Peña.”

“Nice to meet you, Javier.”

“Call me Javi.”

You don’t really know how to end it, can’t really speak with the knot in your throat, so you click the receiver back into its cradle. You hope he won’t think you’re rude for not saying goodbye.

The mountain air has turned cool without the sun, night curling around the motel like a lazy black cat. You lock the door behind you and leave the key on the doorframe, with a note inside on the bedside table thanking Maria for her kindness and explaining why you’re leaving.

There are still no cars in the parking lot, but the light to the lobby is on behind the closed curtains. You wonder if the maids are playing poker in there.

You begin to whistle, the canvas bag with fifty thousand dollars in cash slung over your shoulder, as you walk down the road, gravel crunching beneath your feet, wondering where he’s going to eat tonight, what music he might like, and if anything he said today was true. You whistle and listen for the sound of his engine.

And the road is out before me

And the moon is shining bright

What I want you to remember

As I disappear tonight

Today is gray skies

Tomorrow is tears

You'll have to wait

Till yesterday is here

#javier peña #javier peña x y/n #javier pena x y/n #javier pena one shot #javier pena fic #narcos #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x you #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters

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erasabledinosaur · 1 year

Photo

Sims 3 Reshade Omnibus 2: Electric Boogaloo

The sequel to Sims 3 OMNIBUS Edition, Sims 3 Reshade Omnibus 2: Electric Boogaloo features over 11 collections with over 50+ reshade presets. The sims 3 reshade omnibus edition 2 is exclusively the only place to get not only daydream redeux but also previously unreleased reshade preset collections like Playtime (lightweight reshade presets), and thrift store tv (vintage tv themed) as well as previously unseen preset collections like snackpack and more!

It also includes previous releases: Strawberry Rhubarb Collection, Warm Spices Reshade Collection, Papercut + Bandaids, lightblend rose, and sweet&cheeky

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avatarmerida · 1 year

Text

Girlfriend Material

Mini sequel to this

———

Hunter was beyond excited to give Willow his latest creation. He had truly outdone himself this time, consulting multiple books, blogs, and online tutorials. He had pricked his fingers so much that each one was now graced with a colorful bandage to attest to his dedication. Most of it he had done by hand, working well into the night to make sure it was done before the week was over. There was no special occasion that the gift was for, but the anticipated look on Willow’s face was motivation enough.

When Gus left the basement to “get a drink of water” and have Hunter a dramatic wink to signify he would not be returning, Hunter leapt up from the couch to retrieve her gift from his sewing station. When he called her name to show her, her jaw dropped.

“Oh my Titan, Hunter it’s stunning!” Willow exclaimed, jumping from her seat and rushing over to take his creation in her arms. It was the Emerald Entrails signature color, lightweight with a quilted texture and “Park” in large letter across the back and a small bee patch on the end of the sleeve to represent Clover. She admired every stitch, every detail, every part of the jacket an unmistakable indication that it could be made for no one else by her by no one else but Hunter. She slipped it on, unsurprised that it fit her perfectly. “How do I look?” Willow asked sweetly, twirling around like it was a ball gown.

“Perfect,” said Hunter, excited to see her excited. “As always.”

“Oh my Titan, did you hand stitch this?” Willow exclaimed again, looking at herself in the mirror and spotting “Captain” purposely displayed just above her heart.

“Oh, yeah. But, it was nothing.” he lied, it has been one of the most tedious parts of the project. “I still haven’t showed you the best part!”

“Oh! It has pockets?!” Willow gasped as she put her hands in them, feeling like she was on the cover of Flyer Derby monthly.

“Even better.” Hunter said with a smile.

“Double pockets?!” Willow said with a louder, deep gasp.

“No- well, actually kind of,” he laughed. “It’s reversible.”

Willow gasped once more. “Shut up!”

“It’s true!” Hunter said, feeling like he was about to jump out of his skin in the best way. “See for yourself.”

Willow carefully slipped it off, and found the liner was a lighter green the same color as her eyes and littered with white, wide flowers. As she turned it inside out, she saw there was a matching bee patch resting on the opposite sleeve. And it also had pockets! How did a jacket manage to capture every part of her so perfectly?

A true labor of love.

“Hunter thank you so much, I love it.” She lunged forward and wrapped him in a tight hug. “This was so sweet. I’m never taking it off, it’s so comfortable.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, returning her embrace as a wide smile spread across his face. “I’m glad you like it, it was my first time making something with girlfriend material.”

“Wait, what?” Willow asked, taking a step back to look up at him with wide eyes, wondering if she heard him correctly.

“Oh, I wanted it to be extra special so Camila helped me find this fabric, and they had it in two similar colors that both reminded me of you and since I couldn’t decide which one to get, that’s how I got the idea to-.”

“Are you saying my jacket is made of… girlfriend material?” Willow cut him off, giving him a playful eyebrow raise. She was able to connect his interpretation of the fabric’s name with her attempt to flirt with him last week. Never had she been so grateful for a misunderstanding.

“Um, yeah? But I don’t know if-.” Before he could finish explaining that that might not be the technical name of the fabric, Willow took him by the hand and was pulling him up the stairs. “Uh, where are we going?”

“I’m going to show everyone my new favorite jacket and I need you to tell them what it’s made of.”

#huntlow #winter toh #willow park #Hunter toh #toh #huntlow fanfiction #the owl house #my fanfiction

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justforbooks · 4 months

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In the childhood memories of more than one generation, Glynis Johns, who has died aged 100, will be best remembered as the Edwardian materfamilias of the hugely popular Walt Disney musical Mary Poppins (1964). Winifred Banks, married to David Tomlinson’s George W Banks, is the mother of Jane and Michael, the children in the care of the magical nanny played by Julie Andrews. A protester for the right to vote, Winifred delivers a spirited rendition of the song Sister Suffragette – “Our daughters’ daughters will adore us. And they’ll sing in grateful chorus: ‘Well done, Sister Suffragette!’” – as the children’s previous nanny tries to quit.

But the husky-voiced actor had other claims to fame from her more than 60 films and 30 stage productions. In 1973, Stephen Sondheim composed the song Send in the Clowns for Johns when she was cast in the leading role of the premiere production of his musical A Little Night Music, on Broadway. And she had won initial stardom in the British cinema as a mermaid.

In the title role of the film comedy Miranda (1948), she travels from Cornwall to London and causes romantic complications among the Chelsea set. Although the film’s whimsy may now seem strained, it was a great commercial success in its day, making Johns a top-liner in British movies. Miranda returned in a rather belated sequel, Mad About Men (1954).

By that time, Johns had moved almost completely from stage to films, where she was associated chiefly with lightweight roles, alternately fluffy and feisty. One of her most appealing opportunities came in the thriller State Secret (1950, released as The Great Manhunt in the US), playing a cabaret artiste in a fictitious Balkan country, and gamely singing Paper Doll in a wholly invented language.

It says something for her properties of youthfulness that at the age of 30 she could play a teenage schoolgirl in the melodrama Personal Affair (1953). The same year she played in two fanciful Walt Disney British productions, as Mary Tudor in The Sword and the Rose, and as the heroine wife of Rob Roy, and she went on to make her first Hollywood picture, the Danny Kaye comedy The Court Jester, in 1955. The following year she played a cameo role in the star-studded Around the World in 80 Days.

At the time Johns alternated between American and British films, generally in subordinate roles, but a rewarding one came in The Sundowners (1960), set in Australia, as a jolly barmaid who takes a shine to a visiting Englishman played by Peter Ustinov. It brought her an Oscar nomination as best supporting actress. Top billing came in a stylish horror movie, The Cabinet of Caligari (1962). She was well enough known to American audiences by this time to star in 1963 in Glynis, a TV sitcom series that ran for just one season.

In 1966 Johns returned to the London stage in The King’s Mare, as Anne of Cleves to Keith Michell’s Henry VIII. Her Welsh heritage came into play when she took the role of Myfanwy Price in a screen version of Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood (1971) starring Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor and Peter O’Toole, and two years later came her great Broadway success as Desiree Armfeldt in A Little Night Music, which brought her a Tony award.

Glynis came from a show business background: her mother, Alice Steele (nee Wareham), was a concert pianist who performed under the name Alys Steele-Payne, and her father was the prolific character actor Mervyn Johns. He was a stalwart in particular of Ealing Studios films: father and daughter appeared together in an Ealing drama, The Halfway House (1944).

Though her vocal intonations pointed to her Welshness, Glynis was born in Pretoria, South Africa, where her parents were on tour. She was reportedly carried on to the stage at the age of three weeks, and it was not too much longer before she was appearing there in a professional capacity, making her performing debut at the Garrick theatre, London, as a dancer in a revue called Buckie’s Bears (1935).

Educated at Clifton high school, Bristol, and South Hampstead high school and the Cone School of Dancing in London, she rapidly graduated to juvenile acting roles in both theatre and cinema. Her first screen appearance came at the age of 14, as politician Ralph Richardson’s troublesome daughter in South Riding (1938), and on stage she was the young sister, another Miranda, in Esther McCracken’s comedies Quiet Wedding (1938) and Quiet Weekend (1941).

That year brought the opportunity to appear in the film 49th Parallel, starring Leslie Howard and Laurence Olivier in a spy thriller intended to bolster second world war support in the US. When the prospect of playing a mermaid came after the war, she was able to draw on her theatrical versatility: “I was quite an athlete, my muscles were strong from dancing, so the tail was just fine. I swam like a porpoise.”

Johns returned to the London stage in 1977, as Terence Rattigan’s choice to play the murderer Alma Rattenbury in his well-received dramatisation of the Rattenbury case, Cause Célèbre. Her acting appearances became sporadic, though in 1989 she starred with Rex Harrison and Stewart Granger on Broadway in Somerset Maugham’s The Circle.

She was occasionally a guest star in US television series such as Murder She Wrote and The Love Boat, and played Diane’s rich mother, Helen Chambers, in the first series of Cheers (1983) and Trudie Pepper in the sitcom Coming of Age (1988-89). By the time of her final films, While You Were Sleeping (1995) and Superstar (1999), she was a characterful grandmother.

Johns was married and divorced four times. Her first husband, from 1942 to 1948, was the actor Anthony Forwood. Their son, Gareth, also an actor, died in 2007. Marriages to two businessmen followed: David Foster, from 1952 to 1956, and Cecil Henderson, from 1960 to 1962. She was married to Elliott Arnold, a novelist, from 1964 to 1973, and is survived by a grandson and three great-grandchildren.

🔔 Glynis Margaret Payne Johns, actor, born 5 October 1923; died 4 January 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #glynis johns #in memoriam

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cbk1000 · 4 months

Text

Hello, it's me, back with more of the vet fic sequel (yes I know it has a proper title now; yes I will continue to always and only refer to it as 'the vet fic').

He did not have a fabulous time, because people, including the one he had very clearly arrived with, began to dance all round him, and when jibes would not bring him into their midst, Merlin tried champagne. Arthur of course was not a lightweight; but he was not as hefty as he could have been. There was a little sizzling in his head after one glass, and a kind of creeping insanity, which thought that it might have been possibly a very little nice, to kiss Merlin all round his dumb face. He was currently in solemn consultation with a little boy over his hamster, who was called George, and had prompted a visit to the table with the vet, not because there was anything wrong with him, but because it was felt that Merlin needed to know about him. Merlin had taken off his jacket, likely because it was hampering his barbarity, which Arthur had barely tamed with the product which already four hours later was losing that hard-going battle. His hair was breaking out in little ringlets along his brow, and the piece at his nape which Arthur might have nuzzled, with more champagne in him, and less people round them, was kicking up off his neck. He had his hands clasped on the table, and was nodding along seriously to a rundown of George’s colour, age, temperament, and the time he had got his ball stuck under a wheelbarrow when the boy suddenly stopped extolling his whiskers, and said to Merlin, “By the way, who’s he?”

‘He’ was Arthur, who had been sitting across from him for five minutes before his presence had registered.

“That’s Arthur.”

“Who’s Arthur?” the boy asked; not, naturally, to Arthur himself, but to the keeper of all knowledge animalis.

“My boyfriend.”

“I thought boys had girlfriends?”

“Some of them have girlfriends, some of them have boyfriends.”

“Oh, ok,” said the boy, and then: “Why did the mother and father hamster never tell their babies a bedtime story?”

“Why?” Merlin asked.

“Because they didn’t have any tales!”

“Well, do you know why hamsters are afraid to get on sailing boats?” Merlin asked, after laughing appropriately lengthily at a small child’s bad joke.

“No.”

“They’re afraid of pi-rats,” Merlin confided in a whisper.

Arthur like any rational man was still suspicious of children, who like anything that small have to get by on their cunning; but seeing that Merlin was with the boy the way he was with animals, he felt (and this was not entirely his fault, since he was on his second glass of champagne) that same striking impulse for love which has always saved the race from ruin. As a sober man he would have been embarrassed at himself; but as a slightly pissed one, he put his chin in his hands and stared at Merlin not unlike the child was doing. They were both looking at him like dogs, full of stupid loyalty, and love; and Merlin, looking back at him, suddenly flashed the dimples unbearably, so that Arthur could see he had showed them in the same helpless feeling with which Arthur was receiving them. He was never very sure in his love, of where he stood in its estimation. For him it was a thing which he could never be sure of having, but which he could be sure of losing. But Merlin’s whole face was lit up with it across the table, with the small boy for witness. He was just unabashedly doing it, where anyone could see he was smitten.

Then someone else came round to ask Merlin why their cat went, “Bleugh” and the boy was taken off for his nap by his mother, and the look was turned away from him, though he kept it safe, and warm in his throat.

“You’re slightly pissed, aren’t you?” Merlin asked when they were alone once more.

“No,” Arthur said, which for some reason prompted a laugh.

“Yes you are, you big numpty. Want to go for a walk and have a bit of a drunken snog? I’ll catch up to you real quick. What, did you have a whole entire glass by yourself?”

“Two whole entire glasses,” Arthur replied crisply.

#preview #fic #merthur

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dutifullyshamelessearthquake · 16 days

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Tighnari and cyno thoughts cuz I’m excited for the sequel fic hehe 🤭

so being drunk- first I feel like Cyno wouldn’t like to get too drunk. I could be convinced otherwise but I feel like he’d prefer to keep more sober at parties or bars cuz it’s easier to keep an eye on people and, most importantly, Tighnari. He will have one or two if it’s a formal event, and he may indulge more if it’s a smaller group and he knows everyone around but overall he’s happy to be Tighnaris DD most times. Tighnari on the other hand also wouldn’t go out of his way to over do it…buuuut it does happen sometimes 😅 and unfortunately since he’s a bit of a chaotic sicky I feel like he’s thrown up randomly one too many times due to having gone a little too hard. He is always suuuuper apologetic ofc. Oh, and post hangover migraines are his nightmare. I feel like he really wouldn’t try to get that drunk but idk I feel like he’s more of a lightweight than he wants to admit. And Cyno is weak to Drunk Tighnaris charms and whims so holding him back gets tricky. But everytime Nari swears he’ll never get that drunk again when he’s sick and nauseous the next day. And he’ll have a good streak for a while buuuuut it never really lasts.

Cyno tho, I feel like he really wouldn’t get hungover that easily. Like idk I just struggle it see it with him? If he does get tipsy he holds his booze really well and rarely has any problems. I do however think at one point he got really, really bad food poisoning from bar food. He had only had like one drink so he’s not sure why, by the time he gets home with nari (thankfully Tighnari isn’t super drunk but he’s pleasantly tipsy!) he feels so warm? And his stomach is upset? I feel like from there into the night it would just get worse, frequently having to use the bathroom keeps him up most of the night. And then the nausea hits…the following day he can’t keep anything down or in and nari tells him that yes hangovers can be bad but this- this is not from drinking one singular beer. alternatively you have this scenario but nari is really really drunk so he does start puking once they get home. And that’s when cyno starts feeling off too? He’s trying to take care of nari but keeps having to use the restroom. And by the time nari passes out that’s when Cynos nausea starts?? who knows!!

OH I'M IM LOVE WITH THIS! I actually really love it, because I often see Cyno portrayed as the one who'd get drunk and Tighnari as the one who'd stay sober. I honestly like your interpretation more! I can totally see our sweet baby Tighnari being such a lightweight, he always says he's not going to let himself get drunk, but he also always manages to underestimate just how hard the alcohol would hit him. ARGH I LOVE THAT SO MUCH!

Cyno definitely dotes on hungover Tighnari, he's sitting with him in bed all day and strokes his hair and coaxes him into drinking bits of water when he feels like it. Tighnari always apologises profusely for letting him happen, but Cyno just shushes him with gentle kisses because he really doesn't mind.

Now don't get me started on that food poisoning idea I LOVE THAT?? I love the whole idea of him being focused on Tighnari who's definitely tipsy (and as a result not as observant as he would be if he was sober) and he just can't place his finger on what's wrong. He keeps brushing it off as "ah, I must've drank more than I thought" but really he just had one drink. And then the next day is just MISERABLE. Tighnari's okay-ish, he wasn't super drunk the night before, but he's definitely a little hungover and his head is killing him. But Cyno, who wasn't even tipsy, is the one vomiting his guts out. Oh maaaaaan I want to write this!! I love this!! It's sooo good!!!

That second scenario is also brilliant!! Ahh!! This is going to give me soooo much brainrot!! I adore this!!

#earthquake author's note #sickfic #genshin sickfic #genshin emeto #emeto #nausea #emeto fic #sickfic headcanons #sickfic prompts #sick cyno #sick tighnari

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holyhidan · 2 years

Text

sleepy genshin men (pt. 2)

{the sequel that nobody wanted. venti has been replaced by heizou, i’m so sorry. part one here}

⟢ characters: arataki itto, thoma, kaeya, diluc, childe, zhongli, shikanoin heizou, kaedehara kazuha, gorou, kamisato ayato, xiao

❀ arataki itto - spread out everywhere and taking up the maximum amount of space possible, absolutely horrific to sleep next to. completely annihilates bedding, so don’t even attempt to cover him with a blanket bc it’ll be at his feet and half off the bed within minutes. HEAVY sleeper (actually canon). be ready to fight for your life bc if he’s dreaming intensely he’ll definitely be throwing punches and kicking. sleeps with his eyes open occasionally (also canon) so also prepare yourself for a heart attack if you wake up in the middle of the night to him staring wide eyed at nothing. sleeps in nothing but his underwear bc he’s a furnace and radiates body heat. talks in his sleep, mostly mumbling about onikabuto or defeating “that stupid kujou tengu”

⊱ ────── ⋆⋅☽☾⋅⋆ ────── ⊰

❀ thoma - teyvat’s number one malewife, perfect in every way and that includes sleeping. sleeps on his side or back and doesn’t toss and turn much in the night. if you sleep with him, he’ll unconsciously snuggle into you and wrap his arms around you bc even as he sleeps this angel wants to make people feel loved and safe. for this reason he is also never little spoon. sleeps a healthy 8 hours every night and makes his bed every morning. i’d also like to point out that this man’s bedding is pristine and he sleeps with a flat sheet like the respectable adult he is. took up sleeping in jinbei after moving to inazuma.

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❀ kaeya - if he’s coming back from angel’s share drunk off his ass, you best believe he’s sleeping on the first flat surface he sees. if he makes it to his bed, you’ll find a trail of random articles of clothing leading from the front door to his bedroom. belt here, gloves there, one boot there. literally just falls face down in bed half undressed and doesn’t move for the next 4-6 hours. however, sober kaeya is much more dignified. likes really fluffy, lightweight bedding with lots of pillows and keeps the window open at night to feel the cool breeze and fresh air. sleeps shirtless in shorts or joggers bc he likes the cold. mostly sleeps on his stomach or side with the blanket around his waist. very light sleeper and has trouble dropping his guard even when alone. combs his hair every night before bed and leaves it out of his signature sideswept ponytail. doesn’t sleep in his eyepatch so if you have the privilege of waking before him in the morning, UTILIZE THIS CHANCE. sweep his bangs out of his face and you’ll be met with a sleepy set of the most gorgeous mismatched eyes. seriously, this man is ethereal with his icy blue eye on his left and yellow-gold on his right and a set of long, thick eyelashes as the cherry on top. he’s quick to swat your hand away though. he may come across as confident and flirtatious, but it’s a facade. he’s actually quite shy—especially when it comes to his scar. the burn extends from his right brow, over his eye, and stops at the top of his cheekbone. it’s nasty and ugly, he thinks, but he can’t bring himself to hate it. it’s proof of his battle with his brother, and a symbol of atonement for a life of lies. he keeps it covered though, for diluc’s sake. he doesn’t need to be reminded of that time, nor to feel guilt over it. you can only press a gentle kiss to his right eye, over his fringe, and hope that one day he can forgive himself.

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❀ diluc - the most eligible bachelor in mondstadt sleeps in a plush king bed and a lavish set of satin pajamas. has a nightly ritual that consists of polishing his claymore and taking a hot shower. he has a head of wild curls, so he likes to shower before bed and braid it while it’s damp so it doesn’t get too crazy while sleeping. well, that is to say he gets to it before adelinde has finished her evening cleaning duties. even in his 20s, she still insists on combing his hair before bed just as she did with him and kaeya when they were children. sleeps on his back or side. the opposite of kaeya in the way that his room has to be almost uncomfortably warm for him to sleep soundly. this caused many a quarrel when they were kids since they shared a room, but their differences seemed to magically disappear when they slept snuggled up to either side of master crepus. for this reason, he secretly likes when you snuggle up to his side so he can feel your warmth <3

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❀ gorou - sleeps curled up in a ball hugging his tail, i didn’t say it mihoyo did. the absolute most adorable lil bean ever when he sleeps. his ears twitch and he whimpers when he’s having an intense dream. LOVES sleeping with his head in your lap and having his ears stroked, although he’d never admit it (he’s the mighty general gorou of watatsumi after all!). sleeps in a loose tee/shorts. pretty light sleeper from having to be on alert at all times during the war—so yes one of his ears definitely does that cute radar thing dogs do when they hear noises while they sleep. he’s used to sleeping outdoors, so he finds something strangely comforting about curling up in a soft bed of grass to sleep.

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❀ kamisato ayato - the sly yashiro commissioner sleeps on a plush futon in the finest silk yukata. he may be a bit of a bastard, but no one can deny he is incredibly hard working and often doesn’t go to bed until late into the evening. he is often chastised by thoma when he notices the soft light of ayato’s desk lamp peeking under the shoji doors at ungodly hours of the night. there’s many nights that he simply falls asleep with his head on his desk, documents scattered everywhere and a half empty cup of tea to the side. he’ll wake in the wee hours of the morning and move to his bed, but he really doesn’t mind. he works hard so his dearest little sister can live relatively unburdened by the duties of their clan, even though she insists she do her share of responsibilities. nights can be cold and lonely when ayato gets like this, but you forgive him as soon as you feel his arms wrap around you and his nose nuzzle into your neck once he finally comes to bed <3

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❀ kaedehara kazuha - there is nothing more peaceful to kazuha than falling asleep in a high up place aboard the alcor on a night when the sea is calm. loves the soothing feeling of the sea breeze on his skin and watching the light of the moon glitter across the ocean surface. if you’re with him, he enjoys having you sleep on his lap so he can play with your hair and watch your serene expression. he’s not one that sleeps very much, as he’s often lost in his thoughts. as much as he wishes to leave the past in the past, he can’t help but have regrets about how he left the kaedehara clan behind. if he has the chance to sleep in a proper bed, he sleeps in a less elaborate version of his usual outfit with his sword and vision close by. before he finally laid tomo’s vision to rest at his grave, he often fell asleep clutching it in his hands.

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❀ xiao - the vigilant yaksha does not sleep unless he physically cannot stay awake any longer. he loathes sleep, because it’s where he sees the things he wishes to forget the most. if he does, it’s usually atop the roof of wangshu inn where he has a high vantage point of the surrounding area should any danger arise. if he manages to sleep, it’s incredibly fitful. his screams echo into the night when he has night terrors of his time as the evil god’s bloodhound, and he sobs softly when he dreams about his fallen yaksha brethren. he hates sleep, because he can’t control the emotions that arise when he’s unconscious. he only knows when he wakes with a hoarse voice and tear tracks staining his cheeks. for this reason (and his karmic debt), it is highly unlikely he would ever sleep with another person. if he were to, he would keep as much distance as possible between himself and you. that is, until he falls asleep. take your pick at what wakes you in the dead of night: his thrashing, screams, or cries. be patient with him, he’ll eventually calm down enough to where you can gently guide him to rest his head on your chest. it’s endearing how he almost immediately clings to you like you’re his lifeline and how his screams die out and tears dry up. by early morning he’s gone without a trace, but it’s okay—it’s enough for you knowing he had at least a few hours of peaceful sleep.

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❀ zhongli - look, i don’t want to be stereotypical here but i can’t help it: peepaw zhongli has the sleeping habits reflective of his age. early to bed and early to rise. contrary to popular belief, he is not a chronically mora-less and potentially homeless bum. however, he would never create mora for himself because hello, the economy! earns a living fair and square as wangsheng funeral parlor’s consultant and from his side hustles as an advisor. that being said, he does have quite the upscale, traditional liyuean home nestled in the mountainside of mt. tianheng overlooking liyue harbor. before bed, he has a cup of herbal lavender tea on his porch like the grandpa he is. sometimes he reads a book, sometimes he’s content just watching over the nation he built with his own hands. sleeps in traditional style silk pajamas (his favorite is a set with red chinese dragons printed on it). naturally, he sleeps on silk bedding as well. usually doesn’t take his ponytail out to sleep, just combs it and removes the ornament from it because he hates getting it tangled while he sleeps. sleeps on his back with the covers up to his chest. not opposed to spooning, but adores having you sleep on his chest. he can get REALLY warm though due to his dragon nature which doesn’t bother him but is admittedly uncomfortable to his sleeping partners, so he keeps his home nice and cool. like i said, he wakes up early to do the same thing he did the night before sitting on his porch, but this time with an energizing citrus tea brew in his cup. wakes you up with a hot cup of the same tea and a light breakfast of rice and broiled fish because it’s the only thing he knows how to cook. i can't properly describe to you the feeling of serenity mornings with morax brings, he’s just absolutely lovely.

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❀ childe - this ginger menace. like itto, he only sleeps in his underwear bc living in snezhnaya has made him essentially immune to the cold. he’s either sprawled out across the bed or rolled up in the blankets up to his chin like a lil harp seal in a burrito, there is no in between. sometimes sleepwalks and he’s absolutely hilarious. once you witnessed him get out of bed only to have his foot tangled in the covers, causing him to fall flat on his face. not only did he not wake up, he actually fell asleep right there on the floor after muttering “aw, why’d you trip me like that xiangsheng?”. has to sleep with a light on bc he’s quite literally afraid of the dark after his time in the abyss. if he’s sleeping with you, congrats you are now part of his harp seal burrito. seriously, this man is so handsy and HAS to be touching you to sleep. pathetically whines when you get up in the middle of the night for whatever reason. loves loves loves spooning, even hooks his leg around you and nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck so he can be as close to you as humanly possible. very cute and needy <3

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❀ shikanoin heizou - the flirty tenryou detective sleeps in one of his slutty sleeveless shirts and shorts. he often stays up late into the evening working on cases and has trouble shutting his mind off to sleep. for this reason, he took up exercising before bed in an attempt to tire himself out. there’s definitely been times where he wakes from a dead sleep and rushes to his desk, realizing he’d just cracked the case he’d been working on. sleeps on a futon, but finds something very cozy about falling asleep under the kotatsu, especially in the winter. moves around a lot in his sleep, but moves around less when he has someone to hold. another sleep talker, usually mumbling about one of his cases. adores sleeping with his head on your chest and his arms around your waist. stroke his hair like that and he’ll be out cold in minutes. keeps a dream journal that he writes in every morning as soon as he wakes up. will shush you if you try to talk to him during this time, but you forgive him bc he looks so cute with his tongue out and brow furrowed in concentration trying to remember the details of his dream. he’s so intelligent it’s almost frightening, how merely analyzing his dreams can lead him to solving a case as if they contained the clues themselves. i want to note the amount of coffee this man consumes is insane, and he drinks it at all hours. maybe cut back on the caffeine, doushin?

a/n: is it obvious that kaeya and xiao are my favorites😅

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact headcanons #kaeya #diluc #thoma #arataki itto #kaedehara kazuha #childe #ajax #tartaglia #zhongli #morax #rex lapis #shikanoin heizou #heizou #xiao #kamisato ayato #gorou

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